CHAPTER

VANITY WAS NOT one of Eston's faults. He was too big a crook to let wounded feelings affect his judgment as a general rule. Yet he was hurt. His confidence in himself, that natural equanimity and confidence that comes to every citizen of the world—had been shaken. He prided himself on his judgment of men and women, but Hilary Sloane had him guessing. He was very much more puzzled, perhaps, than he would have cared to admit.

      He had her in a cleft stick—he could break her as he could a twig—but her attitude suggested either that she did not realize, or that she did not care. It was impossible to believe that she did not realize. She was too clever a girl for that. He had left her no loophole for misunderstanding. Either she was staking everything upon a colossal bluff, or she was acting upon some knowledge that had not reached him.

      Eston never played a small game, save on those exceptional cases, when it was a question of bread and butter—as a great actor or artist may at times descend to pot-boilers. It was a big stake here. He had planned his effects broadly. None knew better than he that some small trivial detail might wreck his whole scheme, and it was only force of circumstances that had made him bring off his coup before he was entirely ready. The more he cogitated, the keener grew his conviction, that he did not hold the entire threads. If Silverdale had been reasonable, if he had been able to pick up anything when he had encountered Garfield and the journalist! He clenched his fists and swore softly to himself.

      Now things were getting red-hot. He had made a point of seeing the morning's papers, and was quick to realize what he was up against. The whole world was looking for Hilary Sloane —a fact of which she was at the moment ignorant but which, sooner or later, she would know. Moreover, the house-boat was no longer a secure hiding-place. At any moment—he glanced over his shoulder towards the white-flanneled men in the skiff—the police might pounce. If he only knew what they knew, how much they knew—his features contorted in a spasm of irritation—he would know whether to put up a fight or a bluff.

      The world seldom appreciates the qualities that make a great criminal. He has often to conduct a fight against overwhelming odds. The strength and weakness of his position is the fact that he must conduct his operations in secret. He dare not let his identity or his real purpose be known. He is blindfolded against antagonists using every resource of science and organization—a very Ishmael of civilization. He stakes his knowledge of human nature against a solid system and when he wins out, he has earned any satisfaction he gets.

      By nature and by inclination, Eston was a fighter. He fought, as the Germans fought, for an end, and regardless of means. He wanted money; he wanted power; he wanted ease and security. The simplest, most direct way had seemed to him to be to steal. The chief difference between him and a casual burgiar or pickpocket was one of method. Brains tell in crime, as in other branches of professional livelihood, and to brains Eston had wedded a long and varied experience. Audacity—audacity—always audacity. The old French saying had won him through tight places again and again. Others may have suffered, but always Eston went free.

      He paced the deck once or twice, turning matters over in his mind, when he became aware that Nora Dring had disappeared. He searched the bank with his eyes up and down the fringe of shrubs and trees that ran for fifty yards each side of the house-boat.

      "Miss Dring—Nora!"

      There was no answer. He muttered a curse beneath his breath. Women were the very devil and all. If a girl had wanted to vanish, she could not have chosen a more inopportune time.

      He strode across the plank connecting the boat with the bank and, alert and wary, moved through the shrubs to where, a few hundred yards away, a five-barred gate gave access to a quiet lane. There was no sign of Nora Dring, but a man was seated on the gate, as it seemed idly contemplating nature, and smoking a particularly vile brier pipe. A pair of shrewd brown eyes rested for a moment on Eston. It was an entirely natural spot for a tired wayfarer to rest, yet Eston knew that this man, who, in his ill-fitting flannels and boater, might have been a shop assistant spending a quiet half-holiday, was not there by accident, any more than the men in the rowing skiff, who commanded the river approach to his retreat, were solely bent on pleasure. He admired efficacy, whether it told against him or not, and he knew now that every line of the retreat was watched. He wondered whether the man on the gate was alone; he knew that on this kind of thing detectives usually hunted in pairs. If, however, as seemed likely, Nora Dring had passed that way, it was highly probable that the other police officer was keeping an unobtrusive eye on her.

      He nodded amiably.

      "Do you chance to have seen a young lady come this way? She left me a little while back, and I've missed her."

