# Held for Ransom

Extracted from The Idler Magazine, 1910 May, pp. 803–814. Illustrations by A. Hamilton Williams may be omitted.
HELD FOR RANSOM
By J. S. Fletcher
IN the first flush of the fresh spring morning Rome was waking to joyous life. Out of the purpling mists rose the domes of church and basilica; across the Tiber the great cross which crowns St. Peter caught the rays of the rising sun. Market carts attended by country folk in picturesque costume came rattling through the Pincian Gate and across the Piazza del Popolo; already the hum of the crowded quarter between the Corso and the river stole up to the tree-crowned heights of the Pincian Hill. And something in the air, in the indescribable atmosphere which is Rome, told that it was to be a good day.
It was barely six o’clock when a young man came quickly across the corner of the Piazza del Popolo from the direction of the Hotel Russie and began the ascent of the long flights of steps which led up to the crest of the Pincian. He made that ascent so quickly that a shrewd—and perhaps a cynical—observer would have had little difficulty in deciding that he had an appointment of an interesting character to keep. But he was the sort of young man who could easily run up any amount of stairs at a time without feeling the exertion in wind or limb—a tall, athletic Englishman, apparently not more than twenty-three or twenty-four years of age, with a candid, boyish face and the clear alert eyes and complexion begot of a devotion to sport and out-door life. He was fresh and rosy from his morning tub; his suit of grey tweed looked as if it had been put on for the first time; in everything he gave the impression of nice, healthy young manhood. And a certain young lady, hidden behind a marble statue surrounded by cypress and ilex, and watching for his coming, said to herself, as she saw his eager face and rapid spring up the stairways, that he was the handsomest and the dearest boy in the world, and that nothing should ever make her give him up—no, nothing! He of whom these tender sentiments were thought, although quite unconscious of them, came bounding to the promenade at the top of the steps and looked round him with an air of anxious expectation. Seeing nothing but trees, shrubs, and marble figures, he took out his watch and looked at it. Then he put it back and stared across the intervening space between the Pincian and St. Peter’s. Then he turned and looked in the opposite direction, down the vista of the gardens. After that he looked at his watch for the second time, and subsequently beat the air viciously with his walking-cane. Upon which the girl concealed behind the marble statue laughed. And if the statue had had eyes to see, it would have witnessed the spectacle of the young man making what seemed to be one leap to the girl, taking her quite unceremoniously in his arms, and kissing her with a fervour which to a jaded onlooker would have been quite refreshing.
“There!” said the young lady at last. “Be good, Bob. Supposing anyone sees us!”
“Pooh!” said the young man, helping himself to a final salute. “There’s nobody about at this time. Sadie, darling!”
“Well?” said the young lady demurely.
“It’s seemed ages since Florence—ages!”
“It’s exactly fifty-six hours since we parted,” said Sadie. “There, be sensible, and let’s talk; I can’t be out more than an hour. Where are you staying, Bob?”
“Down there, at the Russie.”
“And we’re down there, at the Quirinal. And the poppa is—not well.”
“Which means his temper is not too good.”
“Just so. I tremble to think of what he will say, Bob, when he finds you’re in Rome; that is, if he does find out.”
“Of course he’ll find out, for I shall call this very afternoon,” said the young man with determination.
The girl’s face grew troubled. She was pretty and of the best American type, with honest grey eyes and a firm mouth, which betokened a strength of will while it also revealed a sense of humour. The young man regarded her with unconcealed admiration. He, too, began to look anxious as he saw a slight line pucker itself between her eyebrows.
“Don’t, Sadie,” he said gently. “Don’t, darling!”
But Sadie sighed deeply.
“Oh, dear!” she said. ‘It’s a stupid world. Why don’t you pack pork, Bob, or make corners, or float companies, instead of doing nothing?”
“Who says I do nothing?” demanded Bob. “There are few men as busy as I am! What with golf in winter and cricket in summer, my time’s pretty well occupied when I’m at home, I can tell you. Why, I never had a single day off last season, I was pretty well done up by the time it was over!”
Miss Sadie Flack looked at her lover with amusement.
