"Of course I believe you. If you had invented all that you would be clever enough to know what your invention is worth and not hand it out to a stranger. But I doubt whether anyone else will believe you--however, that is your affair--you have given me five reels of the finest stuff, or at least the material for it, and if I ever care to use it I will fix you up a contract giving you twenty-five per cent royalties. But there's one thing you haven't given me--the denouement.

I'm more than interested in that. I'm not thinking of money, I'm a film actor at heart and I want to help in the play. Say, may I help?"

"How?"

"Come along with you to the end, give all the a.s.sistance in my power--or even without that just watch the show. I want to see the last act for I'm blessed if I can imagine it."

"I'd rather not," said Jones. "You might get to know the real names of the people I'm dealing with, and as there is a woman in the business I don't feel I ought to give her name away even to you. No. I reckon I'll pull through alone, but if you'd give me a sofa to sleep on to-night I'd be grateful. Then I can get away in the morning."

Kellerman did not press the point.

"I'll give you better than a sofa," he said. "There's a spare bed, and you'd better not start in the morning; give them time to cool down. Then towards evening you can make a dash. The servants here are all right, they'll think you are a friend run down from town to see me. I'll arrange all that."

CHAPTER XXVIII

PEBBLEMARSH

At five o'clock next day, Jones, re-dressed by Kellerman in a morning coat rather the worse for wear--a coat that had been left behind at the bungalow by one of Kellerman's friends--and a dark cloth cap, took his departure from the bungalow. His appearance was frankly abominable, but quite distinct from the appearance of a man dressed in a grey flannel tennis coat and wearing a Panama--and that was the main point.

Kellerman had also worked up a history and personality for the newly attired one.

"You are Mr. Isaacson," said he.

"Here's the card of a Mr. Isaacson who called some time ago, put it in your pocket. I will write you a couple of fake letters to back the card, you are in the watch trade. Pebblemarsh is the nearest town, only five miles down the road; there's a station there, but you'd better avoid that. There's a garage. You could get a car to London. If they nail you, scream like an excited Jew, produce your credentials, and if the worst comes to the worst refer to me and come back here. I would love that interview. Country policeman, lunatic asylum man, Mr. Isaacson highly excited, and myself."

He sat down to write the fake letters addressed to Mr. Isaacson by his uncle Julius Goldberg and his partner Marcus Cohen. As he wrote he talked over his shoulder on the subject of disguises, alleging that the only really impenetrable disguise was that of a n.i.g.g.e.r minstrel.

"You see, all black faces are pretty much the same," said he. "Their predominant expression is black, but I haven't got the fixings nor the coloured pants and things, to say nothing of a banjo, so I reckon you'll just have to be Mr. Isaacson, and you may thank the G.o.d of the Hebrews I haven't made you an old clothes man--watches are respectable. Here are your letters, they are short but credible. Have you enough money?"

"Lots," said Jones, "and I don't know in the least how to thank you for what you have done. I'd have been had, sure, wearing that hat and coat--well, maybe we'll meet again."

They parted at the gate, the hunted one taking the white, dusty road in the direction of Pebblemarsh, Kellerman watching till a bend hid him from view.

Kellerman had in some mysterious way added a touch of the footlights to this business. This confounded Kellerman who thought in terms of reels and situations, had managed to inspire Jones with the feeling that he was moving on the screen, and that any moment the hedgerows might give up an army of pursuers to the delight of a hidden audience.

However, the hedgerows of the Pebblemarsh road gave up nothing but the odours of briar and woodbine, nothing pursued him but the twitter of birds and the songs of larks above the summer-drowsy fields.

There is nothing much better to live in the memory than a real old English country road on a perfect summer afternoon, no pleasanter companion.

Pebblemarsh is a town of some four thousand souls. It possesses a dye factory. It once possessed the only really good trout stream in this part of the country, with the inevitable result, for in England when a really good trout stream is discovered a dye factory is always erected upon its banks. Pebblemarsh now only possesses a dye factory.

The main street runs north and south, and as Jones pa.s.sed up it he might have fancied himself in Sandbourne or Northbourne, so much alike are these three towns.

Half way up and opposite the post office, an archway disclosed itself with, above it, the magic word,

"GARAGE"

He entered the place. There were no signs of cars, nothing of a movable description in that yard, with the exception of a stout man in leggings and shirtsleeves, who, seeing the stranger, came forward to receive him.

"Have you a car?" asked Jones.

"They're all out except a Ford," said the stout man. "Did you want to go for a drive?"

"No. I want to run up to London in a hurry--what's the mileage from here?"

"We reckon it sixty three miles from here to London--that is to say the Old Kent Road."

"That's near enough," said Jones. "What's the price?"

"A shilling a mile to take you, and a sixpence a mile for the car coming back."

"What's the total?"

The proprietor figured in his head for a moment. "Four, fifteen and six," said he.

"I'll take the car," said Jones, "and I'll pay you now. Can I have it at once?"

The proprietor went to a door and opened it. "Jim," cried he, "are you there? Gentleman wants the Ford taken to London, get her out and get yourself ready."

He turned to Jones.

"She'll be ready inside ten minutes if that will do?"

"That'll do," said Jones, "and here's the money." He produced the chamois leather bag, paid the five sovereigns, and received five and sixpence change--and also a receipt which he put in his pocket. Then Jim appeared, an inconspicuous looking man, wriggling into a driving coat that had seen better days, the Ford was taken from its den, the tyres examined, and the petrol tank filled.

"Haven't you an overcoat?" asked the proprietor. "It'll be chilly after sundown."

"No," said Jones. "I came down without one, the weather was so fine--It won't hurt."

"Better have a coat," said the proprietor. "I'll lend you one. Jim will fetch it back." He went off, and returned with a heavy coat on his arm.

"That's good of you," said Jones. "Thanks--I'll put it on now to save trouble." Then a bright idea struck him. "What I'm afraid of most is my eyes, the wind tries them. Have you any goggles?"

"I believe there's an old pair in the office," said the proprietor, "hold on a minute." He went off and returned with the goggles. Jones thanked him, put them on, and got into the car.

"Pleasant journey to you," said the proprietor.

Then they started.

They turned up the street and along the road by which Jones had come.

Then they struck into the road where the "Lucknows" and "Cawnpores"

hinted of old Indian Colonels.

They pa.s.sed the gates of the Hoover establishment. It was open, and an attendant was gazing up and down the street. He looked at the car but he did not recognize the occupant, then several more residential roads were left behind, a highly respectable cemetery, a tin chapel, and the car, taking a hill as Fords know how, dropped Sandbourne-on-Sea to invisibility and surrounded itself with vast stretches of green and sun warmed country, June scented, and hazy with the warmth of summer.