American Agriculturist, June 14, 1924 
The Broad Highway 
563 
By Jeffery Farnol 
V/OU seem thoughtful?” said I. 
1 “Why —since you ax me, I was 
thinkin’ as your eye was mighty sharp 
and piercin’.” 
‘‘Ah!” said I; “and what more?” 
“That your coat was tore at the 
shoulder.” 
“You are a very observant man!” 
Though, to be sure,” said he, shaking 
his head, “I don’t see no ’andcuffs.” 
(Concluded in next week's issue) 
at Deptford, and I 
shall die to-night— 
0 Lord, give me strength!” he panted. 
“Deptford is miles away,” said I. 
Now, as I spoke, he lifted himself upon 
his hands and stared up at me. I saw a 
haggard face, very thin and sunken, but a 
fire burned in the eyes, and the eyes 
seemed familiar. 
“You!” he cried, “Devil Vibart!” I 
recoiled instinctively before the man’s 
the song of happiness my heart was 
singing: 
Charmian spoke truth, her hands are 
clean. 0 God, I thank thee!” 
And so I, once more, turned my face 
London-wards. 
OUT now, indeed, the mist seemed to 
have got into iriy brain, and all things 
were hazy, and my memory of them is 
dim. Yet I recall passing Bx-omley vil- 
<i(T. , • ■, ,, T“iT , , , ^ UC1U1C Llie mans mm. i recan passing .Bromley vii- 
that is because they are hidden under sudden, wild ferocity, but, propping him- lage, and slinking furtively through, but 
my sleeves 
“A—h—h!” said he, and I saw the 
stick quiver in his grip. 
“As I said before, you are a very 
observant man!” said I, watching the 
stick. 
“Well, I’ ve got eyes, and can see as 
much as most folk,” he retorted. 
“Yes,” I nodded; “you also possess 
legs, and can probably walk fast!” 
“Ah!—and run, too, if need be,” he 
added significantly. 
•“Then suppose you start.” 
“Start where?” 
“Anywhere, so long as you do start.” 
“Not wi’out you, my buck! I’ve took 
a powerful fancy to you, and that there 
five hundred pounds”—here his left hand 
shot out and grasped my collar—“so— 
s’posin’ you come along o’ me. And no 
tricks, mind, or—ah!—would ye?” The 
heavy stick whirled up, but I had caught 
his wrist, and now presented my pistol full 
in his face. 
“Drop that stick!” said I, pressing the 
muzzle lightly against his forehead. At 
the touch of the cold steel his body stif¬ 
fened and grew rigid, and the stick clat¬ 
tered down on the road. 
“Talking of fancies,” I pursued, “I 
have a great mind to that smock-frock 
of yours, so take it off, and quickly.” 
IN a fever of haste he tore off the gar- 
^ ment in question, and I folded it over 
my arm. 
“Now,” said I, “since you say you can 
run, supposing you show me what you 
can do. This is a good straight lane—off 
with you and no turning or stopping, 
mind, for the moon is very bi’ight, and I 
am a pretty good shot.” Hardly waiting 
to hear me out, the fellow set off up the 
self against the bank, he laughed. 
"Devil!” he repeated; “have you 
come back to see me die?” 
Who are you?” I cried, bending to 
look into the pale, emaciated face. 
thereafter all is blank save a memory of 
pain and toil and deadly fatigue. 
I was stumbling up steps—the steps of 
a terrace; a great house lay before me, 
with lighted windows here and there, but 
“ 4 Gtr a nrwv » . tIlese 1 leareci ’ ancl so came creeping to one 
A SHADOW, he answered, passing a that I knew well, and whose dark panes 
- * shaking hand up over his face and glittered palely. And now I took out my 
brow, ‘a ghost—a phantom—as you are; clasp-knife, and, fumbling blindly, put 
but my name was Strickland once, as yours 
was Vibart. I am changed of late—you 
said so in the Hollow, and—laughed.” 
“You are the Outside Passenger!” I 
exclaimed, “the madman who followed 
and shot at me in a wood—” 
“Followed? Yes, I was a shadow that 
was always behind you—following and 
back the catch (as I had often done as a 
boy), and so, the window opening, I 
clambered into the dimness beyond. 
Now as I stumbled forward my hand 
touched something, a long, dark' object 
covered with a cloth, and, hardly knowing 
what I did, I drew back this cloth and 
looked down, and sank down upon my 
among trees, as I did once before, and I 
told you my name—as I did once before, 
and I spoke of her—of Angela—and shot 
you—” 
“It was you!” I cried, kneeling beside 
him, “it was your hand that shot Sir 
Maurice Vibart?” 
