The Datchet Diamonds Page 16

  CHAPTER XVI

  A MODERN INSTANCE OF AN ANCIENT PRACTICE

  Skittles, when he had, apparently with an effort, mastered the natureof Mr. Lawrence's instructions, grinned from ear to ear.

  He went to where a number of iron rods with broad heads were heapedtogether on a shelf. They were branding-irons. Selecting one of these,he thrust it into the heart of the fire which glowed on theblacksmith's furnace. He heaped fuel on to the fire. After a movementor two of the bellows it became a roaring blaze.

  Lawrence turned to Mr. Paxton--

  "Still once more--are you disposed to tell us where the Datchetdiamonds are?"

  "No."

  Lawrence smiled. He addressed himself to the two men who held Paxton'sarms.

  "Hold him tight. Now, Skittles, bring that iron of yours. Burn a holeunder Mr. Paxton's right shoulder-blade, through his clothing."

  Skittles again moved the iron from the fire. It had become nearlywhite. He regarded it for a moment with a critical eye. Then,advancing with it held at arm's length in front of him, he took up hisposition at Mr. Paxton's back.

  "Don't let him go. Now!"

  Skittles thrust the flaming iron towards Paxton's shoulder-blade.

  There was a smell of burning cloth. For a second Paxton stood like astatue; then, leaping right off his feet, he gave first a forward andthen a backward bound, displaying as he did so so much vigour that,although his guardians retained their hold, Skittles, apparently, wastaken unawares. Possibly, with an artist's pride in good workmanship,he had been so much engrossed by the anxiety to carry out thecommission with which he had been entrusted thoroughly well, that hewas unprepared for interruptions. However that may have been, whenPaxton moved his grip on the iron seemed to suddenly loosen, so that,losing for the moment complete control of it, it fell down betweenPaxton's arms, the red-hot brand at the further end resting on hispinioned wrists. A cry as of a wounded animal, which he was totallyunable to repress, came from his lips--a cry half of rage, half ofagony. But the red-hot iron, while inflicting on him frightful pain,had at least done him one good service; if it had burned his flesh, ithad also burned the cords which bound his wrists together. Exerting,in his passion and his agony, the strength of half a dozen men, hesevered the scorched strands of rope as if they had been straws, and,hurling from him the two fellows who held his arms--who had expectednothing so little as to find his arms unbound--he stood before them,so far as his limbs were concerned, free.

  Once lost, he was not to be easily regained. He was quicker in hismovements than Skittles had ever been, and the latter's quickest dayswere long since done. Dropping on to one knee, plunging forward underSkittles' guard, he butted that gentleman with his head full in thestomach, and had snatched the iron by its handle from his astonishedhands before he had fully realised what was happening. Springing withthe rapidity of a jack-in-the-box, to his feet again, he brought thedreadful weapon down heavily on Skittles' head. With a groan of agony,that gentleman dropped like a log on to the floor.

  Armed with the heated iron--a kind of article with which no one wouldcare to come into close contact--Paxton turned and faced the others,who as yet did not seem fully alive to what had taken place.

  "Now, you brutes! I may be bested in the end, but I'll be even withone or two of you before I am!"

  Lawrence stood up.

  "Will you? That still remains to be seen. Shoot him, Baron!"

  The Baron fired. Either his marksmanship, or his nerve, or hissomething, was at fault, for he missed. Before he could fire againPaxton's weapon had crashed through his grotesquely tall high hat, andapparently through his skull as well, for he too went headlong to thefloor. Quick as lightning as he fell Cyril took his revolver from hisnerveless grasp. Lawrence and his two colleagues were--a little latein the day, perhaps--making for him. But when they saw how he wasdoubly armed and his determined front they paused--and therein showeddiscretion.

  The tables had turned. The fortune of war had gone over to whathitherto had been distinctly the losing side. So at least Paxtonappeared to think.

  "Now, the question is, what shall I do with you? Shall I shoot allthree of you--or shall I brain one of you with this pretty littleplay-thing, which I have literally snatched from the burning?"

  If one could draw deductions from the manner in which he bore himself,Lawrence never for an instant lost his presence of mind. When he spokeit was in the easy, quiet tones which he had used throughout.

  "You move too fast, forgetting two things--one, that you are caughthere like a rat in a trap, so that, unless we choose to let you, youcannot get out of this place alive; the other, that I have only tosummon assistance to overwhelm you with the mere force of numbers."

