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BULLDOG DRUMMOND (1920) [Part 1]

PROLOG

In the month of December, 1918, and on the very day that a British Cavalry Division marched into Cologne, with flags flying and bands playing as the conquerors of a beaten nation, the manager of the Hotel Nationale in Berne received a letter. Its contents appeared to puzzle him somewhat, for having read it twice he rang the bell on his desk to summon his secretary. Almost immediately the door opened, and a young French girl came into the room.

“Monsieur rang?” She stood in front of the manager’s desk, awaiting instructions.

“Have we ever had staying in the hotel a man called le Comte de Guy?” He leaned back in his chair and looked at her through his pince-nez.

The secretary thought for a moment and then shook her head. “Not so far as I can remember,” she said.

“Do we know anything about him? Has he ever fed here, or taken a private room?”

Again the secretary shook her head.

“Not that I know of.”

The manager handed her the letter, and waited in silence until she had read it.

“It seems on the face of it a peculiar request from an unknown man,” he remarked as she laid it down. “A dinner of four covers; no expense to be spared. Wines specified, and if not in the hotel to be obtained. A private room at half-past seven sharp. Guests to ask for room X.”

The secretary nodded in agreement.

“It can hardly be a hoax,” she remarked after a short silence.

“No.” The manager tapped his teeth with his pen thoughtfully. “But if by any chance it was, it would prove an expensive one for us. I wish I could think who this Comte de Guy is.”

“He sounds like a Frenchman,” she answered. Then after a pause: “I suppose you’ll have to take it seriously?”

“I must.” He took off his pince-nez and laid them on the desk in front of him. “Would you send the maître d’hôtel to me at once?”

Whatever may have been the manager’s misgivings, they were certainly not shared by the head waiter as he left the office after receiving his instructions. War and short rations had not been conducive to any particular lucrative business in his sphere; and the whole sound of the proposed entertainment seemed to him to contain considerable promise. Moreover, he was a man who loved his work, and a free hand over preparing a dinner was a joy in itself. Undoubtedly he personally would meet the three guests and the mysterious Comte de Guy; he personally would see that they had nothing to complain of in the matter of service at dinner…

And so at about twenty minutes past seven the maître d’hôtel was hovering round the hall-porter, the manager was hovering round the maître d’hôtel, and the secretary was hovering round both. At five-and-twenty minutes past the first guest arrived…

He was a peculiar-looking man, in a big fur coat, reminding one irresistibly of a cod-fish.

“I wish to be taken to Room X.” The French secretary stiffened involuntarily as the maître d’hôtel stepped obsequiously forward. Cosmopolitan as the hotel was, even now she could never bear German spoken without an inward shudder of disgust.

“A Boche,” she murmured in disgust to the manager as the first arrival disappeared through the swing doors at the end of the lounge. It is to be regretted that that worthy man was more occupied in shaking himself by the hand, at the proof that the letter was bona fide, than in any meditation on the guest’s nationality.

Almost immediately afterwards the second and third members of the party arrived. They did not come together, and what seemed peculiar to the manager was that they were evidently strangers to one another.

The leading one—a tall gaunt man with a ragged beard and a pair of piercing eyes—asked in a nasal and by no means an inaudible tone for Room X. As he spoke a little fat man who was standing just behind him started perceptibly, and shot a bird-like glance at the speaker.

Then in execrable French he too asked for Room X.

“He’s not French,” said the secretary excitedly to the manager as the ill-assorted pair were led out of the lounge by the head waiter. “That last one was another Boche.”

The manager thoughtfully twirled his pince-nez between his fingers.

“Two Germans and an American.” He looked a little apprehensive. “Let us hope the dinner will appease everybody. Otherwise—”

But whatever fears he might have entertained with regard to the furniture in Room X, they were not destined to be uttered. Even as he spoke the door again swung open, and a man with a thick white scarf around his neck, so pulled up as almost completely to cover his face, came in. A soft hat was pulled down well over his ears, and all that the manager could swear to as regards the newcomer’s appearance was a pair of deep-set, steel-grey eyes which seemed to bore through him.

“You got my letter this morning?”

“M’sieur le Comte de Guy?” The manager bowed deferentially and rubbed his hands together. “Everything is ready, and your three guests have arrived.”

“Good. I will go to the room at once.”

The maître d’hôtel stepped forward to relieve him of his coat, but the Count waved him away.

“I will remove it later,” he remarked shortly. “Take me to the room.”

As he followed his guide his eyes swept round the lounge. Save for two or three elderly women of doubtful nationality, and a man in the American Red Cross, the place was deserted; and as he passed through the swing doors he turned to the head waiter.

“Business good?” he asked.

No—business decidedly was not good. The waiter was voluble. Business had never been so poor in the memory of man… But it was to be hoped that the dinner would be to Monsieur le Comte’s liking… He personally had superintended it… Also the wines.

“If everything is to my satisfaction you will not regret it,” said the Count tersely. “But remember one thing. After the coffee has been brought in, I do not wish to be disturbed under any circumstances whatever.” The head waiter paused as he came to a door, and the Count repeated the last few words. “Under no circumstances whatever.”

“Mais certainement, Monsieur le Comte… I, personally, will see to it…”

As he spoke he flung open the door and the Count entered. It cannot be said that the atmosphere of the room was congenial. The three occupants were regarding one another in hostile silence, and as the Count entered, they, with one accord, transferred their suspicious glance to him.

For a moment he stood motionless, while he looked at each one in turn. Then he stepped forward…

“Good evening, gentlemen”—he still spoke in French—“I am honoured at your presence.” He turned to the head waiter. “Let dinner be served in five minutes exactly.”

With a bow the man left the room, and the door closed. “During that five minutes, gentlemen, I propose to introduce myself to you, and you to one another.” As he spoke he divested himself of his coat and hat. “The business which I wish to discuss we will postpone, with your permission, till after coffee, when we shall be undisturbed.”

In silence the three guests waited while he unwound the thick white muffler; then, with undisguised curiosity, they studied their host. In appearance he was striking. He had a short dark beard, and in profile his face was aquiline and stern. The eyes, which had so impressed the manager, seemed now to be a cold grey-blue; the thick brown hair, flecked slightly with grey, was brushed back from a broad forehead. His hands were large and white; not effeminate, but capable and determined: the hands of a man who knew what he wanted, knew how to get it and got it. To even the most superficial observer the giver of the feast was a man of power: a man capable of forming instant decisions and of carrying them through…

And if so much was obvious to the superficial observer, it was more than obvious to the three men who stood by the fire watching him. They were what they were simply owing to the fact that they were not superficial servers of humanity; and each one of them, as he watched his host, realised that he was in the presence of a great man. It was enough: great men do not send fool invitations to dinner to men of international repute. It mattered not what form his greatness took—there was money in greatness, big money. And money was their life…

The Count advanced first to the American.

“Mr. Hocking, I believe,” he remarked in English, holding out his hand. “I am glad you managed to come.”

The American shook the proffered hand, while the two Germans looked at him with sudden interest. As the man at the head of the great American cotton trust, worth more in millions than he could count, he was entitled to their respect…

“That’s me, Count,” returned the millionaire in his nasal twang.

“I am interested to know to what I am indebted for this invitation.”

“All in good time, Mr. Hocking,” smiled the host. “I have hopes that the dinner will fill in that time satisfactorily.”

He turned to the taller of the two Germans, who without his coat seemed more like a cod-fish than ever.

“Herr Steinemann, is it not?” This time he spoke in German. The man whose interest in German coal was hardly less well known than Hocking’s in cotton, bowed stiffly.

“And Herr von Gratz?” The Count turned to the last member of the party and shook hands. Though less well known than either of the other two in the realms of international finance, von Gratz’s name in the steel trade in Central Europe was one to conjure with.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Count, “before we sit down to dinner, I may perhaps be permitted to say a few words of introduction. The nations of the world have recently been engaged in a performance of unrivalled stupidity. As far as one can tell that performance is now over. The last thing I wish to do is to discuss the war—except in so far as it concerns our meeting here tonight. Mr. Hocking is an American, you two gentlemen are Germans. I”—the Count smiled slightly—“have no nationality. Or rather, shall I say, I have every nationality. Completely cosmopolitan… Gentlemen, the war was waged by idiots, and when idiots get busy on a large scale, it is time for clever men to step in… That is the raison d’être for this little dinner… I claim that we four men are sufficiently international to be able to disregard any stupid and petty feelings about this country and that country, and to regard the world outlook at the present moment from one point of view and one point of view only—our own.”

The gaunt American gave a hoarse chuckle.

“It will be my object after dinner,” continued the Count, “to try and prove to you that we have a common point of view. Until then—shall we merely concentrate on a pious hope that the Hotel Nationale will not poison us with their food?”

“I guess,” remarked the American, “that you’ve got a pretty healthy command of languages, Count.”

“I speak four fluently—French, German, English, and Spanish,” returned the other. “In addition I can make myself understood in Russia, Japan, China, the Balkan States, and—America.”

His smile, as he spoke, robbed the words of any suspicion of offence. The next moment the head waiter opened the door, and the four men sat down to dine.

It must be admitted that the average hostess, desirous of making a dinner a success, would have been filled with secret dismay at the general atmosphere in the room. The American, in accumulating his millions, had also accumulated a digestion of such an exotic and tender character that dry rusks and Vichy water were the limit of his capacity.

Herr Steinemann was of the common order of German, to whom food was sacred. He ate and drank enormously, and evidently considered that nothing further was required of him.

Von Gratz did his best to keep his end up, but as he was apparently in a chronic condition of fear that the gaunt American would assault him with violence, he cannot be said to have contributed much to the gaiety of the meal.

And so to the host must be given the credit that the dinner was a success. Without appearing to monopolise the conversation he talked ceaselessly and well. More—he talked brilliantly. There seemed to be no corner of the globe with which he had not a nodding acquaintance at least; while with most places he was as familiar as a Londoner with Piccadilly Circus. But to even the most brilliant of conversationalists the strain of talking to a hypochondriacal American and two Germans—one greedy and the other frightened—is considerable; and the Count heaved an inward sigh of relief when the coffee had been handed round and the door closed behind the waiter. From now on the topic was an easy one—one where no effort on his part would be necessary to hold his audience. It was the topic of money—the common bond of his three guests. And yet, as he carefully cut the end of his cigar, and realised that the eyes of the other three were fixed on him expectantly, he knew that the hardest part of the evening was in front of him. Big financiers, in common with all other people, are fonder of having money put into their pockets than of taking it out. And that was the very thing the Count proposed they should do—in large quantities…

“Gentlemen,” he remarked, when his cigar was going to his satisfaction, “we are all men of business. I do not propose therefore to beat about the bush over the matter which I have to put before you, but to come to the point at once. I said before dinner that I considered we were sufficiently big to exclude any small arbitrary national distinctions from our minds. As men whose interests are international, such things are beneath us. I wish now to slightly qualify that remark.” He turned to the American on his right, who with his eyes half closed was thoughtfully picking his teeth. “At this stage, sir, I address myself particularly to you.”

“Go right ahead,” drawled Mr. Hocking.

“I do not wish to touch on the war—or its result; but though the Central Powers have been beaten by America and France and England, I think I can speak for you two gentlemen”—he bowed to the two Germans—“when I say that it is neither France nor America with whom they desire another round. England is Germany’s main enemy; she always has been, she always will be.”

Both Germans grunted assent, and the American’s eyes closed a little more.

“I have reason to believe, Mr. Hocking, that you personally do not love the English?”

“I guess I don’t see what my private feelings have got to do with it. But if it’s of any interest to the company, you are correct in your belief.”

“Good.” The Count nodded his head as if satisfied. “I take it, then, that you would not be averse to seeing England down and out.”

“Wal,” remarked the American, “you can assume anything you feel like. Let’s get to the show-down.”

Once again the Count nodded his head; then he turned to the two Germans.

“Now you two gentlemen must admit that your plans have miscarried somewhat. It was no part of your original programme that a British Army should occupy Cologne…”

“The war was the act of a fool,” snarled Herr Steinemann. “In a few years more of peace we should have beaten those swine…”

“And now—they have beaten you.” The Count smiled slightly. “Let us admit that the war was the act of a fool if you like, but as men of business we can only deal with the result…the result, gentlemen, as it concerns us. Both you gentlemen are sufficiently patriotic to resent the presence of that army at Cologne I have no doubt. And you, Mr. Hocking, have no love on personal grounds for the English… But I am not proposing to appeal to financiers of your reputation on such grounds as those to support my scheme… It is enough that your personal predilections run with and not against what I am about to put before you—the defeat of England…a defeat more utter and complete than if she had lost the war.”

His voice sank a little, and instinctively his three listeners drew closer.

“Don’t think that I am proposing this through motives of revenge merely. We are business men, and revenge is only worth our while if it pays. This will pay. I can give you no figures, but we are not of the type who deal in thousands, or even hundreds of thousands. There is a force in England which, if it be harnessed and led properly, will result in millions coming to you… It is present now in every nation—fettered, inarticulate, uncoordinated… It is partly the result of the war—the war that the idiots have waged… Harness that force, gentlemen, co-ordinate it, and use it for your own ends… That is my proposal. Not only will you humble that cursed country to the dirt, but you will taste of power such as few men have tasted before…” The Count stood up, his eves blazing. “And I—I will do it for you.”

He resumed his seat, and his left hand, slipping off the table, beat a tattoo on his knee.

“This is our opportunity—the opportunity of clever men. I have not got the money necessary: you have…” He leaned forward in his chair, and glanced at the intent faces of his audience. Then he began to speak…

Ten minutes later he pushed back his chair.

“There is my proposal, gentlemen, in a nutshell. Unforeseen developments will doubtless occur; I have spent my life overcoming the unexpected. What is your answer?”

He rose and stood with his back to them by the fire, and for several minutes no one spoke. Each man was busy with his own thoughts, and showed it in his own particular way. The American, his eyes shut, rolled his toothpick backwards and forwards in his mouth slowly and methodically; Steinemann stared at the fire, breathing heavily after the exertions of dinner: von Gratz walked up and down—his hands behind his back—whistling under his breath. Only the Comte de Guy stared unconcernedly at the fire, as if indifferent to the result of their thoughts. In his attitude at that moment he gave a true expression to his attitude on life. Accustomed to play with great stakes, he had just dealt the cards for the most gigantic gamble of his life… What matter to the three men, who were looking at the hands he had given them, that only a master criminal could have conceived such a game? The only question which occupied their minds was whether he could carry it through. And on that point they had only their judgment of his personality to rely on.

Suddenly the American removed the toothpick from his mouth, and stretched out his legs.

“There is a question which occurs to me, Count, before I make up my mind on the matter. I guess you’ve got us sized up to the last button; you know who we are, what we’re worth, and all about us. Are you disposed to be a little more communicative about yourself? If we agree to come in on this hand, it’s going to cost big money. The handling of that money is with you. Wal—who are you?”

Von Gratz paused in his restless pacing, and nodded his head in agreement; even Steinemann, with a great effort, raised his eyes to the Count’s face as he turned and faced them…

“A very fair question, gentlemen, and yet one which I regret I am unable to answer. I would not insult your intelligence by giving you the fictitious address of—a fictitious Count. Enough that I am a man whose livelihood lies in other people’s pockets. As you say, Mr. Hocking, it is going to cost big money; but compared to the results the costs will be a flea-bite… Do I look—and you are all of you used to judging men—do I look the type who would steal the baby’s money-box which lay on the mantelpiece, when the pearls could be had for opening the safe?… You will have to trust me, even as I shall have to trust you… You will have to trust me not to divert the money which you give me as working expenses into my own pocket… I shall have to trust you to pay me when the job is finished…”

“And that payment will be—how much?” Steinemann’s guttural voice broke the silence.

“One million pounds sterling—to be split up between you in any proportion you may decide, and to be paid within one month of the completion of my work. After that the matter will pass into your hands…and may you leave that cursed country grovelling in the dirty…” His eyes glowed with a fierce, vindictive fury; and then, as if replacing a mask which had slipped for a moment, the Count was once again the suave, courteous host. He had stated his terms frankly and without haggling: stated them as one big man states them to another a the same kidney, to whom time is money and indecision or beating about the bush anathema.

“Take them or leave them.” So much had he said in effect, if not in actual words, and not one of his audience but was far too used to men and matters to have dreamed of suggesting any compromise. All or nothing: and no doctrine could have appealed more to the three men in whose hands lay the decision…

“Perhaps, Count, you would be good enough to leave us for a few minutes.” Von Gratz was speaking. “The decision is a big one, and…”

“Why, certainly, gentlemen.” The Count moved towards the door. “I will return in ten minutes. By that time you will, have decided—one way or the other.”

Once in the lounge he sat down and lit a cigarette. The hotel was deserted save for one fat woman asleep in a chair opposite, and the Count gave himself up to thought. Genius that he was in the reading of men’s minds, he felt that he knew the result of that ten minutes’ deliberation… And then… What then?… In his imagination he saw his plans growing and spreading, his tentacles reaching into every corner of a great people—until, at last, everything was ready. He saw himself supreme in power, glutted with it—a king, an autocrat, who had only to lift his finger to plunge his kingdom into destruction and annihilation… And when he had done it, and the country he hated was in ruins, then he would claim his million and enjoy it as a great man should enjoy a great reward… Thus for the space of ten minutes did the Count see visions and dream dreams. That the force he proposed to tamper with was a dangerous force disturbed him not at all: he was a dangerous man. That his scheme would bring ruin, perhaps death, to thousands of innocent men and women, caused him no qualm: he was a supreme egoist. All that appealed to him was that he had seen the opportunity that existed, and that he had the nerve and the brain to turn that opportunity to his own advantage. Only the necessary money was lacking…and… With a quick movement he pulled out his watch. They had had their ten minutes…the matter was settled, the die was cast…

He rose and walked across the lounge. At the swing doors was the head waiter, bowing obsequiously.

It was to be hoped that the dinner had been to the liking of Monsieur le Comte…the wines all that he could wish…that he had been comfortable and would return again…

“That is improbable.” The Count took out his pocket-book. “But one never knows; perhaps I shall.” He gave the waiter a note. “Let my bill be prepared at once, and given to me as I pass through the hall.”

Apparently without a care in the world the Count passed down the passage to his private room, while the head waiter regarded complacently the unusual appearance of an English five-pound note.

For an appreciable moment the Count paused by the door, and a faint smile came to his lips. Then he opened it, and passed into the room…

The American was still chewing his toothpick; Steinemann was still breathing hard. Only von Gratz had changed his occupation, and he was sitting at the table smoking a long thin cigar. The Count closed the door, and walked over to the fire-place…

“Well, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “what have you decided?”

It was the American who answered.

“It goes. With one amendment. The money is too big for three of us: there must be a fourth. That will be a quarter of a million each.” The Count bowed.

“Yep,” said the American shortly. “These two gentlemen agree with me that it should be another of my countrymen—so that we get equal numbers. The man we have decided on is coming to England in a few weeks—Hiram C. Potts. If you get him in, you can count us in too. If not, the deal’s off.”

The Count nodded, and if he felt any annoyance at this unexpected development he showed no sign of it on his face.

“I know of Mr. Potts,” he answered quietly. “Your big shipping man, isn’t he? I agree to your reservation.”

“Good!” said the American. “Let’s discuss some details.” Without a trace of emotion on his face the Count drew up a chair to the table. It was only when he sat down that he started to play a tattoo on his knee with his left hand.

* * * *

Half an hour later he entered his luxurious suite of rooms at the Hotel Magnificent.

A girl, who had been lying by the fire reading a French novel, looked up at the sound of the door. She did not speak, for the look on his face told her all she wanted to know.

He crossed to the sofa and smiled down at her.

“Successful…on our own terms. Tomorrow, Irma, the Comte de Guy dies, and Carl Peterson and his daughter leave for England. A country gentleman, I think, is Carl Peterson. He might keep hens and possibly pigs.”

The girl on the sofa rose, yawning.

“Mon Dieu! What a prospect! Pigs and hens—and in England! How long is it going to take?”

The Count looked thoughtfully into the fire.

“Perhaps a year—perhaps six months… It is in the lap of the gods.”

CHAPTER I

In Which He Takes Tea at the Carlton and Is Surprised

I

Captain Hugh Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., late of His Majesty’s Royal Loamshires, was whistling in his morning bath. Being by nature of a cheerful disposition, the symptom did not surprise his servant, late private of the same famous regiment, who was laying breakfast in an adjoining room.

After a while the whistling ceased, and the musical gurgle of escaping water announced that the concert was over. It was the signal for James Denny—the square-jawed ex-batman—to disappear into the back regions and get from his wife the kidneys and bacon which that most excellent woman had grilled to a turn. But on this particular morning the invariable routine was broken. James Denny seemed preoccupied, distrait.

Once or twice he scratched his head, and stared out of the window with a puzzled frown. And each time, after a brief survey of the other side of Half Moon Street, he turned back again to the breakfast table with a grin.

“What’s you looking for, James Denny?” The irate voice of his wife at the door made him turn round guiltily. “Them kidneys is ready and waiting these five minutes.”

Her eyes fell on the table, and she advanced into the room wiping her hands on her apron.

“Did you ever see such a bunch of letters?” she said.

“Forty-five,” returned her husband grimly, “and more to come.” He picked up the newspaper lying beside the chair and opened it out.

“Them’s the result of that,” he continued cryptically, indicating a paragraph with a square finger, and thrusting the paper under his wife’s nose.

…“Demobilised officer,” she read slowly, “finding peace incredibly tedious, would welcome diversion. Legitimate, if possible; but crime, if of a comparatively humorous description, no objection. Excitement essential. Would be prepared to consider permanent job if suitably impressed by applicant for his services. Reply at once Box X-10.”

She pushed down the paper on a chair and stared first at her husband, and then at the rows of letters neatly arranged on the table.

“I calls it wicked,” she announced at length. “Fair flying in the face of Providence. Crime, Denny—crime. Don’t you get ’aving nothing to do with such mad pranks, my man, or you and me will be having words.” She shook an admonitory finger at him, and retired slowly to the kitchen. In the days of his youth, James Denny had been a bit wild, and there was a look in his eyes this morning—the suspicion of a glint—which recalled old memories.

A moment or two later Hugh Drummond came in. Slightly under six feet in height, he was broad in proportion. His best friend would not have called him good-looking, but he was the fortunate possessor of that cheerful type of ugliness which inspires immediate confidence in its owner. His nose had never quite recovered from the final one year in the Public Schools Heavy Weights; his mouth was not small. In fact, to be strictly accurate only his eyes redeemed his face from being what is known in the vernacular as the Frozen Limit.

Deep-set and steady, with eyelashes that many a woman had envied, they showed the man for what he was—a sportsman and a gentleman. And the combination of the two is an unbeatable production.

He paused as he got to the table, and glanced at the rows of letters. His servant, pretending to busy himself at the other end of the room, was watching him surreptitiously, and noted the grin which slowly spread over Drummond’s face as he picked up two or three and examined the envelopes.

“Who would have thought it, James?” he remarked at length. “Great Scot! I shall have to get a partner.”

With disapproval showing in every line of her face, Mrs. Denny entered the room, carrying the kidneys, and Drummond glanced at her with a smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Denny,” he said. “Wherefore this worried look on your face? Has that reprobate James been misbehaving himself?”

The worthy woman snorted. “He has not, sir—not yet, leastwise. And if so be that he does”—her eyes travelled up and down the back of the hapless Denny, who was quite unnecessarily pulling books off shelves and putting them back again—“if so be that he does,” she continued grimly, “him and me will have words—as I’ve told him already this morning.” She stalked from the room, after staring pointedly at the letters in Drummond’s hand, and the two men looked at one another.

“It’s that there reference to crime, sir, that’s torn it,” said Denny in a hoarse whisper.

