CHAPTER XXXII
SIX GRAY PATCHES
When the invitation came from my old friend Hilton to spend a week"roughing it" with him in Warwickshire I accepted with alacrity.If ever a man needed a holiday I was that man. Nervous breakdownthreatened me at any moment; the ghastly experience at the GateHouse together with Carneta's grief-stricken face when I hadparted from her were obsessing memories which I sought in vain toshake off.
A brief wire had contained the welcome invitation, and up to thetime when I had received it I had been unaware that Hilton wasback in England. Moreover, beyond the fact that his house,"Uplands," was near H--, for which I was instructed to change atNew Street Station, Birmingham, I had little idea of its location.But he added "Wire train and will meet at H--"; so that I had nouneasiness on that score.
I had contemplated catching the 2:45 from Euston, but by the timeI had got my work into something like order, I decided that the6:55 would be more suitable and decided to dine on the train.
Altogether, there was something of a rush and hustle attendant upongetting away, and when at last I found myself in the cab, bound forEuston, I sat back with a long-drawn sigh. The quest of the Prophet'sslipper was ended; in all probability that blood-stained relic wasalready Eastward bound. Hassan of Aleppo, its awful guardian, hadtriumphed and had escaped retribution. Earl Dexter was dead. Icould not doubt that; for the memory of his beautiful accomplice,Carneta, as I last had seen her, broken-hearted, with her greatviolet eyes dulled in tearless agony--have I not said that it livedwith me?
Even as the picture of her lovely, pale face presented itself to mymind, the cab was held up by a temporary block in the traffic--andmy imagination played me a strange trick.
Another taxi ran close alongside, almost at the moment that thepress of vehicles moved on again. Certainly, I had no more than apassing glimpse of the occupants; but I could have sworn that violeteyes looked suddenly into mine, and with equal conviction I couldhave sworn to the gaunt face of the man who sat beside theviolet-eyed girl for that of Earl Dexter!
The travellers, however, were immediately lost to sight in the rear,and I was left to conjecture whether this had been a not uncommonform of optical delusion or whether I had seen a ghost.
At any rate, as I passed in between the big pillars, "The gatewayof the North," I scrutinized, and closely, the numerous hurryingfigures about me. None of them, by any stretch of the imagination,could have been set down for that of Dexter, The Stetson Man. Nodoubt, I concluded, I had been tricked by a chance resemblance.
Having dispatched my telegram, I boarded the 6:55. I thought Ishould have the compartment to myself, and so deep in reverie wasI that the train was actually clear of the platforms ere I learnedthat I had a companion. He must have joined me at the moment thatthe train started. Certainly, I had not seen him enter. But,suddenly looking up, I met the eyes of this man who occupied thecorner seat facing me.
This person was olive-skinned, clean-shaven, fine featured, andperfectly groomed. His age might have been anything from twenty-fiveto forty-five, but his hair and brows were jet black. His eyes, too,were nearer to real black than any human eyes I had ever seenbefore--excepting the awful eyes of Hassan of Aleppo. Hassan ofAleppo! It was, to that hour, a mystery how his group of trainedassassins--the Hashishin--had quitted England. Since none of themwere known to the police, it was no insoluble mystery, I admit; butnevertheless it was singular that the careful watching of the portshad yielded no result. Could it be that some of them had not yetleft the country? Could it be--
I looked intently into the black eyes. They were caressing, smilingeyes, and looked boldly into mine. I picked up a magazine,pretending to read. But I supported it with my left hand; my rightwas in my coat pocket--and it rested upon my Smith and Wesson!
So much had the slipper of Mohammed done for me: I went in hourlydread of murderous attack!
My travelling companion watched me; of that I was certain. I couldfeel his gaze. But he made no move and no word passed between us.This was the situation when the train slowed into Northampton. AtNorthampton, to my indescribable relief (frankly, I was as nervousin those days as a woman), the Oriental traveller stepped out on tothe platform.
Having reclosed the door, he turned and leaned in through the openwindow.
"Evidently you are not concerned, Mr. Cavanagh," he said. "Bewarned. Do not interfere with those that are!"
The night swallowed him up.
My fears had been justified; the man was one of the Hashishin--aspy of Hassan of Aleppo! What did it mean?
I craned from the window, searching the platform right and left.But there was no sign of him.
When the train left Northampton I found myself alone, and I shouldonly weary you were I to attempt to recount the troubled conjecturesthat bore me company to Birmingham.
The train reached New Street at nine, with the result that havinggulped a badly needed brandy and soda in the buffet, I grabbed mybag, raced across--and just missed the connection! More than anhour later I found myself standing at ten minutes to eleven uponthe H-- platform, watching the red taillight of the "local"disappear into the night. Then I realized to the full that withfour miles of lonely England before me there hung above my head amysterious threat--a vague menace. The solitary official, whobut waited my departure to lock up the station, was the lastrepresentative of civilization I could hope to encounter until thegates of "Uplands" should be opened to me!
