Chapter II: Part 2

"Close the jaws of the trap. While he lives he has evidence. It is his existence or ours."

There was a cold ferocity about her that even Fleming had never previously seen, and the new knowledge of her character stupefied him with horror. Into his dull brain there crept a vague knowledge of a terrible truth. This was the climax of evildoing. First a small theft, then a larger one, then a still greater, then a crime that chilled his bones and branded them both for ever. The progress of crime, of violation of the law, had worked to its consummation.

"Woman!" he cried suddenly, in desperate revolt. "Woman, I have married you!"

She answered his outburst swiftly and with venom.

"Fool! I have kept you!"

It was the truth. Left to himself he would never have become more than a minor criminal, snatching small prizes, swaying between the gutter and the prison cell. Her greed had done two things; it had enriched them, but it had involved them. The law of compensation, of responsibility clinging to the heels of daring, worked in crime as in respectability. She had always viewed the prize and had disregarded the corollary. He coveted the one but always shrank from the other.

In a little while she spoke again.

"It was I who slashed his tyres. That was the beginning of the counter-snare. It kept him here. There is nothing much for you to do. When I have made it possible, you shall take him in his car----"

"When you have made it possible?" he repeated.

"When I have made it possible. Listen. This is what you have to do. Carry him down and lay him in his car. It must be done before dawn. You know how to drive a car. Bring it out of the shed and lay him in it. Then drive it to the mine shaft. On the rims of the wheels. It doesn't matter. Stop the car just as you come near the mine shaft, and get out. Then start it again and let it plunge into the shaft. Him with it."

"But the car tracks?"

"There is more rain coming. The tracks will be washed out. And nobody can prove anything."

"What about us after this?"

"We will leave this house. When we get the money from a receiver for this cheque we will be all right. We have had passports ready for some time. There will be no difficulty at all. We can sell the stones over in Paris."

Fleming let his head fall into his hands, and remained in that position.

The woman put a handful of sticks on the fire, and crossed her hands in her lap, her eye on the clock.

It was nearly one hour after midnight. The rain had ceased, but the moon was struggling behind great clouds which chased each other across the sky. A strange quiet fell on the house.

Another hour passed. Fleming remained with his hands clasping his forehead, his eyes on the floor. His wife kicked off her shoes and rose softly to her feet.

She moved noiselessly towards the door and passed out. Fleming did not stir.

He strained his ears, nevertheless. Would there be a struggle? His wife was agile, swift, inexorable. The sleeper was defenceless.

A floorboard above the kitchen creaked. Fleming took his hands from his forehead and listened, his head cocked in a strained position. The ceiling of the kitchen was old and thin; it was the floor of the bedroom to which his wife had gone.

Did he hear a cry? Breathlessly he waited. A blow? A groan? No. Not a sound. All was silent. He wanted to shout and dared not. His nerves were all unstrung.

It seemed like an eternity, but in reality it was not more than fifteen minutes before the kitchen door was pushed open. His wife appeared. She was like a ghost. Her face was pale and grim, but her lower lip was held down by her projecting teeth. In her hand was a small canvas bag. It was the bag in which the precious stones were kept. She sat down and emptied the contents into her lap. They sparkled and gleamed in the darkness.

"It is done," she said. "We hold the trump card. The snare worked."

She put the stones back into the bag and hid it in her bosom. Her husband waited for her to speak. She pulled on her shoes slowly.

"He did not stir. His coat was lying over him--to keep him warm, no doubt. It was easy to get the stones. He had not even taken them out of his coat pocket."

"Did he--did he--move?"

"No. Lay like a log. One blow was enough! One blow! The knife is sharp. I sank it deep into him. The point must be through his heart."

"He did not turn?"

"He had the bedclothes over his head. The room was dark, but I knew my way. I did not touch him. I stood beside the bed and struck. I left the knife there. One blow! It was easy. The knife slid down deep."

Fleming gazed, speechless with horror at her recital. Her words were ghastly in their simplicity.

"It is your turn next," she said.

"For what?"

"In a little while we shall be going--away. The car must be got out. You will bring him down. You know what to do. We needn't go to bed now. Let us eat."

She went about the business without a shiver. They ate a hurried meal and drank some liquor. His wife allowed Fleming a free supply of liquor, knowing him for what he was. When they finished their meal she made a gesture, and he got to his feet.

It was raining again, but Fleming did not notice this as he walked from the front door to the shed. He pushed the car out and guided it to the front entrance. He coaxed the engine, and saw that there was a supply of petrol in the tank. All that was needed was to crank it up. He returned to the house and found his wife putting on her coat.

He turned his head away from her and walked towards the narrow stairs. His hand was on the siderail when a noise struck into the heavy silence of the night. The sound petrified them both. They gazed at each other. A motor-car was roaring its way up the lane.

It stopped at their door. They were without power to act.

Into the house strode three men. The foremost stepped into the lamp light, and the Flemings saw his face and cried aloud in terror. The woman's eyes seemed to start from her head.

"His ghost!" she screamed.

