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BULLDOG DRUMMOND [Part 2]

CHAPTER VII

In Which He Spends an Hour or Two on a Roof

I

Drummond paused for a moment at the door of the sitting-room, then with a slight shrug he stepped past Peterson. During the last few days he had grown to look on this particular room as the private den of the principals of the gang. He associated it in his mind with Peterson himself, suave, impassive, ruthless; with the girl Irma, perfectly gowned, lying on the sofa, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and manicuring her already faultless nails; and in a lesser degree, with Henry Lakington’s thin, cruel face, and blue, staring eyes.

But tonight a different scene confronted him. The girl was not there: her accustomed place on the sofa was occupied by an unkempt-looking man with a ragged beard. At the end of the table was a vacant chair, on the right of which sat Lakington regarding him with malevolent fury. Along the table on each side there were half a dozen men, and he glanced at their faces. Some were obviously foreigners; some might have been anything from murderers to Sunday-school teachers. There was one with spectacles and the general appearance of an intimidated rabbit, while his neighbour, helped by a large red scar right across his cheek, and two bloodshot eyes, struck Hugh as being the sort of man with whom one would not share a luncheon basket.

“I know he’d snatch both drumsticks and gnaw them simultaneously,” he reflected, staring at him fascinated; “and then he’d throw the bones in your face.”

Peterson’s voice from just behind his shoulder roused him from his distressing reverie.

“Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce to you Captain Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., the originator of the little entertainment we have just had.”

Hugh bowed gravely.

“My only regret is that it failed to function,” he remarked. “As I told you outside, I’d quite forgotten your menagerie. In fact”—his glance wandered slowly and somewhat pointedly from face to face at the table—“I had no idea it was such a large one.”

“So this is the insolent young swine, is it?” The bloodshot eyes of the man with the scarred face turned on him morosely. “What I cannot understand is why he hasn’t been killed by now.” Hugh waggled an accusing finger at him.

“I knew you were a nasty man as soon as I saw you. Now look at Henry up at the end of the table; he doesn’t say that sort of thing. And you do hate me, don’t you, Henry? How’s the jaw?”

“Captain Drummond,” said Lakington, ignoring Hugh and addressing the first speaker, “was very nearly killed last night. I thought for some time as to whether I would or not, but I finally decided it would be much too easy a death. So it can be remedied tonight.”

If Hugh felt a momentary twinge of fear at the calm, expressionless tone, and the half-satisfied grunt which greeted the words, no trace of it showed on his face. Already the realisation had come to him that if he got through the night alive he would be more than passing lucky, but he was too much of a fatalist to let that worry him unduly. So he merely stifled a yawn, and again turned to Lakington.

“So it was you, my little one, whose fairy face I saw pressed against the window. Would it be indiscreet to ask how you got the dope into us?”

Lakington looked at him with an expression of grim satisfaction on his face.

“You were gassed, if you want to know. An admirable invention of my friend Kauffner’s nation.”

A guttural chuckle came from one of the men, and Hugh looked at him grimly.

“The scum certainly would not be complete,” he remarked to Peterson, “without a filthy Boche in it.”

The German pushed back his chair with an oath, his face purple with passion.

“A filthy Boche,” he muttered thickly, lurching towards Hugh. “Hold him the arms of, and I will the throat tear out…”

The intimidated rabbit rose protestingly at this prospect of violence; the scarred sportsman shot out of his chair eagerly, the lust of battle in his bloodshot eyes. The only person save Hugh who made no movement was Peterson, and he, very distinctly, chuckled. Whatever his failings, Peterson had a sense of humour…

It all happened so quickly. At one moment Hugh was apparently intent upon selecting a cigarette, the next instant the case had fallen to the floor; there was a dull, heavy thud, and the Boche crashed back, overturned a chair, and fell like a log to the floor, his head hitting the wall with a vicious crack. The bloodshot being resumed his seat a little limply; the intimidated bunny gave a stifled gasp and breathed heavily; Hugh resumed his search for a cigarette.

“After which breezy interlude,” remarked Peterson, “let us to business get.”

Hugh paused in the act of striking a match, and for the first time a genuine smile spread over his face.

“There are moments, Peterson,” he murmured, “when you really appeal to me.”

Peterson took the empty chair next to Lakington.

“Sit down,” he said shortly. “I can only hope that I shall appeal to you still more before we kill you.”

Hugh bowed and sat down.

“Consideration,” he murmured, “was always your strong point. May I ask how long I have to live?”

Peterson smiled genially.

“At the very earnest request of Mr. Lakington you are to be spared until tomorrow morning. At least, that is our present intention. Of course, there might be an accident in the night: in a house like this one can never tell. Or”—he carefully cut the end off a cigar—“you might go mad, in which case we shouldn’t bother to kill you. In fact, it would really suit our book better if you did: the disposal of corpses, even in these days of advanced science, presents certain difficulties—not insuperable—but a nuisance. And so, if you go mad, we shall not be displeased.”

Once again he smiled genially.

“As I said before, in a house like this, you never can tell…”

The intimidated rabbit, still breathing heavily, was staring at Hugh, fascinated; and after a moment Hugh turned on him with a courteous bow.

“Laddie,” he remarked, “you’ve been eating onions. Do you mind deflecting the blast in the opposite direction?”

His calm imperturbability seemed to madden Lakington, who with a sudden movement rose from his chair and leaned across the table, while the veins stood out like whipcord on his usually expressionless face.

“You wait,” he snarled thickly; “you wait till I’ve finished with you. You won’t be so damned humorous then…”

Hugh regarded the speaker languidly.

“Your supposition is more than probable,” he remarked, in a bored voice. “I shall be too intent on getting into a Turkish bath to remove the contamination to think of laughing.”

Slowly Lakington sank back in his chair, a hard, merciless smile on his lips; and for a moment or two there was silence in the room. It was broken by the unkempt man on the sofa, who, without warning, exploded unexpectedly.

“A truce to all this fooling,” he burst forth in a deep rumble; “I confess I do not understand it. Are we assembled here tonight, comrades, to listen to private quarrels and stupid talk?”

A murmur of approval came from the others, and the speaker stood up waving his arms.

“I know not what this young man has done: I care less. In Russia such trifles matter not. He has the appearance of a bourgeois, therefore he must die. Did we not kill thousands—aye, tens of thousands of his kidney, before we obtained the great freedom? Are we not going to do the same in this accursed country?” His voice rose to the shrill, strident note of the typical tub-thumper. “What is this wretched man,” he continued, waving a hand wildly at Hugh, “that he should interrupt the great work for one brief second? Kill him now—throw him in a corner, and let us proceed.”

He sat down again, amidst a further murmur of approval in which Hugh joined heartily.

“Splendid,” he murmured. “A magnificent peroration. Am I right, sir, in assuming that you are what is vulgarly known as a Bolshevist?”

The man turned his sunken eyes, glowing with the burning fires of fanaticism, on Drummond.

“I am one of those who are fighting for the freedom of the world,” he cried harshly, “for the right to live of the proletariat. The workers were the bottom dogs in Russia till they killed the rulers. Now—they rule, and the money they earn goes into their own pockets, not those of incompetent snobs.” He flung out his arms. He seemed to shrivel up suddenly, as if exhausted with the violence of his passion. Only his eyes still gleamed with the smouldering madness of his soul.

Hugh looked at him with genuine curiosity; it was the first time he had actually met one of these wild visionaries in the flesh. And then the curiosity was succeeded by a very definite amazement; what had Peterson to do with such as he?

He glanced casually at his principal enemy, but his face showed nothing. He was quietly turning over some papers; his cigar glowed as evenly as ever. He seemed to be no whit surprised by the unkempt one’s outburst: in fact, it appeared to be quite in order. And once again Hugh stared at the man on the sofa with puzzled eyes.

For the moment his own deadly risk was forgotten; a growing excitement filled his mind. Could it be possible that here, at last, was the real object of the gang; could it be possible that Peterson was organising a deliberate plot to try and Bolshevise England? If so, where did the Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls come in? What of the American, Hiram Potts? Above all, what did Peterson hope to make out of it himself? And it was as he arrived at that point in his deliberation that he looked up to find Peterson regarding him with a faint smile.

“It is a little difficult to understand, isn’t it, Captain Drummond?” he said, carefully flicking the ash off his cigar. “I told you you’d find yourself in deep water.” Then he resumed the contemplation of the papers in front of him, as the Russian burst out again.

“Have you ever seen a woman skinned alive?” he howled wildly, thrusting his face forward at Hugh. “Have you ever seen men killed with the knotted rope; burned almost to death and then set free, charred and mutilated wrecks? But what does it matter provided only freedom comes, as it has in Russia. Tomorrow it will be England: in a week the world… Even if we have to wade through rivers of blood up to our throats, nevertheless it will come. And in the end we shall have a new earth.”

Hugh lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

“It seems a most alluring programme,” he murmured. “And I shall have much pleasure in recommending you as manager of a babies’ crèche. I feel certain the little ones would take to you instinctively.”

He half closed his eyes, while a general buzz of conversation broke out round the table. Tongues had been loosened, wonderful ideals conjured up by the Russian’s inspiring words; and for the moment he was forgotten. Again and again the question hammered at his brain—what in the name of Buddha had Peterson and Lakington to do with this crowd? Two intensely brilliant, practical criminals mixed up with a bunch of ragged-trousered visionaries, who, to all intents and purposes, were insane…

Fragments of conversation struck his ears from time to time. The intimidated rabbit, with the light of battle in his watery eye, was declaiming on the glories of Workmen’s Councils; a bullet-headed man who looked like a down-at-heels racing tout was shouting an inspiring battle-cry about no starvation wages and work for all.

“Can it be possible,” thought Hugh grimly, “that such as these have the power to control big destinies?” And then, because he had some experience of what one unbalanced brain, whose owner could talk, was capable of achieving; because he knew something about mob psychology, his half-contemptuous amusement changed to a bitter foreboding.

“You fool,” he cried suddenly to the Russian and everyone ceased talking. “You poor damned boob! You—and your new earth! In Petrograd today bread is two pounds four shillings a pound; tea, fifteen pounds a pound. Do you call that freedom? Do you suggest that we should wade to that, through rivers of blood?” He gave a contemptuous laugh. “I don’t know which distresses me most, your maggoty brain or your insanitary appearance.”

Too surprised to speak, the Russian sat staring at him; and it was Peterson who broke the silence with his suave voice.

“Your distress, I am glad to say, is not likely to be one of long duration,” he remarked. “In fact, the time has come for you to retire for the night, my young friend.”

He stood up smiling; then walked over to the bell behind Hugh and rang it.

“Dead or mad—I wonder which.” He threw the end of his cigar into the grate as Hugh rose. “While we deliberate down here on various matters of importance we shall be thinking of you upstairs—that is to say, if you get there. I see that Lakington is even now beginning to gloat in pleasant anticipation.”

Not a muscle on the soldier’s face twitched; not by the hint of a look did he show the keenly watching audience that he realised his danger. He might have been an ordinary guest preparing to go to bed; and in Peterson’s face there shone for a moment a certain unwilling admiration. Only Lakington’s was merciless, with its fiendish look of anticipation, and Hugh stared at him with level eyes for a while before he turned towards the door.

“Then I will say good night,” he remarked casually. “Is it the same room that I had last time?”

“No,” said Peterson. “A different one—specially prepared for you. If you get to the top of the stairs a man will show you where it is.” He opened the door and stood there smiling. And at that moment all the lights went out.

II

The darkness could be felt, as real darkness inside a house always can be felt. Not the faintest glimmer even of greyness showed anywhere, and Hugh remained motionless, wondering what the next move was going to be. Now that the night’s ordeal had commenced, all his nerve had returned to him. He felt ice cold; and as his powerful hands clenched and unclenched by his sides, he grinned faintly to himself.

Behind him in the room he could hear an occasional movement in one of the chairs, and once from the hall outside he caught the sound of whispering. He felt that he was surrounded by men, thronging in on him from all sides, and suddenly he gave a short laugh. Instantly silence settled—strain as he would he could not hear a sound. Then very cautiously he commenced to feel his way towards the door.

Outside a car went by honking discordantly, and with a sort of cynical amusement he wondered what its occupants would think if they knew what was happening in the house so near them. And at that moment someone brushed past him. Like a flash Hugh’s hand shot out and gripped him by the arm. The man wriggled and twisted, but he was powerless as a child, and with another short laugh Hugh found his throat with his other hand. And again silence settled on the room…

Still holding the unknown man in front of him, he reached the foot of the stairs, and there he paused. He had suddenly remembered the mysterious thing which had whizzed past his head that other night, and then clanged sullenly into the wall beside him. He had gone up five stairs when it had happened, and now with his foot on the first he started to do some rapid thinking.

If, as Peterson had kindly assured him, they proposed to try and send him mad, it was unlikely that they would kill him on the stairs. At the same time it was obviously an implement capable of accurate adjustment, and therefore it was more than likely that they would use it to frighten him. And if they did—if they did… The unknown man wriggled feebly in his hands, and a sudden unholy look came on to Hugh’s face.

“It’s the only possible chance,” he said to himself, “and if it’s you or me, laddie, I guess it’s got to be you.”

With a quick heave he jerked the man off his feet, and lifted him up till his head was above the level of his own. Then clutching him tight, he commenced to climb. His own head was bent down, somewhere in the regions of the man’s back, and he took no notice of the feebly kicking legs.

Then at last he reached the fourth step, and gave a final adjustment to his semiconscious burden. He felt that the hall below was full of men, and suddenly Peterson’s voice came to him out of the darkness.

“That is four, Captain Drummond. What about the fifth step?”

“A very good-looking one as far as I remember,” answered Hugh. “I’m just going to get on to it.”

“That should prove entertaining,” remarked Peterson. “I’m just going to switch on the current.”

Hugh pressed his head even lower in the man’s back and lifted him up another three inches.

“How awfully jolly!” he murmured. “I hope the result will please you.”

“I’d stand quite still if I were you,” said Peterson suavely. “Just listen.”

As Hugh had gambled on, the performance was designed to frighten. Instead of that, something hit the neck of the man he was holding with such force that it wrenched him clean out of his arms. Then came the clang beside him, and with a series of ominous thuds a body rolled down the stairs into the hall below.

“You fool.” He heard Lakington’s voice, shrill with anger. “You’ve killed him. Switch on the light…”

But before the order could be carried out Hugh had disappeared, like a great cat, into the darkness of the passage above. It was neck or nothing; he had at the most a minute to get clear. As luck would have it the first room he darted into was empty, and he flung up the window and peered out.

A faint, watery moon showed him a twenty-foot drop on to the grass, and without hesitation he flung his legs over the sill. Below a furious hubbub was going on; steps were already rushing up the stairs. He heard Peterson’s calm voice, and Lakington’s hoarse with rage, shouting inarticulate orders. And at that moment something prompted him to look upwards.

It was enough—that one look; he had always been mad, he always would be. It was a dormer window, and to an active man access to the roof was easy. Without an instant’s hesitation he abandoned all thoughts of retreat; and when two excited men rushed into the room he was firmly ensconced, with his legs astride of the ridge of the window, not a yard from their heads.

Securely hidden in the shadow he watched the subsequent proceedings with genial toleration. A raucous bellow from the two men announced that they had discovered his line of escape; and in half a minute the garden was full of hurrying figures. One, calm and impassive, his identity betrayed only by the inevitable cigar, stood by the garden door, apparently taking no part in the game; Lakington, blind with fury, was running round in small circles, cursing everyone impartially.

“The car is still there.” A man came up to Peterson, and Hugh heard the words distinctly.

“Then he’s probably over at Benton’s house. I will go and see.”

Hugh watched the thick-set, massive figure stroll down towards the wicket gate, and he laughed gently to himself. Then he grew serious again, and with a slight frown he pulled out his watch and peered at it. Half-past one…two more hours before dawn. And in those two hours he wanted to explore the house from on top; especially he wanted to have a look at the mysterious central room of which Phyllis had spoken to him—the room where Lakington kept his treasures. But until the excited throng below went indoors, it was unsafe to move. Once out of the shadow, anyone would be able to see him crawling over the roof in the moonlight.

At times the thought of the helpless man for whose death he had in one way been responsible recurred to him, and he shook his head angrily. It had been necessary, he realised: you can carry someone upstairs in a normal house without him having his neck broken—but still… And then he wondered who he was. It had been one of the men who sat round the table—of that he was tolerably certain. But which…? Was it the frightened bunny, or the Russian, or the gentleman with the bloodshot eye? The only comfort was that whoever it had been, the world would not be appreciably the poorer for his sudden decease. The only regret was that it hadn’t been dear Henry… He had a distaste for Henry which far exceeded his dislike of Peterson.

“He’s not over there.” Peterson’s voice came to him from below. “And we’ve wasted time enough as it is.”

The men had gathered together in a group, just below where Hugh was sitting, evidently awaiting further orders.

“Do you mean to say we’ve lost the young swine again?” said Lakington angrily.

“Not lost—merely mislaid,” murmured Peterson. “The more I see of him, the more do I admire his initiative.”

Lakington snorted.

“It was that damned fool Ivolsky’s own fault,” he snarled; “why didn’t he keep still as he was told to do?”

“Why, indeed?” returned Peterson, his cigar glowing red. “And I’m afraid we shall never know. He is very dead.” He turned towards the house. “That concludes the entertainment, gentlemen, for tonight. I think you can all go to bed.”

“There are two of you watching the car, aren’t there?” demanded Lakington.

“Rossiter and Le Grange,” answered a voice.

Peterson paused by the door.

“My dear Lakington, it’s quite unnecessary. You underrate that young man…”

He disappeared into the house, and the others followed slowly. For the time being Hugh was safe, and with a sigh of relief he stretched his cramped limbs and lay back against the sloping roof. If only he had dared to light a cigarette…

III

It was half an hour before Drummond decided that it was safe to start exploring. The moon still shone fitfully through the trees, but since the two car watchers were near the road on the other side of the house, there was but little danger to be apprehended from them. First he took off his shoes, and tying the laces together, he slung them round his neck. Then, as silently as he could, he commenced to scramble upwards.

It was not an easy operation; one slip and nothing could have stopped him slithering down and finally crashing into the garden below, with a broken leg, at the very least, for his pains. In addition, there was the risk of dislodging a slate, an unwise proceeding in a house where most of the occupants slept with one eye open. But at last he got his hands over the ridge of the roof, and in another moment he was sitting straddle-wise across it.

The house, he discovered, was built on a peculiar design. The ridge on which he sat continued at the same height all round the top of the roof, and formed, roughly, the four sides of a square. In the middle the roof sloped down to a flat space from which stuck up a glass structure, the top of which was some five or six feet below his level. Around it was a space quite large enough to walk in comfort; in fact, on two sides there was plenty of room for a deck chair. The whole area was completely screened from view, except to anyone in an aeroplane. And what struck him still further was that there was no window that he could see anywhere on the inside of the roof. In fact, it was absolutely concealed and private. Incidentally, the house had originally been built by a gentleman of doubtful sanity, who spent his life observing the spots in Jupiter through a telescope, and having plunged himself and his family into complete penury, sold the house and observatory complete for what he could get. Lakington, struck with its possibilities for his own hobby, bought it on the spot; and from that time Jupiter spotted undisturbed.

With the utmost caution Hugh lowered himself to the full extent of his arms; then he let himself slip the last two or three feet on to the level space around the glass roof. He had no doubt in his mind that he was actually above the secret room, and, on tip-toe, he stole round looking for some spot from which he could get a glimpse below. At the first inspection he thought his time had been wasted; every pane of glass was frosted, and in addition there seemed to be a thick blind of some sort drawn across from underneath, of the same type as is used by photographers for altering the light.

A sudden rattle close to him made him start violently, only to curse himself for a nervous ass the next moment, and lean forward eagerly. One of the blinds had been released from inside the room, and a pale, diffused light came filtering out into the night from the side of the glass roof. He was still craning backwards and forwards to try and find some chink through which he could see, when, with a kind of uncanny deliberation, one of the panes of glass slowly opened. It was worked on a ratchet from inside, and Hugh bowed his thanks to the unseen operator below. Then he leant forward cautiously, and peered in…

The whole room was visible to him, and his jaw tightened as he took in the scene. In an arm-chair, smoking as unconcernedly as ever, sat Peterson. He was reading a letter, and occasionally underlining some point with a pencil. Beside him on a table was a big ledger, and every now and then he would turn over a few pages and make an entry. But it was not Peterson on whom the watcher above was concentrating his attention; it was Lakington—and the thing beside him on the sofa.

Lakington was bending over a long bath full of some light-brown liquid from which a faint vapour was rising. He was in his shirt sleeves, and on his hands he wore what looked like rubber gloves, stretching right up to his elbows. After a while he dipped a test-tube into the liquid, and going over to a shelf he selected a bottle and added a few drops to the contents of the tube. Apparently satisfied with the result, he returned to the bath and shook in some white powder. Immediately the liquid commenced to froth and bubble, and at the same moment Peterson stood up.

“Are you ready?” he said, taking off his coat and picking up a pair of gloves similar to those the other was wearing.

“Quite,” answered Lakington abruptly. “We’ll get him in.”

They approached the sofa; and Hugh, with a kind of fascinated horror, forced himself to look. For the thing that lay there was the body of the dead Russian, Ivolsky.

The two men picked him up and, having carried the body to the bath, they dropped it into the fuming liquid. Then, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, they peeled off their long gloves and stood watching. For a minute or so nothing happened, and then gradually the body commenced to disappear. A faint, sickly smell came through the open window, and Hugh wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was too horrible, the hideous deliberation of it all. And whatever vile tortures the wretched man had inflicted on others in Russia, yet it was through him that his dead body lay there in the bath, disappearing slowly and relentlessly…

Lakington lit a cigarette and strolled over to the fire-place.

“Another five minutes should be enough,” he remarked. “Damn that cursed soldier!”

Peterson laughed gently, and resumed the study of his ledger.

“To lose one’s temper with a man, my dear Henry, is a sign of inferiority. But it certainly is a nuisance that Ivolsky is dead. He could talk more unmitigated drivel to the minute than all the rest of ’em put together… I really don’t know who to put in the Midland area.”

He leaned back in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke. The light shone on the calm, impassive face; and with a feeling of wonder that was never far absent from his mind when he was with Peterson, Hugh noted the high, clever forehead, the firmly moulded nose and chin, the sensitive, humorous mouth. The man lying back in the chair watching the blue smoke curling up from his cigar might have been a great lawyer or an eminent divine; some well-known statesman, perhaps, or a Napoleon of finance. There was power in every line of his figure, in every movement of his hands. He might have reached to the top of any profession he had cared to follow… Just as he had reached the top in his present one… Some kink in the brain, some little cog wrong in the wonderful mechanism, and a great man had become a great criminal. Hugh looked at the bath: the liquid was almost clear.

“You know my feelings on the subject,” remarked Lakington, taking a red velvet box out of a drawer in the desk. He opened it lovingly, and Hugh saw the flash of diamonds. Lakington let the stones run through his hands, glittering with a thousand flames, while Peterson watched him contemptuously.

“Baubles,” he said scornfully. “Pretty baubles. What will you get for them?”

“Ten, perhaps fifteen thousand,” returned the other. “But it’s not the money I care about; it’s the delight in having them, and the skill required to get them.”

Peterson shrugged his shoulders.

“Skill which would give you hundreds of thousands if you turned it into proper channels.”

Lakington replaced the stones, and threw the end of his cigarette into the grate.

“Possibly, Carl, quite possibly. But it boils down to this, my friend, that you like the big canvas with broad effects; I like the miniature and the well-drawn etching.”

