← catalogue

The Pit-Prop Syndicate

by Freeman Wills Crofts · English · Gutenberg #2013 · 555,691 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Pit-Prop Syndicate
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Pit-Prop Syndicate

Author: Freeman Wills Crofts


        
Release date: December 1, 1999 [eBook #2013]
                Most recently updated: October 14, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2013

Credits: An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIT-PROP SYNDICATE ***




The Pit-Prop Syndicate

By Freeman Wills Crofts


Contents

 PART ONE. THE AMATEURS
 CHAPTER I. THE SAWMILL ON THE LESQUE
 CHAPTER II. AN INTERESTING SUGGESTION
 CHAPTER III. THE START OF THE CRUISE
 CHAPTER IV. A COMMERCIAL PROPOSITION
 CHAPTER V. THE VISIT OF THE “GIRONDIN”
 CHAPTER VI. A CHANGE OF VENUE
 CHAPTER VII. THE FERRIBY DEPOT
 CHAPTER VIII. THE UNLOADING OF THE “GIRONDIN”
 CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND CARGO
 CHAPTER X. MERRIMAN BECOMES DESPERATE
 CHAPTER XI. AN UNEXPECTED ALLY

 PART TWO. THE PROFESSIONALS
 CHAPTER XII. MURDER!
 CHAPTER XIII. A PROMISING CLUE
 CHAPTER XIV. A MYSTIFYING DISCOVERY
 CHAPTER XV. INSPECTOR WILLIS LISTENS IN
 CHAPTER XVI. THE SECRET OF THE SYNDICATE
 CHAPTER XVII. “ARCHER PLANTS STUFF”
 CHAPTER XVIII. THE BORDEAUX LORRIES
 CHAPTER XIX. WILLIS SPREADS HIS NET
 CHAPTER XX. THE DOUBLE CROSS




PART ONE.
THE AMATEURS




CHAPTER I.
THE SAWMILL ON THE LESQUE


Seymour Merriman was tired; tired of the jolting saddle of his motor
bicycle, of the cramped position of his arms, of the chug of the
engine, and most of all, of the dreary, barren country through which he
was riding. Early that morning he had left Pau, and with the exception
of an hour and a half at Bayonne, where he had lunched and paid a short
business call, he had been at it ever since. It was now after five
o’clock, and the last post he had noticed showed him he was still
twenty-six kilometers from Bordeaux, where he intended to spend the
night.

“This confounded road has no end,” he thought. “I really must stretch
my legs a bit.”

A short distance in front of him a hump in the white ribbon of the road
with parapet walls narrowing in at each side indicated a bridge. He cut
off his engine and, allowing the machine to coast, brought it to a
stand at the summit. Then dismounting, he slid it back on its bracket;
stretched himself luxuriously, and looked around.

In both directions, in front of him and behind, the road stretched,
level and monotonous as far as the eye could reach, as he had seen it
stretch, with but few exceptions, during the whole of the day’s run.
But whereas farther south it had led through open country, desolate,
depressing wastes of sand and sedge, here it ran through the heart of a
pine forest, in its own way as melancholy. The road seemed isolated,
cut off from the surrounding country, like to be squeezed out of
existence by the overwhelming barrier on either flank, a screen,
aromatic indeed, but dark, gloomy, and forbidding. Nor was the prospect
improved by the long, unsightly gashes which the resin collectors had
made on the trunks, suggesting, as they did, that the trees were
stricken by some disease. To Merriman the country seemed utterly
uninhabited. Indeed, since running through Labouheyre, now two hours
back, he could not recall having seen a single living creature except
those passing in motor cars, and of these even there were but few.

He rested his arms on the masonry coping of the old bridge and drew at
his cigarette. But for the distant rumble of an approaching vehicle,
the spring evening was very still. The river curved away gently towards
the left, flowing black and sluggish between its flat banks, on which
the pines grew down to the water’s edge. It was delightful to stay
quiet for a few moments, and Merriman took off his cap and let the cool
air blow on his forehead, enjoying the relaxation.

He was a pleasant-looking man of about eight-and-twenty, clean shaven
and with gray, honest eyes, dark hair slightly inclined to curl, and a
square, well-cut jaw. Business had brought him to France. Junior
partner in the firm of Edwards & Merriman, Wine Merchants, Gracechurch
Street, London, he annually made a tour of the exporters with whom his
firm dealt. He had worked across the south of the country from Cette to
Pau, and was now about to recross from Bordeaux to near Avignon, after
which his round would be complete. To him this part of his business was
a pleasure, and he enjoyed his annual trip almost as much as if it had
been a holiday.

The vehicle which he had heard in the distance was now close by, and he
turned idly to watch it pass. He did not know then that this slight
action, performed almost involuntarily, was to change his whole life,
and not only his, but the lives of a number of other people of whose
existence he was not then aware, was to lead to sorrow as well as
happiness, to crime as well as the vindication of the law, to... in
short, what is more to the point, had he not then looked round, this
story would never have been written.

The vehicle in itself was in no way remarkable. It was a motor lorry of
about five tons capacity, a heavy thing, travelling slowly. Merriman’s
attention at first focused itself on the driver. He was a man of about
thirty, good-looking, with thin, clear-cut features, an aquiline nose,
and dark, clever-looking eyes. Dressed though he was in rough working
clothes, there was a something in his appearance, in his pose, which
suggested a man of better social standing than his occupation
warranted.

“Ex-officer,” thought Merriman as his gaze passed on to the lorry
behind. It was painted a dirty green, and was empty except for a single
heavy casting, evidently part of some large and massive machine. On the
side of the deck was a brass plate bearing the words in English “The
Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 4.” Merriman was somewhat surprised to
see a nameplate in his own language in so unexpected a quarter, but the
matter really did not interest him and he soon dismissed it from his
mind.

The machine chuffed ponderously past, and Merriman, by now rested,
turned to restart his bicycle. But his troubles for the day were not
over. On the ground below his tank was a stain, and even as he looked,
a drop fell from the carburetor feed pipe, followed by a second and a
third.

He bent down to examine, and speedily found the cause of the trouble.
The feed pipe was connected to the bottom of the tank by a union, and
the nut, working slack, had allowed a small but steady leak. He
tightened the nut and turned to measure the petrol in the tank. A
glance showed him that a mere drain only remained.

“Curse it all,” he muttered, “that’s the second time that confounded
nut has left me in the soup.”

His position was a trifle awkward. He was still some twenty-five
kilometers from Bordeaux, and his machine would not carry him more than
perhaps two. Of course, he could stop the first car that approached,
and no doubt borrow enough petrol to make the city, but all day he had
noticed with surprise how few and far between the cars were, and there
was no certainty that one would pass within a reasonable time.

Then the sound of the receding lorry, still faintly audible, suggested
an idea. It was travelling so slowly that he might overtake it before
his petrol gave out. It was true he was going in the wrong direction,
and if he failed he would be still farther from his goal, but when you
are twenty-five kilometers from where you want to be, a few hundred
yards more or less is not worth worrying about.

He wheeled his machine round and followed the lorry at full speed. But
he had not more than started when he noticed his quarry turning to the
right. Slowly it disappeared into the forest.

“Funny I didn’t see that road,” thought Merriman as he bumped along.

He slackened speed when he reached the place where the lorry had
vanished, and then he saw a narrow lane just wide enough to allow the
big vehicle to pass, which curved away between the tree stems. The
surface was badly cut up with wheel tracks, so much so that Merriman
decided he could not ride it. He therefore dismounted, hid his bicycle
among the trees, and pushed on down the lane on foot. He was convinced
from his knowledge of the country that the latter must be a cul-de-sac,
at the end of which he would find the lorry. This he could hear not far
away, chugging slowly on in front of him.

The lane twisted incessantly, apparently to avoid the larger trees. The
surface was the virgin soil of the forest only, but the ruts had been
filled roughly with broken stones.

Merriman strode on, and suddenly, as he rounded one of the bends, he
got the surprise of his life.

Coming to meet him along the lane was a girl. This in itself was
perhaps not remarkable, but this girl seemed so out of place amid such
surroundings, or even in such a district, that Merriman was quite taken
aback.

She was of medium height, slender and graceful as a lily, and looked
about three-and-twenty. She was a study in brown. On her head was a
brown tam, a rich, warm brown, like the brown of autumn bracken on the
moor. She wore a brown jumper, brown skirt, brown stockings and little
brown brogued shoes. As she came closer, Merriman saw that her eyes,
friendly, honest eyes, were a shade of golden brown, and that a hint of
gold also gleamed in the brown of her hair. She was pretty, not
classically beautiful, but very charming and attractive-looking. She
walked with the free, easy movement of one accustomed to an out-of-door
life.

As they drew abreast Merriman pulled off his cap.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said in his somewhat halting French, “but
can you tell me if I could get some petrol close by?” and in a few
words he explained his predicament.

She looked him over with a sharp, scrutinizing glance. Apparently
satisfied, she smiled slightly and replied:

“But certainly, monsieur. Come to the mill and my father will get you
some. He is the manager.”

She spoke even more haltingly than he had, and with no semblance of a
French accent—the French rather of an English school. He stared at her.

“But you’re English!” he cried in surprise.

She laughed lightly.

“Of course I’m English,” she answered. “Why shouldn’t I be English? But
I don’t think you’re very polite about it, you know.”

He apologized in some confusion. It was the unexpectedness of meeting a
fellow-countryman in this out of the way wood... It was... He did not
mean....

“You want to say my French is not really so bad after all?” she said
relentlessly, and then: “I can tell you it’s a lot better than when we
came here.”

“Then you are a newcomer?”

“We’re not out very long. It’s rather a change from London, as you may
imagine. But it’s not such a bad country as it looks. At first I
thought it would be dreadful, but I have grown to like it.”

She had turned with him, and they were now walking together between the
tall, straight stems of the trees.

“I’m a Londoner,” said Merriman slowly. “I wonder if we have any mutual
acquaintances?”

“It’s hardly likely. Since my mother died some years ago we have lived
very quietly, and gone out very little.”

Merriman did not wish to appear inquisitive. He made a suitable reply
and, turning the conversation to the country, told her of his day’s
ride. She listened eagerly, and it was borne in upon him that she was
lonely, and delighted to have anyone to talk to. She certainly seemed a
charming girl, simple, natural and friendly, and obviously a lady.

But soon their walk came to an end. Some quarter of a mile from the
wood the lane debouched into a large, D-shaped clearing. It had
evidently been recently made, for the tops of many of the tree-stumps
dotted thickly over the ground were still white. Round the semicircle
of the forest trees were lying cut, some with their branches still
intact, others stripped clear to long, straight poles. Two small gangs
of men were at work, one felling, the other lopping.

Across the clearing, forming its other boundary and the straight side
of the D, ran a river, apparently from its direction that which
Merriman had looked down on from the road bridge. It was wider here, a
fine stretch of water, though still dark colored and uninviting from
the shadow of the trees. On its bank, forming a center to the cleared
semicircle, was a building, evidently the mill. It was a small place,
consisting of a single long narrow galvanized iron shed, and placed
parallel to the river. In front of the shed was a tiny wharf, and
behind it were stacks and stacks of tree trunks cut in short lengths
and built as if for seasoning. Decauville tramways radiated from the
shed, and the men were running in timber in the trucks. From the mill
came the hard, biting screech of a circular saw.

“A sawmill!” Merriman exclaimed rather unnecessarily.

“Yes. We cut pit-props for the English coal mines. Those are they you
see stacked up. As soon as they are drier they will be shipped across.
My father joined with some others in putting up the capital,
and—voila!” She indicated the clearing and its contents with a
comprehensive sweep of her hand.

“By Jove! A jolly fine notion, too, I should say. You have everything
handy—trees handy, river handy—I suppose from the look of that wharf
that sea-going ships can come up?”

“Shallow draughted ones only. But we have our own motor ship specially
built and always running. It makes the round trip in about ten days.”

“By Jove!” Merriman said again. “Splendid! And is that where you live?”

He pointed to a house standing on a little hillock near the edge of the
clearing at the far or down-stream side of the mill. It was a rough,
but not uncomfortable-looking building of galvanized iron, one-storied
and with a piazza in front. From a brick chimney a thin spiral of blue
smoke was floating up lazily into the calm air.

The girl nodded.

“It’s not palatial, but it’s really wonderfully comfortable,” she
explained, “and oh, the fires! I’ve never seen such glorious wood fires
as we have. Cuttings, you know. We have more blocks than we know what
to do with.”

“I can imagine. I wish we had ’em in London.”

They were walking not too rapidly across the clearing towards the mill.
At the back of the shed were a number of doors, and opposite one of
them, heading into the opening, stood the motor lorry. The engine was
still running, but the driver had disappeared, apparently into the
building. As the two came up, Merriman once more ran his eye idly over
the vehicle. And then he felt a sudden mild surprise, as one feels when
some unexpected though quite trivial incident takes place. He had felt
sure that this lorry standing at the mill door was that which had
passed him on the bridge, and which he had followed down the lane. But
now he saw it wasn’t. He had noted, idly but quite distinctly, that the
original machine was No. 4. This one had a precisely similar plate, but
it bore the legend “The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 3.”

Though the matter was of no importance, Merriman was a little
intrigued, and he looked more closely at the vehicle. As he did so his
surprise grew and his trifling interest became mystification. The lorry
was the same. At least there on the top was the casting, just as he had
seen it. It was inconceivable that two similar lorries should have two
identical castings arranged in the same way, and at the same time and
place. And yet, perhaps it was just possible.

But as he looked he noticed a detail which settled the matter. The
casting was steadied by some rough billets of wood. One of these
billets was split, and a splinter of curious shape had partially
entered a bolt hole. He recalled now, though it had slipped from his
memory, that he had noticed that queer-shaped splinter as the lorry
passed him on the bridge. It was therefore unquestionably and beyond a
shadow of doubt the same machine.

Involuntarily he stopped and stood staring at the number plate,
wondering if his recollection of that seen at the bridge could be at
fault. He thought not. In fact, he was certain. He recalled the shape
of the 4, which had an unusually small hollow in the middle. There was
no shadow of doubt of this either. He remained motionless for a few
seconds, puzzling over the problem, and was just about to remark on it
when the girl broke in hurriedly.

“Father will be in the office,” she said, and her voice was sharpened
as from anxiety. “Won’t you come and see him about the petrol?”

He looked at her curiously. The smile had gone from her lips, and her
face was pale. She was frowning, and in her eyes there showed
unmistakable fear. She was not looking at him, and his gaze followed
the direction of hers.

The driver had come out of the shed, the same dark, aquiline-featured
man as had passed him on the bridge. He had stopped and was staring at
Merriman with an intense regard in which doubt and suspicion rapidly
changed to hostility. For a moment neither man moved, and then once
again the girl’s voice broke in.

“Oh, there is father,” she cried, with barely disguised relief in her
tones. “Come, won’t you, and speak to him.”

The interruption broke the spell. The driver averted his eyes and
stooped over his engine; Merriman turned towards the girl, and the
little incident was over.

It was evident to Merriman that he had in some way put his foot in it,
how he could not imagine, unless there was really something in the
matter of the number plate. But it was equally clear to him that his
companion wished to ignore the affair, and he therefore expelled it
from his mind for the moment, and once again following the direction of
her gaze, moved towards a man who was approaching from the far end of
the shed.

He was tall and slender like his daughter, and walked with lithe,
slightly feline movements. His face was oval, clear skinned, and with a
pallid complexion made still paler by his dark hair and eyes and a tiny
mustache, almost black and with waxed and pointed ends. He was
good-looking as to features, but the face was weak and the expression a
trifle shifty.

His daughter greeted him, still with some perturbation in her manner.

“We were just looking for you, daddy,” she called a little
breathlessly. “This gentleman is cycling to Bordeaux and has run out of
petrol. He asked me if there was any to be had hereabouts, so I told
him you could give him some.”

The newcomer honored Merriman with a rapid though searching and
suspicious glance, but he replied politely, and in a cultured voice:

“Quite right, my dear.” He turned to Merriman and spoke in French. “I
shall be very pleased to supply you, monsieur. How much do you want?”

“Thanks awfully, sir,” Merriman answered in his own language. “I’m
English. It’s very good of you, I’m sure, and I’m sorry to be giving so
much trouble. A liter should run me to Bordeaux, or say a little more
in case of accidents.”

“I’ll give you two liters. It’s no trouble at all.” He turned and spoke
in rapid French to the driver.

“Oui, monsieur,” the man replied, and then, stepping up to his chief,
he said something in a low voice. The other started slightly, for a
moment looked concerned, then instantly recovering himself, advanced to
Merriman.

“Henri, here, will send a man with a two-liter can to where you have
left your machine,” he said, then continued with a suave smile:

“And so, sir, you’re English? It is not often that we have the pleasure
of meeting a fellow-countryman in these wilds.”

“I suppose not, sir, but I can assure you your pleasure and surprise is
as nothing to mine. You are not only a fellow-countryman but a friend
in need as well.”

“My dear sir, I know what it is to run out of spirit. And I suppose
there is no place in the whole of France where you might go farther
without finding any than this very district. You are on pleasure bent,
I presume?”

Merriman shook his head.

“Unfortunately, no,” he replied. “I’m travelling for my firm, Edwards &
Merriman, Wine Merchants of London. I’m Merriman, Seymour Merriman, and
I’m going round the exporters with whom we deal.”

“A pleasant way to do it, Mr. Merriman. My name is Coburn. You see I am
trying to change the face of the country here?”

“Yes, Miss”—Merriman hesitated for a moment and looked at the
girl—“Miss Coburn told me what you were doing. A splendid notion, I
think.”

“Yes, I think we are going to make it pay very well. I suppose you’re
not making a long stay?”

“Two days in Bordeaux, sir, then I’m off east to Avignon.”

“Do you know, I rather envy you. One gets tired of these tree trunks
and the noise of the saws. Ah, there is your petrol.” A workman had
appeared with a red can of Shell. “Well, Mr. Merriman, a pleasant
journey to you. You will excuse my not going farther with you, but I am
really supposed to be busy.” He turned to his daughter with a smile.
“You, Madeleine, can see Mr. Merriman to the road?”

He shook hands, declined Merriman’s request to be allowed to pay for
the petrol and, cutting short the other’s thanks with a wave of his
arm, turned back to the shed.

The two young people strolled slowly back across the clearing, the girl
evidently disposed to make the most of the unwonted companionship, and
Merriman no less ready to prolong so delightful an interview. But in
spite of the pleasure of their conversation, he could not banish from
his mind the little incident which had taken place, and he determined
to ask a discreet question or two about it.

“I say,” he said, during a pause in their talk, “I’m afraid I upset
your lorry man somehow. Did you notice the way he looked at me?”

The girl’s manner, which up to this had been easy and careless, changed
suddenly, becoming constrained and a trifle self-conscious. But she
answered readily enough.

“Yes, I saw it. But you must not mind Henri. He was badly
shell-shocked, you know, and he has never been the same since.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Merriman apologized, wondering if the man could be a
relative. “Both my brothers suffered from it. They were pretty bad, but
they’re coming all right. It’s generally a question of time, I think.”

“I hope so,” Miss Coburn rejoined, and quietly but decisively changed
the subject.

They began to compare notes about London, and Merriman was sorry when,
having filled his tank and pushed his bicycle to the road, he could no
longer with decency find an excuse for remaining in her company. He
bade her a regretful farewell, and some half-hour later was mounting
the steps of his hotel in Bordeaux.

That evening and many times later, his mind reverted to the incident of
the lorry. At the time she made it, Miss Coburn’s statement about the
shell-shock had seemed entirely to account for the action of Henri, the
driver. But now Merriman was not so sure. The more he thought over the
affair, the more certain he felt that he had not made a mistake about
the number plate, and the more likely it appeared that the driver had
guessed what he, Merriman, had noticed, and resented it. It seemed to
him that there was here some secret which the man was afraid might
become known, and Merriman could not but admit to himself that all Miss
Coburn’s actions were consistent with the hypothesis that she also
shared that secret and that fear.

And yet the idea was grotesque that there could be anything serious in
the altering of the number plate of a motor lorry, assuming that he was
not mistaken. Even if the thing had been done, it was a trivial matter
and, so far as he could see, the motives for it, as well as its
consequences, must be trivial. It was intriguing, but no one could
imagine it to be important. As Merriman cycled eastward through France
his interest in the affair gradually waned, and when, a fortnight
later, he reached England, he had ceased to give it a serious thought.

But the image of Miss Coburn did not so quickly vanish from his
imagination, and many times he regretted he had not taken an
opportunity of returning to the mill to renew the acquaintanceship so
unexpectedly begun.




