Chapter III: Part 3

He crawled down the hill facing the sea, moving slowly because his strained ankle pained him, and because he was on dangerous ground. The dawn broke grey and sullen while he searched for a cave. By its light he found what he wanted, a hole in the shoulder of the cliff into which he could crawl. It was reached by a narrow, scarcely visible track, and was in a part of the cliff which visitors were not likely to roam. Vining drew himself into the hole and lay down his full length, gazing out to sea.

The wash of the waves on the shingle sounded eerily, but above the wash and rattle of the shingle came a cry that thrilled his bones and caused him to sit up in swift alarm.

"_Get away! Get away!_"

The command came unexpectedly, high pitched, with the muffled blur of a voice shouting in a strong wind. To Vining the words were a cataclysmic disturbance. He had been seen! He leaned far out of the cave, his hair on end, his nerves tingling.

A bird flew past the opening of the cave--a white gull with grey wings and open beak.

"You can't see me!" he called in wild derision, a swift defiance in his tone.

He waited in suspense for a reply, expecting to hear a challenge, an order to surrender. None came.

The bird that had flown past the cave swung back again, a beautiful thing sailing against the lightening sky. He saw its outline moving steadily, perfectly poised, with outstretched wings, beating up against the cold breeze that heralded dawn. It swung close to him, its little beak open, its feet dangling, ready to alight. He lost it in the gloom.

The waves breaking on the shingle surged far up the beach, then swept back, and the stones rattled down after the receding water with a noise like thick hail.

"Who are you, anyway?"

Vining shouted to make himself heard above the clatter of the shingle, but he was conscious that his voice was drowned in the noise. He shouted a third time. There was no reply. Only the swish of the spent waves and the rattle of the rolling pebbles came to him.

"There's someone down there," he muttered uneasily. "Someone was calling."

Fear came to him in renewed force. Had he been trailed? Had someone, some night prowler, seen him descend to the cave? Or was it his fancy? Was it possible that no one had called, no one at all? Were his ears deceiving him? Was his nerve gone?

He put his hands to his head, which was aching and throbbing, and held his temples. His hands trembled. He was shaking all over. As he crouched there, a wretched figure, afraid, scared, shivering with cold, and with the thrill of his breaking spirit racing within him, he heard it again.

"_Get away! Get away!_"

There was no mistaking it, though the call was much fainter. It came to him borne on the wind, a cry from far up the beach.

"_Get away!_"

He bounded to his feet, every shred of his former self abandoned, every sinew urging him to action.

"All right," he cried. "I'll get away! I'll get away!"

He had been seen. Someone had observed him. He had stumbled on to a forbidden piece of the cliff. Was it a watchman who had seen him and had warned him to go away? It could not be the police. They would not have warned him to go away! They would have come and taken him. He dared not wait there. The observer would give information of his presence. The police would come to investigate. He would be found, and then--the scaffold!

The land was his enemy. His soul clamoured for the sea and the things of the sea. He knew the sea. He had sailed on it for years--deep-water sailing, out of the sight of land and human beings. The sea would cover him, and his pursuers would be baffled.

The land was for landsmen. The police worked on land. The land had betrayed him thrice already--first by the dust of the road, next by the corn in the meadow, then by the scent of his clothes. The land had tried to hinder his escape; it had tried to maim him. How he cursed the rabbit-hole that had sprained his ankle!

Dawn was coming up in the east. He must move at once, before his pursuers came after him. He would go down and take a boat at once and be off before daylight--off to Gris Nez! He would outwit the unseen observer, and be halfway across the Channel before the boat was missed.

Crawling out of his cave, he toiled slowly and painfully up the cliff, stopping every now and then to listen. Once he heard the call, but it sounded far away, almost like an echo.

"_Get away! Get away!_"

He smiled grimly to himself. The observer was on the wrong tack, evidently moving towards the town, while he moved in the opposite direction. The dawn was present by this time--a grey dawn--but daylight was coming fast. Every minute brought more light. Now was his time to get to the beach and choose his boat from those he could see lying about the shingle.

He reached the crest of the hill, intending to descend on the other side; but, as he peered over the ridge, he heard cries and shouts and saw a strange sight. Coming along the top of the cliff was a pack of hounds--brown and white hounds, like the one he had slain in the meadow. They were coming straight for him; and behind them were men on horseback. He had no time to think, no time to do anything except rise to his feet and strike at the foremost dog as he had struck before. This time he did not kill, but he sent the animal howling to the rear; and, as he saw the pack breasting the hill, he took to his heels.

Oblivious of the pain in his ankle, he ran towards the sloping cliff. He had no time to select his place of descent, but he found one. He slid, rolled, bumped, towards the shore, landing in a heap on the shingle. He was up again, and ran towards the boats. They were after him. He saw some men on horseback shaking their whips at him and shouting. He did not care. His hands were on a boat, but he could not move it alone. He looked out to the sea. A small fishing-boat bobbed to the swell less than a hundred yards from the beach. He ran into the sea and struck out for it.

