The Pit Prop Syndicate Part 20

Again silence fell on the little group, and then Merriman, who had for some time been lost in thought, made a sudden movement.

"Lord!" he exclaimed, "but we have been fools over this thing! There's another point we've all missed, which alone proves it couldn't have been faked props. Here, Hilliard, this was your theory, though I don't mean to saddle you with more imbecility than myself. But anyway, according to your theory, what happened to the props after they were unloaded?"

Hilliard stared at this outburst.

"After they were unloaded?" he repeated. "Why, returned of course for the next cargo."

"But that's just it," cried Merriman. "That's just what wasn't done.

We've seen that boat unloaded twice, and on neither occasion were any props loaded to go back."

"That's a point, certainly; yes," Leatham interposed. "I suppose they would have to be used again and again? Each trip's props couldn't be destroyed after arrival, and new ones made for the next cargo?"

Hilliard shook his head reluctantly.

"No," he declared. "Impossible. Those things would cost a lot of money.

You see, no cheap scheme, say of s.h.i.+pping bottles into hollowed props, would do. The props would have to be thoroughly well made, so that they wouldn't break and give the show away if accidentally dropped. They wouldn't pay unless they were used several times over. I'm afraid Merriman's point is sound, and we may give up the idea."

Further discussion only strengthened this opinion, and the three men had to admit themselves at a total loss as to their next move. The only SUGGESTION in the field was that of Leatham, to inform Scotland Yard, and that was at last approved by Hilliard as a counsel of despair.

"There's nothing else for it that I can see," he observed gloomily.

"We've done our best on our own and failed, and we may let someone else have a shot now. My leave's nearly up anyway."

Merriman said nothing at the time, but next day, when they had taken leave of their host and were in train for King's Cross, he reopened the subject.

"I needn't say, Hilliard," he began, "I'm most anxious that the police should not be brought in, and you know the reason why. If she gets into any difficulty about the affair, you understand my life's at an end for any good it'll do me. Let's wait a while and think over the thing further, and perhaps we'll see daylight before long."

Hilliard made a gesture of impatience.

"If you can suggest any single thing that we should do that we haven't done, I'm ready to do it. But if you can't, I don't see that we'd be justified in keeping all that knowledge to ourselves for an indefinite time while we waited for an inspiration. Is not that reasonable?"

"It's perfectly reasonable," Merriman admitted, "and I don't suggest we should wait indefinitely. What I propose is that we wait for a month.

Give me another month, Hilliard, and I'll be satisfied. I have an idea that something might be learned from tracing that lorry number business, and if you have to go back to work I'll slip over by myself to Bordeaux and see what I can do. And if I fail I'll see her, and try to get her to marry me in spite of the trouble. Wait a month, Hilliard, and by that time I shall know where I stand."

Hilliard was extremely unwilling to agree to this proposal. Though he realized that he could not hand over to his superiors a complete case against the syndicate, he also saw that considerable kudos was still possible if he supplied information which would enable their detectives to establish one. And every day he delayed increased the chance of someone else finding the key to the riddle, and thus robbing him of his reward. Merriman realized the position, and he therefore fully appreciated the sacrifice Hilliard was risking when after a long discussion that young man gave his consent.

Two days later Hilliard was back at his office, while Merriman, after an argument with his partner not far removed from a complete break, was on his way once more to the south of France.

CHAPTER 10. MERRIMAN BECOMES DESPERATE

The failure of the attempt to learn the secret of the Pit-Prop Syndicate affected Merriman more than he could have believed possible.

His interest in the affair was not that of Hilliard. Neither the intellectual joy of solving a difficult problem for its own sake, nor the kudos which such a solution might bring, made much appeal to him.

His concern was simply the happiness of the girl he loved, and though, to do him justice, he did not think overmuch of himself, he recognized that any barrier raised between them was the end for him of all that made life endurable.

As he lay back with closed eyes in the corner seat of a first-cla.s.s compartment in the boat train from Calais he went over for the thousandth time the details of the problem as it affected himself. Had Mr. Coburn rendered himself liable to arrest or even to penal servitude, and did his daughter know it? The anxious, troubled look which Merriman had on different occasions surprised on the girl's expressive face made him fear both these possibilities. But if they were true did it stop there? Was her disquietude due merely to knowledge of her father's danger, or was she herself in peril also? Merriman wondered could she have such knowledge and not be in peril herself. In the eyes of the law would it not be a guilty knowledge? Could she not be convicted as an accessory?

