The Burglars' Club Part 24

A run of three-quarters of an hour brought him to the confines of Haverah Park, almost within sight of Harrogate. It was here that he had decided to waylay the motor-car.

It was a lonely spot indeed. Moorland, grim pasture land, lean fir trees, stone walls and limestone road, was all that met the eye. All was cold and stern. Cold and stern was his business that night; and there, close to the wood granted by John o' Gaunt to one Haverah, and tenanted since Doomsday by the winds of the centuries, he waited.

The air was springlike, but the wait was long and weary. The only satisfactory thing about it was that he had time to note the small amount of traffic on the road. A solitary dogcart was all that pa.s.sed in an hour.

The moon rose in cold splendour. The stars appeared. Cunningham knew only one of them by name--Betelgeuse, a red star, the apex of a triangle of which three stars formed the base. The name had struck him as remarkable, and he once had called a bull pup after it. For a moment he thought of his dog's untimely end.

But was the Panhard never coming? Perhaps there had been a puncture, and in the absence of a chauffeur Lord Tadcaster was stranded. Possibly he had returned to Bolton Abbey, or taken train forward, or, since he was short-handed, he might have altered his route and gone by the easier road through Otley. In that case, he, Prescott Cunningham, was lost to the Burglars' Club.

Ah! There was the toot of a motor in the far distance, again repeated.

It was the Tadcaster toot--a base twentieth century subst.i.tute for the cry that on the field of Towton in 1461 led another John de Mallaby to a barony and an estate.

Cunningham recovered his cycle, be-straddled it, and gently mounted the rise in front. The Panhard dashed up the hill, its acetylene lamps glaring like man-o'-war searchlights.

Cunningham advanced his spark. The motor responded, and sprang eagerly after the car. They were leaving him behind. He slowly opened his throttle valve. Now he was making pace. He was gaining on them yard by yard, hand over fist. He was only a hundred yards behind now--fifty--twenty-five. Could he do it? The psychological moment had come.

He drew his revolver and aimed at the near back tyre of the car in front. Ah! he had missed. He hit it with his second shot. It split with a rousing bang. The car listed and dragged. It swerved across the road in violent curves, but Cunningham saw by the slowing of the speed that the driver had thrown out his clutch. At last it stopped.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'SOFTLY, MY LORD,' SAID CUNNINGHAM; 'I AM COVERING YOU, YOU OBSERVE.'"

(_p. 192._)]

"What's the meaning of this outrage, you scoundrel?" cried the infuriated motorist.

"Softly, my lord," said Cunningham, now on his feet, and advancing with revolver in hand. "I am covering you, you observe!"

"A highwayman, by George!" exclaimed the peer. "And Edward VII. on the throne. A highwayman on castors!"

"Your lordship evidently recognises the situation," said Cunningham.

"This will save time and trouble, I hope."

"I suppose you want my purse?" replied the peer. "This comes of travelling without my chauffeur," he added plaintively. "By George, if Achille were here, he'd worry you. If I were ten years younger I'd tackle you myself."

"Regrets are futile, my lord," said Cunningham, "but a purse will not satisfy me."

"Oh, you want two, do you? Eva, I'm afraid you'll have to give him yours as well. Shockin' luck for this to happen the first time we've travelled alone. I oughtn't to have let you come."

"Don't worry, dad, please," said Lady Eva. "I'm sorry I haven't got a purse, highwayman," she continued contemptuously, throwing back her thick veil to see what manner of man this could be, "but the few loose sixpences I have in my pocket are quite at your service."

"You may keep them, madam," Cunningham replied, with as much dignity as the occasion would permit. "I do not ask for money. I simply want the loan of a peppercorn and golden horseshoe until the 29th."

"By George, he must be an antiquarian highwayman or a curio-collector gone mad," said his lordship. "D'ye think, sir, I'll give you what I'm taking to the King?"

"His Majesty shall have them, and from your hands, on the proper day. I simply ask for the loan of them till then."

