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Roy Glashan's Library
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Lord Malvetway Has a Visitor—And a Surprise.
"A LADY to see you, my lord?"
The dissipated-looking man, toying with the cup of coffee in front of him, glanced over his shoulder at his servant.
"A lady, Parkes?" Lord Malvetway repeated. "What on earth brings a lady to see me at this hour of the morning?"
The servant took a pace forward.
"Well, she—she ain't exactly a lady, my lord," he went on slowly. "I asked for her card, but she said that she didn't use such things. She told me to tell you that she was—was old Sarah."
The young nobleman went off into a fit of laughter.
"Great Scott, man, that is my old nurse!" he broke out. "Send her up, by all means."
The servant hurried out of the flat, and Malvetway pushed the cup away from him with a hand that trembled. His face, although that of a man well under the thirties, was seamed and marked with the traces of a fast, dissolute life. At twenty-eight, Martin Darvell; Lord Malvetway, had drunk deeper of the cup of pleasure than many men of three times his age.
"Wonder what the dickens brings Sarah wandering up from Somerset to London?" he thought. "It must be four or five years since I saw the old girl. There was never much love lost between us. She always seemed to suspect that I had something to do with that fool Cyril's fall from grace, and she was not far wrong, either."
He leaned back in his chair, and lighted a cigarette—his usual breakfast.
Presently the door of his room opened, and a little wizened woman came slowly into the room, Her bright, beady eyes, as clear now as they were ten years before, fixed themselves on the flushed face of the man at the table.
With a great show of cordiality, Lord Malvetway swung round in his chair and arose to his feet.
"So it's Sarah—eh?" he cried, trying to make his voice sound friendly. "How are you, Sarah? We haven't seen each other for years, although I hardly think that is altogether my fault."
The old nurse gave him a little curtsey before she dropped into a seat beside the table. There was an air of subdued excitement about the old dame which did not escape the sharp eyes of her host.
"I be well enough, thank 'ee, Master Martin," she returned—"well enough, considering my age. and the rheumatism."
She was watching his lordship with her alert eyes, and Malvetway began to chafe beneath that direct gaze.
"I believe you're charged with some sort of news or other, Sarah," he said, turning towards the woman, "You and I were never very good friends, so I can hardly put this call down to good feeling on your part. What is it that has brought you here?"
Old Sarah smiled, a smile that was full of triumph.
"It be gettin' on for foive years since his late lordship died," she said; 'and three years ago the judge in the High Court decided that young Master Cyril was dead, and you came into the title and the estate."
Lord Malvetway was staring at the still comely face now—staring at it, eagerly, intently.
"That is very ancient history you're telling, Sarah," he said, in a low voice. The old dame nodded her head.
"Mebbe," she said, "but I jest wanted to make sure o' the dates. I was at the Hall when the will was read. Your uncle was a hard man on his own, but he treated we servants well enough, as my pension and cottage proved."
"My Uncle Richard was the best man in the world," the man returned, in a voice that had a thin suggestion of cant about it.
"And yet he drove his sixteen-year-old son—his only child," the nurse interrupted, "out into the world to fend for his self. Oh, your uncle could be hard enough when he loiked, Master Martin, though he never wur hard on you."
"I managed to please him," the nobleman returned, with a quick twitch of his brows. He felt that Sarah, in her shrewd way, was gibing at him. For the nurse was, perhaps, the only person who really knew how Martin Darvell had cringed and toadied to the irascible old lord of Malvetway Hall.
"Ay, you pleased him," said Sarah sardonically; "and I wur surprised to hear that, after all your pleasing, his lordship left the whole of his estates to his own son Cyril!"
Lord Malvetway's eyes clouded at the recollection of that blow which had been dealt out to him. The memory was always a sore one to him.
"Poor Cyril," he managed to say. "His father's repentance came too late. You know, of course, that he was proved to have drowned in the disaster which took place off Teneriffe."
Sarah's beady eyes gleamed again, and her wrinkled hands, hidden by the folds of the long cape she was wearing, closed a little more tightly around a package which she was holding.
"That's what the Courts said, Master Martin," she agreed; "but Law Courts bean't always right."
Her curious attitude began to ruffle the temper of her host.
"Right or wrong, Sarah," he said sharply, "they decided in my favour as next-of-kin."
The old woman nodded her head again.
"But if—if Master Cyril bean't dead—if it be proved that he bean't drownded," she went on, in her shrill voice, "what would happen then?"
"A very unlikely happening," her listener broke out.
"But what would happen, Master Martin?"
The dissipated man shrugged his shoulders. "I—I would be Martin Darvell again, and my cousin would reign at Malvetway Hall," he said.
With a little triumphant gesture, old Sarah arose to her feet.
"Then I can tell 'ee that Cyril be aloive, and this will prove it," she quavered, extending her hand.
Lord Malvetway strode across the room, and took the square package from the lean, wrinkled fingers. The brown paper covering was removed, and revealed a photograph.
A sunburnt man, in white cricketing flannels, with a bat under his—arm, and a smile on his handsome face: A face which, despite the ten long years that had passed, Martin Darvell recognised as being that of his cousin Cyril.
Like a man in a dream, Martin Darvell stood staring at the photograph. A touch on his arm brought him back to earth, and he saw old Sarah's shrewd face glimmering like a mask of grim joy by his side.
"Beant much doubt about him—eh?" she breathed. "Heaven bless his handsome face. He did remember his old nurse, you see. Just look at the back, Master Martin."
The man turned the card over, and saw a number of lines of firm writing.
"To dear old Sarah, from one who has never forgotten her many kindnesses to him when he had so much need of a friend, and who hopes she has not quite forgotten.—Cyril."
No address nor date. Just the simple message.
"Bless him!" the old woman murmured, with a break in her voice. "He ain't changed a bit. He was a dear, sweet boy, and that message proves he has still the same warm, loving heart. Heaven bless him, wherever he be?"
With an effort, Lord Malvetway—for we must still continue to call him by that name—pulled himself together. Forcing a smile to his lips; he turned towards the old nurse.
"This—this is splendid news, Sarah," he said, with an air of heartiness which made the beady eyes of the shrewd woman widen doubtfully. "By Jove, I am pleased! When did you receive this photograph?"
"It came yesterday," morning," said Sarah slowly. "I ain't got over the shock it gave me yet."
The man was fishing for information now—working desperately so that he might get some definite line to work on. His mind was a chaos of fears and alarms, in which only one thought remained clear and importunate—the arrival of this photograph and the implication it made—that his cousin was alive, meant utter ruin and worse to him.
"Did you notice the postmark, Sarah?" he asked. "We must try to find Cyril at once, you know."
The old woman gave vent to an exclamation of dismay.
"There, now," she broke out suddenly. "I be a fule, vor sure. I burned the paper and cardboard that the photo came in, and I forgot to look at the postmark."
The nobleman smothered an oath.
"Did you chance to note what sort of stamp was on the package?" he asked eagerly.
Sarah thought for a moment.
"I du believe I'd recognise the stamps if I were to see them again," she said, after a long pause.
Lord Malvetway strode across the room and drew out a huge stamp-collector's book. His hobby of collecting all British stamps was to stand him in good stead then.
"We'll go through them slowly," he said, beginning to turn the pages over. "No good troubling about the obsolete ones. It must have been a modern. Was the King's head on it?"
"I wouldn't be sure, but—ah, there it is!"
Her wrinkled finger descended on a stamp—one of the new issues of South Africa.
"That be the very stamp!" Sarah cried, in a satisfied voice. "I du remember it quite well now."
Lord Malvetway closed the book, and a look of relief came into his eyes.
"Good," he said. "Then we know that Cyril is alive—or, at least, was alive three or four weeks ago—and is at present in South Africa. And now it is my duty to find him at once."
He spoke with an air of sincerity, and again the aged face of the nurse lifted towards him full of doubt.
"You mean that, Master Martin?" she quavered,
The man in front of her drew himself up.
"We were never very good friends, Sarah," Lord Malvetway returned; "but I hope I am not quite such a scoundrel as it is evident you imagine me to be. I assure you that I will set to work at once to trace my cousin. I will engage the best man I can find to trace him—and, to satisfy you, Sarah, you will see the man before he starts off."
The doubt vanished from the aged face, and for the first time in their long acquaintance, old Sarah smiled on the face of the man who had robbed her favourite of his inheritance.
"I du believe that you mean that, Master Martin," she said; "and I—I be surprised."
Lord Malvetway handed the photograph to the old dame.
"The man whom I engage to find Cyril will come down, personally to see you," he said. "You can let him see the photograph and give him as many details as you can. Surely that will satisfy you that I am eager to do all I can?"
The nurse took the precious square of cardboard. and wrapped the brown paper around it.
"Send your man down to Bralwell, Master Martin." she said slowly. "I'll tell you more about it when I've seen what your man be loike."
His lordship took a pace forward.
"Very good, Sarah," he said; "and, in the meantime I hope that you will keep this splendid news to yourself. It seems to me that Cyril must have heard of his father's death, and yet he did not even trouble to claim the title, which is certainly his by rights. Cyril sent that photograph to you as a keepsake, and perhaps he does not want it to be known that he is alive."
The old dame was silent, studying this new suggestion. Her host took a pace forward. That his face was tight with anxiety, and the knuckles of his fingers were white with the strain placed upon them, hinted at the storm which was raging within him.
"You see, Sarah," he added, "Cyril did not give you his name nor address. It seems to me that he omitted to do that purposely. He does not want his whereabouts revealed."
"He wur always a proud, headstrong boy," the nurse murmured. "Perhaps you be right, Master Martin. Mebbe he hev made a name for himself in that far-off land, and he doan't want to be bothered wi' one that was denied him by his own father."
Lord Malvetway's tense features relaxed suddenly.
"Now, you are sensible, Sarah," he said, stepping back a pace. "You will keep all this a secret until we find out what Cyril wants to do. Is that a bargain?"
The old dame nodded.
"I'll keep it a secret," she said.
And thus the first move of a new game was won by the cunning, unscrupulous rascal.
"You mean that if this 'ere cousin ev yours comes across to England, you're in the cart," said the thick-shouldered man, puffing at his cigar.
Lord Malvetway nodded his head.
"You've got it, Hagan," he said moodily,
"And you won't have any more money?"
"Not only will I not have any more money, but I shall probably have to refund all that I have spent—an utter and hopeless impossibility."
They were seated at one of the small tea-tables of the little kiosk in the Embankment Gardens. Lord Malvetway's companion, although fairly well dressed, had a certain flashiness about him which suggested the underworld of sharpers and rogues—a suggestion which the pallid, unhealthy face and the hanging jaw accentuated.
"And all my swearing at that there court won't be a bit o' good to me," Hagan went on.
His lordship smiled.
"It will do you a great deal of harm!" he muttered. "You were captain of the tramp-steamer Dorland Head when it foundered off Teneriffe, and you swore that my cousin Cyril had shipped before the mast, on your vessel. You also swore that he was one of the drowned."
Hagan was silent for a moment.
"I ain't sorry; for all that," he said, with a leer at Malvetway. "It was the best hour's work I ever did. Earned me a decent pension. and a good friend."
"I give you four hundred a year—and you are worth it," his companion returned; "Your story brought me the title and the estates. But now—well, you'll have to go back to sea, my good captain, for your pension will stop as soon as Cyril claims the title."
Hagan's brown hands tightened suddenly, and he drew a deep breath.
"Is there any way out of this?" he whispered, eyeing the cold, clever face of the man by his side. "You've got the brains, you know."
Malvetway's cruel eyes glimmered like dull gold.
"There is only one way out of a difficulty of this kind," he said; "and you know what it is."
There was a slight pause, then—
"I'll tackle that side o' the job," the heavy ruffian muttered; "but you'll have to tell me how it has to be done!"
It was to get this very promise out of his evil associate that Malvetway had telegraphed at once to Hagan's address. He leaned forward slightly.
"This is my plan," he said, "This afternoon I am going to call on a gentleman of whom you may have heard. His name is Sexton Blake."
Hagan's lips dropped suddenly.
"The 'tec?" he gasped.
"Then I'm out ov it," the ex-captain grunted sharply, half rising from his seat. "'That man is a 'oly terror; and you're a fool if you think you can get the better ov him!"
Lord Malvetway leaned forward again and thrust his companion back into the chair.
"Don't be so quick at forming your decisions, my friend," he said quietly. "I have spent a day in studying out my plans, and I flatter myself that they are worth while listening to."
"Go on," said Hagan.
"I am going to ask Sexton Blake to find my beloved cousin Cyril." the cool scoundrel went on. "I will send him down to Sarah, and she will give him the photograph. My story to Blake will be that I am anxious to restore the title and property to its rightful owner. There is nothing wrong about that, I suppose?"
The sailor glanced at the keen face.
"All depends if he knows you or not," he said, with an evil grin.
Lord Malvetway bowed sardonically.
"That is so," he returned. "But why should Sexton Blake doubt my attitude in this? I go to him, and ask him to find my cousin. I pay him a handsome retainer, and agree to cover all expenses of any trip he might have to take. All I ask from him is that he does not mention the reappearance of Cyril until we discover whether that headstrong youth wants to return to England and claim the title. Now then, Hagan, what is there wrong in that scheme?"
Hagan shook his head.
"It sounds too good to be true, that's all!" he muttered, eyeing his companion from beneath puzzled brows. "You're setting the best man in the world on this job, and he'll find your cousin if he's above ground, as sure as eggs."
The rascally cousin grinned.
"That is just exactly why I selected Blake," he said easily. "I want to find Cyril's whereabouts; but for another and quite distinct reason from that which I give to this detective fellow." He dropped his voice. "I want to find him so that I can make sure that he will never return to England—my cousin Cyril must die!"
The face of the ex-captain never changed; he had made up his mind as to the fate of the real heir already.
"I'm beginning to understand you now," he said.
"We might have wasted years before we tracked Cyril," his lordship continued eagerly; "but Blake is a man in a million at things of that sort. You see how cleverly I work it. Blake finds Cyril for us; and we take care that he never returns to claim the title."
A gleam of admiration shot through the hard eyes of the thick-shouldered rascal.
"I allus knew you were a dandy at scheming!" he muttered.
Lord Malvetway leaned back in his chair.
"And now for your share in the transaction," he resumed. "If it were possible I would go out and complete the task. But that is quite out of the question. Blake would recognise me at once, no matter how well I disguised myself. Therefore, Hagan, you'll have to do the trick."
"How?"
"I will keep in touch with Blake, and as soon as I hear that he is on the track, I will give you full particulars. I am sure that it means a journey to South Africa—but that won't trouble you. Blake has never clapped eyes on you in his life."
"That's so."
"You can travel in the same boat as he does," the scheming scoundrel went on. "I will let you know his destination, and if you get an opportunity of speaking with him, you can tell him that you are bound for the same district. Say that you are hunting up an old friend—an old shipmate, who has done well and invited you to come out and share his fortune. Tell any sort of lie you like so long as it helps you to follow Blake."
"I think you can leave that part ov it to me," said the other grimly.
"Blake will find Cyril, as sure as fate," said his lordship; "and you must then act. How the deed is to be done must he left to you. But Blake must not get the slightest inkling of your real design—or Heaven help you, for I won't!"
The sailor nodded his head.
"It's my pension that I've got to—to earn!" he muttered hoarsely. "I'll take care that I leave no tracks behind me."
They looked into each other's evil eyes for a moment, then his lordship arose.
"I am going to call on Blake now," he said; "and don't forget to keep yourself in readiness. I will telegraph to you at once; and you must have your kit packed and ready."
Hagan held out his hand.
"I shall want some cash," he said grimly. "I ain't got enough for kit and fares, you know."
Lord Malvetway opened a pocket-book, and counted out ten rustling banknotes.
"There are a hundred pounds," he said, thrusting the notes into the eager palm. "Don't stint yourself for anything. This is a big game we are going to play; and it means ten thousand a year to me."
"Out ov which I gets four hundred a year," said the captain grimly. "Seems a queer division, but I ain't got your expensive tastes."
His tall companion smiled.
"I gave you what you asked," he said. "If you want more when you return, it will be yours—to a reasonable amount."
"I'll take a note ov that," his companion returned, as he moved away.
Lord Malvetway watched the heavy-shouldered figure as it sauntered slowly down the cement path between the rows of seats. There was something sinister about the poise of the ex-captain's head—a hint at the grim brute nature of the man.
"I can trust Hagan, thank Heaven!" his lordship muttered, as he swung round on his heel. "He has every reason to be loyal. His pension—and the fact that I would not stand in the dock alone—if the whole truth of the affair came to light."
He hurried down to the gates which led out into the Embankment, A glance at his watch told him that it was just a few minutes after three.
"I'll call on Blake at once," he decided, raising his gold-mounted stick to a passing taxi.
The vehicle wheeled to the side of the pavement, and his lordship gave the address in Baker Street. Half an hour later he was being ushered into the consulting-room of the most famous detective in the world.
"A gentleman to see you, sir," the old landlady said, as she closed the door behind the visitor.
Lord Malvetway felt a pair of steel-grey eyes fixed on him as he crossed the room.
"Mr. Sexton Blake, I believe?" he said.
The clean-shaven man at the desk bowed.
"At your service, my lord," he returned quietly.
Lord Malvetway could not repress a slight exclamation of surprise.
"You—you know who I am?" he said.
Blake smiled.
"You are a little too modest, Lord Malvetway," he returned, "As the owner of Chilly Pride, the winner of the St. Leger. I saw you lead your mount into the paddock last year. I never forget a face."
The nobleman's intent features relaxed a trifle. He took a seat close to the desk, and removed his gloves slowly.
"I might have known that Sexton Blake would be the first man to recognise most people," he said, in a curiously fawning voice; a fact which the detective duly observed, and shot another keen glance at the cold, cynical face. "In fact, that is why I came to consult you. I want you to find an individual; and there is only a photograph to assist you in your search."
Blake raised his eyebrows slightly.
"I am only human, my lord," he warned.
"Quite so, but you have trained your powers of observation until they have made you what you are," his lordship returned.
There was a touch of fulsomeness about the compliments which displeased Blake. The great detective was the most unassuming of men, and he resented the obvious way in which his visitor was praising him.
"What is the task you have for me?" he asked quietly.
Lord Malvetway smoothed his gloves between his fingers.
"I want you to find the—the rightful claimant to my title," he said, trying his best to put an air of sincerity into his voice. "For three years I have considered myself to be Lord Malvetway, but a few days ago I made the astounding discovery that my cousin, Cyril Darvell, is alive."
Blake drew a pad of writing-paper forward, and picked up a pencil.
"Just give me as many details as you can," he said.
Quickly the cunning scoundrel obeyed the request. The whole story of his cousin's disappearance from his home, the death of the old nobleman, and the foundering of the Dorland Head, was related in a quick, flowing manner, which began to impress Blake slightly,
The arrival of the photograph with the South African stamp, and the subsequent visit of old Sarah ended the recital.
"I feel now that I must find my cousin at once," the man said, with a display of real anxiety which had a certain amount of sincerity in it—although the true cause of that was hidden even from the keen brain of the listener. "I would publish the fact to the world were it not that I feel that Cyril is deliberately concealing his identity. He always had a stubborn pride, and he may not thank me for publishing the fact of his existence."
"There is something in that," Blake admitted: "Even in South Africa there must have been some news received of the death of his father. Lord Malvetway was too rich a nobleman to die without the world hearing of his death."
"That is exactly my view," the scoundrelly cousin went on; "and that is why I want you to help me."
"The photograph is still in the old nurse's possession?" Blake said.
"Yes," said his lordship, with well-assumed hesitation; I insisted on her retaining it."
He cleared his throat.
"To be quite candid with you," he went on, "Sarah and I have never been good friends. For some reason or other she got it into her head that I was instrumental in bringing about the rupture between my cousin and my uncle. It is true that Lord Malvetway was very kind to me—and treated me as though I were his own son. I would have been an ungrateful hound if I had not returned that kindness by loving him."
He had told this story so often that he succeeded in pitching his voice in just the right key of respectful gratitude. Blake Was again impressed by the clever scoundrel.
"We often find old nurses with strange views about their charges," the detective said.
The false nobleman felt a quick thrill of satisfaction run through his veins, but he kept control of his cool features.
"Sarah believes that I worked all manners of evils," he went on, with a half-smile; "the only thing which pleases her is the fact that, after all, my dear uncle left the whole of his estate to his absent son. That fact alone might have settled the foolish old lady's doubts, but—as you may perhaps hear from her—she still retains a few of them."
If Blake had only known the true cause of the sudden change in the old lord's plans which had disinherited the smiling scoundrel who sat in the chair, he might have appreciated Martin Darvell's sincerity at its real value.
But Cyril's father had made the discovery that his favourite nephew was an abandoned rascal and gambler, only a few months before his death. A cheque had been forged, and it had been proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was Martin who had committed the rascally crime. It was then that the old lord, casting his mind back to the past, saw the evil which the scheming cousin had created. Cyril had been hot-headed and impatient, while Martin had always sided with the angry father, adding his little wedge of cunning comment on each boyish escapade which the young son had committed.
