# Grey Timothy/Chapter 21
### XXI.—THE END

Brian passed the wire over to Ernest as they walked along Knightsbridge.
“‘I am coming, Gladys’,” read the doctor. “Why is this?” he asked.
“That is what I want to know,” said Brian. “The dear girl only went home this afternoon.”
“Rum!” said Ernest; then he stopped dead. “That reads like an answer to a wire; have you wired to her?”
A tense, drawn look came to Brian’s face. He said no word.
Hailing a taxi he drove straight back to the house. He had been on his way to the club, having, as it happened, postponed his visit to Wickham.
He found another telegram which had recently arrived.
“IS GLADYS WITH YOU?—CALLANDER.”
In five minutes his car was at the door, and the two men were speeding toward Sevenoaks.
“If Pinlow is in this—” said Brian, between his teeth. Then he recognized the absurdity of the unuttered threat. The man was already a fugitive from justice—a murderer. It was hopeless.
He flung himself from the car before it had stopped at the door of the house.
One glance at Mr Callander’s face told him all he feared to know.
“She has not returned,” said the old man; “here is the telegram.”
He handed the wire which had called the girl away. It had been despatched from a West End office.
A rough description of the car was given by a man in the village, who was also able to supply the information as to the direction the car took.
This was a slender clue to work on, but Brian lost no time. He notified Scotland Yard by telephone, and with a road map he started forth in pursuit.
It was an impossible task he set himself. He kept on the track of the car until it left the main road. After that it seemed to have passed unnoticed.
He spent the whole of the night fruitlessly, and returned to Mr Callander at daybreak, tired and dispirited.
No news awaited him, except that Scotland Yard had sent two of their best men, and every police-station in England had been notified.
He snatched a few hours’ sleep, and awoke refreshed. Over a hasty breakfast he discussed the situation with Mr Callander and Ernest.
“I think no harm will come to her,” he said. “Pinlow is holding her to ransom. He wants money, and he shall have it.”
He took out his cheque-book and wrote an order on his banker. “I must have this money in hard cash,” he said. “Ernest, will you go to town for me?”
“With pleasure.”
“Go to town and cash this.”
He handed the cheque, which was for £20,000. Seeing the doctor’s look of amazement, Brian went on:
“I am prepared to pay anything—I tell you that I will give every cent I own in the world if needs be.”
“But how will it be conveyed to him?”
“He’ll find a way,” said Brian grimly. “I expect the next move from him.”
His expectations were justified. At noon that day there arrived from London a little district messenger with a letter. It had been sent from the Northumberland Avenue depot.
   “I shall want £10,000 in notes for the release of my prize. If you agree, and will pledge me your word you will not attempt to trap me, come to the end of the Petworth Road leading to Chichester. You will see a car waiting. Tell your man to follow that. If you make any attempt to betray me, I shall have no hesitation in killing her. Go to the nearest post office, I will call you by telephone at one o’clock.”
“As I thought,” said Brian.
He handed the letter to Mr Callander.
“What will you do?” asked the old man.
“Go to the post-office and wait—the police must not know of this; we can afford to take no risks.”
He was waiting at one o’clock, and prompt to the minute the call came through.
“Is that you, Pallard?”
He recognized the hateful voice.
“Yes.”
“Do you agree to my terms?”
“Absolutely.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“Remember, only your chauffeur and yourself.”
“I have given you my word; at what hour?”
“At five this afternoon.”
“I will be there.”
He heard the click of the telephone as it was hung up.
At three o’clock that afternoon he left in his car, carrying with him part of the money Ernest had brought from town. He reached Petworth at half-past four, and stopped for a cup of tea in that ancient town. The clock of the Town Hall was striking five when he reached the Chichester road. There was a car waiting a little way ahead. As soon as the driver saw Brian’s big Panhard, he moved off.
The two ran at a respectable interval till they came to the steep winding road that runs across the Downs. Up this they climbed. They were now on the long white road that runs across the Downs. There was nobody in sight. The road stretched to the horizon, only in one place being lost to view where it made a sharp bend northward. At the bend was a little copse.
“My man will be there,” said Brian to himself. The foremost car increased its speed and Brian’s followed suit. Within fifty yards of the copse, the car stopped.
Brian looked out. He saw another car drawn up by the side of the road. He thought he detected the figure of a man in the shade of the little wood. His car stopped and he got out.
“Walk toward the wood,” commanded a voice. He obeyed. He did not look round when he heard footsteps behind him.
“Halt!”
He stopped and turned. Pinlow was behind him. Pinlow, scrubby of beard, white and drawn of face, confronted him, a revolver in his hand.
“Put up your hands,” he said. He stepped forward and smoothed the pockets of the other.
“You’ve got no pistol?”
“I have no pistol on me,” said Brian; “now where is Miss Callander?”
“You shall see her in good time,” said Pinlow; “have you brought the money?”
“You shall see that in good time,” repeated Brian. Pinlow scowled and raised his pistol, then thought better of it.
He turned his head and called something. They heard a crackling and a snaffling of twigs, and a man appeared. He was leading Gladys, holding her by the arm. The girl was pale, but she smiled bravely when she saw her lover.
“There is the lady,” said Pinlow; “now I will have the money.”
Brian thrust his hand into the pocket inside his waistcoat and drew out a flat package of notes. The other snatched them and counted them roughly.
“Put her in the car,” said Pinlow, addressing Tinker Smith.
“I’ll save you the trouble,” said Brian coolly. He walked to where she stood.
Quick as thought Smith tried to drag her back, but he was too late. Brian’s arm was round her waist, a hand like steel descended upon the Tinker’s shoulder and sent him spinning.
“I’ve kept my part of the bargain—keep to yours,” he said.
