CHAPTER XXI.

READY FOR FLIGHT.

Marjorie had reason to be grateful now for the sudden fame into which Blackthorn Farm had sprung owing to the discovery of pitch-blende in the tin mine, with the supposition contained in the expert's report that radium would undoubtedly be found. For the county was far too excited--even though still sceptical--over this discovery to have more than a fleeting interest in the escape of two convicts.

No. 303, the man who had been hit and cleverly deceived the warders into believing they had killed him, was, of course, eventually caught, though not until he had enjoyed thirty hours of freedom.

Nearly a fortnight passed and No. 381 was reported to be still at large. The police and warders scoured the county. Plain-clothes detectives were at every seaport town and village on the coast. Nearly every tramp steamer leaving Plymouth was searched. Hotels and common lodging houses were kept under constant surveillance. Occasionally an arrest was reported--but 381 was not found.

The police confessed themselves baffled at last. The authorities at Princetown were at their wits end. That a convict should escape at all was bad enough, but that fourteen days should pass without his being captured was almost without precedent.

At first the moorland dwellers and village folk all strenuously aided in the search, but soon they grew tired, and presently they began to laugh at the futile efforts of the warders and police to capture 381. Public opinion on Dartmoor veered round, and soon a wish was openly expressed that the convict would really make good his escape and never be caught.

"He must be a durned smart chap, and deserves to get off. Dang me! if I came across him now I'm not sure I'd give him up."

The police decided that he had safely got out of the county, probably out of England. Up at Princetown, however, the officials insisted that the man was still hiding somewhere on Dartmoor. And they had good reason for thinking this. The news soon leaked out that 381 was none other than Rupert Dale, of Blackthorn Farm. A moorman, one who knew every inch of the country, born and bred on Dartmoor. Such a one, provided he could get food and drink, might easily play hide and seek with his would-be captors for many weeks.

When the best part of three weeks had passed, when every scrap of country had been searched and no stone left unturned--indeed, there was not a cairn nor a pile of boulders that had escaped examination--then the officials began to look rather ridiculous, and were inclined to confess that Rupert Dale, though he had not left the country, had at least got out of Devonshire.

The moorlands resumed their normal aspect and were no longer dotted about with detectives, constables and armed warders. But the police increased their vigilance in all the neighbouring towns.

Old John Dale had done his best to help in the search and aid the warders. It was only natural that at first he should be suspected of knowing where his son was hiding, in spite of the character he bore for straightforwardness and honesty. A very careful account was kept of the workmen employed in erecting the plant of what was already known as the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm.

Marjorie's sufferings those three weeks were terrible, but she hid her feelings and showed no more anxiety as to her brother's whereabouts and welfare than was to be naturally expected in such a case.

Curiously enough, with each passing day confidence in his ultimate escape grew until she felt no fear at all that he would be discovered and taken back to Princetown. While he was hidden in Jim's workroom at Post Bridge Hall he was safe. Even the terrible risk her lover had taken for her sake ceased to worry her.

She had to play a part, and she sometimes marvelled herself at the cool, deliberate way in which she played it.

The one, the only person, she feared, was Robert Despard. Before Rupert's escape she had avoided him on every possible occasion. Now, she no longer dared do so. For she felt he suspected her--suspected she had seen Rupert and knew where he was hiding. His work kept him so busy that he had not much time to persecute her. Still, she knew he was at watch--and when he was not watching her, she in turn, was watching him, terrified that whenever he left the farm he would bend his footsteps towards the Hall.

She had only seen Jim once since the night of Rupert's escape, when he had called at the farm with some message from Sir Reginald for her father. They had not been alone for a minute, but a glance at his face told her all was well.

There were moments, of course, when she repented of what she had done. She told herself she was a coward. For repentance meant that she was putting her own happiness and future before that of her brother. Being a woman, she argued that since her brother was innocent it was her duty to help him to escape. It was criminal for an innocent man to suffer for the guilt of another, even though, by speaking, he could have cleared himself. In her eyes, his silence gave him an added nobility. Her soul revolted when she thought of the long years he might still have to endure shut up in the dreadful granite prison on the moors. For the first time in her life she realised what it meant to be a convict, a prisoner, a criminal.

She knew now that these men she had sometimes seen working in the fields and quarries were treated worse than beasts of burden; in harness day and night, knowing not one minute's liberty or freedom; doomed to years of silence, forced to implicit obedience of every order given them. Just enough food and just enough sleep dealt out to keep them alive.

