The shuffling of feet sounded outside the door, and Peckover had just
time to throw himself into a chair at some distance from Lord Quorn and
snatch up a newspaper when the landlord came in accompanied by Mr.
Doutfire.
With a well simulated yawn, Peckover threw down the paper wearily and
nodded at Popkiss. "Any one from the Towers yet, landlord?" he asked
in his best off-hand style.
"Not yet, my lord," the host answered, ceremoniously important, to
impress Mr. Doutfire and to show that official that he was not the only
eminent personage of his acquaintance.
Peckover yawned again, and affected to consult his Waterbury with as
much flourish as was consistent with the necessity for concealing the
fact that it was not a hundred guinea repeater.
"Beg pardon, my lord," observed Popkiss, indicating the renowned
representative of the law who already had a severe and suspicious eye
upon the collapsed form at the farther end of the room; "this is the
gentleman I spoke to you about."
"Oh, ah, good evening," Peckover said, acknowledging the interesting
introduction as airily as the critical nature of the situation
permitted.
Having dealt with the social side of the detective's presence, Mr.
Popkiss' fat face became stern as he proceeded to justify it from a
business point of view.
"Is that your man?" he observed, somewhat superfluously, indicating
Quorn.
The alert Doutfire already within pouncing distance of his quarry was
unfolding the telegram. "Five foot seven." Quorn's doubled-up
attitude made an accurate estimate of his inches somewhat difficult and
untrustworthy. Mr. Doutfire, glanced under the table, taking in his
legs, allowed for turnings and swiftly added the measurement to the
body and head, mentally straightened out for the purpose. The total
was evidently not inconsistent with the official dimension, since he
passed on. "Dark hair," he nodded, availing himself of a certain
latitude which the somewhat vague adjective allowed. "Slight
moustache," Quorn's was clipped like to a toothbrush, and the
description held. "Flash dress." For a moment Mr. Doutfire looked
doubtful. With all a true police official's desire to make description
tally, it was plain that a very considerable point would have to be
stretched before that Colonial get-up could be classed as flashy. In
search of some hidden evidence of the toff in apparel, Mr. Doutfire
drew aside the lappel of Quorn's coat. Some papers sticking half-way
out of the breast pocket were thus disclosed. Deftly Mr. Doutfire
whipped them out, glanced at them, and a gleam of satisfaction shot
across his face. "My man," he announced, with a touch of pardonable
triumph which thrillingly communicated itself to Peckover, whose
principal employment during the process of identification had been to
keep his teeth from chattering. "Here! Wake up, my man!" the
detective cried, roughly shaking the irresponsive form. "Wake up,
Peckover, you're wanted." Then suddenly as he turned the limp body
over, his face fell from complacency to blank disappointment. "Why,
burn me, Popkiss," he exclaimed savagely, "if I don't think he has
given me the slip."
"What?" cried that worthy, as resenting his implied complicity in the
fiasco. "Not dead?" he added, with as much awe as a quadruple chin can
express.
"Or next door," replied Doutfire, clinging to the shadow of a hope
which experience belied.
"Next door," echoed Popkiss, losing the man in the innkeeper. "I wish
he was. I don't want no suicide in my respectable house."
"Well, you've got it, Popkiss," retorted Doutfire, as he picked up and
sniffed at the phial which had fallen from the lifeless hand. "Poison,
if I know anything. Send for a doctor."
The exigency of the situation roused Mr. Popkiss' sluggish faculties
into prompt action. "Here, Mercy!" he bawled. "Mercy! Quick! Run
for Dr. Barton directly. Gentleman taken bad."
"Now Mr. D.," he proceeded, puffing with excitement, when Miss Mercy,
in a state of disgust at the contingencies to which licensed premises
are liable, had gone off through the rain with such haste as was
compatible with due care for her personal appearance, "if you don't
want to ruin me, for heaven's sake keep this unfortunate business as
quiet as you can."
"Certainly, Mr. Popkiss," the detective replied, assuming at once the
mastery of the situation, "certainly, so far, that is, as is compatible
with the due requirements of the law."
"Can't you take him out of here?" Peckover suggested, as he began to
feel the strain on his nerves.
"Ah, we might do that, Mr. D., with your permission," the landlord
begged submissively. All his importance was gone now; the last five
minutes had turned him into a fat, abject slave, ready to grovel at any
man's feet.
"Don't care to move him till the doctor arrives," objected Doutfire,
less by way of conforming with legal procedure than of asserting his
authority. Mr. Popkiss had thrown open an inner door. "Only just
through here, Mr. D.," he whined spasmodically. "Nice snug little
room; better for the doctor and--and all parties," he urged.
"Gentleman, I mean nobleman there," he sank his wheezy voice and jerked
his head towards Peckover; "Lord Quorn, on his way to the Towers. Very
distressing for his lordship as it is for me. You'll oblige an old
friend, Mr. D.!"
The appeal was so abject that Mr. Doutfire felt he was losing nothing
of his importance by yielding. "Lend a hand, then," he said, having
first judicially inspected the room in question. Between them, with
much puffing and wheezy mutterings, they carried out the limp form, and
as the door closed upon them Peckover's air of lofty indifference fell
from him as a garment, and resting his elbows on his knees and bowing
his head on his hands he collapsed into a state of utter fear and
misery.