CHAPTER II.
AN INTERESTING SUGGESTION


About ten o’clock on a fine evening towards the end of June, some six
weeks after the incident described in the last chapter, Merriman formed
one of a group of young men seated round the open window of the smoking
room in the Rovers’ Club in Cranbourne Street. They had dined together,
and were enjoying a slack hour and a little desultory conversation
before moving on, some to catch trains to the suburbs, some to their
chambers in town, and others to round off the evening with some
livelier form of amusement. The Rovers had premises on the fourth floor
of a large building near the Hippodrome. Its membership consisted
principally of business and professional men, but there was also a
sprinkling of members of Parliament, political secretaries, and minor
government officials, who, though its position was not ideal, were
attracted to it because of the moderation of its subscription and the
excellence of its cuisine.

The evening was calm, and the sounds from the street below seemed to
float up lazily to the little group in the open window, as the smoke of
their pipes and cigars floated up lazily to the ceiling above. The
gentle hum of the traffic made a pleasant accompaniment to their
conversation, as the holding down of a soft pedal fills in and supports
dreamy organ music. But for the six young men in the bow window the
room was untenanted, save for a waiter who had just brought some fresh
drinks, and who was now clearing away empty glasses from an adjoining
table.

The talk had turned on foreign travel, and more than one member had
related experiences which he had undergone while abroad. Merriman was
tired and had been rather silent, but it was suddenly borne in on him
that it was his duty, as one of the hosts of the evening, to contribute
somewhat more fully towards the conversation. He determined to relate
his little adventure at the sawmill of the Pit-Prop Syndicate. He
therefore lit a fresh cigar, and began to speak.

“Any of you fellows know the country just south of Bordeaux?” he asked,
and, as no one responded, he went on: “I know it a bit, for I have to
go through it every year on my trip round the wine exporters. This year
a rather queer thing happened when I was about half an hour’s run from
Bordeaux; absolutely a trivial thing and of no importance, you
understand, but it puzzled me. Maybe some of you could throw some light
on it?”

“Proceed, my dear sir, with your trivial narrative,” invited Jelfs, a
man sitting at one end of the group. “We shall give it the weighty
consideration which it doubtless deserves.”

Jelfs was a stockbroker and the professional wit of the party. He was a
good soul, but boring. Merriman took no notice of the interruption.

“It was between five and six in the evening,” he went on, and he told
in some detail of his day’s run, culminating in his visit to the
sawmill and his discovery of the alteration in the number of the lorry.
He gave the facts exactly as they had occurred, with the single
exception that he made no mention of his meeting with Madeleine Coburn.

“And what happened?” asked Drake, another of the men, when he had
finished.

“Nothing more happened,” Merriman returned. “The manager came and gave
me some petrol, and I cleared out. The point is, why should that number
plate have been changed?”

Jelfs fixed his eyes on the speaker, and gave the little sidelong nod
which indicated to the others that another joke was about to be
perpetrated.

“You say,” he asked impressively, “that the lorry was at first 4 and
then 3. Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake of 41?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that it’s a common enough phenomenon for a No. 4 lorry to
change, after lunch, let us say, into No. 44. Are you sure it wasn’t
44?”

Merriman joined in the laughter against him.

“It wasn’t forty-anything, you old blighter,” he said good-humoredly.
“It was 4 on the road, and 3 at the mill, and I’m as sure of it as that
you’re an amiable imbecile.”

“Inconclusive,” murmured Jelfs, “entirely inconclusive. But,” he
persisted, “you must not hold back material evidence. You haven’t told
us yet what you had at lunch.”

“Oh, stow it, Jelfs,” said Hilliard, a thin-faced, eager-looking young
man who had not yet spoken. “Have you no theory yourself, Merriman?”

“None. I was completely puzzled. I would have mentioned it before, only
it seemed to be making a mountain out of nothing.”

“I think Jelfs’ question should be answered, you know,” Drake said
critically, and after some more good-natured chaff the subject dropped.

Shortly after one of the men had to leave to catch his train, and the
party broke up. As they left the building Merriman found Hilliard at
his elbow.

“Are you walking?” the latter queried. “If so I’ll come along.”

Claud Hilliard was the son of a clergyman in the Midlands, a keen, not
to say brilliant student who had passed through both school and college
with distinction, and was already at the age of eight-and-twenty making
a name for himself on the headquarters staff of the Customs Department.
His thin, eager face, with its hooked nose, pale blue eyes and light,
rather untidy-looking hair, formed a true index of his nimble, somewhat
speculative mind. What he did, he did with his might. He was keenly
interested in whatever he took up, showing a tendency, indeed, to ride
his hobbies to death. He had a particular penchant for puzzles of all
kinds, and many a knotty problem brought to him as a last court of
appeal received a surprisingly rapid and complete solution. His
detractors, while admitting his ingenuity and the almost uncanny
rapidity with which he seized on the essential facts of a case, said he
was lacking in staying power, but if this were so, he had not as yet
shown signs of it.

He and Merriman had first met on business, when Hilliard was sent to
the wine merchants on some matter of Customs. The acquaintanceship thus
formed had ripened into a mild friendship, though the two had not seen
a great deal of each other.

They passed up Coventry Street and across the Circus into Piccadilly.
Hilliard had a flat in a side street off Knightsbridge, while Merriman
lived farther west in Kensington. At the door of the flat Hilliard
stopped.

“Come in for a last drink, won’t you?” he invited. “It’s ages since
you’ve been here.”

Merriman agreed, and soon the two friends were seated at another open
window in the small but comfortable sitting-room of the flat.

They chatted for some time, and then Hilliard turned the conversation
to the story Merriman had told in the club.

“You know,” he said, knocking the ash carefully off his cigar, “I was
rather interested in that tale of yours. It’s quite an intriguing
little mystery. I suppose it’s not possible that you could have made a
mistake about those numbers?”

Merriman laughed.

“I’m not exactly infallible, and I have, once or twice in my life, made
mistakes. But I don’t think I made one this time. You see, the only
question is the number at the bridge. The number at the mill is
certain. My attention was drawn to it, and I looked at it too often for
there to be the slightest doubt. It was No. 3 as certainly as I’m
alive. But the number at the bridge is different. There was nothing to
draw my attention to it, and I only glanced at it casually. I would say
that I was mistaken about it only for one thing. It was a black figure
on a polished brass ground, and I particularly remarked that the black
lines were very wide, leaving an unusually small brass triangle in the
center. If I noticed that, it must have been a 4.”

Hilliard nodded.

“Pretty conclusive, I should say.” He paused for a few moments, then
moved a little irresolutely. “Don’t think me impertinent, old man,” he
went on with a sidelong glance, “but I imagined from your manner you
were holding something back. Is there more in the story than you told?”

It was now Merriman’s turn to hesitate. Although Madeleine Coburn had
been in his thoughts more or less continuously since he returned to
town, he had never mentioned her name, and he was not sure that he
wanted to now.

“Sorry I spoke, old man,” Hilliard went on. “Don’t mind answering.”

Merriman came to a decision.

“Not at all” he answered slowly. “I’m a fool to make any mystery of it.
I’ll tell you. There is a girl there, the manager’s daughter. I met her
in the lane when I was following the lorry, and asked her about petrol.
She was frightfully decent; came back with me and told her father what
I wanted, and all that. But, Hilliard, here’s the point. She knew!
There’s something, and she knows it too. She got quite scared when that
driver fixed me with his eyes, and tried to get me away, and she was
quite unmistakably relieved when the incident passed. Then later her
father suggested she should see me to the road, and on the way I
mentioned the thing—said I was afraid I had upset the driver
somehow—and she got embarrassed at once, told me the man was
shell-shocked, implying that he was queer, and switched off on to
another subject so pointedly I had to let it go at that.”

Hilliard’s eyes glistened.

“Quite a good little mystery,” he said. “I suppose the man couldn’t
have been a relation, or even her fiancee?”

“That occurred to me, and it is possible. But I don’t think so. I
believe she wanted to try to account for his manner, so as to prevent
my smelling a rat.”

“And she did not account for it?”

“Perhaps she did, but again I don’t think so. I have a pretty good
knowledge of shell-shock, as you know, and it didn’t look like it to
me. I don’t suggest she wasn’t speaking the truth. I mean that this
particular action didn’t seem to be so caused.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Merriman continued:

“There was another thing which might bear in the same direction, or
again it may only be my imagination—I’m not sure of it. I told you the
manager appeared just in the middle of the little scene, but I forgot
to tell you that the driver went up to him and said something in a low
tone, and the manager started and looked at me and seemed annoyed. But
it was very slight and only for a second; I would have noticed nothing
only for what went before. He was quite polite and friendly immediately
after, and I may have been mistaken and imagined the whole thing.”

“But it works in,” Hilliard commented. “If the driver saw what you were
looking at and your expression, he would naturally guess what you had
noticed, and he would warn his boss that you had tumbled to it. The
manager would look surprised and annoyed for a moment, then he would
see he must divert your suspicion, and talk to you as if nothing had
happened.”

“Quite. That’s just what I thought. But again, I may have been
mistaken.”

They continued discussing the matter for some time longer, and then the
conversation turned into other channels. Finally the clocks chiming
midnight aroused Merriman, and he got up and said he must be going.

Three days later he had a note from Hilliard.

“Come in tonight about ten if you are doing nothing,” it read. “I have
a scheme on, and I hope you’ll join in with me. Tell you when I see
you.”

It happened that Merriman was not engaged that evening, and shortly
after ten the two men were occupying the same arm-chairs at the same
open window, their glasses within easy reach and their cigars well
under way.

“And what is your great idea?” Merriman asked when they had conversed
for a few moments. “If it’s as good as your cigars, I’m on.”

Hilliard moved nervously, as if he found a difficulty in replying.
Merriman could see that he was excited, and his own interest quickened.

“It’s about that tale of yours,” Hilliard said at length. “I’ve been
thinking it over.”

He paused as if in doubt. Merriman felt like Alice when she had heard
the mock-turtle’s story, but he waited in silence, and presently
Hilliard went on.

“You told it with a certain amount of hesitation,” he said. “You
suggested you might be mistaken in thinking there was anything in it.
Now I’m going to make a suggestion with even more hesitation, for it’s
ten times wilder than yours, and there is simply nothing to back it up.
But here goes all the same.”

His indecision had passed now, and he went on fluently and with a
certain excitement.

“Here you have a trade with something fishy about it. Perhaps you think
that’s putting it too strongly; if so, let us say there is something
peculiar about it; something, at all events, to call one’s attention to
it, as being in some way out of the common. And when we do think about
it, what’s the first thing we discover?”

Hilliard looked inquiringly at his friend. The latter sat listening
carefully, but did not speak, and Hilliard answered his own question.

“Why, that it’s an export trade from France to England—an export trade
only, mind you. As far as you learned, these people’s boat runs the
pit-props to England, but carries nothing back. Isn’t that so?”

“They didn’t mention return cargoes,” Merriman answered, “but that
doesn’t mean there aren’t any. I did not go into the thing
exhaustively.”

“But what could there be? What possible thing could be shipped in bulk
from this country to the middle of a wood near Bordeaux? Something,
mind you, that you, there at the very place, didn’t see. Can you think
of anything?”

“Not at the moment. But I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

“Quite possibly nothing, and yet it’s an interesting point.”

“Don’t see it.”

“Well, look here. I’ve been making inquiries, and I find most of our
pit-props come from Norway and the Baltic. But the ships that bring
them don’t go back empty. They carry coal. Now do you see?”

It was becoming evident that Hilliard was talking of something quite
definite, and Merriman’s interest increased still further.

“I daresay I’m a frightful ass,” he said, “but I’m blessed if I know
what you’re driving at.”

“Costs,” Hilliard returned. “Look at it from the point of view of
costs. Timber in Norway is as plentiful and as cheap to cut as in the
Landes, indeed, possibly cheaper, for there is water there available
for power. But your freight will be much less if you can get a return
cargo. Therefore, _a priori_, it should be cheaper to bring props from
Norway than from France. Do you follow me so far?”

Merriman nodded.

“If it costs the same amount to cut the props at each place,” Hilliard
resumed, “and the Norwegian freight is lower, the Norwegian props must
be cheaper in England. How then do your friends make it pay?”

“Methods more up to date perhaps. Things looked efficient, and that
manager seemed pretty wide-awake.”

Hilliard shook his head.

“Perhaps, but I doubt it. I don’t think you have much to teach the
Norwegians about the export of timber. Mind you, it may be all right,
but it seems to me a question if the Bordeaux people have a paying
trade.”

Merriman was puzzled.

“But it must pay or they wouldn’t go on with it. Mr. Coburn said it was
paying well enough.”

Hilliard bent forward eagerly.

“Of course he would say so,” he cried. “Don’t you see that his saying
so is in itself suspicious? Why should he want to tell you that if
there was nothing to make you doubt it?”

“There is nothing to make me doubt it. See here, Hilliard, I don’t for
the life of me know what you’re getting at. For the Lord’s sake explain
yourself.”

“Ah,” Hilliard returned with a smile, “you see you weren’t brought up
in the Customs. Do you know, Merriman, that the thing of all others
we’re keenest on is an import trade that doesn’t pay?” He paused a
moment, then added slowly: “Because if a trade which doesn’t pay is
continued, there must be something else to make it pay. Just think,
Merriman. What would make a trade from France to this country pay?”

Merriman gasped.

“By Jove, Hilliard! You mean smuggling?”

Hilliard laughed delightedly.

“Of course I mean smuggling, what else?”

He waited for the idea to sink into his companion’s brain, and then
went on:

“And now another thing. Bordeaux, as no one knows better than yourself,
is just the center of the brandy district. You see what I’m getting at.
My department would naturally be interested in a mysterious trade from
the Bordeaux district. You accidentally find one. See? Now what do you
think of it?”

“I don’t think much of it,” Merriman answered sharply, while a wave of
unreasoning anger passed over him. The suggestion annoyed him
unaccountably. The vision of Madeleine Coburn’s clear, honest eyes
returned forcibly to his recollection. “I’m afraid you’re out of it
this time. If you had seen Miss Coburn you would have known she is not
the sort of girl to lend herself to anything of that kind.”

Hilliard eyed his friend narrowly and with some surprise, but he only
said:

“You think not? Well, perhaps you are right. You’ve seen her and I
haven’t. But those two points are at least interesting—the changing of
the numbers and the absence of a return trade.”

“I don’t believe there’s anything in it.”

“Probably you’re right, but the idea interests me. I was going to make
a proposal, but I expect now you won’t agree to it.”

Merriman’s momentary annoyance was subsiding.

“Let’s hear it anyway, old man,” he said in conciliatory tones.

“You get your holidays shortly, don’t you?”

“Monday week. My partner is away now, but he’ll be back on Wednesday. I
go next.”

“I thought so. I’m going on mine next week—taking the motor launch, you
know. I had made plans for the Riviera—to go by the Seine, and from
there by canal to the Rhone and out at Marseilles. Higginson was coming
with me, but as you know he’s crocked up and won’t be out of bed for a
month. My proposal is that you come in his place, and that instead of
crossing France in the orthodox way by the Seine, we try to work
through from Bordeaux by the Garonne. I don’t know if we can do it, but
it would be rather fun trying. But anyway the point would be that we
should pay a call at your sawmill on the way, and see if we can learn
anything more about the lorry numbers. What do you say?”

“Sounds jolly fascinating.” Merriman had quite recovered his good
humor. “But I’m not a yachtsman. I know nothing about the business.”

“Pooh! What do you want to know? We’re not sailing, and motoring
through these rivers and canals is great sport. And then we can go on
to Monte and any of those places you like. I’ve done it before and had
no end of a good time. What do you say? Are you on?”

“It’s jolly decent of you, I’m sure, Hilliard. If you think you can put
up with a hopeless landlubber, I’m certainly on.”

Merriman was surprised to find how much he was thrilled by the
proposal. He enjoyed boating, though only very mildly, and it was
certainly not the prospect of endless journeyings along the canals and
rivers of France that attracted him. Still less was it the sea, of
which he hated the motion. Nor was it the question of the lorry
numbers. He was puzzled and interested in the affair, and he would like
to know the solution, but his curiosity was not desperately keen, and
he did not feel like taking a great deal of trouble to satisfy it. At
all events he was not going to do any spying, if that was what Hilliard
wanted, for he did not for a moment accept that smuggling theory. But
when they were in the neighborhood he supposed it would be permissible
to call and see the Coburns. Miss Coburn had seemed lonely. It would be
decent to try to cheer her up. They might invite her on board, and have
tea and perhaps a run up the river. He seemed to visualize the launch
moving easily between the tree-clad banks, Hilliard attending to the
engine and steering, he and the brown-eyed girl in the taffrail, or the
cockpit, or the well, or whatever you sat in on a motor boat. He
pictured a gloriously sunny afternoon, warm and delightful, with just
enough air made by the movement to prevent it being too hot. It
would...

Hilliard’s voice broke in on his thoughts, and he realized his friend
had been speaking for some time.

“She’s over-engined, if anything,” he was saying, “but that’s all to
the good for emergencies. I got fifteen knots out of her once, but she
averages about twelve. And good in a sea-way, too. For her size, as dry
a boat as ever I was in.”

“What size is she?” asked Merriman.

“Thirty feet, eight feet beam, draws two feet ten. She’ll go down any
of the French canals. Two four-cylinder engines, either of which will
run her. Engines and wheel amidships, cabin aft, decked over. Oh, she’s
a beauty. You’ll like her, I can tell you.”

“But do you mean to tell me you would cross the Bay of Biscay in a boat
that size?”

“The Bay’s maligned. I’ve been across it six times and it was only
rough once. Of course, I’d keep near the coast and run for shelter if
it came on to blow. You need not worry. She’s as safe as a house.”

“I’m not worrying about her going to the bottom,” Merriman answered.
“It’s much worse than that. The fact is,” he went on in a burst of
confidence, “I can’t stand the motion. I’m ill all the time. Couldn’t I
join you later?”

Hilliard nodded.

“I had that in my mind, but I didn’t like to suggest it. As a matter of
fact it would suit me better. You see, I go on my holidays a week
earlier than you. I don’t want to hang about all that time waiting for
you. I’ll get a man and take the boat over to Bordeaux, send the man
home, and you can come overland and join me there. How would that suit
you?”

“A1, Hilliard. Nothing could be better.”

They continued discussing details for the best part of an hour, and
when Merriman left for home it had been arranged that he should follow
Hilliard by the night train from Charing Cross on the following Monday
week.




CHAPTER III.
THE START OF THE CRUISE


Dusk was already falling when the 9 p.m. Continental boat-train pulled
out of Charing Cross, with Seymour Merriman in the corner of a
first-class compartment. It had been a glorious day of clear atmosphere
and brilliant sunshine, and there was every prospect of a spell of good
weather. Now, as the train rumbled over the bridge at the end of the
station, sky and river presented a gorgeous color scheme of crimson and
pink and gold, shading off through violet and gray to nearly black.
Through the latticing of the girders the great buildings on the
northern bank showed up for a moment against the light beyond, dark and
somber masses with nicked and serrated tops, then, the river crossed,
nearer buildings intervened to cut off the view, and the train plunged
into the maze and wilderness of South London.

The little pleasurable excitement which Merriman had experienced when
first the trip had been suggested had not waned as the novelty of the
idea passed. Not since he was a boy at school had he looked forward so
keenly to holidays. The launch, for one thing, would be a new
experience. He had never been on any kind of cruise. The nearest
approach had been a couple of days’ yachting on the Norfolk Broads, but
he had found that monotonous and boring, and had been glad when it was
over. But this, he expected, would be different. He delighted in poking
about abroad, not in the great cosmopolitan hotels, which after all are
very much the same all the world over, but where he came in contact
with actual foreign life. And how better could a country be seen than
by slowly motoring through its waterways? Merriman was well pleased
with the prospect.

And then there would be Hilliard. Merriman had always enjoyed his
company, and he felt he would be an ideal companion on a tour. It was
true Hilliard had got a bee in his bonnet about this lorry affair.
Merriman was mildly interested in the thing, but he would never have
dreamed of going back to the sawmill to investigate. But Hilliard
seemed quite excited about it. His attitude, no doubt, might be partly
explained by his love of puzzles and mysteries. Perhaps also he half
believed in his absurd suggestion about the smuggling, or at least felt
that if it _were_ true there was the chance of his making some _coup_
which would also make his name. How a man’s occupation colors his mind!
thought Merriman. Here was Hilliard, and because he was in the Customs
his ideas ran to Customs operations, and when he came across anything
he did not understand he at once suggested smuggling. If he had been a
soldier he would have guessed gun-running, and if a politician, a means
of bringing anarchist literature into the country. Well, he had not
seen Madeleine Coburn! He would soon drop so absurd a notion when he
had met her. The idea of her being party to such a thing was too
ridiculous even to be annoying.

