# The Pit Prop Syndicate

Freeman Wills Crofts

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Titel: The Pit Prop Syndicate

von William Shakespeare, H. G. Wells, Henry Van Dyke, Thomas Carlyle, Oscar Wilde, Joseph Conrad, Henry James, Anthony Hope, Henry Fielding, Giraldus Cambrensis, Daniel Defoe, Grammaticus Saxo, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Hugh Lofting, Agatha Christie, Sinclair Lewis, Eugène Brieux, Upton Sinclair, Booth Tarkington, Sax Rohmer, Jack London, Anna Katharine Green, Sara Jeannette Duncan, Xenophon, Alexandre Dumas père, John William Draper, Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell, Bram Stoker, Honoré de Balzac, William Congreve, Louis de Rougemont, Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol, Rolf Boldrewood, François Rabelais, Lysander Spooner, B. M. Bower, Henry Rider Haggard, William Hickling Prescott, Lafcadio Hearn, Robert Herrick, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Mary Roberts Rinehart, Charles Babbage, Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin, Frank L. Packard, George Meredith, John Merle Coulter, Irvin S. Cobb, Edwin Mims, John Tyndall, Various, Charles Darwin, Sidney Lanier, Henry Lawson, Niccolò Machiavelli, George W. Crile, Théophile Gautier, Noah Brooks, James Thomson, Zane Grey, J. M. Synge, Virginia Woolf, Conrad Aiken, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Helen Cody Wetmore, Ayn Rand, Sir Thomas Malory, Gustave Flaubert, Edmond Rostand, Charlotte Brontë, Edith Wharton, Giles Lytton Strachey, Myrtle Reed, Ernest Bramah, Jules Verne, H. L. Mencken, H. Stanley Redgrove, Victor Lefebure, Edna Lyall, John Masefield, Charles Kingsley, Robert Burns, Edgar Lee Masters, Victor [pseud.] Appleton, Ellis Parker Butler, Mary Lamb, Charles Lamb, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Kenneth Grahame, Charles Dickens, John Ruskin, John Galt, James J. Davis, Owen Wister, William Blades, Sir Hall Caine, Sir Max Beerbohm, Baron Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett Dunsany, Bret Harte, E. Phillips Oppenheim, Thomas Henry Huxley, A. B. Paterson, John N. Reynolds, Walter Dill Scott, Hans Gustav Adolf Gross, T. S. Eliot, Walt Whitman, Arthur Ransome, Jane Addams, Elizabeth, David Lindsay, Helen Bannerman, Charles A. Oliver, J. M. Barrie, Robert F. Murray, Andrew Lang, Jerome K. Jerome, Francis Thompson, Sydney Waterlow, Andrew Dickson White, Benjamin N. Cardozo, Karl Marx, Edouard Louis Emmanuel Julien Le Roy, Margaret Hill McCarter, Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace, Howard Trueman, L. M. Montgomery, Frank T. Bullen, Baron Alfred Tennyson Tennyson, Jonathan Nield, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Charles Reade, Ouida, Washington Irving, Benjamin Louis Eulalie de Bonneville, Sir Walter Scott, Stewart Edward White, Arthur Hugh Clough, Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton, C.-F. Volney, T. Troward, graf Leo Tolstoy, Christopher Morley, James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, Gilbert White, Percival Lowell, Frederick Marryat, Robert Graves, Thomas Holmes, Wilkie Collins, Maria Edgeworth, Katherine Mansfield, E. Nesbit, Olive Schreiner, Jeronimo Lobo, O. Henry, James Slough Zerbe, Donald Ogden Stewart, Johanna Spyri, Eleanor H. Porter, William Tatem Tilden, Sol Plaatje, Rafael Sabatini, William Makepeace Thackeray, George Gissing, Maksim Gorky, Baron Thomas Babington Macaulay Macaulay, H. G. Keene, Saki, R. B. Cunninghame Graham, Thomas Hughes, David Nunes Carvalho, Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, Carry Amelia Nation, John Fiske, Bernard Shaw, Elbridge Streeter Brooks, William Holmes McGuffey, Edward Everett Hale, Louis Ginzberg, Chester K. Steele, Christopher Marlowe, Plato, John Lord, Shakespeare, Martin Luther, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Howard Pyle, Charles Morris, Edward Carpenter, Maurice Leblanc, James Boswell, William Osler, William Ernest Henley, Theron Q. Dumont, Horatio Alger, Abraham Myerson, Joel Benton, Eden Phillpotts, Anonymous, Robert Louis Stevenson, Lloyd Osbourne, Cleland Boyd McAfee, Robert Williams Wood, H. C. Andersen, Edna Ferber, James Stephens, John Jacob Astor, Alexandre Dumas fils, Hilda Conkling, J. Storer Clouston, Julian Hawthorne, Ernest Albert Savage, Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman, Fernando de Rojas, Richard Harding Davis, Charles Whibley, Thomas Dixon, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, George MacDonald, Thomas H. Burgoyne, Belle M. Wagner, Émile Gaboriau, à Kempis Thomas, United States. Central Intelligence Agency, Herbert Darling Foster, John Chipman Farrar, Lucius Apuleius, Olive Gilbert, Sojourner Truth, Arthur Judson Brown, Burbank L. Todd, Gaston Leroux, Margaret Sanger, Jr. Martin Luther King, Mary Johnston, S. A. Reilly, G. K. Chesterton, Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, George Iles, E. W. Hornung, Edward Huntington Williams, Henry Smith Williams, Nathaniel W. Stephenson, Ellen Marriage, Homer, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, J. F. C. Hecker, John Milton, Natalie Sumner Lincoln, Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Mary Esther Miller MacGregor, William MacLeod Raine, Earl Derr Biggers, Helen Nicolay, Ruth Ogden, Thornton W. Burgess, Mary Murdoch Mason, Auguste Groner, John Lawson, Emma Wolf, Theodore Dreiser, Roger Ascham, John Charles McNeill, Owen Meredith, L. Adams Beck, Rudyard Kipling, Alphonse Daudet, Theodore Roosevelt, Henry Cabot Lodge, Anthony Trollope, A. A. Milne, Elia Wilkinson Peattie, J. Fitzgerald Molloy, James Fenimore Cooper, Alexander Whyte, Jean-Henri Fabre, E. R. Punshon, Neltje Blanchan, Porter Lander MacClintock, William Darnall MacClintock, Ida Pfeiffer, Stanley John Weyman, Max Brand, Herman Melville, William Joseph Long, William Cotton, Dorothy Kilner, Sarah Fielding, Samuel Butler, A. C. Seward, Harold MacGrath, Nathaniel Hawthorne, William J. Kountz, Arthur B. Reeve, Susan Fenimore Cooper, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Anatole France, William Blake, Elizabeth Davis Bancroft, Carl von Clausewitz, Gildas, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Melvin Linwood Severy, E. H. Chapin, Sir Philip Sidney, John Buchan, fl. 796 Nennius, Aristotle, Jean Baptiste Racine, Ellen Robena Field, Mitzi Perdue, Richard M. Stallman, John Bunyan, Andy Adams, Gideon Wurdz, Sir Robert Naunton, Paul Hentzner, Dante Alighieri, Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, Aldous Huxley, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, C. S. Lewis, P. G. Wodehouse, ca. 1824-1874 George W. Sands, Frank Richard Stockton, Freeman Wills Crofts

