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it is perfect,” he said, “but I think I like what there isn’t of it
better.”
She took a sip from her glass and held it to his lips. “That’s for paying
pretty compliments…”
Of what happened next, Tydvil was never quite sure. There was a sudden
crash of glass and rending of curtains, and across the table he saw three
men confronting him, and the leader and most conspicuous was Mr. Samuel
Cranston, who, according to his own story, should have been six hundred
miles away in Sydney—but who evidently was not.
Hilda emitted a startled cry, but Tydvil was, for the moment, too
overcome by the catastrophe to move.
The expression of Samuel Cranston was hostile in the extreme. He glared
ferociously as, with two hands clenched on the table, he leaned forward
to deliver himself of speech. Behind him, two unpleasant looking men,
evidently private detectives, stood in support. There was a ring of
triumph in the rage that shook Cranston’s voice. “Got you!” he snarled.
“Got you at last, Mr. so-and-so Brewer! And you’ll pay for it!”
Two thoughts flashed through Tydvil’s mind. One was that the situation
presented more grounds for action than argument. There was simply nothing
to be said. The other was that every circumstance of the case demanded
swift and, if possible, masterly retreat. It meant a retreat, too,
encumbered by his baggage, though he, himself, did not regard Hilda in
exactly that light.
He sprang to his feet. The whole scene was a matter of seconds from the
moment of the explosion. Hilda, he noted with satisfaction, had slipped
through the door. As Tydvil moved, the two detectives started round the
table with bellicose intent, and Cranston, seizing the empty bottle,
hurled it at his head. Jones ducked with a celerity that surprised even
himself, and the bottle shattered a picture on the wall behind him. An
instant later a glass buzzed past his ear.
Attacked in front, and with both flanks menaced, as in all master minds,
thought and action were coincident with Tydvil. He reached forward and,
picking up the lamp, sent it flying at the infuriated Cranston. There was
a crash and a blaze of flame as he turned and reached the door a
hairsbreadth ahead of the nearest man. Swiftly he pulled it to behind
him. He muttered his relief when he found a key on the outside, and the
bolt shot as he turned it. From the sounds within, the inhabitants of the
room were evidently busy beating out the flames.
Hilda ran before him and opened the front door. “Don’t mind me, Billy,”
she gasped. “He’s frightened of me. I can manage him easily and am quite
safe. Go quickly!”
Tydvil paused a moment to listen to the clamour behind the locked door.
“Sure you will be all right? Better come with me!”
“Madness, Billy,” she answered. “I know best. Go!” He stooped and kissed
her on either cheek, and she laughed lightly as he turned and fled,
heading towards Acland Street.
Tydvil made the pace fairly smart, but kept something in reserve in case
of pursuit, though he felt sure that the trio would be delayed long
enough to give him a good start. In this, however, he proved a bad judge.
He was within fifty yards of Acland Street when excited noises behind him
warned him the hunt was on.
Concealment was out of the question. Both moon and street lights were
against him. There was a shout of “There he goes!” and, with the enemy on
his track, he began to sprint, still feeling confident of escape. But his
confidence received a shock when, as he had almost reached the corner,
two men turned out of Acland Street and came towards him.
As they came into view a cry came from his pursuers of, “Stop thief! Stop
him!” and at the cry the newcomers prepared to bar his progress.
Tydvil’s thoughts worked even more swiftly than his legs. In the brief
seconds before the impending collision, he measured his chances. The new
forces were apparently both young, and their open coats displayed evening
dress. Their attitudes bespoke determination. Shock tactics were the only
hope, and he charged straight at them. Seeing this they closed. As their
hands shot towards him, he hacked one savagely on the shin—a primitive
and barbaric attack, but effectual. Then he snatched off his hat and
hurled it in the face of the other, and followed it swiftly with his
fist.
The momentary dislocation of their line gave him an opportunity to burst
through, and before they could turn on him he was round the corner and
pelting towards Fitzroy Street. He knew from the crude and personal
remarks that reached him, that though he had gained another start, he had
earned the uncompromising hostility of two more pursuers. There was no
mistaking the zeal that urged the footsteps that were pattering swiftly
behind him. Worse still, two other figures detached themselves from the
shadows on the opposite side of the street and joined the hunt,
apparently on general principles.
Tydvil’s heart began to fail. Not only were the newcomers gaining, but a
glance over his shoulder showed him that they had been overtaken by
Cranston and his unlovely satellites. Now, the pack, grown to seven, was
pounding along behind him, giving tongue as they ran.
Knowing the locality well, it was a plantation on the other side of
Fitzroy Street, that Tydvil made his objective. When he reached the
corner from which his hoped for sanctuary, came into view, the chase was
not much more than one hundred feet behind him.
Here, the lights on the corner which revealed him plainly to his
pursuers, showed Jones something that chilled his heart. The corner of
the street had been torn up for some municipal work, and the piled earth
was fenced with hurdles.
