Chapter EIGHT: The Man Who Wished for Danger (2)

For the next ten minutes the sounds of the search continued to reach
Lessing's ears, then came the welcome thudding of the engine, as the
car swept out of the gate, showing that the men had abandoned the
search of the premises. Another ten minutes, and the thudding sounded
again, but from another direction, and peering cautiously between the
branches, Lessing could watch the car approach down the long curve of
the road encircling the meadows. It was running slowly now, its
occupants no doubt engaged in searching the flat stretch of land,
making sure of one direction after another in which their prisoner
could not have escaped. Presently it turned and slowly traversed the
same space, before it finally returned to the high road and
disappeared from sight.

The dusk had fallen before Lessing crept out of his hiding-place, and
dragged his stiffened limbs across the meadows. He had determined to
avoid the highways, and so wandered on without any idea of the
direction in which he was going, but after half an hour's walking, to
his joy and relief he struck a railway line, and following it soon
arrived at a country station.

At ten o'clock that night Lessing let himself into his rooms, dusty,
dirty, incredibly fatigued, the poorer by the loss of a bag containing
two quite admirable suits of clothes, but full of thankfulness and
relief.

For once at least he had beaten the Brethren on their own ground!

"It's no good pretending. It's no good trying to deceive me. You
_are_ changed!" Delia declared, nodding her pretty head with solemn
emphasis. "You are changing more and more every single day. And it
doesn't suit you. Hollows in the cheeks! What business has a man of
thirty with hollows in his cheeks? And a different expression in your
eyes. Worried, absent, scared. Valentine Lessing,--what have you
been and gone and done?"

Lessing was seated once more in the delightfully homely room at the
corner house, enjoying the rare treat of a _tete-a-tete_ with Delia.
The men of the family were out, and two minutes before the maid had
announced "Mrs Wright from the District," and "Could the mistress
possibly see her?" whereupon Mrs Gordon had sighed, and said: "He is
out of work again, and she _is_ such a talker! Delia, dear, will you
go? Give her half-a-crown, and say I'm tired." But Delia, as a rule
the most helpful of daughters, resolutely refused.

"No, mother; it's your duty. The vicar says you give far too much.
It's pandering, and makes it hard for the other visitors. Besides,
I'd _never_ get rid of her! Be a good, brave lady, and do your duty."

So Mrs Gordon had departed, when Delia immediately turned to Lessing,
and announced triumphantly:

"She won't be back for a good half-hour! I've been longing for a
chance of talking to you alone," and proceeded to cross-question as
before stated. "Yes, you _are_ scared." Delia repeated. "When
anyone enters the room suddenly you jump and look round as if you
expected to see a policeman and a pair of handcuffs. It makes me
quite nervous even to watch you. And," her voice sank to a deeper
note, "you look ill, Val! _What is it_?"

Lessing bent forward in his chair, his hands clasped loosely together
between his knees; there was a look in his eyes which brought the
colour surging into Delia's cheeks.

"I can tell you honestly, Delia, that I have done nothing to make me
fear a policeman or handcuffs, but--I _am_ worried!" For a passing
moment he struggled with the temptation to confess the truth, but this
point had been mentally argued time and again, always with the same
conclusion. To confide his story would be to include his confidante
in his own danger, since it was hardly possible that he would not feel
called upon to take active steps against the Brethren. "I can't tell
you the why and wherefore, I wish I could, but I can assure you that I
have no cause to be ashamed."

"Oh, bother ashamed!" cried Delia hotly. "_Why_ are you scared? Has
anyone been--er--nasty to you, Val? A man in the office--jealous of
you because you have got on so well. Forged a cheque and pretended it
was you, or put money in your drawer like they do in books, you know,
when they have a grudge? Is it something like that, and you are
afraid in case they suspect you and send you away?"

The words were so deliciously naive and girlish that Lessing was
obliged to laugh; they were also so transparently eloquent of the
speaker's interest and concern for himself that a great pang rent his
heart at the vision of life as it might be. Life with Delia--with
Delia's children, a happy, breezy, family life, repeating the
atmosphere of the corner house in some flowery suburban cottage. Oh,
how good it seemed, how full and satisfying! What a joy to a tired
man to have that haven to which to return at the close of his day's
work. Time had been when he had scoffed at the smug security of
suburban life; had pitied the lot of the man who spent his evenings
playing with his children and mowing a miniature lawn, but in the
light of the last month's experience, he asked nothing better of fate
than to find himself in a precisely similar position.

"No, Delia, no!" he cried ardently, "there is no business trouble.
It's--er--something outside. Don't speak of it, please. I want to
tell you, and I ought not. It's dear and sweet of you to care. I
can't tell you how much it has meant to me the last few weeks, just to
be able--"

Delia interrupted hurriedly, after the manner of young women who
ardently long to hear a declaration of love, yet take fright at the
first symptom of its approach.

