The Vanished Messenger. E. Phillips Oppenheim

he was seated a little stiffly, for his limbs were numbed with the cold and exhaustion. The morning had broken with a grey and uncertain light. A vaporous veil of mist seemed to have taken the place of the darkness. Even from the top of the hill where the car had come to a standstill, there was little to be seen.

      “We must have come forty miles already,” the chauffeur continued, “what with going out of our way all the time because of the broken bridges. I’m pretty well frozen through, and as for him,” he added, jerking his thumb across his shoulder, “it seems to me you’re taking a bit of a risk.”

      “The doctor said he would remain in exactly the same condition for twenty-four hours,” Gerald declared.

      “Yes, but he didn’t say anything about shaking him up over forty miles of rough road,” the other protested. “You’ll excuse me, sir,” he continued, in a slightly changed tone; “it isn’t my business, of course, but I’m fairly done. It don’t seem reasonable to stick at it like this. There’s Holt village not a mile away, and a comfortable inn and a fire waiting. I thought that was as far as you wanted to come. We might lie up there for a few hours, at any rate.”

      His passenger slipped down from his place, and, lifting the rug, peered into the tonneau of the car, over which they had tied a hood. To all appearance, the condition of the man who lay there was unchanged. There was a slightly added blueness about the lips but his breathing was still perceptible. It seemed even a little stronger. Gerald resumed his seat.

      “It isn’t worth while to stay at Holt,” he said quietly. “We are scarcely seven miles from home now. Sit still for a few minutes and get your wind.”

      “Only seven miles,” the chauffeur repeated more cheerfully. “That’s something, anyway.”

      “And all downhill.”

      “Towards the sea, then?”

      “Straight to the sea,” Gerald told him. “The place we are making for is St. David’s Hall, near Salthouse.”

      The chauffeur seemed a little startled.

      “Why, that’s Squire Fentolin’s house!”

      Gerald nodded.

      “That is where we are going. You follow this road almost straight ahead.”

      The chauffeur slipped in the clutch.

      “Oh, I know the way now, sir, right enough!” he exclaimed. “There’s Salthouse marsh to cross, though. I don’t know about that.”

      “We shall manage that all right,” Gerald declared. “We’ve more light now, too.”

      They both looked around. During the last few minutes the late morning seemed to have forced its way through the clouds. They had a dim, phantasmagoric view of the stricken country: a watery plain, with here and there great patches of fields, submerged to the hedges, and houses standing out amidst the waste of waters like toy dwellings. There were whole plantations of uprooted trees. Close to the road, on their left, was a roofless house, and a family of children crying underneath a tarpaulin shelter. As they crept on, the wind came to them with a brackish flavour, salt with the sea. The chauffeur was gazing ahead doubtfully.

      “I don’t like the look of the marsh,” he grumbled. “Can’t see the road at all. However, here goes.”

      “Another half-hour,” Gerald assured him encouragingly, “and we shall be at St. David’s Hall. You can have as much rest as you like then.”

      They were facing the wind now, and conversation became impossible. Twice they had to pull up sharp and make a considerable detour, once on account of a fallen tree which blocked the road, and another time because of the yawning gap where a bridge had fallen away. Gerald, however, knew every inch of the country they were in and was able to give the necessary directions. They began to meet farm wagons now, full of people who had been driven from their homes. Warnings and information as to the state of the roads were shouted to them continually. Presently they came to the last steep descent, and emerged from the devastated fragment of a wood almost on to the sea level. The chauffeur clapped on his brakes and stopped short.

      “My God!” he exclaimed. “Here’s more trouble!”

      Gerald for a moment was speechless. They seemed to have come suddenly upon a huge plain of waters, an immense lake reaching as far as they could see on either side. The road before them stretched like a ribbon for the next three miles. Here and there it disappeared and reappeared again. In many places it was lapped by little waves. Everywhere the hedges were either altogether or half under water. In the distance was one farmhouse, only the roof of which was visible, and from which the inhabitants were clambering into a boat. And beyond, with scarcely a break save for the rising of one strangely-shaped hill, was the sea. Gerald pointed with his finger.

      “There’s St. David’s Hall,” he said, “on the other side of the hill. The road seems all right.”

      “Does it!” the chauffeur grunted. “It’s under water more than half the way, and Heaven knows how deep it is at the sides! I’m not going to risk my life along there. I am going to take the car back to Holt.”

      His hand was already upon the reverse lever, but Gerald gripped it.

      “Look here,” he protested, “we haven’t come all this way to turn back. You don’t look like a coward.”

      “I am not a coward, sir,” was the quiet answer. “Neither am I a fool. I don’t see any use in risking our lives and my master’s motor-car, because you want to get home.”

      “Naturally,” Gerald answered calmly, “but remember this. I am responsible for your car—not you. Mr. Fentolin is my uncle.”

      The chauffeur nodded shortly.

      “You’re Mr. Gerald Fentolin, aren’t you, sir?” he remarked. “I thought I recognised you.”

      “I am,” Gerald admitted. “We’ve had a rough journey, but it doesn’t seem sense to turn back now, does it, with the house in sight?”

      “That’s all very well, sir,” the chauffeur objected doubtfully, “but I don’t believe the road’s even passable, and the floods seem to me to be rising.”

      “Try it,” the young man begged. “Look here, I don’t want to bribe you, or anything of that sort. You know you’re coming out of this well. It’s a serious matter for me, and I shan’t be likely to forget it. I want to take this gentleman to St. David’s Hall and not to a hospital. You’ve brought me here so far like a man. Let’s go through with it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can both swim, I suppose, and we are not likely to get out of our depth.”

      The chauffeur moved his head backwards.

      “How about him?”

      “He must take his chance,” Gerald replied. “He’s all right where he is. The car won’t upset and there are plenty of people who’ll see if we get into trouble. Come, let’s make a dash for it.”

      The chauffeur thrust in his clutch and settled himself down. They glided off along that winding stretch of road. To its very edge, on either side of them, so close that they could almost touch it, came the water, water which stretched as far as they could see, swaying, waveless, sinister-looking. Even Gerald, after his first impulse of wonder, kept his eyes averted and fixed upon the road ahead. Soon they reached a place where the water met in front. There were only the rows of white palings on either side to guide them. The chauffeur muttered to himself as he changed to his first speed.

      “If the engine gets stopped,” he said, “I don’t know how we shall get out of this.”

      They emerged on the other side. For some time they had a clear run. Then suddenly the driver clapped on his brakes.

      “My God!” he cried. “We can’t get through that!”

      In front of them