"Peterson will not come himself—nor will our one and only Henry. Potts

has not been long in the country, which is all to the good. And if it

fails—we shan’t be any worse off than we are now. Luck—that’s all; and

the more you tempt her, the kinder she is." He was still talking gently

to himself when Peter Darrell strolled into the room.

"Can this thing be true, old boy," remarked the newcomer. "I hear

you’re in the throes of a brainstorm."

"I am, Peter—and not even that repulsive dressing-gown of yours can stop

it. I want you to help me."

"All that I have, dear old flick, is yours for the asking. What can I

do?"

"Well, first of all, I want you to come along and see the household

pet." He piloted Darrell along the passage to the American’s room, and

opened the door. The millionaire looked at them dazedly from the

pillows, and Darrell stared back in startled surprise.

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

"I would give a good deal to know," said Hugh grimly. Then he smiled

reassuringly at the motionless man, and led the way back to the

sitting-room.

"Sit down, Peter," he said. "Get outside that beer and listen to me

carefully."

For ten minutes he spoke, while his companion listened in silence. Gone

completely was the rather vacuous-faced youth clad in a gorgeous

dressing-gown; in his place there sat a keen-faced man nodding from time

to time as a fresh point was made clear. Even so had both listened in

the years that were past to their battalion commander’s orders before an

attack.

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

"Of course," returned the other. "But wouldn’t it be better, Hugh," he

said pleadingly, "to whip up two or three of the boys and have a real

scrap? I don’t seem to have anything to do."

Drummond shook his head decidedly. "No, Peter, my boy—not this show.

We’re up against a big thing; and if you like to come in with me, I

think you’ll have all you want in the scrapping line before you’ve

finished. But this time, low cunning is the order."

Darrell rose. "Right you are, dearie. Your instructions shall be

carried out to the letter. Come and feed your face with me. Got a

couple of birds from the Gaiety lunching at the Cri."

"Not to-day," said Hugh. "I’ve got quite a bit to get through this

afternoon."

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

servant.

"This afternoon, James, you and Mrs. Denny will leave here and go to

Paddington. Go out by the front door, and should you find yourselves

being followed—as you probably will be—consume a jujube and keep your

heads. Having arrived at the booking-office—take a ticket to

Cheltenham, say good-bye to Mrs. Denny in an impassioned tone, and

exhort her not to miss the next train to that delectable inland resort.

You might even speak slightingly about her sick aunt at Westbourne

Grove, who alone prevents your admirable wife from accompanying you.

Then, James, you will board the train for Cheltenham and go there. You

will remain there for two days, during which period you must remember

that you’re a married man—even if you do go to the movies. You will

then return here, and await further orders. Do you get me?"

"Yes, sir." James stood to attention with a smart heel-click.

"Your wife—she has a sister or something, hasn’t she, knocking about

somewhere?"

"She ’as a palsied cousin in Camberwell, sir," remarked James with

justifiable pride.

"Magnificent," murmured Hugh. "She will dally until eventide with her

palsied cousin—if she can bear it—and then she must go by Underground to

Ealing, where she will take a ticket to Goring. I don’t think there

will be any chance of her being followed—you’ll have drawn them off.

When she gets to Goring I want the cottage got ready at once, for two

visitors." He paused and lit a cigarette. "Above all, James—mum’s the

word. As I told you a little while ago, the game has begun. Now just

repeat what I’ve told you."

He listened while his servant ran through his instructions, and nodded

approvingly. "To think there are still people who think military

service a waste of time!" he murmured. "Four years ago you couldn’t

have got one word of it right."

He dismissed Denny, and sat down at his desk. First he took the

half-torn sheet out of his pocket, and putting it in an envelope, sealed

it carefully. Then he placed it in another envelope, with a covering

letter to his bank, requesting them to keep the enclosure intact.

Then he took a sheet of notepaper, and with much deliberation proceeded

to pen a document which afforded him considerable amusement, judging by

the grin which appeared from time to time on his face. This effusion he

also enclosed in a sealed envelope, which he again addressed to his

bank. Finally, he stamped the first, but not the second—and placed them

both in his pocket.

For the next two hours he apparently found nothing better to do than eat

a perfectly grilled chop prepared by Mrs. Denny, and superintend his

visitor unwillingly consuming a sago pudding. Then, with the departure

of the Dennys for Paddington, which coincided most aptly with the return

of Peter Darrell, a period of activity commenced in Half Moon Street.

But being interior activity, interfering in no way with the placid

warmth of the street outside, the gentleman without, whom a keen

observer might have thought strangely interested in the beauties of that

well-known thoroughfare—seeing that he had been there for three

hours—remained serenely unconscious of it. His pal had followed the

Dennys to Paddington. Drummond had not come out—and the watcher who

watched without was beginning to get bored.

About 4.30 he sat up and took notice again as someone left the house;

but it was only the superbly dressed young man whom he had discovered

already was merely a clothes-peg calling himself Darrell.

The sun was getting low and the shadows were lengthening when a taxi

drove up to the door. Immediately the watcher drew closer, only to stop

with a faint smile as he saw two men get out of it. One was the

immaculate Darrell; the other was a stranger, and both were quite

obviously what in the vernacular is known as oiled.

"You prisheless ole bean," he heard Darrell say affectionately, "thish

blinking cabsh my show."

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

"Right," he remarked, "ole friend of me youth. It shall be ash you

wish."

With a tolerant eye he watched them tack up the stairs, singing lustily

in chorus. Then the door above closed, and the melody continued to

float out through the open window.

Ten minutes later he was relieved. It was quite an unostentatious

relief: another man merely strolled past him. And since there was

nothing to report, he merely strolled away. He could hardly be expected

to know that up in Peter Darrell’s sitting-room two perfectly sober

young men were contemplating with professional eyes an extremely drunk

gentleman singing in a chair, and that one of those two sober young men

was Peter Darrell.

Then further interior activity took place in Half Moon Street, and as

the darkness fell, silence gradually settled on the house.

Ten o’clock struck, then eleven—and the silence remained unbroken. It

was not till eleven-thirty that a sudden small sound made Hugh Drummond

sit up in his chair, with every nerve alert. It came from the direction

of the kitchen—and it was the sound he had been waiting for.

Swiftly he opened his door and passed along the passage to where the

motionless man lay still in bed. Then he switched on a small

reading-lamp, and with a plate of semolina in his hand he turned to the

recumbent figure.

"Hiram C. Potts," he said in a low, coaxing tone, "sit up and take your

semolina. Force yourself, laddie, force yourself. I know it’s

nauseating, but the doctor said no alcohol and very little meat."

In the silence that followed, a board creaked outside, and again he

tempted the sick man with food.

"Semolina, Hiram—semolina. Makes bouncing babies. I’d just love to see

you bounce, my Potts."

His voice died away, and he rose slowly to his feet. In the open door

four men were standing, each with a peculiar-shaped revolver in his

hand.

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

"Cut it out," cried the leader contemptuously. "These guns are silent.

If you utter—you die. Do you get me?"

The veins stood out on Drummond’s forehead, and he controlled himself

with an immense effort.

"Are you aware that this man is a guest of mine, and sick?" he said, his

voice shaking with rage.

"You don’t say," remarked the leader, and one of the others laughed.

"Rip the bed-clothes off, boys, and gag the young cock-sparrow."

Before he could resist, a gag was thrust in Drummond’s mouth and his

hands were tied behind his back. Then, helpless and impotent, he

watched three of them lift up the man from the bed, and, putting a gag

in his mouth also, carry him out of the room.

"Move," said the fourth to Hugh. "You join the picnic."

With fury gathering in his eyes he preceded his captor along the passage

and downstairs. A large car drove up as they reached the street, and in

less time than it takes to tell, the two helpless men were pushed in,

followed by the leader; the door was shut and the car drove off.

"Don’t forget," he said to Drummond suavely, "this gun _is_ silent. You

had better be the same."

At one o’clock the car swung up to The Elms. For the last ten minutes

Hugh had been watching the invalid in the corner, who was making frantic

efforts to loosen his gag. His eyes were rolling horribly, and he

swayed from side to side in his seat, but the bandages round his hands

held firm and at last he gave it up.

Even when he was lifted out and carried indoors he did not struggle; he

seemed to have sunk into a sort of apathy. Drummond followed with

dignified calmness, and was led into a room off the hall.

In a moment or two Peterson entered, followed by his daughter. "Ah! my

young friend," cried Peterson affably. "I hardly thought you’d give me

such an easy run as this." He put his hand into Drummond’s pockets, and

pulled out his revolver and a bundle of letters. "To your bank," he

murmured. "Oh! surely, surely not that as well. Not even stamped.

Ungag him, Irma—and untie his hands. My very dear young friend—you pain

me."

"I wish to know, Mr. Peterson," said Hugh quietly, "by what right this

dastardly outrage has been committed. A friend of mine, sick in

bed—removed; abducted in the middle of the night: to say nothing of me."

With a gentle laugh Irma offered him a cigarette. "Mon Dieu!" she

remarked, "but you are most gloriously ugly, my Hugh!" Drummond looked

at her coldly, while Peterson, with a faint smile, opened the envelope

in his hand. And, even as he pulled out the contents, he paused

suddenly and the smile faded from his face. From the landing upstairs

came a heavy crash, followed by a flood of the most appalling language.

"What the —— hell do you think you’re doing, you flat-faced son of a

Maltese goat? And where the —— am I, anyway?"

"I must apologise for my friend’s language," murmured Hugh gently, "but

you must admit he has some justification. Besides, he was, I regret to

state, quite wonderfully drunk earlier this evening, and just as he was

sleeping it off these desperadoes abducted him."

The next moment the door burst open, and an infuriated object rushed in.

His face was wild, and his hand was bandaged, showing a great red stain

on the thumb.

"What’s this —— jest?" he howled furiously. "And this damned bandage all

covered with red ink?"

"You must ask our friend here, Mullings," said Hugh. "He’s got a

peculiar sense of humour. Anyway, he’s got the bill in his hand."

In silence they watched Peterson open the paper and read the contents,

while the girl leant over his shoulder.

To Mr. Peterson, The Elms, Godalming

£. s. d.

To hire of one demobilised soldier . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 0 0

To making him drunk (in this item present strength and

cost of drink and said soldier's capacity must be

allowed for) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 0 0

To bottle of red ink . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 0 0 1

To shock to system . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 0 0

−−−−−−−−−

TOTAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £20 0 1

−−−−−−−−−

It was Irma who laughed.

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

But he did not look at her. His eyes were on Peterson, who with a

perfectly impassive face was staring at him fixedly.

*CHAPTER IV*

*IN WHICH HE SPENDS A QUIET NIGHT AT THE ELMS*

*I*

"It is a little difficult to know what to do with you, young man," said

Peterson gently, after a long silence. "I knew you had no tact."

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

smile.

"I must come to you for lessons, Mr. Peterson. Though I frankly admit,"

he added genially, "that I have never been brought up to regard the

forcible abduction of a harmless individual and a friend who is sleeping

off the effects of what low people call a jag as being exactly typical

of that admirable quality."

Peterson’s glance rested on the dishevelled man still standing by the

door, and after a moment’s thought he leaned forward and pressed a bell.

"Take that man away," he said abruptly to the servant who came into the

room, "and put him to bed. I will consider what to do with him in the

morning."

"Consider be damned," howled Mullings, starting forward angrily.

"You’ll consider a thick ear, Mr. Blooming Knowall. What I wants to

know——"

The words died away in his mouth, and he gazed at Peterson like a bird

looks at a snake. There was something so ruthlessly malignant in the

stare of the grey-blue eyes, that the ex-soldier who had viewed going

over the top with comparative equanimity, as being part of his job,

quailed and looked apprehensively at Drummond.

"Do what the kind gentleman tells you, Mullings," said Hugh, "and go to

bed." He smiled at the man reassuringly. "And if you’re very, very

good, perhaps, as a great treat, he’ll come and kiss you good night."

