It was a strangling-cord!

I smiled grimly.  Respecting the identity of my would-be assassin there was little room for doubt; he was the black servant of Dr. Damar Greefe.  Now, as he passed the bright patch of roadway and began to glide silently nearer through the shadows, I marked time with a lighter step, the more deeply to confuse him.  Of the strange Nubian dialect I knew nothing, but taking it for granted that the man was familiar with Arabic, I raised my voice in a mournful cry, and (in the Arab tongue): 

“Cassim!  Cassim!” I wailed—­“Satan is calling for you!”

I think I have never witnessed such an exhibition of panic fright as I now beheld.  Cassim was less than ten yards away—­and I could hear his teeth chattering!

“Cassim!” I cried again—­“Fly! fly!  Satan is here!”

A horrible tongueless babbling answered the cry.  There came a scuffling—­and I saw the Nubian’s gleaming body leap out into the lighted roadway as he fled.

“Faster! faster!  Cassim!” I wailed.  “He is behind you!  Ah! he is in front!”

Cassim staggered, turned and then stood still, looking this way and that in a perfect delirium of fear.  Finally he whirled around to the right, shrieking wildly (I think some nocturnal insect had brushed against him), plunged babbling up the bank to the hedge and heedless of the fact that it contained many thorns which must have cruelly lacerated his bare body, scrambled half through it and half over it into the plowed field beyond!

Against such an enemy there is no more potent weapon than superstition.  Nevertheless I kept my hand upon the pistol in my pocket and proceeded at an increased pace during the latter half of my journey; nor am I ashamed to admit that the lights of the Abbey Inn were a welcome sight, and it was with a feeling of relief that, leaving the highroad behind me, I found myself again in the village street of Upper Crossleys.

What to expect next, I knew not.  The other party had made a false move, for I now had definite evidence of the antagonism of Dr. Damar Greefe and of his intent to cause my murder through the agency of his Nubian servant.

My plan of nocturnal operations, already sufficiently dangerous, now promised to lead me into extreme peril.  I would have given much for the company of Gatton, but, if I must act alone—­alone I would set out.  If I am slow in planning, at least I can state with truth that I am tenacious in execution.  But here, now, was open warfare:  and I must look for an enemy prepared.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SECRET OF FRIAR’S PARK

Glancing into the bar-parlor as I entered, I observed that it was empty.  Martin sat behind the counter, and he seemed to be immersed in the contents of a newspaper which was spread open before him.  Going up to my room, I put on a pair of puttees—­which, although useless and indeed injurious for general wear, are ideal for traversing bramble-land—­took my thick stick, and further looked to the condition and readiness of my pistol.  Finally, slipping an electric torch into my pocket, I set out.