“Innocent!” she said. “The poppa calls that idling. He says you’re a lazy, improvident, empty-headed British aristocrat; there!”
The Honourable Robert Monke-Royal’s disingenuous face flushed a little.
“Oh, well,” he said, “1 suppose everybody’s entitled to his opinion. But I’m not lazy, for I was always keen at whatever I took up; I’m not improvident, for I don’t owe anything; and as to being an aristocrat, well, it isn’t my fault that my father was a peer. He was a jolly good sort, anyway.”
“I’m sure he was,” said Sadie, slipping her arm through his as they walked along the paths of the Pincian. “And so’s mine when his liver lets him be. And you really haven’t any debts, Bob?”
“Not a blessed one!” replied the Honourable Robert. “I’ve always barred debts.”
“Good boy; I hope you always will.”
“I'd do anything to please you, Sadie, you know I would. Besides, when a chap’s got fifteen hundred a year, what’s he want to get inte debt for? I only spent about fourteen hundred last year.”
Sadie laughed and squeezed his arm.
“What’s it feel like to have fifteen hundred a year, Bob?” she said.
“Jolly nice,” replied Bob. “A lot nicer than you’d feel if you hadn’t got it.”
“I spend much more than that on my gowns and hats,” said Sadie.
Mr. Monke-Royal frowned and bit the corner of his small moustache.
“We're not all American millionaires, Sadie,” he said. “And I say, look here—don’t you think you’d be just as happy if you’d only me and my fifteen hundred? Eh?”
The girl’s eyes softened, and once more she pressed her lover’s arm.
“I shouldn’t wonder a bit if I should, dear,” she said. “We would live in a cottage, and I should do all the work and grow ugly and old in two years, and—oh, why can’t you make the poppa take to you, Bob?”
“Funny thing,” replied Bob meditatively. “Most people do, you know.”
“Yes, but he only likes people who do something. Men must be doers to please him,” said Sadie.
“I’ve won I don’t know how many medals and challenge cups,” said Mr. Monke-Royal, “and I made two centuries last season for the County, let alone several fifties.”
“Dear donkey! I tell you he calls that idling!” said Sadie, shaking his arm. “Couldn’t you do something big? break a bank or make a trust, or go fighting and win the Victoria Cross?”
“I don’t know anything about banks, nor yet trusts, and we’re not at war, and if we were I’m not a soldier,” said Bob. “I’m quite content to be what I am—a gentleman and a sportsman. It’s what I’m fitted for—I know the part. And it’s quite as good a part as that of an American millionaire.”
“From what I’ve seen it can easily be a good deal better,” said Sadie. “But, Bob, dear, that doesn’t help us any. What are we to do?”
“Run away and get married,” replied Bob promptly.
“And then the poppa would never give me another cent!” she said.
“Well, which do you want—me or the money?” he demanded.
“Don’t be silly!” she said. “Of course I want you—but I want some of the money, too.”
“And supposing you can’t have both—supposing it becomes a question of me, or the money?” he urged.
“Well, in that case I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with you,” she answered demurely. “But, seriously, Bob, you know, I don’t want to grieve the poppa. I’m very fond of him, and I’m all he’s got, too. And though I’m not mercenary, I know the value of money.”
Mr. Monke-Royal shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m sure I don’t want to come between you and your father, Sadie,” he said. “I could get on all right with him if he’d only be decent to me, and he always was, you know, until we hit it off. But after that ...”
He made a wry face, and Sadie laughed.
“Ah, yes, after that!” she said. “But that, of course, makes all the difference. If only you would do something to prove yourself his sort of man! Bob—can you swim?”
“Never went in for it,” replied Bob. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought perhaps I would fall into the Tiber, and you would pull me out. That’s usually a sure card with fathers,” said Sadie.
“The Tiber’s beastly dirty,” said Bob; “and it smells.”
“Couldn’t you arrange a motor smash and perform some heroic deed—carefully rehearsed?” she asked.
“Rot!” said Bob. “I’m going to do no such thing. I’m going to call and demand your hand, and tell him that we’re determined to marry each other. Isn’t that a brave thing to do?”