And so, at the eleventh hour, the old gentleman added the fatal codicil to his will, giving back to his boy the inheritance which had almost been lost to him.
But Sexton Blake was only to know of this later—and after a grim and remorseless battle between the murderous ruffian who sat before him, and his shrewd self.
"Very well, my lord," Blake said, as he removed the sheet of closely-written notes from the pad. "Your case has interested me—and I will take it up. Just let me have the address of the nurse, and I will go down and see her at once."
Lord Malvetway gave the detective the address of the little cottage, then arose to his feet, and slipped his hand into his pocket.
"Here is a cheque for two hundred pounds," he said, depositing the slip on the desk. "I think that I am justified in taking that amount out of the estate—which is really no longer mine, Cyril, however, would hardly refuse to sanction that expenditure—and you must have sufficient money to cover your travelling expenses."
Blake accepted the cheque. His client was rich enough to spare the amount.
"I will give you an account when the case is over," he said quietly. "But if, as you say, the photograph came from South Africa, I'm afraid that that means a trip for me."
"It certainly does mean that," Lord Malvetway returned; "and I am much obliged to you for your undertaking the matter. Good afternoon. You will let me know the result of your interview with Sarah, I suppose. Here is my town address."
He placed a card on the desk, and with a nod to the great detective, walked out of the room with a light, triumphant step.
When he had gone, Blake leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
"What is there about that man that I find repulsive?" the great detective muttered. "His story is clean and straight-forward, and he certainly has done all in his power to help me in this matter. And yet, by Jove, I don't quite trust him."
He lapsed into a fit of brooding from which the advent of his landlady armed with a tea-tray, aroused him.
"Oh, I shall be going out of town, to-morrow morning," Blake said. "And by an early train. I don't expect that Tinker will return until the afternoon. You'll tell him to wait for me, please."
"Yes, sir," said the landlady, with a slight curtsey. "That youngster does too much ov this gallivantin' about the country, I says. What he ought to be doin' is some steady sort ov employment. A cruel waste ov time, I calls it—"
Blake held up his hands, and the talkative woman vanished through the door, but the sound of her voice came back to Blake until the kitchen door slammed behind her.
"Poor Tinker," the detective thought. "Our landlady appears to think that his work is all play. But if I should go off on this African trip, he'll certainly have to look after things until I return. And he might get his hands full, by Jove."
A prophecy which had to have a strange fulfilment. For Tinker was to spend a laborious time during his master's absence—and just what happened, the future will reveal.
On the Track.
"BUT I—I can hardly believe it, zur," old Sarah gasped, her eyes alight with wonder, as they looked at Blake. "'How do ee know that my boy be at—at Bloemfontein, do you call it?"
Blake placed the photograph down on the table, and Sarah bent her grey head over it."
"I am just as pleased as you are, Sarah," the detective said, with satisfaction in his voice. "And now, if you'll follow me, I'll explain."
He pointed to the photograph.
"That was taken on a cricket field," he began. "Just look behind the figure, and you will see a corner of a pavilion, with a flag."
Blake handed her the big magnifying-glass which he had been using when inspecting the photograph.
"The flag was lifted by a breeze when the snap-shot was taken," he went on, with a smile at the dear old creature's loving interest in the child she had nursed, and had never forgotten. "If you use my glass you will see the letters 'WANDERE'"—he held the glass steady, and the old eyes followed each letter.
"That be quite right, zur," said Sarah, in a hushed voice; "but still, oi don't see how ee makes out that—"
"That is only part of the matter, Sarah," said Blake. "The flag proves that the grounds are owned by a club named 'Wanderers,' or something close to that. Now then, look above your boy's head. You see the tall wooden fence which divides the ground, and beyond it there is a high, flat-topped mountain showing, with a gap in the centre of it?"
"Yes, I see that, zur."
Blake leaned back, and a thoughtful expression crossed his face.
"I was out in South Africa during the war, Sarah," he explained, "and I stayed in Bloemfontein—the capital of the old Orange Free State—for some days. From my tent I had a full view of Naval Hill—as the Tommies called it—and if that mountain is not Naval Hill, and these grounds not the enclosure belonging to the Bloemfontein Wanderers Club, then my memory is playing me false—for the first time."
There was that in his voice which convinced the warm-hearted listener, and with a cry of joy, Sarah turned towards Blake.
"I—I believe you, zur," she quavered, extending her wrinkled hands. 'Oi liked your face when you first coomed in that door—and oi see that you be as clever as you be koind. Oh, Heaven bless ee for what you have told me, zur, for I feel now that I'll see my boy again afore oi dies. The little boy I used to carry in these arms. A great man he be now, but he didn't forget his old nurse Sarah. Nay, he didn't forget his old nurse, Heaven bless his handsome face."
She picked up the photograph and kissed the likeness, with eyes that were brimming with happy tears.
Blake's stern face softened wonderfully at this proof of honest, loving devotion on the part of the poor old creature. He arose from his chair and put his hand on the bowed shoulders.
"I'll tell Cyril of the loving heart that waits in England to welcome him," he said, in a deep, kindly tone; "and if anything will bring him back again—that will."
Sarah could not speak, but the trembling lips smiled through the tears.
"Oi never had a chil' o' me own, zur," she quavered. "All my loife I served at the Hall. Cyril was just as dear to me as though he wur my own. Oi ain't ever forgotten un—ain't ever forgotten un!"
She dried her tears presently, and then, in a flurry of house-wifely haste, insisted on Blake having tea with her. And such a tea, too. Scones and butter, a fresh egg, a comb of glorious honey, butter as golden as any sovereign ever minted, home-made jam and cream.
"You'll be goin' away after my boy." she said, again and again. "Mebbe, in they furrin parts you won't have enough to eat. Du ee have a good meal now, dearie."
In her excitement she gave the little quaint word to the clean-shaven man, and Blake smiled gently.
And a good meal he did have. It was five o'clock before he found himself, with his precious photograph tucked under his arm, on the railway station.
"A sweet old creature," he thought, "and one that can be shrewd enough when she likes."
It was the last words of the old nurse which caused him to make the remark. Sarah had placed her hand on his arm as he was leaving the cottage, and her voice had lowered a trifle.
"Mind ee, zur," she warned, "I doan't trust Master Martin! It du seem as though he wur main anxious to find his cousin—but that bean't natural. No man o' his class would veel pleased at losin' a fortune an' a title. He can talk as he please—but I du know the black heart of him and I says—don' ee trust him too var."
"Advice which I am half inclined to accept," Blake muttered, as he leaned back in the cushions of the compartment, and the train moved on its run to London. "Still, I don't quite see how Lord Malvetway can do any harm now. He has placed the case in my hands—and I'll take jolly good care that Cyril comes back to England—if he wants to."
When the great detective arrived back in his chambers, he found Tinker waiting for him. The young assistant brightened visibly as his master entered.
"Thought you were never going to return, guv'nor," he said, as he helped Blake to remove his cloak and hat. "I suppose it is a new case."
"You're right, Tinker," said Blake. "It is a new case. But I'm afraid there is very little for you to do in it."
"Why, guv'nor?"
"Well, on next Saturday I catch the mail-boat for Cape Town—and you'll have to remain in London until I return."
Poor Tinker looked absolutely woebegone at this information. Now Tinker was never really happy when separated from his great master and friend.
"The mail-boat for Cape Town," he repeated slowly. "Goodness! That means you'll be away for months?"
"Quite likely," said Blake. "If you sit down, I'll give you a rough idea of the job I've undertaken."
Tinker promptly seated himself; and Blake ran over the various details of the scheme. When he had finished, Tinker sat still for a long moment, thinking deeply.
"It's a queer business, guv'nor," he said at last.
Blake looked up at him.
"Queer?" he repeated, "on the contrary, I think that it is an easy task. I shall find Cyril Darvell easily enough—and the matter then rests in his hands. If he decides to return to England, good and well. If not—it doesn't make a scrap of difference to me."
And then, in his shrewd way, Tinker placed his finger on the weak spot in Lord Malvetway's case.
"But, guv'nor," he said; "whether Cyril Darvell cares to come back, or whether he doesn't, makes no odds so far as the title and estates are concerned. This present lord has no right to the title—and can't use it so long as the other chap is alive."
Blake smiled.
"I've thought of that myself, old chap," he said. "But for the moment, I am letting it slide. We'll give Cyril the chance of coming over first, and of claiming his estates and title, in the usual way. The question about the title can remain until that is settled."
Blake drew a sheet of notepaper towards him, and wrote a letter to Lord Malvetway, giving him a brief resume of the discoveries he had made. He also informed his client that he would sail from Southampton on the following Saturday on the Turk—the latest addition to the Union Castle Line. Tinker posted the letter in time for the first delivery in the morning, and as the young assistant returned to the chambers, his active brain was busily engaged on studying the latest case.
"It doesn't seem to be quite right to me," he finally decided. "I feel that the old nurse has hit the nail on the head when she told the guv'nor to watch his lordship. But the guv'nor wont be able to do that, so I'll have to come in there."
He did not breathe a word of his determination to his master; he was just a little afraid that Blake would order him to do no such thing; and Tinker, when he liked, could be as headstrong as a mule.
The week passed uneventfully, and on Saturday Tinker stood on the quay at the great seaport to watch the stately vessel as it glided away into the open waters of the harbour. Blake was leaning over the bulwarks, waving his hand to his young assistant, when Tinker suddenly caught sight of a man's face in the little group of people behind Blake. The broad, heavy jaw and the small eyes attracted the young assistant's attention; then, with a quick flash of memory, he placed the man.
"Captain Daniel Hagan," he said to himself. "I thought I recognised his face. What the dickens does he want to go to South Africa for? I wonder if the guv'nor knows that he's on board?"
The Turk went further and further away from the quay; and presently the band gathered on the afterdeck and began to play the old familiar parting song, "Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot."
Tinker took his hat off; and waved it once more towards the lithe figure leaning over the bulwarks.
"Good-bye, guv'nor!" he breathed, a lump coming into his throat. "I don't like being left behind, but orders are orders."
The Turk moved off through the shipping with stately pride, and Tinker turned away from the quay. A tall man, in a well-fitting suit of blue serge, was leaning against the side of the shed watching the departing vessel through a pair of strong glasses. Tinker had a glimpse of a cold, cynical face as he passed the silent observer.
Most of the people on the quay betrayed signs of grief at the parting which had just taken place, but the silent observer had a smile flickering across his cruel lips, and it was this fact which made Tinker glance again at the thin face, with its dissipated lines.
"You seem to be jolly glad to see it go," he thought, as he passed on.
In the train for London he promptly forgot all about the quiet watcher; his mind was full of his master and the long separation which he had to face.
"Give me half a chance, and—and I'm out after him," Tinker decided at last, little dreaming how soon his chance was to come.
Then the fact of Captain Daniel Hagan's presence on board the liner claimed the lad's attention.
Hagan had been pointed out to Tinker by an old sailor as being a renowned "scuttler"—an insurance shark.
The old sailor could bring no definite charge against the retired captain, and it was known that Hagan for the past three years or more had never left the dingy house in Deptford that he lived in, but his old evil repute was not to be easily lived down.
"I'll look up old Ben some day," the lad thought. "I suppose it's only a coincidence, but I don't like the idea of a man like Hagan travelling with the guv'nor, without him knowing about the skunk!"
It was typical of Tinker's methods of gaining information, this knowledge of Hagan's past career. The youngster was a veritable storehouse of the history of the underworld of London. He gleaned it from all manner of people—many of them with but little reputation to lose themselves; and often it came in wonderfully handy.
Hagan, however, had done nothing to place him within the reach of the law, and, therefore, Tinker's information was simply tucked away in the lad's mind "for future use."
Four or five days passed, and Tinker had almost forgotten about the presence of the ex-captain on board the liner on which his master was journeying towards the Cape. A simple case—the theft of a watch by a clever pickpocket had been placed in his hands by the unfortunate loser of the timepiece, and he traced the man down to his haunt—Deptford.
While Tinker was waiting to catch sight of the rascal he was in search of, Ben, his sailor friend, ran across the young assistant, and promptly demanded his company.
"I know it's only ginger-beer, Tinker," the old salt said; "but you'll have to have one along o' me!"
They went into a quiet bar, and Ben duly called for the refreshment.
"I've got a bit o' news for you about a man I mentioned to ye afore," said the sailor presently. "You heard me speak o' 'Drown-'em Hagan'?"
The curious name made Tinker raise his eyes. "You have mentioned him to me, Ben," he said, his mind flying back at once to the face he had seen so close to his master's side.
"Well," said Ben, "Hagan has struck somethin' real fat at last, and that means trouble for somebody."
"Let me hear about it," the young detective said.
"I met him early part o' last week," said Ben, "and he was throwing money about like—like water—ordering a Colonial kit, bless your heart; white linen suits and 'elmets, and all that sort o' muck! I'd shipped with him once as quartermaster, and he was anxious to swank a bit with me, so he made me go round the shops with him. Must have spent the best part o' thirty quid that day, blowed if he didn't!"
"Where was he going to?"
"He told me the Argentine," said Ben. "Said he'd found there was a cousin o' his in Buenos Ayres who'd struck it rich in some silver mines."
Tinker smiled grimly.
"Well," he said slowly, "I can tell you that's a lie to commence with, Ben. I saw Hagan's ugly face on board the Turk when it sailed from Southampton last Saturday; and no one sails for Argentine by way of Cape Town."
Old Ben raised his grizzled brows.
"The Cape—eh?" he said. "I wouldn't have thought that Hagan would risk that trip again."
"Why not?"
Ben grinned, a slow, meaning grin.
"His last trip that way out cost him a steamer, and an insurance company goodness knows how much," he said slowly. "It was the last vessel he ever commanded. They paid the insurance all right, but he lost his master's 'stiff' over it. And quite right, too, for if ever there was a clear case o' 'scuttling' that o' the Dorland Head—"
Tinker gave vent to a sharp cry of surprise.
"What did you say was the name of the steamer?" he rasped.
"Dorland Head," said Ben wonderingly; "as tight a little tramp as ever ran a cargo to Sierra. Went down in smooth weather off ov Teneriffe, and—"
"By heavens, this is extraordinary!" the young assistant gasped. He had taken notes of the case on which his master was engaged, and remembered the name of the steamer on which Cyril was supposed to have sailed. "There couldn't be two steamers of the same name?" He turned "How long ago is it since the Dorland Head went down, Ben?"
"Dunno. Mebbe eight, mebbe seven years ago," the old sailor returned.
Tinker thought for a moment, then turned to his friend.
"Look here, Ben," he said slowly. "I believe that you've given me some information just now that is worth a great deal. I must go at once and make a few inquiries. If things turn out as I expect they will do, I'll take jolly good care that you don't lose over the matter!"
Ben rubbed his honest hands together.
"Only too pleased to help you, my lad," he said, in his deep, booming voice. "Still, if there is anything to be picked up—goodness knows I can do with it! They don't treat old tars too well nowadays."
Tinker left the quiet bar, and, without giving another thought to the pickpocket, hurried back to Baker Street as hard as he could go.
"It may only be coincidence again," the youngster thought; "but I can't afford to take any risks. I must find out the date on which Cyril Darvell was supposed to have gone down with his ship."
By the time he reached his master's chambers the young assistant had decided on the best course to pursue.
He might have gained the information he desired by going to the Law Courts and searching through the registers until he found the reports of the High Courts case on the matter.
But it came to Tinker that there was an easier way of gathering that information. Blake had left old Sarah's address behind him, and the young assistant knew that the faithful old nurse would have eagerly treasured every scrap of news published about the affair.
"I'll go down and see her to-night," the lad decided. "There is nothing like striking when the iron is hot."
He stopped only to change into a more respectable suit of clothes, and then spent a few minutes at the 'phone, talking to the Yard. He gave the inspector who had first taken up the case full particulars about the identity of the thief, and that officer was only too glad to take up the thread and finish off the case. This settled, Tinker was clear to undertake his journey, and he went off to the station as quickly as he could.
He spent a half-hour waiting for a train, which proved to be a "local," stopping at every station on the journey down. It was well after nine o'clock when Tinker stepped out at his destination.
"I expect the old dame will be in bed," he thought, as he started out to find the little cottage; "but I might as well mate sure."
The solitary porter on the station had directed him to "Old Sal's" place, and a walk through a fragrant lane brought Tinker out into the stretch of commonland on which the cottage stood. There were no lamps about that part, and the lad had to make his way slowly across the soft grass. He was a little more than half-way across the common when his quick ear caught a sound from ahead, It was pitch-dark, but presently Tinker's keen eyes caught sight of a black shape standing in the midst of the grass. It was a two-seater car, with the small hood drawn up over the body.
He went up to the car, and examined it for a moment. There was no one near it, yet the touch of his hand on the bonnet told him that it had only recently been running, for the metal was quite warm.
"Queer?" muttered Tinker, staring around him. "What on earth made them halt the car, keeping a sharp common? The road must be a couple of hundred yards away."
He went on past the car, keeping a sharp look-out ahead. Presently he saw a white fence dividing the darkness, and behind it stood a small cottage. It was the only habitation near the common, and from the description given to him by Blake, Tinker recognised the cottage as being that owned by the old nurse.
"Lonely place for an old lady to stay in," he thought, as he moved towards the fence. "Ah, a light in the window! So she's not in bed, after all? That's a piece of luck, anyhow?"
His light, youthful step made no sound on the grass as he swung along. He had his eyes fixed on the lighted window, and suddenly a furtive shape passed it. The figure of a tall, thin man, moving warily outside the window! The head was down and the shoulders arched, and as Tinker watched the shadow, it halted at the side of the window, and pressed its face against the glass.
On the alert now, the young assistant moved forward noiselessly until he reached the low gate in front of the cottage, He slipped. inside, and crept forward cautiously, keeping on the other side of the pathway which led up to the porch. As he reached the porch the figure at the window on the left turned slowly, and Tinker caught a glimpse of the long, thin face beneath the peaked cap.
It was with difficulty that the young assistant repressed a gasp of astonishment. The face revealed by the light shining through the crack between the blind and the window was that of the silent watcher who had leaned against the side of the shed gazing at the great Union Castle liner as it steamed out to sea.
The discovery sent the young assistant back into the shadow of a straggling clump of bushes which grew beside the path. He dropped on one knee, and peered through the darkness at the tall, thin figure.
"This is getting a little out of my depths," he muttered; "but by jiminy, I mean to get to the bottom of it, somehow!"
Five minutes passed, and then the figure at the window straightened itself, and turned slowly. Tinker watched the thin shadow approach the path, and then when it reached the porch, he saw it stretch out its arm, and knock on the door.
Rat, tat!
The double-knock came clearly to the young detective's ears, and he raised himself slightly to watch the mysterious shadow. It was in the deeper gloom of the porch now, and he was not able to see what it was doing.
Presently he heard the sharp creak of a bolt, and the door of the cottage opened slowly.
The aged face of old Sarah, the nurse, with a lighted candle held in front of her, appeared in the gap of the porch. The old dame took a pace forward, turning her head slowly to right and left in search of the late visitor.
Tinker saw a sudden movement in the darkness—the tall form of the skulking watcher leaped forward, with upraised arm.
Thud!
The sound of a heavy, murderous blow came to the horrified lad's ears. He saw the unfortunate old dame stumble forward and fall headlong on the path, the candle flying from her nerveless hands.
Quick as a flash Tinker was on his feet, and had darted forward.
"You brute! Stop! Stop!" he called.
Above the prostrate form of his feeble old victim the tall, sinister shape poised for a moment, with uplifted arm, ready to bring down the weapon it carried again on the defenceless head.
Like a young bull Tinker simply threw himself across the intervening space, striking at the uplifted arm as he reached it.
There was a sharp oath, and his young fist caught the tight wrist, knocking the weapon into the air. Then the man's arms closed around him; and the next moment they were rolling over and over on the damp earth beyond the path, fighting and struggling like a pair of wild cats.
Over and over they rolled, Tinker fighting desperately to free himself from the strangle-hold which the lithe ruffian had placed on him. The man had swung his left arm around the plucky youngster's neck, and was straining with all his might to increase the pressure. His right arm was pressed against his side, and he was struggling to free it. But Tinker was as strong as a young lion, and the desperate ruffian found that he could not move the lithe young body. which had wrapped itself around him and was holding on with arm and knee and foot.
Once Tinker found. himself on top, and with a quick butt of his head almost succeeded in reaching the evil face of his antagonist. The fierce hold around his neck was preventing him from breathing, and he knew that if he did not soon release himself the ruffian would win the grim contest.
Another roll sent them deeper into the soft earth; and at last, in a blind fury, the man made one last desperate effort to free his useless right arm. The power of his quick plunge sent them both rolling sideways again. Tinker felt the ground suddenly give way beneath him and—Splash!