“Which makes us a very happy combination,” said Peterson, rising and walking over to the bath. “The pearls, don’t forget, are your job. The big thing”—he turned to the other, and a trace of excitement came into his voice—“the big thing is mine.” Then with his hands in his pockets he stood staring at the brown liquid. “Our friend is nearly cooked, I think.”

“Another two or three minutes,” said Lakington, joining him. “I must confess I pride myself on the discovery of that mixture. Its only drawback is that it makes murder too easy…”

The sound of the door opening made both men swing round instantly; then Peterson stepped forward with a smile. “Back, my dear? I hardly expected you so soon.”

Irma came a little way into the room, and stopped with a sniff of disgust.

“What a horrible smell!” she remarked. “What on earth have you been doing?”

“Disposing of a corpse,” said Lakington. “It’s nearly finished.” The girl threw off her opera cloak, and coming forward, peered over the edge of the bath.

“It’s not my ugly soldier?” she cried.

“Unfortunately not,” returned Lakington grimly; and Peterson laughed.

“Henry is most annoyed, Irma. The irrepressible Drummond has scored again.”

In a few words he told the girl what had happened, and she clapped her hands together delightedly.

“Assuredly I shall have to marry that man,” she cried. “He is quite the least boring individual I have met in this atrocious country.” She sat down and lit a cigarette. “I saw Walter tonight.”

“Where?” demanded Peterson quickly. “I thought he was in Paris.”

“He was this morning. He came over especially to see you. They want you there for a meeting at the Ritz.”

Peterson frowned.

“It’s most inconvenient,” he remarked with a shade of annoyance in his voice. “Did he say why?”

“Amongst other things I think they’re uneasy about the American,” she answered. “My dear man, you can easily slip over for a day.”

“Of course I can,” said Peterson irritably; “but that doesn’t alter the fact that it’s inconvenient. Things will be shortly coming to a head here, and I want to be on the spot. However—” He started to walk up and down the room, frowning thoughtfully.

“Your fish is hooked, mon ami,” continued the girl to Lakington. “He has already proposed three times; and he has introduced me to a dreadful-looking woman of extreme virtue, who has adopted me as her niece for the great occasion.”

“What great occasion?” asked Lakington, looking up from the bath.

“Why, his coming of age,” cried the girl. “I am to go to Laidley Towers as an honoured guest of the Duchess of Lampshire.”

“What do you think of that, my friend? The old lady will be wearing pearls and all complete, in honour of the great day, and I shall be one of the admiring house party.”

“How do you know she’ll have them in the house?” said Lakington.

“Because dear Freddie has told me so,” answered the girl. “I don’t think you’re very bright tonight, Henry. When the young Poohba comes of age, naturally his devoted maternal parent will sport her glad rags. Incidentally, the tenants are going to present him with a loving cup, or a baby giraffe, or something. You might like to annex that too.” She blew two smoke rings and then laughed.

“Freddie is really rather a dear at times. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who is so nearly an idiot without being one. Still,” she repeated thoughtfully, “he’s rather a dear.”

Lakington turned a handle underneath the bath, and the liquid, now clear and still, commenced to sink rapidly. Fascinated, Hugh watched the process; in two minutes the bath was empty—a human body had completely disappeared without leaving a trace. It seemed to him as if he must have been dreaming, as if the events of the whole night had been part of some strange jumbled nightmare. And then, having pinched himself to make sure he was awake, he once more glued his eyes to the open space of the window.

Lakington was swabbing out the bath with some liquid on the end of a mop; Peterson, his chin sunk on his chest, was still pacing slowly up and down; the girl, her neck and shoulders gleaming white in the electric light, was lighting a second cigarette from the stump of the first. After a while Lakington finished his cleaning operations and put on his coat.

“What,” he asked curiously, “does he think you are?”

“A charming young girl,” answered Irma demurely, “whose father lost his life in the war, and who at present ekes out a precarious existence in a government office. At least, that’s what he told Lady Frumpley—she’s the woman of unassailable virtue. She was profoundly sentimental and scents a romance, in addition to being a snob and scenting a future duke, to say nothing of a future duchess. By the mercy of Allah she’s on a committee with his mother for distributing brown-paper under-clothes to destitute Belgians, and so Freddie wangled an invite for her. Voilà tout.”

“Splendid!” said Lakington slowly. “Splendid! Young Laidley comes of age in about a week, doesn’t he?”

“Monday, to be exact, and so I go down with my dear aunt on Saturday.”

Lakington nodded his head as if satisfied, and then glanced at his watch.

“What about bed?” he remarked.

“Not yet,” said Peterson, halting suddenly in his walk. “I must see the Yank before I go to Paris. We’ll have him down here now.”

“My dear Carl, at this hour?” Lakington stifled a yawn.

“Yes. Give him an injection, Henry—and, by God, we’ll make the fool sign. Then I can actually take it over to the meeting with me.”

He strode to the door, followed by Lakington; and the girl in the chair stood up and stretched her arms above her head. For a moment or two Hugh watched her; then he too stood upright and eased his cramped limbs.

“Make the fool sign.” The words echoed through his brain, and he stared thoughtfully at the grey light which showed the approach of dawn. What was the best thing to do? “Make” with Peterson generally implied torture if other means failed, and Hugh had no intention of watching any man tortured. At the same time something of the nature of the diabolical plot conceived by Peterson was beginning to take a definite shape in his mind, though many of the most important links were still missing. And with this knowledge had come the realisation that he was no longer a free agent. The thing had ceased to be a mere sporting gamble with himself and a few other chosen spirits matched against a gang of criminals; it had become—if his surmise was correct—a national affair. England herself—her very existence—was threatened by one of the vilest plots ever dreamed of in the brain of man. And then, with a sudden rage at his own impotence, he realised that even now he had nothing definite to go on. He must know more; somehow or other he must get to Paris; he must attend that meeting at the Ritz. How he was going to do it he hadn’t the faintest idea; the farthest he could get as he stood on the roof, watching the first faint streaks of orange in the east, was the definite decision that if Peterson went to Paris, he would go too. And then a sound from the room below brought him back to his vantage point. The American was sitting in a chair, and Lakington, with a hypodermic syringe in his hand, was holding his arm.

He made the injection, and Hugh watched the millionaire. He was still undecided as to how to act, but for the moment, at any rate, there was nothing to be done. And he was very curious to hear what Peterson had to say to the wretched man, who, up to date, had figured so largely in every round.

After a while the American ceased staring vacantly in front of him, and passed his hand dazedly over his forehead. Then he half rose from his chair and stared at the two men sitting facing him. His eyes came round to the girl, and with a groan he sank back again, plucking feebly with his hands at his dressing-gown.

“Better, Mr. Potts?” said Peterson suavely.

“I—I—” stammered the other. “Where am I?”

“At The Elms, Godalming, if you wish to know.”

“I thought—I thought—” He rose swaying. “What do you want with me? Damn you!”

“Tush, tush,” murmured Peterson. “There is a lady present, Mr. Potts. And our wants are so simple. Just your signature to a little agreement, by which in return for certain services you promise to join us in our—er—labours, in the near future.”

“I remember,” cried the millionaire. “Now I remember. You swine—you filthy swine, I refuse…absolutely.”

“The trouble is, my friend, that you are altogether too big an employer of labour to be allowed to refuse, as I pointed out to you before. You must be in with us, otherwise you might wreck the scheme. Therefore I require your signature. I lost it once, unfortunately—but it wasn’t a very good signature; so perhaps it was all for the best.”

“And when you’ve got it,” cried the American, “what good will it be to you? I shall repudiate it.”

“Oh, no! Mr. Potts,” said Peterson with a thoughtful smile; “I can assure you, you won’t. The distressing malady from which you have recently been suffering will again have you in its grip. My friend, Mr. Lakington, is an expert on that particular illness. It renders you quite unfit for business.”

For a while there was silence, and the millionaire stared round the room like a trapped animal.

“I refuse!” he cried at last. “It’s an outrage against humanity. You can do what you like.”

“Then we’ll start with a little more thumbscrew,” remarked Peterson, strolling over to the desk and opening a drawer. “An astonishingly effective implement, as you can see if you look at your thumb.” He stood in front of the quivering man, balancing the instrument in his hands. “It was under its influence you gave us the first signature, which we so regrettably lost. I think we’ll try it again…”

The American gave a strangled cry of terror, and then the unexpected happened. There was a crash as a pane of glass splintered and fell to the floor close beside Lakington; and with an oath he sprang aside and looked up.

“Peep-bo,” came a well-known voice from the sky-light. “Clip him one over the jaw, Potts, my boy, but don’t you sign.”

CHAPTER VIII

In Which He Goes To Paris for a Night

I

Drummond had acted on the spur of the moment. It would have been manifestly impossible for any man, certainly of his calibre, to have watched the American being tortured without doing something to try to help him. At the same time the last thing he had wanted to do was to give away his presence on the roof. The information he had obtained that night was of such vital importance that it was absolutely essential for him to get away with it somehow; and, at the moment, his chances of so doing did not appear particularly bright. It looked as if it was only a question of time before they must get him.

But as usual with Drummond, the tighter the corner, the cooler his head. He watched Lakington dart from the room, followed more slowly by Peterson, and then occurred one of those strokes of luck on which the incorrigible soldier always depended. The girl left the room as well.

She kissed her hand towards him, and then she smiled.

“You intrigue me, ugly one,” she remarked, looking up, “intrigue me vastly. I am now going out to get a really good view of the Kill.”

And the next moment Potts was alone. He was staring up at the skylight, apparently bewildered by the sudden turn of events, and then he heard the voice of the man above speaking clearly and insistently.

“Go out of the room. Turn to the right. Open the front door. You’ll see a house through some trees. Go to it. When you get there, stand on the lawn and call ‘Phyllis.’ Do you get me?”

The American nodded dazedly; then he made a great effort to pull himself together, as the voice continued:

“Go at once. It’s your only chance. Tell her I’m on the roof here.”

With a sigh of relief he saw the millionaire leave the room; then he straightened himself up, and proceeded to reconnoitre his own position. There was a bare chance that the American would get through, and if he did, everything might yet be well. If he didn’t—Hugh shrugged his shoulders grimly and laughed.

It had become quite light, and after a moment’s indecision Drummond took a running jump, and caught the ridge of the sloping roof on the side nearest the road. To stop by the skylight was to be caught like a rat in a trap, and he would have to take his chance of being shot. After all, there was a considerable risk in using firearms so near a main road, where at any time some labourer or other early riser might pass along. Notoriety was the last thing which Peterson desired, and if it got about that one of the pastimes at The Elms was potting stray human beings on the roof, the inquiries might become somewhat embarrassing.

It was as Hugh threw his leg over the top of the roof, and sat straddle-ways, leaning against a chimney-stack, that he got an idea. From where he was he could not see The Larches, and so he did not know what luck the American had had. But he realised that it was long odds against his getting through, and that his chief hope lay in himself. Wherefore, as has just been said, he got an idea—simple and direct; his ideas always were. It occurred to him that far too few unbiased people knew where he was; it further occurred to him that it was a state of affairs which was likely to continue unless he remedied it himself. And so, just as Peterson came strolling round a corner of the house, followed by several men and a long ladder, Hugh commenced to sing. He shouted, he roared at the top of his very powerful voice and all the time he watched the men below with a wary eye. He saw Peterson look nervously over his shoulder towards the road, and urge the men on to greater efforts, and the gorgeous simplicity of his manoeuvre made Hugh burst out laughing. Then, once again, his voice rose to its full pitch, as he greeted the sun with a bellow which scared every rook in the neighbourhood.

It was just as two labourers came to investigate the hideous din that Peterson’s party discovered the ladder was too short by several yards.

Then with great rapidity the audience grew. A passing milkman; two commercial travellers who had risen with the lark and entrusted themselves and their samples to a Ford car; a gentleman of slightly inebriated aspect, whose trousers left much to the imagination; and finally more farm labourers. Never had such a tit-bit of gossip for the local pub been seen before in the neighbourhood; it would furnish a topic of conversation for weeks to come. And still Hugh sang and Peterson cursed; and still the audience grew. Then, at last, there came the police with notebook all complete, and the singer stopped singing to laugh.

The next moment the laugh froze on his lips. Standing by the skylight, with his revolver raised, was Lakington, and Hugh knew by the expression on his face that his finger was trembling on the trigger. Out of view of the crowd below he did not know of its existence, and, in a flash, Hugh realised his danger. Somehow Lakington had got up on the roof while the soldier’s attention had been elsewhere; and now, his face gleaming with an unholy fury, Lakington was advancing step by step towards him with the evident intention of shooting him.

“Good morrow, Henry,” said Hugh quietly. “I wouldn’t fire if I were you. We are observed, as they say in melodrama. If you don’t believe me,” his voice grew a little tense, “just wait while I talk to Peterson, who is at present deep in converse with the village constable and several farm labourers.”

He saw doubt dawn in Lakington’s eyes, and instantly followed up his advantage.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t like the notoriety attendant upon a funeral, Henry dear; I’m sure Peterson would just hate it. So, to set your mind at rest, I’ll tell him you’re here.”

It is doubtful whether any action in Hugh Drummond’s life ever cost him such an effort of will as the turning of his back on the man standing two yards below him, but he did it apparently without thought. He gave one last glance at the face convulsed with rage, and then with a smile he looked down at the crowd below.

“Peterson,” he called out affably, “there’s a pal of yours up here—dear old Henry. And he’s very annoyed at my concert. Would you just speak to him, or would you like me to be more explicit? He is so annoyed that there might be an accident at any moment, and I see that the police have arrived. So—er—”

Even at that distance he could see Peterson’s eyes of fury, and he chuckled softly to himself. He had the whole gang absolutely at his mercy, and the situation appealed irresistibly to his sense of humour.

But when the leader spoke, his voice was as sauve as ever: the eternal cigar glowed evenly at its normal rate.

“Are you up on the roof, Lakington?” The words came clearly through the still summer air.

“Your turn, Henry,” said Drummond. “Prompter’s voice off—‘Yes, dear Peterson, I am here, even upon the roof, with a liver of hideous aspect.’”

For one moment he thought he had gone too far, and that Lakington, in his blind fury, would shoot him then and there and chance the consequences. But with a mighty effort the man controlled himself, and his voice, when he answered, was calm.

“Yes, I’m here. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” cried Peterson, “but we’ve got quite a large and appreciative audience down here, attracted by our friend’s charming concert, and I’ve just sent for a large ladder by which he can come down and join us. So there is nothing that you can do—nothing.” He repeated the word with a faint emphasis, and Hugh smiled genially.

“Isn’t he wonderful, Henry?” he murmured. “Thinks of everything; staff work marvellous. But you nearly had a bad lapse then, didn’t you? It really would have been embarrassing for you if my corpse had deposited itself with a dull thud on the corns of the police.”

“I’m interested in quite a number of things, Captain Drummond,” said Lakington slowly, “but they all count as nothing beside one—getting even with you. And when I do…” He dropped the revolver into his coat pocket, and stood motionless, staring at the soldier.

“Ah! when!” mocked Drummond. “There have been so many ‘whens’, Henry dear. Somehow I don’t think you can be very clever. Don’t go—I’m so enjoying my heart-to-heart talk. Besides, I wanted to tell you the story about the girl, the soap, and the bath. That’s to say, if the question of baths isn’t too delicate.”

Lakington paused as he got to the skylight.

“I have a variety of liquids for bathing people in,” he remarked. “The best are those I use when the patient is alive.”

The next instant he opened a door in the sky-light which Hugh had failed to discover during the night, and, climbing down a ladder inside the room, disappeared from view.

“Hullo, old bean!” A cheerful shout from the ground made Hugh look down. There, ranged round Peterson, in an effective group, were Peter Darrell, Algy Longworth, and Jerry Seymour. “Birds-nestin’?”

“Peter, old soul,” cried Hugh joyfully, “I never thought the day would come when I should be pleased to see your face, but it has! For Heaven’s sake get a move on with that blinking ladder; I’m getting cramp.”

“Ted and his pal, Hugh, have toddled off in your car,” said Peter, “so that only leaves us four and Toby.”

For a moment Hugh stared at him blankly, while he did some rapid mental arithmetic. He even neglected to descend at once by the ladder which had at last been placed in position. “Ted and us four and Toby made six—and six was the strength of the party as it had arrived. Adding the pal made seven; so who the deuce was the pal?”

The matter was settled just as he reached the ground. Lakington, wild-eyed and almost incoherent, rushed from the house, and, drawing Peterson on one side, spoke rapidly in a whisper.

“It’s all right,” muttered Algy rapidly. “They’re half-way to London by now, and going like hell if I know Ted.”

It was then that Hugh started to laugh. He laughed till the tears poured down his face, and Peterson’s livid face of fury made him laugh still more.

“Oh, you priceless pair!” he sobbed. “Right under your bally noses. Stole away. Yoicks!” There was another interlude for further hilarity. “Give it up, you two old dears, and take to knitting. Miss one and purl three, Henry my boy, and Carl in a nightcap can pick up the stitches you drop.” He took out his cigarette-case. “Well, au revoir… Doubtless we shall meet again quite soon. And, above all, Carl, don’t do anything in Paris which you would be ashamed of my knowing.”

With a friendly wave he turned on his heel and strolled off, followed by the other three. The humour of the situation was irresistible; the absolute powerlessness of the whole assembled gang to lift a finger to stop them in front of the audience, which as yet showed no sign of departing, tickled him to death. In fact, the last thing Hugh saw, before a corner of the house hid them from sight, was the majesty of the law moistening his indelible pencil in the time-honoured method, and advancing on Peterson with his notebook at the ready.

“One brief interlude, my dear old warriors,” announced Hugh, “and then we must get gay. Where’s Toby?”

“Having his breakfast with your girl,” chuckled Algy. “We thought we’d better leave someone on guard, and she seemed to love him best.”

“Repulsive hound!” cried Hugh. “Incidentally, boys, how did you manage to roll up this morning?”

“We all bedded down at your girl’s place last night,” said Peter, “and then this morning, who should come and sing carols but our one and only Potts. Then we heard your deafening din on the roof, and blew along.”

“Splendid!” remarked Hugh, rubbing his hands together, “simply splendid! Though I wish you’d been there to help with that damned gorilla.”

“Help with what?” spluttered Jerry Seymour.

“Gorilla, old dear,” returned Hugh, unmoved. “A docile little creature I had to kill.”

“The man,” murmured Algy, “is indubitably mad. I’m going to crank the car.”

II

“Go away,” said Toby, looking up as the door opened and Hugh strolled in. “Your presence is unnecessary and uncalled for, and we’re not pleased. Are we, Miss Benton?”

“Can you bear him, Phyllis?” remarked Hugh with a grin. “I mean, lying about the house all day?”

“What’s the notion, old son?” Toby Sinclair stood up, looking slightly puzzled.

“I want you to stop here, Toby,” said Hugh, “and not let Miss Benton out of your sight. Also keep your eyes skinned on The Elms, and let me know by phone to Half Moon Street anything that happens. Do you get me?”

“I get you,” answered the other, “but I say, Hugh, can’t I do something a bit more active? I mean, of course, there’s nothing I’d like better than to…” He broke off in mild confusion as Phyllis Benton laughed merrily.

“Do something more active!” echoed Hugh. “You bet your life, old boy. A rapid one-step out of the room. You’re far too young for what’s coming now.”

With a resigned sigh Toby rose and walked to the door.

“I shall have to listen at the keyhole,” he announced, “and thereby get earache. You people have no consideration whatever.”

“I’ve got five minutes, little girl,” whispered Hugh, taking her into his arms as the door closed. “Five minutes of Heaven… By Jove! But you look great—simply great.”

The girl smiled up at him.

“It strikes me, Master Hugh, that you have failed to remove your beard this morning.”

Hugh grinned.

“Quite right, kid. They omitted to bring me my shaving water on to the roof.”

After a considerable interval, in which trifles such as beards mattered not, she smoothed her hair and sat down on the arm of a chair.

“Tell me what’s happened, boy,” she said eagerly.

“Quite a crowded night.” With a reminiscent smile he lit a cigarette. And then quite briefly he told her of the events of the past twelve hours, being, as is the manner of a man, more interested in watching the sweet colour which stained her cheeks from time to time, and noticing her quickened breathing when he told her of his fight with the gorilla, and his ascent of the murderous staircase. To him it was all over and now finished, but to the girl who sat listening to the short, half-clipped sentences, each one spoken with a laugh and a jest, there came suddenly the full realisation of what this man was doing for her. It was she who had been the cause of his running all these risks; it was her letter that he had answered. Now she felt that if one hair of his head was touched, she would never forgive herself.

And so when he had finished, and pitched the stump of his cigarette into the grate, falteringly she tried to dissuade him. With her hands on his coat, and her big eyes misty with her fears for him, she begged him to give it all up. And even as she spoke, she gloried in the fact that she knew it was quite useless. Which made her plead all the harder, as is the way of a woman with her man.

And then, after a while, her voice died away, and she fell silent. He was smiling, and so, perforce, she had to smile too. Only their eyes spoke those things which no human being may put into words. And so, for a time, they stood…

Then, quite suddenly, he bent and kissed her.

“I must go, little girl,” he whispered. “I’ve got to be in Paris tonight. Take care of yourself.”

The next moment he was gone.

“For God’s sake take care of her, Toby!” he remarked to that worthy, whom he found sitting disconsolately by the front door. “Those blighters are the limit.”

“That’s all right, old man,” said Sinclair gruffly. “Good huntin’!”

He watched the tall figure stride rapidly to the waiting car, the occupants of which were simulating sleep as a mild protest at the delay; then, with a smile, he rose and joined the girl.

“Some lad,” he remarked. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Benton, I wouldn’t change him if I was you. Unless, of course,” he added, as an afterthought, “you’d prefer me!”

III

“Have you got him all right, Ted?” Hugh flung the question eagerly at Ted Jerningham, who was lounging in a chair at Half Moon Street, with his feet on the mantelpiece.

“I’ve got him right enough,” answered that worthy, “but he don’t strike me as being Number One value. He’s gone off the boil. Become quite gaga again.” He stood up and stretched himself. “Your worthy servant is with him, making hoarse noises to comfort him.”

“Hell!” said Hugh, “I thought we might get something out of him. I’ll go and have a look at the bird. Beer in the corner, boys, if you want it.”

He left the room, and went along the passage to inspect the American. Unfortunately Jerningham was only too right: the effects of last night’s injection had worn off completely, and the wretched man was sitting motionless in a chair, staring dazedly in front of him.

“’Opeless, sir,” remarked Denny, rising to his feet as Hugh came into the room. “He thinks this ’ere meat juice is poison, and he won’t touch it.”

“All right, Denny,” said Drummond. “Leave the poor blighter alone. We’ve got him back, and that’s something. Has your wife told you about her little adventure?”

His servant coughed deprecatingly.

“She has, sir. But, Lor’ bless you, she don’t bear no malice.”

“Then she’s one up on me, Denny, for I bear lots of it towards that gang of swine.” Thoughtfully he stood in front of the millionaire, trying in vain to catch some gleam of sense in the vacant eyes. “Look at that poor devil; isn’t that enough by itself to make you want to kill the whole crowd?” He turned on his heel abruptly, and opened the door. “Try and get him to eat if you can.”

“What luck?” Jerningham looked up as he came back into the other room.

“Dam’ all, as they say in the vernacular. Have you blighters finished the beer?”

“Probably,” remarked Peter Darrell. “What’s the programme now?”

Hugh examined the head of his glass with a professional eye before replying.

“Two things,” he murmured at length, “fairly leap to the eye. The first is to get Potts away to a place of safety; the second is to get over to Paris.”