However, Hilliard insisted on going to the mill, and he, Merriman,
could then pay that call on the Coburns. It would not be polite to be
in the neighborhood and not do so. And it would be impossible to call
without asking Miss Coburn to come on the river. As the train rumbled
on through the rapidly darkening country Merriman began once again to
picture the details of that excursion. No doubt they could have tea on
board.... He mustn’t forget to buy some decent cakes in Bordeaux....
Perhaps she would help him to get it ready while Hilliard steered and
pottered over his old engines.... He could just imagine her bending
over a tea tray, her graceful figure, the little brown tendrils of her
hair at the edge of her tam-o’-shanter, her brown eyes flashing up to
meet his own....

Dover came unexpectedly soon and Merriman had to postpone the further
consideration of his plans until he had gone on board the boat and
settled down in a corner of the smoker room. There, however, he fell
asleep, not awaking until roused by the bustle of the arrival in
Calais.

He reached Paris just before six and drove to the Gare d’-Orsay, where
he had time for a bath and breakfast before catching the 7.50 a.m.
express for Bordeaux. Again it was a perfect day, and as the hours
passed and they ran steadily southward through the pleasing but
monotonous central plain of France, the heat grew more and more
oppressive. Poitiers was hot, Angouleme an oven, and Merriman was not
sorry when at a quarter to five they came in sight of the Garonne at
the outskirts of Bordeaux and a few moments later pulled up in the
Bastide Station.

Hilliard was waiting at the platform barrier.

“Hallo, old man,” he cried. “Jolly to see you. Give me one of your
handbags. I’ve got a taxi outside.”

Merriman handed over the smaller of the two small suitcases he carried,
having, in deference to Hilliard’s warnings, left behind most of the
things he wanted to bring. They found the taxi and drove out at once
across the great stone bridge leading from the Bastide Station and
suburb on the east bank to the main city on the west. In front of them
lay the huge concave sweep of quays fronting the Garonne, here a river
of over a quarter of a mile in width, with behind the massed buildings
of the town, out of which here and there rose church spires and,
farther down-stream, the three imposing columns of the Place des
Quinconces.

“Some river, this,” Merriman said, looking up and down the great sweep
of water.

“Rather. I have the _Swallow_ ’longside a private wharf farther
up-stream. Rather tumble-down old shanty, but it’s easier than mooring
in the stream and rowing out. We’ll go and leave your things aboard,
and then we can come up town again and get some dinner.”

“Right-o,” Merriman agreed.

Having crossed the bridge they turned to the left, upstream, and ran
along the quays towards the south. After passing the railway bridge the
taxi swung down towards the water’s edge, stopping at a somewhat
decrepit enclosure, over the gate of which was the legend “Andre
Leblanc, Location de Canots.” Hilliard jumped out, paid the taxi man,
and, followed by Merriman, entered the enclosure.

It was a small place, with a wooden quay along the river frontage and a
shed at the opposite side. Between the two lay a number of boats. Trade
appeared to be bad, for there was no life about the place and
everything was dirty and decaying.

“There she is,” Hilliard cried, with a ring of pride in his voice.
“Isn’t she a beauty?”

The _Swallow_ was tied up alongside the wharf, her bow upstream, and
lay tugging at her mooring ropes in the swift run of the ebb tide.
Merriman’s first glance at her was one of disappointment. He had
pictured a graceful craft of well-polished wood, with white deck
planks, shining brasswork and cushioned seats. Instead he saw a
square-built, clumsy-looking boat, painted, where the paint was not
worn off, a sickly greenish white, and giving a general impression of
dirt and want of attention. She was flush-decked, and sat high in the
water, with a freeboard of nearly five feet. A little forward of
amidships was a small deck cabin containing a brass wheel and binnacle.
Aft of the cabin, in the middle of the open space of the deck, was a
skylight, the top of which formed two short seats placed back to back.
Forward rose a stumpy mast carrying a lantern cage near the top, and
still farther forward, almost in the bows, lay an unexpectedly massive
anchor, housed in grids, with behind it a small hand winch for pulling
in the chain.

“We had a bit of a blow coming round the Coubre into the river,”
Hilliard went on enthusiastically, “and I tell you she didn’t ship a
pint. The cabin bone dry, and green water coming over her all the
time.”

Merriman could believe it. Though his temporary home was not beautiful,
he could see that she was strong; in fact, she was massive. But he
thanked his stars he had not assisted in the test. He shuddered at the
very idea, thinking gratefully that to reach Bordeaux the Paris-Orleans
Railway was good enough for him.

But, realizing it was expected of him, he began praising the boat,
until the unsuspecting Hilliard believed him as enthusiastic as
himself.

“Yes, she’s all of that,” he agreed. “Come aboard and see the cabin.”

They descended a flight of steps let into the front of the wharf, wet,
slippery, ooze-covered steps left bare by the receding tide, and
stepping over the side entered the tiny deckhouse.

“This is the chart-house, shelter, and companion-way all in one,”
Hilliard explained. “All the engine controls come up here, and I can
reach them with my left hand while steering with my right.” He
demonstrated as he spoke, and Merriman could not but agree that the
arrangements were wonderfully compact and efficient.

“Come below now,” went on the proud owner, disappearing down a steep
flight of steps against one wall of the house.

The hull was divided into three compartments; amidships the engine room
with its twin engines, forward a store containing among other things a
collapsible boat, and aft a cabin with lockers on each side, a folding
table between them, and a marble-topped cupboard on which was a Primus
stove.

The woodwork was painted the same greenish white as the outside, but it
was soiled and dingy, and the whole place looked dirty and untidy.
There was a smell of various oils, paraffin predominating.

“You take the port locker,” Hilliard explained. “You see, the top of it
lifts and you can stow your things in it. When there are only two of us
we sleep on the lockers. You’ll find a sheet and blankets inside.
There’s a board underneath that turns up to keep you in if she’s
rolling; not that we shall want it until we get to the Mediterranean.
I’m afraid,” he went on, answering Merriman’s unspoken thought, “the
place is not very tidy. I hadn’t time to do much squaring—I’ll tell you
about that later. I suppose”—reluctantly—“we had better turn to and
clean up a bit before we go to bed. But”—brightening up again—“not now.
Let’s go up town and get some dinner as soon as you are ready.”

He fussed about, explaining with the loving and painstaking minuteness
of the designer as well as the owner, the various contraptions the boat
contained, and when he had finished, Merriman felt that, could he but
remember his instructions, there were few situations with which he
could not cope or by which he could be taken unawares.

A few minutes later the two friends climbed once more up the slippery
steps, and, strolling slowly up the town, entered one of the large
restaurants in the Place de la Comedie.

Since Merriman’s arrival Hilliard had talked vivaciously, and his thin,
hawk-like face had seemed even more eager than the wine merchant had
ever before seen it. At first the latter had put it down to the natural
interest of his own arrival, the showing of the boat to a new-comer,
and the start of the cruise generally, but as dinner progressed he
began to feel there must be some more tangible cause for the excitement
his friend was so obviously feeling. It was not Merriman’s habit to
beat about the bush.

“What is it?” he asked during a pause in the conversation.

“What is what?” returned Hilliard, looking uncomprehendingly at his
friend.

“Wrong with you. Here you are, jumping about as if you were on pins and
needles and gabbling at the rate of a thousand words a minute. What’s
all the excitement about?”

“I’m not excited,” Hilliard returned seriously, “but I admit being a
little interested by what has happened since we parted that night in
London. I haven’t told you yet. I was waiting until we had finished
dinner and could settle down. Let’s go and sit in the Jardin and you
shall hear.”

Leaving the restaurant, they strolled to the Place des Quinconces,
crossed it, and entered the Jardin Public. The band was not playing
and, though there were a number of people about, the place was by no
means crowded, and they were able to find under a large tree set back a
little from one of the walks, two vacant chairs. Here they sat down,
enjoying the soft evening air, warm but no longer too warm, and
watching the promenading Bordelais.

“Yes,” Hilliard resumed as he lit a cigar, “I have had quite an
interesting time. You shall hear. I got hold of Maxwell of the
telephones, who is a yachtsman, and who was going to Spain on holidays.
Well, the boat was laid up at Southampton, and we got down about midday
on Monday week. We spent that day overhauling her and getting in
stores, and on Tuesday we ran down Channel, putting into Dartmouth for
the night and to fill with petrol. Next day was our big day—across to
Brest, something like 170 miles, mostly open sea, and with Ushant at
the end of it—a beastly place, generally foggy and always with bad
currents. We intended to wait in the Dart for good weather, and we
wired the Meteorological Office for forecasts. It happened that on
Tuesday night there was a first-rate forecast, so on Wednesday we
decided to risk it. We slipped out past the old castle at Dartmouth at
5 a.m., had a topping run, and were in Brest at seven that evening.
There we filled up again, and next day, Thursday, we made St. Nazaire,
at the mouth of the Loire. We had intended to make a long day of it on
Friday and come right here, but as I told you it came on to blow a bit
off the Coubre, and we could only make the mouth of the river. We put
into a little place called Le Verdon, just inside the Pointe de
Grave—that’s the end of that fork of land on the southern side of the
Gironde estuary. On Saturday we got here about midday, hunted around,
found that old wharf and moored. Maxwell went on the same evening to
Spain.”

Hilliard paused, while Merriman congratulated him on his journey.

“Yes, we hadn’t bad luck,” he resumed. “But that really wasn’t what I
wanted to tell you about. I had brought a fishing rod and outfit, and
on Sunday I took a car and drove out along the Bayonne Road until I
came to your bridge over that river—the Lesque I find it is. I told the
chap to come back for me at six, and I walked down the river and did a
bit of prospecting. The works were shut, and by keeping the mill
building between me and the manager’s house, I got close up and had a
good look round unobserved—at least, I think I was unobserved. Well, I
must say the whole business looked genuine. There’s no question those
tree cuttings are pit-props, and I couldn’t see a single thing in the
slightest degree suspicious.”

“I told you there could be nothing really wrong,” Merriman interjected.

“I know you did, but wait a minute. I got back to the forest again in
the shelter of the mill building, and I walked around through the trees
and chose a place for what I wanted to do next morning. I had decided
to spend the day watching the lorries going to and from the works, and
I naturally wished to remain unobserved myself. The wood, as you know,
is very open. The trees are thick, but there is very little
undergrowth, and it’s nearly impossible to get decent cover. But at
last I found a little hollow with a mound between it and the lane and
road—just a mere irregularity in the surface like what a Tommy would
make when he began to dig himself in. I thought I could lie there
unobserved, and see what went on with my glass. I have a very good
prism monocular—twenty-five diameter magnification, with a splendid
definition. From my hollow I could just see through the trees vehicles
passing along the main road, but I had a fairly good view of the lane
for at least half its length. The view, of course, was broken by the
stems, but still I should be able to tell if any games were tried on. I
made some innocent looking markings so as to find the place again, and
then went back to the river and so to the bridge and my taxi.”

Hilliard paused and drew at his cigar. Merriman did not speak. He was
leaning forward, his face showing the interest he felt.

“Next morning, that was yesterday, I took another taxi and returned to
the bridge, again dressed as a fisherman. I had brought some lunch, and
I told the man to return for me at seven in the evening. Then I found
my hollow, lay down and got out my glass. I was settled there a little
before nine o’clock.

“It was very quiet in the wood. I could hear faintly the noise of the
saws at the mill and a few birds were singing, otherwise it was
perfectly still. Nothing happened for about half an hour, then the
first lorry came. I heard it for some time before I saw it. It passed
very slowly along the road from Bordeaux, then turned into the lane and
went along it at almost walking pace. With my glass I could see it
distinctly and it had a label plate same as you described, and was No.
6. It was empty. The driver was a young man, clean-shaven and
fairhaired.

“A few minutes later a second empty lorry appeared coming from
Bordeaux. It was No. 4, and the driver was, I am sure, the man you saw.
He was like your description of him at all events. This lorry also
passed along the lane towards the works.

“There was a pause then for an hour or more. About half-past ten the
No. 4 lorry with your friend appeared coming along the lane outward
bound. It was heavily loaded with firewood and I followed it along,
going very slowly and bumping over the inequalities of the lane. When
it got to a point about a hundred yards from the road, at, I afterwards
found, an S curve which cut off the view in both directions, it stopped
and the driver got down. I need not tell you that I watched him
carefully and, Merriman, what do you, think I saw him do?”

“Change the number plate?” suggested Merriman with a smile.

“Change the number plate!” repeated Hilliard. “As I’m alive, that’s
exactly what he did. First on one side and then on the other. He
changed the 4 to a 1. He took the 1 plates out of his pocket and put
the 4 plates back instead, and the whole thing just took a couple of
seconds, as if the plates slipped in and out of a holder. Then he
hopped up into his place again and started off. What do you think of
that?”

“Goodness only knows,” Merriman returned slowly. “An extraordinary
business.”

“Isn’t it? Well, that lorry went on out of sight. I waited there until
after six, and four more passed. About eleven o’clock No. 6 with the
clean-shaven driver passed out, loaded, so far as I could see, with
firewood. That was the one that passed in empty at nine. Then there was
a pause until half past two, when your friend returned with his lorry.
It was empty this time, and it was still No. 1. But I’m blessed,
Merriman, if he didn’t stop at the same place and change the number
back to 4!”

“Lord!” said Merriman tersely, now almost as much interested as his
friend.

“It only took a couple of seconds, and then the machine lumbered on
towards the mill. I was pretty excited, I can tell you, but I decided
to sit tight and await developments. The next thing was the return of
No. 6 lorry and the clean-shaven driver. You remember it had started
out loaded at about eleven. It came back empty shortly after the other,
say about a quarter to three. It didn’t stop and there was no change
made with its number. Then there was another pause. At half past three
your friend came out again with another load. This time he was driving
No. 1, and I waited to see him stop and change it. But he didn’t do
either. Sailed away with the number remaining 1. Queer, isn’t it?”

Merriman nodded and Hilliard resumed.

“I stayed where I was, still watching, but I saw no more lorries. But I
saw Miss Coburn pass about ten minutes later—at least I presume it was
Miss Coburn. She was dressed in brown, and was walking smartly along
the lane towards the road. In about an hour she passed back. Then about
five minutes past five some workmen went by—evidently the day ends at
five. I waited until the coast was clear, then went down to the lane
and had a look round where the lorry had stopped and saw it was a
double bend and therefore the most hidden point. I walked back through
the wood to the bridge, picked up my taxi and got back here about half
past seven.”

There was silence for some minutes after Hilliard ceased speaking, then
Merriman asked:

“How long did you say those lorries were away unloading?”

“About four hours.”

“That would have given them time to unload in Bordeaux?”

“Yes; an hour and a half, the same out, and an hour in the city. Yes,
that part of it is evidently right enough.”

Again silence reigned, and again Merriman broke it with a question.

“You have no theory yourself?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Do you think that driver mightn’t have some private game of his own
on—be somehow doing the syndicate?”

“What about your own argument?” answered Hilliard. “Is it likely Miss
Coburn would join the driver in anything shady? Remember, your
impression was that she knew.”

Merriman nodded.

“That’s right,” he agreed, continuing slowly: “Supposing for a moment
it was smuggling. How would that help you to explain this affair?”

“It wouldn’t. I can get no light anywhere.”

The two men smoked silently, each busy with his thoughts. A certain
aspect of the matter which had always lain subconsciously in Merriman’s
mind was gradually taking concrete form. It had not assumed much
importance when the two friends were first discussing their trip, but
now that they were actually at grips with the affair it was becoming
more obtrusive, and Merriman felt it must be faced. He therefore spoke
again.

“You know, old man, there’s one thing I’m not quite clear about. This
affair that you’ve discovered is extraordinarily interesting and all
that, but I’m hanged if I can see what business of ours it is.”

Hilliard nodded swiftly.

“I know,” he answered quickly. “The same thing has been bothering me. I
felt really mean yesterday when that girl came by, as if I were spying
on her, you know. I wouldn’t care to do it again. But I want to go on
to this place and see into the thing farther, and so do you.”

“I don’t know that I do specially.”

“We both do,” Hilliard reiterated firmly, “and we’re both justified.
See here. Take my case first. I’m in the Customs Department, and it is
part of my job to investigate suspicious import trades. Am I not
justified in trying to find out if smuggling is going on? Of course I
am. Besides, Merriman, I can’t pretend not to know that if I brought
such a thing to light I should be a made man. Mind you, we’re not out
to do these people any harm, only to make sure they’re not harming us.
Isn’t that sound?”

“That may be all right for you, but I can’t see that the affair is any
business of mine.”

“I think it is.” Hilliard spoke very quietly. “I think it’s your
business and mine—the business of any decent man. There’s a chance that
Miss Coburn may be in danger. We should make sure.”

Merriman sat up sharply.

“In Heaven’s name, what do you mean, Hilliard?” he cried fiercely.
“What possible danger could she be in?”

“Well, suppose there is something wrong—only suppose, I say,” as the
other shook his head impatiently. “If there is, it’ll be on a big
scale, and therefore the men who run it won’t be over squeamish. Again,
if there’s anything, Miss Coburn knows about it. Oh, yes, she does,” he
repeated as Merriman would have dissented, “there is your own evidence.
But if she knows about some large, shady undertaking, she undoubtedly
may be in both difficulty and danger. At all events, as long as the
chance exists it’s up to us to make sure.”

Merriman rose to his feet and began to pace up and down, his head bent
and a frown on his face. Hilliard took no notice of him and presently
he came back and sat down again.

“You may be right,” he said. “I’ll go with you to find that out, and
that only. But I’ll not do any spying.”

Hilliard was satisfied with his diplomacy. “I quite see your point,” he
said smoothly, “and I confess I think you are right. We’ll go and take
a look round, and if we find things are all right we’ll come away again
and there’s no harm done. That agreed?”

Merriman nodded.

“What’s the program then?” he asked.

“I think tomorrow we should take the boat round to the Lesque. It’s a
good long run and we mustn’t be late getting away. Would five be too
early for you?”

“Five? No, I don’t mind if we start now.”

“The tide begins to ebb at four. By five we shall get the best of its
run. We should be out of the river by nine, and in the Lesque by four
in the afternoon. Though that mill is only seventeen miles from here as
the crow flies, it’s a frightful long way round by sea, most of 130
miles, I should say.” Hilliard looked at his watch. “Eleven o’clock.
Well, what about going back to the _Swallow_ and turning in?”

They left the Jardin, and, sauntering slowly through the well-lighted
streets, reached the launch and went on board.




CHAPTER IV.
A COMMERCIAL PROPOSITION


Merriman was roused next morning by the feeling rather than the sound
of stealthy movements going on not far away. He had not speedily slept
after turning in. The novelty of his position, as well as the cramped
and somewhat knobby bed made by the locker, and the smell of oils, had
made him restless. But most of all the conversation be had had with
Hilliard had banished sleep, and he had lain thinking over the
adventure to which they had committed themselves, and listening to the
little murmurings and gurglings of the water running past the piles and
lapping on the woodwork beside his head. The launch kept slightly on
the move, swinging a little backwards and forwards in the current as it
alternately tightened and slackened its mooring ropes, and occasionally
quivering gently as it touched the wharf. Three separate times Merriman
had heard the hour chimed by the city clocks, and then at last a
delightful drowsiness crept over him, and consciousness had gradually
slipped away. But immediately this shuffling had begun, and with a
feeling of injury he roused himself to learn the cause. Opening his
eyes he found the cabin was full of light from the dancing reflections
of sunlit waves on the ceiling, and that Hilliard, dressing on the
opposite locker, was the author of the sounds which had disturbed him.

“Good!” cried the latter cheerily. “You’re awake? Quarter to five and a
fine day.”

“Couldn’t be,” Merriman returned, stretching himself luxuriously. “I
heard it strike two not ten seconds ago.”

Hilliard laughed.

“Well, it’s time we were under way anyhow,” he declared. “Tide’s
running out this hour. We’ll get a fine lift down to the sea.”

Merriman got up and peeped out of the porthole above his locker.

“I suppose you tub over the side?” he inquired. “Lord, what sunlight!”

“Rather. But I vote we wait an hour or so until we’re clear of the
town. I fancy the water will be more inviting lower down. We could stop
and have a swim, and then we should be ready for breakfast.”

“Right-o. You get way on her, or whatever you do, and I shall have a
shot at clearing up some of the mess you keep here.”

Hilliard left the cabin, and presently a racketing noise and vibration
announced that the engines had been started. This presently subsided
into a not unpleasing hum, after which a hail came from forward.

“Lend a hand to cast off, like a stout fellow.”

Merriman hurriedly completed his dressing and went on deck, stopping in
spite of himself to look around before attending to the ropes. The sun
was low down over the opposite bank, and transformed the whole river
down to the railway bridge into a sheet of blinding light. Only the
southern end of the great structure was visible stretching out of the
radiance, as well as the houses on the western bank, but these showed
out with incredible sharpness in high lights and dark shadows. From
where they were lying they could not see the great curve of the quays,
and the town in spite of the brilliancy of the atmosphere looked drab
and unattractive.