"Not his ghost," replied the man. "I heard you and your husband planning my death when I went out to start my car and when I went to my room. I slipped out of the window, leaving the pillows made up to appear as if I were asleep. I have been to the village. I telephoned to Scotland Yard. These men are also detectives. They came down in a fast car. You are being arrested, both of you, for the theft of the tiara, the blinding of the maid, and the attempted murder of myself. Had you really brought coal for the fire when you went out, madam, you might have killed me in bed, for I did not suspect you would try murder. But I saw that you had been out and that you had not brought coal as you professed, so I knew _you_ had slashed my tyres. Let me warn you both that whatever you say will be taken down in writing."

David Fleming did not answer. His wife thrust out her rodent-like face as she saw the handcuffs being produced.

"Why did I forget to bring the coal?" she muttered, a rat to the end.

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SECOND CELL

"An interesting narrative," was the comment of the visitor when the Governor finished his tale, "but David Fleming was obviously a man of low intelligence or he would not now be in the cell of your prison. His wife made the error that brought them both to gaol--at least I presume she also is now in a cell."

"She is, but not under my charge, of course," said the Governor in reply. "Now, had you been in David Fleming's place, could you have foreseen, do you think, the small item that led to their undoing?"

"I am certain that any man of ordinary common sense would have avoided the pitfall," smiled the visitor. "It is fatal to trust a woman."

"There may be something in what you say," rejoined the Governor. "You have the historic case of Antony and Cleopatra on your side. But generalisations do not always apply. It is curious that you should have mentioned that point, because it is the very one that influenced the actions of John Dennison."

"Who is John Dennison?"

"In order to know John Dennison," said the Governor, "you must hear the story of the occupant of the second cell, which I shall have pleasure in relating to you now."

* * * * *

Imagine yourself (continued the Governor) in a certain jewellery shop in the West End of London just after closing time. It is the custom in most warehouses of this description to take all the goods from the windows and lock them up in the safe every night, and Dennison and another salesman were engaged in this duty.

"One claw diamond ring--£1,000!" called Dennison, as he stood in front of the safe, holding a tray of jewellery.

"One claw diamond ring--£1,000," repeated his fellow-assistant, who bent over a stock sheet at the counter.

"One necklace--£300!" called John.

The checker repeated the words, and ticked the item off.

The manager, from the back office, watched the two assistants at their work. The shop was closed, the front door bolted and locked, the iron fence padlocked across the plate glass windows. All the other hands had gone home, and Dennison and his fellow-salesman were taking the valuable goods from the window and putting them in the safe. This was Dennison's job--to carry the trays from the window and deposit them in the safe. While he called out the contents of the trays and the prices his helper checked each article off from a list. This occurred twice daily--in the morning, when the goods were taken from the safe to be displayed in the windows, and in the evening, when they were returned to the safe.

Under such conditions one would think a robbery impossible. John Dennison did not think so. He was robbing the firm under the manager's nose.

Dennison was given the job of handling the trays because he was the man who, next to the manager, best knew jewels. He could value stones at a glance. He could detect a flaw in pearls before the average salesman was able to recognise that a flaw was present. For over a year he had held the position with this firm in the West End. For over a year he had been using his brains towards one end--the idea of the robbery.

"One brooch, Burma ruby--£450," he called.

"Completion of trays!"

He stepped towards the door of the large safe as the checker droned his reply. John Dennison's long, thin fingers moved across the tray as he placed it on the shelf, the brooch was lifted and dropped inside his coat cuff. It was the work of an instant, showing no more than the flash of a hand. A second later he drew his handkerchief from his sleeve, holding it tightly as he dabbed his brow; then he put it into his coat pocket. The brooch now lay under the handkerchief, beside the necklace, the claw ring, and several other articles he had extracted from the trays in exactly the same way.

"That's all, sir," he said to the manager.

The manager nodded. John Dennison put his weight on the safe door to close it. He heard the lock click into position. This made him perfectly satisfied, for only someone who knew the combination could open the door again, and the manager, who was the only person in the shop who knew it, already had his hat on his head and was pulling on his gloves.

Dennison took the sheet of foolscap from the checker and laid it on the manager's desk. The manager dropped it into a drawer and turned the key. The list would not see daylight until the next morning. Dennison bade the manager good night and went out, with his assistant, by the side door. At the corner of the street he bought a newspaper and scanned it casually. He was not interested in the news, but he was waiting to see that the manager left the shop, and he was content when the manager emerged immediately and entered the car that was waiting for him.

Dennison did not go straight home, though he knew his wife was eagerly waiting for him. His next move was proof of the extreme care with which he had built up the fabric of the crime that was to leave no clue. First he went to a shop and bought a cheap, small, metal attaché-case. He then went by bus to Richmond. At Richmond he hired a skiff and rowed a considerable distance up the river.

It was almost dark by this time. It was completely dark when he reached a spot he had previously selected for his cache. Along the river-bank was a row of wooden piles. Dennison went ashore and searched for a heavy stone. This he took into the boat with him and pushed off into mid-stream. He anchored there.