"Anyway," she said decisively, "you have _got_ to come to the cottage
over Whitsuntide. I insist upon it, so it's no use trying to escape.
Three whole days in the country will steady your nerves. It's not at
all _comme il faut_ for a director to have jumpy nerves. If I were a
shareholder I'd sell out at once. You will travel down with us on
Friday afternoon, and stay as long as you can the next week.
Understand?"

Lessing thankfully accepted the invitation, which was duly confirmed
by Mrs Gordon upon her return to the sitting-room, and a week later
he arrived at the week-end cottage, after a safe and comfortable
journey in the company of his cheerful friends.

During that week only one disquieting incident had happened, but that
was ominous enough. A typed envelope lying among other letters on the
breakfast-table was left carelessly until the others had been read and
digested, and then torn open with the scant courtesy shown to notes of
the circular type; but the folded slip bore no printed words, and as
Lessing jerked it apart there floated downward on to the carpet a thin
powdery stream, at sight of which the blood mounted in his face.
Moistening one finger, he bent and applied the tip to the scattered
grains, then lifted it to his lips. Salt! There was no mistaking the
sharp clean savour, and on a corner of the paper he beheld the rough
amateur drawing of a knife.

The Brethren had sent him a reminder that they were still waiting for
their revenge!

That year Whitsuntide fell in a spell of warm and settled weather, and
a more charming retreat than the Gordons' week-end cottage it would be
difficult to find. The house was a type of simple comfort, the garden
a delicious riot of colour and fragrance. None of the Gordons knew
anything about the science of gardening, but they considered it "fun"
to attend to their own garden, sent wholesale orders to advertising
seedsmen, and begged shamelessly from gardening friends. The friends
responded with sacks of mysterious-looking roots which the Gordons
proceeded to plump indiscriminately into the first vacant space which
came handy. Everything flourished, for the soil was new and rich, and
the sun blazed upon it from morning till night; and the result was as
delightful as it was unorthodox.

After a day spent in the cottage, Lessing began to feel that the
happenings of the last weeks must surely be the creation of his own
brain. The mental atmosphere by which he was surrounded was so kindly
and wholesome, so pre-eminently _sane_, that, in contrast, the wild
deeds of the Brethren seemed more the vagaries of a dream than cold
actual fact. Most thankfully he accepted the peaceful breathing
space, and for the first time since the incident of the spilling of
the salt went about his way free from apprehension. It seemed to him
in the last degree unlikely that the Brethren would choose a time when
he was in close contact with friends for the execution of their
revenge.

Lessing had made a compact with himself that under no circumstances
would he speak of love to Delia Gordon. He knew now that he had loved
her for years, he realised that under his present circumstances it
would be a despicable act to seek to bind her in any way, but, with
the extraordinary logic practised by men in affairs of the heart, he
believed that so long as he refrained from an actual declaration he
was acting as an honourable man. It did not occur to him that in the
event of his own sudden death a woman who loved him would find her
best comfort in the knowledge that her love had been returned!

But the days passed pleasantly. Mr and Mrs Gordon were the kindest
of hosts, Terence showed himself at his best, and Delia, in her light
dresses and flower-wreathed hats, was the most tantalisingly pretty
creature in the world. Lessing found it very difficult to keep his
resolve as he sat by her side in a summer-house situated at a discreet
distance from the house, and screened by the thick belt of trees which
formed the end of the shrubbery; and, if the truth is to be told,
Delia intended him to find it difficult, and made special play with
her eyelashes to that effect. Val was looking infinitely better, but
when he returned to town that tiresome "worry" would begin again, and
she wanted, as any nice, right-minded girl would have wanted, to have
the right to comfort and support.

"So sorry you can't stay over to-morrow! It's so stupid to rush back
to town just when you are beginning to get good. Why can't you make a
week of it while you are here? Only three more days."

"I'm afraid I can't. It's been awfully jolly. I've enjoyed every
minute of the time, but--er--I don't think I ought. Business, you
know!"

Delia was annoyed, and showed it.

"Awfully boring it must be, to be a City man," said she with her nose
in the air. "Always having to keep your nose to the grind. That's
why I like army men. You can depend upon them. I shall telegraph to
Captain Rawle, and ask him to take your place. He'll jump at it."

"Conceited ass!" muttered Lessing under his breath. He looked at
Delia and saw beneath her pretence of indifference a mistiness of eye,
a tremor at the corner of the lips, the meaning of which was plain
even to his obtuse masculine senses, and at the sight his prudence
fled to the winds.