"Now that," he remarked as the door closed behind them, "is what I call

tact."

He lit a cigarette, and thoughtfully blew out a cloud of smoke.

"Stop this fooling," snarled Peterson. "Where have you hidden Potts?"

"Tush, tush," murmured Hugh. "You surprise me. I had formed such a

charming mental picture of you, Mr. Peterson, as the strong, silent man

who never lost his temper, and here you are disappointing me at the

beginning of our acquaintance."

For a moment he thought that Peterson was going to strike him, and his

own fist clenched under the table.

"I wouldn’t, my friend," he said quietly, "indeed I wouldn’t. Because

if you hit me, I shall most certainly hit you. And it will not improve

your beauty."

Slowly Peterson sank back in his chair, and the veins which had been

standing out on his forehead, became normal again. He even smiled; only

the ceaseless tapping of his hand on his left knee betrayed his

momentary loss of composure. Drummond’s fist unclenched, and he stole a

look at the girl. She was in her favourite attitude on the sofa, and

had not even looked up.

"I suppose that it is quite useless for me to argue with you," said

Peterson after a while.

"I was a member of my school debating society," remarked Hugh

reminiscently. "But I was never much good. I’m too obvious for

argument, I’m afraid."

"You probably realise from what has happened to-night," continued

Peterson, "that I am in earnest."

"I should be sorry to think so," answered Hugh. "If that is the best you

can do, I’d cut it right out and start a tomato farm."

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

"Will you come and do the dangerous part of the work for us, Monsieur

Hugh?" she asked.

"If you promise to restrain the little fellows, I’ll water them with

pleasure," returned Hugh lightly.

Peterson rose and walked over to the window, where he stood motionless

staring out into the darkness. For all his assumed flippancy, Hugh

realised that the situation was what in military phraseology might be

termed critical. There were in the house probably half a dozen men who,

like their master, were absolutely unscrupulous. If it suited

Peterson’s book to kill him, he would not hesitate to do so for a single

second. And Hugh realised, when he put it that way in his own mind,

that it was no exaggeration, no _façon de parler_, but a plain,

unvarnished statement of fact. Peterson would no more think twice of

killing a man if he wished to, than the normal human being would of

crushing a wasp.

For a moment the thought crossed his mind that he would take no chances

by remaining in the house; that he would rush Peterson from behind and

escape into the darkness of the garden. But it was only momentary—gone

almost before it had come, for Hugh Drummond was not that manner of

man—gone even before he noticed that Peterson was standing in such a

position that he could see every detail of the room behind him reflected

in the glass through which he stared.

A fixed determination to know what lay in that sinister brain replaced

his temporary indecision. Events up to date had moved so quickly that he

had hardly had time to get his bearings; even now the last twenty-four

hours seemed almost a dream. And as he looked at the broad back and

massive head of the man at the window, and from him to the girl idly

smoking on the sofa, he smiled a little grimly. He had just remembered

the thumbscrew of the preceding evening. Assuredly the demobilised

officer who found peace dull was getting his money’s worth; and Drummond

had a shrewd suspicion that the entertainment was only just beginning.

A sudden sound outside in the garden made him look up quickly. He saw

the white gleam of a shirt front, and the next moment a man pushed open

the window and came unsteadily into the room. It was Mr. Benton, and

quite obviously he had been seeking consolation in the bottle.

"Have you got him?" he demanded thickly, steadying himself with a hand

on Peterson’s arm.

"I have not," said Peterson shortly, eyeing the swaying figure in front

of him contemptuously.

"Where is he?"

"Perhaps if you ask your daughter’s friend Captain Drummond, he might

tell you. For Heaven’s sake sit down, man, before you fall down." He

pushed Benton roughly into a chair, and resumed his impassive stare into

the darkness.

The girl took not the slightest notice of the new arrival, who gazed

stupidly at Drummond across the table.

"We seem to be moving in an atmosphere of cross-purposes, Mr. Benton,"

said the soldier affably. "Our host will not get rid of the idea that I

am a species of bandit. I hope your daughter is quite well."

"Er—quite, thank you," muttered the other.

"Tell her, will you, that I propose to call on her before returning to

London to-morrow. That is, if she won’t object to my coming early."

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

window.

"You propose leaving us to-morrow, do you?" he said quietly.

Drummond stood up.

"I ordered my car for ten o’clock," he answered. "I hope that will not

upset the household arrangements," he continued, turning to the girl,

who was laughing softly and polishing her nails.

"_Vraiment!_ but you grow on one, my Hugh," she smiled. "Are we really

losing you so soon?"

"I am quite sure that I shall be more useful to Mr. Peterson at large,

than I am cooped up here," said Hugh. "I might even lead him to this

hidden treasure which he thinks I’ve got."

"You will do that all right," remarked Peterson. "But at the moment I

was wondering whether a little persuasion now—might not give me all the

information I require more quickly and with less trouble."

A fleeting vision of a mangled, pulplike thumb flashed across Hugh’s

mind; once again he heard that hideous cry, half animal, half human,

which had echoed through the darkness the preceding night, and for an

instant his breath came a little faster. Then he smiled, and shook his

head.

"I think you are rather too good a judge of human nature to try anything

so foolish," he said thoughtfully. "You see, unless you kill me, which I

don’t think would suit your book, you might find explanations a little

difficult to-morrow."

For a while there was silence in the room, broken at length by a short

laugh from Peterson.

"For a young man truly your perspicacity is great," he remarked. "Irma,

is the blue room ready? If so, tell Luigi to show Captain Drummond to

it."

"I will show him myself," she answered, rising. "And then I shall go to

bed. _Mon Dieu!_ my Hugh, but I find your country _très ennuyeux_."

She stood in front of him for a moment, and then led the way to the

door, glancing at him over her shoulder.

Hugh saw a quick look of annoyance pass over Peterson’s face as he

turned to follow the girl, and it struck him that that gentleman was not

best pleased at the turn of events. It vanished almost as soon as it

came, and Peterson waved a friendly hand at him, as if the doings of the

night had been the most ordinary thing in the world. Then the door

closed, and he followed his guide up the stairs.

The house was beautifully furnished. Hugh was no judge of art, but even

his inexperienced eye could see that the prints on the walls were rare

and valuable. The carpets were thick, and his feet sank into them

noiselessly; the furniture was solid and in exquisite taste. And it was

as he reached the top of the stairs that a single deep-noted clock rang

a wonderful chime and then struck the hour. The time was just three

o’clock.

The girl opened the door of a room and switched on the light. Then she

faced him smiling, and Hugh looked at her steadily. He had no wish

whatever for any conversation, but as she was standing in the centre of

the doorway it was impossible for him to get past her without being

rude.

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

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

face.

"I must remember that opening," he said. "So many people, I feel

convinced, would like to say it on first acquaintance, but confine

themselves to merely thinking it. It establishes a basis of intimacy at

once, doesn’t it?"

She swayed a little towards him, and then, before he realised her

intention, she put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don’t you understand," she whispered fiercely, "that they’ll kill you?"

She peered past him half fearfully, and then turned to him again. "Go,

you idiot, go—while there’s time. Oh! if I could only make you

understand; if you’d only believe me! Get out of it—go abroad; do

anything—but don’t fool round here."

In her agitation she was shaking him to and fro.

"It seems a cheerful household," remarked Hugh with a smile. "May I ask

why you’re all so concerned about me? Your estimable father gave me the

same advice yesterday morning."

"Don’t ask why," she answered feverishly, "because I can’t tell you.

Only you must believe that what I say is the truth—you must. It’s just

possible that if you go now and tell them where you’ve hidden the

American you’ll be all right. But if you don’t——" Her hand dropped to

her side suddenly. "Breakfast will be at nine, my Hugh: until then, au

revoir."

He turned as she left the room, a little puzzled by her change of tone.

Standing at the top of the stairs was Peterson, watching them both in

silence....

*II*

In the days when Drummond had been a platoon commander, he had done many

dangerous things. The ordinary joys of the infantry subaltern’s

life—such as going over the top, and carrying out raids—had not proved

sufficient for his appetite. He had specialised in peculiar stunts of

his own: stunts over which he was singularly reticent; stunts over which

his men formed their own conclusions, and worshipped him accordingly.

But Drummond was no fool, and he had realised the vital importance of

fitting himself for these stunts to the best of his ability. Enormous

physical strength is a great asset, but it carries with it certain

natural disadvantages. In the first place, its possessor is frequently

clumsy: Hugh had practised in France till he could move over ground

without a single blade of grass rustling. Van Dyck—a Dutch trapper—had

first shown him the trick, by which a man goes forward on his elbows

like a snake, and is here one moment and gone the next, with no one the

wiser.

Again, its possessor is frequently slow: Hugh had practised in France

till he could kill a man with his bare hands in a second. Olaki—a

Japanese—had first taught him two or three of the secrets of his trade,

and in the intervals of resting behind the lines he had perfected them

until it was even money whether the Jap or he would win in a practice

bout.

And there were nights in No Man’s Land when his men would hear strange

sounds, and knowing that Drummond was abroad on his wanderings, would

peer eagerly over the parapet into the desolate torn-up waste in front.

But they never saw anything, even when the green ghostly flares went

hissing up into the darkness and the shadows danced fantastically. All

was silent and still; the sudden shrill whimper was not repeated.

Perhaps a patrol coming back would report a German, lying huddled in a

shell-hole, with no trace of a wound, but only a broken neck; perhaps

the patrol never found anything. But whatever the report, Hugh Drummond

only grinned and saw to his men’s breakfasts. Which is why there are in

England to-day quite a number of civilians who acknowledge only two

rulers—the King and Hugh Drummond. And they would willingly die for

either.

The result on Drummond was not surprising: as nearly as a man may be he

was without fear. And when the idea came to him as he sat on the edge

of his bed thoughtfully pulling off his boots, no question of the

possible risk entered into his mind. To explore the house seemed the

most natural thing in the world, and with characteristic brevity he

summed up the situation as it struck him.

"They suspect me anyhow: in fact, they know I took Potts. Therefore

even if they catch me passage-creeping, I’m no worse off than I am now.

And I might find something of interest. Therefore, carry on, brave

heart."

The matter was settled; the complete bench of bishops headed by their

attendant satellites would not have stopped him, nor the fact that the

German front-line trench was a far safer place for a stranger than The

Elms at night. But he didn’t know that fact, and it would have cut no

more ice than the episcopal dignitaries, if he had....

It was dark in the passage outside as he opened the door of his room and

crept towards the top of the stairs. The collar of his brown lounge

coat was turned up, and his stockinged feet made no sound on the heavy

pile carpet. Like a huge shadow he vanished into the blackness, feeling

his way forward with the uncanny instinct that comes from much practice.

Every now and then he paused and listened intently, but the measured

ticking of the clock below and the occasional creak of a board alone

broke the stillness.

For a moment his outline showed up against the faint grey light which

was coming through a window half-way down the stairs; then he was gone

again, swallowed up in the gloom of the hall. To the left lay the room

in which he had spent the evening, and Drummond turned to the right. As

he had gone up to bed he had noticed a door screened by a heavy curtain

which he thought might be the room Phyllis Benton had spoken of—the room

where Henry Lakington kept his ill-gotten treasures. He felt his way

along the wall, and at length his hand touched the curtain—only to drop

it again at once. From close beside him had come a sharp, angry

hiss....

He stepped back a pace and stood rigid, staring at the spot from which

the sound had seemed to come—but he could see nothing. Then he leaned

forward and once more moved the curtain. Instantly it came again,

sharper and angrier than before.

Hugh passed a hand over his forehead and found it damp. Germans he

knew, and things on two legs, but what was this that hissed so viciously

in the darkness? At length he determined to risk it, and drew from his

pocket a tiny electric torch. Holding it well away from his body, he

switched on the light. In the centre of the beam, swaying gracefully to

and fro, was a snake. For a moment he watched it fascinated as it spat

at the light angrily; he saw the flat hood where the vicious head was

set on the upright body; then he switched off the torch and retreated

rather faster than he had come.

