E. Phillips Oppenheim - Crime & Mystery Collection - 110+ Thrillers & Detective Tales in One Volume (Illustrated Edition)

Goade’s mind, working swiftly, received several absolutely instantaneous impressions. In the first place, there were no signs of any struggle. The girl’s hair—beautiful hair it was, of a light shade of brown—was neat and unruffled. Only her hat—a sort of tam-o’-shanter—had fallen on one side. Neither her country skirt nor jumper were in any way disarranged, but her face was ghastly pale as she lay there moaning. Goade, every sense alert, listened intently as he gazed stealthily around. There was no sound from that opening at the base of the boulder, from which the wild man of Bill Aaron’s imagination had without a doubt issued. The girl was alone with the sky above, lying on a carpet of scanty herbage. He leaned over her, felt her pulse, and chafed her hands. Already she showed symptoms of awakening consciousness. She was a handsome girl of the best Devonshire type, largely made but shapely, with creamy complexion and good features. Her mouth, a little open, displayed excellent teeth; her hands, though brown, were well-shaped and capable. Suddenly she opened her eyes, and he saw that they were blue.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“You’re quite all right,” he assured her. “On the moor. You came with a little man, Aarons. Had a scare, hadn’t you?”

She sat up. Very slowly she turned her head towards the narrow opening underneath the boulder, and as she did so he saw the returning colour fade again from her cheeks. He assisted her to her feet and supported her with his arm.

“Lean on me, and try to walk a few yards,” he begged.

“I can walk,” she faltered, “but don’t leave me.”

They moved slowly towards the grassy wall on the other side of which was the motorcycle. On their way they passed a small tarn. He paused for a moment, soaked his handkerchief in it, and bathed her temples. She drew a little sigh of relief. Her footsteps became less hesitating. She even smiled feebly at Flip, who, with many upward glances, was trotting importantly by her master’s side.

“Where do you come from, you and your little dog?” she asked.

“On a tramp from Chidford,” he answered. “Your escort found us on the edge of the moor. Something seems to have terrified you both. When you feel better, I should like you to tell me about it.”

She clutched at his arm.

“It was nothing,” she declared feverishly; “nothing at all.”

He stopped short. They were close to the gate now, and, making a wide detour round the moor, stumbling on for a while and then hiding; he could see a small, black object—the young man, Aarons.

“But there was something,” he persisted. “The young man was terrified. ‘A wild man,’ he said, who came out of the ground and stopped you both.”

“It was just his story,” she replied. “I was angry with him because he tried to be familiar. I told him to go, and he went, and then suddenly I felt faint.”

Goade was silent for a moment. The girl was a bad liar, but what concerned him most at the moment was curiosity as to her motive. They had reached the bank now on the other side of which was the motor cycle, with its side car.

“I fancy your escort is making his way back,” he said. “Shall we rest here?”

She assented. They sat on the bank with their faces to the moor. About quarter of a mile away, Aarons was shuffling down the grass-grown lane towards them.

“So you just fainted,” Goade remarked.

“I do sometimes,” she confided. “I was sorry that I had come out with that young man. I always disliked him.”

“You are sure that nothing else happened to frighten you?”

“Nothing at all.”

He looked back at the boulder thoughtfully.

“It’s a lonely spot,” he observed, “one might easily find a hiding place there.”

She shivered.

“Why should any one in these parts want to hide?” she demanded in a low tone. “There isn’t a village for miles.”

“Some one is hiding there at the present moment,” he said quietly.

“How do you know?” she asked with a sort of breathlessness which almost choked her words.

“Well, for one thing,” he told her, “the heather just in front had been pushed on one side and broken down by some one passing in and out. There was the imprint of a man’s footstep close to the opening, a burnt match, and—”

“Stop!” she interrupted. “There is no one there. I am sure there is no one there. It was Mr. Aarons who lit a match and whose footmark you saw.”

He looked along the track towards the rapidly approaching figure.

“We’ll ask the young man to tell us all about it,” he suggested.

She laid her fingers upon his arm.

“Don’t,” she pleaded. “I beg of you that you don’t. Go on your walk, wherever it may lead you. I have a reason for asking.”

“I couldn’t do that,” he assured. “I am too curious by disposition. Your companion has told me that he saw a wild man jump out of the ground. I find you on the spot in a dead faint. It is a situation which must be cleared up.”

She withdrew her arm from his.

“You are a very foolish person,” she said. “There are many who have lost their lives through curiosity.”

He looked back towards the boulder. He almost fancied that the heather bush which partly concealed the opening was moving, as though some one were looking through. The girl was watching him feverishly.

“Perhaps,” he reflected, “it would be better if I were to make my way to the nearest police station and bring some one with me.”

“Don’t do that either,” she implored. “Please don’t do that.”

“There is some one there then?” he asked swiftly.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “If there is, why not leave him alone? What business is it of yours or any one’s? I hate people who interfere.”

Mr. Bill Aarons from the Bethnal Green Road came shambling up.

“Strike me, Mister, but you’re lucky!” he exclaimed, casting one more fearsome glance across the moor. “Get in, Miss, if you’re ready. We’ll tootle off. This part of the world ain’t ‘ealthy.”

He bent over the machine, started the engine, swung himself into the saddle and opened the door of the side car for her.

“Now then,” he begged. “Let’s get out of this while we can.”

The young woman caught hold of Goade’s arm.

“I realise now,” she said, “you came to help me. You thought that I was in danger. That was very brave of you. There was nothing there really to be afraid of, though.”

Aarons swung round in his saddle.

“Gawd!” he cried. “Nothing to be afraid of! You may call me a coward, both of you. I dessay I am. I tell you, if ever I see a sight like that again, it’ll be the end of me. Step in, Miss. If I think of ‘im, I’ll get the shakes again.”

As she took her place she leaned towards Goade.

“Don’t go back there!” she pleaded.

“I can’t promise,” he answered.

She looked at him in obvious distress.

“My name is Crocombe,” she said—“Mabel Crocombe. We live at the Wood Farm behind the trees yonder. Will you come and see me?”

He nodded, and stood with his hat in his hand, watching them climb the crazy path, the engine knocking and a little cloud of blue smoke coming out of the exhaust. They completed the ascent, however, and reached the brow of the hill, the girl turning round to wave her hand as they disappeared. Goade filled his pipe and reflected. There was without doubt adventure—it might possibly be an ugly adventure—waiting for him a hundred yards distant. The state of terror to which the young man Aarons had been reduced could scarcely have been attained by normal means. The man who had found temporary shelter in the bowels of the earth underneath that boulder must have some reason for his isolation, some manifest and evil quality to account for the state of collapse to which he had reduced the two intruders. It was a matter which seemed to demand investigation. On the other hand, this was his vacation. There was no particular reason why he should not obey the girl’s eager pleading and turn his back upon the whole scene. Logically that seemed to be his only sane course. He arrived at this conclusion, and definitely hammered it into his mind as a basis for action. Afterwards, with a little sigh, he did what he had known all the time he would do, he swung over the grassy wall, shortened his stick in his hand, and, with Flip at his heels, picked his way across the moor towards the boulder. He paused outside and listened. There was no sound to be heard. Then he raised his voice.