Wrapping his stolen goods in the newspaper, he put them into the case and bound it firmly with a roll of blind-cord which he had brought with him. On the top of the closed case he bound the stone, leaving plenty of cord free to take to the bank. He slipped the case over the side of his boat and paid out the cord until the case was at the bottom of the river. Then he rowed ashore, letting the slack cord run out as he rowed. Round one of the wooden piles he cast a wide noose, and, having used another stone as a sinker, he dropped the noose into the water and watched it disappear.

After this was done he rowed back to Richmond, paid for the hire of the boat, and went home.

It was late when he reached the flat where he and his wife lived. She met him as he opened the door.

"Ted Hughes has been here all evening," she said. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, it's all right. Glad to see you, Ted."

A young man about his own age had come from the sitting-room to greet him.

"We expected you at the usual time," he said.

"Kitty was getting anxious. I wanted to take her out to a show."

Dennison shrugged his shoulders, grinning.

"Sorry to upset your evening. You may go now, if it isn't too late."

"Won't you come with us, John?" asked his wife.

"Me? No. I'm not a gay bird like Hughes. I'm not keen on shows."

She pulled off her cloak and flung it in a chair.

"It's late. I'll not go to-night."

Dennison turned to Hughes with a smile.

"Come round again, Ted, and take her out."

Hughes nodded, and took his leave reluctantly. As soon as the door closed, Dennison slumped into a chair.

"There's nearly ten thousand pounds' worth in this haul, Kitty. When I say 'Go,' prepare to come out of England."

"John, have you got it?"

"Not here. Hidden."

"Of course; but where?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Keep to your department, Kitty."

"Why not tell me? You always keep me in the dark! It isn't fair!"

"Adam went wrong when he trusted too much to Eve. I'm not making the same mistake. You know our methods."

She glanced sulkily at him and turned away, but he caught her arm.

"Look here, Kitty. There may be inquiries. There may be searches. Maybe the cops will come here. They'll be sure to watch, anyway. They have ways of frightening women. I don't want you to blurt out anything under excitement. That's what the cops aim for. If you don't know anything, you can say so and stick to it."

"You will be careful when you sell the stuff?"

"Ted Hughes will do the carrying for me, as usual. I'll explain to him in time where to find the goods. If he's nabbed, it's up to him. The great thing is to keep suspicion away from us."

"You're sure of yourself--as usual?"

"Oh, I'm all right. I can trust myself. I gave notice to the manager to-day. I leave in a month."

"But if Hughes is caught and gives you away?"

"He daren't. I'd kill anyone who gave me away. Hughes knows that."

"Me too?" she asked, with a curled lip.

"I suppose so," he answered quietly. "Why not?"

They went to bed without another word.

There was this to be said for John Dennison--he was remorselessly cool. The theft at the shop was not his first lapse into crime by any means. He had never been caught in any of his previous escapades, so that the police did not have his finger-prints or his photograph. His career had been one of implacable accuracy. He had always covered himself by using other individuals, and he always saw to it that the other individuals were encompassed in the toils of the net he spread. For himself he always left a loophole.

In South Africa he had been an I.D.B.--which means that he had been an illicit diamond buyer. The workers in the mines had been his tools, taking the risks and accepting his percentage. It was there he had learned the value of stones.

He had come to London on the tracks of stones he wished to possess. He had used his wife to find them. It was she who had gone through every fashionable shop until she was able to direct him to the store in which he was now engaged as an assistant. It was she who had made friends with Ted Hughes, who was then a salesman in the shop. Bit by bit she had led Hughes on, fascinating him, alluring him, ultimately destroying him, so that he was discharged from his post.

All this time John Dennison had kept in the background. When Hughes was discharged, he had applied for the post, armed with credentials from diamond men in South Africa, had been willing to find the security the firm demanded, and had secured the position. It was worth while depositing a hundred or two pounds to be inside such premises.

While he worked at the shop his wife had played her part. She had not thrown Hughes over. She had retained him, according to plan. His infatuation was deepened by the loyalty she displayed in his misfortune. He became a hanger-on on the fringe of the trade, and a friend of John Dennison as well as an admirer of John Dennison's wife. He knew London. He went with Kitty Dennison to dance-clubs. Her husband did not object. It was all in the plan.

There was little to choose between this strange pair of criminals, this husband and wife who worked from different angles towards a common goal. Both played their parts independent of the other. Both retained a peculiar individuality of action. Both were equally deserving of punishment. The only bond between them was their marriage certificate.

The life in London attracted her. She found all that she, as a woman, desired, just as her husband found all that he, as a diamond thief, desired. The dance-clubs did not interest him, but they interested her. She liked gaiety, and Hughes was able to show her where it was to be had. He strove to please her. He succeeded, but at a cost he did not then realise. For her part, she was so used to being directed by the cold, intense implacability of her husband that she found in the society of Hughes a bath of pleasure. She went about with him without restraint. John Dennison watched, and waited.