Locked in each other's arms, the two bodies went floundering into a pool of evil-smelling rain-water!
"The suddenness of the immersion made Tinker release his grip for the moment. Quick as a flash his antagonist took advantage of the action., He drove his fist into the face of the gasping detective, and, as Tinker sank back into the stagnant pool, the man flung himself clear.
"You cur!" Tinker cried, rising to his feet and making a mad effort to reach the fellow.
His outstretched arm landed on the boot of the rascal as he drew himself up out of the little pond.
With a curse the ruffian drove his foot backwards into the young assistant's chest, sending him reeling into the pond again; then, scrambling to his feet, the tall shadow went off across the small garden as hard as it could pelt.
Tinker was out of the pond and staggering after his quarry in quick time; but the fellow had gained a start, which he made the most of. The young assistant saw his tall adversary leap over the low hedge and dart away into the darkness across the common.
"I'll follow you, you murderous beast!" the plucky youngster thought, doubling his fists. "I want to make sure of you, if I can."
He butted blindly across the soft mould of the garden, vaulted the fence, and went on across he common.
Suddenly the quick; rattling throb of a motor-engine came to his ears, and, like a hound on the track of a hare, Tinker doubled sharply on his tracks.
"The two-seater!" he gasped. "I might have thought of that!"
He sprinted for all he was worth; but he was too late.
The rascal was up behind the steering-wheel, and Tinker heard the swishing of the damp grass as the wheels began to move forward. He saw the squat shape of the hooded car whirl away from him, and put in one last desperate sprint.
For a dozen yards or so he gained on the vehicle; then, as the powerful engines settled to their work, the car began to forge ahead. It shot into the roadway and turned sharply to the right, droning away down the silent track at full speed.
Gasping for breath, Tinker came to a halt, and listened until the drumming of the car died away in the distance.
"That's one to you, you scoundrel, whoever you are!" he muttered, as he dashed the sweat and grime from, his face. "But my turn may come next time; for I'll swear that I haven't seen the last of you!"
He turned and made his way back to the little cottage, moving at a sharp trot through the grass, for he was anxious about the unfortunate old nurse.
As Tinker leaped through the gateway he heard a faint sigh from the path, and old Sarah came swaying down it towards him.
"All right, Sarah!" Tinker said, leaping forward and flinging his arm around the aged form. "You're quite safe now. I hope the brute did not hurt you very much?"
The nurse was glad of the support of the stout young arm, and clung to him with trembling hands.
"What is it, dearie?" her voice quavered. "Why did they strike down a pore old woman as never harmed anyone?"
Tinker began to lead the totterng form towards the cottage.
They passed through the opened doorway and on into the lighted parlour. When he had placed the old nurse in a chair and had brought her a cup of water, Tinker patted the wrinkled hand.
"I don't know who it was that attacked you, Sarah," he said slowly; "but I'll see to it that he never gets another chance, He meant to murder you, old lady. Thank Heaven, I came here when I did!"
There was a deal of honest English pluck in the old Nurse, and within a few minutes she had recovered from the shock.
The first blow which the brutal scoundrel had aimed at her had. fallen on her shoulder. It had been strong enough to knock her down; but, apart from a bruise or two, she had had a most wonderful escape.
Gradually Tinker explained the errand that had brought him down so late; and yet so opportunely. He found that his surmise was correct. Old Sarah had filled a scrapbook with the reports of the case as it was heard, and she brought out her precious volume for her visitor to read.
One paragraph was quite enough for Tinker—that which referred to the evidence of Captain Hagan, late captain of the Dorland Head—the vessel which had foundered and had taken the whole of its crew with it, excepting the worthy captain himself and a steward.
Tinker closed the volume.and returned it to the old lady.
There was a grim smile on the young assistant's face, as he addressed his hostess.
"You've decided a very big question for me, Sarah," he said slowly. "I'm going to follow my guv'nor."
He had already informed the old nurse that he was Sexton Blake's assistant; and Sarah nodded her head.
"That be a good idea, Mr. Tinker!"' she said. "Du 'ee go efter your master, like a good lad. Mebbe he'll want 'ee to help bring my boy back to me; 'cos they du zaay as two heads be better than one, you know."
Tinker smiled.
"But, still, Sarah," he said slowly, "I don't like leaving you—unless you care to make a bargain with me."
"What might that be?" the old nurse asked doubtfully.
There was a thought at the back of the young assistant's mind—one that he could not express, yet it was strong enough to make him urge the old nurse to follow his suggestion.
"I want you to leave this cottage and come up to London with me," he said. "You can live at the chambers in Baker Street; and you'll find our landlady a real good sort. Talks too much perhaps, but doesn't mean half what she says. Now, Sarah, is that a bargain?"
Sarah's shrewd old eyes searched the young face for a long moment; then the wrinkled face widened into a sudden smile.
"Oi du believe that I know what you be feared o'," the old nurse said grimly. "You be feared that someone may be moighty anxious to get rid of—of old Sarah. She du know too much for un—eh?"
Tinker nodded his head.
"I'm not quite sure about it, Sarah," he said slowly; "but that is what I fear. You're a very important witness. And I know that the guv'nor would be angry if he thought that I had left you unprotected after what has happened to-night. In Baker Street you will be safe."
Sarah smiled.
"Oi be an old woman now," she said slowly; "and Oi du hate shifting about. But I veel that you have an old head on these young shoulders, for zure; and so Oi'll jest du whatever you tell me to."
And so the bargain was made. Old Sarah was to shift up to London to keep the landlady of the chambers company, while Tinker—a very cheerful Tinker, be it added—was to set off in search of his master.
The intelligent reader might observe that a cable to Cape Town would probably have placed Blake on his guard so far as Hagan was concerned.
But Tinker had hungered to follow his beloved guv'nor, and he thoughtfully forgot all about the use of the modern invention which allows man to speak from sea to sea.
An intermediary liner sailed on the following Saturday, with the young assistant as one of its passengers.
"The guv'nor will have been in Africa a good nine days before I arrive," the lad thought; "but that can't be helped. I'll find him soon enough; and nine days won't make much difference."
But in that remark Tinker was wrong. For those nine days had to make a vast amount of difference in the grim drama which had to be enacted in the great colony.
For, in his haste to get away from England, Tinker had neglected one person—the false Lord Malvetway. The young assistant had suspected that it was someone employed by the cousin who had made the attack on the old nurse. But if Tinker had only troubled to visit his lordship he would have found out that the man on the quay—the man who had attacked old Sarah—was none other than Martin Darvell himself.
And so on the day following the departure of Tinker for the Cape the scheming ruffian discovered that the old nurse had vanished from her little cottage.
Fear makes cowards of most men, and this sudden disappearance frightened the scheming ruffian half out of his wits.
A cable was sent off to a Captain Parry, passenger S.S. Turk, the real translation of which was:
"STRIKE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. DELAY MAY RUIN ALL."
And, having sent off his grim command, Lord Malvetway settled down to the most difficult of all human tasks—waiting for news.
Hagan Moves.
"BLOEMFONTEIN at last!" said Sexton Blake, as he stepped out of the train and glanced up and down the hustling platform.
It is easily the best station on the whole line from the time the traveller leaves Cape Town until Elandsfontein—the junction for Johannesburg and Pretoria—is reached.
Blake had made a quick and uneventful passage, and he was looking the picture of health as he crossed the platform and went out into the wide street which led up into Market Square.
The town had changed but little since the war, and the detective shot a glance at Naval Hill, looming above the range of houses on his right.
"Still there!" he thought, with a humorous lift of his fine brows. "By Jove, many a poor Tommy swore at you as he climbed out through the gap for outpost duty!"
He was travelling light. A couple of portmanteaux with a few simple changes of clothing was all that the detective had brought with him from England. It is only about a ten minutes' walk from the station at Bloemfontein right to the heart of the busy town, and Blake soon found himself engaging rooms at the Union, a fine verandahed pile close to Church Street, and ordered a meal.
An hour later, after a wash and a change, Blake sauntered out of the hotel and began to look around him. He found the offices of the "Gazette," and sent in his card to the editor.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Blake?" the brown-bearded man asked, when the detective was ushered into his presence. "Bloemfontein, I hope, is not going to be the scene of any great arrest?"
Blake smiled.
"Oh, no," he returned, "this is quite a peaceful mission I am on this time. I simply want to try and find someone who is entitled to a large fortune and a fine estate."
The editor relaxed his worried expression.
"That's all right," he said. "I will do all in my power to help you."
Blake slipped the photograph out of his pocket and laid it on the desk.
"Can you help me to find this gentleman?" he asked.
For a moment there was a silence in the office, then the editor gave vent to a low whistle of astonishment.
"Well, of all the extraordinary things that ever happened!" he broke out. "Man, do you know that this very photograph was taken by me?"
"You don't say so!" the great detective returned.
"I do, and what's more, I'll prove it!"
The editor touched a bell, and a young clerk appeared.
"Bring me last month's copies of the paper," he said.
In a few moments the file was placed on the desk, and the editor turned the leaves over quickly. Presently he stopped, and, turning the file, thrust it towards Blake.
"Look at that," he said.
His finger was resting on an illustration—a copy of the photograph which Blake had brought with him all the way from England.
Beneath the photograph, in big black letters, were the words:
"The Selection Committee honour a young townsman, Mr. Cyril Darvell, who has been asked to join the South African team for the Triangular Test matches."
Blake sat back in his chair, and whistled softly to himself.
"That's all right," he returned. "My task is an easy one, after all. Where shall I find Mr. Cyril Darvell?"
The editor hesitated for a moment, his eyes fixed on the great detective's face.
"Look here;" he said at last, "I'm not going to help you unless you give me your word that—that your mission is a peaceful one. Cyril and I have been great friends, and he's well liked in this town. By Jove, if the boys thought that you were after him for any other motives except friendly ones, you'd have a rough passage, Blake."
The detective's fine face widened into a smile.
"I can quite believe that," he said easily; "but you need have no fear. I give you my word of honour that all I desire is to have ten minutes interview with your friend. What I have to place before him is something which he probably knows about already; but, whether he does know or not, it is certainly for his own good."
"Right!" the brown-bearded man snapped. "I can trust to your word, Blake. We may be a long way out of the world here, but we have heard of Sexton Blake, and his word is better than most men's bonds?"
He drew a sheet of paper towards him, and wrote a couple of lines on it.
"This will serve as an introduction," he said, taking an envelope from his desk and placing the letter inside. "Cyril is at a farm about five miles beyond the Waterworks, on the road to Basutoland."
"The Waterworks—eh?" Blake repeated. "I remember that place. The Hussars were cut up there during the war."
"That's right," the editor returned; "although there's no trace of the fight there now. You'll find Cyril at Blerpuut, the name of the farm. He's in charge of the stables there. I don't believe there's a finer horse breaker in South Africa than our young friend."
Blake glanced at his watch, and noted that it was almost four o'clock.
"A little too late to start off to-night, I'm afraid," he said. "I'll have to leave it until the morning."
He took the letter of introduction, and arose to his feet.
"I suppose you could not let me have a slight idea of—of your mission?" the editor asked.
Blake shook his head.
"It would make a jolly fine newspaper story," he said; "but I must see Mr. Darvell first. If he allows me to tell you, I will certainly do so, but until he does, I'm afraid I must keep quiet."
"Right you are," said the editor, dropping back in his chair; "but don't forget me if there is a chance of making a scoop. The team has to sail from Cape Town in a week's time, and any item of news about the players makes a newspaper sell just now."
"I won't forget," Blake promised as he left the office. He felt pleased at the easy way in which he had accomplished his mission. On the following morning he would ride out to Blerpuut, and place the whole matter in front of the real Lord Malvetway.
"It makes it rather interesting now," he thought. "He will have to come to England, anyhow, with the South African team. Even if he does not wish to claim the estates, he cannot help accepting the title as next-of-kin. I must remember my promise to the editor. It certainly will make a good story."
As he entered the smoke-room of the Union, a broad-shouldered man arose to his feet, and came forward.
"Hallo, Mr. Blake," he said, in a loud voice, "I didn't know that you were going to stop at Bloemfontein?"
"How do you do, Captain Parry?" Blake returned, nodding to the man.
They had frequently met on board the Turk, and Parry had tried to be very friendly with the detective. But Blake did not like the heavy-jowled fellow, and there was a shifty look about the beady black eyes which hinted at a rogue's heart behind them.
"Have a cigar?" Parry—who, of course, was Hagan—said, dragging a case from his pocket. "I can recommend 'em, I brought them all the way from England. None of your tuppenny Cape smokes, believe me."
Blake could find no real reason to refuse the offer, and he accordingly selected a weed and lighted up. Parry seated himself on the chair opposite the detective, and plunged into a conversation.
"What brings you to this town, Mr. Blake?" he asked.
"Business," said Blake laconically, "Nothing very important."
"I shouldn't think that there was much business doin' in this place," Hagan went on. "I've come out to join an old pal who's struck it pretty rich. I thought I'd stay 'ere a few days before going further up country."
He had heard from his aristocratic accomplice that Bloemfontein was Blake's destination; the detective had mentioned that in his report to the false nobleman.
"It is not at all a bad town," said Blake,"and there are some very pretty walks to be had."
"I wish I could find someone to show me round," said Hagan, his eyes fixed on the detective's face. "I suppose you've been here before?"
"A long time ago," Blake returned; "but I'm afraid that i cannot be of much assistance to you, captain. I'm going out of town to-morrow, and I expect that I'll be starting for England when I return."
Hagan leaned forward a trifle.
"Going further up country, I suppose?" he asked slowly.
There was really no reason why Blake should be secretive ever his mission, especially to an utter stranger.
"I'm going out to a farm close to the Waterworks," he said. "It's a ten miles' drive."
That was as much as Hagan wished to hear, and he changed the conversation. In his way, the ex-captain was an interesting man; there were few ports in the world at which he had not called during his long and, by no means, uneventful career. He and the detective chatted together for the best part of an hour before they parted for the night.
"I may see something of you before you go, Mr. Blake," said Hagan. "I feel a bit lonely like in this town, and you must excuse.me if I seem a bit anxious to make a friend of you."
"A curious type of man that," Blake thought when he was alone in his white-painted bedroom. "Evidently very anxious to please, and yet there's a deep strain about him that I don't quite like. That hard face and those shifty eyes were never cultivated by a man who led an honest life. He seems friendly enough, though, and, after all, I expect he does feel a trifle lonely in this town without a friend."
If he had chanced to catch sight of the face of Hagan as it leaned over the verandah at that moment he might have doubted the friendliness of the man.
"Goin' out to the Waterworks," the ex-captain thought. "Well, I know someone who'll be on that road before you, old man. And it won't be the fust time I footed it on the old Thaba'Nchu road, neither."
He leaned on the rail of the verandah, and gazed moodily out at the twinkling lights of the town.
"Can't make out the meaning o' that cable, though," he muttered, perusing the message in cypher which had been awaiting him on his arrival at Table Bay. "Got to get to work at once?" Wish he'd sent a letter; or somethin'."
He brooded on for a long time—brooded of the murder which he knew he had to commit before his task was completed. For Hagan felt sure that Cyril would head for England as soon as he heard of the fortune that was waiting for him.
"And I've to see to it that he don't land there alive," the man muttered, his face looming like a beast's in the shadow.
"Well, it won't be the fust!"
He heard a voice, and recognised it as that of the detective. Slinking back into the darkness, Hagan listened intently.
Blake was giving instructions about his early morning start for the farm beyond the Waterworks, and engaging a vehicle to take him there.
"Blerpuut baas?" the guttural voice of the native waiter repeated. "It will be all right. I send dat Cape cart round here first ting in the morning."
"Not later than eight o'clock, remember," the quiet voice of the detective returned.
The voices ceased to sound, and Hagan stepped back softly into his own room, and closed the windows behind him.
"Blerpuut?" he repeated, "That's where you're bound for—eh? Right."
He crossed to his bed, and without removing his clothes, lay down and pulled the counterpane over him. He had to make an early start in the morning—a very early start, for it was necessary that he should be well on the road before Blake arose.
"I've got to cover my tracks," Hagan muttered, his criminal brain beginning to work on the scheme, "and I've got to do that from the beginnin'. It's only the silly mugs who start being smart—after they've placed their blessed head in the noose—that swing!"
Hagan might not be possessed of the keen, clever brain of his unscrupulous employer, Martin Darvell, but the ex-captain had all of that animal cunning which made him the more dangerous rogue when faced with a deed that required an iron nerve and a cool brain.
The false Lord Malvetway had chosen well when he selected the ex-captain as his tool.
The dawn had not yet arrived when Hagan slipped from his bed and began to dress. He was out of the hotel in less than half an hour, and strode away through the empty streets, across the railway-crossing, and on down past the spruit, turning finally into the narrow road which led across the veldt to the famous Waterworks.
By the time that the sun appeared, the short, thick-shouldered captain had completed half of his journey, and he arrived at the beautiful little tree-bordered Waterworks shortly after nine o'clock.
He did not step at the stores there—the usual place of call for all travellers. A mile further down the road landed him at a collection of kraals, and here the captain found a native woman who was glad to give him coffee and biscuits and a shelter beneath the adobe walls which surrounded the hive-shaped kraal.
Hagan had picked up a smattering of Taal, that queer language which native and Boer uses alike, and he chatted with the woman and her ragged husband as he ate his breakfast. He found out that Blerpuut was a farm whose boundaries lay just beyond the kraals. The farm itself stood on the other side of a ridge about a mile away.
It was owned by a Scotsman, McDowell, and from the description which the Kaffir gave, Hagan knew that it was not the old farmer that Blake was after.
"Any young Englishman on the farm?" he asked, in the guttural language.
"Ja, baas," said the native; "one, a young man."
The woman added a word then.
"A fine, handsome young Englishman," she said; "and kind to everyone. He gave us a bag of mealies last year when the spruit dried up and our corn refused to grow."
Little by little Hagan gathered his information, and gradually it came to him that this young Englishman at the arm could be none other than the man he was searching for—Cyril Darvell; the cousin of his rascally accomplice.
Hagan left the kraals as soon as he had gathered all possible information. He had learned that Cyril Darvell was the only other white man at the farm, and that between them he and McDowell ran the place.
The ex-captain bought a gaudily-coloured native blanket from the old Kaffir before he left, and his reason for doing so was soon revealed. As he reached the long ridge which had been pointed out to him, Hagan stopped, and, shaking out the folds of the blanket, wrapped it around his dust-covered clothes. He then removed his boots and socks, and deliberately tore a piece out of each trouser-leg. His soft hat was then treated in the same manner—Hagan simply thrust his fist through the crown!—and when he had finished, there was little of the well-dressed stranger about his appearance. In the blanket, with his naked feet padding through the dust, he looked like the typical "waster" who spends his life trudging from farm to farm across the veldt, working only when obliged to, begging whenever possible.
He mounted the ridge, and, lying down between a couple of scarred boulders, peered across the veldt below. Half a mile away the white-topped farms, snuggling between the trees, lay shining in the light of the sun.
It was a well-kept place, and the green grass around it hinted of hard, manual work, and much irrigation from the spruit by its side.
Hagan rested his brutal chin on his hard hands, and watched the farm.
In the orchard he caught the flutter of a woman's dress, and presently there came to his ears the sound of a dog barking.
From the corral behind the farm a brown-hooded Cape cart came out, the two Basuto ponies being led by a native boy. It was halted in front of the steep, and a moment later Hagan saw a slim, active figure come out and leap into the cart.
"My man—for a quid," the ex-captain said aloud, straining his eyes; "the Kaffir told me that McDowell was an old man—and the man in that cart is young."
The cart wheeled to the left, and set off along a narrow cart-track, which ran away from the main road.
Hagan followed the track, and saw that it led towards the left of the ridge on which he lay, dipping to cross the spruit only some hundred yards or so from the ridge.
Instantly a quick inspiration came to the thick-shouldered watcher. Lord Malvetway had cabled to Hagan to lose no time.
"I'll risk it," the rascal thought, scrambling to his feet; "if Blake is coming out to tell my man the story, "it might be an easier way out of the mess if—if he arrived too late."
He began to scramble down the boulder-strewn kopje, swinging from place to place with the quick accuracy of his sailor training.
He reached the level ground, and darted towards the spruit, hurrying down the short incline until he reached the water's edge. He found that the stream was only some couple of feet deep, and he began to wade across it.
The sound of wheels behind him made him quicken his pace, and he reached the bank on the opposite side just as the light Cape cart came rattling down into the spruit. Hagan turned and watched the vehicle as it came slowly through the clear water.
His eyes lifted and fixed themselves on the face of the young man who was urging the ponies through the water. It was a bronzed, handsome, sunny countenance—the face of a man who had the courage of his own convictions, and yet who would not stoop to a mean action.