      The other removed his pipe from his mouth.

      "I've seen no one,"he declared. "I've only been here this last minute or two. Probably she went out before then."

      "Thanks. It's likely," agreed Eston, accepting what he knew to be a lie.

      Leaning against the gate, with folded arms, he eyed the road up and down, and again lifted his voice in a shout. If Nora Dring was within earshot, which was doubtful, she made no response. Eston stretched his arms.

      "No luck! I wonder where she's got to?"

      "Don't know, I'm sure," said the other, staring straight in front of him with absorption.

      Eston was not easily put off. If Nora was out of earshot, it was likely that any shadower would be also.

      "Beautiful day, isn't it?" said he, making the opening gambit of a man willing for desultory conversation.

      "Grand," admitted the other shortly.

      "I fancy we may get a thunder-storm before long. This is much too good to last."

      Eston's right hand was fumbling in the pocket of his jacket.

      "Yes, that's so."

      The watcher did not seem much in the mood for conversation. He shifted his legs to amore comfortable grip of the gate, and puffed away serenely, the while his gaze wandered far away over Eston's head. He was more absorbed than ever in the view.

      "Boating?" asked Eston.

      "Not exactly. Just down for an hour or two."

      "Well, it's a beautiful part of the river. If you see a young lady, you might tell her that I've been looking for her. My name's Eston."

      He turned, as if to go, but he was watching very closely. The man on the gate seemed quite uninterested. If he recognized the name I he showed no sign. He nodded, and puffed a cloud of smoke.

      "Right-oh! I'll tell her."

      Eston had taken one pace back towards the house-boat when he wheeled swiftly. There was a sheen of blue as he lifted his hand. The man on the gate found himself looking down the blue barrel of an automatic pistol. He pulled his pipe from his mouth, and remained a picture of amazement.

      "What the dev—!"

      "Cut that!" ordered Eston sharply. "I'm in ahurry! Get down from that gate! Hear me? Get down!"

      "If it's money you want," protested the other man, "I've only got a matter of ten shillings— "

      Eston's left hand gripped him by the arm, while the muzzle of his pistol was stealing within a couple of inches of his face. The man clambered down hastily, dropping his pipe as he did so.

      "Don't argue," insisted Eston. "I'm a desperate man, and you'll be wise to do exactly as you're told. I'm ready to take a chance. Now, march straight in front of you, and don't look back or make a sound. Get me?"

      "I get you. I'd like my pipe, if you don't mind. It's a good pipe, and I'd hate to lose it."

      He stooped, fingers outstretched towards the brier, and suddenly, sprawling at full length, grasped Eston's legs. Had Eston not been on the alert, it is possible the ruse might have succeeded. His fingers closed on the trigger, but in that fraction of a second sanity returned to him. The sound of a shot would be too risky, for investigation by those other watchers on the river would be near and prompt. He reversed the weapon as he dodged, and the butt fell heavily on the prostrate man's head. He gave a soft, sobbing sigh, and lay limp.

      "The darned fool!" grunted Eston, and wiped the weapon carefully with a handful of grass. Then he lifted the unconscious man and bore him to a heavy clump of gorse, where he deposited his burden. Then deftly and swiftly he made a search of the other's pockets. It revealed little that he did not know—a watch, a little money, a few private letters, a police diary and notebook, and a warrant-card, such as is carried by all men of the Criminal Investigation Department.

      "I thought so," commented Eston grimly, and transferred the letters to his own pockets.

      One never knows when such things may be useful. Besides, it was quite possible that the diary—that little book which every detective is expected to keep posted, so that he may account for his time and expenses to his superiors—might contain a hint of things Eston wished to know. He did not, however, attach tremendous expectations to this. It was improbable that any of Garfield's subordinates would know the grand strategy of the case. They would be used only for minor tactics.

      Eston stripped the braces, and took a handkerchief from the senseless man, and with these and his own handkerchief contrived to tie and gag his victim roughly but effectively. Then, dusting himself with care he climbed the gate and strolled down the road. He had proceeded, perhaps, a quarter of a mile when he met Nora Dring, hatless and cool.

