Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (483 page)

‘Yes.’

‘When did you arrive?’

‘To-night.’

‘How?’

‘In a lugger from Dover.’

‘The fellow is speaking the truth,’ growled Toussac. ‘Yes, I’ll say that for him, that he is speaking the truth. We saw the lugger, and someone was landed from it just after the boat that brought me over pushed off.’

I remembered that boat, which had been the first thing which I had seen upon the coast of France. How little I had thought what it would mean to me!

And now my advocate began asking questions — vague, useless questions — in a slow, hesitating fashion which set Toussac grumbling. This cross-examination appeared to me to be a useless farce; and yet there was a certain eagerness and intensity in my questioner’s manner which gave me the assurance that he had some end in view. Was it merely that he wished to gain time? Time for what? And then, suddenly, with that quick perception which comes upon those whose nerves are strained by an extremity of danger, I became convinced that he really was awaiting something — that he was tense with expectation. I read it upon his drawn face, upon his sidelong head with his ear scooped into his hand, above all in his twitching, restless eyes. He expected an interruption, and he was talking, talking, talking, in order to gain time for it. I was as sure of it as if he had whispered his secret in my ear, and down in my numb, cold heart a warm little spring of hope began to bubble and run.

But Toussac had chafed at all this word-fencing, and now with an oath he broke in upon our dialogue.

‘I have had enough of this!’ he cried. ‘It is not for child’s play of this sort that I risked my head in coming over here. Have we nothing better to talk about than this fellow? Do you suppose I came from London to listen to your fine phrases? Have done with it, I say, and get to business.’

‘Very good,’ said my champion. ‘There’s an excellent little cupboard here which makes as fine a prison as one could wish for. Let us put him in here, and pass on to business. We can deal with him when we have finished.’

‘And have him overhear all that we say,’ said Lesage.

‘I don’t know what the devil has come over you,’ cried Toussac, turning suspicious eyes upon my protector. ‘I never knew you squeamish before, and certainly you were not backward in the affair of the man from Bow Street. This fellow has our secret, and he must either die, or we shall see him at our trial. What is the sense of arranging a plot, and then at the last moment turning a man loose who will ruin us all? Let us snap his neck and have done with it.’

The great hairy hands were stretched towards me again, but Lesage had sprung suddenly to his feet. His face had turned very white, and he stood listening with his forefinger up and his head slanted. It was a long, thin, delicate hand, and it was quivering like a leaf in the wind.

‘I heard something,’ he whispered.

‘And I,’ said the older man.

‘What was it?’

‘Silence. Listen!’

For a minute or more we all stayed with straining ears while the wind still whimpered in the chimney or rattled the crazy window.

‘It was nothing,’ said Lesage at last, with a nervous laugh.

‘The storm makes curious sounds sometimes.’

‘I heard nothing,’ said Toussac.

‘Hush!’ cried the other. ‘There it is again!’

A clear rising cry floated high above the wailing of the storm; a wild, musical cry, beginning on a low note, and thrilling swiftly up to a keen, sharp-edged howl.

‘A hound!’

‘They are following us!’

Lesage dashed to the fireplace, and I saw him thrust his papers into the blaze and grind them down with his heel.

Toussac seized the wood-axe which leaned against the wall. The thin man dragged the pile of decayed netting from the corner, and opened a small wooden screen, which shut off a low recess.

‘In here,’ he whispered, ‘quick!’

And then, as I scrambled into my refuge, I heard him say to the others that I would be safe there, and that they could lay their hands upon me when they wished.

CHAPTER
V

THE LA
W

The cupboard — for it was little more — into which I had been hurried was low and narrow, and I felt in the darkness that it was heaped with peculiar round wickerwork baskets, the nature of which I could by no means imagine, although I discovered afterwards that they were lobster traps. The only light which entered was through the cracks of the old broken door, but these were so wide and numerous that I could see the whole of the room which I had just quitted. Sick and faint, with the shadow of death still clouding my wits, I was none the less fascinated by the scene which lay before me.

My thin friend, with the same prim composure upon his emaciated face, had seated himself again upon the box. With his hands clasped round one of his knees he was rocking slowly backwards and forwards; and I noticed, in the lamplight, that his jaw muscles were contracting rhythmically, like the gills of a fish. Beside him stood Lesage, his white face glistening with moisture and his loose lip quivering with fear. Every now and then he would make a vigorous attempt to compose his features, but after each rally a fresh wave of terror would sweep everything before it, and set him shaking once more. As to Toussac, he stood before the fire, a magnificent figure, with the axe held down by his leg, and his head thrown back in defiance, so that his great black beard bristled straight out in front of him. He said not a word, but every fibre of his body was braced for a struggle. Then, as the howl of the hound rose louder and clearer from the marsh outside, he ran forward and threw open the door.

