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The Gold Magnet ebook

T.C. Bridges

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Wydawca: KtoCzyta.pl
Kategoria: Fantastyka•Fantasy
Język: angielski

Opis

The cold drizzle made Plymouth unhappy, and it was with a sigh of relief that Bruce Carey exchanged the greasy, dirty platform of North Road Station for the warm, well-lit comfort of a first-class night mail coupe for London. At first he thought that he would have a car, but when the train was getting ready to start, a man jumped into it and fell on the seat opposite Bruce. He was breathing heavily, as if running, and Bruce, looking at him, was struck by the expression on his face.

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Liczba stron: 268

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Contents

I. THE NIGHT MAIL

II. BRUCE TAKES CHARGE

III. ROBBERY UNDER ARMS

IV. PARTNERS

V. THE QUIET HOUSE

VI. SOME MERRY MOMENTS

VII. A CONFERENCE

VIII. THE FUNERAL AND AFTER

IX. A WARNING FROM RANDOLPH

X. A WORD WITH DUGGAN

XI. PREPARATIONS

XII. A LONELY VIGIL

XIII. IN THE STRONG-ROOM

XIV. TRAPPED!

XV. THE GREY MAN

XVI. INTRODUCING A LAWYER

XVII. THE INQUEST OPENS

XVIII. THE VERDICT

XIX. A CALLER AT THE COTTAGE

XX. THE BALANCE TREMBLES

XXI. THE TRIAL OPENS

XXII. EVIDENCE FOR THE DEFENCE

XXIII. BOUGHT LIES

XXIV. A BOARD MEETING AT DUKE'S GATE

XXV. A STRATEGIC RETREAT

XXVI. MR. PRICE TURNS HIS BACK

XXVII. SILVIA LEARNS TO DRIVE

XXVIII. DECLINED WITHOUT THANKS

XXIX. STORM STRIKES DARTMOOR

XXX. SILVIA FINDS FRIENDS

XXXI. THE MAN WHO FISHED

XXXII. GETTING READY

XXXIII. THE RETURN OF RANDOLPH

XXXIV. A LAG AND A LADY

XXXV. UNDER FIRE

XXXVI. A CHANGE OF IDENTITY

XXVII. DISASTER

XXXVIII. CONFESSION

I. THE NIGHT MAIL

A COLD drizzling rain had made Plymouth a misery, and it was with a sigh of relief that Bruce Carey exchanged the greasy, draughty platform of North Road Station for the warm, well-lit comfort of a first-class compartment on the night mail for London.

At first he thought he was going to have the carriage all to himself, but just as the train was on the point of starting a man jumped in and dropped on the seat opposite to Bruce. He was breathing hard as if he had been running, and Bruce, glancing up at him, was startled at the expression upon his face.

“Scared,” said Bruce to himself. “And precious badly scared at that.” While pretending to read his magazine he covertly watched his neighbor, wondering meantime what could possibly have reduced him to such a condition. It was hard to imagine any cause for such terror on the prosaic platform of North Road Station. Nor did the man himself seem the sort to yield easily to such terror. Though slightly built and turning a little grey over the ears he was anything but a rabbit. His features were distinctly good, he had a strong chin and nose, and he was quietly but very well dressed. Bruce noticed that his hands were well shaped, with long and rather delicate fingers. In his left hand he had a small leather bag, which seemed of particularly sturdy construction. To Bruce’s surprise, he saw that it was attached by a chain to a belt around his waist, like the bullion bag of a bank manager.

At last the guard’s whistle sounded, and the long train began to move slowly out of the station. As it did so the man’s set features relaxed a little, and with a long breath he sank back against the cushions. The train gained speed and soon was running eastwards at well over 50 miles an hour. Bruce began to read in earnest, but the other sat perfectly still, with eyes half closed.

Half an hour passed, the train was nearing Newton Abbott when at last the stranger stirred and sat up. “Can you tell me when we are due at Exeter?” he asked.

Voice and manner were well-bred and pleasant, and Bruce, laying down his magazine, took a time-table from his pocket.

“Ten past one,” he answered.

“Thank you very much. I am wondering whether I shall have time to get some food there. There is no restaurant car on this train.”