"Gris Nez! Gris Nez!" he called. He would show them some sailing! Was he not a seaman? He swam fast and reached the fishing-boat, hauling himself aboard by a fender. He did not trouble to look at his enemies. He had too much to do to escape. The anchor-rope refused to come; he cut the line in desperation and began to haul the sail up as he drifted.

"_Get away! Get away!_"

The command startled him, so clear was it, so sharp. His fingers let go the rope, the sail dropped, crumpling up in a tangled mass. He looked aloft, and saw a little white gull, with grey wings, perched on the masthead, and above it another gull wheeled and circled.

Vining was still staring at the gulls when a motor-boat ran alongside his drifting craft. Over the gun-wale men clambered and faced him. One was a policeman, but a man in the garb of a huntsman thrust his way forward and pointed to Vining.

"That is the man, constable. We had a dog killed yesterday, and that broke the chase, and we routed out a cub this morning, and chased it along the cliff, when this man----"

"I killed the dog in the meadow yesterday. I am Samuel Vining."

"The murderer!" cried the constable. "We have been watching for you."

Samuel Vining did not move, though the others shrank from him. He was staring insanely at the gulls overhead.

The wild things of the sea had joined forces with the wild things of the land to betray him. There had just penetrated his tossing brain the knowledge that it was no human voice that bade him run from the cave where he might have lain unobserved and safe.

What he had imagined, in his anxiety, to be a watcher's warning was merely the call of the little, grey-backed bird, the Jenny gull, the kittiwake, that gets its name because of its chatter, so imitative of a plaintive human call.

_Kittiwake! Kittiwake!_

_Get away! Get away!_

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTH CELL

Before his visitor had time to raise any plea of weakness in the story he had just been told, the Governor lifted his hand, coughed, and continued apologetically:

"You are about to say that the capture of Vining was inevitable from the start? That was true so long as he remained on land. But had he been a stronger man mentally he might have succeeded in calming his nerves. Alas, there is always the one 'if' that makes what seems the perfect, clueless crime a failure in the end! Now, it so happens that in the cell next to that occupied by Vining there is a man who has been found guilty of a similar crime, but he committed it in what is perhaps the nearest approach to perfection--if one can use the word in this connection--I have ever heard of."

"Just a moment," said the visitor, as he sipped from a glass of soda-water. "May I ask why you have other condemned men in cells next to crooks and thieves?"

"It is a delicate explanation I am forced to give," responded the Governor. "You see, when an execution takes place, all the prisoners are kept in their cells until it is over. Even this precaution, this consideration for their feelings, however, does not prevent them knowing that the ceremony has taken place. When the executioner pulls his lever the sides of the trap fall with a resounding bang against the sides of the pit. Every man in the prison hears that bang. Now, to-morrow morning I intend to place these fourteen prisoners in their respective and proper grades and cells----"

"And I am here to see that they will not be offended by hearing the bang," interrupted the visitor firmly, as his fingers toyed with his revolver.

"Just so," agreed the Governor. "That is why you have favoured me with your company, which I find very exhilarating, in spite of its menace to my self. But to proceed with my explanation to your question. Whether I am alive or dead the fourteen prisoners will, before their midday meal, be transferred to the cells which will be theirs so long as they remain. Their present abode is merely, let us say, expedient."

"You excite my curiosity by the mention of the man who almost succeeded in making a clueless trail," commented the visitor. "I presume you will place him among the Intellectuals?"

"I am not prepared to say so. His crime was one of murder. That is a class by itself. But let us proceed to compare his methods with that of cruder persons."

With that the Governor leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands as he took up the story of the occupant of the fourth cell.

When a fox sets out to kill [said the Governor] he uses craft. Harvey Wilkins was a fox.

He had pondered long on his crime; so long that it had ceased to be hideous to him. It was merely a means to an end. He had made up his mind to kill Gilbert Hoey and he had got him into the best position for the purpose. He had balanced his chances so cleverly that he knew that, even if the result of his action was discovered, ordinary investigation could not lay the blame at his door. Third degree methods are not resorted to in England.

A few yards beneath where he and Hoey stood was the white-hot, moving surface of molten metal in one of the factory's cauldrons. They were standing on a narrow platform that ran a few yards above the edge of the huge fire-clay crucible from which the liquid metal would be poured by machinery. The furnaces were roaring. Wilkins had planned it well. They were alone. The workers of the factory had just gone for the night, the staff of night workers were coming in at the gates.

They had halted above the glowing pit, watching the tiny bubbles that shot up to the surface as the gases escaped and the scum arose. Harvey Wilkins glanced at Gilbert Hoey. He noted Hoey's eager features, his intent air. He hated Hoey with all the force of his jealous nature.

They were both engineers, both employed by the firm, both ambitious. They had worked side by side, both in charge of their own gangs of workers. But Hoey was beating Wilkins in the prizes of their calling. It was Hoey who had discovered a recipe for purifying steel, a swifter method for puddling pig-iron. It was Wilkins who kept to the old ways.