ISBN 978-3-7429-1947-2

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Es ist ohne vorherige schriftliche Erlaubnis nicht gestattet, dieses Werk im Ganzen oder in Teilen zu vervielfältigen oder zu veröffentlichen.


### THE PIT PROP SYNDICATE


### By Freeman Wills Crofts


### Contents

PART ONE. THE AMATEURS CHAPTER 1. THE SAWMILL ON THE LESQUE CHAPTER 2. AN INTERESTING SUGGESTION CHAPTER 3. THE START OF THE CRUISE CHAPTER 4. A COMMERCIAL PROPOSITION CHAPTER 5. THE VISIT OF THE "GIRONDIN" CHAPTER 6. A CHANGE OF VENUE CHAPTER 7. THE FERRIBY DEPOT CHAPTER 8. THE UNLOADING OF THE "GIRONDIN" CHAPTER 9. THE SECOND CARGO CHAPTER 10. MERRIMAN BECOMES DESPERATE CHAPTER 11. AN UNEXPECTED ALLY PART TWO. THE PROFESSIONALS CHAPTER 12. MURDER! CHAPTER 13. A PROMISING CLUE CHAPTER 14. A MYSTIFYING DISCOVERY CHAPTER 15. INSPECTOR WILLIS LISTENS IN CHAPTER 16. THE SECRET OF THE SYNDICATE CHAPTER 17. "ARCHER PLANTS STUFF" CHAPTER 18. THE BORDEAUX LORRIES CHAPTER 19. WILLIS SPREADS HIS NET CHAPTER 20. THE DOUBLE CROSS


### PART ONE. THE AMATEURS


### CHAPTER 1. THE SAWMILL ON THE LESQUE

Seymour Merriman was tired; tired of the jolting saddle of his motor bicycle, of the cramped position of his arms, of the chug of the engine, and most of all, of the dreary, barren country through which he was riding. Early that morning he had left Pau, and with the exception of an hour and a half at Bayonne, where he had lunched and paid a short business call, he had been at it ever since. It was now after five o'clock, and the last post he had noticed showed him he was still twenty-six kilometers from Bordeaux, where he intended to spend the night.

"This confounded road has no end," he thought. "I really must stretch my legs a bit."

A short distance in front of him a hump in the white ribbon of the road with parapet walls narrowing in at each side indicated a bridge. He cut off his engine and, allowing the machine to coast, brought it to a stand at the summit. Then dismounting, he slid it back on its bracket; stretched himself luxuriously, and looked around.

In both directions, in front of him and behind, the road stretched, level and monotonous as far as the eye could reach, as he had seen it stretch, with but few exceptions, during the whole of the day's run. But whereas farther south it had led through open country, desolate, depressing wastes of sand and sedge, here it ran through the heart of a pine forest, in its own way as melancholy. The road seemed isolated, cut off from the surrounding country, like to be squeezed out of existence by the overwhelming barrier on either flank, a screen, aromatic indeed, but dark, gloomy, and forbidding. Nor was the prospect improved by the long, unsightly gashes which the resin collectors had made on the trunks, suggesting, as they did, that the trees were stricken by some disease. To Merriman the country seemed utterly uninhabited. Indeed, since running through Labouheyre, now two hours back, he could not recall having seen a single living creature except those passing in motor cars, and of these even there were but few.

He rested his arms on the masonry coping of the old bridge and drew at his cigarette. But for the distant rumble of an approaching vehicle, the spring evening was very still. The river curved away gently towards the left, flowing black and sluggish between its flat banks, on which the pines grew down to the water's edge. It was delightful to stay quiet for a few moments, and Merriman took off his cap and let the cool air blow on his forehead, enjoying the relaxation.

He was a pleasant-looking man of about eight-and-twenty, clean shaven and with gray, honest eyes, dark hair slightly inclined to curl, and a square, well-cut jaw. Business had brought him to France. Junior partner in the firm of Edwards & Merriman, Wine Merchants, Gracechurch Street, London, he annually made a tour of the exporters with whom his firm dealt. He had worked across the south of the country from Cette to Pau, and was now about to recross from Bordeaux to near Avignon, after which his round would be complete. To him this part of his business was a pleasure, and he enjoyed his annual trip almost as much as if it had been a holiday.

