Peterson paused with his hand on the sitting-room door, and looked at

him benevolently.

"Don’t be despondent, Captain Drummond. We have ample time at our

disposal to ensure a similar find to-morrow morning."

*CHAPTER VII*

*IN WHICH HE SPENDS AN HOUR OR TWO ON A ROOF*

*I*

Drummond paused for a moment at the door of the sitting-room, then with

a slight shrug he stepped past Peterson. During the last few days he

had grown to look on this particular room as the private den of the

principals of the gang. He associated it in his mind with Peterson

himself, suave, impassive, ruthless; with the girl Irma, perfectly

gowned, lying on the sofa, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and

manicuring her already faultless nails; and in a lesser degree, with

Henry Lakington’s thin, cruel face, and blue, staring eyes.

But to-night a different scene confronted him. The girl was not there:

her accustomed place on the sofa was occupied by an unkempt-looking man

with a ragged beard. At the end of the table was a vacant chair, on the

right of which sat Lakington regarding him with malevolent fury. Along

the table on each side there were half a dozen men, and he glanced at

their faces. Some were obviously foreigners; some might have been

anything from murderers to Sunday-school teachers. There was one with

spectacles and the general appearance of an intimidated rabbit, while

his neighbour, helped by a large red scar right across his cheek, and

two bloodshot eyes, struck Hugh as being the sort of man with whom one

would not share a luncheon basket.

"I know he’d snatch both drumsticks and gnaw them simultaneously," he

reflected, staring at him fascinated; "and then he’d throw the bones in

your face."

Peterson’s voice from just behind his shoulder roused him from his

distressing reverie.

"Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce to you Captain Drummond, D.S.O.,

M.C., the originator of the little entertainment we have just had."

Hugh bowed gravely.

"My only regret is that it failed to function," he remarked. "As I told

you outside, I’d quite forgotten your menagerie. In fact"—his glance

wandered slowly and somewhat pointedly from face to face at the table—"I

had no idea it was such a large one."

"So this is the insolent young swine, is it?" The bloodshot eyes of the

man with the scarred face turned on him morosely. "What I cannot

understand is why he hasn’t been killed by now."

Hugh waggled an accusing finger at him.

"I knew you were a nasty man as soon as I saw you. Now look at Henry up

at the end of the table; he doesn’t say that sort of thing. And you do

hate me, don’t you, Henry? How’s the jaw?"

"Captain Drummond," said Lakington, ignoring Hugh and addressing the

first speaker, "was very nearly killed last night. I thought for some

time as to whether I would or not, but I finally decided it would be

much too easy a death. So it can be remedied to-night."

If Hugh felt a momentary twinge of fear at the calm, expressionless

tone, and the half-satisfied grunt which greeted the words, no trace of

it showed on his face. Already the realisation had come to him that if

he got through the night alive he would be more than passing lucky, but

he was too much of a fatalist to let that worry him unduly. So he

merely stifled a yawn, and again turned to Lakington.

"So it was you, my little one, whose fairy face I saw pressed against

the window. Would it be indiscreet to ask how you got the dope into

us?"

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

face.

"You were gassed, if you want to know. An admirable invention of my

friend Kauffner’s nation."

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

grimly.

"The scum certainly would not be complete," he remarked to Peterson,

"without a filthy Boche in it."

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

passion.

"A filthy Boche," he muttered thickly, lurching towards Hugh. "Hold him

the arms of, and I will the throat tear out...."

The intimidated rabbit rose protestingly at this prospect of violence;

the scarred sportsman shot out of his chair eagerly, the lust of battle

in his bloodshot eyes. The only person save Hugh who made no movement

was Peterson, and he, very distinctly, chuckled. Whatever his failings,

Peterson had a sense of humour....

It all happened so quickly. At one moment Hugh was apparently intent

upon selecting a cigarette, the next instant the case had fallen to the

floor; there was a dull, heavy thud, and the Boche crashed back,

overturned a chair, and fell like a log to the floor, his head hitting

the wall with a vicious crack. The bloodshot being resumed his seat a

little limply; the intimidated bunny gave a stifled gasp and breathed

heavily; Hugh resumed his search for a cigarette.

"After which breezy interlude," remarked Peterson, "let us to business

get."

Hugh paused in the act of striking a match, and for the first time a

genuine smile spread over his face.

"There are moments, Peterson," he murmured, "when you really appeal to

me."

Peterson took the empty chair next to Lakington.

"Sit down," he said shortly. "I can only hope that I shall appeal to

you still more before we kill you."

Hugh bowed and sat down.

"Consideration," he murmured, "was always your strong point. May I ask

how long I have to live?"

Peterson smiled genially.

"At the very earnest request of Mr. Lakington you are to be spared until

to-morrow morning. At least, that is our present intention. Of course,

there might be an accident in the night: in a house like this one can

never tell. Or"—he carefully cut the end off a cigar—"you might go mad,

in which case we shouldn’t bother to kill you. In fact, it would really

suit our book better if you did: the disposal of corpses, even in these

days of advanced science, presents certain difficulties—not

insuperable—but a nuisance. And so, if you go mad, we shall not be

displeased."

Once again he smiled genially.

"As I said before, in a house like this, you never can tell...."

The intimidated rabbit, still breathing heavily, was staring at Hugh,

fascinated; and after a moment Hugh turned to him with a courteous bow.

"Laddie," he remarked, "you’ve been eating onions. Do you mind

deflecting the blast in the opposite direction?"

His calm imperturbability seemed to madden Lakington, who with a sudden

movement rose from his chair and leaned across the table, while the

veins stood out like whipcord on his usually expressionless face.

"You wait," he snarled thickly; "you wait till I’ve finished with you.

You won’t be so damned humorous then...."

Hugh regarded the speaker languidly.

"Your supposition is more than probable," he remarked, in a bored voice.

"I shall be too intent on getting into a Turkish bath to remove the

contamination to think of laughing."

Slowly Lakington sank back in his chair, a hard, merciless smile on his

lips; and for a moment or two there was silence in the room. It was

broken by the unkempt man on the sofa, who, without warning, exploded

unexpectedly.

"A truce to all this fooling," he burst forth in a deep rumble; "I

confess I do not understand it. Are we assembled here to-night,

comrades, to listen to private quarrels and stupid talk?"

A murmur of approval came from the others, and the speaker stood up

waving his arms.

"I know not what this young man has done: I care less. In Russia such

trifles matter not. He has the appearance of a bourgeois, therefore he

must die. Did we not kill thousands—aye, tens of thousands of his

kidney, before we obtained the great freedom? Are we not going to do the

same in this accursed country?" His voice rose to the shrill, strident

note of the typical tub-thumper. "What is this wretched man," he

continued, waving a hand wildly at Hugh, "that he should interrupt the

great work for one brief second? Kill him now—throw him in a corner,

and let us proceed."

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

joined heartily.

"Splendid," he murmured. "A magnificent peroration. Am I right, sir, in

assuming that you are what is vulgarly known as a Bolshevist?"

The man turned his sunken eyes, glowing with the burning fires of

fanaticism, on Drummond.

"I am one of those who are fighting for the freedom of the world," he

cried harshly, "for the right to live of the proletariat. The workers

were the bottom dogs in Russia till they killed the rulers. Now—they

rule, and the money they earn goes into their own pockets, not those of

incompetent snobs." He flung out his arms wildly. "It is freedom; it

is the dawn of the new age." He seemed to shrivel up suddenly, as if

exhausted with the violence of his passion. Only his eyes still gleamed

with the smouldering madness of his soul.

Hugh looked at him with genuine curiosity; it was the first time he had

actually met one of these wild visionaries in the flesh. And then the

curiosity was succeeded by a very definite amazement; what had Peterson

to do with such as he?

He glanced casually at his principal enemy, but his face showed nothing.

He was quietly turning over some papers; his cigar glowed as evenly as

ever. He seemed to be no whit surprised by the unkempt one’s outburst:

in fact, it appeared to be quite in order. And once again Hugh stared at

the man on the sofa with puzzled eyes.

For the moment his own deadly risk was forgotten: a growing excitement

filled his mind. Could it be possible that here, at last, was the real

object of the gang; could it be possible that Peterson was organising a

deliberate plot to try and Bolshevise England? If so, where did the

Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls come in? What of the American, Hiram

Potts? Above all, what did Peterson hope to make out of it himself? And

it was as he arrived at that point in his deliberation that he looked up

to find Peterson regarding him with a faint smile.

"It is a little difficult to understand, isn’t it, Captain Drummond?" he

said, carefully flicking the ash off his cigar. "I told you you’d find

yourself in deep water." Then he resumed the contemplation of the

papers in front of him, as the Russian burst out again.

"Have you ever seen a woman skinned alive?" he howled wildly, thrusting

his face forward at Hugh. "Have you ever seen men killed with the

knotted rope; burned almost to death and then set free, charred and

mutilated wrecks? But what does it matter provided only freedom comes,

as it has in Russia. To-morrow it will be England: in a week the

world.... Even if we have to wade through rivers of blood up to our

throats, nevertheless it will come. And in the end we shall have a new

earth."

Hugh lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

"It seems a most alluring programme," he murmured. "And I shall have

much pleasure in recommending you as manager of a babies’ crèche. I

feel certain the little ones would take to you instinctively."

He half closed his eyes, while a general buzz of conversation broke out

round the table. Tongues had been loosened, wonderful ideals conjured

up by the Russian’s inspiring words; and for the moment he was

forgotten. Again and again the question hammered at his brain—what in

the name of Buddha had Peterson and Lakington to do with this crowd? Two

intensely brilliant, practical criminals mixed up with a bunch of

ragged-trousered visionaries, who, to all intents and purposes, were

insane....

Fragments of conversation struck his ears from time to time. The

intimidated rabbit, with the light of battle in his watery eye, was

declaiming on the glories of Workmen’s Councils; a bullet-headed man who

looked like a down-at-heels racing tout was shouting an inspiring

battle-cry about no starvation wages and work for all.

"Can it be possible," thought Hugh grimly, "that such as these have the

power to control big destinies?" And then, because he had some

experience of what one unbalanced brain, whose owner could talk, was

capable of achieving; because he knew something about mob psychology,

his half-contemptuous amusement changed to a bitter foreboding.

"You fool," he cried suddenly to the Russian; and everyone ceased

talking. "You poor damned boob! You—and your new earth! In Petrograd

to-day bread is two pounds four shillings a pound; tea, fifteen pounds a

pound. Do you call that freedom? Do you suggest that we should wade to

_that_, through rivers of blood?" He gave a contemptuous laugh. "I

don’t know which distresses me most, your maggoty brain or your

insanitary appearance."

Too surprised to speak, the Russian sat staring at him; and it was

Peterson who broke the silence with his suave voice.

"Your distress, I am glad to say, is not likely to be one of long

duration," he remarked. "In fact, the time has come for you to retire

for the night, my young friend."

He stood up smiling; then he walked over to the bell behind Hugh and

rang it.

"Dead or mad—I wonder which." He threw the end of his cigar into the

grate as Hugh rose. "While we deliberate down here on various matters

of importance we shall be thinking of you upstairs—that is to say, if

you get there. I see that Lakington is even now beginning to gloat in

pleasant anticipation."

Not a muscle on the soldier’s face twitched; not by the hint of a look

did he show the keenly watching audience that he realised his danger.

He might have been an ordinary guest preparing to go to bed; and in

Peterson’s face there shone for a moment a certain unwilling admiration.

Only Lakington’s was merciless, with its fiendish look of anticipation,

and Hugh stared at him with level eyes for a while before he turned

towards the door.

"Then I will say ’Good night,’" he remarked, casually. "Is it the same

room that I had last time?"

"No," said Peterson. "A different one—specially prepared for you. If

you get to the top of the stairs a man will show you where it is." He

opened the door and stood there smiling. And at that moment all the

lights went out.

*II*

The darkness could be felt, as real darkness inside a house always can

be felt. Not the faintest glimmer even of greyness showed anywhere, and

Hugh remained motionless, wondering what the next move was going to be.

