He picked up the rhinoceros-hide riding-whip lying on the floor, and
bent it between his hands. "That weal on your face greatly improves
your beauty, and next time you’ll get two, and a gag as well."
"How’s the jaw, you horrible bit of dreg?" remarked Algy insultingly,
and Toby laughed.
"Don’t shake his nerve, Algy," he implored. "For the first time in his
filthy life he feels safe in the same room as Hugh."
The taunt seemed to madden Lakington, who sprang across the room and
lashed Sinclair over the face. But even after the sixth cut no sound
came from the helpless man, though the blood was streaming down inside
his collar. His eyes, calm and sneering, met those of the raving man in
front of him without a quiver, and, at last, Peterson himself
intervened.
"Stop it, Lakington." His voice was stern as he caught the other’s
upraised arm. "That’s enough for the time."
For a moment it seemed as if Lakington would have struck Peterson
himself; then he controlled himself, and, with an ugly laugh, flung the
whip into a corner.
"I forgot," he said slowly. "It’s the leading dog we want—not the
puppies that run after him yapping." He spun round on his heel. "Have
you finished?"
The rope-artist bestowed a final touch to the last knot, and surveyed
his handiwork with justifiable pride.
"Cold mutton," he remarked tersely, "would be lively compared to him
when he wakes up."
"Good! Then we’ll bring him to."
Lakington took some crystals from a jar on one of the shelves, and
placed them in a tumbler. Then he added a few drops of liquid and held
the glass directly under the unconscious man’s nose. Almost at once the
liquid began to effervesce, and in less than a minute Drummond opened
his eyes and stared dazedly round the room. He blinked foolishly as he
saw Longworth and Sinclair; then he looked down and found he was
similarly bound himself. Finally he glanced up at the man bending over
him, and full realisation returned.
"Feeling better, my friend?" With a mocking smile, Lakington laid the
tumbler on a table close by.
"Much, thank you, Henry," murmured Hugh. "Ah! and there’s Carl. How’s
the tummy, Carl? I hope for your sake that it’s feeling stronger than
the back of my head."
He grinned cheerfully, and Lakington struck him on the mouth.
"You can stop that style of conversation, Captain Drummond," he
remarked. "I dislike it."
Hugh stared at the striker in silence.
"Accept my congratulations," he said at length, in a low voice which,
despite himself, shook a little. "You are the first man who has ever
done that, and I shall treasure the memory of that blow."
"I’d hate it to be a lonely memory," remarked Lakington. "So here’s
another, to keep it company." Again he struck him, then with a laugh he
turned on his heel. "My compliments to Miss Benton," he said to a man
standing near the door, "and ask her to be good enough to come down for
a few minutes."
The veins stood out on Drummond’s forehead at the mention of the girl,
but otherwise he gave no sign; and, in silence, they waited for her
arrival.
She came almost at once, a villainous-looking blackguard with her, and
as she saw Hugh she gave a pitiful little moan and held out her hand to
him.
"Why did you come, boy?" she cried. "Didn’t you know it was only a
forgery—that note?"
"Ah! was it?" said Hugh softly. "Was it, indeed?"
"An interesting point," murmured Lakington. "Surely if a charming girl
is unable—or unwilling—to write herself to her _fiancé_, her father is a
very suitable person to supply the deficiency. Especially if he has
been kindly endowed by Nature with a special aptitude for—er—imitating
writing."
Mr. Benton, who had been standing outside the door, came lurching into
the room.
"Quite ri’, Laking—Laking—ton," he announced solemnly. "Dreadful thing
to sep—separate two young people." Then he saw Drummond, and paused,
blinking foolishly. "Whash he all tied up for li’ that?"
Lakington smiled evilly.
"It would be a pity to lose him, now he’s come, wouldn’t it?"
The drunken man nodded two or three times; then a thought seemed to
strike him, and he advanced slowly towards Hugh, wagging a finger
foolishly.
"Thash reminds me, young fellah," he hiccoughed gravely, "you never
asked my consent. You should have asked father’s consent. Mosh
incon—inconshiderate. Don’t you agree with me, Mishter Peterson?"
"You will find the tantalus in the dining-room," said Peterson coldly.
"I should say you require one more drink to produce complete
insensibility, and the sooner you have it the better."
"Inshensibility!" With outraged dignity the wretched man appealed to
his daughter. "Phyllis, did you hear? Thish man says I’sh in—inebri
... says I’sh drunk. Gratui ... tous inshult ..."
"Oh! father, father," cried the girl, covering her face with her hands.
"For pity’s sake go away! You’ve done enough harm as it is."
Mr. Benton tacked towards the door, where he paused, swaying.
"Disgraceful," he remarked solemnly. "Rising generation no reshpect for
elders and bettersh! Teach ’em lesson, Lakington. Do ’em all good.
One—two—three, all ranged in a—in a row. Do ’em good——" His voice
tailed off, and, after a valiant attempt to lean against a door which
was not there, he collapsed gracefully in a heap on the floor.
"You vile hound," said Phyllis, turning like a young tigress on
Lakington. "It’s your doing entirely, that he’s in that condition."
But Lakington merely laughed.
"When we’re married," he answered lightly, "we’ll put him into a really
good home for inebriates."
"Married!" she whispered tensely. "Married! Why, you loathsome reptile,
I’d kill myself before I married you."
"An excellent curtain," remarked Lakington suavely, "for the third act
of a melodrama. Doubtless we can elaborate it later. In the meantime,
however"—he glanced at his watch—"time presses. And I don’t want to go
without telling you a little about the programme, Captain Drummond.
Unfortunately both Mr. Peterson and I have to leave you for to-night;
but we shall be returning to-morrow morning—or, at any rate, I shall.
You will be left in charge of Heinrich—you remember the filthy
Boche?—with whom you had words the other night. As you may expect, he
entertains feelings of great friendship and affection for you, so you
should not lack for any bodily comforts, such as may be possible in your
present somewhat cramped position. Then to-morrow, when I return, I
propose to try a few experiments on you, and, though I fear you will
find them painful, it’s a great thing to suffer in the cause of
science.... You will always have the satisfaction of knowing that dear
little Phyllis will be well cared for." With a sudden, quick movement,
he seized the girl and kissed her before she realised his intention.
The rope round Drummond creaked as he struggled impotently, and
Lakington’s sneering face seemed to swim in a red glow.
"That is quite in keeping, is it not," he snarled, "to kiss the lady,
and to strike the man like this—and this—and this? ..." A rain of blows
came down on Drummond’s face, till, with a gasping sigh, the girl
slipped fainting to the floor.
"That’ll do, Lakington," said Peterson, intervening once again. "Have
the girl carried upstairs, and send for Heinrich. It’s time we were
off."
With an effort Lakington let his hand fall to his side, and stood back
from his victim.
"Perhaps for the present, it will," he said slowly. "But
to-morrow—to-morrow, Captain Drummond, you shall scream to Heaven for
mercy, until I take out your tongue and you can scream no more." He
turned as the German came into the room. "I leave them to you,
Heinrich," he remarked shortly. "Use the dog-whip if they shout, and
gag them."
The German’s eyes were fixed on Hugh gloatingly.
"They will not shout twice," he said in his guttural voice. "The dirty
Boche to it himself will see."
*II*
"We appear," remarked Hugh quietly, a few minutes later, "to be in for a
cheery night."
For a moment the German had left the room, and the three motionless,
bound figures, sitting grotesquely in their chairs, were alone.
"How did they get you, Toby?"
"Half a dozen of ’em suddenly appeared," answered Sinclair shortly,
"knocked me on the head, and the next thing I knew I was here in this
damned chair."
"Is that when you got your face?" asked Hugh.
"No," said Toby, and his voice was grim. "We share in the matter of
faces, old man."
"Lakington again, was it?" said Hugh softly. "Dear Heavens! if I could
get one hand on that..." He broke off and laughed. "What about you,
Algy?"
"I went blundering in over the way, old bean," returned that worthy,
"and some dam’ fellow knocked my eye-glass off. So, as I couldn’t see
to kill him, I had to join the picnic here."
Hugh laughed, and then suddenly grew serious.
"By the way, you didn’t see a man chewing gum on the horizon, did you,
when I made my entrance? Dogrobber suit, and face like a motor-mascot."
"Thank God, I was spared that!" remarked Algy.
"Good!" returned Hugh. "He’s probably away with it by now, and he’s no
fool. For I’m thinking it’s only Peter and him between us and——" He
left his remark unfinished, and for a while there was silence. "Jerry
is over in France still, putting stamp-paper on his machine; Ted’s gone
up to see that Potts is taking nourishment."
"And here we sit like three well-preserved specimens in a bally museum,"
broke in Algy, with a rueful laugh. "What’ll they do to us, Hugh?"
But Drummond did not answer, and the speaker, seeing the look on his
face, did not press the question.
Slowly the hours dragged on, until the last gleams of daylight had faded
from the skylight above, and a solitary electric light, hung centrally,
gave the only illumination. Periodically Heinrich had come in to see
that they were still secure: but from the sounds of the hoarse laughter
which came at frequent intervals through the half-open door, it was
evident that the German had found other and more congenial company. At
length he appeared carrying a tray with bread and water on it, which he
placed on a table near Hugh.
"Food for you, you English swine," he remarked, looking gloatingly at
each in turn. "Herr Lakington the order gave, so that you will fit be
to-morrow morning. Fit for the torture." He thrust his flushed face
close to Drummond’s, and then deliberately spat at him.
Algy Longworth gave a strangled grunt, but Drummond took no notice. For
the past half-hour he had been sunk in thought, so much so that the
others had believed him asleep. Now, with a quiet smile, he looked up
at the German.
"How much, my friend," he remarked, "are you getting for this?"
The German leered at him.
"Enough to see that you to-morrow are here," he said.
"And I always believed that yours was a business nation," laughed Hugh.
"Why, you poor fool, I’ve got a thousand pounds in notes in my
cigarette-case." For a moment the German stared at him; then a look of
greed came into his pig-eyes.
"You hof, hof you?" he grunted. "Then the filthy Boche will for you of
them take care."
Hugh looked at him angrily.
"If you do," he cried, "you must let me go."
The German leered still more.
"Natürlich. You shall out of the house at once walk."
He stepped up to Drummond and ran his hands over his coat, while the
others stared at one another in amazement. Surely Hugh didn’t imagine
the swine would really let him go; he would merely take the money and
probably spit in his face again. Then they heard him speaking, and a
sudden gleam of comprehension dawned on their faces.
"You’ll have to undo one of the ropes, my friend, before you can get at
it," said Hugh quietly.
For a moment the German hesitated. He looked at the ropes carefully;
the one that bound the arms and the upper part of the body was separate
from the rope round the legs. Even if he did undo it the fool
Englishman was still helpless, and he knew that he was unarmed. Had he
not himself removed his revolver, as he lay unconscious in the hall?
What risk was there, after all? Besides, if he called someone else in
he would have to share the money.
And, as he watched the German’s indecision, Hugh’s forehead grew damp
with sweat.... Would he undo the rope? Would greed conquer caution?
At last the Boche made up his mind, and went behind the chair. Hugh
felt him fumbling with the rope, and flashed an urgent look of caution
at the other two.
"You’d better be careful, Heinrich," he remarked, "that none of the
others see, or you might have to share."
The German ceased undoing the knot, and grunted. The English swine had
moments of brightness, and he went over and closed the door. Then he
resumed the operation of untying the rope; and, since it was performed
behind the chair, he was in no position to see the look on Drummond’s
face. Only the two spectators could see that, and they had almost
ceased breathing in their excitement. That he had a plan they knew:
what it was they could not even guess.
At last the rope fell clear, and the German sprang back.
"Put the case on the table," he cried, having not the slightest
intention of coming within range of those formidable arms.
"Certainly not," said Hugh, "until you undo my legs. Then you shall
have it."
Quite loosely he was holding the case in one hand; but the others,
watching his face, saw that it was strained and tense.
"First I the notes must have." The German strove to speak
conversationally, but all the time he was creeping nearer and nearer to
the back of the chair. "Then I your legs undo, and you may go."
Algy’s warning cry rang out simultaneously with the lightning dart of
the Boche’s hand as he snatched at the cigarette-case over Drummond’s
shoulder. And then Drummond laughed a low, triumphant laugh. It was the
move he had been hoping for, and the German’s wrist was held fast in his
vice-like grip. His plan had succeeded.