      "I have been looking for you, he said tartly. "Where have you been?"

      She thrust a hand through his arm, and they began to walk back.

      "I wanted to see Velvet," shesaid. "I gathered that, in the circumstances, you are not going to stay here too long. I thought it advisable to take time by the forelock. The car will be ready in ten minutes."

      "Good girl!" he said approvingly. "I think it is time we made a move."

      "There's another thing," she went on quietly. "We're watched from this side. I'm being shadowed at this moment. There was another man on the gate. You must have noticed him."

      "Yes, I noticed him. You can strike him out of the account for a little while. I'm more concerned about a gentleman who's following you."

      "He's about a hundred yards behind us at the moment," she went on. "Velvet is bringing on the car, and Jim is following our follower."

      He lit a cigarette and shadowed his face.

      "I've told Hilary to be ready to leave the boat," he said. "I'll get you to go back and hurry her up. I don't think somehow that our friends in the skiff intend any action at the moment, unless their hand is forced. You bring her back here, and Jim and I will deal with this other gentleman from Scotland Yard."

      A bend in the road shielded them for a moment from a view of their sbadower. Eston paused by a big oak so that its trunk concealed him from anyone advancing towards them. The girl went on.

      It was a different type of man to that he had already dealt with who presently came into Eston's line of vision. A massive giant of a man, rugged of face and frame, a dirty cap on a thick, uncombed head of hair, unshaven, and with a brilliant blue muffler knotted round his throat.

      Eston moved from his concealment.

      The big individual slouched on, apparently unheeding, until a detaining hand touched him on the shoulder.

      "You have been annoying a lady friend of mine, " said Eston, a note of sternness in his voice. "What do you mean by it?"

      "Lemme alone, guv'nor," said the man. "I ain't interfered with no lidy friend of yours. What d'yer take me for?"

      Eston saw a figure round a bend towards them—the man Nora Dring had referred to as Jim. Away in the distance came the faint hoot of a motor-car.

      "I take you for a condemned fool," he said "That's enough of it—understand! This is where you get off, my friend, if you don't want to fall into the hands of the police. You don't come any further down this road. Clear out!"

      The detective hesitated. Eston was treating him as any man might treat a tramp, and that was what the detective supposed that he was believed to be. It was his duty to keep observation, as the official phrase goes, on Eston and his party. He had followed Nora Dring because she came to the house-boat. She was obviously on her way back to her comrade, and he would be certain to pick her up. It was his plain duty to drop her and keep an eye on Eston himself.

      "You've got the wrong end of the stick, guv'nor," he protested. "Still, it's all one to me. I'll turn round the other way if you want me to."

      "I'll walk with you a bit of the way," said Eston, and pushed his hand through the other's arm. Jim was close upon them now—a wiry, bronzed young man, with America as the country of his origin shrieking all over him, from his round hat, his loose, long-skirted coat, and his wide, creased trousers and his small boots with the toes curving inward. Jim was a "strong arm" —an ally useful on occasions like this. He was walking swiftly, and he caught Eston's almost imperceptible nod as they neared each other.

      The attack was so swift and so sudden that the detective probably never realized exactly how it happened. Eston had disentangled his arm, and with a tigerish movement sprang on him from behind with a throttle-hold that choked back the first alarmed cry. His arm was round the other's mouth and nose, his knee in his back, and Jim had his hands in the detective's hair, pulling him forward.

      The struggle was sharp but short. It was a matter of seconds before the man was as helpless as a baby, face downwards in the dust. Prom somewhere in an inside pocket Jim produced a short, yielding length of material about an inch in diameter and eighteen inches long. A sandbag is a deadly weapon in experienced hands. Eston drew back, and his companion administered what seemed to be the slightest tap on the back of the neck.

      The struggles of the detective ceased, and Eston rose.

      "Not overdone it, have you?" he asked, more in a tone of casual curiosity than of one doubtful whether he has or has not assisted at murder.

      "I should smile," said Jim, scornful at the aspersion on his dexterity, running his fingers over the sandbag and stowing it away in his pocket. "The guy won't know what's given him a headache in a couple of hours' time."