Hagan stared for a moment, and any lingering doubts that he might have had vanished. For there was a close resemblance between the young Colonial in the Cape cart and Lord Malvetway. Martin, it is true, was dark, and this slim man was fair; but the features had the same cast, and the mouth and chin were alike.
"My man, for sure," the ex-captain muttered again. 'Jiminy, what a piece o' luck! I've found him before that cursed 'tec, after all!"
The Cape cart began to rise out of the water as the bank shelved, and Hagan took a pace forward, and held up his hand.
"Mornin'!" he said.
The young man in the Cape cart shot a keen glance at the figure muffled in the blanket, and did not like the look of it.
"Good-morning!" he returned, as his ponies came straining up the slope. The cart came close to Hagan, and the latter caught at the side of it as it passed.
"I—I've come all the way from Bloemfontein to see you, Mr. Cyril Darvell," said Hagan, watching the blue eyes.
"You've had a deuced long tramp then," came the quiet reply.
He had not denied his name, though, and that was quite enough for Hagan.
"I—I want a word wi' you," he said, stepping along beside the cart; "it won't take me long. I'll get up alongside ov you, if you stop for a moment. My business is pretty important."
There was something in his face which made Cyril pull up his sturdy little ponies.
"Right," he said laconically; "jump in!"
A leap saw Hagan on the seat beside the young driver, and Cyril set his ponies off at a sharp trot again.
"Going for fodder," he explained, jerking his whip out— "the mealie-field over there."
"That's all right," Hagan returned, drawing his blanket a little closer about him. "I know you're pretty busy, Mr. Cyril—very busy indeed, or you'd be back in England by now."
The youngster laughed, a short, grim laugh.
"England has no room for me, my friend," he returned quietly. "South Africa has—that makes a lot of difference."
Hagan leaned forward slightly.
"Where have you been these last ten years?"
"What has that to do with you?"
"Someone sent me to try and find you," the cunning rogue went on. "Things have happened in England—and they wonder why you never turned up."
"I take no interest in what has happened in England," Cyril said.—"at least, I haven't done until a few months ago."
The ex-captain's eyes narrowed.
"Never seen an English newspaper?"
"I was five years in German East Africa," said the young adventurer slowly. "I only came down to Bloemfontein two years ago. There were no papers where my camp was pitched."
Hagan drew a deep breath.
"Then you—you don't know that your father, Lord Malvetway is—is dead?" he said slowly.
"Dead?" Cyril repeated, with a sudden catch of his breath.
"Died the best o' five years ago," the man continued grimly. He was quite ready to give that information, for he had made up his mind by this time that the man by his side would never live to make use of it.
There was a long silence, and the little cart went bumping and swaying over the rough track.
"Poor old dad!" the young man said, half to himself. "Dead? Poor old chap!"
"They thought you was dead, too," said the evil wretch by his side; "and the title and estates have gone to your cousin. He's Lord Malvetway now."
Cyril's jaw set hard.
"You mean that lying cur, Martin?" he broke out. "Is he using the title?"
"They thought you was dead," Hagan repeated, his small eyes fixed on the man by his side.
"Then, by Jove, your news settles a certain point that I could not quite decide upon," came from his companion's lips. "You've done me a good turn, old chap!"
"What point had you to settle?" Hagan breathed, edging a little closer to the driver.
The cart was now passing through a deep, rugged gap between two high ridges. The track moved upward slightly, and the ponies had dropped into a walk as they breasted the slope.
"I've been asked to play for South Africa in the cricket team," said Cyril Darvell slowly; "they gave me a fortnight to consider my answer—but I had almost made up my mind to refuse. Now, however, you have settled it."
He clenched his brown fists over the reins.
"I expect that Martin has been left all the estates," he went on; "but he is not Lord Malvetway. That title is mine, and I would not let a cur such as he is abuse an honoured name. I will go back, if it is only to claim my rightful name."
"You will go back," Hagan muttered.
His hand slid behind his back, and from beneath the blanket he drew a short, heavy object—a thin bag filled with sand, the weapon used by all such blackguards as he.
"Yes," said Cyril, looking straight ahead of him, "I will go with the team, and—"
Thud!
The dull, heavy blow of the awful weapon came down full pitched on the unsuspecting man's head. Cyril Darvell pitched forward over the splashboard, rolled across the back of the terrified ponies, and went down on the rocky track beneath the wheels of the cart.
A quick snatch at the reins prevented the ponies from breaking off into a terrified gallop, and Hagan, reining the beasts back, leaped out on to the track.
"Go back, will you?" he breathed, dropping on one knee beside the limp body. "Never in your life, you fool!"
With quick, nervous hands he examined the body. The head fell back limply, and the eyes were closed. He bent his head and listened—there was no breath coming from the parted lips.
The awful blow had completed its fell work. Cyril Darvell lay like one dead.
That grim terror which comes to the murderer when the full meaning of his deed dawns on him came to Hagan then. Leaping to his feet, he dragged the limp body of his victim away from the track, and up among the boulders. Quickly he gathered a handful of brushwood and covered the body, heaping stones in front of it, so that it might be hidden from any chance passer—by on the track beneath.
Darting down the ridge again the ruffian ran towards the ponies, and struck them sharply with his hand, The beasts set off at a mad, tearing gallop along the track, and Hagan ran beside them urging them on with voice and fist, until they reached the top of the slope. Down the track they went in a blind panic, the light cart rattling and swaying behind them. At the foot of the ridge the disaster which the ruffian anticipated occurred. The shaft snapped—the cart pitched forward, and crashing against a boulder, fell in a heap of shattered fragments across the track, while the Basuto ponies, freed from their load, went galloping on out across the open veldt with their light harness dangling at their heels.
When the rapid beats of their hoofs had died away, Hagan flung up his arms, and a grim laugh broke from his lips.
"He told me to do the trick quickly," he muttered; "but by jiminy, he'll be surprised when I tells him how quickly I did do it."
He looked back at the gloomy pass behind him, then, turning on his heel, began to trudge away across the veldt heading northwards.
He would make a detour avoiding the Waterworks, and would enter Bloemfontein again from the up-country side. On and on he trudged until late in the afternoon he struck the glimmering railway-line, and knew that he was on the right road now.
It was dusk when Hagan entered Bloemfontein. He had thrown aside the Kaffir blanket, and had re-arranged his tattered dress. No one saw him enter the hotel, and when he did ring for the waiter, he had changed his clothes completely, and was ready with his plausible tale.
"Got lost behind that confounded hill," he said, jerking his head in the direction of Naval Hill—the opposite direction to that which he had really taken. "I've had quite enough of Bloemfontein. What time does the next train for Jo'burg start?"
He found that the mail-train was due to leave within the hour, and quickly arranged to catch it. The landlord of the hotel smiled—as his visitor paid the bill. The waiter had told him Hagan's story, and it amused the hotel proprietor.
"You shouldn't venture out on the veldt without a guide," was his comment.
And Hagan's deep smile as he turned away was as grim as it was cunning.
The Aasvogel.
A SMART Cape cart, drawn by four swift mules, came rattling along the red roadway, and swung in beneath the tall trees,which cast a welcome shade over the verandah of the farm.
"This is Blerpuut, baas," the native driver said, reining in his swift animals and pointing towards the verandah.
Blake dropped lightly from the Cape cart, and, crossing the stoop, entered the door of the farm. In South Africa no one ever dreams of knocking at a door to ask permission to enter; and, indeed, the door is seldom shut from sunrise to sunset.
As the sound of the detective's foot rang out on the boards inside the well-built house, a man came from one of the chambers in the rear—an old man, with a white beard and a broad, kindly face.
"Mr. McDowell?" Blake asked, taking a pace forward.
"Ye have guessed it first time, mon," the genial old Scots farmer returned. "Come in—come in!"
He waved his brown hand, and Blake went down the passage into a cosy kitchen.
"Sit down!"' said McDowell. "My daughter will gie ye a cup o' coffee in a minute."
Everyone takes coffee in South Africa, and everyone is expected to take a cup as soon as they halt at a farm or homestead of any sort.
Blake dropped into a chair, with a sigh of relief. It was hot on the veldt road, and the flies were troublesome. It was very pleasant to sit in the cool kitchen, with its spotless tins and rows of cups and saucers and plates.
"Jean, ma lassie," McDowell cried, in his stentorian voice, "come alang and make some coffee. We have a veesitor."
Blake heard a clear voice answer; then presently there stepped into the kitchen as sweet a specimen of sunny girlhood as ever the eyes of the detective had alighted upon. Her hair was of that soft, golden tone which the ripe corn has beneath the rays of the setting sun. Her eyes, blue as the cloudless sky above the farm, were wide and honest and untroubled. Her form and figure was proof of the healthy, useful life she lived.
At twenty-one Jean McDowell had every right to be termed beautiful. Blake arose to his feet and bowed to the girl, who returned his salute shyly.
"I had better introduce myself," he said, with a smile at the old farmer. "My name is Blake."
"Good! But I don't care much what your name is, mon," said McDowell jovially. "We get sich few veesitors here eh you're a real godsend. Noo then, Jean, what about the coffee?"
The girl began to prepare the fragrant drink, and McDowell, seating himself in front of Blake, crossed his legs.
"What's new in the world?" he asked. "Mon, ye micht as well be buried alive as live in this place. Once a week the mail comes oot on the road to Thaba'Nchu; and even then it's seldom we get ony letters. They maistly come to that young rascal, Cyril."
Jean turned her head at that moment, and Blake caught a quick flush on the sweet face.
"Cyril does not get so many letters as you would like to make out, dad," she returned.
McDowell winked ponderously at Blake.
"That's all ye ken about it, Jean," her father returned. "But you don't get up so early in the morning as Cyril does. I've seen him waiting for hours until the mail-van passed. I think he must hev a sweetheart in Bloemfontein."
The cheeks of the young girl burned, but she did not reply. There was a shrewd twinkle in the old farmer's eyes, however, which hinted plainly that he knew the indignation which his jesting charge against the absent stockman created in the breast of his daughter.
"I suppose you mean Cyril Darvell?" Blake said.
"Deed I do," said McDowell. "And, between you and me, Mr. Drake—"
"Blake," said the great detective, with a smile.
"Blake," McDowell corrected, "there isn't a finer lad in the Orange River Colony than young Cyril."
He arose to his feet and crossed the kitchen, returning presently with a photograph in his hand. It was an exact duplicate of the one which Cyril had sent to his old nurse.
"They've asked him to play for the Union," the old farmer said proudly. "He doesn't seem inclined to say 'yes,' neither. But, goodness, he'll just have to do it! Jean and I have promised that we'd come to England with him and attend every match he played; and I'm thinking that that promise will jist aboot settle the matter. What de you say, Jean?"
The girl turned her head towards the two men.
"Cyril will do just what he pleases, dad," she said, with a little smile. "But I would dearly love to go to England on such a trip."
"Where is Mr. Darvell?" he asked.
McDowell glanced at a huge clock set against the wall of the kitchen.
"Phew! He's late, Jean," he said. "It's near twelve o'clock! He ought to have been back a long time afore this."
He turned to Blake.
"I sent him across to one of our fodder-sheds," he said. "He had to bring a load of soft corn back wi' him. But he started off early this morning, and it's only a two-hours' journey. He'll be back at any moment now, I should think."
There was no alarm in his voice, as, indeed, there was no need to be. The veldt is as safe, and safer, for that matter, than any busy London street.
The coffee was prepared, and Blake duly praised it. Half an hour was spent in chatting. Then again McDowell glanced at the clock.
"I wonder if anything has happened at the fodder-shed?" he said, rising to his feet. "I've a good mind to drive out there and see. Cyril is never the sort to dawdle on his way."
Blake also arose.
"I've got a Cape cart and a good team of mules," he said. "Perhaps you will allow me to come with you?"
"Only too pleased," said McDowell. "Cyr has taken our little Cape cart with him, and I don't feel inclined to saddle my horse."
They passed out beneath the verandah, and found that the native driver had made himself and his team comfortable beneath the shade of the trees.
A word from the old Scots farmer brought the driver to his feet, and the mules were quickly harnessed up again.
"Have you room for another, Mr. Blake?" a sweet voice called; and Jean, with a large sun-bonnet shading her lovely face, stepped down from the stoop.
"Plenty of room, Miss McDowell," the detective said. The farmer nodded to the native driver.
"You can wait here until we return," he said. "You'll find plenty to eat, if you go round to old Nan. Tell her I told you to have a good meal."
The white teeth of the driver gleamed beneath the broad smile he gave, and a second later the four mules sprang forward at the word from McDowell.
The old chap proved himself an experienced driver of the most difficult animal to drive. He swung the long whip and called to the mules in the shrill native tongue. The sinewy animals settled to their work, and the light vehicle swung along the veldt road at a rare pace.
Presently they turned into the cart track which led down to the spruit, and McDowell jerked his whip ahead.
"We can see the shed from the top of the neck there," he cried, indicating the gap in the ridge. "Just sit tight, Mr. Blake, while we ding through the bit o' water."
Sit tight was certainly the only thing to do with old McDowell at the reins. The cart went down the side of the bank like a flash, rattled across the white bed of the spruit, and went on up the slope, with the dripping mules snorting and tugging in front of it. A low laugh sounded close to Blake's cars, and, turning his head, he caught the dancing eye of Jean fixed on him.
"Dad loves to drive a good team," she whispered, "and he forgets that other people may not like his rate of travel."
Blake smiled.
"I like it, for one," he said, with keen enjoyment.
On the veldt again the team went galloping along, sending a high feather of red dust straight up into the still air.
Presently they began to turn towards the ridge, and the pace of the Cape cart was checked as the mules faced the slight rise.
The cart bumped and swayed over the boulders until it reached the top of the slope. Blake, who was watching the track ahead, saw the ruins of the cart lying at the foot of the slope.
"What is that?" he asked, touching McDowell on the arm.
The old farmer flung a glance at the heap of staves and wheels, stared at them for a moment, then an exclamation of horror broke from his lips.
"It—it's our cart!" he broke out, leaping to his feet and shading his eyes. "What on earth can have happened?"
Blake heard a faint cry from behind him, an Jean's slim, brown fingers gripped his sleeve.
"Smashed to pieces!" she breathed. "Then what has become of—of Cyr? Quick, dad—quick! the truth."
The cart went rattling down the decline, and, with the skill of an old, seasoned waggoner, McDowell halted his team dead at the foot of the slope. Blake was the first to leap to the ground, but Jean was only a second or so behind him. As the detective hurried forward the girl sprang to his side, and they reached the ruined cart together.
"Smashed to pieces!" Jean repeated wildly, dropping on her knees beside the debris. "Help me, Mr. Blake! I—I want to see if—if there is anyone beneath the wreckage."
Blake thrust his shoulders beneath the mass of wheels, and moved it forward for a pace or so. There was nothing lying beneath the pieces of board which had any resemblance to a man. Slowly the colour ebbed back into the startled face of the girl, but Blake had already read the secret. Jean McDowell had evidently lost her heart to the good-looking lad who was really a nobleman of England.
"He is not here," she cried, rising to her feet. "I sea what has happened. The mules must have run away and came to disaster at the foot of the slope. They have bolted across the veldt, and Cyr is looking for them."
It seemed a plausible explanation, and both men accepted it. McDowell, standing up in the cart, shaded his eyes and searched the wide horizon of veldt in front of him. There was no sign of the missing mules, but, far in the distance, they could see the outlines of the fodder-sheds.
"That explains why the laddie has been sa long," the old ee murmured. "But, dang him, he's broken up my cairt!"
Jean turned on her father with a little indignant murmur.
"Fancy troubling about your cart when—when he might have been killed!" she broke out.
McDowell chuckled beneath his breath.
"Still" he said, "a cairt is a cairt, and cost a deal o' —"
"Dad—dad, look! An aasvogel!"
From the top of the ridge, where it had sat motionless, concealed by the similarity of its plumage to the colour of the stones, there came swooping down on slow-moving pinions one of the evil-looking birds of prey which haunt the lonely kopjes of South Africa.
Its naked head was thrust forward, and as it passed over their heads the foul smell of the wings came down to them.
"An aasvogel!" Jean cried again. "What brings it here! It only comes where there is dead!"
She leaped forward suddenly, and, with her hair streaming behind her, ran hurriedly up the gap, following the sweeping vulture as it moved on ahead.
Hardly knowing what her reason for following the bird was, the great detective started off behind the charming girl.
Jean's light feet seemed to twinkle as they sped up the rough, rugged track. Her eyes were fixed on that beaked, cruel head with the cold, lidless, immovable eyes staring down in front of it.
In her heart a terrible fear was rising, which she could neither dismiss nor account for. It seemed to her as though the bird was her enemy and she had to follow it or die.
Up the track she flew until her breath came in soft, quick pants. As she reached the top of the rise she saw the aasvogel swerve suddenly. Its great wings slid back and upward, and, with a slithering volplane, it vanished behind a huge boulder half-way up the slope. "It is there—it is there!" Jean screamed, darting away from the track and commencing to climb the hillside.
"Quick—for Heaven's sake, quick!"
Blake sprinted hard, and reached the gap just as Jean scrambled up to the tall boulder which the great vulture had dropped.
There came down to the detective one shrill, piercing scream.
"Cyril! My heaven, he is dead!" the girl's voice shrieked; and with a swift leap Jean vanished behind the huge rock. Blake went up the hill at top speed, and was only just in the nick of time. As he reached the boulder he saw the frantic girl beating madly at the vulture, which stood with raised pinions and evil head thrust forward, on the half-concealed body of a man.
Even as Blake cleared the boulder the aasvogel raised its head again, and made a swift lunge at the plucky girl who was striking at it with her naked fists.
The vulture, as a rule, is a cowardly bird, but occasionally hunger makes it bold, and the lean, gaunt shape perched above the body of the man was starved into showing fight.
A faint hissing noise came from between its parted beak, and it made a swift swoop forward. Its evil wings beat against the face of the beautiful girl for a moment as if tried to rise above her in readiness for its swift swoop with tearing claws and angry beak.
"Down, Jean—down!" Blake called.
His voice came plainly to the half-fainting girl's ears, and, although she hardly realised why, Jean obeyed the order. She fell on her knees, and then forward on her face, shielding the still body of her sweetheart with her own soft arms and frame. The swish of wings sounded above her, and the aasvogel poised for its sudden, fierce swoop. Then—Crack!
The quick bark of a heavy Colt-revolver broke the silence, and a shrill cry reeled out across the ridge. The vulture, shot through the head, went beating down in a whirl of feathers, to crash on the stony ground, and beat to and fro in its death agony.
Dropping his revolver, Blake, with a fervent thanks to the providence that had aided him in such a terrible hour, rushed towards the girl, and raised her from the body she was guarding.
"You are quite safe now, Jean," he said quickly. "I have killed the evil brute!"
Jean stretched her hands out towards the half-buried body.
"Oh, I don't care what you have done!" she wailed. "Look! Look! It is Cyr—lying there so still and cold. He is dead—dead!"
She swayed forward in a limp heap, and her head dropped against Blake's shoulder. The rattle of stones by his side made the detective glance up to encounter the horrified eyes of the old farmer.
"What is it, Blake," McDowell breathed. "In the name of Heaven, mon, what does it mean?"
Blake moved slightly, and signalled to the old farmer.
"Support your plucky child for a moment," he said. "She has fainted—but not before she saved that poor body from mutilation. I want to clear the body of its burden."
He stepped up to the limp body, and dropped on his knees by its side.
As he swept a handful of brushwood away from the arms, it seemed to Blake as though they moved slightly.
Drawing a sharp breath the detective thrust one hand beneath the open shirt.
Faintly, feebly—the ghost of a pulse—he felt the slow heart-beat.
"He is alive, by Heaven!" he broke out, his voice ringing with delight.
The flask that every Colonial traveller; if he be a seasoned one, never omits to carry with him, was quickly drawn from Blake's pocket, and he raised the limp head on to his arm.
The teeth were set and rigid, but Blake gradually forced them apart and poured a few drops of the brandy into the mouth.
The throat moved slightly as the warm liquid was swallowed, and then there came to the kneeling detective the faint sound of a sigh from the lips of the man he was supporting,
McDowell came forward at a run, and dropped on his knees' beside Blake.
"It—it's Cyril!" the old chap broke out, his eyes widening with astonishment.
At the sound of his name the young man's brain came slowly back to consciousness. The heavy eyelids opened, and the eyes rested on the face of the farmer for a long moment.
"Good old Mac," said Cyril Darvell, in a thin, tired voice. "I knew you would come and find me."
Then he closed his eyes again, and his body relaxed, with that weary movement of a man tired almost to the border of death.
"We'll have to get him to the farm at once," said Blake. "Is Jean—"
He heard a light foot by his side, and the white face of the girl glanced down at him.
"I am quite well now, Mr. Blake," said Jean McDowell. "It was only just a slight faintness. Oh, I am all right now!"
McDowell spun round on his heel.
