The Pagan's Cup by Hume Fergus W

Author:Hume, Fergus W. [Hume, Fergus W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Nonfiction, Mystery
ISBN: 9781419176562
Amazon: 1419176560
Goodreads: 6952278
Publisher: Kessinger Publishing
Published: 1902-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII. A SURPRISE

RASTON was astonished when Pratt disappeared so suddenly, and Marton rushed out after him. He went to the door, but his friend was not to be seen. It was little use following, for he did not know which direction the man had taken, and the fog was so thick that he could hardly see the length of his hand before him. The whole of the spur upon which Colester was built was wrapped in a thick white mist, and those who were abroad in the streets ran every chance of being lost. The village was small, but the alleys and streets were tortuous, so there would be no great difficulty in mistaking the way.

For over an hour the curate waited, yet Marton did not return. He could only suppose that the detective had followed Pratt, for what purpose he could not divine. Evidently Marton knew something not altogether to Pratt’s advantage, and Pratt was aware of this, else he would hardly have disappeared so expeditiously. Moreover, Marton had addressed Pratt as “Angel,” which hinted that the American was masquerading under a false name. Still wondering at what was likely to be the outcome of this adventure, Raston placed himself at the door and waited for the return of his friend. But, as time passed, he made sure that the detective, a stranger in the village, had lost his way.

“I can’t leave him out of doors all night,” soliloquised Raston, peeing into the fog; “yet I do not know where to look for him. However, his own good sense must have told him not to go too far.”

It was now after ten o’clock, and most of the villagers were in bed. Mr Raston then ventured upon a course of which he would have thought twice had the situation been less desperate. He placed his hands to his mouth and sent an Australian “cooee” through the night. This accomplishment had been taught to him by an Australian cousin. As this especial cry carried further than most shouts, Raston congratulated himself that he knew how to give it. It was the only way of getting into communication with Marton.

After shouting once or twice, Raston heard a faint cry in response. It came from the right. So the curate, feeling his way along the houses, started in that direction, shouting at intervals. Shortly the answering cry sounded close at hand, and after some difficulty and inarticulate conversation the two men met. With an ejaculation Marton grasped the hand of his friend. “Thank Heaven you have found me,” said the detective. “I have been going round in a circle.”

“Did you catch up with Pratt?” asked Raston.

“No; the rascal disappeared into the fog, and I lost myself in pursuit of him in about three minutes.”

“Why do you call him a rascal?”

“Because he is one; I know all about him. But I never thought I should have stumbled on `Mr Angel’ in this locality. I feel like Saul, who went out to look for his asses and stumbled on a kingdom.

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