“Well, I suppose you have got the money?”

  “No, I have not.”

  The big man sat up stiffly and stared at his companion in dismay.

  “But, damn it, man!” he exclaimed, “didn’t I tell you it was urgent? I’m in a devil of a fix. I’ve got to pay that hundred tomorrow. Must pay it, you understand. I’m going up to town in the morning to pay. As I hadn’t got the money myself, I’ve had to borrow it from – you know where; and I was looking to you to enable me to put it back at once. I must have that money tomorrow at the latest. You’d better run up to town in the morning and I’ll meet you outside your bank.”

  Pottermack shook his head. “It can’t be done, Lewson. You’ll have to make some other arrangements.”

  Lewson stared at him in mingled amazement and fury. For a moment he was too astonished for speech. At length he burst out:

  “Can’t be done! What the devil do you mean? You’ve got the money in your bank and you are going to hand it over, or I’ll know the reason why. What do you imagine you are going to do?”

  “I am going,” said Pottermack, “to hold you to your agreement, or at least to part of it. You demanded a sum of money – a large sum – as the price of your silence. It was to be a single payment, once for all, and I paid it. You promised solemnly to make no further demands; yet, within a couple of months, you did make further demands, and I paid again. Since then you have made demands at intervals, regardless of your solemn undertaking. Now this has got to stop. There must be an end to it, and this has got to be the end.”

  As he spoke, quietly but firmly, Lewson gazed at him as if he could not trust the evidence of his senses. This was quite a new Pottermack. At length, suppressing his anger, he replied in a conciliatory tone: “Very well, Jeff. It shall be the end. Help me out just this time and you shall hear no more from me. I promise you that on my word of honour.”

  At this last word Pottermack smiled grimly. But he answered in the same quiet, resolute manner:

  “It is no use, Lewson. You said that last time and the time before that, and, in fact, time after time. You have always sworn that each demand should be positively the last. And so you will go on, if I let you, until you have squeezed me dry.”

  On this Lewson threw off all disguise. Thrusting out his chin at Pottermack, he exclaimed furiously: “If you let me! And how do you think you are going to prevent me? You are quite right. I’ve got you, and I’m going to squeeze you, so now you know. And look here, young fellow, if that money isn’t handed out to me tomorrow morning, something is going to happen. A very surprised gentleman at Scotland Yard will get a letter informing him that the late Jeffrey Brandon, runaway convict, is not the late JB but is alive and kicking, and that his present name and address is Marcus Pottermack, Esquire, of ‘The Chestnuts,’ Borley, Bucks. How will that suit you?”

  “It wouldn’t suit me at all,” Mr Pottermack replied, with unruffled calm; “but before you do it, let me remind you of one or two facts. First, the runaway convict, once your closest friend, was to your knowledge an innocent man –”

  “That’s no affair of mine,” Lewson interrupted. “He was a convict, and is one still. Besides, how do I know he was innocent? A jury of his fellow-countrymen found him guilty –”

  “Don’t talk rubbish, Lewson,” Pottermack broke in impatiently. “There is no one here but ourselves. We both know that I didn’t do those forgeries and we both know who did.”

  Lewson grinned as he reached out for the decanter and poured out another half-tumblerful of whisky. “If you knew who did it,” he chuckled, “you must have been a blooming mug not to say.”

  “I didn’t know then,” Pottermack rejoined bitterly. “I thought you were a decent, honest fellow, fool that I was.”

  “Yes,” Lewson agreed, with a low, cackling laugh, “you were a blooming mug and that’s a fact. Well, well; we live and learn.”

  Still sniggering foolishly, he took a long pull at the tumbler, leering into the flushed, angry face that confronted him across the table. Suddenly Pottermack rose from his chair, and, striding out into the garden, halted some dozen paces away and stood with his back to the summer-house, looking steadily across the lawn. It was now quite dark, though the moon showed dimly from time to time through a thinning of the overcast sky; but still, through the gloom, he could make out faintly the glimmer of lighter-coloured soil where it had been turned up to level the ground for the sundial. The well was invisible, but he knew exactly where the black cavity yawned, and his eye, locating the spot, rested on it with gloomy fixity.

