No Man's Island Part 27

"If you like."

They crossed the grounds with the guidance of the compa.s.s, and presently came among the medley of prostrate trunks.

"I've an idea," said Armstrong. "It'll take a long time to get back through the tunnel. Why not shift one of these poles, and put it up against the tower? I could climb then, and take a look in at that upper window."

"Good man! We must take care to get one long enough."

They found a straight fir stem that appeared to be of the required length, carried it to the tower, and raised it silently until the top rested in the ivy, just above the left-hand corner of the window.

"Steady it while I climb," said Armstrong. "Don't let it wobble over."

He began to swarm up. For the first eighteen or twenty feet it was easy work; then with every inch upward his difficulties grew, for not only was there less and less room between the pole and the wall, but the pole itself showed more and more tendency to roll sideways, in spite of Warrender's steadying hands below. Slowly, very slowly Armstrong mounted, maintaining equilibrium partly by clutching the ivy. At last, gaining the level of the window, he gripped one of the iron bars that stretched across it, rested one knee on the wide embrasure, and peeped through a narrow crack between two of the boards.

He was transfixed with amazement. The first object that caught his eye was the figure of an elderly man, bald, with thick grey moustache and beard, seated at a table, resting his head on his hands as he read by the light of a small paraffin lamp the book open before him. On one end of the table stood a couple of plates, one holding a half-loaf of bread, a knife, and a jug. Upon the walls beyond him hung animals' horns, tusks, savage weapons, necklaces of metal and beads. The remainder of the room was out of the line of sight.

As Armstrong gazed, the inmate got up and paced to and fro. He was tall and lank; his clothes--an ordinary lounge suit--hung loosely upon his spare frame. There was a worn, hara.s.sed look in the eyes beneath a deeply furrowed brow. He strode up and down, his large bony hands clasped behind him; sighed, sat down again, and began to take off his clothes.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE STRODE UP AND DOWN, HIS LARGE BONY HANDS CLASPED BEHIND HIM."]

Puzzled as to the ident.i.ty of this solitary, wondering whether he, and not Gradoff, was the head of the gang, Armstrong backed down to make his descent. The pole swayed as his full weight came upon it, and he saved himself from crashing to the ground only by desperately clinging to the ivy, and forcing the top of the pole into a tangled ma.s.s of the foliage.

Then he slid rapidly down, barking his hands on the rough stem.

"Quick!" whispered Warrender. "You made too much row."

He ran backwards, letting down the pole; Armstrong caught up the lower end, and they hurried away with it, laying it in the wood among the others. Meanwhile they had heard sounds of movement from the tower.

Some one had come out. There were low voices, footsteps coming towards them. Without an instant's delay they pushed on in the direction of the river, thankful for the darkness of the night and the overshadowing trees. Only when they had gained the shelter of the thicket did they dare to pause for a moment to consult the compa.s.s. On again, but more slowly, lest the rustling leaves should betray them.

At length they came to the channel. The island was opposite to them.

Turning southward, they groped along the bank until they stumbled upon the pram. They launched it, and floated down stream. When they were well past the southern end of the island they pulled round into the broader channel, and, closely hugging the right bank, rowed quietly up the river to their landing-place.

Only then did Warrender venture a whispered question--

"What did you see?"

"An oldish man, reading."

"Not one of those we have seen?"

"No. Can't make it out."

They returned to camp. It was past two o'clock. Pratt sprang up from his chair before the tent, and held a small paraffin lamp towards them.

"Well?" he asked, guessing from their aspect that they brought news.

"They were working in the tower," said Warrender. "We heard the machine, and couldn't risk going up from the tunnel. But we came back and reconnoitred the outside, and Armstrong climbed up and peeped through a crack in the boarding of the top room. What did you see, Jack?"

"An old man reading by the light of a paraffin lamp."

"Another one of the gang!" exclaimed Pratt.

"I don't know. Perhaps. He looked haggard and anxious."

"No wonder. What was he like?"

"Tall and thin, with grey moustache and beard."

"A foreigner?"

"Couldn't tell. He might well have been English. A queer old johnny--hook-nosed, high bald head: might have been a 'varsity professor."

"What!" shouted Pratt. "Bald! Beard! Hook nose! Like a professor!

Great heavens--my uncle!"

CHAPTER XVIII

ZERO

A half truth, some one has said, is the greatest of lies: perhaps there is nothing more staggering to the intelligence than a half discovery--a discovery which solves one problem only to propound another.

"My old uncle, for a certainty," said Pratt. "He has been bald as long as I can remember him: lost his hair in the wilds of Africa, I believe.

Years ago his man stuffed me up with the tale that a lion clawed his tresses out by the roots. Lucky he didn't marry, or his wife might have plagued him about wearing a wig, like Mother Rogers. That's the mystery of the signal solved, then."

"Is it?" said Armstrong. "No signal was ever shown from the window of that top room; that I'd swear. The light we saw to-night was the merest streak: came through a slit certainly not more than a quarter of an inch wide."

"But hang it all!--there's the poor old chap a prisoner: who else would signal for help?"

"I thought you suggested Molly Rogers," remarked Warrender.

"I've given that up. Didn't Rogers say she knows nothing about signals?

But that doesn't matter. The point is that those foreign blackguards have him under lock and key while they're committing a criminal offence on his premises. I shouldn't wonder if it killed him, or made him clean potty. He's over sixty, and solitary confinement----"

"I say, it's very late," Armstrong interrupted. "We've none of us had much sleep lately. Let's see what's to be done and then get all the rest we can before morning. I foresee a thick time to-morrow."

"We must set old Crawshay moving," said Pratt. "No doubt he's hand in glove with the Chief Constable."

"We talked about Crawshay before," rejoined Armstrong. "The affair is complicated now. We've got your uncle's safety to consider. You may be sure that those ruffians won't stick at trifles, and if any action is taken against them publicly it's quite on the cards that they'd put a bullet into the old man. I'm inclined to think it's up to us."

"What do you mean?" asked Warrender.

"We know the subterranean entrance to the tower. Can't we get in and release him ourselves? He'd be valuable outside as a witness."

"But, my dear chap, if the prisoner disappeared the foreigners would know the game was up," said Warrender. "They'd clear off before they could be caught."

"Look here, old man, he's my uncle," said Pratt earnestly. "The poor old boy has been cooped up there goodness knows how long. He's over sixty, accustomed to an active life: imagine what it means to him. It's just the sort of thing to send him to a lunatic asylum for the rest of his days. I'd never forgive myself if I didn't make some effort to get him out of it. If you put it to me, I say I don't care a hang whether the forgers are caught or not. The personal matter quite outweighs any other. If we go interviewing magistrates and constables we'll lose precious time: you know what officials are. The thing is, to rescue my old uncle without a moment's delay, and let the rest take its chances."