Part 16

“And with that I followed Jimmy. At times I could see him, a faint white figure in the darkness, as he dodged through that fever-laden swamp; at times I found myself marvelling at the condition of the man, bearing in mind his method of living. Steadily, tirelessly, he forged ahead, and when he came to the foot-hills I hadn’t gained a yard on him.

“And then I began wondering what was going to happen when he reached Salvas’s bungalow, and by what strange mischance the girl had met the owner. That it was revenge I was certain; he had recognised her from the picture, and I remember thinking how bitter must have been his hatred of Mainwaring to have induced him to run such an appalling risk. For the risk was appalling, even in that country of strange happenings.

“I don’t think that Jimmy troubled his head over any such speculations. In his mind there was room for only one thought—an all-sufficient thought—to get his hands on Pedro Salvas. I don’t think he even knew that I was behind him, until after it was over and the curtain was falling on the play. And then he had no time for me.”

Merton gave a short laugh that had in it a touch of sadness.

“A good curtain it was, too,” he continued, quietly. “I remember I made a frantic endeavour to overtake him as he raced up to the house, and then, because I just couldn’t help myself, I stopped and watched—fascinated. The window of the big living-room was open, and the light blazed out. I suppose they had never anticipated pursuit that night. Leaning up against the wall was the girl, with a look of frozen horror on her face, while seated at the table were Pedro Salvas and three of his pals. And they were drinking.

“It all happened very quickly. For one second I saw Jimmy Mainwaring framed in the window—then he began shooting. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that he could shoot the pip out of the ace of diamonds nine times out of ten at twenty yards, and his madness did not interfere with his aim. And that night he was stark, staring mad. I heard three shots—so close together that only an artist could have fired them out of the same revolver and taken aim; I saw the three friends of Pedro Salvas collapse limply in their chairs. And then there was a pause; I think Jimmy wanted to get at _him_ with his hands.

“But it was not to be. Just for a moment the owner of the bungalow had been so stupefied at the sudden appearance of the man he hated that he had simply sat still, staring; but only for a moment. The movement of his arm was so quick that I hardly saw it; I only noticed what seemed to be a streak of light which shot across the room. And then I heard Jimmy’s revolver again—the tenth, the hundredth of a second too late. He’d drilled Pedro Salvas through the heart all right—I watched the swine crumple and fall with the snarl still on his face—but this time the knife wasn’t sticking in the wall.

“She got to him first,” went on Merton, thoughtfully. “His knees were sagging just as I got to the window, and she was trying to hold him up in her arms. And then between us we laid him down, and I saw that the end was very near. There was nothing I could do; the knife was clean into his chest. The finish of the journey had come to the man who could not get drunk. And so I left them together, while I mounted guard by the window with a gun in each hand. It wasn’t a house to take risks in.

“He lived, I think, for five minutes, and of those five minutes I would rather not speak. There are things which a man may tell, and things which he may not. Sufficient be it to say that he may have cheated at cards or he may not—she loved him. If, indeed, he had committed the unforgivable sin amongst gentlemen all the world over, he atoned for it. And she loved him. Let us leave it at that.

“And when it was over, and the strange, bitter spirit of the man who called himself Jimmy Mainwaring had gone out on the unknown road, I touched her on the shoulder. She rose blindly and stumbled out into the darkness at my side. I don’t think I spoke a word to her, beyond telling her to take my arm. And after a while she grew heavier and heavier on it, until at last she slipped down—a little unconscious heap of sobbing girlhood.”

Merton paused and lit a cigarette with a smile.

“So that is how it was ordained that I should carry the Lady Sylvia Clavering, slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, for three miles. I remember staggering into the village to find myself surrounded by men from the yacht. I handed her over to her distracted husband, and then I rather think I fainted myself. I know I found myself in my own bar, with people pouring whisky down my throat. And after a while they cleared off, leaving Clavering alone with me. He began to stammer out his thanks, and I cut him short.

“‘No thanks are due to me,’ I said. ‘They’re due to another man whom you called a card-cheat—but who was a bigger man than either you or I are ever likely to be.’

“‘Was?’ he said, staring at me.

“‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘He’s dead.’

“He stood there silently for a moment or two; then with a queer look on his face he took off his hat.

“‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘He was a bigger man than me.’”

Merton got up and pressed the bell.

“I’ve never seen him from that day to this,” he said, thoughtfully. “I never saw his wife again until to-night. And I’ve never filled in the gaps in the story. Moreover, I don’t know that I want to.”

A waiter came over to his chair.

“You’ll join me? Two whiskies-and-sodas, please, waiter—large ones.”

_Made and Printed in Great Britain._ _Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Dinner Club, by H. C. (Sapper) McNeile