Okewood of the Secret Service [94]
Barbara stamped her foot.
"If neither of you men have the courage to go down," she cried, "then I'll go alone! As for you, Captain Strangwise, a British officer..."
She never finished the sentence. Strangwise caught her by the shoulder and thrust the cold barrel of a pistol in her face.
"Stay where you are!" he commanded. "And if you scream I shoot!"
Barbara was silent, dumb with horror and bewilderment, rather than with fear. A light shone through the open door at the end of the tap-room and the woman in black velvet appeared, carrying a lamp in her hand She was breathing rather hard and her carefully arranged gray hair was a little untidy; but she was quite calm and self-possessed.
"We haven't a moment to lose!" she said, putting the lamp down on the table and blowing it out.
"Bellward, give me my cloak!"
Bellward advanced with a fur cloak and wrapped it about her shoulders.
"You are the perfect artiste, Minna," he said.
"Practise makes perfect!" replied Mrs. Malplaquet archly.
Strangwise had flung open the door leading to the front yard. A big limousine stood outside.
"Come on," he said impatiently, "don't stand there gossiping you two!"
Then Barbara revolted.
"I'll not go!" she exclaimed, "you can do what you like but I'll stay where I am! Murderers..."
"Oh," said Strangwise wearily, "bring her along, Bellward!"
Bellward and the woman seized the girl one by each arm and dragged her to the car. Strangwise had the door open and between them they thrust her in. Bellward and the woman mounted after her while Strangwise, after starting the engine, sprang into the driving-seat outside. With a low hum the big car glided forth into the cold, starry night.
From the upper floor of the Dyke Inn came the sound of a woman's terrified sobs. Below there reigned the silence of death.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE TWO DESERTERS
Desmond drove to Wentfield Station in an angry and defiant mood. He was incensed against Francis, incensed against the Chief, yet, if the truth were told, most of all incensed against himself.
Not that he admitted it for a moment. He told himself that he was very hardly used. He had undergone considerable danger in the course of discharging a mission which was none of his seeking, and he had met with nothing but taunts from his brother and abuse from the Chief.
"I wash my hands of the whole thing," Desmond declared, as he paced the platform at Wentfield waiting for his train. "As Francis is so precious cocksure about it all, let him carry on in my place! He's welcome to the Chief's wiggings! The Chief won't get me to do his dirty work again in a hurry! That's flat!"
Yet all the while the little gimlet that men call conscience was patiently drilling its way through the wall of obduracy behind which Desmond's wounded pride had taken cover. Rail as he would against his hard treatment at the hands of the Chief, he knew perfectly well that he could never wash his hands of his mission until Barbara Mackwayte had been brought back into safety. This thought kept thrusting itself forward into the foreground of his mind; and he had to focus his attention steadfastly on his grievances to push it back again.
But we puny mortals are all puppets in the hands of Fate. Even as the train was bearing Desmond, thus rebellious, Londonwards, Destiny was already pulling the strings which was to force the "quitter" back into the path he had forsaken. For this purpose Fate had donned the disguise of a dirty-faced man in a greasy old suit and a spotted handkerchief in lieu of collar... but of him presently.
On arriving at Liverpool Street, Desmond, painfully conscious of his unkempt appearance, took a taxi to a Turkish bath in the West End. There his first care was to submit himself to the hands of the barber who, after a glance at his client's bandaged head, muddy clothes and shaggy beard, coughed ominously and relapsed into a most unbarber-like reserve.
Desmond heard the cough and caught the look of commiseration on the man's face.
"I rather think I want a shave!"