The Vanished Messenger. E. Phillips Oppenheim

dented in, but the lock, which was of great strength, still held.

      “Perhaps there’s a flask somewhere in this dressing-case,” Gerald said. “Lend me a knife.”

      Strong though it had been, the lock was already almost torn out from its foundation. They forced the spring and opened it. The porter turned his lantern on the widening space. Just as Gerald was raising the lid very slowly to save the contents from being scattered by the wind, the man turned his head to answer an approaching hail. Gerald raised the lid a little higher and suddenly closed it with a bang.

      “There’s folks coming at last!” the porter exclaimed, turning around excitedly. “They’ve been a time and no mistake. The village isn’t a quarter of a mile away. Did you find a flask, sir?”

      Gerald made no answer. The dressing-case once more was closed, and his hand pressed upon the lid. The porter turned the light upon his face and whistled softly.

      “You’re about done yourself, sir,” he remarked. “Hold up.”

      He caught the young man in his arms. There was another roar in Gerald’s ears besides the roar of the wind. He had never fainted in his life, but the feeling was upon him now—a deadly sickness, a swaying of the earth. The porter suddenly gave a little cry.

      “If I’m not a born idiot!” he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from the pocket of his coat with his disengaged hand. “There’s whisky here. I was taking it home to the missis for her rheumatism. Now, then.”

      He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of the liquid between the lips of the young man. The voices now were coming nearer and nearer. Gerald made a desperate effort.

      “I am all right,” he declared. “Let’s look after him.”

      They groped their way towards the unconscious man, Gerald still gripping the dressing-case with both hands. There were no signs of any change in his condition, but he was still breathing heavily. Then they heard a shout behind, almost in their ears. The porter staggered to his feet.

      “It’s all right now, sir!” he exclaimed. “They’ve brought blankets and a stretcher and brandy. Here’s a doctor, sir.”

      A powerful-looking man, hatless, and wrapped in a great ulster, moved towards them.

      “How many are there of you?” he asked, as he bent over Mr. Dunster.

      “Only we two,” Gerald replied. “Is my friend badly hurt?”

      “Concussion,” the doctor announced. “We’ll take him to the village. What about you, young man? Your face is bleeding, I see.”

      “Just a cut,” Gerald faltered; “nothing else.”

      “Lucky chap,” the doctor remarked. “Let’s get him to shelter of some sort. Come along. There’s an inn at the corner of the lane there.”

      They all staggered along, Gerald still clutching the dressing-case, and supported on the other side by an excited and somewhat incoherent villager.

      “Such a storm as never was,” the latter volunteered. “The telegraph wires are all down for miles and miles. There won’t be no trains running along this line come many a week, and as for trees—why, it’s as though some one had been playing ninepins in Squire Fellowes’s park. When the morning do come, for sure there will be things to be seen. This way, sir. Be careful of the gate.”

      They staggered along down the lane, climbing once over a tree which lay across the lane and far into the adjoining field. Soon they were joined by more of the villagers, roused from their beds by rumours of terrible happenings. The little, single-storey, ivy-covered inn was all lit up and the door held firmly open. They passed through the narrow entrance and into the stone-flagged barroom, where the men laid down their stretcher. As many of the villagers as could crowd in filled the passage. Gerald sank into a chair. The sudden absence of wind was almost disconcerting. He felt himself once more in danger of fainting. He was only vaguely conscious of drinking hot milk, poured from a jug by a red-faced and sympathetic woman. Its restorative effect, however, was immediate and wonderful. The mist cleared from before his eyes, his brain began to work. Always in the background the horror and the shame were there, the shame which kept his hand pressed with unnatural strength upon the broken lock of that dressing-case. He sat a little apart from the others and listened. Above the confused murmur of voices he could hear the doctor’s comment and brief orders, as he rose to his feet after examining the unconscious man.

      “An ordinary concussion,” he declared. “I must get round and see the engine-driver now. They have got him in a shed by the embankment. I’ll call in again later on. Let’s have one more look at you, young man.”

      He glanced at the cut on Gerald’s forehead, noted the access of colour in his cheeks, and nodded.

      “Born to be hanged, you were,” he pronounced. “You’ve had a marvellous escape. I’ll be in again presently. No need to worry about your friend. He looks as though he’d got a mighty constitution. Light my lantern, Brown. Two of you had better come with me to the shed. It’s no night for a man to be wandering about alone.”

      He departed, and many of the villagers with him. The landlady sat down and began to weep.

      “Such a night! Such a night!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “And there’s the doctor talks about putting the poor gentleman to bed! Why, the roof’s off the back part of the house, and not a bedroom in the place but mine and John’s, and the rain coming in there in torrents. Such a night! It’s the judgment of the Lord upon us! That’s what it is—the judgment of the Lord!”

      “Judgment of the fiddlesticks!” her husband growled. “Can’t you light the fire, woman? What’s the good of sitting there whining?”

      “Light the fire,” she repeated bitterly, “and the chimney lying out in the road! Do you want to suffocate us all, or is the beer still in your head? It’s your evil doings, Richard Budden, and others like you, that have brought this upon us. If Mr. Wembley would but come in and pray!”

      Her husband scoffed. He was dressed only in his shirt and trousers, his hair rough, his braces hanging down behind.

      “Come in and pray!” he repeated. “Not he! Not Mr. Wembley! He’s safe tucked up in his bed, shivering with fear, I’ll bet you. He’s not getting his feet wet to save a body or lend a hand here. Souls are his job. You let the preacher alone, mother, and tell us what we’re going to do with this gentleman.”

      “The Lord only knows!” she cried, wringing her hands.

      “Can I hire a motor-car from anywhere near?” Gerald asked.

      “There’s motor-cars, right enough,” the innkeeper replied, “but not many as would be fools enough to take one out. You couldn’t see the road, and I doubt if one of them plaguey things would stir in this storm.”

      “Such nonsense as you talk, Richard Budden!” his wife exclaimed sharply. “It’s twenty minutes past three of the clock, and there’s light coming on us fast. If so be as the young gentleman knows folks round about here, or happens to live nigh, why shouldn’t he take one of them motor-cars and get away to some decent place? It’ll be better for the poor gentleman than lying here in a house smitten by the Lord.”

      Gerald rose stiffly to his feet. An idea was forming in his brain. His eyes were bright. He looked at the body of John Dunster upon the floor, and felt once more in his pocket.

      “How far off is the garage?” he asked.

      “It’s right across the way,” the innkeeper replied, “a speculation of Neighbour Martin’s, and a foolish one it do seem to me. He’s two cars there, and one he lets to the Government for delivering the mails.”

      Gerald felt in his pocket and produced a sovereign.

      “Give this,” he said, “to any man you can find who will go across there and