Yes, ’ he answered, his voice growing 
gentle, “for Angela’s sake—my dead 
wife,” and, fumbling in his pocket, he 
drew out a woman’s small, lace-edged 
handkerchief, and I saw that it was 
thickened and black with blood. “This 
was hers,” he continued,. “ in her hand, 
the night she died—I had meant to lay it 
on her grave—the blood of atonement— 
but now—” 
----- --I- — A sudden crash in the hedge above; a 
lane, running like the wind; whereupon, I figure silhouetted against the sky; a 
( waiting only to .snatch up his forgotten shadowy arm, that, falling, struck the 
# *7 ^ ^ 015 C4.114U O-IXVA .-3<xiirv lauvvil upon lily 
following you, tracking and tracking you. knees, groaning. For there, staring up at 
You hid from me among lowly folk, but me, cold, contemptuous, and set like 
you could not escape the shadow. Many marble, was the smiling, dead face of my 
times I would have killed you—but she cousin Maurice. 
was between—the Woman. I came once As I knelt there, I was conscious that 
to your cottage; it was night, and the door the door had opened, that some one ap- 
opened beneath my hand—but your time proached, bearing a light, but I did not 
was not then. But—ha!—I met you move or heed. 
bread and meat) took to my heels—down 
the lane, so that, when I presently stopped 
to don the smock-frock, its late possessor 
had vanished as though he had never 
been. 
I hurried on, nevertheless, eating 
greedily as I went, and, after some while, 
came out on the broad highway that 
stretched like a great, white riband, un¬ 
rolled beneath the moon. And here was 
another finger-post with the words: 
To Sevenoaks, Tonbridge, and the 
Wells.—To Bromley and London.” 
And here, also, was another placard, 
headed by that awful word: MURDER. 
And, with that word, there rushed over 
moon out of heaven, and, in the darkness. 
“Peter?—good heaven!—is it Peter?” 
I looked up and into the dilated eyes of 
Sir Richard. 
“Yes, sir—dying, I think.” 
“No, no—Peter—dear boy,” he stam¬ 
mered. “You didn’t know—poor Mau¬ 
rice — murdered — fellow — name of 
Smith—!” 
“Yes, Sir Richard, I know. You see, I 
am Peter Smith.” Sir Richard fell back 
from me, and I saw the candle swaying 
in his grasp. 
“You?” he whispered, “you? Oh, 
Peter!—oh, my boy!” 
“But I am innocent—innocent—you 
believe me—you who were my earliest 
friend—my good, kind friend—you be¬ 
lieve me?” and I stretched out my hands 
appealingly, but, as I did so, the light fell 
gleaming upon my shameful wristlets; 
and, even as we gazed into each other’s 
like to know, are all those smiling nonen¬ 
tities who were once so proud of his 
patronage, whose highest ambition was 
to be called a friend of the famous ‘Buck’ 
Vibart—where are they now?” 
..Doing the same by the present favor¬ 
ite,” responded the third; “poor Maurice 
is already forgotten.” 
“The Prince,” said a harsh voice, 
“would never have forgiven him for the 
affair of the Lady Sophia Sefton; the day 
he ran off with her he was as surely dead— 
in a social sense—as he is now—in every 
sense.” 
Quick — a candle here — bring a 
light—” There came a glare before my 
smarting eyes, and I struggled to my feet. 
“Why—I have seen this fellow’s face 
somewhere—ah!—yes, at an inn. I 
threatened to pull his nose, and—by 
Heaven!—handcuffs! Gentlemen, I’ll 
lay my life the murderer is found! Sir 
Richard you and I, as magistrates— 
duty—” But the mist was very thick, 
and the voices gi’ew confused again; only 
I knew that hands were upon me. 
“Yes,” I was saying, slowly and heav¬ 
ily; “yes, I am Peter Smith—a black¬ 
smith—who escaped from his jailers on 
the Tonbridge Road—but I am innocent 
before God—I am innocent. And now 
—do with me as you will—for I am—very 
weary—” 
Sir Richard’s arm was about me, and his 
voice sounded in my ears, but as though a 
great way off: 
“Sirs, ’ said he, “this is my friend—Sir 
Peter Vibart.” There was a moment’s 
pause, then there rose a confusion of ex¬ 
cited voices which grew suddenly silent, 
lor the door had opened, and on the 
threshold stood a woman, tall and proud 
and richly dressed, from the little dusty 
boot that peeped beneath her habit to 
the wide-sweeping hat-brim that shaded 
the high beauty of her facer 
“Charmian!” 
She started, and, turning, uttered a cry, 
and ran to me. 
