Front matter (continued 3)

“I am the insolent puppy of a soldier, dear old bird,” he remarked, watching the other warily. “And if I was you I’d put the tooth-pick away.... You might hurt yourself——”

As he spoke he was edging, little by little, towards the other man, who crouched snarling by the door. His eyes, grim and determined, never left the other’s face; his hands, apparently hanging listless by his sides, were tingling with the joy of what he knew was coming.

“And the penalty of failure is death, isn’t it, dear one?” He spoke almost dreamily; but not for an instant did his attention relax. The words of Olaki, his Japanese instructor, were ringing through his brain: “Distract his attention if you can; but, as you value your life, don’t let him distract yours.”

And so, almost imperceptibly, he crept towards the other man, talking gently.

“Such is your rule. And I think you have failed, haven’t you, you unpleasant specimen of humanity? How will they kill you, I wonder?”

It was at that moment that the man made his mistake. It is a mistake that has nipped the life of many a promising pussy in the bud, at the hands, or rather the teeth, of a dog that knows. He looked away; only for a moment—but he looked away. Just as a cat’s nerves give after a while and it looks round for an avenue of escape, so did the crouching man take his eyes from Hugh. And quick as any dog, Hugh sprang.

With his left hand he seized the man’s right wrist, with his right he seized his throat. Then he forced him upright against the door and held him there. Little by little the grip of his right hand tightened, till the other’s eyes were starting from his head, and he plucked at Hugh’s face with an impotent left arm, an arm not long enough by three inches to do any damage. And all the while the soldier smiled gently, and stared into the other’s eyes. Even when inch by inch he shifted his grip on the man’s knife hand he never took his eyes from his opponent’s face; even when with a sudden gasp of agony the man dropped his knife from fingers which, of a sudden, had become numb, the steady, merciless glance still bored into his brain.

“You’re not very clever at it, are you?” said Hugh softly. “It would be so easy to kill you now, and, except for the inconvenience I should undoubtedly suffer, it mightn’t be a bad idea. But they know me downstairs, and it would make it so awkward when I wanted to dine here again.... So, taking everything into account, I think——”

There was a sudden lightning movement, a heave and a quick jerk. The impersonator of Potts was dimly conscious of flying through the air, and of hitting the floor some yards from the door. He then became acutely conscious that the floor was hard, and that being winded is a most painful experience. Doubled up and groaning, he watched Hugh pick up his hat and stick, and make for the door. He made a frantic effort to rise, but the pain was too great, and he rolled over cursing, while the soldier, his hand on the door-knob, laughed gently.

“I’ll keep the tooth-pick,” he remarked, “as a memento.”

The next moment he was striding along the corridor towards the lift. As a fight it had been a poor one, but his brain was busy with the information he had heard. True, it had been scrappy in the extreme, and, in part, had only confirmed what he had suspected all along. The wretched Granger had been foully done to death, for no other reason than that he was the millionaire’s secretary. Hugh’s jaw tightened; it revolted his sense of sport. It wasn’t as if the poor blighter had done anything; merely because he existed and might ask inconvenient questions he had been removed. And as the lift shot downwards, and the remembrance of the grim struggle he had had in the darkness of The Elms the night before came back to his mind, he wondered once again if he had done wisely in not breaking Peterson’s neck while he had had the chance.

He was still debating the question in his mind as he crossed the tea-lounge. And almost unconsciously he glanced towards the table where three days before he had had tea with Phyllis Benton, and had been more than half inclined to believe that the whole thing was an elaborate leg-pull....

“Why, Captain Drummond, you look pensive.” A well-known voice from a table at his side made him look down, and he bowed a little grimly. Irma Peterson was regarding him with a mocking smile.

He glanced at her companion, a young man whose face seemed vaguely familiar to him, and then his eyes rested once more on the girl. Even his masculine intelligence could appreciate the perfection—in a slightly foreign style—of her clothes; and, as to her beauty, he had never been under any delusions. Nor, apparently, was her escort, whose expression was not one of unalloyed pleasure at the interruption to his tête-à-tête.

“The Carlton seems rather a favourite resort of yours,” she continued, watching him through half-closed eyes. “I think you’re very wise to make the most of it while you can.”

“While I can?” said Hugh. “That sounds rather depressing.”

“I’ve done my best,” continued the girl, “but matters have passed out of my hands, I’m afraid.”

Again Hugh glanced at her companion, but he had risen and was talking to some people who had just come in.

“Is he one of the firm?” he remarked. “His face seems familiar.”

“Oh, no!” said the girl. “He is—just a friend. What have you been doing this afternoon?”

“That, at any rate, is straight and to the point,” laughed Hugh. “If you want to know, I’ve just had a most depressing interview.”

“You’re a very busy person, aren’t you, my ugly one?” she murmured.

“The poor fellow, when I left him, was quite prostrated with grief, and—er—pain,” he went on mildly.

“Would it be indiscreet to ask who the poor fellow is?” she asked.

“A friend of your father’s, I think,” said Hugh, with a profound sigh. “So sad. I hope Mr. Peterson’s neck is less stiff by now?”

The girl began to laugh softly.

“Not very much, I’m afraid. And it’s made him a little irritable. Won’t you wait and see him?”

“Is he here now?” said Hugh quickly.