“Thinks I’m going to lead you astray, does she, James?”

Hugh helped himself to bacon. “My dear fellow, she can think what she likes so long as she continues to grill bacon like this. Your wife is a treasure, James—a pearl amongst women: and you can tell her so with my love.” He was opening the first envelope, and suddenly he looked up with a twinkle in his eyes. “Just to set her mind at rest,” he remarked gravely, “you might tell her that, as far as I can see at present, I shall only undertake murder in exceptional cases.”

He propped the letter up against the toast-rack and commenced his breakfast. “Don’t go, James.” With a slight frown he was studying the typewritten sheet. “I’m certain to want your advice before long. Though not over this one… It does not appeal to me—not at all. To assist Messrs. Jones & Jones, whose business is to advance money on note of hand alone, to obtain fresh clients, is a form of amusement which leaves me cold. The waste-paper basket, please, James. Tear the effusion up, and we will pass on to the next.”

He looked at the mauve envelope doubtfully, and examined the postmark. “Where is Pudlington, James? And one might almost ask—why is Pudlington? No town has any right to such an offensive name.” He glanced through the letter and shook his head. “Tush! tush! And the wife of the bank manager, too—the bank manager of Pudlington, James! Can you conceive of anything so dreadful? But I’m afraid Mrs. Bank Manager is a puss—a distinct puss. It’s when they get on the soul-mate stunt that the furniture begins to fly.”

Drummond tore up the letter and dropped the pieces into the basket beside him. Then he turned to his servant and handed him the remainder of the envelopes.

“Go through them, James, while I assault the kidneys, and pick two or three out for me. I see that you will have to become my secretary. No man could tackle that little bunch alone.”

“Do you want me to open them, sir?” asked Denny doubtfully.

“You’ve hit it, James—hit it in one. Classify them for me in groups. Criminal; sporting; amatory—that means of or pertaining to love; stupid and merely boring; and as a last resort, miscellaneous.” He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “I feel that as a first venture in our new career—ours, I said, James—love appeals to me irresistibly. Find me a damsel in distress; a beautiful girl, helpless in the clutches of knaves. Let me feel that I can fly to her succour, clad in my new grey suiting.”

He finished the last piece of bacon and pushed away his plate. “Amongst all that mass of paper there must surely be one from a lovely maiden, James, at whose disposal I can place my rusty sword. Incidentally, what has become of the damned thing?”

“It’s in the lumber-room, sir—tied up with the old humbrella and the niblick you don’t like.”

“Great heavens! Is it?” Drummond helped himself to marmalade. “And to think that I once pictured myself skewering Huns with it. Do you think anybody would be mug enough to buy it, James?”

But that worthy was engrossed in a letter he had just opened, and apparently failed to hear the question. A perplexed look was spreading over his face, and suddenly he sucked his teeth loudly. It was a sure sign that James was excited, and though Drummond had almost cured him of this distressing habit, he occasionally forgot himself in moments of stress.

His master glanced up quickly, and removed the letter from his hands. “I’m surprised at you, James,” he remarked severely. “A secretary should control itself. Don’t forget that the perfect secretary is an it: an automatic machine—a thing incapable of feeling…”

He read the letter through rapidly, and then, turning back to the beginning, he read it slowly through again.

My dear Box X10—

I don’t know whether your advertisement was a joke. I suppose it must have been. But I read it this morning, and it’s just possible, X10, just possible, that you mean it. And if you do, you’re the man I want. I can offer you excitement and probably crime.

I’m up against it, X10. For a girl I’ve bitten off rather more than I can chew. I want help—badly. Will you come to the Carlton for tea tomorrow afternoon? I want to have a look at you and see if I think you are genuine. Wear a white flower in your buttonhole.

Drummond laid the letter down, and pulled out his cigarette-case. “Tomorrow, James,” he murmured. “That is today—this very afternoon. Verily I believe that we have impinged upon the goods.” He rose and stood looking out of the window thoughtfully. “Go out, my trusty fellow, and buy me a daisy or a cauliflower or something white.”

“You think it’s genuine, sir?” said James thoughtfully.

His master blew out a cloud of smoke. “I know it is,” he answered dreamily. “Look at that writing; the decision in it—the character. She’ll be medium height, and dark, with the sweetest little nose and mouth. Her colouring, James, will be—”

But James had discreetly left the room.

II

At four o’clock exactly Hugh Drummond stepped out of his two-seater at the Haymarket entrance to the Carlton. A white gardenia was in his buttonhole; his grey suit looked the last word in exclusive tailoring. For a few moments after entering the hotel he stood at the top of the stairs outside the dining-room, while his eyes travelled round the tables in the lounge below.

A brother-officer, evidently taking two country cousins round London, nodded resignedly; a woman at whose house he had danced several times smiled at him. But save for a courteous bow he took no notice; slowly and thoroughly he continued his search. It was early, of course, yet, and she might not have arrived, but he was taking no chances.

Suddenly his eyes ceased wandering, and remained fixed on a table at the far end of the lounge. Half hidden behind a plant a girl was seated alone, and for a moment she looked straight at him. Then, with the faintest suspicion of a smile, she turned away, and commenced drumming on the table with her fingers.

The table next to her was unoccupied, and Drummond made his way towards it and sat down. It was characteristic of the man that he did not hesitate; having once made up his mind to go through with a thing, he was in the habit of going and looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. Which, incidentally, was how he got his D.S.O.; but that, as Kipling would say, is another story.

He felt not the slightest doubt in his mind that this was the girl who had written to him, and, having given an order to the waiter, he started to study her face as unobtrusively as possible. He could only see the profile but that was quite sufficient to make him bless the moment when more as a jest than anything else he had sent his advertisement to the paper.

Her eyes, he could see, were very blue; and great masses of golden brown hair coiled over her ears, from under a small black hat. He glanced at her feet—being an old stager; she was perfectly shod. He glanced at her hands, and noted, with approval, the absence of any ring. Then he looked once more at her face, and found her eyes fixed on him.

This time she did not look away. She seemed to think that it was her turn to conduct the examination, and Drummond turned to his tea while the scrutiny continued. He poured himself out a cup, and then fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. After a moment he found what he wanted, and taking out a card he propped it against the teapot so that the girl could see what was on it. In large block capitals he had written “Box X-10”. Then he added milk and sugar and waited.

She spoke almost at once. “You’ll do, X-10,” she said, and he turned to her with a smile.

“It’s very nice of you to say so,” he murmured. “If I may, I will return the compliment. So will you.”

She frowned slightly. “This isn’t foolishness, you know. What I said in my letter is literally true.”

“Which makes the compliment even more returnable,” he answered. “If I am to embark on a life of crime, I would sooner collaborate with you than—shall we say?—that earnest eater over there with the tomato in her hat.”

He waved vaguely at the lady in question and then held out his cigarette-case to the girl. “Turkish on this side—Virginia on that,” he remarked. “And as I appear satisfactory, will you tell me who I’m to murder?”

With the unlighted cigarette held in her fingers she stared at him gravely. “I want you to tell me,” she said at length, and there was no trace of jesting in her voice, “tell me, on your word of honour, whether that advertisement was bona fide or a joke.”

He answered her in the same vein. “It started more or less as a joke. It may now be regarded as absolutely genuine.”

She nodded as if satisfied. “Are you prepared to risk your life?”

Drummond’s eyebrows went up and then he smiled. “Granted that the inducement is sufficient,” he returned slowly, “I think that I may say that I am.”

She nodded again. “You won’t be asked to do it in order to obtain a halfpenny bun,” she remarked. “If you’ve a match, I would rather like a light.”

Drummond apologised. “Our talk on trivialities engrossed me for the moment,” he murmured. He held the lighted match for her, and as he did so he saw that she was staring over his shoulder at someone behind his back.

“Don’t look round,” she ordered, “and tell me your name quickly.”

“Drummond—Captain Drummond, late of the Loamshires.” He leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigarette himself.

“And are you going to Henley this year?” Her voice was a shade louder than before.

“I don’t know,” he answered casually. “I may run down for a day possibly, but—”

“My dear Phyllis,” said a voice behind his back, “this is a pleasant surprise. I had no idea that you were in London.”

A tall, clean-shaven man stopped beside the table, throwing a keen glance at Drummond.

“The world is full of such surprises, isn’t it?” answered the girl lightly. “I don’t suppose you know Captain Drummond, do you? Mr. Lakington—art connoisseur and—er—collector.”

The two men bowed slightly, and Mr. Lakington smiled. “I do not remember ever having heard my harmless pastimes more concisely described,” he remarked suavely. “Are you interested in such matters?”

“Not very, I’m afraid,” answered Drummond. “Just recently I have been rather too busy to pay much attention to art.”

The other man smiled again, and it struck Hugh that rarely, if ever, had he seen such a cold, merciless face.

“Of course, you’ve been in France,” Lakington murmured. “Unfortunately a bad heart kept me on this side of the water. One regrets it in many ways—regrets it immensely. Sometimes I cannot help thinking how wonderful it must have been to be able to kill without fear of consequences. There is art in killing, Capt Drummond—profound art. And as you know, Phyllis,” he turned to the girl, “I have always been greatly attracted by anything requiring the artistic touch.” He looked at his watch and sighed: “Alas! I must tear myself away. Are you returning home this evening?”

The girl, who had been glancing round the restaurant, shrugged her shoulders. “Probably,” she answered. “I haven’t quite decided. I might stop with Aunt Kate.”

“Fortunate Aunt Kate.” With a bow Lakington turned away, and: through the glass Drummond watched him get his hat and stick from the cloak-room. Then he looked at the girl, and noticed that she had gone a little white.

“What’s the matter, old thing?” he asked quickly. “Are you feeling faint?”

She shook her head, and gradually the colour came back to her face. “I’m quite all right,” she answered. “It gave me rather a shock, that man finding us here.”

“On the face of it, it seems a harmless occupation,” said Hugh.

“On the face of it, perhaps,” she said. “But that man doesn’t deal with face values.” With a short laugh she turned to Hugh. “You’ve stumbled right into the middle of it, my friend, rather sooner than I anticipated. That is one of the men you will probably have to kill…”

Her companion lit another cigarette. “There is nothing like straightforward candour,” he grinned. “Except that I disliked his face and his manner, I must admit that I saw nothing about him to necessitate my going to so much trouble. What is his particular worry?”

“First and foremost the brute wants to marry me,” replied the girl.

“I loathe being obvious,” said Hugh, “but I am not surprised.”

“But it isn’t that that matters,” she went on. “I wouldn’t marry him even to save my life.” She looked at Drummond quietly.

“Henry Lakington is the second most dangerous man in England.”

“Only the second,” murmured Hugh. “Then hadn’t I better start my new career with the first?”

She looked at him in silence. “I suppose you think that I’m hysterical,” she remarked after a while. “You’re probably even wondering whether I’m all there.”

Drummond flicked the ash from his cigarette, then he turned to her dispassionately. “You must admit,” he remarked, “that up to now our conversation has hardly proceeded along conventional lines. I am a complete stranger to you; another man who is a complete stranger to me speaks to you while we’re at tea. You inform me that I shall probably have to kill him in the near future. The statement is, I think you will agree, a trifle disconcerting.”

The girl threw back her head and laughed merrily. “You poor young man,” she cried; “put that way it does sound alarming.” Then she grew serious again. “There’s plenty of time for you to back out now if you like. Just call the waiter, and ask for my bill. We’ll say good-bye, and the incident will finish.”

She was looking at him gravely as she spoke, and it seemed to her companion that there was an appeal in the big blue eyes. And they were very big: and the face they were set in was very charming—especially at the angle it was tilted at, in the half-light of the room. Altogether, Drummond reflected, a most adorable girl. And adorable girls had always been a hobby of his. Probably Lakington possessed a letter of hers or something, and she wanted him to get it back. Of course he would, even if he had to thrash the swine within an inch of his life.

“Well!” The girl’s voice cut into his train of thought and he hurriedly pulled himself together.

“The last thing I want is for the incident to finish,” he said fervently. “Why—it’s only just begun.”

“Then you’ll help me?”

“That’s what I’m here for.” With a smile Drummond lit another cigarette. “Tell me all about it.”

“The trouble,” she began after a moment, “is that there is not very much to tell. At present it is largely guesswork, and guesswork without much of a clue. However, to start with, I had better tell you what sort of men you are up against. Firstly, Henry Lakington—the man who spoke to me. He was, I believe, one of the most brilliant scientists who have ever been up at Oxford. There was nothing, in his own line, which would not have been open to him, had he run straight. But he didn’t. He deliberately chose to turn his brain to crime. Not vulgar, common sorts of crime—but the big things, calling for a master criminal. He has always had enough money to allow him to take his time over any coup—to perfect his details. And that’s what he loves. He regards crime as an ordinary man regards a complicated business deal—a thing to be looked at and studied from all angles, a thing to be treated as a mathematical problem. He is quite unscrupulous; he is only concerned in pitting himself against the world and winning.”

“An engaging fellah,” said Hugh. “What particular form of crime does he favour?”

“Anything that calls for brain, iron nerve, and refinement of detail,” she answered. “Principally, up to date, burglary on a big scale, and murder.”

“My dear soul!” said Hugh incredulously. “How can you be sure? And why don’t you tell the police?”

She smiled wearily. “Because I’ve got no proof, and even if I had…” She gave a little shudder, and left her sentence unfinished. “But one day, my father and I were in his house, and, by accident, I got into a room I’d never been in before. It was a strange room, with two large safes let into the wall and steel bars over the skylight in the ceiling. There wasn’t a window, and the floor seemed to be made of concrete. And the door was covered with curtains, and was heavy to move—almost as if it was steel or iron. On the desk in the middle of the room lay some miniatures, and, without thinking, I picked them up and looked at them. I happen to know something about miniatures, and, to my horror, I recognised them.” She paused for a moment as a waiter went by their table.

“Do you remember the theft of the celebrated Vatican miniatures belonging to the Duke of Melbourne?”

Drummond nodded; he was beginning to feel interested.

“They were the ones I was holding in my hand,” she said quietly. “I knew them at once from the description in the papers. And just as I was wondering what on earth to do, the man himself walked into the room.”

“Awkward—deuced awkward.” Drummond pressed out his cigarette and leaned forward expectantly. “What did he do?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said the girl. “That’s what made it so awful. ‘Admiring my treasures?’ he remarked. ‘Pretty things, aren’t they?’

“I couldn’t speak a word: I just put them back on the table.

“‘Wonderful copies,’ he went on, ‘of the Duke of Melbourne’s lost miniatures. I think they would deceive most people.’

“‘They deceived me,’ I managed to get out.

“‘Did they?’ he said. ‘The man who painted them will be flattered.’

“All the time he was staring at me, a cold, merciless stare that seemed to freeze my brain. Then he went over to one of the safes and unlocked it. ‘Come here, Miss Benton,’ he said. ‘There are a lot more—copies.’

“I looked inside only for a moment, but I have never seen or thought of such a sight. Beautifully arranged on black velvet shelves were ropes of pearls, a gorgeous diamond tiara, and a whole heap of loose, uncut stones, and in one corner I caught a glimpse of the most wonderful gold-chased cup—just like the one for which Samuel Levy, the Jew moneylender, was still offering a reward. Then he shut the door and locked it, and again stared at me in silence.

“‘All copies,’ he said quietly, ‘wonderful copies. And should you ever be tempted to think otherwise—ask your father, Miss Benton. Be warned by me; don’t do anything foolish. Ask your father first.’”

“And did you?” asked Drummond.

She shuddered. “That very evening,” she answered. “And Daddy flew into a frightful passion, and told me never to dare meddle in things that didn’t concern me again. Then gradually, as time went on, I realised that Lakington had some hold over Daddy—that he’d got my father in his power. Daddy—of all people—who wouldn’t hurt a fly: the best and dearest man who ever breathed.” Her hands were clenched, and her breast rose and fell stormily.

Drummond waited for her to compose herself before he spoke again. “You mentioned murder, too,” he remarked.

She nodded. “I’ve got no proof,” she said, “less even than over the burglaries. But there was a man called George Dringer, and one evening, when Lakington was dining with us, I heard him discussing this man with Daddy. ‘He’s got to go,’ said Lakington. ‘He’s dangerous!’

“And then my father got up and closed the door; but I heard them arguing for half an hour. Three weeks later a coroner’s jury found that George Dringer had committed suicide while temporarily insane. The same evening Daddy, for the first time in his life, went to bed the worse for drink.”

The girl fell silent, and Drummond stared at the orchestra with troubled eyes. Things seemed to be rather deeper than he had anticipated.

“Then there was another case.” She was speaking again. “Do you remember that man who was found dead in a railway-carriage at Oxhey station? He was an Italian—Giuseppe by name; and the jury brought in a verdict of death from natural causes. A month before, he had an interview with Lakington which took place at our house: because the Italian, being a stranger, came to the wrong place, and Lakington happened to be with us at the time. The interview finished with a fearful quarrel.” She turned to Drummond with a smile. “Not much evidence, is there? Only I know Lakington murdered him. I know it. You may think I’m fanciful—imagining things; you may think I’m exaggerating. I don’t mind if you do—because you won’t for long.”

Drummond did not answer immediately. Against his saner judgment he was beginning to be profoundly impressed, and, at the moment, he did not quite know what to say. That the girl herself firmly believed in what she was telling him, he was certain; the point was how much of it was—as she herself expressed it—fanciful imagination.

“What about this other man?” he asked at length.

“I can tell you very little about him,” she answered. “He came to The Elms—that is the name of Lakington’s house—three months ago. He is about medium height and rather thick-set; clean-shaven, with thick brown hair flecked slightly with white. His forehead is broad and his eyes are a sort of cold grey-blue. But it’s his hands that terrify me. They’re large and white and utterly ruthless.” She turned to him appealingly. “Oh! don’t think I’m talking wildly,” she implored. “He frightens me to death—that man: far, far worse than Lakington. He would stop at nothing to gain his ends, and even Lakington himself knows that Mr. Peterson is master.”

“Peterson!” murmured Drummond. “It seems quite a sound old English name.”

The girl laughed scornfully. “Oh! the name is sound enough, if it was his real name. As it is, it’s about as real as his daughter.”

“There is a lady in the case, then?”

“By the name of Irma,” said the girl briefly. “She lies on a sofa in the garden and yawns. She’s no more English than that waiter.”

A faint smile flickered over her companion’s face; he had formed a fairly vivid mental picture of Irma. Then he grew serious again.

“And what is it that makes you think there’s mischief ahead?” he asked abruptly.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. “What the novelists call feminine intuition, I suppose,” she answered. “That—and my father.” She said the last words very low. “He hardly ever sleeps at night now; I hear him pacing up and down his room—hour after hour, hour after hour. Oh! it makes me mad… Don’t you understand? I’ve just got to find out what the trouble is. I’ve got to get him away from those devils, before he breaks down completely.”

Drummond nodded, and looked away. The tears were bright in her eyes, and, like every Englishman, he detested a scene. While she had been speaking he had made up his mind what course to take, and now, having outsat everybody else, he decided that it was time for the interview to cease. Already an early diner was having a cocktail, while Lakington might return at any moment. And if there was anything in what she had told him, it struck him that it would be as well for that gentleman not to find them still together.

“I think,” he said, “we’d better go. My address is 60A, Half Moon Street; my telephone is 1234 Mayfair. If anything happens, if ever you want me—at any hour or the day or night—ring me up or write. If I’m not in, leave a message with my servant Denny. He is absolutely reliable. The only other thing is your own address.”

“The Larches, near Godalming,” answered the girl, as they moved towards the door. “Oh! if you only knew the glorious relief of feeling one’s got someone to turn to…” She looked at him with shining eyes, and Drummond felt his pulse quicken suddenly. Imagination or not, so far as her fears were concerned, the girl was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen.

“May I drop you anywhere?” he asked, as they stood on the pavement, but she shook her head.

“No, thank you. I’ll go in that taxi.” She gave the man an address, and stepped in, while Hugh stood bareheaded by the door.

“Don’t forget,” he said earnestly. “Any time of the day or night. And while I think of it—we’re old friends. Can that be done? In case I come and stay, you see.”

She thought for a moment and then nodded her head. “All right,” she answered. “We’ve met a lot in London during the war.”

With a grinding of gear wheels the taxi drove off, leaving Hugh with a vivid picture imprinted on his mind of blue eyes, and white teeth, and a skin like the bloom of a sun-kissed peach.

For a moment or two he stood staring after it, and then he walked across to his own car. With his mind still full of the interview he drove slowly along Piccadilly, while every now and then he smiled grimly to himself. Was the whole thing an elaborate hoax? Was the girl even now chuckling to herself at his gullibility? If so, the game had only just begun, and he had no objection to a few more rounds with such an opponent. A mere tea at the Carlton could hardly be the full extent of the jest… And somehow deep down in his mind, he wondered whether it was a joke—whether, by some freak of fate, he had stumbled on one of those strange mysteries which up to date he had regarded as existing only in the realms of shilling shockers.

He turned into his rooms, and stood in front of the mantelpiece taking off his gloves. It was as he was about to lay them down on the table that an envelope caught his eye, addressed to him in an unknown handwriting. Mechanically he picked it up and opened it. Inside was a single half-sheet of notepaper, on which a few lines had been written in a small, neat hand.

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, young man, than a capability for eating steak and onions, and a desire for adventure. I imagine that you possess both: and they are useful assets in the second locality mentioned by the poet. In Heaven, however, one never knows—especially with regard to the onions. Be careful.

Drummond stood motionless for a moment, with narrowed eyes. Then he leaned forward and pressed the bell…

“Who brought this note, James?” he said quietly, as his servant came into the room.

“A small boy, sir. Said I was to be sure and see you got it most particular.” He unlocked a cupboard near the window and produced a tantalus. “Whisky, sir, or cocktail?”

“Whisky, I think, James.” Hugh carefully folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his pocket. And his face as he took the drink from his man would have left no doubt in an onlooker’s mind as to why, in the past, he had earned the name of “Bulldog” Drummond.

CHAPTER II

In Which He Journeys to Godalming and the Game Begins

I

“I almost think, James, that I could toy with another kidney.” Drummond looked across the table at his servant, who was carefully arranging two or three dozen letters in groups. “Do you think it will cause a complete breakdown in the culinary arrangements? I’ve got a journey in front of me today, and I require a large breakfast.”

James Denny supplied the deficiency from a dish that was standing on an electric heater.

“Are you going for long, sir?” he ventured.

“I don’t know, James. It all depends on circumstances. Which, when you come to think of it, is undoubtedly one of the most fatuous phrases in the English language. Is there anything in the world that doesn’t depend on circumstances?”

“Will you be motoring, sir, or going by train?” asked James prosaically. Dialectical arguments did not appeal to him.

“By car,” answered Drummond. “Pyjamas and a tooth-brush.”

“You won’t take evening clothes, sir?”

“No. I want my visit to appear unpremeditated, James, and if one goes about completely encased in boiled shirts, while pretending to be merely out for the afternoon, people have doubts as to one’s intellect.”

James digested this great thought in silence.

“Will you be going far, sir?” he asked at length, pouring out a second cup of coffee.

“To Godalming. A charming spot, I believe, though I’ve never been there. Charming inhabitants, too, James. The lady I met yesterday at the Carlton lives at Godalming.”

“Indeed, sir,” murmured James non-committally.

“You damned old humbug,” laughed Drummond, “you know you’re itching to know all about it. I had a very long and interesting talk with her, and one of two things emerges quite clearly from our conversation. Either, James, I am a congenital idiot, and don’t know enough to come in out of the rain; or we’ve hit the goods. That is what I propose to find out by my little excursion. Either our legs, my friend, are being pulled till they will never resume their normal shape; or that advertisement has succeeded beyond our wildest dreams.”