For a moment Pinlow stood irresolute.
“I’ll keep to mine,” he hissed; “let the girl go, Pallard, or I’ll send you to hell!”
A man came tumbling through the bracken that carpeted the copse. It was the driver of one of the cars.
“Quick!” he gasped, “the mounted police are coming over the hill.”
Pinlow turned on his rival with a scream of rage.
“You dog!” he raised his pistol.
“Don’t shoot, for Heaven’s sake don’t shoot, m’lord,” said the man grasping his arm. “If they hear the shot they’ll be on us before we can get away; they’re only walking and they’re half a mile away.”
Pinlow hesitated.
His mouth was twisted with fury and hate. Again he raised the pistol, but now Smith was at his side, and they half dragged, half led him back to the road.
Brian heard the engines of the first car start and the whirr of its wheels, then the second engine throttled. He heard the quick steps of somebody returning.
“Run,” he whispered to the girl, and, holding her arm, he raced back into the wood.
‘Crack!’
A bullet struck the tree and sent the splinters flying.
Pinlow, his hate overcoming his discretion, overpowering his love of liberty and his fear of death, was hot on their track.
‘Crack!’
They heard other voices now, angry voices; the firing ceased and the footsteps receded.
“Stay here,” said Brian.
He followed swiftly in the track of his pursuer. He got to the edge of the copse just as Pinlow reached his car. The horsemen were nearer now—a long string of them riding in single file—and as the car jerked forward Brian realized in a flash that they were his own horses. Wickham was only four miles away, and Colter invariably exercised his string on these Downs in the afternoon.
Colter it was, riding leisurely at the head of the little procession. He saw Brian as he ran into the road and spurred his hack forward.
“Miss Callander is in the wood, Colter; see to her,” said Brian quickly; then, “Tune up, James,” he said to the chauffeur, “we will go after that rascal.”
“Very sorry, sir,” said the man, “they’ve cut the tyres about and taken out two sparking plugs whilst you were in the wood; the other driver held me up with a pistol while he did it.”
Colter was off his horse.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Pinlow.”
Brian pointed to the car disappearing in a cloud of dust.
Colter watched it thoughtfully.
“He’ll have to make the circuit of Horley Hill before he can get off this road,” he said; “if you could take a short cut you’d get up with him.”
The horses had halted by the side of the road, each with a little stable lad atop.
“You’d have to cover four miles in seven minutes,” said Colter; “but I think I know a horse that could do it.”
Pinlow and his companion were making their final plans as the car sped swiftly to safety.
“I have a motor launch at Burnham,” said Pinlow; “we can reach there to-night. With this weather we ought to be able to make Flushing in the morning.”
“You was mad to go after that Pallard,” growled Smith; “an’ understand this, Lord Pinlow, I’m havin’ no murder in mind, I draw the line at abduction.”
Pinlow said nothing. He had gone so far now that a little further did not count. He wondered how Smith, with the example of Caggley before him, could trust him. He might have been disagreeably surprised had he known that Tinker Smith trusted him not at all, and for ever had a revolver at hand to emphasize his lack of faith.
“This car is going cursedly slow,” grumbled Pinlow.
Smith put his hand out of the window. The road had been recently repaired, and a stretch of jagged flint-covered road was the chauffeur’s excuse.
“We can’t take the risk of a puncture,” said Smith. They were rounding Horley Hill and Pinlow shifted uncomfortably. “We’re going back the way we came,” he said.
Smith laughed. “You needn’t worry,” he said, “we shan’t be within seven miles of where we left ’em—an’ there’s no road across.”
The car’s speed increased. The engines hummed musically, and the whirling wheels ate up the ribbon of road before them.
As the speed increased Pinlow’s spirits rose. He spoke quickly, almost excitedly, of the life that lay before them.
“We must separate,” he said, “you go south, and I’ll work my way——”
Then he remembered that he gained no advantage by betraying his route.
“I’ll try South Africa,” said Smith. “I’ll wander down to Marseilles and get a Messagerie boat——”
He got no farther. There was a sudden clamping of brakes and the car jarred to a standstill.
“What’s wrong?” asked Pinlow. He was out of the car in a second. He did not need to ask. Across the road at regular intervals was strung a line of big stones, evidently taken from a heap left by the stone-breakers.
“Help get these out of the way,” said Smith.
The three men went to work with frantic haste to clear a path for the car. Pinlow had tossed aside the last stone when a voice greeted him.
“Pinlow, don’t move! I’ve got you covered, my man.”
The fugitive looked up.
“Pallard!” he cried hoarsely. “How did you get here?”
Brian, weapon in hand, jerked his head sideways, and Pinlow’s eyes followed the direction. Tethered to a tree, and lathered with sweat, was a big grey horse, who returned his gaze with the mild curiosity which was his characteristic.
“Grey Timothy!” gasped Pinlow.
In a quarter of an hour the group was joined by Colter and his head lad. The three men were disarmed and the car continued on its way to Chichester. Here the prisoners were handed over to the local constabulary. The search made of Lord Pinlow was neither thorough nor effective, for when the London police arrived to take charge of their men, they found only two.
The third lay stretched on the floor of the cell, beyond the stricture of earthly judge—two little pellets in a secret pocket of his coat and the pungent scent of cyanide explained everything.
In a pocket-book they discovered a number of rough notes on horses. One in particular was interesting:
“Grey Timothy—does not stay.”
Brian heard the evidence at the inquest, at which he was a witness, and heard this little extract read out.
As he left the court with Colter, he said:
“A fitting end for such a life.”
The trainer’s brows were clouded.
“A fitting end for any man who maligns a good horse,” he said with acerbity. “Can’t stay, indeed!”
THE END