‘No, no, keep the dog out!’ cried Lesage in an agony of apprehension.

‘You fool, our only chance is to kill it.’

‘But it is in leash.’

‘If it is in leash nothing can save us. But if, as I think, it is running free, then we may escape yet.’

Lesage cowered up against the table, with his agonised eyes fixed upon the blue-black square of the door. The man who had befriended me still swayed his body about with a singular half-smile upon his face. His skinny hand was twitching at the frill of his shirt, and I conjectured that he held some weapon concealed there. Toussac stood between them and the open door, and, much as I feared and loathed him, I could not take my eyes from his gallant figure. As to myself, I was so much occupied by the singular drama before me, and by the impending fate of those three men of the cottage, that all thought of my own fortunes had passed completely out of my mind. On this mean stage a terrible all-absorbing drama was being played, and I, crouching in a squalid recess, was to be the sole spectator of it. I could but hold my breath and wait and watch.

And suddenly I became conscious that they could all three see something which was invisible to me. I read it from their tense faces and their staring eyes. Toussac swung his axe over his shoulder and poised himself for a blow. Lesage cowered away and put one hand between his eyes and the open door. The other ceased swinging his spindle legs and sat like a little brown image upon the edge of his box. There was a moist pattering of feet, a yellow streak shot through the doorway, and Toussac lashed at it as I have seen an English cricketer strike at a ball. His aim was true, for he buried the head of the hatchet in the creature’s throat, but the force of his blow shattered his weapon, and the weight of the hound carried him backwards on to the floor. Over they rolled and over, the hairy man and the hairy dog, growling and worrying in a bestial combat. He was fumbling at the animal’s throat, and I could not see what he was doing, until it gave a sudden sharp yelp of pain, and there was a rending sound like the tearing of canvas. The man staggered up with his hands dripping, and the tawny mass with the blotch of crimson lay motionless upon the floor.

‘Now!’ cried Toussac in a voice of thunder, ‘now!’ and he rushed from the hut.

Lesage had shrunk away into the corner in a frenzy of fear whilst Toussac had been killing the hound, but now he raised his agonised face, which was as wet as if he had dipped it into a basin.

‘Yes, yes,’ he cried; ‘we must fly, Charles. The hound has left the police behind, and we may still escape.’

But the other, with the same imperturbable face, motionless save for the rhythm of his jaw muscles, walked quietly over and closed the door upon the inside.

‘I think, friend Lucien,’ said he in his quiet voice, ‘that you had best stay where you are.’

Lesage looked at him with amazement gradually replacing terror upon his pallid features.

‘But you do not understand, Charles,’ he cried.

‘Oh, yes, I think I do,’ said the other, smiling.

‘They may be here in a few minutes. The hound has slipped its leash, you see, and has left them behind in the marsh; but they are sure to come here, for there is no other cottage but this.’

‘They are sure to come here.’

‘Well, then, let us fly. In the darkness we may yet escape.’

‘No; we shall stay where we are.’

‘Madman, you may sacrifice your own life, but not mine. Stay if you wish, but for my part I am going.’

He ran towards the door with a foolish, helpless flapping of his hands, but the other sprang in front of him with so determined a gesture of authority that the younger man staggered back from it as from a blow.

‘You fool!’ said his companion. ‘You poor miserable dupe!’

Lesage’s mouth opened, and he stood staring with his knees bent and his spread-fingered hands up, the most hideous picture of fear that I have ever seen.

‘You, Charles, you!’ he stammered, hawking up each word.

‘Yes, me,’ said the other, smiling grimly.

‘A police agent all the time! You who were the very soul of our

society! You who were in our inmost council! You who led us on!

Oh, Charles, you have not the heart! I think I hear them coming,

Charles. Let me pass; I beg and implore you to let me pass.’

The granite face shook slowly from side to side.

‘But why me? Why not Toussac?’

‘If the dog had crippled Toussac, why then I might have had you both.

But friend Toussac is rather vigorous for a thin little fellow like me.

No, no, my good Lucien, you are destined to be the trophy of my bow and

my spear, and you must reconcile yourself to the fact.’

Lesage slapped his forehead as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming.

‘A police agent!’ he repeated, ‘Charles a police agent!’

‘I thought it would surprise you.’

‘But you were the most republican of us all. We were none of us advanced enough for you. How often have we gathered round you, Charles, to listen to your philosophy! And there is Sibylle, too! Don’t tell me that Sibylle was a police spy also. But you are joking, Charles. Say that you are joking!’

The man relaxed his grim features, and his eyes puckered with amusement.