“Going to be hot,” Hilliard remarked. “The bow first, if you don’t
mind.”

He started the screw, and kept the launch alongside the wharf while
Merriman cast off first the bow and then the stern ropes. Then,
steering out towards the middle of the river, he swung round and they
began to slip rapidly downstream with the current.

After passing beneath the huge mass of the railway bridge they got a
better view of the city, its rather unimposing buildings clustering on
the great curve of the river to the left, and with the fine stone
bridge over which they had driven on the previous evening stretching
across from bank to bank in front of them. Slipping through one of its
seventeen arches, they passed the long lines of quays with their
attendant shipping, until gradually the houses got thinner and they
reached the country beyond.

About a dozen miles below the town Hilliard shut off the engines, and
when the launch had come to rest on the swift current they had a
glorious dip—in turn. Then the odor of hot ham mingled in the cabin
with those of paraffin and burned petrol, and they had an even more
glorious breakfast. Finally the engines were restarted, and they
pressed steadily down the ever-widening estuary.

About nine they got their first glimpse of the sea horizon, and,
shortly after, a slight heave gave Merriman a foretaste of what he must
soon expect. The sea was like a mill pond, but as they came out from
behind the Pointe de Grave they began to feel the effect of the long,
slow ocean swell. As soon as he dared Hilliard turned southwards along
the coast. This brought the swells abeam, but so large were they in
relation to the launch that she hardly rolled, but was raised and
lowered bodily on an almost even keel. Though Merriman was not actually
ill, he was acutely unhappy and experienced a thrill of thanksgiving
when, about five o’clock, they swung round east and entered the estuary
of the Lesque.

“Must go slowly here,” Hilliard explained, as the banks began to draw
together. “There’s no sailing chart of this river, and we shall have to
feel our way up.”

For some two miles they passed through a belt of sand dunes, great
yellow hillocks shaded with dark green where grasses had seized a
precarious foothold. Behind these the country grew flatter, and small,
blighted-looking shrubs began to appear, all leaning eastwards in
witness of the devastating winds which blew in from the sea. Farther on
these gave place to stunted trees, and by the time they had gone ten or
twelve miles they were in the pine forest. Presently they passed under
a girder bridge, carrying the railway from Bordeaux to Bayonne and the
south.

“We can’t be far from the mill now,” said Hilliard a little later. “I
reckoned it must be about three miles above the railway.”

They were creeping up very slowly against the current. The engines,
running easily, were making only a subdued murmur inaudible at any
considerable distance. The stream here was narrow, not more than about
a hundred yards across, and the tall, straight-stemmed pines grew down
to the water’s edge on either side. Already, though it was only seven
o’clock, it was growing dusk in the narrow channel, and Hilliard was
beginning to consider the question of moorings for the night.

“We’ll go round that next bend,” he decided, “and look for a place to
anchor.”

Some five minutes later they steered close in against a rapidly
shelving bit of bank, and silently lowered the anchor some twenty feet
from the margin.

“Jove! I’m glad to have that anchor down,” Hilliard remarked,
stretching himself. “Here’s eight o’clock, and we’ve been at it since
five this morning. Let’s have supper and a pipe, and then we’ll discuss
our plans.”

“And what are your plans?” Merriman asked, when an hour later they were
lying on their lockers, Hilliard with his pipe and Merriman with a
cigar.

“Tomorrow I thought of going up in the collapsible boat until I came to
the works, then landing on the other bank and watching what goes on at
the mill. I thought of taking my glass and keeping cover myself. After
what you said last night you probably won’t care to come, and I was
going to suggest that if you cared to fish you would find everything
you wanted in that forward locker. In the evening we could meet here
and I would tell you if I saw anything interesting.”

Merriman took his cigar from his lips and sat up on the locker.

“Look here, old man,” he said, “I’m sorry I was a bit ratty last night.
I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been thinking of what you said,
and I agree that your view is the right one. I’ve decided that if
you’ll have me, I’m in this thing until we’re both satisfied there’s
nothing going to hurt either Miss Coburn or our own country.”

Hilliard sprang to his feet and held out his hand.

“Cheers!” he cried. “I’m jolly glad you feel that way. That’s all I
want to do too. But I can’t pretend my motives are altogether
disinterested. Just think of the kudos for us both if there _should_ be
something.”

“I shouldn’t build too much on it.”

“I’m not, but there is always the possibility.”

Next morning the two friends got out the collapsible boat, locked up
the launch, and paddling gently up the river until the galvanized gable
of the Coburns’ house came in sight through the trees, went ashore on
the opposite bank. The boat they took to pieces and hid under a fallen
trunk, then, screened by the trees, they continued their way on foot.

It was still not much after seven, another exquisitely clear morning
giving promise of more heat. The wood was silent though there was a
faint stir of life all around them, the hum of invisible insects, the
distant singing of birds as well as the murmur of the flowing water.
Their footsteps fell soft on the carpet of scant grass and decaying
pine needles. There seemed a hush over everything, as if they were
wandering amid the pillars of some vast cathedral with, instead of
incense, the aromatic smell of the pines in their nostrils. They walked
on, repressing the desire to step on tiptoe, until through the trees
they could see across the river the galvanized iron of the shed.

A little bit higher up-stream the clearing of the trees had allowed
some stunted shrubs to cluster on the river bank. These appearing to
offer good cover, the two men crawled forward and took up a position in
their shelter.

The bank they were on was at that point slightly higher than on the
opposite side, giving them an excellent view of the wharf and mill as
well as of the clearing generally. The ground, as has already been
stated, was in the shape of a D, the river bounding the straight side.
About half-way up this straight side was the mill, and about half-way
between it and the top were the shrubs behind which the watchers were
seated. At the opposite side of the mill from the shrubs, at the bottom
of the D pillar, the Coburns’ house stood on a little knoll.

“Jolly good observation post, this,” Hilliard remarked as he stretched
himself at ease and laid his glass on the ground beside him. “They’ll
not do much that we shall miss from here.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much to miss at present,” Merriman answered,
looking idly over the deserted space.

About a quarter to eight a man appeared where the lane from the road
debouched into the clearing. He walked towards the shed, to disappear
presently behind it. Almost immediately blue smoke began issuing from
the metal chimney in the shed roof. It was evident he had come before
the others to get up steam.

In about half an hour those others arrived, about fifteen men in all, a
rough-looking lot in laborers’ kit. They also vanished behind the shed,
but most of them reappeared almost immediately, laden with tools, and,
separating into groups, moved off to the edge of the clearing. Soon
work was in full swing. Trees were being cut down by one gang, the
branches lopped off fallen trunks by another, while a third was loading
up and running the stripped stems along a Decauville railway to the
shed. Almost incessantly the thin screech of the saws rose
penetratingly above the sounds of hacking and chopping and the calls of
men.

[Illustration]

“There doesn’t seem to be much wrong here,” Merriman said when they had
surveyed the scene for nearly an hour.

“No,” Hilliard agreed, “and there didn’t seem to be much wrong when I
inspected the place on Sunday. But there can’t be anything _obviously_
wrong. If there is anything, in the nature of things it won’t be easy
to find.”

About nine o’clock Mr. Coburn, dressed in gray flannel, emerged from
his house and crossed the grass to the mill. He remained there for a
few minutes, then they saw him walking to the workers at the forest
edge. He spent some moments with each gang, afterwards returning to his
house. For nearly an hour things went on as before, and then Mr. Coburn
reappeared at his hall door, this time accompanied by his daughter.
Both were dressed extraordinarily well for such a backwater of
civilization, he with a gray Homburg hat and gloves, she as before in
brown, but in a well-cut coat and skirt and a smart toque and motoring
veil. Both were carrying dust coats. Mr. Coburn drew the door to, and
they walked towards the mill and were lost to sight behind it. Some
minutes passed, and between the screaming of the saws the sound of a
motor engine became audible. After a further delay a Ford car came out
from behind the shed and moved slowly over the uneven sward towards the
lane. In the car were Mr. and Miss Coburn and a chauffeur.

Hilliard had been following every motion through his glass, and he now
thrust the instrument into his companion’s hand, crying softly:

“Look, Merriman. Is that the lorry driver you saw?” Merriman focused
the glass on the chauffeur and recognized him instantly. It was the
same dark, aquiline-featured man who had stared at him so resentfully
on the occasion of his first visit to the mill, some two months
earlier.

“By Jove, what an extraordinary stroke of luck!” Hilliard went on
eagerly. “All three of them that know you out of the way! We can go
down to the place now and ask for Mr. Coburn, and maybe we shall have a
chance to see inside that shed. Let’s go at once, before they come
back.”

They crawled away from their point of vantage into the wood, and
retracing their steps to the boat, put it together and carried it to
the river. Then rowing up-stream, they reached the end of the wharf,
where a flight of wooden steps came down into the stream. Here they
went ashore, after making the painter fast to the woodwork.

The front of the wharf, they had seen from the boat, was roughly though
strongly made. At the actual edge, there was a row of almost vertical
piles, pine trees driven unsquared. Behind these was a second row,
inclined inwards. The feet of both rows seemed to be pretty much in the
same line, but the tops of the raking row were about six feet behind
the others, the arrangement, seen from the side, being like a V of
which one leg is vertical. These tops were connected by beams,
supporting a timber floor. Behind the raking piles rough tree stems had
been laid on the top of each other horizontally to hold back the earth
filled behind them. The front was about a hundred feet long, and was
set some thirty feet out in the river.

Parallel to the front and about fifty feet behind it was the wall of
the shed. It was pierced by four doors, all of which were closed, but
out of each of which ran a line of narrow gauge railway. These lines
were continued to the front of the wharf and there connected up by
turn-tables to a cross line, evidently with the idea that a continuous
service of loaded trucks could be sent out of one door, discharged, and
returned as empties through another. Stacks of pit-props stood ready
for loading between the lines.

“Seems a sound arrangement,” Hilliard commented as they made their
inspection.

“Quite. Anything I noticed before struck me as being efficient.”

When they had seen all that the wharf appeared to offer, they walked
round the end of the shed. At the back were a number of doors, and
through these also narrow gauge lines were laid which connected with
those radiating to the edge of the clearing. Everywhere between the
lines were stacks of pit-props as well as blocks and cuttings. Three or
four of the doors were open, and in front of one of them, talking to
someone in the building, stood a man.

Presently he turned and saw them. Immediately they advanced and
Hilliard accosted him.

“Good-morning. We are looking for Mr. Coburn. Is he about?”

“No, monsieur,” the man answered civilly, “he has gone into Bordeaux.
He won’t be back until the afternoon.”

“That’s unfortunate for us,” Hilliard returned conversationally. “My
friend and I were passing up the river on our launch, and we had hoped
to have seen him. However, we shall get hold of him later. This is a
fine works you have got here.”

The man smiled. He seemed a superior type to the others and was
evidently a foreman.

“Not so bad, monsieur. We have four saws, but only two are running
today.” He pointed to the door behind him as he spoke, and the two
friends passed in as if to have an idle look round.

The interior was fitted up like that of any other sawmill, but the same
element of design and efficiency seemed apparent here as elsewhere. The
foreman explained the process. The lopped trunks from the wood came in
by one of two roads through a large door in the center of the building.
Outside each road was a saw, its axle running parallel to the roads.
The logs were caught in grabs, slung on to the table of the saws and,
moving automatically all the time, were cut into lengths of from seven
to ten feet. The pieces passed for props were dumped on to a conveyor
which ran them out of the shed to be stacked for seasoning and export.
The rejected pieces by means of another conveyor moved to the third and
fourth saws, where they were cut into blocks for firewood, being
finally delivered into two large bins ready for loading on to the
lorries.

The friends exhibited sufficient non-technical interest to manage to
spend a good deal of time over their survey, drawing out the foreman in
conversation and seeing as much as they could. At one end of the shed
was the boiler house and engine room, at the other the office, with
between it and the mill proper a spacious garage in which, so they were
told, the six lorries belonging to the syndicate were housed. Three
machines were there, two lying up empty, the third, with engine running
and loaded with blocks, being ready to start. They would have liked to
examine the number plate, but in the presence of the foreman it was
hardly possible. Finally they walked across the clearing to where
felling and lopping was in progress, and inspected the operations. When
they left shortly after with a promise to return to meet Mr. Coburn,
there was not much about the place they had missed.

“That business is just as right as rain,” Merriman declared when they
were once more in the boat. “And that foreman’s all right too. I’d
stake my life he wasn’t hiding anything. He’s not clever enough for one
thing.”

“So I think too,” Hilliard admitted. “And yet, what about the game with
the number plates? What’s the idea of that?”

“I don’t know. But all the same I’ll take my oath there’s nothing wrong
about the timber trade. It’s no go, Hilliard. Let’s drop chasing wild
geese and get along with our trip.”

“I feel very like it,” the other replied as he sucked moodily at his
pipe. “We’ll watch for another day or so, and if we see nothing
suspicious we can clear out.”

But that very evening an incident occurred which, though trifling,
revived all their suspicions and threw them at once again into a sea of
doubt.

Believing that the Coburns would by that time have returned, they left
the launch about five o’clock to call. Reaching the edge of the
clearing almost directly behind the house, they passed round the latter
and rang.

The door was opened by Miss Coburn herself. It happened that the sun
was shining directly in her eyes, and she could not therefore see her
visitors’ features.

“You are the gentlemen who wished to see Mr. Coburn, I presume?” she
said before Merriman could speak. “He is at the works. You will find
him in his office.”

Merriman stepped forward, his cap off.

“Don’t you remember me, Miss Coburn?” he said earnestly. “I had the
pleasure of meeting you in May, when you were so kind as to give me
petrol to get me to Bordeaux.”

Miss Coburn looked at him more carefully, and her manner, which had up
to then been polite, but coolly self-contained, suddenly changed. Her
face grew dead white and she put her hand sharply to her side, as
though to check the rapid beating of her heart. For a moment she seemed
unable to speak, then, recovering herself with a visible effort, she
answered in a voice that trembled in spite of herself:

“Mr. Merriman, isn’t it? Of course I remember. Won’t you come in? My
father will be back directly.”

She was rapidly regaining self-control, and by the time Merriman had
presented Hilliard her manner had become almost normal. She led the way
to a comfortably furnished sitting-room looking out over the river.

“Hilliard and I are on a motor launch tour across France,” Merriman
went on. “He worked from England down the coast to Bordeaux, where I
joined him, and we hope eventually to cross the country to the
Mediterranean and do the Riviera from the sea.”

“How perfectly delightful,” Miss Coburn replied. “I envy you.”

“Yes, it’s very jolly doing these rivers and canals,” Hilliard
interposed. “I have spent two or three holidays that way now, and it
has always been worth while.”

As they chatted on in the pleasant room the girl seemed completely to
have recovered her composure, and yet Merriman could not but realize a
constraint in her manner, and a look of anxiety in her clear brown
eyes. That something was disturbing her there could be no doubt, and
that something appeared to be not unconnected with himself. But, he
reasoned, there was nothing connected with himself that could cause her
anxiety, unless it really was that matter of the number plates. He
became conscious of an almost overwhelming desire to share her trouble
whatever it might be, to let her understand that so far from willingly
causing a shadow to fall across her path there were few things he would
not do to give her pleasure; indeed, he began to long to take her in
his arms, to comfort her....

Presently a step in the hall announced Mr. Coburn’s return. “In here,
daddy,” his daughter called, and the steps approached the door.

Whether by accident or design it happened that Miss Coburn was seated
directly opposite the door, while her two visitors were placed where
they were screened by the door itself from the view of anyone entering.
Hilliard, his eyes on the girl’s face as her father came in,
intercepted a glance of what seemed to be warning. His gaze swung round
to the new-comer, and here again he noticed a start of surprise and
anxiety as Mr. Coburn recognized his visitor. But in this case it was
so quickly over that had he not been watching intently he would have
missed it. However, slight though it was, it undoubtedly seemed to
confirm the other indications which pointed to the existence of some
secret in the life of these two, a secret shared apparently by the
good-looking driver and connected in some way with the lorry number
plates.

Mr. Coburn was very polite, suave and polished as an accomplished man
of the world. But his manner was not really friendly; in fact, Hilliard
seemed to sense a veiled hostility. A few deft questions put him in
possession of the travelers ostensible plans, which he discussed with
some interest.

“But,” he said to Hilliard, “I am afraid you are in error in coming up
this River Lesque. The canal you want to get from here is the Midi, it
enters the Mediterranean not far from Narbonne. But the connection from
this side is from the Garonne. You should have gone up-stream to
Langon, nearly forty miles above Bordeaux.”

“We had hoped to go from still farther south,” Hilliard answered. “We
have penetrated a good many of the rivers, or rather I have, and we
came up here to see the sand-dunes and forests of the Landes, which are
new to me. A very desolate country, is it not?”

Mr. Coburn agreed, continuing courteously:

“I am glad at all events that your researches have brought you into our
neighborhood. We do not come across many visitors here, and it is
pleasant occasionally to speak one’s own language to someone outside
one’s household. If you will put up with pot-luck I am sure we should
both be glad—” he looked at his daughter”—if you would wait and take
some dinner with us now. Tomorrow you could explore the woods, which
are really worth seeing though monotonous, and if you are at all
interested I should like to show you our little works. But I warn you
the affair is my hobby, as well as my business for the time being, and
I am apt to assume others have as great an interest in it as myself.
You must not let me bore you.”

Hilliard, suspicious and critically observant, wondered if he had not
interrupted a second rapid look between father and daughter. He could
not be sure, but at all events the girl hastened to second her father’s
invitation.

“I hope you will wait for dinner,” she said. “As he says, we see so few
people, and particularly so few English, that it would be doing us a
kindness. I’m afraid that’s not very complimentary”—she laughed
brightly—“but it’s at least true.”

They stayed and enjoyed themselves. Mr. Coburn proved himself an
entertaining host, and his conversation, though satirical, was worth
listening to. He and Hilliard talked, while Merriman, who was something
of a musician, tried over songs with Miss Coburn. Had it not been for
an uneasy feeling that they were to some extent playing the part of
spies, the evening would have been a delight to the visitors.

Before they left for the launch it was arranged that they should stay
over the following day, lunch with the Coburns, and go for a tramp
through the forest in the afternoon. They took their leave with cordial
expressions of good will.

“I say, Merriman,” Hilliard said eagerly as they strolled back through
the wood, “did you notice how your sudden appearance upset them both?
There can be no further doubt about it, there’s something. What it may
be I don’t know, but there is something.”

“There’s nothing wrong at all events,” Merriman asserted doggedly.

“Not wrong in the sense you mean, no,” Hilliard agreed quickly, “but
wrong for all that. Now that I have met Miss Coburn I can see that your
estimate of her was correct. But anyone with half an eye could see also
that she is frightened and upset about something. There’s something
wrong, and she wants a helping hand.”

“Damn you, Hilliard, how you talk,” Merriman growled with a sudden wave
of unreasoning rage. “There’s nothing wrong and no need for our
meddling. Let us clear out and go on with our trip.”

Hilliard smiled under cover of darkness.

“And miss our lunch and excursion with the Coburns to-morrow?” he asked
maliciously.

“You know well enough what I mean,” Merriman answered irritably. “Let’s
drop this childish tomfoolery about plots and mysteries and try to get
reasonably sane again. Here,” he went on fiercely as the other
demurred, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do if you like. I’ll have no more
suspicions or spying, but I’ll ask her if there is anything wrong: say
I thought there was from her manner and ask her the direct question.
Will that please you?”

“And get well snubbed for your pains?” Hilliard returned. “You’ve tried
that once already. Why did you not persist in your inquiries about the
number plate when she told you about the driver’s shell-shock?”

Merriman was silent for a few moments, then burst out:

“Well, hang it all, man, what do you suggest?”

During the evening an idea had occurred to Hilliard and he returned to
it now.

“I’ll tell you,” he answered slowly, and instinctively he lowered his
voice. “I’ll tell you what we must do. We must see their steamer
loaded. I’ve been thinking it over. We must see what, if anything, goes
on board that boat beside pit-props.”

Merriman only grunted in reply, but Hilliard, realizing his condition,
was satisfied.

And Merriman, lying awake that night on the port locker of the
_Swallow_, began himself to realize his condition, and to understand
that his whole future life and happiness lay between the dainty hands
of Madeleine Coburn.




CHAPTER V.
THE VISIT OF THE “GIRONDIN”


Next morning found both the friends moody and engrossed with their own
thoughts.

Merriman was lost in contemplation of the new factor which had come
into his life. It was not the first time he had fancied himself in
love. Like most men of his age he had had affairs of varying
seriousness, which in due time had run their course and died a natural
death. But this, he felt, was different. At last he believed he had met
the one woman, and the idea thrilled him with awe and exultation, and
filled his mind to the exclusion of all else.