Now that the night’s ordeal had commenced, all his nerve had returned to

him. He felt ice cold; and as his powerful hands clenched and

unclenched by his sides, he grinned faintly to himself.

Behind him in the room he could hear an occasional movement in one of

the chairs, and once from the hall outside he caught the sound of

whispering. He felt that he was surrounded by men, thronging in on him

from all sides, and suddenly he gave a short laugh. Instantly silence

settled; strain as he would he could not hear a sound. Then very

cautiously he commenced to feel his way towards the door.

Outside a car went by honking discordantly, and with a sort of cynical

amusement he wondered what its occupants would think if they knew what

was happening in the house so near them. And at that moment someone

brushed past him. Like a flash Hugh’s hand shot out and gripped him by

the arm. The man wriggled and twisted, but he was powerless as a child,

and with another short laugh Hugh found his throat with his other hand.

And again silence settled on the room....

Still holding the unknown man in front of him, he reached the foot of

the stairs, and there he paused. He had suddenly remembered the

mysterious thing which had whizzed past his head that other night, and

then clanged sullenly into the wall beside him. He had gone up five

stairs when it had happened, and now with his foot on the first he

started to do some rapid thinking.

If, as Peterson had kindly assured him, they proposed to try and send

him mad, it was unlikely that they would kill him on the stairs. At the

same time it was obviously an implement capable of accurate adjustment,

and therefore it was more than likely that they would use it to frighten

him. And if they did—if they did ... The unknown man wriggled feebly in

his hands, and a sudden unholy look came on to Hugh’s face.

"It’s the only possible chance," he said to himself, "and if it’s you or

me, laddie, I guess it’s got to be you."

With a quick heave he jerked the man off his feet, and lifted him up

till his head was above the level of his own. Then clutching him tight,

he commenced to climb. His own head was bent down, somewhere in the

regions of the man’s back, and he took no notice of the feebly kicking

legs.

Then at last he reached the fourth step, and gave a final adjustment to

his semi-conscious burden. He felt that the hall below was full of men,

and suddenly Peterson’s voice came to him out of the darkness.

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

"A very good-looking one as far as I remember," answered Hugh. "I’m

just going to get on to it."

"That should prove entertaining," remarked Peterson. "I’m just going to

switch on the current."

Hugh pressed his head even lower in the man’s back, and lifted him up

another three inches.

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

"I’d stand quite still if I were you," said Peterson suavely. "Just

listen."

As Hugh had gambled on, the performance was designed to frighten.

Instead of that, something hit the neck of the man he was holding with

such force that it wrenched him clean out of his arms. Then came the

clang beside him, and with a series of ominous thuds a body rolled down

the stairs into the hall below.

"You fool." He heard Lakington’s voice, shrill with anger. "You’ve

killed him. Switch on the light...."

But before the order could be carried out Hugh had disappeared, like a

great cat, into the darkness of the passage above. It was neck or

nothing; he had at the most a minute to get clear. As luck would have

it the first room he darted into was empty, and he flung up the window

and peered out.

A faint, watery moon showed him a twenty-foot drop on to the grass, and

without hesitation he flung his legs over the sill. Below a furious

hubbub was going on; steps were already rushing up the stairs. He heard

Peterson’s calm voice, and Lakington’s hoarse with rage, shouting

inarticulate orders. And at that moment something prompted him to look

upwards.

It was enough—that one look; he had always been mad, he always would be.

It was a dormer window, and to an active man access to the roof was

easy. Without an instant’s hesitation he abandoned all thoughts of

retreat; and when two excited men rushed into the room he was firmly

ensconced, with his legs astride of the ridge of the window, not a yard

from their heads.

Securely hidden in the shadow he watched the subsequent proceedings with

genial toleration. A raucous bellow from the two men announced that

they had discovered his line of escape; and in half a minute the garden

was full of hurrying figures. One, calm and impassive, his identity

betrayed only by the inevitable cigar, stood by the garden door,

apparently taking no part in the game; Lakington, blind with fury, was

running round in small circles, cursing everyone impartially.

"The car is still there." A man came up to Peterson, and Hugh heard the

words distinctly.

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

Hugh watched the thick-set, massive figure stroll down towards the

wicket gate, and he laughed gently to himself. Then he grew serious

again, and with a slight frown he pulled out his watch and peered at it.

Half-past one ... two more hours before dawn. And in those two hours he

wanted to explore the house from on top; especially he wanted to have a

look at the mysterious central room of which Phyllis had spoken to

him—the room where Lakington kept his treasures. But until the excited

throng below went indoors, it was unsafe to move. Once out of the

shadow, anyone would be able to see him crawling over the roof in the

moonlight.

At times the thought of the helpless man for whose death he had in one

way been responsible recurred to him, and he shook his head angrily. It

had been necessary, he realised: you can carry someone upstairs in a

normal house without him having his neck broken—but still ... And then

he wondered who he was. It had been one of the men who sat round the

table—of that he was tolerably certain. But which...? Was it the

frightened bunny, or the Russian, or the gentleman with the bloodshot

eye? The only comfort was that whoever it had been, the world would not

be appreciably the poorer for his sudden decease. The only regret was

that it hadn’t been dear Henry.... He had a distaste for Henry which

far exceeded his dislike of Peterson.

"He’s not over there." Peterson’s voice came to him from below. "And

we’ve wasted time enough as it is."

The men had gathered together in a group, just below where Hugh was

sitting, evidently awaiting further orders.

"Do you mean to say we’ve lost the young swine again?" said Lakington

angrily.

"Not lost—merely mislaid," murmured Peterson. "The more I see of him,

the more do I admire his initiative."

Lakington snorted.

"It was that damned fool Ivolsky’s own fault," he snarled; "why didn’t

he keep still as he was told to do?"

"Why, indeed?" returned Peterson, his cigar glowing red. "And I’m

afraid we shall never know. He is very dead." He turned towards the

house. "That concludes the entertainment, gentlemen, for to-night. I

think you can all go to bed."

"There are two of you watching the car, aren’t there?" demanded

Lakington.

"Rossiter and Le Grange," answered a voice.

Peterson paused by the door.

"My dear Lakington, it’s quite unnecessary. You underrate that young

man...."

He disappeared into the house, and the others followed slowly. For the

time being Hugh was safe, and with a sigh of relief he stretched his

cramped limbs and lay back against the sloping roof. If only he had

dared to light a cigarette....

*III*

It was half an hour before Drummond decided that it was safe to start

exploring. The moon still shone fitfully through the trees, but since

the two car watchers were near the road on the other side of the house,

there was but little danger to be apprehended from them. First he took

off his shoes, and tying the laces together, he slung them round his

neck. Then, as silently as he could, he commenced to scramble upwards.

It was not an easy operation; one slip and nothing could have stopped

him slithering down and finally crashing into the garden below, with a

broken leg, at the very least, for his pains. In addition, there was

the risk of dislodging a slate, an unwise proceeding in a house where

most of the occupants slept with one eye open. But at last he got his

hands over the ridge of the roof, and in another moment he was sitting

straddlewise across it.

The house, he discovered, was built on a peculiar design. The ridge on

which he sat continued at the same height all round the top of the roof,

and formed, roughly, the four sides of a square. In the middle the roof

sloped down to a flat space from which stuck up a glass structure, the

top of which was some five or six feet below his level. Around it was a

space quite large enough to walk in comfort; in fact, on two sides there

was plenty of room for a deck chair. The whole area was completely

screened from view, except to anyone in an aeroplane. And what struck

him still further was that there was no window that he could see

anywhere on the inside of the roof. In fact, it was absolutely

concealed and private. Incidentally, the house had originally been built

by a gentleman of doubtful sanity, who spent his life observing the

spots in Jupiter through a telescope, and having plunged himself and his

family into complete penury, sold the house and observatory complete for

what he could get. Lakington, struck with its possibilities for his own

hobby, bought it on the spot; and from that time Jupiter spotted

undisturbed.

With the utmost caution Hugh lowered himself to the full extent of his

arms; then he let himself slip the last two or three feet on to the

level space around the glass roof. He had no doubt in his mind that he

was actually above the secret room, and, on tip-toe, he stole round

looking for some spot from which he could get a glimpse below. At the

first inspection he thought his time had been wasted; every pane of

glass was frosted, and in addition there seemed to be a thick blind of

some sort drawn across from underneath, of the same type as is used by

photographers for altering the light.

A sudden rattle close to him made him start violently, only to curse

himself for a nervous ass the next moment, and lean forward eagerly.

One of the blinds had been released from inside the room, and a pale,

diffused light came filtering out into the night from the side of the

glass roof. He was still craning backwards and forwards to try and find

some chink through which he could see, when, with a kind of uncanny

deliberation, one of the panes of glass slowly opened. It was worked on

a ratchet from inside, and Hugh bowed his thanks to the unseen operator

below. Then he leant forward cautiously, and peered in....

The whole room was visible to him, and his jaw tightened as he took in

the scene. In an armchair, smoking as unconcernedly as ever, sat

Peterson. He was reading a letter, and occasionally underlining some

point with a pencil. Beside him on a table was a big ledger, and every

now and then he would turn over a few pages and make an entry. But it

was not Peterson on whom the watcher above was concentrating his

attention; it was Lakington—and the thing beside him on the sofa.

Lakington was bending over a long bath full of some light-brown liquid

from which a faint vapour was rising. He was in his shirt sleeves, and

on his hands he wore what looked like rubber gloves, stretching right up

to his elbows. After a while he dipped a test-tube into the liquid, and

going over to a shelf he selected a bottle and added a few drops to the

contents of the tube. Apparently satisfied with the result, he returned

to the bath and shook in some white powder. Immediately the liquid

commenced to froth and bubble, and at the same moment Peterson stood up.

"Are you ready?" he said, taking off his coat and picking up a pair of

gloves similar to those the other was wearing.

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

They approached the sofa; and Hugh, with a kind of fascinated horror,

forced himself to look. For the thing that lay there was the body of

the dead Russian, Ivolsky.

The two men picked him up and, having carried the body to the bath, they

dropped it into the fuming liquid. Then, as if it was the most normal

thing in the world, they peeled off their long gloves and stood

watching. For a minute or so nothing happened, and then gradually the

body commenced to disappear. A faint, sickly smell came through the

open window, and Hugh wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was too

horrible, the hideous deliberation of it all. And whatever vile

tortures the wretched man had inflicted on others in Russia, yet it was

through him that his dead body lay there in the bath, disappearing

slowly and relentlessly....

Lakington lit a cigarette and strolled over to the fireplace.

"Another five minutes should be enough," he remarked. "Damn that cursed

soldier!"

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

"To lose one’s temper with a man, my dear Henry, is a sign of

inferiority. But it certainly is a nuisance that Ivolsky is dead. He

could talk more unmitigated drivel to the minute than all the rest of

’em put together.... I really don’t know who to put in the Midland

area."

He leaned back in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke. The light

shone on the calm, impassive face; and with a feeling of wonder that was

never far absent from his mind when he was with Peterson, Hugh noted the

high, clever forehead, the firmly moulded nose and chin, the sensitive,

humorous mouth. The man lying back in the chair watching the blue smoke

curling up from his cigar might have been a great lawyer or an eminent

divine; some well-known statesman, perhaps, or a Napoleon of finance.

There was power in every line of his figure, in every movement of his

hands. He might have reached to the top of any profession he had cared

to follow.... Just as he had reached to the top in his present one....

Some kink in the brain, some little cog wrong in the wonderful

mechanism, and a great man had become a great criminal. Hugh looked at

the bath: the liquid was almost clear.

"You know my feelings on the subject," remarked Lakington, taking a red

velvet box out of a drawer in the desk. He opened it lovingly, and Hugh

saw the flash of diamonds. Lakington let the stones run through his

hands, glittering with a thousand flames, while Peterson watched him

contemptuously.

"Baubles," he said, scornfully. "Pretty baubles. What will you get for

them?"