  His reverie was interrupted by Lewson’s voice, now pitched in a more ingratiating key. “Well, Jeff; thinking it over? That’s right, old chap. No use getting pippy.”

  He paused, and as there was no reply he continued: “Come now, dear boy, let’s settle the business amicably as old pals should. Pity for you to go back to the jug when there’s no need. You just help me out of this hole, and I will give you my solemn word of honour that it shall be the very last time. Won’t that satisfy you?”

  Pottermack turned his head slightly, and speaking over his shoulder, replied: “Your word of honour! The honour of a blackmailer, a thief and a liar. It isn’t exactly what you would call a gilt-edged security.”

  “Well,” the other retorted thickly, “gilt-edged or not, you had better take it and shell out. Now, what do you say?”

  “I say,” Pottermack replied with quiet decision, “that I am not going to give you another farthing on any condition whatever.”

  For several seconds Lewson gazed in silent dismay at the shadowy figure on the lawn. This final, definite refusal was a contingency that he had never dreamed of, and was utterly unprovided for, and it filled him, for the moment, with consternation. Then, suddenly, his dismay changed to fury. Starting up from his chair, he shouted huskily:

  “Oh, you won’t, won’t you? We’ll see about that! You’ll either pay up or I’ll give you the finest hammering that you’ve ever had in your life. When I’ve done with you, they’ll want your fingerprints to find out who you are.”

  He paused to watch the effect of this terrifying proposal and to listen for a reply. Then, as the dim figure remained unmoved and no answer came, he bellowed: “D’ you hear? Are you going to pay up or take a hammering?”

  Pottermack turned his head slightly and replied in a quiet, almost a gentle tone: “I don’t think I’m going to do either.”

  The reply and the quiet, unalarmed tone were not quite what Lewson had expected. Trusting to the moral effect of his greatly superior size and weight, he had bluffed confidently. Now it seemed that he had got to make good his threat, and the truth is that he was not eager for the fray. However, it had to be done, and done as impressively as possible. After pausing for another couple of seconds, he proceeded, with a formidable air (but unobserved by Pottermack, whose back was still turned to him), to take off his coat and fling it on the table, whence it slipped down on to the floor. Then, stepping outside the summer-house, he bent forward, and, with an intimidating roar, charged like an angry rhinoceros.

  At the sound of his stamping feet Pottermack spun round and faced him, but then stood motionless until his assailant was within a yard of him, when he sprang lightly aside, and as the big, unwieldy bully lumbered past him, he followed him closely. As soon as Lewson could overcome the momentum of his charge, he halted and turned; and instantly a smart left-hander alighted on his cheek and a heavy right-hander impinged on his ribs just below the armpit. Furious with the pain, and utterly taken aback, he cursed and grunted, hitting out wildly with all the viciousness of mingled rage and fear; for now he realized with amazement that he was hopelessly outclassed by his intended victim. Not one of his sledgehammer blows took effect on that agile adversary, whereas his own person seemed to be but an unprotected target on which the stinging blows fell in endless and intolerable succession. Slowly at first, and then more quickly, he backed away from that terrific bombardment, followed inexorably by the calm and scientific Pottermack, who seemed to guide and direct his backward course as a skilful drover directs the movements of a refractory bullock.

  Gradually the pair moved away from the vicinity of the summer-house across the dark lawn, the demoralized bully, breathing hard and sweating profusely, reduced to mere defence and evasion while his light-footed antagonist plied him unceasingly with feint or blow. Presently Lewson stumbled backward as his foot sank into the loose, heaped earth at the margin of the cleared space; but Pottermack did not press his advantage, renewing his attack only when Lewson had recovered his balance. Then the movement began again, growing faster as the big man became more and more terrified and his evasion passed into undissembled retreat; deviously and with many a zigzag but always tending towards the centre of the cleared area. Suddenly Pottermack’s tactics changed. The rapid succession of light blows ceased for an instant and he seemed to gather himself up as if for a decisive effort. There was a quick feint with the left; then his right fist shot out like lightning and drove straight on to the point of the other man’s jaw, and as his teeth clicked together with an audible snap, Lewson dropped like a pole-axed ox, falling with his body from the waist upwards across the mouth of the well and his head on the brick edge, on which it struck with a sickening thud.