And Longworth and Sinclair, who had seen many things in their lives, the
remembrance of which will be with them till their dying day, had never
seen and are never likely to see anything within measurable distance of
what they saw in the next few minutes. Slowly, inexorably, the German’s
arm was being twisted, while he uttered hoarse, gasping cries, and beat
impotently at Drummond’s head with his free hand. Then at last there
was a dull crack as the arm broke, and a scream of pain, as he lurched
round the chair and stood helpless in front of the soldier, who still
held the cigarette-case in his left hand.
They saw Drummond open the cigarette-case and take from it what looked
like a tube of wood. Then he felt in his pocket and took out a
match-box, containing a number of long thin splinters. And, having
fitted one of the splinters into the tube, he put the other end in his
mouth.
With a quick heave they saw him jerk the German round and catch his
unbroken arm with his free left hand. And the two bound watchers looked
at Hugh’s eyes as he stared at the moaning Boche, and saw that they were
hard and merciless.
There was a sharp, whistling hiss, and the splinter flew from the tube
into the German’s face. It hung from his cheek, and even the ceaseless
movement of his head failed to dislodge it.
"I have broken your arm, Boche," said Drummond at length, "and now I
have killed you. I’m sorry about it: I wasn’t particularly anxious to
end your life. But it had to be done."
The German, hardly conscious of what he had said owing to the pain in
his arm, was frantically kicking the Englishman’s legs, still bound to
the chair; but the iron grip on his wrists never slackened. And then
quite suddenly came the end. With one dreadful, convulsive heave the
German jerked himself free, and fell doubled up on the floor.
Fascinated, they watched him writhing and twisting, until, at last, he
lay still.... The Boche was dead....
"My God!" muttered Hugh, wiping his forehead. "Poor brute."
"What was that blow-pipe affair?" cried Sinclair hoarsely.
"The thing they tried to finish me with in Paris last night," answered
Hugh grimly, taking a knife out of his waistcoat pocket. "Let us trust
that none of his pals come in to look for him."
A minute later he stood up, only to sit down again abruptly, as his legs
gave way. They were numbed and stiff with the hours he had spent in the
same position, and for a while he could do nothing but rub them with his
hands, till the blood returned and he could feel once more.
Then, slowly and painfully, he tottered across to the others and set
them free as well. They were in an even worse condition than he had
been; and it seemed as if Algy would never be able to stand again, so
completely dead was his body from the waist downwards. But, at length,
after what seemed an eternity to Drummond, who realised only too well
that should the gang come in they were almost as helpless in their
present condition as if they were still bound in their chairs, the other
two recovered. They were still stiff and cramped—all three of them—but
at any rate they could move; which was more than could be said of the
German, who lay twisted and rigid on the floor, with his eyes staring up
at them—a glassy, horrible stare.
"Poor brute!" said Hugh again, looking at him with a certain amount of
compunction. "He was a miserable specimen—but still..." He shrugged
his shoulders. "And the contents of my cigarette-case are half a dozen
gaspers, and a ten-bob Bradbury patched together with stamp paper!"
He swung round on his heel as if dismissing the matter, and looked at
the other two.
"All fit now? Good! We’ve got to think what we’re going to do, for
we’re not out of the wood yet by two or three miles."
"Let’s get the door open," remarked Algy, "and explore."
Cautiously they swung it open, and stood motionless. The house was in
absolute silence; the hall was deserted.
"Switch out the light," whispered Hugh. "We’ll wander round."
They crept forward stealthily in the darkness, stopping every now and
then to listen. But no sound came to their ears; it might have been a
house of the dead.
Suddenly Drummond, who was in front of the other two, stopped with a
warning hiss. A light was streaming out from under a door at the end of
a passage, and, as they stood watching it, they heard a man’s voice
coming from the same room. Someone else answered him, and then there
was silence once more.
At length Hugh moved forward again, and the others followed. And it was
not until they got quite close to the door that a strange, continuous
noise began to be noticeable—a noise which came most distinctly from the
lighted room. It rose and fell with monotonous regularity; at times it
resembled a brass band—at others it died away to a gentle murmur. And
occasionally it was punctuated with a strangled snort....
"Great Scott!" muttered Hugh excitedly, "the whole boiling bunch are
asleep, or I’ll eat my hat."
"Then who was it who spoke?" said Algy. "At least two of ’em are awake
right enough."
And, as if in answer to his question, there came the voice again from
inside the room.
"Wal, Mr. Darrell, I guess we can pass on, and leave this bunch."
With one laugh of joyful amazement Hugh flung open the door, and found
himself looking from the range of a yard into two revolvers.
"I don’t know how you’ve done it, boys," he remarked, "but you can put
those guns away. I hate looking at them from that end."
"What the devil have they done to all your dials?" said Darrell, slowly
lowering his arm.
"We’ll leave that for the time," returned Hugh grimly, as he shut the
door. "There are other more pressing matters to be discussed."
He glanced round the room, and a slow grin spread over his face. There
were some twenty of the gang, all of them fast asleep. They sprawled
grotesquely over the table, they lolled in chairs; they lay on the
floor, they huddled in corners. And, without exception, they snored and
snorted.
"A dandy bunch," remarked the American, gazing at them with
satisfaction. "That fat one in the corner took enough dope to kill a
bull, but he seems quite happy." Then he turned to Drummond. "Say now,
Captain, we’ve got a lorry load of the boys outside; your friend here
thought we’d better bring ’em along. So it’s up to you to get busy."
"Mullings and his crowd," said Darrell, seeing the look of mystification
on Hugh’s face. "When Mr. Green got back and told me you’d shoved your
great mutton-head in it again, I thought I’d better bring the whole
outfit."
"Oh, you daisy!" cried Hugh, rubbing his hands together, "you pair of
priceless beans! The Philistines are delivered into our hands, even up
to the neck." For a few moments he stood, deep in thought; then once
again the grin spread slowly over his face. "Right up to their necks,"
he repeated, "so that it washes round their back teeth. Get the boys
in, Peter; and get these lumps of meat carted out to the lorry. And,
while you do that, we’ll go upstairs and mop up."
*III*
Even in his wildest dreams Hugh had never imagined such a wonderful
opportunity. To be in complete possession of the house, with strong
forces at his beck and call, was a state of affairs which rendered him
almost speechless.
"Up the stairs on your hands and knees," he ordered, as they stood in
the hall. "There are peculiarities about this staircase which require
elucidation at a later date."
But the murderous implement which acted in conjunction with the fifth
step was not in use, and they passed up the stairs in safety.
"Keep your guns handy," whispered Hugh. "We’ll draw each room in turn
till we find the girl."
But they were not to be put to so much trouble. Suddenly a door opposite
opened, and the man who had been guarding Phyllis Benton peered out
suspiciously. His jaw fell, and a look of aghast surprise spread over
his face as he saw the four men in front of him. Then he made a quick
movement as if to shut the door, but before he realised what had
happened the American’s foot was against it, and the American’s revolver
was within an inch of his head.
"Keep quite still, son," he drawled, "or I guess it might sort of go
off."
But Hugh had stepped past him, and was smiling at the girl who, with a
little cry of joyful wonder, had risen from her chair.
"Your face, boy," she whispered, as he took her in his arms, regardless
of the other, "your poor old face! Oh! that brute, Lakington!"
Hugh grinned.
"It’s something to know, old thing," he remarked cheerily, "that
anything could damage it. Personally I have always thought that any
change in it must be for the better."
He laughed gently, and for a moment she clung to him, unmindful of how
he had got to her, glorying only in the fact that he had. It seemed to
her that there was nothing which this wonderful man of hers couldn’t
manage; and now, blindly trusting, she waited to be told what to do.
The nightmare was over; Hugh was with her....
"Where’s your father, dear?" he asked her after a little pause.
"In the dining-room, I think," she answered with a shiver, and Hugh
nodded gravely.
"Are there any cars outside?" He turned to the American.
"Yours," answered that worthy, still keeping his eyes fixed on his
prisoner’s face, which had now turned a sickly green.
"And mine is hidden behind Miss Benton’s greenhouse unless they’ve moved
it," remarked Algy.
"Good," said Hugh. "Algy, take Miss Benton and her father up to Half
Moon Street—at once. Then come back here."
"But, Hugh——" began the girl appealingly.
"At once, dear, please." He smiled at her tenderly, but his tone was
decided. "This is going to be no place for you in the near future." He
turned to Longworth and drew him aside. "You’ll have a bit of a job
with the old man," he whispered. "He’s probably paralytic by now. But
get on with it, will you? Get a couple of the boys to give you a hand."
With no further word of protest the girl followed Algy, and Hugh drew a
breath of relief.
"Now, you ugly-looking blighter," he remarked to the cowering ruffian,
who was by this time shaking with fright, "we come to you. How many of
these rooms up here are occupied—and which?"
It appeared that only one was occupied—everyone else was below.... The
one opposite.... In his anxiety to please, he moved towards it; and
with a quickness that would have done even Hugh credit, the American
tripped him up.
"Not so blamed fast, you son of a gun," he snapped, "or there sure will
be an accident."
But the noise he made as he fell served a good purpose. The door of the
occupied room was flung open, and a thin, weedy object clad in a flannel
nightgown stood on the threshold blinking foolishly.
"Holy smoke!" spluttered the detective, after he had gazed at the
apparition in stunned silence for a time. "What, under the sun, is it?"
Hugh laughed.
"Why, it’s the onion-eater; the intimidated rabbit," he said
delightedly. "How are you, little man?"
He extended an arm, and pulled him into the passage, where he stood
spluttering indignantly.
"This is an outrage, sir," he remarked; "a positive outrage."
"Your legs undoubtedly are," remarked Hugh, gazing at them
dispassionately. "Put on some trousers—and get a move on. Now you"—he
jerked the other man to his feet—"when does Lakington return?"
"Termorrow, sir," stammered the other.
"Where is he now?"
The man hesitated for a moment, but the look in Hugh’s eyes galvanised
him into speech.
"He’s after the old woman’s pearls, sir—the Duchess of Lampshire’s."
"Ah!" returned Hugh softly. "Of course he is. I forgot."
"Strike me dead, guvnor," cringed the man, "I never meant no ’arm—I
didn’t really. I’ll tell you all I know, sir. I will, strite."
"I’m quite certain you will," said Hugh. "And if you don’t, you swine,
I’ll make you. When does Peterson come back?"
"Termorrow, too, sir, as far as I knows," answered the man, and at that
moment the intimidated rabbit shot rapidly out of his room, propelled by
an accurate and forcible kick from Toby, who had followed him in to
ensure rapidity of toilet.
"And what’s he doing?" demanded Drummond.
"On the level, guvnor, I can’t tell yer. Strite, I can’t; ’e can." The
man pointed at the latest arrival, who, with his nightdress tucked into
his trousers, stood gasping painfully after the manner of a recently
landed fish.
"I repeat, sir," he spluttered angrily, "that this is an outrage. By
what right..."
"Dry up," remarked Hugh briefly. Then he turned to the American. "This
is one of the ragged-trousered brigade I spoke to you about."
For a while the three men studied him in silence; then the American
thoughtfully transferred his chewing-gum to a fresh place.
"Wal," he said, "he looks like some kind o’ disease; but I guess he’s
got a tongue. Say, flop-ears, what are you, anyway?"
"I am the secretary of a social organisation which aims at the
amelioration of the conditions under which the workers of the world
slave," returned the other with dignity.
"You don’t say," remarked the American, unmoved. "Do the workers of the
world know about it?"
"And I again demand to know," said the other, turning on Drummond, "the
reason for this monstrous indignity."
"What do you know about Peterson, little man?" said Hugh, paying not the
slightest attention to his protests.
"Nothing, save that he is the man whom we have been looking for, for
years," cried the other. "The man of stupendous organising power, who
has brought together and welded into one the hundreds of societies
similar to mine, who before this have each, on their own, been feebly
struggling towards the light. Now we are combined, and our strength is
due to him."
Hugh exchanged glances with the American.
"Things become clearer," he murmured. "Tell me, little man," he
continued, "now that you’re all welded together, what do you propose to
do?"