“Yes, it will make him mad,”’ replied Sadie. “He was wild enough when he found you’d followed us from Monte Carlo to Geneva; wilder still when you came on after us to Florence the other day; and now when he finds you’re in Rome—well! He’ll just rave—perhaps he’ll lock me up.”
“I’m going through with it, however,” said Bob doggedly. “You'll stick to me, Sadie, won’t you? Honest Injun?”
“I'll stick,” she answered. “I'll stick like glue. I promised.”
They retreated once more behind the convenient marble figure and kissed each other solemnly, and presently Miss Flack went off in the direction of the Quirinal Hotel by one route, while Mr. Monke-Royal sought the Russie by another. He was in a brown study as he crossed the Piazza del Popolo, now flooded with sunshine, but all of a sudden he woke out of it, and decided to pay a visit to his dear friend, Victor Deschamps.
Unfortunately for the Honourable Robert Monke-Royal (who was really a very estimable young man, and very genuinely in love), it so happened that Sadie’s father, not because he usually did so, but because he had passed a bad night, had risen from his bed only a little later than his daughter, and had strolled out into the streets and squares of Rome with the view of seeing what that ancient city is like. It also happened that—being unacquainted with the place—his chance wanderings led him down the steps into the Piazza del Spagna, where at that pleasant hour of the morning the flower girls (who are the only people now left in Rome who seem to wear Roman dress or colour) were beginning to ply their trade. Mr. Abraham P. Flack, believing in getting all that he could for his money, was walking around the Piazza gazing at these young women, and wondering what had taken Sadie out so early, and where she had gone to, when he suddenly came face to face with his daughter’s lover, who was certainly not anxious to meet Mr. Flack at that moment. The old eyes and the young eyes looked into each other, and the old eyes glared.
“How do you do, Mr. Flack?” said the Honourable Robert, extending a hand which seemed somehow to typify appeal. “What a delightful morning!”
Mr. Flack took the hand and dropped it limply.
“Good morning, sir,” he said. “It is, as you say, a delightful morning, sir, but I allow that I had not expected to meet you upon it, Mr. Monke-Royal.”
“All roads lead to Rome, Mr. Flack,” said the young man lightly, with a very forced smile.
Mr. Flack shook his head.
“That, sir,” he said, “is a statement which I cannot admit. It appears to me, sir, that your own particular road leads to those cities which my daughter and I propose to visit. In my country a young man of your age would find roads which led him to industry and to wealth.”
The Honourable Robert scarcely knew what to reply to this, and he dug the point of his cane into a crevice of the pavement.
“I—I don’t know that I care such an awful lot about—about making a big fortune, Mr. Flack,” said this foolish young man. “You see, I——”
But Mr. Flack, who for an American was portly, blew himself out.
“I can quite believe, sir, from my acquaintance with you, that those are your exact sentiments,” he said. “They are not mine. It would have made me much more impressed in your favour, sir, if you did something useful—yes, if you were even a soldier or a sailor, or had even rescued a human being, a fellow creature, from fire, or water, or peril—instead of spending all your time playing games which are profitless, or wandering about from one place to another in fine clothes, doing nothing. Also, sir, I am bound to say, finding you in this city as I do, ‘that I cannot approve of your evident following about of my daughter, and I must request you to cease from forcing your attentions upon her. I am not one of those who desire to unite American daughters with the younger sons of an effete and improvident aristocracy.”
“But, I say, hang it all, you know, Mr. Flack,” began the representative cf younger sons; “I say, really, you know——”
However, Mr. Flack had already turned away with a decisive wave of the hand, and there was nothing whatever for it but that the Honourable Robert should pursue his way towards the studio of his friend Deschamps, who was an artist, and occupied certain very lofty rooms in one of the highest houses of the Via Nazionale. For the past half hour he had felt a sort of intuition that Monsieur Deschamps might help him. From a fairly long experience of him in England (that is, considering that they were both young men), he knew the artist to be of considerable resource and invention, and he thought it would be a profitable way of spending his morning if he poured all his troubles into his ears. Moreover, although Deschamps was a Frenchman, he had been educated at Rugby with the Honourable Robert, spoke English like a native (or, to be exact, after the fashion of youthful Englishmen), and was always what is commonly called good for a lark.