"A convivial household," he muttered to himself through lips that were a

little dry. "A hooded cobra is an unpleasing pet."

He stood leaning against the banisters regaining his self-control.

There was no further sound from the cobra; seemingly it only got annoyed

when its own particular domain was approached. In fact, Hugh had just

determined to reconnoitre the curtained doorway again to see if it was

possible to circumvent the snake, when a low chuckle came distinctly to

his ears from the landing above.

He flushed angrily in the darkness. There was no doubt whatever as to

the human origin of that laugh, and Hugh suddenly realised that he was

making the most profound fool of himself. And such a realisation,

though possibly salutary to all of us at times, is most unpleasant.

For Hugh Drummond, who, with all his lack of conceit, had a very good

idea of Hugh Drummond’s capabilities, to be at an absolute

disadvantage—to be laughed at by some dirty swine whom he could strangle

in half a minute—was impossible! His fists clenched, and he swore

softly under his breath. Then as silently as he had come down, he

commenced to climb the stairs again. He had a hazy idea that he would

like to hit something—hard.

There were nine stairs in the first half of the flight, and it was as he

stood on the fifth that he again heard the low chuckle. At the same

instant something whizzed past his head so low that it almost touched

his hair, and there was a clang on the wall beside him. He ducked

instinctively, and regardless of noise raced up the remaining stairs, on

all-fours. His jaw was set like a vice, his eyes were blazing; in fact,

Hugh Drummond was seeing red.

He paused when he reached the top, crouching in the darkness. Close to

him he could feel someone else, and holding his breath, he listened.

Then he heard the man move—only the very faintest sound—but it was

enough. Without a second’s thought he sprang, and his hands closed on

human flesh. He laughed gently; then he fought in silence.

His opponent was strong above the average, but after a minute he was

like a child in Hugh’s grasp. He choked once or twice and muttered

something; then Hugh slipped his right hand gently on to the man’s

throat. His fingers moved slowly round, his thumb adjusted itself

lovingly, and the man felt his head being forced back irresistibly. He

gave one strangled cry, and then the pressure relaxed....

"One half-inch more, my gentle humorist," Hugh whispered in his ear,

"and your neck would have been broken. As it is, it will be very stiff

for some days. Another time—don’t laugh. It’s dangerous."

Then, like a ghost, he vanished along the passage in the direction of

his own room.

"I wonder who the bird was," he murmured thoughtfully to himself.

"Somehow I don’t think he’ll laugh quite so much in future—damn him."

*III*

At eight o’clock the next morning a burly-looking ruffian brought in

some hot water and a cup of tea. Hugh watched him through half-closed

eyes, and eliminated him from the competition. His bullet head moved

freely on a pair of massive shoulders; his neck showed no traces of

nocturnal trouble. As he pulled up the blinds the light fell full on

his battered, rugged face, and suddenly Hugh sat up in bed and stared at

him.

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

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

"Wot the ’ell ’as that got to do wiv you?" he snarled, and then his face

changed. "Why, strike me pink, if it ain’t young Drummond."

Hugh grinned.

"Right in one, Jem. What in the name of fortune are you doing in this

outfit?"

But the man was not to be drawn.

"Never you mind, sir," he said grimly. "I reckons that’s my own

business."

"Given up the game, Jem?" asked Hugh.

"It give me up, when that cross-eyed son of a gun Young Baxter fought

that cross down at ’Oxton. Gawd! if I could get the swine—just once

again—s’welp me, I’d——" Words failed the ex-bruiser; he could only

mutter. And Hugh, who remembered the real reason why the game had given

Jem up, and a period of detention at His Majesty’s expense had taken its

place, preserved a discreet silence.

The pug paused as he got to the door, and looked at Drummond doubtfully.

Then he seemed to make up his mind, and advanced to the side of the bed.

"It ain’t none o’ my business," he muttered hoarsely, "but seeing as ’ow

you’re one of the boys, if I was you I wouldn’t get looking too close at

things in this ’ere ’ouse. It ain’t ’ealthy: only don’t say as I said

so."

Hugh smiled.

"Thank you, Jem. By the way, has anyone got a stiff neck in the house

this morning?"

"Stiff neck!" echoed the man. "Strike me pink if that ain’t

funny—your asking, I mean. The bloke’s sitting up in ’is bed swearing

awful. Can’t move ’is ’ead at all."

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

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

The door closed behind him, and Hugh lit a cigarette thoughtfully. Most

assuredly he was starting in style: Lakington’s jaw one night,

Peterson’s neck the second, seemed a sufficiently energetic opening to

the game for the veriest glutton. Then that cheerful optimism which was

the envy of his friends asserted itself.

"Supposin’ I’d killed ’em," he murmured, aghast. "Just supposin’. Why,

the bally show would have been over, and I’d have had to advertise

again."

Only Peterson was in the dining-room when Hugh came down. He had

examined the stairs on his way, but he could see nothing unusual which

would account for the thing which had whizzed past his head and clanged

sullenly against the wall. Nor was there any sign of the cobra by the

curtained door; merely Peterson standing in a sunny room behind a

bubbling coffee-machine.

"Good morning," remarked Hugh affably. "How are we all to-day? By

Jove! that coffee smells good."

"Help yourself," said Peterson. "My daughter is never down as early as

this."

"Rarely conscious before eleven—what!" murmured Hugh. "Deuced wise of

her. May I press you to a kidney?" He returned politely towards his

host, and paused in dismay. "Good heavens! Mr. Peterson, is your neck

hurting you?"

"It is," answered Peterson grimly.

"A nuisance, having a stiff neck. Makes everyone laugh, and one gets no

sympathy. Bad thing—laughter.... At times, anyway." He sat down and

commenced to eat his breakfast.

"Curiosity is a great deal worse, Captain Drummond. It was touch and go

whether I killed you last night."

The two men were staring at one another steadily.

"I think I might say the same," returned Drummond.

"Yes and no," said Peterson. "From the moment you left the bottom of

the stairs, I had your life in the palm of my hand. Had I chosen to

take it, my young friend, I should not have had this stiff neck."

Hugh returned to his breakfast unconcernedly.

"Granted, laddie, granted. But had I not been of such a kindly and

forbearing nature, you wouldn’t have had it, either." He looked at

Peterson critically. "I’m inclined to think it’s a great pity I didn’t

break your neck, while I was about it." Hugh sighed and drank some

coffee. "I see that I shall have to do it some day, and probably

Lakington’s as well.... By the way, how is our Henry? I trust his jaw

is not unduly inconveniencing him."

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

"Your car is a little early, Captain Drummond," he said at length.

"However, perhaps it can wait two or three minutes, while we get matters

perfectly clear. I should dislike you not knowing where you stand." He

turned round and faced the soldier. "You have deliberately, against my

advice, elected to fight me and the interests I represent. So be it.

From now on, the gloves are off. You embarked on this course from a

spirit of adventure, at the instigation of the girl next door. She,

poor little fool, is concerned over that drunken waster—her father. She

asked you to help her—you agreed; and, amazing though it may seem, up to

now you have scored a certain measure of success. I admit it, and I

admire you for it. I apologise now for having played the fool with you

last night: you’re the type of man whom one should kill outright—or

leave alone."

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

"You are also the type of man who will continue on the path he has

started. You are completely in the dark; you have no idea whatever what

you are up against." He smiled grimly, and turned abruptly on Hugh.

"You fool—you stupid young fool. Do you really imagine that you can

beat me?"

The soldier rose and stood in front of him.

"I have a few remarks of my own to make," he answered, "and then we

might consider the interview closed. I ask nothing better than that the

gloves should be off—though with your filthy methods of fighting,

anything you touch will get very dirty. As you say, I am completely in

the dark as to your plans; but I have a pretty shrewd idea what I’m up

against. Men who can employ a thumbscrew on a poor defenceless brute

seem to me to be several degrees worse than an aboriginal cannibal, and

therefore if I put you down as one of the lowest types of degraded

criminal I shall not be very wide of the mark. There’s no good you

snarling at me, you swine; it does everybody good to hear some home

truths—and don’t forget it was you who pulled off the gloves."

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

on Peterson.

"There is only one thing more," he continued. "You have kindly warned me

of my danger: let me give you a word of advice in my turn. I’m going to

fight you; if I can, I’m going to beat you. Anything that may happen to

me is part of the game. But if anything happens to Miss Benton during

the course of operations, then, as surely as there is a God above,

Peterson, I’ll get at you somehow and murder you with my own hands."

For a few moments there was silence, and then with a short laugh

Drummond turned away.

"Quite melodramatic," he remarked lightly. "And very bad for the

digestion so early in the morning. My regards to your charming daughter,

also to him of the broken jaw. Shall we meet again soon?" He paused at

the door and looked back.

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

"Very soon indeed, young man," he said quietly. "Very soon indeed...."

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

"Take her out into the main road, Jenkins," he said, "and wait for me

outside the entrance to the next house. I shan’t be long."

Then he strolled through the garden towards the little wicket-gate that

led to The Larches. Phyllis! The thought of her was singing in his

heart to the exclusion of everything else. Just a few minutes with her;

just the touch of her hand, the faint smell of the scent she used—and

then back to the game.

He had almost reached the gate, when, with a sudden crashing in the

undergrowth, Jem Smith blundered out into the path. His naturally ruddy

face was white, and he stared round fearfully.

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

"Seen what, Jem?" asked Drummond.

"That there brute. ’E’s escaped; and if ’e meets a stranger——" He left

the sentence unfinished, and stood listening. From somewhere behind the

house came a deep-throated, snarling roar; then the clang of a padlock

shooting home in metal, followed by a series of heavy thuds as if some

big animal was hurling itself against the bars of a cage.

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

"You seem to have a nice little crowd of pets about the house," remarked

Drummond, putting a hand on the man’s arm as he was about to move off.

"What was that docile creature we’ve just heard calling to its young?"

The ex-pugilist looked at him sullenly.

"Never you mind, sir; it ain’t no business of yours. An’ if I was you,

I wouldn’t make it your business to find out."

A moment later he had disappeared into the bushes, and Drummond was left

alone. Assuredly a cheerful household, he reflected; just the spot for

a rest-cure. Then he saw a figure on the lawn of the next house which

banished everything else from his mind; and opening the gate, he walked

eagerly towards Phyllis Benton.

*IV*

"I heard you were down here," she said gravely, holding out her hand to

him. "I’ve been sick with anxiety ever since father told me he’d seen

you."

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

girl.

"I call that just sweet of you," he answered. "Just sweet.... Having

people worry about me is not much in my line, but I think I rather like

it."

"You’re the most impossible person," she remarked, releasing her hand.

"What sort of a night did you have?"

"Somewhat particoloured," returned Hugh lightly. "Like the hoary old

curate’s egg—calm in parts."

"But why did you go at all?" she cried, beating her hands together.

"Don’t you realise that if anything happens to you, I shall never

forgive myself?"

The soldier smiled reassuringly.

"Don’t worry, little girl," he said. "Years ago I was told by an old

gipsy that I should die in my bed of old age and excessive consumption

of invalid port.... As a matter of fact, the cause of my visit was

rather humorous. They abducted me in the middle of the night, with an

ex-soldier of my old battalion, who was, I regret to state, sleeping off

the effects of much indifferent liquor in my rooms."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"They thought he was your American millionaire cove, and the wretched

Mullings was too drunk to deny it. In fact, I don’t think they ever

asked his opinion at all." Hugh grinned reminiscently. "A pathetic

spectacle."

"Oh! but splendid," cried the girl a little breathlessly. "And where

was the American?"

"Next door—safe with a very dear old friend of mine, Peter Darrell. You

must meet Peter some day—you’ll like him." He looked at her

thoughtfully. "No," he added, "on second thoughts, I’m not at all sure

that I shall let you meet Peter. You might like him too much; and he’s

a dirty dog."

"Don’t be ridiculous," she cried with a faint blush. "Tell me, where is

the American now?"