The two men were a contrast in almost everything. Hoey was brilliant and erratic; careless in many things, such as keeping his own set of books. He left details to others. Wilkins was deliberate and watchful of details; a plodder who lacked vision.

As he saw Hoey gazing down at the bubbling metal, Wilkins noted that he was resting his arms on the steel rail that guarded the platform. This rail was a sliding one, fitted in a similar manner to the deck rails of a ship. It could be slipped from its socket by the removal of a long steel pin, so that part of the machinery above the casting could be cleaned and oiled when the furnaces were not in blast. Wilkins glanced at the steel pin. His fingers fumbled with it. His eyes travelled to Hoey, who was leaning on the rail intent on the examination of the metal below. The heat came up to both men in waves. Wilkins closed his hand over the pin. Just one tiny pull and he would be free to carry out the schemes he had long contemplated but had been unable to achieve because of his rival Hoey. He pulled at the pin. It came away in his hand.

Down fell the rail, borne adrift by the weight of Hoey's elbows. Down went Hoey, his arms flung wide, his hands grabbing at space and failing to find a hold. His body plunged into the boiling metal. A flame shot up, a blue flame with a white fringe. And that was all.

There had been no cry, no shout of alarm. The whole thing had been so quick that even Wilkins was amazed. It had been so simple that it seemed impossible to believe.

The steel rail dangled idly from the stanchion. The metal bubbled and stirred in the cauldron. There was no more Gilbert Hoey. Not a vestige of him could ever be traced henceforth. He had been obliterated more efficiently than a man blown to atoms. He had been engulfed in a liquid that had made of him nothing more than a shooting flame.

Harvey Wilkins picked up the hanging rail and put it back into its socket. He pushed the steel pin home. He looked about the works. No one was there, the place was deserted. The last of the nightshift men were beginning to come through the timekeeper's wicket on the other side of the yard. Wilkins walked back to his office.

He sat down and drew his handkerchief over his perspiring forehead. He was pulling himself together. As he sat in his chair he heard the hooter sounding, telling him that another casting was about to be made, that another furnace had finished its job. In a few more minutes the molten metal would run like seething silver into the moulds and cool off in time in the shape of rails, ships' propeller-shafts, and other necessaries for the world beyond.

Harvey Wilkins felt perfectly safe, if a little nervous. His love of detail had stood him in good stead for this, the greatest risk he had ever taken, the foulest act he had ever committed. There was no one to say that his hand had withdrawn the steel pin that dropped the guarding bar. There was no one to say that Gilbert Hoey had been examining the job. The entrance to the office was on the other side of the building from the men's entrance. Hoey did not come down at night usually. It had been at the suggestion of Wilkins that he had come down this evening. No one had seen Hoey fall to his death. The murder had been complete, clueless, without a trail leading to its author.

"He couldn't have felt it," Wilkins murmured. "The temperature is the highest a furnace can reach. He couldn't have felt a thing."

He kept repeating the last sentence to himself for some time; perhaps as a sort of a salve to his screaming conscience. But now and then he shuddered as he thought of the scene.

The thudding and crashing of the steam hammers, the dull roar of the moving machinery, came to him suddenly, though the noise had been going on since the sounding of the hooter. He stirred himself, took a glass of spirits from a bottle in a cupboard, and began to set about the minor part of his crime. He intended to prove that the man who had thus been blotted out of life had gone from the factory in quite another way and of his own accord. One thing was certain, he told himself, getting great comfort from the reflection: Hoey would never be able to disprove what Wilkins was going to say about him!

Wilkins rose from his chair and went into the small office which Hoey had used. They had separate rooms, but the girl who typed their letters and acted as their joint secretary was always gone for the night before her two superiors. Wilkins sat down at the typewriter and typed a short note on a sheet of paper. He left the paper in the machine.

Next he took down a cash-book and a ledger and did some figuring on the last pages on which entries had been made. He left the books open. He opened Hoey's desk with his keys and searched among the contents. He found what he sought without much trouble. It was a small enamelled cash-box. Using a key on Hoey's key-ring, he opened the box. It contained a bundle of treasury notes and a handful of silver. Wilkins emptied the contents into his own pockets. He put the cash-box back in the drawer, left Hoey's keys dangling in a lock of the desk, switched out the light, and returned to his own room.

From his own desk he took a shipping company's brochure and put it in the pocket of Hoey's overcoat, which hung from a peg in the passage outside. The brochure was an illustrated one giving the fares and passenger services to and from South American ports. When he had finished these arrangements, Harvey Wilkins put on his own hat and coat and hurried from the office.

He went straight to the house of his employer, the head of the firm. He was admitted on his application to see his employer urgently. In a few minutes he was faced with the man he had come to see.

"Mr. Mynes," he began, acting the part well, "I have come up at once because I have reason to think that you ought to know what has been going on. I am afraid that the news I bring is rather terrible."

