There was only one thing to do—turn sharply and dash back again, run headlong into the life that followed at his back, followed so closely too that now it almost touched him, pushing him in. And with reckless courage this was what he did. It seemed a fearful thing to do. He turned with a sort of violent spring, head down and shoulders forward, hands stretched before his face. He made the plunge; like a hunted creature he charged full tilt the other way, meeting the wind now in his face.
Good Lord! the glade behind him had closed up as well; there was no longer any path at all. Turning round and round, like an animal at bay, he searched for an opening, a way of escape, searched frantically, breathlessly, terrified now in his bones. But foliage surrounded him, branches blocked the way; the trees stood close and still, unshaken by a breath of wind; and the sun dipped that moment behind a great black cloud. the entire wood turned dark and silent. It watched him.
Perhaps it was this final touch of sudden blackness that made him act so foolishly, as though he had really lost his head. At any rate, without pausing to think, he dashed headlong in among the trees again. There was a sensation of being stiflingly surrounded and entangled, and that he must break out at all costs—out and away into the open of the blessed fields and air. He did this ill-considered thing, and apparently charged straight into an oak that deliberately moved into his path to stop him. He saw it shift across a good full yard, and being a measuring man, accustomed to theodolite and chain, he ought to know. He fell, saw stars, and felt a thousand tiny fingers tugging and pulling at his hands and neck and ankles. the stinging nettles, no doubt, were responsible for this. He thought of it later. At the moment it felt diabolically calculated.
But another remarkable illusion was not so easily explained. For all in a moment, it seemed, the entire wood went sliding past him with a thick deep rustling of leaves and laughter, myriad footsteps, and tiny little active, energetic shapes; two men in browny green gave him a mighty hoist—and he opened his eyes to find himself lying in the meadow beside the stile where first his incredible adventure had begun. the wood stood in its usual place and stared down upon him in the sunlight. There was the red house in the distance as before. Above him grinned the weather-beaten notice-board: “Trespassers will be prosecuted.”
Dishevelled in mind and body, and a good deal shaken in his official soul, the clerk walked slowly across the fields. But on the way he glanced once more at the postcard of instructions, and saw with dull amazement that the inked-out sentence was quite legible after all beneath the scratches made across it: “There is a short cut through the wood—the wood I want cut down—if you care to take it.” Only “care” was so badly written, it looked more like another word; the “c” was uncommonly like “d.”
“That’s the copse that spoils my view of the Downs, you see,” his client explained to him later, pointing across the fields, and referring to the ordnance map beside him. “I want it cut down and a path made so and so.” His finger indicated direction on the map. “The Fairy Wood—it’s still called, and it’s far older than this house. Come now, if you’re ready, Mr. Thomas, we might go out and have a look at it…”
THE KIT-BAG
When the words “Not Guilty” sounded through the crowded courtroom that dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal KC,1 and leader for the triumphant defence, was represented by his junior; but Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his chambers like lightning.
“It’s what we expected, I think,” said the lawyer, without emotion; “and, personally, I am glad the case is over.” There was no particular sign of pleasure that his defense of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea of insanity, had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who had watched the case felt, that no man had ever better deserved the gallows.
“I’m glad too,” said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days watching the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one of the most brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.
The counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. “Ah, I remember; yes,” he said with a kind smile, “and you want to get away for Christmas? You’re going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren’t you? If I was your age, I’d come with you.”
Johnson laughed shortly. He was a young man of 26, with a delicate face like a girl’s. “I can catch the morning boat now,” he said, “but that’s not the reason I’m glad the trial is over. I’m glad it’s over because I’ve seen the last of that man’s dreadful face. It positively haunted me. That white skin, with the black hair brushed low over the forehead, is a thing I shall never forget, and the description of the way the dismembered body was crammed and packed with lime into that—”
“Don’t dwell on it, my dear fellow,” interrupted the other, looking at him curiously out of his keen eyes. “Don’t think about it. Such pictures have a trick of coming back when one least wants them.” He paused a moment. “Now go,” he added presently, “and enjoy your holiday. I shall want all of your energy for my Parliamentary work when you get back. And don’t break your neck skiing.”
Johnson shook hands and took his leave. At the door he turned suddenly.
“I knew there was something I wanted to ask you,” he said. “Would you mind lending me one of your kit bags? It’s too late to get one tonight, and I leave in the morning before the shops are open.”
“Of course; I’ll send Henry over with it to your rooms. You shall have it the moment I get home.”
“I promise to take great care of it,” said Johnson gratefully, delighted to think that within 30 hours he would be nearing the brilliant sunshine of the high Alps in the winter. the thought of that criminal court was like an evil dream in his mind.
He dined at his club and went on to Bloomsbury, where he occupied the top floor in one of those old, gaunt houses in which the rooms are large and lofty. the floor below his own was vacant and unfurnished, and below that were other lodgers whom he did not know. It was cheerless, and he heartily looked forward to a change. the night was even more cheerless: it was miserable, and few people were around. A cold, sleety rain was driving down the streets before the keenest east wind that he had ever felt. It howled dismally among the big, gloomy houses of the great squares, and when he reached his rooms, he heard it whistling and shouting over the world of black roofs beyond his windows.
In the hall he met his landlady, shading a candle from the drafts with her thin hand. “This come by a man from Mr. Wilbr’am’s, sir.”
She pointed to what was evidently the kit bag, and Johnson thanked her and took it upstairs with him. “I shall be going abroad in the morning for ten days, Mrs. Monks,” he said. “I’ll leave an address for letters.”
“And I hope you’ll ‘ave a merry Christmas, sir,” she said in a raucous, wheezy voice that suggested spirits, “and better weather than this.”
“I hope so too,” replied her lodger, shuddering a little as the wind went roaring down the street outside.
When he got upstairs, he heard the sleet volleying against the windowpanes. He put his kettle on to make a cup of hot coffee and then set about putting a few things in order for his absence.
“And now I must pack—such as my packing is.” He laughed to himself and set to work at once.
He liked the packing, for it brought the snow mountains so vividly before him and made him forget the unpleasant scenes of the past ten days. Besides, it was not elaborate in nature. His friend had lent him the very thing—a stout canvas kit bag, sack-shaped, with holes around the neck for the brass bar and padlock. It was a bit shapeless, true, and not much to look at, but its capacity was unlimited, and there was no need