"Ten, perhaps fifteen thousand," returned the other. "But it’s not the

money I care about; it’s the delight in having them, and the skill

required to get them."

Peterson shrugged his shoulders.

"Skill which would give you hundreds of thousands if you turned it into

proper channels."

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

the grate.

"Possibly, Carl, quite possibly. But it boils down to this, my friend,

that you like the big canvas with broad effects, I like the miniature

and the well-drawn etching."

"Which makes us a very happy combination," said Peterson, rising and

walking over to the bath. "The pearls, don’t forget, are your job. The

big thing"—he turned to the other, and a trace of excitement came into

his voice—"the big thing is mine." Then with his hands in his pockets

he stood staring at the brown liquid. "Our friend is nearly cooked, I

think."

"Another two or three minutes," said Lakington, joining him. "I must

confess I pride myself on the discovery of that mixture. Its only

drawback is that it makes murder too easy...."

The sound of the door opening made both men swing round instantly; then

Peterson stepped forward with a smile.

"Back, my dear. I hardly expected you so soon."

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

disgust.

"What a horrible smell!" she remarked. "What on earth have you been

doing?"

"Disposing of a corpse," said Lakington. "It’s nearly finished."

The girl threw off her opera cloak, and coming forward, peered over the

edge of the bath.

"It’s not my ugly soldier?" she cried.

"Unfortunately not," returned Lakington grimly; and Peterson laughed.

"Henry is most annoyed, Irma. The irrepressible Drummond has scored

again."

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

hands together delightedly.

"Assuredly I shall have to marry that man," she cried. "He is quite the

least boring individual I have met in this atrocious country." She sat

down and lit a cigarette. "I saw Walter to-night."

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

"He was this morning. He came over especially to see you. They want

you there for a meeting, at the Ritz."

Peterson frowned.

"It’s most inconvenient," he remarked with a shade of annoyance in his

voice. "Did he say why?"

"Amongst other things I think they’re uneasy about the American," she

answered. "My dear man, you can easily slip over for a day."

"Of course I can," said Peterson irritably; "but that doesn’t alter the

fact that it’s inconvenient. Things will be shortly coming to a head

here, and I want to be on the spot. However——" He started to walk up

and down the room, frowning thoughtfully.

"Your fish is hooked, _mon ami_," continued the girl to Lakington. "He

has already proposed three times; and he has introduced me to a

dreadful-looking woman of extreme virtue, who has adopted me as her

niece for the great occasion."

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

"Why, his coming of age," cried the girl. "I am to go to Laidley Towers

as an honoured guest of the Duchess of Lampshire." She threw back her

head and laughed. "What do you think of that, my friend? The old lady

will be wearing pearls and all complete, in honour of the great day, and

I shall be one of the admiring house party."

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

"Because dear Freddie has told me so," answered the girl. "I don’t

think you’re very bright to-night, Henry. When the young Pooh-ba comes

of age, naturally his devoted maternal parent will sport her glad rags.

Incidentally the tenants are going to present him with a loving cup, or

a baby giraffe or something. You might like to annex that too." She

blew two smoke rings and then laughed.

"Freddie is really rather a dear at times. I don’t think I’ve ever met

anyone who is so nearly an idiot without being one. Still," she

repeated thoughtfully, "he’s rather a dear."

Lakington turned a handle underneath the bath, and the liquid, now clear

and still, commenced to sink rapidly. Fascinated, Hugh watched the

process; in two minutes the bath was empty—a human body had completely

disappeared without leaving a trace. It seemed to him as if he must have

been dreaming, as if the events of the whole night had been part of some

strange jumbled nightmare. And then, having pinched himself to make

sure he was awake, he once more glued his eyes to the open space of the

window.

Lakington was swabbing out the bath with some liquid on the end of a

mop; Peterson, his chin sunk on his chest, was still pacing slowly up

and down; the girl, her neck and shoulders gleaming white in the

electric light, was lighting a second cigarette from the stump of the

first. After a while Lakington finished his cleaning operations and put

on his coat.

"What," he asked curiously, "does he think you are?"

"A charming young girl," answered Irma demurely, "whose father lost his

life in the war, and who at present ekes out a precarious existence in a

government office. At least, that’s what he told Lady Frumpley—she’s

the woman of unassailable virtue. She was profoundly sentimental and

scents a romance, in addition to being a snob and scenting a future

duke, to say nothing of a future duchess. By the mercy of Allah she’s

on a committee with his mother for distributing brown-paper underclothes

to destitute Belgians, and so Freddie wangled an invite for her. _Voilà

tout_."

"Splendid!" said Lakington slowly. "Splendid! Young Laidley comes of

age in about a week, doesn’t he?"

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

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

watch.

"What about bed?" he remarked.

"Not yet," said Peterson, halting suddenly in his walk. "I must see the

Yank before I go to Paris. We’ll have him down here now."

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

"Yes. Give him an injection, Henry—and, by God, we’ll make the fool

sign. Then I can actually take it over to the meeting with me."

He strode to the door, followed by Lakington; and the girl in the chair

stood up and stretched her arms above her head. For a moment or two

Hugh watched her; then he too stood upright and eased his cramped limbs.

"Make the fool sign." The words echoed through his brain, and he stared

thoughtfully at the grey light which showed the approach of dawn. What

was the best thing to do? "Make" with Peterson generally implied

torture if other means failed, and Hugh had no intention of watching any

man tortured. At the same time something of the nature of the diabolical

plot conceived by Peterson was beginning to take a definite shape in his

mind, though many of the most important links were still missing. And

with this knowledge had come the realisation that he was no longer a

free agent. The thing had ceased to be a mere sporting gamble with

himself and a few other chosen spirits matched against a gang of

criminals; it had become—if his surmise was correct—a national affair.

England herself—her very existence—was threatened by one of the vilest

plots ever dreamed of in the brain of man. And then, with a sudden rage

at his own impotence, he realised that even now he had nothing definite

to go on. He _must_ know more; somehow or other he must get to Paris; he

must attend that meeting at the Ritz. How he was going to do it he

hadn’t the faintest idea; the farthest he could get as he stood on the

roof, watching the first faint streaks of orange in the east, was the

definite decision that if Peterson went to Paris, he would go too. And

then a sound from the room below brought him back to his vantage point.

The American was sitting in a chair, and Lakington, with a hypodermic

syringe in his hand, was holding his arm.

He made the injection, and Hugh watched the millionaire. He was still

undecided as to how to act, but for the moment, at any rate, there was

nothing to be done. And he was very curious to hear what Peterson had

to say to the wretched man, who, up to date, had figured so largely in

every round.

After a while the American ceased staring vacantly in front of him, and

passed his hand dazedly over his forehead. Then he half rose from his

chair and stared at the two men sitting facing him. His eyes came round

to the girl, and with a groan he sank back again, plucking feebly with

his hands at his dressing-gown.

"Better, Mr. Potts?" said Peterson suavely.

"I—I——" stammered the other. "Where am I?"

"At The Elms, Godalming, if you wish to know."

"I thought—I thought——" He rose swaying. "What do you want with me?

Damn you!"

"Tush, tush," murmured Peterson. "There is a lady present, Mr. Potts.

And our wants are so simple. Just your signature to a little agreement,

by which in return for certain services you promise to join us in

our—er—labours, in the near future."

"I remember," cried the millionaire. "Now I remember. You swine—you

filthy swine, I refuse ... absolutely."

"The trouble is, my friend, that you are altogether too big an employer

of labour to be allowed to refuse, as I pointed out to you before. You

must be in with us, otherwise you might wreck the scheme. Therefore I

require your signature. I lost it once, unfortunately—but it wasn’t a

very good signature; so perhaps it was all for the best."

"And when you’ve got it," cried the American, "what good will it be to

you? I shall repudiate it."

"Oh no! Mr. Potts," said Peterson with a thoughtful smile; "I can

assure you, you won’t. The distressing malady from which you have

recently been suffering will again have you in its grip. My friend Mr.

Lakington is an expert on that particular illness. It renders you quite

unfit for business."

For a while there was silence, and the millionaire stared round the room

like a trapped animal.

"I refuse!" he cried at last. "It’s an outrage against humanity. You

can do what you like."

"Then we’ll start with a little more thumbscrew," remarked Peterson,

strolling over to the desk and opening a drawer. "An astonishingly

effective implement, as you can see if you look at your thumb." He

stood in front of the quivering man, balancing the instrument in his

hands. "It was under its influence you gave us the first signature,

which we so regrettably lost. I think we’ll try it again...."

The American gave a strangled cry of terror, and then the unexpected

happened. There was a crash as a pane of glass splintered and fell to

the floor close beside Lakington; and with an oath he sprang aside and

looked up.

"Peep-bo," came a well-known voice from the skylight. "Clip him one

over the jaw, Potts, my boy, but don’t you sign."

*CHAPTER VIII*

*IN WHICH HE GOES TO PARIS FOR A NIGHT*

*I*

Drummond had acted on the spur of the moment. It would have been

manifestly impossible for any man, certainly one of his calibre, to have

watched the American being tortured without doing something to try to

help him. At the same time the last thing he had wanted to do was to

give away his presence on the roof. The information he had obtained

that night was of such vital importance that it was absolutely essential

for him to get away with it somehow; and, at the moment, his chances of

so doing did not appear particularly bright. It looked as if it was

only a question of time before they must get him.

But as usual with Drummond, the tighter the corner, the cooler his head.

He watched Lakington dart from the room, followed more slowly by

Peterson, and then occurred one of those strokes of luck on which the

incorrigible soldier always depended. The girl left the room as well.

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

"You intrigue me, ugly one," she remarked, looking up, "intrigue me

vastly. I am now going out to get a really good view of the Kill."

And the next moment Potts was alone. He was staring up at the skylight,

apparently bewildered by the sudden turn of events, and then he heard

the voice of the man above speaking clearly and insistently.

"Go out of the room. Turn to the right. Open the front door. You’ll

see a house through some trees. Go to it. When you get there, stand on

the lawn and call ’Phyllis.’ Do you get me?"

The American nodded dazedly; then he made a great effort to pull himself

together, as the voice continued:

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

With a sigh of relief he saw the millionaire leave the room; then he

straightened himself up, and proceeded to reconnoitre his own position.

There was a bare chance that the American would get through, and if he

did, everything might yet be well. If he didn’t—Hugh shrugged his

shoulders grimly and laughed.

It had become quite light, and after a moment’s indecision Drummond took

a running jump, and caught the ridge of the sloping roof on the side

nearest the road. To stop by the skylight was to be caught like a rat

in a trap, and he would have to take his chance of being shot. After

all, there was a considerable risk in using firearms so near a main

road, where at any time some labourer or other early riser might pass

along. Notoriety was the last thing which Peterson desired, and if it

got about that one of the pastimes at The Elms was potting stray human

beings on the roof, the inquiries might become somewhat embarrassing.

It was as Hugh threw his leg over the top of the roof, and sat

straddle-ways, leaning against a chimney stack, that he got an idea.

From where he was he could not see The Larches, and so he did not know

what luck the American had had. But he realised that it was long odds

against his getting through, and that his chief hope lay in himself.

Wherefore, as has just been said, he got an idea—simple and direct; his

ideas always were. It occurred to him that far too few unbiased people

knew where he was: it further occurred to him that it was a state of

affairs which was likely to continue unless he remedied it himself. And

so, just as Peterson came strolling round a corner of the house followed

by several men and a long ladder, Hugh commenced to sing. He shouted,

he roared at the top of his very powerful voice, and all the time he

watched the men below with a wary eye. He saw Peterson look nervously

over his shoulder towards the road, and urge the men on to greater

efforts, and the gorgeous simplicity of his manoeuvre made Hugh burst

out laughing. Then, once again, his voice rose to its full pitch, as he

greeted the sun with a bellow which scared every rook in the

neighbourhood.

It was just as two labourers came in to investigate the hideous din that

Peterson’s party discovered the ladder was too short by several yards.

