 CHAPTER IX The 39 Steps Nonsense, said the official from the Admiralty. Sir Walter got up and left the room while we looked blankly at the table. He came back in ten minutes with a long face. I've spoken to a loa, he said, had him out of bed, very grumpy. He went straight home after Malros's dinner. But it's madness! broke in general wind-stanly. Do you mean to tell me that that man came here and sat beside me for the best part of an hour, and that I didn't detect the imposture? A loa must be out of his mind. Don't you see the cleverness of it? I said. You were too interested in other things to have the use of your eyes. You took Lord a loa for granted. If it had been anybody else, you might have looked more closely, but it was natural for him to be here, and that put you all to sleep. Then the Frenchman spoke, very slowly, and in good English. The young man is right. His psychology is good. Our enemies have not been foolish. But I don't see, went on wind-stanly. Their object was to get these dispositions without our knowing it. Now it only required one of us to mention to a loa our meeting tonight for the whole fraud to be exposed. Sir Walter laughed dryly. The selection of a loa shows their acumen. Which of us was likely to speak to him about tonight? Or was he likely to open the subject? I remembered the First Sea Lord's reputation for taciturnity and shortness of temper. Oh, the one thing that puzzles me, said the general, is what good his visit here would do that spy fellow. He could not carry away several pages of figures and strange names in his head. That is not difficult, the Frenchman replied. A good spy is trained to have a photographic memory. Like your own Macaulay. You noticed he said nothing, but went through these papers again and again. I think we may assume that he has every detail stamped on his mind. When I was younger, I could do the same trick. Well, I suppose there's nothing for it but to change the plans, said Sir Walter ruefully. Whitaker was looking very glum. Did you tell Lorde lower what had happened? He asked. No. I can speak with absolute assurance, but I'm nearly certain that we can't make any serious change unless we alter the geography of England. Another thing must be said. It was Royer who spoke. I talked freely when that man was here. I have told him something of the military plans of my government. I was permitted to say so much, but that information would be worth many millions to our enemies. No, my friends, I see no other way. The man who came here and his confederates must be taken and taken at once. Good God! I cried. And we have not a rag of a clue. Besides, said Whitaker, there is the post. By this time the news will be on its way. No, said the Frenchman. You do not understand the habits of the spy. He receives personally his reward, and he delivers personally his intelligence. We in France know something of the breed. There is still a chance, mes amis. These men must cross the sea, and there are ships to be searched, and ports to be watched. Believe me, the need is desperate for both France and Britain. Royer's grave good sense seemed to pull us together. He was the man of action among fumblers. But I saw no hope in any face, and I felt none. Where among the fifty millions of these islands, and within a dozen hours were we to lay hands on the three cleverest rogues in Europe. Then I had an inspiration. Where is Scudder's book? I asked Sir Walter. Quick man, I remember something in it. He unlocked the drawer of the bureau and gave it to me. I found the place. Thirty-nine steps, I read, and again. Thirty-nine steps, I counted them. High tide, ten-seventeen p.m. The Admiralty man was looking at me as if he thought I had gone mad. Don't you see, it's a clue! I cried. Scudder knew where these fellows layered. He knew where they were going to leave the country, though he kept the name to himself. Tomorrow was the day, and it was some place where high tide was at ten-seventeen. They may have gone to-night, said someone. Not them. They have their own snug secret way, and they won't be hurried. I know Germans, and they are mad about working to a plan. Where the devil can I get a book of tide tables? Whitaker brightened up. It's a chance, he said. Let's go over to the Admiralty. We got into two of the waiting motor-cars, all but Sir Walter, who went off to Scotland Yard to mobilise Gillivray, so he said. We marched through empty corridors and big, bare chambers, where the char-women were busy, till we reached a little room lined with books and maps. A resident clerk was unearthed, who presently fetched from the library the Admiralty Tide Tables. I sat at the desk, and the others stood round for, somehow or other, I had got charge of this outfit. It was no good. There were hundreds of entries, and as far as I could see, ten-seventeen might cover fifty places. We had to find some way of narrowing the possibilities. I took my head in my hands and thought, there must be some way of reading this riddle. What did