“Yes,” answered the girl. “With his friend whom you’ve just left. You’re quick, mon ami—quite quick.” She leaned forward suddenly. “Now, why don’t you join us instead of so foolishly trying to fight us? Believe me, Monsieur Hugh, it is the only thing that can possibly save you. You know too much.”

“Is the invitation to amalgamate official, or from your own charming brain?” murmured Hugh.

“Made on the spur of the moment,” she said lightly. “But it may be regarded as official.”

“I’m afraid it must be declined on the spur of the moment,” he answered in the same tone. “And equally to be regarded as official. Well, au revoir. Please tell Mr. Peterson how sorry I am to have missed him.”

“I will most certainly,” answered the girl. “But then, mon ami, you will be seeing him again soon, without doubt....”

She waved a charming hand in farewell, and turned to her companion, who was beginning to manifest symptoms of impatience. But Drummond, though he went into the hall outside, did not immediately leave the hotel. Instead, he buttonholed an exquisite being arrayed in gorgeous apparel, and led him to a point of vantage.

“You see that girl,” he remarked, “having tea with a man at the third table from the big palm? Now, can you tell me who the man is? I seem to know his face, but I can’t put a name to it.”

“That, sir,” murmured the exquisite being, with the faintest perceptible scorn of such ignorance, “is the Marquis of Laidley. His lordship is frequently here.”

“Laidley!” cried Hugh, in sudden excitement. “Laidley! The Duke of Lampshire’s son! You priceless old stuffed tomato—the plot thickens.”

Completely regardless of the scandalised horror on the exquisite being’s face, he smote him heavily in the stomach and stepped into Pall Mall. For clear before his memory had come three lines on the scrap of paper he had torn from the table at The Elms that first night, when he had grabbed the dazed millionaire from under Peterson’s nose.

The Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls were world-famous; the Marquis of Laidley was apparently enjoying his tea. And between the two there seemed to be a connection rather too obvious to be missed.

III

“I’m glad you two fellows came down,” said Hugh thoughtfully, as he entered the sitting-room of his bungalow at Goring. Dinner was over, and stretched in three chairs were Peter Darrell, Algy Longworth, and Toby Sinclair. The air was thick with smoke, and two dogs lay curled up on the mat, asleep. “Did you know that a man came here this afternoon, Peter?”

Darrell yawned and stretched himself.

“I did not. Who was it?”

“Mrs. Denny has just told me.” Hugh reached out a hand for his pipe, and proceeded to stuff it with tobacco. “He came about the water.”

“Seems a very righteous proceeding, dear old thing,” said Algy lazily.

“And he told her that I had told him to come. Unfortunately, I’d done nothing of the sort.”

His three listeners sat up and stared at him.

“What do you mean, Hugh?” asked Toby Sinclair at length.

“It’s pretty obvious, old boy,” said Hugh grimly. “He no more came about the water than he came about my aunt. I should say that about five hours ago Peterson found out that our one and only Hiram C. Potts was upstairs.”

“Good Lord!” spluttered Darrell, by now very wide awake. “How the devil has he done it?”

“There are no flies on the gentleman,” remarked Hugh. “I didn’t expect he’d do it quite so quick, I must admit. But it wasn’t very difficult for him to find out that I had a bungalow here, and so he drew the covert.”

“And he’s found the bally fox,” said Algy. “What do we do, sergeant-major?”

“We take it in turns—two at a time—to sit up with Potts.” Hugh glanced at the other three. “Damn it—you blighters—wake up!”

Darrell struggled to his feet and walked up and down the room.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “I feel most infernally sleepy.”

“Well, listen to me—confound you ... Toby!” Hugh hurled a tobacco-pouch at the offender’s head.

“Sorry, old man.” With a start Sinclair sat up in his chair and blinked at Hugh.

“They’re almost certain to try and get him to-night,” went on Hugh. “Having given the show away by leaving a clue on the wretched secretary, they must get the real man as soon as possible. It’s far too dangerous to leave the—leave the——” His head dropped forward on his chest: a short, half-strangled snore came from his lips. It had the effect of waking him for the moment, and he staggered to his feet.

The other three, sprawling in their chairs, were openly and unashamedly asleep; even the dogs lay in fantastic attitudes, breathing heavily, inert like logs.

“Wake up!” shouted Hugh wildly. “For God’s sake—wake up! We’ve been drugged!”

An iron weight seemed to be pressing down on his eyelids: the desire for sleep grew stronger and stronger. For a few moments more he fought against it, hopelessly, despairingly; while his legs seemed not to belong to him, and there was a roaring noise in his ears. And then, just before unconsciousness overcame him, there came to his bemused brain the sound of a whistle thrice repeated from outside the window. With a last stupendous effort he fought his way towards it, and for a moment he stared into the darkness. There were dim figures moving through the shrubs, and suddenly one seemed to detach itself. It came nearer, and the light fell on the man’s face. His nose and mouth were covered with a sort of pad, but the cold, sneering eyes were unmistakable.

“Lakington!” gasped Hugh, and then the roaring noise increased in his head; his legs struck work altogether. He collapsed on the floor and lay sprawling, while Lakington, his face pressed against the glass outside, watched in silence.

* * * * *

“Draw the curtains.” Lakington was speaking, his voice muffled behind the pad, and one of the men did as he said. There were four in all, each with a similar pad over his mouth and nose. “Where did you put the generator, Brownlow?”