“Well, let’s get gay over the first, as a kick-off,” said Jerningham, rising. “There’s a car outside the door; there is England at our disposal. We’ll take him away; you pad the hoof to Victoria and catch the boat train.”

“It sounds too easy,” remarked Hugh. “Have a look out of the window, Ted, and you’ll see a man frightfully busy doing nothing not far from the door. You will also see a racing-car just across the street. Put a wet compress on your head, and connect the two.”

A gloomy silence settled on the assembly, to be broken by Jerry Seymour suddenly waking up with a start.

“I’ve got the Stomach-ache,” he announced proudly. His listeners gazed at him unmoved.

“You shouldn’t eat so fast,” remarked Algy severely. “And you certainly oughtn’t to drink that beer.”

To avert the disaster he immediately consumed it himself, but Jerry was too engrossed with his brain-storm to notice.

“I’ve got the Stomach-ache,” he repeated, “and she ought to be ready by now. In fact I know she is. My last crash wasn’t a bad one. What about it?”

“You mean…?” said Hugh, staring at him.

“I mean,” answered Jerry, “that I’ll go off to the aerodrome now, and get her ready. Bring Potts along in half an hour, and I’ll take him to the Governor’s place in Norfolk. Then I’ll take you over to Paris.”

“Great!—simply great!” With a report like a gun Hugh hit the speaker on the back, inadvertently knocking him down. Then an idea struck him. “Not your place, Jerry; they’ll draw that at once. Take him to Ted’s; Lady Jerningham won’t mind, will she, old boy?”

“The mater mind?” Ted laughed. “Good Lord, no; she gave up minding anything years ago.”

“Right!” said Hugh. “Off you go, Jerry. By the way, how many will she hold?”

“Two beside me,” spluttered the proud proprietor of the Stomach-ache. “And I wish you’d reserve your endearments for people of your own size, you great, fat, hulking monstrosity.”

He reached the door with a moment to spare, and Hugh came back laughing.

“Verily—an upheaval in the grey matter,” he cried, carefully refilling his glass. “Now, boy, what about Paris?”

“Is it necessary to go at all?” asked Peter.

“It wouldn’t have been if the Yank had been sane,” answered Drummond. “As it is, I guess I’ve got to. There’s something going on, young fellahs, which is big; and I can’t help thinking one might get some useful information from the meeting at the Ritz tonight. Why is Peterson hand-in-glove with a wild-eyed, ragged-trousered crowd of revolutionaries? Can you tell me that? If so, I won’t go.”

“The great point is whether you’ll find out, even if you do,” returned Peter. “The man’s not going to stand in the hall and shout it through a megaphone.”

“Which is where Ted comes in,” said Hugh affably. “Does not the Stomach-ache hold two?”

“My dear man,” cried Jerningham, “I’m dining with a perfectly priceless she tonight!”

“Oh, no, you’re not, my lad. You’re going to do some amateur acting in Paris. Disguised as a waiter, or a chambermaid, or a coffee machine or something—you will discover secrets.”

“But good heavens, Hugh!” Jerningham waved both hands in feeble protest.

“Don’t worry me,” cried Drummond, “don’t worry me; it’s only a vague outline, and you’ll look great as a bath-sponge. There’s the telephone… Hallo!” He picked off the receiver. “Speaking. Is that you, Toby? Oh! the Rolls has gone, has it? With Peterson inside. Good! So-long, old dear.”

He turned to the others.

“There you are, you see. He’s left for Paris. That settles it.”

“Conclusively,” murmured Algy mildly. “Any man who leaves a house in a motor-car always goes to Paris.”

“Dry up!” roared Hugh. “Was your late military education so utterly lacking that you have forgotten the elementary precept of putting yourself in the enemy’s place? If I was Peterson, and I wanted to go to Paris, do you suppose that fifty people knowing about it would prevent me? You’re a fool, Algy—and leave me some more beer.”

Resignedly Algy sat down, and after a pause for breath, Drummond continued.

“Now listen—all of you. Ted—off you go, and raise a complete waiter’s outfit, dicky and all complete. Peter—you come with me to the aerodrome, and afterwards look up Mullings, at 13, Green Street, Hoxton, and tell him to get in touch with at least fifty demobilised soldiers who are on for a scrap. Algy—you hold the fort here, and don’t get drunk on my ale. Peter will join you, when he’s finished with Mullings, and he’s not to get drunk either. Are you all on?”

“On,” muttered Darrell weakly. “My head is playing an anthem.”

“It’ll play an oratorio before we’re through with this job, old son,” laughed Hugh. “Let’s get gay with Potts.”

Ten minutes later he was at the wheel of his car with Darrell and the millionaire behind. Algy, protesting vigorously at being, as he said, left out of it, was endeavouring to console himself by making out how much money he would have won if he’d followed his infallible system of making money on the turf; Jerningham was wandering along Piccadilly anxiously wondering at what shop he could possibly ask for a dicky, and preserve his hitherto blameless reputation. But Hugh seemed in no great hurry to start. A whimsical smile was on his face, as out of the corner of his eye he watched the man who had been busy doing nothing feverishly trying to crank his car, which, after the manner of the brutes, had seized that moment to jib.

“Get away, man—get away,” cried Peter. “What are you waiting for?”

Hugh laughed.

“Peter,” he remarked, “the refinements of this game are lost on you.”

Still smiling, he got out and walked up to the perspiring driver.

“A warm day,” he murmured. “Don’t hurry; we’ll wait for you.” Then, while the man, utterly taken aback, stared at him speechlessly, he strolled back to his own car.

“Hugh—you’re mad, quite mad,” said Peter resignedly, as with a spluttering roar the other car started, but Hugh still smiled. On the way to the aerodrome, he stopped twice after a block in the traffic to make quite sure that the pursuer should have no chance of losing him, and, by the time they were clear of the traffic and spinning towards their destination, the gentleman in the car behind fully agreed with Darrell.

At first he had expected some trick, being a person of tortuous brain; but as time went on, and nothing unexpected happened, he became reassured. His orders were to follow the millionaire, and inform headquarters where he was taken to. And assuredly at the moment it seemed easy money. In fact, he even went so far as to hum gently to himself, after he had put a hand in his pocket to make sure his automatic revolver was still there.

Then, quite suddenly, the humming stopped and he frowned. The car in front had swung off the road, and turned through the entrance of a small aerodrome. It was a complication which had not entered his mind, and with a curse he pulled up his car just short of the gates. What the devil was he to do now? Most assuredly he could not pursue an aeroplane in a motor—even a racer. Blindly, without thinking, he did the first thing that came into his head. He left his car standing where it was, and followed the others into the aerodrome on foot. Perhaps he could find out something from one of the mechanics; someone might be able to tell him where the plane was going.

There she was with the car beside her, and already the millionaire was being strapped into his seat. Drummond was talking to the pilot, and the sleuth, full of eagerness, accosted a passing mechanic.

“Can you tell me where that aeroplane is going to?” he asked ingratiatingly.

It was perhaps unfortunate that the said mechanic had just had a large spanner dropped on his toe, and his answer was not helpful. It was an education in one way, and at any other time the pursuer would have treated it with the respect it deserved. But, as it was, it was not of great value, which made it the more unfortunate that Peter Darrell should have chosen that moment to look round. And all he saw was the mechanic talking earnestly to the sleuth… Whereupon he talked earnestly to Drummond…

In thinking it over after, that unhappy man, whose job had seemed so easy, found it difficult to say exactly what happened. All of a sudden he found himself surrounded by people—all very affable and most conversational. It took him quite five minutes to get back to his car, and by that time the plane was a speck in the west. Drummond was standing by the gates when he got there, with a look of profound surprise on his face.

“One I have seen often,” remarked the soldier; “two sometimes; three rarely; four never. Fancy four punctures—all at the same time! Dear, dear! I positively insist on giving you a lift.”

He felt himself irresistibly propelled towards Drummond’s car, with only time for a fleeting glimpse at his own four flat tyres, and almost before he realised it they were away. After a few minutes, when he had recovered from his surprise, his hand went instinctively to his pocket, to find the revolver had gone. And it was then that the man he had thought mad laughed gently.

“Didn’t know I was once a pickpocket, did you?” he remarked affably. “A handy little gun, too. Is it all right, Peter?”

“All safe,” came a voice from behind.

“Then dot him one.”

The sleuth had a fleeting vision of stars of all colours which danced before his eyes, coupled with a stunning blow on the back of the head. Vaguely he realised the car was pulling up—then blackness. It was not till four hours later that a passing labourer, having pulled him out from a not over-dry ditch, laid him out to cool. And, incidentally, with his further sphere of usefulness we are not concerned…

IV

“My dear fellow, I told you we’d get here somehow.” Hugh Drummond stretched his legs luxuriously. “The fact that it was necessary to crash your blinking bus in a stray field in order to avoid their footling passport regulations is absolutely immaterial. The only damage is a dent in Ted’s dicky, but all the best waiters have that. They smear it with soup to show their energy… My God! Here’s another of them.”

A Frenchman was advancing towards them down the stately vestibule of the Ritz waving protesting hands. He addressed himself in a voluble crescendo to Drummond, who rose and bowed deeply. His knowledge of French was microscopic, but such trifles were made to be overcome.

“Mais oui, Monsieur mon Colonel,” he remarked affably, when the gendarme paused for lack of breath, “vous comprenez que nôtre machine avait crashé dans un field des turnipes. Nous avons lost nôtre direction. Nous sommes hittés dans l’estomacs… Comme ci, comme ça… Vous comprenez, n’est-ce-pas, mon Colonel?” He turned fiercely on Jerry, “Shut up, you damn fool; don’t laugh!”

“Mais, messieurs, vous n’avez pas des passeports.” The little man, torn between gratification at his rapid promotion and horror at such an appalling breach of regulations, shot up and down like an agitated semaphore. “Vous comprenez; c’est defendu d’arriver en Paris sans des passeports?”

“Parfaitement, mon Colonel,” continued Hugh, unmoved. “Mais vous comprenez que nous avons crashé dans un field des turnipes—non; des rognons… What the hell are you laughing at, Jerry?”

“Oignons, old boy,” spluttered the latter. “Rognons are kidneys.”

“What the dickens does that matter?” demanded Hugh. “Vous comprenez, mon Colonel, n’est-ce-pas? Vive la France! En-bas les Boches! Nous avons crashé.”

The gendarme shrugged his shoulders with a hopeless gesture, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears. Of course this large Englishman was mad; why otherwise should he spit in the kidneys? And that is what he continued to state was his form of amusement. Truly an insane race, and yet he had fought in the brigade next to them near Montauban in July ’16—and he had liked them—those mad Tommies. Moreover, this large, imperturbable man, with the charming smile, showed a proper appreciation of his merits—an appreciation not shared up to the present, regrettable to state, by his own superiors. Colonel—parbleu; eh bien! Pourquoi non?…

At last he produced a notebook; he felt unable to cope further with the situation himself.

“Vôtre nom, M’sieur, s’il vous plait?”

“Undoubtedly, mon Colonel,” remarked Hugh vaguely. “Nous crashons dans—”

“Ah! Mais oui, mais oui, M’sieur.” The little man danced in his agitation. “Vous m’avez déjâ dit que vous avez craché dans les rognons, mais je désire vôtre nom.”

“He wants your name, old dear,” murmured Jerry, weakly.

“Oh, does he?” Hugh beamed on the gendarme. “You priceless little bird! My name is Captain Hugh Drummond.”

And as he spoke, a man sitting close by, who had been an amused onlooker of the whole scene, stiffened suddenly in his chair, and stared hard at Hugh. It was only for a second, and then he was once more merely the politely interested spectator. But Hugh had seen that quick look, though he gave no sign; and when at last the Frenchman departed, apparently satisfied, he leaned over and spoke to Jerry.

“See that man with the suit of reach-me-downs and the cigar,” he remarked. “He’s in this game; I’m just wondering on which side.”

He was not left long in doubt, for barely had the swing doors closed behind the gendarme, when the man in question rose and came over to him.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, in a pronounced nasal twang, “but I heard you say you were Captain Hugh Drummond. I guess you’re one of the men I’ve come across the water to see. My card.”

Hugh glanced at the pasteboard languidly.

“Mr. Jerome K. Green,” he murmured. “What a jolly sort of name.”

“See here, Captain,” went on the other, suddenly displaying a badge hidden under his coat. “That’ll put you wise.”

“Far from it, Mr. Green. What’s it the prize for—throwing cards into a hat?”

The American laughed.

“I guess I’ve sort of taken to you,” he remarked. “You’re real fresh. That badge is the badge of the police force of the United States of America; and that same force is humming some at the moment.” He sat down beside Hugh, and bent forward confidentially. “There’s a prominent citizen of New York City been mislaid, Captain; and, from information we’ve got, we reckon you know quite a lot about his whereabouts.”

Hugh pulled out his cigarette-case.

“Turkish this side—Virginian that. Ah! But I see you’re smoking.” With great deliberation he selected one himself, and lit it. “You were saying, Mr. Green?”

The detective stared at him thoughtfully; at the moment he was not quite certain how to tackle this large and self-possessed young man.

“Might I ask why you’re over here?” he asked at length, deciding to feel his way.

“The air is free to everyone, Mr. Green. As long as you get your share to breathe, you can ask anything you like.”

The American laughed again.

“I guess I’ll put my cards down,” he said, with sudden decision. “What about Hiram C. Potts?”

“What, indeed?” remarked Hugh. “Sounds like a riddle, don’t it?”

“You’ve heard of him, Captain?”

“Few people have not.”

“Yes—but you’ve met him recently,” said the detective, leaning forward. “You know where he is, and”—he tapped Hugh on the knee impressively—“I want him. I want Hiram C. Potts like a man wants a drink in a dry state. I want to take him back in cotton-wool to his wife and daughters. That’s why I’m over this side, Captain, just for that one purpose.”

“There seems to me to be a considerable number of people wandering around who share your opinion about Mr. Potts,” drawled Hugh. “He must be a popular sort of cove.”

“Popular ain’t the word for it, Captain,” said the other. “Have you got him now?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” answered Hugh, beckoning to a passing waiter. “Three Martinis.”

“Where is he?” snapped the detective eagerly.

Hugh laughed.

“Being wrapped up in cotton-wool by somebody else’s wife and daughters. You were a little too quick, Mr. Green; you may be all you say—on the other hand, you may not. And these days I trust no one.”

The American nodded his head in approval.

“Quite right,” he remarked. “My motto—and yet I’m going to trust you. Weeks ago we heard things on the other side, through certain channels, as to a show which was on the rails over here. It was a bit vague, and there were big men in it; but at the time it was no concern of ours. You run your own worries, Captain, over this side.”

Hugh nodded.

“Go on,” he said curtly.

“Then Hiram Potts got mixed up in it; exactly how, we weren’t wise to. But it was enough to bring me over here. Two days ago I got this cable.” He produced a bundle of papers, and handed one to Drummond. “It’s in cipher, as you see; I’ve put the translation underneath.”

Hugh took the cablegram and glanced at it. It was short and to the point:

Captain Hugh Drummond, of Half Moon Street, London, is your man.

He glanced up at the American, who drained his cocktail with the air of a man who is satisfied with life.

“Captain Hugh Drummond, of Half Moon Street, London, is my man,” he chuckled. “Well, Captain what about it now. Will you tell me why you’ve come to Paris? I guess it’s something to do with the business I’m on.”

For a few moments Hugh did not reply, and the American seemed in no hurry for an answer. Some early arrivals for dinner sauntered through the lounge, and Drummond watched them idly as they passed. The American detective certainly seemed all right, but… Casually, his glance rested on a man sitting just opposite, reading the paper. He took in the short, dark beard—the immaculate, though slightly foreign evening clothes; evidently a wealthy Frenchman giving a dinner party in the restaurant, by the way the head waiter was hovering around. And then suddenly his eyes narrowed, and he sat motionless.

“Are you interested in the psychology of gambling, Mr. Green?” he remarked, turning to the somewhat astonished American. “Some people cannot control their eyes or their mouth if the stakes are big; others cannot control their hands. For instance, the gentleman opposite. Does anything strike you particularly with regard to him?”

The detective glanced across the lounge.

“He seems to like hitting his knee with his left hand,” he said, after a short inspection.

“Precisely,” murmured Hugh. “That is why I came to Paris.”

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH HE HAS A NEAR SHAVE

I

“Captain, you have me guessing.” The American bit the end off another cigar, and leaned back in his chair. “You say that swell Frenchman with the waiters hovering about like fleas round a dog’s tail is the reason you came to Paris. Is he kind of friendly with Hiram C. Potts?”

Drummond laughed.

“The first time I met Mr. Potts,” he remarked, “that swell Frenchman was just preparing to put a thumbscrew on his second thumb.”

“Second?” The detective looked up quickly.

“The first had been treated earlier in the evening,” answered Drummond quietly. “It was then that I removed your millionaire pal.”

The other lit his cigar deliberately.

“Say, Captain,” he murmured, “you ain’t pulling my leg by any chance, are you?”

“I am not,” said Drummond shortly. “I was told, before I met him, that the gentleman over there was one of the boys… He is, most distinctly. In fact, though up to date such matters have not been much in my line, I should put him down as a sort of super-criminal. I wonder what name he is passing under here?”

The American ceased pulling at his cigar.

“Do they vary?”

“In England he is clean-shaven, possesses a daughter, and answers to Carl Peterson. As he is at present I should never have known him, but for that little trick of his.”

“Possesses a daughter!” For the first time the detective displayed traces of excitement. “Holy, Smoke! It can’t be him!”

“Who?” demanded Drummond.

But the other did not answer. Out of the corner of his eye he was watching three men who had just joined the subject of their talk, and on his face was a dawning amazement. He waited till the whole party had gone into the restaurant, then, throwing aside his caution, he turned excitedly to Drummond.

“Are you certain,” he cried, “that that’s the man who has been monkeying with Potts?”

“Absolutely,” said Hugh. “He recognised me; whether he thinks I recognised him or not, I don’t know.”

“Then what,” remarked the detective, “is he doing here dining with Hocking, our cotton trust man; with Steinmann, the German coal man; and with that other guy whose face is familiar, but whose name I can’t place? Two of ’em at any rate, Captain, have got more millions than we’re ever likely to have thousands.”

Hugh stared at the American.

“Last night,” he said slowly, “he was forgathering with a crowd of the most atrocious ragged-trousered revolutionaries it’s ever been my luck to run up against.”

“We’re in it, Captain, right in the middle of it,” cried the detective, slapping his leg. “I’ll eat my hat if that Frenchman isn’t Franklyn—or Libstein—or Baron Darott—or any other of the blamed names he calls himself. He’s the biggest proposition we’ve ever been up against on this little old earth, and he’s done us every time. He never commits himself, and if he does, he always covers his tracks. He’s a genius; he’s the goods. Gee!” he whistled gently under his breath. “If we could only lay him by the heels.”

For a while he stared in front of him, lost in his dream of pleasant anticipation; then, with a short laugh, he pulled himself together.

“Quite a few people have thought the same, Captain,” he remarked, “and there he is—still drinking high-balls. You say he was with a crowd of revolutionaries last night. What do you mean exactly?”

“Bolshevists, Anarchists, members of the Do-no-work-and-have-all-the-money Brigade,” answered Hugh. “But excuse me a moment. Waiter.”

A man who had been hovering round came up promptly.

“Four of ’em, Ted,” said Hugh in a rapid undertone. “Frenchman with a beard, a Yank, and two Boches. Do your best.”

“Right-o, old bean!” returned the waiter, “but don’t hope for too much.”

He disappeared unobtrusively into the restaurant, and Hugh turned with a laugh to the American, who was staring at him in amazement.

“Who the devil is that guy?” asked the detective at length.

“Ted Jerningham—son of Sir Patrick Jerningham, Bart., and Lady Jerningham, of Jerningham Hall, Rutland, England,” answered Hugh, still grinning. “We may be crude in our methods, Mr. Green, but you must admit we do our best. Incidentally, if you want to know, your friend Mr. Potts is at present tucked between the sheets at that very house. He went there by aeroplane this morning.” He waved a hand towards Jerry. “He was the pilot.”

“Travelled like a bird, and sucked up a plate of meat-juice at the end,” announced that worthy, removing his eyes with difficulty from a recently arrived fairy opposite. “Who says that’s nothing, Hugh: the filly across the road there, with that bangle affair round her knee?”

“I must apologise for him, Mr. Green,” remarked Hugh. “He has only recently left school, and knows no better.”

But the American was shaking his head a little dazedly.

“Crude!” he murmured, “crude! If you and your pals, Captain, are ever out of a job, the New York police is yours for the asking.” He smoked for a few moments in silence, and then, with a quick hunch of his shoulders, he turned to Drummond. “I guess there’ll be time to throw bouquets after,” he remarked. “We’ve got to get busy on what your friend Peterson’s little worry is; we’ve then got to stop it—some old how. Now, does nothing sort of strike you?” He looked keenly at the soldier. “Revolutionaries, Bolshevists, paid agitators last night: international financiers this evening. Why, the broad outline of the plan is as plain as the nose on your face; and it’s just the sort of game that man would love…” The detective stared thoughtfully at the end of his cigar, and a look of comprehension began to dawn on Hugh’s face.

“Great Scott! Mr. Green,” he said, “I’m beginning to get you. What was defeating me was, why two men like Peterson and Lakington should be mixed up with last night’s crowd.”

“Lakington! Who’s Lakington?” asked the other quickly.

“Number Two in the combine,” answered Hugh, “and a nasty man.”

“Well, we’ll leave him out for the moment,” said the American. “Doesn’t it strike you that there are quite a number of people in this world who would benefit if England became a sort of second Russia? That such a thing would be worth money—big money? That such a thing would be worth paying through the nose for? It would have to be done properly; your small strike here, your small strike there, ain’t no manner of use. One gigantic syndicalist strike all over your country—that’s what Peterson’s playing for, I’ll stake my bottom dollar. How he’s doing it is another matter. But he’s in with the big financiers: and he’s using the tub-thumping Bolshies as tools. Gad! It’s a big scheme”—he puffed twice at his cigar—“a durned big scheme. Your little old country, Captain, is, saving one, the finest on God’s earth; but she’s in a funny mood. She’s sick, like most of us are; maybe she’s a little sicker than a good many people think. But I reckon Peterson’s cure won’t do any manner of good, excepting to himself and those blamed capitalists who are putting up the dollars.”

“Then where the devil does Potts come in?” said Hugh, who had listened intently to every word the American had said. “And the Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls?”

“Pearls!” began the American, when the restaurant door opened suddenly and Ted Jerningham emerged. He seemed to be in a hurry, and Hugh half rose in his chair. Then he sat back again, as with miraculous rapidity a crowd of infuriated head waiters and other great ones appeared from nowhere and surrounded Jerningham.

Undoubtedly this was not the way for a waiter to leave the hotel—even if he had just been discovered as an imposter and sacked on the spot. And undoubtedly if he had been a waiter, this large body of scandalised beings would have removed him expeditiously through some secret buttery-hatch, and dropped him on the pavement out of a back entrance.

But not being a waiter, he continued to advance, while his entourage, torn between rage at his effrontery and horror at the thought of a scene, followed in his wake.

Just opposite Hugh he halted, and in a clear voice addressed no one in particular:

“You’re spotted. Look out. Ledger at Godalming.”

Then, engulfed once more in the crowd, he continued his majestic progress, and finally disappeared a little abruptly from view.

“Cryptic,” murmured the American, “but some lad. Gee! He had that bunch guessing.”

“The ledger at Godalming,” said Hugh thoughtfully. “I watched Peterson, through the skylight last night, getting gay with that ledger. I’m thinking we’ll have to look inside it, Mr. Green.”