Scudder mean by steps? I thought of dock-steps, but if he had meant that, I didn't think he would have mentioned the number. It must be some place where there were several staircases, and one marked out from the other by having thirty-nine steps. Then I had a sudden thought, and hunted up all the steamer-sailings. There was no boat which left for the Continent at ten-seventeen p.m. Why was High Tide important? If it was a harbour, there must be some little place where the tide mattered, or else it was a heavy-draft boat. But there was no regular steamer sailing at that hour, and somehow I didn't think they would travel by a big boat from a regular harbour. So it must be some little harbour where the tide was important, or perhaps no harbour at all. But if it was a little port, I couldn't see what the steps signified. There were no sets of staircases at any harbour that I had ever seen. It must be some place which a particular staircase identified, and where the tide was full at ten-seventeen. On the whole it seemed to me that the place must be a bit of open coast, but the staircases kept puzzling me. Then I went back to wider considerations. Whereabouts would a man be likely to leave for Germany? A man in a hurry who wanted a speedy and a secret passage. Not from any of the big harbours, and not from the Channel or the West Coast or the North of Scotland, for remember he was starting from London. I measured the distance on the map and tried to put myself in the enemy's shoes. I should try for Ostend, or Antwerp, or Rotterdam, and I should sail from somewhere on the East Coast between Croma and Dover. All this was very loose guessing, and I didn't pretend it was ingenious or scientific. I wasn't any kind of Sherlock Holmes. But I've always fancied I had a kind of instinct about questions like this. I don't know if I can explain myself, but I used to use my brains as far as they went, and after they came to a black wall I guessed, and I usually found my guesses pretty right. So I set out all my conclusions on a bit of Admiralty Paper. They ran like this. Fairly certain. One. Place where there are several sets of stairs. One that matters, distinguished by having 39 steps. Two. Full tide at 10.17pm, leaving shore only possible at full tide. Three. Steps, not dock steps, and so place probably not harbour. Four. No regular night steamer at 10.17. Means of transport must be a tramp, unlikely. Yacht or fishing boat. There my reasoning stopped. I made another list, which I headed Guest. But I was just as sure of the one as the other. Guest. One. Place not harbour, but open coast. Two. Boat small. Trawler, yacht or launch. Three. Place somewhere on east coast, between Chroma and Dover. It struck me as odd that I should be sitting at that desk with a cabinet minister, a field marshal, two high government officials and a French general watching me, while from the scribble of a dead man I was trying to drag a secret which meant life or death for us. So Walter had joined us and presently McGillivray arrived. It sent out instructions to watch the ports and railway stations for the three gentlemen whom I had described as a Walter, not that he or anybody else thought that it would do much good. Here's the most I can make of it, I said. We've got to find a place where there are several staircases down to the beach, one of which has 39 steps. I think it's a piece of open coast with bigish cliffs, somewhere between the wash and the channel. Also, it's a place where full tide is at 10.17 tomorrow night. Then an idea struck me. Is there no inspector of coast guards or some fellow like that who knows the east coast? Whittaker said there was and that he lived in Clapham. He went off in a car to fetch him, and the rest of us sat about the little room and talked of anything that came into our heads. I lit a pipe and went over the whole thing again till my brain grew weary. About one in the morning the Coast Guard man arrived. He was a fine old fellow with the look of a naval officer and was desperately respectful to the company. I left the War Minister to cross-examine him, for I felt he would think it cheek in me to talk. We want you to tell us the places you know on the east coast, where there are cliffs, and where several sets of steps run down to the beach. He thought for a bit. What kind of steps do you mean, sir? There are plenty of places with roads cut down through the cliffs, and most roads have a step or two in them. Or do you mean regular staircases, all steps, so to speak? Sir Arthur looked towards me. We mean regular staircases, I said. He reflected a minute or two. I don't know that I can think of any. Wait a second, there's a place in Norfolk, Brattlesham, beside the golf course, where there are a couple of staircases to let the gentleman get a lost ball. That's not it, I said. Then there are plenty of marine parades, if that's what you mean. Every seaside resort has them. I shook my head. It's got to be more retired than that, I said. Well, gentlemen, I can't