"You must think that I'm a fool," said the Earl. In an instant he had grabbed the hoop of one of the heavy acetylene lamps, and pulled it from its socket. "Take that, you blackguard!" he yelled, flinging it with all his force at the cyclist.

Cunningham dodged the missile, which crashed to the ground with light extinguished.

"Hands up, my lord," he shouted, "or I fire."

The discomfited peer obeyed him.

"You are quite at my mercy," said Cunningham sternly. "The peppercorn and horseshoe at once, if you please, or I shall have to use force. I trust you will avoid a scene before your daughter. You may lower your right hand to your pocket."

The Earl did as he was bid, drew out the precious packet, and handed it to Cunningham.

"Thank you, my lord," he replied. "You are wise. I promise you they shall be returned on the morning of the 29th. To what address?"

"I don't believe you," retorted the peer. "But I stay at Claridge's.

Now, if you've anything of a sportsman about you, you'll go on to the Queen Hotel at Harrogate and tell my chauffeur, Achille Petibon, to come with a repairer at once. We can't spend the night here. I've got a spare cover and tube in the tonneau, but I can no more fit them than fly. My finger-nails are far too brittle."

"I will convey your message with the greatest pleasure, my lord,"

replied Cunningham. "I sincerely regret the inconvenience I have caused, though you may not think so."

For a moment there was a pause, and Cunningham could have gone. Yet he hesitated.

The moon shone down upon a desolate moorland glade, lighting up the green sward by the trees. The excitement of the adventure, the flush of victory, a pair of bright eyes, and the memory of some half-forgotten romance stirred his blood.

"One final favour, my lord," he said.

"No more, sir. By George, if I were ten years younger----"

"You carry a gramophone with you."

"You are remarkably well informed as to my luggage, sir. I do, but it's too bulky for you to carry away. They're cheap enough. A man of taste like yourself ought to be able to afford one of his own."

"I don't want to take it away, my lord. I simply want the favour of a dance tune and a lady's hand."

For a moment the Earl looked puzzled. Then he exclaimed: "By George!

Claude Duval up to date! No, sir, I'll be hanged if----" His lordship stopped suddenly. He was keen of hearing, and as he spoke he had heard, or thought he heard, a distant car. Even if it meant a dance with his daughter, he would detain the man until a.s.sistance arrived. In a moment he had altered his voice.

"On second thoughts, sir," he said, "I don't know. After all, it's a tradition of your--er--profession. Perhaps you will oblige the gentleman, Eva." As he spoke he pressed the girl's hand so that she might know that something lay behind his words. "Where's the gramophone?" he asked. While searching for the instrument his lordship actually started whistling, lest the highwayman should also hear the car.

"Ah, here it is," he said aloud. Then, in a whisper to his daughter, "Car coming. Distract his attention." In his anxiety his lordship even hummed as he hurriedly manipulated the instrument, inserting the first record that came to hand.

He wound up the toy, and a baritone voice sang raucously:--

"Egypt! my Cleopatra! I ain't no flatt'rer, But dis is true, (I'm a-goin' to tell her) Egypt! if you don't want me... .

In a trice Lady Eva had found a more suitable record, and after a momentary pause the instrument struck up "The Darkie Cake Walk," as played by the New York Munic.i.p.al Band, at Manhattan Beach, Long Island, U.S.A.

"May I have the honour?" asked Cunningham, hat in hand, with a low bow.

Lady Eva inclined coldly, and took off her wraps. The man was certainly polite. He led her as though she were a princess, and any misgivings were soon at rest.

It was a quaint scene. It is doubtful if Betelgeuse had ever looked down upon a quainter. The firs formed a sombre background. The moon illuminated the green sward in front, and on it a highwayman and a lady motorist stepped to a catching dance tune, emanating from a gramophone on a Panhard motor, controlled by a peer of the realm. The light of an acetylene lamp shone like a gigantic foot-light illuminating the front of the green stage.