The vehicle which he had heard in the distance was now close by, and he turned idly to watch it pass. He did not know then that this slight action, performed almost involuntarily, was to change his whole life, and not only his, but the lives of a number of other people of whose existence he was not then aware, was to lead to sorrow as well as happiness, to crime as well as the vindication of the law, to... in short, what is more to the point, had he not then looked round, this story would never have been written.

The vehicle in itself was in no way remarkable. It was a motor lorry of about five tons capacity, a heavy thing, travelling slowly. Merriman's attention at first focused itself on the driver. He was a man of about thirty, good-looking, with thin, clear-cut features, an aquiline nose, and dark, clever-looking eyes. Dressed though he was in rough working clothes, there was a something in his appearance, in his pose, which suggested a man of better social standing than his occupation warranted.

"Ex-officer," thought Merriman as his gaze passed on to the lorry behind. It was painted a dirty green, and was empty except for a single heavy casting, evidently part of some large and massive machine. On the side of the deck was a brass plate bearing the words in English "The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 4." Merriman was somewhat surprised to see a nameplate in his own language in so unexpected a quarter, but the matter really did not interest him and he soon dismissed it from his mind.

The machine chuffed ponderously past, and Merriman, by now rested, turned to restart his bicycle. But his troubles for the day were not over. On the ground below his tank was a stain, and even as he looked, a drop fell from the carburetor feed pipe, followed by a second and a third.

He bent down to examine, and speedily found the cause of the trouble. The feed pipe was connected to the bottom of the tank by a union, and the nut, working slack, had allowed a small but steady leak. He tightened the nut and turned to measure the petrol in the tank. A glance showed him that a mere drain only remained.

"Curse it all," he muttered, "that's the second time that confounded nut has left me in the soup."

His position was a trifle awkward. He was still some twenty-five kilometers from Bordeaux, and his machine would not carry him more than perhaps two. Of course, he could stop the first car that approached, and no doubt borrow enough petrol to make the city, but all day he had noticed with surprise how few and far between the cars were, and there was no certainty that one would pass within a reasonable time.

Then the sound of the receding lorry, still faintly audible, suggested an idea. It was travelling so slowly that he might overtake it before his petrol gave out. It was true he was going in the wrong direction, and if he failed he would be still farther from his goal, but when you are twenty-five kilometers from where you want to be, a few hundred yards more or less is not worth worrying about.

He wheeled his machine round and followed the lorry at full speed. But he had not more than started when he noticed his quarry turning to the right. Slowly it disappeared into the forest.

"Funny I didn't see that road," thought Merriman as he bumped along.

He slackened speed when he reached the place where the lorry had vanished, and then he saw a narrow lane just wide enough to allow the big vehicle to pass, which curved away between the tree stems. The surface was badly cut up with wheel tracks, so much so that Merriman decided he could not ride it. He therefore dismounted, hid his bicycle among the trees, and pushed on down the lane on foot. He was convinced from his knowledge of the country that the latter must be a cul-de-sac, at the end of which he would find the lorry. This he could hear not far away, chugging slowly on in front of him.

The lane twisted incessantly, apparently to avoid the larger trees. The surface was the virgin soil of the forest only, but the ruts had been filled roughly with broken stones.

Merriman strode on, and suddenly, as he rounded one of the bends, he got the surprise of his life.

Coming to meet him along the lane was a girl. This in itself was perhaps not remarkable, but this girl seemed so out of place amid such surroundings, or even in such a district, that Merriman was quite taken aback.

She was of medium height, slender and graceful as a lily, and looked about three-and-twenty. She was a study in brown. On her head was a brown tam, a rich, warm brown, like the brown of autumn bracken on the moor. She wore a brown jumper, brown skirt, brown stockings and little brown brogued shoes. As she came closer, Merriman saw that her eyes, friendly, honest eyes, were a shade of golden brown, and that a hint of gold also gleamed in the brown of her hair. She was pretty, not classically beautiful, but very charming and attractive-looking. She walked with the free, easy movement of one accustomed to an out-of-door life.

As they drew abreast Merriman pulled off his cap.

"Pardon, mademoiselle," he said in his somewhat halting French, "but can you tell me if I could get some petrol close by?" and in a few words he explained his predicament.

She looked him over with a sharp, scrutinizing glance. Apparently satisfied, she smiled slightly and replied:

"But certainly, monsieur. Come to the mill and my father will get you some. He is the manager."

She spoke even more haltingly than he had, and with no semblance of a French accent—the French rather of an English school. He stared at her.

"But you're English!" he cried in surprise.

She laughed lightly.

"Of course I'm English," she answered. "Why shouldn't I be English? But I don't think you're very polite about it, you know."

He apologized in some confusion. It was the unexpectedness of meeting a fellow-countryman in this out of the way wood... It was... He did not mean....

"You want to say my French is not really so bad after all?" she said relentlessly, and then: "I can tell you it's a lot better than when we came here."

"Then you are a newcomer?"

"We're not out very long. It's rather a change from London, as you may imagine. But it's not such a bad country as it looks. At first I thought it would be dreadful, but I have grown to like it."

She had turned with him, and they were now walking together between the tall, straight stems of the trees.

"I'm a Londoner," said Merriman slowly. "I wonder if we have any mutual acquaintances?"

"It's hardly likely. Since my mother died some years ago we have lived very quietly, and gone out very little."