Hilliard’s preoccupation was different. He was considering in detail
his idea that if a close enough watch could be kept on the loading of
the syndicate’s ship it would at least settle the smuggling question.
He did not think that any article could be shipped in sufficient bulk
to make the trade pay, unnoticed by a skilfully concealed observer.
Even if the commodity were a liquid—brandy, for example—sent aboard
through a flexible pipe, the thing would be seen.

But two unexpected difficulties had arisen since last night. Firstly,
they had made friends with the Coburns. Excursions with them were in
contemplation, and one had actually been arranged for that very day.
While in the neighborhood they had been asked virtually to make the
manager’s house their headquarters, and it was evidently expected that
the two parties should see a good deal of each other. Under these
circumstances how were the friends to get away to watch the loading of
the boat?

And then it occurred to Hilliard that here, perhaps, was evidence of
design; that this very difficulty had been deliberately caused by Mr.
Coburn with the object of keeping himself and Merriman under
observation and rendering them harmless. This, he recognized, was
guesswork, but still it might be the truth.

He racked his brains to find some way of meeting the difficulty, and at
last, after considering many plans, he thought he saw his way. They
would as soon as possible take leave of their hosts and return to
Bordeaux, ostensibly to resume their trip east. From there they would
come out to the clearing by road, and from the observation post they
had already used keep a close eye on the arrival of the ship and
subsequent developments. At night they might be even able to hide on
the wharf itself. In any case they could hardly fail to see if anything
other than pit-props was loaded.

So far, so good, but there was a second and more formidable difficulty.
Would Merriman consent to this plan and agree to help? Hilliard was
doubtful. That his friend had so obviously fallen in love with this
Madeleine Coburn was an unexpected and unfortunate complication. He
could, of course, play on the string that the girl was in danger and
wanted help, but he had already used that with disappointing results.
However, he could see nothing for it but to do his best to talk
Merriman round.

Accordingly, when they were smoking their after-breakfast pipes, he
broached the subject. But as he had feared, his friend would have none
of it.

“I tell you I won’t do anything of the kind,” he said angrily. “Here we
come, two strangers, poking our noses into what does not concern us,
and we are met with kindness and hospitality and invited to join a
family party. Good Lord, Hilliard, I can’t believe that it is really
you that suggests it! You surely don’t mean that you believe that the
Coburns are smuggling brandy?”

“Of course not, you old fire-eater,” Hilliard answered good-humoredly,
“but I do believe, and so must you, that there is something queer going
on. We want to be sure there is nothing sinister behind it. Surely, old
man, you will help me in that?”

“If I thought there was anything wrong you know I’d help you,” Merriman
returned, somewhat mollified by the other’s attitude. “But I don’t. It
is quite absurd to suggest the Coburns are engaged in anything illegal,
and if you grant that your whole case falls to the ground.”

Hilliard saw that for the moment at all events he could get no more. He
therefore dropped the subject and they conversed on other topics until
it was time to go ashore.

Lunch with their new acquaintances passed pleasantly, and after it the
two friends went with Mr. Coburn to see over the works. Hilliard
thought it better to explain that they had seen something of them on
the previous day, but notwithstanding this assurance Mr. Coburn
insisted on their going over the whole place again. He showed them
everything in detail, and when the inspection was complete both men
felt more than ever convinced that the business was genuine, and that
nothing was being carried on other than the ostensible trade. Mr.
Coburn, also, gave them his views on the enterprise, and these seemed
so eminently reasonable and natural that Hilliard’s suspicions once
more became dulled, and he began to wonder if their host’s peculiar
manner could not have been due to some cause other than that he had
imagined.

“There is not so much money in the pit-props as I had hoped,” Mr.
Coburn explained. “When we started here the Baltic trade, which was, of
course, the big trade before the war, had not revived. Now we find the
Baltic competition growing keener, and our margin of profit is
dwindling. We are handicapped also by having only a one-way traffic.
Most of the Baltic firms exporting pit-props have an import trade in
coal as well. This gives them double freights and pulls down their
overhead costs. But it wouldn’t pay us to follow their example. If we
ran coal it could only be to Bordeaux, and that would take up more of
our boat’s time than it would be worth.”

Hilliard nodded and Mr. Coburn went on:

“On the other hand, we are doing better in what I may call ‘sideshows.’
We’re getting quite a good price for our fire-wood, and selling more
and more of it. Three large firms in Bordeaux have put in wood-burning
fireboxes and nothing else, and two others are thinking of following
suit. Then I am considering two developments; in fact, I have decided
on the first. We are going to put in an air compressor in our
engine-room, and use pneumatic tools in the forest for felling and
lopping. I estimate that will save us six men. Then I think there would
be a market for pine paving blocks for streets. I haven’t gone into
this yet, but I’m doing so.”

“That sounds very promising,” Hilliard answered. “I don’t know much
about it, but I believe soft wood blocks are considered better than
hard.”

“They wear more evenly, I understand. I’m trying to persuade the Paris
authorities to try a piece of it, and if that does well it might
develop into a big thing. Indeed, I can imagine our giving up the
pit-props altogether in the future.”

After a time Miss Coburn joined them, and, the Ford car being brought
out, the party set off on their excursion. They visited a part of the
wood where the trees were larger than near the sawmill, and had a
pleasant though uneventful afternoon. The evening they spent as before
at the Coburns’ house.

Next day the friends invited their hosts to join them in a trip up the
river. Hilliard tactfully interested the manager in the various
“gadgets” he had fitted up in the launch, and Merriman’s dream of
making tea with Miss Coburn materialized. The more he saw of the
gentle, brown-eyed girl, the more he found his heart going out to her,
and the more it was borne in on him that life without her was becoming
a prospect more terrible than he could bring himself to contemplate.

They went up-stream on the flood tide for some twenty miles, until the
forest thinned away and they came on vineyards. There they went ashore,
and it was not until the shades of evening were beginning to fall that
they arrived back at the clearing.

As they swung round the bend in sight of the wharf Mr. Coburn made an
exclamation.

“Hallo!” he cried. “There’s the _Girondin_. She has made a good run. We
weren’t expecting her for another three or four hours.”

At the wharf lay a vessel of about 300 tons burden, with bluff, rounded
bows sitting high up out of the water, a long, straight waist, and a
bridge and cluster of deckhouses at the stern.

“Our motor ship,” Mr. Coburn explained with evident pride. “We had her
specially designed for carrying the pit-props, and also for this river.
She only draws eight feet. You must come on board and have a look over
her.”

This was of all things what Hilliard most desired. He recognized that
if he was allowed to inspect her really thoroughly, it would finally
dispel any lingering suspicion he might still harbor that the syndicate
was engaged in smuggling operations. The two points on which that
suspicion had been founded—the absence of return cargoes and the
locality of the French end of the enterprise—were not, he now saw,
really suspicious at all. Mr. Coburn’s remark met the first of these
points, and showed that he was perfectly alive to the handicap of a
oneway traffic. The matter had not been material when the industry was
started, but now, owing to the recovery of the Baltic trade after the
war, it was becoming important, and the manager evidently realized that
it might easily grow sufficiently to kill the pit-prop trade
altogether. And the locality question was even simpler. The syndicate
had chosen the pine forests of the Landes for their operations because
they wanted timber close to the sea. On the top of these considerations
came the lack of secrecy about the ship. It could only mean that there
really was nothing aboard to conceal.

On reaching the wharf all four crossed the gangway to the deck of the
_Girondin_. At close quarters she seemed quite a big boat. In the bows
was a small forecastle, containing quarters for the crew of five men as
well as the oil tanks and certain stores. Then amidships was a long
expanse of holds, while aft were the officers’ cabins and tiny
mess-room, galley, navigating bridge, and last, but not least, the
engine-room with its set of Diesel engines. She seemed throughout a
well-appointed boat, no money having apparently been spared to make her
efficient and comfortable.

“She carries between six and seven thousand props every trip,” Mr.
Coburn told them, “that is, without any deck cargo. I dare say in
summer we could put ten thousand on her if we tried, but she is rather
shallow in the draught for it, and we don’t care to run any risks.
Hallo, captain! Back again?” he broke off, as a man in a blue pilot
cloth coat and a peaked cap emerged from below.

The newcomer was powerfully built and would have been tall, but for
rather rounded shoulders and a stoop. He was clean shaven, with a heavy
jaw and thin lips which were compressed into a narrow line. His
expression was vindictive as well as somewhat crafty, and he looked a
man who would not be turned from his purpose by nice points of morality
or conscience.

Though Hilliard instinctively noted these details, they did not
particularly excite his interest. But his interest was nevertheless
keenly aroused. For he saw the man, as his gaze fell on himself and
Merriman, give a sudden start, and then flash a quick, questioning
glance at Mr. Coburn. The action was momentary, but it was enough to
bring back with a rush all Hilliard’s suspicions. Surely, he thought,
there must be _something_ if the sight of a stranger upsets all these
people in this way.

But he had not time to ponder the problem. The captain instantly
recovered himself, pulled off his cap to Miss Coburn and shook hands
all round, Mr. Coburn introducing the visitors.

“Good trip, captain?” the manager went on. “You’re ahead of schedule.”

“Not so bad,” the newcomer admitted in a voice and manner singularly
cultivated for a man in his position. “We had a good wind behind us
most of the way.”

They chatted for a few moments, then started on their tour of
inspection. Though Hilliard was once again keenly on the alert, the
examination, so far as he could see, left nothing to be desired. They
visited every part of the vessel, from the forecastle storerooms to the
tunnel of the screw shaft, and from the chart-house to the bottom of
the hold, and every question either of the friends asked was replied to
fully and without hesitation.

That evening, like the preceding, they passed with the Coburns. The
captain and the engineer—a short, thick-set man named Bulla—strolled up
with them and remained for dinner, but left shortly afterwards on the
plea of matters to attend to on board. The friends stayed on, playing
bridge, and it was late when they said good-night and set out to walk
back to the launch.

During the intervals of play Hilliard’s mind had been busy with the
mystery which he believed existed in connection with the syndicate, and
he had decided that to try to satisfy his curiosity he would go down to
the wharf that night and see if any interesting operations went on
under cover of darkness. The idea of a midnight loading of contraband
no longer appealed to his imagination, but vaguely he wished to make
sure that no secret activities were in progress.

He was at least certain that none had taken place up to the
present—that Mr. Coburn was personally concerned in, at all events.
From the moment they had first sighted the ship until they had left the
manager’s house at the conclusion of the game of bridge, not five
minutes ago, he had been in Mr. Coburn’s company. Next day it was
understood they were to meet again, so that if the manager wished to
carry out any secret operations they could only be done during the
night.

Accordingly when they reached the launch he turned to Merriman.

“You go ahead, old man. I’m going to have a look round before turning
in. Don’t wait up for me. Put out the light when you’ve done with it
and leave the companion unlatched so that I can follow you in.”

Merriman grunted disapprovingly, but offered no further objection. He
clambered on board the launch and disappeared below, while Hilliard,
remaining in the collapsible boat, began to row silently up-stream
towards the wharf.

The night was dark and still, but warm. The moon had not risen, and the
sky was overcast, blotting out even the small light of the stars. There
was a faint whisper of air currents among the trees, and the subdued
murmur of the moving mass of water was punctuated by tiny splashes and
gurgles as little eddies formed round the stem of the boat or wavelets
broke against the banks. Hilliard’s eyes had by this time become
accustomed to the gloom, and he could dimly distinguish the serrated
line of the trees against the sky on either side of him, and later, the
banks of the clearing, with the faint, ghostly radiance from the
surface of the water.

He pulled on with swift, silent strokes, and presently the dark mass of
the _Girondin_ loomed in sight. The ship, longer than the wharf,
projected for several feet above and below it. Hilliard turned his boat
inshore with the object of passing between the hull and the bank and so
reaching the landing steps. But as he rounded the vessel’s stern he saw
that her starboard side was lighted up, and he ceased rowing, sitting
motionless and silently holding water, till the boat began to drift
back into the obscurity down-stream. The wharf was above the level of
his head, and he could only see, appearing over its edge, the tops of
the piles of pit-props. These, as well as the end of the ship’s
navigating bridge and the gangway, were illuminated by, he imagined, a
lamp on the side of one of the deckhouses. But everything was very
still, and the place seemed deserted.

Hilliard’s intention had been to land on the wharf and, crouching
behind the props, await events. But now he doubted if he could reach
his hiding place without coming within the radius of the lamp and so
exposing himself to the view of anyone who might be on the watch on
board. He recollected that the port or river side of the ship was in
darkness, and he thought it might therefore be better if he could get
directly aboard there from the boat.

Having removed his shoes he rowed gently round the stern and examined
the side for a possible way up. The ship being light forward was
heavily down in the stern, and he found the lower deck was not more
than six or seven feet above water level. It occurred to him that if he
could get hold of the mooring rope pawls he might be able to climb
aboard. But this after a number of trials he found impossible, as in
the absence of someone at the oars to steady the boat, the latter
always drifted away from the hull before he could grasp what he wanted.

He decided he must risk passing through the lighted area, and, having
for the third time rowed round the stern, he brought the boat up as
close to the hull as possible until he reached the wharf. Then passing
in between the two rows of piles and feeling his way in the dark, he
made the painter fast to a diagonal, so that the boat would lie hidden
should anyone examine the steps with a light. The hull lay touching the
vertical piles, and Hilliard, edging along a waling to the front of the
wharf, felt with his foot through the darkness for the stern belting.
The tide was low and he found this was not more than a foot above the
timber on which he stood. He could now see the deck light, an electric
bulb on the side of the captain’s cabin, and it showed him the top of
the taffrail some little distance above the level of his eyes. Taking
his courage in both hands and stepping upon the belting, he succeeded
in grasping the taffrail. In a moment he was over it and on deck, and
in another moment he had slipped round the deckhouse and out of the
light of the lamp. There he stopped, listening for an alarm, but the
silence remained unbroken, and he believed he had been unobserved.

He recalled the construction of the ship. The lower deck, on which he
was standing, ran across the stern and formed a narrow passage some
forty feet long at each side of the central cabin. This cabin contained
the galley and mess room as well as the first officer’s quarters.
Bulla’s stateroom, Hilliard remembered, was down below beside the
engine-room.

From the lower deck two ladders led to the bridge deck at the forward
end of which was situated the captain’s stateroom. Aft of this building
most of the remaining bridge deck was taken up by two lifeboats,
canvas-covered and housed in chocks. On the top of the captain’s cabin
was the bridge and chart-house, reached by two ladders which passed up
at either side of the cabin.

Hilliard, reconnoitering, crept round to the port side of the ship. The
lower deck was in complete darkness, and he passed the range of cabins
and silently ascended the steps to the deck above. Here also it was
dark, but a faint light shone from the window of the captain’s cabin.
Stealthily Hilliard tiptoed to the porthole. The glass was hooked back,
but a curtain hung across the opening. Fortunately, it was not drawn
quite tight to one side, and he found that by leaning up against the
bridge ladder he could see into the interior. A glance showed him that
the room was empty.

As he paused irresolutely, wondering what he should do next, he heard a
door open. There was a step on the deck below, and the door slammed
sharply. Someone was coming to the ladder at the top of which he stood.

Like a shadow Hilliard slipped aft, and, as he heard the unknown
ascending the steps, he looked round for cover. The starboard boat and
a narrow strip of deck were lighted up, but the port boat was in
shadow. He could distinguish it merely as a dark blot on the sky.
Recognizing that he must be hidden should the port deck light be turned
on, he reached the boat, felt his way round the stern, and, crouching
down, crept as far underneath it as he could. There he remained
motionless.

The newcomer began slowly to pace the deck, and the aroma of a good
cigar floated in the still air. Up and down he walked with leisurely,
unhurried footsteps. He kept to the dark side of the ship, and
Hilliard, though he caught glimpses of the red point of the cigar each
time the other reached the stern, could not tell who he was.

Presently other footsteps announced the approach of a second
individual, and in a moment Hilliard heard the captain’s voice.

“Where are you, Bulla?”

“Here,” came in the engineer’s voice from the first-comer. The captain
approached and the two men fell to pacing up and down, talking in low
tones. Hilliard could catch the words when the speakers were near the
stern, but lost them when they went forward to the break of the poop.

“Confound that man Coburn,” he heard Captain Beamish mutter. “What on
earth is keeping him all this time?”

“The young visitors, doubtless,” rumbled Bulla with a fat chuckle, “our
friends of the evening.”

“Yes, confound them, too,” growled Beamish, who seemed to be in an
unenviable frame of mind. “Damned nuisance their coming round. I should
like to know what they are after.”

“Nothing particular, I should fancy. Probably out doing some kind of a
holiday.”

They passed round the deckhouse and Hilliard could not hear the reply.
When they returned Captain Beamish was speaking.

“—thinks it would about double our profits,” Hilliard heard him say.
“He suggests a second depot on the other side, say at Swansea. That
would look all right on account of the South Wales coalfields.”

“But we’re getting all we can out of the old hooker as it is,” Bulla
objected. “I don’t see how she could do another trip.”

“Archer suggests a second boat.”

“Oh.” The engineer paused, then went on: “But that’s no new suggestion.
That was proposed before ever the thing was started.”

“I know, but the circumstances have changed. Now we should—”

Again they passed out of earshot, and Hilliard took the opportunity to
stretch his somewhat cramped limbs. He was considerably interested by
what he had heard. The phrase Captain Beamish had used in reference to
the proposed depôt at Swansea—“it would look all right on account of
the coalfields”—was suggestive. Surely that was meaningless unless
there was some secret activity—unless the pit-prop trade was only a
blind to cover some more lucrative and probably more sinister
undertaking? At first sight it seemed so, but he had not time to think
it out then. The men were returning.

Bulla was speaking this time, and Hilliard soon found he was telling a
somewhat improper story. As the two men disappeared round the deckhouse
he heard their hoarse laughter ring out. Then the captain cried: “That
you, Coburn?” The murmur of voices grew louder and more confused and
immediately sank. A door opened, then closed, and once more silence
reigned.

To Hilliard it seemed that here was a chance which he must not miss.
Coming out from his hiding place, he crept stealthily along the deck in
the hope that he might find out where the men had gone, and learn
something from their conversation.

The captain’s cabin was the probable meeting place, and Hilliard
slipped silently back to the window through which he had glanced
before. As he approached he heard a murmur of voices, and he cautiously
leaned back against the bridge ladder and peeped in round the partly
open curtain.

Three of the four seats the room contained were now occupied. The
captain, engineer, and Mr. Coburn sat round the central table, which
bore a bottle of whisky, a soda siphon and glasses, as well as a box of
cigars. The men seemed preoccupied and a little anxious. The captain
was speaking.

“And have you found out anything about them?” he asked Mr. Coburn.

“Only what I have been able to pick up from their own conversation,”
the manager answered. “I wrote Morton asking him to make inquiries
about them, but of course there hasn’t been time yet for a reply. From
their own showing one of them is Seymour Merriman, junior partner of
Edwards & Merriman, Gracechurch Street, Wine Merchants. That’s the
dark, square-faced one—the one who was here before. The other is a man
called Hilliard. He is a clever fellow, and holds a good position in
the Customs Department. He has had this launch for some years, and
apparently has done the same kind of trip through the Continental
rivers on previous holidays. But I could not find out whether Merriman
had ever accompanied him before.”

“But you don’t think they smell a rat?”

“I don’t think so,” he said slowly, “but I’m not at all sure. Merriman,
we believe, noticed the number plate that day. I told you, you
remember. Henri is sure that he did, and Madeleine thinks so too. It’s
just a little queer his coming back. But I’ll swear they’ve seen
nothing suspicious this time.”

“You can’t yourself account for his coming back?”

Again Mr. Coburn hesitated.

“Not with any certainty,” he said at last, then with a grimace he
continued: “But I’m a little afraid that it’s perhaps Madeleine.”

Bulla, the engineer, made a sudden gesture.

“_I_ thought so,” he exclaimed. “Even in the little I saw of them this
evening I thought there was something in the wind. I guess that
accounts for the whole thing. What do you say, skipper?”

The big man nodded.

“I should think so,” he admitted, with a look of relief. “I think it’s
a mare’s nest, Coburn. I don’t believe we need worry.”

“I’m not so sure,” Coburn answered slowly. “I don’t think we need worry
about Merriman, but I’m hanged if I know what to think about Hilliard.
He’s pretty observant, and there’s not much about this place that he
hasn’t seen at one time or another.”

“All the better for us, isn’t it?” Bulla queried.

“So far as it goes, yes,” the manager agreed, “and I’ve stuffed him
with yarns about costs and about giving up the props and going in for
paving blocks and so on which I think he swallowed. But why should he
want to know what we are doing? What possible interest can the place
have for him—unless he suspects?”

“They haven’t done anything suspicious themselves?”

“Not that I have seen.”

“Never caught them trying to pump any of the men?”

“Never.”

Captain Beamish moved impatiently.