“In the coal-scuttle.” A man whom Mrs. Denny would have had no difficulty in recognising, even with the mask on his face, carefully lifted a small black box out of the scuttle from behind some coal, and shook it gently, holding it to his ear. “It’s finished,” he remarked, and Lakington nodded.

“An ingenious invention is gas,” he said, addressing another of the men. “We owe your nation quite a debt of gratitude for the idea.”

A guttural grunt left no doubt as to what that nation was, and Lakington dropped the box into his pocket.

“Go and get him,” he ordered briefly, and the others left the room.

Contemptuously Lakington kicked one of the dogs; it rolled over and lay motionless in its new position. Then he went in turn to each of the three men sprawling in the chairs. With no attempt at gentleness he turned their faces up to the light, and studied them deliberately; then he let their heads roll back again with a thud. Finally, he went to the window and stared down at Drummond. In his eyes was a look of cold fury, and he kicked the unconscious man savagely in the ribs.

“You young swine,” he muttered. “Do you think I’ll forget that blow on the jaw?”

He took another box out of his pocket and looked at it lovingly.

“Shall I?” With a short laugh he replaced it. “It’s too good a death for you, Captain Drummond, D.S.O., M.C. Just to snuff out in your sleep. No, my friend, I think I can devise something better than that; something really artistic.”

Two other men came in as he turned away, and Lakington looked at them.

“Well,” he asked, “have you got the old woman?”

“Bound and gagged in the kitchen,” answered one of them laconically. “Are you going to do this crowd in?”

The speaker looked at the unconscious men with hatred in his eyes.

“They encumber the earth—this breed of puppy.”

“They will not encumber it for long,” said Lakington softly. “But the one in the window there is not going to die quite so easily. I have a small unsettled score with him....”

“All right; he’s in the car.” A voice came from outside the window, and with a last look at Hugh Drummond, Lakington turned away.

“Then we’ll go,” he remarked. “Au revoir, my blundering young bull. Before I’ve finished with you, you’ll scream for mercy. And you won’t get it....”

* * * * *

Through the still night air there came the thrumming of the engine of a powerful car. Gradually it died away and there was silence. Only the murmur of the river over the weir broke the silence, save for an owl which hooted mournfully in a tree near by. And then, with a sudden crack, Peter Darrell’s head rolled over and hit the arm of his chair.

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH A VERY OLD GAME TAKES PLACE ON THE HOG’S BACK

I

A thick grey mist lay over the Thames. It covered the water and the low fields to the west like a thick white carpet; it drifted sluggishly under the old bridge which spans the river between Goring and Streatley. It was the hour before dawn, and sleepy passengers, rubbing the windows of their carriages as the Plymouth boat express rushed on towards London, shivered and drew their rugs closer around them. It looked cold ... cold and dead.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the vapour rose, and spread outwards up the wooded hills by Basildon. It drifted through the shrubs and rose-bushes of a little garden, which stretched from a bungalow down to the water’s edge, until at length wisps of it brushed gently round the bungalow itself. It was a daily performance in the summer, and generally the windows of the lower rooms remained shut till long after the mist had gone and the sun was glinting through the trees on to the river below. But on this morning there was a change in the usual programme. Suddenly the window of one of the downstair rooms was flung open, and a man with a white haggard face leant out drawing great gulps of fresh air into his lungs. Softly the white wraiths eddied past him into the room behind—a room in which a queer, faintly sweet smell still hung—a room in which three other men lay sprawling uncouthly in chairs, and two dogs lay motionless on the hearthrug.

After a moment or two the man withdrew, only to appear again with one of the others in his arms. And then, having dropped his burden through the window on to the lawn outside, he repeated his performance with the remaining two. Finally he pitched the two dogs after them, and then, with his hand to his forehead, he staggered down to the water’s edge.

“Holy smoke!” he muttered to himself, as he plunged his head into the cold water, “talk about the morning after.... Never have I thought of such a head.”

After a while, with the water still dripping from his face, he returned to the bungalow and found the other three in varying stages of partial insensibility.

“Wake up, my heroes,” he remarked, “and go and put your great fat heads in the river.”

Peter Darrell scrambled unsteadily to his feet. “Great Scott! Hugh,” he muttered thickly, “what’s happened?”

“We’ve been had for mugs,” said Drummond grimly.

Algy Longworth blinked at him foolishly from his position in the middle of a flower-bed.

“Dear old soul,” he murmured at length, “you’ll have to change your wine merchants. Merciful Heavens! is the top of my head still on?”

“Don’t be a fool, Algy,” grunted Hugh. “You weren’t drunk last night. Pull yourself together, man; we were all of us drugged or doped somehow. And now,” he added bitterly, “we’ve all got heads, and we have not got Potts.”

“I don’t remember anything,” said Toby Sinclair, “except falling asleep. Have they taken him?”

“Of course they have,” said Hugh. “Just before I went off I saw ’em all in the garden, and that swine Lakington was with them. However, while you go and put your nuts in the river, I’ll go up and make certain.”

With a grim smile he watched the three men lurch down to the water; then he turned and went upstairs to the room which had been occupied by the American millionaire. It was empty, as he had known it would be, and with a smothered curse he made his way downstairs again. And it was as he stood in the little hall saying things gently under his breath that he heard a muffled moaning noise coming from the kitchen. For a moment he was nonplussed; then, with an oath at his stupidity, he dashed through the door. Bound tightly to the table, with a gag in her mouth, the wretched Mrs. Denny was sitting on the floor, blinking at him wrathfully....