Merriman did not wish to appear inquisitive. He made a suitable reply and, turning the conversation to the country, told her of his day's ride. She listened eagerly, and it was borne in upon him that she was lonely, and delighted to have anyone to talk to. She certainly seemed a charming girl, simple, natural and friendly, and obviously a lady.

But soon their walk came to an end. Some quarter of a mile from the wood the lane debouched into a large, D-shaped clearing. It had evidently been recently made, for the tops of many of the tree-stumps dotted thickly over the ground were still white. Round the semicircle of the forest trees were lying cut, some with their branches still intact, others stripped clear to long, straight poles. Two small gangs of men were at work, one felling, the other lopping.

Across the clearing, forming its other boundary and the straight side of the D, ran a river, apparently from its direction that which Merriman had looked down on from the road bridge. It was wider here, a fine stretch of water, though still dark colored and uninviting from the shadow of the trees. On its bank, forming a center to the cleared semicircle, was a building, evidently the mill. It was a small place, consisting of a single long narrow galvanized iron shed, and placed parallel to the river. In front of the shed was a tiny wharf, and behind it were stacks and stacks of tree trunks cut in short lengths and built as if for seasoning. Decauville tramways radiated from the shed, and the men were running in timber in the trucks. From the mill came the hard, biting screech of a circular saw.

"A sawmill!" Merriman exclaimed rather unnecessarily.

"Yes. We cut pit-props for the English coal mines. Those are they you see stacked up. As soon as they are drier they will be shipped across. My father joined with some others in putting up the capital, and—voila!" She indicated the clearing and its contents with a comprehensive sweep of her hand.

"By Jove! A jolly fine notion, too, I should say. You have everything handy—trees handy, river handy—I suppose from the look of that wharf that sea-going ships can come up?"

"Shallow draughted ones only. But we have our own motor ship specially built and always running. It makes the round trip in about ten days."

"By Jove!" Merriman said again. "Splendid! And is that where you live?"

He pointed to a house standing on a little hillock near the edge of the clearing at the far or down-stream side of the mill. It was a rough, but not uncomfortable-looking building of galvanized iron, one-storied and with a piazza in front. From a brick chimney a thin spiral of blue smoke was floating up lazily into the calm air.

The girl nodded.

"It's not palatial, but it's really wonderfully comfortable," she explained, "and oh, the fires! I've never seen such glorious wood fires as we have. Cuttings, you know. We have more blocks than we know what to do with."

"I can imagine. I wish we had 'em in London."

They were walking not too rapidly across the clearing towards the mill. At the back of the shed were a number of doors, and opposite one of them, heading into the opening, stood the motor lorry. The engine was still running, but the driver had disappeared, apparently into the building. As the two came up, Merriman once more ran his eye idly over the vehicle. And then he felt a sudden mild surprise, as one feels when some unexpected though quite trivial incident takes place. He had felt sure that this lorry standing at the mill door was that which had passed him on the bridge, and which he had followed down the lane. But now he saw it wasn't. He had noted, idly but quite distinctly, that the original machine was No. 4. This one had a precisely similar plate, but it bore the legend "The Landes Pit-Prop Syndicate, No. 3."

Though the matter was of no importance, Merriman was a little intrigued, and he looked more closely at the vehicle. As he did so his surprise grew and his trifling interest became mystification. The lorry was the same. At least there on the top was the casting, just as he had seen it. It was inconceivable that two similar lorries should have two identical castings arranged in the same way, and at the same time and place. And yet, perhaps it was just possible.

But as he looked he noticed a detail which settled the matter. The casting was steadied by some rough billets of wood. One of these billets was split, and a splinter of curious shape had partially entered a bolt hole. He recalled now, though it had slipped from his memory, that he had noticed that queer-shaped splinter as the lorry passed him on the bridge. It was therefore unquestionably and beyond a shadow of doubt the same machine.

Involuntarily he stopped and stood staring at the number plate, wondering if his recollection of that seen at the bridge could be at fault. He thought not. In fact, he was certain. He recalled the shape of the 4, which had an unusually small hollow in the middle. There was no shadow of doubt of this either. He remained motionless for a few seconds, puzzling over the problem, and was just about to remark on it when the girl broke in hurriedly.

"Father will be in the office," she said, and her voice was sharpened as from anxiety. "Won't you come and see him about the petrol?"

He looked at her curiously. The smile had gone from her lips, and her face was pale. She was frowning, and in her eyes there showed unmistakable fear. She was not looking at him, and his gaze followed the direction of hers.

The driver had come out of the shed, the same dark, aquiline-featured man as had passed him on the bridge. He had stopped and was staring at Merriman with an intense regard in which doubt and suspicion rapidly changed to hostility. For a moment neither man moved, and then once again the girl's voice broke in.

"Oh, there is father," she cried, with barely disguised relief in her tones. "Come, won't you, and speak to him."

The interruption broke the spell. The driver averted his eyes and stooped over his engine; Merriman turned towards the girl, and the little incident was over.

It was evident to Merriman that he had in some way put his foot in it, how he could not imagine, unless there was really something in the matter of the number plate. But it was equally clear to him that his companion wished to ignore the affair, and he therefore expelled it from his mind for the moment, and once again following the direction of her gaze, moved towards a man who was approaching from the far end of the shed.

He was tall and slender like his daughter, and walked with lithe, slightly feline movements. His face was oval, clear skinned, and with a pallid complexion made still paler by his dark hair and eyes and a tiny mustache, almost black and with waxed and pointed ends. He was good-looking as to features, but the face was weak and the expression a trifle shifty.

His daughter greeted him, still with some perturbation in her manner.

"We were just looking for you, daddy," she called a little breathlessly. "This gentleman is cycling to Bordeaux and has run out of petrol. He asked me if there was any to be had hereabouts, so I told him you could give him some."