"What is it, Wilkins?" asked Mr. Mynes, settling himself in his chair. "Nothing gone wrong at the works, is it?"

"I'm afraid, sir, it has something to do with the works. Do you realise that you have been swindled by Gilbert Hoey, and that he has absconded with the money he drew to pay his men's wages?"

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the factory owner, jumping to his feet. "It is impossible!"

"I could hardly believe it myself, sir, when I saw what was going on. But it is true. I came to you to-night because the crisis has been reached."

He stopped as the door of the study opened, and on the threshold stood a girl dressed in white. She had dark chestnut hair which, exquisitely shingled, made a fitting frame for her attractive features.

"I'm sorry," she began, seeing Wilkins, "I thought you were alone, father."

Wilkins knew that this was not strictly true. She had come to the study because she thought Gilbert Hoey had arrived. She and Hoey had been on very friendly terms for some time; more friendly than Wilkins liked, for he had hoped to marry his employer's daughter.

"Come in, Ada," cried her father. "Come in and hear what Mr. Wilkins has come to tell me. What do you think? Hoey, the man I trusted implicitly--the man who was carrying out one of the biggest jobs for me--the man----Words fail me when I think how I trusted him."

"What has he done?" asked the girl.

"Listen to Mr. Wilkins. Go on, Wilkins, and let me have this in detail. I want proof, not suspicions. You say Hoey has run off with the wages money of his men."

"That is what I say, sir. You may remember that a few months ago I took over the books of Hoey at your suggestion, so that they might be brought up to date?"

"I told you to do so. Hoey said he couldn't do book-keeping. He hated book work unless it was connected with engineering specifications."

"That is what you told me, sir. I took over his books. I found finally that it was impossible to make them balance. He had used sums of money for which he could not account. You allowed him to pay the workers on his contracts himself. A week ago I spoke to him about it. He promised to make reparation."

"Why didn't you come to me at once?"

"Because I wanted to give him a chance. I thought he might have been negligent."

"Go on."

"To-day I knew that he had drawn a large sum for wages. The big contract for steel rails and forgings was in his hands to a great extent. He has been managing the laying of the new railroad. I asked him to come down to the office to-day and talk things over. He came into his office late in the afternoon, but did not come near me. I waited, doing overtime on my own books. His typist stopped work and went home. I called out to him, saying I was ready to go over the books with him. He replied that he would come to me later. Some time passed. I heard him go out. I went into his office. A sheet of paper was in the typewriter. It contained a short message to you, sir. I have left it just as I found it."

"Well, what was the message?"

"It was to the effect that, as he saw no hope of getting a partnership with you, he was taking matters into his own hands, and was going away with the wages. He says that it is useless for you to seek him, as he will never be found."

"And the money?"

"I looked into the cash-box. It was empty. He must have been gone an hour before I went into his office."

"The fool!"

Mynes sat back in his chair and gritted his teeth. Suddenly he rose to his feet.

"He was a fool," he said bitterly. "I trusted him, and I intended to make him a partner. I had not told him so, because I wanted it to be a surprise after he had put the present contract through. Hoey a thief! Hoey a common swindler! Wilkins, you and he were my right-hand men! Well, I'll make an example of him!"

He strode towards the door, then turned and beckoned to Wilkins.

"Come down to the factory at once. I want to go into this matter. I can hardly believe it, but if it is as you say, I'll have a warrant out for his arrest to-night----"

"You will have to be swift, sir. I searched his overcoat which he left in the office. In the pocket I found a shipping list dealing with sailings for South America. I fancy he has laid his plans----"

"He won't get there. I'll have every ship watched; I'll bring him back and send him to prison. Ada, you and Hoey were fairly friendly. Don't let this upset you. I'll deal with him."

He rushed out to get his hat and coat. Wilkins raised his eyes to the face of the girl, who had stood still during his recital.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of such news, Miss Ada, but it was my duty."

The girl sat down suddenly, clasping her hands in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on Harvey Wilkins's face.

"I don't believe a word of it," she said quietly.

Wilkins merely bowed. He knew that Hoey had been friendly with Ada Mynes, and her disbelief in his story let him see how deep that friendship had been; but he held the whip handle. Time would change her. Circumstances would make her alter her ideas. One thing at a time, he told himself. Hoey had disappeared. That was enough for a day.

He went down to the office with Mr. Mynes. He showed him the evidence he had arranged. He repeated his statements. He advised caution, suggesting that the news need not be published broadcast as it would damage the firm. He went with the factory owner to the police station and laid the information. On the sworn evidence of Wilkins and Mynes a warrant for the arrest of Gilbert Hoey was made out, and the network of police resources began to operate. By telephone and telegraph every port was notified of the disappearance of Hoey. Harvey Wilkins was congratulated by his employer and went home to bed.