"I'll bring the cart back!" he cried, as he butted off down the road. "Bring him doon to the side o' the track if you can, Blake. We'll have the puir laddie back in Blerpuut inside the hour. That I'll take' my oath on."
Jean glanced down at the still face of the man she worshipped more than life itself. Her fingers were clasped tightly together, and she fought hard to retain her composure.
"You—you say that—that he will not die?" she asked, in a little broken voice.
And Blake, although a doubt lingered in his heart, lied to her.
"Cyril will not die, Jean," he returned. "We must get him to the farm at once. But he is young and strong, and with good nursing I think he will soon pull through."
He placed himself at the unconscious man's head, and Jean lifted the limp feet. Slowly and carefully. they carried the young man down the sloping ridge. A heap of dull feathers streaked with blood was passed on their way down, and Jean cast one fervent glance at Blake.
"I have not thanked you for what you did for me," she said. "I don't quite know yet how you saved me."
They reached the side of the track, and waited for the coming of the old farmer.
"It was rather a lucky shot of mine, Jean," said Sexton Blake; "and any credit for what has happened is due to you. You faced that vicious bird unarmed."
The girl's face reddened, then went white again.
"I saw it poised on—on Cyr's body," she breathed slowly. "I know what the aasvogel does first—it aims at the—the eyes. I felt ready to do anything then."
Blake nodded his head, then glanced down at the unconscious figure of the young nobleman.
"Cyr will have to know who it is to whom he owes his life," he said. "We might have passed on, and the discovery would never have been made. He owes his life to you and your quick wit, Jean, and I must tell him so."
The girl looked up at the clean-shaven face of the great detective, and shook her head slowly.
"You will not do that, please," she said. "I—I would not like to feel that Cyr felt that he—he was under any obligation to me."
Blake knew what lay behind the words. Jean loved the handsome young Englishman—but it was evident that Cyr was either unaware of that fact, or was not prepared to return the love.
"You're a young fool, my son," the detective muttered grimly, as he glanced down at the limp body; "and you'll find that out some day."
A rattle behind them heralded the arrival of the Cape cart. The body of Cyril was carefully lifted and placed in the front of the vehicle, supported by Blake and the old farmer. Then, when Jean had swung lightly into the rear of the vehicle the long journey back to the farm began.
An hour later the native driver of Blake's Cape cart was licking off down the Thaba'Nchu Road as hard as the best a horse in McDowell's stable could carry him. He had to find a doctor, and bring him back at once.
"It is verra kind o' ye to remain behind, Mr. Blake," the Scots farmer said, with a nod to the detective; "and we're all verra much obliged to ye."
"The obligation is on my side, Mr. McDowell," the detective returned. "I was sent out from England purposely to find Cyril Darvell. And the message I have for him is one that he alone must hear. That means that I must wait until he is well enough to listen to me."
"And in the meantime?" McDowell asked.
Blake was silent for a moment.
"In the meantime," he said, "I think I'll borrow one of your horses and ride back to the gap. I had no time to search it just now; but the rascal who buried your stockman must have left some traces behind him, and I mean to try and find them, if I can."
"Just do whatever you think fit, mon," said the old farmer cordially. "Consider Blerpuut as yours as long as ye care to stay in it."
"I'm afraid that that will not be very long," Blake answered: "But I promise that I will stay just as long as I can."
And with that the old farmer had to be content.
Blake Investigates.
"A DELIBERATE attempt at murder," McDowell repeated wonderingly. "I can hardly believe it."
Blake leaned back in the chair. It was late in the evening of the day following the discovery of Cyril Darvell's insensible form in the pass. Blake had only appeared at Blerpuut an hour or so ago, having been absent the whole night. He looked tired, and there were deep lines about his firm mouth.
"Cyril will soon be able to corroborate my statements," he said. "You say that the doctor thinks he will be up and about inside a week."
"Ay—thank heaven!" the old Scots farmer said, with a fervent tone. "The fall—or, if your theory is correct, Mr. Blake—the blow, was a glancing one, and only stunned him. The laddie has a guid thick skull, the doctor says and with Jean to nurse him for a couple of days, he'll be as well as he ever was. We have to avoid any attempt at exciting him—that's all."
"I am delighted to hear such good news," Blake said. "And now, I think, Mr. McDowell, that it would only be fair of me to tell you the whole history of this business—so far as I am concerned. You will treat it as a confidence, I hope."
In a few crisp sentences Blake told the farmer about Cyril Darvell—who he really was, and the mission which had brought the great detective out to South Africa.
McDowell was stunned at the news.
"A—a Lord!" he gasped, wiping his brow. "And—and—I made him gang out and clean the stables. Goodness me!"
Blake smiled.
"He was none the worse for doing that, McDowell," he returned; "and it proves that he is of the right stuff."
The old farmer glanced around the kitchen, and drew a shade closer to the great detective.
"And then," he said, in a deep voice "there's my wee daughter to think about. A father has eyes, Mr. Blake, and—and I have seen how Jean brightens up every time the lad used to come in the farm. I thought that there was no harm in it, and I was going to give him Blerpuut as a wedding present. I am well supplied with the world's goods, you see. And I thought that it would be a good thing for the lad. But now"—he shook his head doubtfully—he's a lord in his own right—"mebbe he'll no think that Jean is good enough for him—although I think that Jean is good enough for any prince in the world."
Honest pride rang in the bluff old man's voice, and Blake leaned over and placed his hand on the rough sleeve.
"I think that you and I can leave that matter to—to Cyril and Jean," he said slowly. "If Cyril is the man I think he is, his title will not come between he and his love."
McDowell caught the detective's hand and wrung it.
"I—I couldn't bear to think of my little girl suffering from a broken heart," he muttered hoarsely; "but if you think it will all come right at the end—weel, mon, I'll bide by your opinion."
"But what makes you think that a crime was attempted?" he asked. "The doctor and I chatted over it, and we came to the conclusion that the affair was an accident."
Blake raised his keen brows.
"You think, then, that—that Cyril Darvell buried himself?" he asked incredulously.
The old farmer shook his head.
"Oh, no!" he returned.
Then he gave his theory. The fact of the Cape cart being found in ruins suggested to him that the ponies had bolted, throwing Cyril on to his head—on the hard track. Some wandering black man had chanced across the unconscious body, and—following the old veldt law—had done the best he could for the body—dragged it away from the path and covered it to protect it from the hungry birds of prey.
Blake saw at once that the theory was a plausible one; but the discoveries he had made proved that it was wrong.
"Come with me to-morrow, McDowell," he said, "and I will endeavour to prove to you that it was a white man—and a murderous white man—who attacked Cyril Darvell and left him for dead."
The following morning found the two men out with the rising of the sun, and Blake, riding by the side of the farmer, led the old chap to the spruit.
"Here are my first clues," he said, descending from his mount. '"Look!"
In a thorny bush, growing close to the side of the spruit, hung a small shred of cloth.
"I will remove it now," the great detective went on, suiting the action to the word, "I examined it yesterday, but left it and—every other clue untouched. I wanted to have a reliable witness."
He held the strip of cloth out.
"It is of good manufacture," he went on, "and the pattern and dye is quite fresh—the suit from whence it was torn was a new one. The average Kaffir cannot afford to wear new clothes of that quality. It is Irish tweed, and in this country would cost five or six pounds for a suit."
"Go on!" said McDowell eagerly, bending his keen eyes on the clever face in front of him.
Blake led the way to the drift. The stones seemed white and unblemished beneath his feet; but he pointed first to one and then to another.
"A man in stout boots crossed the drift," he said—walked across, which proved that he had neither a horse nor conveyance. No man would get wet feet if he could avoid it; and the drift is shallow enough to make it an easy task for a horse to wade through it."
"No Kaffir ever went into a river wi' his boots on," said the South African farmer. "Ay, it was a white man that went along this road, right enough."
They crossed the drift and went on along the trail. Step by step the wonderful detective traced the movements of the murderous rogue—where he had swung himself up by the side of the unsuspecting Cyril; where the dastardly attack had first been made; the stampede of the terrified ponies.
Blake built the scene up until McDowell started away from him, and covered his eyes with one broad hand.
"Enough," he breathed hoarsely—"enough! I—I seem to see the whole vile thing in front o' me."
He swung himself into his saddle and looked at the detective quietly.
"Is there any more?" he asked.
Blake nodded his head.
"I found traces of the rascal out there," he resumed, pointing across the barren veldt; "but they were hard to follow. He was heading for the railway-line. Had it not been that my first duty was to look after Cyril Darvell, I might have followed the brute. But, his time will come later, you can rest assured on that point."
"You could have traced him out yonder," McDowell said slowly.
The country lay like a brown flat plate in front of him, save where the blue mountains of Basutoland lay like the rim along the horizon to their right.
"Yes," said Blake, "it would not have been easy; but I would have followed him."
McDowell heard the grim, quiet voice, and a quick smile crossed his face.
"Thank goodness it's not me ye're after!" he said. "For, sooner or later, you'll go after the murdering brute."
"It all depends," Blake answered, as he turned his horse's head homeward again. "Cyril is in my charge, and has the first claim to my time."
Three days passed, and the convalescence of the sturdy young cricketer surprised even the doctor. Blake had a short interview with the young lord, and when the great detective heard Cyril's account of the attack made upon him, his perplexity deepened. The man knew all about Cyril—had told him the very news that Blake had been sent out to impart.
"It beats me yet!" Blake muttered to himself. No doubt the murderer was so sure of his victim that he could afford to speak plainly. The murder must have been premeditated, planned out carefully; but, by whom?"
He was soon to have the missing link supplied in the chain of evidence.
At the end of the week Cyril was seated in the shade of the verandah, watching the thin feathers of dust rising up from the Thaba'Nchu road.
The mail had just brought him a number of letters—one from the clean-shaven, ever-smiling giant, Mr. Frank Mitchell, the chosen captain of the South African team. No whisper of the serious attack had filtered out of Blerpuut, and Mitchell's note simply stated the date when the team would sail from Cape Town.
The young man drew a deep breath as he replaced the letter in the envelope.
"To play against England!" he thought. "By jove, that's the next best thing to—to playing for her! Yes, I am jolly glad that I made up my mind to go!"
A footfall beside his chair brought his head round. Jean McDowell was looking at him, with a tender, almost protecting smile on her lovely face.
"Fretting to be out in the saddle again, Cyril?" she asked quietly.
"I've had a lazy time," the young man returned; "and it would have been a very dreary time but for you, Jean."
A flush darkened the soft cheeks.
"Dad and Mr. Blake didn't quite forget you, Cyril," she murmured, turning her eyes away.
The young cricketer leaned forward, and his eyes were fixed on the downcast face. He saw the soft bosom rise and fall tumultuously, and his own heart began to beat a trifle faster.
"Oh, yes," he said; "they were both kind! But I know who spent so many long hours beside me."
He caught her hand suddenly and drew it towards him.
"Jean," he said slowly, "I—I've often wanted to—to tell you something. I did not dare to do so before, I felt that I had no right to—to take advantage of the trust which your father had in me."
The girl was silent. He could not see her face, but he felt her little hand trembling like a captured bird in his palm.
"Things have changed now, Jean," Cyril Darvell said. "I—I find that I am not such a penniless adventurer as—as I thought I was. And now I can ask you the question—will you be my wife?"
Slowly the lovely face was turned towards him, and he saw that the red lips were trembling, while the soft eyes were brimming with unshed tears.
"I—I dare not," said the girl. "You—you will be a great man when you claim your birthright. What will they say to you if they hear that—that you asked a poor farmer's daughter to—to share your title?"
"Say?" Cyril cried. "What do I care what they say? What did they care about me, Jean? Why, sweetheart, I would rather have you than all the titles in the world! I have loved you ever since I came to Blerpuut; and I wouldn't leave Blerpuut unless I was sure that—that you would be mine!"
He had risen to his feet now, and was looking down into her eyes. She smiled up at him, a little wistful smile, then.
"And I have always loved you, Cyr," Jean McDowell returned; "and, if you will have me, I will be glad to be your wife."
The young man swept her up into his arms, and their lips met in a kiss of love. As they stood there, oblivious of everything except the great happiness that had suddenly come to them, a bearded face appeared for the briefest flash around the far end of the verandah, and vanished again as quickly as it came.
"We—we'll gang and have another look at the horses, Blake," McDowell whispered, with a kindly chuckle. "It seems to me that—that his lordship-that-is-to-be doesn't want to be disturbed just now."
"He's a lucky fellow," said Blake sincerely. "A good woman's love is the finest fortune that can fall to the lot of any man."
They went along towards the low-pitched stables. A black boy, standing in the doorway of the first shelter, jerked his hand out towards the road.
"Cape cart, baas!" he reported, in his shrill voice.
McDowell followed the pointing figure. The feathers of dust on the road had now resolved themselves into red clouds, spuming up from the light wheels of a rapidly moving cart.
"It's coming to the farm," the old chap said. "I wonder who the youngster is?"
Blake saw the Cape cart wheel towards the house and come to a halt beneath the shelter of the trees. A young, lithe figure leaped down and looked about for a moment.
The great detective stared, then a shout left his lips.
"Tinker!" he cried aloud.
His voice carried across to the lad standing by the cart, and, with a cry of satisfaction, the young assistant came tearing around the angle of the house towards his beloved master.
"Guv'nor," Tinker said, "I—I've had a rare job to find you! I only hope that I'm not too late!"
"What has happened?" Blake asked quickly.
Tinker related the circumstances which had set him off on the heels of his master, and when he mentioned Hagan's name, a great light came to Blake.
"And I found out," the lad said, "that he travelled under the name of Parry. And he stayed at the same hotel as you did, at Bloemfontein."
"By heavens, Tinker, I believe you've found the answer to a question that has been worrying this gentleman and I for the past ten days!" Blake breathed. "What about Hagan? Is he at Bloemfontein now?"
The lad shook his head.
"Went up to Pretoria, or somewhere, on the day after you left," said Tinker.
They went into the house, and a long, serious discussion took place. The matter, of course, could not be settled definitely then. Hagan had been clever enough to cover his tracks very carefully; but both Sexton Blake and Tinker felt that the broad-shouldered ex-captain held the key to the riddle.
Later in the evening of the same day there came to the big farm a bronze-skinned Basuto boy, leading the two Basuto ponies. They had wandered into the circle of his kraal on the previous night, and McDowell's brand, which was placed on the flanks, made identification an easy matter.
The boy was suitably rewarded and, as he hesitated before leaving, the old farmer asked him what he wanted.
"Blanket, baas," the boy said, with that easy, wide smile which the native always uses when asking for some extra favour. "I was 'way Bloemfontein, and when I get back kraal I find that my blanket been given to white man."
Instantly Blake's mind flashed to the description of the tramp that Cyril had picked up. The young cricketer had stated that the man was covered with a native blanket.
A few minutes questioning of the native settled the matter beyond all dispute. The murderous ruffian who had attempted to take the life of the young nobleman was none other than Captain Parry, alias Hagan.
"And now." said Blake to his young assistant, ""we have two things to do. First one is to find out how Hagan learned the truth about Cyril, and what inspired him to murder; second, where he has gone to, and what he hopes to gain out of his crime."
The youngster nodded his head.
"You've hit it, guv'nor," he returned; "but I don't think that we need worry so much about the second question, if we can find an answer to the first."
Blake leaned back in his chair, and a grim, meaning smile crossed his lips. He had already answered the first question in his own mind.
Hagan's Second Attempt.
HAGAN had covered his tracks with the patient skill of a rogue trained to such guile. He had left Bloemfontein ostensibly to travel to Johannesburg, and, as a matter of fact, he travelled in the train right up to Elandsfontein. At this station, however, he took train down through the Transvaal, through Lang's Nek of immortal memory, passing through Vryheid, Dundee, and on down into Natal. Durban was reached in due course, and it was only when he arrived there that Hagan thought it safe to cable to his accomplice in England.
He simply sent the code word for "Work completed," and left the false Lord Malvetway to fill in the blank himself.
For the next week the ex-captain kicked his heels about the seaport, enjoying himself in his usual way—drinking more than was good for him.
He was anxious to find out if any discovery had been made at the lonely farm beyond the Waterworks, and he scanned the local papers carefully each day.
He did not see a word about Cyril Darvell, and at last Hagan was satisfied that the lonely ridge was likely to hold its secret for many a long day.
It was then that the blackguard decided to go home to England.
A mail-boat was due to start, and Hagan booked a passage in it, under a fictitious name. He had allowed his beard to grow, and it was startling to note the change that it made on his face. It concealed the heavy jowl and pallid cheeks, and as he had dressed himself in the fashion of an up-country farmer, he felt comparatively safe.
When he had boarded the Vandal, he promptly took to his cabin and pretended to be violently seasick on the short journey around to Cape Town.
The surgeon who attended to him stopped to chat for a few moments now and then with the man who looked like a farmer of the old school, and presently Hagan heard a bit of news that disturbed him a little for the moment.
The South African team were due to join the Vandal at Cape Town, and were going to travel to England in it.
A moment's reflection, however, convinced the rogue that he had nothing to fear from the team. The only man who might have recognised him would not be in the party—if the ridge tragedy meant anything at all.
The Vandal arrived late in the evening, and snuggled into the quay, where the trains run down to the sheds. The huge bulk of Table Mountain looming beyond the old town, the lights of the houses, and the rapid-moving glimmers from the trams as they moved along the wide road to Camp's Bay, made a peaceful picture in the soft night.
Hagan, leaning against the taffrail, where he had taken up position, felt the contentment of a man who has performed a difficult task.
Presently there came to his ears the voices of men, and a number of vehicles came rolling down to the wharf. Up the gangway there came a long procession of men, laughing and talking as they came. Hagan leaned forward and watched the faces of the new-comers as they filed past the brilliant light set above the gangway where it rested on the deck. Bronzed, lean, handsome faces they were—the faces of men in the pink of training.
He hardly needed to inquire who the new-comers were, and the fact that accompanying them came a number of black porters carrying the long cricket-bags, settled whatever doubts he might have. It was the South African team—or, at least, such of them as had waited to go across in a party, for at least three of the members were already in England, waiting for the others to join them.
The captain of the ship welcomed the team in a breezy fashion, and the whole party retired to the saloon. Hagan followed at the heels of the crowd, and presently he found himself on the edge of a little knot of men who were discussing the chances of their country in the first great triangular test matches.
Suddenly a name was mentioned which made Hagan draw a sharp breath of dismay.
"When does young Darvell arrive?"
The ex-captain's stout fingers closed tightly as he listened.
"First thing in the morning," came the astounding response; "he's travelling down-country with a couple of friends of his—men who came out from England to find him. There's some queer rumours floating about. They say he's a duke, or an earl, or something."
The first speaker smiled.
"He's the best in South Africa," he said; "and all Bloemfontein is willing to swear to that."
"Can't make out why he took so long to accept the selection committee's invitation," another man—a lean, tall man, burned almost to a brick-red by the hot suns of his country—said:
"Perhaps he wanted a bit of coaxing," another put in; "anyhow; we can ask him all about it in the morning. I played against him four or five weeks ago—and, by ginger, his deliveries are real mustard. I'm dying to see him face Hobbs—or Barnes."
They moved away towards the rest of the party then, leaving Hagan alone. Doubt and wonder were rioting in the rascal's heart, and at last he found himself forced to make a few inquiries.
"Perhaps they only think that he's coming to join 'em," he thought; "that must be the case. I—I left him for dead, and the age of miracles is passed."
He waited his opportunity, and then, under the cover of an invitation to have a drink, he tackled one of the men who had just come on board.
"The team is complete now, I suppose?" said Hagan.
"Will be in the morning," his informant returned.
There was nothing suspicious about the disguised captain's inquiry. Everybody onboard that vessel was talking or thinking cricket at that moment, from the stokers in the hold to the officers on watch.
"Who's to come?" asked Hagan.
"An Orange River man—young Cyr Darvell," said the man; we goto telegram from him saying that he would land in Cape Town in time to catch the mail-boat, so that's all right."
"A little gust of fear ran through the body of the rogue. He could hardly believe his ears.
"You—you are quite sure—" he began, then stopped suddenly. The question was a foolish one, and he realised it.
"I—I mean that he may miss the train," he added limply.
His companion smiled.
"Not much chance of him doing that," he said; "they'd delay a mail until he arrived. This is the first real test we've had, and the whole colony is mighty taken on it."
"That's right," Hagan agreed hastily "and I wish you all the luck. I'll be in London, and will certainly turn up at one or two of your matches."
He sauntered away from the bar of the smoke-room, and went back to his cabin.
"Sent a telegram," he thought, throwing himself on his bunk, and staring up at the white enamelled roof with wrinkled brows. "I don't believe it. Someone's having a game with these fellows. Cyril Darvell is—is dead. And if anyone should know that, it—it is me."
He thought again of the cold, white face lying beneath his feet—of the weight of the limp body as he dragged it up the ridge, and grinned savagely to himself.