He glanced up as one of the chucking-out party came back, and asked what had happened.

“Mon Dieu, m’sieur,” cried the waiter despairingly. “’E vas an imposter, n’est-ce-pas—un scélerat; ’e upset ze fish all over ze shirtfront of Monsieur le Comte.”

“Was that the gentleman with the short beard, dining with three others?” asked Drummond gravely.

“Mais oui, m’sieur. He dine here always if ’e is in Paris—does le Comte de Guy. Oh! Mon Dieu! C’est terrible!”

Wringing his hands, the waiter went back into the restaurant, and Hugh shook silently.

“Dear old Ted,” he murmured, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I knew he’d keep his end up.” Then he stood up. “What about a little dinner at Maxim’s? I’m thinking we’ve found out all we’re likely to find, until we can get to that ledger. And thanks to your knowing those birds, Mr. Green, our trip to Paris has been of considerable value.”

The American nodded.

“I guess I’m on,” he remarked slowly; “but, if you take my advice, Captain, you’ll look nippy tonight. I wouldn’t linger around corners admiring the mud. Things kind o’ happen at corners.”

II

But on that particular evening the detective proved wrong. They reached Maxim’s without mishap, they enjoyed an excellent dinner, during which the American showed himself to be a born conversationalist as well as a shrewd man of the world. And over the coffee and liqueurs Hugh gave him a brief outline of what had taken place since he first got mixed up in the affair. The American listened in silence, though amazement shone on his face as the story proceeded. The episode of the disappearing body especially seemed to tickle his fancy, but even over that he made no remark. Only when Hugh had finished, and early arrivals for supper were beginning to fill the restaurant, did he sum up the matter as he saw it.

“A tough proposition, Captain—damned tough. Potts is our biggest shipping man, but where he comes on the picture at that moment has me beat. As for the old girl’s jewels, they don’t seem to fit in at all. All we can do is to put our noses inside that ledger, and see the book of the words. It’ll sure help some.”

And as Hugh switched off the electric light in his bedroom, having first seen that his torch was ready to hand in case of emergency, he was thinking of the detective’s words. Getting hold of the ledger was not going to, be easy—far from it; but the excitement of the chase had fairly obsessed him by now. He lay in bed, turning over in his mind every possible and impossible scheme by which he could get into the secret centre room at The Elms. He knew the safe the ledger was kept in: but safes are awkward propositions for the ordinary mortal to tackle. Anyway, it wasn’t a thing which could be done in a minute’s visit; he would have to manage at least a quarter or half an hour’s undisturbed search, the thought of which, with his knowledge of the habits of the household, almost made him laugh out loud. And, at that moment, a fly pinged past his head…

He felt singularly wide-awake, and, after a while, he gave up attempting to go to sleep. The new development which had come to light that evening was uppermost in his thoughts; and, as he lay there, covered only with a sheet, for the night was hot, the whole vile scheme unfolded itself before his imagination. The American was right in his main idea—of that he had no doubt; and in his mind’s eye he saw the great crowds of idle, foolish men led by a few hot-headed visionaries and paid blackguards to their so-called Utopia. Starvation, misery, ruin, utter and complete, lurked in his mental picture; spectres disguised as great ideals, but grinning sardonically under their masks. And once again he seemed to hear the toc-toc of machine guns, as he had heard them night after night during the years gone by. But this time they were mounted on the pavement of the towns of England, and the swish of the bullets, which had swept like swarms of cockchafers over No Man’s Land, now whistled down the streets between rows of squalid houses… And once again a fly pinged past his head.

With a gesture of annoyance he waved his arm. It was hot—insufferably hot, and he was beginning to regret that he had followed the earnest advice of the American to sleep with his windows shut and bolted. What on earth could Peterson do to him in a room at the Ritz? But he had promised the detective, and there it was—curtains drawn, window bolted, door locked. Moreover, and he smiled grimly to himself as he remembered it, he had even gone so far as to emulate the hysterical maiden lady of fiction and peer under the bed…

The next moment the smile ceased abruptly, and he lay rigid, with every nerve alert. Something had moved in the room…

It had only been a tiny movement, more like the sudden creak of a piece of furniture than anything else—but it was not quite like it. A gentle, slithering sound had preceded the creak; the sound such as a man would make who, with infinite precaution against making a noise, was moving in a dark room; a stealthy, uncanny noise. Hugh peered into the blackness tensely. After the first moment of surprise his brain was quite cool. He had looked under the bed, he had hung his coat in the cupboard, and save for those two obvious places there was no cover for a cat. And yet, with a sort of sixth sense that four years of war had given him, he knew that noise had been made by some human agency. Human! The thought of the cobra at The Elms flashed into his mind, and his mouth set more grimly. What if Peterson had introduced some of his abominable menagerie into the room?… Then, once more, the thing like a fly sounded loud in his ear. And was it his imagination, or had he heard a faint sibilant hiss just before?

Suddenly it struck him that he was at a terrible disadvantage. The thing, whatever it was, knew, at any rate approximately, his position: he had not the slightest notion where it was. And a blind man boxing a man who could see, would have felt just about as safe. With Hugh, such a conclusion meant instant action. It might be dangerous on the floor: it most certainly was far more so in bed. He felt for his torch, and then, with one convulsive bound, he was standing by the door, with his hand on the electric-light switch.

Then he paused and listened intently. Not a sound could he hear; the thing, whatever it was, had become motionless at his sudden movement. For an appreciable time he stood there, his eyes searching the darkness—but even he could see nothing, and he cursed the American comprehensively under his breath. He would have given anything for even the faintest grey light, so that he could have some idea of what it was and where it was. Now he felt utterly helpless, while every moment he imagined some slimy, crawling brute touching his bare feet—creeping up him…

He pulled himself together sharply. Light was essential and at once. But, if he switched on, there would be a moment when the thing would see him before he could see the thing—and such moments are not helpful. There only remained his torch; and on the Ancre, on one occasion, he had saved his life by judicious use. The man behind one of those useful implements is in blackness far more impenetrable than the blackest night, for the man in front is dazzled. He can only shoot at the torch: therefore, hold it to one side and in front of you…

The light flashed out, darting round the room. Ping! Something hit the sleeve of his pyjamas, but still he could see nothing. The bed, with the clothes thrown back; the washstand; the chair with his trousers and shirt—everything was as it had been when he turned in. And then he heard a second sound—distinct and clear. It came from high up, near the ceiling, and the beam caught the big cupboard and travelled up. It reached the top, and rested there, fixed and steady. Framed in the middle of it, peering over the edge, was a little hairless, brown face, holding what looked like a tube in its mouth. Hugh had one glimpse of a dark, skinny hand putting something in the tube, and then he switched off the torch and ducked, just as another fly pinged over his head and hit the wall behind.

One thing, at any rate, was certain: the other occupant of the room was human, and with that realisation all his nerve returned. There would be time enough later on to find out how he got there, and what those strange pinging noises had been caused by. Just at that moment only one thing was on the programme; and without a sound he crept round the bed towards the cupboard, to put that one thing into effect in his usual direct manner.

Twice did he hear the little whistling hiss from above, but nothing sang past his head. Evidently the man had lost him, and was probably still aiming at the door. And then, with hands that barely touched it, he felt the outlines of the cupboard.

It was standing an inch or two from the wall, and he slipped his fingers behind the back on one side. He listened for a moment, but no movement came from above; then, half facing the wall, he put one leg against it. There was one quick, tremendous heave; a crash which sounded deafening; then silence. And once again he switched on his torch…

Lying on the floor by the window was one of the smallest men he had ever seen. He was a native of sorts, and Hugh turned him over with his foot. He was quite unconscious, and the bump on his head, where it had hit the floor, was rapidly swelling to the size of a large orange. In his hand he still clutched the little tube, and Hugh gingerly removed it. Placed in position at one end was a long splinter of wood, with a sharpened point; and by the light of his torch Hugh saw that it was faintly discoloured with some brown stain.

He was still examining it with interest when a thunderous knock came on the door. He strolled over and switched on the electric light; then he opened the door.

An excited night-porter rushed in, followed by two or three other people in varying stages of undress, and stopped in amazement at the scene. The heavy cupboard, with a great crack across the back, lay face downwards on the floor; the native still lay curled up and motionless.

“One of the hotel pets?” queried Hugh pleasantly, lighting a cigarette. “If it’s all the same to you, I wish you’d remove him. He was—ah—finding it uncomfortable on the top of the cupboard.”

It appeared that the night-porter could speak English; it also appeared that the lady occupying the room below had rushed forth demanding to be led to the basement, under the misapprehension that war had again been declared and the Germans were bombing Paris. It still further appeared that there was something most irregular about the whole proceeding—the best people at the Ritz did not do these things. And then, to crown everything, while the uproar was at its height, the native on the floor, opening one beady and somewhat dazed eye, realised that things looked unhealthy. Unnoticed, he lay “doggo” for a while; then, like a rabbit which has almost been trodden on, he dodged between the legs of the men in the room, and vanished through the open door. Taken by surprise, for a moment no one moved: then, simultaneously, they dashed into the passage. It was empty, save for one scandalised old gentleman in a nightcap, who was peering out of a room opposite angrily demanding the cause of the hideous din.

Had he seen a native—a black man? He had seen no native, and if other people only drank water, they wouldn’t either. In fact, the whole affair was scandalous, and he should write to the papers about it. Still muttering, he withdrew, banging his door, and Hugh, glancing up, saw the American detective advancing towards them along the corridor.

“What’s the trouble, Captain?” he asked, as he joined the group.

“A friend of the management elected to spend the night on the top of my cupboard, Mr. Green,” answered Drummond, “and got cramp half-way through.”

The American gazed at the wreckage in silence. Then he looked at Hugh, and what he saw on that worthy’s face apparently decided him to maintain that policy. In fact, it was not till the night-porter and his attendant minions had at last, and very dubiously, withdrawn, that he again opened his mouth.

“Looks like a hectic night,” he murmured. “What happened?” Briefly Hugh told him what had occurred, and the detective whistled softly.

“Blowpipe and poisoned darts,” he said shortly, returning the tube to Drummond. “Narrow escape—damned narrow! Look at your pillow.”

Hugh looked: embedded in the linen were four pointed splinters similar to the one he held in his hand; by the door were three more, lying on the floor.

“An engaging little bird,” he laughed; “but nasty to look at.” He extracted the little pieces of wood and carefully placed them in an empty matchbox: the tube he put into his cigarette-case. “Might come in handy: you never know,” he remarked casually.

“They might if you stand quite still,” said the American, with a sudden, sharp command in his voice. “Don’t move.”

Hugh stood motionless, staring at the speaker who, with eyes fixed on his right forearm, had stepped forward. From the loose sleeve of his pyjama coat the detective gently pulled another dart and dropped it into the matchbox.

“Not far off getting you that time, Captain,” he cried cheerfully. “Now you’ve got the whole blamed outfit.”

III

It was the Comte de Guy who boarded the boat express at the Gare du Nord the next day; it was Carl Peterson who stepped off the boat express at Boulogne. And it was only Drummond’s positive assurance which convinced the American that the two characters were the same man.

He was leaning over the side of the boat reading a telegram when he first saw Hugh ten minutes after the boat had left the harbour; and if he had hoped for a different result to the incident of the night before, no sign of it showed on his face. Instead he waved a cheerful greeting to Drummond.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” he remarked affably. “Have you been to Paris, too?”

For a moment Drummond looked at him narrowly. Was it a stupid bluff, or was the man so sure of his power of disguise that he assumed with certainty he had not been recognised? And it suddenly struck Hugh that, save for that one tell-tale habit—a habit which, in all probability, Peterson himself was unconscious of—he would not have recognised him.

“Yes,” he answered lightly. “I came over to see how you behaved yourself!”

“What a pity I didn’t know!” said Peterson, with a good-humoured chuckle. He seemed in excellent spirits, as he carefully tore the telegram into tiny pieces and dropped them overboard. “We might have had another of our homely little chats over some supper. Where did you stay?”

“At the Ritz. And you?”

“I always stop at the Bristol,” answered Peterson. “Quieter than the Ritz, I think.”

“Yes, it was quite dreadful last night,” murmured Hugh. “A pal of mine—quite incorrigible—that bird over there”—he pointed to Ted Jerningham, who was strolling up and down the deck with the American—“insisted on dressing up as a waiter.” He laughed shortly at the sudden gleam in the other’s eye, as he watched Jerningham go past. “Not content with that, he went and dropped the fish over some warrior’s boiled shirt, and had to leave in disgrace.” He carefully selected a cigarette. “No accountin’ for this dressing-up craze, is there, Carl? You’d never be anything but your own sweet self, would you, little one? Always the girls’ own friend—tender and true.” He laughed softly; from previous experience he knew that this particular form of baiting invariably infuriated Peterson. “Some day, my Carl, you must tell me of your life, and your early struggles, amidst all the bitter temptations of this wicked world.”

“Some day,” snarled Peterson,

“Stop.” Drummond held up a protesting hand. “Not that, my Carl—anything but that.”

“Anything but what?” said the other savagely.

“I felt it in my bones,” answered Drummond, “that you were once more on the point of mentioning my decease. I couldn’t bear it, Carl: on this beautiful morning I should burst into tears. It would be the seventeenth time that that sad event has been alluded to either by you or our Henry: and I’m reluctantly beginning to think that you’ll have to hire an assassin, and take lessons from him.” He looked thoughtfully at the other, and an unholy joy began to dawn on his face. “I see you have thrown away your cigar, Carl. May I offer you a cigarette? No?… But why so brusque? Can it be—oh no! surely not—can it be that my little pet is feeling icky-boo? Face going green—slight perspiration—collar tight—only the yawning stage between him and his breakfast! Some people have all the fun of the fair. And I thought of asking you to join me below at lunch. There’s some excellent fat pork…”

A few minutes later, Jerningham and the American found him leaning by himself against the rail, still laughing weakly.

“I ask no more of life,” he remarked when he could speak. “Anything else that may come will be an anti-climax.”

“What’s happened?” asked Jerningham.

“It’s happening,” said Drummond joyfully. “It couldn’t possibly be over yet. Peterson, our one and only Carl, has been overcome by the waves. And when he’s feeling a little better I’ll take him a bit of crackling…” Once again he gave way to unrestrained mirth, which finally subsided sufficiently to allow him to stagger below and feed.

At the top of the stairs leading to the luncheon saloon, he paused, and glanced into the secret place reserved for those who have from early childhood voted for a Channel tunnel.

“There he is,” he whispered ecstatically, “our little Carl, busy recalling his past. It may be vulgar, Ted: doubtless it is. I don’t care. Such trifles matter not in the supreme moments of one’s life; and I can imagine of only one more supreme than this.”

“What’s that?” asked Ted, firmly piloting him down the stairs.

“The moment when he and Henry sit side by side and recall their pasts together,” murmured Hugh solemnly. “Think of it, man—think of it! Each cursin’ the other between spasms. My hat! What a wonderful, lovely dream to treasure through the weary years!” He gazed abstractedly at the waiter. “Roast beef—underdone,” he remarked, “and take a plate of cold fat up to the silence room above. The third gentleman from the door would like to look at it.”

But the third gentleman from the door, even in the midst of his agony, was consoled by one reflection.

“Should it be necessary, letter awaits him.” So had run the telegram, which he had scattered to the winds right under Drummond’s nose. And it was necessary. The mutton-headed young sweep had managed to escape once again: though Petro had assured him that the wretched native had never yet failed. And he personally had seen the man clamber on to the top of the cupboard…

For a moment his furious rage overcame his sufferings… Next time…next time…and then the seventh wave of several seventh waves arrived. He had a fleeting glimpse of the scoundrel Drummond, apparently on the other side of a see-saw, watching him delightedly from outside; then, with a dreadful groan, he snatched his new basin, just supplied by a phlegmatic steward, from the scoundrel next him, who had endeavoured to appropriate it.

IV

“Walk right in, Mr. Green,” said Hugh, as, three hours later, they got out of a taxi in Half Moon Street. “This is my little rabbit-hutch.”

He followed the American up the stairs, and produced his latchkey. But before he could even insert it in the hole the door was flung open, and Peter Darrell stood facing him with evident relief in his face.

“Thank the Lord you’ve come, old son,” he cried, with a brief look at the detective. “There’s something doing down at Godalming I don’t like.”

He followed Hugh into the sitting-room.

“At twelve o’clock today Toby rang up. He was talking quite ordinarily—you know the sort of rot he usually gets off his chest—when suddenly he stopped quite short and said, ‘My God! What do you want?’ I could tell he’d looked up, because his voice was muffled. Then there was the sound of a scuffle, I heard Toby curse, then nothing more. I rang and rang and rang—no answer.”

“What did you do?” Drummond, with a letter in his hand which he had taken off the mantelpiece, was listening grimly.

“Algy was here. He motored straight off to see if he could find out what was wrong. I stopped here to tell you.”

“Anything through from him?”

“Not a word. There’s foul play, or I’ll eat my hat.”

But Hugh did not answer. With a look on his face which even Peter had never seen before, he was reading the letter. It was short and to the point, but he read it three times before he spoke.

“When did this come?” he asked.

“An hour ago,” answered the other. “I very nearly opened it.”

“Read it,” said Hugh. He handed it to Peter and went to the door.

“Denny,” he shouted, “I want my car round at once.” Then he came back into the room. “If they’ve hurt one hair of her head,” he said, his voice full of a smouldering fury, “I’ll murder that gang one by one with my bare hands.”

“Say, Captain, may I see this letter?” said the American; and Hugh nodded.

“‘For pity’s sake, come at once,’” read the detective aloud. “‘The bearer of this is trustworthy.’” He thoughtfully picked his teeth. “Girl’s writing. Do you know her?”

“My fiancée,” said Hugh shortly.

“Certain?” snapped the American.

“Certain!” cried Hugh. “Of course I am, I know every curl of every letter.”

“There is such a thing as forgery,” remarked the detective dispassionately.

“Damn it, man!” exploded Hugh. “Do you imagine I don’t know my own girl’s writing?”

“A good many bank cashiers have mistaken their customers’ writing before now,” said the other, unmoved. “I don’t like it, Captain. A girl in real trouble wouldn’t put in that bit about the bearer.”

“You go to hell,” remarked Hugh briefly. “I’m going to Godalming.”

“Well,” drawled the American, “not knowing Godalming, I don’t know who scores. But, if you go there—I come too.”

“And me,” said Peter, brightening up.

Hugh grinned.

“Not you, old son. If Mr. Green will come, I’ll be delighted; but I want you here at headquarters.”

He turned round as his servant put his head in at the door.

“Car here, sir. Do you want a bag packed?”

“No—only my revolver. Are you ready, Mr. Green?”

“Sure thing,” said the American. “I always am.”

“Then we’ll move.”

And Peter, watching the car resignedly from the window, saw the American grip his seat with both hands, and then raise them suddenly in silent prayer, while an elderly charlady fled with a scream to the safety of the area below.

They did the trip in well under the hour, and the detective got out of the car with a faint sigh of relief.

“You’ve missed your vocation, Captain,” he murmured. “If you pushed a bath-chair it would be safer for all parties. I bolted two bits of gum in that excursion.”

But Drummond was already out of earshot, dodging rapidly through the bushes on his way to The Larches; and when the American finally overtook him, he was standing by a side-door knocking hard on the panels.

“Seems kind of empty,” said the detective thoughtfully, as the minutes went by and no one came. “Why not try the front door?”

“Because it’s in sight of the other house,” said Hugh briefly. “I’m going to break in.”

He retreated a yard from the door, then, bracing his shoulder, he charged it once. And the door, as a door, was not… Rapidly the two men went from room to room—bedrooms, servants’ quarters, even the bathroom. Every one was empty: not a sound could be heard in the house. Finally, only the dining-room remained, and as they stood by the door looking round, the American shifted his third piece of gum to a new point of vantage.

“Somebody has been rough-housing by the look of things,” he remarked judicially. “Looks like a boozing den after a thick night.”

“It does,” remarked Hugh grimly, taking in the disorder of the room. The tablecloth was pulled off, the telephone lay on the floor. China and glass, smashed to pieces, littered the carpet; but what caught his eye, and caused him suddenly to step forward and pick it up, was a plain circle of glass with a black cord attached to it through a small hole.

“Algy Longworth’s eyeglass,” he muttered. “So he’s been caught too.”

And it was at that moment that, clear and distinct through the still evening air, they heard a woman’s agonised scream. It came from the house next door, and the American, for a brief space, even forgot to chew his gum.

The next instant he darted forward.

“Stop, you young fool!” he shouted, but he was too late.

He watched Drummond, running like a stag, cross the lawn and disappear in the trees. For a second he hesitated; then, with a shrug of square shoulders, he rapidly left the house by the way they had entered. And a few minutes later, Drummond’s car was skimming back towards London, with a grim-faced man at the wheel, who had apparently felt the seriousness of the occasion so acutely as to deposit his third piece of spearmint on the underneath side of the steering-wheel for greater safety.

But, seeing that the owner of the car was lying in blissful unconsciousness in the hall of The Elms, surrounded by half a dozen men, this hideous vandalism hurt him not.

CHAPTER X

In Which the Hun Nation Decreases By One

I

Drummond had yielded to impulse—the blind, all-powerful impulse of any man who is a man to get to the woman he loves if she wants him. As he had dashed across the lawn to The Elms, with the American’s warning cry echoing in his ears, he had been incapable of serious thought. Subconsciously he had known that, from every point of view, it was the act of a madman; that he was deliberately putting his head into what, in all probability, was a carefully prepared noose; that, from every point of view, he could help Phyllis better by remaining a free agent outside. But when a girl shrieks, and the man who loves her hears it, arguments begin to look tired. And what little caution might have remained to Hugh completely vanished as he saw the girl watching him with agonised terror in her face, from an upstair window, as he dashed up to the house. It was only for a brief second that he saw her; then she disappeared suddenly, as if snatched away by some invisible person.

“I’m coming, darling.” He had given one wild shout, and hurled himself through the door which led into the house from the garden. A dazzling light of intense brilliance had shone in his face, momentarily blinding him; then had come a crushing blow on the back of his head. One groping, wild step forward, and Hugh Drummond, dimly conscious of men all round him, had pitched forward on his face into utter oblivion.

“It’s too easy.” Lakington’s sneering voice broke the silence, as he looked vindictively at the unconscious man.

“So you have thought before, Henry,” chuckled Peterson, whose complete recovery from his recent unfortunate indisposition was shown by the steady glow of the inevitable cigar. “And he always bobs up somehow. If you take my advice you’ll finish him off here and now, and run no further risks.”

“Kill him while he’s unconscious?” Lakington laughed evilly. “No, Carl, not under any circumstances, whatever. He has quite a lengthy score to pay and by God! he’s going to pay it this time.” He stepped forward and kicked Drummond twice in the ribs with a cold, animal fury.

“Well, don’t kick him when he’s down, guv’nor. You’ll ’ave plenty o’ time after.” A hoarse voice from the circle of men made Lakington look up.

“You cut it out, Jem Smith,” he snarled, “or I might find plenty of time after for others beside this young swine.” The ex-pugilist muttered uneasily under his breath, but said no more, and it was Peterson who broke the silence.

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Lash him up like the other two,” returned Lakington, “and leave him to cool until I get back tomorrow. But I’ll bring him round before I go, and just talk to him for a little. I wouldn’t like him not to know what was going to happen to him. Anticipation is always delightful.” He turned to two of the men standing near. “Carry him into my room,” he ordered, “and another of you get the rope.”

