The Lost Valley | Page 8

of fact the rush of
events crowded all such petty details out of my mind.
"Can you drive a car?" he asked abruptly.
"I can drive anything but an Andean mule," I told him. "I tried once in
the Chilian foot-hills, but after the animal dislocated my shoulder I sort
of lost heart."
"I gather from the retiring modesty of your last remark," he smiled,
"that you consider yourself an expert as regards all other forms of
animal and mechanical traction."
"Quite so. I can always do anything on principle, and I've yet to meet
the job that I'm unwilling to tackle!"
He glanced sideways at me. I didn't like the look he gave me. There
was too much of appraisement in it, something that was alien to the
nature of the man, a sort of cold, calculating shrewdness that made me

wonder again if I had not been mistaken in my estimate of him and the
extent of his good-nature.
"If you keep on admiring me instead of looking where you're going," I
hinted, "you'll end up in a funeral. That motor-bus isn't the sort of thing
I'd care to hit."
He twisted the wheel over a fraction and edged out beyond the
motor-bus before he replied. "Life is full of thrills," he remarked when
at last we reached the comparative security of open space. There was a
challenge in his voice that I thought it well to ignore.
"It is," I agreed. "Too much so."
For all the lightness of his speech and the careless ease with which he
took unnecessary and avoidable risks I had a feeling that there was
deep design under everything he did. Though I couldn't have proved it
if I'd been asked, I felt sure that he was trying my nerve. After all
there's no better test of that than the crowded traffic of a big city. I've
met men who'd cheerfully face a crowd of howling cannibals and yet
would develop a very bad case of jumps if asked to cross a street
roaring and humming with traffic. Yes, clearly he was testing me.
With a jerk that nearly shot me out of my seat the car pulled up. I stared
about me. We had stopped outside a substantial red-tiled house, built in
the bungalow fashion. There was a well-kept lawn in front of it, with
here and there a trim flower-bed to relieve the monotony of the expanse
of grass.
"This is the place," Bryce said. "Just slip down and open that gate, will
you?"
He gesticulated towards a six-foot gate at the side of the house. From
my position in the car I could see that it opened on a path that ran round
the side of the building and almost certainly led to the garage.
Accordingly I slipped out on the road, walked up to the gate and found
that, by standing on tip-toe, I could just reach the catch at the top. I
swung it back, pushed with my weight against the erection and the gate

came open.
As I turned to come back to the car I caught sight of a man standing on
the opposite corner. He was engaged in lighting a cigarette in the cup of
his hands. He seemed to be taking an undue time over it, and that and
something that I could not put a name to in his attitude convinced me
that he was watching us. His hands were so cupped that they hid his
face, but I received an impression, that was almost a certainty, that he
was watching Bryce and myself through his fingers. Perhaps my
prolonged stare convinced him that I was fully aware of his presence
and its meaning. At any rate he twisted on his heel so that his back was
turned to us, dropped the match he had been playing with and
ostentatiously struck another.
"That gentleman across the road, the one with his back to us, is keeping
your house under surveillance," I said to Bryce. "I suppose he's afraid
the place'll run away."
"Afraid I'll run away, more likely," Bryce answered. "Evidently he
doesn't want to be identified next time we meet. But he needn't worry
over that; I wouldn't know him from a bar of soap. We'll leave him
alone for the time being, Carstairs, and get this machine in. I don't see
any reason why we should let this gentleman delay our dinner."
"No more do I. Let her out."
I stood on the step of the car until it had passed the entrance in safety,
then I went back and made the gate fast. But before doing so I just
couldn't resist taking a peep at the Roman sentry figure of a man
opposite. He was staring straight at the gate--as if