Only a few steps separated the hunters from the clear floor of the terrace. In a second or two at most, the man they were chasing must break cover and make a dash for liberty or else tamely surrender. Slowly the line crept forward.
“We’ve got him now!” a voice cried, exultantly.
But the living net swept on past the marble tier without catching anything in its meshes. Between it and the balustrade was nothing but the untenanted paving of the terrace.
“He’s got away!” ejaculated someone in tones of complete amazement. “Well, I’m damned if I see how he managed it.”
The chain broke up into individuals, who hurried hither and thither on the esplanade searching even in the most unlikely spots for the missing fugitive. All at once Michael’s eye caught something which had been concealed in the shadows thrown by the moon.
“Here’s a rope, you fellows! He’s gone down the face of the cliff. Swum the lake, probably.”
Mephistopheles dissented in a languid drawl.
“Not he, Clifton. I’ve had my eye on the water ever since I got up to the barbed wire. You could spot the faintest ripple in this moonshine. He didn’t get off that way.”
“Sure of that?” demanded Michael.
“Dead sure. I watched specially.”
Michael hesitated for a moment or two, considering the situation. Then his face cleared.
“I see it! I remember there’s a cave right below here, in the cliff-face. He’s gone to ground there. Half of you get through the barbed wire on the right; the rest take the left side. Line up on the banks when you get down to the water. He may swim for it yet if we don’t hurry.”
They raced off to carry out his instructions, while Michael pulled up the rope and flung it on the terrace.
“That cuts off his escape in this direction,” he said to himself. “Now we can dig him out at leisure.”
Without hurrying, he made his way down to the water.
“There used to be a raft of sorts here,” he explained. “If we can rout it out, we’ll be able to ferry across to the cave-mouth without much bother. I doubt if he’ll show fight once we lay our hands on him; for he hasn’t an earthly chance of getting away.”
He poked about among the sedge on the rim of the lakelet and at last discovered the decrepit raft.
“This thing’ll just bear two of us. Do we dig the beggar out or starve him out? Dig him out, eh? Well, I want someone to go with me. Here, you, Frankie”—he turned to the Prehistoric Man—“you’d better come along. If it comes to a ducking, you’ve got fewer clothes to spoil than the rest of us.”
Nothing loath, the Prehistoric Man scrambled aboard the raft, which sank ominously under the extra weight.
“I can’t find anything to pole with,” grumbled Michael. “Paddle with your flippers, Frankie. It’s the only thing to do. Get busy with it.”
Under this primitive method of propulsion, the progress of the raft was slow; but at last they succeeded in bringing it under the cliff-face, after which they were able to work it along by hand. Gradually they manœuvred it into position in front of the cave-mouth, which stood only a yard or so above water-level. Michael leaned forward to the entrance.
“You may as well come out quietly,” he warned the inmate. “It’s no good trying to put up a fight. You haven’t a dog’s chance.”
There was no reply of any sort.
“Hold the damned raft steady, Frankie! You nearly had me overboard,” expostulated Michael. “I’m going to light a match. The cave’s as black as the pit, and I can see nothing.”
He pulled a silver match-box from his trousers pocket.
“Lucky I hadn’t this in my coat; for you don’t look as if you had a pocket of any sort on you, Frankie.”
The first match, damped by the moisture on his hands, sputtered and died out.
“Hurry up, Guvnor,” shouted Mephistopheles, cheerfully, from the bank. “Don’t keep us up all night with your firework display. It’s getting a bit chilly, paddling about amongst this sedge. Not at all the temperature I’m accustomed to at home.”
Michael felt for another match and lighted it successfully. Standing up on the raft, he held the light above his head and peered into the cavity in the rock. The Prehistoric Man heard him exclaim in amazement.
“Damnation, Frankie! He’s not here! It’s hardly a cave at all.”
He put his hands on the cave floor.
“Hold tight with the raft. I’m going in to make sure.”
He scrambled up into the hollow; but almost immediately his face appeared again in the moonlight.
“Nothing here. The hole’s barely big enough to take me in.”
“Then where’s he gone?” demanded the Prehistoric Man, who was a creature of few words.
“I dunno! Must have given us the slip somehow. If he isn’t here, he must be somewhere else. No getting round that.”
He shouted the news to the watchers on the banks; and a confused sound of argument rose from amongst the sedge.
“Not much use hanging round the old home, Frankie. Pull for the shore, sailor. We’d best manhandle her along the face of the cliff. I’ve had enough of that paddling.”