  So he lay for a second or two until the limp trunk began to sag and the chin came forward on to the breast. Suddenly the head slipped off the brick edge and dropped into the cavity, shedding its cap and carrying the trunk with it. The heavy jerk started the rest of the body sliding forward, slowly at first, then with increasing swiftness until the feet rose for an instant, kicked at the farther edge and were gone. From the black pit issued vague, echoing murmurs, followed presently by a hollow, reverberating splash; and after that, silence.

  It had been but a matter of seconds. Even as those cavernous echoes were muttering in the unseen depths, Pottermack’s knuckles were still tingling from the final blow. From the moment when that blow had been struck he had made no move. He had seen his enemy fall, had heard the impact of the head on the brick edge, and had stood looking down with grim composure on the body as it sagged, slid forward, and at last made its dreadful dive down into the depths of its sepulchre. But he had moved not a muscle. It was a horrible affair. But it had to be. Not he, but Lewson had made the decision.

  As the last reverberations died away he approached the forbidding circle of blackness, and kneeling down at its edge, peered into the void. Of course, he could see nothing; and when he listened intently, not a sound came to his ear. From his pocket he brought out his little electric lamp and threw a beam of light down into the dark cavity. The effect was very strange and uncanny. He found himself looking down a tube of seemingly interminable length while from somewhere far away, down in the very bowels of the earth, a tiny spark of light glowed steadily. So even the last ripples had died away and all was still down in that underworld.

  He replaced the lamp in his pocket, but nevertheless he remained kneeling by the well-mouth, resting on one hand, gazing down into the black void and unconsciously listening for some sound from below. Despite his outward composure, he was severely shaken. His heart still raced, his forehead was damp with sweat, his body and limbs were pervaded by a fine, nervous tremor.

  Yet he was sensible of a feeling of relief. The dreadful thing that he had nerved himself to do, that he had looked forward to with shuddering horror, was done. And the doing of it might have been so much worse. He was relieved to feel the screw-bolt in his pocket – unused; to think that the body had slipped down into its grave without the need of any hideous dragging or thrusting. Almost, he began to persuade himself it had been more or less an accident. At any rate, it was over and done with. His merciless enemy was gone. The menace to his liberty, the constant fear that haunted him, were no more. At last – at long last – he was free.

  Fear of discovery he had none; for Lewson, in his own interests, had insisted on strict secrecy as to their acquaintance with each other. In his own words, “he preferred to sit on his own nest-egg.” Hence to all the world they were strangers, not necessarily even aware of each other’s existence. And the blackmailer’s stealthy arrival and his care in silently shutting the gate gave a guarantee that no one had seen him enter.

  While these thoughts passed somewhat confusedly through his mind, he remained in the same posture; still unconsciously listening and still gazing, as if with a certain expectancy, into the black hole before him, or letting his eyes travel, now and again, round the dark garden. Presently an opening in the dense pall of cloud that obscured the sky uncovered the moon and flooded the garden with light. The transition from darkness to brilliant light – for it was full moon – was so sudden that Pottermack looked up with a nervous start, as though to see who had thrown the light on him; and in his overwrought state he even found something disquieting in the pale, bright disc with its queer, dim, impassive face that seemed to be looking down on him through the rent in the cloud like some secret watcher peeping from behind a curtain. He rose to his feet, and, drawing a deep breath, looked around him; and then his glance fell on something more real and more justly disquieting. From the edge of the grass to the brink of the well was a double track of footprints, meandering to and fro, zigzagging hither and thither, but undeniably ending at the well.

  Their appearance was sinister in the extreme. In the bright moonlight they stared up from the pale buff soil, and they shouted of tragedy. To the police eye they would have been the typical “signs of a struggle”; the tracks of two men facing one another and moving towards the well with, presently, a single track coming away from it. No one could mistake the meaning of those tracks; nothing could explain them away – especially in view of what was at the bottom of the well.