Gradually Hughes became financially overwhelmed. He had been led out of his depth. His discharge from his position constantly rankled as an injustice. Resentment breeds revenge. The time was ripe for a coup. Dennison sounded him. Hughes, desperate and in debt, was willing to do what Hughes, solvent, would never have dreamed of doing. He was prepared to be a seller of stolen property. He was introduced to "receivers."

Dennison tested him with small stuff at first. All that was asked of Hughes was that he went to a spot, found a parcel, and took it to an address. He did not even know the contents of the parcel. A day later he received his share of the proceeds from Dennison. He believed he was dealing with smuggled diamonds.

Thus it was that John Dennison was a criminal, but was safe even under police observation. It was Hughes who faced the accusing law. If Hughes was caught, Dennison was ready to prove that he was guilty of nothing more than a passing friendship with him. Not once had he discussed the shop with Hughes, though he was aware that Hughes knew the combination of the safe. Knowledge of the lock was nothing to Dennison. He was not a burglar.

In the present case he was content to wait long enough to allay suspicion. He held the winning card.

The robbery was discovered when the manager came to the shop the next morning and opened the safe. The shock sent a thrill through the establishment. The police were called. Detectives came. They examined the premises, the safe door, the locks and bars of the shop entrance. They could make nothing of it.

The manager was able to show that the goods had been put in the safe as usual. He had seen Dennison and the other assistant take them from the window. He had seen the safe closed. He had tested the lock before he left the premises. His finger-prints, and those of Dennison, were still on the safe door. Who knew the combination? Not an assistant save the head salesman, who had been gone before the trays were taken out of the window, and the manager himself, who was, of course, above suspicion.

The detectives hovered about the shop all day. Others came, examined, and went away. The manager spent most of his time being interviewed by them in his office. The end was that all agreed it was a mystery, a classic crime. John Dennison had done what every thief, every burglar, every criminal, dreams of doing--he had robbed, and obliterated his trail completely. This was a tribute to his daring as well as to his skill.

But John Dennison was not content with this. He went one better. He aided the detectives. It was he who supplied them with a clue. Under his counter he discovered a skeleton key and a small jemmy. He bore them in triumph to the manager.

The detectives surged round him as he explained how he had come across them when he was looking for a polishing-brush. He did not explain that he had slipped the articles from his sleeve as he stooped towards the floor!

Why had Dennison given the detectives this clue? Obviously because he knew the working of the official mind. If no clue was available, they would come to the conclusion that this was an "inside" job, that it had been carried out by someone within the shop. The key and the jemmy supplied them with something to investigate while he made his preparations for escape.

While the detectives were busy examining the jemmy and the key, other investigators came--the insurance people. Two experts came to represent their interests. One of these two, a tall, thin man with dreamy eyes, looked at the safe for a long time. The manager explained everything in detail. The tall, thin man listened attentively. He examined the jemmy and the key, fitted it into the lock of the side door, cast his eyes on the ceiling, the cellar trap-door, the cabinets ranged along the walls.

"A clever theft," he murmured.

He joined the other detectives, who were comparing notes. They took away the key and the jemmy, and the excitement died down in the routine of the shop duties.

That night when John Dennison went home he told his wife to advance the next step in his scheme.

"Book passages for Cape Town on the ship sailing the day after I finish with the firm. Give any name except our own."

"Everything all right, John?"

"Everything."

She did not go out that evening, but remained content beside him, listening to the wireless.

Dennison went about his business as usual. Every evening for a week he asked the same question as he hung up his hat in the hall.

"Anybody been here?"

"Nobody."

During the second week his question changed.

"Seen Hughes to-day?"

"No."

During the third week the query was:

"Going out to-night?"

The answer remained the same:

"No."

One morning a few days before he was due to leave the shop he looked up from his breakfast.

"Kitty, I'll want Hughes soon."

"Well?"

"You'd better tell him so."

"I haven't seen him for some time."

"You haven't quarrelled?"

There was a challenge and a menace in his swiftly raised voice.

"No."

"You've been keeping indoors a lot of late. Hasn't he been asking you out to shows?"

"No."

"You've got to bring him along. I need him--for the last time."

"I told him not to call again, John."

"What?"

"I told him not to come for me."

"Why?"

She looked at him strangely, biting her lip. There was a trace of nervousness in her tone as she answered:

"I didn't want him to come. He told me the last time I saw him that he loved me."

Dennison threw back his head and laughed.

"Well, what about that? I knew he was infatuated. I'm not blind, but it's all in the game, isn't it? You've got to keep it up with him, as you've done with others. We're leaving London soon. Better send a note asking him to come and take you out. He has to pick up a parcel for me----"

"The diamonds you took from the shop?"

"Sure."

"Is it safe now?"

"The insurance people have paid. That's good enough."

"Then why worry about Hughes? Tell me where it is, and I'll get the stuff----"

"And deliver it to the fence? Not at all, Kitty. Cops sometimes hang round fences' homes. I won't expose you to risk. Your job is to bring Hughes here. The money will be sent to us on board the ship by special messenger, after Hughes delivers the loot."