"Delia!" he cried rapturously. "Delia! Oh, my darling, do you mean
to say that you _care_? Delia, does it matter to you whether I go or
stay? Do you really, really mean to say--"

"I--I didn't say anything--I--I--_of course_, I care! Oh, Val, you
_are_ stupid!" cried Delia, putting up two white hands to hide an
exceedingly red face. Val knew a rapturous moment as he bent to take
those hands in his, but, even as he moved, a warning rustle sounded
from the bushes ahead, and he straightened himself in expectation of
the advent of an intruder. And then, at that moment, with a spasm of
fear freezing his hot blood, he saw once more the face of his enemy.
While one might have counted six, it glared at him from between the
branches--the swarthy, bearded face, with the tufted eyebrows, and the
strong, protuberant teeth. For six long seconds the eyes gazed
mockingly into his own.

Poor palpitating Delia, peeping between her fingers, beheld her lover
of a moment transformed into a stricken, grey-faced man, who sat
huddled up on his seat, staring before him with a gaze of helpless
despair. There was no more blushing and trembling after that--Delia
simply wrapped her arms round his neck, and crooned over him with
tender, loving words.

"Val, my own Val. What is it? I'm here. Delia's here. Nobody shall
hurt you, dearest; no one shall harm you. Delia's here. Look at me,
Val--my own, own Val!"

The words pierced. Through all the horror and the fear, their
sweetness reached to the brain, and turned the current of his
thoughts. One look he gave her, a look of passionate gratitude and
love, then to her utter bewilderment he lifted her to her feet and
drew her to the entrance of the summer-house.

"Go, darling--go! Go quickly! You can help me best that way. Go
quickly!"

Delia stared at him, and a sudden explanation leaped into her brain.
Heart disease! Val had discovered that his heart was affected, that
was the reason of his changed looks. At the moment he was threatened
with a spasm of pain, and man-like preferred to be alone. Obediently
Delia walked away, her heart torn with sympathy. But when they were
married she would take such good care of him, such incessant,
all-encompassing care, that he must, he should get well!

Lessing watched her go, and then deliberately moved a chair to the
centre of the entrance to the summer-house, seated himself astride,
and bent his head on the rail.

He had no longer the wish to fight for his life. Better a thousand
times that the end should come now, rather than later on. He was
ready. He was waiting. He prayed that there would not be long to
wait. At the hour when he least expected it his call had come!

"Now then, old fellow, now then! Sit up, will you? What's the matter
with you? That's right--that's right. Keep your hair on, old man.
You're not half as bad as you think you are!"

Terence Gordon's breezy voice boomed in Lessing's ear. Terence's big
hands laid hold of him, turned him round on his chair, and pressed him
back against its rails. His good-humoured face puckered with concern
as he met the blank stare in the man's eyes, and he continued to pour
forth a stream of slangy reassurements, the while Lessing slowly
regained his composure. He could not have told whether it was ten
seconds or ten hours during which he had sat waiting for death, but so
utterly had he lost touch with the things of earth that it was only by
degrees that he could realise that he was still alive and unharmed,
and that this singularly earthly young man was seated by his side,
ragging him for his mysterious exhibition of funk.

"Got 'em again--eh, what?" said Terence severely. "Tell you what, you
gave me a touch myself, when you leaped upon me like that. Steady,
old man. Steady! What's it all about?"

"Terence," said Lessing thickly, "go back to the house. Look after
your sister. I--I am going away. I can't stay. I'm bringing danger
upon her, upon you all--I can't explain. I--I've been warned--"

"Strikes me," said Terence slowly. "Strikes me, if there's any taking
care of Delia to be done, it's your business to do it. Hardly playing
the game is it, to run away just at this point?"

"For Heaven's sake, don't torture me," cried Lessing wildly. "How can
you judge? You don't understand. You don't understand--"

"Strikes me very forcibly, my dear fella," said Terence once more,
"that it's _you_ that don't understand!" He thrust his arm round the
corner of the summer-house, and produced the small black bag, which he
was wont to carry on his expeditions to hospital. He placed the bag
on the table, and seated himself before it with an air of intense
enjoyment. "Just keep your eye on your uncle, my lad, and we'll see
if he can help you to understand!"

And then, calmly, complacently, in the full light of day, that medical
student produced from that bag--first, a wig of black hair powdered
with grey; secondly, a beard; thirdly, a pair of tufted eyebrows;
fourthly a curious arrangement of wire clips connecting four large
teeth; and fifthly, a bottle containing a brown fluid or dye.

Calmly, composedly, in the full light of day, did that medical student
don one after the other: the wig, beard, eyebrows, and teeth, and dab
an illustrative patch of brown on either cheek. Then folding his arms
after the manner of the villain in British melodrama, he hissed forth
the words which had rung ceaselessly in Lessing's ears for the last
six weeks:

"Tr-r-r-aitor! The doom which you have postponed shall fall upon your
own head. At the hour when you least--"

Lessing seized his arm in a grip of steel.