Then with great rapidity the audience grew. A passing milkman; two

commercial travellers who had risen with the lark and entrusted

themselves and their samples to a Ford car; a gentleman of slightly

inebriated aspect, whose trousers left much to the imagination; and

finally more farm labourers. Never had such a tit-bit of gossip for the

local pub. been seen before in the neighbourhood; it would furnish a

topic of conversation for weeks to come. And still Hugh sang and

Peterson cursed; and still the audience grew. Then, at last, there came

the police with notebook all complete, and the singer stopped singing to

laugh.

The next moment the laugh froze on his lips. Standing by the skylight,

with his revolver raised, was Lakington, and Hugh knew by the expression

on his face that his finger was trembling on the trigger. Out of view of

the crowd below he did not know of its existence, and, in a flash, Hugh

realised his danger. Somehow Lakington had got up on the roof while the

soldier’s attention had been elsewhere; and now, his face gleaming with

an unholy fury, Lakington was advancing step by step towards him with

the evident intention of shooting him.

"Good morrow, Henry," said Hugh quietly. "I wouldn’t fire if I were

you. We are observed, as they say in melodrama. If you don’t believe

me," his voice grew a little tense, "just wait while I talk to Peterson,

who is at present deep in converse with the village constable and

several farm labourers."

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

advantage.

"I’m sure you wouldn’t like the notoriety attendant upon a funeral,

Henry dear; I’m sure Peterson would just hate it. So, to set your mind

at rest, I’ll tell him you’re here."

It is doubtful whether any action in Hugh Drummond’s life ever cost him

such an effort of will as the turning of his back on the man standing

two yards below him, but he did it apparently without thought. He gave

one last glance at the face convulsed with rage, and then with a smile

he looked down at the crowd below.

"Peterson," he called out affably, "there’s a pal of yours up here—dear

old Henry. And he’s very annoyed at my concert. Would you just speak

to him, or would you like me to be more explicit? He is so annoyed that

there might be an accident at any moment, and I see that the police have

arrived. So—er——"

Even at that distance he could see Peterson’s eyes of fury, and he

chuckled softly to himself. He had the whole gang absolutely at his

mercy, and the situation appealed irresistibly to his sense of humour.

But when the leader spoke, his voice was as suave as ever: the eternal

cigar glowed evenly at its normal rate.

"Are you up on the roof, Lakington?" The words came clearly through the

still summer air.

"Your turn, Henry," said Drummond. "Prompter’s voice off—’Yes, dear

Peterson, I am here, even upon the roof, with a liver of hideous

aspect.’"

For one moment he thought he had gone too far, and that Lakington, in

his blind fury, would shoot him then and there and chance the

consequences. But with a mighty effort the man controlled himself, and

his voice, when he answered, was calm.

"Yes, I’m here. What’s the matter?"

"Nothing," cried Peterson, "but we’ve got quite a large and appreciative

audience down here, attracted by our friend’s charming concert, and I’ve

just sent for a large ladder by which he can come down and join us. So

there is nothing that you can do—nothing." He repeated the word with a

faint emphasis, and Hugh smiled genially.

"Isn’t he wonderful, Henry?" he murmured. "Thinks of everything; staff

work marvellous. But you nearly had a bad lapse then, didn’t you? It

really would have been embarrassing for you if my corpse had deposited

itself with a dull thud on the corns of the police."

"I’m interested in quite a number of things, Captain Drummond," said

Lakington slowly, "but they all count as nothing beside one—getting even

with you. And when I do..." He dropped the revolver into his coat

pocket, and stood motionless, staring at the soldier.

"Ah! when!" mocked Drummond. "There have been so many ’whens,’ Henry

dear. Somehow I don’t think you can be very clever. Don’t go—I’m so

enjoying my heart-to-heart talk. Besides, I wanted to tell you the

story about the girl, the soap, and the bath. That’s to say, if the

question of baths isn’t too delicate."

Lakington paused as he got to the skylight.

"I have a variety of liquids for bathing people in," he remarked. "The

best are those I use when the patient is alive."

The next instant he opened a door in the skylight which Hugh had failed

to discover during the night, and, climbing down a ladder inside the

room, disappeared from view.

"Hullo, old bean!" A cheerful shout from the ground made Hugh look

down. There, ranged round Peterson, in an effective group, were Peter

Darrell, Algy Longworth, and Jerry Seymour. "Birds’-nestin’?"

"Peter, old soul," cried Hugh joyfully, "I never thought the day would

come when I should be pleased to see your face, but it has! For

Heaven’s sake get a move on with that blinking ladder; I’m getting

cramp."

"Ted and his pal, Hugh, have toddled off in your car," said Peter, "so

that only leaves us four and Toby."

For a moment Hugh stared at him blankly, while he did some rapid mental

arithmetic. He even neglected to descend at once by the ladder which

had at last been placed in position. "Ted and us four and Toby" made

six—and six was the strength of the party as it had arrived. Adding the

pal made seven; so who the deuce was the pal?

The matter was settled just as he reached the ground. Lakington,

wild-eyed and almost incoherent, rushed from the house, and, drawing

Peterson on one side, spoke rapidly in a whisper.

"It’s all right," muttered Algy rapidly. "They’re half-way to London by

now, and going like hell if I know Ted."

It was then that Hugh started to laugh. He laughed till the tears

poured down his face, and Peterson’s livid face of fury made him laugh

still more.

"Oh you priceless pair!" he sobbed. "Right under your bally noses.

Stole away! Yoicks!" There was another interlude for further hilarity.

"Give it up, you two old dears, and take to knitting. Miss one and purl

three, Henry my boy, and Carl in a nightcap can pick up the stitches you

drop." He took out his cigarette-case. "Well, _au revoir_. Doubtless

we shall meet again quite soon. And, above all, Carl, don’t do anything

in Paris which you would be ashamed of my knowing."

With a friendly wave he turned on his heel and strolled off, followed by

the other three. The humour of the situation was irresistible; the

absolute powerlessness of the whole assembled gang to lift a finger to

stop them in front of the audience, which as yet showed no sign of

departing, tickled him to death. In fact, the last thing Hugh saw,

before a corner of the house hid them from sight, was the majesty of the

law moistening his indelible pencil in the time-honoured method, and

advancing on Peterson with his notebook at the ready.

"One brief interlude, my dear old warriors," announced Hugh, "and then

we must get gay. Where’s Toby?"

"Having his breakfast with your girl," chuckled Algy. "We thought we’d

better leave someone on guard, and she seemed to love him best."

"Repulsive hound!" cried Hugh. "Incidentally, boys, how did you manage

to roll up this morning?"

"We all bedded down at your girl’s place last night," said Peter, "and

then this morning, who should come and sing carols outside but our one

and only Potts. Then we heard your deafening din on the roof, and blew

along."

"Splendid!" remarked Hugh, rubbing his hands together, "simply splendid!

Though I wish you’d been there to help with that damned gorilla."

"Help with what?" spluttered Jerry Seymour.

"Gorilla, old dear," returned Hugh, unmoved. "A docile little creature

I had to kill."

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

car."

*II*

"Go away," said Toby, looking up as the door opened and Hugh strolled

in. "Your presence is unnecessary and uncalled for, and we’re not

pleased. Are we, Miss Benton?"

"Can you bear him, Phyllis?" remarked Hugh, with a grin. "I mean lying

about the house all day?"

"What’s the notion, old son?" Toby Sinclair stood up, looking slightly

puzzled.

"I want you to stop here, Toby," said Hugh, "and not let Miss Benton out

of your sight. Also keep your eye skinned on The Elms, and let me know

by ’phone to Half Moon Street anything that happens. Do you get me?"

"I get you," answered the other, "but I say, Hugh, can’t I do something

a bit more active? I mean, of course, there’s nothing I’d like better

than to..." He broke off in mild confusion as Phyllis Benton laughed

merrily.

"Do something more active!" echoed Hugh. "You bet your life, old boy.

A rapid one-step out of the room. You’re far too young for what’s

coming now."

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

"I shall have to listen at the keyhole," he announced, "and thereby get

earache. You people have no consideration whatever."

"I’ve got five minutes, little girl," whispered Hugh, taking her into

his arms as the door closed.

"Five minutes of Heaven.... By Jove! But you look great—simply great."

The girl smiled up at him.

"It strikes me, Master Hugh, that you have failed to remove your beard

this morning."

Hugh grinned.

"Quite right, kid. They omitted to bring me my shaving water on the

roof."

After a considerable interval, in which trifles such as beards mattered

not, she smoothed her hair and sat down on the arm of a chair.

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

"Quite a crowded night." With a reminiscent smile he lit a cigarette.

And then quite briefly he told her of the events of the past twelve

hours, being, as is the manner of a man, more interested in watching the

sweet colour which stained her cheeks from time to time, and noticing

her quickened breathing when he told her of his fight with the gorilla,

and his ascent of the murderous staircase. To him it was all over now

and finished, but to the girl who sat listening to the short,

half-clipped sentences, each one spoken with a laugh and a jest, there

came suddenly the full realisation of what this man was doing for her.

It was she who had been the cause of his running all these risks; it was

her letter that he had answered. Now she felt that if one hair of his

head was touched, she would never forgive herself.

And so when he had finished, and pitched the stump of his cigarette into

the grate, falteringly she tried to dissuade him. With her hands on his

coat, and her big eyes misty with her fears for him, she begged him to

give it all up. And even as she spoke, she gloried in the fact that she

knew it was quite useless. Which made her plead all the harder, as is

the way of a woman with her man.

And then, after a while, her voice died away, and she fell silent. He

was smiling, and so, perforce, she had to smile too. Only their eyes

spoke those things which no human being may put into words. And so, for

a time, they stood....

Then, quite suddenly, he bent and kissed her.

"I must go, little girl," he whispered. "I’ve got to be in Paris

to-night. Take care of yourself."

The next moment he was gone.

"For God’s sake take care of her, Toby!" he remarked to that worthy,

whom he found sitting disconsolately by the front door. "Those

blighters are the limit."

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

He watched the tall figure stride rapidly to the waiting car, the

occupants of which were simulating sleep as a mild protest at the delay;

then, with a smile, he rose and joined the girl.

"Some lad," he remarked. "And if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss

Benton, I wouldn’t change him if I was you. Unless, of course," he

added, as an afterthought, "you’d prefer me!"

*III*

"Have you got him all right, Ted?" Hugh flung the question eagerly at

Ted Jerningham, who was lounging in a chair at Half Moon Street, with

his feet on the mantelpiece.

"I’ve got him right enough," answered that worthy, "but he don’t strike

me as being Number One value. He’s gone off the boil. Become quite

gugga again." He stood up and stretched himself. "Your worthy servant

is with him, making hoarse noises to comfort him."

"Hell!" said Hugh, "I thought we might get something out of him. I’ll

go and have a look at the bird. Beer in the corner, boys, if you want

it."

He left the room, and went along the passage to inspect the American.

Unfortunately Jerningham was only too right: the effects of last night’s

injection had worn off completely, and the wretched man was sitting

motionless in a chair, staring dazedly in front of him.

"’Opeless, sir," remarked Denny, rising to his feet as Hugh came into

the room. "He thinks this ’ere meat juice is poison, and he won’t touch

it."

"All right, Denny," said Drummond. "Leave the poor blighter alone.

We’ve got him back, and that’s something. Has your wife told you about

her little adventure?"

His servant coughed deprecatingly.

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

"Then she’s one up on me, Denny, for I bear lots of it towards that gang

of swine." Thoughtfully he stood in front of the millionaire, trying in

vain to catch some gleam of sense in the vacant eyes. "Look at that

poor devil; isn’t that enough by itself to make one want to kill the

whole crowd?" He turned on his heel abruptly, and opened the door.

"Try and get him to eat that if you can."

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

"Dam’ all, as they say in the vernacular. Have you blighters finished

the beer?"

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

Hugh examined the head on his glass with a professional eye before

replying.

