“Simple, isn’t it?”
“Quite the Mikado touch,” Ardsley commented.
Sir Clinton said no more, but busied himself with giving orders to his subordinates. Wendover had grasped the meaning of the interchange between Ardsley and the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton meant to use the simplest poison gas of all—the fumes of burning sulphur. The light air-currents would drift them over the Maze; and Ernest Shandon would soon find his fastness converted into a death-trap. He would have to come out into the open; and by that time he would be in such a state that he could be easily captured.
Sir Clinton had issued his directions, posting his constables at points from which they could converge on the various entrances to the Maze if necessary.
“Take no risks,” he added, finally. “I don’t want any fancy exploits to-day. The man who gets Shandon and suffers no damage in getting him, will be the man who gets a good mark from me. I’ll not have anyone hurt, understand!”
He dismissed the constables to carry his orders to their comrades, and then swung round to the rest of the group.
“You can get over yonder, to that clump of rhododendrons, Hawkhurst. If he shows up anywhere within your zone of fire, you’re to wing him. You’re not to kill him. I’m trusting you to play the game, remember.”
Arthur nodded, and betook himself to his post.
“Two more guns will cover all but this side of the Maze,” Sir Clinton went on. “You go over to the road, Wendover. From there,” he pointed, “you can cover young Hawkhurst’s dead ground. I’ll do the same on the other side. But first of all, we’ve got to get this stuff spread around a bit.”
He cut the twine at the mouth of the sacks, tilted out the sulphur, and began to distribute it with a spade. The others hurried to assist him, and spread the yellow lumps under his directions.