The Pit-Prop Syndicate | Page 4

few.
He rested his arms on the masonry coping of the old bridge and drew at
his cigarette. But for the distant rumble of an approaching vehicle, the
spring evening was very still. The river curved away gently towards the
left, flowing black and sluggish between its flat banks, on which the
pines grew down to the water's edge. It was delightful to stay quiet for
a few moments, and Merriman took off his cap and let the cool air blow
on his forehead, enjoying the relaxation.

He was a pleasant-looking man of about eight-and-twenty, clean
shaven and with gray, honest eyes, dark hair slightly inclined to curl,
and a square, well-cut jaw. Business had brought him to France. Junior
partner in the firm of Edwards & Merriman, Wine Merchants,
Gracechurch Street, London, he annually made a tour of the exporters
with whom his firm dealt. He had worked across the south of the
country from Cette to Pau, and was now about to recross from
Bordeaux to near Avignon, after which his round would be complete.
To him this part of his business was a pleasure, and he enjoyed his
annual trip almost as much as if it had been a holiday.
The vehicle which he had heard in the distance was now close by, and
he turned idly to watch it pass. He did not know then that this slight
action, performed almost involuntarily, was to change his whole life,
and not only his, but the lives of a number of other people of whose
existence he was not then aware, was to lead to sorrow as well as
happiness, to crime as well as the vindication of the law, to . . . in short,
what is more to the point, had he not then looked round, this story
would never have been written.
The vehicle in itself was in no way remarkable. It was a motor lorry of
about five tons capacity, a heavy thing, travelling slowly. Merriman's
attention at first focused itself on the driver. He was a man of about
thirty, good-looking, with thin, clear-cut features, an aquiline nose, and
dark, clever-looking eyes. Dressed though he was in rough working
clothes, there was a something in his appearance, in his pose, which
suggested a man of better social standing than his occupation
warranted.
"Ex-officer," thought Merriman as his gaze passed on to the lorry
behind. It was painted a dirty green, and was empty except for a single
heavy casting, evidently part of some large and massive machine. On
the side of the deck was a brass plate bearing the words in English "The
Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 4." Merriman was somewhat surprised
to see a nameplate in his own language in so unexpected a quarter, but
the matter really did not interest him and he soon dismissed it from his
mind.

The machine chuffed ponderously past, and Merriman, by now rested,
turned to restart his bicycle. But his troubles for the day were not over.
On the ground below his tank was a stain, and even as he looked, a
drop fell from the carburetor feed pipe, followed by a second and a
third.
He bent down to examine, and speedily found the cause of the trouble.
The feed pipe was connected to the bottom of the tank by a union, and
the nut, working slack, had allowed a small but steady leak. He
tightened the nut and turned to measure the petrol in the tank. A glance
showed him that a mere drain only remained.
"Curse it all," he muttered, "that's the second time that confounded nut
has left me in the soup."
His position was a trifle awkward. He was still some twenty-five
kilometers from Bordeaux, and his machine would not carry him more
than perhaps two. Of course, he could stop the first car that approached,
and no doubt borrow enough petrol to make the city, but all day he had
noticed with surprise how few and far between the cars were, and there
was no certainty that one would pass within a reasonable time.
Then the sound of the receding lorry, still faintly audible, suggested an
idea. It was travelling so slowly that he might overtake it before his
petrol gave out. It was true he was going in the wrong direction, and if
he failed he would be still farther from his goal, but when you are
twenty-five kilometers from where you want to be, a few hundred yards
more or less is not worth worrying about.
He wheeled his machine round and followed the lorry at full speed. But
he had not more than started when he noticed his quarry turning to the
right. Slowly it disappeared into the forest.
"Funny I didn't see that road," thought Merriman as