  "Then why don't you summon assistance, if you are so sure that it willcome at your bidding?"

  "I intend to summon assistance when I choose."

  "I give you warning that, if you move so much as a muscle in anattempt to attract the attention of any other of your associates whomay be about the place, I will shoot you!"

  For answer Lawrence smiled. Suddenly, lifting his hand, he put twofingers to his lips and blew a loud, shrill, peculiar whistle.Simultaneously Paxton raised the revolver, and, pointing it straightat the other's head, he pulled the trigger.

  And that was all. No result ensued. There was the sound of aclick--and nothing more. His face darkened. A second time he pulledthe trigger; again without result. Mr. Lawrence's smile became morepronounced. His tone was one of gentle badinage.

  "I thought so. You see, you will move too quickly. It is asix-chambered revolver. I was aware that my highly esteemed friend haddischarged two barrels earlier in the evening, and had not reloaded. Iknew that he had taken two, if not three, little pops at you, and hadhad another little pop just now. If, therefore, he had not rechargedin my absence the barrels I had seen him empty, and had taken, beforeI interrupted him, three little pops at you, the revolver must beempty. I thought the risk worth taking, and I took it."

  While Cyril seemed to hesitate as to what to do next, Lawrence,raising his fingers to his lips, blew another cat-call.

  While the shrill discord still travelled through the air, Paxtonsprang towards him. Stepping back, the whistler, picking up the woodenchair on which he had been sitting, dashed it in his assailant's face.And at the same moment the two men who had hitherto remained passivespectators of what had been, practically, an impromptu if abortiveduel, closed in on Paxton from either side.

  He struck at one with his clubbed revolver. The other, getting his armabout his throat, dragged him backwards on to the floor. He was down,however, only for a second. Slipping from the fellow's grasp like aneel, he was up again in time to meet the renewed attack from the manwhom he had already struck with his revolver. He struck at him again;but still the man was not disabled.

  Meanwhile, his more prudent companion, conducting his operations fromthe rear, again got his arms about Paxton. The three went in a heaptogether on the floor.

  Just then the door was opened and some one entered on the scene.Paxton did not stop to see who it was. Exercising what seemed to be agiant's strength, he succeeded in again freeing himself from the graspof his two opponents. Leaping to his feet, he made a mad dash atLawrence. That gentleman, springing nimbly aside, eluded thethreatening blow from the clubbed revolver, delivered neatly enough ablow with his clenched fist full in Mr. Paxton's face. The blow was atelling one. Mr. Paxton staggered; then, just as he seemed about tofall, recovered himself, and struck again at Mr. Lawrence. This timethe blow went home. The butt of the revolver came down upon theother's head with a sickening thud. The stricken man flung up hisarms, and, without a sound, collapsed in an invertebrate heap.

  The whole place became filled with confusion and shouts.

  With what seemed to be a sudden inspiration, swinging right round,with the branding-iron, which he had managed to retain in hispossession, Paxton struck at the hanging lamp, which was suspendedfrom th
e ceiling. In a moment the atmosphere began to be choked by thesuffocating fumes of burning oil. A sheet of fire was running acrossthe floor. Heedless of all else, Paxton rushed towards the door.

  Such was the confusion occasioned by the disappearance of the lamp,and by the appearance of the flames, that his frantic flight seemedfor the moment to be unnoticed. He tore through the door, up a narrowflight of steps rising between two walls, which he found in front ofhim, only, however, to find an individual awaiting his arrival at thetop. This individual was evidently one who deemed that there are casesin which discretion is the better part of valour, and that the presentcase was one of them. When Paxton appeared, instead of trying toarrest his progress, he moved hastily aside, evincing, indeed, aconspicuous unwillingness to offer him any impediment in his wildcareer. Paxton passed him. There was a door in front of him. In hismad haste, throwing it open, he went through it. In an instant it wasbanged behind him; he heard the sound of a bolt being shot home intoits socket, and of a voice exclaiming with a chuckle--on the otherside of the door!--

  "Couldn't have done it better if I'd tried, I couldn't! Locked hisselfin--straight he has!"

  Too late Paxton learned that, to all intents and purposes, that wasexactly what he had done.