She pouted, eyeing him in a way that showed she felt hurt.

"John, why don't you let me into the secret? I'm not a baby. You seem to be almost inhuman at times, keeping everything locked up inside you. You just use people like pawns. Why can't you be like Hughes--nice and sociable----"

"It is because Hughes is nice and sociable that he is aiding us, Kitty. Hughes is part of my plan. He is necessary to side-track suspicion. I'll tell you where I hid the stuff when we are away, but not now. In the meantime it's your job to be nice to Hughes. I expect to meet him here this evening. We leave in about twenty-four hours."

"Why not write to him yourself?"

"He'll come quicker to see you, and letters may be used as evidence."

His eye travelled to the telephone on the hall table.

"He's not on the 'phone, and I'd hesitate to use it, anyway. You never know who's tapping the line. We'll keep that for emergency, Kitty. Hughes has got to deliver the loot at once; then you may have a last outing with him--but don't tell him it's the last!"

"You want me to go out with him to-night?"

"I do; after he has delivered the goods he can join you at the dance-club. He'll work swiftly to get there, and, as he'll be paid by the fence, he'll have money to burn. I'll pack up while you are away. Hughes will report progress to you, and you to me on your return."

He noticed an anxious look in her eyes as he went off to his work. This was his last day at the shop.

Ted Hughes was at the flat when Dennison returned in the evening. Kitty was dressing, and kept to her room while the two men talked, and, as soon as everything was arranged, she and Hughes departed. Dennison began to pack.

He reckoned that by the following midday he and Kitty would be aboard the liner. Hughes would not know they had gone from the furnished flat until he called one day to find it empty of tenants. Swift action was the keynote of Dennison's plans. Hit and run! Sell and vanish! No trail was ever left behind.

He finished packing, and sat down to wait for his wife's return. Reviewing the situation, he decided that he had managed it rather well. Kitty would be able to tell him when she came back how Hughes had succeeded. He had parted from the manager of the shop on very friendly terms. His excuse for leaving was that he was going to America. There had been no hint or mention of the robbery, which had become history--unexplained, if not forgotten, history.

There was only one point on which he was not quite satisfied. He wondered why Kitty had mentioned to him that Hughes had fallen in love with her. He considered this carefully. The fact that Hughes was infatuated with her did not disturb him. Other men had been infatuated. But the fact that she had allowed him to fall seriously in love with her was unusual, for she had hitherto played her part with the joyous daring of irresponsibility. Was it possible that she had become attached to Hughes because he was "nice and sociable"? Thinking all this out in cold blood, John Dennison, for the first time in his life, experienced a pang of jealousy.

He became restless as the hours passed. Midnight came and went. One o'clock struck. Two. Three. Four. Daylight broke. The city began to awaken to life. John Dennison watched the clock steal hour after hour from him. He gnashed his teeth and beat his hands together. But still his wife did not come.

He was at his wits' end by breakfast-time. He was sleepless, haggard, red-eyed. Yet he was helpless until Kitty arrived. For want of something to do, he made himself a cup of coffee on the gas stove in the kitchen. He was drinking the coffee when the door knocker thudded.

He knew this was not his wife, for she had a latchkey. He went to the door, opening it cautiously. Facing him was the tall, thin detective who had represented the insurance company.

"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Dennison?"

Before Dennison could answer, the man strode into the hall.

"I saw your light on early in the morning. I suppose you are waiting for your wife?"

"What is that to you?"

"Well, I don't expect you'll see her again. I am a private detective, Mr. Dennison. I was engaged on the robbery at the shop, and in the course of my duties I had to keep an eye on you and your wife. Are you aware that she has been friendly with, and is now running off with, a man named Hughes? I considered it my duty to tell you. I have discovered they are leaving the country as Mr. and Mrs. Hughes----"

John Dennison saw red in that moment.

"How do you know?" he demanded hoarsely.

"I have watched your wife's movements."

Dennison blazed.

"They've turned on me!" he cried in wrath. "She's gone off with him because he was nice and sociable! They've taken the swag!"

He threw his hands above his head savagely.

"I'll give you no trouble. I confess everything! But I'm confessing so that you may beat Hughes and her! They mustn't get away with it! It was I who took the diamonds. Hughes was the carrier. I'll tell the whole story if you catch them. We are all in it--the three of us----What are you staring at? You're losing time instead of getting after them!"

The telephone bell tinkled in the hall. He leaped for it, the detective at his heels, but he waved the man back. The receiver was already at his ear. Someone was calling him. It was his wife's voice.

"Hullo, John! It's me--Kitty! I didn't come home last night because a detective was on my heels. I've seen him hanging about before, but I gave him the slip and came to this hotel. I didn't dare telephone you, in case he was tapping the line, but this morning I slipped out the back way. Hughes found the loot and delivered it safely. We've just time to catch the boat-train. I'll meet you at the station. You'll find the passage tickets in my dressing-case. I had them made out in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Hughes----"

John Dennison dropped the receiver and sagged into a chair.