  The first glance at those tracks gave Pottermack a severe shock. But he recovered from it in a moment. For they were mere transitory marks that could be obliterated in a minute or two by a few strokes of a rake and a few sweeps of a besom; and meanwhile he stooped over them, examining them with a curious interest not unmixed with a certain vague uneasiness. They were very remarkable impressions. He had already noted the peculiar quality of this loamy soil; its extraordinary suitability for making casting-moulds. And here was a most striking illustration of this property. The prints of his own feet were so perfect that the very brads in his soles were quite clear and distinct, while as to Lewson’s, they were positively ridiculous. Every detail of the rubber soles and the circular rubber heels came out as sharply as if the impressions had been taken in moulding-wax. There was the prancing horse of Kent – the soles were of the Invicta brand and practically new – with the appropriate legend and the manufacturers’ name, and in the central star-shaped space of the heels was the perfect impression of the screw. No doubt the singular sharpness of the prints was due to the fact that a heavy shower in the previous night had brought the loam to that particular state of dampness that the professional moulder seeks to produce with his watering-pot.

  However, interesting as the prints were to the mechanic’s eye, the sooner they were got rid of the better. Thus reflecting, Pottermack strode away towards the workshop in quest of a rake and a besom; and he was, in fact, reaching out to grasp the handle of the door when he stopped dead and stood for some seconds rigid and still with outstretched arm and dropped jaw. For in that moment a thought which had, no doubt, been stirring in his subconscious mind had come to the surface, and for the first time the chill of real terror came over him. Suddenly he realized that he had no monopoly of this remarkable loam. It was the soil of the neighbourhood – and incidentally of the little lane that led from the town and passed along beside his wall. In that lane there must be a single track of footprints – big, staring footprints, and every one of them as good as a signature of James Lewson – leading from the town and stopping at his gate!

  After a few moments of horror-stricken reflection he darted into the tool-house and brought out a short ladder. His first impulse had been to open the gate and peer out, but an instant’s reflection had shown him the folly of exposing himself to the risk of being seen – especially at the very gate to which the tracks led. He now carried the ladder across to an old pear tree which thrust its branches over the wall, and, planting it silently where the foliage was densest, crept softly up and listened awhile. As no sound of footsteps was audible, and as the moon had for the moment retired behind the bank of cloud, he cautiously advanced his head over the wall and looked down into the lane. It was too dark to see far in either direction, but apparently there was no one about; and as the country quiet was unbroken by any sound, he ventured to crane farther forward to inspect the path below.

  The light was very dim; but even so he could make out faintly a single track of footprints – large footprints, widely spaced, the footprints of a tall man. But even as he was peering down at them through the darkness, trying to distinguish in the vaguely seen shapes some recognizable features, the moon burst forth again and the light became almost as that of broad day. Instantly the half-seen shapes started up with a horrid distinctness that made him catch his breath. There was the preposterous prancing horse with the legend “Invicta,” there was the makers’ name, actually legible from the height of the wall, and there were the circular heels with their raised central stars and the very screws clearly visible even to their slots!

  Pottermack was profoundly alarmed. But he was not a panicky man. There, in those footprints, was evidence enough to hang him. But he was not hanged yet; and he did not mean to be, if the unpleasantness could be avoided. Perched on the ladder, with his eyes riveted on the tracks of the man who had come to “squeeze” him, he reviewed the situation with cool concentration, and considered the best way to deal with it.

  The obvious thing was to go out and trample on those footprints until they were quite obliterated. But to this plan there were several objections. In the first place, those enormous impressions would take a deal of trampling out. Walking over them once would be quite useless, for his own feet were comparatively small, and even a fragment of one of Lewson’s footprints would be easily recognizable. Moreover, the trampling process would involve the leaving of his own footprints in evidence; which might be disastrous if it should happen – as it easily might – that Lewson had been seen starting along the footpath. For this path, unfrequented as it was, turned off from the main road at the outskirts of the town where wayfarers were numerous enough. The reason it was unfrequented was that it led only to a wood and a stretch of heath which were more easily approached by a by-road. Finally, he himself might quite possibly be seen performing the trampling operations, and that would never do. In short, the trampling scheme was not practicable at all.

 

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