“What on earth will Denny say to me when he hears about this!” said Hugh, feverishly cutting the cords. He helped her to her feet, and then forced her gently into a chair. “Mrs. Denny, have those swine hurt you?”

Five minutes served to convince him that the damage, if any, was mental rather than bodily, and that her vocal powers were not in the least impaired. Like a dam bursting, the flood of the worthy woman’s wrath surged over him; she breathed a hideous vengeance on every one impartially. Then she drove Hugh from the kitchen, and slammed the door in his face.

“Breakfast in half an hour,” she cried from inside—“not that one of you deserves it.”

“We are forgiven,” remarked Drummond, as he joined the other three on the lawn. “Do any of you feel like breakfast? Fat sausages and crinkly bacon.”

“Shut up,” groaned Algy, “or we’ll throw you into the river. What I want is a brandy-and-soda—half a dozen of ’em.”

“I wish I knew what they did to us,” said Darrell. “Because, if I remember straight, I drank bottled beer at dinner, and I’m damned if I see how they could have doped that.”

“I’m only interested in one thing, Peter,” remarked Drummond grimly, “and that isn’t what they did to us. It’s what we’re going to do to them.”

“Count me out,” said Algy. “For the next year I shall be fully occupied resting my head against a cold stone. Hugh, I positively detest your friends....”

* * * * *

It was a few hours later that a motor-car drew up outside that celebrated chemist in Piccadilly whose pick-me-ups are known from Singapore to Alaska. From it there descended four young men, who ranged themselves in a row before the counter and spoke no word. Speech was unnecessary. Four foaming drinks were consumed, four acid-drops were eaten, and then, still in silence, the four young men got back into the car and drove away. It was a solemn rite, and on arrival at the Junior Sports Club the four performers sank into four large chairs, and pondered gently on the vileness of the morning after. Especially when there hadn’t been a night before. An unprofitable meditation evidently, for suddenly, as if actuated by a single thought, the four young men rose from their four large chairs and again entered the motor-car.

The celebrated chemist whose pick-me-ups are known from Singapore to Alaska gazed at them severely.

“A very considerable bend, gentlemen,” he remarked.

“Quite wrong,” answered the whitest and most haggard of the row. “We are all confirmed Pussyfoots, and have been consuming non-alcoholic beer.”

Once more to the scrunch of acid-drops the four young men entered the car outside; once more, after a brief and silent drive, four large chairs in the smoking-room of the Junior Sports Club received an occupant. And it was so, even until luncheon time....

“Are we better?” said Hugh, getting to his feet, and regarding the other three with a discerning eye.

“No,” murmured Toby, “but I am beginning to hope that I may live. Four Martinis and then we will gnaw a cutlet.”

II

“Has it struck you fellows,” remarked Hugh, at the conclusion of lunch, “that seated around this table are four officers who fought with some distinction and much discomfort in the recent historic struggle?”

“How beautifully you put it, old flick!” said Darrell.

“Has it further struck you fellows,” continued Hugh, “that last night we were done down, trampled on, had for mugs by a crowd of dirty blackguards composed largely of the dregs of the universe?”

“A veritable Solomon,” said Algy, gazing at him admiringly through his eyeglass. “I told you this morning I detested your friends.”

“Has it still further struck you,” went on Hugh, a trifle grimly, “that we aren’t standing for it? At any rate, I’m not. It’s my palaver this, you fellows, and if you like ... Well, there’s no call on you to remain in the game. I mean—er——”

“Yes, we’re waiting to hear what the devil you do mean,” said Toby uncompromisingly.

“Well—er,” stammered Hugh, “there’s a big element of risk—er—don’t you know, and there’s no earthly reason why you fellows should get roped in and all that. I mean—er—I’m sort of pledged to see the thing through, don’t you know, and——” He relapsed into silence, and stared at the tablecloth, uncomfortably aware of three pairs of eyes fixed on him.

“Well—er——” mimicked Algy, “there’s a big element of risk—er—don’t you know, and I mean—er—we’re sort of pledged to bung you through the window, old bean, if you talk such consolidated drivel.”

Hugh grinned sheepishly.

“Well, I had to put it to you fellows. Not that I ever thought for a moment you wouldn’t see the thing through—but last evening is enough to show you that we’re up against a tough crowd. A damned tough crowd,” he added thoughtfully. “That being so,” he went on briskly, after a moment or two, “I propose that we should tackle the blighters to-night.”

“To-night!” echoed Darrell. “Where?”

“At The Elms, of course. That’s where the wretched Potts is for a certainty.”

“And how do you propose that we should set about it?” demanded Sinclair.

Drummond drained his port and grinned gently.

“By stealth, dear old beans—by stealth. You—and I thought we might rake in Ted Jerningham, and perhaps Jerry Seymour, to join the happy throng—will make a demonstration in force, with the idea of drawing off the enemy, thereby leaving the coast clear for me to explore the house for the unfortunate Potts.”

“Sounds very nice in theory,” said Darrell dubiously, “but...”

“And what do you mean by a demonstration?” said Longworth. “You don’t propose we should sing carols outside the drawing-room window, do you?”

“My dear people,” Hugh murmured protestingly, “surely you know me well enough by now to realise that I can’t possibly have another idea for at least ten minutes. That is just the general scheme; doubtless the mere vulgar details will occur to us in time. Besides, it’s someone else’s turn now.” He looked round the table hopefully.