That he was a murderer did not disturb him. Who was there to say it had been murder? Who could find the body of a man who had been consumed in a flash of fireworks? The crucibles would be emptied by the morning, the metal would be turned into moulds, into rails, ships' propellers, pig iron--a hundred different matters. Giant rollers would soon be pressing out this particular cauldron's contents into long sheets. These would be rolled up again and pounded by great steam-hammers into the form desired. Gilbert Hoey had disappeared like a puff of smoke. The boiling metal had not only killed him--it had also wiped out every trace of the incident.

The following morning Wilkins went down to the works as usual. On his way he called at the police station to see how far they had gone. The inspector who had seen him the previous night was not at the desk, but his substitute told Wilkins all the news they had. Hoey's description would be telegraphed up and down the country. His rooms had been searched, and his belongings were intact. He had not been traced.

"I expect he fled when I challenged him," said Wilkins. "He didn't even take time to pack a suitcase. He must have been scared badly."

"I expect so," said the officer drily. "I can't give you any more information, as I'm not in charge of the case."

Wilkins went to his office feeling surer than ever. He had put dust into the eyes of the law. He smiled to think of the police watching ports, railway stations, roads, hotels--looking for a man who would never be found.

Mr. Mynes did not come to the office at his usual time, and Wilkins continued his work leisurely. He was at his desk just before lunch time, when the door of his office opened. Miss Ada Mynes walked in and took a seat. She left the door ajar. Wilkins rose to find a chair for her near his desk, but she waved him back to his seat. There was a strangeness about her he had never seen before. She was all strung up, but she was holding herself in check.

"I came to you because the police can't say what I want to say," she said. "I came to hear about the disappearance of Gilbert Hoey."

"If I can be of any help, Miss Mynes, I shall be glad; but the police have the matter in hand, and your father----"

"My father knows I am here. I told him I was coming."

"If he gave you permission that is all right, Miss Ada. What is it you want to know?"

"Everything."

"I can tell only what I myself know."

"That may be enough."

The tone struck him. It was antagonistic, but she was nervous and was trying to control herself. Her eyes were on his face--eyes that seemed to be gimlets. There was no escaping them. He sought to pacify her, beginning to tell once more the story he had told the previous night. She waved it aside.

"I have come to ask questions."

Again that tone--strange, incisive, charged with meaning. He suddenly felt the sharpness of it. It was the tone of a terrier; without snarl, without growl; the tone of a terrier when it is about to worry. Persistent and annoying.

"I told you yesterday I did not believe your story," she said in a level tone. "I repeat that now. Gilbert Hoey is no defaulter."

"You were friendly with him, Miss Ada; but that does not alter facts."

"Why do you say 'were'? Why speak in the past tense?"

He saw the grimness with which she thrust the question at him; but he smiled. He knew that she felt the situation keenly. She was fighting for Hoey's reputation. He would be easy with her, since she was a woman; a woman whom he wanted in his own time.

"I used the past tense because I hardly think you can remain friendly with him after this. Your father would object, I fear."

"Leave my father out of it. I was yesterday more than friendly with Mr. Hoey."

"Indeed. I did not know it had gone so far."

"That is why I am here."

Again the biting tone gave him the impression of a terrier. It was as if a household pet had become an enemy. He saw a strain of her father in her then; the strong, determined forcefulness of the parent was coming out in the child. He admired her for it.

"Ask your questions," he said, leaning back in his chair.

She drummed her fingers on the desk for a moment, looking at him from under her eyelashes.

"When Mr. Hoey came down to the office last evening, did he go into the works?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

"He told me you had invited him to look at the cauldron."

"I cannot help what he told you, Miss Mynes."

"We have proof that he did not leave this town last night."

"Who has proof?"

"The police. I have been with them all night. Mr. Hoey did not go by train. We inquired at the booking office. He did not go by car. His own is still in the garage. No car was hired. We have been to every car owner, every hirer there is."

"If he did not leave the town he must be about somewhere. Let the police find him."

There was a sneer in the taunt he flung at her--a sneer that had been his natural retort.

"Was there any need for him to steal the money?"

"His bank balance was not large, I believe, Miss Mynes."

"You know that?"

"He made no secret of it."

She bit her lip. The terrier in her attitude had received a check; but she tried another grip. Just like a terrier.

"Mr. Hoey told me yesterday that he was coming down to see how a casting was going on. You say he did not look at any casting?"

"That is what I have told you."

"The furnaces were preparing a job of which he was in charge?"

"Yes."

"He was expecting to leave for the Continent in a few days to superintend this job's delivery?"

"Yes."

"The money in his care was for payment of his men who were going with him?"

"Yes."

"It was not a large amount?"

"It was over a thousand pounds. There were other expenses he was to clear off--quite large enough to be a temptation when I had challenged his books."

"You expected to get this job?"

"Your father preferred him."

"You were rivals in the factory?"

"Not rivals; co-workers."

"You told me once you were rivals."

"When?"

"The day you told me you were in love with me; the day I told you I did not desire your affection."

"Oh, I may have said that in a moment of disappointment at finding you liked Hoey."