And so it was that Algy Longworth and Toby Sinclair, with black rage and fury in their hearts, watched the limp form of their leader being carried into the central room. Swathed in rope, they sat motionless and impotent, in their respective chairs, while they watched the same process being performed on Drummond. He was no amateur at the game, was the rope-winder, and by the time he had finished, Hugh resembled nothing so much as a lifeless brown mummy. Only his head was free, and that lolled forward helplessly.

Lakington watched the performance for a time; then, wearying of it, he strolled over to Algy’s chair.

“Well, you puppy,” he remarked, “are you going to try shouting again?” He picked up the rhinoceros-hide riding-whip lying on the floor, and bent it between his hands. “That weal on your face greatly improves your beauty, and next time you’ll get two, and a gag as well.”

“How’s the jaw, you horrible bit of dreg?” remarked Algy insultingly, and Toby laughed.

“Don’t shake his nerve, Algy,” he implored. “For the first time in his filthy life he feels safe in the same room as Hugh.”

The taunt seemed to madden Lakington, who sprang across the room and lashed Sinclair over the face. But even after the sixth cut no sound came from the helpless man, though the blood was streaming down inside his collar. His eyes, calm and sneering, met those of the raving man in front of him without a quiver, and, at last, Peterson himself intervened.

“Stop it, Lakington.” His voice was stern as he caught the other’s upraised arm. “That’s enough for the time.”

For a moment it seemed as if Lakington would have struck Peterson himself; then he controlled himself, and, with an ugly laugh, flung the whip into a corner.

“I forgot,” he said slowly. “It’s the leading dog we want—not the puppies that run after him yapping.” He spun round on his heel. “Have you finished?”

The rope-artist bestowed a final touch to the last knot, and surveyed his handiwork with justifiable pride.

“Cold mutton,” he remarked tersely, “would be lively compared to him when he wakes up.”

“Good! Then we’ll bring him to.”

Lakington took some crystals from a jar on one of the shelves, and placed them in a tumbler. Then he added a few drops of liquid and held the glass directly under the unconscious man’s nose. Almost at once the liquid began to effervesce, and in less than a minute Drummond opened his eyes and stared dazedly round the room. He blinked foolishly as he saw Longworth and Sinclair; then he looked down and found he was similarly bound himself. Finally he glanced up at the man bending over him, and full realisation returned.

“Feeling better, my friend?” With a mocking smile, Lakington laid the tumbler on a table close by.

“Much, thank you, Henry,” murmured Hugh. “Ah! and there’s Carl. How’s the tummy, Carl? I hope for your sake that it’s feeling stronger than the back of my head.”

He grinned cheerfully, and Lakington struck him on the mouth. “You can stop that style of conversation, Captain Drummond,” he remarked. “I dislike it.”

Hugh stared at the striker in silence.

“Accept my congratulations,” he said at length, in a low voice which, despite himself, shook a little. “You are the first man who has ever done that, and I shall treasure the memory of that blow.”

“I’d hate it to be a lonely memory,” remarked Lakington. “So here’s another, to keep it company.” Again he struck him, then with a laugh he turned on his heel. “My compliments to Miss Benton,” he said to a man standing near the door, “and ask her to be good enough to come down for a few minutes.”

The veins stood out on Drummond’s forehead at the mention of the girl, but otherwise he gave no sign; and, in silence, they waited for her arrival.

She came almost at once, a villainous-looking blackguard with her, and as she saw Hugh she gave a pitiful little moan and held out her hand to him.

“Why did you come, boy?” she cried. “Didn’t you know it was only a forgery—that note?”

“Ah! was it?” said Hugh softly. “Was it, indeed?”

“An interesting point,” murmured Lakington. “Surely if a charming girl is unable—or unwilling—to write to her fiancé, her father is a very suitable person to supply the deficiency. Especially if he has been kindly endowed by Nature with a special aptitude for—er—imitating writing.”

Mr. Benton, who had been standing outside the door, came lurching into the room.

“Quite ri’, Laking—Laking—ton,” he announced solemnly. “Dreadful thing to sep—separate two young people.” Then he saw Drummond, and paused, blinking foolishly. “Whash he all tied up for li’ that?”

Lakington smiled evilly.

“It would be a pity to lose him, now he’s come, wouldn’t it?” The drunken man nodded two or three times; then a thought seemed to strike him, and he advanced slowly towards Hugh, wagging a finger foolishly.

“Thash reminds me, young fellah,” he hiccoughed gravely, “you never asked my consent. You should have asked father’s consent. Mosh incon—inconshiderate. Don’t you agree with me, Mishter Peterson?”

“You will find the tantalus in the dining-room,” said Peterson coldly. “I should say you require one more drink to produce complete insensibility, and the sooner you have it the better.”

“Inshensibility!” With outraged dignity the wretched man appealed to his daughter. “Phyllis, did you hear? Thish man says I’sh in—inebri…says I’sh drunk. Gratui…tous inshult…”

“Oh, father, father,” cried the girl, covering her face with her hands. “For pity’s sake go away! You’ve done enough harm as it is.”

Mr. Benton tacked towards the door, where he paused, swaying.

“Disgraceful,” he remarked solemnly. “Rising generation no reshpect for elders and bettersh! Teach ’em lesson, Lakington. Do ’em all good. One—two—three, all ranged in a—in a row. Do ’em good—” His voice tailed off, and, after a valiant attempt to lean against a door which was not there, he collapsed gracefully in a heap on the floor.

“You vile hound,” said Phyllis, turning like a young tigress on Lakington. “It’s your doing entirely, that he’s in that condition.”

But Lakington merely laughed.

“When we’re married,” he answered lightly, “we’ll put him into a really good home for inebriates.”

“Married!” she whispered tensely. “Married! Why, you loathsome reptile, I’d kill myself before I married you.”

“An excellent curtain,” remarked Lakington suavely, “for the third act of a melodrama. Doubtless we can elaborate it later. In the meantime, however”—he glanced at his watch—“time presses. And I don’t want to go without telling you a little about the programme, Captain Drummond. Unfortunately both Mr. Peterson and I have to leave you for tonight; but we shall be returning tomorrow morning—or, at any rate, I shall. You will be left in charge of Heinrich—you remember the filthy Boche?—with whom you had words the other night. As you may expect, he entertains feelings of great friendship and affection for you, so you should not lack for any bodily comforts; such as may be possible in your present somewhat cramped position. Then tomorrow, when I return, I propose to try a few experiments on you, and, though I fear you will find them painful, it’s a great thing to suffer in the cause of science… You will always have the satisfaction of knowing that dear little Phyllis will be well cared for.” With a sudden, quick movement, he seized the girl and kissed her before she realised his intention. The rope round Drummond creaked as he struggled impotently, and Lakington’s sneering face seemed to swim in a red glow.

“That is quite in keeping, is it not,” he snarled “to kiss the lady, and to strike the man like this—and this—and this?…” A rain of blows came down on Drummond’s face, till, with a gasping sigh, the girl slipped fainting to the floor.

“That’ll do, Lakington,” said Peterson, intervening once again. “Have the girl carried upstairs, and send for Heinrich. It’s time we were off.”

With an effort Lakington let his hand fall to his side, and stood back from his victim.

“Perhaps for the present, it will,” he said slowly. “But tomorrow—tomorrow, Captain Drummond, you shall scream to Heaven for mercy, until I take out your tongue and you can scream no more.” He turned as the German came into the room. “I leave them to you, Heinrich,” he remarked shortly. “Use the dog-whip if they shout, and gag them.”

The German’s eyes were fixed on Hugh gloatingly.

“They will not shout twice,” he said in his guttural voice. “The dirty Boche to it himself will see.”

II

“We appear,” remarked Hugh quietly, a few minutes later, “to be in for a cheery night.”

For a moment the German had left the room, and the three motionless, bound figures, sitting grotesquely in their chairs, were alone.

“How did they get you, Toby?”

“Half a dozen of ’em suddenly appeared,” answered Sinclair shortly, “knocked me on the head, and the next thing I knew I was here in this damned chair.”

“Is that when you got your face?” asked Hugh.

“No,” said Toby, and his voice was grim. “We share in the matter of faces, old man.”

“Lakington again, was it?” said Hugh softly. “Dear Heavens! if I could get one hand on that…” He broke off and laughed. “What about you, Algy?”

“I went blundering in over the way, old bean,” returned that worthy, “and some damn fellow knocked my eye-glass off. So, as I couldn’t see to kill him, I had to join the picnic here.”

Hugh laughed, and then suddenly grew serious.

“By the way, you didn’t see a man chewing gum on the horizon, did you, when I made my entrance? Dog-robber suit, and face like a motor-mascot.”

“Thank God, I was spared that!” remarked Algy.

“Good!” returned Hugh. “He’s probably away with it by now, and he’s no fool. For I’m thinking it’s only Peter and him between us and—” He left his remark unfinished, and for a while there was silence. “Jerry is over in France still, putting stamp-paper on his machine; Ted’s gone up to see that Potts is taking nourishment.”

“And here we sit like three well-preserved specimens in a bally museum,” broke in Algy, with a rueful laugh. “What’ll they do to us, Hugh?”

But Drummond did not answer, and the speaker, seeing the look on his face, did not press the question.

Slowly the hours dragged on, until the last gleams of daylight had faded from the skylight above, and a solitary electric light, hung centrally, gave the only illumination. Periodically Heinrich had come in to see that they were still secure; but from the sounds of hoarse laughter which came at frequent intervals through the half-open door, it was evident that the German had found other and more congenial company. At length he appeared carrying a tray with bread and water on it, which he placed on a table near Hugh.

“Food for you, you English swine,” he remarked, looking gloatingly at each in turn. “Herr Lakington the order gave, so that you will be fit tomorrow morning. Fit for the torture.” He thrust his flushed face close to Drummond’s and then deliberately spat at him.

Algy Longworth gave a strangled grunt, but Drummond took no notice. For the past half-hour he had been sunk in thought, so much so that the others had believed him asleep. Now, with a quiet smile, he looked up at the German.

“How much, my friend,” he remarked, “are you getting for this?” The German leered at him.

“Enough to see that you tomorrow are here,” he said.

“And I always believed that yours was a business nation,” laughed Hugh. “Why, you poor fool, I’ve got a thousand pounds in notes in my cigarette-case.” For a moment the German stared at him; then a look of greed came into his pig-eyes.

“You hof, hof you?” he grunted. “Then the filthy Boche will for you of them take care.”

Hugh looked at him angrily.

“If you do,” he cried, “you must let me go.”

The German leered still more.

“Natürlich. You shall out of the house at once walk.”

He stepped up to Drummond and ran his hands over his coat, while the others stared at one another in amazement. Surely Hugh didn’t imagine the swine would really let him go; he would merely take the money and probably spit in his face again. Then they heard him speaking, and a sudden gleam of comprehension dawned on their faces.

“You’ll have to undo one of the ropes, my friend, before you can get at it,” said Hugh quietly.

For a moment the German hesitated. He looked at the ropes carefully; the one that bound the arms and the upper part of the body was separate from the rope round the legs. Even if he did undo it the fool Englishman was still helpless, and he knew that he was unarmed. Had he not himself removed his revolver, as he lay unconscious in the hall? What risk was there, after all? Besides, if he called someone else in he would have to share the money.

And, as he watched the German’s indecision, Hugh’s forehead grew damp with sweat… Would he undo the rope? Would greed conquer caution?

At last the Boche made up his mind, and went behind the chair. Hugh felt him fumbling with the rope, and flashed an urgent look of caution at the other two.

“You’d better be careful, Heinrich,” he remarked, “that none of the others see, or you might have to share.”

The German ceased undoing the knot, and grunted. The English swine had moments of brightness, and he went over and closed the door. Then he resumed the operation of untying the rope; and, since it was performed behind the chair, he was in no position to see the look on Drummond’s face. Only the two spectators could see that, and they had almost ceased breathing in their excitement. That he had a plan they knew; what it was they could not even guess.

At last the rope fell clear, and the German sprang back.

“Put the case on the table,” he cried, having not the slightest intention of coming within range of those formidable arms.

“Certainly not,” said Hugh, “until you undo my legs. Then you shall have it.”

Quite loosely he was holding the case in one hand; but the others, watching his face, saw that it was strained and tense.

“First I the notes must have.” The German strove to speak conversationally, but all the time he was creeping nearer and nearer to the back of the chair. “Then I your legs undo, and you may go.”

Algy’s warning cry rang out simultaneously with the lightning dart of the Boche’s hand as he snatched at the cigarette-case over Drummond’s shoulder. And then Drummond laughed a low, triumphant laugh. It was the move he had been hoping for, and the German’s wrist was held fast in his vicelike grip. His plan had succeeded.

And Longworth and Sinclair, who had seen many things in their lives, the remembrance of which will be with them till their dying day, had never seen and are never likely to see anything within measurable distance of what they saw in the next few minutes. Slowly, inexorably, the German’s arm was being twisted, while he uttered hoarse, gasping cries, and beat impotently at Drummond’s head with his free hand. Then at last there was a dull crack as the arm broke, and a scream of pain, as he lurched round the chair and stood helpless in front of the soldier, who still held the cigarette-case in his left hand.

They saw Drummond open the cigarette-case and take from it what looked like a tube of wood. Then he felt in his pocket and took out a matchbox, containing a number of long thin splinters. And, having fitted one of the splinters into the tube, he put the other end in his mouth.

With a quick heave they saw him jerk the German round and catch his unbroken arm with his free left hand. And the two bound watchers looked at Hugh’s eyes as he stared at the moaning Boche, and saw that they were hard and merciless.

There was a sharp, whistling hiss, and the splinter flew from the tube into the German’s face. It hung from his cheek, and even the ceaseless movement of his head failed to dislodge it.

“I have broken your arm, Boche,” said Drummond at length, “and now I have killed you. I’m sorry about it; I wasn’t particularly anxious to end your life. But it had to be done.”

The German, hardly conscious of what he had said owing to the pain in his arm, was frantically kicking the Englishman’s legs, still bound to the chair; but the iron grip on his wrists never slackened. And then quite suddenly came the end. With one dreadful, convulsive heave the German jerked himself free, and fell doubled up on the floor. Fascinated, they watched him writhing and twisting, until at last, he lay still… The Boche was dead…

“My God!” muttered Hugh, wiping his forehead. “Poor brute.”

“What was that blow-pipe affair?” cried Sinclair hoarsely.

“The thing they tried to finish me with in Paris last night,” answered Hugh grimly, taking a knife out of his waistcoat pocket. “Let us trust that none of his pals come in to look for him.”

A minute later he stood up, only to sit down again abruptly, as his legs gave way. They were numbed and stiff with the hours he had spent in the same position, and for a while he could do nothing but rub them with his hands, till the blood returned and he could feel once more.

Then, slowly and painfully, he tottered across to the others and set them free as well. They were in an even worse condition than he had been; and it seemed as if Algy would never be able to stand again, so completely dead was his body from the waist downwards. But, at length, after what seemed an eternity to Drummond, who realised only too well that should the gang come in they were almost as helpless in their present condition as if they were still bound in their chairs, the other two recovered. They were still stiff and cramped—all three of them—but at any rate they could move; which was more than could be said of the German, who lay twisted and rigid on the floor with his eyes staring up at them—a glassy, horrible stare.

“Poor brute!” said Hugh again, looking at him with a certain amount of compunction. “He was a miserable specimen—but still…” He shrugged his shoulders. “And the contents of my cigarette-case are half a dozen gaspers, and a ten-bob Bradbury patched together with stamp paper!”

He swung round on his heel as if dismissing the matter, and looked at the other two.

“All fit now? Good! We’ve got to think what we’re going to do, for we’re not out of the wood yet by two or three miles.”

“Let’s get the door open,” remarked Algy, “and explore.”

Cautiously they swung it open, and stood motionless. The house was in absolute silence; the hall was deserted.

“Switch out the light,” whispered Hugh. “We’ll wander round.”

They crept forward stealthily in the darkness, stopping every now and then to listen. But no sound came to their ears; it might have been a house of the dead.

Suddenly Drummond, who was in front of the other two, stopped with a warning hiss. A light was streaming out from under a door at the end of a passage, and, as they stood watching it, they heard a man’s voice coming from the same room. Someone else answered him, and then there was silence once more.

At length Hugh moved forward again, and the others followed. And it was not until they got quite close to the door that a strange, continuous noise began to be noticeable—a noise which came most distinctly from the lighted room. It rose and fell with monotonous regularity; at times it resembled a brass band—at others it died away to a gentle murmur. And occasionally it was punctuated with a strangled snort…

“Great Scott!” muttered Hugh excitedly, “the whole boiling-bunch are asleep, or I’ll eat my hat.”

“Then who was it that spoke?” said Algy. “At least two of ’em are awake right enough.”

And, as if in answer to his question, there came the voice again from inside the room.

“Wal, Mr. Darrell, I guess we can pass on, and leave this bunch.”

With one laugh of joyful amazement Hugh flung open the door, and found himself looking from the range of a yard into two revolvers.

“I don’t know how you’ve done it, boys,” he remarked, “but you can put those guns away. I hate looking at them from that end.”

“What the devil have they done to all your dials?” said Darrell, slowly lowering his arm.

“We’ll leave that for the time,” returned Hugh grimly, as he shut the door. “There are other more pressing matters to be discussed.”

He glanced round the room, and a slow grin spread over his face. There were some twenty of the gang, all of them fast asleep. They sprawled grotesquely over the table, they lolled in chairs; they lay on the floor, they huddled in corners. And, without exception, they snored and snorted.

“A dandy bunch,” remarked the American, gazing at them with satisfaction. “That fat one in the corner took enough dope to kill a bull, but he seems quite happy.” Then he turned to Drummond. “Say now, Captain, we’ve got a lorry load of the boys outside; your friend here thought we’d better bring ’em along. So it’s up to you to get busy.”

“Mullings and his crowd,” said Darrell, seeing the look of mystification on Hugh’s face. “When Mr. Green got back and told me you’d shoved your great mutton-head in it again, I thought I’d better bring the whole outfit.”

“Oh, you daisy!” cried Hugh, rubbing his hands together, “you pair of priceless beans! The Philistines are delivered into our hands, even up to the neck.” For a few moments he stood, deep in thought; then once again the grin spread slowly over his face. “Right up to their necks,” he repeated, “so that it washes round their back teeth. Get the boys in, Peter; and get these lumps of meat carted out to the lorry. And, while you do that, we’ll go upstairs and mop up.”

III

Even in his wildest dreams Hugh had never imagined such a wonderful opportunity. To be in complete possession of the house, with strong forces at his beck and call, was a state of affairs which rendered him almost speechless.

“Up the stairs on your hands and knees,” he ordered, as they stood in the hall. “There are peculiarities about this staircase which require elucidation at a later date.”

But the murderous implement which acted in conjunction with the fifth step was not in use, and they passed up the stairs in safety.

“Keep your guns handy,” whispered Hugh. “We’ll draw each room in turn till we find the girl.”

But they were not to be put to so much trouble. Suddenly a door opposite opened, and the man who had been guarding Phyllis Benton peered out suspiciously. His jaw fell, and a look of aghast surprise spread over his face as he saw the four men in front of him. Then he made a quick movement as if to shut the door, but before he realised what had happened the American’s foot was against it, and the American’s revolver was within an inch of his head.

“Keep quite still, son,” he drawled, “or I guess it might sort of go off.”

But Hugh had stepped past him, and was smiling at the girl who, with a little cry of joyful wonder, had risen from her chair.

“Your face, boy” she whispered, as he took her in his arms, regardless of the other; “your poor old face! Oh! that brute, Lakington!”

Hugh grinned.

“It’s something to know, old thing,” he remarked cheerily, “that anything could damage it. Personally I have always thought that any change on it must be for the better.”

He laughed gently, and for a moment she clung to him, unmindful of how he had got to her, glorying only in the fact that he had. It seemed to her that there was nothing which this wonderful man of hers couldn’t manage; and now, blindly trusting, she waited to be told what to do. The nightmare was over; Hugh was with her…

“Where’s your father, dear?” he asked her after a little pause.

“In the dining-room, I think,” she answered with a shiver, and Hugh nodded gravely.

“Are there any cars outside?” He turned to the American.

“Yours,” answered that worthy, still keeping his eyes fixed on his prisoner’s face, which had now turned a sickly green.

“And mine is hidden behind Miss Benton’s greenhouse unless they’ve moved it,” remarked Algy.

“Good!” said Hugh. “Algy, take Miss Benton and her father up to Half Moon Street—at once. Then come back here.”

“But Hugh—” began the girl appealingly.

“At once, dear, please.” He smiled at her tenderly, but his tone was decided. “This is going to be no place for you in the near future.” He turned to Longworth and drew him aside. “You’ll have a bit of a job with the old man,” he whispered. “He’s probably paralytic by now. But get on with it, will you? Get a couple of the boys to give you a hand.”

With no further word of protest the girl followed Algy, and Hugh drew a breath of relief.

“Now, you ugly-looking blighter,” he remarked to the cowering ruffian, who was by this time shaking with fright, “we come to you. How many of these rooms up here are occupied—and which?”

It appeared that only one was occupied—everyone else was below… The one opposite… In his anxiety to please, he moved towards it; and with a quickness that would have done even Hugh credit, the American tripped him up.

“Not so blamed fast; you son of a gun,” he snapped, “or there sure will be an accident.”

But the noise he made as he fell served a good purpose. The door of the occupied room was flung open, and a thin, weedy object clad in a flannel night-gown stood on the threshold blinking foolishly.

“Holy smoke!” spluttered the detective, after he had gazed at the apparition in stunned silence for a time. “What, under the sun, is it?”

Hugh laughed.

“Why, it’s the onion-eater; the intimidated rabbit,” he said delightedly. “How are you, little man?”

He extended an arm, and pulled him into the passage, where he stood spluttering indignantly.

“This is an outrage, sir,” he remarked; “a positive outrage.”

“Your legs undoubtedly are,” remarked Hugh, gazing at them dispassionately. Put on some trousers—and, get a move on. Now you”—he jerked the other man to his feet—“when does Lakington return?”

“Termorrow, sir,” stammered the other.

“Where is he now?”

The man hesitated for a moment, but the look in Hugh’s eyes galvanised him into speech.

“He’s after the old woman’s pearls, sir—the Duchess of Lampshire’s.”

“Ah!” returned Hugh softly. “Of course he is. I forgot.”

“Strike me dead, guv’nor,” cringed the man, “I never meant no ’arm—I didn’t really. I’ll tell you all I know, sir. I will, strite.”

“I’m quite certain you will,” said Hugh. “And if you don’t, you swine, I’ll make you. When does Peterson come back?”

“Termorrow, too, sir, as far as I knows,” answered the man, and at that moment the intimidated rabbit shot rapidly out of his room, propelled by an accurate and forcible kick from Toby, who had followed him in to ensure rapidity of toilet.

“And what’s he doing?” demanded Drummond.

“On the level, guv’nor, I can’t tell yer. Strite, I can’t; ’e can.” The man pointed to the latest arrival, who, with his nightdress tucked into his trousers, stood gasping painfully after the manner of a recently landed fish.

“I repeat, sir,” he sputtered angrily, “that this is an outrage. By what right…”

“Dry up,” remarked Hugh briefly. Then he turned to the American. “This is one of the ragged-trousered brigade I spoke to you about.”

For a while the three men studied him in silence; then the American thoughtfully transferred his chewing-gum to a fresh place.

“Wal,” he said, “he looks like some kind o’ disease; but I guess he’s got a tongue. Say, flop-ears, what are you, anyway?”

“I am the secretary of a social organisation which aims at the amelioration of the conditions under which the workers of the world slave,” returned the other with dignity.

“You don’t say,” remarked the American unmoved. “Do the workers of the world know about it?”

“And I again demand to know,” said the other, turning to Drummond, “the reason for this monstrous indignity.”