"That you shall see in good time," cried the other triumphantly.
"Constitutional methods have failed—and, besides, we’ve got no time to
wait for them. Millions are groaning under the intolerable bonds of the
capitalist: those millions we shall free, to a life that is worthy of a
man. And it will all be due to our leader—Carl Peterson."
A look of rapt adoration came into his face, and the American laughed in
genuine delight.
"Didn’t I tell you, Captain, that that guy was the goods?" But there
was no answering smile on Hugh’s face.
"He’s the goods right enough," he answered grimly. "But what worries me
is how to stop their delivery."
At that moment Darrell’s voice came up from the hall.
"The whole bunch are stowed away, Hugh. What’s the next item?"
Hugh walked to the top of the stairs.
"Bring ’em both below," he cried over his shoulder, as he went down. A
grin spread over his face as he saw half a dozen familiar faces in the
hall, and he hailed them cheerily.
"Like old times, boys," he laughed. "Where’s the driver of the lorry?"
"That’s me, sir." One of the men stepped forward. "My mate’s outside."
"Good," said Hugh. "Take your bus ten miles from here: then drop that
crowd one by one on the road as you go along. You can take it from me
that none of ’em will say anything about it, even when they wake up.
Then take her back to your garage; I’ll see you later."
"Now," went on Hugh, as they heard the sound of the departing lorry,
"we’ve got to set the scene for to-morrow morning." He glanced at his
watch. "Just eleven. How long will it take me to get the old buzz-box
to Laidley Towers?"
"Laidley Towers," echoed Darrell. "What the devil are you going there
for?"
"I just can’t bear to be parted from Henry for one moment longer than
necessary," said Hugh quietly. "And Henry is there, in a praiseworthy
endeavour to lift the Duchess’s pearls.... Dear Henry!" His two fists
clenched, and the American, looking at his face, laughed softly.
But it was only for a moment that Drummond indulged in the pleasures of
anticipation; all that could come after. And just now there were other
things to be done—many others, if events next morning were to go as they
should.
"Take those two into the centre room," he cried. "Incidentally there’s a
dead Boche on the floor, but he’ll come in very handy in my little
scheme."
"A dead Boche!" The intimidated rabbit gave a frightened squeak. "Good
Heavens! you ruffian, this is beyond a joke."
Hugh looked at him coldly.
"You’ll find it beyond a joke, you miserable little rat," he said
quietly, "if you speak to me like that." He laughed as the other shrank
past him. "Three of you boys in there," he ordered briskly, "and if
either of them gives the slightest trouble clip him over the head. Now
let’s have the rest of the crowd in here, Peter."
They came filing in, and Hugh waved a cheery hand in greeting.
"How goes it, you fellows," he cried with his infectious grin. "Like a
company pow-wow before popping the parapet. What! And it’s a bigger
show this time, boys, than any you’ve had over the water." His face set
grimly for a moment; then he grinned again, as he sat down on the foot
of the stairs. "Gather round, and listen to me."
For five minutes he spoke, and his audience nodded delightedly. Apart
from their love for Drummond—and three out of every four of them knew
him personally—it was a scheme which tickled them to death. And he was
careful to tell them just enough of the sinister design of the
master-criminal to make them realise the bigness of the issue.
"That’s all clear, then," said Drummond rising. "Now I’m off. Toby, I
want you to come too. We ought to be there by midnight."
"There’s only one point, Captain," remarked the American, as the group
began to disperse. "That safe—and the ledger." He fumbled in his
pocket, and produced a small india-rubber bottle. "I’ve got the soup
here—gelignite," he explained, as he saw the mystified look on the
other’s face. "I reckoned it might come in handy. Also a fuse and
detonator."
"Splendid!" said Hugh, "splendid! You’re an acquisition, Mr. Green, to
any gathering. But I think—I _think_—Lakington first. Oh! yes—most
undoubtedly—Henry first!"
And once again the American laughed softly at the look on his face.
*CHAPTER XI*
*IN WHICH LAKINGTON PLAYS HIS LAST "COUP"*
*I*
"Toby, I’ve got a sort of horrid feeling that the hunt is nearly over."
With a regretful sigh Hugh swung the car out of the sleeping town of
Godalming in the direction of Laidley Towers. Mile after mile dropped
smoothly behind the powerful two-seater, and still Drummond’s eyes wore
a look of resigned sadness.
"Very nearly over," he remarked again. "And then once more the tedium
of respectability positively stares us in the face."
"You’ll be getting married, old bean," murmured Toby Sinclair hopefully.
For a moment his companion brightened up.
"True, O King," he answered. "It will ease the situation somewhat; at
least, I suppose so. But think of it, Toby: no Lakington, no
Peterson—nothing at all to play about with and keep one amused."
"You’re very certain, Hugh." With a feeling almost of wonder Sinclair
glanced at the square-jawed, ugly profile beside him. "There’s many a
slip..."
"My dear old man," interrupted Drummond, "there’s only one cure for the
proverb-quoting disease—a dose of salts in the morning." For a while
they raced on through the warm summer’s night in silence, and it was not
till they were within a mile of their destination that Sinclair spoke
again.
"What are you going to do with them, Hugh?"
"Who—our Carl and little Henry?" Drummond grinned gently. "Why, I think
that Carl and I will part amicably—unless, of course, he gives me any
trouble. And as for Lakington—we’ll have to see about Lakington." The
grin faded from his face as he spoke. "We’ll have to see about our
little Henry," he repeated softly. "And I can’t help feeling, Toby,
that between us we shall find a method of ridding the earth of such a
thoroughly unpleasing fellow."
"You mean to kill him?" grunted the other non-committally.
"Just that, and no more," responded Hugh. "To-morrow morning as ever is.
But he’s going to get the shock of his young life before it happens."
He pulled the car up silently in the deep shadows of some trees, and the
two men got out.
"Now, old boy, you take her back to The Elms. The ducal abode is close
to—I remember in my extreme youth being worse than passing sick by those
bushes over there after a juvenile bun-worry..."
"But confound it all," spluttered Toby Sinclair. "Don’t you want me to
help you?"
"I do: by taking the buzz-box back. This little show is my shout."
Grumbling disconsolately, Sinclair stepped back into the car.
"You make me tired," he remarked peevishly. "I’ll be damned if you get
any wedding present out of me. In fact," and he fired a Parthian shot
at his leader, "you won’t have any wedding. I shall marry her myself!"
For a moment or two Hugh stood watching the car as it disappeared down
the road along which they had just come, while his thoughts turned to
the girl now safely asleep in his flat in London. Another week—perhaps
a fortnight—but no more. Not a day more.... And he had a pleasant
conviction that Phyllis would not require much persuasion to come round
to his way of thinking—even if she hadn’t arrived there already.... And
so delightful was the train of thought thus conjured up, that for a
while Peterson and Lakington were forgotten. The roseate dreams of the
young about to wed have been known to act similarly before.
Wherefore to the soldier’s instinctive second nature, trained in the war
and sharpened by his grim duel with the gang, must be given the credit
of preventing the ringing of the wedding-bells being postponed for good.
The sudden snap of a twig close by, the sharp hiss of a compressed-air
rifle, seemed simultaneous with Hugh hurling himself flat on his face
behind a sheltering bush. In reality there was that fraction of a
second between the actions which allowed the bullet to pass harmlessly
over his body instead of finishing his career there and then. He heard
it go zipping through the undergrowth as he lay motionless on the
ground; then very cautiously he turned his head and peered about. A man
with an ordinary revolver is at a disadvantage against someone armed
with a silent gun, especially when he is not desirous of alarming the
neighbourhood.
A shrub was shaking a few yards away, and on it Hugh fixed his
half-closed eyes. If he lay quite still the man, whoever he was, would
probably assume the shot had taken effect, and come and investigate.
Then things would be easier, as two or three Boches had discovered to
their cost in days gone by.
For two minutes he saw no one; then very slowly the branches parted and
the white face of a man peered through. It was the chauffeur who
usually drove the Rolls Royce, and he seemed unduly anxious to satisfy
himself that all was well before coming nearer. The fame of Hugh
Drummond had spread abroad amongst the satellites of Peterson.
At last he seemed to make up his mind, and came out into the open. Step
by step he advanced towards the motionless figure, his weapon held in
readiness to shoot at the faintest movement. But the soldier lay
sprawling and inert, and by the time the chauffeur had reached him there
was no doubt in that worthy’s mind that, at last, this wretched meddler
with things that concerned him not had been laid by the heels. Which was
as unfortunate for the chauffeur as it had been for unwary Huns in the
past.
Contemptuously he rolled Drummond over; then, noting the relaxed muscles
and inert limbs, he laid his gun on the ground preparatory to running
through his victim’s pockets. And the fact that such an action was a
little more foolish than offering a man-eating tiger a peppermint
lozenge did not trouble the chauffeur. In fact, nothing troubled him
again.
He got out one gasping cry of terror as he realised his mistake; then he
had a blurred consciousness of the world upside down, and everything was
over. It was Olaki’s most dangerous throw, carried out by gripping the
victim’s wrists and hurling his body over by a heave of the legs. And
nine times out of ten the result was a broken neck. This was one of the
nine.
For a while the soldier stared at the body, frowning thoughtfully. To
have killed the chauffeur was inconvenient, but since it had happened it
necessitated a little rearrangement of his plans. The moon was setting
and the night would become darker, so there was a good chance that
Lakington would not recognise that the driver of his car had changed.
And if he did—well, it would be necessary to forgo the somewhat
theatrical entertainment he had staged for his benefit at The Elms.
Bending over the dead man, he removed his long grey driving-coat and
cap; then, without a sound, he threaded his way through the bushes in
search of the car.
He found it about a hundred yards nearer the house, so well hidden in a
small space off the road that he was almost on top of it before he
realised the fact. To his relief it was empty, and placing his own cap
in a pocket under the seat he put on the driving-coat of his
predecessor. Then, with a quick glance round to ensure that everything
was in readiness for the immediate and rapid departure such as he
imagined Lakington would desire, he turned and crept stealthily towards
the house.
*II*
Laidley Towers was _en fête_. The Duchess, determined that every
conceivable stunt should be carried out which would make for the
entertainment of her guests, had spared no pains to make the evening a
success. The Duke, bored to extinction, had been five times routed out
of his study by his indefatigable spouse, and was now, at the moment
Hugh first came in sight of the house, engaged in shaking hands with a
tall, aristocratic-looking Indian....
"How d’y do," he murmured vacantly. "What did you say the dam’ fellah’s
name was, my dear?" he whispered in a hoarse undertone to the Duchess,
who stood beside him welcoming the distinguished foreigner.
"We’re so glad you could come, Mr. Ram Dar," remarked the Duchess
affably. "Everyone is so looking forward to your wonderful
entertainment." Round her neck were the historic pearls, and as the
Indian bowed low over her outstretched hand, his eyes gleamed for a
second.
"Your Grace is too kind." His voice was low and deep, and he glanced
thoughtfully around the circle of faces near him. "Maybe the sands that
come from the mountains that lie beyond the ever-lasting snows will
speak the truth; maybe the gods will be silent. Who knows ... who
knows?"
As if unconsciously his gaze rested on the Duke, who manfully rose to
the occasion.
"Precisely, Mr. Rum Rum," he murmured helpfully, "who indeed? If they
let you down, don’t you know, perhaps you could show us a card trick?"
He retired in confusion, abashed by the baleful stare of the Duchess,
and the rest of the guests drew closer. The jazz band was having
supper; the last of the perspiring tenants had departed, and now the
_bonne bouche_ of the evening was about to begin.
It had been the Marquis of Laidley himself who had suggested getting
hold of this most celebrated performer, who had apparently never been in
England before. And since the Marquis of Laidley’s coming-of-age was
the cause of the whole evening’s entertainment, his suggestion had been
hailed with acclamation. How he had heard about the Indian, and from
whom, were points about which he was very vague; but since he was a very
vague young man, the fact elicited no comment. The main thing was that
here, in the flesh, was a dark, mysterious performer of the occult, and
what more could a house party require? And in the general excitement
Hugh Drummond crept closer to the open window. It was the Duchess he
was concerned with and her pearls, and the arrival of the Indian was not
going to put him off his guard.... Then suddenly his jaw tightened: Irma
Peterson had entered the room with young Laidley.