“We might dress up or something,” remarked Toby Sinclair, after a lengthy silence.

“What in the name of Heaven is the use of that?” said Darrell witheringly. “It’s not private theatricals, nor a beauty competition.”

“Cease wrangling, you two,” said Hugh suddenly, a few moments later. “I’ve got a perfect cerebral hurricane raging. An accident.... A car.... What is the connecting-link.... Why, drink. Write it down, Algy, or we might forget. Now, can you beat that?”

“We might have some chance,” said Darrell kindly, “if we had the slightest idea what you were talking about.”

“I should have thought it was perfectly obvious,” returned Hugh coldly. “You know, Peter, your worry is that you’re too quick on the uptake. Your brain is too sharp.”

“How do you spell connecting?” demanded Algy, looking up from his labours. “And, anyway, the damn pencil won’t write.”

“Pay attention, all of you,” said Hugh. “To-night, some time about ten of the clock, Algy’s motor will proceed along the Godalming-Guildford road. It will contain you three—also Ted and Jerry Seymour, if we can get ’em. On approaching the gate of The Elms, you will render the night hideous with your vocal efforts. Stray passers-by will think that you are all tight. Then will come the dramatic moment, when, with a heavy crash, you ram the gate.”

“How awfully jolly!” spluttered Algy. “I beg to move that your car be used for the event.”

“Can’t be done, old son,” laughed Hugh. “Mine’s faster than yours, and I’ll be wanting it myself. Now—to proceed. Horrified at this wanton damage to property, you will leave the car and proceed in mass formation up the drive.”

“Still giving tongue?” queried Darrell.

“Still giving tongue. Either Ted or Jerry or both of ’em will approach the house and inform the owner in heart-broken accents that they have damaged his gatepost. You three will remain in the garden—you might be recognised. Then it will be up to you. You’ll have several men all round you. Keep ’em occupied—somehow. They won’t hurt you; they’ll only be concerned with seeing that you don’t go where you’re not wanted. You see, as far as the world is concerned, it’s just an ordinary country residence. The last thing they want to do is to draw any suspicion on themselves—and, on the face of it, you are merely five convivial wanderers who have looked on the wine when it was red. I think,” he added thoughtfully, “that ten minutes will be enough for me....”

“What will you be doing?” said Toby.

“I shall be looking for Potts. Don’t worry about me. I may find him; I may not. But when you have given me ten minutes—you clear off. I’ll look after myself. Now is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Darrell, after a short silence. “But I don’t know that I like it, Hugh. It seems to me, old son, that you’re running an unnecessary lot of risk.”

“Got any alternative?” demanded Drummond.

“If we’re all going down,” said Darrell, “why not stick together and rush the house in a gang?”

“No go, old bean,” said Hugh decisively. “Too many of ’em to hope to pull it off. No, low cunning is the only thing that’s got an earthly of succeeding.”

“There is one other possible suggestion,” remarked Toby slowly. “What about the police? From what you say, Hugh, there’s enough in that house to jug the whole bunch.”

“Toby!” gasped Hugh. “I thought better of you. You seriously suggest that we should call in the police! And then return to a life of toping and ease! Besides,” he continued, removing his eyes from the abashed author of this hideous suggestion, “there’s a very good reason for keeping the police out of it. You’d land the girl’s father in the cart, along with the rest of them. And it makes it so devilish awkward if one’s father-in-law is in prison!”

“When are we going to see this fairy?” demanded Algy.

“You, personally, never. You’re far too immoral. I might let the others look at her from a distance in a year or two.” With a grin he rose, and then strolled towards the door. “Now go and rope in Ted and Jerry, and for the love of Heaven don’t ram the wrong gate.”

“What are you going to do yourself?” demanded Peter suspiciously.

“I’m going to look at her from close to. Go away, all of you, and don’t listen outside the telephone box.”

III

Hugh stopped his car at Guildford station and, lighting a cigarette, strolled restlessly up and down. He looked at his watch a dozen times in two minutes; he threw away his smoke before it was half finished. In short he manifested every symptom usually displayed by the male of the species when awaiting the arrival of the opposite sex. Over the telephone he had arranged that SHE should come by train from Godalming to confer with him on a matter of great importance; SHE had said she would, but what was it? He, having no suitable answer ready, had made a loud buzzing noise indicative of a telephone exchange in pain, and then rung off. And now he was waiting in that peculiar condition of mind which reveals itself outwardly in hands that are rather too warm, and feet that are rather too cold.

“When is this bally train likely to arrive?” He accosted a phlegmatic official, who regarded him coldly, and doubted the likelihood of its being more than a quarter of an hour early.

At length it was signalled, and Hugh got back into his car. Feverishly he scanned the faces of the passengers as they came out into the street, until, with a sudden quick jump of his heart, he saw her, cool and fresh, coming towards him with a faint smile on her lips.

“What is this very important matter you want to talk to me about?” she demanded, as he adjusted the rug round her.

“I’ll tell you when we get out on the Hog’s Back,” he said, slipping in his clutch. “It’s absolutely vital.”

He stole a glance at her, but she was looking straight in front of her, and her face seemed expressionless.

“You must stand a long way off when you do,” she said demurely. “At least if it’s the same thing as you told me over the ’phone.”

Hugh grinned sheepishly.

“The Exchange went wrong,” he remarked at length. “Astonishing how rotten the telephones are in Town these days.”