What was the matter with which I was warned not to interfere? MightI not, by my mere presence in that place, unwittingly be interferingnow?
With the station-master's directions humming like a refrain in myears, I passed through the sleeping village and out on to the road.The moon was exceptionally bright and unobscured, although a densebank of cloud crept slowly from the west, and before me the pathstretched as an unbroken thread of silvery white twining a sinuousway up the bracken-covered slope, to where, sharply defined againstthe moonlight sky, a coppice in grotesque silhouette marked thesummit.
The month had been dry and tropically hot, and my footsteps rangcrisply upon the hard ground. There is nothing more deceptivethan a straight road up a hill; and half an hour's steady trampingbut saw me approaching the trees.
I had so far resolutely endeavoured to keep my mind away from theidea of surveillance. Now, as I paused to light my pipe--anever-failing friend in loneliness--I perceived something move inthe shadows of a neighbouring bush.
This object was not unlike a bladder, and the very incongruity ofits appearance served to revive all my apprehensions. Taking upmy grip, as though I had noticed nothing of an alarming nature, Ipursued my way up the slope, leaving a trail of tobacco smoke in mywake; and having my revolver secreted up my right coat-sleeve.
Successfully resisting a temptation to glance behind, I entered thecover of the coppice, and, now invisible to any one who might bedogging me, stood and looked back upon the moon-bright road.
There was no living thing in sight, the road was empty as far as theeye could see. The coppice now remained to be negotiated, and then,if the station-master's directions were not at fault, "Uplands"should be visible beyond. Taking, therefore, what I had designed tobe a final glance back down the hillside, I was preparing to resumemy way when I saw something--something that arrested me.
It was a long way behind--so far that, had the moon been lessbright, I could never have discerned it. What it was I could noteven conjecture; but it had the appearance of a vague gray patch,moving--not along the road, but through the undergrowth--in mydirection.
For a second my eye rested upon it. Then I saw a second patch--athird--a fourth!
Six!
There were six gray patches creeping up the slope toward me!
The sight was unnerving. What were these things that approached,silently, stealthily--like snakes in the grass?
A fear, unlike anything I had known before the quest of the Prophet'sslipper had brought fantastic horror into my l
ife, came upon me.Revolver in hand I ran--ran for my life toward the gap in the treesthat marked the coppice end. And as I went something hummed throughthe darkness beside my head, some projectile, some venomous thing thatmissed its mark by a bare inch!
Painfully conversant with the uncanny weapons employed by theHashishin, I knew now, beyond any possibility of doubt, that deathwas behind me.
A pattering like naked feet sounded on the road, and, withoutpausing in my headlong career, I sent a random shot into theblackness.
The crack of the Smith and Wesson reassured me. I pulled up short,turned, and looked back toward the trees.
Nothing--no one!
Breathing heavily, I crammed my extinguished briar into mypocket--re-charged the empty chamber of the revolver--and started torun again toward a light that showed over the treetops to my left.
That, if the man's directions were right, was "Uplands"--if hisdirections were wrong--then...
A shrill whistle--minor, eerie, in rising cadence--sounded on thedead silence with piercing clearness! Six whistles--seeminglyfrom all around me--replied!
Some object came humming through the air, and I ducked wildly.
On and on I ran--flying from an unknown, but, as a warning instincttold me, deadly peril--ran as a man runs pursued by devils.
The road bent sharply to the left then forked. Overhanging treesconcealed the house, and the light, though high up under the eaves,was no longer visible. Trusting to Providence to guide me, I plungeddown the lane that turned to the left, and, almost exhausted, saw thegates before me--saw the sweep of the drive, and the moonlight,gleaming on the windows!
None of the windows were illuminated.
Straight up to the iron gates I raced.
They were locked!
Without a moment's hesitation I hurled my grip over the top andclambered up the bars! As I got astride, from the blackness of thelane came the ominous hum, and my hat went spinning away across thelawn!--the black cloud veiled the moon and complete darkness fell.
Then I dropped and ran for the house--shouting, though all butwinded--"Hilton! Hilton! Open the door!"
Sinking exhausted on the steps, I looked toward the gates--but theyshowed only dimly in the dense shadows of the trees.
Bzzz! Buzz!
I dropped flat in the portico as something struck the metal knob ofthe door and rebounded over me. A shower of gravel told of anothermisdirected projectile.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The revolver spoke its short reply into themysterious darkness; but the night gave up no sound to tell of ashot gone home.
"Hilton! Hilton!" I cried, banging on the panels with the butt ofthe weapon. "Open the door! Open the door!"
And now I heard the coming footsteps along the hall within; heavybolts were withdrawn--the door swung open--and Hilton, pale-faced,appeared. His hand shot out, grabbed my coat collar; and weak,exhausted, I found myself snatched into safety, and the doorrebolted.
"Thank God!" I whispered. "Thank God! Hilton, look to all yourbolts and fastenings. Hell is outside!"