"Do you want anything done, Mr. Ram Dar?" asked the Duchess—"the lights
down or the window shut?"
"No, I thank you," returned the Indian. "The night is still; there is
no wind. And the night is dark—dark with strange thoughts, that
thronged upon me as I drew nigh to the house—whispering through the
trees." Again he fixed his eyes on the Duke. "What is your pleasure,
Protector of the Poor?"
"Mine?" cried that pillar of the House of Lords, hurriedly stifling a
yawn. "Any old thing, my dear fellow.... You’d much better ask one of
the ladies."
"As you will," returned the other gravely, "but if the gods speak the
truth, and the sand does not lie. I can but say what is written."
From a pocket in his robe he took a bag and two small bronze dishes, and
placing them on a table stood waiting.
"I am ready," he announced. "Who first will learn of the things that
are written on the scroll of Fate?"
"I say, hadn’t you better do it in private, Mr. Rum?" murmured the Duke
apprehensively. "I mean, don’t you know, it might be a little
embarrassing if the jolly old gods really do give tongue; and I don’t
see anybody getting killed in the rush."
"Is there so much to conceal?" demanded the Indian, glancing round the
group, contempt in his brooding eyes. "In the lands that lie beyond the
snows we have nothing to conceal. There is nothing that can be
concealed, because all is known."
And it was at that moment that the intent watcher outside the window
began to shake with silent mirth. For the face was the face of the
Indian, Ram Dar, but the voice was the voice of Lakington. It struck
him that the next ten minutes or so might be well worth while. The
problem of removing the pearls from the Duchess’s neck before such an
assembly seemed to present a certain amount of difficulty even to such
an expert as Henry. And Hugh crept a little nearer the window, so as to
miss nothing. He crept near enough, in fact, to steal a look at Irma,
and in doing so saw something which made him rub his eyes and then grin
once more. She was standing on the outskirts of the group, an evening
wrap thrown loosely over her arm. She edged a step or two towards a
table containing bric-à-brac, the centre of which was occupied, as the
place of honour, by a small inlaid Chinese cabinet—a box standing on
four grotesquely carved legs. It was a beautiful ornament, and he dimly
remembered having heard its history—a story which reflected considerable
glory on the predatory nature of a previous Duke. At the moment,
however, he was not concerned with its past history, but with its
present fate; and it was the consummate quickness of the girl that made
him rub his eyes.
She took one lightning glance at the other guests who were craning
eagerly forward round the Indian; then she half dropped her wrap on the
table and picked it up again. It was done so rapidly, so naturally,
that for a while Hugh thought he had made a mistake. And then a slight
rearrangement of her wrap to conceal a hard outline beneath, as she
joined the others, dispelled any doubts. The small inlaid Chinese
cabinet now standing on the table was not the one that had been here
previously. The original was under Irma Peterson’s cloak....
Evidently the scene was now set—the necessary props were in position—and
Hugh waited with growing impatience for the principal event. But the
principal performer seemed in no hurry. In fact, in his dry way
Lakington was thoroughly enjoying himself. An intimate inside knowledge
of the skeletons that rattled their bones in the cupboards of most of
those present enabled the gods to speak with disconcerting accuracy; and
as each victim insisted on somebody new facing the sands that came from
beyond the mountains, the performance seemed likely to last
indefinitely.
At last a sudden delighted burst of applause came from the group,
announcing the discomfiture of yet another guest, and with it Lakington
seemed to tire of the amusement. Engrossed though he was in the
anticipation of the main item which was still to be staged, Drummond
could not but admire the extraordinary accuracy of the character study.
Not a detail had been overlooked; not a single flaw in Lakington’s
acting could he notice. It _was_ an Indian who stood there, and when a
few days later Hugh returned her pearls to the Duchess, for a long time
neither she nor her husband would believe that Ram Dar had been an
Englishman disguised. And when they had at last been persuaded of that
fact, and had been shown the two cabinets side by side, it was the
consummate boldness of the crime, coupled with its extreme simplicity,
that staggered them. For it was only in the reconstruction of it that
the principal beauty of the scheme became apparent. The element of luck
was reduced to a minimum, and at no stage of the proceedings was it
impossible, should things go amiss, for Lakington to go as he had come,
a mere Indian entertainer. Without the necklace, true, in such an
event; but unsuspected, and free to try again. As befitted his last, it
was perhaps his greatest effort.... And this was what happened as seen
by the fascinated onlooker crouching near the window outside.
Superbly disdainful, the Indian tipped back his sand into the little
bag, and replacing it in his pocket, stalked to the open window. With
arms outstretched he stared into the darkness, seeming to gather
strength from the gods whom he served.
"Do your ears not hear the whisperings of the night?" he demanded.
"Life rustling in the leaves; death moaning through the grasses." And
suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, a fierce, mocking laugh;
then he swung round and faced the room. For a while he stood motionless,
and Hugh, from the shelter of the bushes, wondered whether the two quick
flashes that had come from his robe as he spoke—flashes such as a small
electric torch will give, and which were unseen by anyone else—were a
signal to the defunct chauffeur.
Then a peculiar look came over the Indian’s face, as his eyes fell on
the Chinese cabinet.
"Where did the Protector of the Poor obtain the sacred cabinet of the
Chow Kings?" He peered at it reverently, and the Duke coughed.
"One of my ancestors picked it up somewhere," he answered
apologetically.
"Fashioned with the blood of men, guarded with their lives, and one of
your ancestors picked up it!" The Duke withered completely under the
biting scorn of the words, and seemed about to say something, but the
Indian had turned away, and his long, delicate fingers were hovering
over the box. "There is power in this box," he continued, and his voice
was low and thoughtful. "Years ago a man who came from the land where
dwells the Great Brooding Spirit told me of this thing. I wonder ... I
wonder..."
With gleaming eyes he stared in front of him, and a woman shuddered
audibly.
"What is it supposed to do?" she ventured timidly.
"In that box lies the power unknown to mortal man, though the priests of
the Temple City have sometimes discovered it before they pass beyond.
Length you know, and height, and breadth—but in that box lies more."
"You don’t mean the fourth dimension, do you?" demanded a man
incredulously..
"I know not what you call it, sahib," said the Indian quietly. "But it
is the power which renders visible or invisible at will."
For a moment Hugh felt an irresistible temptation to shout the truth
through the window, and give Lakington away; then his curiosity to see
the next move in the game conquered the wish, and he remained silent.
So perfect was the man’s acting that, in spite of having seen the
substitution of the boxes, in spite of knowing the whole thing was
bunkum, he felt he could almost believe it himself. And as for the
others—without exception—they were craning forward eagerly, staring
first at the Indian and then at the box.
"I say, that’s a bit of a tall order, isn’t it, Mr. Rum Bar?" protested
the Duke a little feebly. "Do you mean to say you can put something
into that box, and it disappears?"
"From mortal eye, Protector of the Poor, though it is still there,"
answered the Indian. "And that only too for a time. Then it reappears
again. So runs the legend."
"Well, stuff something in and let’s see," cried young Laidley, starting
forward, only to pause before the Indian’s outstretched arm.
"Stop, sahib," he ordered sternly. "To you that box is nothing; to
others—of whom I am one of the least—it is sacred beyond words." He
stalked away from the table, and the guests’ disappointment showed on
their faces.
"Oh, but Mr. Ram Dar," pleaded the Duchess, "can’t you satisfy our
curiosity after all you’ve said?"
For a moment he seemed on the point of refusing outright; then he bowed,
a deep Oriental bow.
"Your Grace," he said with dignity, "for centuries that box contained
the jewels—precious beyond words—of the reigning Queens of the Chow
Dynasty. They were wrapped in silver and gold tissue—of which this is a
feeble, modern substitute."
From a cummerbund under his robe he drew a piece of shining material,
the appearance of which was greeted with cries of feminine delight.
"You would not ask me to commit sacrilege?" Quietly he replaced the
material in his belt and turned away, and Hugh’s eyes glistened at the
cleverness with which the man was acting. Whether they believed it or
not, there was not a soul in the room by this time who was not consumed
with eagerness to put the Chinese cabinet to the test.
"Supposing you took my pearls, Mr. Ram Dar," said the Duchess
diffidently. "I know that compared to such historic jewels they are
poor, but perhaps it would not be sacrilege."
Not a muscle on Lakington’s face twitched, though it was the thing he
had been playing for. Instead he seemed to be sunk in thought, while
the Duchess continued pleading, and the rest of the party added their
entreaties. At length she undid the fastening and held the necklace
out, but he only shook his head.
"You ask a great thing of me, your Grace," he said. "Only by the
exercise of my power can I show you this secret—even if I can show you
at all. And you are unbelievers." He paced slowly to the window,
ostensibly to commune with the gods on the subject; more materially to
flash once again the signal into the darkness. Then, as if he had
decided suddenly, he swung round.
"I will try," he announced briefly, and the Duchess headed the chorus of
delight. "Will the Presences stand back, and you, your Grace, take
that?" He handed her the piece of material. "No hand but yours must
touch the pearls. Wrap them up inside the silver and gold." Aloofly he
watched the process. "Now advance alone, and open the box. Place the
pearls inside. Now shut and lock it." Obediently the Duchess did as
she was bid; then she stood waiting for further instructions.
But apparently by this time the Great Brooding Spirit was beginning to
take effect. Singing a monotonous, harsh chant, the Indian knelt on the
floor, and poured some powder into a little brazier. He was still close
to the open window, and finally he sat down with his elbows on his
knees, and his head rocking to and fro in his hands.
"Less light—less light!" The words seemed to come from a great
distance—ventriloquism in a mild way was one of Lakington’s
accomplishments; and as the lights went out a greenish, spluttering
flame rose from the brazier. A heavy, odorous smoke filled the room,
but framed and motionless in the eerie light sat the Indian, staring
fixedly in front of him. After a time the chant began again; it grew and
swelled in volume till the singer grew frenzied and beat his head with
his hands. Then abruptly it stopped.
"Place the box upon the floor," he ordered, "in the light of the Sacred
Fire." Hugh saw the Duchess kneel down on the opposite side of the
brazier, and place the box on the floor, while the faces of the
guests—strange and ghostly in the green light—peered like spectres out
of the heavy smoke. This was undoubtedly a show worth watching.
"Open the box!" Harshly the words rang through the silent room, and
with fingers that trembled a little the Duchess turned the key and threw
back the lid.
"Why, it’s empty!" she cried in amazement, and the guests craned forward
to look.
"Put not your hand inside," cried the Indian in sudden warning, "or
perchance it will remain empty."
The Duchess rapidly withdrew her hand, and stared incredulously through
the smoke at his impassive face.
"Did I not say that there was power in the box?" he said dreamily. "The
power to render invisible—the power to render visible. Thus came
protection to the jewels of the Chow Queens."
"That’s all right, Mr. Ram Dar," said the Duchess a little
apprehensively. "There may be power in the box, but my pearls don’t
seem to be."
The Indian laughed.
"None but you has touched the cabinet, your Grace; none but you must
touch it till the pearls return. They are there now; but not for mortal
eyes to see."
Which, incidentally, was no more than the truth.
"Look, oh! sahibs, look; but do not touch. See that to your vision the
box is empty...." He waited motionless, while the guests thronged
round, with expressions of amazement; and Hugh, safe from view in the
thick, sweet-smelling smoke, came even nearer in his excitement.
"It is enough," cried the Indian suddenly. "Shut the box, your Grace,
and lock it as before. Now place it on the table whence it came. Is it
there?"
"Yes." The Duchess’s voice came out of the green fog.
"Go not too near," he continued warningly. "The gods must have
space—the gods must have space."
Again the harsh chant began, at times swelling to a shout, at times
dying away to a whisper. And it was during one of these latter periods
that a low laugh, instantly checked, disturbed the room. It was plainly
audible, and someone irritably said, "Be quiet!" It was not repeated,
which afforded Hugh, at any rate, no surprise. For it had been Irma
Peterson who had laughed, and it might have been hilarity, or it might
have been a signal.
The chanting grew frenzied and more frenzied; more and more powder was
thrown on the brazier till dense clouds of the thick vapour were rolling
through the room, completely obscuring everything save the small space
round the brazier, and the Indian’s tense face poised above it.