"Two things," he murmured at length, "fairly leap to the eye. The first

is to get Potts away to a place of safety; the second is to get over to

Paris."

"Well, let’s get gay over the first, as a kick-off," said Jerningham,

rising. "There’s a car outside the door; there is England at our

disposal. We’ll take him away; you pad the hoof to Victoria and catch

the boat-train."

"It sounds too easy," remarked Hugh. "Have a look out of the window,

Ted, and you’ll see a man frightfully busy doing nothing not far from

the door. You will also see a racing-car just across the street. Put a

wet compress on your head, and connect the two."

A gloomy silence settled on the assembly, to be broken by Jerry Seymour

suddenly waking up with a start.

"I’ve got the stomach-ache," he announced proudly.

His listeners gazed at him unmoved.

"You shouldn’t eat so fast," remarked Algy severely. "And you certainly

oughtn’t to drink that beer."

To avert the disaster he immediately consumed it himself, but Jerry was

too engrossed with his brainstorm to notice.

"I’ve got the stomach-ache," he repeated, "and she ought to be ready by

now. In fact I know she is. My last crash wasn’t a bad one. What about

it?"

"You mean...?" said Hugh, staring at him.

"I mean," answered Jerry, "that I’ll go off to the aerodrome now, and

get her ready. Bring Potts along in half an hour, and I’ll take him to

the Governor’s place in Norfolk. Then I’ll take you over to Paris."

"Great!—simply great!" With a report like a gun Hugh hit the speaker on

the back, inadvertently knocking him down. Then an idea struck him.

"Not your place, Jerry; they’ll draw that at once. Take him to Ted’s;

Lady Jerningham won’t mind, will she, old boy?"

"The mater mind?" Ted laughed. "Good Lord, no; she gave up minding

anything years ago."

"Right!" said Hugh. "Off you get, Jerry. By the way, how many will she

hold?"

"Two beside me," spluttered the proud proprietor of the Stomach-ache.

"And I wish you’d reserve your endearments for people of your own size,

you great, fat, hulking monstrosity."

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

"Verily—an upheaval in the grey matter," he cried, carefully refilling

his glass. "Now, boys, what about Paris?"

"Is it necessary to go at all?" asked Peter.

"It wouldn’t have been if the Yank had been sane," answered Drummond.

"As it is, I guess I’ve got to. There’s something going on, young

fellahs, which is big; and I can’t help thinking one might get some

useful information from the meeting at the Ritz to-night. Why is

Peterson hand-in-glove with a wild-eyed, ragged-trousered crowd of

revolutionaries? Can you tell me that? If so, I won’t go."

"The great point is whether you’ll find out, even if you do," returned

Peter. "The man’s not going to stand in the hall and shout it through a

megaphone."

"Which is where Ted comes in," said Hugh affably. "Does not the

Stomach-ache hold two?"

"My dear man," cried Jerningham, "I’m dining with a perfectly priceless

she to-night!"

"Oh, no, you’re not, my lad. You’re going to do some amateur acting in

Paris. Disguised as a waiter, or a chambermaid, or a coffee machine or

something—you will discover secrets."

"But good heavens, Hugh!" Jerningham waved both hands in feeble

protest.

"Don’t worry me," cried Drummond, "don’t worry me; it’s only a vague

outline, and you’ll look great as a bath-sponge. There’s the

telephone.... Hullo!" He picked off the receiver. "Speaking. Is that

you, Toby? Oh! The Rolls has gone, has it? With Peterson inside.

Good! So long, old dear."

He turned to the others.

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

"Conclusively," murmured Algy mildly. "Any man who leaves a house in a

motor-car always goes to Paris."

"Dry up!" roared Hugh. "Was your late military education so utterly

lacking that you have forgotten the elementary precept of putting

yourself in the enemy’s place? If I was Peterson, and I wanted to go to

Paris, do you suppose that fifty people knowing about it would prevent

me? You’re a fool, Algy—and leave me some more beer."

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

continued:

"Now listen—all of you. Ted—off you go, and raise a complete waiter’s

outfit, dicky and all complete. Peter—you come with me to the

aerodrome, and afterwards look up Mullings, at 13 Green Street, Hoxton,

and tell him to get in touch with at least fifty demobilised soldiers

who are on for a scrap. Algy—you hold the fort here, and don’t get drunk

on my ale. Peter will join you, when he’s finished with Mullings, and

he’s not to get drunk either. Are you all on?"

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

"It’ll play an oratorio before we’re through with this job, old son,"

laughed Hugh. "Let’s get gay with Potts."

Ten minutes later he was at the wheel of his car with Darrell and the

millionaire behind. Algy, protesting vigorously at being, as he said,

left out of it, was endeavouring to console himself by making out how

much he would have won if he’d followed his infallible system of making

money on the turf; Jerningham was wandering along Piccadilly anxiously

wondering at what shop he could possibly ask for a dicky, and preserve

his hitherto blameless reputation. But Hugh seemed in no great hurry to

start. A whimsical smile was on his face, as out of the corner of his

eye he watched the man who had been busy doing nothing feverishly trying

to crank his car, which, after the manner of the brutes, had seized that

moment to jib.

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

Hugh laughed.

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

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

"A warm day," he murmured. "Don’t hurry; we’ll wait for you." Then,

while the man, utterly taken aback, stared at him speechlessly, he

strolled back to his own car.

"Hugh—you’re mad, quite mad," said Peter resignedly, as with a

spluttering roar the other car started, but Hugh still smiled. On the

way to the aerodrome he stopped twice after a block in the traffic to

make quite sure that the pursuer should have no chance of losing him,

and, by the time they were clear of the traffic and spinning towards

their destination, the gentleman in the car behind fully agreed with

Darrell.

At first he had expected some trick, being a person of tortuous brain;

but as time went on, and nothing unexpected happened, he became

reassured. His orders were to follow the millionaire, and inform

headquarters where he was taken to. And assuredly at the moment it

seemed easy money. In fact, he even went so far as to hum gently to

himself, after he had put a hand in his pocket to make sure his

automatic revolver was still there.

Then, quite suddenly, the humming stopped and he frowned. The car in

front had swung off the road, and turned through the entrance of a small

aerodrome. It was a complication which had not entered his mind, and

with a curse he pulled up his car just short of the gates. What the

devil was he to do now? Most assuredly he could not pursue an aeroplane

on a motor—even a racer. Blindly, without thinking, he did the first

thing that came into his head. He left his car standing where it was,

and followed the others into the aerodrome on foot. Perhaps he could

find out something from one of the mechanics; someone might be able to

tell him where the ’plane was going.

There she was with the car beside her, and already the millionaire was

being strapped into his seat. Drummond was talking to the pilot, and the

sleuth, full of eagerness, accosted a passing mechanic.

"Can you tell me where that aeroplane is going to?" he asked

ingratiatingly.

It was perhaps unfortunate that the said mechanic had just had a large

spanner dropped on his toe, and his answer was not helpful. It was an

education in one way, and at any other time the pursuer would have

treated it with the respect it deserved. But, as it was, it was not of

great value, which made it the more unfortunate that Peter Darrell

should have chosen that moment to look round. And all he saw was the

mechanic talking earnestly to the sleuth.... Whereupon he talked

earnestly to Drummond....

In thinking it over after, that unhappy man, whose job had seemed so

easy, found it difficult to say exactly what happened. All of a sudden

he found himself surrounded by people—all very affable and most

conversational. It took him quite five minutes to get back to his car,

and by that time the ’plane was a speck in the west. Drummond was

standing by the gates when he got there, with a look of profound

surprise on his face.

"One I have seen often," remarked the soldier; "two sometimes; three

rarely; four never. Fancy four punctures—all at the same time! Dear,

dear! I positively insist on giving you a lift."

He felt himself irresistibly propelled towards Drummond’s car, with only

time for a fleeting glimpse at his own four flat tyres, and almost

before he realised it they were away. After a few minutes, when he had

recovered from his surprise, his hand went instinctively to his pocket,

to find the revolver had gone. And it was then that the man he had

thought mad laughed gently.

"Didn’t know I was once a pickpocket, did you?" he remarked affably. "A

handy little gun too. Is it all right, Peter?"

"All safe," came a voice from behind.

"Then dot him one!"

The sleuth had a fleeting vision of stars of all colours which danced

before his eyes, coupled with a stunning blow on the back of the head.

Vaguely he realised the car was pulling up—then blackness. It was not

till four hours later that a passing labourer, having pulled him out

from a not over-dry ditch, laid him out to cool. And incidentally, with

his further sphere of usefulness we are not concerned....

*IV*

"My dear fellow, I told you we’d get here somehow." Hugh Drummond

stretched his legs luxuriously. "The fact that it was necessary to

crash your blinking bus in a stray field in order to avoid their

footling passport regulations is absolutely immaterial. The only

damage is a dent in Ted’s dicky, but all the best waiters have that.

They smear it with soup to show their energy.... My God! Here’s

another of them."

A Frenchman was advancing towards them down the stately vestibule of the

Ritz waving protesting hands. He addressed himself in a voluble

crescendo to Drummond, who rose and bowed deeply. His knowledge of

French was microscopic, but such trifles were made to be overcome.

"Mais oui, Monsieur mon Colonel," he remarked affably, when the gendarme

paused for lack of breath, "vous comprenez que notre machine avait

crashé dans un field des turnipes. Nous avons lost notre direction.

Nous sommes hittés dans l’estomacs.... Comme ci, comme ca.... Vous

comprenez, n’est-ce-pas, mon Colonel?" He turned fiercely on Jerry.

"Shut up, you damn fool; don’t laugh!"

"Mais, messieurs, vous n’avez pas des passeports." The little man, torn

between gratification at his rapid promotion and horror at such an

appalling breach of regulations, shot up and down like an agitated

semaphore. "Vous comprenez; c’est defendu d’arriver en Paris sans des

passeports?"

"Parfaitement, mon Colonel," continued Hugh, unmoved. "Mais vous

comprenez que nous avons crashé dans un field des turnipes—non; des

rognons.... What the hell are you laughing at, Jerry?"

"Oignons, old boy," spluttered the latter. "Rognons are kidneys."

"What the dickens does that matter?" demanded Hugh. "Vous comprenez,

mon Colonel, n’est-ce-pas? Vive la France! En-bas les Boches! Nous

avons crashé."

The gendarme shrugged his shoulders with a hopeless gesture, and seemed

on the point of bursting into tears. Of course this large Englishman

was mad; why otherwise should he spit in the kidneys? And that is what

he continued to state was his form of amusement. Truly an insane race,

and yet he had fought in the brigade next to them near Montauban in July

’16—and he had liked them—those mad Tommies. Moreover, this large,

imperturbable man, with the charming smile, showed a proper appreciation

of his merits—an appreciation not shared up to the present, regrettable

to state, by his own superiors. Colonel—parbleu; eh bien! Pourquoi non?

...

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

situation himself.

"Votre nom, M’sieur, s’il vous plait?"

"Undoubtedly, mon Colonel," remarked Hugh vaguely. "Nous crashons

dans——"

"Ah! Mais oui, mais oui, M’sieur." The little man danced in his

agitation. "Vous m’avez déjà dit que vous avez craché dans les rognons,

mais je desiré votre nom."

"He wants your name, old dear," murmured Jerry weakly.

"Oh, does he?" Hugh beamed on the gendarme. "You priceless little bird!

My name is Captain Hugh Drummond."

And as he spoke, a man sitting close by, who had been an amused onlooker

of the whole scene, stiffened suddenly in his chair and stared hard at

Hugh. It was only for a second, and then he was once more merely the

politely interested spectator. But Hugh had seen that quick look,

though he gave no sign; and when at last the Frenchman departed,

apparently satisfied, he leaned over and spoke to Jerry.

"See that man with the suit of reach-me-downs and the cigar," he

remarked. "He’s in this game; I’m just wondering on which side."

He was not left long in doubt, for barely had the swing doors closed

behind the gendarme, when the man in question rose and came over to him.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, in a pronounced nasal twang, "but I heard you

say you were Captain Hugh Drummond. I guess you’re one of the men I’ve

come across the water to see. My card."

