A Rogue by Compulsion

Victor Bridges

Informations

• Publié par: fiwyur
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 28
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Rogue by
Compulsion, by Victor Bridges
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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.net
Title: A Rogue by Compulsion
Author: Victor Bridges
Release Date: December 21, 2003 [eBook #10511]
Most recently updated: September 9, 2008
Language: English
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG
EBOOK A ROGUE BY COMPULSION***
E-text prepared by Kevin Handy, Dave Maddock,
Josephine Paolucci, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading TeamA ROGUE BY COMPULSION
An Affair of the Secret Service
By VICTOR BRIDGES
With Frontispiece By JOHN H. CASSEL
1915
[Illustration: "A CURTAIN AT THE END OF THE
ROOM WAS DRAWN SLOWLY
ASIDE, AND THERE, STANDING IN THE GAP, I
SAW THE SLIM FIGURE OF A
GIRL."
Chapter X.
Drawn by John H. Cassel.]TO
THAT BEST OF FRIENDS
HUGHES MASSIECONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A BOLT FOR FREEDOM
II. A BICYCLE AND SOME OVERALLS
III. A DUBIOUS REFUGE
IV. ECHOES OF A FAMOUS CASE
V. AN OFFER WITHOUT AN ALTERNATIVE
VI. THE FACE OF A STRANGER
VII. A KISS AND A CONFESSION
VIII. RT. HON. SIR GEORGE FRINTON, P.C.
IX. THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
X. MADEMOISELLE VIVIEN, PALMIST
XI. BRIDGING THREE YEARS OF SEPARATIONXII. A SCRIBBLED WARNING
XIII. REGARDING MR. BRUCE LATIMER
XIV. A SUMMONS FROM DR. McMURTRIE
XV. A HUMAN "CATCH"
XVI. CONFRONTING THE INTRUDER
XVII. THE WORKSHOP ON THE MARSHES
XVIII. A NEW CLUE TO AN OLD CRIME
XIX. LAUNCHING A NEW INVENTION
XX. APPROACHING A SOLUTION
XXI. SONIA'S SUDDEN VISIT
XXII. THE POLICE TAKE ACTION
XXIII. IN THE NICK OF TIME
XXIV. EXONERATED
XXV. A LITTLE FAMILY PARTYCHAPTER I
A BOLT FOR FREEDOM
Most of the really important things in life—such as
love and death—happen unexpectedly. I know that
my escape from Dartmoor did.
We had just left the quarries—eighteen of us, all
dressed in that depressing costume which King
George provides for his less elusive subjects—and
we were shambling sullenly back along the gloomy
road which leads through the plantation to the
prison. The time was about four o'clock on a dull
March afternoon.
In the roadway, on either side of us, tramped an
armed warder, his carbine in his hand, his eyes
travelling with dull suspicion up and down the gang.
Fifteen yards away, parallel with our route, the
sombre figure of one of the civil guards kept pace
with us through the trees. We were a cheery party!Suddenly, without any warning, one of the warders
turned faint. He dropped his carbine, and putting
his hand to his head, stumbled heavily against the
low wall that separated us from the wood. The
clatter of his weapon, falling in the road, naturally
brought all eyes round in that direction, and seeing
what had happened the whole eighteen of us
instinctively halted.
The gruff voice of the other warder broke out at
once, above the shuffling of feet:
"What are you stopping for? Get on there in front."
From the corner of my eye I caught sight of the
civil guard hurrying towards the prostrate figure by
the wall; and then, just as the whole gang lurched
forward again, the thing happened with beautiful
abruptness.
A broad, squat figure shot out suddenly from the
head of the column, and, literally hurling itself over
the wall, landed with a crash amongst the thick
undergrowth. There was a second shout from the
warder, followed almost instantly by a hoarse
command to halt, as the civil guard jerked his
carbine to his shoulder.
The fugitive paid about as much attention to the
order as a tiger would to a dog whistle. He was off
again in an instant, bent almost double, and
bursting through the tangled bushes with amazing
swiftness.
Bang!The charge of buckshot whistled after him,
spattering viciously through the twigs, and several
of the bolder spirits in the gang at once raised a
half-hearted cry of "Murder!"
"Stop that!" bawled the warder angrily, and to
enforce his words he quickened his steps so as to
bring him in touch with the offenders.
As he did so, I suddenly perceived with
extraordinary clearness that I should never again
get quite such a good chance to escape. The other
men were momentarily between me and the
warder, while the civil guard, his carbine empty,
was plunging through the trees in pursuit of his
wounded quarry.
It was no time for hesitation, and in any case
hesitation is not one of my besetting sins. I
recollect taking one long, deep breath: then the
next thing I remember is catching my toe on the
top of the wall and coming the most unholy purler
in the very centre of an exceptionally well
armoured blackberry bush.
This blunder probably saved my life: it certainly
accounted for my escape. The warder who
evidently had more nerve than I gave him credit
for, must have fired at me from where he was,
right between the heads of the other convicts. It
was only my abrupt disappearance from the top of
the wall that saved me from being filled up with
lead. As it was, the charge whistled over me just as
I fell, and a devilish unpleasant noise it made too.I didn't wait for him to reload. I was out of that
bush and off up the hill in rather less time than it
takes to read these words. Where I was going I
scarcely thought; my one idea was to put as big a
distance as possible between myself and the
carbine before its owner could ram home a second
cartridge.
As I ran, twisting in and out between the trees, and
keeping my head as low as possible, I could hear
behind me a hoarse uproar from my fellow-
convicts, who by this time were evidently getting
out of hand. No sound could have pleased me
better. The more boisterous the good fellows
became the less chance would the remaining
warder have of worrying about me. As for the civil
guard—well, it seemed probable that his time was
already pretty fully engaged.
My chief danger lay in the chance that there might
be other warders in the immediate neighbourhood.
If so, they would doubtless have heard the firing
and have come running up at the first alarm. I
looked back over my shoulder as I reached the top
of the plantation, which was about a hundred yards
from the road, but so far as I could see there was
no one as yet on my track.
My one chance lay in reaching the main wood that
borders the Tavistock road before the mounted
guard could come up. Between this and the
plantation stretched a long bare slope of hillside,
perhaps two hundred yards across, with scarcely