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"That's my brother's argument," said Randal, adding his word of comfort. There was a tap at the door, and a constable entered. "Sir Randal Bellamy's chauffeur, sir," he said to Finucane. "He has brought this letter. Says it's from Mr. Richard Bellamy." Randal glanced at the note and then read aloud: "Melchard's the man we want. Get his address. 'Phone cut outside. Wire me address P.D.Q."
As the last of the team were climbing to their seats, a motor-cycle with a side-car, coming from the north, pulled up behind them. "Don't turn your head," whispered Dick on the box to Amaryllis beside him. "They'll pass us soon, if they're Melchard's men. I had to yank you up here, you little devil, or you'd have cooked the whole show by laughing.
He rose, and lifting Melchard's legs, made him lie at full length along the seat farthest from the engine and the motor-cyclists. Next, he drew down the little corner-blinds of each window, leaving the door-blinds up; then sat down again resuming his attitude of abstraction.
He did not fear murder; but the very reason of her security from death was the cause of a fear so horrible, that he knew inaction would have been torture past endurance. When Amaryllis left her bedroom, having laid Melchard's letter on her table, she had intended returning at once to pleasant and frivolous conversation with Dick Bellamy.
But at this moment Dixon Mallaby caught a gleam from his eyes which assured him that the least familiarity or impertinence of Melchard's would be resented in a manner likely to divert the crowd's lingering anger from Mut-mut to his master.
At eleven minutes past five Dick Bellamy stopped Melchard's car outside the booking-office of somnolent Harthborough's dead-alive station the junction of the single-line track to Whitebay and its bathing machines with the double-track branch of the G.N.R. from York to Caterscliff. A hopeless porter languished against the hot bricks of the doorway.
A train's the safest place for us, and, if Melchard's seen his picket there after driving right over this ground, he won't be expecting to find us on the way back." "He may be between us and Harthborough now," said Amaryllis. "If we can pass him, then," said Dick, "his Harthborough picket won't give us much trouble. Our other way is the London road.
I'm frightened," said the girl, imploring. "So'm I badly," said Dick, and rose to his feet. The letters from Melchard's pocket were still in her hand. He took them, and picked out a white envelope with no writing on it. The wax seal had been broken. He drew from it a sheet of paper, and unfolded it before her. "That's the formula it must be," said Amaryllis.
Out of Melchard's sight, he examined the handkerchief a lady's, marked with the embroidered initials A.C., and it struck him, once more with a sense of unreason, not only that the beastly dentist had discovered that these letters did not stand for Araminta Bunce, but that he knew the names which they were here intended to represent.
"If we missed that train at five-fifteen, we should have to wait till ten for the next." "And it'd be much safer," Amaryllis broke in, "to wait on the moor, than in a village or a station where people could see us." "Yes. I'm not clear-headed enough now to see into Melchard's mind, but I can still calculate on what I know.
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