'Karl,' he spoke in German to one of the men in the doorway,
'you will put this fellow in the storeroom till I return, and you will
be answerable to me for his keeping.'
I was marched out of the room with a pistol at each ear.
The storeroom was a damp chamber in what had been the old
farmhouse. There was no carpet on the uneven floor, and nothing
to sit down on but a school form. It was black as pitch, for the
windows were heavily shuttered. I made out by groping that the
walls were lined with boxes and barrels and sacks of some heavy
stuff. The whole place smelt of mould and disuse. My gaolers
turned the key in the door, and I could hear them shifting their feet
as they stood on guard outside.
I sat down in that chilly darkness in a very miserable frame of
mind. The old boy had gone off in a motor to collect the two
ruffians who had interviewed me yesterday. Now, they had seen me
as the roadman, and they would remember me, for I was in the
same rig. What was a roadman doing twenty miles from his beat,
pursued by the police? A question or two would put them on the
track. Probably they had seen Mr Turnbull, probably Marmie too;
most likely they could link me up with Sir Harry, and then the
whole thing would be crystal clear. What chance had I in this
moorland house with three desperadoes and their armed servants?
I began to think wistfully of the police, now plodding over the
hills after my wraith.
Pages:
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106