“What do you know about Peterson, little man?” said Hugh, paying not the slightest attention to his protests.

“Nothing, save that he is the man whom we have been looking for, for years,” cried the other. “The man of stupendous organising power, who has brought together and welded into one the hundreds of societies similar to mine, who before this have each, on their own, been feebly struggling towards the light. Now we are combined, and our strength is due to him.”

Hugh exchanged glances with the American.

“Things become clearer,” he murmured. “Tell me, little man,” he continued, “now that you’re all welded together, what do you propose to do?”

“That you shall see in good time,” cried the other triumphantly. “Constitutional methods have failed—and, besides, we’ve got no time to wait for them. Millions are groaning under the intolerable bonds of the capitalist: those millions we shall free, to a life that is worthy of a man. And it will all be due to our leader—Carl Peterson.”

A look of rapt adoration came into his face, and the American laughed in genuine delight.

“Didn’t I tell you, Captain, that that guy was the goods?”

But there was no answering smile on Hugh’s face.

“He’s the goods right enough,” he answered grimly. “But what worries me is how to stop their delivery.”

At that moment Darrell’s voice came up from the hall.

“The whole bunch are stowed away, Hugh. What’s the next item?”

Hugh walked to the top of the stairs.

“Bring ’em both below,” he cried over his shoulder, as he went down. A grin spread over his face as he saw half a dozen familiar faces in the hall, and he hailed them cheerily.

“Like old times, boys,” he laughed. “Where’s the driver of the lorry?”

“That’s me, sir.” One of the men stepped forward. “My mate’s outside.”

“Good!” said Hugh. “Take your bus ten miles from here: then drop that crowd one by one on the road as you go along. You can take it from me that none of ’em will say anything about it, even when they wake up. Then take her back to your garage; I’ll see you later.”

“Now,” went on Hugh, as they heard the sound of the departing lorry, “we’ve got to set the scene for tomorrow morning.” He glanced at his watch. “Just eleven. How long will it take me to get the old buzz-box to Laidley Towers?”

“Laidley Towers,” echoed Darrell. “What the devil are you going there for?”

“I just can’t bear to be parted from Henry for one moment longer than necessary,” said Hugh quietly. “And Henry is there, in a praiseworthy endeavour to lift the Duchess’s pearls… Dear Henry!” His two fists clenched, and the American looking at his face, laughed softly.

But it was only for a moment that Drummond indulged in the pleasures of anticipation; all that could come after. And just now there were other things to be done—many others, if events next morning were to go as they should.

“Take those two into the centre room,” he cried. “Incidentally there’s a dead Boche on the floor, but he’ll come in very handy in my little scheme.”

“A dead Boche!” The intimidated rabbit gave a frightened squeak. “Good heavens! You ruffian, this is beyond a joke.” Hugh looked at him coldly.

“You’ll find it beyond a joke, you miserable little rat,” he said quietly, “if you speak to me like that.” He laughed as the other shrank past him. “Three of you boys in there,” he ordered briskly, “and if either of them gives the slightest trouble clip him over the head. Now let’s have the rest of the crowd in here, Peter.”

They came filing in, and Hugh waved a cheery hand in greeting. “How goes it, you fellows?” he cried with his infectious grin. “Like a company powwow before popping the parapet. What! And it’s a bigger show this time, boys, than any you’ve had over the water.” His face set grimly for a moment; then he grinned again, as he sat down on the foot of the stairs. “Gather round, and listen to me.”

For five minutes he spoke, and his audience nodded delightedly. Apart from their love for Drummond—and three out of every four of them knew him personally—it was a scheme which tickled them to death. And he was careful to tell them just enough of the sinister design of the master-criminal to make them realise the bigness of, the issue.

“That’s all clear, then,” said Drummond, rising. “Now I’m off. Toby, I want you to come, too. We ought to be there by midnight.”

“There’s only one point, Captain,” remarked the American, as the group began to disperse. “That safe—and the ledger.” He fumbled in his pocket, and produced a small india-rubber bottle. “I’ve got the soup here—gelignite,” he explained, as he saw the mystified look on the other’s face. “I reckoned it might come in handy. Also a fuse and detonator.”

“Splendid!” said Hugh, “splendid! You’re an acquisition, Mr. Green, to any gathering. But I think—I think—Lakington first. Oh! yes—most undoubtedly—Henry first!”

And once again the American laughed softly at the look on his face.

CHAPTER XI

In Which Lakington Plays His Last ‘Coup’

I

“Toby, I’ve got a sort of horrid feeling that the hunt is nearly over.”

With a regretful sigh Hugh swung the car out of the sleeping town of Godalming in the direction of Laidley Towers. Mile after mile dropped smoothly behind the powerful two-seater, and still Drummond’s eyes wore a look of resigned sadness.

“Very nearly over,” he remarked again. “And then once more the tedium of respectability positively stares us in the face.”

“You’ll be getting married, old bean,” murmured Toby Sinclair hopefully.

For a moment his companion brightened up.

“True, O King,” he answered. “It will ease the situation somewhat; at least I suppose so. But think of it Toby: no Lakington, no Peterson—nothing at all to play about with and keep one amused.”

“You’re very certain, Hugh.” With a feeling almost of wonder Sinclair glanced at the square-jawed, ugly profile beside him. “There’s many a slip…”

“My dear old man,” interrupted Drummond, “there’s only one cure for the proverb-quoting disease—a dose of salts in the morning.” For a while they raced on through the warm summer’s night in silence, and it was not till they were within a mile of their destination that Sinclair spoke again.

“What are you going to do with them, Hugh?”

“Who—our Carl and little Henry?” Drummond grinned gently. “Why, I think that Carl and I will part amicably—unless, of course, he gives me any trouble. And as for Lakington—we’ll have to see about Lakington.” The grin faded from his face as he spoke. “We’ll have to see about our little Henry,” he repeated softly. “And I can’t help feeling, Toby, that between us we shall find a method of ridding the earth of such a thoroughly unpleasing fellow.”

“You mean to kill him?” grunted the other non-committally.

“Just that, and no more,” responded Hugh. “Tomorrow morning as ever is. But he’s going to get the shock of his young life before it happens.”

He pulled the car up silently in the deep shadows of some trees, and the two men got out.

“Now, old boy, you take her back to The Elms. The ducal abode is close to—I remember in my extreme youth being worse than passing sick by those bushes over there after a juvenile bun-worry…”

“But confound it all,” spluttered Toby Sinclair. “Don’t you want me to help you?”

“I do: by taking the buzz-box back. This little show is my shout.”

Grumbling disconsolately, Sinclair stepped back into the car.

“You make me tired,” he remarked peevishly. “I’ll be damned if you get any wedding present out of me. In fact,” and he fired a Parthian shot at his leader, “you won’t have any wedding. I shall marry her myself!”

For a moment or two Hugh stood watching the car as it disappeared down the road along which they had just come, while his thoughts turned to the girl now safely asleep in his flat in London. Another week—perhaps a fortnight—but no more. Not a day more… And he had a pleasant conviction that Phyllis would not require much persuasion to come round to his way of thinking—even if she hadn’t arrived there already… And so delightful was the train of thought thus conjured up, that for a while Peterson and Lakington were forgotten. The roseate dreams of the young about to wed have been known to act similarly before.

Wherefore to the soldier’s instinctive second nature, trained in the war and sharpened by his grim duel with the gang, must be given the credit of preventing the ringing of the wedding-bells being postponed for good. The sudden snap of a twig close by, the sharp hiss of a compressed-air rifle, seemed simultaneous with Hugh hurling himself flat on his face behind a sheltering bush. In reality there was that fraction of a second between the actions which allowed the bullet to pass harmlessly over his body instead of finishing his career there and then. He heard it go zipping through the undergrowth as he lay motionless on the ground; then very cautiously he turned his head and peered about. A man with an ordinary revolver is at a disadvantage against someone armed with a silent gun, especially when he is not desirous of alarming the neighbourhood.

A shrub was shaking a few yards away, and on it Hugh fixed his half-closed eyes. If he lay quite still the man, whoever he was, would probably assume the shot had taken effect, and come and investigate. Then things would be easier, as two or three Boches had discovered to their cost in days gone by.

For two minutes he saw no one; then very slowly the branches parted and the white face of a man peered through; It was the chauffeur who usually drove the Rolls-Royce, and he seemed unduly anxious to satisfy himself that all was well before coming nearer. The fame of Hugh Drummond had spread abroad amongst the satellites of Peterson.

At last he seemed to make up his mind, and came out into the open. Step by step he advanced towards the motionless figure, his weapon held in readiness to shoot at the faintest movement. But the soldier lay sprawling and inert, and by the time the chauffeur had reached him there was no doubt in that worthy’s mind that, at last, this wretched meddler with things that concerned him not had been laid by the heels. Which was as unfortunate for the chauffeur as it had been for unwary Huns in the past.

Contemptuously he rolled Drummond over; then noting the relaxed muscles and inert limbs, he laid his gun on the ground preparatory to running through his victim’s pockets. And the fact that such an action was a little more foolish than offering a man-eating tiger a peppermint lozenge did not trouble the chauffeur. In fact, nothing troubled him again.

He got out one gasping cry of terror as he realised his mistake; then he had a blurred consciousness of the world upside down, and everything was over. It was Olaki’s most dangerous throw, carried out by gripping the victim’s wrists and hurling his body over by a heave of the legs. And nine times out of ten the result was a broken neck. This was one of the nine.

For a while the soldier stared at the body, frowning thoughtfully. To have killed the chauffeur was inconvenient, but since it had happened it necessitated a little rearrangement of his plans. The moon was setting and the night would become darker, so there was a good chance that Lakington would not recognise that the driver of his car had changed. And if he did—well, it would be necessary to forgo the somewhat theatrical entertainment he had staged for his benefit at The Elms. Bending over the dead man, he removed his long grey driving-coat and cap; then, without a sound, he threaded his way through the bushes in search of the car.

He found it about a hundred yards nearer the house, so well hidden in a small space off the road that he was almost on top of it before he realised the fact. To his relief it was empty, and placing his own cap in a pocket under the seat he put on the driving-coat of his predecessor. Then, with a quick glance to ensure that everything was in readiness for the immediate and rapid departure such as he imagined Lakington would desire, he turned and crept stealthily towards the house.

II

Laidley Towers was en fête. The Duchess, determined that every conceivable stunt should be carried out which would make for the entertainment of her guests, had spared no pains to make the evening a success. The Duke, bored to extinction, had been five times routed out of his study by his indefatigable spouse, and was now, at the moment Hugh first came in sight of the house, engaged in shaking hands with a tall, aristocratic-looking Indian…

“How-d’ye-do,” he murmured vacantly. “What did you say the damn fellah’s name was, my dear?” he whispered in a hoarse undertone to the Duchess, who stood beside him welcoming the distinguished foreigner.

“We’re so glad you could come, Mr. Ram Dar,” remarked the Duchess affably. “Everyone is so looking forward to your wonderful entertainment.” Round her neck were the historic pearls, and as the Indian bowed low over her outstretched hand, his eyes gleamed for a second.

“Your Grace is too kind.” His voice was low and deep, and he glanced thoughtfully around the circle of faces near him. “Maybe the sands that come from the mountains that lie beyond the everlasting snows will speak the truth; maybe the gods will be silent. Who knows…who knows?”

As if unconsciously his gaze rested on the Duke, who manfully rose to the occasion.

“Precisely, Mr. Rum Rum,” he murmured helpfully; “who indeed? If they let you down, don’t you know, perhaps you could show us a card trick?”

He retired in confusion, abashed by the baleful stare of the Duchess, and the rest of the guests drew closer. The jazz band was having supper; the last of the perspiring tenants had departed, and now the bonne-bouche of the evening was about to begin.

It had been the Marquis of Laidley himself who had suggested getting hold of this most celebrated performer, who had apparently never been in England before. And since the Marquis of Laidley’s coming-of-age was the cause of the whole evening’s entertainment, his suggestion had been hailed with acclamation. How he had heard about the Indian, and from whom, were points about which he was very vague; but since he was a very vague young man, the fact elicited no comment. The main thing was that here, in the flesh, was a dark, mysterious performer of the occult, and what more could a house party require? And in the general excitement Hugh Drummond crept closer to the open window. It was the Duchess he was concerned with and her pearls, and the arrival of the Indian was not going to put him off his guard… Then suddenly his jaw tightened: Irma Peterson had entered the room with young Laidley.

“Do you want anything done, Mr. Ram Dar?” asked the Duchess—“the lights down or the window shut?”

“No, I thank you,” returned the Indian. “The night is still; there is no wind. And the night is dark—dark with strange thoughts, that thronged upon me as I drew nigh to the house—whispering through the trees.” Again he fixed his eyes on the Duke. “What is your pleasure, Protector of the Poor?”

“Mine?” cried that pillar of the House of Lords, hurriedly stifling a yawn. “Any old thing, my dear fellow… You’d much better ask one of the ladies.”

“As you will,” returned the other gravely; “but if the gods speak the truth, and the sand does not lie, I can but say what is written.”

From a pocket in his robe he took a bag and two small bronze dishes, and placing them on a table stood waiting.

“I am ready,” he announced. “Who first will learn of the things that are written on the scroll of Fate?”

“I say, hadn’t you better do it in private, Mr. Rum?” murmured the Duke apprehensively. “I mean, don’t you know, it might be a little embarrassing if the jolly old gods really did give tongue; and I don’t see anybody getting killed in the rush.”

“Is there so much to conceal?” demanded the Indian, glancing round the group, contempt in his brooding eyes. “In the lands that lie beyond the snows we have nothing to conceal. There is nothing that can be concealed, because all is known.”

And it was at that moment that the intent watcher outside the window began to shake with silent mirth. For the face was the face of the Indians Ram Dar, but the voice was the voice of Lakington. It struck him that the next ten minutes or so might be well worth while. The problem of removing the pearls from the Duchess’s neck before such an assembly seemed to present a certain amount of difficulty even to such an expert as Henry. And Hugh crept a little nearer the window, so as to miss nothing. He crept near enough, in fact, to steal a look at Irma, and in doing so saw something which made him rub his eyes and then grin once more. She was standing on the outskirts of the group, an evening wrap thrown loosely over her arm. She edged a step or two towards a table containing bric-à-brac, the centre of which was occupied, as the place of honour, by a small inlaid Chinese cabinet—a box standing on four grotesquely carved legs. It was a beautiful ornament, and he dimly remembered having heard its history—a story which reflected considerable glory on the predatory nature of a previous Duke. At the moment, however, he was not concerned with its past history, but with its present fate; and it was the consummate quickness of the girl that made him rub his eyes.

She took one lightning glance at the other guests who were craning eagerly forward round the Indian; then she half dropped her wrap on the table and picked it up again. It was done so rapidly, so naturally, that for a while Hugh thought he had made a mistake. And then a slight rearrangement of her wrap to conceal a hard outline beneath, as she joined the others, dispelled any doubts. The small inlaid Chinese cabinet now standing on the table was not the one that had been here previously. The original was under Irma Peterson’s cloak…

Evidently the scene was now set—the necessary props were in position—and Hugh waited with growing impatience for the principal event. But the principal performer seemed in no hurry. In fact, in his dry way Lakington was thoroughly enjoying himself. An intimate inside knowledge of the skeletons that rattled their bones in the cupboards of most of those present enabled the gods to speak with disconcerting accuracy; and as each victim insisted on somebody new facing the sands that came from beyond the mountains, the performance seemed likely to last indefinitely.

At last a sudden delighted burst of applause came from the group, announcing the discomfiture of yet another guest, and with it Lakington seemed to tire of the amusement. Engrossed though he was in the anticipation of the main item which was still to be staged, Drummond could not but admire the extraordinary accuracy of the character study. Not a detail had been overlooked; not a single flaw in Lakington’s acting could he notice. It was an Indian who stood there, and when a few days later Hugh returned her pearls to the Duchess, for a long time neither she nor her husband would believe that Ram Dar had been an Englishman disguised. And when they had at last been persuaded of that fact, and had been shown the two cabinets side by side, it was, the consummate boldness of the crime, coupled with its extreme simplicity, that staggered them. For it was only in the reconstruction of it that the principal beauty of the scheme became apparent. The element of luck was reduced to a minimum, and at no stage of the proceedings was it impossible, should things go amiss, for Lakington to go as he had come, a mere Indian entertainer. Without the necklace, true, in such an event; but unsuspected, and free to try again. As befitted his last, it was perhaps his greatest effort… And this was what happened as seen by the fascinated onlooker crouching near the window outside.

Superbly disdainful, the Indian tipped back his sand into the little bag, and replacing it in his pocket, stalked to the open window. With arms outstretched he stared into the darkness, seeming to gather strength from the gods whom he served.

“Do your ears not hear the whisperings of the night?” he demanded. “Life rustling in the leaves; death moaning through the grasses.” And suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, a fierce, mocking laugh; then he swung round and faced the room. For a while he stood motionless, and Hugh, from the shelter of the bushes, wondered whether the two quick flashes that had come from his robe as he spoke—flashes such as a small electric torch will give, and which were unseen by anyone else—were a signal to the defunct chauffeur.

Then a peculiar look came over the Indian’s face, as his eyes fell on the Chinese cabinet.

“Where did the Protector of the Poor obtain the sacred cabinet of the Chow Kings?” He peered at it reverently, and the Duke coughed.

“One of my ancestors picked it up somewhere,” he answered apologetically.

“Fashioned with the blood of men, guarded with their lives, and one of your ancestors picked it up!” The Duke withered completely under the biting scorn of the words, and seemed about to say something, but the Indian had turned away, and his long, delicate fingers were hovering over the box. “There is power in this box,” he continued, and his voice was low and thoughtful. “Years ago a man who came from the land where dwells the Great Brooding Spirit told me of this thing. I wonder… I wonder…”

With gleaming eyes he stared in front of him, and a woman shuddered audibly.

“What is it supposed to do?” she ventured timidly.

“In that box lies the power unknown to mortal man though the priests of the Temple City have sometimes discovered it before they pass beyond. Length you know, and height, and breadth—but in that box lies more.”

“You don’t mean the fourth dimension, do you?” demanded a man incredulously.

“I know not what you call it, sahib,” said the Indian quietly. “But it is the power which renders visible or invisible at will.”

For a moment Hugh felt an irresistible temptation to shout the truth through the window, and give Lakington away; then his curiosity to see the next move in the game conquered the wish, and he remained silent. So perfect was the man’s acting that, in spite of having seen the substitution of the boxes, in spite of knowing the whole thing was bunkum, he felt he could almost believe it himself. And as for the others—without exception—they were craning forward eagerly, staring first at the Indian and then at the box.

“I say, that’s a bit of a tall order, isn’t it, Mr. Rum Bar?” protested the Duke a little feebly. “Do you mean to say you can put something into that box, and it disappears?”

“From mortal eye, Protector of the Poor, though it is still there,” answered the Indian. “And that only too for a time. Then it reappears again. So runs the legend.”

“Well, stuff something in and let”s see,” cried young Laidley, starting forward, only to pause before the Indian”s outstretched arm.

“Stop, sahib,” he ordered sternly. “To you that box is nothing; to others—of whom I am one of the least—it is sacred beyond words.” He stalked away from the table, and the guests” disappointment showed on their faces.

“Oh, but Mr. Ram Dar,” pleaded the Duchess, “can’t you satisfy our curiosity after all you’ve said?”

For a moment he seemed on the point of refusing outright; then he bowed, a deep Oriental bow.

“Your Grace,” he said with dignity, “for centuries that box contained the jewels—precious beyond words—of the reigning Queens of the Chow Dynasty. They were wrapped in silver and gold tissue—of which this is a feeble, modern substitute.”

From a cummerbund under his robe he drew a piece of shining material, the appearance of which was greeted with cries of feminine delight.

“You would not ask me to commit sacrilege?” Quietly he replaced the material in his belt and turned away, and Hugh’s eyes glistened at the cleverness with which the man was acting. Whether they believed it or not, there was not a soul in the room by this time who was not consumed with eagerness to put the Chinese cabinet to the test.

“Supposing you took my pearls, Mr. Ram Dar,” said the Duchess diffidently. “I know that compared to such historic jewels they are poor, but perhaps it would not be sacrilege.”

Not a muscle on Lakington’s face twitched, though it was the thing he had been playing for. Instead he seemed to be sunk in thought, while the Duchess continued pleading, and the rest of the party added their entreaties. At length she undid the fastening and held the necklace out, but he only shook his head.

“You ask a great thing of me, your Grace,” he said. “Only by the exercise of my power can I show you this secret—even if I can show you at all. And you are unbelievers.” He paced slowly to the window, ostensibly to commune with the gods on the subject; more materially to flash once again the signal into the darkness. Then, as if he had decided suddenly, he swung round.

“I will try,” he announced briefly, and the Duchess headed the chorus of delight. “Will the Presences stand back, and you, your Grace, take that?” He handed her the piece of material. “No hand but yours must touch the pearls. Wrap them up inside the silver and gold.” Aloofly he watched the process. “Now advance alone, and open the box. Place the pearls inside. Now shut and lock it.” Obediently the Duchess did as she was bid; then she stood waiting for further instructions.

But apparently by this time the Great Brooding Spirit was beginning to take effect. Singing a monotonous, harsh chant, the Indian knelt on the floor, and poured some powder into a little’ brazier. He was still close to the open window, and finally he sat down with his elbows on his knees, and his head rocking to and fro in his hands.

“Less light—less light!” The words seemed to come from a great distance—ventriloquism in a mild way was one of Lakington’s accomplishments; and as the lights went out a greenish, spluttering flame rose from the brazier. A heavy, odorous smoke filled the room, but framed and motionless in the eerie light sat the Indian, staring fixedly in front of him. After a time the chant began again; it grew and swelled in volume till the singer grew frenzied and beat his head with his hands. Then abruptly it stopped.

“Place the box upon the floor,” he ordered, “in the light of the Sacred fire.” Hugh saw the Duchess kneel down on the opposite side of the brazier, and place the box on the floor, while the faces of the guests—strange and ghostly in the green light—peered like spectres out of the heavy smoke. This was undoubtedly a show worth watching.

“Open the box!” Harshly the words rang through the silent room, and with fingers that trembled a little the Duchess turned the key and threw back the lid.

“Why, it’s empty!” she cried in amazement, and the guests craned forward to look.

“Put not your hand inside,” cried the Indian in sudden warning, “or perchance it will remain empty.”

The Duchess rapidly withdrew her hand, and stared incredulously through the smoke at his impassive face.

“Did I not say that there was power in the box?” he said dreamily. “The power to render invisible—the power to render visible. Thus came protection to the jewels of the Chow Queens.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Ram Dar,” said the Duchess a little apprehensively. “There may be power in the box, but my pearls don’t seem to be.”

The Indian laughed.

“None but you has touched the cabinet, your Grace; none but you must touch it till the pearls return. They are there now; but not for mortal eyes to see.”

Which, incidentally, was no more than the truth.

“Look, oh! sahibs, look; but do not touch. See that to your vision the box is empty…” He waited motionless, while the guests thronged round, with expressions of amazement; and Hugh, safe from view in the thick, sweet-smelling smoke, came even nearer in his excitement.

“It is enough,” cried the Indian suddenly. “Shut the box, your Grace, and lock it as before. Now place it on the table whence it came. Is it there?”

“Yes.” The Duchess’s voice came out of the green fog.

“Go not too near,” he continued warningly. “The gods must have space—the gods must have space.”