M. Victor, when Sadie’s suitor found him, was engaged in making his own coffee in a studio which was more or less in that state of confusion which seems so dear to the souls of the artistic. He was a handsome youngster of about Monke-Royal’s age, and as a mark of his devotion to Art he wore his hair rather long, but very effectively arranged, displayed a neck-tie large enough to make a small bed quilt, and sported a curious blouse which was confined at his waist by an equally curious belt. He greeted his old friend with joy and cordiality, and learning that he had not yet broken his fast, made more coffee and set out fruit, bread, and cognac. And then the Honourable Robert poured out his woes.
“And it makes you feel so jolly cheap, you know, when you’re told that you’re a worthless sort!” he concluded half disconsolately. “I’ve never been used to being told that I couldn't do anything. I always rather fancied myself at cricket and golf, though I can’t afford to do much hunting.”
M. Deschamps looked his friend over with a smiling eye, and glanced round at his own canvases.
“Oh, you’re a hard-working chap, in your way, Bob, my son,” he said, “but you'll have to do something to show the stern parent that you are a man of grit, or there’ll be no Miss Sadie for you.”
M. Deschamps stroked his beautiful hair.
“You couldn’t go and discover either of the Poles?” he suggested.
Bob shrugged his shoulders.
“Or strike something new in the shape of a gold or a diamond mine?”
“Bosh!” said Bob. “Suggest something reasonable!”
M. Deschamps, in spite of his Englishism, elevated his shoulders, spread out his hands, and made a grimace.
“Well, my friend,” he said, “there are three suggestions for you, either of which would result in fame, fortune, and Miss Sadie Flack. But listen—I have an idea. We will consult East.”
“And who is East?”
“East, my friend, is like your Flack, an American. But he is also an artist, and is a good boy. And he has ideas.”
M. Deschamps then made himself gorgeous in purple and fine linen, and he and Monke-Royal presently sallied forth in search of East, who, when discovered, proved to be a fine young New Englander, with sharp eyes, a massive face, and an athletic figure. He listened sympathetically to the story placed before him, and announced that he, too, had had trouble with the father of his own lady-love.
“But as Mr. Flack is right here in Rome, and as there are three of us against him, we ought to bring him to see reason,” he said. “Say, let's go over and have a drink, and we’ll put our heads together and see what can be done.” So the three went to a restaurant, where they drank wine and smoked cigarettes and talked in low tones until it was time for dejeuner, during which light began to break through the clouds of difficulties, and the Honourable Robert began to feel more hopeful; when the three conspiritors parted he was almost elated.
“But we must have Miss Sadie in it,” said East, as they separated. “That’s sure.”
“Leave it to me,” said Mr. Flack’s would-be son-in-law.
He had already arranged to meet Sadie next morning on the Pincian, and was there before she was, bursting with a proposal which he eagerly blurted out as soon as they met. First Sadie shook her head; then she smiled; then she laughed.
“It’s worth trying, Sadie,” said the Honourable Robert. “And you must help.”
It was, of course, because Sadie was willing to help in any reasonable scheme for removing her parent’s objection to Monke-Royal that she happened to mention to her father, in a casual and half-careless fashion, the fact that she desired to visit a certain ruinous castle a few miles out of Rome which had once been the haunt of a famous robber Count, who in his time had behaved mighty naughtily towards the folk of his district. According to the guide books, there was the chance of making some fine sketches at this place, and Sadie was no mean artist in a small way. Whatever might be Mr. Flack’s other policy about his daughter, he never denied her anything; he had come to Italy chiefly to please her, and it made little difference to him if he lounged his afternoon away at the hotel, in a carriage, or in looking over an old ruin. It was all—Italy.
So the following day saw Mr. Flack and his daughter descend from a motor-car in a wild valley, lonely and forbidding, in the Alban Hills, Sadie armed with sketching materials, and he with a Chicago newspaper which had just arrived as they left the city. Above them, perched on frowning rocks, rose the ruinous castle, dark and gloomy. It was one of those places in which prisoners’ faces seem to glower at one through the barred windows. Mr. Flack gazed about him uneasily.