“Quite remarkable,” she returned. “I thought you weren’t feeling very well or something. Of course, if it was the Exchange...”

“They sort of buzz and blow, don’t you know,” he explained helpfully.

“That must be most fearfully jolly for them,” she agreed. And there was silence for the next two miles....

Once or twice he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, taking in every detail of the sweet profile so near to him. Except for their first meeting at the Carlton, it was the only time he had ever had her completely to himself, and Hugh was determined to make the most of it. He felt as if he could go on driving for ever, just he and she alone. He had an overwhelming longing to put out his hand and touch a soft tendril of hair which was blowing loose just behind her ear; he had an overwhelming longing to take her in his arms, and ... It was then that the girl turned and looked at him. The car swerved dangerously....

“Let’s stop,” she said, with the suspicion of a smile. “Then you can tell me.”

Hugh drew into the side of the road, and switched off the engine.

“You’re not fair,” he remarked, and if the girl saw his hand trembling a little as he opened the door, she gave no sign. Only her breath came a shade faster, but a mere man could hardly be expected to notice such a trifle as that....

He came and stood beside her, and his right arm lay along the seat just behind her shoulders.

“You’re not fair,” he repeated gravely. “I haven’t swerved like that since I first started to drive.”

“Tell me about this important thing,” she said a little nervously.

He smiled, and no woman yet born could see Hugh Drummond smile without smiling too.

“You darling!” he whispered, under his breath—“you adorable darling!” His arm closed around her, and, almost before she realised it, she felt his lips on hers. For a moment she sat motionless, while the wonder of it surged over her, and the sky seemed more gloriously blue, and the woods a richer green. Then, with a little gasp, she pushed him away.

“You mustn’t ... oh! you mustn’t, Hugh,” she whispered.

“And why not, little girl?” he said exultingly. “Don’t you know I love you?”

“But look, there’s a man over there, and he’ll see.”

Hugh glanced at the stolid labourer in question, and smiled.

“Go an absolute mucker over the cabbages, what! Plant carrots by mistake.” His face was still very close to hers. “Well?”

“Well, what?” she murmured.

“It’s your turn,” he whispered. “I love you, Phyllis—just love you.”

“But it’s only two or three days since we met,” she said feebly.

“And phwat the divil has that got to do with it, at all?” he demanded. “Would I be wanting longer to decide such an obvious fact? Tell me,” he went on, and she felt his arm round her again forcing her to look at him—“tell me, don’t you care ... a little?”

“What’s the use?” She still struggled, but, even to her, it wasn’t very convincing. “We’ve got other things to do.... We can’t think of...”

And then this very determined young man settled matters in his usual straightforward fashion. She felt herself lifted bodily out of the car as if she had been a child: she found herself lying in his arms, with Hugh’s eyes looking very tenderly into her own and a whimsical grin round his mouth.

“Cars pass here,” he remarked, “with great regularity. I know you’d hate to be discovered in this position.”

“Would I?” she whispered. “I wonder...”

She felt his heart pound madly against her; and with a sudden quick movement she put both her arms round his neck and kissed him on the mouth.

“Is that good enough?” she asked, very low: and just for a few moments, Time stood still.... Then, very gently, he put her back in the car.

“I suppose,” he remarked resignedly, “that we had better descend to trivialities. We’ve had lots of fun and games since I last saw you a year or two ago.”

“Idiot boy,” she said happily. “It was yesterday morning.”

“The interruption is considered trivial. Mere facts don’t count when it’s you and me.” There was a further interlude of uncertain duration, followed rapidly by another because the first was so nice.

“To resume,” continued Hugh. “I regret to state that they’ve got Potts.”

The girl sat up quickly and stared at him.

“Got him? Oh, Hugh! how did they manage it?”

“I’m damned if I know,” he answered grimly. “They found out that he was in my bungalow at Goring during the afternoon by sending round a man to see about the water. Somehow or other he must have doped the drink or the food, because after dinner we all fell asleep. I can just remember seeing Lakington’s face outside in the garden, pressed against the window, and then everything went out. I don’t remember anything more till I woke this morning with the most appalling head. Of course, Potts had gone.”

“I heard the car drive up in the middle of the night,” said the girl thoughtfully. “Do you think he’s at The Elms now?”

“That is what I propose to find out to-night,” answered Hugh. “We have staged a little comedy for Peterson’s especial benefit, and we are hoping for the best.’”

“Oh, boy, do be careful!” She looked at him anxiously. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you. I’d feel it was all due to me, and I just couldn’t bear it.”

“Dear little girl,” he whispered tenderly, “you’re simply adorable when you look like that. But not even for you would I back out of this show now.” His mouth set in a grim line. “It’s gone altogether too far, and they’ve shown themselves to be so completely beyond the pale that it’s got to be fought out. And when it has been,” he caught both her hands in his ... “and we’ve won ... why, then girl o’ mine, we’ll get Peter Darrell to be best man.”

Which was the cue for the commencement of the last and longest interlude, terminated only by the sudden and unwelcome appearance of a motor-’bus covered within and without by unromantic sightseers, and paper-bags containing bananas.

They drove slowly back to Guildford, and on the way he told her briefly of the murder of the American’s secretary in Belfast, and his interview the preceding afternoon with the impostor at the Carlton.