“I don’t think we need worry,” he repeated with a trace of aggression
in his manner. “Let’s get on to business. Have you heard from Archer?”

Mr. Coburn drew a paper from his pocket, while Hilliard instinctively
bent forward, believing he was at last about to learn something which
would throw a light on these mysterious happenings. But alas for him!
Just as the manager began to speak he heard steps on the gangway which
passed on board and a man began to climb the starboard ladder to the
upper deck.

Hilliard’s first thought was to return to his hiding place under the
boat, but he could not bring himself to go so far away from the center
of interest, and before he had consciously thought out the situation he
found himself creeping silently up the ladder to the bridge. There he
believed he would be safe from observation while remaining within
earshot of the cabin, and if anyone followed him up the ladder he could
creep round on the roof of the cabin to the back of the chart-house,
out of sight.

The newcomer tapped at the captain’s door and, after a shout of “Come
in,” opened it. There was a moment’s silence, then Coburn’s voice said:

“We were just talking of you, Henri. The skipper wants to know—” and
the door closed.

Hilliard was not long in slipping back to his former position at the
porthole.

“By Jove!” Bulla was saying. “And to think that two years ago I was
working a little coaster at twenty quid a month! And you, Coburn; two
years ago you weren’t much better fixed, if as well, eh?”

Coburn ignored the question.

“It’s good, but it’s not good enough,” he declared. “This thing can’t
run for ever. If we go on too long somebody will tumble to it. What we
want is to try to get our piles made and close it down before anything
happens. We ought to have that other ship running. We could double our
income with another ship and another depot. And Swansea seems to me the
place.”

“Bulla and I were just talking of that before you came aboard,” the
captain answered. “You know we have considered that again and again,
and we have always come to the conclusion that we are pushing the thing
strongly enough.”

“Our organization has improved since then. We can do more now with less
risk. It ought to be reconsidered. Will you go into the thing,
skipper?”

“Certainly. I’ll bring it before our next meeting. But I won’t promise
to vote for it. In our business it’s not difficult to kill the goose,
etcetera.”

The talk drifted to other matters, while Hilliard, thrilled to the
marrow, remained crouching motionless beneath the porthole,
concentrating all his attention on the conversation in the hope of
catching some word or phrase which might throw further light on the
mysterious enterprise under discussion. While the affair itself was
being spoken of he had almost ceased to be aware of his surroundings,
so eagerly had he listened to what was being said, but now that the
talk had turned to more ordinary subjects he began more or less
subconsciously to take stock of his own position.

He realized in the first place that he was in very real danger. A quick
movement either of the men in the cabin or of some member of the crew
might lead to his discovery, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that
he might pay the forfeit for his curiosity with his life. He could
imagine the manner in which the “accident” would be staged. Doubtless
his body, showing all the appearance of death from drowning, would be
found in the river with alongside it the upturned boat as evidence of
the cause of the disaster.

And if he should die, his secret would die with him. Should he not then
be content with what he had learned and clear out while he could, so as
to ensure his knowledge being preserved? He felt that he ought, and yet
the desire to remain in the hope of doing still better was
overpowering. But as he hesitated the power of choice was taken away.
The men in the cabin were making a move. Coburn finished his whisky,
and he and Henri rose to their feet.

“Well,” the former said, “There’s one o’clock. We must be off.”

The others stood up also, and at the same moment Hilliard crept once
more up the ladder to the bridge and crouched down in the shadow of the
chart-house. Hardly was he there when the men came out of the cabin to
the deck beneath the bridge, then with a brief exchange of
“Good-nights,” Coburn and the lorry driver passed down the ladder,
crossed the gangway and disappeared behind a stack of pit-props on the
wharf. Bulla with a grunted “’Night” descended the port steps and
Hilliard heard the door leading below open and shut; the starboard deck
lamp snapped off, and finally the captain’s door shut and a key turned
in the lock. Some fifteen minutes later the faint light from the
porthole vanished and all was dark and silent.

But for more than an hour Hilliard remained crouching motionless on the
bridge, fearing lest some sound that he might make in his descent
should betray him if the captain should still be awake. Then, a faint
light from the rising moon appearing towards the east, he crept from
his perch, and crossing the gangway, reached the wharf and presently
his boat.

Ten minutes later he was on board the launch.




CHAPTER VI.
A CHANGE OF VENUE


Still making as little noise as possible, Hilliard descended to the
cabin and turned in. Merriman was asleep, and the quiet movement of the
other did not awaken him.

But Hilliard was in no frame of mind for repose. He was too much
thrilled by the adventure through which he had passed, and the
discovery which he had made. He therefore put away the idea of sleep,
and instead gave himself up to consideration of the situation.

He began by trying to marshal the facts he had already learned. In the
first place, there was the great outstanding point that his suspicions
were well founded, that some secret and mysterious business was being
carried on by this syndicate. Not only, therefore, was he justified in
all he had done up to the present, but it was clear he could not leave
the matter where it stood. Either he must continue his investigations
further, or he must report to headquarters what he had overheard.

Next, it seemed likely that the syndicate consisted of at least six
persons; Captain Beamish (probably from his personality the leader),
Bulla, Coburn, Henri, and the two men to whom reference had been made,
Archer, who had suggested forming the depot at Swansea, and Morton, who
had been asked to make inquiries as to himself and Merriman. Madeleine
Coburn’s name had also been mentioned, and Hilliard wondered whether
she could be a member. Like his companion he could not believe that she
would be willingly involved, but on the other hand Coburn had stated
that she had reported her suspicion that Merriman had noticed the
changed number plate. Hilliard could come to no conclusion about her,
but it remained clear that there were certainly four members, and
probably six or more.

But if so, it followed that the operations must be on a fairly large
scale. Educated men did not take up a risky and presumably illegal
enterprise unless the prize was worth having. It was unlikely that
£1,000  a year would compensate any one of them for the risk. But that
would mean a profit of from £4,000 to £6,000 a year. Hilliard realized
that he was here on shaky ground, though the balance of probability was
in his favor.

It also seemed certain that the whole pit-prop business was a sham, a
mere blind to cover those other operations from which the money came.
But when Hilliard came to ask himself what those operations were, he
found himself up against a more difficult proposition.

His original brandy smuggling idea recurred to him with renewed force,
and as he pondered it he saw that there really was something to be said
for it. Three distinct considerations were consistent with the theory.

There was first of all the size of the fraud. A theft of £4,000 to
£6,000 or more a year implied as victim a large corporation. The sum
would be too big a proportion of the income of a moderate-sized firm
for the matter to remain undiscovered, and, other things being equal,
the larger the corporation the more difficult to locate the leakage.

But what larger corporation was there than a nation, and what so easy
to defraud as a government? And how could a government be more easily
defrauded than by smuggling? Here again Hilliard recognized he was only
theorizing; still the point had a certain weight.

The second consideration was also inconclusive. It was that all the
people who, he had so far learned, were involved were engaged in
transport operations. The ostensible trade also, the blind under which
the thing was worked, was a transport trade. If brandy smuggling were
in progress something of precisely this kind would have to be devised.
In fact anything more suitable than the pit-prop business would be hard
to discover.

The third point he had thought of before. If brandy were to be
smuggled, no better locality could have been found for the venture than
this country round about Bordeaux. As one of the staple products of the
district, brandy could be obtained here, possibly more easily than
anywhere else.

The converse argument was equally inconclusive. What hypothesis other
than that of brandy smuggling could meet the facts? Hilliard could not
think of any, but he recognized that his failure did not prove that
none existed.

On the other hand, in spite of these considerations, he had to admit
that he had seen nothing which in the slightest degree supported the
theory, nor had he heard anything which could not equally well have
referred to something else.

But whatever their objective, he felt sure that the members of the
syndicate were desperate men. They were evidently too far committed to
hesitate over fresh crime to keep their secret. If he wished to pursue
his investigations, it was up to him to do so without arousing their
suspicions.

As he pondered over the problem of how this was to be done he became
more and more conscious of its difficulty. Such an inquiry to a trained
detective could not be easy, but to him, an amateur at the game, it
seemed well-nigh impossible. And particularly he found himself
handicapped by the intimate terms with the Coburns on which he and
Merriman found themselves. For instance, that very morning an excursion
had been arranged to an old chateau near Bordeaux. How could he refuse
to go? And if he went how could he watch the loading of the _Girondin?_

He had suspected before that the Coburns’ hospitality was due to
something other than friendliness, and now he was sure of it. No longer
had he any doubt that the object was to get him out of the way, to
create that very obstacle to investigation which it had created. And
here again Miss Coburn had undoubtedly lent herself to the plot.

He was not long in coming to the conclusion that the sooner he and
Merriman took leave of the Coburns the better. Besides this question of
handicap, he was afraid with so astute a man as Coburn he would sooner
or later give himself away.

The thought led to another. Would it not be wise to keep Merriman in
ignorance of what he had learned at least for the present? Merriman was
an open, straightforward chap, transparently honest in all his
dealings. Could he dissemble sufficiently to hide his knowledge from
his hosts? In particular could he deceive Madeleine? Hilliard doubted
it. He felt that under the special circumstances his friend’s
discretion could not be relied on. At all events Merriman’s appearance
of ignorance would be more convincing if it were genuine.

On the whole, Hilliard decided, it would be better not to tell him. Let
them once get away from the neighborhood, and he could share his
discoveries and they could together decide what was to be done. But
first, to get away.

Accordingly next morning he broached the subject. He had expected his
friend would strenuously oppose any plan involving separation from
Madeleine Coburn, but to his relief Merriman immediately agreed with
him.

“I’ve been thinking we ought to clear out too,” he declared
ungrammatically. “It’s not good enough to be accepting continuous
hospitality which you can’t return.”

Hilliard assented carelessly, remarked that if they started the
following morning they could reach the Riviera by the following Friday,
and let it go at that. He did not refer again to the subject until they
reached the Coburns’ door, when he asked quickly: “By the way, will you
tell them we’re leaving tomorrow or shall I?”

“I will,” said Merriman, to his relief.

The _Girondin_ was loading props as they set out in the Ford car, and
the work was still in progress on their return in the late afternoon.
Mr. Coburn had excused himself from joining the party on the ground of
business, but Captain Beamish had taken his place, and had proved
himself a surprisingly entertaining companion. At the old chateau they
had a pleasant alfresco lunch, after which Captain Beamish took a
number of photographs of the party with his pocket Kodak.

Merriman’s announcement of his and Hilliard’s impending departure had
been met with a chorus of regrets, but though these sounded hearty
enough, Hilliard noticed that no definite invitation to stay longer was
given.

The friends dined with the Coburns for the last time that evening. Mr.
Coburn was a little late for the meal, saying he had waited on the
wharf to see the loading completed, and that all the cargo was now
aboard, and that the _Girondin_ would drop down to sea on the flood
tide in the early morning.

“We shall have her company so far,” Hilliard remarked. “We must start
early, too, so as to make Bordeaux before dark.”

When the time came to say good-bye, Mr. Coburn and his daughter went
down to the launch with their departing visitors. Hilliard was careful
to monopolize the manager’s attention, so as to give Merriman his
innings with the girl. His friend did not tell him what passed between
them, but the parting was evidently affecting, as Merriman retired to
his locker practically in silence.

Five o’clock next morning saw the friends astir, and their first sight
on reaching the deck was the _Girondin_ coming down-stream. They
exchanged hand waves with Captain Beamish on the bridge, then, swinging
their own craft, followed in the wake of the other. A couple of hours
later they were at sea.

Once again they were lucky in their weather. A sun of molten glory
poured down from the clearest of blue skies, burnishing a track of
intolerable brilliance across the water. Hardly a ripple appeared on
the smooth surface, though they rose and fell gently to the flat ocean
swell. They were running up the coast about four miles out, and except
for the _Girondin_, now almost hull down to the north-west, they had
the sea to themselves. It was hot enough to make the breeze caused by
the launch’s progress pleasantly cool, and both men lay smoking on the
deck, lazily watching the water and enjoying the easy motion. Hilliard
had made the wheel fast, and reached up every now and then to give it a
slight turn.

“Jolly, I call this,” he exclaimed, as he lay down again after one of
these interruptions. “Jolly sun, jolly sea, jolly everything, isn’t
it?”

“Rather. Even a landlubber like me can appreciate it. But you don’t
often have it like this, I bet.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hilliard answered absently, and then, swinging
round and facing his friend, he went on:

“I say, Merriman, I’ve something to tell you that will interest you,
but I’m afraid it won’t please you.”

Merriman laughed contentedly.

“You arouse my curiosity anyway,” he declared. “Get on and let’s hear
it.”

Hilliard answered quietly, but he felt excitement arising in him as he
thought of the disclosure he was about to make.

“First of all,” he began, speaking more and more earnestly as he
proceeded, “I have to make you an apology. I quite deliberately
deceived you up at the clearing, or rather I withheld from you
knowledge that I ought to have shared. I had a reason for it, but I
don’t know if you’ll agree that it was sufficient.”

“Tell me.”

“You remember the night before last when I rowed up to the wharf after
we had left the Coburns? You thought my suspicions were absurd or
worse. Well, they weren’t. I made a discovery.”

Merriman sat up eagerly, and listened intently as the other recounted
his adventure aboard the _Girondin_. Hilliard kept nothing back; even
the reference to Madeleine he repeated as nearly word for word as
possible, finally giving a bowdlerized version of his reasons for
keeping his discoveries to himself while they remained in the
neighborhood.

Merriman received the news with a dismay approaching positive horror.
He had but one thought—Madeleine. How did the situation affect her? Was
she in trouble? In danger? Was she so entangled that she could not get
out? Never for a moment did it enter his head that she could be
willingly involved.

“My goodness! Hilliard,” he cried hoarsely, “whatever does it all mean?
Surely it can’t be criminal? They,”—he hesitated slightly, and Hilliard
read in a different pronoun—“they never would join in such a thing.”

Hilliard took the bull by the horns.

“That _Miss_ Coburn would take part in anything shady I don’t for a
moment believe,” he declared, “but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be so sure of
her father.”

Merriman shook his head and groaned.

“I know you’re right,” he admitted to the other’s amazement. “I saw—I
didn’t mean to tell you, but now I may as well. That first evening,
when we went up to call, you probably don’t remember, but after he had
learned who we were he turned round to pull up a chair. He looked at
you; I saw his face in a mirror. Hilliard, it was the face of a—I was
going to say, a devil—with hate and fear. But the look passed
instantly. When he turned round he was smiling. It was so quick I half
thought I was mistaken. But I know I wasn’t.”

“I saw fear on his face when he recognized you that same evening,”
Hilliard replied. “We needn’t blink at it, Merriman. Whether willingly
or unwillingly, Mr. Coburn’s in the thing. That’s as certain as that
we’re here.”

“But what is it? Have you any theory?”

“No, not really. There was that one of brandy smuggling that I
mentioned before. I suggest it because I can suggest nothing else, but
I admit I saw no evidence of it.”

Merriman was silent for several minutes as the boat slid over the
smooth water. Then with a change of manner he turned once more to his
friend.

“I suppose we couldn’t leave it alone? Is it our business after all?”

“If we don’t act we become accessories, and besides we leave that girl
to fight her own battles.”

Merriman clenched his fists and once more silence reigned. Presently he
spoke again:

“You had something in your mind?”

“I think we must do one of two things. Either continue our
investigations until we learn what is going on, or else clear out and
tell the police what we have learned.”

Merriman made a gesture of dissent.

“Not that, not that,” he cried. “Anything rather than the police.”

Hilliard gazed vacantly on the long line of the coast.

“Look here, old man,” he said, “Wouldn’t it be better if we discussed
this thing quite directly? Don’t think I mean to be impertinent—God
knows I don’t—but am I not right in thinking you want to save Miss
Coburn all annoyance, and her father also, for her sake?”

“We needn’t talk about it again,” Merriman said in a hard voice,
looking intently at the stem of the mast, “but if it’s necessary to
make things clear, I want to marry her if she’ll have me.”

“I thought so, old man, and I can only say—the best of luck! As you
say, then, we mustn’t call in the police, and as we can’t leave the
thing, we must go on with our own inquiry. I would suggest that if we
find out their scheme is something illegal, we see Mr. Coburn and give
him the chance to get out before we lodge our information.”

“I suppose that is the only way,” Merriman said doubtfully. After a
pause Hilliard went on:

“I’m not very clear, but I’m inclined to think we can do no more good
here at present. I think we should try the other end.”

“The other end?”

“Yes, the unloading of the ship and the disposal of the pit-props. You
see, the first thing we’re up against is that these people are anything
but fools, and the second is that they already suspect us and will keep
a watch on us. A hundred to one they make inquiries and see that we
really do go through the Canal du Midi to the Riviera. We can’t hang
about Bordeaux without their knowing it.”

“That’s true.”

“Of course,” Hilliard went on, “we can see now we made a frightful mess
of things by calling on the Coburns or letting Mr. Coburn know we were
about, but at the time it seemed the wisest thing.”

“It was the only thing,” Merriman asserted positively. “We didn’t know
then there was anything wrong, and besides, how could we have hidden
the launch?”

“Well, it’s done anyway. We needn’t worry about it now, except that it
seems to me that for the same reason the launch has served its purpose.
We can’t use it here because the people at the clearing know it, and we
can’t use it at the unloading end, for all on board the _Girondin_
would recognize it directly they saw it.”

Merriman nodded without speaking and Hilliard continued:

“I think, therefore, that we should leave the launch at Bordeaux
tonight and go back to London overland. I shall write Mr. Coburn saying
we have found Poste Restante letters recalling us. You can enclose a
note to Miss Coburn if you like. When we get to town we can apply at
the Inquiry Office at Lloyd’s to find out where the _Girondin_ calls in
England. Then let us go there and make inquiries. The launch can be
worked back to England some other time. How does that strike you?”

“Seems all right. But I should leave the launch at Bordeaux. We may
have to come back, and it would furnish us with an excuse for our
presence if we were seen.”

Hilliard gave a little sigh of relief. Merriman’s reply took a weight
off his mind, not because of the value of the suggestion—though in its
way it was quite useful—but because of its indication of Merriman’s
frame of mind. He had feared that because of Miss Coburn’s connection
with the affair he would lose his friend’s help, even that they might
quarrel. And now he saw these fears were groundless. Thankfully he
recognized that they would co-operate as they had originally intended.

“Jolly good notion, that,” he answered cordially.

“I confess,” Merriman went on slowly, “that I should have liked to stay
in the neighborhood and see if we couldn’t find out something more
about the lorry numbers. It may be a trivial point, but it’s the only
direct and definite thing we know of. All the rest are hints or
suspicions or probabilities. But here we have a bit of mystery,
tangible, in our hands, as it were. Why were those number plates
changed? It seems to me a good point of attack.”

“I thought of that, too, and I agree with every word you say,” Hilliard
replied eagerly, “but there is the question of our being suspects. I
believe we shall be watched out of the place, and I feel sure our only
chance of learning anything is to satisfy them of our bona fides.”

Merriman agreed, and they continued discussing the matter in detail, at
last deciding to adopt Hilliard’s suggestion and set to work on the
English end of the mysterious traffic.

About two that afternoon they swung round the Pointe de Grave into the
estuary of the Gironde. The tide, which was then flowing, turned when
they were some two-thirds of the way up, and it was well on to seven
o’clock when they made fast to the same decaying wharf from which they
had set out. Hilliard saw the owner, and arranged with him to let the
launch lie at one of his moorings until she should be required. Then
the friends went up town, got some dinner, wrote their letters, and
took the night train for Paris. Next evening they were in London.

“I say,” Hilliard remarked when later on that same evening they sat in
his rooms discussing their plans, “I believe we can find out about the
_Girondin_ now. My neighbor on the next landing above is a shipping
man. He might have a copy of Lloyd’s Register. I shall go and ask him.”

In a few moments he returned with a bulky volume. “One of the wonders
of the world, this, I always think,” he said, as he began to turn over
the pages. “It gives, or is supposed to give, information about
everything over a hundred tons that floats anywhere over the entire
globe. It’ll give the _Girondin_ anyway.” He ran his finger down the
columns. “Ah! what’s this? Motor ship _Girondin_, 350 tons, built and
so on. ‘The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, Ferriby, Hull.’ Hull, my son.
There we are.”

“Hull! I know Hull,” Merriman remarked laconically. “At least, I was
there once.”

“We shall know it a jolly sight better than that before we’re through,
it seems to me,” his friend replied. “Let’s hope so, anyway.”

“What’s the plan, then? I’m on, provided I have a good sleep at home
tonight first.”

“Same here,” Hilliard agreed as he filled his pipe. “I suppose Hull by
an early train tomorrow is the scheme.”

Merriman borrowed his friend’s pouch and refilled his pipe in his turn.

“You think so?” he said slowly. “Well, I’m not so sure. Seems to me we
can very easily dish ourselves if we’re not careful.”

“How so?”