“It’s a very lonely location, Sadie,” he said. “I don’t know whether...”
“Oh, it’s delightful,” exclaimed his daughter. “Let us climb this path to the castle, and then I'll sit down to sketch, and you can stroll about or read your newspaper. Oh, it’s a glorious old place—we’ve nothing like this on our side!”
Mr. Flack was half minded to dilate on the superiority of the modern to the ancient, but he required all his breath for the ascent to the frowning walls above, so he put off what he would have said to another time. He let his daughter lead him about until, in an inner courtyard, where the sun was shining, she decided to sketch. Mr. Flack sat down on a stone close by and opened his paper. After a time Mr. Flack slumbered.
He woke with a start—woke because his daughter screamed—not loudly, nor with any cowardly fear, but with the sharpness of surprise. And as Mr. Flack rubbed his eyes and realised things, he understood sufficiently of what he saw to know that he and Sadie were in what he called a tight hole.
He had read of Italian brigands—now he knew that he saw them in the flesh. Big, black-bearded, fierce-eyed, white-teethed fellows—only four of them, it was true, but full of truculence and each carrying a perfect arsenal of arms. And they were between father and daughter and the only way out—except by jumping over the parapet, beyond which was a precipice!
Mr. Flack was not by any means a man: easily daunted, and after the first shock of surprise, he gathered his daughter’s arm within his own and, whispering to her not to be afraid, turned a bold front upon the picturesque gang which had closed in upon them. He glared at one man who appeared to be the leader of the party—a good-looking ruffian who smiled meaningly.
“Now, sir,” demanded Mr. Flack, “what’s the meaning of this? Don’t suppose the fellow understands a word of English,” he added to his daughter.
But the fellow replied in very excellent English.
“The plain meaning, Mr. Flack,” he said politely, “is that you and your daughter are held to ransom. We have watched you for some days now, and your visit to this secluded spot, with which we are well acquainted, gives us our opportunity. Mr. Flack, you must pay.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” retorted Mr. Flack savagely. “You can’t do that sort of thing nowadays. If we aren’t back at our motor in an hour the chauffeur will give the alarm.”
The chief brigand smiled and shook his head.
“The chauffeur,” he said significantly, “is already accounted for.”
“You don’t mean to say you've killed the poor fellow,” gasped Mr. Flack.
“Unpleasant things are apt to occur in our profession, Mr. Flack,” replied the leader. “It will be our unpleasant duty to make you and your daughter prisoners until our claims are satisfied unless you accede to them at once.”
Mr. Flack mopped his forehead. He felt Sadie’s hand tremble on his arm.
“How much do you want to rob me of?” he growled.
“A million dollars,” replied the chief.
“I’ll see you at Jericho first!” vociferated Mr. Flack.
“1 think not,” said the chief calmly. “Mr. Flack, you'll pay. I am sure you will pay. Come, is it yes, or no?”
“No!” thundered Mr. Flack. “No!”
Then he drew Sadie to his broad breast and, unconsciously assuming the attitude of a Roman father, glared at his tormentors as if he expected his offspring and himself to be put to death at once. But the chief merely bowed and smiled.
“Then we must conduct you to a place of detention, where you will have leisure to reconsider your decision, Mr. Flack,” he said. “Please to accompany me.”
Mr. Flack was inclined to make further protest, but he somehow found himself and Sadie being escorted into the ruins and ushered up a stone stairway which led to a turret tower.
“You're surely not going to imprison us in this old ruin!” he exclaimed.
“There are two apartments here, Mr. Flack, which you will find very comfortable,” said the chief. “We have—er—used them for the same purpose. The fact is this castle belongs to one of our party—that is why you are as safe here as if you were in the ancient Bastille.”
Mr. Flack groaned. Nor did his spirits improve when, after mounting a long flight of stairs, he and Sadie were shown into a vaulted stone chamber, out of which another opened, and told that here was their prison. And it was certainly a comfortable one; there were thick rugs on the floors, modern appliances to hand, comfortable beds to sleep in, and even armchairs to sit upon, and on a table in the first apartment was set out a handsome cold collation, with wine and spirits and mineral waters. Clearly they were not to be ill-treated nor starved. But the chief’s face was implacable as he waved a hand round the place and addressed Mr. Flack.