"Many miles out of London," answered Hugh. "I think we’ll leave it at

that. The less you know, Miss Benton, at the moment—the better."

"Have you found out anything?" she demanded eagerly.

Hugh shook his head.

"Not a thing. Except that your neighbours are as pretty a bunch of

scoundrels as I ever want to meet."

"But you’ll let me know if you do." She laid a hand beseechingly on his

arm. "You know what’s at stake for me, don’t you? Father, and—oh! but

you know."

"I know," he answered gravely. "I know, old thing. I promise I’ll let

you know anything I find out. And in the meantime I want you to keep an

eye fixed on what goes on next door, and let me know anything of

importance by letter to the Junior Sports Club." He lit a cigarette

thoughtfully. "I have an idea that they feel so absolutely confident in

their own power, that they are going to make the fatal mistake of

underrating their opponents. We shall see." He turned to her with a

twinkle in his eye. "Anyway, our Mr. Lakington will see that you don’t

come to any harm."

"The brute!" she cried, very low. "How I hate him!" Then with a sudden

change of tone, she looked up at Drummond. "I don’t know whether it’s

worth mentioning," she said slowly, "but yesterday afternoon four men

came at different times to The Elms. They were the sort of type one

sees tub-thumping in Hyde Park, all except one, who looked like a

respectable working-man."

Hugh shook his head.

"Don’t seem to help much, does it? Still, one never knows. Let me know

anything like that in future at the Club."

"Good morning, Miss Benton." Peterson’s voice behind them made Drummond

swing round with a smothered curse. "Our inestimable friend Captain

Drummond brought such a nice young fellow to see me last night, and then

left him lying about the house this morning."

Hugh bit his lip with annoyance; until that moment he had clean

forgotten that Mullings was still in The Elms.

"I have sent him along to your car," continued Peterson suavely, "which

I trust was the correct procedure. Or did you want to give him to me as

a pet?"

"From a rapid survey, Mr. Peterson, I should think you have quite enough

already," said Hugh. "I trust you paid him the money you owe him."

"I will allot it to him in my will," remarked Peterson. "If you do the

same in yours, doubtless he will get it from one of us sooner or later.

In the meantime, Miss Benton, is your father up?"

The girl frowned.

"No—not yet."

"Then I will go and see him in bed. For the present, au revoir." He

walked towards the house, and they watched him go in silence. It was as

he opened the drawing-room window that Hugh called after him:

"Do you like the horse Elliman’s or the ordinary brand?" he asked.

"I’ll send you a bottle for that stiff neck of yours."

Very deliberately Peterson turned round.

"Don’t trouble, thank you, Captain Drummond. I have my own remedies,

which are far more efficacious."

*CHAPTER V*

*IN WHICH THERE IS TROUBLE AT GORING*

*I*

"Did you have a good night, Mullings?" remarked Hugh as he got into his

car.

The man grinned sheepishly.

"I dunno what the game was, sir, but I ain’t for many more of them.

They’re about the ugliest crowd of blackguards in that there ’ouse that

I ever wants to see again."

"How many did you see altogether?" asked Drummond.

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

The car slowed up before the post office and Hugh got out. There were

one or two things he proposed to do in London before going to Goring,

and it struck him that a wire to Peter Darrell might allay that

gentleman’s uneasiness if he was late in getting down. So new was he to

the tortuous ways of crime, that the foolishness of the proceeding never

entered his head: up to date in his life, if he had wished to send a

wire he had sent one. And so it may be deemed a sheer fluke on his

part, that a man dawdling by the counter aroused his suspicions. He was

a perfectly ordinary man, chatting casually with the girl on the other

side; but it chanced that, just as Hugh was holding the post office

pencil up, and gazing at its so-called point with an air of resigned

anguish, the perfectly ordinary man ceased chatting and looked at him.

Hugh caught his eye for a fleeting second; then the conversation

continued. And as he turned to pull out the pad of forms, it struck him

that the man had looked away just a trifle too quickly....

A grin spread slowly over his face, and after a moment’s hesitation he

proceeded to compose a short wire. He wrote it in block letters for

additional clearness; he also pressed his hardest as befitted a blunt

pencil. Then with the form in his hand he advanced to the counter.

"How long will it take to deliver in London?" he asked the girl....

The girl was not helpful. It depended, he gathered, on a variety of

circumstances, of which not the least was the perfectly ordinary man who

talked so charmingly. She did not say so, in so many words, but Hugh

respected her none the less for her maidenly reticence.

"I don’t think I’ll bother then," he said, thrusting the wire into his

pocket. "Good morning...."

He walked to the door, and shortly afterwards his car rolled down the

street. He would have liked to remain and see the finish of his little

jest, but, as is so often the case, imagination is better than reality.

Certain it is that he chuckled consumedly the whole way up to London,

whereas the actual finish was tame.

With what the girl considered peculiar abruptness, the perfectly

ordinary man concluded his conversation with her, and decided that he

too would send a wire. And then, after a long and thoughtful pause at

the writing-bench, she distinctly heard an unmistakable "Damn." Then he

walked out, and she saw him no more.

Moreover, it is to be regretted that the perfectly ordinary man told a

lie a little later in the day, when giving his report to someone whose

neck apparently inconvenienced him greatly. But then a lie is

frequently more tactful than the truth, and to have announced that the

sole result of his morning’s labours had been to decipher a wire

addressed to The Elms, which contained the cryptic remark, "Stung again,

stiff neck, stung again," would not have been tactful. So he lied, as

has been stated, thereby showing his wisdom....

But though Drummond chuckled to himself as the car rushed through the

fresh morning air, once or twice a gleam that was not altogether

amusement shone in his eyes. For four years he had played one game

where no mistakes were allowed; the little incident of the post office

had helped to bring to his mind the certainty that he had now embarked

on another where the conditions were much the same. That he had scored

up to date was luck rather than good management, and he was far too

shrewd not to realise it. Now he was marked, and luck with a marked man

cannot be tempted too far.

Alone and practically unguarded he had challenged a gang of

international criminals: a gang not only utterly unscrupulous but

controlled by a mastermind. Of its power as yet he had no clear idea; of

its size and immediate object he had even less. Perhaps it was as well.

Had he realised even dimly the immensity of the issues he was up

against, had he had but an inkling of the magnitude of the plot

conceived in the sinister brain of his host of the previous evening,

then, cheery optimist though he was, even Hugh Drummond might have

wavered. But he had no such inkling, and so the gleam in his eyes was

but transitory, the chuckle that succeeded it more whole-hearted than

before. Was it not sport in a land flowing with strikes and profiteers;

sport such as his soul loved?

"I am afraid, Mullings," he said as the car stopped in front of his

club, "that the kindly gentleman with whom we spent last night has

repudiated his obligations. He refuses to meet the bill I gave him for

your services. Just wait here a moment."

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

"Round the corner, Mullings, and an obliging fellah in a black coat will

shovel you out the necessary Bradburys."

The man glanced at the cheque.

"Fifty quid, sir!" he gasped. "Why—it’s too much, sir.... I..."

"The labourer, Mullings, is worthy of his hire. You have been of the

very greatest assistance to me; and, incidentally, it is more than

likely that I may want you again. Now, where can I get hold of you?"

"13, Green Street, ’Oxton, sir, ’ll always find me. And any time, sir,

as you wants me, I’d like to come just for the sport of the thing."

Hugh grinned.

"Good lad. And it may be sooner than you think."

With a cheery laugh he turned back into his club, and for a moment or

two the ex-soldier stood looking after him. Then with great

deliberation he turned to the chauffeur, and spat reflectively.

"If there was more like ’im, and less like _’im_"—he indicated a stout

vulgarian rolling past in a large car and dreadful clothes—"things

wouldn’t ’appen such as is ’appening to-day. Ho! no...."

With which weighty dictum Mr. Mullings, late private of the Royal

Loamshires, turned his steps in the direction of the "obliging fellah in

a black coat."

*II*

Inside the Junior Sports Club, Hugh Drummond was burying his nose in a

large tankard of the ale for which that cheery pot-house was still

famous. And in the intervals of this most delightful pastime he was

trying to make up his mind on a peculiarly knotty point. Should he or

should he not communicate with the police on the matter? He felt that

as a respectable citizen of the country it was undoubtedly his duty to

tell somebody something. The point was who to tell and what to tell him.

On the subject of Scotland Yard his ideas were nebulous; he had a vague

impression that one filled in a form and waited—tedious operations,

both.

"Besides, dear old flick," he murmured abstractedly to the portrait of

the founder of the club, who had drunk the cellar dry and then died, "am

I a respectable citizen? Can it be said with any certainty, that if I

filled in a form saying all that had happened in the last two days, I

shouldn’t be put in quod myself?"

He sighed profoundly and gazed out into the sunny square. A waiter was

arranging the first editions of the evening papers on a table, and Hugh

beckoned to him to bring one. His mind was still occupied with his

problem, and almost mechanically he glanced over the columns. Cricket,

racing, the latest divorce case and the latest strike—all the usual

headings were there. And he was just putting down the paper, to again

concentrate on his problem, when a paragraph caught his eye.

"STRANGE MURDER IN BELFAST

"The man whose body was discovered in such peculiar circumstances near

the docks has been identified as Mr. James Granger, the confidential

secretary to Mr. Hiram Potts, the American multi-millionaire, at present

in this country. The unfortunate victim of this dastardly outrage—his

head, as we reported in our last night’s issue, was nearly severed from

his body—had apparently been sent over on business by Mr. Potts, and had

arrived the preceding day. What he was doing in the locality in which

he was found is a mystery.

"We understand that Mr. Potts, who has recently been indisposed, has

returned to the Carlton, and is greatly upset at the sudden tragedy.

"The police are confident that they will shortly obtain a clue, though

the rough element in the locality where the murder was committed

presents great difficulties. It seems clear that the motive was

robbery, as all the murdered man’s pockets were rifled. But the most

peculiar thing about the case is the extraordinary care taken by the

murderer to prevent the identification of the body. Every article of

clothing, even down to the murdered man’s socks, had had the name torn

out, and it was only through the criminal overlooking the tailor’s tab

inside the inner breast-pocket of Mr. Granger’s coat that the police

were enabled to identify the body."

Drummond laid down the paper on his knees, and stared a little dazedly

at the club’s immoral founder.

"Holy smoke! laddie," he murmured, "that man Peterson ought to be on the

committee here. Verily, I believe, he could galvanise the staff into

some semblance of activity."

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

"No," murmured Drummond, "but I will rectify the omission. Another

large tankard of ale."

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

"We understand," he murmured gently to himself, "that Mr. Potts, who has

recently been indisposed, has returned to the Carlton.... Now that’s

very interesting...." He lit a cigarette and lay back in his chair. "I

was under the impression that Mr. Potts was safely tucked up in bed,

consuming semolina pudding, at Goring. It requires elucidation."

"I beg your pardon, sir," remarked the waiter, placing the beer on the

table beside him.

"You needn’t," returned Hugh. "Up to date you have justified my fondest

expectations. And as a further proof of my goodwill, I would like you

to get me a trunk call—2 X Goring."

A few minutes later he was in the telephone box.

"Peter, I have seldom been so glad to hear your voice. Is all well?

Good. Don’t mention any names. Our guest is there, is he? Gone on

strike against more milk puddings, you say. Coax him, Peter. Make a

noise like a sturgeon, and he’ll think it’s caviare. Have you seen the

papers? There are interesting doings in Belfast, which concern us

rather intimately. I’ll be down later, and we’ll have a pow-wow."

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

"If, Algy," he remarked to a man who was looking at the tape machine

outside, "the paper says a blighter’s somewhere and you know he’s

somewhere else—what do you do?"

"Up to date in such cases I have always shot the editor," murmured Algy

Longworth. "Come and feed."

"You’re so helpful, Algy. A perfect rock of strength. Do you want a

job?"

"What sort of a job?" demanded the other suspiciously.