Again the harsh chant began, at times swelling to a shout, at times dying away to a whisper. And it was during one of these latter periods that a low laugh, instantly checked, disturbed the room. It was plainly audible, and someone irritably said, “Be quiet!” It was not repeated, which afforded Hugh, at any rate, no surprise. For it had been Irma Peterson who had laughed, and it might have been hilarity, or it might have been a signal.

The chanting grew frenzied and more frenzied; more and more powder was thrown on the brazier till dense clouds of the thick vapour were rolling through the room, completely obscuring everything save the small space round the brazier, and the Indian’s tense face poised above it.

“Bring the box, your Grace,” he cried harshly, and once more the Duchess knelt in the circle of light, with a row of dimly seen faces above her.

“Open; but as you value your pearls—touch them not.” Excitedly she threw back the lid, and a chorus of cries greeted the appearance of the gold and silver tissue at the bottom of the box.

“They’re here, Mr. Ram Dar.”

In the green light the Indian’s sombre eyes stared round the group of dim faces.

“Did I not say,” he answered, “that there was power in the box? But in the name of that power—unknown to you—I warn you: do not touch those pearls till the light has burned low in the brazier. If you do they will disappear—never to return. Watch, but do not touch!”

Slowly he backed towards the window, unperceived in the general excitement; and Hugh dodged rapidly towards the car. It struck him that the séance was over, and he just had time to see Lakington snatch something which appeared to have been let down by a string from above, before turning into the bushes and racing for the car. As it was, he was only a second or two in front of the other, and the last vision he had through a break in the trees, before they were spinning smoothly down the deserted road, was an open window in Laidley Towers from which dense volumes of vapour poured steadily out. Of the house party behind, waiting for the light to burn low in the brazier, he could see no sign through the opaque wall of green fog.

It took five minutes, so he gathered afterwards from a member of the house party, before the light had burned sufficiently low for the Duchess to consider it safe to touch the pearls. In various stages of asphyxiation the assembled guests had peered at the box, while the cynical comments of the men were rightly treated by the ladies with the contempt they deserved. Was the necklace not there, wrapped in its gold and silver tissue, where a few minutes before there had been nothing?

“Some trick of that beastly light,” remarked the Duke peevishly. “For heaven’s sake, throw the damn thing out of the window.”

“Don’t be a fool, John,” retorted his spouse. “If you could do this sort of thing, the House of Lords might be some use to somebody.”

And when two minutes later they stared horror-struck at a row of ordinary marbles laboriously unwrapped from a piece of gold and silver tissue, the Duke’s pungent agreement with his wife’s sentiment passed uncontradicted. In fact, it is to be understood that over the scene which followed it was best to draw a decent veil.

III

Drummond, hunched low over the wheel, in his endeavour to conceal his identity from the man behind, knew nothing of that at the time. Every nerve was centred on eluding the pursuit he thought was a certainty; for the thought of Lakington, when everything was prepared for his reception, being snatched from his clutches even by the majesty of the law was more than he could bear. And for much the same reason he did not want to have to deal with him until The Elms was reached; the staging there was so much more effective.

But Lakington was far too busy to bother with the chauffeur. One snarling curse as they had entered, for not having done as he had been told, was the total of their conversation during the trip. During the rest of the time the transformation to the normal kept Lakington busy, and Hugh could see him reflected in the windscreen removing the make-up from his face, and changing his clothes.

Even now he was not quite clear how the trick had been worked. That there had been two cabinets, that was clear—one false, the other the real one. That they had been changed at the crucial moment by the girl Irma was also obvious. But how had the pearls disappeared in the first case, and then apparently reappeared again? For of one thing he was quite certain. Whatever was inside the parcel of gold and silver tissue which, for all he knew, they might be still staring at, it was not the historic necklace.

And he was still puzzling it over in his mind when the car swung into the drive at The Elms.

“Change the wheels as usual,” snapped Lakington as he got out, and Hugh bent forward to conceal his face. “Then report to me in the central room.”

And out of the corner of his eye Hugh watched him enter the house with one of the Chinese cabinets clasped in his hand… “Toby,” he remarked to that worthy, whom he found mournfully eating a ham sandwich in the garage, “I feel sort of sorry for our Henry. He’s just had the whole complete ducal outfit guessing, dressed up as an Indian; he’s come back here with a box containing the Duchess’s pearls or I’ll eat my hat, and feeling real good with himself; and now instead of enjoying life he’s got to have a little chat with me.”

“Did you drive him back?” demanded Sinclair, producing a bottle of Bass.

“Owing to the sudden decease of his chauffeur I had to,” murmured Hugh. “And he’s very angry over something. Let’s go on the roof.”

Silently they both climbed the ladder which had been placed in readiness, to find Peter Darrell and the American detective already in position. A brilliant light streamed out through the glass dome, and the inside of the central room was clearly visible.

“He’s already talked to what he thinks is you,” whispered Peter ecstatically, “and he is not in the best of tempers.”

Hugh glanced down, and a grim smile flickered round his lips. In the three chairs sat the motionless, bound figures, so swathed in rope that only the tops of their heads were visible, just as Lakington had left him and Toby and Algy earlier in the evening. The only moving thing in the room was the criminal himself, and at the moment he was seated at the table with the Chinese cabinet in front of him. He seemed to be doing something inside with a penknife, and all the time he kept up a running commentary to the three bound figures.

“Well, you young swine, have you enjoyed your night?” A feeble moan came from one of the chairs. “Spirit broken at last, is it?” With a quick turn of his wrist he prised open two flaps of wood, and folded them back against the side. Then he lifted out a parcel of gold and silver tissue from underneath.

“My hat!” muttered Hugh. “What a fool I was not to think of it! Just a false bottom actuated by closing the lid. And a similar parcel in the other cabinet.”

But the American, whistling gently to himself, had his eyes fixed on the rope of wonderful pearls which Lakington was holding lovingly in his hands.

“So easy, you scum,” continued Lakington, “and you thought to pit yourself against me. Though if it hadn”t been for Irma”—he rose and stood in front of the chair where he had last left Drummond—“it might have been awkward. She was quick, Captain Drummond, and that fool of a chauffeur failed to carry out my orders, and create a diversion. You will see what happens to people who fail to carry out my orders in a minute. And after that you’ll never see anything again.”

“Say, he’s a dream—that guy,” muttered the American. “What pearls are those he’s got?”

“The Duchess of Lampshire’s,” whispered Hugh. “Lifted right under the noses of the whole bally house party.”

With a grunt the detective re-arranged his chewing-gum; then once more the four watchers on the roof glued their eyes to the glass. And the sight they saw a moment or two afterwards stirred even the phlegmatic Mr. Green.

A heavy door was swinging slowly open, apparently of its own volition, though Hugh, stealing a quick glance at Lakington, saw that he was pressing some small studs in a niche in one of the walls. Then he looked back at the door, and stared dumbfounded. It was the mysterious cupboard of which Phyllis had spoken to him, but nothing he had imagined from her words had prepared him for the reality. It seemed to be literally crammed to overflowing with the most priceless loot. Gold vessels of fantastic and beautiful shapes littered the floor; while on the shelves were arranged the most wonderful collection of precious stones, which shone and scintillated in the electric light till their glitter almost blinded the watchers.

“Shades of Chu Chin Chow, Ali Baba and the forty pundits!” muttered Toby. “The man’s a genius.”

The pearls were carefully placed in a position of honour, and for a few moments Lakington stood gloating over his collection.

“Do you see them, Captain Drummond?” he asked quietly. “Each thing obtained by my brain—my hands. All mine—mine!” His voice rose to a shout. “And you pit your puny wits against me.” With a laugh he crossed the room, and once more pressed the studs. The door swung slowly to and closed without a sound, while Lakington still shook with silent mirth.

“And now,” he resumed, rubbing his hands, “we will prepare your bath, Captain Drummond.” He walked over to the shelves where the bottles were ranged, and busied himself with some preparations. “And while it is getting ready, we will just deal with the chauffeur who neglected his orders.”

For a few minutes he bent over the chemicals, and then he poured the mixture into the water which half filled the long bath at the end of the room. A faintly acid smell rose to the four men above, and the liquid turned a pale green.

“I told you I had all sorts of baths, didn’t I?” continued Lakington; “some for those who are dead, and some for those who are alive. This is the latter sort, and has the great advantage of making the bather wish it was one of the former.” He stirred the liquid gently with a long glass rod. “About five minutes before we’re quite ready,” he announced. “Just time for the chauffeur.”

He went to a speaking-tube, down which he blew. Somewhat naturally there was no answer, and Lakington frowned.

“A stupid fellow,” he remarked softly. “But there is no hurry; I will deal with him later.”

“You certainly will,” muttered Hugh on the roof. “And perhaps not quite so much later as you think, friend Henry.”

But Lakington had returned to the chair which contained, as he thought, his chief enemy, and was standing beside it with an unholy joy shining on his face.

“And since I have to deal with him later, Captain, Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., I may as well deal with you now. Then it will be your friend’s turn. I am going to cut the ropes, and carry you, while you’re so numbed that you can’t move, to the bath. Then I shall drop you in, Captain Drummond, and when afterwards, you pray for death, I shall mercifully spare your life—for a while.”

He slashed at the ropes behind the chair, and the four men craned forward expectantly.

“There,” snarled Lakington. “I’m ready for you, you young swine.”

And even as he spoke, the words died away on his lips, and with a dreadful cry he sprang back. For with a dull, heavy thud the body of the dead German Heinrich rolled off the chair and sprawled at his feet.

“My God!” screamed Lakington. “What has happened? I—I—”

He rushed to the bell and pealed it frantically, and with a smile of joy Hugh watched his frenzied terror. No one came in answer to the ring, and Lakington dashed to the door, only to recoil into the room with a choking noise in his throat. Outside in the hall stood four masked men, each with a revolver pointing at his heart.

“My cue,” muttered Hugh. “And you understand, fellows, don’t you?—he’s my meat.”

The next moment he had disappeared down the ladder, and the three remaining watchers stared motionless at the grim scene. For Lakington had shut the door and was crouching by the table, his nerve utterly gone. And all the while the puffed, bloated body of the German sprawled on the floor…

Slowly the door into the hall opened, and with a scream of fear Lakington sprang back. Standing in the doorway was Hugh Drummond, and his face was grim and merciless.

“You sent for your chauffeur, Henry Lakington,” he remarked quietly. “I am here.”

“What do you mean?” muttered Lakington thickly.

“I drove you back from Laidley Towers tonight,” said Hugh with a slight smile. “The proper man was foolish and had to be killed.” He advanced a few steps into the room, and the other shrank back. “You look frightened, Henry. Can it be that the young swine’s wits are, after all, better than yours?”

“What do you want?” gasped Lakington, through dry lips.

“I want you, Henry—just you. Hitherto, you’ve always used gangs of your ruffians against me. Now my gang occupies this house. But I’m not going to use them. It’s going to be just—you and I. Stand up, Henry, stand up—as I have always stood up to you.” He crossed the room and stood in front of the cowering man.

“Take half—take half,” he screamed. “I’ve got treasure—I’ve…”

And Drummond hit him a fearful blow on the mouth.

“I shall take all, Henry, to return to their rightful owners. Boys”—he raised his voice—“carry out these other two, and undo them.”

The four masked men came in, and carried out the two chairs. “The intimidated rabbit, Henry, and the kindly gentleman you put to guard Miss Benton,” he remarked as the door closed. “So now we may regard ourselves as being alone. Just you and I. And one of us, Lakington—you devil in human form—is going into that bath.”

“But the bath means death,” shrieked Lakington—“death in agony.”

“That will be unfortunate for the one who goes in,” said Drummond, taking a step towards him.

“You would murder me?” half sobbed the terrified man.

“No, Lakington; I’m not going to murder you.” A gleam of hope came into the other’s eyes. “But I’m going to fight you in order to decide which of us two ceases to adorn the earth; that is, if your diagnosis of the contents of the bath is correct. What little gleam of pity I might have possessed for you has been completely extinguished by your present exhibition of nauseating cowardice. Fight, you worm, fight; or I’ll throw you in!”

And Lakington fought. The sudden complete turning of the tables had for the moment destroyed his nerve; now, at Drummond’s words, he recovered himself. There was no mercy on the soldier’s face, and in his inmost heart Lakington knew that the end had come. For strong and wiry though he was, he was no match for the other.

Relentlessly he felt himself being forced towards the deadly liquid he had prepared for Drummond, and as the irony of the thing struck him, the sweat broke out on his forehead and he cursed aloud. At last he backed into the edge of the bath, and his struggles redoubled. But still there was no mercy on the soldier’s face, and he felt himself being forced farther and farther over the liquid until he was only held from falling into it by Drummond’s grip on his throat.

Then, just before the grip relaxed and he went under, the soldier spoke once:

“Henry Lakington,” he said, “the retribution is just.”

Drummond sprang back, and the liquid closed over the wretched man’s head. But only for a second. With a dreadful cry, Lakington leapt out, and even Drummond felt a momentary qualm of pity. For the criminal’s clothes were already burnt through to the skin, and his face—or what was left of it—was a shining copper colour. Mad with agony, he dashed to the door, and flung it open. The four men outside, aghast at the spectacle, recoiled and let him through. And the kindly mercy which Lakington had never shown to anyone in his life was given to him at the last.

Blindly he groped his way up the stairs, and as Drummond got to the door the end came. Someone must have put in gear the machinery which worked on the fifth step, or perhaps it was automatic. For suddenly a heavy steel weight revolving on an arm whizzed out from the wall and struck Lakington behind the neck. Without a sound he fell forward, and the weight unchecked, clanged sullenly home. And thus did the invention of which he was proudest break the inventor’s own neck. Truly, the retribution was just…

“That only leaves Peterson,” remarked the American coming into the hall at that moment, and lighting a cigar.

“That only leaves Peterson,” agreed Drummond. “And the girl,” he added as an afterthought.

CHAPTER XII

In Which the Last Round Takes Place

I

It was during the next hour or two that the full value of Mr. Jerome K. Green as an acquisition to the party became apparent. Certain other preparations in honour of Peterson’s arrival were duly carried out, and then arose the question of the safe in which the all-important ledger was kept.

“There it is,” said Drummond, pointing to a heavy steel door flush with the wall, on the opposite side of the room to the big one containing Lakington’s ill-gotten treasure. “And it doesn’t seem to me that you’re going to open that one by pressing any buttons in the wall.”

“Then, Captain,” drawled the American, “I guess we’ll open it otherwise. It’s sure plumb easy. I’ve been getting gay with some of the household effects, and this bar of soap sort of caught my eye.”

From his pocket he produced some ordinary yellow soap, and the others glanced at him curiously.

“I’ll just give you a little demonstration,” he continued, “of how our swell cracksmen over the water open safes when the owners have been so tactless as to remove the keys.”

Dexterously he proceeded to seal up every crack in the safe door with the soap, leaving a small gap at the top unsealed. Then round that gap he built what was to all intents and purposes a soap dam.

“If any of you boys,” he remarked to the intent group around him, “think of taking this up as a means of livelihood, be careful of this stuff.” From another pocket he produced an india-rubber bottle. “Don’t drop it on the floor if you want to be measured for your coffin. There’ll just be a boot and some bits to bury.”

The group faded away, and the American laughed.

“Might I ask what it is?” murmured Hugh politely from the neighbourhood of the door.

“Sure thing, Captain,” returned the detective, carefully pouring some of the liquid into the soap dam. “This is what I told you I’d got—gelignite; or, as the boys call it, the oil. It runs right round the cracks of the door inside the soap.” He added a little more, and carefully replaced the stopper in the bottle. “Now a detonator and a bit of fuse, and I guess we’ll leave, the room.”

“It reminds one of those dreadful barbarians the Sappers, trying to blow up things,” remarked Toby, stepping with, some agility into the garden; and a moment or two later the American joined them.

“It may be necessary to do it again,” he announced, and as he spoke the sound of a dull explosion came from inside the house. “On the other hand,” he continued, going back into the room and quietly pulling the safe door open, “it may not. There’s your book, Captain.”

He calmly relit his cigar as if safe opening was the most normal undertaking, and Drummond lifted out the heavy ledger and placed it on the table.

“Go out in relays, boys,” he said to the group of men by the door, “and get your breakfasts. I’m going to be busy for a bit.”

He sat down at the table and began to turn the pages. The American was amusing himself with the faked Chinese cabinet; Toby and Peter sprawled in two chairs, unashamedly snoring. And after a while the detective put down the cabinet, and coming over, sat at Drummond’s side.

Every page contained an entry—sometimes half a dozen—of the same type, and as the immensity of the project dawned on the two men their faces grew serious.

“I told you he was a big man, Captain,” remarked the American, leaning back in his chair and looking at the open book through half-closed eyes.

“One can only hope to Heaven that we’re in time,” returned Hugh. “Damn it, man,” he exploded, “surely the police must know of this!”

The American closed his eyes still more.

“Your English police know most things,” he drawled, “but you’ve sort of got some peculiar laws in your country. With us, if we don’t like a man—something happens. He kind o’ ceases to sit up and take nourishment. But over here, the more scurrilous he is, the more he talks bloodshed and riot, the more constables does he get to guard him from catching cold.”

The soldier frowned.

“Look at this entry here,” he grunted. “That blighter is a Member of Parliament. What’s he getting four payments of a thousand pounds for?”

“Why, surely, to buy some nice warm under-clothes with,” grinned the detective. Then he leaned forward and glanced at the name. “But isn’t he some pot in one of your big trade unions?”

“Heaven knows,” grunted Hugh. “I only saw the blighter once, and then his shirt was dirty.” He turned over a few more pages thoughtfully. “Why, if these are the sums of money Peterson has blown, the man must have spent a fortune. Two thousand pounds to Ivolsky. Incidentally, that’s the bloke who had words with the whatnot on the stairs.”

In silence they continued their study of the book. The whole of England and Scotland had been split up into districts, regulated by population rather than area, and each district appeared to be in charge of one director. A varying number of sub-districts in every main division had each their sub-director and staff, and at some of the names Drummond rubbed his eyes in amazement. Briefly, the duties of every man were outlined: the locality in which his work lay, his exact responsibilities, so that overlapping was reduced to a minimum. In each case the staff was small, the work largely that of organisation. But in each district there appeared ten or a dozen names of men who were euphemistically described as lecturers; while at the end of the book there appeared nearly fifty names—both of men and women—who were proudly denoted as first-class general lecturers. And if Drummond had rubbed his eyes at some of the names on the organising staffs, the first-class general lecturers deprived him of speech.

“Why,” he spluttered after a moment, “a lot of these people’s names are absolute household words in the country. They may be swine—they probably are. Thank God! I’ve very rarely met any; but they ain’t criminals.”

“No more is Peterson,” grinned the American; “at least not on that book. See here, Captain, it’s pretty clear what’s happening. In any country today you’ve got all sorts and conditions of people with more wind than brain. They just can’t stop talking, and as yet it’s not a criminal offence. Some of ’em believe what they say, like Spindleshanks upstairs; some of ’em don’t. And if they don’t, it makes ’em worse: they start writing as well. You’ve got clever men, intellectual men—look at some of those guys in the first-class general lecturers—and they’re the worst of the lot. Then you’ve got another class—the men with the business brain, who think they’re getting the sticky end of it, and use the talkers to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for them. And the chestnuts, who are the poor blamed decent working-men, are promptly dropped in the ash-pit to keep ’em quiet. They all want something for nothing, and I guess it can’t be done. They all think they’re fooling one another, and what’s really going at the moment is that Peterson is fooling the whole bunch. He wants all the strings in his hands, and it looks to me as if he’d got ’em there. He’s got the money—and we know where he got it from; he’s got the organisation—all either red-hot revolutionaries, or intellectual windstorms, or calculating knaves. He’s amalgamated ’em, Captain; and the whole blamed lot, whatever they may think, are really working for him.”

Drummond, thoughtfully, lit a cigarette.

“Working towards a revolution in this country,” he remarked quietly.

“Sure thing,” answered the American. “And when he brings it off, I guess you won’t catch Peterson for dust. He’ll pocket the boodle, and the boobs will stew in their own juice. I guessed it in Paris; that book makes it a certainty. But it ain’t criminal. In a Court of Law he could swear it was an organisation for selling bird-seed.”

For a while Drummond smoked in silence, while the two sleepers shifted uneasily in their chairs. It all seemed so simple in spite of the immensity of the scheme. Like most normal Englishmen, politics and labour disputes had left him cold in the past; but no one who ever glanced at a newspaper could be ignorant of the volcano that had been simmering just beneath the surface for years past.

“Not one in a hundred”—the American’s voice broke into his train of thought—“of the so-called revolutionary leaders in this country are disinterested, Captain. They’re out for Number One, and when they’ve talked the boys into bloody murder, and your existing social system is down-and-out, they’ll be the leaders in the new one. That’s what they’re playing for—power; and when they’ve got it, God help the men who gave it to ’em.”

Drummond nodded, and lit another cigarette. Odd things he had read recurred to him: trade unions refusing to allow discharged soldiers to join them; the reiterated threats of direct action. And to what end?

A passage in a part of the ledger evidently devoted to extracts from the speeches of the first-class general lecturers caught his eye:

“To me, the big fact of modern life is the war between classes… People declare that the method of direct action inside a country will produce a revolution. I agree…it involves the creation of an army.”

And beside the cutting was a note by Peterson in red ink: “An excellent man! Send for protracted tour.”

The note of exclamation appealed to Hugh; he could see the writer”s tongue in his cheek as he put it in.

“It involves the creation of an army…” The words of the intimidated rabbit came back to his mind. “The man of stupendous organising power, who has brought together and welded into one the hundreds of societies similar to mine, who before this have each, on their own, been feebly struggling towards the light. Now we are combined, and our strength is due to him.”

In other words, the army was on the road to completion, an army where ninety percent of the fighters—duped by the remaining ten—would struggle blindly towards a dim, half-understood goal, only to find out too late that the whip of Solomon had been exchanged for the scorpion of his son…

“Why can’t they be made to understand, Mr. Green?” he cried bitterly. “The working-man—the decent fellow—”

The American thoughtfully picked his teeth.

“Has anyone tried to make ’em understand, Captain? I guess I’m no intellectual guy, but there was a French writer fellow—Victor Hugo—who wrote something that sure hit the nail in the head. I copied it out, for it seemed good to me.” From his pocket-book he produced a slip of paper. ‘The faults of women, children, servants, the weak, the indigent, and the ignorant are the faults of husbands, father, masters, the strong, the rich, and the learned.’ Wal!” he leaned back in his chair, “there you are. Their proper leaders have sure failed them, so they’re running after that bunch of cross-eyed skaters. And sitting here, watching ’em run, and laughing fit to beat the band, is your pal, Peterson!”

It was at that moment that the telephone bell rang, after a slight hesitation Hugh picked up the receiver.

“Very well,” he grunted, after listening for a while “I will tell him.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to the American.

“Mr. Ditchling will be here for the meeting at two, and Peterson will be late,” he announced slowly.

“What’s Ditchling when he’s at home?” asked the other.

“One of the so-called leaders,” answered Hugh briefly turning over the pages of the ledger. “Here’s his dossier, according to Peterson. ‘Ditchling, Charles. Good speaker; clever; unscrupulous. Requires big money; worth it. Drinks.’”

For a while they stared at the brief summary, and then the American burst into a guffaw of laughter.

“The mistake you’ve made, Captain, in this county is not giving Peterson a seat in your Cabinet. He’d have the whole caboose eating out of his hand; and if you paid him a few hundred thousands a year, he might run straight and grow pigs as a hobby…”

II

It was a couple of hours later that Hugh rang up his rooms in Half Moon Street. From Algy, who spoke to him, he gathered that Phyllis and her father were quite safe, though the latter was suffering in the manner common to the morning after. But he also found out another thing—that Ted Jerningham had just arrived with the hapless Potts in tow, who was apparently sufficiently recovered to talk sense. He was still weak and dazed, but no longer imbecile.