The detective, who represented the insurance company, was watching him; and the look on the man's face told John Dennison that he had beaten himself. His unfounded jealousy had made him say too much, and the passage tickets were not any use to him, nor to the wife who was above suspicion.

It had proved disastrous to him _not_ to trust a woman.

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRD CELL

"I admit," said the visitor, who seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the stories he had just heard, "I admit that a generalisation does not always work in regard to women any more than in regard to anything else. In both the instances you have given, however, the flaw was that the people concerned (whom you would call the criminals) did not get away quick enough. They delayed their exit."

"Pardon me," said the Governor, "if I suggest that there have been cases where swift flight has been on the side of the culprit and yet, through some unknown, some subtle, misgiving, some unexplainable cause, it has availed him nothing in the end. And this has happened not because the pursuers have known where to find their man. It is one of the strange things of crime that always, somewhere, at the most unexpected moments, the flaw appears and the whole fabric of defence and escape falls to dust. I hold that in case after case the criminal defeats himself."

"Not if he knows his objective and goes straight for it," retorted the visitor. "Now, I know my objective----"

"So did Samuel Vining," interrupted the Governor. "And yet Samuel Vining is at the present moment the occupant of the third cell in the corridor beneath us. He is one of those who will pay with his life for his error. Since his is a very remarkable case, I propose to relate his experience in support of what I say."

The visitor settled himself in his chair and helped himself to another cigarette, while the Governor took a sip of whisky and soda and cleared his throat.

* * * * *

There was nothing subtle (began the Governor) about the murder committed by Samuel Vining. He struck down a man in the bar of a small public-house during a heated argument--buried a seaman's knife to the hilt in the man's side. There the victim lay, his glazing eyes turned towards the ceiling. It had been the deed of a moment. When the bystanders realised that the man was dead, Vining had disappeared.

He had not more than half an hour's start of the police, but half an hour is a long time when a man is speeding from justice. Vining had the world to roam, the whole earth in which to hide. His impulse was to flee. He boarded a bus going westward and took a ticket to the terminus, not knowing where the route would lead him. His main object was to get away, to get away, to get away! The desire to escape from humanity surged through his brain. Did he repent of his crime? Repentance was nothing. Punishment was the avenging force he had to escape from. Repentance was an inward thing. Punishment was not anything _he_ could decide. _That_ was in the hands of those who were pursuing him at that very moment.

When the bus reached its journey's end he continued along the country road. He had no idea where it would lead. He did not, for the moment, care. Sometimes he ran, but he found running consumed his energy too quickly, so he walked mainly. The night was dark, but the stars were out. The road was lonely except for an occasional motor-car going towards, or coming from, London. He drew into the hedge when the cars passed, hiding from them. The stars told him he was walking south. In the south was the sea. This thought gave him some comfort.

By dawn he was so weary that he was almost dropping from exhaustion; but he stumbled on, blindly getting away! He was passing through undulating country by this time. In the meadows he saw occasional houses. Workers were stirring. A labourer could be seen in the paths now and then. Dogs awoke and barked. The barks sent a shiver through Vining's frame. They were like warnings, challenges to him. They were the voices of civilisation telling him that he was observed. This made him hurry once more. He reflected that the police were on his trail, searching for him everywhere. Their net would be cast in the city, the telephones would be bearing messages, the telegraph would be issuing calls for his arrest. How could he defeat these means? Not by swiftness, but by cunning.

At a bend in the road he came upon a road-mender seated beside a heap of stones. Beside the roadman was a can of tea, and in a red handkerchief was his early morning meal. A newspaper was spread over his knees. He looked up as Vining approached.

They stared at each other for a moment. The road-mender spoke.

"Bin on the road for a bit, I reckon. Goin' to the coast, hey?"

"How do you know I've been on the road for a bit?" demanded Vining challengingly.

"Humph! By the dust on your clothes. Makin' for the coast?"

"Yes."

"It's a tidy way. Well over a score of miles. Hastings lies over the hill yonder."

"Does it?"

"Nearer a score and a half of miles. I've seen a few walkers to the coast in my time. They generally walk durin' the night. Cooler, I dassay. You're fagged out."

"Give me something to eat."

It was more a demand than a request, and the road-mender lifted his eyes from the newspaper suddenly, then dropped them again to the printed page.

"Take what you want," he said, his tone changing. "There's tea, an' bread, an' cheese, an' a scrap of meat."

Vining slumped down on the roadside and started to eat ravenously. He finished the man's allowance and drank the tea. The food gave him strength, and the tea washed the dust from his parched throat. The road-mender was watching him, his right hand holding his long, thin hammer close to his side. Suddenly he rose to his feet, moving off backward.

"Where are you going?" demanded Vining quickly.

"For help."

"Help? What for?"

"I know you. Think you can escape, do you? It's in the newspapers about you. At first I didn't think--but I bin watchin' you. The dust of you gave you away."

"The dust?" echoed Vining dully.