“There are a lot more answers in this morning, sir.” Denny made a movement towards the letters he had been sorting. “One from a lovely widow with two children.”

“Lovely,” cried Drummond. “How forward of her!” He glanced at the letter and smiled. “Care, James, and accuracy are essential in a secretary. The misguided woman calls herself lonely, not lovely. She will remain so, so far as I am concerned, until the other matter is settled.”

“Will it take long, sir, do you think?”

“To get it settled?” Drummond lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Listen, James, and I will outline the case. The maiden lives at a house called The Larches, near Godalming, with her papa. Not far away is another house called The Elms, owned by a gentleman of the name of Henry Lakington—a nasty man, James, with a nasty face—who was also at the Carlton yesterday afternoon for a short time. And now we come to the point. Miss Benton—that is the lady’s name—accuses Mr. Lakington of being the complete it in the criminal line. She went even so far as to say that he was the second most dangerous man in England.”

“Indeed, sir. More coffee, sir?”

“Will nothing move you, James?” remarked his master plaintively. “This man murders people and does things like that, you know.”

“Personally, sir, I prefer a picture-palace. But I suppose there ain’t no accounting for ’obbies. May I clear away, sir?”

“No, James, not at present. Keep quite still while I go on, or I shall get it wrong. Three months ago there arrived at The Elms the most dangerous man in England—the it of its. This gentleman goes by the name of Peterson, and he owns a daughter. From what Miss Benton said, I have doubts about that daughter, James.” He rose and strolled over to the window. “Grave doubts. However, to return to the point, it appears that some unpleasing conspiracy is being hatched by it, the it of its, and the doubtful daughter, into which Papa Benton has been unwillingly drawn. As far as I can make out, the suggestion is that I should unravel the tangled skein of crime and extricate papa.”

In a spasm of uncontrollable excitement James sucked his teeth. “Lumme, it wouldn’t ’alf go on the movies, would it?” he remarked. “Better than them Red Indians and things.”

“I fear, James, that you are not in the habit of spending your spare time at the British Museum, as I hoped,” said Drummond. “And your brain doesn’t work very quickly. The point is not whether this hideous affair is better than Red Indians and things—but whether it’s genuine. Am I to battle with murderers, or shall I find a house-party roaring, with laughter on the lawn?”

“As long as you laughs like ’ell yourself, sir, I don’t see as ’ow it makes much odds,” answered James philosophically.

“The first sensible remark you’ve made this morning,” said his master hopefully. “I will go prepared to laugh.”

He picked up a pipe from the mantelpiece, and proceeded to fill it, while James Denny still waited in silence.

“A lady may ring up today,” Drummond continued. “Miss Benton, to be exact. Don’t say where I’ve gone if she does; but take down any message, and wire it to me at Godalming Post Office. If by any chance you don’t hear from me for three days, get in touch with Scotland Yard, and tell ’em where I’ve gone. That covers everything if it’s genuine. If, on the other hand, it’s a hoax, and the house-party is a good one, I shall probably want you to come down with my evening clothes and some more kit.”

“Very good, sir. I will clean your small Colt revolver at once.”

Hugh Drummond paused in the act of lighting his pipe, and a grin spread slowly over his face. “Excellent,” he said. “And see if you can find that water-squirt pistol I used to have—a Son of a Gun they called it. That ought to raise a laugh, when I arrest the murderer with it.”

II

The 30 h.p. two-seater made short work of the run to Godalming. Under the dickey seat behind lay a small bag, containing the bare necessaries for the night; and as Drummond thought of the two guns rolled up carefully in his pyjamas—the harmless toy and the wicked little automatic—he grinned gently to himself. The girl had not rung him up during the morning, and, after a comfortable lunch at his club, he had started about three o’clock. The hedges, fresh with the glory of spring, flashed past; the smell of the country came sweet and fragrant on the air. There was a gentle warmth, a balminess in the day that made it good to be alive, and once or twice he sang under his breath through sheer light-heartedness of spirit. Surrounded by the peaceful beauty of the fields, with an occasional village half hidden by great trees from under which the tiny houses peeped out, it seemed impossible that crime could exist—laughable. Of course the thing was a hoax, an elaborate leg-pull, but, being not guilty of any mental subterfuge, Hugh Drummond admitted to himself quite truly that he didn’t care a damn if it was. Phyllis Benton was at liberty to continue the jest, wherever and whenever she liked. Phyllis Benton was a very nice girl, and very nice girls are permitted a lot of latitude.

A persistent honking behind aroused him from his reverie, and he pulled into the side of the road. Under normal circumstances he would have let his own car out, and as she could touch ninety with ease, he very rarely found himself passed. But this afternoon he felt disinclined to race; he wanted to go quietly and think. Blue eyes and that glorious colouring were a dangerous combination—distinctly dangerous. Most engrossing to a healthy bachelor’s thoughts.

An open cream-coloured Rolls-Royce drew level, with five people on board, and he looked up as it passed. There were three people in the back—two men and a woman, and for a moment his eyes met those of the man nearest him. Then they drew ahead, and Drummond pulled up to avoid the thick cloud of dust.

With a slight frown he stared at the retreating car; he saw the man lean over and speak to the other man; he saw the other man look round. Then a bend in the road hid them from sight, and, still frowning, Drummond pulled out his case and lit a cigarette. For the man whose eye he had caught as the Rolls went by was Henry Lakington. There was no mistaking that hard-lipped, cruel face. Presumably, thought Hugh, the other two occupants were Mr. Peterson and the doubtful daughter, Irma; presumably they were returning to The Elms. And incidentally there seemed no pronounced reason why they shouldn’t. But, somehow, the sudden appearance of Lakington had upset him; he felt irritable and annoyed. What little he had seen of the man he had not liked; he did not want to be reminded of him, especially just as he was thinking of Phyllis.

He watched the white dust-cloud rise over the hill in front as the car topped it; he watched it settle and drift away in the faint breeze. Then he let in his clutch and followed quite slowly in the big car’s wake.

There had been two men in front—the driver and another, and he wondered idly if the latter was Mr. Benton. Probably not, he reflected, since Phyllis and said nothing about her father being in London. He accelerated up the hill and swung over the top; the next moment he braked hard and pulled up just in time. The Rolls, with the chauffeur peering into the bonnet had stopped in such a position that it was impossible for him to get by.

The girl was still seated in the back of the car, also the passenger in front, but the two other men were standing in the road apparently watching the chauffeur, and after a while the one whom Drummond had recognised as Lakington came towards him.

“I’m so sorry,” he began—and then paused in surprise. “Why, surely it’s Captain Drummond?”

Drummond nodded pleasantly. “The occupant of a car is hardly likely to change in a mile, is he?” he remarked. “I’m afraid I forgot to wave as you went past, but I got your smile all right.” He leant on his steering-wheel and lit a second cigarette. “Are you likely to be long?” he asked; “because if so, I’ll stop my engine.”

The other man was now approaching casually, and Drummond regarded him curiously. “A friend of our little Phyllis, Peterson,” said Lakington, as he came up. “I found them having tea together yesterday at the Carlton.”

“Any friend of Miss Benton’s is, I hope, ours,” said Peterson with a smile. “You’ve known her a long time, I expect?”

“Quite a long time,” returned Hugh. “We have jazzed together on many occasions.”

“Which makes it all the more unfortunate that we should have delayed you,” said Peterson. “I can’t help thinking, Lakington, that that new chauffeur is a bit of a fool.”

“I hope he avoided the crash all right,” murmured Drummond politely.

Both men looked at him. “The crash!” said Lakington. “There was no question of a crash. We just stopped.”

“Really,” remarked Drummond, “I think, sir, that you must be right in your diagnosis of your chauffeur’s mentality.” He turned courteously to Peterson. “When something goes wrong, for a fellah to stop his car by braking so hard that he locks both back wheels is no bon, as we used to say in France. I thought, judging by the tracks in the dust, that you must have been in imminent danger of ramming a traction engine. Or perhaps,” he added judicially, “a sudden order to stop would have produced the same effect.” If he saw the lightning glance that passed between the two men he gave no sign. “May I offer you a cigarette? Turkish that side—Virginian the other. I wonder if I could help your man,” he continued, when they had helped themselves. “I’m a bit of an expert with a Rolls.”

“How very kind of you,” said Peterson. “I’ll go and see.” He went over to the man and spoke a few words.

“Isn’t it extraordinary,” remarked Hugh, “how the eye of the boss galvanises the average man into activity! As long, probably, as Mr. Peterson had remained here talking, that chauffeur would have gone on tinkering with the engine. And now—look, in a second—all serene. And yet I dare say Mr. Peterson knows nothing about it really. Just the watching eye, Mr. Lakington. Wonderful thing—the human optic.”

He rambled on with a genial smile, watching with apparent interest the car in front. “Who’s the quaint bird sitting beside the chauffeur? He appeals to me immensely. Wish to Heaven I’d had a few more like him in France to turn into snipers.”

“May I ask why you think he would have been a success at the job?” Lakington’s voice expressed merely perfunctory interest, but his cold, steely eyes were fixed on Drummond.

“He’s so motionless,” answered Hugh. “The bally fellow hasn’t moved a muscle since I’ve been here. I believe he’d sit on a hornets’ nest, and leave the inmates guessing. Great gift, Mr. Lakington. Shows a strength of will but rarely met with—a mind which rises above mere vulgar curiosity.”

“It is undoubtedly a great gift to have such a mind, Captain Drummond,” said Lakington. “And if it isn’t born in a man, he should most certainly try to cultivate it.” He pitched his cigarette away, and buttoned up his coat. “Shall we be seeing you this evening?”

Drummond shrugged his shoulders. “I’m the vaguest man that ever lived,” he said lightly. “I might be listening to nightingales in the country; or I might be consuming steak and onions preparatory to going to a night club. So long… You must let me take you to Hector’s one night. Hope you don’t break down again so suddenly.”

He watched the Rolls-Royce start, but seemed in no hurry to follow suit. And his many friends, who were wont to regard Hugh Drummond as a mass of brawn not too plentifully supplied with brains, would have been puzzled had they seen the look of keen concentration on his face as he stared along the white, dusty road. He could not say why, but suddenly and very certainly the conviction had come to him that this was no hoax and no leg-pull—but grim and sober reality. In his imagination he heard the sudden sharp order to stop the instant they were over the hill, so that Peterson might have a chance of inspecting him; in a flash of intuition he knew that these two men were no ordinary people, and that he was suspect. And as he slipped smoothly after the big car, now well out of sight, two thoughts were dominant in his mind. The first was that there was some mystery about the motionless, unnatural man who had sat beside the driver; the second was a distinct feeling of relief that his automatic was fully loaded.

III

At half-past five he stopped in front of Godalming Post Office. To his surprise the girl handed him a wire, and Hugh tore the yellow envelope open quickly. It was from Denny, and it was brief and to the point:

Phone message received. AAA. Must see you Carlton tea day after tomorrow. Going Godalming now. AAA. Message ends.

With a slight smile he noticed the military phraseology—Denny at one time in his career had been a signaller—and then he frowned. “Must see you.” She should—at once.

He turned to the girl and inquired the way to The Larches. It was about two miles, he gathered, on the Guildford road, and impossible to miss—a biggish house standing well back in its own grounds.

“Is it anywhere near a house called The Elms?” he asked.

“Next door, sir,” said the girl. “The gardens adjoin.”

He thanked her, and having torn up the telegram into small pieces, he got into his car. There was nothing for it, he had decided, but to drive boldly up to the house, and say that he had come to call on Miss Benton. He had never been a man who beat about the bush, and simple methods appealed to him—a trait in his character which many a boxer, addicted to tortuous cunning in the ring, had good cause to remember. What more natural, he reflected, than to drive over and see such an old friend?

He had no difficulty in finding the house, and a few minutes later he was ringing the front-door bell. It was answered by a maidservant, who looked at him in mild surprise. Young men in motorcars were not common visitors at The Larches.

“Is Miss Benton in?” Hugh asked with a smile which at once won the girl’s heart.

“She has only just come back from London, sir,” she answered doubtfully. “I don’t know whether…”

“Would you tell her that Captain Drummond has called?” said Hugh as the maid hesitated. “That I happened to find myself near here, and came on chance of seeing her?”

Once again the smile was called into play, and the girl hesitated no longer. “Will you come inside, sir?” she said. “I will go and tell Miss Phyllis.”

She ushered him into the drawing-room and closed the door. It was a charming room, just such as he would have expected with Phyllis. Big windows, opening down to the ground, led out on to a lawn, which was already a blaze of colour. A few great oak trees threw a pleasant shade at the end of the garden, and, partially showing through them, he could see another house which he rightly assumed was The Elms. In fact, even as he heard the door open and shut behind him, he saw Peterson come out of a small summer-house and commence strolling up and down, smoking a cigar. Then he turned round and faced the girl.

Charming as she had looked in London, she was doubly so now, in a simple linen frock which showed off her figure to perfection. But if he thought he was going to have any leisure to enjoy the picture undisturbed, he was soon disillusioned.

“Why have you come here, Captain Drummond?” she said, a little breathlessly. “I said the Carlton—the day after tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately,” said Hugh, “I’d left London before that message came. My servant wired it on to the post office here. Not that it would have made any difference. I should have come, anyway.”

An involuntary smile hovered round her lips for a moment; then she grew serious again. “It’s very dangerous for you to come here,” she remarked quietly. “If once those men suspect anything, God knows what will happen.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that it was too late to worry about that; then he changed his mind. “And what is there suspicious,” he asked, “in an old friend who happens to be in the neighbourhood dropping in to call? Do you mind if I smoke?”

The girl beat her hands together. “My dear man,” she cried, “you don’t understand. You’re judging those devils by your own standard. They suspect everything—and everybody.”

“What a distressing habit,” he murmured. “Is it chronic, Or merely due to liver? I must send ’em a bottle of good salts. Wonderful thing—good salts. Never without some in France.”

The girl looked at him resignedly. “You’re hopeless,” she remarked—“absolutely hopeless.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Hugh, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Wherefore your telephone message? What’s the worry?”

She bit her lip and drummed with her fingers on the arm of her chair. “If I tell you,” she said at length, “will you promise me, on your word of honour, that you won’t go blundering into The Elms, or do anything foolish like that?”

“At the present moment I’m very comfortable where I am, thanks,” remarked Hugh.

“I know,” she said; “but I’m so dreadfully afraid that you’re the type of person who…who…” She paused, at a loss for a word.

“Who bellows like a bull, and charges head down,” interrupted Hugh with a grin. She laughed with him, and just for a moment their eyes met, and she read in his something quite foreign to the point at issue. In fact, it is to be feared that the question of Lakington and his companions was not engrossing Drummond’s mind, as it doubtless should have been, to the exclusion of all else.

“They’re so utterly unscrupulous,” she continued, hurriedly, “so fiendishly clever, that even you would be like a child in their hands.”

Hugh endeavoured to dissemble his pleasure at that little word “even”, and only succeeded in frowning horribly.

“I will be discretion itself,” he assured her firmly. “I promise you.”

“I suppose I shall have to trust you,” she said. “Have you seen the evening papers today?”

“I looked at the ones that came out in the morning labelled 6 p.m. before I had lunch,” he answered. “Is there anything of interest?”

She handed him a copy of the Planet. “Read that little paragraph in the second column.” She pointed to it, as he took the paper, and Hugh read it aloud.

“Mr. Hiram C. Potts—the celebrated American millionaire—is progressing favourably. He has gone into the country for a few days, but is sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual.” He laid down the paper and looked at the girl sitting opposite. “One is pleased,” he remarked in a puzzled tone, “for the sake of Mr. Potts. To be ill and have a name like that is more than most men could stand… But I don’t quite see…”

“That man was stopping at the Carlton, where he met Lakington,” said the girl. “He is a multi-millionaire, over here in connection with some big steel trust; and when multi-millionaires get friendly with Lakington, their health frequently does suffer.”

“But this paper says he’s getting better,” objected Drummond. “‘Sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual.’ What’s wrong with that?”

“If he is sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual, why did he send his confidential secretary away yesterday morning on an urgent mission to Belfast?”

“Search me,” said Hugh. “Incidentally, how do you know he did?”

“I asked at the Carlton this morning,” she answered. “I said I’d come after a job as typist for Mr. Potts. They told me at the inquiry office that he was ill in bed and unable to see anybody. So I asked for his secretary, and they told me what I’ve just told you—that he had left for Belfast that morning and would be away several days. It may be that there’s nothing in it; on the other hand, it may be that there’s a lot. And it’s only by following up every possible clue,” she continued fiercely, “that I can hope to beat those fiends and get Daddy out of their clutches.”

Drummond nodded gravely, and did not speak. For into his mind had flashed suddenly the remembrance of that sinister, motionless figure seated by the chauffeur. The wildest guesswork certainly—no vestige of proof—and yet, having once come, the thought struck. And as he turned it over in his mind, almost prepared to laugh at himself for his credulity—millionaires are not removed against their will, in broad daylight, from one of the biggest hotels in London, to sit in immovable silence in an open car—the door opened and an elderly man came in.

Hugh rose, and the girl introduced the two men. “An old friend, Daddy,” she said. “You must have heard me speak of Captain Drummond.”

“I don’t recall the name at the moment, my dear,” he answered courteously—a fact which was hardly surprising—” but I fear I’m getting a little forgetful. I am pleased to meet you, Captain Drummond. You’ll stop and have some dinner, of course.”

Hugh bowed. “I should like to, Mr. Benton. Thank you very much. I’m afraid the hour of my call was a little informal, but being round in these parts, I felt I must come: and look Miss Benton up.”

His host smiled absent-mindedly, and walking to the window, stared through the gathering dusk at the house opposite, half hidden in the trees. And Hugh, who was watching him from under lowered lids, saw him suddenly clench both hands in a gesture of despair.

It cannot be said that dinner was a meal of sparkling gaiety. Mr. Benton was palpably ill at ease, and beyond a few desultory remarks spoke hardly at all: while the girl, who sat opposite Hugh, though she made one or two valiant attempts to break the long silences, spent most of the meal in covertly watching her father. If anything more had been required to convince Drummond of the genuineness of his interview with her at the Carlton the preceding day, the atmosphere at this strained and silent party supplied it.

As if unconscious of anything peculiar, he rambled on in his usual inconsequent method, heedless of whether he was answered or not; but all the time his mind was busily working. He had already decided that a Rolls-Royce was not the only car on the market which could break down mysteriously, and with the town so far away, his host could hardly fail to ask him to stop the night. And then—he had not yet quite settled how—he proposed to have a closer look at The Elms.

At length the meal was over, and the maid, placing the decanter in front of Mr. Benton, withdrew from the room.

“You’ll have a glass of port, Captain Drummond,” remarked his host, removing the stopper and pushing the bottle towards him. “An old pre-war wine which I can vouch for.”

Hugh smiled, and even as he lifted the heavy old cut glass, he stiffened suddenly in his chair. A cry—half shout, half scream, and stifled at once—had come echoing through the open windows. With a crash the stopper fell from Mr. Benton’s nerveless fingers, breaking the finger-bowl in front of him, while every vestige of colour left his face.

“It’s something these days to be able to say that,” remarked Hugh, pouring himself out a glass. “Wine, Miss Benton?” He looked at the girl, who was staring fearfully out of the window, and forced her to meet his eye. “It will do you good.”

His tone was compelling, and after a moment’s hesitation she pushed the glass over to him. “Will you pour it out?” she said, and he saw that she was trembling all over.

“Did you—did you hear—anything?” With a vain endeavour to speak calmly, his host looked at Hugh.

“That night-bird?” he answered easily. “Eerie noises they make, don’t they? Sometimes in France, when everything was still, and only the ghostly green flares went hissing up, one used to hear ’em. Startled nervous sentries out of their lives.” He talked on, and gradually the colour came back to the other man’s face. But Hugh noticed that he drained his port at a gulp, and immediately refilled his glass…

Outside everything was still; no repetition of that short, strangled cry again disturbed the silence. With the training bred of many hours in No Man’s Land, Drummond was listening, even while he was speaking, for the faintest suspicious sound—but he heard nothing. The soft whispering night-noises came gently through the window; but the man who had screamed once did not even whimper again. He remembered hearing a similar cry near the brickstacks at Guinchy, and two nights later he had found the giver of it, at the ledge of a mine-crater, with glazed eyes that still held in them the horror of the final second. And more persistently than ever, his thoughts centred on the fifth occupant of the Rolls-Royce…

It was with almost a look of relief that Mr. Benton listened to his tale of woe about his car.

“Of course you must stop here for the night,” he cried. “Phyllis, my dear, will you tell them to get a room ready?”

With an inscrutable look at Hugh, in which thankfulness and apprehension seemed mingled, the girl left the room. There was an unnatural glitter in her father’s eyes—a flush on his cheeks hardly to be accounted for by the warmth of the evening; and it struck Drummond that, during the time he had been pretending to look at his car, Mr. Benton had been fortifying himself. It was obvious, even to the soldier’s unprofessional eye, that the man’s nerves had gone to pieces; and that unless something was done soon, his daughter’s worst forebodings were likely to be fulfilled. He talked disjointedly and fast; his hands were not steady, and he seemed to be always waiting for something to happen.

Hugh had not been in the room ten minutes before his host produced the whisky, and during the time that he took to drink a mild nightcap, Mr. Benton succeeded in lowering three extremely strong glasses of spirit. And what made it the more sad was that the man was obviously not a heavy drinker by preference.

At eleven o’clock Hugh rose and said good night.

“You’ll ring if you want anything, won’t you?” said his host. “We don’t have very many visitors here, but I hope you’ll find everything you require. Breakfast at nine.”

Drummond closed the door behind him, and stood for a moment in silence, looking round the hall. It was deserted, but he wanted to get the geography of the house firmly imprinted on his mind. Then a noise from the room he had just left made him frown sharply—his host was continuing the process of fortification—and he stepped across towards the drawing-room. Inside, as he hoped, he found the girl.

She rose the instant he came in, and stood by the mantelpiece with her hands locked.

“What was it?” she half whispered—“that awful noise at dinner?”

He looked at her gravely for a while, and then he shook his head. “Shall we leave it as a night-bird for the present?” he said quietly. Then he leaned towards her, and took her hands in his own. “Go to bed, little girl,” he ordered; “this is my show. And, may I say, I think you’re just wonderful. Thank God you saw my advertisement!”

Gently he released her hands, and walking to the door, held it open for her. “If by any chance you should hear things in the night—turn over and go to sleep again.”

“But what are you going to do?” she cried.

Hugh grinned. “I haven’t the remotest idea,” he answered. “Doubtless the Lord will provide.”

The instant the girl had left the room Hugh switched off the lights and stepped across to the curtains which covered the long windows. He pulled them aside, letting them come together behind him; then, cautiously, he unbolted one side of the big centre window. The night was dark, and the moon was not due to rise for two or three hours, but he was too old a soldier to neglect any precautions. He wanted to see more of The Elms and its inhabitants; but he did not want them to see more of him.

Silently he dodged across the lawn towards the big trees at the end, and leaning up against one of them, he proceeded to make a more detailed survey of his objective. It was the same type of house as the one he had just left, and the grounds seemed about the same size. A wire fence separated the two places, and in the darkness Hugh could just make out a small wicket-gate, closing a path which connected both houses. He tried it, and found to his satisfaction that it opened silently.

Passing through, he took cover behind some bushes from which he could command a better view of Mr. Lakington’s abode. Save for one room on the ground floor the house was in darkness, and Hugh determined to have a look at that room. There was a chink in the curtains, through which the light was streaming out, which struck him as having possibilities.

Keeping under cover, he edged towards it, and at length, he got into a position from which he could see inside. And what he saw made him decide to chance it, and go even closer.

