it. I turned the handle to the right andtugged at it; then to the left and again tugged. It had been lockedfrom the outside--shut and locked so carefully, that we had not heard asound.
I bent down to examine the lock.
The key was still in it--on the outside!
I drew back, and held my breath. What did it mean?
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
IN THE SHADOW.
Whichelo was at once practical.
He turned, and glanced quickly at the long window. It was securelybarred, horizontally, as well as vertically. Then he pushed a tableforward, clambered upon it, and exerting all his strength, endeavouredto wrench one, then another, of the bars from its socket.
A silly action. He could not stir one of them.
"Paulton has locked us in," he said, as he stood again beside me.
"Paulton!" I echoed.
"Yes--or Henderson. They and the Baroness--for whom I believe thepolice are seeking--are in hiding somewhere here. I thought it likelythey would end by coming, as this is about the last place the policewill be likely to search. They arrived yesterday, little knowing that Iwas in the vicinity. They're hiding in here. I happen to know this,though they don't know that I know it."
"But why can they have locked us in?"
"I can't say. Probably they're up to some of their old rascality. Theyare full of ingenuity, and defy the police at every turn. The firstthing we have to do is to get out."
He looked about the long, narrow pantry. Soon his gaze fell upon along-handled American fire-axe, suspended in a corner against the wall,beside a portable fire-extinguisher. He smiled, and crossed the room.
"When I lived abroad," he remarked, as he took down the axe and felt itsbalance, "I was rather a good tree-feller. Now, this I call a reallybeautiful axe."
Drawing himself to his full height as he spoke, he held the axe out atarm's length, admiring it.
"Its balance is perfect, and there's not an ounce of useless weightanywhere, either in the head, or in the stem. That is where Americanaxes outclass our British axes entirely. Your axe of Britishmanufacture is a clump of block steel stuck on the end of a heavy,clumsy stem. `Sound British stuff,' it is, so the ironmonger will tellyou. `Last a lifetime. Last for ever.' And that is just what youdon't want, Mr. Ashton. In these days we don't need axes, oragricultural implements, or machinery, or anything else made to `lastfor ever.' We want things made to last just long enough to givesomething better, time to be invented, and some improvements to be made,and no longer. That practice of the British nation of making things to`last for ever,' has been the curse of our declining country for thepast fifty years."
"But what do you want the axe for?" I asked, anxious to stop his suddenflow of oratory.
"What do I want it for?" he exclaimed. "Stand back, and I'll show you."
He stepped towards the door, and measured his distance from it with theaxe-stem. Then, without removing his coat, or even rolling up hissleeves, he gripped the stem by its extreme end with both hands. With a"whizz" the axe described a complete circle over his head, thendescended. The blade, striking the lock in the very middle, wrecked itcompletely. Another "whizz," another blow, and the lock fell infragments on to the floor, with a metallic clatter. A third blow, andthe door flew open.
I was about to go out into the passage, when Whichelo caught me by theshoulder and pulled me back.
"Scatter-brained Englishman!" he exclaimed, half in jest. "Doesn't itoccur to you that Paulton may be, and probably is, waiting with a gun?"
I confess it had not occurred to me.
"Then how can we get out?" I asked quickly.
"Just wait," he answered, "and I'll show you."
At this moment we heard voices in the house, apparently in the largeentrance-hall--men's gruff voices. Also there was a tramp of manyfootfalls. The murmur approached. A door opened and shut. Some of themen were coming along the passage in our direction.
They stopped abruptly, as they reached the pantry where we now stood.At once we saw they were policemen--plain-clothes men, in golf-caps andovercoats, yet by their cut, unmistakably policemen. They looked us upand down suspiciously. Then one of them spoke.
"Where are Paulton and his accomplices?" was the sharp inquiry.
"Somewhere in this house," Whichelo answered. "I haven't seen themyet."
"Not seen 'em! Then why are you here?"