“We agreed these folk were wide-awake and suspicious of us. Very well.
Directly our visit to them is over, we change our plans and leave
Bordeaux. Will it not strike them that our interest in the trip was
only on their account?”

“I don’t see it. We gave a good reason for leaving.”

“Quite; that’s what I’m coming to. We told them you were recalled to
your office. But what about that man Morton, that was to spy on us
before? What’s to prevent them asking him if you really have returned?”

Hilliard sat up sharply.

“By Jove!” he cried. “I never thought of that.”

“And there’s another thing,” Merriman went on. “We turn up at Hull,
find the syndicate’s depot and hang about, the fellow in charge there
sees us. Well, that’s all right _if_ he hasn’t had a letter from France
describing us and enclosing a copy of that group that Captain Beamish
took at the chateau.”

Hilliard whistled.

“Lord! It’s not going to be so simple as it looks, is it?”

“It isn’t. And what’s more, we can’t afford to make any mistakes. It’s
too dangerous.”

Hilliard got up and began to pace the room.

“I don’t care,” he declared savagely. “I’m going through with it now no
matter what happens.”

“Oh, so am I, for the matter of that. All I say is we shall have to
show a bit more intelligence this time.”

For an hour more they discussed the matter, and at last decided on a
plan. On the following morning Hilliard was to go to his office, see
his chief and ask for an extension of leave, then hang about and
interview as many of his colleagues as possible, telling them he had
been recalled, but was not now required. His chief was not very
approachable, and Hilliard felt sure the subject would not be broached
to him. In the evening they would go down to Hull.

This program they would have carried out, but for an unforeseen event.
While Hilliard was visiting his office Merriman took the opportunity to
call at his, and there learned that Edwards, his partner, had been
taken ill the morning before. It appeared there was nothing seriously
wrong, and Edwards expected to be back at work in three or four days,
but until his return Merriman was required, and he had reluctantly to
telephone the news to Hilliard. But no part of their combined holiday
was lost. Hilliard by a stroke of unexpected good fortune was able to
spend the same time at work, and postpone the remainder of his leave
until Merriman was free. Thus it came to pass that it was not until six
days later than they had intended that the two friends packed their
bags for Hull.

They left King’s Cross by the 5.40 p.m. train, reaching their
destination a little before eleven. There they took rooms at the
George, a quiet hotel in Baker Street, close to the Paragon Station.




CHAPTER VII.
THE FERRIBY DEPOT


The two friends, eager and excited by their adventure, were early astir
next morning, and after breakfast Hilliard went out and bought the best
map of the city and district he could find.

“Why, Ferriby’s not in the town at all,” he exclaimed after he had
studied it for some moments. “It’s up the river—must be seven or eight
miles up by the look of it; the North-Eastern runs through it and
there’s a station. We’d better go out there and prospect.”

Merriman agreed, they called for a timetable, found there was a train
at 10.35, and going down to Paragon Station, got on board.

After clearing the suburbs the line came down close to the river, and
the two friends kept a good look-out for the depot. About four and a
half miles out they stopped at a station called Hassle, then a couple
of miles farther their perseverance was rewarded and they saw a small
pier and shed, the latter bearing in large letters on its roof the name
of the syndicate. Another mile and a half brought them to Ferriby,
where they alighted.

“Now what about walking back to Hassle,” Hilliard suggested, “and
seeing what we can see?”

They followed the station approach road inland until they reached the
main thoroughfare, along which they turned eastwards in the direction
of Hull. In a few minutes they came in sight of the depot, half a mile
off across the fields. A lane led towards it, and this they followed
until it reached the railway.

[Illustration]

There it turned in the direction of Hull and ran parallel to the line
for a short distance, doubling back, as they learned afterwards, until
it reached the main road half-way to Hassle. The railway tracks were on
a low bank, and the men could just see across them to the syndicate’s
headquarters.

The view was not very good, but so far as they could make out, the
depot was a replica of that in the Landes clearing. A timber wharf
jutted out into the stream, apparently of the same size and
construction as that on the River Lesque. Behind it was the same kind
of galvanized iron shed, but this one, besides having windows in the
gables, seemed the smaller of the two. Its back was only about a
hundred feet from the railway, and the space between was taken up by a
yard surrounded by a high galvanized iron fence, above which appeared
the tops of many stacks of pit-props. Into the yard ran a siding from
the railway. From a door in the fence a path led across the line to a
wicket in the hedge of the lane, beside which stood a “Beware of the
Trains” notice. There was no sign of activity about the place, and the
gates through which the siding entered the enclosure were shut.

Hilliard stopped and stood looking over.

“How the mischief are we to get near that place without being seen?” he
questioned. “It’s like a German pill-box. There’s no cover anywhere
about.”

It was true. The country immediately surrounding the depot was
singularly bare. It was flat except for the low bank, four or five feet
high, on which lay the railway tracks. There were clumps of trees
farther inland, but none along the shore, and the nearest building, a
large block like a factory with beside it a cottage, was at least three
hundred yards away in the Hull direction.

“Seems an element of design in that, eh, Hilliard?” Merriman remarked
as they turned to continue their walk. “Considering the populous
country we’re in, you could hardly find a more isolated place.”

Hilliard nodded as they turned away.

“I’ve just been thinking that. They could carry on any tricks they
liked there and no one would be a bit the wiser.”

They moved on towards the factory-like building. It was on the inland
side of the railway, and the lane swung away from the line and passed
what was evidently its frontage. A siding ran into its rear, and there
were connections across the main lines and a signal cabin in the
distance. A few yards on the nearer side stood the cottage, which they
now saw was empty and dilapidated.

“I say, Hilliard, look there!” cried Merriman suddenly.

They had passed along the lane until the facade of the building had
come into view and they were able to read its signboard: “Ackroyd &
Bolt, Licensed Rectifiers.”

“I thought it looked like a distillery,” continued Merriman in
considerable excitement. “By Jove! Hilliard, that’s a find and no
mistake! Pretty suggestive, that, isn’t it?”

Hilliard was not so enthusiastic.

“I’m not so sure,” he said slowly. “You mean that it supports my brandy
smuggling theory? Just how?”

“Well, what do you think yourself? We suspect brandy smuggling, and
here we find at the import end of the concern the nearest building in
an isolated region is a distillery—a rectifying house, mind you! Isn’t
that a matter of design too? How better could they dispose of their
stuff than by dumping it on to rectifiers?”

“You distinguish between distillers and rectifiers?”

“Certainly; there’s less check on rectifiers. Am I not right in saying
that while the regulations for the measurement of spirit actually
produced from the stills are so thorough as to make fraud almost
impossible, rectifiers, because they don’t themselves produce spirit,
but merely refine what other firms have produced, are not so strictly
looked after? Rectifiers would surely find smuggled stuff easier to
dispose of than distillers.”

Hilliard shook his head.

“Perhaps so, theoretically,” he admitted, “but in practice there’s
nothing in it. Neither could work a fraud like that, for both are
watched far too closely by our people. I’m afraid I don’t see that this
place being here helps us. Surely it’s reasonable to suppose that the
same cause brought Messrs. Ackroyd & Bolt that attracted the syndicate?
Just that it’s a good site. Where in the district could you get a
better? Cheap ground and plenty of it, and steamer and rail
connections.”

“It’s a coincidence anyway.”

“I don’t see it. In any case unless we can prove that the ship brings
brandy the question doesn’t arise.”

Merriman shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly.

“That’s a blow,” he remarked. “And I was so sure I had got hold of
something good! But it just leads us back to the question that somehow
or other we must inspect that depot, and if we find nothing we must
watch the _Girondin_ unloading. If we can only get near enough it would
be _impossible_ for them to discharge anything in bulk without our
seeing it.”

Hilliard murmured an agreement, and the two men strolled on in silence,
the thoughts of each busy with the problem Merriman had set. Both were
realizing that detective work was a very much more difficult business
than they had imagined. Had not each had a strong motive for continuing
the investigation, it is possible they might have grown fainthearted.
But Hilliard had before him the vision of the kudos which would accrue
to him if he could unmask a far-reaching conspiracy, while to Merriman
the freeing of Madeleine Coburn from the toils in which she seemed to
have been enmeshed had become of more importance than anything else in
the world.

The two friends had already left the distillery half a mile behind,
when Hilliard stopped and looked at his watch.

“Ten minutes to twelve,” he announced. “As we have nothing to do let’s
go back and watch that place. Something may happen during the
afternoon, and if not we’ll look out for the workmen leaving and see if
we can pick up something from them.”

They retraced their steps past the distillery and depot, then creeping
into a little wood, sat down on a bank within sight of the enclosure
and waited.

The day was hot and somewhat enervating, and both enjoyed the
relaxation in the cool shade. They sat for the most part in silence,
smoking steadily, and turning over in their minds the problems with
which they were faced. Before them the country sloped gently down to
the railway bank, along the top of which the polished edges of the
rails gleamed in the midday sun. Beyond was the wide expanse of the
river, with a dazzling track of shimmering gold stretching across it
and hiding the low-lying farther shore with its brilliancy. A few small
boats moved slowly near the shore, while farther out an occasional
large steamer came into view going up the fairway to Goole. Every now
and then trains roared past, the steam hardly visible in the dry air.

The afternoon dragged slowly but not unpleasantly away, until about
five o’clock they observed the first sign of activity about the
syndicate’s depot which had taken place since their arrival. The door
in the galvanized fence opened and five figures emerged and slowly
crossed the railway. They paused for a moment after reaching the lane,
then separated, four going eastwards towards the distillery, the fifth
coming north towards the point at which the watchers were concealed.
The latter thereupon moved out from their hiding place on to the road.

The fifth figure resolved itself into that of a middle-aged man of the
laboring class, slow, heavy, and obese. In his rather bovine
countenance hardly any spark of intelligence shone. He did not appear
to have seen the others as he approached, but evinced neither surprise
nor interest when Hilliard accosted him.

“Any place about here you can get a drink?”

The man slowly jerked his head to the left.

“Oop in village,” he answered. “Raven bar.”

“Come along and show us the way and have a drink with us,” Hilliard
invited.

The man grasped this and his eyes gleamed.

“Ay,” he replied succinctly.

As they walked Hilliard attempted light conversation, but without
eliciting much response from their new acquaintance, and it was not
until he had consumed his third bottle of beer that his tongue became
somewhat looser.

“Any chance of a job where you’re working?” Hilliard went on. “My pal
and I would be glad to pick up something.”

The man shook his head, apparently noticing nothing incongruous in the
question.

“Don’t think it.”

“No harm in asking the boss anyway. Where might we find him?”

“Down at works likely. He be there most times.”

“I’d rather go to his house. Can you tell where he lives?”

“Ay. Down at works.”

“But he doesn’t sleep at the works surely?”

“Ay. Sleeps in tin hut.”

The friends exchanged glances. Their problem was even more difficult
than they had supposed. A secret inspection seemed more and more
unattainable. Hilliard continued the laborious conversation.

“We thought there might be some stevedoring to do. You’ve a steamer in
now and then, haven’t you?”

The man admitted it, and after a deal of wearisome questioning they
learned that the _Girondin_ called about every ten days, remaining for
about forty-eight hours, and that she was due in three or four days.

Finding they could get no further information out of him, they left
their bovine acquaintance with a fresh supply of beer, and returning to
the station, took the first train back to Hull. As they sat smoking
that evening after dinner they once more attacked the problem which was
baffling them.

“It seems to me,” Hilliard asserted, “that we should concentrate on the
smuggling idea first, not because I quite believe in it, but because
it’s the only one we have. And that brings us again to the same
point—the unloading of the _Girondin_.”

Merriman not replying, he continued:

“Any attempt involves a preliminary visit to see how the land lies. Now
we can’t approach that place in the daytime; if we try to slip round
secretly we shall be spotted from those windows or from the wharf; on
the other hand, if we invent some tale and go openly, we give ourselves
away if they have our descriptions or photographs. Therefore we must go
at night.”

“Well?”

“Obviously we can only approach the place by land or water. If we go by
land we have either to shin up on the pier from the shore, which we’re
not certain we can do, or else risk making a noise climbing over the
galvanized iron fence. Besides we might leave footmarks or other
traces. But if we go by water we can muffle our oars and drop down
absolutely silently to the wharf. There are bound to be steps, and it
would be easy to get up without making any noise.”

Merriman’s emphatic nod expressed his approval.

“Good,” he cried warmly. “What about getting a boat to-morrow and
having a try that night?”

“I think we should. There’s another thing about it too. If there should
be an alarm we could get away by the river far more easily than across
the country. It’s a blessing there’s no moon.”

Next day the object of their search was changed. They wanted a small,
handy skiff on hire. It did not turn out an easy quest, but by the late
afternoon they succeeded in obtaining the desired article. They
purchased also close-fitting caps and rubber-soled shoes, together with
some food for the night, a couple of electric torches, and a yard of
black cloth. Then, shortly before dusk began to fall, they took their
places and pulled out on the great stream.

It was a pleasant evening, a fitting close to a glorious day. The air
was soft and balmy, and a faint haze hung over the water, smoothing and
blurring the sharp outlines of the buildings of the town and turning
the opposite bank into a gray smudge. Not a breath was stirring, and
the water lay like plate glass, unbroken by the faintest ripple. The
spirit of adventure was high in the two men as they pulled down the
great avenue of burnished gold stretching westwards towards the sinking
sun.

The tide was flowing, and but slight effort was needed to keep them
moving up-stream. As darkness grew they came nearer inshore, until in
the fading light they recognized the railway station at Hassle. There
they ceased rowing, drifting slowly onwards until the last faint haze
of light had disappeared from the sky.

They had carefully muffled their oars, and now they turned north and
began sculling gently inshore. Several lights had come out, and
presently they recognized the railway signals and cabin at the
distillery sidings.

“Two or three hundred yards more,” said Hilliard in low tones.

They were now close to the beach, and they allowed themselves to drift
on until the dark mass of the wharf loomed up ahead. Then Hilliard
dipped his oars and brought the boat silently alongside.

As they had imagined from their distant view of it, the wharf was
identically similar in construction to that on the River Lesque. Here
also were the two lines of piles like the letter _V_, one, in front
vertical, the other raking to support the earthwork behind. Here in the
same relative position were the steps, and to these Hilliard made fast
the painter with a slip hitch that could be quickly released. Then with
the utmost caution both men stepped ashore, and slowly mounting the
steps, peeped out over the deck of the wharf.

As far as they could make out in the gloom, the arrangement here also
was similar to that in France. Lines of narrow gauge tramway, running
parallel from the hut towards the water, were connected along the front
of the wharf by a cross road and turn-tables. Between the lines were
stacks of pit-props, and Decauville trucks stood here and there. But
these details they saw afterwards. What first attracted their attention
was that lights shone in the third and fourth windows from the left
hand end of the shed. The manager evidently was still about.

“We’ll go back to the boat and wait,” Hilliard whispered, and they
crept down the steps.

At intervals of half an hour one or other climbed up and had a look at
the windows. On the first two occasions the light was unchanged, on the
third it had moved to the first and second windows, and on the fourth
it had gone, apparently indicating that the manager had moved from his
sitting-room to his bedroom and retired.

“We had better wait at least an hour more,” Hilliard whispered again.

Time passed slowly in the darkness under the wharf, and in a silence
broken only by the gentle lapping of the water among the piles. The
boat lay almost steady, except when a movement of one of its occupants
made it heel slightly over and started a series of tiny ripples. It was
not cold, and had the men not been so full of their adventure they
could have slept. At intervals Hilliard consulted his luminous-dialed
watch, but it was not until the hands pointed to the half-hour after
one that they made a move. Then once more they softly ascended to the
wharf above.

The sides of the structure were protected by railings which ran back to
the gables of the tin house, the latter stretching entirely across the
base of the pier. Over the space thus enclosed the two friends passed,
but it speedily became apparent that here nothing of interest was to be
found. Beyond the stacks of props and wagons there was literally
nothing except a rusty steam winch, a large water butt into which was
led the down spout from the roof, a tank raised on a stand and fitted
with a flexible pipe, evidently for supplying crude oil for the ship’s
engines, and a number of empty barrels in which the oil had been
delivered. With their torch carefully screened by the black cloth the
friends examined these objects, particularly the oil tank which,
forming as it did a bridge between ship and shore, naturally came in
for its share of suspicion. But, they were soon satisfied that neither
it nor any of the other objects were connected with their quest, and
retreating to the edge of the wharf, they held a whispered
consultation.

Hilliard was for attempting to open one of the doors in the shed at the
end away from the manager’s room, but Merriman, obsessed with the idea
of seeing the unloading of the _Girondin_, urged that the contents of
the shed were secondary, and that their efforts should be confined to
discovering a hiding place from which the necessary observations could
be made.

“If there was any way of getting inside one of these stacks of props,”
he said, “we could keep a perfect watch. I could get in now, for
example; you relieve me tomorrow night; I relieve you the next night,
and so on. Nothing could be unloaded that we wouldn’t see. But,” he
added regretfully, “I doubt even if we could get inside that we should
be hidden. Besides, they might take a notion to load the props up.”

“Afraid that is hardly the scheme,” Hilliard answered, then went on
excitedly: “But, there’s that barrel! Perhaps we could get into that.”

“The barrel! That’s the ticket.” Merriman was excited in his turn.
“That is, if it has a lid.”

They retraced their steps. With the tank they did not trouble; it was a
galvanized iron box with the lid riveted on, and moreover was full of
oil; but the barrel looked feasible.

It was an exceptionally large cask or butt, with a lid which projected
over its upper rim and which entirely protected the interior from view.
It was placed in the corner beside the right hand gable of the shed,
that is, the opposite end of the manager’s rooms, and the wooden down
spout from the roof passed in through a slot cut in the edge of the
lid. A more ideal position for an observation post could hardly have
been selected.

“Try to lift the lid,” whispered Hilliard.

They found it was merely laid on the rim, cleats nailed on below
preventing it from slipping off. They raised it easily and Hilliard
flashed in a beam from his electric torch. The cask was empty,
evidently a result of the long drought.

“That’ll do,” Merriman breathed. “That’s all we want to see. Come
away.”

They lowered the cover and stood for a moment. Hilliard still wanted to
try the doors of the shed, but Merriman would not hear of it.

“Come away,” he whispered again. “We’ve done well. Why spoil it?”

They returned to the boat and there argued it out. Merriman’s proposal
was to try to find out when the _Girondin_ was expected, then come the
night before, bore a few eyeholes in the cask, and let one of them,
properly supplied with provisions, get inside and assume watch. The
other one would row away, rest and sleep during the day, and return on
the following night, when they would exchange roles, and so on until
the _Girondin_ left. In this way, he asserted, they must infallibly
discover the truth, at least about the smuggling.

“Do you think we could stand twenty-four hours in that barrel?”
Hilliard questioned.

“Of course we could stand it. We’ve got to. Come on, Hilliard, it’s the
only way.”

It did not require much persuasion to get Hilliard to fall in with the
proposal, and they untied their painter and pulled silently away from
the wharf. The tide had turned, and soon they relaxed their efforts and
let the boat drift gently downstream. The first faint light appeared in
the eastern sky as they floated past Hassle, and for an hour afterwards
they lay in the bottom of the boat, smoking peacefully and entranced by
the gorgeous pageant of the coming day.

Not wishing to reach Hull too early, they rowed inshore and, landing in
a little bay, lay down in the lush grass and slept for three or four
hours. Then re-embarking, they pulled and drifted on until, between
seven and eight o’clock, they reached the wharf at which they had hired
their boat. An hour later they were back at their hotel, recuperating
from the fatigues of the night with the help of cold baths and a
substantial breakfast.




CHAPTER VIII.
THE UNLOADING OF THE “GIRONDIN”


After breakfast Hilliard disappeared. He went out ostensibly to post a
letter, but it was not until nearly three o’clock that he turned up
again.

“Sorry, old man,” he greeted Merriman, “but when I was going to the
post office this morning an idea struck me, and it took me longer to
follow up than I anticipated. I’ll tell you. I suppose you realize that
life in that barrel won’t be very happy for the victim?”

“It’ll be damnable,” Merriman agreed succinctly, “but we needn’t worry
about that; we’re in for it.”

“Oh, quite,” Hilliard returned. “But just for that reason we don’t want
more of it than is necessary. We could easily bury ourselves
twenty-four hours too soon.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that we mustn’t go back to the wharf until the night before
the _Girondin_ arrives.”

“Don’t see how we can be sure of that.”

“Nor did I till I posted my letter. Then I got my idea. It seemed worth
following up, so I went round the shipping offices until I found a file
of Lloyd’s List. As you know it’s a daily paper which gives the
arrivals and departures of all ships at the world’s ports. My notion
was that if we could make a list of the _Girondin’s_ Ferriby arrivals
and departures, say, during the last three months, and if we found she
ran her trip regularly, we could forecast when she would be next due.
Follow me?”