Seated at the table was a man he did not recognise; while on either side of him sat Lakington and Peterson. Lying on a sofa smoking a cigarette and reading a novel was a tall, dark girl, who seemed completely uninterested in the proceedings of the other three. Hugh placed her at once as the doubtful daughter Irma, and resumed his watch on the group at the table.

A paper was in front of the man, and Peterson, who was smoking a large cigar, was apparently suggesting that he should make use of the pen which Lakington was obligingly holding in readiness. In all respects a harmless tableau, save for one small thing the expression on the man’s face. Hugh had seen it before often—only then it had been called shell-shock. The man was dazed, semi-unconscious. Every now and then he stared round the room, as if bewildered; then he would shake his head and pass his hand wearily over his forehead. For a quarter of an hour the scene continued; then Lakington produced an instrument from his pocket. Hugh saw the man shrink back in terror, and reach for the pen. He saw the girl lie back on the sofa as if disappointed and pick up her novel again; and he saw Lakington’s face set in a cold sneer. But what impressed him most in that momentary flash of action was Peterson. There was something inhuman in his complete passivity. By not the fraction of a second did he alter the rate at which he was smoking—the slow, leisurely rate of the connoisseur; by not the twitch of an eyelid did his expression change. Even as he watched the man signing his name, no trace of emotion showed on his face—whereas on Lakington’s there shone a fiendish satisfaction.

The document was still lying on the table, when Hugh produced his revolver. He knew there was foul play about, and the madness of what he had suddenly made up his mind to do never struck him: being that manner of fool, he was made that way. But he breathed a pious prayer that he would shoot straight—and then he held his breath. The crack of the shot and the bursting of the only electric-light bulb in the room were almost simultaneous; and the next second, with a roar of “Come on, boys,” he burst through the window. At an immense advantage over the others, who could see nothing for the moment, he blundered round the room. He timed the blow at Lakington to a nicety; he hit him straight on the point of the jaw and he felt the man go down like a log. Then he grabbed at the paper on the table, which tore in his hand, and picking the dazed signer up bodily, he rushed through the window on to the lawn. There was not an instant to be lost; only the impossibility of seeing when suddenly plunged into darkness had enabled him to pull the thing off so far. And before that advantage disappeared he had to be back at The Larches with his burden, no light weight for even a man of his strength to carry.

But there seemed to be no pursuit, no hue and cry. As he reached the little gate he paused and looked back, and he fancied he saw outside the window a gleam of white, such as a shirt-front. He lingered for an instant, peering into the darkness and recovering his breath, when with a vicious phut something buried itself in the tree beside him. Drummond lingered no more; long years of experience left no doubt in his mind as to what that something was.

“Compressed-air rifle—or electric,” he muttered to himself, stumbling on, and half dragging, half carrying his dazed companion.

He was not very clear in his own mind what to do next, but the matter was settled for him unexpectedly. Barely had he got into the drawing-room, when the door opened and the girl rushed in.

“Get him away at once,” she cried. “In your car… Don’t waste a second. I’ve started her up.”

“Good girl,” he cried enthusiastically. “But what about you?”

She stamped her foot impatiently. “I’m all right—absolutely all right. Get him away—that’s all that matters.”

Drummond grinned. “The humorous thing is that I haven’t an idea who the bird is—except that—” He paused, with his eyes fixed on the man’s left thumb. The top joint was crushed into a red, shapeless pulp, and suddenly the meaning of the instrument Lakington had produced from his pocket became clear. Also the reason of that dreadful cry at dinner…

“By God!” whispered Drummond, half to himself, while his jaws set like a steel vice. “A thumbscrew. The devils…the bloody swine…”

“Oh! quick, quick,” the girl urged in an agony. “They may be here at any moment.” She dragged him to the door, and together they forced the man into the car.

“Lakington won’t,” said Hugh, with a grin. “And if you see him tomorrow—don’t ask after his jaw… Good night, Phyllis.”

With a quick movement he raised her hand to his lips; then he slipped in the clutch and the car disappeared down the drive…

He felt a sense of elation and of triumph at having won the first round, and as the car whirled back to London through the cool night air his heart was singing with the joy of action. And it was perhaps as well for his peace of mind that he did not witness the scene in the room at The Elms.

Lakington still lay motionless on the floor; Peterson’s cigar still glowed steadily in the darkness. It was hard to believe that he had ever moved from the table; only the bullet imbedded in a tree proved that somebody must have got busy. Of course, it might have been the girl, who was just lighting another cigarette from the stump of the old one.

At length Peterson spoke. “A young man of dash and temperament,” he said genially. “It will be a pity to lose him.”

“Why not keep him and lose the girl?” yawned Irma. “I think he might amuse me—”

“We have always our dear Henry to consider,” answered Peterson. “Apparently the girl appeals to him. I’m afraid, Irma, he’ll have to go…and at once…”

The speaker was tapping his left knee softly with his hand; save for that slight movement he sat as if nothing had happened. And yet ten minutes before a carefully planned coup had failed at the instant of success. Even his most fearless accomplices had been known to confess that Peterson’s inhuman calmness sent cold shivers down their backs.

CHAPTER III

In Which Things Happen in Half Moon Street

I

Hugh Drummond folded up the piece of paper he was studying and rose to his feet as the doctor came into the room. He then pushed a silver box of cigarettes across the table and waited.

“Your friend,” said the doctor, “is in a very peculiar condition, Captain Drummond—very peculiar.” He sat down and, putting the tips of his fingers together, gazed at Drummond in his most professional manner. He paused for a moment, as if expecting an awed agreement with this profound utterance, but the soldier was calmly lighting a cigarette. “Can you,” resumed the doctor, “enlighten me at all as to what he has been doing during the last few days?”

Drummond shook his head. “Haven’t an earthly, doctor.”

“There is, for instance, that very unpleasant wound in his thumb,” pursued the other. “The top joint is crushed to a pulp.”

“I noticed that last night,” answered Hugh non-committally. “Looks as if it had been mixed up between a hammer and an anvil, don’t it?”

“But you have no idea how it occurred?”

“I’m full of ideas,” said the soldier. “In fact, if it’s any help to you in your diagnosis, that wound was caused by the application of an unpleasant medieval instrument known as a thumbscrew.”

The worthy doctor looked at him in amazement. “A thumbscrew! You must be joking, Captain Drummond.”

“Very far from it,” answered Hugh briefly. “If you want to know, it was touch and go whether the other thumb didn’t share the same fate.” He blew out a cloud of smoke, and smiled inwardly as he noticed the look of scandalised horror on his companion’s face. “It isn’t his thumb that concerns me,” he continued; “it’s his general condition. What’s the matter with him?”

The doctor pursed his lips and looked wise, while Drummond wondered that no one had ever passed a law allowing men of his type to be murdered on sight.

“His heart seems sound,” he answered after a weighty pause, “and I found nothing wrong with him constitutionally. In fact, I may say, Captain Drummond, he is in every respect a most healthy man. Except—er—except for this peculiar condition.”

Drummond exploded. “Damnation take it, and what on earth do you suppose I asked you to come round for? It’s of no interest to me to hear that his liver is working properly.” Then he controlled himself. “I beg your pardon, doctor: I had rather a trying evening last night. Can you give me any idea as to what has caused this peculiar condition?”

His companion accepted the apology with an acid bow. “Some form of drug,” he answered.

Drummond heaved a sigh of relief. “Now we’re getting on,” he cried. “Have you any idea what drug?”

“It is, at the moment, hard to say,” returned the other. “It seems to have produced a dazed condition mentally, without having affected him physically. In a day or two, perhaps, I might be able to—er—arrive at some conclusion…”

“Which, at present, you have not. Right! Now we know where we are.” A pained expression flitted over the doctor’s face: this young man was very direct. “To continue,” Hugh went on, “as you don’t know what the drug is, presumably you don’t know either how long it will take for the effect to wear off.”

“That—er—is, within limits, correct,” conceded the doctor. “Right! Once again we know where we are. What about diet?”

“Oh! light… Not too much meat… No alcohol…” He rose to his feet as Hugh opened the door; really the war seemed to have produced a distressing effect on people’s manners. Diet was the one question on which he always let himself go…

“Not much meat—no alcohol. Right! Good morning, doctor. Down the stairs and straight on. Good morning.” The door closed behind him, and he descended to his waiting car with cold disapproval on his face. The whole affair struck him as most suspicious—thumbscrews, strange drugs… Possibly it was his duty to communicate with the police…

“Excuse me, sir.” The doctor paused and eyed a well-dressed man who had spoken to him uncompromisingly.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he said.

“Am I right in assuming that you are a doctor?”

“You are perfectly correct, sir, in your assumption.”

The man smiled: obviously a gentleman, thought the practitioner, with his hand on the door of his car.

“It’s about a great pal of mine, Captain Drummond, who lives in here,” went on the other. “I hope you won’t think it unprofessional, but I thought I’d ask you privately how you find him.”

The doctor looked surprised. “I wasn’t aware that he was ill,” he answered.

“But I heard he’d had a bad accident,” said the man, amazed.

The doctor smiled. “Reassure yourself, my dear sir,” he murmured in his best professional manner. “Captain Drummond, so far as I am aware, has never been better. I—er—cannot say the same of his friend.” He stepped into his car. “Why not go up and see for yourself?”

The car rolled smoothly into Piccadilly, but the man showed no signs of availing himself of the doctor’s suggestion. He turned and walked rapidly away, and a few moments later—in an exclusive West End club—a trunk call was put through to Godalming—a call which caused the recipient to nod his head in satisfaction and order the Rolls-Royce.

Meanwhile, unconscious of this sudden solicitude for his health, Hugh Drummond was once more occupied with the piece of paper he had been studying on the doctor’s entrance. Every now and then he ran his fingers through his crisp brown hair and shook his head in perplexity. Beyond establishing the fact that the man in the peculiar condition was Hiram C. Potts, the American multimillionaire, he could make nothing out of it.

“If only I’d managed to get the whole of it,” he muttered to himself for the twentieth time. “That darn’ fellah Peterson was too quick.” The scrap he had torn off was typewritten, save for the American’s scrawled signature, and Hugh knew the words by heart.

plete paralysis

ade of Britain

months I do

the holder of

of five million

do desire and

earl necklace and the

are at present

chess of Lamp-

k no questions

btained.

AM C. Purrs.

At length he replaced the scrap in his pocket-book and rang the bell.

“James,” he remarked as his servant came in, “will you whisper ‘very little meat and no alcohol’ in your wife’s ear, so far as the bird next door is concerned? Fancy paying a doctor to come round and tell one that!”

“Did he say anything more, sir?”

“Oh! A lot. But that was the only thing of the slightest practical use, and I knew that already.” He stared thoughtfully out of the window. “You’d better know,” he continued at length, “that as far as I can see we’re up against a remarkably tough proposition.”

“Indeed, sir,” murmured his servant. “Then perhaps I had better stop any further insertion of that advertisement. It works out at six shillings a time.”

Drummond burst out laughing. “What would I do without you, oh! my James,” he cried. “But you may as well stop it. Our hands will be quite full for some time to come, and I hate disappointing hopeful applicants for my services.”

“The gentleman is asking for you, sir.” Mrs. Denny’s voice from the door made them look round, and Hugh rose.

“Is he talking sensibly, Mrs. Denny?” he asked eagerly, but she shook her head.

“Just the same, sir,” she announced. “Looking round the room all dazed like. And he keeps on saying ‘Danger.’”

Hugh walked quickly along the passage to the room where the millionaire lay in bed.

“How are you feeling?” said Drummond cheerfully.

The man stared at him uncomprehendingly, and shook his head. “Do you remember last night?” Hugh continued, speaking very slowly and distinctly. Then a sudden idea struck him and he pulled the scrap of paper out of his case. “Do you remember signing that?” he asked, holding it out to him.

For a while the man looked at it; then with a sudden cry of fear he shrank away. “No, no,” he muttered, “not again.”

Hugh hurriedly replaced the paper. “Bad break on my part, old bean; you evidently remember rather too well. It’s quite all right,” he continued reassuringly; “no one will hurt you.” Then after a pause: “Is your name Hiram C. Potts?”

The man nodded his head doubtfully and muttered “Hiram Potts” once or twice, as if the words sounded familiar.

“Do you remember driving in a motor-car last night?” persisted Hugh.

But what little flash of remembrance had pierced the drug-clouded brain seemed to have passed; the man only stared dazedly at the speaker. Drummond tried him with a few more questions, but it was no use, and after a while he got up and moved towards the door.

“Don’t you worry, old son,” he said with a smile. “We’ll have you jumping about like a two-year-old in a couple of days.” Then he paused: the man was evidently trying to say something. “What is it you want?” Hugh leant over the bed.

“Danger, danger.” Faintly the words came, and then, with a sigh, he lay back exhausted.

With a grim smile Drummond watched the motionless figure. “I’m afraid,” he said half aloud, “that you’re rather like your medical attendant. Your only contribution to the sphere of pure knowledge is something I know already.”

He went out and quietly closed the door. And as he re-entered his sitting-room he found his servant standing motionless behind one of the curtains watching the street below.

“There’s a man, sir,” he remarked without turning round, “watching the house.”

For a moment Hugh stood still, frowning. Then he gave a short laugh. “The devil there is!” he remarked. “The game has begun in earnest, my worthy warrior, with the first nine points to us. For possession, even of a semi-dazed lunatic, is nine points of the law, is it not, James?”

His servant retreated cautiously from the curtain, and came back into the room. “Of the law—yes, sir,” he repeated enigmatically. “It is time, sir, for your morning glass of beer.”

II

At twelve o’clock precisely the bell rang, announcing a visitor, and Drummond looked up from the columns of the Sportsman as his servant came into the room.

“Yes, James,” he remarked. “I think we are at home. I want you to remain within call, and under no circumstances let our sick visitor out of your sight for more than a minute. In fact, I think you’d better sit in his room.”

He resumed his study of the paper, and James, with a curt “Very good, sir,” left the room. Almost at once he returned, and flinging open the door announced Mr. Peterson.

Drummond looked up quickly and rose with a smile.

“Good morning,” he cried. “This is a very pleasant surprise, Mr. Peterson.” He waved his visitor to a chair. “Hope you’ve had no more trouble with your car.”

Mr. Peterson drew off his gloves, smiling amiably. “None at all, thank you, Captain Drummond. The chauffeur appears to have mastered the defect.”

“It was your eye on him that did it. Wonderful thing—the human optic, as I said to your friend, Mr.—Mr. Laking. I hope that he’s quite well and taking nourishment.”

“Soft food only,” said the other genially. “Mr. Lakington had a most unpleasant accident last night—most unpleasant.”

Hugh’s face expressed his sympathy. “How very unfortunate!” he murmured. “I trust nothing serious.”

“I fear his lower jaw was fractured in two places.” Peterson helped himself to a cigarette from the box beside him. “The man who hit him must have been a boxer.”

“Mixed up in a brawl, was he?” said Drummond, shaking his head. “I should never have thought, from what little I’ve seen of Mr. Lakington, that he went in for painting the town red. I’d have put him down as a most abstemious man—but one never can tell, can one? I once knew a fellah who used to get fighting drunk on three whiskies, and to look at him you’d have put him down as a Methodist parson. Wonderful the amount of cheap fun that chap got out of life.”

Peterson flicked the ash from his cigarette into the grate. “Shall we come to the point, Captain Drummond?” he remarked affably.

Hugh looked bewildered. “The point, Mr. Peterson? Er—by all manner of means.”

Peterson smiled even more affably. “I felt certain that you were a young man of discernment,” he remarked, “and I wouldn’t like to keep you from your paper a minute longer than necessary.”

“Not a bit,” cried Hugh. “My time is yours—though I’d very much like to know your real opinion of The Juggernaut for the Chester Cup. It seems to me that he cannot afford to give Sumatra seven pounds on their form up to date.”

“Are you interested in gambling?” asked Peterson politely.

“A mild flutter, Mr. Peterson, every now and then,” returned Drummond. “Strictly limited stakes.”

“If you confine yourself to that you will come to no harm,” said Peterson. “It is when the stakes become unlimited that the danger of a crash becomes unlimited too.”

“That is what my mother always told me,” remarked Hugh. “She even went farther, dear good woman that she was. ‘Never bet except on a certainty, my boy,’ was her constant advice, ‘and then put your shirt on!’ I can hear her saying it now, Mr. Peterson, with the golden rays of the setting sun lighting up her sweet face.”

Suddenly Peterson leant forward in his chair. “Young man,” he remarked, “we’ve got to understand one another. Last night you butted in on my plans, and I do not like people who do that. By an act which, I must admit, appealed to me greatly, you removed something I require—something, moreover, which I intend to have. Breaking the electric bulb with a revolver-shot shows resource and initiative. The blow which smashed Henry Lakington’s jaw in two places shows strength. All qualities which I admire, Captain Drummond—admire greatly. I should dislike having to deprive the world of those qualities.”

Drummond gazed at the speaker open-mouthed. “My dear sir,” he protested feebly, “you overwhelm me. Are you really accusing me of being a sort of wild west show?” He waggled a finger at Peterson. “You know you’ve been to the movies too much, like my fellah, James. He’s got revolvers and things on the brain.”

Peterson’s face was absolutely impassive; save for a slightly tired smile it was expressionless. “Finally, Captain Drummond, you tore in half a piece of paper which I require—and removed a very dear old friend of my family, who is now in this house. I want them both back, please, and if you like I’ll take them now.”

Drummond shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “There is something about you, Mr. Peterson,” he murmured, “which I like. You strike me as being the type of man to whom a young girl would turn and pour out her maidenly secrets. So masterful, so compelling, so unruffled. I feel sure—when you have finally disabused your mind of this absurd hallucination—that we shall become real friends.”

Peterson still sat motionless save for a ceaseless tapping with his hand on his knee.

“Tell me,” continued Hugh, “why did you allow this scoundrel to treat you in such an off-hand manner? It doesn’t seem to me to be the sort of thing that ought to happen at all, and I suggest your going to the police at once.”

“Unfortunately a bullet intended for him just missed,” answered Peterson casually. “A pity—because there would have been no trace of him by now.”

“Might be awkward for you,” murmured Hugh. “Such methods, Mr. Peterson, are illegal, you know. It’s a dangerous thing to take the law into your own hands. May I offer you a drink?”

Peterson declined courteously. “Thank you—not at this hour.” Then he rose. “I take it, then, that you will not return me my property here and now.”

“Still the same delusion, I see!” remarked Hugh with a smile.

“Still the same delusion,” repeated Peterson. “I shall be ready to receive both the paper and the man up till six o’clock tonight at 32A, Berners Street; and it is possible, I might even say probable, should they turn up by then, that I shall not find it necessary to kill you.”

Hugh grinned. “Your forbearance amazes me,” he cried. “Won’t you really change your mind and have a drink?”

“Should they not arrive by then, I shall be put to the inconvenience of taking them, and in that case—much as I regret it—you may have to be killed. You’re such an aggressive young man, Captain Drummond—and, I fear, not very tactful.” He spoke regretfully, drawing on his gloves; then as he got to the door he paused. “I’m afraid that my words will not have much effect,” he remarked, “but the episode last night did appeal to me. I would like to spare you—I would really. It’s a sign of weakness, my young friend, which I view with amazement—but nevertheless, it is there. So be warned in time. Return my property to Berners Street, and leave England for a few months.” His eyes seemed to burn into the soldier’s brain. “You are meddling in affairs,” he went on gently, “of the danger of which you have no conception. A fly in the gear-box of a motor-car would be a sounder proposition for a life insurance than you will be—if you continue on your present course.”

There was something so incredibly menacing in the soft, quiet voice, that Drummond looked at the speaker fascinated. He had a sudden feeling that he must be dreaming—that in a moment or two he would wake up and find that they had really been talking about the weather the whole time. Then the cynical gleam of triumph in Peterson’s eyes acted on him like a cold douche; quite of clearly that gentleman had misinterpreted his silence.

“Your candour is as refreshing,” he answered genially, “as your similes are apt. I shudder to think of that poor little fly, Mr. Peterson, especially with your chauffeur grinding his gears to pieces.” He held open the door for his visitor, and followed him into the passage. At the other end stood Denny, ostentatiously dusting a book-shelf, and Peterson glanced at him casually. It was characteristic of the man that no trace of annoyance showed on his face. He might have been any ordinary visitor taking his leave.

And then suddenly from the room outside which Denny was dusting there came a low moaning and an incoherent babble. A quick frown passed over Drummond’s face, and Peterson regarded him thoughtfully.

“An invalid in the house?” he remarked. “How inconvenient for you!” He laid his hand for a moment on the soldier’s arm. “I sadly fear you’re going to make a fool of yourself. And it will be such a pity.” He turned towards the stairs. “Don’t bother, please; I can find my own way out.”

III

Hugh turned back into his own room, and lighting a particularly noisy pipe, sat down in his own special chair, where James Denny found him five minutes later, with his hands deep in his pockets, and his legs crossed, staring out of the window. He asked him about lunch twice without result, and having finally been requested to go to hell, he removed himself aggrievedly to the kitchen. Drummond was under no delusions as to the risks he was running. Underrating his opponent had never been a fault of his, either in the ring or in France, and he had no intention of beginning now. The man who could abduct an American millionaire, and drug him till he was little better than a baby, and then use a thumbscrew to enforce his wishes, was not likely to prove overscrupulous in the future. In fact, the phut of that bullet still rang unpleasantly in his ears.

After a while he began half unconsciously to talk aloud to himself. It was an old trick of his when he wanted to make up his mind on a situation, and he found that it helped him to concentrate his thoughts.

“Two alternatives, old buck,” he remarked, stabbing the air with his pipe. “One—give the Potts bird up at Berners Street; two—do not. Number one—out of court at once. Preposterous—absurd. Therefore—number two holds the field.” He recrossed his legs, and ejected a large wineglassful of nicotine juice from the stem of his pipe on to the carpet. Then he sank back exhausted, and rang the bell.

“James,” he said, as the door opened, “take a piece of paper and a pencil—if there’s one with a point—and sit down at the table. I’m going to think, and I’d hate to miss out anything.”

His servant complied, and for a while silence reigned.

“First,” remarked Drummond, “put down—‘They know where Potts is.’”

“Is, sir, or are?” murmured Denny, sucking his pencil.

“Is, you fool. It’s a man, not a collection. And don’t interrupt, for Heaven’s sake. Two—‘They will try to get Potts.’”

“Yes, sir,” answered Denny, writing busily.

“Three—‘They will not get Potts.’ That is as far as I’ve got at the moment, James—but every word of it stands. Not bad for a quarter of an hour, my trusty fellah—what?”

“That’s the stuff to give the troops, sir,” agreed his audience, sucking his teeth.

Hugh looked at him in displeasure. “That noise is not, James,” he remarked severely. “Now you’ve got to do something else. Rise and with your well-known stealth approach the window, and see if the watcher still watcheth without.”

The servant took a prolonged survey, and finally announced that he failed to see him.

“Then that proves conclusively that he’s there,” said Hugh. “Write it down, James: Four—‘Owing to the watcher without, Potts cannot leave the house without being seen.’”

“That’s two withouts, sir,” ventured James tentatively; but Hugh, with a sudden light dawning in his eyes, was staring at the fire-place.

“I’ve got it, James,” he cried. “I’ve got it… Five—@Potts must leave the house without being seen.@ I want him, James, I want him all to myself. I want to make much of him and listen to his childish prattle. He shall go to my cottage on the river, and you shall look after him.”

“Yes, sir,” returned James dutifully.

“And in order to get him there, we must get rid of the watcher without. How can we get rid of the bird—how can we, James, I ask you? Why, by giving him nothing further to watch for. Once let him think that Potts is no longer within, unless he’s an imbecile he will no longer remain without.”