think of anywhere else. Of course, there's the rough. What's that? I asked. The big chalk headland in Kent, close to Bradgate. It's got a lot of villas on the top, and some of the houses have staircases down to a private beach. It's a very high-toned sort of place, and the residents there like to keep by themselves. I tore open the tide tables and found Bradgate. High tide there was at 10.27 p.m. on the 15th of June. We're on the centre-last, I cried excitedly. How can I find out what is the tide at the rough? I can tell you that, sir, said the Coast Guard man. I once was let a house there in this very month, and I used to go out at night to the deep sea fishing. The tide's 10 minutes before Bradgate. I closed the book and looked round at the company. If one of those staircases has 39 steps, we have solved the mystery gentleman, I said. I want the loan of your car, Sir Walter, and a map of the roads. If Mr. McGillivray will spare me 10 minutes, I think we can prepare something for tomorrow. It was ridiculous in me to take charge of the business like this, but they didn't seem to mind, and after all I had been in the show from the start. Besides, I was used to rough jobs, and these eminent gentlemen were too clever not to see it. It was General Royer who gave me my commission. I, for one, he said, am content to leave the matter in Mr. Hane's hands. By half-past three I was tearing past the moolit hedgerows of Kent, with McGillivray's best man on the seat beside me. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of The 39 Steps by John Buckin This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The 39 Steps by John Buckin Read by Adrian Pretzellus Chapter 10 The Last Chapter Various Parties Converging on the Sea A pink and blue June morning found me at Bradgate, looking from the Griffin Hotel over a smooth sea to the light ship on the Cox Sands, which seemed the size of a bellboy. A couple of miles further south and much nearer the shore, a small destroyer was anchored. Scafe, McGillivray's man who had been in the navy, knew the boat, and told me her name and her commanders, so I sent off a wire to Sir Walter. After breakfast Scafe got from a house agent a key for the gates of the staircases on the rough. I walked with him along the sands, and sat down in a nook of the cliffs, while he investigated the half-dozen of them. I didn't want to be seen, but the place at this hour was quite deserted, and all the time I was on that beach I saw nothing but the seagulls. It took him more than an hour to do the job, and when I saw him coming towards me, conning a bit of paper, I can tell you my heart was in my mouth. Everything depended, you see, on my guess proving right. He read aloud the number of steps in the different stairs. Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-nine, forty-two, forty-seven, and twenty-one, where the cliffs grew lower. I almost got up and shouted. We hurried back to the town and sent a wire to McGillivray. I wanted half a dozen men, and I directed them to divide themselves among different specified hotels. Then Skafe set out to prospect the house at the head of the thirty-nine steps. He came back with news that both puzzled and reassured me. The house was called Trafalgar Lodge, and belonged to an old gentleman called Appleton, a retired stockbroker, the house agent said. Mr. Appleton was there a good deal in the summertime, and was in residence now, had been for the better part of a week. Skafe could pick up very little information about him, except that he was a decent old fellow who paid his bills regularly, and was always good for a fiver for a local charity. Then Skafe seemed to have penetrated to the back door of the house, pretending he was an agent for sewing machines. Only three servants were kept, a cook, a parlor maid, and housemaid, and they were just the sort that you would find in a respectable middle-class household. The cook was not the gossiping kind, and had pretty soon shut the door in his face, but Skafe said he was positive she knew nothing. Next door there was a new house building which would give good cover for observation, and the villa on the other side was too let, and its garden was rough and shrubby. I borrowed Skafe's telescope, and before lunch went for a walk along the rough. I kept well behind the rows of villas, and found a good observation point on the edge of the golf course. There I had a view of the line of turf along the cliff-top, with seats placed at intervals, and the little square plots railed in and planted with bushes, whence the staircases descended to the beach. I sought a foulgar lodge, very plainly. A red brick villa with a veranda, a tennis lawn behind, and in front the ordinary seaside flower garden full of margarites and scraggly geraniums. There was a flagstaff from which an enormous union jack hung limply in the still air. Presently I observed someone leave the house and saunter along the cliff. When I got my glasses on him I saw it was an old man wearing white