The newcomer honored Merriman with a rapid though searching and suspicious glance, but he replied politely, and in a cultured voice:

"Quite right, my dear." He turned to Merriman and spoke in French. "I shall be very pleased to supply you, monsieur. How much do you want?"

"Thanks awfully, sir," Merriman answered in his own language. "I'm English. It's very good of you, I'm sure, and I'm sorry to be giving so much trouble. A liter should run me to Bordeaux, or say a little more in case of accidents."

"I'll give you two liters. It's no trouble at all." He turned and spoke in rapid French to the driver.

"Oui, monsieur," the man replied, and then, stepping up to his chief, he said something in a low voice. The other started slightly, for a moment looked concerned, then instantly recovering himself, advanced to Merriman.

"Henri, here, will send a man with a two-liter can to where you have left your machine," he said, then continued with a suave smile:

"And so, sir, you're English? It is not often that we have the pleasure of meeting a fellow-countryman in these wilds."

"I suppose not, sir, but I can assure you your pleasure and surprise is as nothing to mine. You are not only a fellow-countryman but a friend in need as well."

"My dear sir, I know what it is to run out of spirit. And I suppose there is no place in the whole of France where you might go farther without finding any than this very district. You are on pleasure bent, I presume?"

Merriman shook his head.

"Unfortunately, no," he replied. "I'm travelling for my firm, Edwards & Merriman, Wine Merchants of London. I'm Merriman, Seymour Merriman, and I'm going round the exporters with whom we deal."

"A pleasant way to do it, Mr. Merriman. My name is Coburn. You see I am trying to change the face of the country here?"

"Yes, Miss"—Merriman hesitated for a moment and looked at the girl—"Miss Coburn told me what you were doing. A splendid notion, I think."

"Yes, I think we are going to make it pay very well. I suppose you're not making a long stay?"

"Two days in Bordeaux, sir, then I'm off east to Avignon."

"Do you know, I rather envy you. One gets tired of these tree trunks and the noise of the saws. Ah, there is your petrol." A workman had appeared with a red can of Shell. "Well, Mr. Merriman, a pleasant journey to you. You will excuse my not going farther with you, but I am really supposed to be busy." He turned to his daughter with a smile. "You, Madeleine, can see Mr. Merriman to the road?"

He shook hands, declined Merriman's request to be allowed to pay for the petrol and, cutting short the other's thanks with a wave of his arm, turned back to the shed.

The two young people strolled slowly back across the clearing, the girl evidently disposed to make the most of the unwonted companionship, and Merriman no less ready to prolong so delightful an interview. But in spite of the pleasure of their conversation, he could not banish from his mind the little incident which had taken place, and he determined to ask a discreet question or two about it.

"I say," he said, during a pause in their talk, "I'm afraid I upset your lorry man somehow. Did you notice the way he looked at me?"

The girl's manner, which up to this had been easy and careless, changed suddenly, becoming constrained and a trifle self-conscious. But she answered readily enough.

"Yes, I saw it. But you must not mind Henri. He was badly shell-shocked, you know, and he has never been the same since."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Merriman apologized, wondering if the man could be a relative. "Both my brothers suffered from it. They were pretty bad, but they're coming all right. It's generally a question of time, I think."

"I hope so," Miss Coburn rejoined, and quietly but decisively changed the subject.

They began to compare notes about London, and Merriman was sorry when, having filled his tank and pushed his bicycle to the road, he could no longer with decency find an excuse for remaining in her company. He bade her a regretful farewell, and some hall-hour later was mounting the steps of his hotel in Bordeaux.

That evening and many times later, his mind reverted to the incident of the lorry. At the time she made it, Miss Coburn's statement about the shell-shock had seemed entirely to account for the action of Henri, the driver. But now Merriman was not so sure. The more he thought over the affair, the more certain he felt that he had not made a mistake about the number plate, and the more likely it appeared that the driver had guessed what he, Merriman, had noticed, and resented it. It seemed to him that there was here some secret which the man was afraid might become known, and Merriman could not but admit to himself that all Miss Coburn's actions were consistent with the hypothesis that she also shared that secret and that fear.

And yet the idea was grotesque that there could be anything serious in the altering of the number plate of a motor lorry, assuming that he was not mistaken. Even if the thing had been done, it was a trivial matter and, so far as he could see, the motives for it, as well as its consequences, must be trivial. It was intriguing, but no one could imagine it to be important. As Merriman cycled eastward through France his interest in the affair gradually waned, and when, a fortnight later, he reached England, he had ceased to give it a serious thought.

But the image of Miss Coburn did not so quickly vanish from his imagination, and many times he regretted he had not taken an opportunity of returning to the mill to renew the acquaintanceship so unexpectedly begun.


### CHAPTER 2. AN INTERESTING SUGGESTION

About ten o'clock on a fine evening towards the end of June, some six weeks after the incident described in the last chapter, Merriman formed one of a group of young men seated round the open window of the smoking room in the Rovers' Club in Cranbourne Street. They had dined together, and were enjoying a slack hour and a little desultory conversation before moving on, some to catch trains to the suburbs, some to their chambers in town, and others to round off the evening with some livelier form of amusement. The Rovers had premises on the fourth floor of a large building near the Hippodrome. Its membership consisted principally of business and professional men, but there was also a sprinkling of members of Parliament, political secretaries, and minor government officials, who, though its position was not ideal, were attracted to it because of the moderation of its subscription and the excellence of its cuisine.