"You asked my father for a partnership?"

"Yes, and he declined--for the present. What do you mean by raking up these things?"

"I want to prove that you were rivals."

"And then?"

"I am seeking a motive."

The terrier was there openly, defiantly, frankly, facing the fox that had covered his tracks. There was no use hiding the situation longer. It was a duel between them. Her eyes told him more than her words. Had she been a stranger, a detective, he would have shown her the door. But she was the daughter of his employer. He became frigid.

"A motive for what?" he demanded.

"A motive for Gilbert Hoey's disappearance."

The sudden suspicion that had flamed in his mind died down. She was floundering, he told himself; floundering in her use of words because of her anxiety for Hoey. He felt that he could handle her. Was she not, after all, only a woman? She would forget Hoey in time.

"I see," he said gently. "You are seeking a motive for his running away."

"For his disappearance."

"It is the same thing."

"Perhaps."

"Do you mean to suggest any other explanation?"

Now was his time, he thought, to bully her into reason! They were alone. He would frighten her, as she had almost frightened him. He knew he was safe. The cauldron of molten metal would tell no tales. The fox is seldom afraid of one dog. But he runs from a pack. This girl was hysterical, he told himself; she needed to go home and rest.

"I am very busy this morning, Miss Mynes. If you don't mind I would suggest that you take things easy and do not worry. Hoey may not have been worthy of your thoughts. And really you ought not to come here and question me. It is most unusual----"

"Many things are unusual. But they are sometimes necessary."

"What do you mean?"

"You will learn in time. I have a few more questions to ask."

"Very well. Ask them. But I shall tell your father I have been interrupted----"

"Has the metal which was in the cauldron last night been poured off?"

"Yes, by the night gang."

"So that the machinery above would be oiled and cleaned to-day?"

"I gave orders for it to be done this morning. I expect it has been attended to. We are very busy."

"It has _not_ been attended to."

"Why not?"

"The police decided that it was to be left as it was. No workmen have been near it."

"Indeed?" cried Wilkins; and there was, for the first time, a hint of alarm in his tone.

The girl leaned across the desk. Her mood was that of the terrier more than ever; a terrier that has got a hold at last.

"If any sand or grit were in that cauldron with the metal it would be skimmed off or the casting would be spoiled, would it not?"

"Yes, but what----"

The answer was a movement by the girl. She slammed a small package on the desk and separated the blackened, ruined fragments as she raised her finger. The terrier had the fox in a corner.

"See this? It is the remains of a meerschaum pipe in an asbestos case which I gave to Gilbert Hoey yesterday evening before he came down here. This was fished out of the cauldron."

Wilkins gave a stifled cry. He felt his feet slipping, but he was crafty.

"He may have thrown it into the cauldron!" he cried.

"But you said he did not go to the works! You said he never left this office!"

There was a silence. Wilkins knew then that he was faced by a girl who was fighting to avenge her lover with all the subtlety of a woman's nature. She was more than terrier then. But she had no proof. This was his trump card. She had no proof. It was merely intuition that had prompted her. He faced the terrier and steadied himself with an effort.

"He may have gone without my seeing him," he declared quickly.

For a moment the terrier lost her hold. But she came back to it.

"The police want your finger-prints!" she cried, jumping to her feet.

"What for?" he countered.

"Do you not see on this asbestos case are Gilbert Hoey's initials in platinum? I gave him the case. It takes a greater heat than that of molten iron to melt platinum! He would not throw it away. He came down to look at the casting. He stood on the platform above the crucible. There is a sliding bar there, held by a pin. On that pin are finger-prints. They are his or yours. No one else has been there. The police have taken a print of these fingers, to compare with the prints on the typewritten message."

"You can prove nothing!" he cried. "He fell in! It was an accident! It was an accident!"

The fox was at his last ditch; a safe one, he was sure. But the terrier pursued him, knowing she was near victory.

She ran to the door and threw it open. There, in the next room, stood her father, the police inspector, and another man who was busy with a note-book.

"Our talk has been taken down in shorthand," she cried. "The defence you put up could not have been torn down by ordinary methods, so I came alone to you. I accuse you of murder!"

The fox had still his last defence.

"It was an accident!" he cried. "You cannot prove anything!"

"You were seen!"

Harvey Wilkins stared at his accuser, then at the inspector; at the man who was busy with his pencil, at his employer. He dropped into a chair.

"In that case," he muttered, "it is useless to deny it. I confess. I pulled the pin and let him fall into the cauldron."

A cry from the girl startled him. She had played her trump card. It had broken down his defence. The inspector stepped forward. Wilkins raised his head.

"Who saw me?" he asked hoarsely. "Bring your witness. Was it you?"

"No," she answered. "God!"

The fox had been tricked.

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTH CELL

"Women are certainly the deuce," commented the visitor as the Governor dramatically ended his story of the fourth prisoner. "So far you have proved that my contention is right. A man ought not to have anything to do with them."

