The Man Who Was Thursday G. K. Chesterton (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📖

“Our danger,” said Dr. Bull, “is not two minutes off.”

“Yes,” said Syme, “if we ride on fast we must leave them behind, for they are on foot.”

“He has a motorcar,” said the Colonel.

“But we may not get it,” said Bull.

“Yes, he is quite on your side.”

“But he might be out.”

“Hold your tongue,” said Syme suddenly. “What is that noise?”

For a second they all sat as still as equestrian statues, and for a second⁠—for two or three or four seconds⁠—heaven and earth seemed equally still. Then all their ears, in an agony of attention, heard along the road that indescribable thrill and throb that means only one thing⁠—horses!

The Colonel’s face had an instantaneous change, as if lightning had struck it, and yet left it scatheless.

“They have done us,” he said, with brief military irony. “Prepare to receive cavalry!”

“Where can they have got the horses?” asked Syme, as he mechanically urged his steed to a canter.

The Colonel was silent for a little, then he said in a strained voice⁠—

“I was speaking with strict accuracy when I said that the Soleil d’Or was the only place where one can get horses within twenty miles.”

“No!” said Syme violently, “I don’t believe he’d do it. Not with all that white hair.”

“He may have been forced,” said the Colonel gently. “They must be at least a hundred strong, for which reason we are all going to see my friend Renard, who has a motorcar.”

With these words he swung his horse suddenly round a street corner, and went down the street with such thundering speed, that the others, though already well at the gallop, had difficulty in following the flying tail of his horse.

Dr. Renard inhabited a high and comfortable house at the top of a steep street, so that when the riders alighted at his door they could once more see the solid green ridge of the hill, with the white road across it, standing up above all the roofs of the town. They breathed again to see that the road as yet was clear, and they rang the bell.

Dr. Renard was a beaming, brown-bearded man, a good example of that silent but very busy professional class which France has preserved even more perfectly than England. When the matter was explained to him he pooh-poohed the panic of the ex-Marquis altogether; he said, with the solid French scepticism, that there was no conceivable probability of a general anarchist rising. “Anarchy,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “it is childishness!”

“Et ça,” cried out the Colonel suddenly, pointing over the other’s shoulder, “and that is childishness, isn’t it?”

They all looked round, and saw a curve of black cavalry come sweeping over the top of the hill with all the energy of Attila. Swiftly as they rode, however, the whole rank still kept well together, and they could see the black vizards of the first line as level as a line of uniforms. But although the main black square was the same, though travelling faster, there was now one sensational difference which they could see clearly upon the slope of the hill, as if upon a slanted map. The bulk of the riders were in one block; but one rider flew far ahead of the column, and with frantic movements of hand and heel urged his horse faster and faster, so that one might have fancied that he was not the pursuer but the pursued. But even at that great distance they could see something so fanatical, so unquestionable in his figure, that they knew it was the Secretary himself. “I am sorry to cut short a cultured discussion,” said the Colonel, “but can you lend me your motorcar now, in two minutes?”

“I have a suspicion that you are all mad,” said Dr. Renard, smiling sociably; “but God forbid that madness should in any way interrupt friendship. Let us go round to the garage.”

Dr. Renard was a mild man with monstrous wealth; his rooms were like the Musée de Cluny, and he had three motorcars. These, however, he seemed to use very sparingly, having the simple tastes of the French middle class, and when his impatient friends came to examine them, it took them some time to assure themselves that one of them even could be made to work. This with some difficulty they brought round into the street before the Doctor’s house. When they came out of the dim garage they were startled to find that twilight had already fallen with the abruptness of night in the tropics. Either they had been longer in the place than they imagined, or some unusual canopy of cloud had gathered over the town. They looked down the steep streets, and seemed to see a slight mist coming up from the sea.

“It is now or never,” said Dr. Bull. “I hear horses.”

“No,” corrected the Professor, “a horse.”

And as they listened, it was evident that the noise, rapidly coming nearer on the rattling stones, was not the noise of the whole cavalcade but that of the one horseman, who had left it far behind⁠—the insane Secretary.

Syme’s family, like most of those who end in the simple life, had once owned a motor, and he knew all about them. He had leapt at once into the chauffeur’s seat, and with flushed face was wrenching and tugging at the disused machinery. He bent his strength upon one handle, and then said quite quietly⁠—

“I am afraid it’s no go.”

As he spoke, there swept round the corner a man rigid on his rushing horse, with the rush and rigidity of an arrow. He had a smile that thrust out his chin as if it were dislocated. He swept alongside of the stationary car, into which its company had crowded, and laid his hand on the front. It was the Secretary, and his mouth went quite straight in the solemnity of triumph.

Syme was leaning hard upon the steering wheel, and there was no sound but the rumble of the other pursuers riding into the town. Then there came quite suddenly a scream