“I see, sir,” said James.

“No, you don’t—you don’t see anything. Now trot along over, James, and give my compliments to Mr. Darrell. Ask him to come in and see me for a moment. Say I’m thinking and daren’t move.”

James rose obediently, and Drummond heard him cross over the passage to the other suite of rooms that lay on the same floor. Then he heard the murmur of voices, and shortly afterwards his servant returned.

“He is in his bath, sir, but he’ll come over as soon as he’s finished.” He delivered the message and stood waiting. “Anything more, sir?”

“Yes, James. I feel certain that there’s a lot. But just to carry on with, I’ll have another glass of beer.”

As the door closed, Drummond rose and started to pace up and down the room. The plan he had in mind was simple, but he was a man who believed in simplicity.

“Peterson will not come himself—nor will our one and only Henry. Potts has not been long in the country, which is all to the good. And if it fails—we shan’t be any worse off than we are now. Luck—that’s all; and the more you tempt her, the kinder she is.” He was still talking gently to himself when Peter Darrell strolled into the room.

“Can this thing be true, old boy,” remarked the newcomer. “I hear you’re in the throes of a brain-storm.”

“I am, Peter—and not even that repulsive dressing-gown of yours can stop it. I want you to help me.”

“All that I have, dear old flick, is yours for the asking. What can I do?”

“Well, first of all, I want you to come along and see the household pet.” He piloted Darrell along the passage to the American’s room, and opened the door. The millionaire looked at them dazedly from the pillows, and Darrell stared back in startled surprise.

“My God! What’s the matter with him?” he cried.

“I would give a good deal to know,” said Hugh grimly. Then he smiled reassuringly at the motionless man, and led the way back to the sitting-room.

“Sit down, Peter,” he said. “Get outside that beer and listen to me carefully.”

For ten minutes he spoke, while his companion listened in silence. Gone completely was the rather vacuous-faced youth clad in a gorgeous dressing-gown; in his place there sat a keen-faced man nodding from time to time as a fresh point was made clear. Even so had both listened in the years that were past to their battalion commander’s orders before an attack.

At length Hugh finished. “Will you do it, old man?” he asked.

“Of course,” returned the other. “But wouldn’t it be better, Hugh,” he said pleadingly, “to whip up two or three of the boys and, have a real scrap? I don’t seem to have anything to do.”

Drummond shook his head decidedly. “No, Peter, my boy—not this show. We’re up against a big thing; and if you like to come in with me, I think you’ll have all you want in the scrapping line before you’ve finished. But this time, low cunning is the order.”

Darrell rose. “Right you are, dearie. Your instructions shall be carried out to the letter. Come and feed your face with me. Got a couple of birds from the Gaiety lunching at the Cri.”

“Not today,” said Hugh. “I’ve got quite a bit to get through this afternoon.”

As soon as Darrell had gone, Drummond again rang the bell for his servant.

“This afternoon, James, you and Mrs. Denny will leave here and go to Paddington. Go out by the front door, and should you find yourselves being followed—as you probably will be—consume a jujube and keep your heads. Having arrived at the booking office—take a ticket to Cheltenham, say good-bye to Mrs. Denny in an impassioned tone, and exhort her not to miss the next train to that delectable inland resort. You might even speak slightingly about her sick aunt at Westbourne Grove, who alone prevents your admirable wife from accompanying you. Then, James, you will board the train for Cheltenham and go there. You will remain there for two days, during which period you must remember that you’re a married man—even if you do go to the movies. You will then return here, and await further orders. Do you get me?”

“Yes, sir.” James stood to attention with a smart heel-click. “Your wife—she has a sister or something, hasn’t she, knocking about somewhere?”

“She ’as a palsied cousin in Camberwell, sir,” remarked James with justifiable pride.

“Magnificent,” murmured Hugh. “She will dally until eventide with her palsied cousin—if she can bear it—and then she must go by Underground to Ealing, where she will take a ticket to Goring. I don’t think there will be any chance of her being followed—you’ll have drawn them off. When she gets to Goring I want the cottage got ready at once, for two visitors.” He paused and lit a cigarette. “Above all, James—mum’s the word. As I told you a little while ago, the game has begun. Now just repeat what I’ve told you.”

He listened while his servant ran through his instructions, and nodded approvingly. “To think there are still people who think military service a waste of time!” he murmured. “Four years ago you couldn’t have got one word of it right.”

He dismissed Denny, and sat down at his desk. First he took the half-torn sheet out of his pocket, and putting it in an envelope, sealed it carefully. Then he placed it in another envelope, with a covering letter to his bank, requesting them to keep the enclosure intact.

Then he took a sheet of notepaper, and with much deliberation proceeded to pen a document which accorded him considerable amusement, judging by the grin which appeared from time to time on his face. This effusion he also enclosed in a sealed envelope, which he again addressed to his bank. Finally, he stamped the first, but not the second—and placed them both in his pocket.

For the next two hours he apparently found nothing better to do than eat a perfectly grilled chop prepared by Mrs. Denny, and superintend his visitor unwillingly consuming a sago pudding. Then, with the departure of the Dennys for Paddington, which coincided most aptly with the return of Peter Darrell, a period of activity commenced in Half Moon Street. But being interior activity, interfering in no way with the placid warmth of the street outside, the gentleman without, whom a keen observer might have thought strangely interested in the beauties of that well-known thoroughfare—seeing that he had been there for three hours—remained serenely unconscious of it. His pal had followed the Dennys to Paddington. Drummond had not come out—and the watcher who watched without was beginning to get bored.

About 4.30 he sat up and took notice again as someone left the house; but it was only the superbly dressed young man whom he had discovered already was merely a clothes-peg calling himself Darrell.

The sun was getting low and the shadows were lengthening when a taxi drove up to the door. Immediately the watcher drew closer, only to stop with a faint smile as he saw two men get out of it. One was the immaculate Darrell; the other was a stranger, and both were quite obviously what in the vernacular is known as “oiled”.

“You prisheless ole bean,” he heard Darrell say affectionately, “thish blinking cabsh my show.”

The other man hiccoughed assent, and leant wearily against the palings.

“Right,” he remarked, “ole friend of me youth. It shall be ash you wish.”

With a tolerant eye he watched them tack up the stairs, singing lustily in chorus. Then the door above closed, and the melody continued to float out through the open window.

Ten minutes later he was relieved. It was quite an unostentatious relief: another man merely strolled past him. And since there was nothing to report, he merely strolled away. He could hardly be expected to know that up in Peter Darrell’s sitting-room two perfectly sober men were contemplating with professional eyes an extremely drunk gentleman singing in a chair, and that one of those two sober young men was Peter Darrell.

Then further interior activity took place in Half Moon Street, and as the darkness fell, silence gradually settled on the house. Ten o’clock struck, then eleven—and the silence remained unbroken. It was not till eleven-thirty that a sudden small sound made Hugh Drummond sit up in his chair, with every nerve alert. It came from the direction of the kitchen—and it was the sound he had been waiting for.

Swiftly he opened his door and passed along the passage to where the motionless man lay still in bed. Then he switched on a small reading-lamp, and with a plate of semolina in his hand he turned to the recumbent figure.

“Hiram C. Potts,” he said in a low, coaxing tone, “sit up and take your semolina. Force yourself, laddie, force yourself. I know it’s nauseating, but the doctor said no alcohol and very little meat.”

In the silence that followed, a board creaked outside, and again he tempted the sick man with food.

“Semolina, Hiram—semolina. Makes bouncing babies. I’d just love to see you bounce, my Potts.”

His voice died away, and he rose slowly to his feet. In the open door four men were standing, each with a peculiar-shaped revolver in his hand.

“What the devil,” cried Drummond furiously, “is the meaning of this?”

“Cut it out,” cried the leader contemptuously. “These guns are silent. If you utter—you die. Do you get me?”

The veins stood out on Drummond’s forehead, and he controlled himself with an immense effort.

“Are you aware that this man is a guest of mine, and sick?” he said, his voice shaking with rage.

“You don’t say,” remarked the leader, and one of the others laughed. “Rip the bed-clothes off, boys, and gag the young cock-sparrow.”

Before he could resist, a gag was thrust in Drummond’s mouth and his hands were tied behind his back. Then, helpless and impotent, he watched three of them lift up the man from the bed, and, putting a gag in his mouth also, carry him out of the room.

“Move,” said the fourth to Hugh. “You join the picnic.”

With fury gathering in his eyes he preceded his captor along the passage and downstairs. A large car drove up as they reached the street, and in less time than it takes to tell, the two helpless men were pushed in, followed by the leader; the door was shut and the car drove off.

“Don’t forget,” he said to Drummond suavely, “this gun is silent. You had better be the same.”

* * * *

At one o’clock the car swung up to The Elms. For the last ten minutes Hugh had been watching the invalid in the corner, who was making frantic efforts to loosen his gag. His eyes were rolling horribly, and he swayed from side to side in his seat, but the bandages round his hands held firm and at last he gave it up.

Even when he was lifted out and carried indoors he did not struggle; he seemed to have sunk into a sort of apathy. Drummond followed with dignified calmness, and was led into a room off the hall.

In a moment or two Peterson entered, followed by his daughter. “Ah! my young friend,” cried Peterson affably. “I hardly thought you’d give me such an easy run as this.” He put his hand into Drummond’s pockets, and pulled out his revolver and a bundle of letters. “To your bank,” he murmured. “Oh! surely, surely not that as well. Not even stamped. Ungag him, Irma—and untie his hands. My very dear young friend—you pain me.”

“I wish to know, Mr. Peterson,” said Hugh quietly, “by what right this dastardly outrage has been committed. A friend of mine, sick in bed—removed; abducted in the middle of the night: to say nothing of me.”

With a gentle laugh Irma offered him a cigarette. “Mon Dieu!” she remarked, “but you are most gloriously ugly, my Hugh!”

Drummond looked at her coldly, while Peterson, with a faint smile, opened the envelope in his hand. And, even as he pulled out the contents, he paused suddenly and the smile faded from his face. From the landing upstairs came a heavy crash, followed by a flood of the most appalling language.

“What the—hell do you think you’re doing, you flat-faced son of a Maltese goat? And where the—am I, anyway?”

“I must apologise for my friend’s language,” murmured Hugh gently, “but you must admit he has some justification. Besides, he was, I regret to state, quite wonderfully drunk earlier this evening, and just as he was sleeping it off these desperadoes abducted him.” The next moment the door burst open, and an infuriated object rushed in. His face was wild, and his hand was bandaged, showing a great red stain on the thumb.

“What’s this—jest?” he howled furiously. “And this damned bandage all covered with red ink?”

“You must ask our friend here, Mullings,” said Hugh. “He’s got a peculiar sense of humour. Anyway, he’s got the bill in his hand.”

In silence they watched Peterson open the paper and read the contents, while the girl leant over his shoulder.

To Mr. Peterson, The Elms, Godalming.

To hire one demobilised soldier: £5.0s.0d

To making him drunk in this item (present strength and cost of drink and said soldier’s capacity must be allowed for) £5.0s.0d

To bottle of red ink: £0.0s.1d

To shock to system: £10.0s.0d

TOTAL: £20.0s.1d

It was Irma who laughed.

“Oh! but, my Hugh,” she gurgled, “que vous êtes adorable!”

But he did not look at her. His eyes were on Peterson, who with a perfectly impassive face was staring at him fixedly.

CHAPTER IV

In Which He Spends a Quiet Night at The Elms

I

“It is a little difficult to know what to do with you, young man,” said Peterson gently, after a long silence. “I knew you had no tact.”

Drummond leaned back in his chair and regarded his host with a faint smile.

“I must come to you for lessons, Mr. Peterson. Though I frankly admit,” he added genially, “that I have never been brought up to regard the forcible abduction of a harmless individual and a friend who is sleeping off the effects of what low people call a jag as being exactly typical of that admirable quality.”

Peterson’s glance rested on the dishevelled man still standing by the door, and after a moment’s thought he leaned forward and pressed a bell.

“Take that man away,” he said abruptly to the servant who came into the room, “and put him to bed. I will consider what to do with him in the morning.”

“Consider be damned,” howled Mullings, starting forward angrily. “You’ll consider a thick ear, Mr. Blooming Knowall. What I wants to know—”

The words died away in his mouth, and he gazed at Peterson like a bird looks at a snake. There was something so ruthlessly malignant in the stare of the grey-blue eyes, that the ex-soldier who had viewed going over the top with comparative equanimity, as being part of his job, quailed and looked apprehensively at Drummond.

“Do what the kind gentleman tells you, Mullings,” said Hugh, “and go to bed.” He smiled at the man reassuringly. “And if you’re very, very good, perhaps, as a great treat, he’ll come and kiss you good night.”

“Now that,” he remarked as the door closed behind them, “is what I call tact.”

He lit a cigarette, and thoughtfully blew out a cloud of smoke. “Stop this fooling,” snarled Peterson. “Where have you hidden Potts?”

“Tush, tush,” murmured Hugh. “You surprise me. I had formed such a charming mental picture of you, Mr. Peterson, as the strong, silent man who never lost his temper, and here you are disappointing me at the beginning of our acquaintance.”

For a moment he thought that Peterson was going to strike him, and his own fist clenched under the table.

“I wouldn’t, my friend,” he said quietly; “indeed I wouldn’t. Because if you hit me, I shall most certainly hit you. And it will not improve your beauty.”

Slowly Peterson sank back in his chair, and the veins which had been standing out on his forehead became normal again. He even smiled; only the ceaseless tapping of his hand on his left knee betrayed his momentary loss of composure. Drummond’s fist unclenched, and he stole a look at the girl. She was in her favourite attitude on the sofa, and had not even looked up.

“I suppose that it is quite useless for me to argue with you,” said Peterson after a while.

“I was a member of my school debating society,” remarked Hugh reminiscently. “But I was never much good. I’m too obvious for argument, I’m afraid.”

“You probably realise from what has happened tonight,” continued Peterson, “that I am in earnest.”

“I should be sorry to think so,” answered Hugh. “If that is the best you can do, I’d cut it right out and start a tomato farm.”

The girl gave a little gurgle of laughter and lit another cigarette.

“Will you come and do the dangerous part of the work for us, Monsieur Hugh?” she asked.

“If you promise to restrain the little fellows, I’ll water them with pleasure,” returned Hugh lightly.

Peterson rose and walked over to the window, where he stood motionless staring out into the darkness. For all his assumed flippancy, Hugh realised that the situation was what in military phraseology might be termed critical. There were in the house probably half a dozen men who, like their master, were absolutely unscrupulous. If it suited Peterson’s book to kill him, he would not hesitate to do so for a single second. And Hugh realised, when he put it that way in his own mind, that it was no exaggeration, no façon de parler, but a plain, unvarnished statement of fact. Peterson would no more think twice of killing a man if he wished to, than the normal human being would of crushing a wasp.

For a moment the thought crossed his mind that he would take no chances by remaining in the house; that he would rush Peterson from behind and escape into the darkness of the garden. But it was only momentary—gone almost before it had come, for Hugh Drummond was not that manner of man—gone even before he noticed that Peterson was standing in such a position that he could see every detail of the room behind him reflected in the glass through which he stared.

A fixed determination to know what lay in that sinister brain replaced his temporary indecision. Events up to date had moved so quickly that he had hardly had time to get his bearings; even now the last twenty-four hours seemed almost a dream. And as he looked at the broad back and massive head of the man at the window, and from him to the girl idly smoking on the sofa, he smiled a little grimly. He had just remembered the thumbscrew of the preceding evening. Assuredly the demobilised officer who found peace dull was getting his money’s worth; and Drummond had a shrewd suspicion that the entertainment was only just beginning.

A sudden sound outside in the garden made him look up quickly. He saw the white gleam of a shirt front, and the next moment a man pushed open the window and came unsteadily into the room. It was Mr. Benton, and quite obviously he had been seeking consolation in the bottle.

“Have you got him?” he demanded thickly, steadying himself with a hand on Peterson’s arm.

“I have not,” said Peterson shortly, eyeing the swaying figure in front of him contemptuously.

“Where is he?”

“Perhaps if you ask your daughter’s friend Captain Drummond, he might tell you. For Heaven’s sake sit down, man, before you fall down.” He pushed Benton roughly into a chair, and resumed his impassive stare into the darkness.

The girl took not the slightest notice of the new arrival who gazed stupidly at Drummond across the table.

“We seem to be moving in an atmosphere of cross-purposes, Mr. Benton,” said the soldier affably. “Our host will not get rid of the idea that I am a species of bandit. I hope your daughter is quite well.”

“Er—quite, thank you,” muttered the other.

“Tell her, will you, that I propose to call on her before returning to London tomorrow. That is, if she won’t object to my coming early.”

With his hands in his pockets, Peterson was regarding Drummond from the window.

“You propose leaving us tomorrow, do you?” he said quietly. Drummond stood up.

“I ordered my car for ten o’clock,” he answered. “I hope that will not upset the household arrangements,” he continued, turning to the girl, who was laughing softly and polishing her nails.

“Vraiment! But you grow on one, my Hugh,” she smiled. “Are we really losing you so soon?”

“I am quite sure that I shall be more useful to Mr. Peterson at large, than I am cooped up here,” said Hugh. “I might even lead him to this hidden treasure which he thinks I’ve got.”

“You will do that all right,” remarked Peterson. “But at the moment I was wondering whether a little persuasion now—might not give me all the information I require more quickly and with less trouble.”

A fleeting vision of a mangled, pulp-like thumb flashed across Hugh’s mind; once again he heard that hideous cry, half animal, half human, which had echoed through the darkness the preceding night, and for an instant his breath came a little faster. Then he smiled, and shook his head.

“I think you are rather too good a judge of human nature to try anything so foolish,” he said thoughtfully. “You see, unless you kill me, which I don’t think would suit your book, you might find explanations a little difficult tomorrow.”

For a while there was silence in the room, broken at length by a short laugh from Peterson.

“For a young man truly your perspicacity is great,” he remarked. “Irma, is the blue room ready? If so, tell Luigi to show Captain Drummond to it.”

“I will show him myself,” she answered, rising. “And then I shall go to bed. Mon Dieu! my Hugh, but I find your country très ennuyeux.” She stood in front of him for a moment, and then led the way to the door, glancing at him over her shoulder.

Hugh saw a quick look of annoyance pass over Peterson’s face as he turned to follow the girl, and it struck him that that gentleman was not best pleased at the turn of events. It vanished almost as soon as it came, and Peterson waved a friendly hand at him, as if the doings of the night had been the most ordinary thing in the world. Then the door closed, and he followed his guide up the stairs.

The house was beautifully furnished. Hugh was no judge of art, but even his inexperienced eye could see that the prints on the walls were rare and valuable. The carpets were thick, and his feet sank into them noiselessly; the furniture was solid and in exquisite taste. And it was as he reached the top of the stairs that a single deep-noted clock rang a wonderful chime and then struck the hour. The time was just three o’clock.

The girl opened the door of a room and switched on the light. Then she faced him smiling, and Hugh looked at her steadily. He had no wish whatever for any conversation, but as she was standing in the centre of the doorway it was impossible for him to get past her without being rude.

“Tell me, you ugly man,” she murmured, “why you are such a fool.”

Hugh smiled, and, as has been said before, Hugh’s smile transformed his face.

“I must remember that opening,” he said. “So many people, I feel convinced, would like to say it on first acquaintance, but confine themselves to merely thinking it. It establishes a basis of intimacy at once, doesn’t it?”

She swayed a little towards him, and then, before he realised her intention, she put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t you understand,” she whispered fiercely, “that they’ll kill you?” She peered past him half fearfully, and then turned to him again. “Go, you idiot, go—while there’s time. Oh! if I could only make you understand; if you’d only believe me! Get out of it—go abroad; do anything—but don’t fool around here.”

In her agitation she was shaking him to and fro.

“It seems a cheerful household,” remarked Hugh, with a smile. “May I ask why you’re all so concerned about me? Your estimable father gave me the same advice yesterday morning.”

“Don’t ask why,” she answered feverishly, “because I can’t tell you. Only you must believe that what I say is the truth—you must. It’s just possible that if you go now and tell them where you’ve hidden the American you’ll be all right. But if you don’t—” Her hand dropped to her side suddenly. “Breakfast will be at nine, my Hugh: until then, au revoir.”

He turned as she left the room, a little puzzled by her change of tone. Standing at the top of the stairs was Peterson, watching them both in silence…

II

In the days when Drummond had been a platoon commander, he had done many dangerous things. The ordinary joys of the infantry subaltern’s life—such as going over the top, and carrying out raids—had not proved sufficient for his appetite. He had specialised in peculiar stunts of his own: stunts over which he was singularly reticent; stunts over which his men formed their own conclusions, and worshipped him accordingly.

But Drummond was no fool, and he had realised the vital importance of fitting himself for these stunts to the best of his ability. Enormous physical strength is a great asset, but it carries with it certain natural disadvantages. In the first place, its possessor is frequently clumsy: Hugh had practised in France till he could move over ground without a single blade of grass rustling. Van Dyck—a Dutch trapper—had first shown him the trick, by which a man goes forward on his elbows like a snake, and is here one moment and gone the next, with no one the wiser.

Again, its possessor is frequently slow: Hugh had practised in France till he could kill a man with his bare hands in a second. Olaki—a Japanese—had first taught him two or three of the secrets of his trade, and in the intervals of resting behind the lines he had perfected them until it was even money whether the Jap or he would win in a practice bout.

And there were nights in No Man’s Land when his men would hear strange sounds, and knowing that Drummond was abroad on his wanderings, would peer eagerly over the parapet into the desolate torn-up waste in front. But they never saw anything, even when the green ghostly flares went hissing up into the darkness and the shadows danced fantastically. All was silent and still; the sudden shrill whimper was not repeated.

Perhaps a patrol coming back would report a German, lying huddled in a shell-hole, with no trace of a wound, but only a broken neck; perhaps the patrol never found anything. But whatever the report, Hugh Drummond only grinned and saw to his men’s breakfasts. Which is why there are in England today quite a number of civilians who acknowledge only two rulers the King and Hugh Drummond. And they would willingly die for either.

The result on Drummond was not surprising: as nearly as a man may be he was without fear. And when the idea came to him as he sat on the edge of his bed thoughtfully pulling off his boots, no question of the possible risk entered into his mind. To explore the house seemed the most natural thing in the world, and with characteristic brevity he summed up the situation as it struck him.

“They suspect me anyhow: in fact, they know I took Potts. Therefore even if they catch me passage-creeping, I’m no worse off than I am now. And I might find something of interest. Therefore, carry on, brave heart.”

The matter was settled; the complete bench of bishops headed by their attendant satellites would not have stopped him, nor the fact that the German front-line trench was a far safer place for a stranger than The Elms at night. But he didn’t know that fact, and it would have cut no more ice than the episcopal dignitaries, if he had…

It was dark in the passage outside as he opened the door of his room and crept towards the top of the stairs. The collar of his brown lounge coat was turned up, and his stockinged feet made no sound on the heavy pile carpet. Like a huge shadow he vanished into the blackness, feeling his way forward with the uncanny instinct that comes from much practice. Every now and then he paused and listened intently, but the measured ticking of the clock below and the occasional creak of a board alone broke the stillness.

For a moment his outline showed up against the faint grey light which was coming through a window half-way down the stairs; then he was gone again, swallowed up in the gloom of the hall. To the left lay the room in which he had spent the evening, and Drummond turned to the right. As he had gone up to bed he had noticed a door screened by a heavy curtain which he thought might be the room Phyllis Benton had spoken of—the room where Henry Lakington kept his ill-gotten treasures. He felt his way along the hall, and at length his hand touched the curtain—only to drop it again at once. From close behind him had come a sharp, angry hiss…

He stepped back a pace and stood rigid, staring at the spot from which the sound had seemed to come—but he could see nothing. Then he leaned forward and once more moved the curtain. Instantly it came again, sharper and angrier than before.