"It's a lie!" he muttered again. "Someone's tricking the team; the Vandal will sail to-morrow, but there won't be any Cyril Darvell on board."
It was late before Hagan dropped off to sleep, and he slept soundly and well. It was only the loud tolling of the "Ashore" bell which wakened him at last, and he leaped out of his bunk and peered through the open porthole down to the wharf below.
At that very moment. there came sprinting through the sheds three figures—two men and a slim youth. The first man, a clean-shaven, strong-jawed gentleman, reached the gangway and caught at the arm of the shorehand who was already in the act of removing it.
Behind the clean-shaven man there came another figure, and the first glimpse of the bronzed face sent Hagan reeling back against the side of his cabin.
"Alive?" The word was breathed in a husky whisper. "Alive? What does it mean? I could swear that I left him for dead. Curse the young hound! There is danger ahead for me now!"
He heard the long, deep drone of the siren, and the vessel began to move away from the quay. If he had had the chance at that moment, Hagan would have made an effort to be put on shore again. But he was afraid that his victim might recognise him as soon as he appeared on the deck.
With another grim oath, the baffled blackguard crossed to his bunk and flung himself down on it again. "I have to keep to my cabin during the whole voyage," he thought savagely. "I can't take any chances now. If that young hound was to recognise me—by heavens, I'd have a rough passage before I reached England, and would probably find myself in irons for the rest of the trip. Curse the luck!"
The sound of voices in the narrow corridor outside his cabin sent him creeping to his door. A steward was talking to someone, and Hagan heard the metallic clank of the brass catch on the next cabin door sound.
"This is your cabin, Mr. Darvell," the steward said; "we were beginning to think that it would have to be empty this trip.
Cyril's clear laugh sounded.
"I suppose you got my kit all right?" Hagan heard his voice say.
Came on board with Mr. Darvell's, sir," the steward returned; "the old gentleman and his daughter arrived last night."
The steward hurried away along the corridor, and Hagan listened to the sounds made by the young cricketer as he moved about in the next cabin. So thin was the partition that the lurking ruffian could hear every sound.
On his tiptoes Hagan crept back to his bunk, and lay down again, pulling the blankets over him.
"Perhaps this ain't turned out so badly after all," he muttered, a new idea coming to him. "He's managed to get out of what I thought was certain death, but we've pot to be next-door neighbours for the best part of three weeks, and a lot can happen in that time. By heavens, this may be a good thing for me after all."
He turned the new idea over and over in his evil mind. On ship-board, as Hagan well knew; there were occasions when a man could work his vile will on another. At night, on the deck, an unsuspecting man might easily be attacked, and—
The villain lay still for a long while, preparing his new plans.
"A ridge of good salt water won't be so likely to give you back to life again, my friend," he muttered; "it's soft, and very, very deep, and I won't have to waste time in burying you, either."
To the deep, sonorous boom of its siren, the Vandal set off on its voyage. It was a bright and happy party that gathered in the beautiful saloon to enjoy the first meal. Old McDowell and his lovely daughter were, by special invitation, added to the table at which the team dined—an invitation that was also extended to Blake and Tinker.
It had been arranged that Cyril Darvell's real mission to England should be kept a secret from Mitchell and the rest of the cricketers.
"So long as I keep my googlies going, they will not mind," the young nobleman remarked to the detective, as they strolled together up and down the spacious boat-deck. "Of course, I will tell them all about it as soon as the preliminaries are completed."
"The news may leak out at the other side," Blake warned. "The list of the team has been sent, and at least one man will identify Cyril Darvell."
"You mean that precious cousin of mine," the bowler returned grimly. "I can't understand Martin, Blake. He is just the last man in the world who I would have thought capable of interesting himself on my behalf."
For a moment Blake was silent. He had not communicated to the young cricketer the information which Tinker had gathered—namely, that Hagan, the man who, beyond the shadow of a doubt, was the man who had attempted to murder the young heir, was also the same man whose evidence had allowed Martin to step into the title and claim the estates.
Blake had decided to keep that matter to himself until he had had a chance of confronting the false Lord Malvetway. The great detective felt that he had been made a catspaw of, and Martin Darvell would have to answer to him for that.
"Let us enjoy the voyage, old chap," was his reply to his companion; "time enough to worry about what's going to happen in England when we get there."
The days passed pleasantly, and soon the vessel was over the Line, and beating down towards Madeira.
Frank Mitchell kept his team fit. There were daily practices at the nets; an enclosed portion of the wide boat-deck, netted securely, and a broad sheet of matting, made a respectable pitch: The ball, it is true was a soft one, but the turn which each man had at the wickets kept his wrists in order, and prevented that staleness which so often spoils the cricketer from overseas.
Hagan had kept himself well-hidden. He had allowed his beard to grow, and the confinement in his cabin had altered him completely, yet he dared not risk to show his face in the saloon. At night he would venture out, and, wrapped in a thick cloak, would wander up and down the decks, a solitary figure.
He was waiting for a chance—waiting with the patience of a remorseless brute, and it came at last.
About four bells (ten o'clock) on the tenth day of their voyage, Cyril and Jean found themselves alone in a snug corner of the deck. Neither of them observed the huddled figure of a man seated in a deck-chair, beneath the shelter of one of the boats. Hagan, his eyes glimmering in the dusk like some wild cat, watched the young figures intently.
It was a dark night, and the spot Cyril had chosen was beyond the range of the electric bulbs which lighted the deck. Presently Hagan saw the slender figure of Jean arise.
"No," the clear voice said, "you need not come with me, dear. Just stay and enjoy your last smoke."
The faint sound of a kiss came to the ears of the lurking rogue, then Jean went on down the dark deck and vanished.
A match sputtered, and Hagan saw the bronzed, handsome face of Cyril stand out in the yellow glow from the flame. The red glow of the cigarette waxed and faded as the lounging man puffed at it. With his fists clenched in his palms, the murderous ruffian waited patiently.
Suddenly Cyril arose to his feet, and crossed the deck. Leaning his arms on the broad rail, he watched the phosphorescent gleams in the dark waters as they rustled past the side.
He was feeling content with all the world, and his figure relaxed as he mused.
A faint footfall—so faint as to be almost noiseless, came to his ears. He was leaning on the rail in a gap between two of the white-painted boats, and he saw the muffled figure of a man come slowly into the narrow space.
"That poor beggar in the next cabin," Cyril thought, turning his head away. "By Jove, it must be pretty rotten to be such a shocking sailor. Been seasick all the voyage."
He glanced down at the sea again, and then a board creaked close to him, and with the swift, vicious spring of a tiger Hagan hurled himself at his intended victim.
The powerful hands of the ex-captain closed around the young athlete's throat, choking back the cry of surprise which came to the lips. A mad lunge saw Cyril Darvell's body sway backwards over the rail.
Instantly the young man realised his danger, and a terrible unequal struggle began.
The attack had been so unexpected that Cyril had been placed at an overwhelming disadvantage at the outset. For a moment the tense faces of the men stared at each other, then, with a strangled gasp of horror, the young nobleman recognised his attacker.
"Hagan," he thought, with a quick thrill of apprehension.
The brutal captain's remorseless face hung like a mask of death over the lithe body. Inch by inch Hagan forced the cricketer down, down, down over the broad rail.
The sweat hung on his pallid face, and sparkled on his straggling beard.
"I—I got ye now, and, by heavens, I mean to finish yer," he gasped gloatingly.
Twice Cyril Darvell, with a tremendous effort, almost succeeded in freeing himself from the terrible fingers. But his almost powerless position prevented him from using the whole of his strength. Closer and closer gripped the strangling fingers—the young nobleman saw the brutal mask light up into a smile of evil triumph, then, with a last mighty thrust, Hagan drove his victim clean over the rail down into the rushing waters.
As he did so, he heard a horrified voice from behind him, and wheeled round, gasping and glaring like a tiger.
There came sprinting forward between the white boats, a lithe, powerful figure, and the clean-shaven face of Sexton Blake loomed for a moment in front of the dastardly murderer.
"You—you dog!" Blake cried.
Hagan leaped at him, but the great detective, hardly pausing in his run, shot out his right fist, and the ex-captain went down in a groaning heap beneath one of the boats.
On the rail hung a white-painted lifebuoy. With a quick snatch Blake freed the circle, and hurled it into the dark waters. Then, one leap saw the gallant detective poised for a moment on the rail.
His hands went above his head, and with the quick, easy grace of a trained man, Blake dived downward into the sea.
"Man overboard!"
High and shrill from the bridge came the call.
"Man overboard!"
Again the voice lipped out over the dark waters. Blake heard it, then the cold seas closed over his head, and he found himself going down and down through the green billows.
The dull throbbing of the propellers came to his ears, and he struck out away from them, lest the undertow might drag him beneath their whirling blades. The great ship passed on at its mad speed, and the swimmer turned surfacewards again.
When he found himself floating on the crest of:a wave Blake looked across the black waste of waters. The Vandal was already far away in the darkness, her lights gleaming fitfully against the dusk of the sky. Beside him, not a dozen yards away, floated the white circle of the lifebuoy. A dozen strong strokes brought him to it, and flinging one arm across the support the detective raised his voice.
"Cyril—Cyril!" he called.
A swift thrill of delight ran through his veins. Quite close to him there came the answer.
"All right. I am here."
The sound of a man swimming slowly through the seas came to Blake, and he saw the wet head slide slowly down the tilt of a wave. A couple of strong kicks saw the buoy thrust into the swimmer's track, and there, alone on the vast sea, the detective and the young cricketer gripped at each other's cold hands across the circle of the buoy.
"Blake!" the man gasped. "You—you came after me?"
"Why not?" came the cool response.
Surely as gallant an answer as ever fell from the lips of a brave man. Then the great silence of the sea came down to them, covering them like a warm, loving cloak. And together the two men looked into the eyes of death, and were not afraid.
Suddenly a colder breath came to Blake, and he looked around him. Coming slowly across the dark surface of the sea came a grey cloud, and the first fingers of the sea-fog struck against his cheek. The fog which seemed to be the last grim finale to the quick tragedy of the deep.
Tinker Takes Command.
"I READ all about it," Martin Darvell said, slowly, eyeing the broad, hard face in front of him. "You seem to have worked it very well—got rid of the only two men we had to fear, at one time."
Hagan's evil face lighted up.
"That cursed detective did for himself," he said slowly "By heavens, I had a narrow shave though. He drove his fist into my face, and I was under a boat for ten minutes, at least, stunned. It was the fog that really gave the game to us. The Vandal beat about for an hour, but none of its boats came anywhere near 'em."
"Dead," said Lord Malvetway, drawing a deep breath. "You won't have to give evidence this time, either."
The ex-captain glanced around the well-furnished room of his lordship's flat. He had come straight to Malvetway as soon as the Vandal discharged its passengers. But the tragedy of the sea had already been wired to England, as Martin Darvell had explained.
"We—we ain't quite out o' the wood yet," the ex-captain went on, slowly. "That cousin of yours was working for a Scots farmer, and the old chap was on board the boat with his daughter, Jean. Then there was a youngster with Blake a shrewd-looking hound. His name was Tinker, I believe."
"That was Blake's assistant," the taller blackguard returned. "What was he doing on board the Vandal?"
"Blowed if I know," said the ex-captain; "but he took charge of your cousin's friends, and collected all his kit,too."
"There was a silence in the room. Malvetway's evil brain turned the item of information over, and found cause for alarm in it.
"Look here," he said, at last. "I've found out one or two things. Sarah is living in Sexton Blake's rooms at Baker Street at present. I—I meant to see that she troubled us no longer, but some interfering fool turned up at the cottage, and I only escaped by the skin of my teeth. Since then I have never had a chance to get near her."
"She knows too much, does that old fool," Hagan returned.
Malvetway ground his teeth together.
"We'll never be safe so long as she lives," he breathed, in a hoarse whisper. "I feel that the presence of Blake's assistant on board the Vandal is due to some interference on her part. We will have to account for her, Hagan."
The ex-captain arose to his feet.
"That's your job!" he muttered. "I—I've done my share."
He held out his hand.
"And I'm broke," he resumed. "Broke to the wide. I want some cash."
The tall man pulled out a bulky notebook, and counted out four rustling notes.
"There are £20," he said, "enough to go on with. Where are you going now?"
"'Ome," said Hagan laconically. "I reckon I've earned a 'oliday."
He swung across the room, and vanished through the doorway. Malvetway heard the outer door of the flat bang as his accomplice closed it behind him. A satisfied smile crossed the scoundrel's face as he leaned back in his chair.
"Cyril and Blake," he thought. "By heavens, what a piece of luck? I did not like the look that that detective gave me when we parted. And with Hagan making such a cursed blunder at his first attempt, matters might have gone very badly with me. But now—well, the only persons who could possibly give evidence against me are drowned. I am quite safe now."
Had he crossed to the window, and looked out into the quiet street, he might not have been so sure on that point. Hagan had just emerged from the wide doorway of the chambers, and was rolling leisurely along the pavement. On the opposite side, in a ragged coat with a bundle of newspapers under his arm, sauntered a newsboy. But the face of the lad was that of the shrewd-looking Tinker.
In the young assistant's mind a grim triumph was rising.
"Yes," he muttered to himself. "It is Hagan, right enough. His beard has made a great change in him, but I would swear to his stocky build and rolling gait."
The young assistant had made up his mind on the course he would pursue as soon as he landed in London. So far, Tinker was not yet aware of the fact that Hagan had been the mysterious passenger on board the Vandal—the rascally captain had managed to get down to his cabin unseen, and had remained there during the rest of the voyage. But Tinker had decided that Lord Malvetway was the man who would have to be watched, and with the quickness characteristic of the lad he had started on his task at once.
"And so; on the first day, he was rewarded beyond his expectations by seeing Hagan enter and emerge from the flat.
"I'll have to follow him," the lad thought. "I would have liked to have waited, just to get one look at Lord Malvetway, but that can come later."
He was still unaware of the fact that already he had come into close contact with the rascally Martin Darvell—for, as the reader knows, it was the false nobleman who had fought with the young assistant in the quiet garden outside old Saran's cottage.
"Hagan is my mark," Tinker decided. "I must mark him down first. The guv'nor may want to look him up when—when he gets back."
McDowell and Jean, and everyone else on board the ship had given up hope of ever seeing the two men again. But Tinker simply shook his head.
"You don't know my guv'nor," was all he would say. "He'll turn up again. There's only one Sexton Blake in the world, and we can't afford to lose him, you see."
And from that stubborn position no amount of argument could shift the loyal lad.
Hagan's trail lay eastward, and eastward Tinker followed him. They passed into the labyrinth of mean streets which surrounds the docks, and presently the ex-captain entered the low portals of a grimy eating-house. The time was just after nine o'clock, and there were very few people in the place.
The proprietor, a swarthy man with large gold earrings in his ears and a white scar across his cheek, nodded to Hagan as he entered.
"Hallo, captain!" he said. "What a stranger! Hardly know you with that chin-ornament you've cultivated."
Hagan ran his fingers through his beard as he went into one of the narrow cubicles. "Keeps you warm o' nights," he said with a chuckle, and—and helps you to git past your friends without them noticing you."
Tinker came boldly into the shop as soon as Hagan had vanished behind the partition of the cubicle. The young assistant ordered a plate of sausages and mashed—the staple dish in the eating-house—and when the savoury-smelling food was handed to him he went into the cubicle next to that occupied by Hagan.
The proprietor of the eating-house had followed the ex-captain into his compartment, and the murmur of their voices came plainly to the lad's ears.
Tinker heard the crisp rustle of a banknote, and the voice of the proprietor sounded:
"You're a lucky dog, captain—shiver me if you 'ain't! Where do you git all your tin from?"
Hagan's hoarse chuckle came out from the cubicle.
"Got a very rich pal," he said; "a very rich partner, me son. Jest change that fiver for me and there's plenty more where it came from."
"Wish I could find a rich partner," came the other voice. "You know that I was never very particular in the old days, and I ain't now."
There was a little silence, and then the voices sounded, but in a whisper, and Tinker could only hear a snatch now and again.
He looked up at the partition which divided the cubicles, and half made up his mind to risk a glance over it, when a scraping of feet sounded, and the proprietor came out. As he passed Tinker's recess the lad chanced to see his face. The swarthy features were alight with a look of greed and avarice.
"Close the shop, Ann," the man said to the tired-looking girl behind the counter. "An old friend's come to see me, and me and 'im are going upstairs to have a chat."
Hagan came out of the cubicle, and Tinker heard him walk down towards the interior of the shop. The cubicle in which the lad was seated was almost in darkness. Instantly a plan came to him. With a swift movement Tinker had slipped from the hard bench on which he had been seated, and had laid himself flat beneath it, lying on his breast in the sawdust which was strewn on the floor.
The heavy footfalls of the proprietor sounded as they followed those of Hagan, then there was a couple of minutes' silence.
Tinker waited patiently, and presently he heard the girl come round the counter. She stopped at the cubicle, and glanced inside it.
"Gracious me!" Ann breathed. "E—'e must have gone out when my back was turned! Must have moved like a—a cat!"
She came into the cubicle and removed the plate and knife and fork. So close did she come to Tinker that he had to move his hand on one side, lest she might step on it.
"Left 'arf his supper, too," the girl said aloud. "Saucy young cub! Jest let me see 'im in here again, that's all!"
Tinker heard her breathing hard with indignation as she went back into the shop. For five minutes he lay still in his cramped position, then the utter darkness told him that all the lights had been extinguished. A moment later the loud boom of the shop-door told him that Ann had gone for the night, and he was free to move.
The youngster crawled from beneath the bench, and stood up. The shop was in utter darkness, but the lamp in the street outside sent a feeble radiance across the sawdust-covered floor. At the end of the cubicles a door was standing ajar through which a shaft of light struck at an angle. On tip-toe Tinker made the journey to the door, and listened intently.
Again the murmur of voices came to him—hollow and rather faint now.
He pushed the door forward lightly, and a high flight of stairs were revealed. A gas-jet lighted the stairs, and without a moment's hesitation the plucky youngster slid around the door and mounted the stairs. It ended on a narrow corridor with a door on either side. The sound of the voices told Tinker that the ex-captain and the swarthy proprietor were in the room on the left.
"Humph!" Tinker ejaculated below his breath. "Don't think I can risk opening that door. And yet I must hear what they have to say to each other."
He glanced along the narrow corridor, and saw that there was a window placed at the end of it. Noiselessly the lad crept to the window and glanced out. It was overlooking a dirty yard, evidently the back portion of the shop. Below the window ran a broad ledge, and as Tinker caught sight of this a quick idea came to him. He lifted the window up cautiously, and slid through it, lowering himself on to the ledge. On his left, a broad shaft of light streaming out of another window indicated the presence of the men he was so anxious to observe.
"Got it!" the lad thought, as he closed the corridor window again. "I can kneel on this ledge and watch what these beggars are doing; and, perhaps, hear a word or two at the same time."
He was as light on his feet as a young panther, and the short journey along the ledge did not even make his pulse flutter. When he reached the lighted window he noted that the lower half was raised slightly.
"That's a piece of luck for me!" thought Tinker, as he dropped on his knees and peered through the slight gap.
Hagan was seated at the table with a black bottle at his elbow, and a glass in front of him. The swarthy proprietor was seated with his back towards Tinker.
"Three bloomin' weeks!" It was Hagan's voice sounding, and there was a thick note in it. "Three weeks confined in a cabin like a—like a rotten swab! Me, mind you, Jose, and I daren't ask for a drink for fear they'd tumble to me."
"It must have been deuced hard," the proprietor breathed. "You and me were shipmates for many a day, captain, and I never knew you to refuse a drop of rum."
"I had to keep off the stuff," Hagan returned grimly. "They were all round me. The cursed 'tecs and his two friends. I 'ad to have my wits about me to get out of it in safety, I can tell you!"
Tinker caught at the cold stone of the sill to steady himself. What could it mean?
"Wonder the surgeon didn't see that you were kidding," said Jose.
Hagan took another long pull at the rum-and-water he had denied himself so long.
"I paid him, every visit," he muttered. "That's what kept him easy. I had half a mind to slip ashore at Maderia, but I was afraid that the other cursed 'tec would tumble to me."
A light broke suddenly on to Tinker. Hagan had come back to England on board the Vandal.
"I used to lie in my bunk and listen to my man moving about," Hagan went on. "They put him in the next cabin to mine, Jose. Many's the time I felt half-inclined to creep in and finish him off there and then. But it wouldn't hev been safe—it wouldn't hev been safe. And my way was the best way, after all."
The swarthy listener nodded his sleek head.
"Your way was always pretty safe, captain," he said. "I've got you to thank for this tidy little business; the Dorland Head money came in mighty handy, I can tell you."
"You worked it well, Jose," said Hagan. "You was quartermaster, and your story about that bit o' wreckage was worth the money the firm paid you."
He leaned forward.