“These are your quarters, Mr. Flack,” he said. “You will be provided with every reasonable comfort. If you want anything, you have only to knock on this door, and whichever of us is on guard outside will come to you. But you understand that you are held for ransom. One million dollars, Mr. Flack.”
Then, with a grave bow to father and daughter, the chief withdrew, followed by his men, and the outer door closed with much noise of falling bolts and rattling chains.
Sadie sank into a chair and threw her sketching book down.
“Well, I guess they’ve got us pretty safe this time,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to pay, father.”
Mr. Flack was gazing through the barred window. Far away in the distance he could see the wide stretch of the Campagna, shimmering blue and grey in the afternoon haze; as regards the immediate prospect, it seemed io him that the turret stood on the edge of a rock, which was steep and precipitous. He heaved a bitter sigh.
“I wish to Jehoshaphat that you’d never heard of this place, Sadie!” he exclaimed.
“I didn’t know there would be brigands here,” replied Sadie. Then she added thoughtfully, “What handsome men they all were, father!”
“Handsome cut-throats!” said Mr. Flack testily. He approached the table, examined its contents, and finally mixed himself a drink. Meanwhile Sadie’s thoughtful eyes rested on nothing in particular.
“Father,” she said suddenly, “how much money have you got with you?”
“Why?” asked Mr. Flack.
“Because,” she said, “tip-toeing across to him and taking him affectionately by the lapels of his coat, “because perhaps I could bribe the man on guard. You know, I can speak Italian.”
“Pooh—nonsense!” said Mr. Flack. “Bribe him indeed, when there’s a fifth share of a million dollars in prospect for him? Nonsense, Sadie!”
“Yes, but that’s problematical—he might never get it,” said Sadie. “These Italians are very poor, you know, and a bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush. What cash have you got on you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Mr. Flack. “Very likely a few thousand dollars, more or less.”
“Two thousand dollars of our money means an awful lot of thousands of lira in theirs,” said Sadie. “Give me your pocket-book, and you go into the other apartment and—well, just leave things to me. I'll fix them smart.”
“But what will you bribe him to do?” asked Mr. Flack, as he handed over a bursting note-case.
“I shall bribe him,” replied Miss Flack, gazing steadily at her parent, “to communicate with Mr. Monke-Royal in Rome. He’ll rescue us.”
Mr. Flack’s mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“That young jack-a-dandy!” he said. “Pooh! Nonsense! He’d more likely run home to his Ma.”
“Mr. Monke-Royal,” said Sadie, “is a very brave man and full of resource.”
“I won’t hear of it,” growled Mr. Flack.
Sadie stamped her foot and threw the pocket-book on the table.
“Then you'll lose a million dollars, and perhaps they’ll shoot us, or cut off our noses, and perhaps——”
Then she showed signs of a storm, and Mr. Flack retreated towards the inner room.
“Well, well, Sadie, as you please,” he said resignedly. “But ...”
When he was safely stowed away Mr. Flack’s daughter summoned the guard. And if he had seen what took place between the guard and Miss Flack, Mr. Flack would have had grounds for wonder and what he would have termed admiration. The bribing process occupied some little time, but at last Sadie brought her parent out and favoured him with a kiss on either cheek.
“I fixed him all right,” she said triumphantly. “No Italian can resist the sight of ready money. He'll get a message delivered to Mr. Monke-Royal this very evening.”
Mr. Flack mixed himself another drink.
“I allow,” he said, “if that young man, whom I have hitherto regarded as merely idle, not to say a younger son of an effete and improvident aristocracy, should unexpectedly develop the resource and ingenuity to assist us in this unforeseen contingency, my opinion of him will undergo a considerable change.”
“British aristocrats always rise to the occasion when desperate remedies are needed,” said Sadie. “They have the hearts of lions and the wisdom of serpents. They decide in an instant what should be done, and they instantly do it. They care nothing for death, either by air, or fire, or water. They just jump at glory—and they get there.”