flannel trousers, a blue surge jacket, and a straw hat. He carried filled glasses and a newspaper, and sat down on one of the iron seats and began to read. Sometimes he would lay down the paper and turn his glasses on the sea. He looked for a long time at the destroyer. I watched him for half an hour till he got up and went back to the house for his luncheon, when I returned to the hotel for mine. I wasn't feeling very confident. This decent commonplace dwelling was not what I had expected. The man might be the bald archaeologist of that horrible moorland farm, or he might not. He was exactly the kind of satisfied old bird you will find in every suburb and every holiday place. If he wanted a type of the perfectly harmless person he would probably pitch on that. But after lunch as I sat in the hotel porch I perked up, for I saw the thing I had hoped for and dreaded to miss. A yacht came up from the south and dropped anchor pretty well opposite the ruff. She seemed about a hundred and fifty tons, and I saw she belonged to the squadron from the White Ensign, so Scaife and I went down to the harbour and hired a boatman for an afternoon's fishing. I spent a warm and peaceful afternoon. We caught between us about twenty pounds of cod and lythe, and out in that dancing blue sea I took a cheery a view of things. Above the white cliffs of the ruff I saw the green and red of the villas, especially the great flagstaff of Trafalgar Lodge. About four o'clock when we had fished enough I made the boatman row us round the yacht, which lay like a delicate white bird, ready at a moment to flee. Scaife said she must be a fast boat from her build, and that she was pretty heavily engineed. Her name was the Ariadne as I discovered from the cap of one of the men who was polishing brasswork. I spoke to him and got an answer in the soft dialect of Essex. Another hand that came along passed me the time of day in an unmistakable English tongue. Our boatman had an argument with one of them about the weather, and for a few minutes we lay on our oars close to the starboard bow. Then the men suddenly disregarded us and bent their heads to their work as an officer came along the deck. He was a pleasant, clean-looking young fellow, and he put a question to us about our fishing in very good English. But there could be no doubt about him. His close cropped head and the cut of his collar and tie never came out of England. That did something to reassure me, but as we rode back to Bradgate my obstinate doubts would not be dismissed. The thing that worried me was the reflection that my enemies knew that I had got my knowledge from Scudder, and it was Scudder who had given me the clue to this place. If they knew that Scudder had this clue, would they not be certain to change their plans? Too much depended on their success for them to take any risks. The whole question was how much they understood about Scudder's knowledge. I had talked confidently last night about Germans always sticking to a scheme, but if they had any suspicions that I was on their track they would be fools not to cover it. I wondered if the man last night had seen that I recognised him. Somehow I did not think he had, and to that I clung. But the whole business had never seemed as difficult as that afternoon, when by all calculations I should have been rejoicing in assured success. In the hotel I met the commander of the destroyer, to whom Skafe introduced me and with whom I had a few words. Then I thought I would put in an hour or two watching Trafalgar Lodge. I found a place further up the hill in the garden of the empty house. From there I had a full view of the court in which two figures were having a game of tennis. One was the old man whom I had already seen. The other was a younger fellow wearing some club colours in the Skafe around his middle. They played with tremendous zest, like two city gents who wanted hard exercise to open their paws. You couldn't conceive a more innocent spectacle. They shouted and laughed and stopped for drinks when a maid brought out two tankers on a salva. I rubbed my eyes and asked myself if I was not the most immortal fool on earth. Mystery and darkness had hung about the men who hunted me over the scotch moors in aeroplane and motor-car, and notably about that infernal antiquarian. It was easy enough to connect these folks with the knife that pinned Scudder to the floor and with fell designs on the world's peace. But here were two guileless citizens taking their innocuous exercise, and soon to go indoors to a humdrum dinner where they would talk of market prices and the latest cricket scores and the gossip of their native Serbeten. I had been making a net to catch vultures and falcons, and lo and behold, two plump thrushes had blundered into it. Presently a third figure arrived, a young man on a bicycle with a bag of golf clubs slung on his back. He strode round to the tennis lawn and was welcomed riotously by the players. Evidently they were chaffing him, and their chaff sounded