Bruce shook his head. “I am afraid you won’t be able to get anything at this hour. The refreshment rooms will be closed. But as it happens, I have sandwiches–more than I can manage. I shall be glad if you will share them.”

“It is most kind of you. I should be really grateful. The fact is that I have had nothing since breakfast.” He smiled as he spoke, a smile which lit his worn face very pleasantly.

Bruce quickly opened his bag, and, taking out a large packet of sandwiches, began to open them, “You must be starved,” he said. “Please begin at once. No, I assure you that you are not robbing me. I dined at the Lockyer and did myself well. Incidentally, these are Lockyer sandwiches.”

“A good restaurant,” replied the other with his pleasant smile, “They are excellent.”

The ice thus broken, the two men were soon chatting freely, and Bruce found himself distinctly attracted by his chance acquaintance, who was evidently a man who had travelled a good deal and kept his eyes open while he did so. The talk drifted to mining, Bruce’s new friend began to talk of the Malayan tin mines, which he seemed to know well, but he pulled up suddenly. “I am afraid I am boring you,” he apologised.

“That you are not,” Bruce answered quickly. “I am a miner myself. But not tin. My speciality is gold.”

“Gold!” repeated the other, and suddenly the scared expression which had been so noticeable when he first got into the carriage crossed his face again.

Bruce was puzzled but at the same time interested. “Yes,” he said, “I have been prospecting in New Guinea. Indeed I am only just back. I got in this afternoon on the Maraku.”

“And there is gold there?” asked the other.

“Any amount. A lot of placer, but also tremendous bodies of ore. Evidently most of them are low grade, so it is no sort of mining for a poor man.”

“I see. You need capital, of course.”

“That is what I have come home for–that and another reason.” As he spoke Bruce Carey’s good-looking face grew suddenly grim.

“There is no reason why I should not tell you,” went on Bruce. “A relative of mine–my half-brother in fact–has got into an ugly mess, and it’s up to me to get him out.”

“I am sorry,” said the other gently. “I hope that you will succeed. And now will you tell me about your gold mine? It happens to be a subject in which I am deeply interested. May I mention that my name is Egerton–Stuart Egerton.”

“And mine is Bruce Carey,” said Bruce with a smile. “Yes, certainly, I’ll tell you about my mine.”

Bruce talked well. He described those dripping forests into whose steaming depths the sun never penetrates, the terrific gorges which cut deep into the foot-hills of the great central mountain chain of New Guinea. He spoke of tribes of almost unknown savages and of the appalling difficulties which beset the prospector in this vast and still almost unknown island.

As he talked his keen brown face lit up, and he pushed his fingers through his dark, crisp hair with a curiously boyish gesture.

There was no doubt about Egerton’s interest. He leaned forward, listening eagerly, and once in a way throwing in quick questions which proved his knowledge of the subject.

The train had long passed Exeter. It was thundering across the wide plain of Somerset, and Bruce was still talking, when suddenly he saw that Egerton was no longer listening. His eyes were fixed upon the door leading into the corridor, and in them was the self-same look of stark terror as when he had first entered the train at Plymouth.

Instinctively Bruce glanced towards the door. A face was pressed against the glass in the upper part. A man’s face, with a big, aquiline nose, a jutting chin, and eyes of a cold grey. It was the hardest, cruelest face Bruce had ever seen.

“So he is here! He is in the train!” gasped Egerton, and in his voice there was a note of absolute despair.

Bruce was on his feet in a flash, and sprang towards the door. It stuck a little, and before he could slide it back the face had vanished.

Bruce strode rapidly first up, then down, the corridor, looking into each compartment as he passed. But several were darkened by a cap over the lamp, and in the others he could see no one remotely resembling the watcher at the window.

He came back.

“You–you saw him?” asked Egerton, in a breathless whisper.

“No. He has either reached another coach, or he is in one of the darkened carriages. I–I gather he is not a friend of yours?”

“He is my worst enemy. He is a blackguard, a thief, a man whose God is money and whose heart is stone.”

Egerton did not raise his voice in the least, yet the deadly earnestness with which he spoke was proof positive of the terror with which this man inspired him.

Bruce sat down again, waiting to hear more.

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