that the gear engages, it is their care that the switches lock.’
Yes, I was certainly Martha. I had thought that I was coming into this thing in a purely advisory capacity. I was wrong.
I finished my whisky in one gulp and sat up briskly, most frightfully bucked with life. I knew what we were going to do.
The girl noticed the movement, and asked me what was the matter.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘But I believe we can work this.’
Compton finished his meal and got up from the table. He turned to the girl. ‘I’m sorry to have come here like this, Joan,’ he said. ‘It’s a pretty rotten thing to have done, but I didn’t dare to go anywhere where they’d look for me. I don’t know if you believe I had that money or not. That isn’t the point, though. I’m sorry to have come here like this.’
‘I don’t believe you took a penny of it,’ she said. ‘I never did.’
He smiled queerly. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I did. I took five pounds to tide me over the week-end because I’d forgotten to cash a cheque. I left the account open—I had to, you see, or I wouldn’t have been able to put it back. I was away till the Thursday over that motor accident—as you know. But I never knew anything about the other three thousand; that went into the account on Monday and out again on Tuesday. I couldn’t have laid myself more open to it. At the same time, he was a clever fellow.’
I gathered that he had been secretary to some sort of charitable association. Charity, it was evident, had not begun at home.
I heaved myself up out of my chair, crossed to the table, and took another whisky. ‘We’ve not got too much time,’ I said. ‘Now look here. Is it quite definite that you’ve got to stay in England?’
He nodded. ‘I can’t leave England for the present,’ he said. ‘I’ve got one or two things that I must see to before I go.’
His manner of putting it made me smile; he might have been speaking of a business appointment. I think it must have been then that I began to realise that he really cared very little what happened to him. I think it was this very casualness that probably carried him through.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Now there’s just one thing we have to think about, and that’s this. If you get caught it means trouble for all of us. You’ve simply not got to get caught. How long will it be before you can leave the country?’
He thought for a minute. ‘This is the 6th of June,’ he said. ‘The 15th.… I could leave England on the 18th. That’s in twelve days’ time, or Monday week.’
‘Do you think they’ve tracked you to this part of the country?’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘It’s very difficult to say,’ he said. ‘But I had the most extraordinary luck. I came here by road. I wasn’t out an hour before I got into the back of a motor-lorry that was coming from the prison; I stayed there for about two hours, till it was dark. I don’t think they saw me there. Then we stopped outside a pub; I waited till the coast was clear and got into a field. The pub was on the London road, I think, because presently a motor furniture van stopped for a drink and I heard them talking about London. They were driving all night. I got on top of that and stayed there till daylight; we weren’t far away from here then, on the Henley road. I followed along across country till I got to earth in those woods this morning at about six o’clock. I don’t think anyone saw me.’
I thought of the Stokenchurch constable and realisedthat if the country had been up in arms over an escaped convict in the neighbourhood I must surely have heard of it.
I drained my tumbler and slammed it down on to the mantelpiece with a sharp rap.
‘Now look here,’ I said curtly. ‘You’ve not got a dog’s chance, acting on your own. If you cut off now they’ll have you back in prison again within two days. There’s just one thing we can do for you that will give you a sporting chance. We’ve got to get