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

surely!"

"People are so funny nowadays," returned Longworth gloomily. "The most

unlikely souls seem to be doing things and trying to look as if they

were necessary. What is this job?"

Together the two men strolled into the luncheon-room, and long after the

cheese had been finished, Algy Longworth was still listening in silence

to his companion.

"My dear old bean," he murmured ecstatically as Hugh finished, "my _very_

dear old bean. I think it’s the most priceless thing I ever heard.

Enrol me as a member of the band. And, incidentally, Toby Sinclair is

running round in circles asking for trouble. Let’s rope him in."

"Go and find him this afternoon, Algy," said Hugh, rising. "And tell

him to keep his mouth shut. I’d come with you, but it occurs to me that

the wretched Potts, bathed in tears at the Carlton, is in need of

sympathy. I would have him weep on my shoulder awhile. So long, old

dear. You’ll hear from me in a day or two."

It was as he reached the pavement that Algy dashed out after him, with

genuine alarm written all over his face.

"Hugh," he spluttered, "there’s only one stipulation. An armistice must

be declared during Ascot week."

With a thoughtful smile on his face Drummond sauntered along Pall Mall.

He had told Longworth more or less on the spur of the moment, knowing

that gentleman’s capabilities to a nicety. Under a cloak of assumed

flippancy he concealed an iron nerve which had never yet failed him;

and, in spite of the fact that he wore an entirely unnecessary eyeglass,

he could see farther into a brick wall than most of the people who

called him a fool.

It was his suggestion of telling Toby Sinclair that caused the smile.

For it had started a train of thought in Drummond’s mind which seemed to

him to be good. If Sinclair—why not two or three more equally trusty

sportsmen? Why not a gang of the boys?

Toby possessed a V.C., and a good one—for there are grades of the V.C.,

and those grades are appreciated to a nicety by the recipient’s brother

officers if not by the general public. The show would fit Toby like a

glove.... Then there was Ted Jerningham, who combined the roles of an

amateur actor of more than average merit with an ability to hit anything

at any range with every conceivable type of firearm. And Jerry Seymour

in the Flying Corps.... Not a bad thing to have a flying man—up one’s

sleeve.... And possibly some one versed in the ways of tanks might come

in handy....

The smile broadened to a grin; surely life was very good. And then the

grin faded, and something suspiciously like a frown took its place. For

he had arrived at the Carlton, and reality had come back to him. He

seemed to see the almost headless body of a man lying in a Belfast

slum....

"Mr. Potts will see no one, sir," remarked the man to whom he addressed

his question. "You are about the twentieth gentleman who has been here

already to-day."

Hugh had expected this, and smiled genially.

"Precisely, my stout fellow," he remarked, "but I’ll lay a small amount

of money that they were newspaper men. Now, I’m not. And I think that

if you will have this note delivered to Mr. Potts, he will see me."

He sat down at a table, and drew a sheet of paper towards him. Two

facts were certain: first, that the man upstairs was not the real Potts;

second, that he was one of Peterson’s gang. The difficulty was to know

exactly how to word the note. There might be some mystic pass-word, the

omission of which would prove him an impostor at once. At length he

took a pen and wrote rapidly; he would have to chance it.

"Urgent. A message from headquarters."

He sealed the envelope and handed it with the necessary five shillings

for postage to the man. Then he sat down to wait. It was going to be a

ticklish interview if he was to learn anything, but the thrill of the

game had fairly got him by now, and he watched eagerly for the

messenger’s return. After what seemed an interminable delay he saw him

crossing the lounge.

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

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

"Yes, sir. I think he was expecting you."

"Indeed," murmured Hugh. "How nice it is to have one’s expectations

realised."

He followed his guide along a corridor, and paused outside a door while

he went into a room. He heard a murmur of voices, and then the man

reappeared.

"This way, sir," he said, and Hugh stepped inside, to stop with an

involuntary gasp of surprise. The man seated in the chair was Potts, to

all intents and purposes. The likeness was extraordinary, and had he

not known that the real article was at Goring he would have been

completely deceived himself.

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

forward suspiciously.

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

"Since when has everyone employed by headquarters known one another?"

Drummond returned guardedly. "And, incidentally, your likeness to our

lamented friend is wonderful. It very nearly deceived even me."

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

"It’ll pass, I think. But it’s risky. These cursed reporters have been

badgering the whole morning.... And if his wife or somebody comes over,

what then?"

Drummond nodded in agreement.

"Quite so. But what can you do?"

"It wasn’t like Rosca to bungle in Belfast. He’s never left a clue

before, and he had plenty of time to do the job properly."

"A name inside a breast-pocket might easily be overlooked," remarked

Hugh, seizing the obvious clue.

"Are you making excuses for him?" snarled the other. "He’s failed, and

failure is death. Such is our rule. Would you have it altered?"

"Most certainly not. The issues are far too great for any weakness...."

"You’re right, my friend—you’re right. Long live the Brotherhood." He

stared out of the window with smouldering eyes, and Hugh preserved a

discreet silence. Then suddenly the other broke out again.... "Have

they killed that insolent puppy of a soldier yet?"

"Er—not yet," murmured Hugh mildly.

"They must find the American at once." The man thumped the table

emphatically. "It was important before—at least his money was. Now

with this blunder—it’s vital."

"Precisely," said Hugh. "Precisely."

"I’ve already interviewed one man from Scotland Yard, but every hour

increases the danger. However, you have a message for me. What is it?"

Hugh rose and casually picked up his hat. He had got more out of the

interview than he had hoped for, and there was nothing to be gained by

prolonging it. But it struck him that Mr. Potts’s impersonator was a man

of unpleasant disposition, and that tactically a flanking movement to

the door was indicated. And, being of an open nature himself, it is

possible that the real state of affairs showed for a moment on his face.

Be that as it may, something suddenly aroused the other’s suspicions,

and with a snarl of fury he sprang past Hugh to the door.

"Who are you?" He spat the words out venomously, at the same time

whipping an ugly-looking knife out of his pocket.

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

"I am the insolent puppy of a soldier, dear old bird," he remarked,

watching the other warily. "And if I was you I’d put the tooth-pick

away.... You might hurt yourself——"

As he spoke he was edging, little by little, towards the other man, who

crouched snarling by the door. His eyes, grim and determined, never left

the other’s face; his hands, apparently hanging listless by his sides,

were tingling with the joy of what he knew was coming.

"And the penalty of failure is death, isn’t it, dear one?" He spoke

almost dreamily; but not for an instant did his attention relax. The

words of Olaki, his Japanese instructor, were ringing through his brain:

"Distract his attention if you can; but, as you value your life, don’t

let him distract yours."

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

gently.

"Such is your rule. And I think you have failed, haven’t you, you

unpleasant specimen of humanity? How will they kill you, I wonder?"

It was at that moment that the man made his mistake. It is a mistake

that has nipped the life of many a promising pussy in the bud, at the

hands, or rather the teeth, of a dog that knows. He looked away; only

for a moment—but he looked away. Just as a cat’s nerves give after a

while and it looks round for an avenue of escape, so did the crouching

man take his eyes from Hugh. And quick as any dog, Hugh sprang.

With his left hand he seized the man’s right wrist, with his right he

seized his throat. Then he forced him upright against the door and held

him there. Little by little the grip of his right hand tightened, till

the other’s eyes were starting from his head, and he plucked at Hugh’s

face with an impotent left arm, an arm not long enough by three inches

to do any damage. And all the while the soldier smiled gently, and

stared into the other’s eyes. Even when inch by inch he shifted his

grip on the man’s knife hand he never took his eyes from his opponent’s

face; even when with a sudden gasp of agony the man dropped his knife

from fingers which, of a sudden, had become numb, the steady, merciless

glance still bored into his brain.

"You’re not very clever at it, are you?" said Hugh softly. "It would be

so easy to kill you now, and, except for the inconvenience I should

undoubtedly suffer, it mightn’t be a bad idea. But they know me

downstairs, and it would make it so awkward when I wanted to dine here

again.... So, taking everything into account, I think——"

There was a sudden lightning movement, a heave and a quick jerk. The

impersonator of Potts was dimly conscious of flying through the air, and

of hitting the floor some yards from the door. He then became acutely

conscious that the floor was hard, and that being winded is a most

painful experience. Doubled up and groaning, he watched Hugh pick up his

hat and stick, and make for the door. He made a frantic effort to rise,

but the pain was too great, and he rolled over cursing, while the

soldier, his hand on the door-knob, laughed gently.

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

The next moment he was striding along the corridor towards the lift. As

a fight it had been a poor one, but his brain was busy with the

information he had heard. True, it had been scrappy in the extreme,

and, in part, had only confirmed what he had suspected all along. The

wretched Granger had been foully done to death, for no other reason than

that he was the millionaire’s secretary. Hugh’s jaw tightened; it

revolted his sense of sport. It wasn’t as if the poor blighter had done

anything; merely because he existed and might ask inconvenient questions

he had been removed. And as the lift shot downwards, and the

remembrance of the grim struggle he had had in the darkness of The Elms

the night before came back to his mind, he wondered once again if he had

done wisely in not breaking Peterson’s neck while he had had the chance.

He was still debating the question in his mind as he crossed the

tea-lounge. And almost unconsciously he glanced towards the table where

three days before he had had tea with Phyllis Benton, and had been more

than half inclined to believe that the whole thing was an elaborate

leg-pull....

"Why, Captain Drummond, you look pensive." A well-known voice from a

table at his side made him look down, and he bowed a little grimly.

Irma Peterson was regarding him with a mocking smile.

He glanced at her companion, a young man whose face seemed vaguely

familiar to him, and then his eyes rested once more on the girl. Even

his masculine intelligence could appreciate the perfection—in a slightly

foreign style—of her clothes; and, as to her beauty, he had never been

under any delusions. Nor, apparently, was her escort, whose expression

was not one of unalloyed pleasure at the interruption to his

_tête-à-tête_.

"The Carlton seems rather a favourite resort of yours," she continued,

watching him through half-closed eyes. "I think you’re very wise to

make the most of it while you can."

"While I can?" said Hugh. "That sounds rather depressing."

"I’ve done my best," continued the girl, "but matters have passed out of

my hands, I’m afraid."

Again Hugh glanced at her companion, but he had risen and was talking to

some people who had just come in.

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

"Oh, no!" said the girl. "He is—just a friend. What have you been doing

this afternoon?"

"That, at any rate, is straight and to the point," laughed Hugh. "If

you want to know, I’ve just had a most depressing interview."

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

"The poor fellow, when I left him, was quite prostrated with grief,

and—er—pain," he went on mildly.

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

"A friend of your father’s, I think," said Hugh, with a profound sigh.

"So sad. I hope Mr. Peterson’s neck is less stiff by now?"

The girl began to laugh softly.

"Not very much, I’m afraid. And it’s made him a little irritable.

Won’t you wait and see him?"

"Is he here now?" said Hugh quickly.

"Yes," answered the girl. "With his friend whom you’ve just left.

You’re quick, _mon ami_—quite quick." She leaned forward suddenly.

"Now, why don’t you join us instead of so foolishly trying to fight us?

Believe me, Monsieur Hugh, it is the only thing that can possibly save

you. You know too much."

"Is the invitation to amalgamate official, or from your own charming

brain?" murmured Hugh.

"Made on the spur of the moment," she said lightly. "But it may be

regarded as official."

"I’m afraid it must be declined on the spur of the moment," he answered

in the same tone. "And equally to be regarded as official. Well, au

revoir. Please tell Mr. Peterson how sorry I am to have missed him."

"I will most certainly," answered the girl. "But then, _mon ami_, you

will be seeing him again soon, without doubt...."

She waved a charming hand in farewell, and turned to her companion, who

was beginning to manifest symptoms of impatience. But Drummond, though

he went into the hall outside, did not immediately leave the hotel.

Instead, he buttonholed an exquisite being arrayed in gorgeous apparel,

and led him to a point of vantage.

