CHAPTER

MR. JOSIAH GARFIELD smoked steadily and philosophically as he sat in a chair by the side of the open trapdoor. Two other men were with him, also smoking, and tied hand and foot in a remote corner of the kitchen lay Velvet Fred and Knuckleduster Jim. As the chief inspector had remarked, he had all the time there was and if the business was to resolve itself into a game of patience, he did not greatly mind.

      Of what had happened at the burning gambling hell he had not the slightest idea. He was bent single-mindedly on securing Eston and he was very happy.

      Some day, he reflected, he would tell of this exploit. There were angles of it that made him realize that he was a great man. It was a flash of genius that had made him think that a man of Eston's caliber would not fire the place unless he had some secret and certain method of escape. He had argued that men who had made a life-profession of crime, as Eston had, do not commit suicide and he had proved himself right in this case, at least.

      From that proposition, the idea of a tunnel had followed logically and there was only one reasonable probability—that it had its exit at some other house in the vicinity. So the detective had played his hunch. An inquiry of the estate agent had revealed the fact that a "Mr. H. Smith" had taken another house on agreement in a street fifty yards back at the same time that he had taken the place in Cello Street. And now Garfield was sitting by a trapdoor with Eston underneath and two or three men connected with the case actually in his hands. Yes, he felt very pleased.

      His thoughts reverted to Silverdale. He had great belief that that young man would land right side up on his feet whatever happened, and yet he felt some uneasiness. It was curious that nothing had been seen or heard of him since he had entered the place. And Hilary Sloane. Why was she not down there with Eston? It might be that the crook was lying, but it was all mightily curious.

      The entrance of Wade and two or three more men disturbed his reflections. The sergeant, his evening dress torn, his face smoke-grimed and dirty, his some-time snowy shirt-front blackened and soiled, glanced with a grin at the two men in the corner.

      "I was told you were here, sir," he reported.

      "Yes, I'm here", agreed Garfield. "How's it going? Any news of Silverdale?"

      Wade shook his head gloomily. "The place is gutted," he said. "If he is in it, I'm afraid it's all up with him."

      "H'm." Garfield took his pipe from his mouth. "That's a pity. I rather liked the lad. I'd hate to think that, held gone under like that. However—" He lifted his massive shoulders.

      Wade's gaze wandered to the open trapdoor and he lifted his eyebrows interrogatively.

      "Yes, Eston is down there. He's got a gun and he made some uncommonly good practice when I tried to get a glint at him." He touched his injured ear, on which a slight clot of blood showed, tenderly. "He's not feeling very amiable just now is Mr. Eston." He raised his voice. "Are you there, Eston? What have you done with Silverdale?"

      There was a chuckling laugh from below. "Ask me?" retorted Eston sarcastically. "He's out of the game."

      The two detectives looked at each other and Garfield frowned. Both were sorry, but it was all in the day's work. Wade stooped to glance down the open trapdoor, but Garfield stopped him with a touch. "I wouldn't do that," he warned.

      The sergeant heaved himself up and spat through the opening. "What are we going to do about that swine?" he said. "We're not going to leave him there to laugh at us. I'm willing to chance it and go down and pull him out if you give the word."

      Eston, to whom every word of the conversation was audible, laughed loudly.

      "Come along!" he taunted.

      The chief inspector shook his head. "No need to be in a hurry," be said. "We've got him safe enough. We put up a sweet little ambush, Wade. I'm sorry you weren't here to enjoy it. Jim and Fred there just walked into our arms. They were in such a hurry that they didn't know what had happened till it was all over. Here—" he addressed one of the detectives who were listening—"you slip down and get a taxi and then a couple of you can get lem to Grape Street. Might as well get lem cleared out of here."

      The man addressed gave a jerk of the head to signify that he comprehended the order and vanished. Wade leaned over close to his chief and muttered something in a low voice.

      The chief inspector listened thoughtfully. "There's a girl down there," he observed. "We might try to get her up." He raised his voice. "Miss Dring," he called.

