“He’ll dodge us now, if he can,” Michael warned his companions, who evidently were unacquainted with the ground. “Keep your eyes on him at any cost.”
But as they entered the pine arcades, Michael found that he was mistaken. The quarry maintained his lead; but he made no effort to leave the beaten track. Ahead of them they could see his white-clad figure dappled with light and darkness as he sped up the broad pathway.
Suddenly, Michael remembered what lay beyond the pine-wood. Without raising his voice, for fear the runner in front should hear him, he explained the situation.
“He doesn’t know what he’s running into. There’s a big quarry up there, with barbed wire fences on each side. If we can keep him straight for it, we’ll have him pinned.”
On went the fugitive, still maintaining his lead and glancing over his shoulder from time to time, as though he were gauging the distance which separated him from his closest pursuers.
“The beggar can run, certainly,” Michael admitted to himself. “But running isn’t going to help him much in a minute or two. We have him on toast.”
In a few moments the moon shone bright through the trees ahead. As they reached the edge of the wood, the white figure in front of them showed up clearly as it sprinted across the strip of open ground, straight for the spinney which bounded the quarry cliff. With a gesture, Michael called his motley group to a halt.
“Wait a minute,” he ordered. “You, Mephistopheles, get off to the left there, outside the spinney. Go on until you strike barbed wire. Take this Prehistoric Man—oh, it’s you, is it, Frankie? Well, both of you get down there and act as stoppers, so that he can’t sneak off along the fence. Oliver Cromwell and you in the funny coat! You’re to do the same over yonder on the right. Put some hurry into it, now! And don’t move in towards him till you get the word. The rest of you, extend a bit along the near edge of the spinney. Not too close; give yourselves a chance of spotting him if he breaks cover. And don’t yell unless you actually see him. We’ve got him shut in now, and we can afford to wait for reinforcements. Here they come!”
Two panting runners breasted the hill as he spoke. At this moment there came from beyond the spinney the sound of a splash. Michael was taken aback.
“The beggar can’t have dived over, surely. It’s full of rocks down below. We’ll have to hurry up. He might get away, after all, if he’s extra lucky.”
A fresh group of pursuers gave him the reinforcements he needed; and he fed them into his cordon at its weak points.
“Pass the word for the whole line to close in!”
The cordon began to contract around the spinney, the wide gaps in it closing up as it advanced.
“The beggar’s probably got a pistol; look out for yourselves among the trees,” Michael cautioned them as they reached the boundary of the plantation. “Don’t hurry. And keep touch, whatever you do.”
He himself was at the centre of the line and was the first to enter the tiny wood. The advance was slow; for here there was some undergrowth which might offer a hiding-place to the fugitive; and this was carefully scrutinized, clump by clump, before the line moved forward as a whole. Michael meant to make certain of capturing the burglar; and he could afford now to go about the matter deliberately. Fresh reinforcements in twos and threes were still streaming in from the pine-wood.
It took only a few minutes, however, to draw his screen through the spinney; for the belt of trees was a narrow one. Every instant he expected to hear a shout indicating that the quarry had been run to earth; but none came. His line emerged intact from the trees, forming an arc of which the cliff-face was the chord; and as his men came out into the moonlight, Michael had to admit to himself that no one could well have crept through any gap in the cordon.
“He must be out here, hiding among these seats,” he shouted. “Don’t break your line any more than you can help. Advance to that balustrade in front. Rush him, if he shows up.”
Now that he was sure of his quarry, Michael at last had leisure to note the tincture of the bizarre in the scene before him. The high-riding moon whitened the terrace and touched with glamour the motley costumes of the hunters preparing for their final swoop. Here Robin Hood and a hatless Flying Dutchman were stooping to peer below one of the marble seats. Farther along the line Lohengrin and a Milkman discussed something eagerly in whispers. On the left the Prehistoric Man loomed up like a Troglodyte emerging from his cave; while beyond him Mephistopheles leaned upon the railing, scanning the water below. From the inky shadow of the spinney Felix the Cat stole softly out to join the cordon.
“A weird-looking gang we are,” Michael commented to himself as he gazed about him.