"Bring the box, your Grace," he cried harshly, and once more the Duchess
knelt in the circle of light, with a row of dimly seen faces above her.
"Open; but as you value your pearls—touch them not." Excitedly she
threw back the lid, and a chorus of cries greeted the appearance of the
gold and silver tissue at the bottom of the box.
"They’re here, Mr. Ram Bar."
In the green light the Indian’s sombre eyes stared round the group of
dim faces.
"Did I not say," he answered, "that there was power in the box? But in
the name of that power—unknown to you—I warn you: Do not touch those
pearls till the light has burned low in the brazier. If you do they
will disappear—never to return. Watch, but do not touch!"
Slowly he backed towards the window, unperceived in the general
excitement; and Hugh dodged rapidly towards the car. It struck him that
the _séance_ was over, and he just had time to see Lakington snatch
something which appeared to have been let down by a string from above,
before turning into the bushes and racing for the car. As it was he was
only a second or two in front of the other, and the last vision he had
through a break in the trees, before they were spinning smoothly down
the deserted road, was an open window in Laidley Towers from which dense
volumes of vapour poured steadily out. Of the house party behind,
waiting for the light to burn low in the brazier, he could see no sign
through the opaque wall of green fog.
It took five minutes, so he gathered afterwards from a member of the
house party, before the light had burned sufficiently low for the
Duchess to consider it safe to touch the pearls. In various stages of
asphyxiation the assembled guests had peered at the box, while the
cynical comments of the men were rightly treated by the ladies with the
contempt they deserved. Was the necklace not there, wrapped in its gold
and silver tissue, where a few minutes before there had been nothing?
"Some trick of that beastly light," remarked the Duke peevishly. "For
heaven’s sake throw the dam’ thing out of the window."
"Don’t be a fool, John," retorted his spouse. "If you could do this sort
of thing, the House of Lords might be some use to somebody."
And when two minutes later they stared horror-struck at a row of
ordinary marbles laboriously unwrapped from a piece of gold and silver
tissue, the Duke’s pungent agreement with his wife’s sentiment passed
uncontradicted. In fact, it is to be understood that over the scene
which followed it was best to draw a decent veil.
*III*
Drummond, hunched low over the wheel, in his endeavour to conceal his
identity from the man behind, knew nothing of that at the time. Every
nerve was centred on eluding the pursuit he thought was a certainty; for
the thought of Lakington, when everything was prepared for his
reception, being snatched from his clutches even by the majesty of the
law was more than he could bear. And for much the same reason he did
not want to have to deal with him until The Elms was reached; the
staging there was so much more effective.
But Lakington was far too busy to bother with the chauffeur.
One snarling curse as they had started, for not having done as he had
been told, was the total of their conversation during the trip. During
the rest of the time the transformation to the normal kept Lakington
busy, and Hugh could see him reflected in the wind-screen removing the
make-up from his face, and changing his clothes.
Even now he was not quite clear how the trick had been worked. That
there had been two cabinets, that was clear—one false, the other the
real one. That they had been changed at the crucial moment by the girl
Irma was also obvious. But how had the pearls disappeared in the first
case, and then apparently reappeared again? For of one thing he was
quite certain. Whatever was inside the parcel of gold and silver tissue
which, for all he knew, they might be still staring at, it was not the
historic necklace.
And he was still puzzling it over in his mind when the car swung into
the drive at The Elms.
"Change the wheels as usual," snapped Lakington as he got out, and Hugh
bent forward to conceal his face. "Then report to me in the central
room."
And out of the corner of his eye Hugh watched him enter the house with
one of the Chinese cabinets clasped in his hand....
"Toby," he remarked to that worthy, whom he found mournfully eating a
ham sandwich in the garage, "I feel sort of sorry for our Henry. He’s
just had the whole complete ducal outfit guessing, dressed up as an
Indian; he’s come back here with a box containing the Duchess’s pearls
or I’ll eat my hat, and feeling real good with himself; and now instead
of enjoying life he’s got to have a little chat with me."
"Did you drive him back?" demanded Sinclair, producing a bottle of Bass.
"Owing to the sudden decease of his chauffeur I had to," murmured Hugh.
"And he’s very angry over something. Let’s go on the roof."
Silently they both climbed the ladder which had been placed in
readiness, to find Peter Darrell and the American detective already in
position. A brilliant light streamed out through the glass dome, and
the inside of the central room was clearly visible.
"He’s already talked to what he thinks is you," whispered Peter
ecstatically, "and he is not in the best of tempers."
Hugh glanced down, and a grim smile flickered round his lips. In the
three chairs sat the motionless, bound figures so swathed in rope that
only the tops of their heads were visible, just as Lakington had left
him and Toby and Algy earlier in the evening. The only moving thing in
the room was the criminal himself, and at the moment he was seated at
the table with the Chinese cabinet in front of him. He seemed to be
doing something inside with a penknife, and all the time he kept up a
running commentary to the three bound figures.
"Well, you young swine, have you enjoyed your night?" A feeble moan
came from one of the chairs. "Spirit broken at last, is it?" With a
quick turn of his wrist he prised open two flaps of wood, and folded
them back against the side. Then he lifted out a parcel of gold and
silver tissue from underneath.
"My hat!" muttered Hugh, "what a fool I was not to think of it! Just a
false bottom actuated by closing the lid. And a similar parcel in the
other cabinet."
But the American, whistling gently to himself, had his eyes fixed on the
rope of wonderful pearls which Lakington was holding lovingly in his
hands.
"So easy, you scum," continued Lakington, "and you thought to pit
yourselves against me. Though if it hadn’t been for Irma"—he rose and
stood in front of the chair where he had last left Drummond—"it might
have been awkward. She was quick, Captain Drummond, and that fool of a
chauffeur failed to carry out my orders, and create a diversion. You
will see what happens to people who fail to carry out my orders in a
minute. And after that you’ll never see anything again."
"Say, he’s a dream—that guy," muttered the American. "What pearls are
those he’s got?"
"The Duchess of Lampshire’s," whispered Hugh. "Lifted right under the
noses of the whole bally house party."
With a grunt the detective rearranged his chewing-gum; then once more
the four watchers on the roof glued their eyes to the glass. And the
sight they saw a moment or two afterwards stirred even the phlegmatic
Mr. Green.
A heavy door was swinging slowly open, apparently of its own volition,
though Hugh, stealing a quick glance at Lakington, saw that he was
pressing some small studs in a niche in one of the walls. Then he
looked back at the door, and stared dumbfounded. It was the mysterious
cupboard of which Phyllis had spoken to him, but nothing he had imagined
from her words had prepared him for the reality. It seemed to be
literally crammed to overflowing with the most priceless loot. Gold
vessels of fantastic and beautiful shapes littered the floor; while on
the shelves were arranged the most wonderful collection of precious
stones, which shone and scintillated in the electric light till their
glitter almost blinded the watchers.
"Shades of Chu Chin Chow, Ali Baba and the forty pundits!" muttered
Toby. "The dam’ man’s a genius."
The pearls were carefully placed in a position of honour, and for a few
moments Lakington stood gloating over his collection.
"Do you see them, Captain Drummond?" he asked quietly. "Each thing
obtained by my brain—my hands. All mine—mine!" His voice rose to a
shout. "And you pit your puny wits against me." With a laugh he
crossed the room, and once more pressed the studs. The door swung
slowly to and closed without a sound, while Lakington still shook with
silent mirth.
"And now"—he resumed rubbing his hands—"we will prepare your bath,
Captain Drummond." He walked over to the shelves where the bottles were
ranged, and busied himself with some preparations. "And while it is
getting ready, we will just deal with the chauffeur who neglected his
orders."
For a few minutes he bent over the chemicals, and then he poured the
mixture into the water which half filled the long bath at the end of the
room. A faintly acid smell rose to the four men above, and the liquid
turned a pale green.
"I told you I had all sorts of baths, didn’t I?" continued Lakington;
"some for those who are dead, and some for those who are alive. This is
the latter sort, and has the great advantage of making the bather wish
it was one of the former." He stirred the liquid gently with a long
glass rod. "About five minutes before we’re quite ready," he announced.
"Just time for the chauffeur."
He went to a speaking-tube, down which he blew. Somewhat naturally there
was no answer, and Lakington frowned.
"A stupid fellow," he remarked softly. "But there is no hurry; I will
deal with him later."
"You certainly will," muttered Hugh on the roof. "And perhaps not quite
so much later as you think, friend Henry."
But Lakington had returned to the chair which contained, as he thought,
his chief enemy, and was standing beside it with an unholy joy shining
on his face.
"And since I have to deal with him later, Captain Drummond, D.S.O.,
M.C., I may as well deal with you now. Then it will be your friend’s
turn. I am going to cut the ropes, and carry you, while you’re so
numbed that you can’t move, to the bath. Then I shall drop you in,
Captain Drummond, and when, afterwards, you pray for death, I shall
mercifully spare your life—for a while."
He slashed at the ropes behind the chair, and the four men craned
forward expectantly.
"There," snarled Lakington. "I’m ready for you, you young swine."
And even as he spoke, the words died away on his lips, and with a
dreadful cry he sprang back. For with a dull, heavy thud the body of
the dead German Heinrich rolled off the chair and sprawled at his feet.
"My God!" screamed Lakington. "What has happened? I—I——"
He rushed to the bell and pealed it frantically, and with a smile of joy
Hugh watched his frenzied terror. No one came in answer to the ring, and
Lakington dashed to the door, only to recoil into the room with a
choking noise in his throat. Outside in the hall stood four masked men,
each with a revolver pointing at his heart.
"My cue," muttered Hugh. "And you understand, fellows, don’t you?—he’s
my meat."
The next moment he had disappeared down the ladder, and the three
remaining watchers stared motionless at the grim scene. For Lakington
had shut the door and was crouching by the table, his nerve utterly
gone. And all the while the puffed, bloated body of the German sprawled
on the floor.... Slowly the door into the hall opened, and with a scream
of fear Lakington sprang back. Standing in the doorway was Hugh
Drummond, and his face was grim and merciless.
"You sent for your chauffeur, Henry Lakington," he remarked quietly. "I
am here."
"What do you mean?" muttered Lakington thickly.
"I drove you back from Laidley Towers to-night," said Hugh with a slight
smile. "The proper man was foolish and had to be killed." He advanced
a few steps into the room, and the other shrank back. "You look
frightened, Henry. Can it be that the young swine’s wits are, after
all, better than yours?"
"What do you want?" gasped Lakington, through dry lips.
"I want you, Henry—just you. Hitherto you’ve always used gangs of your
ruffians against me. Now my gang occupies this house. But I’m not
going to use them. It’s going to be just—you and I. Stand up, Henry,
stand up—as I have always stood up to you." He crossed the room and
stood in front of the cowering man.
"Take half—take half," he screamed. "I’ve got treasure—I’ve..."
And Drummond hit him a fearful blow on the mouth.
"I shall take all, Henry, to return to their rightful owners. Boys"—he
raised his voice—"carry out these other two, and undo them."
The four masked men came in, and carried out the two chairs.
"The intimidated rabbit, Henry, and the kindly gentleman you put to
guard Miss Benton," he remarked as the door closed. "So now we may
regard ourselves as being alone. Just you and I. And one of us,
Lakington—you devil in human form—is going into that bath."
"But the bath means death," shrieked Lakington—"death in agony."
"That will be unfortunate for the one who goes in," said Drummond,
taking a step towards him.
"You would murder me?" half sobbed the terrified man.
"No, Lakington; I’m not going to murder you." A gleam of hope came into
the other’s eyes. "But I’m going to fight you in order to decide which
of us two ceases to adorn the earth; that is, if your diagnosis of the
contents of the bath is correct. What little gleam of pity I might have
possessed for you has been completely extinguished by your present
exhibition of nauseating cowardice. Fight, you worm, fight; or I’ll
throw you in!"
And Lakington fought. The sudden complete turning of the tables had for
the moment destroyed his nerve; now, at Drummond’s words, he recovered
himself. There was no mercy on the soldier’s face, and in his inmost
heart Lakington knew that the end had come. For strong and wiry though
he was, he was no match for the other.