"And yet," replied the Governor, "men can make errors even when they think they are most safe. My experience has shown me that very vividly. And, since you may be pained at the part women have played in the tales I have already related to you, I commend to your attention my next story, which deals with the occupant of the fifth cell."

"I shall be happy to hear it," said the visitor.

* * * * *

I intend to introduce to your notice (said the Governor) a remarkable young man in the person of Frederick Clausen. We will find him seated in a cheap coffee-house in one of the northern districts of London. His elbows were on the marble-topped table at the moment I have in mind, and he was looking up into the face of the not too immaculate proprietor of the cheap restaurant.

"Yes," he said loudly, "the money was taken from the bank to-day and is safe in a black japanned box in the boss's escritoire. I myself put it in his study. There are two thousand pounds in notes alone, and----"

"Not so loud, Mr. Clausen," hastily interrupted the restaurant-keeper in a whisper, as he glanced over his shoulder. "Not so loud."

But Frederick Clausen took no heed of the warning. He laughed and threw back his head, then took a sip of coffee as his eyes travelled round the small, dingy room.

"It would be an easy haul for any robbers," he continued, "but there's nothing to fear on that score. We start paying out to-morrow at nine o'clock. I thought I'd let you know, so that you could tell anybody who hasn't been notified. Two thousand pounds, mark you! Fancy all that money lying in a little japanned box in the study!"

His eyes looked over the rim of his cup. Two men sitting at a table within two yards of him were busy looking at the moving traffic in the street. They were typical of the residents in the district--at least, a certain proportion of the residents--drifters, nondescripts. The peaks of their caps were drawn over their brows, their clothes hung loosely on them; yet their hands were soft and white. At other tables sat other people of similar type. There were derelicts there, and workers too, some furtive-eyed, some weary, some crooked-mouthed.

Frederick Clausen put down his cup and rose to his feet.

"I'll be going back home," he said. "To-morrow means a hard day's work--paying out all that money."

As he moved towards the door the restaurant-keeper came with him and laid a hand on his arm as they stood on the front step.

"You're getting on well, Fred," he said in a low tone, "and I'm glad to see one of the boys of the district making good. It isn't often you look in here; but you oughtn't to speak so loud about that money. You're forgetting what you ought to remember--that there's always someone sitting about. You know what I mean!"

"Oh, was I speaking too openly? I'm sorry."

"I'm saying nothing, Fred, except this. If I was you I'd shift that box of money from the study when you get back. I can't stop people coming into my shop for a cup of coffee so long as they behave themselves; but I'm giving you a hint. See? So-long."

He turned and went back to his frowsy counter. Frederick Clausen shrugged his shoulders and walked smartly along the grim street, his lips set in an equally grim smile.

"The old fool!" he muttered. "As if I didn't speak loud on purpose! Does he think I didn't know those two crooks were drinking in every word? Well, I'll bet it comes off all right."

He felt like laughing out loud, so pleased was he with himself. It was late in the evening, but he had spent the time to advantage. Was he not, in the eyes of his employer, above suspicion?

Turning into a quiet street, he mounted the steps of a tall, narrow house and let himself in with his latchkey. He shot the bolts of the front door with considerable force, spoke a cheery word to a maid who was finishing her dreary duties in the kitchen, saw that she had a candle to light her way to her bedroom, then put out the hall light and went to his own apartment. He undressed and jumped into bed at once.

But if Frederick Clausen went to bed he did not go to sleep. He did not want to sleep. In a few minutes he heard the scullery-maid mount to her room. A deep silence pervaded the house. Clausen lay still for nearly two hours, smoking an occasional cigarette to pass the time. It was long past midnight before he decided to move. He got up, put on a dressing-gown, took a small phial from his coat pocket and, with a handkerchief in his hand, opened the bedroom door. All was still.

He crept along the corridor to a door at the end of the passage and tried the handle. It turned easily. He shook some drops of the contents of the phial into his handkerchief and slipped into the room.

In a short time he came out again and went to another bedroom. This time he listened at the door some time before he entered. Then he slipped in, and came out again noiselessly.

He crept up a short flight of stairs and soaked his handkerchief from the phial before entering a third bedroom half way to the next floor. When he returned to the semi-darkness of the corridor he stood still, his face expressing satisfaction, his nerves jumping just the slightest.

He stood in the corridor and breathed deeply, but smiling to himself. In his hand he held the small phial and the handkerchief. In his head he held the scheme he had evolved and was now executing step by step.

What he had just done was the second stage of his plan, and both had been remarkably easy--easier than he had anticipated. He had entered the bedroom of his employer and had laid the handkerchief, soaked with chloroform, on his face. He had done the same with his employer's wife, with their son--a young man about his own age--and with the housekeeper. The servant who slept at the top of the house was far enough removed from the scene of operations to be dispensed with as a danger.