"And if you're game for another job I think I can find one for you," he went on, "It ain't a hard job, neither—just to get hold of a silly old woman wot's got too much jaw."
"I'm open to do anything safe," said Jose, "if there's money in it."
"Oh, there's money in it, all right," Hagan returned, "But I can't tell you 'ow much. It was hinted that I might take it on, but I've done enough."
"Who'll pay me?" the swarthy man asked.
Hagan was silent for a moment.
"I—I'll see the gent first,—and tell him about you," he decided at last. "He'll come along here and you can settle it yourselves. That's fair enough, ain't it?"
He looked across at Jose, and saw that the man was staring straight in front of him, with a look of evil rage in his black eyes. For Jose had chanced to glance above Hagan's head at the mantelpiece, where a cracked mirror hung at an angle.
He saw the reflection of the window, and in the gap between the sill and the lower sash was a white, eager face!
Instantly the cunning man was on the alert. He turned his eyes away at once, and pretended to reach for the bottle which stood by Hagan's side.
"Oh, yes," Jose said aloud, "that's fair enough, captain. Let the gent come and see me." Then, as he drew near to his companion, he said in a vicious whisper: "Somebody listening outside window! Don't make a move!"
Hagan, trained to such quick ordeals, held his peace.
Jose, picking up the bottle, shook it.
"Empty," he muttered, in a louder tone: "I must go and get another bottle, captain. Won't be a minute."
He sauntered slowly out of the room, but as soon as the door closed on him he broke into a run. Flying up the second flight of stairs, Jose shot into the room above that in which Hagan was seated, and darted across to the window. Cautiously raising the sash, he peered out. The kneeling figure on the ledge had not moved from its position. A gleam of malice flashed into the scoundrel's face, and he withdrew his head for a moment. Stepping across the room, he lifted from the side of the bed a heavy truncheon.
"This will settle you, you cursed spy!" he muttered, crossing to the window again.
As he thrust his head out into the night for the second time he must have made a slight sound. He saw the kneeling figure start suddenly, and the white face went backward.
For the briefest part of a second Tinker and Jose stared at each other, then, with a low curse, the swarthy proprietor sent the heavy truncheon hurtling from his hand.
Thud!
The missile caught the plucky lad full on the temple.
"Quick, captain—quick!" Jose bawled, leaning out over the sill.
Hagan heard the yell, and, leaping to his feet, flung himself across the room. He grabbed at the window, and tried to throw it up, but it had jammed, and, cursing and foaming, the captain tugged and strained like a madman.
The awful blow had well-nigh stunned the young detective. He swayed backward, almost falling off the ledge, and it was only by throwing himself flat that he succeeded in retaining his precarious position.
A thousand lights seemed to be dancing in front of his eyes, yet every instant told him that instant flight was his only chance. Blindly. feebly, as a wounded beast, Tinker began to crawl along the ledge, feeling his way at each step.
Another shout came rocketing down from the window above.
"He's escaping! Hurry, captain, hurry!" Jose cried.
With a rattling crash the window underneath went up at last, and Hagan threw himself out on to the ledge. Tinker had crawled some five or six yards along the ledge by now, but, with a mad, reckless rush, the ex-captain cleared the space and flung himself on the lad.
"We've got you—you spy!" he breathed, forcing one knee into the youngster's back, and fixing his powerful fingers around Tinker's throat. You've got to come back and show your face."
Sick and dazed though he was, the plucky youngster made one splendid effort at ridding himself of his heavy antagonist. Like an eel he wriggled forward for a few paces, then, putting every ounce of strength he had into the lift, he drew his knees up to his chest.
A curse of fear broke from Hagan's lips as he saw the meaning of the manoeuvre. He was kneeling on the lad's body, and the quick movement lifted him into the air. Before the could move his position Tinker had lurched sharply to the right, and Hagan, yelling aloud, was thrown clean off the ledge into the yard below.
"The crash of his body as it fell among a heap of empty cases came to Jose's ears, and the swarthy man withdrew from the window, and went thundering down the stairs into the yard.
As he butted forward he heard growls and groans coming from the corner heaped with boxes, and turned towards them. A thick-shouldered figure came staggering forward holding its head.
"Where is he, captain?" Jose cried, darting forward towards the cases.
He thought that the loud crash he had heard had heralded the fall of both wrestlers, but the storm of curses which broke out from the baffled ex-captain brought him to a halt.
"He's there—up there yet!" Hagan snarled. "You—you've given him a chance now, and—Look! There he goes!"
Jose flung his head back, and glanced towards the end of the house. Hanging from the ledge was a slim figure.
It swayed outwards—for a moment, and with an oath the swarthy proprietor thrust his hand into his hip-pocket.
"I'll wing the hound!" he muttered.
The revolver was between his fingers, and he levelled it, but before he could take aim Tinker had let go, and went down with a rush into the narrow alley which ran beside the house.
"Gone," Hagan gasped, stamping his heavy foot on the ground— "gone! And, by heavens, there's no telling what sort of story he's got with him!"
Jose returned his revolver to his pocket moodily.
"What are you going to do now?" he asked, in a surly voice.
Hagan drew a quavering breath.
"Hide," he breathed, the first alarm of arrest and exposure coming to his guilty soul—"hide until I know what brought that cursed spy here. If he heard half wot I was fool enough to tell you it's all up wi' me, by heavens, it is!"
He turned and rushed into the house, followed by his swarthy host. Fear was beating in Hagan's vile heart now, and he showed it in every line of his haggard face.
"It's a swinging job for me," he cried harshly, "and I'm going to take no chances. If there's anything more to be done on this job someone else will 'ave to do it. I've 'ad enough of it."
Two minutes later he crept like a frightened cur from the dark shop and went scuttling down the quiet street as hard as he could go, with a grim Nemesis at his heels to urge him along.
For it suddenly came back to him that the face which had hovered for a moment over the edge of the ledge as he fell was a familiar one—the face of a youngster whom he knew was called Tinker.
"It—it was that beastly rum!" the terrified scoundrel thought as he hurried on. "It loosened my tongue, and—and made me talk. I wonder 'ow much he 'eard?"
A question which he was soon to have answered to him.
Martin Darvell's Triumph.
"IT was very kind of you to think of coming to me," Martin Darvell said, slowly eyeing the pale, tired face of the girl in front of him. "Mr. Blake told me that his quest had been successful—I received a cable from him to that effect from Cane Town, Then, when the news came of the terrible accident—"
"That is just what I cannot believe, Lord Malvetway!" old McDowell broke out fiercely, "I don't think that it was an accident, and I have reasons for it."
Jean was watching the thin face of the nobleman, and it seemed to her as.though it changed for .a moment, but the expression. was so fleeting that she could hardly be sure.
"Not an accident?" Lord Malvetway repeated.
The old farmer brought his fist down on the table in front of him.
"No!" he rapped out. "I believe that your cousin was foully attacked by some miserable blackguard."
"But why should Blake have been missed at the same time."
"The man on watch states that he saw a lifebuoy float past, and then he heard another splash," the girl put in quickly. "I think that Mr. Blake tried to save Cyril's life."
The tears welled up into her lovely eyes, and she bit her lip to control her sorrow. If Martin Darvell had not been absolutely devoid of all human feeling he would have felt a pang at the sight of the stricken girl's grief over the fate of the man she worshipped.
"Ay," said McDowell, in a low voice, "he was a grand mon, yon Blake. A braver never stepped, my lord."
Malvetway turned towards the farmer.
"Your suggestion as to the death of my cousin being the result of a planned attack will have to be investigated," he remarked. "Have you any method to suggest?"
McDowell immediately told of the first vile effort that Hagan had made, little dreaming that his listener already knew much more about that than he did.
"And the wretch knew all about Cyril," he ended—"knew that he was really. Lord Malvetway—he told him as much."
"That was a point in the story which Hagan had discreetly omitted. Martin Darvell's hard eyes glittered as he listened. The ex-captain would have to explain his folly.
"And you think that—that the same man—" he began.
McDowell shook his head.
"I would put it down as the same gang, my lord," he corrected.
The false nobleman put another question then—one that had troubled him move than a little.
"Did anyone outside your own circle know who Cyril really was?" he asked.
"Not a soul!" Jean assured him. "We all agreed to keep the matter secret until he arrived in England."
"And the South African team?" Martin Darvell asked.
"Only knew of him as Cyril Darvell, the bowler," said McDowell slowly. "He was prouder o' that title than any other one."
That was all that Martin Darvell wanted to hear, and a few minutes later his two visitors left his flat.
So long as I keep the affair out of the papers," he thought feverishly, "everything will blow over quietly in time."
A thought came into his head. Hagan would have to be seen and warned of McDowell's suspicions.
He went out of his flat and hailed a taxi, giving the man Hagan's old address. It was over an hour's journey, and when Martin Darvell asked to see his accomplice, he was met with the astounding news that Hagan had only appeared for a few moments on the previous night. He had packed a bag, and had hurried off without leaving an address.
"What the deuce does it mean?" the rascally cousin thought as he turned away. "Why should he bolt like this?"
The first whispers of fear came to him then, and he lean back in the taxi biting his lip.
"If he has heard anything— But, no, that is impossible!" he thought. "He would have warned me at once. He depends on me for his income, and that alone would keep him faithful. Why has the fool rushed off like this?"
Yet, despite himself, Lord Malvetway could not quite rid himself of the vague uneasiness which had settled on him. Nor was it quite without cause, although he hardly dreamed of how imminent was the danger to him.
For immediately after leaving his flat Jean had turned towards Baker Street.
"I am going to see Mr. Tinker," she said to her father. "He—he has never ceased to believe that his master is still alive, and—and sometimes I feel that he is right."
The hard-faced old farmer bent a sorrowful look on the little woebegone face.
"Better for ye, Jean, if you were to take your mind away from that," he said slowly. "To keep on hoping and hoping day after day is no good for a lass."
Jean made a little gesture of despair.
"I—I can't help it, dad," she broke out. "Oh, I dare not think that I will never, never see my darling again!"
They reached Baker Street, and found the simple chambers in which Sexton Blake had lived so long.
"He's just havin' breakfast, ma'am," the garrulous old landlady announced. "A disgrace, I call it, for a boy of his age. But, there, he's out to all hours of the night, you might say."
They followed her into the library, and a minute later Tinker came into the room. At the sight of his pallid face and the great bruise across his temple Jean and her father started to their feet.
"Oh, Tinker!" the girl said. "What has happened to you?"
But if the face was pale the grin which spread over the youngster's face was sunny enough.
"Just a whack on the head, Miss McDowell," Tinker said, as he held out his hand. "I—I got in the way of a—a truncheon, I believe it was something beastly heavy, anyhow."
His steady eyes burned for a moment as he thought of his night's adventure.
"Is—is there any news?" the girl asked.
"Not yet," said Tinker quietly.
Old McDowell stared at the shrewd young face.
"And—and you still hone?" Jean asked.
Tinker seated himself in a chair.
"More than ever now, Miss Jean," he returned, in his quiet way, "for last night—I heard a true account of what occurred on board the Vandal—or, at least, I heard enough to make me satisfied that the guv'nor went into the sea after Cyril—was not stunned, or anything of that sort."
"Ye—ye heard the true account?" the old farmer said, in a hoarse voice.
Tinker plunged at once into his report, and it held the listeners spellbound with horror.
"Hagan again," Jean breathed, with a shudder of horror, "disguised as that wretched sick man. Yes, I—I remember now. I believe he was sitting quite close to Cyril and I on the boat-deck. He—he only used to come out of his cabin when it was dusk."
Her father drew a deep breath between his clenched teeth.
"Hagan must be found," he said, in his grim voice. "If I have to spend every farthing I possess that mon will be laid by the heels."
The young detective glanced across at the rugged face and nodded his head.
"Hagan will not escape, Mr. McDowell," said Tinker quietly; "but there is someone else whom I would like to catch first. Hagan did not mention his name to Jose. It was to try and hear that that I hung on to the ledge so long."
"And you did not hear?" Jean said slowly.
The girl's eyes were flaming with excitement.
"Was it necessary?" she breathed. "You saw Hagan come out of the chambers where—where Lord Malvetway lives. Surely you could guess that—"
Tinker returned her eager glance.
"I did guess that, Miss Jean," he returned—" guessed it a long time ago. But I have to make sure before I can bring any accusation against a well-known man."
Jean clenched her tiny fists.
"I do not like the man," she breathed. "There was something flashed into his face for a moment while we were with him this morning. Oh, what a callous, heartless brute he must be if what we think is true?"
Old McDowell arose to his feet slowly.
"I don't care who he is," he said, in a short, snappy voice; "just prove to me that he's implicated with that black-hearted murderer Hagan, and I'll back you up in anything you do, Tinker. It'll no need to be a question of money between you and me, laddie. Just say what ye want, and ye'll have it—up to fifty thousand pounds!"
His brave old voice rang out in the quiet room, and Tinker felt his heart thrill. It was evident that McDowell had been fond of Cyril Darvell—had looked upon him as a son.
"Let me know where to find you, Mr. McDowell," the young assistant said. "You may hear from me sooner than you expect."
"We are staying at Vrey's," said Jean. "The South African team are there as well. We had booked rooms from—from Cape Town."
Her voice broke a little. She had looked forward to the holiday in England to be spent with the man she loved.
Tinker arose to his feet, and, crossing to the desk, lifted an envelope.
"I have bought tickets for Lord's," he said, turning to the girl, "for the first match between England and South Africa on June 10th."
Jean took the envelope, and glanced at the tickets. There were four of them.
"There is one for you and one for Mr. McDowell," Tinker went on, "The other two are for the guv'nor and I."
There was something so grand and simple in the lad's faith in the return of his missing master that old McDowell suddenly felt a new hope rising in him.
He came across the room, and gripped the slim, strong hand of the young assistant.
"Ye—ye've beat me, Tinker, my laddie," he said, "By jingo, I believe ye ken more about it than all the rest o' us put together! I do believe that your guv'nor will come back—ay, and bring young Cyr with him."
Tinker smiled across at the face of Jean McDowell.
"I didn't buy a ticket for Cyril," he explained. "You see, he'll be playing in the match."
At that moment there came a knock on the door, and a quaint old figure appeared on the threshold. Old Sarah turned her eyes on the slim, girlish figure of Jean McDowell, and did not remove them.
"Here is someone whom you would like to know," Tinker remarked. "She was Cyril's nurse. And she also believes that he will come back alive."
There was a smile on the apple-cheeked old dame's face as she came towards Jean.
"My boy be too good to be spared, dearie," she said. "Don't 'ee fret about 'un. It be the bad 'uns as go."
It was late in the afternoon before the father and daughter left the chambers in Baker Street, and when they had gone, Tinker prepared for his next move.
He made up his mind to see Lord Malvetway, risky though that visit might prove.
"I need not disguise myself," Tinker thought; "we have never met each other. I will report myself as Blake's assistant. I must see him, so that I may recognise him again—when the time comes."
He went down to the chambers in which he knew that Lord Malvetway lived, and inquired for the man. The man-servant, after a suspicious glance at the keen face of the visitor, told Tinker that his lordship had gone out of town, and was not expected back for a week.
Beaten for the time being, Tinker began a close watch of the flat, but at the end of the fifth day he found that the valet had told the truth—Lord Malvetway was still absent. Then a fortunate chance gave Tinker a clue to the nobleman's whereabouts. A parcel-van stopped at the door of the chambers, and the carter came out with a portmanteau. It was addressed to "Martin Darvell, Esq., Kinndale Hotel, Southampton."
"Right!" the lad thought, as he hurried off along the pavement. "I must find out what takes you down to that town, and keeps you there so long."
He little dreamed what an important factor on the case his visit to the most famous seaport in the world was to be.
Back from the Dead.
"IT'S all very well for you," Hagan grunted, in a thick voice; "but I'm not going to risk it, I'm safe down 'ere, and I can always ship on board an outward bound at the first whisper ov danger. I put my neck in danger when I was jawin' to Jose; and ain't goin' to swing if I can 'elp it!"
Martin Darvell, otherwise Lord Malvetway, sneered openly at the halting words.
"I always thought that there was a white streak in you!" he harshed. "And now I'm sure! We are wasting time down here, I tell you, and we may be sorry for it soon."
The ex-captain arose to his feet.
"Nobody asked you to come down to Southampton!" he returned gloomily. "You're safe enough."
His accomplice shot a cold glance at him.
"Not while you are in this frightened mood, Hagan," Lord Malvetway returned. "I've got to keep an eye on you—just to see that you don't give our game away."
Hagan lighted a cigar as he sauntered out of the quiet lounge of the small hotel.
"You know where to find me," he said, across his shoulder; "on the quay."
"Right!" Lord Malvetway returned. "I'll follow you later. I'm expecting a bag down from town."
The ex-captain left the hotel, and went down through the clean streets towards the great stretch of wharves and quays which forms a wide bay around which the town is drawn out.
He avoided the quays where the giant liners were docked. It was the coming and going of the tramp-steamers that interested him most, for it was a tramp that Hagan had commanded on his last fateful journey as master of a vessel.
He found himself seated on a thick iron capstan at last, and, folding his arms, watched the animated scene in the waters ahead.
An hour passed, and presently there came threading its way through the smaller craft a weather-beaten, sea-stained cargo boat. In a long looping curve it came slowly towards the quay, and Hagan followed it meditatively with his eye.
"Cape or Argentine?" he thought. "Most likely the fust. Got a pretty stiff cargo on board, too."
He watched the bottle-nosed vessel veer round slowly until it was moving stern-on into the narrow alley of the dock on his right. He heard the clear ting-ling! of the bell in the engine-room of the big tramp, and saw the white wash churn up suddenly beneath the squat stern.
But he did not see the two figures that were leaning against the short iron ladder that ran up from the space at the stern to the deck above.
They were watching the slowly-approaching docks with eyes that were filled with light. Presently the slimmer figure of the two turned, and touched his companion on the arm.
"At last," he said, with a deep gratitude in his voice— "Britain at last!"
The man by the companionway nodded his head.
"Our captain hasn't done so badly," he said. "He swore that he'd land us in Southampton within a week after the arrival of the Vandal, and I rather fancy he has done so."
Cyril Darvell—for it was the young cricketer and Blake who stood together in the stern—turned to make some reply, when his eye, flashing across the ever-narrowing gap of water between the vessel and the shore, chanced to alight on the solitary figure seated on the quay.
For a moment the young man stared as though he could hardly believe the evidence of his eyes, then, doubt giving way to certainty, he caught Blake by the arm.
"Quick!" he breathed. "Look at that man, Blake! There, on the capstan!"
Blake stared for a long moment, There was no mistaking the squat figure with the thick shoulders and the heavy, pallid face.
"Parry, alias Hagan!"' he gasped. "By heavens, this borders on the wonderful!"
He caught Cyril by the arm, and dragged him quickly through the small doorway into the saloon.
"We must not let the rascal get a chance of seeing us," he said. "Providence has put him into our hands, and we'll take the chance it offers!"
"You—you mean to arrest him now?"
Blake's grim face hardened.
"At once!" he said grimly. "The man is utterly without mercy, and he will receive none from me."
The awful experience he had gone through came back to Cyril then. He remembered the dense fog which had settled over them, and the long, lonely hours they spent drifting aimlessly over the great wastes of water. He knew that it was to Blake that he owed his life, for the detective had insisted on him thrusting his head and shoulders through the lifebuoy, and it was the strong support of that which had kept the young cricketer above the surface. Blake had only made use of the buoy at long intervals of floating and swimming.
Never once during the eight long hours of darkness and light had the great detective given up hope. For Blake had remembered that earlier in the previous day the Vandal had spoken a huge tramp, churning its way Britainwards, and although the swift liner had soon left its slower rival hulldown on the horizon, the tramp would still be beating along the same path.
And so it turned out. At six bells on the following morning the look—out on the Gillaway Grange sighted the white circle of the lifebuoy floating on the surface with the two tired figures clinging to it, and half an hour later Blake and his charge were hoisted into the vessel, and swathed in blankets, were carried down to the captain's own cabin, there to sleep for forty-eight long hours.
Blake had decided at once to keep their rescue a secret. He felt that Hagan and his vile employer would fly the country the moment the news leaked out, and the great detective was determined to bring the ruffians to justice.
Now it seemed as though his chance had come, earlier than he had anticipated.
Puffing moodily at his pipe, Hagan sat on watching the shipping as it moved to and fro. The big tramp had vanished now into its berth, but he could see the tall masts as they stuck up above the roof of the sheds on the left—its voyage was over.
"Perhaps I am making a fuss about nothin'," the ex—captain thought. "Mebbe that fellow on the ledge was only a poor wretch trying to do a bit o' burgling, though his face was mighty like that young hound I saw on the boat!"
He blew a cloud of pungent smoke from his thick lips.
"I was jest a bit nervy," he decided, "and no blessed wonder—after wot I'd been through!"
The scrape of a foot behind him made him turn his head.