The evening was calm, and the sounds from the street below seemed to float up lazily to the little group in the open window, as the smoke of their pipes and cigars floated up lazily to the ceiling above. The gentle hum of the traffic made a pleasant accompaniment to their conversation, as the holding down of a soft pedal fills in and supports dreamy organ music. But for the six young men in the bow window the room was untenanted, save for a waiter who had just brought some fresh drinks, and who was now clearing away empty glasses from an adjoining table.

The talk had turned on foreign travel, and more than one member had related experiences which he had undergone while abroad. Merriman was tired and had been rather silent, but it was suddenly borne in on him that it was his duty, as one of the hosts of the evening, to contribute somewhat more fully towards the conversation. He determined to relate his little adventure at the sawmill of the Pit-Prop Syndicate. He therefore lit a fresh cigar, and began to speak.

"Any of you fellows know the country just south of Bordeaux?" he asked, and, as no one responded, he went on: "I know it a bit, for I have to go through it every year on my trip round the wine exporters. This year a rather queer thing happened when I was about half an hour's run from Bordeaux; absolutely a trivial thing and of no importance, you understand, but it puzzled me. Maybe some of you could throw some light on it?"

"Proceed, my dear sir, with your trivial narrative," invited Jelfs, a man sitting at one end of the group. "We shall give it the weighty consideration which it doubtless deserves."

Jelfs was a stockbroker and the professional wit of the party. He was a good soul, but boring. Merriman took no notice of the interruption.

"It was between five and six in the evening," he went on, and he told in some detail of his day's run, culminating in his visit to the sawmill and his discovery of the alteration in the number of the lorry. He gave the facts exactly as they had occurred, with the single exception that he made no mention of his meeting with Madeleine Coburn.

"And what happened?" asked Drake, another of the men, when he had finished.

"Nothing more happened," Merriman returned. "The manager came and gave me some petrol, and I cleared out. The point is, why should that number plate have been changed?"

Jelfs fixed his eyes on the speaker, and gave the little sidelong nod which indicated to the others that another joke was about to be perpetrated.

"You say," he asked impressively, "that the lorry was at first 4 and then 3. Are you sure you haven't made a mistake of 41?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that it's a common enough phenomenon for a No. 4 lorry to change, after lunch, let us say, into No. 44. Are you sure it wasn't 44?"

Merriman joined in the laughter against him.

"It wasn't forty-anything, you old blighter," he said good-humoredly. "It was 4 on the road, and 3 at the mill, and I'm as sure of it as that you're an amiable imbecile."

"Inconclusive," murmured Jelfs, "entirely inconclusive. But," he persisted, "you must not hold back material evidence. You haven't told us yet what you had at lunch."

"Oh, stow it, Jelfs," said Hilliard, a thin-faced, eager-looking young man who had not yet spoken. "Have you no theory yourself, Merriman?"

"None. I was completely puzzled. I would have mentioned it before, only it seemed to be making a mountain out of nothing."

"I think Jelfs' question should be answered, you know," Drake said critically, and after some more good-natured chaff the subject dropped.

Shortly after one of the men had to leave to catch his train, and the party broke up. As they left the building Merriman found Hilliard at his elbow.

"Are you walking?" the latter queried. "If so I'll come along."

Claud Hilliard was the son of a clergyman in the Midlands, a keen, not to say brilliant student who had passed through both school and college with distinction, and was already at the age of eight-and-twenty making a name for himself on the headquarters staff of the Customs Department. His thin, eager face, with its hooked nose, pale blue eyes and light, rather untidy-looking hair, formed a true index of his nimble, somewhat speculative mind. What he did, he did with his might. He was keenly interested in whatever he took up, showing a tendency, indeed, to ride his hobbies to death. He had a particular penchant for puzzles of all kinds, and many a knotty problem brought to him as a last court of appeal received a surprisingly rapid and complete solution. His detractors, while admitting his ingenuity and the almost uncanny rapidity with which he seized on the essential facts of a case, said he was lacking in staying power, but if this were so, he had not as yet shown signs of it.

He and Merriman had first met on business, when Hilliard was sent to the wine merchants on some matter of Customs. The acquaintanceship thus formed had ripened into a mild friendship, though the two had not seen a great deal of each other.

They passed up Coventry Street and across the Circus into Piccadilly. Hilliard had a flat in a side street off Knightsbridge, while Merriman lived farther west in Kensington. At the door of the flat Hilliard stopped.

"Come in for a last drink, won't you?" he invited. "It's ages since you've been here."

Merriman agreed, and soon the two friends were seated at another open window in the small but comfortable sitting-room of the flat.

They chatted for some time, and then Hilliard turned the conversation to the story Merriman had told in the club.

"You know," he said, knocking the ash carefully off his cigar, "I was rather interested in that tale of yours. It's quite an intriguing little mystery. I suppose it's not possible that you could have made a mistake about those numbers?"

Merriman laughed.

"I'm not exactly infallible, and I have, once or twice in my life, made mistakes. But I don't think I made one this time. You see, the only question is the number at the bridge. The number at the mill is certain. My attention was drawn to it, and I looked at it too often for there to be the slightest doubt. It was No. 3 as certainly as I'm alive. But the number at the bridge is different. There was nothing to draw my attention to it, and I only glanced at it casually. I would say that I was mistaken about it only for one thing. It was a black figure on a polished brass ground, and I particularly remarked that the black lines were very wide, leaving an unusually small brass triangle in the center. If I noticed that, it must have been a 4."

Hilliard nodded.

"Pretty conclusive, I should say." He paused for a few moments, then moved a little irresolutely. "Don't think me impertinent, old man," he went on with a sidelong glance, "but I imagined from your manner you were holding something back. Is there more in the story than you told?"

It was now Merriman's turn to hesitate. Although Madeleine Coburn had been in his thoughts more or less continuously since he returned to town, he had never mentioned her name, and he was not sure that he wanted to now.