“Rather.”

“I had no trouble getting out my list, but I found it a bit
disappointing. The trip took either ten, eleven, or twelve days, and
for a long time I couldn’t discover the ruling factor. Then I found it
was Sunday. If you omit each Sunday the _Girondin_ is in port, the
round trip always takes the even ten days. I had the Lesque arrival and
departure for that one trip when we were there, so I was able to make
out the complete cycle. She takes two days in the Lesque to load, three
to run to Hull, two at Ferriby to discharge, and three to return to
France. Working from that and her last call here, she should be due
back early on Friday morning.”

“Good!” Merriman exclaimed. “Jolly good! And today is Thursday. We’ve
just time to get ready.”

They went out and bought a one-inch auger and a three-sixteenths
bradawl, a thick footstool and a satchel. This latter they packed with
a loaf, some cheese, a packet of figs, a few bottles of soda water and
a flask of whisky. These, with their caps, rubber shoes, electric
torches and the black cloth, they carried to their boat; then returning
to the hotel, they spent the time resting there until eleven o’clock.
Solemnly they drew lots for the first watch, recognizing that the
matter was by no means a joke, as, if unloading were carried on by
night, relief might be impossible during the ship’s stay. But Merriman,
to whom the fates were propitious, had no fear of his ability to hold
out even for this period.

By eleven-thirty they were again sculling up the river. The weather was
as perfect as that of the night before, except that on this occasion a
faint westerly breeze had covered the surface of the water with myriads
of tiny wavelets, which lapped and gurgled round the stem of their boat
as they drove it gently through them. They did not hurry, and it was
after one before they moored to the depot steps.

All was dark and silent above, as, carrying their purchases, they
mounted to the wharf and crept stealthily to the barrel. Carefully they
raised the lid, and Merriman, standing on the footstool, with some
difficulty squeezed himself inside. Hilliard then lifted the footstool
on to the rim and lowered the lid on to it, afterwards passing in
through the opening thus left the satchel of food and the one-inch
auger.

A means of observation now remained to be made. Two holes, they
thought, should afford all the view necessary, one looking towards the
front of the wharf, and the other at right angles, along the side of
the shed. Slowly, from the inside, Merriman began to bore. He made a
sound like the nibbling of a mouse, but worked at irregular speeds so
as not to suggest human agency to anyone who might be awake and
listening. Hilliard, with his hand on the outside of the barrel,
stopped the work when he felt the point of the auger coming through,
and he himself completed the hole from the outside with his bradawl.
This gave an aperture imperceptible on the rough exterior, but large
within, and enabled the watcher to see through a much wider angle than
he could otherwise have done. Hilliard then once more raised the lid,
allowing Merriman to lift the footstool within, where it was destined
to act as a seat for the observer.

All was now complete, and with a whispered exchange of good wishes,
Hilliard withdrew, having satisfied himself by a careful look round
that no traces had been left. Regaining the boat, he loosed the painter
and pulled gently away into the night.

Left to himself in the confined space and inky blackness of the cask,
Merriman proceeded to take stock of his position. He was anxious if
possible to sleep, not only to pass some of the time, which at the best
would inevitably be terribly long, but also that he might be the more
wakeful when his attention should be required. But his unusual
surroundings stimulated his imagination, and he could not rest.

He was surprised that the air was so good. Fortunately, the hole
through the lid which received the down spout was of large dimensions,
so that even though he might not have plenty of air, he would be in no
danger of asphyxiation.

The night was very still. Listening intently, he could not hear the
slightest sound. The silence and utter darkness indeed soon became
overpowering, and he took his watch from his pocket that he might have
the companionship of its ticking and see the glimmering hands and ring
of figures.

He gave himself up for the thousandth time to the consideration of the
main problem. What were the syndicate people doing? Was Mr. Coburn
liable to prosecution, to penal servitude? Was it possible that by some
twist of the legal mind, some misleading circumstantial evidence, Miss
Coburn—Madeleine—could be incriminated? Oh, if he but knew what was
wrong, that he might be able to help! If he could but get her out of
it, and for her sake Mr. Coburn! If they were once safe he could pass
on his knowledge to the police and be quit of the whole business. But
always there was this enveloping cloak of ignorance baffling him at
every turn. He did not know what was wrong, and any step he attempted
might just precipitate the calamity he most desired to avoid.

Suppose he went and asked her? This idea had occurred to him many times
before, and he had always rejected it as impracticable. But suppose he
did? The danger was that she might be alarmed or displeased, that she
might refuse to admit there was anything wrong and forbid him to refer
to the matter again or even send him away altogether. And he felt he
was not strong enough to risk that. No, he must know where he stood
first. He must understand his position, so as not to bungle the thing.
Hilliard was right. They must find out what the syndicate was doing.
There was no other way.

So the hours dragged slowly away, but at last after interminable ages
had gone by, Merriman noticed two faint spots of light showing at his
eyeholes. Seating himself on his footstool, he bent forward and put his
eye first to one and then to the other.

It was still the cold, dead light of early dawn before the sun had come
to awaken color and sharpen detail, but the main outlines of objects
were already clear. As Merriman peered out he saw with relief that no
mistake had been made as to his outlooks. From one hole or the other he
could see the entire area of the wharf.

It was about five a.m., and he congratulated himself that what he hoped
was the most irksome part of his vigil was over. Soon the place would
awaken to life, and the time would then pass more quickly in
observation of what took place.

But the three hours that elapsed before anything happened seemed even
longer than those before dawn. Then, just as his watch showed eight
o’clock, he heard a key grind in a lock, a door opened, and a man
stepped out of the shed on the wharf.

He was a young fellow, slight in build, with an extremely alert and
intelligent face, but a rather unpleasant expression. The sallowness of
his complexion was emphasized by his almost jet black hair and dark
eyes. He was dressed in a loose gray Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers,
but wore no hat. He moved forward three or four feet and stood staring
downstream towards Hull.

“I see her, Tom,” he called out suddenly to someone in the shed behind.
“She’s just coming round the point.”

There was another step and a second man appeared. He was older and
looked like a foreman. His face was a contrast to that of the other. In
it the expression was good—kindly, reliable, honest—but ability was not
marked. He looked a decent, plodding, stupid man. He also stared
eastward.

“Ay,” he said slowly. “She’s early.”

“Two hours,” the first agreed. “Didn’t expect her till between ten and
eleven.”

The other murmured something about “getting things ready,” and
disappeared back into the shed. Presently came the sounds of doors
being opened, and some more empty Decauville trucks were pushed out on
to the wharf. At intervals both men reappeared and looked down-stream,
evidently watching the approach of the ship.

Some half an hour passed, and then an increase of movement seemed to
announce her arrival. The manager walked once more down the wharf,
followed by the foreman and four other men—apparently the whole
staff—among whom was the bovine-looking fellow whom the friends had
tried to pump on their first visit to the locality. Then came a long
delay during which Merriman could catch the sound of a ship’s telegraph
and the churning of the screw, and at last the bow of the _Girondin_
appeared, slowly coming in. Ropes were flung, caught, slipped over
bollards, drawn taut, made fast—and she was berthed.

Captain Beamish was on the bridge, and as soon as he could, the manager
jumped aboard and ran up the steps and joined him there. In a few
seconds both men disappeared into the captain’s cabin.

The foreman and his men followed on board and began in a leisurely way
to get the hatches open, but for at least an hour no real activity was
displayed. Then work began in earnest. The clearing of the hatches was
completed, the ship’s winches were started, and the unloading of the
props began.

This was simply a reversal of the procedure they had observed at the
clearing. The props were swung out in bundles by the _Girondin’s_ crew,
lowered on to the Decauville trucks, and pushed by the depot men back
through the shed, the empty trucks being returned by another road, and
brought by means of the turn-tables to the starting point. The young
manager watched the operations and took a tally of the props.

Merriman kept a close eye on the proceedings, and felt certain he was
witnessing everything that was taking place. Every truckload of props
passed within ten feet of his hiding place, and he was satisfied that
if anything other than props were put ashore he would infallibly see
it. But the close watching was a considerable strain, and he soon began
to grow tired. He had some bread and fruit and a whisky and soda, and
though he would have given a good deal for a smoke, he felt greatly
refreshed.

The work kept on without intermission until one o’clock, when the men
knocked off for dinner. At two they began again, and worked steadily
all through the afternoon until past seven. During all that time only
two incidents, both trifling, occurred to relieve the monotony of the
proceedings. Early in the forenoon Bulla appeared, and under his
instructions the end of the flexible hose from the crude oil tank was
carried aboard and connected by a union to a pipe on the lower deck. A
wheel valve at the tank was turned, and Merriman could see the hose
move and stiffen as the oil began to flow through it. An hour later the
valve was turned off, the hose relaxed, the union was uncoupled and the
hose, dripping black oil, was carried back and left in its former place
on the wharf. The second incident was that about three o’clock Captain
Beamish and Bulla left the ship together and went out through the shed.

Merriman was now horribly tired, and his head ached intolerably from
the strain and the air of the barrel, which had by this time become
very impure. But he reflected that now when the men had left was the
opportunity of the conspirators. The time for which he had waited was
approaching, and he nerved himself to resist the drowsiness which was
stealing over him and which threatened the success of his vigil.

But hour after hour slowly dragged past and nothing happened. Except
for the occasional movement of one of the crew on the ship, the whole
place seemed deserted. It was not till well after ten, when dusk had
fallen, that he suddenly heard voices.

At first he could not distinguish the words, but the tone was Bulla’s,
and from the sounds it was clear the engineer and some others were
approaching. Then Beamish spoke:

“You’d better keep your eyes open anyway,” he said. “Morton says they
only stayed at work about a week. They’re off somewhere now. Morton
couldn’t discover where, but he’s trying to trace them.”

“I’m not afraid of them,” returned the manager’s voice. “Even if they
found this place, which of course they might, they couldn’t find out
anything else. We’ve got too good a site.”

“Well, don’t make the mistake of underestimating their brains,”
counseled Beamish, as the three men moved slowly down the wharf.
Merriman, considerably thrilled, watched them go on board and disappear
into the captain’s cabin.

So it was clear, then, that he and Hilliard were seriously suspected by
the syndicate and were being traced by their spy! What luck would the
spy have? And if he succeeded in his endeavor, what would be their
fortune? Merriman was no coward, but he shivered slightly as he went
over in his mind the steps of their present quest, and realized how far
they had failed to cover their traces, how at stage after stage they
had given themselves away to anyone who cared to make a few inquiries.
What fools, he thought, they were not to have disguised themselves!
Simple disguises would have been quite enough. No doubt they would not
have deceived personal friends, but they would have made all the
difference to a stranger endeavoring to trace them from descriptions
and those confounded photographs. Then they should not have travelled
together to Hull, still less have gone to the same hotel. It was true
they had had the sense to register under false names, but that would be
but a slight hindrance to a skillful investigator. But their crowning
folly, in Merriman’s view, was the hiring of the boat and the starting
off at night from the docks and arriving back there in the morning.
What they should have done, he now thought bitterly, was to have taken
a boat at Grimsby or some other distant town and kept it continuously,
letting no one know when they set out on or returned from their
excursions.

But there was no use in crying over spilt milk. Merriman repeated to
himself the adage, though he did not find it at all comforting. Then
his thoughts passed on to the immediate present, and he wondered
whether he should not try to get out of the barrel and emulate
Hilliard’s exploit in boarding the _Girondin_ and listening to the
conversation in the captain’s cabin. But he soon decided he must keep
to the arranged plan, and make sure nothing was put ashore from the
ship under cover of darkness.

Once again ensued a period of waiting, during which the time dragged
terribly heavily. Everything without was perfectly still, until at
about half past eleven the door of the captain’s cabin opened and its
three occupants came out into the night. The starboard deck light was
on and by its light Merriman could see the manager take his leave,
cross the gangway, pass up the wharf and enter the shed. Bulla went
down towards his cabin door and Beamish, snapping off the deck light,
returned to his. In about fifteen minutes his light also went out and
complete darkness and silence reigned.

Some two hours later Merriman, who had kept awake and on guard only by
the most determined effort, heard a gentle tap on the barrel and a
faint “Hist!” The lid was slowly raised, and to his intense relief he
was able to stand upright and greet Hilliard crouching without.

“Any news?” queried the latter in the faintest of whispers. “Absolutely
none. Not a single thing came out of that boat but props. I had a
splendid view all the time. Except this, Hilliard”—Merriman’s whisper
became more intense—“They suspect us and are trying to trace us.”

“Let them try,” breathed Hilliard. “Here, take this in.”

He handed over the satchel of fresh food and took out the old one. Then
Merriman climbed out, held up the lid until Hilliard had taken his
place, wished his friend good luck, and passing like a shadow along the
wharf, noiselessly descended the steps and reached the boat. A few
seconds later he had drifted out of sight of the depot, and was pulling
with long, easy strokes down-stream.

The air and freedom felt incredibly good after his long confinement,
and it was a delight to stretch his muscles at the oars. So hard did he
row that it was barely three when he reached the boat slip in Hull.
There he tied up the skiff and walked to the hotel. Before four he was
sound asleep in his room.

That evening about seven as he strolled along the waterfront waiting
until it should be time to take out his boat, he was delighted to
observe the _Girondin_ pass out to sea. He had dreaded having to take
another twenty-four hours’ trick in the cask, which would have been
necessary had the ship not left that evening. Now all that was needed
was a little care to get Hilliard out, and the immediate job would be
done.

He took out the boat about eleven and duly reached the wharf. All was
in darkness, and he crept to the barrel and softly raised the lid.

Hilliard was exhausted from the long strain, but with his friend’s help
he succeeded in clambering out, having first examined the floor of the
barrel to see that nothing had been overlooked, as well as plugging the
two holes with corks. They regained the boat in silence, and it was not
until they were some distance from the wharf that either spoke.

“My goodness! Merriman,” Hilliard said at last, “but that was an awful
experience! You left the air in that cursed barrel bad, and it got
steadily worse until I thought I should have died or had to lift the
lid and give the show away. It was just everything I could do to keep
going till the ship left.”

“But did you see anything?” Merriman demanded eagerly.

“See anything? Not a blessed thing! We are barking up the wrong tree,
Merriman. I’ll stake my life nothing came out of that boat but props.
No; what those people are up to I don’t know, but there’s one thing a
dead cert, and that is that they’re not smuggling.”

They rowed on in silence, Hilliard almost sick with weariness and
disappointment, Merriman lost in thought over their problem. It was
still early when they reached their hotel, and they followed Merriman’s
plan of the morning before and went straight to bed.

Next day they spent in the hotel lounge, gloomily smoking and at
intervals discussing the affair. They had admitted themselves
outwitted—up to the present at all events. And neither could suggest
any further step. There seemed to be no line of investigation left
which might bear better fruit. They agreed that the brandy smuggling
theory must be abandoned, and they had nothing to take its place.

“We’re fairly up against it as far as I can see,” Hilliard admitted
despondently. “It’s a nasty knock having to give up the only theory we
were able to think of, but it’s a hanged sight worse not knowing how we
are going to carry on the inquiry.”

“That is true,” Merriman returned, Madeleine Coburn’s face rising
before his imagination, “but we can’t give it up for all that. We must
go on until we find something.”

“That’s all very well. What are we to go on doing?”

Silence reigned for several minutes and then Hilliard spoke again.

“I’m afraid it means Scotland Yard after all.”

Merriman sat up quickly.

“Not that, not that!” he protested, as he had protested in similar
terms on a previous occasion when the same suggestion had been made.
“We must keep away from the police at all costs.” He spoke earnestly.

“I know your views,” Hilliard answered, “and agree with them. But if
neither of us can suggest an alternative, what else remains?”

This was what Merriman had feared and he determined to play the one
poor trump in his hand.

“The number plates,” he suggested. “As I said before, that is the only
point at which we have actually come up against this mystery. Why not
let us start in on it? If we knew why those plates were changed, the
chances are we should know enough to clear up the whole affair.”

Hilliard, who was suffering from the reaction of his night of stress,
took a depressed view and did not welcome the suggestion. He seemed to
have lost heart in the inquiry, and again urged dropping it and passing
on their knowledge to Scotland Yard. But this course Merriman
strenuously opposed, pressing his view that the key to the mystery was
to be found in the changing of the lorry numbers. Finally they decided
to leave the question over until the following day, and to banish the
affair from their minds for that evening by a visit to a music hall.




CHAPTER IX.
THE SECOND CARGO


Merriman was awakened in the early hours of the following morning by a
push on the shoulder and, opening his eyes, he was amazed to see
Hilliard, dressed only in his pajamas, leaning over him. On his
friend’s face was an expression of excitement and delight which made
him a totally different man from the gloomy pessimist of the previous
day.

“Merriman, old man,” he cried, though in repressed tones—it was only a
little after five—“I’m frightfully sorry to stir you up, but I just
couldn’t help it. I say, you and I are a nice pair of idiots!”

Merriman grunted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmured sleepily.

“Talking about?” Hilliard returned eagerly. “Why, this affair, of
course! I see it now, but what I don’t see is how we missed it before.
The idea struck me like a flash. Just while you’d wink I saw the whole
thing!”

Merriman, now thoroughly aroused, moved with some annoyance.

“For Heaven’s sake, explain yourself,” he demanded. “What whole thing?”

“How they do it. We thought it was brandy smuggling but we couldn’t see
how it was done. Well, I see now. It’s brandy smuggling right enough,
and we’ll get them this time. We’ll get them, Merriman, we’ll get them
yet.”

Hilliard was bubbling over with excitement. He could not remain still,
but began to pace up and down the room. His emotion was infectious, and
Merriman began to feel his heart beat quicker as he listened.

Hilliard went on:

“We _thought_ there might be brandy, in fact we couldn’t suggest
anything else. But we didn’t _see_ any brandy; we saw pit-props. Isn’t
that right?”

“Well?” Merriman returned impatiently. “Get on. What next?”

“That’s all,” Hilliard declared with a delighted laugh. “That’s the
whole thing. Don’t you see it now?”

Merriman felt his anger rising.

“Confound it all, Hilliard,” he protested. “If you haven’t anything
better to do than coming round wakening—”

“Oh, don’t get on your hind legs,” Hilliard interrupted with another
ecstatic chuckle. “What I say is right-enough. Look here, it’s
perfectly simple. We thought brandy would be unloaded! And what’s more,
we both sat in that cursed barrel and watched it being done! But all we
saw coming ashore was pit-props, Merriman, _pit-props!_ Now don’t you
see?”

Merriman suddenly gasped.

“Lord!” he cried breathlessly. “It was _in_ the props?”

“Of course it was in the props!” Hilliard repeated triumphantly.
“Hollow props; a few hollow ones full of brandy to unload in their
shed, many genuine ones to sell! What do you think of that, Merriman?
Got them at last, eh?”

Merriman lay still as he tried to realize what this idea involved.
Hilliard, moving jerkily about the room as if he were a puppet
controlled by wires, went on speaking.

“I thought it out in bed before I came along. All they’d have to do
would be to cut the props in half and bore them out, attaching a
screwed ring to one half and a screwed socket to the other so that
they’d screw together like an ordinary gas thimble. See?”

Merriman nodded.

“Then they’d get some steel things like oxygen gas cylinders to fit
inside. They’d be designed of such a thickness that their weight would
be right; that their weight plus the brandy would be equal to the
weight of the wood bored out.”

He paused and looked at Merriman. The latter nodded again.

“The rest would be as easy as tumbling off a log. At night Coburn and
company would screw off the hollow ends, fill the cylinders with
brandy, screw on the end again, and there you have your props—harmless,
innocent props—ready for loading up on the _Girondin_. Of course,
they’d have them marked. Then when they’re being unloaded that manager
would get the marked ones put aside—they could somehow be defective,
too long or too short or too thin or too anything you like—he would
find some reason for separating them out—and then at night he would
open the things and pour out the brandy, screw them up again and—there
you are!”

Hilliard paused dramatically, like a conjurer who has just drawn a
rabbit from a lady’s vanity bag.

“That would explain that Ferriby manager sleeping in the shed,”
Merriman put in.

“So it would. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And,” Merriman went on, “there’d be enough genuine props carried on
each trip to justify the trade.”

“Of course. A very few faked ones would do all they wanted—say two or
three per cent. My goodness, Merriman, it’s a clever scheme; they
deserve to win. But they’re not going to.” Again he laughed
delightedly.

Merriman was thinking deeply. He had recovered his composure, and had
begun to weigh the idea critically.

“They mightn’t empty the brandy themselves at all,” he said slowly.
“What’s to prevent them running the faked props to the firm who plants
the brandy?”

“That’s true,” Hilliard returned. “That’s another idea. My eyes, what
possibilities the notion has!”

They talked on for some moments, then Hilliard, whose first excitement
was beginning to wane, went back to his room for some clothes. In a few
minutes he return

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/2013