The Crowned Skull | Page 8

a wall. Everyone knew Bowring, and
envied him the wealth which could command such a vehicle.
But when the steep ascent was mounted the machine ran smoothly

along a level road until she topped the next and slid round a sloping
curve, which dropped her into a valley. Then again came a rise, and she
slipped forward humming into wild waste lands.
On all sides stretched the naked moorland, covered with heather and
gorse, and huge grey stones lying here and there as though a Cornish
giant had dropped a handful of pebbles from his pocket. On either side,
here and there rose rounded hills, topped with cromlechs and
rocking-stones, and streaked with purple lights. The west flared with
the vivid colours of the sunset, delicately pink, and melting on the
horizon into sheets of shimmering gold. To the left were the bleak hills
bathed in the imperial purple of the setting sun; to the right the cold
blue of the trembling ocean, with white waves near shore tumbling
amongst the black jagged rocks. Bowring knew the landscape well, and
troubled himself very little about the beauty it took on under the
changing hues of the western sky. He was thinking of many
things--perhaps of his past, which rumour said was not all that could be
desired. But of one thing he certainly was thinking, and that was the
firm face of the fairy-like creature who had defied him. He wondered
that so frail a form could contain so brave a spirit. Dericka was the very
wife for the half-mad Morgan, and would bring good blood into the
family. Then he, John Bowring, millionaire, could die in peace, leaving
the firm foundations of a county family.
So the old man dreamed, while the car buzzed along the smooth road,
swooping into hollows, soaring up ascents, and, spinning like a live
thing, sped along endless levels. About three miles from St. Ewalds
came a long downward stretch of road, which afforded Donalds the
chance of letting his machine go. And go she did, with a roar and a rush
like a live bombshell. The keen air cut sharply against their faces as
they hummed down the long descent. At the foot the road took a sharp
turn under some high banks, above which stretched the purple of the
moorland. With Bowring dreaming, and Donalds exulting in the speed
of the powerful machine, the car swept round the curve at a tremendous
rate. But once round, and with another short road descending before her
to a second corner, she had scarcely darted forward a short distance
when right in front loomed up a huge mass of granite in the very centre

of the roadway. With a cry of horror Donalds put on the brakes. But it
was too late. The Hadrian met the mass of granite full, and the two men
were hurled into the air, above a smashed mass of steel and iron,
smoking and hissing.
It was like a nightmare. The chauffeur was tossed like a cork down a
bank and fell on a soft bed of purple heather, narrowly missing a
mighty stone, which would have killed him. Dazed and confused, and
not knowing how time was passing, Donalds painfully climbed up to
the road again. He saw, as in a dream, the broken motor-car, vague and
doubtful-looking in the twilight, and saw also his master struggling to
his feet. As Bowring straightened himself, swaying to and fro, a man
leaped down from the high bank, and without hesitation, put a revolver
to the old man's ear. The next moment Bowring fell as the report rang
out, and Donalds, gasping with horror, weak from loss of blood, and
confused by the shock, fell fainting down the bank, to all appearances
as dead as the old millionaire.
But the shot had attracted attention. The murderer heard a shout, and
without hesitation regained the top of the steep bank and vanished
amidst the purple heather. Scarcely had he done so when round the
corner came several labourers at full speed. They were quarrymen
employed in breaking stones in an old quarry which belonged to
Trevick Grange. These ran forward, exclaiming at what they saw. The
whole appearance of the wreckage told a story--the broken car, the
insensible man, and the great mass of granite in the centre of the road.
'But the shot?' said one man, picking up Bowring's body. He dropped it
with a cry of horror. 'Look!' he cried, and pointed to the head.
'Murder!' said several voices, and the quarrymen looked at one another
in the fast gathering twilight.
The sounds of wheels were heard rattling furiously, and round the
second corner, whence the quarrymen had appeared, rushed a dog-cart
bearing Penrith and Miss Stretton.
'What is the matter?' they