Relentlessly he felt himself being forced towards the deadly liquid he
had prepared for Drummond, and as the irony of the thing struck him, the
sweat broke out on his forehead and he cursed aloud. At last he backed
into the edge of the bath and his struggles redoubled. But still there
was no mercy on the soldier’s face, and he felt himself being forced
farther and farther over the liquid until he was only held from falling
into it by Drummond’s grip on his throat.
Then, just before the grip relaxed and he went under, the soldier spoke
once:
"Henry Lakington," he said, "the retribution is just."
Drummond sprang back, and the liquid closed over the wretched man’s
head. But only for a second. With a dreadful cry, Lakington leapt out,
and even Drummond felt a momentary qualm of pity. For the criminal’s
clothes were already burnt through to the skin, and his face—or what was
left of it—was a shining copper colour. Mad with agony, he dashed to
the door, and flung it open. The four men outside, aghast at the
spectacle, recoiled and let him through. And the kindly mercy which
Lakington had never shown to any one in his life was given to him at the
last.
Blindly he groped his way up the stairs, and as Drummond got to the door
the end came. Someone must have put in gear the machinery which worked
on the fifth step, or perhaps it was automatic. For suddenly a heavy
steel weight revolving on an arm whizzed out from the wall and struck
Lakington behind the neck. Without a sound he fell forward, and the
weight, unchecked, clanged sullenly home. And thus did the invention of
which he was proudest break the inventor’s own neck. Truly, the
retribution was just....
"That only leaves Peterson," remarked the American, coming into the hall
at that moment, and lighting a cigar.
"That only leaves Peterson," agreed Drummond. "And the girl," he added
as an afterthought.
*CHAPTER XII*
*IN WHICH THE LAST ROUND TAKES PLACE*
*I*
It was during the next hour or two that the full value of Mr. Jerome K.
Green as an acquisition to the party became apparent. Certain other
preparations in honour of Peterson’s arrival were duly carried out, and
then arose the question of the safe in which the all-important ledger
was kept.
"There it is," said Drummond, pointing to a heavy steel door flush with
the wall, on the opposite side of the room to the big one containing
Lakington’s ill-gotten treasure. "And it doesn’t seem to me that you’re
going to open that one by pressing any buttons in the wall."
"Then, Captain," drawled the American, "I guess we’ll open it otherwise.
It’s sure plumb easy. I’ve been getting gay with some of the household
effects, and this bar of soap sort of caught my eye."
From his pocket he produced some ordinary yellow soap, and the others
glanced at him curiously.
"I’ll just give you a little demonstration," he continued, "of how our
swell cracksmen over the water open safes when the owners have been so
tactless as to remove the keys."
Dexterously he proceeded to seal up every crack in the safe door with
the soap, leaving a small gap at the top unsealed. Then round that gap
he built what was to all intents and purposes a soap dam.
"If any of you boys," he remarked to the intent group around him, "think
of taking this up as a means of livelihood, be careful of this stuff."
From another pocket he produced an india-rubber bottle. "Don’t drop it
on the floor if you want to be measured for your coffin. There’ll just
be a boot and some bits to bury."
The group faded away, and the American laughed.
"Might I ask what it is?" murmured Hugh politely from the neighbourhood
of the door.
"Sure thing, Captain," returned the detective, carefully pouring some of
the liquid into the soap dam. "This is what I told you I’d
got—gelignite: or, as the boys call it, the oil. It runs right round
the cracks of the door inside the soap." He added a little more, and
carefully replaced the stopper in the bottle. "Now a detonator and a bit
of fuse, and I guess we’ll leave the room."
"It reminds one of those dreadful barbarians the Sappers, trying to blow
up things," remarked Toby, stepping with some agility into the garden;
and a moment or two later the American joined them.
"It may be necessary to do it again," he announced, and as he spoke the
sound of a dull explosion came from inside the house. "On the other
hand," he continued, going back into the room and quietly pulling the
safe door open, "it may not. There’s your book, Captain."
He calmly relit his cigar as if safe opening was the most normal
undertaking, and Drummond lifted out the heavy ledger and placed it on
the table.
"Go out in relays, boys," he said to the group of men by the door, "and
get your breakfasts. I’m going to be busy for a bit."
He sat down at the table and began to turn the pages. The American was
amusing himself with the faked Chinese cabinet; Toby and Peter sprawled
in two chairs, unashamedly snoring. And after a while the detective put
down the cabinet, and coming over, sat at Drummond’s side.
Every page contained an entry—sometimes half a dozen—of the same type,
and as the immensity of the project dawned on the two men their faces
grew serious.
"I told you he was a big man, Captain," remarked the American, leaning
back in his chair and looking at the open book through half-closed eyes.
"One can only hope to Heaven that we’re in time," returned Hugh. "Damn
it, man," he exploded, "surely the police must know of this!"
The American closed his eyes still more.
"Your English police know most things," he drawled, "but you’ve sort of
got some peculiar laws in your country. With us, if we don’t like a
man—something happens. He kind o’ ceases to sit up and take
nourishment. But over here, the more scurrilous he is, the more he
talks bloodshed and riot, the more constables does he get to guard him
from catching cold."
The soldier frowned.
"Look at this entry here," he grunted. "That blighter is a Member of
Parliament. What’s he getting four payments of a thousand pounds for?"
"Why, surely, to buy some nice warm underclothes with," grinned the
detective. Then he leaned forward and glanced at the name. "But isn’t
he some pot in one of your big Trade Unions?"
"Heaven knows," grunted Hugh. "I only saw the blighter once, and then
his shirt was dirty." He turned over a few more pages thoughtfully.
"Why, if these are the sums of money Peterson has blown, the man must
have spent a fortune. Two thousand pounds to Ivolsky. Incidentally,
that’s the bloke who had words with the whatnot on the stairs."
In silence they continued their study of the book. The whole of England
and Scotland had been split up into districts, regulated by population
rather than area, and each district appeared to be in charge of one
director. A varying number of sub-districts in every main division had
each their sub-director and staff, and at some of the names Drummond
rubbed his eyes in amazement. Briefly, the duties of every man were
outlined: the locality in which his work lay, his exact
responsibilities, so that overlapping was reduced to a minimum. In each
case the staff was small, the work largely that of organisation. But in
each district there appeared ten or a dozen names of men who were
euphemistically described as lecturers; while at the end of the book
there appeared nearly fifty names—both of men and women—who were proudly
denoted as first-class general lecturers. And if Drummond had rubbed
his eyes at some of the names on the organising staffs, the first-class
general lecturers deprived him of speech.
"Why," he spluttered after a moment, "a lot of these people’s names are
absolute household words in the country. They may be swine—they
probably are. Thank God! I’ve very rarely met any; but they ain’t
criminals."
"No more is Peterson," grinned the American; "at least not on that book.
See here, Captain, it’s pretty clear what’s happening. In any country
to-day you’ve got all sorts and conditions of people with more wind than
brain. They just can’t stop talking, and as yet it’s not a criminal
offence. Some of ’em believe what they say, like Spindle-shanks
upstairs; some of ’em don’t. And if they don’t, it makes ’em worse:
they start writing as well. You’ve got clever men, intellectual
men—look at some of those guys in the first-class general lecturers—and
they’re the worst of the lot. Then you’ve got another class—the men
with the business brain, who think they’re getting the sticky end of it,
and use the talkers to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for them. And
the chestnuts, who are the poor blamed decent working-men, are promptly
dropped in the ash-pit to keep ’em quiet. They all want something for
nothing, and I guess it can’t be done. They all think they’re fooling
one another, and what’s really going at the moment is that Peterson is
fooling the whole bunch. He wants all the strings in his hands, and it
looks to me as if he’d got ’em there. He’s got the money—and we know
where he got it from; he’s got the organisation—all either red-hot
revolutionaries, or intellectual windstorms, or calculating knaves.
He’s amalgamated ’em, Captain; and the whole blamed lot, whatever they
may think, are really working for him."
Drummond, thoughtfully, lit a cigarette.
"Working towards a revolution in this country," he remarked quietly.
"Sure thing," answered the American. "And when he brings it off, I
guess you won’t catch Peterson for dust. He’ll pocket the boodle, and
the boobs will stew in their own juice. I guessed it in Paris; that
book makes it a certainty. But it ain’t criminal. In a Court of Law he
could swear it was an organisation for selling bird-seed."
For a while Drummond smoked in silence, while the two sleepers shifted
uneasily in their chairs. It all seemed so simple in spite of the
immensity of the scheme. Like most normal Englishmen, politics and
labour disputes had left him cold in the past; but no one who ever
glanced at a newspaper could be ignorant of the volcano that had been
simmering just beneath the surface for years past.
"Not one in a hundred"—the American’s voice broke into his train of
thought—"of the so-called revolutionary leaders in this country are
disinterested, Captain. They’re out for Number One, and when they’ve
talked the boys into bloody murder, and your existing social system is
down-and-out, they’ll be the leaders in the new one. That’s what
they’re playing for—power; and when they’ve got it, God help the men who
gave it to ’em."
Drummond nodded, and lit another cigarette. Odd things he had read
recurred to him: trade unions refusing to allow discharged soldiers to
join them; the reiterated threats of direct action. And to what end?
A passage in a part of the ledger evidently devoted to extracts from the
speeches of the first-class general lecturers caught his eye:
"To me, the big fact of modern life is the war between classes....
People declare that the method of direct action inside a country will
produce a revolution. I agree ... it involves the creation of an
army...."
And beside the cutting was a note by Peterson in red ink:
"An excellent man! Send for protracted tour."
The note of exclamation appealed to Hugh; he could see the writer’s
tongue in his cheek as he put it in.
"It involves the creation of an army...." The words of the intimidated
rabbit came back to his mind. "The man of stupendous organising power,
who has brought together and welded into one the hundreds of societies
similar to mine, who before this have each, on their own, been feebly
struggling towards the light. Now we are combined, and our strength is
due to him."
In other words, the army was on the road to completion, an army where
ninety per cent. of the fighters—duped by the remaining ten—would
struggle blindly towards a dim, half-understood goal, only to find out
too late that the whip of Solomon had been exchanged for the scorpion of
his son....
"Why can’t they be made to understand, Mr. Green?" he cried bitterly.
"The working-man—the decent fellow——"
The American thoughtfully picked his teeth.
"Has anyone tried to make ’em understand, Captain? I guess I’m no
intellectual guy, but there was a French writer fellow—Victor Hugo—who
wrote something that sure hit the nail on the head. I copied it out, for
it seemed good to me." From his pocket-book he produced a slip of
paper. "’The faults of women, children, servants, the weak, the
indigent, and the ignorant are the fault of husbands, fathers, masters,
the strong, the rich, and the learned.’ Wal!" he leaned back in his
chair, "there you are. Their proper leaders have sure failed them, so
they’re running after that bunch of cross-eyed skaters. And sitting
here, watching ’em run, and laughing fit to beat the band, is your pal
Peterson!"
It was at that moment that the telephone bell rang, and after a slight
hesitation Hugh picked up the receiver.
"Very well," he grunted, after listening for a while, "I will tell him."
He replaced the receiver and turned to the American.
"Mr. Ditchling will be here for the meeting at two, and Peterson will be
late," he announced slowly.
"What’s Ditchling when he’s at home?" asked the other.
"One of the so-called leaders," answered Hugh briefly, turning over the
pages of the ledger. "Here’s his dossier, according to Peterson.
’Ditchling, Charles. Good speaker; clever; unscrupulous. Requires big
money; worth it. Drinks.’"
For a while they stared at the brief summary, and then the American
burst into a guffaw of laughter.
"The mistake you’ve made, Captain, in this country is not giving
Peterson a seat in your Cabinet. He’d have the whole caboose eating out
of his hand; and if you paid him a few hundred thousand a year, he might
run straight and grow pigs as a hobby...."
*II*
It was a couple of hours later that Hugh rang up his rooms in Half Moon
Street. From Algy, who spoke to him, he gathered that Phyllis and her
father were quite safe, though the latter was suffering in the manner
common to the morning after. But he also found out another thing—that
Ted Jerningham had just arrived with the hapless Potts in tow, who was
apparently sufficiently recovered to talk sense. He was weak still and
dazed, but no longer imbecile.
"Tell Ted to bring him down to The Elms at once," ordered Hugh.
"There’s a compatriot of his here, waiting to welcome him with open
arms."