If it were so he must act at once if he were to save her. But how?

He writhed under the terrible feeling of impotence produced by his ignorance of the syndicate's real business. If he were to help Madeleine he must know what the conspirators were doing.

And he had failed to learn. He had failed, and Hilliard had failed, and neither they nor Leatham had been able to suggest any method by which the truth might be ascertained.

There was, of course, the changing of the number plates. A trained detective would no doubt be able to make something of that. But Merriman felt that without even the a.s.sistance of Hilliard, he had neither the desire nor the ability to tackle it.

He pondered the question, as he had pondered it for weeks, and the more he thought, the more he felt himself driven to the direct course--to see Madeleine, put the problem to her, ask her to marry him and come out of it all. But there were terrible objections to this plan, not the least of which was that if he made a blunder it might be irrevocable. She might not hear him at all. She might be displeased by his SUGGESTION that she and her father were in danger from such a cause. She might decide not to leave her father for the very reason that he was in danger. And all these possibilities were, of course, in addition to the much more probable one that she would simply refuse him because she did not care about him.

Merriman did not see his way clearly, and he was troubled. Once he had made up his mind he was not easily turned from his purpose, but he was slow in making it up. In this case, where so much depended on his decision, he found his doubt actually painful.

Mechanically he alighted at the Gare du Nord, crossed Paris, and took his place in the southern express at the Quai d'Orsay. Here he continued wrestling with his problem, and it was not until he was near his destination that he arrived at a decision. He would not bother about further investigations. He would go out and see Madeleine, tell her everything, and put his fate into her hands.

He alighted at the Bastide Station in Bordeaux, and driving across to the city, put up at the Gironde Hotel. There he slept the night, and next day after lunch he took a taxi to the clearing.

Leaving the vehicle on the main road, he continued on foot down the lane and past the depot until he reached the manager's house.

The door was opened by Miss Coburn in person. On seeing her visitor she stood for a moment quite motionless while a look of dismay appeared in her eyes and a hot flush rose on her face and then faded, leaving it white and drawn.

"Oh!" she gasped faintly. "It's you!" She still stood holding the door, as if overcome by some benumbing emotion.

Merriman had pulled off his hat.

"It is I, Miss Coburn," he answered gently. "I have come over from London to see you. May I not come in?"

She stepped back.

"Come in, of course," she said, making an obvious effort to infuse cordiality into her tone. "Come in here."

He fumbled with his coat in the hall, and by the time he followed her into the drawing-room she had recovered her composure.

She began rather breathlessly to talk commonplaces. At first he answered in the same strain, but directly he made a serious attempt to turn the conversation to the subject of his call she adroitly interrupted him.

"You'll have some tea?" she said presently, getting up and moving towards the door.

"Er-no-no, thanks, Miss Coburn, not any. I wanted really--"

"But I want some tea," she persisted, smiling. "Come, you may help me to get it ready, but you must have some to keep me company."

He had perforce to obey, and during the tea-making she effectually prevented any serious discussion. But when the meal was over and they had once more settled down in the drawing-room he would no longer be denied.

"Forgive me," he entreated, "forgive me for bothering you, but it's so desperately important to me. And we may be interrupted. Do hear what I've got to say."

Without waiting for permission he plunged into the subject. Speaking hoa.r.s.ely, stammering, contradicting himself, boggling over the words, he yet made himself clear. He loved her; had loved her from that first day they had met; he loved her more than anything else in the world; he--She covered her face with her hands.

"Oh!" she cried wildly. "Don't go on! Don't say it!" She made a despairing gesture. "I can't listen. I tried to stop you."

Merriman felt as if a cold weight was slowly descending upon his heart.

"But I will speak," he cried hoa.r.s.ely. "It's my life that's at stake.

Don't tell me you can't listen. Madeleine! I love you. I want you to marry me. Say you'll marry me. Madeleine! Say it!"