Danger! and Other Stories - Arthur Conan Doyle (best novels for teenagers TXT) 📗

own head-lights two glowing discs on either side of the long, black-muzzled snout of a high-power car, and above the masked face and menacing figure of its solitary driver.  In the golden circle thrown by the rover there stood an elegant, open-topped, twenty-horse Humber, with an undersized and very astonished chauffeur blinking from under his peaked cap.  From behind the wind-screen the veil-bound hats and wondering faces of two very pretty young women protruded, one upon either side, and a little crescendo of frightened squeaks announced the acute emotion of one of them.  The other was cooler and more critical.

“Don’t give it away, Hilda,” she whispered.  “Do shut up, and don’t be such a silly.  It’s Bertie or one of the boys playing it on us.”

“No, no!  It’s the real thing, Flossie.  It’s a robber, sure enough.  Oh, my goodness, whatever shall we do?”

“What an ‘ad.’!” cried the other.  “Oh, what a glorious ‘ad.’!  Too late now for the mornings, but they’ll have it in every evening paper, sure.”

“What’s it going to cost?” groaned the other.  “Oh, Flossie, Flossie, I’m sure I’m going to faint!  Don’t you think if we both screamed together we could do some good?  Isn’t he too awful with that black thing over his face?  Oh, dear, oh, dear!  He’s killing poor little Alf!”

The proceedings of the robber were indeed somewhat alarming.  Springing down from his car, he had pulled the chauffeur out of his seat by the scruff of his neck.  The sight of the Mauser had cut short all remonstrance, and under its compulsion the little man had pulled open the bonnet and extracted the sparking plugs.  Having thus secured the immobility of his capture, the masked man walked forward, lantern in hand, to the side of the car.  He had laid aside the gruff sternness with which he had treated Mr. Ronald Barker, and his voice and manner were gentle, though determined.  He even raised his hat as a prelude to his address.

“I am sorry to inconvenience you, ladies,” said he, and his voice had gone up several notes since the previous interview.  “May I ask who you are?”

Miss Hilda was beyond coherent speech, but Miss Flossie was of a sterner mould.

“This is a pretty business,” said she.  “What right have you to stop us on the public road, I should like to know?”

“My time is short,” said the robber, in a sterner voice.  “I must ask you to answer my question.”

“Tell him, Flossie!  For goodness’ sake be nice to him!” cried Hilda.

“Well, we’re from the Gaiety Theatre, London, if you want to know,” said the young lady.  “Perhaps you’ve heard of Miss Flossie Thornton and Miss Hilda Mannering?  We’ve been playing a week at the Royal at Eastbourne, and took a Sunday off to ourselves.  So now you know!”

“I must ask you for your purses and for your jewellery.”

Both ladies set up shrill expostulations, but they found, as Mr. Ronald Barker had done, that there was something quietly compelling in this man’s methods.  In a very few minutes they had handed over their purses, and a pile of glittering rings, bangles, brooches, and chains was lying upon the front seat of the car.  The diamonds glowed and shimmered like little electric points in the light of the lantern.  He picked up the glittering tangle and weighed it in his hand.

“Anything you particularly value?” he asked the ladies; but Miss Flossie was in no humour for concessions.

“Don’t come the Claude Duval over us,” said she.  “Take the lot or leave the lot.  We don’t want bits of our own given back to us.”

“Except just Billy’s necklace!” cried Hilda, and snatched at a little rope of pearls.  The robber bowed, and released his hold of it.

“Anything else?”

The valiant Flossie began suddenly to cry.  Hilda did the same.  The effect upon the robber was surprising.  He threw the whole heap of jewellery into the nearest lap.

“There! there!  Take it!” he said.  “It’s trumpery stuff, anyhow.  It’s worth something to you, and nothing to me.”

Tears changed in a moment to smiles.

“You’re welcome to the purses.  The ‘ad.’ is worth ten times the money.  But what a funny way of getting a living nowadays!  Aren’t you afraid of being caught?  It’s all so wonderful, like a scene from a comedy.”

“It may be a tragedy,” said the robber.

“Oh, I hope not—I’m sure I hope not!” cried the two ladies of the drama.

But the robber was in no mood for further conversation.  Far away down the road tiny points of light had appeared.  Fresh business was coming to him, and he must not mix his cases.  Disengaging his machine, he raised his hat, and slipped off to meet this new arrival, while Miss Flossie and Miss Hilda leaned out of their derelict car, still palpitating from their adventure, and watched the red gleam of the tail-light until it merged into the darkness.

This time there was every sign of a rich prize.  Behind its four grand lamps set in a broad frame of glittering brasswork the magnificent sixty-horse Daimler breasted the slope with the low, deep, even snore which proclaimed its enormous latent strength.  Like some rich-laden, high-pooped Spanish galleon, she kept her course until the prowling craft ahead of her swept across her bows and brought her to a sudden halt.  An angry face, red, blotched, and evil, shot out of the open window of the closed limousine.  The robber was aware of a high, bald forehead, gross pendulous cheeks, and two little crafty eyes which gleamed between creases of fat.