"Silence! Terence, what does this mean? Do you dare to tell me that
it was _you_ who has made my life a torture all these--"

But Terence was not to be daunted. He twitched his arm away, and
defended himself with his usual energy.

"What's that--_torture_? What do _you_ mean by talking of torture?
Weren't you forever grousing about the dullness of life, and bemoaning
yourself because you couldn't have a taste of excitement? Weren't you
forever gassing about the thrill of danger, and boasting of your
adventurer's blood? Ought to be jolly thankful to me for giving you a
taste of the real gen-u-ine article! I dare you to say I didn't do it
uncommonly well, too. Very friendly action, I call it. You needed
someone to bring you to your senses. Mooning along, spoiling your own
life, and er--er--Hang it all--she _is_ my sister!" concluded Terence
with a touch of righteous indignation.

Lessing sat staring, a picture of stupefaction. The words were
understandable enough; he heard them with his ears, but his brain
refused to take in the meaning.

"_You_! It was you? _You_ came into that restaurant, sat at my
table--spilled that salt?"

"I did. I'd had one or two shots before that, but they didn't come
off, but the salt was a fair catch. You'd spun us that yarn more than
once--forgot that, didn't you? So I tried it, and you caught on like
an eel. The rest was as easy as falling off a log. Where else should
you go but Scotland Yard? I went on in advance, watched you out, and
trotted along in the rear, waiting for a suitable moment to give you
another thrill. Then I went home to bed! Got home a little quicker
than you did that night, sonny, I fancy! What?"

The rush of anger and humiliation which came at the remembrance of
that two hours of laborious dodging and turning did more to revive
Lessing than any amount of reassurement. He set his teeth, and
continued the cross-examination.

"And that night in the Square."

"Hang it, yes! That was me, all right. I'd wasted four evenings
hanging about, so I felt pretty murderous that night. Pretty good
sport, though, to see you bolt into that doctor's place. How I _did_
laugh! By the way, did you take the physic he ordered?"

Lessing gave him a steely glance.

"And the message, the telegram from Blakeney? You sent that, of
course, and arranged with that car."

"Just so. Ye-es. That was, as you might say, my _tour de force_!"
said Terence, smirking. "Cost me a lot of fag, that did, to say
nothing about coin of the realm. Thought you were fairly caught that
time, didn't you? What about `The Thrill' when you heard the sound of
the key in the lock? Eh, what?"

Lessing gave him a murderous glance.

"How would you have felt if I had injured myself for life, climbing
down from that window?"

"Oh, shucks!" Terence shrugged with easy assurance. "Any juggins
could have got down over that ivy, easy as walking downstairs. And
you have done a bit of climbing in your day. Did you get very much
stung by the nettles lying down by that wall?"

Lessing's jaw fell; the blood buzzed in his ears. An intolerable
humiliation encompassed him. Had he been _seen_?

Terence burst into a great roar of laughter.

"Oh, bless you, yes! He saw you right enough. It was Jeffries, you
know. G.P. Jeffries, sharpest fellow we have at hospital. He said he
had the time of his life, sitting upon that wall, watching you quaking
among those nettles. By the way, the bag's all right. I've got it
locked away in my cupboard. I suppose you wouldn't be willing, as a
slight acknowledgment of my trouble, and in gratitude for an
uncommonly useful lesson, to regard the outlay on that day's
expedition as a--er, fee?"

Lessing stared, glared, opened his lips to pour out heated words,
stopped short, and expanded his chest in a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, overpoweringly, the consciousness of safety rushed through
his being, and swept before it all petty considerations for his own
dignity and self-esteem. He was free, he was safe; his life was
unthreatened, he was free to plan ahead, to take upon himself new
claims, new responsibilities. He felt again the touch of Delia's
arms, and knew an irresistible impatience to continue the interrupted
scene.

He rose from his seat, and addressed a few dignified words to the lad
by his side.

"Another time, Terence, we'll thrash this matter out. You meant well,
no doubt, but--"

"Just so. I was sorry to interrupt, but it was all done for the best.
She's in the rose garden. She's crying!" volunteered Terence,
grinning.

"Is it your heart? _Is_ it your heart?" cried Delia clinging to his
arm. "Oh, Val, is your heart really affected?"

Lessing clasped her to him, laughing a big, glad laugh, full of the
joy and wonder of life.

"It is, darling!" he cried. "It is! _You_ have affected it. Oh,
Delia, Delia, let's be married, let's be married at once, and--keep a
chicken farm!"