“Charmian,” said I; “Oh, Charmian!” 
And so, with her tender arms about rqe, 
and her kisses on my lips, the mist settled 
down upon me, thicker and darker than 
ever. 
7 * '-AX ao 11 gd-XiCU. Ill IU VTcU_.ll UUlCl a 
was down upon my knees, and fingers eyes, came the sound of steps and voices. A 
ere upon my throat. Sir Richard snrarig forward and f\. 
CHAPTER XLVII 
IN WHICH THIS HISTORY IS ENDED 
were upon my throat. 
“Oh, Darby!” cried a voice, “I’ve got 
him—this way—quick!” My fist drove 
into his ribs; I struggled up under a rain 
ol blows, and we struck and swayed and 
staggered and struck. And before me was 
the pale oval of a face, and I smote it 
twice with my pistol-butt, and it was 
gone, and I was running aiong the road. 
“Charmian spoke truth! O God, I 
thank thee!” 
I burst through a hedge, running on, 
and on careless alike of being seen, of 
capture or escape, of prison or freedom, 
' , cocape, vji pi l^Ull U 
me memory ot Charmian as I had seen tor in my heart was a great joy. 
her starid—white-lipped, haggard of eye, 
and—with one hand hidden in the folds 
of her gown. 
So I turned and, as I went, I cried 
within myself: “I love her—no doubt can 
come between us more—I love her!” 
f hus I hurried on along the great high¬ 
road, but, wherever I looked, I saw this 
most hateful word: MURDER. 
I had gone on, in this way, for an hour 
or more, avoiding the middle of the road, 
when I overtook something that crawded 
in the gloom of the hedge, and approach¬ 
ing, pistol in hand, saw that it was a man. 
He was creeping forward painfully on 
his hands and knees, but, all at once, sank 
down on his face in the grass, only to rise, 
groaning, and creep on once more; and, as 
he went, I heard him praying: 
“Lord, give me strength— Angela! 
Angela! It is so far—so far—” And 
groaning, he sank down again. 
“You are ill!” said I, bending over him. 
I must reach Deptford—she’s buried 
I was conscious of shouts and cries, but 
I heeded them no more, listening only to 
Sir Richard sprang forward, and, catch¬ 
ing me in a powerful hand, half-led, half- 
dragged me behind a tall leather screen 
beside the hearth, and thrusting me into 
a chair, turned and hurried to meet the 
intruders. 
rpHEY were three, as I soon discovered 
by their voices, one of which I thought 
I recognized. 
“It’s a shame!” the first was saying; 
“not a scyjl here for the funeral but our 
four selves—I say it’s a shame.” 
“That, sir, depends entirely on the 
point of view,” answered the second, and 
this it was I seemed to recognize. 
“Point of view, sir? Where, I should 
^rpr 
ih ] s tfe fit&t 
savJ q/j 
i> 
IX 
•ft 
n 
9-^Y 
•i* 
it -/5 
cJjecJce & 
19 ZO 
7 
11 *2? 
XL 
15 
1 
A 
q 
XB 
<2093 
winy . g 
Start at Dot No. 1, draw slowly through all of them in sequence and you 
have the answer to the incomplete question. 
will 
BRIGHT room, luxuriously ap- 
^ pointed; a great wide bed with 
carved posts; between the curtained win¬ 
dows, a tall oak press with grotesque 
heads carved thereon. But the bed and 
the room and the oak press were all 
familiar, and the grotesque heads had 
haunted my boyish dreams many and 
many a night. 
And now I lay between sleeping and 
waking, staring dreamily at all these 
things, till roused by a voice, and starting 
up, broad awake, beheld Sir Richard. 
“Deuce take you, Peter!” he ex¬ 
claimed. A nice pickle you’ve made of 
yourself, with digging and blacksmith- 
ing—” 
“Where is she. Sir Richard?” I broke in. 
“ She? ” he returned, scratching his chin 
with the corner of a letter he held. 
“She whom I saw last night—•” 
“You wei’e asleep last night, and the 
night before.” 
“Asleep?—then how long have I been 
here?” 
“Three days, Peter.” 
“And where is she—surely I have not 
dreamed it all—where is Charmian?” 
“She went away—this morning.” 
"Gone!—where to?” 
“Come, Peter!—how should I know?” 
But, seeingthe distress in my face, he 
smiled, and tendered me the letter. “She 
left this ‘For Peter, when he awoke.”’ 
Hastily I broke the seal, and, unfolding 
the paper with tremulous hands, read: 
“Dearest, noblest and most disbe¬ 
lieving of Peters —Oh, did you think 
(Continued on page 566 ) 
