THE CHANNEL-CRASHER

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 62, Issue 305, 7 October 1942, Page 6

THE CHANNEL-CRASHER

,’By LESLIE BERESFORD.

SERIAL STORY.

(Copyright).

CHAPTER XXVI. VOICES AND FOOTSTEPS. Outside the room, Craven hung on to the knob of the door, considering for an instant what he should do next. Almost immediately, there was an intense tugging from the other side. Craven grasped the knob with both hands, and held the door. Evidently, only one man was pulling from the inside. The crisis would come when both applied their pulling power. Concentrating his strength for the ordeal, Craven bent, his head, and as he did so, he saw in the dim, heavilyscreened light of the hall, that the key was in the lock on his side of the door. One hand flew to that key. For a split second he felt that his arm would be wrenched from its socket as he held the door in position against the intense pull from the other side, and contrived to turn the key in the lock. he relaxed his grip, fearing that the lock might he deceptive, but it was as sturdy as the door. As he turned away he heard a bell ring in the domestic quarters, and saw the elderly maid emerge from the lower end of the hall. As she came, she picked up his hat and stick from a side-table. Craven accepted them with a smile and walked from the house as openly and as calmly as he would have left the Drew home. In the moment of self-satisfaction which Craven experienced as he walked out of the Fanshawe’s home as freely as he had entered it, he permittee! himself an inward chuckle. Plainly, these people who had conspired to keep him there, and blackmail him, were reckoning on dealing with his old self, with the Geoffrey Deeming that was, the “green” young man of six years ago who always took the line of least resistance.

They had no knowledge of the John Craven who had been toughened as a fugitive sought by the enemy; they had not reckoned with, the man who had outwitted nimble French gendarmes and cunning agents of the Gestapo. The stupid way in which Fanshawe and .his two roughnecks hart soaked themselves in brandy for nearly an hour showed that they had un-der-rated him. They would make a worse mistake if they continued their campaign. These self-congratulations were in danger of lulling him into a false sense of security. But he remembered in time. The four would not be long in the room in which. he had locked them. It would be wise to go cannily. Better not use the drive as the way out; and yet to cut across the thickly-wooded grounds might be to -lose oneself.

Quickly he decided on a compromise. - He would move through the grounds, parallel to the drive, walking on the turf, but keeping the gravel in sight all the way. Thus he moved swiftly, silently, except when he trod on an occasional twig. Every few yards he dodged behind a tree, turned and gazed towards the house. No lights came from it; the blackout arrangements would have passed any scrutiny. But he heard voices; heard also, footsteps on the loose moist gravel of the drive. They came nearer, but it was evident that the searchers were still suffering from the 1 blindness that ensues when eyes from a lighted room come suddenly into the night. Or, perhaps the brandy had got into the men’s feet. Anyway, the footsteps were halting and confused at first. Later they became more confident, but lighter, as though someone had dropped behind. On Craven went dodging behind the trees, pausing, peering, listening.

Presently, it became-clear that there wias only one person on the drive, and that the footsteps were light, so light that he under-rated their nearness, until from their direction came the sound of an. ill-repressed sneeze. Then he identified the searcher. It was Wanda Fanshawe. Odd that a sneeze should be so distinctive; but there was no mistaking it. Then the footsteps stopped, and after a second’s pause changed direction towards the house.' Wanda, ho reasoned, was not going to run the risk of getting a cold in order that he might be caught. Perhaps she was not anxious that he should be caught at all. Certainly she had not seemed to be - exerting herself. But what was. that? Heavier footsteps were approaching him through the trees, clumsy, elephantine footsteps, coming in his direction, making for the drive.

He lengthened his pace, but did not sacrifice speed to safety. He lifted his feet high, and brought them down with a well-controlled motion. Experience had taught him the folly of hurrying over wooded country at night. The other man was moving more quickly. But let. him. It was a safe bet. Then there was a muffled crash behind him, followed by a mouthful of foul language. Craven turned. Obviously the fellow had tripped on some wire or tough undergrowth, and in falling, he had switched on a powerful torch he was carrying. Craven could see precisely where the man was and. he was very near. But, looking towards the drive, Craven noticed at once that the beam of the torch was just long enough to reach one of the white-painted posts of the gate. The.road meant safety. Even if Fanshawe was bringing out a car, as he might, Craven felt confident that he could dodge him. The road regained, the fugitive ceased to feel like a fugitive. He put on his hat, which, up to now he had been carrying, to hide his face if need be. He pulled down his waist-

coat, buttoned his jacket, and began to swing bis stick like a man who is enjoying a country walk. And be was enjoying it. He felt an unusual pleasure in his evening’s experience. He had faced that threat, of trouble. It had been worse than Wanda’s silly menaces bad suggested, but he had met it, and had been wellrewarded. There was no doubt now about the source of all the underground attempts to get information and documents out of the Ministry. Fanshawe, half drunk, had disclosed it, intending that the revelation should be the starting point of tlie blackmail at which Wanda had hinted darkly. And the mention of Sayers was significant. He was sorry about that. But there was the story. Altogether, a most profitable evening. (To ho Continued.)