horribly English. Then the plump man, mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief, announced that he must have a tub. I heard his very words. I've got into a proper lather, he said. This will bring down my weight and my handicap, Bob. I'll take you on to-morrow and give you a stroke a whole. You couldn't find anything much more English than that. They all went into the house and left me feeling a precious idiot. I had been barking up the wrong tree this time. These men might be acting, but if they were, where was their audience? They didn't know I was sitting thirty yards off in a rhododendron. It was simply impossible to believe that these three hearty fellows were anything but what they seemed. Three ordinary, game-playing, suburban English gentlemen. Wearysome, if you like, but sordidly innocent. And yet there were three of them, and one was old and one was plump and one was lean and dark, and their house chimed in with scudder's notes, and half a mile off was lying a steamyot with at least one German officer. I thought of Carolides lying dead and all Europe trembling on the edge of an earthquake, and the men I had left behind me in London who were waiting anxiously on the events of the next hours. There was no doubt that hell was afoot somewhere. The black stone had won, and if it survived this June night would bank its winnings. There seemed only one thing to do, go forward as if I had no doubts, and if I was going to make a fool of myself to do it handsomely. Never in my life have I faced a job with greater disinclination. I would rather in my then mind have walked into a den of anarchists, each with his browning handy, or faced a charging lion with a pop-gun, than enter the happy home of three cheerful Englishmen, and tell them that their game was up, how they would laugh at me. But suddenly I remembered a thing I once heard in Rhodesia from old Peter Pinar. I have quoted Peter already in this narrative, he was the best scout I ever knew, and before he turned respectable he had been pretty often on the windy side of the law, when he had been wanted badly by the authorities. Peter once discussed with me the question of disguises, and he had a theory which struck me at the time. He said, barring absolute certainties like fingerprints, mere physical traits were very little use for identification if the fugitive really knew his business. He laughed at things like dyed hair and false beards and such childish follies. The only thing that mattered was what Peter called atmosphere. If a man could get into perfectly different surroundings from those in which he had been first observed and, this is the important part, really play up to those surroundings and behave as if he had never been out of them, he would puzzle the cleverest detectives on earth. And he used to tell a story of how he once borrowed a black coat and went to church and shared the same hymn book with the man that was looking for him. If that man had seen him in decent company before he would have recognized him, but he had only seen him snuffing the lights in a public house with a revolver. The recollection of Peter's talk gave me the first real comfort I had had that day. Peter had been a wise old bird, and these fellows I was after were about the pick of the aviary. What if they were playing Peter's game? A fool tries to look different. A clever man looked the same, and is different. Again there was that other maxim of Peter's, which helped me when I had been a roadman. If you are playing a part, you will never keep it up unless you convince yourself that you are it. That would explain the game of tennis. Those chaps didn't need to act. They just turned a handle and passed into another life, which came as naturally to them as the first. It sounds like a platitude, but Peter used to say it was the big secret of all the famous criminals. It was now getting on for eight o'clock, and I went back and saw a scape to give him his instructions. I arranged with him how to place his men, and then I went for a walk, for I didn't feel up to any dinner. I went round the deserted golf course, and then to a point on the cliffs further north beyond the line of the villas. On the little trim newly made roads I met people in flannels coming back from tennis and the beach, and a coast guard from the wireless station, and donkeys and piro's paddling homewards. Out at sea in the blue dusk I saw lights appear on the Ariadne, and on the destroyer away to the south, and beyond the cocksands the bigger lights of steamers making for the Thames. The whole scene was so peaceful and ordinary that I got more dashed in spirits every second. It took all my resolution to stroll towards Trafalgar Lodge about half past nine. On the way I got a piece of solid comfort from the sight of a gray hound that was swinging along at a nursemaid's heel. He reminded me of a dog I used to have in Rhodesia, and of the time when I took him hunting with me in the Pally Hills. We were after Reebok, the Dunkind, and