“Out of my way, sir!  Out of my way this instant!” cried a rasping voice.  “Drive over him, Hearn!  Get down and pull him off the seat.  The fellow’s drunk—he’s drunk I say!”

Up to this point the proceedings of the modern highwayman might have passed as gentle.  Now they turned in an instant to savagery.  The chauffeur, a burly, capable fellow, incited by that raucous voice behind him, sprang from the car and seized the advancing robber by the throat.  The latter hit out with the butt-end of his pistol, and the man dropped groaning on the road.  Stepping over his prostrate body the adventurer pulled open the door, seized the stout occupant savagely by the ear, and dragged him bellowing on to the highway.  Then, very deliberately, he struck him twice across the face with his open hand.  The blows rang out like pistol-shots in the silence of the night.  The fat traveller turned a ghastly colour and fell back half senseless against the side of the limousine.  The robber dragged open his coat, wrenched away the heavy gold watch-chain with all that it held, plucked out the great diamond pin that sparkled in the black satin tie, dragged off four rings—not one of which could have cost less than three figures and finally tore from his inner pocket a bulky leather note-book.  All this property he transferred to his own black overcoat, and added to it the man’s pearl cuff-links, and even the golden stud which held his collar.  Having made sure that there was nothing else to take, the robber flashed his lantern upon the prostrate chauffeur, and satisfied himself that he was stunned and not dead.  Then, returning to the master, he proceeded very deliberately to tear all his clothes from his body with a ferocious energy which set his victim whimpering and writhing in imminent expectation of murder.

Whatever his tormentor’s intention may have been, it was very effectually frustrated.  A sound made him turn his head, and there, no very great distance off, were the lights of a car coming swiftly from the north.  Such a car must have already passed the wreckage which this pirate had left behind him.  It was following his track with a deliberate purpose, and might be crammed with every county constable of the district.

The adventurer had no time to lose.  He darted from his bedraggled victim, sprang into his own seat, and with his foot on the accelerator shot swiftly off down the road.  Some way down there was a narrow side lane, and into this the fugitive turned, cracking on his high speed and leaving a good five miles between him and any pursuer before he ventured to stop.  Then, in a quiet corner, he counted over his booty of the evening—the paltry plunder of Mr. Ronald Barker, the rather better-furnished purses of the actresses, which contained four pounds between them, and, finally, the gorgeous jewellery and well-filled note-book of the plutocrat upon the Daimler.  Five notes of fifty pounds, four of ten, fifteen sovereigns, and a number of valuable papers made up a most noble haul.  It was clearly enough for one night’s work.  The adventurer replaced all his ill-gotten gains in his pocket, and, lighting a cigarette, set forth upon his way with the air of a man who has no further care upon his mind.

* * * * *

It was on the Monday morning following upon this eventful evening that Sir Henry Hailworthy, of Walcot Old Place, having finished his breakfast in a leisurely fashion, strolled down to his study with the intention of writing a few letters before setting forth to take his place upon the county bench.  Sir Henry was a Deputy-Lieutenant of the county; he was a baronet of ancient blood; he was a magistrate of ten years’ standing; and he was famous above all as the breeder of many a good horse and the most desperate rider in all the Weald country.  A tall, upstanding man, with a strong, clean-shaven face, heavy black eyebrows, and a square, resolute jaw, he was one whom it was better to call friend than foe.  Though nearly fifty years of age, he bore no sign of having passed his youth, save that Nature, in one of her freakish moods, had planted one little feather of white hair above his right ear, making the rest of his thick black curls the darker by contrast.  He was in thoughtful mood this morning, for having lit his pipe he sat at his desk with his blank note-paper in front of him, lost in a deep reverie.

Suddenly his thoughts were brought back to the present.  From behind the laurels of the curving drive there came a low, clanking sound, which swelled into the clatter and jingle of an ancient car.  Then from round the corner there swung an old-fashioned Wolseley, with a fresh-complexioned, yellow-moustached young man at the wheel.  Sir Henry sprang to his feet at the sight, and then sat down once more.  He rose again as a minute later the footman announced Mr. Ronald Barker.  It was an early visit, but Barker was Sir Henry’s intimate friend.  As each was a fine shot, horseman, and billiard-player, there was much in common between the two men, and the younger (and poorer) was in the habit of spending at least two evenings a week at Walcot Old Place.  Therefore, Sir Henry advanced cordially with outstretched hand to welcome him.

“You’re an early bird this morning,” said he.  “What’s up?  If you are going over to Lewes we could motor together.”

But the younger man’s demeanour was peculiar and ungracious.  He disregarded the hand which was held out to him, and he stood pulling at his own long moustache and staring with troubled, questioning eyes at the county magistrate.

“Well, what’s the matter?” asked the latter.

Still the young man did not speak.  He was clearly on the edge of an interview which he found it most difficult to open.  His host grew impatient.

“You don’t seem yourself this morning.  What on earth is the matter?  Anything upset you?”

“Yes,” said Ronald