‘Your astonishment is very flattering,’ said he. ‘I confess that I thought that I played my part rather cleverly. It is not my fault that these bunglers unleashed their hound, but at least I shall have the credit of having made a single-handed capture of one very desperate and dangerous conspirator.’ He smiled drily at this description of his prisoner. ‘The Emperor knows how to reward his friends,’ he added, ‘and also how to punish his enemies.’

All this time he had held his hand in his bosom, and now he drew it out so far as to show the brass gleam of a pistol butt.

‘It is no use,’ said he, in answer to some look in the other’s eye.

‘You stay in the hut, alive or dead.’

Lesage put his hands to his face and began to cry with loud, helpless sobbings.

‘Why, you have been worse than any of us, Charles,’ he moaned. ‘It was you who told Toussac to kill the man from Bow Street, and it was you also who set fire to the house in the Rue Basse de la Rampart. And now you turn on us!’

‘I did that because I wished to be the one to throw light upon it all — and at the proper moment.’

‘That is very fine, Charles, but what will be thought about that when I make it all public in my own defence? How can you explain all that to your Emperor? There is still time to prevent my telling all that I know about you.’

‘Well, really, I think that you are right, my friend,’ said the other, drawing out his pistol and cocking it. ‘Perhaps I
did
go a little beyond my instructions in one or two points, and, as you very properly remark, there is still time to set it right. It is a matter of detail whether I give you up living or give you up dead, and I think that, on the whole, it had better be dead.’

It had been horrible to see Toussac tear the throat out of the hound, but it had not made my flesh creep as it crept now. Pity was mingled with my disgust for this unfortunate young man, who had been fitted by Nature for the life of a retired student or of a dreaming poet, but who had been dragged by stronger wills than his own into a part which no child could be more incapable of playing. I forgave him the trick by which he had caught me and the selfish fears to which he had been willing to sacrifice me. He had flung himself down upon the ground, and floundered about in a convulsion of terror, whilst his terrible little companion, with his cynical smile, stood over him with his pistol in his hand. He played with the helpless panting coward as a cat might with a mouse; but I read in his inexorable eyes that it was no jest, and his finger seemed to be already tightening upon his trigger. Full of horror at so cold-blooded a murder, I pushed open my crazy cupboard, and had rushed out to plead for the victim, when there came a buzz of voices and a clanking of steel from without. With a stentorian shout of ‘In the name of the Emperor!’ a single violent wrench tore the door of the hut from its hinges.

It was still blowing hard, and through the open doorway I could see a thick cluster of mounted men, with plumes slanted and mantles flapping, the rain shining upon their shoulders. At the side the light from the hut struck upon the heads of two beautiful horses, and upon the heavy red-toupeed busbies of the hussars who stood at their heads. In the doorway stood another hussar — a man of high rank, as could be seen from the richness of his dress and the distinction of his bearing. He was booted to the knees, with a uniform of light blue and silver, which his tall, slim, light-cavalry figure suited to a marvel. I could not but admire the way in which he carried himself, for he never deigned to draw the sword which shone at his side, but he stood in the doorway glancing round the blood-bespattered hut, and staring at its occupants with a very cool and alert expression. He had a handsome face, pale and clear-cut, with a bristling moustache, which cut across the brass chin-chain of his busby.

‘Well,’ said he, ‘well?’

The older man had put his pistol back into the breast of his brown coat.

‘This is Lucien Lesage,’ said he.

The hussar looked with disgust at the prostrate figure upon the floor.

‘A pretty conspirator!’ said he. ‘Get up, you grovelling hound! Here,

Gerard, take charge of him and bring him into camp.’

A younger officer with two troopers at his heels came clanking in to the hut, and the wretched creature, half swooning, was dragged out into the darkness.

‘Where is the other — the man called Toussac?’

‘He killed the hound and escaped. Lesage would have got away also had I not prevented him. If you had kept the dog in leash we should have had them both, but as it is, Colonel Lasalle, I think that you may congratulate me.’ He held out his hand as he spoke, but the other turned abruptly on his heel.

‘You hear that, General Savary?’ said he, looking out of the door.

‘Toussac has escaped.’

A tall, dark young man appeared within the circle of light cast by the lamp. The agitation of his handsome swarthy face showed the effect which the news had upon him.

‘Where is he then?’

‘It is a quarter of an hour since he got away.’

‘But he is the only dangerous man of them all. The Emperor will be furious. In which direction did he fly?’

‘It must have been inland.’

‘But who is this?’ asked General Savary, pointing at me. ‘I understood from your information that there were only two besides yourself, Monsieur — .’

‘I had rather no names were mentioned,’ said the other abruptly.