Hugh passed a hand over his forehead and found it damp. Germans he knew, and things on two legs, but what was this that hissed so viciously in the darkness? At length he determined to risk it, and drew from his pocket a tiny electric torch. Holding it well away from his body, he switched on the light. In the centre of the beam, swaying gracefully to and fro, was a snake. For a moment he watched it fascinated as it spat at the light angrily; he saw the flat hood where the vicious head was set on the upright body; then he switched off the torch and retreated rather faster then he had come.

“A convivial household,” he muttered to himself through lips that were a little dry. “A hooded cobra is an unpleasing pet.”

He stood leaning against the banisters regaining his self-control. There was no further sound from the cobra; seemingly it only got annoyed when its own particular domain was approached. In fact, Hugh had just determined to reconnoitre the curtained doorway again to see if it was possible to circumvent the snake, when a low chuckle came distinctly to his ears from the landing above.

He flushed angrily in the darkness. There was no doubt whatever as to the human origin of that laugh, and Hugh suddenly realised that he was making the most profound fool of himself. And such a realisation, though possibly salutary to all of us at times, is most unpleasant.

For Hugh Drummond, who, with all his lack of conceit, had a very good idea of Hugh Drummond’s capabilities, to be at an absolute disadvantage—to be laughed at by some dirty swine whom he could strangle in half a minute—was impossible! His fists clenched, and he swore softly under his breath. Then as silently as he had come down, he commenced to climb the stairs again. He had a hazy idea that he would like to hit something—hard.

There were nine stairs in the first half of the flight, and it was as he stood on the fifth that he again heard the low chuckle. At the same instant something whizzed past his head so low that it almost touched his hair, and there was a clang on the wall beside him. He ducked instinctively, and regardless of noise raced up the remaining stairs on all fours. His jaw was set like a vice, his eyes were blazing; in fact, Hugh Drummond was seeing red.

He paused when he reached the top, crouching in the darkness. Close to him he could feel someone else, and holding his breath, he listened. Then he heard the man move—only the very faintest sound—but it was enough. Without a second’s thought he sprang, and his hands closed on human flesh. He laughed gently; then he fought in silence.

His opponent was strong above the average, but after a minute he was like a child in Hugh’s grasp. He choked once or twice and muttered something; then Hugh slipped his right hand gently on to the man’s throat. His fingers moved slowly round, his thumb adjusted itself lovingly, and the man felt his head being forced back irresistibly. He gave one strangled cry, and then the pressure relaxed…

“One half-inch more, my gentle humorist,” Hugh whispered in his ear, “and your neck would have been broken. As it is, it will be very stiff for some days. Another time—don’t laugh. It’s dangerous.”

Then, like a ghost, he vanished along the passage in the direction of his own room.

“I wonder who the bird was,” he murmured thoughtfully to himself. “Somehow I don’t think he’ll laugh quite so much in future—damn him.”

III

At eight o’clock the next morning a burly-looking ruffian brought in some hot water and a cup of tea. Hugh watched him through half-closed eyes, and eliminated him from the competition. His bullet head moved freely on a pair of massive shoulders; his neck showed no traces of nocturnal trouble. As he pulled up the blinds the light fell full on his battered, rugged face, and suddenly Hugh sat up in bed and stared at him.

“Good Lord!” he cried, “aren’t you Jem Smith?”

The man swung round like a flash and glared at the bed.

“Wot the ’ell ’as that got to do wiv you?” he snarled, and then his face changed. “Why, strike me pink, if it ain’t young Drummond.”

Hugh grinned.

“Right in one, Jem. What in the name of fortune are you doing in this outfit?”

But the man was not to be drawn.

“Never you mind, sir,” he said grimly. “I reckons thet’s my own business.”

“Given up the game, Jem?” asked Hugh.

“It give me up, when that cross-eyed son of a gun Yung Baxter fought that cross down at Oxton. Gawd! if I could get the swine—just once again—s’welp me, I’d—” Words failed the ex-bruiser; he could only mutter. And Hugh, who remembered the real reason why the game had given Jem up, and a period of detention at His Majesty’s expense had taken its place, preserved a discreet silence.

The pug paused as he got to the door, and looked at Drummond doubtfully. Then he seemed to make up his mind, and advanced to the side of the bed.

“It ain’t none o’ my business,” he muttered hoarsely, “but seeing as ’ow you’re one of the boys, if I was you I wouldn’t get looking too close at things in this ’ere ’ouse. It ain’t ’ealthy: only don’t say as I said so.”

Hugh smiled.

“Thank you, Jem. By the way, has anyone got a stiff neck in the house this morning?”

“Stiff neck!” echoed the man. “Strike me pink if that ain’t funny—you’re asking, I mean. The bloke’s sitting up in ’is bed swearing awful. Can’t move ’is ’ead at all.”

“And who, might I ask, is the bloke?” said Drummond, stirring his tea.

“Why, Peterson, o’ course. ’Oo else? Breakfast at nine.”

The door closed behind him, and Hugh lit a cigarette thoughtfully. Most assuredly he was starting in style: Lakington’s jaw one night, Peterson’s neck the second, seemed a sufficiently energetic opening to the game for the veriest glutton. Then that cheerful optimism which was the envy of his friends asserted itself.

“Supposin’ I’d killed ’em,” he murmured, aghast. “Just supposin’. Why, the bally show would have been over, and I’d have had to advertise again.”

Only Peterson was in the dining-room when Hugh came down. He had examined the stairs on his way, but he could see nothing unusual which would account for the thing which had whizzed past his head and clanged sullenly against the wall. Nor was there any sign of the cobra by the curtained door; merely Peterson standing in a sunny room behind a bubbling coffee-machine.

“Good morning,” remarked Hugh affably. “How are we all today? By Jove! that coffee smells good.”

“Help yourself,” said Peterson. “My daughter is never down as early as this.”

“Rarely conscious before eleven—what!” murmured Hugh. “Deuced wise of her. May I press you to a kidney?” He returned politely towards his host, and paused in dismay. “Good heavens! Mr. Peterson, is your neck hurting you?”

“It is,” answered Peterson grimly.

“A nuisance, having a stiff neck. Makes everyone laugh, and one gets no sympathy. Bad thing—laughter… At times, anyway.” He sat down and commenced to eat his breakfast.

“Curiosity is a great deal worse, Captain Drummond. It was touch and go whether I killed you last night.”

The two men were staring at one another steadily.

“I think I might say the same,” returned Drummond.

“Yes and no,” said Peterson. “From the moment you left the bottom of the stairs, I had your life in the palm of my hand. Had I chosen to take it, my young friend, I should not have had this stiff neck.”

Hugh returned to his breakfast unconcernedly.

“Granted, laddie, granted. But had I not been of such a kindly and forbearing nature, you wouldn’t have had it, either.” He looked at Peterson critically. “I’m inclined to think it’s a great pity I didn’t break your neck, while I was about it.” Hugh sighed, and drank some coffee. “I see that I shall have to do it some day, and probably Lakington’s as well… By the way, how is our Henry? I trust his jaw is not unduly inconveniencing him.”

Peterson, with his coffee cup in his hand, was staring down the drive.

“Your car is a little early, Captain Drummond,” he said at length. “However, perhaps it can wait two or three minutes, while we get matters perfectly clear. I should dislike you not knowing where you stand.” He turned round and faced the soldier. “You have deliberately, against my advice, elected to fight me and the interests I represent. So be it. From now on, the gloves are off. You embarked on this course from a spirit of adventure, at the instigation of the girl next door. She, poor little fool, is concerned over that drunken waster—her father. She asked you to help her—you agreed; and, amazing though it may seem, up to now you have scored a certain measure of success. I admit it, and I admire you for it. I apologise now for having played the fool with you last night; you’re the type of man whom one should kill outright—or leave alone.”

He set down his coffee cup, and carefully snipped the end off a cigar.

“You are also the type of man who will continue on the path he has started. You are completely in the dark; you have no idea whatever what you are up against.” He smiled grimly, and turned abruptly on Hugh. “You fool—you stupid young fool. Do you really imagine that you can beat me?”

The soldier rose and stood in front of him.

“I have a few remarks of my own to make,” he answered, “and then we might consider the interview closed. I ask nothing better than that the gloves should be off—though with your filthy methods of fighting, anything you touch will get very dirty. As you say, I am completely in the dark as to your plans; but I have a pretty shrewd idea what I’m up against. Men who can employ thumbscrew on a poor defenceless brute seem to me to be several degrees worse than an aboriginal cannibal, and therefore if I put you down as one of the lowest types of degraded criminal I shall not be very wide of the mark. There’s no good you snarling at me, you swine; it does everybody good to hear some home truths—and don’t forget it was you who pulled off the gloves.”

Drummond lit a cigarette; then his merciless eyes fixed themselves again on Peterson.

“There is only one thing more,” he continued. “You have kindly warned me of my danger: let me give you a word of advice in my turn. I’m going to fight you; if I can, I’m going to beat you. Anything that may happen to me is part of the game. But if anything happens to Miss Benton during the course of operations, then, as surely as there is a God above, Peterson, I’ll get at you somehow and murder you with my own hands.”

For a few moments there was silence, and then with a short laugh Drummond turned away.

“Quite melodramatic,” he remarked lightly. “And very bad for the digestion so early in the morning. My regards to your charming daughter, also to him of the broken jaw. Shall we meet again soon?” He paused at the door and looked back.

Peterson was still standing by the table, his face expressionless.

“Very soon indeed, young man,” he said quietly. “Very soon indeed…”

Hugh stepped out into the warm sunshine and spoke to his chauffeur.

“Take her out into the main road, Jenkins,” he said, “and wait for me outside the entrance to the next house. I shan’t be long.”

Then he strolled through the garden towards the little wicket-gate that led to The Larches. Phyllis! The thought of her was singing in his heart to the exclusion of everything else. Just a few minutes with her; just the touch of her hand, the faint smell of the scent she used—and then back to the game.

He had almost reached the gate, when, with a sudden crashing in the undergrowth, Jem Smith blundered out into the path. His naturally ruddy face was white, and he stared round fearfully.

“Gawd! sir,” he cried, “mind out. ’Ave yer seen it?”

“Seen what, Jem?” asked Drummond.

“That there brute. ’E’s escaped; and if ’e meets a stranger—” He left the sentence unfinished, and stood listening. From somewhere behind the house came a deep-throated, snarling roar; then the clang of a padlock shooting home in metal, followed by a series of heavy thuds as if some big animal was hurling itself against the bars of a cage.

“They’ve got it,” muttered Jem, mopping his brow.

“You seem to have a nice little crowd of pets about the house,” remarked Drummond, putting a hand on the man’s arm as he was about to move off. “What was that docile creature we’ve just heard calling to its young?”

The ex-pugilist looked at him sullenly.

“Never you mind, sir; it ain’t no business of yours. An’ if I was you, I wouldn’t make it your business to find out.”

A moment later he had disappeared into the bushes, and Drummond was left alone. Assuredly a cheerful household, he reflected; just the spot for a rest-cure. Then he saw a figure on the lawn of the next house which banished everything else from his mind; and opening the gate, he walked eagerly towards Phyllis Benton.

IV

“I heard you were down here,” she said gravely, holding out her hand to him. “I’ve been sick with anxiety ever since father told me he’d seen you.”

Hugh imprisoned the little hand in his own huge ones, and smiled at the girl.

“I call that just sweet of you,” he answered. “Just sweet… Having people worry about me is not much in my line, but I think I rather like it.”

“You’re the most impossible person,” she remarked, releasing her hand. “What sort of a night did you have?”

“Somewhat parti-coloured,” returned Hugh lightly. “Like the hoary old curate’s egg—calm in parts.”

“But why did you go at all?” she cried, beating her hands together. “Don’t you realise that if anything happens to you, I shall never forgive myself?”

The soldier smiled reassuringly.

“Don’t worry, little girl,” he said. “Years ago I was told by an old gipsy that I should die in my bed of old age and excessive consumption of invalid port… As a matter of fact, the cause of my visit was rather humorous. They abducted me in the middle of the night, with an ex-soldier of my old battalion, who was, I regret to state, sleeping off the effects of much indifferent liquor in my rooms.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“They thought he was your American millionaire cove, and the wretched Mullings was too drunk to deny it. In fact, I don’t think they ever asked his opinion at all.” Hugh grinned reminiscently. “A pathetic spectacle.”

“Oh! but splendid,” cried the girl a little breathlessly. “And where was the American?”

“Next door—safe with a very dear old friend of mine, Peter Darrell. You must meet Peter some day—you’ll like him.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “No,” he added, “on second thoughts, I’m not at all sure that I shall let you meet Peter. You might like him too much; and he’s a dirty dog.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she cried with a faint blush. “Tell me, where is the American now?”

“Many miles out of London,” answered Hugh. “I think we’ll leave it at that. The less you know, Miss Benton, at the moment—the better.”

“Have you found out anything?” she demanded eagerly. Hugh shook his head.

“Not a thing. Except that your neighbours are as pretty a bunch of scoundrels as I ever want to meet.”

“But you’ll let me know if you do.” She laid a hand beseechingly on his arm. “You know what’s at stake for me, don’t you? Father, and—oh! but you know.”

“I know,” he answered gravely. “I know, old thing. I promise I’ll let you know anything I find out. And in the meantime I want you to keep an eye fixed on what goes on next door, and let me know anything of importance by letter to the Junior Sports Club.” He lit a cigarette thoughtfully. “I have an idea that they feel so absolutely confident in their own power, that they are going to make the fatal mistake of underrating their opponents. We shall see.” He turned to her with a twinkle in his eye. “Anyway, our Mr. Lakington will see that you don’t come to any harm.”

“The brute!” she cried, very low. “How I hate him!” Then—with a sudden change of tone, she looked up at Drummond. “I don’t know whether it’s worth mentioning,” she said slowly, “but yesterday afternoon four men came at different times to The Elms. They were the sort of type one sees tub-thumping in Hyde Park, all except one, who looked like a respectable working-man.”

Hugh shook his head.

“Don’t seem to help much, does it? Still, one never knows. Let me know anything like that in future at the club.”

“Good morning, Miss Benton.” Peterson’s voice behind them made Drummond swing round with a smothered curse. “Our inestimable friend, Captain Drummond, brought such a nice young fellow to see me last night, and then left him lying about the house this morning.”

Hugh bit his lip with annoyance; until that moment he had clean forgotten that Mullings was still in The Elms.

“I have sent him along to your car,” continued Peterson suavely, “which I trust was the correct procedure. Or did you want to give him to me as a pet?”

“From a rapid survey, Mr. Peterson, I should think you have quite enough already,” said Hugh. “I trust you paid him the money you owe him.”

“I will allot it to him in my will,” remarked Peterson. “If you do the same in yours, doubtless he will get it from one of us sooner or later. In the meantime, Miss Benton, is your father up?”

The girl frowned.

“No—not yet.”

“Then I will go and see him in bed. For the present, au revoir.” He walked towards the house, and they watched him go in silence. It was as he opened the drawing-room window that Hugh called after him:

“Do you like the horse Elliman’s or the ordinary brand?” he asked. “I’ll send you a bottle for that stiff neck of yours.” Very deliberately Peterson turned round.

“Don’t trouble, thank you, Captain Drummond. I have my own remedies, which are far more efficacious.”

CHAPTER V

In Which There Is Trouble at Goring

I

“Did you have a good night, Mullings?” remarked Hugh as he got into his car.

The man grinned sheepishly.

“I dunno what the game was, sir, but I ain’t for many more of them. They’re about the ugliest crowd of blackguards in that there ’ouse that I ever wants to see again.”

“How many did you see altogether?” asked Drummond.

“I saw six actual like, sir; but I ’eard others talking.”

The car slowed up before the post office and Hugh got out. There were one or two things he proposed to do in London before going to Goring, and it struck him that a wire to Peter Darrell might allay that gentleman’s uneasiness if he was late in getting down. So new was he to the tortuous ways of crime, that the foolishness of the proceeding never entered his head: up to date in his life, if he had wished to send a wire he had sent one. And so it may be deemed a sheer fluke on his part, that a man dawdling by the counter aroused his suspicions. He was a perfectly ordinary man, chatting casually with the girl on the other side; but it chanced that, just as Hugh was holding the post office pencil up, and gazing at its so-called point with an air of resigned anguish, the perfectly ordinary man ceased chatting and looked at him. Hugh caught his eye for a fleeting second; then the conversation continued. And as he turned to pull out the pad of forms, it struck him that the man had looked away just a trifle too quickly…

A grin spread slowly over his face, and after a moment’s hesitation he proceeded to compose a short wire. He wrote it in block letters for additional clearness; he also pressed his hardest as befitted a blunt pencil. Then with the form in his hand he advanced to the counter.

“How long will it take to deliver in London?” he asked the girl…

The girl was not helpful. It depended, he gathered, on a variety of circumstances, of which not the least was the perfectly ordinary man who talked so charmingly. She did not say so, in so many words, but Hugh respected her none the less for her maidenly reticence.

“I don’t think I’ll bother, then,” he said, thrusting the wire into his pocket. “Good morning…”

He walked to the door, and shortly afterwards his car rolled down the street. He would have liked to remain and see the finish of his little jest, but, as is so often the case, imagination is better than reality. Certain it is that he chuckled consumedly the whole way up to London, whereas the actual finish was tame.

With what the girl considered peculiar abruptness, the perfectly ordinary man concluded his conversation with her, and decided that he too would send a wire. And then, after a long and thoughtful pause at the writing-bench, she distinctly heard an unmistakable “Damn!” Then he walked out, and she saw him no more.

Moreover, it is to be regretted that the perfectly ordinary man told a lie a little later in the day, when giving his report to someone whose neck apparently inconvenienced him greatly. But then a lie is frequently more tactful than the truth, and to have announced that the sole result of his morning’s labours had been to decipher a wire addressed to The Elms, which contained the cryptic remark, “Stung again, stiff neck, stung again,” would not have been tactful. So he lied, as has been stated, thereby showing his wisdom…

But though Drummond chuckled to himself as the car rushed through the fresh morning air, once or twice a gleam that was not altogether amusement shone in his eyes. For four years he had played one game where no mistakes were allowed; the little incident of the post office had helped to bring to his mind the certainty that he had now embarked on another where the conditions were much the same. That he had scored up to date was luck rather than good management, and he was far too shrewd not to realise it. Now he was marked, and luck with a marked man cannot be tempted too far.

Alone and practically unguarded he had challenged a gang of international criminals: a gang not only utterly unscrupulous, but controlled by a mastermind. Of its power as yet he had no clear idea; of its size and immediate object he had even less. Perhaps it was as well. Had he realised even dimly the immensity of the issues he was up against, had he had but an inkling of the magnitude of the plot conceived in the sinister brain of his host of the previous evening, then, cheery optimist though he was, even Hugh Drummond might have wavered. But he had no such inkling, and so the gleam in his eyes was but transitory, the chuckle that succeeded it more whole-hearted than before. Was it not sport in a land flowing with strikes and profiteers; sport such as his soul loved?

“I am afraid, Mullings,” he said as the car stopped in front of his club, “that the kindly gentleman with whom we spent last night has repudiated his obligations. He refuses to meet the bill I gave him for your services. Just wait here a moment.”

He went inside, returning in a few moments with a folded cheque.

“Round the corner, Mullings, and an obliging fellah in a black coat will shove you out the necessary Bradbury’s.”

The man glanced at the cheque.

“Fifty quid, sir!” he gasped. “Why—it’s too much, sir—”

“The labourer, Mullings, is worthy of his hire. You have been of the very greatest assistance to me; and, incidentally, it is more than likely that I may want you again. Now; where can I get hold of you?”

“13, Green Street, Oxton, sir, ’ll always find me. And any time, sir, as you wants me, I’d like to come just for the sport of the thing.”

Hugh grinned. “Good lad. And it may be sooner than you think.”

With a cheery laugh he turned back into his club, and for a moment or two the ex-soldier stood looking after him. Then with great deliberation he turned to the chauffeur, and spat reflectively.

“If there was more like ’im, and less like ’im”—he indicated a stout vulgarian rolling past in a large car and dreadful clothes—“things wouldn’t ’appen such as is ’appening today. Ho! no…”

With which weighty dictum Mr. Mullings, late private of the Royal Loamshires, turned his steps in the direction of the “obliging fellah in a black coat”.

II

Inside the Junior Sports Club, Hugh Drummond was burying his nose in a large tankard of the ale for which that cheery pot-house was still famous. And in the intervals of this most delightful pastime he was trying to make up his mind on a peculiarly knotty point. Should he or should he not communicate with the police on the matter? He felt that as a respectable citizen of the country it was undoubtedly his duty to tell somebody something. The point was who to tell and what to tell him. On the subject of Scotland Yard his ideas were nebulous; he had a vague impression that one filled in a form and waited—tedious operations, both.

“Besides, dear old flick,” he murmured abstractedly to the portrait of the founder of the club, who had drunk the cellar dry and then died, “am I a respectable citizen? Can it be said with any certainty, that if I filled in a form saying all that had happened in the last two days, I shouldn’t be put in quod myself?”

He sighed profoundly and gazed out into the sunny square. A waiter was arranging the first editions of the evening papers on a table, and Hugh beckoned to him to bring one. His mind was still occupied with his problem, and almost mechanically he glanced over the columns. Cricket, racing, the latest divorce case and the latest strike—all the usual headings were there. And he was just putting down the paper, to again concentrate on his problem, when a paragraph caught his eye.

STRANGE MURDER IN BELFAST

The man whose body was discovered in such peculiar circumstances near the docks has been identified as Mr. James Granger, the confidential secretary to Mr. Hiram Potts, the American multi-millionaire, at present in this country. The unfortunate victim of this dastardly outrage—his head, as we reported in our last night’s issue, was nearly severed from his body— had apparently been sent over on business by Mr. Potts, and had arrived the preceding day. What he was doing in the locality in which he was found is a mystery.

We understand that Mr. Potts, who has recently been indisposed, has returned to the Carlton, and is greatly upset at the sudden tragedy.

The police are confident that they will shortly obtain a clue, though the rough element in the locality where the murder was committed presents great difficulties. It seems clear that the motive was robbery, as all the murdered man’s pockets were rifled. But the most peculiar thing about the case is the extraordinary care taken by the murderer to prevent the identification of the body. Every article of clothing, even down to the murdered man’s socks, had had the name torn out, and it was only through the criminal overlooking the tailor’s tab inside the inner breast-pocket of Mr. Granger’s coat that the police were enabled to identify the body.

Drummond laid down the paper on his knees, and stared a little dazedly at the club’s immoral founder.

“Holy smoke! Laddie,” he murmured, “that man Peterson ought to be on the committee here. Verily, I believe, he could galvanise the staff into some semblance of activity.”

“Did you order anything, sir?” A waiter paused beside him.

“No,” murmured Drummond, “but I will rectify the omission. Another large tankard of ale.”

The waiter departed, and Hugh picked up the paper again.

“We understand,” he murmured gently to himself, “that Mr. Potts, who has recently been indisposed, has returned to the Carlton… Now that’s very interesting…” He lit a cigarette and lay back in his chair. “I was under the impression that Mr. Potts was safely tucked up in bed, consuming semolina pudding, at Goring. It requires elucidation.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” remarked the waiter, placing the beer on the table beside him.

“You needn’t,” returned Hugh. “Up to date you have justified my fondest expectations. And as a further proof of my good will, I would like you to get me a trunk call—2 X Goring.”

A few minutes later he was in the telephone box.