“Tell Ted to bring him down to The Elms at once,” ordered Hugh. “There’s a compatriot of his here, waiting to welcome him with open arms.”

“Potts is coming, Mr. Green,” he said, putting sown the receiver. “Our Hiram C. And he’s talking sense. It seems to me that we may get a little light thrown on the activities of Mr. Rocking and Herr Steinemann, and the other bloke.”

The American nodded slowly.

“Von Gratz,” he said. “I remember his name now. Steel man. Maybe you’re right, Captain, and that he know something; anyway, I guess Hiram C. Potts and I stick closer than brothers till I restore him to the bosom of his family.”

But Mr. Potts, when he did arrive, exhibited no great inclination to stick close to the detective; in fact, he showed the greatest reluctance to enter the house at all. As Algy has said, he was still weak and dazed, and the sight of the place where he had suffered so much produced such an effect on him that for a while Hugh feared he was going to have a relapse. At length, however, he seemed to get back his confidence and was persuaded to come into the central room.

“It’s all right, Mr. Potts,” Drummond assured him over and over again. “Their gang is dispersed, and Lakington is dead. We’re all friends here now. You’re quite safe. This is Mr. Green, who has come over from New York especially to find you and take you back to your family.”

The millionaire stared in silence at the detective, who rolled his cigar round in his mouth.

“That’s right, Mr. Potts. There’s the little old sign.” He threw back his coat, showing the police badge, and the millionaire nodded. “I guess you’ve had things humming on the other side, and if it hadn’t been for the Captain here and his friends they’d be humming still.”

“I am obliged to you, sir,” said the American, speaking for the first time to Hugh. The words were slow and hesitating, as if he was not quite sure of his speech. “I seem to remember your face,” he continued, “as part of the awful nightmare I’ve suffered the last few days—or is it weeks? I seem to remember having seen you, and you were, always kind.”

“That’s all over now, Mr. Potts,” said Hugh gently. “You got into the clutches of the most infernal gang of swine, and we’ve been trying to get you out again.” He looked at him quietly. “Do you think you can remember enough to tell us what happened at the beginning? Take your time,” he urged. “There’s no hurry.”

The others drew nearer eagerly, and the millionaire passed his hand dazedly over his forehead.

“I was stopping at the Carlton,” he began, “with Granger, my secretary. I sent him over to Belfast on a shipping deal and—” He paused and looked round the group. “Where is Granger?” he asked.

“Mr. Granger was murdered in Belfast, Mr. Potts,” said Drummond quietly, “by a member of the gang that kidnapped you.”

“Murdered! Jimmy Granger murdered!” He almost cried in his weakness. “What did the swine want to murder him for?”

“Because they wanted you alone,” explained Hugh. “Private secretaries ask awkward questions.”

After a while the millionaire recovered his composure, and with many breaks, and pauses the slow, disjointed story continued.

“Lakington! That was the name of the man I met at the Carlton. And then there was another… Peter… Peterson. That’s it. We all dined together, I remember, and it was after dinner, in my private sitting-room, that Peterson put up his proposition to me… It was a suggestion that he thought would appeal to me as a business man. He said—what was it?—that he could produce a gigantic syndicalist strike in England—revolution, in fact; and that as one of the biggest ship-owners—the biggest, in fact—outside this country, I should be able to capture a lot of the British carrying trade. He wanted two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to do it, paid one month after the result was obtained… Said there were others in it…”

“On that valuation,” interrupted the detective thoughtfully, “it makes one million pounds sterling.”

Drummond nodded. “Yes, Mr. Potts; and then?”

“I told him,” said the millionaire, “that he was an infernal scoundrel, and that I’d have nothing whatever to do with such a villainous scheme. And then—almost the last thing I can remember—I saw Peterson look at Lakington. Then they both sprang on me, and I felt something prick my arm. And after that I can’t remember anything clearly. Your face, sir”—he turned to Drummond—“comes to me out of a kind of dream; and yours, too,” he added to Darrell. “But it was like a long, dreadful nightmare, in which vague things, over which I had no power, kept happening, until I woke up late last night in this gentleman’s house.” He bowed to Ted Jerningham, who grinned cheerfully.

“And mighty glad I was to hear you talking sense again, sir,” he remarked. “Do you mean to say you have no recollection of how you got there?”

“None, sir; none,” answered the millionaire. “It was just part of a dream.”

“It shows the strength of the drug those swine used on you,” said Drummond grimly. “You went there in an aeroplane, Mr. Potts.”

“An aeroplane!” cried the other in amazement. “I don’t remember it. I’ve got no recollection of it whatever. There’s only one other thing that I can lay hold of, and that’s all dim and muzzy… Pearls… A great rope of pearls… I was to sign a paper; and I wouldn’t… I did once, and then there was a shot, and the light went out, and the paper disappeared…”

“It’s at my bank at this moment, Mr. Potts,” said Hugh; “I took that paper, or part of it, that night.”

“Did you?” The millionaire looked at him vaguely. “It was to promise them a million dollars when they had done what they said… I remember that… And the pearl necklace… The Duchess of…” He paused and shook his head wearily.

“The Duchess of Lampshire’s?” prompted Hugh.

“That’s it,” said the other. “The Duchess of Lampshire’s. It was saying that I wanted her pearls, I think, and would ask no questions as to how they were got.”

The detective grunted.

“Wanted to incriminate you properly, did they? Though it seems to me that it was a blamed risky game. There should have been enough money from the other three to run the show without worrying you, when they found you weren’t for it.”

“Wait,” said the millionaire, “that reminds me. Before they assaulted me at the Carlton, they told me the others wouldn’t come in unless I did.”

For a while there was silence, broken at length by Hugh.

“Well, Mr. Potts, you’ve had a mouldy time, and I’m very glad it’s over. But the person you’ve got to thank for putting us fellows on to your track is a girl. If it hadn’t been for her, I’m afraid you’d still be having nightmares.”

“I would like to see her and thank her,” said the millionaire quickly.

“You shall,” grinned Hugh. “Come to the wedding; it will be in a fortnight or thereabouts.”

“Wedding!” Mr. Potts looked a little vague.

“Yes! Mine and hers. Ghastly proposition, isn’t it?”

“The last straw,” remarked Ted Jeningham. “A more impossible man as a bridegroom would be hard to think of. But in the meantime I pinched half a dozen of the old man’s Perrier Jouet 1911 and put ’em in the car. What say you?”

“Say!” snorted Hugh. “Idiot boy! Does one speak on such occasions?”

And it was so…

III

“What’s troubling me,” remarked Hugh later, “is what to do with Carl and that sweet girl Irma.”

The hour for the meeting was drawing near, and though no one had any idea as to what sort of a meeting it was going to be, it was obvious that Peterson would be one of the happy throng.

“I should say the police might now be allowed a look in,” murmured Darrell mildly. “You can’t have the man lying about the place after you’re married.”

“I suppose not,” answered Drummond regretfully. “And yet it’s a dreadful thing to finish a little show like this with the police—if you’ll forgive my saying so, Mr. Green.”

“Sure thing,” drawled the American. “But we have our uses, Captain, and I’m inclined to agree with your friend’s suggestion. Hand him over along with his book, and they’ll sweep up the mess.”

“It would be an outrage to let the scoundrel go,” said the millionaire fiercely. “The man Lakington you say is dead; there’s enough evidence to hang this brute as well. What about my secretary in Belfast?”

But Drummond shook his head.

“I have my doubts, Mr. Potts, if you’d be able to bring that home to him. Still, I can quite understand your feeling rattled with the bird.” He rose and stretched himself; then he glanced at his watch. “It’s time you all retired, boys; the party ought to be starting soon. Drift in again with the lads, the instant I ring the bell.”

Left alone Hugh made certain once again that he knew the right combination of studs on the wall to open the big door which concealed the stolen store of treasure—and other things as well; then, lighting a cigarette, he sat down and waited.

The end of the chase was in sight, and he had determined it should be a fitting end, worthy of the chase itself—theatrical, perhaps, but at the same time impressive. Something for the Ditchlings of the party to ponder on in the silent watches of the night… Then the police—it would have to be the police, he admitted sorrowfully—and after that, Phyllis.

And he was just on the point of ringing up his flat to tell her that he loved her, when the door opened and a man came in. Hugh recognised him at once as Vallance Nestor, an author of great brilliance—in his own eyes—who had lately devoted himself to the advancement of revolutionary labour.

“Good afternoon,” murmured Drummond affably. “Mr. Peterson will be a little late. I am his private secretary.”

The other nodded and sat down languidly.

“What did you think of my last little effort in the Midlands?” he asked, drawing off his gloves.

“Quite wonderful,” said Hugh. “A marvellous help to the great Cause.”

Valiance Nestor yawned slightly and closed his eyes, only to open them again as Hugh turned the pages of the ledger on the table.

“What’s that?” he demanded.

“This is the book,” replied Drummond carelessly, “where Mr. Peterson records his opinions of the immense value of all his fellow-workers. Most interesting reading.”

“Am I in it?” Valiance Nestor rose with alacrity.

“Why, of course,” answered Drummond. “Are you not one of the leaders? Here you are.” He pointed with his finger, and then drew back in dismay. “Dear, dear! there must be some mistake.”

But Valiance Nestor, with a frozen and glassy eye, was staring fascinated at the following choice description of himself:

“Nestor, Valiance. Author—so-called. Hot-air factory, but useful up to a point. Inordinately conceited and a monumental ass. Not fit to be trusted far.”

“What,’ he spluttered at length, “is the meaning of this abominable insult?”

But Hugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, was welcoming the next arrival—a rugged, beetle-browed man, whose face seemed vaguely familiar, but whose name he was unable to place.

“Crofter,” shouted the infuriated author, “look at this as a description of me.”

And Hugh watched the man, whom he now knew to be one of the extremist members of Parliament, walk over and glance at the book. He saw him conceal a smile, and then Valiance Nestor carried the good work on.

“We’ll see what he says about you—impertinent blackguard.” Rapidly he turned the pages, and Hugh glanced over Crofter’s shoulder at the dossier.

He just had time to read: “Crofter, John. A consummate blackguard. Playing entirely for his own hand. Needs careful watching,” when the subject of the remarks, his face convulsed with fury, spun round and faced him.

“Who wrote that?” he snarled.

“Must have been Mr. Peterson,” answered Hugh placidly. “I see you had five thousand out of him, so perhaps he considers himself privileged. A wonderful judge of character, too,” he murmured, turning away to greet Mr. Ditchling, who arrived somewhat opportunely, in company with a thin pale man—little more than a youth—whose identity completely defeated Drummond.

“My God!” Crofter was livid with rage. “Me and Peterson will have words this afternoon. Look at this, Ditchling.” On second thoughts he turned over some pages. “We’ll see what this insolent devil has to say about you.”

“Drinks!” Ditchling thumped the table with a heavy fist. “What the hell does he mean? Say you, Mr. Secretary—what’s the meaning of this?”

“They represent Mr. Peterson’s considered opinions of you all,” said Hugh genially. “Perhaps this other gentleman…”

He turned to the pale youth, who stepped forward with a surprised look. He seemed to be not quite clear what had upset the others, but already Nestor had turned up his name.

“Terrance, Victor. A wonderful speaker. Appears really to believe that what he says will benefit the working-man. Consequently very valuable; but indubitably mad.”

“Does he mean to insult us deliberately?” demanded Crofter, his voice still shaking with passion.

“But I don’t understand,” said Victor Terrance dazedly. “Does Mr. Peterson not believe in our teachings, too?” He turned slowly and looked at Hugh, who shrugged his shoulders.

“He should be here at any moment,” he answered, and as he spoke the door opened and Carl Peterson came in.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he began, and then he saw Hugh. With a look of speechless amazement he stared at the soldier, and for the first time since Hugh had known him his face blanched. Then his eyes fell on the open ledger, and with a dreadful curse he sprang forward. A glance at the faces of the men who stood watching told him what he wanted to know, and with another oath his hand went to his pocket.

“Take your hand out, Carl Peterson.” Drummond’s voice rang through the room, and the arch-criminal, looking sullenly up, found himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver. “Now, sit down at the table—all of you. The meeting is about to commence.”

“Look here,” blustered Crofter, “I’ll have the law on you…”

“By all manner of means, Mr. John Crofter, consummate blackguard,” answered Hugh calmly. “But that comes afterwards. Just now—sit down.”

“I’m damned if I will,” roared the other, springing at the soldier. And Peterson, sitting sullenly at the table trying to readjust his thoughts to the sudden blinding certainty that through some extraordinary accident everything had miscarried, never stirred as a half-stunned Member of Parliament crashed to the floor beside him.

“Sit down, I said,” remarked Drummond affably. “But if you prefer to lie down, it’s all the same to me. Are there any more to come, Peterson?”

“No, damn you. Get it over!”

“Right! Throw your gun on the floor.” Drummond picked the weapon up and put it in his pocket; then he rang the bell. “I had hoped,” he murmured, “for a larger gathering, but one cannot have everything, can one, Mr. Monumental Ass?”

But Vallance Nestor was far too frightened to resent the insult; he could only stare foolishly at the soldier, while he plucked at his collar with a shaking hand. Save to Peterson, who understood, if only dimly, what had happened, the thing had come as such a complete surprise that even the sudden entrance of twenty masked men, who ranged themselves in single rank behind their chairs, failed to stir the meeting. It seemed merely in keeping with what had gone before.

“I shall not detain you long, gentlemen,” began Hugh suavely. “Your general appearance and the warmth of the weather have combined to produce in me a desire for sleep. But before I hand you over to the care of the sportsmen who stand so patiently behind you, there are one or two remarks I wish to make. Let me say at once that on the subject of Capital and Labour I am supremely ignorant. You will therefore be spared any dissertation on the subject. But from an exhaustive study of the ledger which now lies upon the table, and a fairly intimate knowledge of its author’s movements, I and my friends have been put to the inconvenience of treading on you.

“There are many things, we know, which are wrong in this jolly old country of ours; but given time and the right methods I am sufficiently optimistic to believe that they could be put right. That, however, would not suit your book. You dislike the right method, because it leaves all of you much where you were before. Every single one of you—with the sole possible exception of you, Mr. Terrance, and you’re mad—is playing with revolution for his own ends: to make money out of it—to gain power…

“Let us start with Peterson—your leader. How much did you say he demanded, Mr. Potts, as the price of revolution?”

With a strangled cry Peterson sprang up as the American millionaire, removing his mask, stepped forward.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, you swine, was what you asked me.” The millionaire stood confronting his tormentor, who dropped back in his chair with a groan. “And when I refused, you tortured me. Look at my thumb.”

With a cry of horror the others sitting at the table looked at the mangled flesh, and then at the man who had done it. This, even to their mind, was going too far.

“Then there was the same sum,” continued Drummond, “to come from Hocking, the American cotton man—half German by birth; Stienmann, the German coal man; von Gratz, the German steel man. Is that not so, Peterson?” It was an arrow at a venture, but it hit the mark, and Peterson nodded.

“So one million pounds was the stake this benefactor of humanity was playing for,” sneered Drummond. “One million pounds, as the mere price of a nation’s life-blood… But, at any rate, he had the merit of playing big, whereas the rest of you scum—and the other beauties so ably catalogued in that book—messed about at his beck and call for packets of bull’s-eyes. Perhaps you laboured under the delusion that you were fooling him, but the whole lot of you are so damned crooked that you probably thought of nothing but your own filthy skins.

“Listen to me!” Hugh Drummond’s voice took on a deep, commanding ring, and against their will the four men looked at the broad, powerful soldier, whose sincerity shone clear in his face. “Not by revolutions and direct action will you make this island of ours right—though I am fully aware that this is the last thing you could wish to see happen. But with your brains, and for your own unscrupulous ends, you gull the working-man into believing it. And he, because you can talk with your tongues in your cheeks, is led away. He believes you will give him Utopia; whereas, in reality, you are leading him to hell. And you know it. Evolution is our only chance—not revolution; but you, and others like you, stand to gain more by the latter…”

His hand dropped to his side, and he grinned.

“Quite a break for me,” he remarked. “I’m getting hoarse. I’m now going to hand you four over to the boys. There’s an admirable, but somewhat muddy pond outside, and I’m sure you’d like to look for newts. If any of you want to summon me for assault and battery, my name is Drummond—Captain Drummond, of Half Moon Street. But I warn you that that book will be handed into Scotland Yard tonight. Out with ’em, boys, and give ’em hell…

“And now, Carl Peterson,” he remarked, as the door closed behind the last of the struggling prophets of a new world, “it’s time that you and I settled our little account, isn’t it?”

The master-criminal rose and stood facing him. Apparently he had completely recovered himself; the hand with which he lit his cigar was as steady as a rock.

“I congratulate you, Captain Drummond,” he remarked suavely. “I confess I have no idea how you managed to escape from the cramped position I left you in last night, or how you have managed to install your own men in this house. But I have even less idea how you discovered about Hocking and the other two.”

Hugh laughed shortly.

“Another time, when you disguise yourself as the Comte de Guy, remember one thing, Carl. For effective concealment it is necessary to change other things beside your face and figure. You must change your mannerisms and unconscious little tricks. No—I won’t tell you what it is that gave you away. You can ponder over it in prison.”

“So you mean to hand me over to the police, do you?” said Peterson slowly.

“I see no other course open to me,” replied Drummond. “It will be quite a cause célèbre, and ought to do a lot to edify the public.”

The sudden opening of the door made both men look round. Then Drummond bowed, to conceal a smile.

“Just in time, Miss Irma,” he remarked, “for settling day.”

The girl swept past him and confronted Peterson.

“What has happened?” she panted. “The garden is full of people whom I’ve never seen. And there were two young men running down the drive covered with weeds and dripping with water.”

Peterson smiled grimly.

“A slight set-back has occurred, my dear. I have made a big mistake—a mistake which has proved fatal. I have underestimated the ability of Captain Drummond; and as long as I live I shall always regret that I did not kill him the night he went exploring in this house.”

Fearfully the girl faced Drummond; then she turned again to Peterson.

“Where’s Henry?” she demanded.

“That again is a point on which I am profoundly ignorant,” answered Peterson. “Perhaps Captain Drummond can enlighten us on that also?”

“Yes,” remarked Drummond, “I can. Henry has had an accident. After I drove him back from the Duchess’s last night”—the girl gave a cry, and Peterson steadied her with his arm—“we had words—dreadful words. And for a long time, Carl, I thought it would be better if you and I had similar words. In fact, I’m not sure even now that it wouldn’t be safer in the long run…”

“But where is he?” said the girl, through dry lips.

“Where you ought to be, Carl,” answered Hugh grimly. “Where, sooner or later, you will be.”

He pressed the studs in the niche of the wall, and the door of the big safe swung open slowly. With a scream of terror the girl sank half-fainting on the floor, and even Peterson’s cigar dropped on the floor from his nerveless lips. For, hung from the ceiling by two ropes attached to his arms, was the dead body of Henry Lakington. And even as they watched, it sagged lower, and one of the feet hit sullenly against a beautiful old gold vase…

“My God!” muttered Peterson. “Did you murder him?”

“Oh, no!” answered Drummond. “He inadvertently fell in the bath he got ready for me, and then when he ran up the stairs in considerable pain, that interesting mechanical device broke his neck.”

“Shut the door,” screamed the girl; “I can’t stand it.”

She covered her face with her hands, shuddering, while the door slowly swung to again.

“Yes,” remarked Drummond thoughtfully, “it should be an interesting trial. I shall have such a lot to tell them about the little entertainments here, and all your endearing ways.”

With the big ledger under his arm he crossed the room, and called to some men who were standing outside in the hall; and as the detectives, thoughtfully supplied by Mr. Green, entered the central room, he glanced for the last time at Carl Peterson and his daughter. Never had the cigar glowed more evenly between the master-criminal’s lips; never had the girl Irma selected a cigarette from her gold and tortoiseshell case with more supreme indifference.

“Good-bye, my ugly one!” she cried, with a charming smile, as two of the men stepped up to her.

“Good-bye,” Hugh bowed, and a tinge of regret showed for a moment in his eyes.

“Not good-bye, Irma.” Carl Peterson removed his cigar, and stared at Drummond steadily. “Only au revoir, my friend; only au revoir.”

EPILOGUE

“I simply can’t believe it, Hugh.” In the lengthening shadows Phyllis moved a little nearer to her husband, who, quite regardless of the publicity of their position, slipped an arm round her waist.

“Can’t believe what, darling?” he demanded lazily.

“Why, that all that awful nightmare is over. Lakington dead, and the other two in prison, and us married.”

“They’re not actually in jug yet, old thing,” said Hugh. “And somehow…” He broke off and stared thoughtfully at a man sauntering past them. To all appearances he was a casual visitor taking his evening walk along the front of the well-known seaside resort so largely addicted to honeymoon couples. And yet…was he? Hugh laughed softly; he’d got suspicion on the brain.

“Don’t you think they’ll be sent to prison?” cried the girl. “They may be sent right enough, but whether they arrive or not is a different matter. I don’t somehow see Carl picking oakum. It’s not his form.”

For a while they were silent, occupied with matters quite foreign to such trifles as Peterson and his daughter.

“Are you glad I answered your advertisement?” inquired Phyllis at length.

“The question is too frivolous to deserve an answer,” remarked her husband severely.

“But you aren’t sorry it’s over?” she demanded.

“It isn’t over, kid; it’s just begun.” He smiled at her tenderly. “Your life and mine…isn’t it just wonderful?”

And once again the man sauntered past them. But this time he dropped a piece of paper on the path, just at Hugh’s feet, and the soldier, with a quick movement which he hardly stopped to analyse, covered it with his shoe. The girl hadn’t seen the action; but then, as girls will do after such remarks, she was thinking of other things. Idly Hugh watched the saunterer disappear in the more crowded part of the esplanade, and for a moment there came on to his face a look which, happily for his wife’s peace of mind, she failed to notice.

“No,” he said, à propos of nothing, “I don’t see the gentleman picking oakum. Let’s go and eat, and after dinner I’ll run you up to the top of the headland…”

With a happy sigh she rose. It was just wonderful! and together they strolled back to their hotel. In his pocket was the piece of paper; and who could be sending him messages in such a manner save one man—a man now awaiting his trial?

In the hall he stayed behind to inquire for letters, and a man nodded to him.

“Heard the news?” he inquired.

“No,” said Hugh. “What’s happened?”

“That man Peterson and the girl have got away. No trace of ’em.” Then he looked at Drummond curiously. “By the way, you had something to do with that show, didn’t you?”

“A little,” smiled Hugh. “Just a little.”

“Police bound to catch ’em again,” continued the other. “Can’t hide yourself these days.”

And once again Hugh smiled, as he drew from his pocket the piece of paper:

“Only au revoir, my friend; only au revoir.”

He glanced at the words written in Peterson’s neat writing, and the smile broadened. Assuredly life was still good; assuredly…

“Are you ready for dinner, darling?”

Quickly he swung round, and looked at the sweet face of his wife.

“Sure thing, kid,” he grinned. “Dead sure; I’ve had the best appetiser the old pot-house can produce.”

“Well, you’re very greedy. Where’s mine?”

“Effects of bachelordom, old thing. For the moment I forgot you. I’ll have another. Waiter—two Martinis.”

And into an ash-tray near by, he dropped a piece of paper torn into a hundred tiny fragments.

“Was that a love-letter?” she demanded with assumed jealousy.

“Not exactly, sweetheart,” he laughed back. “Not exactly.” And over the glasses their eyes met. “Here’s to hoping, kid; here’s to hoping.”