I recollected how we had followed one beast, and both he and I had clean lost it. A gray hound works by sight, and my eyes are good enough, but that buck simply leaked out of the landscape. Afterwards I found out how it managed it. Against the gray rock of the copies it showed no more than a crow against the thunder cloud. It didn't need to run away. All it had to do was to stand still and melt into the background. Suddenly, as those memories chased across my brain, I thought of my present case and applied the moral. The black stone didn't need to bolt. They were quietly absorbed into a landscape. I was on the right track, and I jammed that down in my mind, and vowed never to forget it. The last word was with Peter Pinar. Skatesmen would be posted now, but there was no sign of a soul. The house stood as open as a marketplace for anybody to observe. A three-foot railing separated it from the cliff road. The low sound of voices revealed where the occupants were finishing dinner. Everything was as public and aboveboard as a charity bazaar. Feeling the greatest fall on earth, I opened the gate and rang the bell. A man of my sort who has travelled about the world in rough places gets on perfectly well with two classes, what you may call the upper and the lower. He understands them, and they understand him. I was at home with herds and tramps and roadmen, and I was sufficiently at my ease with people like Sir Walter and the men I had met the night before. I can't explain why, but it is a fact. But what fellows like me don't understand is the great, comfortable, satisfied middle-class world, the folk that live in villas and suburbs. He doesn't know how they look at things, he doesn't understand their conventions, and he is as shy of them as a black member. When a trim parlor maid opened the door, I could hardly find my voice. I asked for Mr. Appleton, and was ushered in. My plan was to walk straight into the dining-room, and by a sudden appearance wake in the men that start a recognition which would confirm my theory. But when I found myself in that neat hall, the place mastered me. There were the golf clubs and the tennis rackets, the straw hats and caps, the rows of gloves, the sheaf for walking sticks, which you will find in 10,000 British homes. A stack of neatly folded coats and waterproofs covered the top of an old oak chest. There was a grandfather clock ticking, and some polished brass warming pans on the walls, and a barometer, and a print of Chilton winning the St. Ledger. The place was as orthodox as an Anglican church. When the maid asked me for my name, I gave it automatically, and was shown into the smoking-room on the right side of the hall. That room was even worse. I hadn't time to examine it, but I could see some framed group photographs above the mantelpiece, and could have sworn they were English public school or college. I had only one glance, for I managed to pull myself together and go after the maid. But I was too late. She had already entered the dining-room and given my name to her master, and I had missed the chance of seeing how the three took it. When I walked into the room, the old man at the head of the table had risen and turned round to meet me. He was in evening-dress, a short coat in black tie, as was the other whom I had called in my mind the plump one. The third of the dark fellow wore a blue-surge suit and a soft white collar and the colours of some club or school. The old man's manners were perfect. Mr. Hane, he said, hesitatingly, did you wish to see me? One moment, you fellows, and I'll rejoin you. We had better go to the smoking-room. Though I hadn't an ounce of confidence in me, I forced myself to play the game and pulled up a chair and sat down on it. I think we've met before, I said, and I guess you know my business. The light in the room was dim, but so far as I could see their faces, they played the part of mystification very well. Maybe, maybe, said the old man, I haven't a very good memory, but I'm afraid you must tell me your errand, for I really don't know it. Well then, I said, and all the time I seem to myself to be talking pure foolishness. I've come to tell you that the game's up. I have here a warrant for the arrest of you three gentlemen. A rest, said the old man, and he looked really shocked. A rest? Good God! What for? For the murder of Franklin Scudder in London on the 23rd day of last month. I've never heard the name before, said the old man in a dazed voice. One of the others spoke up. That was the Portland Place murder, I read about it. Good heavens, you must be mad, sir. Where do you come from? Scotland Yard, I said. After that, for a minute, there was utter silence. The old man was staring at his place and fumbling with a nut, the very model of innocent bewilderment. Then the plump one spoke up. He stammered a little, like a man picking his words. Don't get fur-flustered, uncle, he said. It's all a ridiculous mistake, but these things happen sometimes, and we can easily set it right. It