"You see that girl," he remarked, "having tea with a man at the third

table from the big palm? Now, can you tell me who the man is? I seem to

know his face, but I can’t put a name to it."

"That, sir," murmured the exquisite being, with the faintest perceptible

scorn of such ignorance, "is the Marquis of Laidley. His lordship is

frequently here."

"Laidley!" cried Hugh, in sudden excitement. "Laidley! The Duke of

Lampshire’s son! You priceless old stuffed tomato—the plot thickens."

Completely regardless of the scandalised horror on the exquisite being’s

face, he smote him heavily in the stomach and stepped into Pall Mall.

For clear before his memory had come three lines on the scrap of paper

he had torn from the table at The Elms that first night, when he had

grabbed the dazed millionaire from under Peterson’s nose.

earl necklace and the

are at present

chess of Lamp−

The Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls were world-famous; the Marquis of

Laidley was apparently enjoying his tea. And between the two there

seemed to be a connection rather too obvious to be missed.

*III*

"I’m glad you two fellows came down," said Hugh thoughtfully, as he

entered the sitting-room of his bungalow at Goring. Dinner was over,

and stretched in three chairs were Peter Darrell, Algy Longworth, and

Toby Sinclair. The air was thick with smoke, and two dogs lay curled up

on the mat, asleep. "Did you know that a man came here this afternoon,

Peter?"

Darrell yawned and stretched himself.

"I did not. Who was it?"

"Mrs. Denny has just told me." Hugh reached out a hand for his pipe,

and proceeded to stuff it with tobacco. "He came about the water."

"Seems a very righteous proceeding, dear old thing," said Algy lazily.

"And he told her that I had told him to come. Unfortunately, I’d done

nothing of the sort."

His three listeners sat up and stared at him.

"What do you mean, Hugh?" asked Toby Sinclair at length.

"It’s pretty obvious, old boy," said Hugh grimly. "He no more came about

the water than he came about my aunt. I should say that about five

hours ago Peterson found out that our one and only Hiram C. Potts was

upstairs."

"Good Lord!" spluttered Darrell, by now very wide awake. "How the devil

has he done it?"

"There are no flies on the gentleman," remarked Hugh. "I didn’t expect

he’d do it quite so quick, I must admit. But it wasn’t very difficult

for him to find out that I had a bungalow here, and so he drew the

covert."

"And he’s found the bally fox," said Algy. "What do we do,

sergeant-major?"

"We take it in turns—two at a time—to sit up with Potts." Hugh glanced

at the other three. "Damn it—you blighters—wake up!"

Darrell struggled to his feet and walked up and down the room.

"I don’t know what it is," he said, rubbing his eyes, "I feel most

infernally sleepy."

"Well, listen to me—confound you ... Toby!" Hugh hurled a tobacco-pouch

at the offender’s head.

"Sorry, old man." With a start Sinclair sat up in his chair and blinked

at Hugh.

"They’re almost certain to try and get him to-night," went on Hugh.

"Having given the show away by leaving a clue on the wretched secretary,

they must get the real man as soon as possible. It’s far too dangerous

to leave the—leave the——" His head dropped forward on his chest: a

short, half-strangled snore came from his lips. It had the effect of

waking him for the moment, and he staggered to his feet.

The other three, sprawling in their chairs, were openly and unashamedly

asleep; even the dogs lay in fantastic attitudes, breathing heavily,

inert like logs.

"Wake up!" shouted Hugh wildly. "For God’s sake—wake up! We’ve been

drugged!"

An iron weight seemed to be pressing down on his eyelids: the desire for

sleep grew stronger and stronger. For a few moments more he fought

against it, hopelessly, despairingly; while his legs seemed not to

belong to him, and there was a roaring noise in his ears. And then,

just before unconsciousness overcame him, there came to his bemused

brain the sound of a whistle thrice repeated from outside the window.

With a last stupendous effort he fought his way towards it, and for a

moment he stared into the darkness. There were dim figures moving

through the shrubs, and suddenly one seemed to detach itself. It came

nearer, and the light fell on the man’s face. His nose and mouth were

covered with a sort of pad, but the cold, sneering eyes were

unmistakable.

"Lakington!" gasped Hugh, and then the roaring noise increased in his

head; his legs struck work altogether. He collapsed on the floor and

lay sprawling, while Lakington, his face pressed against the glass

outside, watched in silence.

* * * * *

"Draw the curtains." Lakington was speaking, his voice muffled behind

the pad, and one of the men did as he said. There were four in all,

each with a similar pad over his mouth and nose. "Where did you put the

generator, Brownlow?"

"In the coal-scuttle." A man whom Mrs. Denny would have had no

difficulty in recognising, even with the mask on his face, carefully

lifted a small black box out of the scuttle from behind some coal, and

shook it gently, holding it to his ear. "It’s finished," he remarked,

and Lakington nodded.

"An ingenious invention is gas," he said, addressing another of the men.

"We owe your nation quite a debt of gratitude for the idea."

A guttural grunt left no doubt as to what that nation was, and Lakington

dropped the box into his pocket.

"Go and get him," he ordered briefly, and the others left the room.

Contemptuously Lakington kicked one of the dogs; it rolled over and lay

motionless in its new position. Then he went in turn to each of the

three men sprawling in the chairs. With no attempt at gentleness he

turned their faces up to the light, and studied them deliberately; then

he let their heads roll back again with a thud. Finally, he went to the

window and stared down at Drummond. In his eyes was a look of cold

fury, and he kicked the unconscious man savagely in the ribs.

"You young swine," he muttered. "Do you think I’ll forget that blow on

the jaw?"

He took another box out of his pocket and looked at it lovingly.

"Shall I?" With a short laugh he replaced it. "It’s too good a death

for you, Captain Drummond, D.S.O., M.C. Just to snuff out in your

sleep. No, my friend, I think I can devise something better than that;

something really artistic."

Two other men came in as he turned away, and Lakington looked at them.

"Well," he asked, "have you got the old woman?"

"Bound and gagged in the kitchen," answered one of them laconically.

"Are you going to do this crowd in?"

The speaker looked at the unconscious men with hatred in his eyes.

"They encumber the earth—this breed of puppy."

"They will not encumber it for long," said Lakington softly. "But the

one in the window there is not going to die quite so easily. I have a

small unsettled score with him...."

"All right; he’s in the car." A voice came from outside the window, and

with a last look at Hugh Drummond, Lakington turned away.

"Then we’ll go," he remarked. "Au revoir, my blundering young bull.

Before I’ve finished with you, you’ll scream for mercy. And you won’t

get it...."

* * * * *

Through the still night air there came the thrumming of the engine of a

powerful car. Gradually it died away and there was silence. Only the

murmur of the river over the weir broke the silence, save for an owl

which hooted mournfully in a tree near by. And then, with a sudden

crack, Peter Darrell’s head rolled over and hit the arm of his chair.

*CHAPTER VI*

*IN WHICH A VERY OLD GAME TAKES PLACE ON THE HOG’S BACK*

*I*

A thick grey mist lay over the Thames. It covered the water and the low

fields to the west like a thick white carpet; it drifted sluggishly

under the old bridge which spans the river between Goring and Streatley.

It was the hour before dawn, and sleepy passengers, rubbing the windows

of their carriages as the Plymouth boat express rushed on towards

London, shivered and drew their rugs closer around them. It looked cold

... cold and dead.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the vapour rose, and spread outwards up

the wooded hills by Basildon. It drifted through the shrubs and

rose-bushes of a little garden, which stretched from a bungalow down to

the water’s edge, until at length wisps of it brushed gently round the

bungalow itself. It was a daily performance in the summer, and

generally the windows of the lower rooms remained shut till long after

the mist had gone and the sun was glinting through the trees on to the

river below. But on this morning there was a change in the usual

programme. Suddenly the window of one of the downstair rooms was flung

open, and a man with a white haggard face leant out drawing great gulps

of fresh air into his lungs. Softly the white wraiths eddied past him

into the room behind—a room in which a queer, faintly sweet smell still

hung—a room in which three other men lay sprawling uncouthly in chairs,

and two dogs lay motionless on the hearthrug.

After a moment or two the man withdrew, only to appear again with one of

the others in his arms. And then, having dropped his burden through the

window on to the lawn outside, he repeated his performance with the

remaining two. Finally he pitched the two dogs after them, and then,

with his hand to his forehead, he staggered down to the water’s edge.

"Holy smoke!" he muttered to himself, as he plunged his head into the

cold water, "talk about the morning after.... Never have I thought of

such a head."

After a while, with the water still dripping from his face, he returned

to the bungalow and found the other three in varying stages of partial

insensibility.

"Wake up, my heroes," he remarked, "and go and put your great fat heads

in the river."

Peter Darrell scrambled unsteadily to his feet. "Great Scott! Hugh," he

muttered thickly, "what’s happened?"

"We’ve been had for mugs," said Drummond grimly.

Algy Longworth blinked at him foolishly from his position in the middle

of a flower-bed.

"Dear old soul," he murmured at length, "you’ll have to change your wine

merchants. Merciful Heavens! is the top of my head still on?"

"Don’t be a fool, Algy," grunted Hugh. "You weren’t drunk last night.

Pull yourself together, man; we were all of us drugged or doped somehow.

And now," he added bitterly, "we’ve all got heads, and we have not got

Potts."

"I don’t remember anything," said Toby Sinclair, "except falling asleep.

Have they taken him?"

"Of course they have," said Hugh. "Just before I went off I saw ’em all

in the garden, and that swine Lakington was with them. However, while

you go and put your nuts in the river, I’ll go up and make certain."

With a grim smile he watched the three men lurch down to the water; then

he turned and went upstairs to the room which had been occupied by the

American millionaire. It was empty, as he had known it would be, and

with a smothered curse he made his way downstairs again. And it was as

he stood in the little hall saying things gently under his breath that

he heard a muffled moaning noise coming from the kitchen. For a moment

he was nonplussed; then, with an oath at his stupidity, he dashed

through the door. Bound tightly to the table, with a gag in her mouth,

the wretched Mrs. Denny was sitting on the floor, blinking at him

wrathfully....

"What on earth will Denny say to me when he hears about this!" said

Hugh, feverishly cutting the cords. He helped her to her feet, and then

forced her gently into a chair. "Mrs. Denny, have those swine hurt

you?"

Five minutes served to convince him that the damage, if any, was mental

rather than bodily, and that her vocal powers were not in the least

impaired. Like a dam bursting, the flood of the worthy woman’s wrath

surged over him; she breathed a hideous vengeance on every one

impartially. Then she drove Hugh from the kitchen, and slammed the door

in his face.

"Breakfast in half an hour," she cried from inside—"not that one of you

deserves it."

"We are forgiven," remarked Drummond, as he joined the other three on

the lawn. "Do any of you feel like breakfast? Fat sausages and crinkly

bacon."

"Shut up," groaned Algy, "or we’ll throw you into the river. What I

want is a brandy-and-soda—half a dozen of ’em."

"I wish I knew what they did to us," said Darrell. "Because, if I

remember straight, I drank bottled beer at dinner, and I’m damned if I

see how they could have doped that."

"I’m only interested in one thing, Peter," remarked Drummond grimly,

"and that isn’t what they did to us. It’s what we’re going to do to

them."

"Count me out," said Algy. "For the next year I shall be fully occupied

resting my head against a cold stone. Hugh, I positively detest your

friends...."

* * * * *

It was a few hours later that a motor-car drew up outside that

celebrated chemist in Piccadilly whose pick-me-ups are known from

Singapore to Alaska. From it there descended four young men, who ranged

themselves in a row before the counter and spoke no word. Speech was

unnecessary. Four foaming drinks were consumed, four acid-drops were

eaten, and then, still in silence, the four young men got back into the

car and drove away. It was a solemn rite, and on arrival at the Junior

Sports Club the four performers sank into four large chairs, and

pondered gently on the vileness of the morning after. Especially when

there hadn’t been a night before. An unprofitable meditation evidently,

for suddenly, as if actuated by a single thought, the four young men

rose from their four large chairs and again entered the motor-car.