“It’s a tough proposition,” he remarked quietly. “They’re absolutely without scruple, and their power seems unlimited. I know they are after the Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls: I found the beautiful Irma consuming tea with young Laidley yesterday—you know, the Duke’s eldest son. But there’s something more in the wind than that, Phyllis—something which, unless I’m a mug of the first water, is an infinitely larger proposition than that.”

The car drew up at the station, and he strolled with her on to the platform. Trivialities were once more banished: vital questions concerning when it had first happened—by both; whether he was quite sure it would last for ever—by her; what she could possibly see in him—by him; and wasn’t everything just too wonderful for words—mutual and carried nem. con.

Then the train came in, and he put her into a carriage. And two minutes later, with the touch of her lips warm on his, and her anxious little cry, “Take care, my darling!—take care!” still ringing in his ears, he got into his car and drove off to an hotel to get an early dinner. Love for the time was over; the next round of the other game was due. And it struck Drummond that it was going to be a round where a mistake would not be advisable.

IV

At a quarter to ten he backed his car into the shadow of some trees not far from the gate of The Elms. The sky was overcast, which suited his purpose, and through the gloom of the bushes he dodged rapidly towards the house. Save for a light in the sitting-room and one in a bedroom upstairs, the front of the house was in darkness, and, treading noiselessly on the turf, he explored all round it. From a downstairs room on one side came the hoarse sound of men’s voices, and he placed that as the smoking-room of the gang of ex-convicts and blackguards who formed Peterson’s staff. There was one bedroom light at the back of the house, and thrown on the blind he could see the shadow of a man. As he watched, the man got up and moved away, only to return in a moment or two and take up his old position.

“It’s one of those two bedrooms,” he muttered to himself, “if he’s here at all.”

Then he crouched in the shadow of some shrubs and waited. Through the trees to his right he could see The Larches, and once, with a sudden quickening of his heart, he thought he saw the outline of the girl show up in the light from the drawing-room. But it was only for a second, and then it was gone....

He peered at his watch: it was just ten o’clock. The trees were creaking gently in the faint wind; all around him the strange night noises—noises which play pranks with a man’s nerves—were whispering and muttering. Bushes seemed suddenly to come to life, and move; eerie shapes crawled over the ground towards him—figures which existed only in his imagination. And once again the thrill of the night stalker gripped him.

He remembered the German who had lain motionless for an hour in a little gully by Hebuterne, while he from behind a stunted bush had tried to locate him. And then that one creak as the Boche had moved his leg. And then ... the end. On that night, too, the little hummocks had moved and taken to themselves strange shapes: fifty times he had imagined he saw him; fifty times he knew he was wrong—in time. He was used to it; the night held no terrors for him, only a fierce excitement. And thus it was that as he crouched in the bushes, waiting for the game to start, his pulse was as normal, and his nerves as steady, as if he had been sitting down to supper. The only difference was that in his hand he held something tight-gripped.

At last faintly in the distance he heard the hum of a car. Rapidly it grew louder, and he smiled grimly to himself as the sound of five unmelodious voices singing lustily struck his ear. They passed along the road in front of the house. There was a sudden crash—then silence; but only for a moment.

Peter’s voice came first:

“You priceless old ass, you’ve rammed the blinking gate.”

It was Jerry Seymour who then took up the ball. His voice was intensely solemn—also extremely loud.

“Preposhterous. Perfectly preposhterous. We must go and apologise to the owner.... I ... I ... absholutely ... musht apologise.... Quite unpardonable.... You can’t go about country ... knocking down gates.... Out of queshtion....”

Half-consciously Hugh listened, but, now that the moment for action had come, every faculty was concentrated on his own job. He saw half a dozen men go rushing out into the garden through a side door, and then two more ran out and came straight towards him. They crashed past him and went on into the darkness, and for an instant he wondered what they were doing. A little later he was destined to find out....

Then came a peal at the front-door bell, and he determined to wait no longer. He darted through the garden door, to find a flight of back stairs in front of him, and in another moment he was on the first floor. He walked rapidly along the landing, trying to find his bearings, and, turning a corner, he found himself at the top of the main staircase—the spot where he had fought Peterson two nights previously.

From below Jerry Seymour’s voice came clearly.

“Are you the pro-propri-tor, ole friend? Because there’s been ... acchident....”

He waited to hear no more, but walked quickly on to the room which he calculated was the one where he had seen the shadow on the blind. Without a second’s hesitation he flung the door open and walked in. There, lying in the bed, was the American, while crouched beside him, with a revolver in his hand, was a man....

For a few seconds they watched one another in silence, and then the man straightened up.

“The soldier!” he snarled. “You young pup!”

Deliberately, almost casually, he raised his revolver, and then the unexpected happened. A jet of liquid ammonia struck him full in the face, and with a short laugh Hugh dropped his water-pistol in his pocket, and turned his attention to the bed. Wrapping the millionaire in a blanket, he picked him up, and, paying no more attention to the man gasping and choking in a corner, he raced for the back stairs.

Below he could still hear Jerry hiccoughing gently, and explaining to the pro ... pro ... pritor that he pershonally would repair ... inshisted on repairing ... any and every gateposht he posshessed.... And then he reached the garden....

Everything had fallen out exactly as he had hoped, but had hardly dared to expect. He heard Peterson’s voice, calm and suave as usual, answering Jerry. From the garden in front came the dreadful sound of a duet by Algy and Peter. Not a soul was in sight; the back of the house was clear. All that he had to do was to walk quietly through the wicket-gate to The Larches with his semi-conscious burden, get to his car, and drive off. It all seemed so easy that he laughed....

