The old peasant took up the reins. "Bonjour, Madame Therese. Bonjour, monsieur." The cart swung round and started down the grassy drive.
Tod still clung to the side of the cart. All the flood of words that surged within him refused to rise through his tightened throat. He wanted to shout, to cry out: "Neil, I'm here! Here to help. I don't understand—but you're caught as Tom Jarvis was caught. Wait—I'll get you out! . . . Someway—"
Out of the flood, however, no tide arose. He heard the slam of the great iron gate, the turn of the key in the rusty lock. The Villa Paradis lay behind them.
"Well, mon petit ami," said the peasant softly. "You saw them, hein?"
Tod did not answer. His head had dropped on his motionless hands.
The cart jerked and tossed in the ruts; the driver grumbled to himself as he urged his horse forward. "Ah, those Marseillaises! I like them not. And that man. English? Bah, he is American. Can I not tell from his talk? But he is ill—very ill. May le bon Dieu help him in such hands!"
Tod looked up. "What's wrong with him? You know?"
"Mon enfant, there you see a man who has dulled his brain with beguiling drugs. He is not long for this earth of ours. Jules says he will not live through the summer."
A stab—a wrench! Not live through the summer! "What! Mon Dieu, where are you going?" Tod was already clambering over the wheel to the ground.
CHAPTER IV
THE PRISONER
SUMMER—summer! The word was singing through the air. Summer! . . . Even now it was stealing up from the South, up from African deserts and across the sea to this dreaming shore. It was about him too—in the soft warm caress of the sunlight, in the pigeons wheeling against the sky, in the lateen sails like blots of red and brown on the deep blue of the water. And Neil would not live through the summer.
As he raced toward the villa, his thoughts reverted to the events of the last few weeks. Yes, Neil and Tom Jarvis had been caught and wounded in the machinations of the European-Pacific Company; they had both been cast adrift as worthless; but while Jarvis was doggedly fighting his way to safety, Neil had given up and was going under. Was it already too late to help him? It couldn't be—not yet.
Once more at the wrought-iron gate Tod peered into the deep shade of the garden. He could see no one. Neil must be working in the grape arbour. Where was it? His gaze swept across the weeds and flowers. There it rose, a long dark tunnel of green, to the right near a little cliff where the wall ended. He left the gate and with quickened step went along the wall for a hundred yards. He must be almost opposite that wild growth of covered arbour. He listened. In his ears sounded the dull thud of an ax on wood, followed by the prolonged rustle of severed vines.
"Neil," he whispered. "Neil!"
No answer came. The sharp rending of vines continued. There were no voices—surely Jules was not at work also.
He called louder this time. "Neil! Neil!"
The noise ceased. The clear notes of a bird came to him, then the murmur of wind in the olive trees which topped the wall.
Tod put his hands to his mouth. "Neil, say something. It's Tod—Tod!"
Silence. He leaned against the wall, his eyes strained upward. If he could only get to the top and look over. He glanced about him. Near by, in the grass, were stray bits of driftwood. Not big enough. He searched down toward the swampy ground until he found a timber four feet long; this he carried, water-soaked and heavy, back to the wall. Planting it against the stones, he scrambled up, his hands pressed into the damp niches where moss grew. He stood up, balancing himself, and found that his fingers curved over the top of the stones.
A sharp pain in one hand informed him that glass lay there, broken in small pieces and strewn along the flat surface to keep invaders out. He scraped it carefully away. With a little leap, he dragged himself up until one knee was atop; his hands touched the other side, a foot across. Flat on his belly, he looked down through the gray olive branches into the garden.
Standing there watching him was Neil. His pallid countenance was suffused with a look of expectant hope; his fingers moved nervously on the ax he carried. For a moment, they stared at each other.
Neil broke the silence. "Is it really you, Tod?"
"Of course it is." Tod's voice was slightly angry. "What's got into you, anyway? Can't you talk?"
Neil came closer; a trembling hand touched the wall. "I don't know. . . . Everything is like a dream. I thought you were only—another vision." His vague glance drifted across the garden. "I haven't spoken English for months—years, it seems. And now to see you—" He dropped the ax and leaned against the stones. "For God's sake, Tod, get me out of here. They're killing me." The last words rose to a hysterical note. "They're killing me, I tell you!"
Tod surveyed him steadily. "Aw, cut it out. Why don't you climb over the wall and get away?"
"Away? Where to?" He paused and raised a pair of gray, listless eyes. "I haven't got the strength yet," he sighed. "They dope me, I think. Every night I sleep as if they'd drugged the food—or the wine. And last night—Swickard arrived."
"Yes ?" Tod said. "And then ?"
"I saw him this morning. He says that I'd better stay here, that he's keeping me out of prison. It's a lie, Tod. I didn't take any of their money. Someone else messed up the books, and it looked bad for me— that's all. He didn't give me a chance to straighten things out. Oh, I know why he keeps me locked up here. I know too much! Too much about the doings of the European-Pacific Steamship Company."
"Well, get a ladder and climb up here." Tod's tone was full of easy assurance. "We'll beat it. Now!"
Neil smiled wanly. "Do you think it's that easy to get out of this hole? I haven't the strength. They'd have us, anyway, before we got halfway down the road. Oh, I've tried! He nearly killed me the last time—Jules, the blackguard!"
"Then when it's dark. To-night."
"There's only one way. I've thought it out. A boat."
"A boat?"
"Yes—there's a little beach behind the house. If you could land there... Hush! Listen."
A voice, deep and strident, was calling across the garden.
"That's Jules!" Neil's face was suddenly distraught with terror. He stooped with surprising quickness and picked up the ax.
Tod contemplated him in amazement. It soon turned to pity, however, as he surmised the life that Neil must have led under the vigilant eyes of Jules and Madame Therese.
"Wait—wait!" Tod's voice was low and eager. "I'll get a boat, Neil. To-night—at nine. Can you get to the beach?"
"They lock me in," he whispered dully.
"Where's your room? Can't you climb out?"
"It's the window above the kitchen. I'd never maka it without a ladder."
"I'll get one, then."
Neil flung him a look of gratitude. "Nine is too early. Swickard's here, and they'll be up. Later."
"At midnight, then. Hush."
Neil was gone through the weeds and rose bushes. His voice drifted back from the grape arbour. Jules evidently was near.
Tod dropped quietly to the timber and jumped to the ground. At midnight! Good heavens, what a changed Neil! How dull his eyes were; how childlike he seemed. At times, he had always been somewhat of a fool, Tod told himself. Leave it to a brother to know the crazy things a fellow did. It was only when Neil was viewed across a sea, wrapped in the glamour of a ship, that he attained heroic proportions.
Tod trudged wearily toward the roadway. Neil wasn't more of a fool than he himself was. Why did he always envision marvellous heroes who never breathed outside the pages of a story book! Why did he always dream of things, not as they were, but as he would like them to be! Gentlemen adventurers never at a loss for high-flown words and deeds. Ships that sailed into the sunset. They were all right till you touched them—then they vanished. And yet . . . There was left—just Neil.