won't be hard to prove our innocence. I can show that I was out of the country on the 23rd of May, and Bob was in a nursing home. You were in London, but you can explain what you were doing. Right, Percy, of course. That's easy enough. The 23rd. That was the day after Agatha's wedding. Let me see what was I doing. I came up in the morning from Woking, and lunched at the club with Charlie Simmons. Then, ah, yes, I dined with the fishmongers. I remember, for the punch didn't agree with me, and I was seedy the next morning. Hang it all. There's the cigar-box I bought back from the dinner. He pointed to an object on the table, and laughed nervously. I think so, said the young man, addressing me respectfully. You will see you are mistaken. We want to assist the law, like all Englishmen, and we don't want Scotland Yard to be making fools of themselves. That's so, uncle. Certainly, Bob. The old fellow seemed to be recovering his voice. Certainly, we'll do anything in our power to assist the authorities. But this is a bit too much. I can't get over it. How nearly we'll chuckle, said the plump man. She always said that you would die of boredom because nothing ever happened to you, and now you've got it thick and strong. And he began to laugh very pleasantly. Bye, Jove, yes. Just think of it. What a story to tell at the club. Really, Mr. Hane. I suppose I should be angry to show my innocence, but it's too funny. I almost forgive you the fright you gave me. You look so glum. I thought I might have been walking in my sleep and killing people. It couldn't be acting. It was too confoundedly genuine. My heart went into my boots, and my first impulse was to apologize and clear out, but I told myself I must see it through, even though I was to be the laughing stock of Britain. The light from the dinner table candlesticks was not very good, and to cover my confusion I got up, walked to the door, and switched on the electric light. A sudden glare made them blink, and I stood scanning the three faces. Well, I made nothing of it. One was old and bald. One was stout. One was dark and thin. There was nothing in their appearance to prevent them being the three who had hunted me in Scotland, but there was nothing to identify them. I simply can't explain why I, who, as a roadman, had looked into two pairs of eyes and as Ned Ainsley into another pair, why I, who have a good memory and reasonable powers of observation, could find no satisfaction. They seemed exactly what they professed to be, and I could not have sworn to one of them. There in that pleasant dining-room with etchings on the walls, and a picture of an old lady in a bib above the mantelpiece, I could see nothing to connect them with the maul and desperados. There was a silver cigarette-box beside me, and I saw that it had been one by Percival Appleton Esquire of the St. Bede's Club in a golf-tournament. I had to keep firm hold of Peter Pinar to prevent myself from bolting out of that house. Well, said the old man politely, are you reassured by your scrutiny, sir? I hope you'll find it consistent with your duty to drop this ridiculous business. I make no complaint, but you see how annoying it must be to respectable people. I shook my head. Oh, Lord! said the young man, this is a bit too thick. Do you propose to march us off to the police station? asked the plump one. Though that might be the best way of it, but I suppose you won't be content with the local branch. I have the right to ask to see your warrant, but I don't wish to cast any aspersions upon you. You're only doing your duty, but you'll admit it's horribly awkward. What do you propose to do? There was nothing to do except to call in my men and have them arrested or to confess my blunder and clear out. I felt mesmerized by the whole place by the air of obvious innocence. Not innocence merely, but frank, honest bewilderment and concern in the three faces. Oh, Peter Pinar! I groaned inwardly, and for a moment I was near damning myself for a fool and asking their pardon. Meanwhile, I vote we have a game of bridge, said the plump one. It will give Mr. Hanay time to think over things, and you know we have been wanting a fourth player. Do you play, sir? I accepted as if it had been an ordinary invitation at the club. The whole business had mesmerized me. We went into the smoking room where a card table was set out, and I was offered things to smoke and drink. I took my place at the table in a kind of dream. The window was open, and the moon was flooding the cliffs and sea with a great tide of yellow light. There was moonshine, too, in my head. The three had recovered their composure and were talking easily, just the kind of slangy talk you will hear in any golf clubhouse. I must have cut a rum figure sitting there, knitting my brows with my eyes wandering. My partner was the young dark one. I play a fair hand at bridge, but I must have been rank bad that night. They saw they had got me puzzled, and that put them more than ever at their ease. I kept looking at