The celebrated chemist whose pick-me-ups are known from Singapore to

Alaska gazed at them severely.

"A very considerable bend, gentlemen," he remarked.

"Quite wrong," answered the whitest and most haggard of the row. "We

are all confirmed Pussyfoots, and have been consuming non-alcoholic

beer."

Once more to the scrunch of acid-drops the four young men entered the

car outside; once more, after a brief and silent drive, four large

chairs in the smoking-room of the Junior Sports Club received an

occupant. And it was so, even until luncheon time....

"Are we better?" said Hugh, getting to his feet, and regarding the other

three with a discerning eye.

"No," murmured Toby, "but I am beginning to hope that I may live. Four

Martinis and then we will gnaw a cutlet."

*II*

"Has it struck you fellows," remarked Hugh, at the conclusion of lunch,

"that seated around this table are four officers who fought with some

distinction and much discomfort in the recent historic struggle?"

"How beautifully you put it, old flick!" said Darrell.

"Has it further struck you fellows," continued Hugh, "that last night we

were done down, trampled on, had for mugs by a crowd of dirty

blackguards composed largely of the dregs of the universe?"

"A veritable Solomon," said Algy, gazing at him admiringly through his

eyeglass. "I told you this morning I detested your friends."

"Has it still further struck you," went on Hugh, a trifle grimly, "that

we aren’t standing for it? At any rate, I’m not. It’s my palaver this,

you fellows, and if you like ... Well, there’s no call on you to remain

in the game. I mean—er——"

"Yes, we’re waiting to hear what the devil you do mean," said Toby

uncompromisingly.

"Well—er," stammered Hugh, "there’s a big element of risk—er—don’t you

know, and there’s no earthly reason why you fellows should get roped in

and all that. I mean—er—I’m sort of pledged to see the thing through,

don’t you know, and——" He relapsed into silence, and stared at the

tablecloth, uncomfortably aware of three pairs of eyes fixed on him.

"Well—er——" mimicked Algy, "there’s a big element of risk—er—don’t you

know, and I mean—er—we’re sort of pledged to bung you through the

window, old bean, if you talk such consolidated drivel."

Hugh grinned sheepishly.

"Well, I had to put it to you fellows. Not that I ever thought for a

moment you wouldn’t see the thing through—but last evening is enough to

show you that we’re up against a tough crowd. A damned tough crowd," he

added thoughtfully. "That being so," he went on briskly, after a moment

or two, "I propose that we should tackle the blighters to-night."

"To-night!" echoed Darrell. "Where?"

"At The Elms, of course. That’s where the wretched Potts is for a

certainty."

"And how do you propose that we should set about it?" demanded Sinclair.

Drummond drained his port and grinned gently.

"By stealth, dear old beans—by stealth. You—and I thought we might rake

in Ted Jerningham, and perhaps Jerry Seymour, to join the happy

throng—will make a demonstration in force, with the idea of drawing off

the enemy, thereby leaving the coast clear for me to explore the house

for the unfortunate Potts."

"Sounds very nice in theory," said Darrell dubiously, "but..."

"And what do you mean by a demonstration?" said Longworth. "You don’t

propose we should sing carols outside the drawing-room window, do you?"

"My dear people," Hugh murmured protestingly, "surely you know me well

enough by now to realise that I can’t possibly have another idea for at

least ten minutes. That is just the general scheme; doubtless the mere

vulgar details will occur to us in time. Besides, it’s someone else’s

turn now." He looked round the table hopefully.

"We might dress up or something," remarked Toby Sinclair, after a

lengthy silence.

"What in the name of Heaven is the use of that?" said Darrell

witheringly. "It’s not private theatricals, nor a beauty competition."

"Cease wrangling, you two," said Hugh suddenly, a few moments later.

"I’ve got a perfect cerebral hurricane raging. An accident.... A

car.... What is the connecting-link.... Why, drink. Write it down,

Algy, or we might forget. Now, can you beat that?"

"We might have some chance," said Darrell kindly, "if we had the

slightest idea what you were talking about."

"I should have thought it was perfectly obvious," returned Hugh coldly.

"You know, Peter, your worry is that you’re too quick on the uptake.

Your brain is too sharp."

"How do you spell connecting?" demanded Algy, looking up from his

labours. "And, anyway, the damn pencil won’t write."

"Pay attention, all of you," said Hugh. "To-night, some time about ten

of the clock, Algy’s motor will proceed along the Godalming-Guildford

road. It will contain you three—also Ted and Jerry Seymour, if we can

get ’em. On approaching the gate of The Elms, you will render the night

hideous with your vocal efforts. Stray passers-by will think that you

are all tight. Then will come the dramatic moment, when, with a heavy

crash, you ram the gate."

"How awfully jolly!" spluttered Algy. "I beg to move that your car be

used for the event."

"Can’t be done, old son," laughed Hugh. "Mine’s faster than yours, and

I’ll be wanting it myself. Now—to proceed. Horrified at this wanton

damage to property, you will leave the car and proceed in mass formation

up the drive."

"Still giving tongue?" queried Darrell.

"Still giving tongue. Either Ted or Jerry or both of ’em will approach

the house and inform the owner in heart-broken accents that they have

damaged his gatepost. You three will remain in the garden—you might be

recognised. Then it will be up to you. You’ll have several men all

round you. Keep ’em occupied—somehow. They won’t hurt you; they’ll

only be concerned with seeing that you don’t go where you’re not wanted.

You see, as far as the world is concerned, it’s just an ordinary country

residence. The last thing they want to do is to draw any suspicion on

themselves—and, on the face of it, you are merely five convivial

wanderers who have looked on the wine when it was red. I think," he

added thoughtfully, "that ten minutes will be enough for me...."

"What will you be doing?" said Toby.

"I shall be looking for Potts. Don’t worry about me. I may find him; I

may not. But when you have given me ten minutes—you clear off. I’ll

look after myself. Now is that clear?"

"Perfectly," said Darrell, after a short silence. "But I don’t know that

I like it, Hugh. It seems to me, old son, that you’re running an

unnecessary lot of risk."

"Got any alternative?" demanded Drummond.

"If we’re all going down," said Darrell, "why not stick together and

rush the house in a gang?"

"No go, old bean," said Hugh decisively. "Too many of ’em to hope to

pull it off. No, low cunning is the only thing that’s got an earthly of

succeeding."

"There is one other possible suggestion," remarked Toby slowly. "What

about the police? From what you say, Hugh, there’s enough in that house

to jug the whole bunch."

"Toby!" gasped Hugh. "I thought better of you. You seriously suggest

that we should call in the police! And then return to a life of toping

and ease! Besides," he continued, removing his eyes from the abashed

author of this hideous suggestion, "there’s a very good reason for

keeping the police out of it. You’d land the girl’s father in the cart,

along with the rest of them. And it makes it so devilish awkward if

one’s father-in-law is in prison!"

"When are we going to see this fairy?" demanded Algy.

"You, personally, never. You’re far too immoral. I might let the others

look at her from a distance in a year or two." With a grin he rose, and

then strolled towards the door. "Now go and rope in Ted and Jerry, and

for the love of Heaven don’t ram the wrong gate."

"What are you going to do yourself?" demanded Peter suspiciously.

"I’m going to look at her from close to. Go away, all of you, and don’t

listen outside the telephone box."

*III*

Hugh stopped his car at Guildford station and, lighting a cigarette,

strolled restlessly up and down. He looked at his watch a dozen times in

two minutes; he threw away his smoke before it was half finished. In

short he manifested every symptom usually displayed by the male of the

species when awaiting the arrival of the opposite sex. Over the

telephone he had arranged that SHE should come by train from Godalming

to confer with him on a matter of great importance; SHE had said she

would, but what was it? He, having no suitable answer ready, had made a

loud buzzing noise indicative of a telephone exchange in pain, and then

rung off. And now he was waiting in that peculiar condition of mind

which reveals itself outwardly in hands that are rather too warm, and

feet that are rather too cold.

"When is this bally train likely to arrive?" He accosted a phlegmatic

official, who regarded him coldly, and doubted the likelihood of its

being more than a quarter of an hour early.

At length it was signalled, and Hugh got back into his car. Feverishly

he scanned the faces of the passengers as they came out into the street,

until, with a sudden quick jump of his heart, he saw her, cool and

fresh, coming towards him with a faint smile on her lips.

"What is this very important matter you want to talk to me about?" she

demanded, as he adjusted the rug round her.

"I’ll tell you when we get out on the Hog’s Back," he said, slipping in

his clutch. "It’s absolutely vital."

He stole a glance at her, but she was looking straight in front of her,

and her face seemed expressionless.

"You must stand a long way off when you do," she said demurely. "At

least if it’s the same thing as you told me over the ’phone."

Hugh grinned sheepishly.

"The Exchange went wrong," he remarked at length. "Astonishing how

rotten the telephones are in Town these days."

"Quite remarkable," she returned. "I thought you weren’t feeling very

well or something. Of course, if it was the Exchange..."

"They sort of buzz and blow, don’t you know," he explained helpfully.

"That must be most fearfully jolly for them," she agreed. And there was

silence for the next two miles....

Once or twice he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, taking in

every detail of the sweet profile so near to him. Except for their

first meeting at the Carlton, it was the only time he had ever had her

completely to himself, and Hugh was determined to make the most of it.

He felt as if he could go on driving for ever, just he and she alone.

He had an overwhelming longing to put out his hand and touch a soft

tendril of hair which was blowing loose just behind her ear; he had an

overwhelming longing to take her in his arms, and ... It was then that

the girl turned and looked at him. The car swerved dangerously....

"Let’s stop," she said, with the suspicion of a smile. "Then you can

tell me."

Hugh drew into the side of the road, and switched off the engine.

"You’re not fair," he remarked, and if the girl saw his hand trembling a

little as he opened the door, she gave no sign. Only her breath came a

shade faster, but a mere man could hardly be expected to notice such a

trifle as that....

He came and stood beside her, and his right arm lay along the seat just

behind her shoulders.

"You’re not fair," he repeated gravely. "I haven’t swerved like that

since I first started to drive."

"Tell me about this important thing," she said a little nervously.

He smiled, and no woman yet born could see Hugh Drummond smile without

smiling too.

"You darling!" he whispered, under his breath—"you adorable darling!"

His arm closed around her, and, almost before she realised it, she felt

his lips on hers. For a moment she sat motionless, while the wonder of

it surged over her, and the sky seemed more gloriously blue, and the

woods a richer green. Then, with a little gasp, she pushed him away.

"You mustn’t ... oh! you mustn’t, Hugh," she whispered.

"And why not, little girl?" he said exultingly. "Don’t you know I love

you?"

"But look, there’s a man over there, and he’ll see."

Hugh glanced at the stolid labourer in question, and smiled.

"Go an absolute mucker over the cabbages, what! Plant carrots by

mistake." His face was still very close to hers. "Well?"

"Well, what?" she murmured.

"It’s your turn," he whispered. "I love you, Phyllis—just love you."

"But it’s only two or three days since we met," she said feebly.

"And phwat the divil has that got to do with it, at all?" he demanded.

"Would I be wanting longer to decide such an obvious fact? Tell me," he

went on, and she felt his arm round her again forcing her to look at

him—"tell me, don’t you care ... a little?"

"What’s the use?" She still struggled, but, even to her, it wasn’t very

convincing. "We’ve got other things to do.... We can’t think of..."

And then this very determined young man settled matters in his usual

straightforward fashion. She felt herself lifted bodily out of the car

as if she had been a child: she found herself lying in his arms, with

Hugh’s eyes looking very tenderly into her own and a whimsical grin

round his mouth.

"Cars pass here," he remarked, "with great regularity. I know you’d

hate to be discovered in this position."

"Would I?" she whispered. "I wonder..."

She felt his heart pound madly against her; and with a sudden quick

movement she put both her arms round his neck and kissed him on the

mouth.