"Sorry I spoke, old man," Hilliard went on. "Don't mind answering."

Merriman came to a decision.

"Not at all" he answered slowly. "I'm a fool to make any mystery of it. I'll tell you. There is a girl there, the manager's daughter. I met her in the lane when I was following the lorry, and asked her about petrol. She was frightfully decent; came back with me and told her father what I wanted, and all that. But, Hilliard, here's the point. She knew! There's something, and she knows it too. She got quite scared when that driver fixed me with his eyes, and tried to get me away, and she was quite unmistakably relieved when the incident passed. Then later her father suggested she should see me to the road, and on the way I mentioned the thing—said I was afraid I had upset the driver somehow—and she got embarrassed at once, told me the man was shell-shocked, implying that he was queer, and switched off on to another subject so pointedly I had to let it go at that."

Hilliard's eyes glistened.

"Quite a good little mystery," he said. "I suppose the man couldn't have been a relation, or even her fiancee?"

"That occurred to me, and it is possible. But I don't think so. I believe she wanted to try to account for his manner, so as to prevent my smelling a rat."

"And she did not account for it?"

"Perhaps she did, but again I don't think so. I have a pretty good knowledge of shell-shock, as you know, and it didn't look like it to me. I don't suggest she wasn't speaking the truth. I mean that this particular action didn't seem to be so caused."

There was silence for a moment, and then Merriman continued:

"There was another thing which might bear in the same direction, or again it may only be my imagination—I'm not sure of it. I told you the manager appeared just in the middle of the little scene, but I forgot to tell you that the driver went up to him and said something in a low tone, and the manager started and looked at me and seemed annoyed. But it was very slight and only for a second; I would have noticed nothing only for what went before. He was quite polite and friendly immediately after, and I may have been mistaken and imagined the whole thing."

"But it works in," Hilliard commented. "If the driver saw what you were looking at and your expression, he would naturally guess what you had noticed, and he would warn his boss that you had tumbled to it. The manager would look surprised and annoyed for a moment, then he would see he must divert your suspicion, and talk to you as if nothing had happened."

"Quite. That's just what I thought. But again, I may have been mistaken."

They continued discussing the matter for some time longer, and then the conversation turned into other channels. Finally the clocks chiming midnight aroused Merriman, and he got up and said he must be going.

Three days later he had a note from Hilliard.

"Come in tonight about ten if you are doing nothing," it read. "I have a scheme on, and I hope you'll join in with me. Tell you when I see you."

It happened that Merriman was not engaged that evening, and shortly after ten the two men were occupying the same arm-chairs at the same open window, their glasses within easy reach and their cigars well under way.

"And what is your great idea?" Merriman asked when they had conversed for a few moments. "If it's as good as your cigars, I'm on."

Hilliard moved nervously, as if he found a difficulty in replying. Merriman could see that he was excited, and his own interest quickened.

"It's about that tale of yours," Hilliard said at length. "I've been thinking it over."

He paused as if in doubt. Merriman felt like Alice when she had heard the mock-turtle's story, but he waited in silence, and presently Hilliard went on.

"You told it with a certain amount of hesitation," he said. "You suggested you might be mistaken in thinking there was anything in it. Now I'm going to make a SUGGESTION with even more hesitation, for it's ten times wilder than yours, and there is simply nothing to back it up. But here goes all the same."

His indecision had passed now, and he went on fluently and with a certain excitement.

"Here you have a trade with something fishy about it. Perhaps you think that's putting it too strongly; if so, let us say there is something peculiar about it; something, at all events, to call one's attention to it, as being in some way out of the common. And when we do think about it, what's the first thing we discover?"

Hilliard looked inquiringly at his friend. The latter sat listening carefully, but did not speak, and Hilliard answered his own question.

"Why, that it's an export trade from France to England—an export trade only, mind you. As far as you learned, these people's boat runs the pit-props to England, but carries nothing back. Isn't that so?"

"They didn't mention return cargoes," Merriman answered, "but that doesn't mean there aren't any. I did not go into the thing exhaustively."

"But what could there be? What possible thing could be shipped in bulk from this country to the middle of a wood near Bordeaux? Something, mind you, that you, there at the very place, didn't see. Can you think of anything?"

"Not at the moment. But I don't see what that has to do with it."

"Quite possibly nothing, and yet it's an INTERESTING point."

"Don't see it."

"Well, look here. I've been making inquiries, and I find most of our pit-props come from Norway and the Baltic. But the ships that bring them don't go back empty. They carry coal. Now do you see?"

It was becoming evident that Hilliard was talking of something quite definite, and Merriman's interest increased still further.

"I daresay I'm a frightful ass," he said, "but I'm blessed if I know what you're driving at."

"Costs," Hilliard returned. "Look at it from the point of view of costs. Timber in Norway is as plentiful and as cheap to cut as in the Landes, indeed, possibly cheaper, for there is water there available for power. But your freight will be much less if you can get a return cargo. Therefore, a priori, it should be cheaper to bring props from Norway than from France. Do you follow me so far?"

Merriman nodded.

"If it costs the same amount to cut the props at each place," Hilliard resumed, "and the Norwegian freight is lower, the Norwegian props must be cheaper in England. How then do your friends make it pay?"

"Methods more up to date perhaps. Things looked efficient, and that manager seemed pretty wide-awake."

Hilliard shook his head.

"Perhaps, but I doubt it. I don't think you have much to teach the Norwegians about the export of timber. Mind you, it may be all right, but it seems to me a question if the Bordeaux people have a paying trade."

Merriman was puzzled.

"But it must pay or they wouldn't go on with it. Mr. Coburn said it was paying well enough."