But there were one or two factors that he had forgotten, and the first and most important one was the man upstairs. The window was thrown up suddenly, and the man leaned out waving his arms. He was still gasping with the strength of the ammonia, but Hugh saw him clearly in the light from the room behind. And as he cursed himself for a fool in not having tied him up, from the trees close by there came the sharp clang of metal.

With a quick catch in his breath he began to run. The two men who had rushed past him before he had entered the house, and whom, save for a passing thought, he had disregarded, had become the principal danger. For he had heard that clang before; he remembered Jem Smith’s white horror-struck face, and then his sigh of relief as the thing—whatever it was—was shut in its cage. And now it was out, dodging through the trees, let loose by the two men.

Turning his head from side to side, peering into the gloom, he ran on. What an interminable distance it seemed to the gate ... and even then ... He heard something crash into a bush on his right, and give a snarl of anger. Like a flash he swerved into the undergrowth on the left.

Then began a dreadful game. He was still some way from the fence, and he was hampered at every step by the man slung over his back. He could hear the thing blundering about searching for him, and suddenly, with a cold feeling of fear, he realised that the animal was in front of him—that his way to the gate was barred. The next moment he saw it....

Shadowy, indistinct, in the darkness, he saw something glide between two bushes. Then it came out into the open and he knew it had seen him, though as yet he could not make out what it was. Grotesque and horrible it crouched on the ground, and he could hear its heavy breathing, as it waited for him to move.

Cautiously he lowered the millionaire to the ground, and took a step forward. It was enough; with a snarl of fury the crouching form rose and shambled towards him. Two hairy arms shot out towards his throat, he smelt the brute’s foetid breath, hot and loathsome, and he realised what he was up against. It was a partially grown gorilla.

For a full minute they fought in silence, save for the hoarse grunts of the animal as it tried to tear away the man’s hand from its throat, and then encircle him with his powerful arms. And with his brain cold as ice Hugh saw his danger and kept his head. It couldn’t go on: no human being could last the pace, whatever his strength. And there was only one chance of finishing it quickly, the possibility that the grip taught him by Olaki would serve with a monkey as it did with a man.

He shifted his left thumb an inch or two on the brute’s throat, and the gorilla, thinking he was weakening, redoubled its efforts. But still those powerful hands clutched its throat; try as it would, it failed to make them budge. And then, little by little, the fingers moved, and the grip which had been tight before grew tighter still.

Back went its head; something was snapping in its neck. With a scream of fear and rage it wrapped its legs round Drummond, squeezing and writhing. And then suddenly there was a tearing snap, and the great limbs relaxed and grew limp.

For a moment the man stood watching the still quivering brute lying at his feet; then, with a gasp of utter exhaustion, he dropped on the ground himself. He was done—utterly cooked; even Peterson’s voice close behind scarcely roused him.

“Quite one of the most amusing entertainments I’ve seen for a long time.” The calm, expressionless voice made him look up wearily, and he saw that he was surrounded by men. The inevitable cigar glowed red in the darkness, and after a moment or two he scrambled unsteadily to his feet.

“I’d forgotten your damned menagerie, I must frankly confess,” he remarked. “What’s the party for?” He glanced at the men who had closed in round him.

“A guard of honour, my young friend,” said Peterson suavely, “to lead you to the house. I wouldn’t hesitate ... it’s very foolish. Your friends have gone, and, strong as you are, I don’t think you can manage ten.”

Hugh commenced to stroll towards the house.

“Well, don’t leave the wretched Potts lying about. I dropped him over there.” For a moment the idea of making a dash for it occurred to him, but he dismissed it at once. The odds were too great to make the risk worth while, and in the centre of the group he and Peterson walked side by side.

“The last man whom poor Sambo had words with,” said Peterson reminiscently, “was found next day with his throat torn completely out.”

“A lovable little thing,” murmured Hugh. “I feel quite sorry at having spoilt his record.”

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

“Don’t be despondent, Captain Drummond. We have ample time at our disposal to ensure a similar find to-morrow morning.”

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH HE SPENDS AN HOUR OR TWO ON A ROOF

I

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

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

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

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

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

Hugh bowed gravely.

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

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

Hugh waggled an accusing finger at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peterson took the empty chair next to Lakington.

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

Hugh bowed and sat down.

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

Peterson smiled genially.

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

Once again he smiled genially.

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

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

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

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

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

Hugh regarded the speaker languidly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hugh lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lakington snorted.

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

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

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

“Rossiter and Le Grange,” answered a voice.

Peterson paused by the door.

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

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

III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lakington lit a cigarette and strolled over to the fireplace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peterson shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

The sound of the door opening made both men swing round instantly; then Peterson stepped forward with a smile.

“Back, my dear. I hardly expected you so soon.”

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

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

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

The girl threw off her opera cloak, and coming forward, peered over the edge of the bath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peterson frowned.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, his coming of age,” cried the girl. “I am to go to Laidley Towers as an honoured guest of the Duchess of Lampshire.” She threw back her head and laughed. “What do you think of that, my friend? The old lady will be wearing pearls and all complete, in honour of the great day, and I shall be one of the admiring house party.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about bed?” he remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH HE GOES TO PARIS FOR A NIGHT

I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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