Mr. Flack regarded his daughter wonderingly, and then replied that that was an original way of stating the case, and one which had never struck him before, after which he remarked that even captivity might be made comfortable, so lighted a large cigar and took the easiest chair, while his daughter once more occupied herself with her sketch-book.
The golden Italian afternoon faded suddenly into the subtle Italian twilight, and that as quickly into the deep, mysterious blue of the Italian night. One of their captors—not the man whom Sadie had bribed—came in and favoured Mr. and Miss Flack with lights; in spite of their imprisonment they made a hearty supper, and were bound to admit that their jailers had a very pretty taste in the way of food and drink. Once more Mr. Flack mixed himself a comfortable glass and lighted another big cigar, and if they had not known they were held for ransom in a ruinous Italian castle, they would have had small cause for complaint.
Sadie had retired into her part of the prison, Mr. Flack was dozing, when there came a gentle tapping at the barred window. It was repeated until Mr. Flack heard it and went over to ascertain the cause. Now, this barred window was one which ran from the level of the floor to a height of some six feet, and it was just wide enough for a stoutish man to pass through. Peering in at it, his head on a level with the lowest panes, was a man who was now occupying himself in doing something at the glass. Mr. Flack heard a scraping sound, and presently a pane fell softly inwards at his feet, cut out by a glazier’s diamond. Then he heard a voice—the Honourable Monke-Royal’s voice:
“Mr. Flack!”
“Sir!” said Mr. Flack.
“Quick—take this: it’s the key of the bars and the casement. Unlock them and let me in.”
Mr. Flack’s trembling fingers found the keyholes; a moment later and he rescuer stepped into the vaulted chamber. He made a strikingly dramatic entrance, held his fingers to his lips and looked anxiously round.
“Where’s Sadie—safe?” he whispered hoarsely.
But at that moment Sadie appeared, and without ceremony threw her arms round the Honourable Robert's neck and kissed him. And in spite of himself Mr. Flack felt that he could not disapprove—just then.
“Quick!” said the intrepid rescuer. “They’re all in the next chamber—they might come any moment. Now listen! There’s a short ladder outside which leads to a little terrace, and that to a path down the rocks. I'll go first; you come next, Sadie; you last, Mr. Flack. And mind you don’t slip on the ladder, for the terrace is narrow, and if you go over the parapet you'll fall a hundred feet.
Mr. Flack groaned, remembering his weight. But the rescuer was already descending, and Sadie after him, and then he found himself going backward out of the window. It seemed an age before he found himself on a narrow parapet, beneath which was blackness.
“Don’t look down,” said the rescuer. “Keep close to the wall and follow me.”
A few yards brought them to an angle of the turret, and there, to Mr. Flack’s unspeakable joy, was a flight of steps cut down the rocks. The rescuer stood aside.
“Hurry down there!” he said. “At the bottom turn up the road—there’s a motor waiting.”
“But you, Bob, you?” cried Miss Flack.
“I must cover your retreat,” answered the hero. “We may be followed. I've got two revolvers. If you hear firing, don't stop or turn back—run. I'll hurry after you. If I’m not there soon, then—you’ll know I’m dead.”
He waved them majestically away, and took his stand at the end of the terrace. As Mr. and Miss Flack reached the foot of the steps firing broke out above them, and the surrounding rocks took up the sound and roused the echoes here and there, and Miss Flack shrieked and her father swore, but they both ran. When Monke-Royal had discharged every chamber of his two revolvers into the air he, too, ran, and, as he ran, he laughed. After which, going home in the car, he and Miss Flack sat very close together, holding each other’s hands.
When the Honourable Robert Monke-Royal and Miss Sadie Flack were married a few weeks later, there were one or two men friends of the former’s present at the ceremony whom Mr. Flack was certain he had somewhere encountered, though it was beyond him to remember when or where. There was one young gentleman in particular, a Monsieur Victor Deschamps, with whom he felt sure he had once had an interesting conversation on some important topic. But M. Victor’s memory was as bad as his own, so they came to the conclusion that the meeting must have been in Paris, because, as Mr. Flack said, that is where one meets with everybody.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1935, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 88 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse