The Sins of Severac Bablon Part 54

"Mr. Belford! Mr. Belford!" he cried.

But no answer came, only a whisper from the coppice, followed by the squeak of the crazy shutter.

They ran out to where they had left Belford on guard over the grey car; but no sign of him remained, nor evidence of a struggle. The hum of the retreating motor grew faint in the distance.

"Ah!" cried Sheffield, and started running towards Mr. Belford's limousine on the edge of the coppice. "Quick! don't you see? _He's kidnapped!_ In you go! This just about sees me out at Scotland Yard if we don't overtake them!"

"They've gone back the way we've just come!" said the chauffeur, hurling himself on board. "I can't make out where they're going--and I can't make out why they took the worst car! It's an old crock, hired from Lewes. We can run it down inside five minutes!"

"Thank G.o.d for that!" said Sheffield, as, for the second time that night, he set out across moonlit Suss.e.x on the front of the big car, in pursuit of the most elusive man who ever had baffled the Criminal Investigation Department.

Visions of degradation to the ranks from which he so laboriously had risen occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else; for to have allowed the notorious Severac Bablon to kidnap the Home Secretary under his very eyes was a blunder which he knew full well could not be condoned.

Even the breathless drop into the great bowl on the Downs did not serve to dispel his gloomy dreams. Then:

"There they are! And, as I live, making straight for Womsley!" cried the chauffeur.

Sheffield stood up unsteadily on his insecure perch, and there was the mysterious grey car, which now was become a veritable nightmare, mounting the hill in front.

One minute pa.s.sed, and Sheffield was straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of the occupants. But no one was visible. Two minutes pa.s.sed, and the inspector began to think that his eyesight was failing, or that a worse thing portended. For, as far as he could make out, only one man occupied the car--the man who drove her!

"What does it mean?" muttered the detective, clutching at the shoulder of the chauffeur to support himself. "It must be Severac Bablon!

But--where's Mr. Belford?"

Three minutes pa.s.sed, and the brilliant moonlight set at rest all doubts respecting the ident.i.ty of the man who drove the car.

His silvern hair flowed out, gleaming on his shoulders, as he bent forward over the driving-wheel.

It was the Right Hon. Walter Belford!

"What in the name of murder does it mean?" cried Sheffield. "Has he gone mad? Mr. Belford! Mr. Belford! Hoy! ... _Hoy! ... hoy! Mr. Belford!_"

But although he must have heard the cry, Mr. Belford, immovable at the wheel, drove madly ahead!

"What shall I do?" asked the chauffeur in an awed voice.

"Do?" rapped Sheffield savagely. "Pa.s.s him and block the road! He's stark, raving mad!"

So, along that white road, under the placid moon, was enacted the strangest incident of this entirely bizarre adventure; for Mr. Belford, in the hired motor, was pursued and overtaken by his own car, which pa.s.sed him, forged ahead, turned across the road, and blocked it.

For one moment the Home Secretary, racing down upon them, seemed to contemplate leaving the path for the gra.s.sland, and thus proceeding on his way; but the chauffeur ran out to meet him, holding up his arms and crying:

"Stop, sir! _Stop!_"

Mr. Belford stopped the car and fixed his eyes upon the man with a look of real amazement.

"You?" he said, and turned to Sheffield.

"Who else?" rapped the inspector irritably. "What on earth are you doing, sir? Where's the quarry--where's Severac Bablon?"

"What!" cried the Home Secretary, from the step of the car. "You have lost him?"

"Lost him!" repeated Sheffield ironically. "I never had him!"

"But," said Mr. Belford distinctly, and in his question-answering voice, "did you not return to where I was stationed and inform me that you had them all locked in an upper room? Did I not, myself, hear their attempt to break down the door? And did you not report that, their numbers being considerable, you could not, single-handed, hope to arrest them?"

"Go on!" said Sheffield, in a tired voice. "What else did I tell you?"

"You see," resumed the politician triumphantly, "this _impa.s.se_ is due to no irregularity in my own conduct! You told me that my limousine had mysteriously been tampered with, and that the only course was for you and Jenkins to remain and endeavour to prevent the prisoners from escaping, whilst I, in their car, returned to Womsley Old Place for your men! Hearing you behind me, I naturally a.s.sumed that the prisoners had overpowered you and were in pursuit of me!"

"I see!" said Sheffield, removing his hat and scratching his head viciously.

"Finally," said Mr. Belford, with dignity, "you gave me this note for your princ.i.p.al a.s.sistant, Dawson"--and handed an envelope to the inspector.

The latter, with the resignation of despair, accepted it, tore it open, and took out a card. Directing the ray of his pocket-torch upon it, though in the brilliant moonlight no artificial aid really was necessary, he read the following aloud:

"Severac Bablon begs to present his compliments to His Majesty's Princ.i.p.al Secretary of State for the Home Department and to thank him for according the privilege of a private interview. Whilst deprecating the subterfuge rendered necessary by the right honourable gentleman's att.i.tude, he feels that it is justified by results, and begs respectfully to repeat his a.s.surance that no one in whom the right honourable gentleman is interested shall be compromised, now or at any future time."

"You see," said the detective wearily, "that wasn't the real Inspector Sheffield who spoke to you. I thought you might have known him by this time, sir! That was Severac Bablon!"

CHAPTER XXVII

YELLOW CIGARETTES

In our pursuit of the fantastic being, about whom so many mysteries gathered, we have somewhat neglected the affairs of Sir Richard Haredale. Thanks to Mr. Belford's elusive visitor, these now ran smoothly.

In order to learn how smoothly we have only to present ourselves at a certain important social function.

"These military weddings are so romantic," gushed Mrs. Rohscheimer.

"And so beastly stuffy," added her husband, mopping his damp brow with a silk handkerchief bearing, in gold thread, the monogram "J. R."

"Doesn't d.i.c.k look real sweet?" whispered Lady Vignoles, following with admiring eyes the soldierly figure of the bridegroom, Sir Richard Haredale.

Lord Vignoles shouldered his way through the scrum about the door.

"I say, Sheila," he called to his wife, "where's Zoe?"

"She was here a minute ago," replied Julius Rohscheimer, rolling his prominent eyes about in quest of the missing one.

"I mean to say," explained Vignoles, "her father is asking----"

"What! Has uncle turned up after all?" exclaimed Lady Vignoles, and looked quickly towards the door.