Lord Malvetway was making towards him from the wide opening of the shed at his back.
"I'll tell him that I'm all right now," Hagan decided, rising slowly to his feet. "We can get back to London as soon as— By heavens, that young hound again!"
The last words were forced from his lips as he saw a slim figure come coolly out from the shed and walk along the quay towards them. Lord Malvetway wheeled at the sound of the footfalls, and for a moment Tinker and Martin Darvell looked into each other's eyes, The recognition was a mutual one.
"The man who tried to murder Sarah," the young assistant thought.
With a quick bound, Hagan had reached the false nobleman's side.
"You—you've given me away!" the ex-captain growled. "That is the cursed spy who heard the whole story!"
Malvetway's tense body went round slowly, and his evil eyes fixed themselves on the youngster.
"What do you want?" he asked, in a slow, cruel voice.
Tinker felt his heart beat a trifle faster. The quay was utterly deserted, save for the two villains and himself:
"I followed you from the hotel," he said slowly. "You were pointed out to me as being the person I was wanting to see—Lord Malvetway?"
"That is my name!" his lordship returned.
The young assistant took a pace forward.
And the man who is skulking behind you," he said, his clear voice full of burning scorn, "his name, I think, is Hagan, alias Captain Parry, alias Mr. Smith, the man who travelled in the next cabin to—"
"Curse you, I'll have your life, you young hound!" came the fierce yell of the ex-captain.
Like a panther Hagan leaped forward, swinging a murderous knife above his head. Tinker, quick as a flash, leaped aside, and the blow went harmlessly over his shoulder. With a snarl of rage, Hagan turned and locked his arm around the supple young body.
Down they went on the stones of the quay, wrapped in a deadly embrace. Over and over they rolled, Hagan, panting with fury, trying to release his hand so that he might use the deadly knife—Tinker, with his fingers closed around the powerful wrist, fighting with all his strength to retain his grip.
Like a tall, grim spectre, Lord Malvetway stood watching the battle. He would leave it to his thick-shouldered accomplice—this last stage of the great game he had played. Tinker was the only one whom his lordship feared now, and Hagan would settle with him.
For five minutes the plucky youngster held out against the mad strength of the infuriated brute who was at grips with him. Slowly Hagan gained the mastery; and presently he found himself kneeling across the young slim body, glaring into the white face, with eyes that gleamed like red coals in his sunken sockets.
One mad jerk saw Tinker's weak fingers torn from their grasp.
"Now, you interfering hound," Hagan hissed, as he swung the gleaming knife above his head, "this time it's for quits!"
The blade flashed—then—
Crack!
The whiplash ping! of a bullet sounded, and a shriek of pain welled out from the ex-captain's lips as his wrist was shattered by the heavy bullet. The knife flew out over the quay and fell into the blue waters lapping against the granite sides.
A howl of fury broke from Hagan's lips; and he turned his head towards the shed.
From the opening there came forward a lithe, graceful form; and as Hagan's eyes alighted on the bronzed, handsome face his heart seemed to stop beating suddenly.
"Look! Look!" he screamed, leaping to his feet and holding his arms out in front of him as though to keep the terrible apparition back from him. "Cyril Darvell! The—the dead has come to—to—"
Fear choked back the words from his lips.
Like a drunken man Hagan turned to flee, his unwounded hand pressed over his eyes. In his terror he had no idea where he was going.
A shout went up from behind Cyril, and Sexton Blake sprinted forward.
"Get hold of him!" he cried.
But before they could reach him Hagan had staggered over the side of the high quay and went headlong into the water beneath.
The suddenness of the tragedy brought them to the edge of the quay at a run. A dull-red stain appeared on the surface—appeared and spread slowly into a ring—and that was all!
A furtive movement behind Blake caught his ear, and he leaped round, to confront the tall, evil figure of Martin Darvell, the pseudo lord.
The man stopped and eyed the great detective slowly, then transferred his gaze to the handsome face of his cousin. "I see that you have been successful, Mr. Blake," the cool scoundrel said slowly. "You have carried out your promise, and brought my cousin back to claim his inheritance."
"You—you infernal blackguard!" Cyril breathed, clenching his fists. "I believe that you were at the bottom of all this vile business!"
The false Lord Malvetway's eyes glimmered for a moment.
"Unfortunately," he said, with a nod at the blue waters, "a very important witness has—has gone beyond your reach. But I will not argue with you now. You know my address. I shall be in town for the next few days."
He walked along the quay and vanished through the shed.
"You—you mean to say that we—we can't charge him with anything?" the hot-headed cricketer asked.
Tinker had risen to his feet, and he and his master were exchanging warm hand-clasps, Blake turned to Cyril, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
"I never hoped to catch that clever brute," he said: "he had laid his plans too carefully. It was his tool who had done all the dirty work—and he has paid his account already."
A boat came slowly out from the quay and began to draw down towards them. Blake hailed the men and told them what had happened, and they began to search carefully, peering down into the water as they moved along.
"The current moves very quickly here, and he may be carried out to the waters before he rises to the surface," said Blake, as he turned away.
"I am not going to wait," Cyril said quietly; "there is someone in—in London."
He looked at Tinker with anxious eyes, and the young assistant smiled.
"Miss Jean is well, my lord," he said, using the title for the first time.
Cyril shook his head.
"No 'my lord'-ing yet," he returned. "I am gong to wait until the Test Matches are over before I make my claims. That I have made up my mind on."
Two hours later the trio reached London and headed at once for the hotel where McDowell and his daughter were residing.
Jean was seated in her private sitting-room, with her head resting on her palm, and her eyes fixed dreamingly on the traffic-filled street below, when her lover entered.
"Jean!" Cyril breathed, advancing across the room with outstretched arms.
The girl leaped to her feet, and into her eyes there came a great glad joy. With the arms of her lover about her, and his kisses on her cheek, the dreadful days that had passed were forgotten, and Jean was happy again.
The news flashed to the team, and man after man came up to welcome their comrade.
A joyous evening was spent in the great lounge of the comfortable hotel, and in the midst of it a special messenger arrived with a bulky letter for Cyril.
It was from Martin, his cousin, and contained such papers as the scheming rascal could find which dealt with the estate. A cool note was enclosed with it, which ran as follows:
"I am going out to Canada, and, as a matter of fact, will be on my way there by the time you receive this note. You will have no difficulty in claiming the title; and if you find that the estates have been badly handled you will have to put up with it. There is still a comfortable income left, which, but for unfortunate circumstances, might still have been enjoyed by Your Cousin Martin."
"A cool, vicious rogue!" said Blake, when Cyril told him of the note. "But his plans miscarried, and you can let him go. He is ruined and practically destitute—let Fate give him his reward."
Then he in his turn handed Cyril a short note. It was a report from the police at Southampton, and was as brief as these documents usually are:
"Body of Hagan found. Wire if desire to identify.
"My work is really over now," said Blake. "But I mean to see you play on the 10th. That is my reward."
"SOUTH AFRICANS bat first!"
From mouth to mouth the news passed, and the huge crowd at the world-famous grounds of the M.C.C. settled down to its long day's enjoyment of what is surely the king of all games—cricket.
The great day had come, And in her dainty summer dress Jean McDowell found herself leaning forward, watching the changing scene, with breathless interest.
The names of the teams had interested her. Great names they were, the string which was to represent the Mother Country—names which she had heard of even in far Blerpuut. All the giants of the English cricket world.
C. B. Fry, the captain—the ever-green athlete, whose fame has gone out across the world—a smiling giant, keen of eye, and graceful of step.
J. W. H. T. Douglas, safest of safe men on a side when the howling is deadly and wants tiring out—and himself no mean bowler when in the vein.
Hobbs, the hero of the Australian tour—a smiling boy, apparently; but with the quick, alert eye of the true batsman.
Barnes, a partner in a thousand, with a hundred clever strokes to use, and a nerve that never fails.
Foster, master of bat and ball.
Gunn, Tarrant, Hayward, Strudwick—
What could young South Africa do against these giants? the girl thought, with a little catch of her breath.
She glanced again at the card with the names of her countrymen:
F. Mitchell.
G. A. Faulkner.
S. J. Snooke.
L. J. Tancred.
A. D. Nourse.
L. Sticker.
T. Campbell.
S. J. Pegler.
C. Darvell.
G. P. D. Hartigan.
J. L. Cox.
A sudden cheer ringing out heralded the appearance of the British team—a cheer that echoed and swelled as it passed around the crowded grounds.
"You look very troubled," a quiet voice said, by the girl's side; and, glancing up, Jean encountered the clean-cut face of Sexton Blake. He dropped into a seat by her side; and Tinker, looking his very best in a smart lounge-suit, seated himself beside the old farmer.
"We bat first, Mr. Blake," the girl announced; "and I do hope that we will make a good show!"
Blake smiled down at her.
"You are bound to do that, Miss Jean," he returned. "Snooke and Mitchell and Faulkner are hosts in themselves—and I think that Cyril will give a good account of himself."
Out from the pavilion came two figures in flannels, with bats swinging by their sides.
"Tancred and Faulkner," said Blake. "An ideal pair! Our people will have to bowl all they know how." The little preliminaries were carried out, and then a quick hush fell over the ground.
Foster and Tarrant were to open the bowling on the English side—a deadly pair.
Foster took the first over, and Faulkner faced him. The great South African—considered by some the finest bat in the world—quickly set a warm pace.
Smack!
Clear and sweet, the first ball was driven hard between the slips, and, to a shout from the crowd, a brisk 2 was registered.
That breathless twenty minutes in the first of a game passed, and still the two batsmen remained at their wickets. The crowd seemed to shake down then and prepared to enjoy the scene.
Double figures were reached, and the score mounted slowly; then, at 53, disaster came.
Faulkner, who seemed to have settled down for all day, was tempted by a rising ball from the strong fingers of Foster. He snicked at it late, and—
Thud!
The clear impact of hard leather against a palm sounded out. Strudwick, the wizard, had thrust out a taut hand and had pulled off one of his impossible catches again.
"How's that?"
The shout went up; and then it changed into a cheer, as the great South African batsman swung away from the wicket and went across to the pavilion. He had been responsible for 39 out of the total of 55 which appeared on the board.
"Hard lines, Faulkner!" came the cry.
Snooke came out to partner Tancred, and the match went on.
Tarrant was taken off, and Douglas had a spell of bowling. The man with the string of initials to his name proved to be in great form. Snooke, Mitchell, and Stricker fell to his great deliveries; and the little knot of South Africans watching the game began to feel that disaster was going to overtake their team.
Snooke had settled down, and the score was now 103; but it was the tail that was going to bat.
Suddenly Blake felt Jean straighten up in her seat: and, glancing towards the pavilion, he saw the lithe, supple form of Cyril Darvell appear.
The detective found himself wishing most heartily that the gallant fellow would make some sort of stand.
"If he only plays the stone wall," he thought, "Tancred can do the rest."
The young figure went up to the wickets, took his stand, and waited.
Foster sent down a whizzing yorker, which Tancred cut to the boundary. Another ball saw the pair running between the wickets; then it was Cyril's turn to face the bowling.
Blake noted the half-crouching position which the young figure adopted—the poised, alert style which tells of muscles in perfect unison.
Two balls were sent down, and blocked; then came a third, which promised well. Cyril opened his shoulders and, moving forward to meet the flying sphere, hit out at it with all the strength of his hard body.
"Well hit, sir!"
"Bravo!"
Into boundary went the hurtling sphere, and a little sigh of Blake's side.
"If he can only get a few off like that," Blake thought. "I take back my stone-walling suggestions."
If he could only get a few off like that?
The interval found Tancred and Darvell still at the wickets—still at the wickets with the score mounting gaily towards the second hundred!
How the bronze-faced men from the Cape laughed and jested with each other as they crowded away in search of refreshment. The youngest colony was not going to be wiped out so easily after all?
McDowell, his face a mask of pure joy, made no effort to restrain his delight.
He cornered an entire stranger—a portly old gentleman who looked, and was, as a matter of fact, a retired' colonel—and held forth about Cyril with a joy which made his listener forgive the unceremonious manner he had been approached with.
"The—the best lad in the world, sir," the old farmer breathed. "He has gone through things that wa'd ha'e knocked all the nerves oot of the likes o' you and me. But, faith, he seems to ha'e forgotten all about it. Seventy-five, and still going strong. Losh! But it's a prood mon I am to-day!"
When play was resumed, Fry seemed to have been carefully coaching his men, for they hung about the wickets like flies. Tancred was dismissed at last for a useful innings of 56, and the tail came on.
Nourse and Pegler had but brief visits to the wickets, and then the last man;Hartigan appeared.
Cyril was playing like a demon now. To him the match was something more than a mere test—great though that was. To him, it was his return to the country he loved, and against the finest exponents of that game.
His handsome face shone with manly joy—he played with the true spirit of a cricketer—played because he loved the feel of the tense, stout blade in his hands, and the whang of the ball caught fairly.
For twenty long minutes, the last two men of the South African team held the field, and during that time, Cyril Darvell added another 34 to his score. A rousing ball from Douglas sent the bails above Hartigan's wicket flying, and the South African innings came to an end for the grand total of 236: of which, the young nobleman, carrying his bat, had contributed 169.
Small wonder then, that the crowd cheered him again and again, as he walked across the turf. The great English captain darted out, and extended a strong hand to the youngster, an example which was followed by everyone who could reach Cyril.
"I'm—I'm no carin' a ding, noo," said McDowell, aloud; they'll whack us, mebbe—but, dang me, were no disgraced so far as Blerpuut is concerned."
Hobbs and Barnes were the two batsmen who opened for the English side. Hobbs and Barnes, the partners who had created a first wicket record which will stand for many a long day, in first-class cricket. Hartigan and Pegler were the two bowlers who opened the attack for the visitors.
"Why doesn't Mr. Mitchell put Cyril on?" Jean whispered to Blake.
The detective smiled.
"A man who has batted for three hours is hardly fit to take up bowling at once," he said. "Cyril will have his chance presently."
But the end of the first day's play saw Cyril still in she field. Mitchell, wise captain, realised that the young cricketer had done quite enough for one day, and was saving him for the morrow.
At close of play, the English team had registered 185 for one wicket. Barnes had been caught by a tempting ball from Hartigan, and had skied it. Still, the score was high enough, and with such giants as Fry and Gunn, Hayward and the ubiquitous Tarrant still to play, the crowd surged out of the grounds well content with the position of affairs.
Cyril went back to the hotel with his fiancée and her father, and they insisted on Blake and Tinker joining them at dinner that evening.
"Mind ye, Cyr," said McDowell; "ye must jog Mr. Mitchell's memory—it's as a bowler they brought ye fra Sooth Africa—although yon display of yours with the bat may have made them forget that detail."
"No need to remind Mitchell of that," the young nobleman said. "I was very glad of the rest to-day."
And when play was resumed on the following day at the famous grounds, McDowell soon found that his caution was not required. Cyril was placed on the bowling, along with Hartigan.
"Noo, Mr. Blake," the old man said, as he settled down with a sigh of content; "ye'll see what's what. I used to grumble at the laddie spending half the afternoon in bowling at the stump o' an old tree behind the farm—but, dang me, I think we'll see the value o' it at last."
Blake watched the way in which Cyr made his delivery.
The young bowler seemed to take a very long—too long, it seemed—run. He had a trick, however, of balancing for a moment just before the last half dozen strides—a-poise in mid-air so to speak—before the final effort. And the pace he put into the ball made the old stagers around the ground think of that wonderful Australian, Jones, who first taught the mother-country how powerful could the human arm be in the hurtling of a leather sphere.
Hobbs received the first ball from the new bowler, and a little gasp of surprise went up from the watching multitude when they saw that their idol had been late in his attempt to time the leather. The ball went smack into the wicket-keeper's hands, shaving the bails by inches only!
"Phew! There's pace, if you like!" Jean heard a cultured voice drawl from behind her. "Hobbs never saw the thing."
There was a moment's pause, and then another voice sounded, a voice which was full of wondering doubt.
"By George, I—I'll bet that I know that fellow," it said. "The long run, and the goose-step seemed deucedly familiar—and, fool that I am, the name is the same. It's Cyr Darvell—captain of my form at Harrow. By Jove; he—he's Lord Malvetway now."
Blake glanced round and saw a stout, well-dressed. young man who had half risen from his seat. His companion pulled him down again.
"Keep cool, Daggy," he said, "You can find out easily all about that after the match."
Jean and Blake exchanged glances, and the girl leaned forward.
"Cyril won't be able to keep his secret so very long, after all," she breathed.
"I'm afraid not," the detective returned. "The man who recognised him just now, is Viscount Warelow—and he'll spread the news fast enough, as soon as he makes sure of his man.
A yell from the crowd startled them, and they looked towards the field again. Hobbs—the magician—was walking slowly away from a scattered wicket.
Cyril's second bail, faster even than the first, and with a deadly twirl on it, had beaten the famous Surrey bait!
It was such a let-off, that even the South African team found if necessary to rush up and congratulate the young bowler. Hobbs seemed to have settled down, and his dismissal sent a glow of delight through them.
"C. B."
"Good old Fry!"
From the crowd came a great welcoming shout, as the most popular captain in England came out to take his place at the wickets. The crowd noted that Fry took more than usual care over his preliminaries and the way he tilted his head back to watch for the coming of the ball, hinted that he had already a great respect for this unknown bowler.
As Cyril stepped back to his distance with the ball held lightly between his fingers, it seemed to him, that here at last was the hour he had dreamed of so often.
He was about to bowl against the man who had made cricket science—the patient study of a lifetime.
Through his veins, a thrill of certain triumph came. As he started on his long run, it seemed to him as though he was sure to beat the poised figure in front of the wicket.
Whiz!
The streaking black sphere shot away from the lad's hands, flying through the air with a clear, sibilant hiss.
It was a googlie—the deadliest that Cyril had at his command. Deadly because, together with its queer double spin, it was also fast.
At first it seemed as though it was going to leg, then half-way down the pitch it swerved—a yard above the turf, and came swooping in towards the off.
Fry cut at it, and the faint sound of the bat against the leather was followed by a loud—
Smack!
The ball was caught, and held by the gloved hands of the man behind the wicket!
It was something approaching a shriek that went rioting into the fresh morning air then—a shriek which changed into an honest roar of applause.
Every eye on the field had followed that wonderful ball, and had realised its wonderful possibilities.
C. B. Fry was out for a duck!
Inarticulate, almost beside himself with joy, the old Scots farmer leaped to his feet, and, taking off his wide sun-hat, threw it into the air—threw it into the air, and cared not where or when it descended again.
"Blerpuut for ever! Bravo, ma bonnie, bonnie laddie!" he yelled, with the tears of pride coursing down his rugged cheeks.
Nothing seemed to matter so far as McDowell was concerned, after that one great shining triumph. Right through the day he sat wrapped in a cloak of blissful contentment.
Not a straw did he care, although at the end of their innings England had piled up the mighty total of 365, a formidable task for the South Africans to tackle for their second innings.
"I don't care a ding, Mr. Blake," was his comment, "We don't expect tae beat the Mother Country—but, dang me, we have shown her that her sons from beyond the seas don't forget their teaching."
And that was the general verdict at the close of the great test. For at its second innings, thanks to the superb 123—by the peerless Faulkner, South Africa left England with 200 odd to register for a victory.
And the Mother Country got them, too—but not until the very last moments of the game.
For bowling at them, was a wizard—a young, smiling man, was a lord—a nobleman of England. Every over which Cyril sent down during the last long hours were fraught with danger to the keen-eyed batsmen. Never did they dare to treat his deliveries with that scant ceremony which makes for centuries.
In length, deadly; in pace, tremendous, and always with some quick, cunning sting behind it, Cyril's bowling remained the feature of the match, And when Hayward, partnered by Douglas, in their best stone-walling mood, finally registered the needed points which gave England the hard-earned game, the best of all verdicts on the young Colonials: "Beaten but not disgraced," was music enough to their ears.
And it was not until the great Test Matches were over that the secret was revealed. Cyril Darvell became Lord Malvetway, and when the "Springbok" team went back to Table Bay, one of its members remained on the quay to watch the vessel depart. Nor did McDowell or his daughter go back to the farm at Blerpuut then.
A wedding at Hanover Square was the cause of their delay. A wedding at which two quietly-dressed visitors attended and seemed to be held in great respect by the bride and bride-groom, for they were among the party who went into the vestry to see the old register signed.
"We want to see a lot of you and Tinker, Mr. Blake," said Lady Malvetway, with a shy, happy glance at Cyril.
The young cricketer nodded his head.
"Jean and I will always have a welcome for you," he said, with a thankful note in his voice. "And I'm sure we can add Sarah's name to ours."
Martin Darvell was never seen nor heard of again, and Canada was credited with his somewhat doubtful presence. And so the case of the Colonial Cricketer became a turned-down page in Blake's notebook.
Roy Glashan's Library
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