  The place in which he found himself was pitchy dark. He had supposedthat it might be a passage leading to a door beyond. It provedto be nothing of the kind. It seemed, instead, to be some sort ofcupboard--probably a pantry--for he could feel that there were shelveson either side of him, and that on the shelves were what seemed to bevictuals. Though narrow, by stretching out his arms he could feel thewall with either hand; it extended, longitudinally, to someconsiderable distance--possibly to twenty feet. At the further endthere was a window. It was at an inconvenient height from the floor,and directly under it was a shelf. On this shelf, so far as he wasable to judge, was an indiscriminate collection of pieces of crockery.The shelf, however, was a broad one, and, disregarding the variousimpedimenta with which it seemed to be covered, by clambering on to ithe was brought within easy reach of the window. It was a small one,and had two sashes. Had the sashes not been there, there might havebeen sufficient space to enable him to thrust his body through theframe. They were of the ordinary kind, moving up and down, and, inconsequence, when they were open to their widest extent, only half thewindow space was available either for ingress or for egress.

  He did throw up the lower sash as far as it would go, only to discoverthat it scarcely gave him room enough to put the whole of his headoutside. Taking firm hold of the framework, he tested its solidity; itappeared to be substantially constructed of some kind of heavy wood.Though he exerted considerable force, it could hardly be induced torattle. To remove it, even if it was removable, would be a work oftime and of labour. Time he had not at his command. Although he wasfastened in, his assailants were not fastened out. At any moment theymight enter; his struggles--against such odds!--would have to berecommenced all over again.

  He was conscious that the best of his strength was spent. He was stiffand sore, weary and bewildered. Nor had he escaped uninjured. He wascovered with bruises--bruises which ached. Where the red-hotbranding-iron, slipping from Mr. Skittles' grasp, had struck againsthis wrists, the flesh felt as if it had been burnt to the bone; itoccasioned him exquisite pain. No, in his present plight, recapturewould be easy. After the recent transactions, in which he had playedso prominent a figure, recapture would mean nameless tortures, if notdeath outright. His only hope lay in flight, or--the thought came tohim as he was endeavouring to marshal his faculties in sufficientorder to enable him to take an impartial view of his position--insummoning help.

  Summoning help? Yes! why not? The thing was feasible. Here was theopen window. He could call through it. His cries might be heard, andif he could only make his shouts heard by some one without the alarmwould be raised, and he would soon be rescued from this den ofthieves.

  Thrusting his head out as far as possible, he shouted, with might andwith main--"Help! Murder! Help!"

  He listened. He seemed to hear the faint echo of his own wordstravelling mockingly, mournfully, through the silent air. Naught elsewas audible. All else was still as the grave.

  Nor did the prospect of his being able to make himself heard seempromising.

  He had no notion whereabouts the house in which he was so unwilling aguest was situated. In front of him he could see nothing but openspace. There was neither moon nor stars, nor was the atmosphereparticularly clear; yet, as his eyes grew more accustomed to thedarkness, it seemed to him that he could see for miles, and that therewas nothing to be seen. There was not a light in sight; no glare oflights upon the distant sky; the shadow neither of a house nor of atree. No murmur of voices; no hum of far-off traffic; not even theunceasing turmoil of the restless sea.

  Since, so far as he was able to perceive, the place seemed to be givenup to such utter and entire solitude, it struck him with unpleasantforce that it might be located in the very heart of the open Downs. Inthat case it was quite upon the cards that there was not another humanhabitation within miles. At night--even yet!--few places are moredeserted than the Brighton Downs. All sorts of deeds without a name,so far as human witnesses are concerned, can be wrought thereon withcomplete impunity.

  If the house was really built upon the Downs, his chances of makinghimself heard were remote indeed. Still, in his desperate position, hewas not disposed to give up hope without making at least anothertrial. Once more he shouted "Help! Murder! Help!"

  Again he listened. And this time, from what evidently was aconsiderable distance, there was borne through the night what seemedto be an answering call--"Hollo!"

  Seldom was so slight a sound so grateful to a listener's ears!

  With renewed ardour he repeated his shouts, with, if possible, evengreater vigour than before: "Quick! Help! Murder! Help!"

  Again, from afar, there seemed to come the faint response--"Hollo!"

  And at the same instant he became conscious of voices speakingtogether outside the door of the cul-de-sac in which, foolishlyenough, he had allowed himself to be made, for a second time, aprisoner.