Hugh glanced at the pasteboard languidly.

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

"See here, Captain," went on the other, suddenly displaying a badge

hidden under his coat. "That’ll put you wise."

"Far from it, Mr. Green. What’s it the prize for—throwing cards into a

hat?"

The American laughed.

"I guess I’ve sort of taken to you," he remarked. "You’re real fresh.

That badge is the badge of the police force of the United States of

America; and that same force is humming some at the moment." He sat

down beside Hugh, and bent forward confidentially. "There’s a prominent

citizen of New York City been mislaid, Captain; and, from information

we’ve got, we reckon you know quite a lot about his whereabouts."

Hugh pulled out his cigarette-case.

"Turkish this side—Virginian that. Ah! But I see you’re smoking."

With great deliberation he selected one himself, and lit it. "You were

saying, Mr. Green?"

The detective stared at him thoughtfully; at the moment he was not quite

certain how to tackle this large and self-possessed young man.

"Might I ask why you’re over here?" he asked at length, deciding to feel

his way.

"The air is free to everyone, Mr. Green. As long as you get your share

to breathe, you can ask anything you like."

The American laughed again.

"I guess I’ll put my cards down," he said, with sudden decision. "What

about Hiram C. Potts?"

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

"You’ve heard of him, Captain?"

"Few people have not."

"Yes—but you’ve met him recently," said the detective, leaning forward.

"You know where he is, and"—he tapped Hugh on the knee impressively—"I

want him. I want Hiram C. Potts like a man wants a drink in a dry

state. I want to take him back in cottonwool to his wife and daughters.

That’s why I’m over this side, Captain, just for that one purpose."

"There seem to me to be a considerable number of people wandering around

who share your opinion about Mr. Potts," drawled Hugh. "He must be a

popular sort of cove."

"Popular ain’t the word for it, Captain," said the other. "Have you got

him now?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," answered Hugh, beckoning to a passing

waiter. "Three Martinis."

"Where is he?" snapped the detective eagerly.

Hugh laughed.

"Being wrapped up in cottonwool by somebody else’s wife and daughters.

You were a little too quick, Mr. Green; you may be all you say—on the

other hand, you may not. And these days I trust no one."

The American nodded his head in approval.

"Quite right," he remarked. "My motto—and yet I’m going to trust you.

Weeks ago we heard things on the other side, through certain channels,

as to a show which was on the rails over here. It was a bit vague, and

there were big men in it; but at the time it was no concern of ours.

You run your own worries, Captain, over this side."

Hugh nodded.

"Go on," he said curtly.

"Then Hiram Potts got mixed up in it; exactly how, we weren’t wise to.

But it was enough to bring me over here. Two days ago I got this

cable." He produced a bundle of papers, and handed one to Drummond.

"It’s in cipher, as you see; I’ve put the translation underneath."

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

point:

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

He glanced up at the American, who drained his cocktail with the air of

a man who is satisfied with life.

"Captain Hugh Drummond, of Half Moon Street, London, is my man," he

chuckled. "Well, Captain, what about it now? Will you tell me why

you’ve come to Paris? I guess it’s something to do with the business

I’m on."

For a few moments Hugh did not reply, and the American seemed in no

hurry for an answer. Some early arrivals for dinner sauntered through

the lounge, and Drummond watched them idly as they passed. The American

detective certainly seemed all right, but ... Casually, his glance

rested on a man sitting just opposite, reading the paper. He took in

the short, dark beard—the immaculate, though slightly foreign evening

clothes; evidently a wealthy Frenchman giving a dinner party in the

restaurant by the way the head waiter was hovering around. And then

suddenly his eyes narrowed, and he sat motionless.

"Are you interested in the psychology of gambling, Mr. Green?" he

remarked, turning to the somewhat astonished American. "Some people

cannot control their eyes or their mouth if the stakes are big; others

cannot control their hands. For instance, the gentleman opposite. Does

anything strike you particularly with regard to him?"

The detective glanced across the lounge.

"He seems to like hitting his knee with his left hand," he said, after a

short inspection.

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

*CHAPTER IX*

*IN WHICH HE HAS A NEAR SHAVE*

*I*

"Captain, you have me guessing." The American bit the end off another

cigar, and leaned back in his chair. "You say that swell Frenchman with

the waiters hovering about like fleas round a dog’s tail is the reason

you came to Paris. Is he kind of friendly with Hiram C. Potts?"

Drummond laughed.

"The first time I met Mr. Potts," he remarked, "that swell Frenchman was

just preparing to put a thumbscrew on his second thumb."

"Second?" The detective looked up quickly.

"The first had been treated earlier in the evening," answered Drummond

quietly. "It was then that I removed your millionaire pal."

The other lit his cigar deliberately.

"Say, Captain," he murmured, "you ain’t pulling my leg by any chance,

are you?"

"I am not," said Drummond shortly. "I was told, before I met him, that

the gentleman over there was one of the boys.... He is, most

distinctly. In fact, though up to date such matters have not been much

in my line, I should put him down as a sort of super-criminal. I wonder

what name he is passing under here?"

The American ceased pulling at his cigar.

"Do they vary?"

"In England he is clean-shaven, possesses a daughter, and answers to

Carl Peterson. As he is at present I should never have known him, but

for that little trick of his."

"Possesses a daughter!" For the first time the detective displayed

traces of excitement. "Holy Smoke! It can’t be him!"

"Who?" demanded Drummond.

But the other did not answer. Out of the corner of his eye he was

watching three men who had just joined the subject of their talk, and on

his face was a dawning amazement. He waited till the whole party had

gone into the restaurant, then, throwing aside his caution, he turned

excitedly on Drummond.

"Are you certain," he cried, "that that’s the man who has been monkeying

with Potts?"

"Absolutely," said Hugh. "He recognised me; whether he thinks I

recognised him or not, I don’t know."

"Then what," remarked the detective, "is he doing here dining with

Hocking, our cotton trust man; with Steinemann, the German coal man; and

with that other guy whose face is familiar, but whose name I can’t

place? Two of ’em at any rate, Captain, have got more millions than

we’re ever likely to have thousands."

Hugh stared at the American.

"Last night," he said slowly, "he was foregathering with a crowd of the

most atrocious ragged-trousered revolutionaries it’s ever been my luck

to run up against."

"We’re in it, Captain, right in the middle of it," cried the detective,

slapping his leg. "I’ll eat my hat if that Frenchman isn’t Franklyn—or

Libstein—or Baron Darott—or any other of the blamed names he calls

himself. He’s the biggest proposition we’ve ever been up against on

this little old earth, and he’s done us every time. He never commits

himself, and if he does, he always covers his tracks. He’s a genius;

he’s the goods. Gee!" he whistled gently under his breath. "If we

could only lay him by the heels."

For a while he stared in front of him, lost in his dream of pleasant

anticipation; then, with a short laugh, he pulled himself together.

"Quite a few people have thought the same, Captain," he remarked, "and

there he is—still drinking high-balls. You say he was with a crowd of

revolutionaries last night. What do you mean exactly?"

"Bolshevists, Anarchists, members of the

Do-no-work-and-have-all-the-money Brigade," answered Hugh. "But excuse

me a moment. Waiter."

A man who had been hovering round came up promptly.

"Four of ’em, Ted," said Hugh in a rapid undertone. "Frenchman with a

beard, a Yank, and two Boches. Do your best."

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

He disappeared unobtrusively into the restaurant, and Hugh turned with a

laugh to the American, who was staring at him in amazement.

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

"Ted Jerningham—son of Sir Patrick Jerningham, Bart., and Lady

Jerningham, of Jerningham Hall, Rutland, England," answered Hugh, still

grinning. "We may be crude in our methods, Mr. Green, but you must admit

we do our best. Incidentally, if you want to know, your friend Mr.

Potts is at present tucked between the sheets at that very house. He

went there by aeroplane this morning." He waved a hand towards Jerry.

"He was the pilot."

"Travelled like a bird, and sucked up a plate of meat-juice at the end,"

announced that worthy, removing his eyes with difficulty from a recently

arrived fairy opposite. "Who says that’s nothing, Hugh: the filly

across the road there, with that bangle affair round her knee?"

"I must apologise for him, Mr. Green," remarked Hugh. "He has only

recently left school, and knows no better."

But the American was shaking his head a little dazedly.

"Crude!" he murmured, "crude! If you and your pals, Captain, are ever

out of a job, the New York police is yours for the asking." He smoked

for a few moments in silence, and then, with a quick hunch of his

shoulders, he turned to Drummond. "I guess there’ll be time to throw

bouquets after," he remarked. "We’ve got to get busy on what your

friend Peterson’s little worry is; we’ve then got to stop it—some old

how. Now, does nothing sort of strike you?" He looked keenly at the

soldier.

"Revolutionaries, Bolshevists, paid agitators last night: international

financiers this evening. Why, the broad outline of the plan is as plain

as the nose on your face; and it’s just the sort of game that man would

love...." The detective stared thoughtfully at the end of his cigar,

and a look of comprehension began to dawn on Hugh’s face.

"Great Scott! Mr. Green," he said, "I’m beginning to get you. What was

defeating me was, why two men like Peterson and Lakington should be

mixed up with last night’s crowd."

"Lakington! Who’s Lakington?" asked the other quickly.

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

"Well, we’ll leave him out for the moment," said the American. "Doesn’t

it strike you that there are quite a number of people in this world who

would benefit if England became a sort of second Russia? That such a

thing would be worth money—big money? That such a thing would be worth

paying through the nose for? It would have to be done properly; your

small strike here, and your small strike there, ain’t no manner of use.

One gigantic syndicalist strike all over your country—that’s what

Peterson’s playing for, I’ll stake my bottom dollar. How he’s doing it

is another matter. But he’s in with the big financiers: and he’s using

the tub-thumping Bolshies as tools. Gad! It’s a big scheme"—he puffed

twice at his cigar—"a durned big scheme. Your little old country,

Captain, is, saving one, the finest on God’s earth; but she’s in a funny

mood. She’s sick, like most of us are; maybe she’s a little bit sicker

than a good many people think. But I reckon Peterson’s cure won’t do

any manner of good, excepting to himself and those blamed capitalists

who are putting up the dollars."

"Then where the devil does Potts come in?" said Hugh, who had listened

intently to every word the American had said. "And the Duchess of

Lampshire’s pearls?"

"Pearls!" began the American, when the restaurant door opened suddenly

and Ted Jerningham emerged. He seemed to be in a hurry, and Hugh half

rose in his chair. Then he sat back again, as with miraculous rapidity

a crowd of infuriated head waiters and other great ones appeared from

nowhere and surrounded Jerningham.

Undoubtedly this was not the way for a waiter to leave the hotel—even if

he had just been discovered as an impostor and sacked on the spot. And

undoubtedly if he had been a waiter, this large body of scandalised

beings would have removed him expeditiously through some secret

buttery-hatch, and dropped him on the pavement out of a back entrance.

But not being a waiter, he continued to advance, while his entourage,

torn between rage at his effrontery and horror at the thought of a

scene, followed in his wake.

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

particular:

"You’re spotted. Look out. Ledger at Godalming."

Then, engulfed once more in the crowd, he continued his majestic

progress, and finally disappeared a little abruptly from view.

"Cryptic," murmured the American, "but some lad. Gee! He had that

bunch guessing."

"The ledger at Godalming," said Hugh thoughtfully. "I watched Peterson,

through the skylight last night, getting gay with that ledger. I’m

thinking we’ll have to look inside it, Mr. Green."

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

had happened.

"Mon Dieu, M’sieur," cried the waiter despairingly. "’E vas an impostor,

n’est-ce-pas—un scélerat; ’e upset ze fish all over ze shirt-front of

Monsieur le Comte."

"Was that the gentleman with the short beard, dining with three others?"

asked Drummond gravely.