"Is that good enough?" she asked, very low: and just for a few moments,

Time stood still.... Then, very gently, he put her back in the car.

"I suppose," he remarked resignedly, "that we had better descend to

trivialities. We’ve had lots of fun and games since I last saw you a

year or two ago."

"Idiot boy," she said happily. "It was yesterday morning."

"The interruption is considered trivial. Mere facts don’t count when

it’s you and me." There was a further interlude of uncertain duration,

followed rapidly by another because the first was so nice.

"To resume," continued Hugh. "I regret to state that they’ve got

Potts."

The girl sat up quickly and stared at him.

"Got him? Oh, Hugh! how did they manage it?"

"I’m damned if I know," he answered grimly. "They found out that he was

in my bungalow at Goring during the afternoon by sending round a man to

see about the water. Somehow or other he must have doped the drink or

the food, because after dinner we all fell asleep. I can just remember

seeing Lakington’s face outside in the garden, pressed against the

window, and then everything went out. I don’t remember anything more

till I woke this morning with the most appalling head. Of course, Potts

had gone."

"I heard the car drive up in the middle of the night," said the girl

thoughtfully. "Do you think he’s at The Elms now?"

"That is what I propose to find out to-night," answered Hugh. "We have

staged a little comedy for Peterson’s especial benefit, and we are

hoping for the best.’"

"Oh, boy, do be careful!" She looked at him anxiously. "I’d never

forgive myself if anything happened to you. I’d feel it was all due to

me, and I just couldn’t bear it."

"Dear little girl," he whispered tenderly, "you’re simply adorable when

you look like that. But not even for you would I back out of this show

now." His mouth set in a grim line. "It’s gone altogether too far, and

they’ve shown themselves to be so completely beyond the pale that it’s

got to be fought out. And when it has been," he caught both her hands in

his ... "and we’ve won ... why, then girl o’ mine, we’ll get Peter

Darrell to be best man."

Which was the cue for the commencement of the last and longest

interlude, terminated only by the sudden and unwelcome appearance of a

motor-’bus covered within and without by unromantic sightseers, and

paper-bags containing bananas.

They drove slowly back to Guildford, and on the way he told her briefly

of the murder of the American’s secretary in Belfast, and his interview

the preceding afternoon with the impostor at the Carlton.

"It’s a tough proposition," he remarked quietly. "They’re absolutely

without scruple, and their power seems unlimited. I know they are after

the Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls: I found the beautiful Irma consuming

tea with young Laidley yesterday—you know, the Duke’s eldest son. But

there’s something more in the wind than that, Phyllis—something which,

unless I’m a mug of the first water, is an infinitely larger proposition

than that."

The car drew up at the station, and he strolled with her on to the

platform. Trivialities were once more banished: vital questions

concerning when it had first happened—by both; whether he was quite sure

it would last for ever—by her; what she could possibly see in him—by

him; and wasn’t everything just too wonderful for words—mutual and

carried _nem. con_.

Then the train came in, and he put her into a carriage. And two minutes

later, with the touch of her lips warm on his, and her anxious little

cry, "Take care, my darling!—take care!" still ringing in his ears, he

got into his car and drove off to an hotel to get an early dinner. Love

for the time was over; the next round of the other game was due. And it

struck Drummond that it was going to be a round where a mistake would

not be advisable.

*IV*

At a quarter to ten he backed his car into the shadow of some trees not

far from the gate of The Elms. The sky was overcast, which suited his

purpose, and through the gloom of the bushes he dodged rapidly towards

the house. Save for a light in the sitting-room and one in a bedroom

upstairs, the front of the house was in darkness, and, treading

noiselessly on the turf, he explored all round it. From a downstairs

room on one side came the hoarse sound of men’s voices, and he placed

that as the smoking-room of the gang of ex-convicts and blackguards who

formed Peterson’s staff. There was one bedroom light at the back of the

house, and thrown on the blind he could see the shadow of a man. As he

watched, the man got up and moved away, only to return in a moment or

two and take up his old position.

"It’s one of those two bedrooms," he muttered to himself, "if he’s here

at all."

Then he crouched in the shadow of some shrubs and waited. Through the

trees to his right he could see The Larches, and once, with a sudden

quickening of his heart, he thought he saw the outline of the girl show

up in the light from the drawing-room. But it was only for a second,

and then it was gone....

He peered at his watch: it was just ten o’clock. The trees were creaking

gently in the faint wind; all around him the strange night noises—noises

which play pranks with a man’s nerves—were whispering and muttering.

Bushes seemed suddenly to come to life, and move; eerie shapes crawled

over the ground towards him—figures which existed only in his

imagination. And once again the thrill of the night stalker gripped

him.

He remembered the German who had lain motionless for an hour in a little

gully by Hebuterne, while he from behind a stunted bush had tried to

locate him. And then that one creak as the Boche had moved his leg.

And then ... the end. On that night, too, the little hummocks had moved

and taken to themselves strange shapes: fifty times he had imagined he

saw him; fifty times he knew he was wrong—in time. He was used to it;

the night held no terrors for him, only a fierce excitement. And thus

it was that as he crouched in the bushes, waiting for the game to start,

his pulse was as normal, and his nerves as steady, as if he had been

sitting down to supper. The only difference was that in his hand he

held something tight-gripped.

At last faintly in the distance he heard the hum of a car. Rapidly it

grew louder, and he smiled grimly to himself as the sound of five

unmelodious voices singing lustily struck his ear. They passed along

the road in front of the house. There was a sudden crash—then silence;

but only for a moment.

Peter’s voice came first:

"You priceless old ass, you’ve rammed the blinking gate."

It was Jerry Seymour who then took up the ball. His voice was intensely

solemn—also extremely loud.

"Preposhterous. Perfectly preposhterous. We must go and apologise to

the owner.... I ... I ... absholutely ... musht apologise.... Quite

unpardonable.... You can’t go about country ... knocking down gates....

Out of queshtion...."

Half-consciously Hugh listened, but, now that the moment for action had

come, every faculty was concentrated on his own job. He saw half a

dozen men go rushing out into the garden through a side door, and then

two more ran out and came straight towards him. They crashed past him

and went on into the darkness, and for an instant he wondered what they

were doing. A little later he was destined to find out....

Then came a peal at the front-door bell, and he determined to wait no

longer. He darted through the garden door, to find a flight of back

stairs in front of him, and in another moment he was on the first floor.

He walked rapidly along the landing, trying to find his bearings, and,

turning a corner, he found himself at the top of the main staircase—the

spot where he had fought Peterson two nights previously.

From below Jerry Seymour’s voice came clearly.

"Are you the pro-propri-tor, ole friend? Because there’s been ...

acchident...."

He waited to hear no more, but walked quickly on to the room which he

calculated was the one where he had seen the shadow on the blind.

Without a second’s hesitation he flung the door open and walked in.

There, lying in the bed, was the American, while crouched beside him,

with a revolver in his hand, was a man....

For a few seconds they watched one another in silence, and then the man

straightened up.

"The soldier!" he snarled. "You young pup!"

Deliberately, almost casually, he raised his revolver, and then the

unexpected happened. A jet of liquid ammonia struck him full in the

face, and with a short laugh Hugh dropped his water-pistol in his

pocket, and turned his attention to the bed. Wrapping the millionaire

in a blanket, he picked him up, and, paying no more attention to the man

gasping and choking in a corner, he raced for the back stairs.

Below he could still hear Jerry hiccoughing gently, and explaining to

the pro ... pro ... pritor that he pershonally would repair ...

inshisted on repairing ... any and every gateposht he posshessed.... And

then he reached the garden....

Everything had fallen out exactly as he had hoped, but had hardly dared

to expect. He heard Peterson’s voice, calm and suave as usual,

answering Jerry. From the garden in front came the dreadful sound of a

duet by Algy and Peter. Not a soul was in sight; the back of the house

was clear. All that he had to do was to walk quietly through the

wicket-gate to The Larches with his semi-conscious burden, get to his

car, and drive off. It all seemed so easy that he laughed....

But there were one or two factors that he had forgotten, and the first

and most important one was the man upstairs. The window was thrown up

suddenly, and the man leaned out waving his arms. He was still gasping

with the strength of the ammonia, but Hugh saw him clearly in the light

from the room behind. And as he cursed himself for a fool in not having

tied him up, from the trees close by there came the sharp clang of

metal.

With a quick catch in his breath he began to run. The two men who had

rushed past him before he had entered the house, and whom, save for a

passing thought, he had disregarded, had become the principal danger.

For he had heard that clang before; he remembered Jem Smith’s white

horror-struck face, and then his sigh of relief as the thing—whatever it

was—was shut in its cage. And now it was out, dodging through the

trees, let loose by the two men.

Turning his head from side to side, peering into the gloom, he ran on.

What an interminable distance it seemed to the gate ... and even then

... He heard something crash into a bush on his right, and give a snarl

of anger. Like a flash he swerved into the undergrowth on the left.

Then began a dreadful game. He was still some way from the fence, and

he was hampered at every step by the man slung over his back. He could

hear the thing blundering about searching for him, and suddenly, with a

cold feeling of fear, he realised that the animal was in front of

him—that his way to the gate was barred. The next moment he saw it....

Shadowy, indistinct, in the darkness, he saw something glide between two

bushes. Then it came out into the open and he knew it had seen him,

though as yet he could not make out what it was. Grotesque and horrible

it crouched on the ground, and he could hear its heavy breathing, as it

waited for him to move.

Cautiously he lowered the millionaire to the ground, and took a step

forward. It was enough; with a snarl of fury the crouching form rose

and shambled towards him. Two hairy arms shot out towards his throat,

he smelt the brute’s foetid breath, hot and loathsome, and he realised

what he was up against. It was a partially grown gorilla.

For a full minute they fought in silence, save for the hoarse grunts of

the animal as it tried to tear away the man’s hand from its throat, and

then encircle him with his powerful arms. And with his brain cold as

ice Hugh saw his danger and kept his head. It couldn’t go on: no human

being could last the pace, whatever his strength. And there was only

one chance of finishing it quickly, the possibility that the grip taught

him by Olaki would serve with a monkey as it did with a man.

He shifted his left thumb an inch or two on the brute’s throat, and the

gorilla, thinking he was weakening, redoubled its efforts. But still

those powerful hands clutched its throat; try as it would, it failed to

make them budge. And then, little by little, the fingers moved, and the

grip which had been tight before grew tighter still.

Back went its head; something was snapping in its neck. With a scream

of fear and rage it wrapped its legs round Drummond, squeezing and

writhing. And then suddenly there was a tearing snap, and the great

limbs relaxed and grew limp.

For a moment the man stood watching the still quivering brute lying at

his feet; then, with a gasp of utter exhaustion, he dropped on the

ground himself. He was done—utterly cooked; even Peterson’s voice close

behind scarcely roused him.

"Quite one of the most amusing entertainments I’ve seen for a long

time." The calm, expressionless voice made him look up wearily, and he

saw that he was surrounded by men. The inevitable cigar glowed red in

the darkness, and after a moment or two he scrambled unsteadily to his

feet.

"I’d forgotten your damned menagerie, I must frankly confess," he

remarked. "What’s the party for?" He glanced at the men who had closed

in round him.

"A guard of honour, my young friend," said Peterson suavely, "to lead

you to the house. I wouldn’t hesitate ... it’s very foolish. Your

friends have gone, and, strong as you are, I don’t think you can manage

ten."

Hugh commenced to stroll towards the house.

"Well, don’t leave the wretched Potts lying about. I dropped him over

there." For a moment the idea of making a dash for it occurred to him,

but he dismissed it at once. The odds were too great to make the risk

worth while, and in the centre of the group he and Peterson walked side

by side.

"The last man whom poor Sambo had words with," said Peterson

reminiscently, "was found next day with his throat torn completely out."

"A lovable little thing," murmured Hugh. "I feel quite sorry at having

spoilt his record."