Whichelo produced a card, and handed it to the speaker. Then heunfolded a letter he had withdrawn from his breast-pocket, and handedhim that too. This letter was from Thorold, dated some days previously.It contained a request that Whichelo should go to Houghton and begin tomake arrangements for his return there.
Satisfied with our bona fides, the police-officers looked inquiringly atthe smashed lock.
"Well--and whose work is this?" one of the rural constables asked.
"Mine," Whichelo answered. "Some one, probably the men you want, lockedus in. The only way to get out was to smash the lock. And so I smashedit. I advise you to be careful in your search. Most likely they arearmed, and probably they will be desperate at finding themselvesentrapped. How did you find out they were here, officer?"
"Two men and a woman, all answering the circulated description ofPaulton, Henderson and the woman Coudron, were seen to alight at Oakhamstation from the last down express last night. They were followed.They hired a conveyance. Its driver was cross-questioned. And so wesoon discovered their whereabouts."
Whichelo had, indeed, done well to warn the police-officers to exercisecaution in their search--as it afterwards proved. For a quarter of anhour no trace could be found of the "wanted" men and woman, though thecellars, as well as all the rooms on the ground floor, on the firstfloor, and the second floor were searched.
In all, there were seven policemen. Whichelo and I accompanied them ontheir search, and I began to feel excited.
"What about the attics?" Whichelo suggested at last.
"I don't think they'll be there," the police-inspector answered. "Iexpect they've got off into the woods. Still, we may as well go up andsee."
The attics, which constituted the servants' sleeping-rooms at Houghton,were very large and airy. A long, narrow corridor ran between the rowsof rooms. Facing the end of this corridor was a door. This was thedoor of the largest room of all.
Some of the doors were locked--some not. Whichelo had keys belonging toall the rooms. The door at the end of the corridor the searchersapproached last.
Whichelo eagerly tried two or three keys, but none of them fitted. Hewas forcing in a fourth key, when suddenly, with a deafening roar, anexplosion took place within that room.
At the same instant something crashed through the upper panel of thedoor, leaving a torn ragged hole in the wood, and riddling the wall atthe further end of the passage. Everybody sprang back with a cry.Then, to our amazement, we realised that nobody had been hit by thecharge of shot, which had travelled straight along the passage. Itseemed a miraculous escape. The charge must have grazed Whichelo'sshoulder-blade as he bent down to fit the key.
Scarce had we recovered from our fright, when the barrel of a gun waspushed through that hole. Those inside meant business. The barrelpointed swiftly to the right. There came a blinding flash, anotherdeafening report. It turned quickly to the left, and a third shotechoed through the house. Wildly we had thrown ourselves flat upon thefloor. The charges had swept over us, cutting great furrows in the wallon either side.
"Look out! It's a repeater!" I shouted, as I noticed the magazinebeneath the barrel. "Keep back! Keep well away, all of you!"
The barrel swept from left to right, and right to left. It was restingon the smashed panel, and I guessed that whoever held it, had the buttpressed to his shoulder, and was endeavouring to discover ourwhereabouts before firing again. The fact that we might all be lyingflat upon the ground, close to the door, apparently had not occurred tothe man handling the gun.
Truly, that
was a most exciting moment. Suddenly Whichelo moved. Hewas whispering into the ear of the constable crouching beside him.Swiftly the latter produced his truncheon, and Whichelo took it.Cautiously, noiselessly, he scrambled on all fours, then up to his feet.Now he stood upright, the truncheon firmly clenched in his right hand.Then, suddenly, grasping the protruding gun-barrel with his left hand,he dealt it a terrific blow close to the muzzle with the long, heavy,wooden truncheon.
And that single blow did it. The barrel, badly bent, was useless.
Quickly we all sprang to our feet and ran pell-mell down the passage.Though an ignominious retreat, it was the only move possible. Nor werewe too soon. Hardly had we reached safety, round the corner of thepassage, when another shot rang forth, and the wall
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