"Potts is coming, Mr. Green," he said, putting down the receiver. "Our
Hiram C. And he’s talking sense. It seems to me that we may get a
little light thrown on the activities of Mr. Hocking and Herr
Steinemann, and the other bloke."
The American nodded slowly.
"Von Gratz," he said. "I remember his name now. Steel man. Maybe
you’re right, Captain, and that he knows something; anyway, I guess
Hiram C. Potts and I stick closer than brothers till I restore him to
the bosom of his family."
But Mr. Potts, when he did arrive, exhibited no great inclination to
stick close to the detective; in fact, he showed the greatest reluctance
to enter the house at all. As Algy had said, he was still weak and
dazed, and the sight of the place where he had suffered so much produced
such an effect on him that for a while Hugh feared he was going to have
a relapse. At length, however, he seemed to get back his confidence,
and was persuaded to come into the central room.
"It’s all right, Mr. Potts," Drummond assured him over and over again.
"Their gang is dispersed, and Lakington is dead. We’re all friends here
now. You’re quite safe. This is Mr. Green, who has come over from New
York especially to find you and take you back to your family."
The millionaire stared in silence at the detective, who rolled his cigar
round in his mouth.
"That’s right, Mr. Potts. There’s the little old sign." He threw back
his coat, showing the police badge, and the millionaire nodded. "I
guess you’ve had things humming on the other side, and if it hadn’t been
for the Captain here and his friends they’d be humming still."
"I am obliged to you, sir," said the American, speaking for the first
time to Hugh. The words were slow and hesitating, as if he was not
quite sure of his voice. "I seem to remember your face," he continued,
"as part of the awful nightmare I’ve suffered the last few days—or is it
weeks? I seem to remember having seen you, and you were always kind."
"That’s all over now, Mr. Potts," said Hugh gently. "You got into the
clutches of the most infernal gang of swine, and we’ve been trying to
get you out again." He looked at him quietly. "Do you think you can
remember enough to tell us what happened at the beginning? Take your
time," he urged. "There’s no hurry."
The others drew nearer eagerly, and the millionaire passed his hand
dazedly over his forehead.
"I was stopping at the Carlton," he began, "with Granger, my secretary.
I sent him over to Belfast on a shipping deal and——" He paused and
looked round the group. "Where is Granger?" he asked.
"Mr. Granger was murdered in Belfast, Mr. Potts," said Drummond quietly,
"by a member of the gang that kidnapped you."
"Murdered! Jimmy Granger murdered!" He almost cried in his weakness.
"What did the swine want to murder him for?"
"Because they wanted you alone," explained Hugh. "Private secretaries
ask awkward questions."
After a while the millionaire recovered his composure, and with many
breaks and pauses the slow, disjointed story continued.
"Lakington! That was the name of the man I met at the Carlton. And
then there was another ... Peter ... Peterson. That’s it. We all dined
together, I remember, and it was after dinner, in my private
sitting-room, that Peterson put up his proposition to me.... It was a
suggestion that he thought would appeal to me as a business man. He
said—what was it?—that he could produce a gigantic syndicalist strike in
England—revolution, in fact; and that as one of the biggest
shipowners—the biggest, in fact—outside this country, I should be able
to capture a lot of the British carrying trade. He wanted two hundred
and fifty thousand pounds to do it, paid one month after the result was
obtained.... Said there were others in it...."
"On that valuation," interrupted the detective thoughtfully, "it makes
one million pounds sterling," and Drummond nodded. "Yes, Mr. Potts; and
then?"
"I told him," said the millionaire, "that he was an infernal scoundrel,
and that I’d have nothing whatever to do with such a villainous scheme.
And then—almost the last thing I can remember—I saw Peterson look at
Lakington. Then they both sprang on me, and I felt something prick my
arm. And after that I can’t remember anything clearly. Your face,
sir"—he turned to Drummond—"comes to me out of a kind of dream; and
yours, too," he added to Darrell. "But it was like a long, dreadful
nightmare, in which vague things, over which I had no power, kept
happening, until I woke up late last night in this gentleman’s house."
He bowed to Ted Jerningham, who grinned cheerfully.
"And mighty glad I was to hear you talking sense again, sir," he
remarked. "Do you mean to say you have no recollection of how you got
there?"
"None, sir; none," answered the millionaire. "It was just part of the
dream."
"It shows the strength of the drug those swine used on you," said
Drummond grimly. "You went there in an aeroplane, Mr. Potts."
"An aeroplane!" cried the other in amazement. "I don’t remember it.
I’ve got no recollection of it whatever. There’s only one other thing
that I can lay hold of, and that’s all dim and muzzy.... Pearls.... A
great rope of pearls.... I was to sign a paper; and I wouldn’t.... I
did once, and then there was a shot and the light went out, and the
paper disappeared...."
"It’s at my bank at this moment, Mr. Potts," said Hugh; "I took that
paper, or part of it, that night."
"Did you?" The millionaire looked at him vaguely. "It was to promise
them a million dollars when they had done what they said.... I remember
that.... And the pearl necklace.... The Duchess of..." He paused and
shook his head wearily.
"The Duchess of Lampshire’s?" prompted Hugh.
"That’s it," said the other. "The Duchess of Lampshire’s. It was
saying that I wanted her pearls, I think, and would ask no questions as
to how they were got."
The detective grunted.
"Wanted to incriminate you properly, did they? Though it seems to me
that it was a blamed risky game. There should have been enough money
from the other three to run the show without worrying you, when they
found you weren’t for it."
"Wait," said the millionaire, "that reminds me. Before they assaulted me
at the Carlton, they told me the others wouldn’t come in unless I did."
For a while there was silence, broken at length by Hugh.
"Well, Mr. Potts, you’ve had a mouldy time, and I’m very glad it’s over.
But the person you’ve got to thank for putting us fellows on to your
track is a girl. If it hadn’t been for her, I’m afraid you’d still be
having nightmares."
"I would like to see her and thank her," said the millionaire quickly.
"You shall," grinned Hugh. "Come to the wedding; it will be in a
fortnight or thereabouts."
"Wedding!" Mr. Potts looked a little vague.
"Yes! Mine and hers. Ghastly proposition, isn’t it?"
"The last straw," remarked Ted Jerningham. "A more impossible man as a
bridegroom would be hard to think of. But in the meantime I pinched
half a dozen of the old man’s Perrier Jonet 1911 and put ’em in the car.
What say you?"
"Say!" snorted Hugh. "Idiot boy! Does one speak on such occasions?"
And it was so....
*III*
"What’s troubling me," remarked Hugh later, "is what to do with Carl and
that sweet girl Irma."
The hour for the meeting was drawing near, and though no one had any
idea as to what sort of a meeting it was going to be, it was obvious
that Peterson would be one of the happy throng.
"I should say the police might now be allowed a look in," murmured
Darrell mildly. "You can’t have the man lying about the place after
you’re married."
"I suppose not," answered Drummond regretfully. "And yet it’s a dreadful
thing to finish a little show like this with the police—if you’ll
forgive my saying so, Mr. Green."
"Sure thing," drawled the American. "But we have our uses, Captain, and
I’m inclined to agree with your friend’s suggestion. Hand him over
along with his book, and they’ll sweep up the mess."
"It would be an outrage to let the scoundrel go," said the millionaire
fiercely. "The man Lakington you say is dead; there’s enough evidence
to hang this brute as well. What about my secretary in Belfast?"
But Drummond shook his head.
"I have my doubts, Mr. Potts, if you’d be able to bring that home to
him. Still, I can quite understand your feeling rattled with the bird."
He rose and stretched himself; then he glanced at his watch. "It’s time
you all retired, boys; the party ought to be starting soon. Drift in
again with the lads, the instant I ring the bell."
Left alone Hugh made certain once again that he knew the right
combination of studs on the wall to open the big door which concealed
the stolen store of treasure—and other things as well; then, lighting a
cigarette, he sat down and waited.
The end of the chase was in sight, and he had determined it should be a
fitting end, worthy of the chase itself—theatrical, perhaps, but at the
same time impressive. Something for the Ditchlings of the party to
ponder on in the silent watches of the night.... Then the police—it
would have to be the police, he admitted sorrowfully—and after that,
Phyllis.
And he was just on the point of ringing up his flat to tell her that he
loved her, when the door opened and a man came in. Hugh recognised him
at once as Vallance Nestor, an author of great brilliance—in his own
eyes—who had lately devoted himself to the advancement of revolutionary
labour.
"Good afternoon," murmured Drummond affably. "Mr. Peterson will be a
little late. I am his private secretary."
The other nodded and sat down languidly.
"What did you think of my last little effort in the Midlands?" he asked,
drawing off his gloves.
"Quite wonderful," said Hugh. "A marvellous help to the great Cause."
Vallance Nestor yawned slightly and closed his eyes, only to open them
again as Hugh turned the pages of the ledger on the table.
"What’s that?" he demanded.
"This is the book," replied Drummond carelessly, "where Mr. Peterson
records his opinions of the immense value of all his fellow-workers.
Most interesting reading."
"Am I in it?" Vallance Nestor rose with alacrity.
"Why, of course," answered Drummond. "Are you not one of the leaders?
Here you are." He pointed with his finger, and then drew back in
dismay. "Dear dear! There must be some mistake."
But Vallance Nestor, with a frozen and glassy eye, was staring
fascinated at the following choice description of himself:
"Nestor, Vallance. Author—so-called. Hot-air factory, but useful up to
a point. Inordinately conceited and a monumental ass. Not fit to be
trusted far."
"What," he spluttered at length, "is the meaning of this abominable
insult?"
But Hugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, was welcoming the next
arrival—a rugged, beetle-browed man, whose face seemed vaguely familiar,
but whose name he was unable to place.
"Crofter," shouted the infuriated author, "look at this as a description
of me."
And Hugh watched the man, whom he now knew to be one of the extremist
members of Parliament, walk over and glance at the book. He saw him
conceal a smile, and then Vallance Nestor carried the good work on.
"We’ll see what he says about you—impertinent blackguard."
Rapidly he turned the pages, and Hugh glanced over Crofter’s shoulder at
the dossier.
He just had time to read: "Crofter, John. A consummate blackguard.
Playing entirely for his own hand. Needs careful watching," when the
subject of the remarks, his face convulsed with fury, spun round and
faced him.
"Who wrote that?" he snarled.
"Must have been Mr. Peterson," answered Hugh placidly. "I see you had
five thousand out of him, so perhaps he considers himself privileged. A
wonderful judge of character, too," he murmured, turning away to greet
Mr. Ditchling, who arrived somewhat opportunely, in company with a thin
pale man—little more than a youth—whose identity completely defeated
Drummond.
"My God!" Crofter was livid with rage. "Me and Peterson will have
words this afternoon. Look at this, Ditchling." On second thoughts he
turned over some pages. "We’ll see what this insolent devil has to say
about you."
"Drinks!" Ditchling thumped the table with a heavy fist. "What the
hell does he mean? Say you, Mr. Secretary—what’s the meaning of this?"
"They represent Mr. Peterson’s considered opinions of you all," said
Hugh genially. "Perhaps this other gentleman ..."
He turned to the pale youth, who stepped forward with a surprised look.
He seemed to be not quite clear what had upset the others, but already
Nestor had turned up his name.
"Terrance, Victor. A wonderful speaker. Appears really to believe that
what he says will benefit the working-man. Consequently very valuable;
but indubitably mad."
"Does he mean to insult us deliberately?" demanded Crofter, his voice
still shaking with passion.
"But I don’t understand," said Victor Terrance dazedly. "Does Mr.
Peterson not believe in our teachings, too?" He turned slowly and
looked at Hugh, who shrugged his shoulders.
"He should be here at any moment," he answered, and as he spoke the door
opened and Carl Peterson came in.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he began, and then he saw Hugh. With a
look of speechless amazement he stared at the soldier, and for the first
time since Hugh had known him his face blanched. Then his eyes fell on
the open ledger, and with a dreadful curse he sprang forward. A glance
at the faces of the men who stood watching him told him what he wanted
to know, and with another oath his hand went to his pocket.
"Take your hand out, Carl Peterson." Drummond’s voice rang through the
room, and the arch-criminal, looking sullenly up, found himself staring
into the muzzle of a revolver. "Now, sit down at the table—all of you.