Standing by them was what appeared to the flying man as the most gigantic
policeman he had ever laid eyes on. Moreover, the approaching riot had
evidently put him on the alert.
As Tydvil reached the edge of the upturned earth round which he must race
for the chance of safety that was now in view, the policeman roared a
command to halt, and made at him. Necessity was the mother of Jones as
well as of invention in his hour of peril. Safety or ruin was a matter of
seconds. He dropped to his knees, and as he did so his hand found
something comforting: something cubical and heavy. As the approaching
figure towered over him, Tydvil’s hand shot forward. There was the sound
of an anguished grunt, and the Law incarnate crumpled up and crashed
almost on top of him.
At the same instant the chase raged round the corner. Tydvil started up
and fled like a scalded cat across the street to the shadow of the trees
of the plantation, with the howling crew almost on his heels. Leaving the
path, he dashed among the shrubs and sprawled full length over a
surprised couple who were whispering sweet nothings in the privacy of the
shrubbery. The man seized his foot with an exclamation, highly improper
at any time, but unpardonable in the presence of a lady.
Tydvil kicked desperately and wrenched his foot free. The girl screamed,
and the two men struggled to their feet. The sound of crashing among the
shrubs told Jones that the scream had brought the pursuit on his track
again. Tydvil drove a purposeful knee to his opponent’s waistcoat, and
the man went to the grass like a log. Again a scream from the girl
brought an answering cry from the hunt. In another moment they would be
on him. In his desperation Tydvil remembered. “Nicholas, help! Help me!”
he gasped.
The words were still on his lips when Jones felt himself wrenched from
his feet and swung into the air. There was for a second, a sensation of
breathless flight and he found himself sitting somewhere, high above the
earth, and, he felt assured, in safety. Where he was he neither knew nor
cared. Drawing labouring breaths, he sat with his face in his hands,
listening to excited voices in the distance. Presently he recovered
himself slightly, but still panting from his flight he sat up and looked
round.
Had it not been that any refuge was better than capture, Tydvil would
have been rather scared at the situation in which he found himself. The
first glance showed him that he was sitting on the parapet, some fifty
feet from the ground, of a long range of terraces overlooking Hobsons
Bay. His feet were resting on a ledge about two feet wide that formed the
cornice of the building. Beside him was a large, ball-shaped cement
structure that formed one of the architectural adornments. On the other
side sat, regarding him with a smiling countenance, Mr. Nicholas Senior.
The moon that had betrayed the fugitive, had disappeared under a friendly
cloud, but Mr. Senior’s countenance was plainly visible. Jones took in
his surroundings for a moment before speaking. Then, still gasping, he
said, “Close shave! Thank goodness you were at hand. I thought I was
gone.”
Nicholas laughed. “Goodness had very little to do with any part of it,
I’m afraid. But it was a close shave, as you say. Why didn’t you call
sooner?”
“Forgot!” said Mr. Jones shortly. Then he added, anxiously, “I suppose we
are quite safe here?”
“Quite,” replied Mr. Senior. “Any port in a storm, you know, my friend.
Of course, I do not wish in any way to interfere in your amusements, but
you seem, for a beginner, to have had a fairly lively night out. That
crowd seemed as angry as a nest of hornets.”
Jones paused to listen to the calls that still rose from the plantation
in the near foreground. Then he gave his friend a swift outline of his
adventures.
“Not too bad!” commented Nicholas appreciatively. “Not bad at all—rape,
arson and murder, but I’ve known a fourteenth century Archbishop to do
better before breakfast.”
“Oh, you know,” protested Tydvil indignantly, “that’s hardly a fair
statement, at all!”
“But, don’t you see, Tydvil, in these cases it is the principle that
counts? The intention, rather than its fulfilment.”
“But I cannot admit it,” argued Jones a little warmly.
“I was certainly injudicious, but the fire caused by the lamp must have
been extinguished without trouble. And the policeman…” He paused a
little doubtfully.
“The least of your lapses,” said Nicholas. “You say you only threw a lump
of clay at him. That would not have caused any but a temporary
inconvenience.”
Tydvil cleared his throat. “Hum—yes,” he said slowly. “But,
unfortunately, that lump of clay had been baked. In fact, it was half a
brick that checked his advance.”
Nicholas Senior chuckled. “Really, I must congratulate you. You have met
serious emergencies with prompt and effectual methods. Don’t worry about
the policeman. Risks of the kind are inseparable from his calling.” Here
he paused, for the tumult and the shouting that had died away were
resumed with renewed vigour. There was a stampede below, and the uproar
broke out again, apparently directly below their perch. Looking
apprehensively at Nicholas, Tydvil’s arm encircled the concrete ball
beside him.
Leaning forward, Nicholas listened intently. “They seem to have found
someone. Wait! I won’t be long.” He disappeared as he spoke.
The last injunction was unnecessary. Tydvil had not the slightest
intention of moving. He clung affectionately, to the concrete, and stared
out across the dark waters of the Bay, to where the Gellibrand light
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