The Vanished Messenger | Page 9

the next field,
and the man in charge of it lying dead. This poor chap's bad enough."

Gerald, on all fours, had crept back into the compartment. The bottle of
wine was smashed into atoms. He came out, dragging the small
dressing-case which his companion had kept on the table before him.
One side of it was dented in, but the lock, which was of great strength,
still held.
"Perhaps there's a flask somewhere in this dressing-case," Gerald said.
"Lend me a knife."
Strong though it had been, the lock was already almost torn out from its
foundation. They forced the spring and opened it. The porter turned his
lantern on the widening space. Just as Gerald was raising the lid very
slowly to save the contents from being scattered by the wind, the man
turned his head to answer an approaching hail. Gerald raised the lid a
little higher and suddenly closed it with a bang.
"There's folks coming at last!" the porter exclaimed, turning around
excitedly. "They've been a time and no mistake. The village isn't a
quarter of a mile away. Did you find a flask, sir?"
Gerald made no answer. The dressing-case once more was closed, and
his hand pressed upon the lid. The porter turned the light upon his face
and whistled softly.
"You're about done yourself, sir," he remarked. "Hold up."
He caught the young man in his arms. There was another roar in
Gerald's ears besides the roar of the wind. He had never fainted in his
life, but the feeling was upon him now - a deadly sickness, a swaying
of the earth. The porter suddenly gave a little cry.
"If I'm not a born idiot!" he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from the
pocket of his coat with his disengaged hand. "There's whisky here. I
was taking it home to the missis for her rheumatism. Now, then."
He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of the
liquid between the lips of the young man. The voices now were coming
nearer and nearer. Gerald made a desperate effort.

"I am all right," he declared. "Let's look after him."
They groped their way towards the unconscious man, Gerald still
gripping the dressing-case with both hands. There were no signs of any
change in his condition, but he was still breathing heavily. Then they
heard a shout behind, almost in their ears. The porter staggered to his
feet.
"It's all right now, sir!" he exclaimed. "They've brought blankets and a
stretcher and brandy. Here's a doctor, sir."
A powerful-looking man, hatless, and wrapped in a great ulster, moved
towards them.
"How many are there of you?" he asked, as he bent over Mr. Dunster.
"Only we two," Gerald replied. "Is my friend badly hurt?"
"Concussion," the doctor announced. "We'll take him to the village.
What about you, young man? Your face is bleeding, I see."
"Just a cut," Gerald faltered; "nothing else."
"Lucky chap," the doctor remarked. "Let's get him to shelter of some
sort. Come along. There's an inn at the corner of the lane there."
They all staggered along, Gerald still clutching the dressing-case, and
supported on the other side by an excited and somewhat incoherent
villager.
"Such a storm as never was," the latter volunteered. "The telegraph
wires are all down for miles and miles. There won't be no trains
running along this line come many a week, and as for trees - why, it's
as though some one had been playing ninepins in Squire Fellowes's
park. When the morning do come, for sure there will be things to be
seen. This way, sir. Be careful of the gate."
They staggered along down the lane, climbing once over a tree which
lay across the lane and far into the adjoining field. Soon they were

joined by more of the villagers, roused from their beds by rumours of
terrible happenings. The little, single-storey, ivy-covered inn was all lit
up and the door held firmly open. They passed through the narrow
entrance and into the stone-flagged barroom, where the men laid down
their stretcher. As many of the villagers as could crowd in filled the
passage. Gerald sank into a chair. The sudden absence of wind was
almost disconcerting. He felt himself once more in danger of fainting.
He was only vaguely conscious of drinking hot milk, poured from a jug
by a red-faced and sympathetic woman. Its restorative effect, however,
was immediate and wonderful. The mist cleared from before his eyes,
his brain began to work. Always in the background the horror and the
shame were there, the shame which kept his hand pressed with
unnatural strength upon the broken lock of that dressing-case. He sat a
little apart from the others and listened. Above the confused murmur of
voices