The meeting is about to commence."
"Look here," blustered Crofter, "I’ll have the law on you...."
"By all manner of means, Mr. John Crofter, consummate blackguard,"
answered Hugh calmly. "But that comes afterwards. Just now—sit down."
"I’m damned if I will," roared the other, springing at the soldier. And
Peterson, sitting sullenly at the table trying to readjust his thoughts
to the sudden blinding certainty that through some extraordinary
accident everything had miscarried, never stirred as a half-stunned
Member of Parliament crashed to the floor beside him.
"Sit down, I said," remarked Drummond affably. "But if you prefer to lie
down, it’s all the same to me. Are there any more to come, Peterson?"
"No, damn you. Get it over!"
"Right. Throw your gun on the floor." Drummond picked the weapon up
and put it in his pocket; then he rang the bell. "I had hoped," he
murmured, "for a larger gathering, but one cannot have everything, can
one, Mr. Monumental Ass?"
But Vallance Nestor was far too frightened to resent the insult; he
could only stare foolishly at the soldier, while he plucked at his
collar with a shaking hand. Save to Peterson, who understood, if only
dimly, what had happened, the thing had come as such a complete surprise
that even the sudden entrance of twenty masked men, who ranged
themselves in single rank behind their chairs, failed to stir the
meeting. It seemed merely in keeping with what had gone before.
"I shall not detain you long, gentlemen," began Hugh suavely. "Your
general appearance and the warmth of the weather have combined to
produce in me a desire for sleep. But before I hand you over to the
care of the sportsmen who stand so patiently behind you, there are one
or two remarks I wish to make. Let me say at once that on the subject
of Capital and Labour I am supremely ignorant. You will therefore be
spared any dissertation on the subject. But from an exhaustive study of
the ledger which now lies upon the table, and a fairly intimate
knowledge of its author’s movements, I and my friends have been put to
the inconvenience of treading on you.
"There are many things, we know, which are wrong in this jolly old
country of ours; but given time and the right methods I am sufficiently
optimistic to believe that they could be put right. That, however,
would not suit your book. You dislike the right method, because it
leaves all of you much where you were before. Every single one of
you—with the sole possible exception of you, Mr. Terrance, and you’re
mad—is playing with revolution for his own ends: to make money out of
it—to gain power....
"Let us start with Peterson—your leader. How much did you say he
demanded, Mr. Potts, as the price of revolution?"
With a strangled cry Peterson sprang up as the American millionaire,
removing his mask, stepped forward.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, you swine, was what you asked
me." The millionaire stood confronting his tormentor, who dropped back
in his chair with a groan. "And when I refused, you tortured me. Look
at my thumb."
With a cry of horror the others sitting at the table looked at the
mangled flesh, and then at the man who had done it. This, even to their
mind, was going too far.
"Then there was the same sum," continued Drummond, "to come from
Hocking, the American cotton man—half German by birth; Steinemann, the
German coal man; von Gratz, the German steel man. Is that not so,
Peterson?" It was an arrow at a venture, but it hit the mark, and
Peterson nodded.
"So one million pounds was the stake this benefactor of humanity was
playing for," sneered Drummond. "One million pounds, as the mere price
of a nation’s life-blood.... But at any rate he had the merit of playing
big, whereas the rest of you scum, and the other beauties so ably
catalogued in that book, messed about at his beck and call for packets
of bull’s-eyes. Perhaps you laboured under the delusion that you were
fooling him, but the whole lot of you are so damned crooked that you
probably thought of nothing but your own filthy skins.
"Listen to me." Hugh Drummond’s voice took on a deep, commanding ring,
and against their will the four men looked at the broad, powerful
soldier, whose sincerity shone clear in his face. "Not by revolutions
and direct action will you make this island of ours right—though I am
fully aware that that is the last thing you would wish to see happen.
But with your brains, and for your own unscrupulous ends, you gull the
working-man into believing it. And he, because you can talk with your
tongues in your cheeks, is led away. He believes you will give him
Utopia; whereas, in reality, you are leading him to hell. And you know
it. Evolution is our only chance—not revolution; but you, and others
like you, stand to gain more by the latter...."
His hand dropped to his side, and he grinned.
"Quite a break for me," he remarked. "I’m getting hoarse. I’m now
going to hand you four over to the boys. There’s an admirable, but
somewhat muddy pond outside, and I’m sure you’d like to look for newts.
If any of you want to summon me for assault and battery, my name is
Drummond—Captain Drummond, of Half Moon Street. But I warn you that
that book will be handed into Scotland Yard to-night. Out with ’em,
boys, and give ’em hell....
"And now, Carl Peterson," he remarked, as the door closed behind the
last of the struggling prophets of a new world, "it’s time that you and
I settled our little account, isn’t it?"
The master-criminal rose and stood facing him. Apparently he had
completely recovered himself; the hand with which he lit his cigar was
as steady as a rock.
"I congratulate you, Captain Drummond," he remarked suavely. "I confess
I have no idea how you managed to escape from the somewhat cramped
position I left you in last night, or how you have managed to install
your own men in this house. But I have even less idea how you
discovered about Hocking and the other two."
Hugh laughed shortly.
"Another time, when you disguise yourself as the Comte de Guy, remember
one thing, Carl. For effective concealment it is necessary to change
other things besides your face and figure. You must change your
mannerisms and unconscious little tricks. No—I won’t tell you what it is
that gave you away. You can ponder over it in prison."
"So you mean to hand me over to the police, do you?" said Peterson
slowly.
"I see no other course open to me," replied Drummond. "It will be quite
a _cause célèbre_, and ought to do a lot to edify the public."
The sudden opening of the door made both men look round. Then Drummond
bowed, to conceal a smile.
"Just in time, Miss Irma," he remarked, "for settling day."
The girl swept past him and confronted Peterson.
"What has happened?" she panted. "The garden is full of people whom
I’ve never seen. And there were two men running down the drive covered
with weeds and dripping with water."
Peterson smiled grimly.
"A slight set back has occurred, my dear. I have made a big mistake—a
mistake which has proved fatal. I have under-estimated the ability of
Captain Drummond; and as long as I live I shall always regret that I did
not kill him the night he went exploring in this house."
Fearfully the girl faced Drummond; then she turned again to Peterson.
"Where’s Henry?" she demanded.
"That again is a point on which I am profoundly ignorant," answered
Peterson. "Perhaps Captain Drummond can enlighten us on that also?"
"Yes," remarked Drummond, "I can. Henry has had an accident. After I
drove him back from the Duchess’s last night"—the girl gave a cry, and
Peterson steadied her with his arm—"we had words—dreadful words. And
for a long time, Carl, I thought it would be better if you and I had
similar words. In fact, I’m not sure even now that it wouldn’t be safer
in the long run...."
"But where is he?" said the girl, through dry lips.
"Where you ought to be, Carl," answered Hugh grimly. "Where, sooner or
later, you will be."
He pressed the studs in the niche of the wall, and the door of the big
safe swung open slowly. With a scream of terror the girl sank
half-fainting on the floor, and even Peterson’s cigar dropped on the
floor from his nerveless lips. For, hung from the ceiling by two ropes
attached to his arms, was the dead body of Henry Lakington. And even as
they watched it, it sagged lower, and one of the feet hit sullenly
against a beautiful old gold vase....
"My God!" muttered Peterson. "Did you murder him?"
"Oh, no!" answered Drummond. "He inadvertently fell in the bath he got
ready for me, and then when he ran up the stairs in considerable pain,
that interesting mechanical device broke his neck."
"Shut the door," screamed the girl; "I can’t stand it."
She covered her face with her hands, shuddering, while the door slowly
swung to again.
"Yes," remarked Drummond thoughtfully, "it should be an interesting
trial. I shall have such a lot to tell them about the little
entertainments here, and all your endearing ways."
With the big ledger under his arm he crossed the room, and called to
some men who were standing outside in the hall; and as the detectives,
thoughtfully supplied by Mr. Green, entered the central room, he glanced
for the last time at Carl Peterson and his daughter. Never had the
cigar glowed more evenly between the master-criminal’s lips; never had
the girl Irma selected a cigarette from her gold and tortoiseshell case
with more supreme indifference.
"Good-bye, my ugly one!" she cried, with a charming smile, as two of the
men stepped up to her.
"Good-bye," Hugh bowed, and a tinge of regret showed for a moment in his
eyes.
"Not good-bye, Irma." Carl Peterson removed his cigar, and stared at
Drummond steadily. "Only _au revoir_, my friend; only _au revoir_."
*EPILOGUE*
"I simply can’t believe it, Hugh." In the lengthening shadows Phyllis
moved a little nearer to her husband, who, quite regardless of the
publicity of their position, slipped an arm round her waist.
"Can’t believe what, darling?" he demanded lazily.
"Why, that all that awful nightmare is over. Lakington dead, and the
other two in prison, and us married."
"They’re not actually in jug yet, old thing," said Hugh. "And
somehow..." he broke off and stared thoughtfully at a man sauntering
past them. To all appearances he was a casual visitor taking his evening
walk along the front of the well-known seaside resort so largely
addicted to honeymoon couples. And yet ... was he? Hugh laughed softly;
he’d got suspicion on the brain.
"Don’t you think they’ll be sent to prison?" cried the girl.
"They may be sent right enough, but whether they arrive or not is a
different matter. I don’t somehow see Carl picking oakum. It’s not his
form."
For a while they were silent, occupied with matters quite foreign to
such trifles as Peterson and his daughter.
"Are you glad I answered your advertisement?" inquired Phyllis at
length.
"The question is too frivolous to deserve an answer," remarked her
husband severely.
"But you aren’t sorry it’s over?" she demanded.
"It isn’t over, kid; it’s just begun." He smiled at her tenderly.
"Your life and mine ... isn’t it just wonderful?"
And once again the man sauntered past them. But this time he dropped a
piece of paper on the path, just at Hugh’s feet, and the soldier, with a
quick movement which he hardly stopped to analyse, covered it with his
shoe. The girl hadn’t seen the action; but then, as girls will do after
such remarks, she was thinking of other things. Idly Hugh watched the
saunterer disappear in the more crowded part of the esplanade, and for a
moment there came on to his face a look which, happily for his wife’s
peace of mind, she failed to notice.
"No," he said, _à propos_ of nothing, "I don’t see the gentleman picking
oakum. Let’s go and eat, and after dinner I’ll run you up to the top of
the headland...."
With a happy sigh she rose. It was just wonderful! and together they
strolled back to their hotel. In his pocket was the piece of paper; and
who could be sending him messages in such a manner save one man—a man
now awaiting his trial?
In the hall he stayed behind to inquire for letters, and a man nodded to
him.
"Heard the news?" he inquired.
"No," said Hugh. "What’s happened?"
"That man Peterson and the girl have got away. No trace of ’em." Then
he looked at Drummond curiously. "By the way, you had something to do
with that show, didn’t you?"
"A little," smiled Hugh. "Just a little."
"Police bound to catch ’em again," continued the other. "Can’t hide
yourself these days."
And once again Hugh smiled, as he drew from his pocket the piece of
paper:
"Only _au revoir_, my friend; only _au revoir_."
He glanced at the words written in Peterson’s neat writing, and the
smile broadened. Assuredly life was still good; assuredly....
"Are you ready for dinner, darling?" Quickly he swung round, and looked
at the sweet face of his wife.
"Sure thing, kid," he grinned. "Dead sure; I’ve had the best appetiser
the old pot-house can produce."
"Well, you’re very greedy. Where’s mine?"
"Effects of bachelordom, old thing. For the moment I forgot you. I’ll
have another. Waiter—two Martinis."
And into an ash-tray near by he dropped a piece of paper torn into a
hundred tiny fragments.
"Was that a love-letter?" she demanded with assumed jealousy.
"Not exactly, sweetheart," he laughed back. "Not exactly." And over
the glasses their eyes met. "Here’s to hoping, kid; here’s to hoping."
THE END
_Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld.,
London and Aylesbury._
* * * * * * * *
_*WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR*_
THE HUMAN TOUCH
NO MAN’S LAND
MEN, WOMEN, AND GUNS
SERGEANT MICHAEL CASSIDY
THE LIEUTENANT AND OTHERS
MUFTI
HODDER AND STOUGHTON, LTD.