“Peter, I have seldom been so glad to hear your voice. Is all well? Good! Don’t mention any names. Our guest is there, is he? Gone on strike against more milk puddings, you say. Coax him, Peter. Make a noise like a sturgeon, and he’ll think it’s caviare. Have you seen the papers? There are interesting doings in Belfast, which concern us rather intimately. I’ll be down later, and we’ll have a powwow.”

He hung up the receiver and stepped out of the box.

“If, Algy,” he remarked to a man who was looking at the tape machine outside, “the paper says a blighter’s somewhere and you know he’s somewhere else—what do you do?”

“Up to date in such cases I have always shot the editor,” murmured Algy Longworth. “Come and feed.”

“You’re so helpful, Algy. A perfect rock of strength. Do you want a job?”

“What sort of a job?” demanded the other suspiciously.

“Oh not work, dear old boy. Damn it, man—you know me better than that, surely!”

“People are so funny nowadays,” returned Longworth gloomily. “The most unlikely souls seem to be doing things and trying to look as if they were necessary. What is this job?”

Together the two men strolled into the luncheon-room, and long after the cheese had been finished, Algy Longworth was still listening in silence to his companion.

“My dear old bean,” he murmured ecstatically as Hugh finished, “my very dear old bean. I think it’s the most priceless thing I ever heard. Enrol me as a member of the band. And, incidentally, Toby Sinclair is running round in circles asking for trouble. Let’s rope him in.”

“Go and find him this afternoon, Algy,” said Hugh, rising. “And tell him to keep his mouth shut. I’d come with you, but it occurs to me that the wretched Potts, bathed in tears at the Carlton, is in need of sympathy. I would have him weep on my shoulder awhile. So long, old dear. You’ll hear from me in a day or two.”

It was as he reached the pavement that Algy dashed out after him, with genuine alarm written all over his face.

“Hugh,” he spluttered, “there’s only one stipulation. An armistice must be declared during Ascot week.”

With a thoughtful smile on his face Drummond sauntered along Pall Mall. He had told Longworth more or less on the spur of the moment, knowing that gentleman’s capabilities to a nicety. Under a cloak of assumed flippancy he concealed an iron nerve which had never yet failed him; and, in spite of the fact that he wore an entirely unnecessary eyeglass, he could see farther into a brick wall than most of the people who called him a fool.

It was his suggestion of telling Toby Sinclair that caused the smile. For it had started a train of thought in Drummond’s mind which seemed to him to be good. If Sinclair—why not two or three more equally trusty sportsmen? Why not a gang of the boys?

Toby possessed a V.C., and a good one—for there are grades of the V.C., and those grades are appreciated to a nicety by the recipient’s brother officers if not by the general public. The show would fit Toby like a glove… Then there was Ted Jerningham, who combined the roles of an amateur actor of more than average merit with an ability to hit anything at any range with every conceivable type, of firearm. And Jerry Seymour in the Flying Corps… Not a bad thing to have a flying man—up one’s sleeve… And possibly someone versed in the ways of tanks might come in handy…

The smile broadened to a grin; surely life was very good. And then the grin faded, and something suspiciously like a frown took its place. For he had arrived at the Carlton, and reality had come back to him. He seemed to see the almost headless body of a man lying in a Belfast slum…

“Mr. Potts will see no one, sir,” remarked the man to whom he addressed his question. “You are about the twentieth gentleman who has been here already today.”

Hugh had expected this, and smiled genially.

“Precisely, my stout fellow,” he remarked, “but I’ll lay a small amount of money that they were newspaper men. Now, I’m not. And I think that if you will have this note delivered to Mr. Potts, he will see me.”

He sat down at a table, and drew a sheet of paper towards him. Two facts were certain: first, that the man upstairs was not the real Potts; second, that he was one of Peterson’s gang. The difficulty was to know exactly how to word the note. There might be some mystic pass-word, the omission of which would prove him an impostor at once. At length he took a pen and wrote rapidly; he would have to chance it.

Urgent. A message from headquarters.

He sealed the envelope and handed it with the necessary five shillings for postage to the man. Then he sat down to wait. It was going to be a ticklish interview if he was to learn anything, but the thrill of the game had fairly got him by now, and he watched eagerly for the messenger’s return. After what seemed an interminable delay he saw him crossing the lounge.

“Mr. Potts will see you, sir. Will you come this way?”

“Is he alone?” said Hugh, as they were whirled up in the lift.

“Yes, sir. I think he was expecting you.”

“Indeed,” murmured Hugh. “How nice it is to have one’s expectations realised.”

He followed his guide along a corridor, and paused outside a door while he went into a room. He heard a murmur of voices, and then the man reappeared.

“This way, sir,” he said, and Hugh stepped inside, to stop with an involuntary gasp of surprise. The man seated in the chair was Potts, to all intents and purposes. The likeness was extraordinary, and had he not known that the real article was at Goring he would have been completely deceived himself.

The man waited till the door was closed: then he rose and stepped forward suspiciously.

“I don’t know you,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Since when has everyone employed by headquarters known one another?” Drummond returned guardedly. “And, incidentally, your likeness to our lamented friend is wonderful. It very nearly deceived even me.”

The man, not ill-pleased, gave a short laugh.

“It’ll pass, I think. But it’s risky. These cursed reporters have been badgering the whole morning… And if his wife or somebody comes over, what then?”

Drummond nodded in agreement.

“Quite so. But what can you do?”

“It wasn’t like Rosca to bungle in Belfast. He’s never left a clue before, and he had plenty of time to do the job properly.”

“A name inside a breast-pocket might easily be overlooked,” remarked Hugh, seizing the obvious clue.

“Are you making excuses for him?” snarled the other. “He’s failed, and failure is death. Such is our rule. Would you have it altered?”

“Most certainly not. The issues are far too great for any weakness…”

“You’re right, my friend—you’re right. Long live the Brotherhood.” He stared out of the window with smouldering eyes, and Hugh preserved a discreet silence. Then suddenly the other broke out again… “Have they killed that insolent puppy of a soldier yet?”

“Er—not yet,” murmured Hugh mildly.

“They must find the American at once.” The man thumped the table emphatically. “It was important before—at least his money was. Now with this blunder—it’s vital.”

“Precisely,” said Hugh. “Precisely.”

“I’ve already interviewed one man from Scotland Yard, but every hour increases the danger. However, you have a message for me. What is it?”

Hugh rose and casually picked up his hat. He had got more out of the interview than he had hoped for, and there was nothing to be gained by prolonging it. But it struck him that Mr. Potts’s impersonator was a man of unpleasant disposition, and that tactically a flanking movement to the door was indicated. And, being of an open nature himself, it is possible that the real state of affairs showed for a moment on his face. Be that as it may, something suddenly aroused the other’s suspicions, and with a snarl of fury he sprang past Hugh to the door.

“Who are you?” He spat the words out venomously, at the same time whipping an ugly-looking knife out of his pocket.

Hugh replaced his hat and stick on the table and grinned gently.

“I am the insolent puppy of a soldier, dear old bird,” he remarked, watching the other warily. “And if I were you I’d put the tooth-pick away… You might hurt yourself—”

As he spoke he was edging, little by little, towards the other man, who crouched, snarling by the door. His eyes, grim and determined, never left the other’s face; his hands, apparently hanging listless by his sides, were tingling with the joy of what he knew was coming.

“And the penalty of failure is death, isn’t it, dear one?” He spoke almost dreamily; but not for an instant did his attention relax. The words of Olaki, his Japanese instructor, were ringing through his brain: “Distract his attention if you can; but, as you value your life, don’t let him distract yours.”

And so, almost imperceptibly, he crept towards the other man, talking gently.

“Such is your rule. And I think you have failed, haven’t you, you unpleasant specimen of humanity? How will they kill you, I wonder?”

It was at that moment that the man made his mistake. It is a mistake that has nipped the life of many a promising pussy in the bud, at the hands, or rather the teeth, of a dog that knows. He looked away; only for a moment—but he looked away. Just as a cat’s nerves give after a while and it looks round for an avenue of escape, so did the crouching man take his eyes from Hugh. And quick as any dog, Hugh sprang.

With his left hand he seized the man’s right wrist, with his right he seized his throat. Then he forced him upright against the door and held him there. Little by little the grip of his right hand tightened, till the other’s eyes were starting from his head, and he plucked at Hugh’s face with an impotent left arm, an arm not long enough by three inches to do any damage. And all the while the soldier smiled gently, and stared into the other’s eyes. Even when inch by inch he shifted his grip on the man’s knife hand he never took his eyes from his opponent’s face; even when with a sudden gasp of agony the man dropped his knife from fingers which, of a sudden, had become numb, the steady merciless glance still bored into his brain.

“You’re not very clever at it, are you?” said Hugh softly. “It would be so easy to kill you now, and, except for the inconvenience I should undoubtedly suffer, it mightn’t be a bad idea. But they know me downstairs, and it would make it so awkward when I wanted to dine here again… So, taking everything into account, I think—”

There was a sudden lightning movement, a heave and a quick jerk. The impersonator of Potts was dimly conscious of flying through the air, and of hitting the floor some yards from the door. He then became acutely conscious that the floor was hard, and that being winded is a most painful experience. Doubled up and groaning, he watched Hugh pick up his hat and stick, and make for the door. He made a frantic effort to rise, but the pain was too great, and he rolled over cursing, while the soldier, his hand on the door-knob, laughed gently.

“I’ll keep the tooth-pick,” he remarked, “as a memento.”

The next moment he was striding along the corridor towards the lift. As a fight it had been a poor one, but his brain was busy with the information he had heard. True, it had been scrappy in the extreme, and, in part, had only confirmed what he had suspected all along. The wretched Granger had been foully done to death, for no other reason than that he was the millionaire’s secretary. Hugh’s jaw tightened; it revolted his sense of sport. It wasn’t as if the poor blighter had done anything; merely because he existed and might ask inconvenient questions he had been removed. And as the lift shot downwards, and the remembrance of the grim struggle he had had in the darkness of The Elms the night before came back to his mind, he wondered once again if he had done wisely in not breaking Peterson’s neck while he had had the chance.

He was still debating the question in his mind as he crossed the tea-lounge. And almost unconsciously he glanced toward the table where three days before he had had tea with Phyllis Benton, and had been more than half inclined to believe that the whole thing was an elaborate leg-pull.

“Why, Captain Drummond, you look pensive.” A well-known voice from a table at his side made him look down, and he bowed a little grimly. Irma Peterson was regarding him with a mocking smile.

He glanced at her companion, a young man whose face seemed vaguely familiar to him, and then his eyes rested once more on the girl. Even his masculine intelligence could appreciate the perfection—in a slightly foreign style—of her clothes; and, as to her beauty, he had never been under any delusions. Nor, apparently, was her escort, whose expression was not one of unalloyed pleasure at the interruption of his tête-à-tête.

“The Carlton seems rather a favourite resort of yours,” she continued, watching him through half-closed eyes. “I think you’re wise to make the most of it while you can.”

“While I can?” said Hugh. “That sounds rather depressing.”

“I’ve done my best,” continued the girl, “but matters have passed out of my hands, I’m afraid.”

Again Hugh glanced at her companion, but he had risen and was talking to some people who had just come in.

“Is he one of the firm?” he remarked. “His face seems familiar.”

“Oh, no!” said the girl. “He is—just a friend. What have you been doing this afternoon?”

“That, at any rate, is straight and to the point,” laughed Hugh. “If you want to know, I’ve just had a most depressing interview.”

“You’re a very busy person, aren’t you, my ugly one?” she murmured.

“The poor fellow, when I left him, was quite prostrated with grief, and—er—pain,” he went on mildly.

“Would it be indiscreet to ask who the poor fellow is?” she asked.

“A friend of your father’s, I think,” said Hugh, with a profound sigh. “So sad. I hope Mr. Peterson’s neck is less stiff by now?”

The girl began to laugh softly.

“Not very much, I’m afraid. And it’s made him a little irritable. Won’t you wait and see him?”

“Is he here now?” said Hugh quickly.

“Yes,” answered the girl. “With his friend whom you’ve just left. You’re quick, mon ami—quite quick.” She leaned forward suddenly. “Now, why don’t you join us instead of so foolishly trying to fight us? Believe me, Monsieur Hugh, it is the only thing that can possibly save you. You know too much.”

“Is the invitation to amalgamate official, or from your own charming brain?” murmured Hugh.

“Made on the spur of the moment,” she said lightly. “But it may be regarded as official.”

“I’m afraid it must be declined on the spur of the moment,” he answered in the same tone. “And equally to be regarded as official. Well, au revoir. Please tell Mr. Peterson how sorry I am to have missed him.”

“I will most certainly,” answered the girl. “But then, mon ami, you will be seeing him again soon, without doubt…”

She waved a charming hand in farewell, and turned to her companion, who was beginning to manifest symptoms of impatience. But Drummond, though he went into the hall outside, did not immediately leave the hotel. Instead, he button-holed an exquisite being arrayed in gorgeous apparel, and led him to a point of vantage.

“You see that girl,” he remarked, “having tea with a man at the third table from the big palm? Now, can you tell me who the man is? I seem to know his face, but I can’t put a name to it.”

“That, sir,” murmured the exquisite being, with the faintest perceptible scorn of such ignorance, “is the Marquis of Laidley. His lordship is frequently here.”

“Laidley!” cried Hugh, in sudden excitement. “Laidley! The Duke of Lampshire’s son! You priceless old stuffed tomato—the plot thickens.”

Completely regardless of the scandalised horror on the exquisite being’s face, he smote him heavily in the stomach and stepped into Pall Mall. For clean before his memory had come three lines on the scrap of paper he had torn from the table at The Elms that first night, when he had grabbed the dazed millionaire from under Peterson’s nose.

earl necklace and the

are at present

chess of Lamp-

The Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls were world-famous; the Marquis of Laidley was apparently enjoying his tea. And between the two there seemed to be a connection rather too obvious to be missed.

III

“I’m glad you two fellows came down,” said Hugh thoughtfully, as he entered the sitting-room of his bungalow at Goring. Dinner was over, and stretched in three chairs were Peter Darrell, Algy Longworth, and Toby Sinclair. The air was thick with smoke, and two dogs lay curled up on the mat, asleep. “Did you know that a man came here this afternoon, Peter?”

Darrell yawned and stretched himself.

“I did not. Who was it?”

“Mrs. Denny has just told me.” Hugh reached out a hand for his pipe, and proceeded to stuff it with tobacco. “He came about the water.”

“Seems a very righteous proceeding, dear old thing,” said Algy lazily.

“And he told her that I had told him to come. Unfortunately, I’d done nothing of the sort.”

His three listeners sat up and stared at him.

“What do you mean, Hugh?” asked Toby Sinclair at length.

“It’s pretty obvious, old boy,” said Hush grimly. “He no more came about the water than he came about my aunt. I should say that about five hours ago Peterson found out that our one and only Hiram C. Potts was upstairs.”

“Good Lord!” spluttered Darrell, by now very wide awake. “How the devil has he done it?”

“There are no flies on the gentleman,” remarked Hugh. “I didn’t expect he’d do it quite so quick, I must admit. But it wasn’t very difficult for him to find out that I had a bungalow here, and so he drew the covert.”

“And he’s found the bally fox,” said Algy. “What do we do, sergeant-major?”

“We take it in turns—two at a time—to sit up with Potts.” Hugh glanced at the other three. “Damn it—you blighters—wake up!”

Darrell struggled to his feet and walked up and down the room.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “I feel most infernally sleepy.”

“Well, listen to me—confound you… Toby!” Hugh hurled a tobacco-pouch at the offender’s head.

“Sorry, old man.” With a start Sinclair sat up in his chair and blinked at Hugh.

“They’re almost certain to try and get him tonight,” went on Hugh. “Having given the show away by leaving a clue on the wretched secretary, they must get the real man as soon as possible. It’s far too dangerous to leave the—leave the—” His head dropped forward on his chest: a short, half-strangled snore came from his lips. It had the effect of waking him for the moment, and he staggered to his feet.

The other three, sprawling in their chairs, were openly and unashamedly asleep; even the dogs lay in fantastic attitudes, breathing heavily, inert like logs.

“Wake up!’ shouted Hugh wildly. “For God’s sake—wake up! We’ve been drugged!”

An iron weight seemed to be pressing down on his eyelids: the desire for sleep grew stronger and stronger. For a few moments more he fought against it, hopelessly, despairingly; while his legs seemed not to belong to him, and there was a roaring noise in his ears. And then, just before unconsciousness overcame him, there came to his bemused brain the sound of a whistle thrice repeated from outside the window. With a last stupendous effort he fought his way towards it, and for a moment he stared into the darkness. There were dim figures moving through the shrubs, and suddenly one seemed to detach itself. It came nearer, and the light fell on the man’s face. His nose and mouth were covered with a sort of pad, but the cold, sneering eyes were unmistakable.

“Lakington!” gasped Hugh, and then the roaring noise increased in his head; his legs struck work altogether. He collapsed on the floor and lay sprawling, while Lakington, his face pressed against the glass outside, watched in silence.

* * * *

“Draw the curtains.” Lakington was speaking, his voice muffled behind the pad, and one of the men did as he said. There were four in all, each with a similar pad over his mouth and nose. “Where did you put the generator, Brownlow?”

“In the coal-scuttle.” A man whom Mrs. Denny would have had no difficulty in recognising, even with the mask on his face, carefully lifted a small black box out of the scuttle from behind some coal, and shook it gently, holding it to his ear. “It’s finished,” he remarked, and Lakington nodded.

“An ingenious invention is gas,” he said, addressing another of the men. “We owe your nation quite a debt of gratitude for the idea.”

A guttural grunt left no doubt as to what that nation was, and Lakington dropped the box into his pocket.

“Go and get him,” he ordered briefly, and the others left the room.

Contemptuously Lakington kicked one of the dogs; it rolled over and lay motionless in its new position. Then he went in turn to each of the three men sprawling in the chairs. With no attempt at gentleness he turned their faces up to the light, and studied them deliberately; then he let their heads roll back again with a thud. Finally he went to the window and stared down at Drummond. In his eyes was a look of cold fury, and he kicked the unconscious man savagely in the ribs.

“You young swine,” he muttered. “Do you think I’ll forget that blow on the jaw!”

He took another box out of his pocket and looked at it lovingly.

“Shall I?” With a short laugh he replaced it. “It’s too good a death for you, Captain Drummond, D.S.O., M.C. Just to snuff out in your sleep. No, my friend, I think I can devise something better than that; something really artistic.”

Two other men came in as he turned away, and Lakington looked at them.

“Well,” he asked, “have you got the old woman?”

“Bound and gagged in the kitchen,” answered one of them laconically. “Are you going to do this crowd in?”

The speaker looked at the unconscious men with hatred in his eyes.

“They encumber the earth—this breed of puppy.”

“They will not encumber it for long,” said Lakington softly. “But the one in the window there is not going to die quite so easily: I have a small unsettled score with him…”

“All right; he’s in the car.” A voice came from outside the window, and with a last look at Hugh Drummond, Lakington turned away.

“Then we’ll go,” he remarked. “Au revoir, my blundering young bull. Before I’ve finished with you, you’ll scream for mercy. And you won’t get it…”

* * * *

Through the still night air there came the thrumming of the engine of a powerful car. Gradually it died away and there was silence. Only the murmur of the river over the weir broke the silence, save for an owl which hooted mournfully in a tree near by. And then, with a sudden crack, Peter Darrell’s head rolled over and hit the arm of his chair.

CHAPTER VI

In Which a Very Old Game Takes Place on the Hog’s Back

I

A thick grey mist lay over the Thames. It covered the water and the low fields to the west like a thick white carpet; it drifted sluggishly under the old bridge which spans the river between Goring and Streatley. It was the hour before dawn, and sleepy passengers, rubbing the windows of their carriages as the Plymouth boat express rushed on towards London, shivered and drew their rugs closer around them. It looked cold…cold and dead.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the vapour rose, and spread outwards up the wooded hills by Basildon. It drifted through the shrubs and rose-bushes of a little garden, which stretched from a bungalow down to the water’s edge, until at length wisps of it brushed gently round the bungalow itself. It was a daily performance in the summer, and generally the windows of the lower rooms remained shut till long after the mist had gone and the sun was glinting through the trees on to the river below. But on this morning there was a change in the usual programme. Suddenly the window of one of the downstair rooms was flung open, and a man with a white haggard face leant out drawing great gulps of fresh air into his lungs. Softly the white wraiths eddied past him into the room behind—a room in which a queer, faintly sweet smell still hung—a room in which three other men lay sprawling uncouthly in chairs, and two dogs lay motionless on the hearthrug.

After a moment or two the man withdrew, only to appear again with one of the others in his arms. And then, having dropped his burden through the window on to the lawn outside, he repeated his performance with the remaining two. Finally he pitched the two dogs after them, and then, with his hand to his forehead, staggered down to the water’s edge.

“Holy smoke!” he muttered to himself, as he plunged his head into the cold water; “talk about the morning after!… Never have I thought of such a head.”

After a while, with the water still dripping from his face, he returned to the bungalow and found the other three in varying stages of partial insensibility.

“Wake up, my heroes,” he remarked, “and go and put your great fat heads in the river.”

Peter Darrell scrambled unsteadily to his feet. “Great Scott! Hugh,” he muttered thickly, “what’s happened?”

“We’ve been had for mugs,” said Drummond grimly.

Algy Longworth blinked at him foolishly from his position in the middle of a flower-bed.

“Dear old soul,” he murmured at length, “you’ll have to change your wine merchants. Merciful Heavens! is the top of my head still on?”

“Don’t be a fool, Algy,” grunted Hugh. “You weren’t drunk last night. Pull yourself together, man; we were all of us drugged or doped somehow. And now,” he added bitterly, “we’ve all got heads, and we have not got Potts.”

“I don’t remember anything,” said Toby Sinclair, “except falling asleep. Have they taken him?”

“Of course they have,” said Hugh. “Just before I went off I saw ’em all in the garden and that swine Lakington was with them. However, while you go and put your nuts in the river, I’ll go up and make certain.”

With a grim smile he watched the three men lurch down to the water; then he turned and went upstairs to the room which had been occupied by the American millionaire. It was empty, as he had known it would be, and with a smothered curse he made his way downstairs again. And it was as he stood in the little hall saying things gently under his breath that he heard a muffled moaning noise coming from the kitchen. For a moment he was nonplussed; then, with an oath at his stupidity, he dashed through the door. Bound tightly to the table, with a gag in her mouth, the wretched Mrs. Denny was sitting on the floor, blinking at him wrathfully…

“What on earth will Denny say to me when he hears about this!” said Hugh, feverishly cutting the cords. He helped her to her feet, and then forced her gently into a chair. “Mrs. Denny, have those swine hurt you?”

Five minutes served to convince him that the damage, if any, was mental rather than bodily, and that her vocal powers were not in the least impaired. Like a dam bursting, the flood of the worthy woman’s wrath surged over him; she breathed a hideous vengeance on every one impartially. Then she drove Hugh from the kitchen, and slammed the door in his face.

“Breakfast in half an hour,” she cried from inside—“not that one of you deserves it.”

“We are forgiven,” remarked Drummond, as he joined the other three on the lawn. “Do any of you feel like breakfast? Fat sausages and crinkly bacon.”

“Shut up,” groaned Algy, “or we’ll throw you into the river. What I want is a brandy-and-soda—half a dozen of ’em.”

“I wish I knew what they did to us,” said Darrell. “Because, if I remember straight, I drank bottled beer at dinner, and I’m damned if I see how they could have doped that.”

“I’m only interested in one thing, Peter,” remarked Drummond grimly, “and that isn’t what they did to us. It’s what we’re going to do to them.”