"Mais oui, M’sieur. He dine here always if ’e is in Paris—does le Comte

de Guy. Oh! Mon Dieu! C’est terrible!"

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

shook silently.

"Dear old Ted," he murmured, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I knew

he’d keep his end up." Then he stood up. "What about a little dinner

at Maxim’s? I’m thinking we’ve found out all we’re likely to find,

until we can get to that ledger. And thanks to your knowing those

birds, Mr. Green, our trip to Paris has been of considerable value."

The American nodded.

"I guess I’m on," he remarked slowly; "but, if you take my advice,

Captain, you’ll look nippy to-night. I wouldn’t linger around corners

admiring the mud. Things kind o’ happen at corners."

*II*

But on this particular evening the detective proved wrong. They reached

Maxim’s without mishap, they enjoyed an excellent dinner, during which

the American showed himself to be a born conversationalist, as well as a

shrewd man of the world. And over the coffee and liqueurs Hugh gave him

a brief outline of what had taken place since he first got mixed up in

the affair. The American listened in silence, though amazement shone on

his face as the story proceeded. The episode of the disappearing body

especially seemed to tickle his fancy, but even over that he made no

remark. Only when Hugh had finished, and early arrivals for supper were

beginning to fill the restaurant, did he sum up the matter as he saw it.

"A tough proposition, Captain—damned tough. Potts is our biggest

shipping man, but where he comes on the picture at that moment has me

beat. As for the old girl’s jewels, they don’t seem to fit in at all.

All we can do is to put our noses inside that ledger, and see the book

of the words. It’ll sure help some."

And as Hugh switched off the electric light in his bedroom, having first

seen that his torch was ready to hand in case of emergency, he was

thinking of the detective’s words. Getting hold of the ledger was not

going to be easy—far from it; but the excitement of the chase had fairly

obsessed him by now. He lay in bed, turning over in his mind every

possible and impossible scheme by which he could get into the secret

centre room at The Elms. He knew the safe the ledger was kept in: but

safes are awkward propositions for the ordinary mortal to tackle.

Anyway, it wasn’t a thing which could be done in a minute’s visit; he

would have to manage at least a quarter or half an hour’s undisturbed

search, the thought of which, with his knowledge of the habits of the

household, almost made him laugh out loud. And, at that moment, a fly

pinged past his head....

He felt singularly wideawake, and, after a while, he gave up attempting

to go to sleep. The new development which had come to light that

evening was uppermost in his thoughts; and, as he lay there, covered

only with a sheet, for the night was hot, the whole vile scheme unfolded

itself before his imagination. The American was right in his main

idea—of that he had no doubt; and in his mind’s eye he saw the great

crowds of idle, foolish men led by a few hot-headed visionaries and paid

blackguards to their so-called Utopia. Starvation, misery, ruin, utter

and complete, lurked in his mental picture; spectres disguised as great

ideals, but grinning sardonically under their masks. And once again he

seemed to hear the toc-toc of machine-guns, as he had heard them night

after night during the years gone by. But this time they were mounted

on the pavement of the towns of England, and the swish of the bullets,

which had swept like swarms of cockchafers over No Man’s Land, now

whistled down the streets between rows of squalid houses.... And once

again a fly pinged past his head.

With a gesture of annoyance he waved his arm. It was hot—insufferably

hot, and he was beginning to regret that he had followed the earnest

advice of the American to sleep with his windows shut and bolted. What

on earth could Peterson do to him in a room at the Ritz? But he had

promised the detective, and there it was—curtains drawn, window bolted,

door locked. Moreover, and he smiled grimly to himself as he remembered

it, he had even gone so far as to emulate the hysterical maiden lady of

fiction and peer under the bed....

The next moment the smile ceased abruptly, and he lay rigid, with every

nerve alert. Something had moved in the room....

It had only been a tiny movement, more like the sudden creak of a piece

of furniture than anything else—but it was not quite like it. A gentle,

slithering sound had preceded the creak; the sound such as a man would

make who, with infinite precaution against making a noise, was moving in

a dark room; a stealthy, uncanny noise. Hugh peered into the blackness

tensely. After the first moment of surprise his brain was quite cool.

He had looked under the bed, he had hung his coat in the cupboard, and

save for those two obvious places there was no cover for a cat. And

yet, with the sort of sixth sense that four years of war had given him,

he knew that noise had been made by some human agency. Human! The

thought of the cobra at The Elms flashed into his mind, and his mouth

set more grimly. What if Peterson had introduced some of his abominable

menagerie into the room? ... Then, once more, the thing like a fly

sounded loud in his ear. And was it his imagination, or had he heard a

faint sibilant hiss just before?

Suddenly it struck him that he was at a terrible disadvantage. The

thing, whatever it was, knew, at any rate approximately, his position: he

had not the slightest notion where it was. And a blind man boxing a man

who could see, would have felt just about as safe. With Hugh, such a

conclusion meant instant action. It might be dangerous on the floor: it

most certainly was far more so in bed. He felt for his torch, and then,

with one convulsive bound, he was standing by the door, with his hand on

the electric-light switch.

Then he paused and listened intently. Not a sound could he hear; the

thing, whatever it was, had become motionless at his sudden movement.

For an appreciable time he stood there, his eyes searching the

darkness—but even he could see nothing, and he cursed the American

comprehensively under his breath. He would have given anything for even

the faintest grey light, so that he could have some idea of what it was

and where it was. Now he felt utterly helpless, while every moment he

imagined some slimy, crawling brute touching his bare feet—creeping up

him....

He pulled himself together sharply. Light was essential, and at once.

But, if he switched it on, there would be a moment when the thing would

see him before he could see the thing—and such moments are not helpful.

There only remained his torch; and on the Ancre, on one occasion, he had

saved his life by judicious use. The man behind one of those useful

implements is in blackness far more impenetrable than the blackest

night, for the man in front is dazzled. He can only shoot at the torch:

wherefore hold it to one side and in front of you....

The light flashed out, darting round the room. Ping! Something hit the

sleeve of his pyjamas, but still he could see nothing. The bed, with

the clothes thrown back; the washstand; the chair with his trousers and

shirt—everything was as it had been when he turned in. And then he

heard a second sound—distinct and clear. It came from high up, near the

ceiling, and the beam caught the big cupboard and travelled up. It

reached the top, and rested there, fixed and steady. Framed in the

middle of it, peering over the edge, was a little hairless, brown face,

holding what looked like a tube in its mouth. Hugh had one glimpse of a

dark, skinny hand putting something in the tube, and then he switched

off the torch and ducked, just as another fly pinged over his head and

hit the wall behind.

One thing, at any rate, was certain: the other occupant of the room was

human, and with that realisation all his nerve returned. There would be

time enough later on to find out how he got there, and what those

strange pinging noises had been caused by. Just at that moment only one

thing was on the programme; and without a sound he crept round the bed

towards the cupboard, to put that one thing into effect in his usual

direct manner.

Twice did he hear the little whistling hiss from above, but nothing sang

past his head. Evidently the man had lost him, and was probably still

aiming at the door. And then, with hands that barely touched it, he

felt the outlines of the cupboard.

It was standing an inch or two from the wall, and he slipped his fingers

behind the back on one side. He listened for a moment, but no movement

came from above; then, half facing the wall, he put one leg against it.

There was one quick, tremendous heave: a crash which sounded deafening:

then silence. And once again he switched on his torch....

Lying on the floor by the window was one of the smallest men he had ever

seen. He was a native of sorts, and Hugh turned him over with his foot.

He was quite unconscious, and the bump on his head, where it had hit the

floor, was rapidly swelling to the size of a large orange. In his hand

he still clutched the little tube, and Hugh gingerly removed it. Placed

in position at one end was a long splinter of wood, with a sharpened

point: and by the light of his torch Hugh saw that it was faintly

discoloured with some brown stain.

He was still examining it with interest, when a thunderous knock came on

the door. He strolled over and switched on the electric light; then he

opened the door.

An excited night-porter rushed in, followed by two or three other people

in varying stages of undress, and stopped in amazement at the scene.

The heavy cupboard, with a great crack across the back, lay face

downwards on the floor; the native still lay curled up and motionless.

"One of the hotel pets?" queried Hugh pleasantly, lighting a cigarette.

"If it’s all the same to you, I wish you’d remove him. He

was—ah—finding it uncomfortable on the top of the cupboard."

It appeared that the night-porter could speak English; it also appeared

that the lady occupying the room below had rushed forth demanding to be

led to the basement, under the misapprehension that war had again been

declared and the Germans were bombing Paris. It still further appeared

that there was something most irregular about the whole proceeding—the

best people at the Ritz did not do these things. And then, to crown

everything, while the uproar was at its height, the native on the floor,

opening one beady and somewhat dazed eye, realised that things looked

unhealthy. Unnoticed, he lay "doggo" for a while; then, like a rabbit

which has almost been trodden on, he dodged between the legs of the men

in the room, and vanished through the open door. Taken by surprise, for

a moment no one moved: then, simultaneously, they dashed into the

passage. It was empty, save for one scandalised old gentleman in a

nightcap, who was peering out of a room opposite angrily demanding the

cause of the hideous din.

Had he seen a native—a black man? He had seen no native, and if other

people only drank water, they wouldn’t either. In fact, the whole

affair was scandalous, and he should write to the papers about it.

Still muttering, he withdrew, banging his door, and Hugh, glancing up,

saw the American detective advancing towards them along the corridor.

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

"A friend of the management elected to spend the night on the top of my

cupboard, Mr. Green," answered Drummond, "and got cramp half-way

through."

The American gazed at the wreckage in silence. Then he looked at Hugh,

and what he saw on that worthy’s face apparently decided him to maintain

that policy. In fact, it was not till the night-porter and his

attendant minions had at last, and very dubiously, withdrawn, that he

again opened his mouth.

"Looks like a hectic night," he murmured. "What happened?" Briefly

Hugh told him what had occurred, and the detective whistled softly.

"Blowpipe and poisoned darts," he said shortly, returning the tube to

Drummond. "Narrow escape—damned narrow! Look at your pillow."

Hugh looked: embedded in the linen were four pointed splinters similar

to the one he held in his hand; by the door were three more, lying on

the floor.

"An engaging little bird," he laughed; "but nasty to look at."

He extracted the little pieces of wood and carefully placed them in an

empty match-box: the tube he put into his cigarette-case.

"Might come in handy: you never know," he remarked casually.

"They might if you stand quite still," said the American, with a sudden,

sharp command in his voice. "Don’t move."

Hugh stood motionless, staring at the speaker, who with eyes fixed on

his right forearm, had stepped forward. From the loose sleeve of his

pyjama coat the detective gently pulled another dart and dropped it into

the match-box.

"Not far off getting you that time, Captain," he cried cheerfully. "Now

you’ve got the whole blamed outfit."

*III*

It was the Comte de Guy who boarded the boat express at the Gare du Nord

the next day; it was Carl Peterson who stepped off the boat express at

Boulogne. And it was only Drummond’s positive assurance which convinced

the American that the two characters were the same man.

He was leaning over the side of the boat reading a telegram when he

first saw Hugh ten minutes after the boat had left the harbour; and if

he had hoped for a different result to the incident of the night before,

no sign of it showed on his face. Instead he waved a cheerful greeting

to Drummond.

"This is a pleasant surprise," he remarked affably. "Have you been to

Paris too?"

For a moment Drummond looked at him narrowly. Was it a stupid bluff, or

was the man so sure of his power of disguise that he assumed with

certainty he had not been recognised? And it suddenly struck Hugh that,

save for that one tell-tale habit—a habit which, in all probability,

Peterson himself was unconscious of—he would not have recognised him.

"Yes," he answered lightly. "I came over to see how you behaved

yourself!"

"What a pity I didn’t know!" said Peterson, with a good-humoured

chuckle. He seemed in excellent spirits, as he carefully tore the

telegram into tiny pieces and dropped them overboard. "We might have

had another of our homely little chats over some supper. Where did you

stay?"

"At the Ritz. And you?"