      "Yes." The answer floated up clearly but there was a slight tremor in the voice.

      "I want to ask you to come up here and surrender yourself. You will be treated with every consideration, but if you refuse I can't answer for what may happen. I strongly advise you to do the sensible thing. We may find it necessary to use Mr. Eston's own methods and smoke him out."

      "Surrender?" The girl's voice was still more tremulous. "I don't understand. Do you mean that you are going to arrest me?"

      "Come up," said Garfield gently. "We will explain everything when you are up here." He paused. "Are you coming?"

      The girl's voice as she answered was firm —firm with the accent of desperation. "If you are going to arrest me, I will not come. Will you give me your word that if I come up, I shall go free and unharmed, without any reservation?"

      A wry smile showed on Garfield's face. "A pretty cool proposal," he muttered under his breath. Then, "I can give you no undertaking of any kind. You will be treated with courtesy and if you have nothing on your conscience, you have nothing to fear."

      "I'll not come," she said decisively.

      For a while nothing happened except the removal of the prisoners. Now that the burning house and its surroundings no longer needed such careful watching, Garfield had plenty of help at hand. To tell the truth he was becoming a little impatient. If Nora Dring had not been down below, he might have taken a chance and waited for a while. There were many reasons why he should and only one why he should not.

      There was just the chance that the girl might take the one way of escape that Jay open to her. Garfield did not want a dead woman on his hands—he wanted a live prisoner.

      Leaving the watching of the trapdoor to others, he and Wade retired to another room where they could lay their plans in privacy. Here they were joined by Rack, the divisional detective inspector from Grape Street, and the divisional detective inspector in charge of the Bloomsbury district.

      It took a matter of rather less than five minutes to complete their very simple arrangements and they returned to the kitchen. Four big men, they walked very quietly and in silence grouped themselves round the opening of the trapdoor. Garfield stooped and suddenly swung his big body clear, gripping the edge of the opening and leaping clear of the ladder down into the cellar.

      He swerved sideways as he landed in the darkness and flashed on an electric torch. He carried an automatic in his pocket but lie had the ingrained reluctance of the London police to use a lethal weapon even in self-defense and even as Eston opened a reckless fusillade, be did not draw it.

      One by one as in a game of follow-my-leader, his companions leapt through the opening, each flashing their torches in Eston's face. Dazzled and blinded, he fired wildly in their general direction but only one shot took effect and that through the fleshy part of Rack's arm.

      Before the last man had touched the ground, Garfield was within a couple of yards of Eston. There was a swish of skirts as Nora fled back along the tunnel and the crook, after hesitating for a fraction of a second, turned and followed her, reloading his pistol as he ran. He outpaced the girl and as he passed her, she stumbled. The next moment Garfield had gone headlong over her.

      As he rose a defiant shot echoed from ahead in the tunnel. He had his hand round the girl's wrist and felt a convulsive shudder shake her.

      "Oh!" she moaned and dropped again.

      "Are you hit?" asked the inspector but there was no reply. He turned his torch on her, reckless that he was making a mark that would show vividly in the tunnel, and his eyes told him the answer.

      Some of the other men dropped down as the fusillade opened and were crawling along the tunnel. He felt a hand at his knee and heard Wade's voice. "It's no good, sir. He's got us cold. Now he's got a start, he can wipe us all out in this narrow passage if we try to rush him. We'd better go back."

      "Can he?" said Garfield between his teeth. "Here's the girl. She's been hit. A couple of you take her back and see whether she's badly hurt. "

      They passed the girl back while bullets splintered on the brickwork around them. Wade had put the situation in a nutshell. It seemed hopeless to carry out the attempt at arrest any further. Eston had realized the strength of his position, and thoroughly reckless and desperate, was determined that nothing should dislodge him.

      Very reluctantly Garfield stretched himself full length on the greasy floor of the tunnel and leveled his own weapon.