The Vanished Messenger. E. Phillips Oppenheim

can’t be done, sir!” the man groaned. “There isn’t a car ever built could get through that. See, it’s nearly up to the top of those posts. I must put her in the reverse and get back, even if we have to wait on the higher part of the road for a boat.”

      He glanced behind, and a second cry broke from his lips. Gerald stood up in his place. Already the road which had been clear a few minutes before was hidden. The water was washing almost over the tops of the white posts behind them. Little waves were breaking against the summit of the raised bank.

      “We’re cut off!” the chauffeur exclaimed. “What a fool I was to try this! There’s the tide coming in as well!”

      Gerald sat down in his place.

      “Look here,” he said, “we can’t go back, whether we want to or not. It’s much worse behind there than it is in front. There’s only one chance. Go for it straight ahead in your first speed. It may not stop the engine. In any case, it will be worse presently. There’s no use funking it. If the worst happens, we can sit in the car. The water won’t be above our heads and there are some boats about. Blow your horn well first, in case there’s any one within hearing, and then go for it.”

      The chauffeur obeyed. They hissed and spluttered into the water. Soon all trace of the road was completely lost. They steered only by the tops of the white posts.

      “It’s getting deeper,” the man declared. “It’s within an inch or two of the bonnet now. Hold on.”

      A wave broke almost over them but the engine continued its beat.

      “If we stop now,” he gasped, “we’re done!”

      The engine began to knock.

      “Stick at it,” Gerald cried, rising in his place a little. “Look, there’s only one post lower than the last one that we passed. They get higher all the time, ahead. You can almost see the road in front there. Now, in with your gear again, and stick at it.”

      Another wave broke, this time completely over them. They listened with strained ears—the engine continued to beat. They still moved slowly. Then there was a shock. The wheel had struck something in the road—a great stone or rock. The chauffeur thrust the car out of gear. The engine still beat. Gerald leaped from the car. The water was over his knees. He crossed in front of the bonnet and stooped down.

      “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, tugging hard. “It’s a stone.”

      He moved it, rolled it on one side, and pushed at the wheel of the car as his companion put in the speed. They started again. He jumped back his place.

      “We’ve done it, all right!” he cried. “Don’t you see? It’s getting lower all the time.”

      The chauffeur had lost his nerve. His cheeks were pale, his teeth were chattering. The engine, however, was still beating. Gradually the pressure of the water grew less. In front of them they caught a glimpse of the road. They drew up at the top of a little bridge over one of the dikes. Gerald uttered a brief exclamation of triumph.

      “We’re safe!” he almost sobbed. “There’s the road, straight ahead and round to the right. There’s no more water anywhere near.”

      They had left the main part of the flood behind them. There were still great pools in the side of the road, and huge masses of seaweed had been carried up and were lying in their track. There was no more water, however. At every moment they drew nearer to the strangely-shaped hill with its crown of trees.

      “The house is on the other side,” Gerald pointed out. “We can go through the lodge gates at the back here. The ascent isn’t so steep.”

      They turned sharply to the right, along another stretch of straight road set with white posts, ending before a red brick lodge and a closed gate. They blew the horn and a gardener came out. He gazed at them in amazement.

      “It’s all right,” Gerald cried. “Let us through quickly, Foulds. We’ve a gentleman in behind who’s ill.”

      The man swung open the gate with a respectful salute. They made their way up a winding drive of considerable length, and at last they came to a broad, open space almost like a platform. On their left were the marshes, and beyond, the sea. Along their right stretched the long front of an Elizabethan mansion. They drew up in front of the hall door. Their coming had been observed, and servants were already waiting. Gerald sprang to the ground.

      “There’s a gentleman in behind who’s ill,” he explained to the butler. “He has met with an accident on the way. Three or four of you had better carry him up to a bedroom—any one that is ready. And you, George,” he added, turning to a boy, “get into the car and show this man the way round to the garage, and then take him to the servants’ hall.”

      Several of the servants hastened to do his bidding, and Gerald did his best to answer the eager but respectful stream of questions. And then, just as they were in the act of lifting the still unconscious man on to the floor of the hall, came a queer sound—a shrill, reverberating whistle. They all looked up the stairs.

      “The master is awake,” Henderson, the butler, remarked, dropping his voice a little.

      Gerald nodded.

      “I will go to him at once,” he said.

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

      Accustomed though he was to the sight which he was about to face, Gerald shivered slightly as he opened the door of Mr. Fentolin’s room. A strange sort of fear seemed to have crept into his bearing and expression, a fear of which there had been no traces whatever during those terrible hours through which he had passed—not even during that last reckless journey across the marshes. He walked with hesitating footsteps across the spacious and lofty room. He had the air of some frightened creature approaching his master. Yet all that was visible of the despot who ruled his whole household in deadly fear was the kindly and beautiful face of an elderly man, whose stunted limbs and body were mercifully concealed. He sat in a little carriage, with a rug drawn closely across his chest and up to his armpits. His beautifully shaped hands were exposed, and his face; nothing else. His hair was a silvery white; his complexion parchment-like, pallid, entirely colourless. His eyes were a soft shade of blue. His features were so finely cut and chiselled that they resembled some exquisite piece of statuary. He smiled as his nephew came slowly towards him. One might almost have fancied that the young man’s abject state was a source of pleasure to him.

      “So you are back again, my dear Gerald. A pleasant surprise, indeed, but what is the meaning of it? And what of my little commission, eh?”

      The young man’s face was dark and sullen. He spoke quickly but without any sign of eagerness or interest in the information he vouchsafed.

      “The storm has stopped all the trains,” he said. “The boat did not cross last night, and in any case I couldn’t have reached Harwich. As for your commission, I travelled down from London alone with the man you told me to spy upon. I could have stolen anything he had if I had been used to the work. As it was—I brought the man himself.”

      Mr. Fentolin’s delicate fingers played with the handle of his chair. The smile had passed from his lips. He looked at his nephew in gentle bewilderment.

      “My dear boy,” he protested, “come, come, be careful what you are saying. You have brought the man himself! So far as my information goes, Mr. John P. Dunster is charged with a very important diplomatic commission. He is on his way to Cologne, and from what I know about the man, I think that it would require more than your persuasions to induce him to break off his journey. You do not really wish me to believe that you have brought him here as a guest?”

      “I was at Liverpool Street Station last night,” Gerald declared. “I had no idea