"Come out of tool shed at garden end and kept low by the 'edge."

"Did he enter the house?"

"Noa. 'E lit off down the road as fast as 'e cud make."

"d.a.m.n! We've missed 'im," roared Dirk.

"Which direction?"

"Away from village 'twas."

Dirk was tugging at Harrison Smith's sleeve and dragging him toward the French windows.

"No, no," cried Smith, "the front way--it's quicker."

The two turned at the exact second Barraclough, entirely oblivious of their presence, walked into the room. The light flashed dully on the barrel of Harrison Smith's automatic.

"Put 'em up," he said, "put 'em up"--and as the order was obeyed--"Well met indeed, Barraclough, well met indeed."

CHAPTER 27.

A KNOTTED KERCHIEF.

The timing and arrangement of the situation was flawless. Barraclough with his hands upheld, Harrison Smith masking the persuasive automatic from the view of the two girls and Dirk's fingers travelling caressingly toward the pocket in which his mascot reposed. It was hugely dramatic.

Flora and Jane, robbed for the moment of the power of speech and action, clung to one another on the far side of the room, their gaze riveted on their hero, who, in this moment of crisis, was whistling a bar of ragtime and accepting defeat with smiling eyes.

Harrison Smith's left hand ran professionally over the contours of Barraclough's coat to satisfy himself that there was no concealed weapon.

"Most opportune," he remarked, "and we had almost despaired of seeing you." Then in a lower voice--"All right, but no games."

"Thank you," said Barraclough, and lowering his arms he walked slowly to the writing table.

"And now you two nice little girls," said Harrison Smith, rubbing his hands together, "cut along and pick flowers. Much too nice an evening to be spending your time indoors. Off you go."

There was certainly a better chance of getting help if they could escape.

Nothing was to be gained by staying. As they pa.s.sed the table by which Barraclough was standing he whipped an envelope from his pocket and thrust it in Flora's hand with the words:

"Post that for me--quick."

Flora seized the envelope and made a dash for the window but hardly covered half the distance before Dirk and Smith closed in upon her, fighting for possession of the paper. It was given to Jane to translate the actual meaning of this extraordinary performance and she alone saw Barraclough take the note case swiftly from his pocket and bury it under the foliage in the basket of roses. The others were too busily engaged to attend to such a trifle.

"Let them have it, Flora," said Barraclough, sweetly. "They are friends of mine. Do as I tell you."

"You girls get out," gasped Harrison Smith, coming down breathlessly with the envelope, and after Flora and Jane had escaped into the garden, "Cornered, Mr. Barraclough, and we've got the goods."

Anthony was smiling.

"Hadn't you better make sure?" said he.

The envelope was ripped open and a letter withdrawn.

"What's this?"

"I don't know--something my mother wrote. Oh, I wasn't born yesterday and if you think I carry the concession--search me." And to emphasise the uselessness of such a course he pulled out the lining of his inner pocket.

Dirk and Smith closed in threateningly.

"We mean to have that paper," they said in a single voice.

"Haven't you chosen rather a public place to get it?" he answered steadily. "Oh, I realise I'm cornered, but is this the place for the kill? After all, I'm not much good to you without that paper."

"Where 'ave you put it?" hissed Dirk, edging closer. "Where 'ave you put it, eh?"

"Aha, my friend, that's the point. But it won't be cleared up by breathing hops in my face."

The barrel of Harrison Smith's pistol pressed unpleasantly into his short ribs and Dirk's mascot "whump-whumphed" in the air above his head.

"A little persuasion."

"No, not even with a little persuasion." His voice rang high on a note of challenge. "If you want that paper, you'll have to accept my terms and my terms are stiff."

"I can tell you 'oo'll be stiff ternight if he don't----"

The sentence was never finished, for from the hall outside came the sound of Mrs. Barraclough's voice:

"I may be a little late for dinner, Cook, so don't put on the potatoes till the half hour."

"My mother," said Anthony, warningly.

With a curse and a growl Smith and Dirk backed away, pocketing their weapons, as Mrs. Barraclough in a long motor cloak and veil came into the room.

For a second she stood in the doorway, her eyes travelling from her son to the two men and back again. From the astonishment on her features Anthony read plainly enough that Flora and Jane had failed to find and advise her of the danger.

At this perilous stage a false move might mean the loss of everything.

The one hope was to preserve a seeming of normality and at the same time convey a message as to the real significance of the situation. And like a flash came into his head a memory of boyhood sc.r.a.pes and a mother who had never failed him in the hour of need. He whipped out his white handkerchief and with a single hand, an old conjuring trick, threw a knot in the centre and dangled it before Mrs. Barraclough's eyes. No message by wire or wireless ever reached its destination in quicker time than that old S. O. S. of school boy fame. He saw her tap out the "received"

signal with a forefinger on the front of her cloak, then turned with a wave of the handkerchief to introduce the visitors.

"Mother dear, these are two friends of mine, Sergeant Hammersmith and Mr.

Cappell." They were the first names to come into his head. He added--"This is my mother, gentlemen, and I am sure you will be grieved to hear she has lately suffered from very indifferent health."

To give herself a moment for reflection, Mrs. Barraclough removed her veiled motor bonnet and put it on the couch. Then she turned and descended upon Dirk with outstretched hands and a high pitched falsetto that fairly rang with welcome.

"Oh, my dear Sergeant Hammer, this is indeed a pleasure. How very kind of you to drop in. So few people drop in now-a-days; dropping in seems to have quite dropped out and I do so dearly love seeing anyone from Town. Of course we are so old world and out of the way down here that we never see anyone--no one at all--n.o.body and to hear news direct from----"

She broke off abruptly, fixed her gla.s.ses and fell back in an att.i.tude of amazed rapture--"Anthony, dear, do look. Isn't Sergeant Picklesnip exactly like the vicar--the old one, not the present inc.u.mbent, he's too high for me. I do hope----" She descended upon Harrison Smith and wrung him warmly by both hands--"I do hope you agree with me that the Roman influence is most dangerous." And before he had time to reply--"Ah, but I wish you had known Anthony when he was a little boy and wore sailor suits--white on Sundays with a cord and a whistle round his neck. My poor husband could not endure the whistle, so he took the pea out of it and then it only made an airy noise instead of a blast."