Clausen had gone to this trouble because he wanted to eliminate risk in carrying out his intention of robbing his employer, an intention he had harboured for some time. Robbery as an idea was old, of course; but robbery by his method was sufficiently original, he calculated, to place its author beyond suspicion. He had used chloroform merely to intensify the sleep of those who might disturb his work.

There still remained the third and final stage of his plan. He put the phial, in which were only a few remaining drops of the drug, into the pocket of his dressing-gown beside his handkerchief, and went downstairs towards the study on the ground floor back. The curtains of the room were open, and the fading moon gave him all the illumination he needed. He knelt beside the escritoire, opened it with a key, and extracted a black japanned box. He opened the box and gazed on the money.

It did not take him long to extract the major portion of the notes, which were done up in handy bundles. Some silver was in paper bags. He took most of it also; but he did not touch several cheques and postal orders which lay in a drawer beside the notes. Cheques and postal orders are traceable. Treasury notes, unless the owner knows the numbers, are not; and Clausen was well aware that his employer did not know the number of a single note.

He was gathering up the money when something soft brushed against his hand. He started, but next instant smiled at his alarm.

"Hullo, puss," he whispered, as he stroked the large black cat that was rubbing its head against his leg. "A black cat for luck!"

He tickled the cat's ears, then pushed the family pet away and completed his theft. He closed the japanned box and put it back in the escritoire, then wiped the metal with his handkerchief. He removed his finger-prints from the escritoire in the same way, and went back to his room. The cat came with him, purring and pleased as it rubbed itself against his ankles.

It wanted to follow him into his bedroom, but he pushed it out into the corridor and closed the door. His next act was to conceal the money.

This part of his scheme was also well prepared. From the fireplace he removed a brick, which he had loosened by degrees during his leisure hours, and in a cavity behind the loose brick he placed the notes and silver. As he replaced the brick a small fall of soot dropped on his hands. He shook most of it off into the fireplace, but, as some grime remained, he went to the bathroom and washed the smuts off. He was not taking any chances. Everything had been flawless in his plan so far, and he intended to be sure that the high efficiency continued to the end. Frederick Clausen was very thorough.

When he had cleaned his hands he returned to his bedroom, closed the door, threw his dressing-gown on a chair beside his bed, and turned in. He had finished the work he had set himself. The phial of chloroform and the handkerchief he had used could not be got rid of until the morning. For the present they were safe in his gown pocket.

Clausen was quite at ease regarding his theft. He was not an habitual criminal by any means. He was private secretary to Mr. James Holson, and he therefore knew all about Mr. Holson's affairs. The latter was what was known as a welfare worker, who gave his spare time to help those who desired to help themselves.

James Holson was well known in the charitable world, or, rather, the world of charities. He was founder and treasurer of one of the largest welfare societies in England--a society of the club type, which accepted contributions from its members and disbursed the funds on certain days of the year to the investors. Mr. Holson made no profit for himself out of his club-society. He was content to preach the duty and virtue of thrift. He handed out the savings from his office on the ground floor of his house in Euston district with the same smiling cheerfulness as he accepted the contributions.

Frederick Clausen was one of his "finds"--a young man of the lower working-class community who had aspirations, and ambition. He too was a member of the society, and he had become Holson's secretary because he was a young man who had shown a desire to "get on." Through his hands passed most of the details of the organisation. He lived in his employer's house, capable and trusted.

It was Clausen's desire to succeed in life, and this very ambition led to his present crime, strange though that may seem. His salary was small--too small, he believed, for his abilities. He had often asked for an increase, but had as often been told that an increase was not possible for the time being. To Clausen this was a grievance. He did not care that charitable societies such as his were incapable of paying large salaries to their staffs. He did not argue that the organisation was limited in funds by its very objects. But he did care that money in a lump sum was a very valuable possession, and he argued that to possess money enough to fill his dreams was worth a small risk. In him his ancestry warred with his lately acquired respectability. He felt his opportunities limited. He was not perhaps morally strong enough to step outside the limitations and go farther afield. His quarrel was that his limitations were limitations. Thus his alleged grievance gradually became a vague sense of injustice. There are many similar cases. Temptation fed on mistaken ideas grows strong. Thus the sapling became an oak.

So long as there is temptation there will be crime. So long as there is crime there will be law. So long as there is law there will be law-breakers. Rectitude and guiltiness are not separated by a straight line, as is commonly supposed. They are segments of a circle. Frederick Clausen had passed the first two segments, and now, having taken the money from the japanned box, had completed the last arc of the circuit.

He had approached his act as do practically all who, for the first time, set out to beat the law. That is to say, he approached it with acumen and knowledge born of considerable study. The average burglar who has adopted theft as a trade goes straight to his objective, and retreats swiftly from it after accomplishment. The amateur criminal is much more elaborate. He believes that he has the wit to do what others have failed to do.

Clausen was not content to steal and wipe out all traces of his trail. That, to his acute mind, was but to leave the structure of his plan half finished. He had gone much farther than that. He had seen to it that a burglary would be provided to send the authorities on a false scent.