"It told me you'd bin walkin', an' then I looked at the paper. It says that a man named Sam Vining, a seaman, killed another man in a pub in the East End last night. You're him--Vining."

"How do you know?"

"The dust told me you'd bin walkin', then I read your description. It's there--in print. Medium-sized, broad, dressed in shabby navy suit, tattoo marks on the back of right hand, brown eyes, mole on left temple, black-and-white check cap. That's you. They have a photo, too--not very like you, but near enough; must have bin taken a while ago. You killed this man because of a woman. She gave the police a lot of information. Her name is there."

"Sarah," muttered Vining hoarsely.

"That's it--Sarah. Sarah something. It's you, isn't it?"

"It is me. What about it?"

"Your number's up."

The road-mender was moving farther off, still walking backwards.

"Where are you going?" asked Vining.

The roadman pointed to a hollow beyond the road, from which a thin trickle of smoke issued among the trees.

"Down there is a village. A policeman lives there. I'm going to tell him. Better come with me quietly. Give yourself up. Come on. I've got you."

He stood erect, swinging his long, thin hammer by his side. Vining made a movement as if he was about to rise.

"Don't try to escape," warned the road-mender. "I can throw this hammer straight as a die!"

Vining put his hand on the stones to raise himself. Next moment he fired one--a jagged rock that took the road-mender on the cheek. Vining was used to slinging pins and tools aboard ship. The road-mender went down, blood spurting from his cheek. Vining was gone by the time he gathered himself up.

Down the road, then through a gap in the hedge into the meadows, went the fugitive, bending almost double as he dodged along ditches and under cover of hedges. From a nook he saw the policeman, some time later, go along the road on a bicycle at a great speed. He watched the officer's helmet disappear round a bend; then he struck deeper into the meadows.

The one thing that stuck in his mind was that he was within possible distance of the coast. He knew the general position of Hastings. It was south of Dungeness point; and Dungeness was almost opposite Cape Gris Nez. If only he could take a boat at Hastings he could row to Gris Nez. His tiredness seemed to lift as the plan came to him.

But before he stole a boat he had to get to the coast; and before he got to the coast he had to travel unseen during a long day. He decided to sleep for a few hours. He slept in a dry ditch in a small wood.

When he awoke, the sun's position told him it was late afternoon. He was hungry. He had a few shillings in his pocket; but what was money if he dared not show his face to human beings? He searched for a brook, found one, and bathed his hands and face in the muddy water. It was cooling at any rate. He even drank some of it. As he dried himself with his handkerchief he pondered the situation.

"They are all against me," he muttered, "but I'll win through. At Gris Nez I'll ship off--anywhere! They always want firemen--on coasters--anything!"

He recollected suddenly that to get a job he must show discharge papers from his previous ships. For an instant the thought staggered him; but only for an instant.

"I'll knock somebody down and take his papers. Then I'll pretend I'm dumb. I only want to get to Gris Nez."

This became his passion, the objective to which his mind clung. Gris Nez! Gris Nez! He rose and stumbled on.

Towards night he was near the hill which the road-mender had pointed out. But he was again exhausted. Not used to marching, the fatigue was telling on him; on mind as on body. He sat down by the edge of a cornfield and closed his eyes.

Suddenly he heard voices. He dived into the corn, flattening the grain as he floundered along. The voices grew louder. He lay down. A man was calling.

"Dick, where'd you put the rake?"

Another voice answered unintelligibly. The sound of someone thrusting his way along the edge of the field came nearer. An exclamation burst out, and the first voice called harshly:

"Someone's gone and trampled the corn down. If I only got hold of him----"

Another step brought the man almost on top of Vining. The latter did not wait for the alarm to be raised. He jumped to his feet and attacked.

It was all done so suddenly that the farm worker had no chance to defend himself. He went down before the onslaught, kicking and struggling, but Vining was desperate. He pounded the man into unconsciousness and left him. Rising to his feet he ran--straight through the cornfield.

He heard voices as he ran, but he took no heed. He did not stop until he reached the opposite end of the field. As he forced his way through the hedge he looked back. Two men were pursuing, smashing their way through the corn in his wake. Vining gritted his teeth. He had laid a trail of flattened grain which was impossible to mistake. The harvest of the fields was aiding his enemies.

He broke through the hedge and ran. Fear gave fleetness to his feet, but he did not know the ground. There were rabbit-holes which hurt his ankles when he stepped into them. There were hidden hillocks, mounds, rushes, tufts of grass, that seemed to try to impede him. He crashed on, labouring like a wounded animal. He ran for nearly an hour. When he stopped there was no sign nor sound of his pursuers.

"They'll come after me," he muttered. "They know the country, and I don't. They'll come after me. I'll keep to the hill----What was that?"

From somewhere behind he heard the bark of a dog, the baying of a hound. His heart stood still. They were pursuing him by scent! Their dogs could come where a vehicle could not follow. What was to be done? His right ankle suddenly bent under him. He fell as a sharp pain shot up his leg. He had put his foot into a rabbit-hole.