Hilliard bent forward eagerly.

"Of course he would say so," he cried. "Don't you see that his saying so is in itself suspicious? Why should he want to tell you that if there was nothing to make you doubt it?"

"There is nothing to make me doubt it. See here, Hilliard, I don't for the life of me know what you're getting at. For the Lord's sake explain yourself."

"Ah," Hilliard returned with a smile, "you see you weren't brought up in the Customs. Do you know, Merriman, that the thing of all others we're keenest on is an import trade that doesn't pay?" He paused a moment, then added slowly: "Because if a trade which doesn't pay is continued, there must be something else to make it pay. Just think, Merriman. What would make a trade from France to this country pay?"

Merriman gasped.

"By Jove, Hilliard! You mean smuggling?"

Hilliard laughed delightedly.

"Of course I mean smuggling, what else?"

He waited for the idea to sink into his companion's brain, and then went on:

"And now another thing. Bordeaux, as no one knows better than yourself, is just the center of the brandy district. You see what I'm getting at. My department would naturally be interested in a mysterious trade from the Bordeaux district. You accidentally find one. See? Now what do you think of it?"

"I don't think much of it," Merriman answered sharply, while a wave of unreasoning anger passed over him. The SUGGESTION annoyed him unaccountably. The vision of Madeleine Coburn's clear, honest eyes returned forcibly to his recollection. "I'm afraid you're out of it this time. If you had seen Miss Coburn you would have known she is not the sort of girl to lend herself to anything of that kind."

Hilliard eyed his friend narrowly and with some surprise, but he only said:

"You think not? Well, perhaps you are right. You've seen her and I haven't. But those two points are at least INTERESTING—the changing of the numbers and the absence of a return trade."

"I don't believe there's anything in it."

"Probably you're right, but the idea interests me. I was going to make a proposal, but I expect now you won't agree to it."

Merriman's momentary annoyance was subsiding.

"Let's hear it anyway, old man," he said in conciliatory tones.

"You get your holidays shortly, don't you?"

"Monday week. My partner is away now, but he'll be back on Wednesday. I go next."

"I thought so. I'm going on mine next week—taking the motor launch, you know. I had made plans for the Riviera—to go by the Seine, and from there by canal to the Rhone and out at Marseilles. Higginson was coming with me, but as you know he's crocked up and won't be out of bed for a month. My proposal is that you come in his place, and that instead of crossing France in the orthodox way by the Seine, we try to work through from Bordeaux by the Garonne. I don't know if we can do it, but it would be rather fun trying. But anyway the point would be that we should pay a call at your sawmill on the way, and see if we can learn anything more about the lorry numbers. What do you say?"

"Sounds jolly fascinating." Merriman had quite recovered his good humor. "But I'm not a yachtsman. I know nothing about the business."

"Pooh! What do you want to know? We're not sailing, and motoring through these rivers and canals is great sport. And then we can go on to Monte and any of those places you like. I've done it before and had no end of a good time. What do you say? Are you on?"

"It's jolly decent of you, I'm sure, Hilliard. If you think you can put up with a hopeless landlubber, I'm certainly on."

Merriman was surprised to find how much he was thrilled by the proposal. He enjoyed boating, though only very mildly, and it was certainly not the prospect of endless journeyings along the canals and rivers of France that attracted him. Still less was it the sea, of which he hated the motion. Nor was it the question of the lorry numbers. He was puzzled and interested in the affair, and he would like to know the solution, but his curiosity was not desperately keen, and he did not feel like taking a great deal of trouble to satisfy it. At all events he was not going to do any spying, if that was what Hilliard wanted, for he did not for a moment accept that smuggling theory. But when they were in the neighborhood he supposed it would be permissible to call and see the Coburns. Miss Coburn had seemed lonely. It would be decent to try to cheer her up. They might invite her on board, and have tea and perhaps a run up the river. He seemed to visualize the launch moving easily between the tree-clad banks, Hilliard attending to the engine and steering, he and the brown-eyed girl in the taffrail, or the cockpit, or the well, or whatever you sat in on a motor boat. He pictured a gloriously sunny afternoon, warm and delightful, with just enough air made by the movement to prevent it being too hot. It would...

Hilliard's voice broke in on his thoughts, and he realized his friend had been speaking for some time.

"She's over-engined, if anything," he was saying, "but that's all to the good for emergencies. I got fifteen knots out of her once, but she averages about twelve. And good in a sea-way, too. For her size, as dry a boat as ever I was in."

"What size is she?" asked Merriman.

"Thirty feet, eight feet beam, draws two feet ten. She'll go down any of the French canals. Two four-cylinder engines, either of which will run her. Engines and wheel amidships, cabin aft, decked over. Oh, she's a beauty. You'll like her, I can tell you."

"But do you mean to tell me you would cross the Bay of Biscay in a boat that size?"

"The Bay's maligned. I've been across it six times and it was only rough once. Of course, I'd keep near the coast and run for shelter if it came on to blow. You need not worry. She's as safe as a house."

"I'm not worrying about her going to the bottom," Merriman answered. "It's much worse than that. The fact is," he went on in a burst of confidence, "I can't stand the motion. I'm ill all the time. Couldn't I join you later?"

Hilliard nodded.

"I had that in my mind, but I didn't like to suggest it. As a matter of fact it would suit me better. You see, I go on my holidays a week earlier than you. I don't want to hang about all that time waiting for you. I'll get a man and take the boat over to Bordeaux, send the man home, and you can come overland and join me there. How would that suit you?"

"A1, Hilliard. Nothing could be better."

They continued discussing details for the best part of an hour, and when Merriman left for home it had been arranged that he should follow Hilliard by the night train from Charing Cross on the following Monday week.