Fleur’s eyes, whose whites were so clear, flashed on him one of those direct glances which so convinced people of her intelligence.
“Are you going to take him back in this? I wouldn’t, if I were you.” And, taking out her case, she repaired her lips slightly, and powdered her short straight nose.
Adrian watched her with a sort of awe. Youth, up to date, did not come very much his way. Not her few words, but the implications in them impressed him. What she meant was crudely this: Let him dree his weird—you can do nothing. Was she right? Were he and Hilary just pandering to the human instinct for interference; attempting to lay a blasphemous hand on Nature? And yet for Diana’s sake they must know what Ferse did, what he was going to do. For Ferse’s sake they must see, at least, that he did not fall into the wrong hands. On his brother’s face was a faint smile. He at least, thought Adrian, knew youth, had a brood of his own, and could tell how far the clear hard philosophy of youth would carry.
They started again, trailing through the traffic of Dorking’s long and busy street.
“Clear at last,” said Fleur, turning her head, “if you really want to catch him, you shall;” and she opened out to full speed. For the next quarter of an hour they flew along, past yellowing spinneys, fields and bits of furzy common dotted with geese and old horses, past village greens and village streets, and all the other evidences of a country life trying to retain its soul. And then the car, which had been travelling very smoothly, began to grate and bump.
“Tyre gone!” said Fleur, turning her head: “That’s torn it.” She brought the car to a standstill, and they all got out. The off hind tyre was right down.
“Pipe to!” said Hilary, taking his coat off. “Jack her up, Adrian. I’ll get the spare wheel off.”
Fleur’s head was lost in the tool-box, but her voice was heard saying: “Too many cooks, better let me!”
Adrian’s knowledge of cars was nil, his attitude to machinery helpless; he stood willingly aside, and watched them with admiration. They were cool, quick, efficient, but something was wrong with the jack.
“Always like that,” said Fleur, “when you’re in a hurry.”
Twenty minutes was lost before they were again in motion.
“I can’t possibly do it now,” she said, “but you’ll be able to pick up his tracks easily, if you really want to. The station’s right out beyond the town.”
Through Billingshurst and Pulborough and over Stopham bridge, they travelled at full speed.
“Better go for Petworth itself,” said Hilary, “if he’s heading back for the town, we shall meet him.”
“Am I to stop if we meet him?”
“No, carry straight on past and then turn.”
But they passed through Petworth and on for the mile and a half to the station without meeting him.
“The train’s been in a good twenty minutes,” said Adrian, “let’s ask.”
A porter had taken the ticket of a gentleman in a blue overcoat and black hat. No! He had no luggage. He had gone off, towards the Downs. How long ago? Half an hour, maybe.
Regaining the car hastily they made towards the Downs.
“I remember,” said Hilary, “a little further on there’s a turn to Sutton. The point will be whether he’s taken that or gone on up. There are some houses there somewhere. We’ll ask, they may have seen him.”
Just beyond the turning was a little post-office, and a postman was cycling towards it from the Sutton road.
Fleur pulled the car to a walk alongside.
“Have you seen a gentleman in a blue coat and bowler hat making towards Sutton?”
“No, Miss, ‘aven’t passed a soul.”
“Thank you. Shall I carry on for the Downs, Uncle Hilary?”
Hilary consulted his watch.
“If I remember, it’s a mile about to the top of the Down close to Duncton Beacon. We’ve come a mile and a half from the station; and he had, say, twenty-five minutes’ start, so by the time we get to the top we should have about caught him. From the top we shall see the road ahead and be able to make sure. If we don’t come on him, it’ll mean he’s taken to the Down—but which way?”
Adrian said under his breath: “Homewards.”
“To the East?” said Hilary. “On then, Fleur, not too fast.”
Fleur headed the car up the Downs road.
“Feel in my coat, you’ll find three apples,” she said. “I caught them up.”
“What a head!” said Hilary. “But you’ll want them yourself.”
“No. I’m slimming. You can leave me one.”
The brothers, munching each an apple, kept their eyes fixed on the woods on either side of the car.
“Too thick,” said Hilary; “he’ll be carrying on to the open. If you sight him, Fleur, stop dead.”
But they did not sight him, and, mounting slower and slower, reached the top. To their right was the round beech tree clump of Duncton, to the left the open Down; no figure was on the road in front.
“Not ahead,” said Hilary. “We’ve got to decide, old man.”
“Take my advice, and let me drive you home, Uncle Hilary.”
“Shall we, Adrian?”
Adrian shook his head.
“I shall go on.”
“All right, I’m with you.”
“Look!” said Fleur suddenly, and pointed.
Some fifty yards in, along a rough track leaving the road to the left, lay a dark object.
“It’s a coat, I think.”
Adrian jumped out and ran towards it. He returned with a blue overcoat over his arm.
“No doubt now,” he said. “Either he was sitting there and left it by mistake, or he tired of carrying it. It’s a bad sign, whichever it was. Come along, Hilary!”
He dropped the coat in the car.
“What orders for me, Uncle Hilary?”
“You’ve been a brick, my dear. Would you be still more of a brick and wait here another hour? If we’re not back by then, go down and keep close along under the Downs slowly by way of Sutton Bignor and West Burton, then if there’s no sign of us anywhere along that way, take the main road through Pulborough back to London. If you’ve any money to spare, you might lend us some.”
Fleur took out her bag.
“Three pounds. Shall I give you two?”
“Gratefully received,” said Hilary. “Adrian and I never have any money. We’re the poorest family in England, I do believe. Good-bye, my dear, and thank you! Now, old man!”
CHAPTER 28
Waving their hands to where Fleur stood by her car with the remaining apple raised to her lips, the two brothers took the track on to the Down.
“You lead,” said Hilary; “you’ve got the best eyes, and your clothes are less conspicuous. If you sight him, we’ll consult.”
They came almost at once on a long stretch of high wire fence running across the Down.
“It ends there to the left,” said Adrian; “we’ll go round it above the woods; the lower we keep the better.”
They kept round it on the hillside over grass rougher and more uneven, falling into a climber’s loping stride as if once more they were off on some long and difficult ascent. The doubt whether they would catch up with Ferse, what they could do if they did, and the knowledge that it might be a maniac with whom they had to deal, brought to both their faces a look that soldiers have, and sailors, and men climbing mountains, of out-staring what was before them.
They had crossed an old and shallow chalk working and were mounting the few feet to the level on its far side, when Adrian dropped back and pulled Hilary down.
“He’s there,” he whispered; “about seventy yards ahead!”
“See you?”
“No. He looks wild. His hat’s gone, and he’s gesticulating. What shall we do?”
“Put your head up through that bush.”
Adrian knelt, watching. Ferse had ceased to gesticulate, he was standing with arms crossed and his bare head bent. His back was to Adrian, and, but for that still, square, wrapped-in attitude, there was nothing to judge from. He suddenly uncrossed his arms, shook his head from side to side and began to walk rapidly on. Adrian waited till he had disappeared among the bushes on the slope, and beckoned Hilary to follow.