“Count me out,” said. Algy. “For the next year I shall be fully occupied resting my head against a cold stone. Hugh, I positively detest your friends…”

* * * *

It was a few hours later that a motor-car drew up outside that celebrated chemist in Piccadilly whose pick-me-ups are known from Singapore to Alaska. From it there descended four young men, who ranged themselves in a row before the counter and spoke no word. Speech was unnecessary. Four foaming drinks were consumed, four acid-drops were eaten, and then, still in silence, the four young men got back into the car and drove away. It was a solemn rite, and on arrival at the Junior Sports Club the four performers sank into four large chairs, and pondered gently on the vileness of the morning after. Especially when there hadn’t been a night before. An unprofitable meditation evidently, for suddenly, as if actuated by a single thought, the four young men rose from their four large chairs and again entered the motor-car.

The celebrated chemist whose pick-me-ups are known from Singapore to Alaska gazed at them severely.

“A very considerable bend, gentlemen,” he remarked.

“Quite wrong,” answered the whitest and most haggard of the row. “We are all confirmed Pussyfoots, and have been consuming non-alcoholic beer.”

Once more to the scrunch of acid-drops the four young men entered the car outside; once more, after a brief and silent drive, four large chairs in the smoking-room of the Junior Sports Club received an occupant. And it was so, even until luncheon time…

“Are we better?” said Hugh, getting to his feet, and regarding the other three with a discerning eye.

“No,” murmured Toby, “but I am beginning to hope that I may live. Four Martinis and then we will gnaw a cutlet.”

II

“Has it struck you fellows,” remarked Hugh, at the conclusion of lunch, “that seated round this table are four officers who fought with some distinction and much discomfort in the recent historic struggle?”

“How beautifully you put it, old flick!” said Darrell.

“Has it further struck you fellows,” continued Hugh, “that last night we were done down, trampled on, had for mugs by a crowd of dirty blackguards composed largely of the dregs of the universe?”

“A veritable Solomon,” said Algy, gazing at him admiringly through his eyeglass. “I told you this morning I destested your friends.”

“Has it still further struck you,” went on Hugh, a trifle grimly, “that we aren’t standing for it? At any rate, I’m not. It’s my palaver this, you fellows, and if you like… Well, there’s no call on you to remain in the game. I mean—er—”

“Yes, we’re waiting to hear what the devil you do mean,” said Toby uncompromisingly.

“Well—er—” stammered Hugh, “there’s a big element of risk—er—don’t you know, and there’s no earthly reason why you fellows should get roped in and all that. I mean—er—I’m sort of pledged to see the thing through, don’t you know, and—” He relapsed into silence, and stared at the tablecloth, uncomfortably aware of three pairs of eyes fixed on him.

“Well—er—” mimicked Algy, “there’s a big element of risk—er—don’t you know, and I mean—er—we’re sort of pledged to bung you through the window, old bean, if you talk such consolidated drivel.”

Hugh grinned sheepishly.

“Well. I had to out it to you fellows. Not that I ever thought for a moment you wouldn’t see the thing through—but last evening is enough to show you that we’re up against a tough crowd. A damned tough crowd,” he added thoughtfully. “That being so,” he went on briskly, after a moment or two, “I propose that we should tackle the blighters tonight.”

“Tonight!” echoed Darrell. “Where?”

“At The Elms, of course. That’s where the wretched Potts is for a certainty.”

“And how do you propose that we should set about it?” demanded Sinclair.

Drummond drained his port and grinned gently.

“By stealth, dear old beans—by stealth. You—and I thought we might rake in Ted Jerningham, and perhaps Jerry Seymour, to join the happy throng—will make a demonstration in force, with the idea of drawing off the enemy, thereby leaving the coast clear for me to explore the house for the unfortunate Potts.”

“Sounds very nice in theory,” said Darrell dubiously, “but…”

“And what do you mean by a demonstration?” said Longworth. “You don’t propose we should sing carols outside the drawing-room window, do you?”

“My dear people,” Hugh murmured protestingly, “surely you know me well enough by now to realise that I can’t possibly have another idea for at least ten minutes. That is just the general scheme; doubtless the mere vulgar details will occur to us in time. Besides it’s someone else’s turn now.” He looked round the table hopefully.

“We might dress up or something,” remarked Toby Sinclair, after a lengthy silence.

“What in the name of Heaven is the use of that?” said Darrell witheringly. “It’s not private theatricals, nor a beauty competition.”

“Cease wrangling, you two,” said Hugh suddenly, a few moments later. “I’ve got a perfect cerebral hurricane raging. An accident… A car… What is the connecting-link… Why, drink. Write it down, Algy, or we might forget. Now, can you beat that?”

“We might have some chance,” said Darrell kindly, “if we had the slightest idea what you were talking about.”

“I should have thought it was perfectly obvious,” returned Hugh coldly. “You know, Peter, your worry is that your’re too quick on the uptake. Your brain is too sharp.”

“How do you spell connecting?” demanded Alp, looking up from his labours. “And, anyway, the damn pencil won’t write.”

“Pay attention, all of you,” said Hugh. “Tonight, some time about ten of the clock, Algy’s motor will proceed along the Godalming-Guildford road. It will contain you three—also Ted and Jerry Seymour, if we can get ’em. On approaching the gate of The Elms, you will render the night hideous with your vocal efforts. Stray passers-by will think that you are tight. Then will come the dramatic moment, when, with a heavy crash, you ram the gate.”

“How awfully jolly!” spluttered Algy. “I beg to move that your car be used for the event.”

“Can’t be done, old son,” laughed Hugh. “Mine’s faster than yours, and I’ll be wanting it myself. Now—to proceed. Horrified at this wanton damage to property, you will leave the car and proceed in mass formation up the drive.”

“Still giving tongue?” queries Darrell.

“Still giving tongue. Either Ted or Jerry or both of ’em will approach the house and inform the owner in heart-broken accents that they have damaged his gate-post. You three will remain in the garden—you might be recognised. Then it will be up to you. You’ll have several men all round you. Keep ’em occupied—somehow. They won’t hurt you; they’ll only be concerned with seeing that you don’t go where you’re not wanted. You see, as far as the world is concerned, it’s just an ordinary country residence. The last thing they want to do is to draw any suspicion on themselves—and, on the face of it, you are merely five convivial wanderers who have looked on the wine when it was red. I think,” he added thoughtfully, “that ten minutes will be enough for me…”

“What will you be doing?” said Toby.

“I shall be looking for Potts. Don’t worry about me. I may find him; I may not. But when you have given me ten minutes—you clear off. I’ll look after myself. Now is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Darrell, after a short silence. “But I don’t know that I like it, Hugh. It seems to me, old son, that you’re running an unnecessary lot of risk.”

“Got any alternative?” demanded Drummond.

“If we’re all going down,” said Darrell. “Why not stick together and rush the house in a gang?”

“No go, old bean,” said Hugh decisively. “Too many of ’em to hope to pull it off. No, low cunning is the only thing that’s got an earthly of succeeding.”

“There is one other possible suggestion,” remarked Toby slowly. “What about the police? From what you say, Hugh, there’s enough in that house to jug the whole bunch.”

“Toby!” gasped Hugh. “I thought better of you. You seriously suggest that we should call in the police! And then return to a life of toping and ease! Besides,” he continued, removing his eyes from the abashed author of this hideous suggestion, “there’s a very good reason for keeping the police out of it. You’d land the girl’s father in the cart, along with the rest of them. And it makes it so devilish awkward if one’s father-in-law, is in prison!”

“When are we going to see this fairy?” demanded Algy.

“You, personally, never. You’re far too immoral. I might let the others look at her from a distance in a year or two.” With a grin he rose, and then strolled towards the door. “Now go and rope in Ted and Jerry, and for the love of Heaven don’t ram the wrong gate.”

“What are you going to do yourself?” demanded Peter, suspiciously.

“I’m going to look at her from close to. Go away, all of you, and don’t listen outside the telephone box.”

III

Hugh stopped his car at Guildford station and, lighting a cigarette, strolled restlessly up and down. He looked at his watch a dozen times in two minutes; he threw away his smoke before it was half finished. In short he manifested every symptom usually displayed by the male of the species when awaiting the arrival of the opposite sex. Over the telephone he had arranged that she should come by train from Godalming to confer with him on a matter of great importance; she had said she would, but what was it? He, having no suitable answer ready, had made a loud buzzing noise indicative of a telephone exchange in pain, and then rung off. And now he was waiting in that peculiar condition of mind which reveals itself outwardly in hands that are rather too warm, and feet that are rather too cold.

“When is this bally train likely to arrive?” He accosted a phlegmatic official, who regarded him coldly, and doubted the likelihood of its being more than a quarter of an hour early.

At length it was signalled, and Hugh got back into his car. Feverishly he scanned the faces of the passengers as they came out into the street, until, with a sudden quick jump of his heart, he saw her, cool and fresh, coming towards him with a faint smile on her lips.

“What is this very important matter you want to talk to me about?” she demanded, as he adjusted the rug round her.

“I’ll tell you when we get out on the Hog’s Back,” he said, slipping in his clutch. “It’s absolutely vital.”

He stole a glance at her, but she was looking straight in front of her, and her face seemed expressionless.

“You must stand a long way off when you do,” she said demurely. “At least if it’s the same thing as you told me over the phone.”

Hugh grinned sheepishly.

“The Exchange went wrong,” he remarked at length. “Astonishing how rotten the telephones are in Town these days.”

“Quite remarkable,” she returned. “I thought you weren’t feeling very well or something. Of course, if it was the Exchange…”

“They sort of buzz and blow, don’t you know,” he explained helpfully.

“That must be most fearfully jolly for them,” she agreed. And there was silence for the next two miles…

Once or twice he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, taking in every detail of the sweet profile so near to him. Except for their first meeting at the Carlton, it was the only time he had ever had her completely to himself, and Hugh was determined to make the most of it. He felt as if he could go on driving for ever, just he and she alone. He had an overwhelming longing to put out his hand and touch a soft tendril of hair which was blowing loose just behind her ear; he had an overwhelming longing to take her in his arms, and… It was then that the girl turned and looked at him. The car swerved dangerously…

“Let’s stop,” she said, with the suspicion of a smile. “Then you can tell me.”

Hugh drew into the side of the road, and switched off the engine.

“You’re not fair,” he remarked, and if the girl saw his hand trembling a little as he opened the door, she gave no sign. Only her breath came a shade faster, but a mere man could hardly be expected to notice such a trifle as that…

He came and stood beside her, and his right arm lay along the seat just behind her shoulders.

“You’re not fair,” he repeated gravely. “I haven’t swerved like that since I first started to drive.”

“Tell me about this important thing,” she said a little nervously. He smiled; and no woman yet born could see Hugh Drummond smile without smiling too.

“You darling!” he whispered, under his breath—“you adorable darling!” His arm closed around her, and almost before she realised it, she felt his lips on hers. For a moment she sat motionless, while the wonder of it surged over her, and the sky seemed more gloriously blue, and the woods a richer green. Then, with a little gasp, she pushed him away.

“You mustn’t…oh! you mustn’t, Hugh,” she whispered.

“And why not, little girl?” he said exultingly. “Don’t you know I love you?”

“But look, there’s a man over there, and he’ll see.”

Hugh glanced at the stolid labourer in question, and smiled.

“Go an absolute mucker over the cabbages, what! Plant carrots by mistake.” His face was still very close to hers. “Well?”

“Well, what?” she murmured.

“It’s your turn,” he whispered. “I love you, Phyllis—just love you.”

“But it’s only two or three days since we met,” she said feebly.

“And phwat the divil has that got to do with it, at all?” he demanded. “Would I be wanting longer to decide such an obvious fact? Tell me,” he went on, and she felt his arm round her again forcing her to look at him—“tell me, don’t you care…a little?”

“What’s the use?” She still struggled, but, even to her, it wasn’t very convincing. “We’ve got other things to do… We can’t think of…”

And then this very determined young man settled matters in his usual straightforward fashion. She felt herself lifted bodily out of the car as if she had been a child: she found herself lying in his arms, with Hugh’s eyes looking very tenderly into her own and a whimsical grin round his mouth.

“Cars pass here,” he remarked, “with great regularity. I know you’d hate to be discovered in this position.”

“Would I?” she whispered. “I wonder…”

She felt his heart pound madly against her; and with a sudden quick movement she put both her arms round his neck and kissed him on the mouth.

“Is that good enough?” she asked, very low: and just for a few moments, Time stood still… Then, very gently, he put her back in the car.

“I suppose,” he remarked resignedly, “that we had better descend to trivialities. We’ve had lots of fun and games since I last saw you a year or two ago.”

“Idiot boy,” she said happily. “It was yesterday morning.”

“The interruption is considered trivial. Mere facts don’t count when it’s you and me.” There was a further interlude of uncertain duration, followed rapidly by another because the first was so nice.

“To resume,” continued Hugh. “I regret to state that they’ve got Potts.”

The girl sat up quickly and stared at him.

“Got him? Oh, Hugh! How did they manage it?”

“I’m damned if I know,” he answered grimly. “They found out that he was in my bungalow at Goring during the afternoon by sending round a man to see about the water. Somehow or other he must have doped the drink or the food, because after dinner we all fell asleep. I can just remember seeing Lakington’s face outside in the garden, pressed against the window, and then everything went out. I don’t remember anything more till I woke this morning with the most appalling head. Of course, Potts had gone.”

“I heard the car drive up in the middle of the night,” said the girl thoughtfully. “Do you think he’s at The Elms now?”

“That is what I propose to find out tonight,” answered Hugh. “We have staged a little comedy for Peterson’s especial benefit, and we are hoping for the best.”

“Oh, boy, do be careful!” She looked at him anxiously. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you. I’d feel it was all due to me, and I just couldn’t bear it.”

“Dear little girl,” he whispered tenderly, “you’re simply adorable when you look like that. But not even for you would I back out of this show now.” His mouth set in a grim line. “It’s gone altogether too far, and they’ve shown themselves to be so completely beyond the pale that it’s got to be fought out. And when it has been,” he caught both her hands in his… “and we’ve won…why, then girl o’ mine, we’ll get Peter Darrell to be best man.”

Which was the cue for the commencement of the last and longest interlude, terminated only by the sudden and unwelcome appearance of a motor-bus covered within and without by unromantic sightseers, and paper-bags containing bananas.

They drove slowly back to Guildford, and on the way he told her briefly of the murder of the American’s secretary in Belfast, and his interview the preceding afternoon with the impostor at the Carlton.

“It’s a tough proposition,” he remarked quietly. “They’re absolutely without scruple, and their power seems unlimited. I know they are after the Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls: I found the beautiful Irma consuming tea with young Laidley yesterday—you know, the Duke’s eldest son. But there’s something more in the wind than that, Phyllis—something which, unless I’m a mug of the first water, is an infinitely larger proposition than that.”

The car drew up at the station, and he strolled with her on to the platform. Trivialities were once more banished: vital questions concerning when it had first happened—by both; whether he was quite sure it would last for ever—by her; what she could possibly see in him—by him; and wasn’t everything just too wonderful for words—mutual and carried nem. con.

Then the train came in, and he put her into a carriage. And two minutes later, with the touch of her lips warm on his, and her anxious little cry, “Take care, my darling!—take care!” still ringing in his ears, he got, into his car and drove off to a hotel to get an early dinner. Love for the time was over; the next round of the other game was due. And it struck Drummond that it was going to be a round where a mistake would not be advisable.

IV

At a quarter to ten he backed his car into the shadow of some trees not far from the gate of The Elms. The sky was overcast, which suited his purpose, and through the gloom of the bushes he dodged rapidly towards the house. Save for a light in the sitting-room and one in a bedroom upstairs, the front of the house was in darkness, and, treading noiselessly on the turf, he explored all round it. From a downstairs room on one side came the hoarse sound of men’s voices, and he placed that as the smoking-room of the gang of ex-convicts and blackguards who formed Peterson’s staff. There was one bedroom light at the back of the house, and thrown on the blind he could see the shadow of a man. As he watched, the man got up and moved away, only to return in a moment or two and take up his old position.

“It’s one of those two bedrooms,” he muttered to himself, “if he’s here at all.”

Then he crouched in the shadow of some shrubs and waited. Through the trees to his right he could see The Larches, and once, with a sudden quickening of his heart, he thought he saw the outline of the girl show up in the light from the drawing-room. But it was only for a second, and then it was gone…

He peered at his watch: it was just ten o’clock. The trees were creaking gently in the faint wind; all around him the strange night noises—noises which play pranks with a man’s nerves—were whispering and muttering. Bushes seemed suddenly to come to life, and move; eerie shapes crawled over the ground towards him—figures which existed only in his imagination. And once again the thrill of the night stalker gripped him.

He remembered the German who had lain motionless for an hour in a little gully by Hebuterne, while he from behind a stunted bush had tried to locate him. And then that one creak as the Boche had moved his leg. And then…the end. On that night, too, the little hummocks had moved and taken themselves strange shapes: fifty times he had imagined he saw him; fifty times he knew he was wrong—in time. He was used to it; the night held no terrors for him, only a fierce excitement. And thus it was that as he crouched in the bushes, waiting for the game to start, his pulse was as normal, and his nerves as steady, as if he had been sitting down to supper. The only difference was that in his hand he held something tight-gripped.

At last faintly in the distance he heard the hum of a car. Rapidly it grew louder, and he smiled grimly to himself as the sound of five unmelodious voices singing lustily struck his ear. They passed along the road in front of the house. There was a sudden crash—then silence; but only for a moment.

Peter’s voice came first:

“You priceless old ass, you’ve rammed the blinking gate.”

It was Jerry Seymour who then took up the ball. His voice was intensely solemn—also extremely loud.

“Preposhterous. Perfectly preposhterous. We must go and apologise to the owner… I… I… I…absholutely…musht apologise… Quite unpardonable… You can’t go about country…knocking down gates… Out of queshtion…”

Half consciously Hugh listened, but, now that the moment for action had come, every faculty was concentrated on his own job. He saw half a dozen men go rushing out into the garden through a side door, and then two more ran out and came straight towards him. They crashed past him and went on into the darkness, and for an instant he wondered what they were doing. A little later he was destined to find out…

Then came a peal at the front-door bell, and he determined to wait no longer. He darted through the garden door, to find a flight of back stairs in front of him, and in another moment he was on the first floor. He walked rapidly along the landing, trying to find his bearings, and, turning a corner, he found himself at the top of the main staircase—the spot where he had fought Peterson two nights previously.

From below Jerry Seymour’s voice came clearly.

“Are you the pro-propri-tor, ole friend? Because there’s been…acchident…”

He waited to hear no more, but walked quickly on to the room which he calculated was the one where he had seen the shadow on the blind. Without a second’s hesitation he flung the door open and walked in. There, lying in the bed, was the American, while crouched beside him, with a revolver in his hand, was a man…

For a few seconds they watched one another in silence, and then the man straightened up.

“The soldier!” he snarled. “You young pup!”

Deliberately, almost casually, he raised his revolver, and then the unexpected happened. A jet of liquid ammonia struck him full in the face, and with a short laugh Hugh dropped his water-pistol in his pocket, and turned his attention to the bed. Wrapping the millionaire in a blanket, he picked him up, and, paying no more attention to the man gasping and choking in a corner, he raced for the back stairs.

Below he could still hear Jerry hiccoughing gently, and explaining to the pro…pro…pritor that he pershonally would repair…inshisted on repairing…any and every gateposht he posshessed… And then he reached the garden…

Everything had fallen out exactly as he had hoped, but had hardly dared to expect. He heard Peterson’s voice, calm and suave as usual, answering Jerry. From the garden in front came the dreadful sound of a duet by Algy and Peter. Not a soul was in sight; the back of the house was clear. All that he had to do was to walk quietly through the wicket-gate to The Larches with his semiconscious burden, get to his car and drive off. It all seemed so easy that he laughed…

But there were one or two factors that he had forgotten, and the first and most important one was the man upstairs. The window was thrown up suddenly, and the man leaned out waving his arms. He was still gasping with the strength of the ammonia, but Hugh saw him clearly in the light from the room behind. And as he cursed himself for a fool in not having tied him up, from the trees close by there came the sharp clang of metal.

With a quick catch in his breath he began to run. The two men who had rushed past him before he had entered the house, and whom, save for a passing thought, he had disregarded, had become the principal danger. For he had heard that clang before; he remembered Jem Smith’s white horror-struck face, and then his sigh of relief as the thing—whatever it was—was shut in its cage. And now it was out, dodging through the trees, let loose by the two men.

Turning his head from side to side, peering into the gloom, he ran on. What an interminable distance it seemed to the gate…and even then… He heard something crash into a bush on his right, and give a snarl of anger. Like a flash he swerved into the undergrowth on the left.

Then began a dreadful game. He was still some way from the fence, and he was hampered at every step by the man slung over his back. He could hear the thing blundering about searching for him, and suddenly, with a cold feeling of fear, he realised that the animal was in front of him—that his way to the gate was barred. The next moment he saw it.

Shadowy, indistinct, in the darkness, he saw something glide between two bushes. Then it came out into the open and he knew it had seen him, though as yet he could not make out what it was. Grotesque and horrible it crouched on the ground, and he could hear its heavy breathing, as it waited for him to move.

Cautiously he lowered the millionaire to the ground, and took a step forward. It was enough; with a snarl of fury the crouching form rose and shambled towards him. Two hairy arms shot towards his throat, he smelt the brute’s fetid breath, hot and loathsome, and he realised what he was up against. It was a partially grown gorilla.

For a full minute they fought in silence, save for the hoarse grunts of the animal as it tried to tear away the man’s hand from its throat, and then encircle him with its powerful arms. And with his brain cold as ice Hugh saw his danger and kept his head. It couldn’t go on: no human being could last the pace, whatever his strength. And there was only one chance of finishing it quickly, the possibility that the grip taught him by Olaki would serve with a monkey as it did with a man.

He shifted his left thumb an inch or two on the brute’s throat, and the gorilla, thinking he was weakening, redoubled his efforts. But still those powerful hands clutched its throat; try as it would, it failed to make them budge. And then, little by little, the fingers moved, and the grip which had been tight before grew tighter still.

Back went its head; something was snapping in its neck. With a scream of fear and rage it wrapped its legs round Drummond, squeezing and writhing. And then suddenly there was a tearing snap, and the great limbs relaxed and grew limp.

For a moment the man stood watching the still quivering brute lying at his feet; then, with a gasp of utter exhaustion, he dropped on the ground himself. He was done—utterly cooked; even Peterson’s voice close behind scarcely roused him.

“Quite one of the most amusing entertainments I’ve seen for a long time.” The calm, expressionless voice made him look up wearily, and he saw that he was surrounded by men. The inevitable cigar glowed red in the darkness, and after a moment or two he scrambled unsteadily to his feet.

“I’d forgotten your damned menagerie, I must frankly confess,” he remarked. “What’s the party for?” He glanced at the men who had closed in round him.

“A guard of honour, my young friend,” said Peterson suavely, “to lead you to the house. I wouldn’t hesitate…it’s very foolish. Your friends have gone, and, strong as you are, I don’t think you can manage ten.”

Hugh commenced to stroll towards the house.

“Well, don’t leave the wretched Potts lying about. I dropped him over there.” For a moment the idea of making a dash for it occurred to him, but he dismissed it at once. The odds were too great to make the risk worth while, and in the centre of the group he and Peterson walked side by side.

“The last man whom poor Sambo had words with,” said Peterson reminiscently, “was found next day with his throat torn completely out.”

“A lovable little thing,” murmured Hugh. “I feel quite sorry at having spoilt his record.”

Peterson paused with his hand on the sitting-room door, and looked at him benevolently.

“Don’t be despondent, Captain Drummond. We have ample time at our disposal to ensure a similar find tomorrow morning.”