The shooting pain made him, for the moment, forget his pursuers. He could hardly rise, but he got on his feet by strength of will and hobbled on. As he toiled along he cast his eyes about. What was he looking for? He found it soon enough in that natural backyard. A thick branch of a tree lay on the ground. He tore it up and sat down to wait.

The baying came nearer. It was almost dark now. If only he could get one good blow at the dog, that was all he asked. One blow would be enough. Samuel Vining knew how to strike.

He sat motionless, waiting. Suddenly something that seemed to be a part of the gloom swept past him. He caught a glimpse of a brown, furry animal which leaped aside as he stirred, and vanished suddenly.

"A hare," he thought. "The dog has disturbed it."

He had no time to think more, for just then there broke on his ears a deep bay, and a white dog plunged into view. Vining gripped his club and waited, tense for the stroke.

The dog was running to a scent. He had his nose to the ground. Vining drew back to make sure his arms had the swing he wanted. He held the branch aloft. The dog came straight towards him. Vining struck.

It was a terrible blow, with all the force of a pair of powerful shoulders behind it. The rough branch caught the dog on the head just above the eyes. Such a blow would have killed a man.

The club was shattered, the dog's breath came in a strange gasp, its body crumpled up and rolled over. Vining scrambled to his feet as he heard other dogs in the distance.

"They've sent a pack after me," he cried. "That one will stop them."

He staggered into the gathering gloom, making his direction towards a small wood that clung to the hill-side. He heard no more from his pursuers, but when he lay down he was surprised to see that his hands trembled. A peculiar throbbing was in his breast, the blood was pounding in his ears, his teeth were chattering. He was not cold. He was perspiring. Through his body the trembling continued; he was shaking as if he had ague. It was his nerve that had deserted him.

Samuel Vining did not know the psychology of his case. He had never heard of psychology. All he knew was that he was feeling "done in." His vision was becoming blurred. His mind had become rusty, almost incapable of acting. He started at the least sigh of the wind, the slightest rustle of the trees.

"Gris Nez!" he muttered constantly. "Gris Nez! Hastings, then Gris Nez!"

When he tried to sleep he found it impossible. He could not even rest. The ground was hard, the surface uneven. His body was pained, his limbs ached. Hunger did not trouble him, but thirst did. He felt terribly thirsty. It is a peculiar fact that nervousness brings thirst; dry, cracked thirst which cannot be relieved.

"Hastings," he cried suddenly. "I must get to Hastings! Then Gris Nez! Before morning!"

But, though he cried aloud his necessity, he lay where he was, unable for the time being to rise and make the effort to march. Was this conscience? Conscience did not trouble Samuel Vining. It was merely exhaustion of mind and body that was lashing at him, wearing him down with a grinding pressure that was irresistible. He went over the events of the murder and his subsequent actions slowly and methodically, dwelling on every point with a mind that was strung up to high tension.

He could not stop thinking of the past twenty-four hours. He could not sleep. The fear of the dogs was upon him. He could not rest. A strange paradox was present within him, one part of him declaring for repose, the other clamouring for action. He was hardly able to keep still. At last he rose, bound his handkerchief about his injured ankle, and stumbled on. He broke off a stick from a tree to aid him as he marched.

Things were becoming vague, but his mind was clear, strange as the seeming contradiction may be. He was constantly remembering the incidents of his flight and his escapes. His brain was fumbling at the problem, searching for a way out. It ought to be comparatively easy for him to make his escape. Why had he not done so? Why had these people come upon his trail? Like a flash he saw, and he uttered an exclamation as the reason struck him like a blow.

Man was his enemy. From man he need expect no aid. He had run from the face of man. In the wide fields he ought to have found the solitude he sought; but he had found the woods and meadows willing to give him up. The dust of the main road had betrayed him to the road-mender. The cornfield had betrayed him to the farm hands. The scent of his clothes had betrayed him to the hounds. Where could he escape from this accusing Nature? The answer came as swiftly as the question was uttered.

"Hastings! Then Gris Nez!"

The sea would hide him as she hid untold secrets. That was it. Let him get back to the sea, his natural element, and he would put his pursuers to confusion! He was at home where the sea was. This land, where roads were unsheltered and meadows were cultivated, was his enemy also. He toiled on, filled with a new hope and trembling resolve.

He did not know how many hours he walked, but he kept his position by the big hill. He understood that this hill was part of the white cliffs he had seen so often from the Channel. He reached the shoulder of the hill when the night was still dark. He stopped, raised his head, and sniffed. A new tang came to him. It was the tang of the sea.

He pushed his way round the shoulder and saw the Channel at his feet. The lights of a town twinkled away to his right, the long promenade showing up like an uneven line of burning matches.

"That is Hastings," he told himself. "There are caves among the cliffs."

He had heard, like many others, of the caves which were at one time used by the smugglers of the coast. He determined to find one of these caves and stay there for the next day. From the cave he could mark a boat, and go for it as soon as the following night covered his movements. He was jubilant, for in the darkness he felt that many boats were lying there.