No risk could be too great to save her brother. She knew a chance would never occur again. And if he were caught and sent back until he had served his time, then, when he came out, he would no longer be a man but really and truly a criminal--something distorted, hideous, unnatural. A human being at war with humanity.

It was just at the end of three weeks that Jim Crichton presented himself at the farm to say good-bye before going back to Netheravon to join his corps. Rupert's escape had never been spoken of in the farmhouse. Dale had forbidden his name to be mentioned, and Marjorie sometimes wondered if her father had lost all feeling for his only son. She had a dreadful thought that if he knew of his hiding-place he would instantly inform the police and give him up.

"I suppose when we meet again you will be millionaires," Crichton said cheerily. "I see a prospectus is being issued next week of The Blackthorn Development Company. I shall apply for a few shares--just for luck."

"I'm afraid you won't get them," Despard answered. "The Company will be subscribed two or three times over. You go back to Netheravon to-morrow?"

Jim nodded.

"Alone?"

There was a moment's silence. Marjorie caught her breath. There seemed to be a challenge in Despard's voice.

"Yes, alone," Jim replied with a laugh. "Unfortunately, I can't take Marjorie with me--yet. Perhaps in a few months' time, though, we shall fly off together, man and wife."

Despard shrugged his shoulders as he left the room. "Perhaps," he murmured under his breath.

Crichton shook hands with Dale, and the old man held his hand a few moments longer than was necessary.

"It's a brave thing you're doing in keeping the promise you gave Marjorie; but if you insist on making her your wife, you'll break your father's heart, Mr. Crichton."

"I hope not. I hope he'll come to see things my way. But if I had to make a choice, Mr. Dale, I'd rather break his than hers."

Dale sighed and nodded his head. "I suppose youth must be served," he whispered. "Perhaps it's just that the old should suffer. My boy has broken my heart--that's why I feel for your father."

"You're convinced of your son's guilt, then?" Jim said.

"Of course I am. Why, he confessed it!"

Jim turned away. "Perhaps one day his innocence may be proved, Mr. Dale. Oh, I don't want to raise false hopes in your breast. But I'm beginning to believe with Marjorie that he was innocent of the crime of which he was convicted. While there's life there's hope, remember."

He took Marjorie's hand: "Walk down as far as Post Bridge with me, will you? We will say good-bye at the place where we first confessed our love."

Once they were alone it was not of love they spoke. They walked side by side, and now and then Marjorie laughed. If anyone had overheard, if anyone had been watching them, they would never have guessed of what these two lovers were talking.

Jim had perfected his plans for Rupert's escape. He outlined them in detail to Marjorie. Her help would be wanted; and her task, he said, would perhaps be the most difficult task.

On Monday evening she would receive a telegram from him telling her of the flight he was going to make from Netheravon to Plymouth. On receipt of the wire she was to go up to Post Bridge Hall, ostensibly at a request the telegram would contain, to show the message to Jim's father. But she would find Sir Reginald out. Jim knew he would be at Moretonhampstead on business. She was to wait for him, and Jim gave her the keys of his workroom and cellar. Rupert already had duplicates. The telegram would contain certain code words, of which Jim gave her the translation. She was to find some way of giving her brother the message they contained--the exact hour he was to leave his hiding-place and make his way across Dartmoor to a certain spot already decided on.

"If he fails it will be bad luck," Jim said. "But as far as is humanly possible he can't fail. No one would recognise in the smart, soldierly-looking young fellow the late Convict 381. If he gets safely away I shall send you a wire from Plymouth--just two words: 'Flight successful,' that's all. There's only one man I fear: the man who would like to be my rival--Despard. Once or twice in the evening lately I've seen him hanging around The Hall. It's impossible he could suspect the plans we've formed. I don't believe for an instant he knows where Rupert's hiding. If he did, he'd speak, and give him up, or only keep silence on condition that you----"

Marjorie stopped him. "You needn't fear, Jim. He suspects something, I know. On Monday night, after I've been to Post Bridge Hall, I'll make it my business to keep Mr. Despard at the farm until I know that Rupert's safely away. I can keep him--I'm a woman."

They reached the bridge, and stood for a few minutes gazing down into the foaming waters. Presently Jim held out his hand:

"Au revoir," he said quietly. And he lowered his voice for a moment. "Next time we meet I hope I shall have a marriage licence in my pocket."

"Au revoir, my lover," she whispered. "Remember, whatever happens, I'm yours and only yours: ready to follow you to the end of the world."

He took off his hat, kissed her hand, then nodding cheerily, he strode away. She watched him out of sight. He was risking his life, his honour, his reputation, for her sake. If he failed, she knew she would never see him again.