"I always stop at the Bristol," answered Peterson. "Quieter than the

Ritz, I think."

"Yes, it was quite dreadful last night," murmured Hugh. "A pal of

mine—quite incorrigible—that bird over there"—he pointed to Ted

Jerningham, who was strolling up and down the deck with the

American—"insisted on dressing up as a waiter." He laughed shortly at

the sudden gleam in the other’s eye, as he watched Jerningham go past.

"Not content with that, he went and dropped the fish over some warrior’s

boiled shirt, and had to leave in disgrace." He carefully selected a

cigarette. "No accountin’ for this dressing-up craze, is there, Carl?

You’d never be anything but your own sweet self, would you, little one?

Always the girls’ own friend—tender and true." He laughed softly; from

previous experience he knew that this particular form of baiting

invariably infuriated Peterson. "Some day, my Carl, you must tell me of

your life, and your early struggles, amidst all the bitter temptations

of this wicked world."

"Some day," snarled Peterson, "I’ll——"

"Stop." Drummond held up a protesting hand. "Not that, my Carl—anything

but that."

"Anything but what?" said the other savagely.

"I felt it in my bones," answered Drummond, "that you were once more on

the point of mentioning my decease. I couldn’t bear it, Carl: on this

beautiful morning I should burst into tears. It would be the

seventeenth time that that sad event has been alluded to either by you

or our Henry; and I’m reluctantly beginning to think that you’ll have to

hire an assassin, and take lessons from him." He looked thoughtfully at

the other, and an unholy joy began to dawn on his face. "I see you have

thrown away your cigar, Carl. May I offer you a cigarette? No? ... But

why so brusque? Can it be—oh no! surely not—can it be that my little

pet is feeling icky-boo? Face going green—slight perspiration—collar

tight—only the yawning stage between him and his breakfast! Some people

have all the fun of the fair. And I thought of asking you to join me

below at lunch. There’s some excellent fat pork...."

A few minutes later, Jerningham and the American found him leaning by

himself against the rail, still laughing weakly.

"I ask no more of life," he remarked when he could speak. "Anything

else that may come will be an anti-climax."

"What’s happened?" asked Jerningham.

"It’s happening," said Drummond joyfully. "It couldn’t possibly be over

yet. Peterson, our one and only Carl, has been overcome by the waves.

And when he’s feeling a little better I’ll take him a bit of

crackling...." Once again he gave way to unrestrained mirth, which

finally subsided sufficiently to allow him to stagger below and feed.

At the top of the stairs leading to the luncheon saloon, he paused, and

glanced into the secret place reserved for those who have from early

childhood voted for a Channel tunnel.

"There he is," he whispered ecstatically, "our little Carl, busy

recalling his past. It may be vulgar, Ted: doubtless it is. I don’t

care. Such trifles matter not in the supreme moments of one’s life; and

I can imagine of only one more supreme than this."

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

"The moment when he and Henry sit side by side and recall their pasts

together," murmured Hugh solemnly. "Think of it, man—think of it! Each

cursin’ the other between spasms. My hat! What a wonderful, lovely

dream to treasure through the weary years!" He gazed abstractedly at

the waiter. "Roast beef—underdone," he remarked, "and take a plate of

cold fat up to the silence room above. The third gentleman from the

door would like to look at it."

But the third gentleman from the door, even in the midst of his agony,

was consoled by one reflection.

"Should it be necessary, letter awaits him." So had run the telegram,

which he had scattered to the winds right under Drummond’s nose. And it

was necessary. The mutton-headed young sweep had managed to escape once

again: though Petro had assured him that the wretched native had never

yet failed. And he personally had seen the man clamber on to the top of

the cupboard....

For a moment his furious rage overcame his sufferings.... Next time ...

next time ... and then the seventh wave of several seventh waves arrived.

He had a fleeting glimpse of the scoundrel Drummond, apparently on the

other end of a see-saw, watching him delightedly from outside; then,

with a dreadful groan, he snatched his new basin, just supplied by a

phlegmatic steward, from the scoundrel next him, who had endeavoured to

appropriate it.

*IV*

"Walk right in, Mr. Green," said Hugh, as, three hours later, they got

out of a taxi in Half Moon Street. "This is my little rabbit-hutch."

He followed the American up the stairs, and produced his latchkey. But

before he could even insert it in the hole the door was flung open, and

Peter Darrell stood facing him with evident relief in his face.

"Thank the Lord you’ve come, old son," he cried, with a brief look at

the detective. "There’s something doing down at Godalming I don’t

like."

He followed Hugh into the sitting-room.

"At twelve o’clock to-day Toby rang up. He was talking quite

ordinarily—you know the sort of rot he usually gets off his chest—when

suddenly he stopped quite short and said, ’My God! What do you want?’

I could tell he’d looked up, because his voice was muffled. Then there

was the sound of a scuffle, I heard Toby curse, then nothing more. I

rang and rang and rang—no answer."

"What did you do?" Drummond, with a letter in his hand which he had

taken off the mantelpiece, was listening grimly.

"Algy was here. He motored straight off to see if he could find out

what was wrong. I stopped here to tell you."

"Anything through from him?"

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

But Hugh did not answer. With a look on his face which even Peter had

never seen before, he was reading the letter. It was short and to the

point, but he read it three times before he spoke.

"When did this come?" he asked.

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

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

"Denny," he shouted, "I want my car round at once." Then he came back

into the room. "If they’ve hurt one hair of her head," he said, his

voice full of a smouldering fury, "I’ll murder that gang one by one with

my bare hands."

"Say, Captain, may I see this letter?" said the American; and Hugh

nodded.

"’For pity’s sake, come at once,’" read the detective aloud. "’The

bearer of this is trustworthy.’" He thoughtfully picked his teeth.

"Girl’s writing. Do you know her?"

"My _fiancée_," said Hugh shortly.

"Certain?" snapped the American.

"Certain!" cried Hugh. "Of course I am. I know every curl of every

letter."

"There is such a thing as forgery," remarked the detective

dispassionately.

"Damn it, man," exploded Hugh; "do you imagine I don’t know my own

girl’s writing?"

"A good many bank cashiers have mistaken their customers’ writing before

now," said the other, unmoved. "I don’t like it, Captain. A girl in

real trouble wouldn’t put in that bit about the bearer."

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

"Well," drawled the American, "not knowing Godalming, I don’t know who

scores. But, if you go there—I come too."

"And me," said Peter, brightening up.

Hugh grinned.

"Not you, old son. If Mr. Green will come, I’ll be delighted; but I

want you here at headquarters."

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

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

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

"Sure thing," said the American. "I always am."

"Then we’ll move." And Peter, watching the car resignedly from the

window, saw the American grip his seat with both hands, and then raise

them suddenly in silent prayer, while an elderly charlady fled with a

scream to the safety of the area below.

They did the trip in well under the hour, and the detective got out of

the car with a faint sigh of relief.

"You’ve missed your vocation, Captain," he murmured. "If you pushed a

bath-chair it would be safer for all parties. I bolted two bits of gum

in that excursion."

But Drummond was already out of earshot, dodging rapidly through the

bushes on his way to The Larches; and when the American finally overtook

him, he was standing by a side-door knocking hard on the panels.

"Seems kind of empty," said the detective thoughtfully, as the minutes

went by and no one came. "Why not try the front door?"

"Because it’s in sight of the other house," said Hugh briefly. "I’m

going to break in."

He retreated a yard from the door, then, bracing his shoulder, he

charged it once. And the door, as a door, was not.... Rapidly the two

men went from room to room—bedrooms, servants’ quarters, even the

bathroom. Every one was empty: not a sound could be heard in the house.

Finally, only the dining-room remained, and as they stood by the door

looking round, the American shifted his third piece of gum to a new

point of vantage.

"Somebody has been rough-housing by the look of things," he remarked

judicially. "Looks like a boozing den after a thick night."

"It does," remarked Hugh grimly, taking in the disorder of the room.

The tablecloth was pulled off, the telephone lay on the floor. China

and glass, smashed to pieces, littered the carpet; but what caught his

eye, and caused him suddenly to step forward and pick it up, was a plain

circle of glass with a black cord attached to it through a small hole.

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

And it was at that moment that, clear and distinct through the still

evening air, they heard a woman’s agonised scream. It came from the

house next door, and the American, for a brief space, even forgot to

chew his gum.

The next instant he darted forward.

"Stop, you young fool," he shouted, but he was too late.

He watched Drummond, running like a stag, cross the lawn and disappear

in the trees. For a second he hesitated; then, with a shrug of square

shoulders, he rapidly left the house by the way they had entered. And a

few minutes later, Drummond’s car was skimming back towards London, with

a grim-faced man at the wheel, who had apparently felt the seriousness

of the occasion so acutely, as to deposit his third piece of spearmint

on the underneath side of the steering-wheel for greater safety.

But, seeing that the owner of the car was lying in blissful

unconsciousness in the hall of The Elms, surrounded by half a dozen men,

this hideous vandalism hurt him not.

*CHAPTER X*

*IN WHICH THE HUN NATION DECREASES BY ONE*

*I*

Drummond had yielded to impulse—the blind, all-powerful impulse of any

man who is a man to get to the woman he loves if she wants him. As he

had dashed across the lawn to The Elms, with the American’s warning cry

echoing in his ears, he had been incapable of serious thought.

Subconsciously he had known that, from every point of view, it was the

act of a madman; that he was deliberately putting his head into what, in

all probability, was a carefully prepared noose; that, from every point

of view, he could help Phyllis better by remaining a free agent outside.

But when a girl shrieks, and the man who loves her hears it, arguments

begin to look tired. And what little caution might have remained to Hugh

completely vanished as he saw the girl watching him with agonised terror

in her face, from an upstair window, as he dashed up to the house. It

was only for a brief second that he saw her; then she disappeared

suddenly, as if snatched away by some invisible person.

"I’m coming, darling." He had given one wild shout, and hurled himself

through the door which led into the house from the garden. A dazzling

light of intense brilliance had shone in his face, momentarily blinding

him; then had come a crushing blow on the back of his head. One

groping, wild step forward, and Hugh Drummond, dimly conscious of men

all round him, had pitched forward on his face into utter oblivion.

"It’s too easy." Lakington’s sneering voice broke the silence, as he

looked vindictively at the unconscious man.

"So you have thought before, Henry," chuckled Peterson, whose complete

recovery from his recent unfortunate indisposition was shown by the

steady glow of the inevitable cigar. "And he always bobs up somehow.

If you take my advice you’ll finish him off here and now, and run no

further risks."

"Kill him while he’s unconscious?" Lakington laughed evilly. "No, Carl,

not under any circumstances whatever. He has quite a lengthy score to

pay, and by God! he’s going to pay it this time." He stepped forward

and kicked Drummond twice in the ribs with a cold, animal fury.

"Well, don’t kick him when he’s down, guv’nor. You’ll ’ave plenty o’

time after." A hoarse voice from the circle of men made Lakington look

up.

"You cut it out, Jem Smith," he snarled, "or I might find plenty of time

after for others beside this young swine." The ex-pugilist muttered

uneasily under his breath, but said no more, and it was Peterson who

broke the silence.

"What are you going to do with him?"

"Lash him up like the other two," returned Lakington, "and leave him to

cool until I get back to-morrow. But I’ll bring him round before I go,

and just talk to him for a little. I wouldn’t like him not to know what

was going to happen to him. Anticipation is always delightful." He

turned to two of the men standing near. "Carry him into my room," he

ordered, "and another of you get the rope."

And so it was that Algy Longworth and Toby Sinclair, with black rage and

fury in their hearts, watched the limp form of their leader being

carried into the central room. Swathed in rope, they sat motionless and

impotent, in their respective chairs, while they watched the same

process being performed on Drummond. He was no amateur at the game was

the rope-winder, and by the time he had finished, Hugh resembled nothing

so much as a lifeless brown mummy. Only his head was free, and that

lolled forward helplessly.

Lakington watched the performance for a time; then, wearying of it, he

strolled over to Algy’s chair.