their faces, but they conveyed nothing to me. It was not that they looked different, they were different. I clung desperately to the words of Peter Pinar. Then something awoke me. The old man laid down his hand to light a cigar. He didn't pick it up at once, but sat back for a moment in his chair, with his fingers tapping on his knees. It was the moment I remembered when I had stood before him in the maul and farm with the pistols of his servants behind me. A little thing lasting only a second, and the odds were a thousand to one that I might have had my eyes on my cards at the time and missed it. But I didn't, and in a flash the air seemed clear. Some shadow lifted from my brain, and I was looking at the three men with full and absolute recognition. The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten o'clock. The three faces seemed to change before my eyes and reveal their secrets. The young one was the murderer. Now I saw cruelty and ruthlessness, where before I had seen only good humour. His knife I made certain had skewered scudder to the floor. His kind had put the bullet in Carolides. The plump man's features seemed to disclaim and form again as I looked at them. He hadn't a face, only a hundred masks that he could assume when he pleased. That chap must have been a superb actor. Perhaps he had been Lord a lower of the night before. Perhaps not. It didn't matter. I wondered if he was the fellow who had first tracked Scudder and left his card on him. Scudder had said he lisped, and I can imagine how the adoption of a lisp might add terror. But the old man was the pick of the lot. He was sheer brain, icy, cool, calculating, as ruthless as a steam hammer. Now that my eyes were opened, I wondered where I had seen the benevolence. His jaw was like chilled steel. His eyes had the inhuman luminosity of a bird's. I went on playing, and every second a greater hate welled up in my heart. It almost choked me, and I couldn't answer when my partner spoke. Only a little longer could I endure their company. Bob, look at the time, said the old man. You'd better think about catching your train. Bob's got to go to town tonight, he added, turning to me. The voice rang now as false as hell. I looked at the clock, and it was nearly half past ten. I'm afraid you must put off your journey, I said. Oh, damn, said the young man. I thought you'd drop that rot. I've simply got to go. You can have my address, and I'll give you any security you like. No, I said, you must stay. At that I think they must have realised that the game was desperate. Their only chance had been to convince me that I was playing the fool, and that had failed. But the old man spoke again. I'll go bail for my nephew. That ought to content you, Mr. Hane. Was it fancy, or did I detect some halt in the smoothness of that voice? There must have been, for as I glanced at him, his eyelids fell in that hawk-like hood, which fear had stamped on my memory. I blew my whistle. In an instant the lights were out. A pair of strong arms gripped me round the waist, covering the pockets in which I might be expected to carry a pistol. As it spoke, I saw two of my fellows emerge in the moonlit lawn. The young, dark man leapt for the window, was through it, and over the low fence before a hand could touch him. I grappled the old chap, and the room seemed to fill with figures. I saw the plump one collared, but my eyes were all for the out-of-doors, where France sped on over the road towards the railed entrance to the beach stairs. One man followed him, but he had no chance. The gate locked behind the fugitive, and I stood staring with my hands on the old boy's throat, for such a time as a man might take to descend those steps to the sea. Suddenly my prisoner broke from me, and flung himself on the wall. There was a click, as if a lever had been pulled. Then came a low rumbling far, far below the ground, and through the window I saw a cloud of chalky dust pouring out of the shaft of the stairway. Someone switched on the light. The old man was looking at me with blazing eyes. He is safe. He cried, You cannot follow him in time. He is gone. He has triumphed. There was more in those eyes than any common triumph. They had been hooded like a bird of prey, and now they flamed with a hawk's pride. A white, fantastic heat burned in them, and I realised for the first time the terrible thing I had been up against. This man was more than a spy. In his foul way he had been a patriot. As the handcuffs clinked on his wrists, I said my last word to him. I hoped Franz would bear his triumph well. I ought to tell you that the Ariadne for the last hour has been in our hands. Three weeks later, as all the world knows, we went to war. I joined the new army the first week, and owing to my Matabealy experience got a captain's commission straight off. But I'd done my best service, I think, before I put on khaki. End of chapter 10, and end of The 39 Steps by John Buckin, read by Adrian Pretzelis in Santa Rosa, California, July 2008.