Front matter (continued 5)

With one laugh of joyful amazement Hugh flung open the door, and found himself looking from the range of a yard into two revolvers.

“I don’t know how you’ve done it, boys,” he remarked, “but you can put those guns away. I hate looking at them from that end.”

“What the devil have they done to all your dials?” said Darrell, slowly lowering his arm.

“We’ll leave that for the time,” returned Hugh grimly, as he shut the door. “There are other more pressing matters to be discussed.”

He glanced round the room, and a slow grin spread over his face. There were some twenty of the gang, all of them fast asleep. They sprawled grotesquely over the table, they lolled in chairs; they lay on the floor, they huddled in corners. And, without exception, they snored and snorted.

“A dandy bunch,” remarked the American, gazing at them with satisfaction. “That fat one in the corner took enough dope to kill a bull, but he seems quite happy.” Then he turned to Drummond. “Say now, Captain, we’ve got a lorry load of the boys outside; your friend here thought we’d better bring ’em along. So it’s up to you to get busy.”

“Mullings and his crowd,” said Darrell, seeing the look of mystification on Hugh’s face. “When Mr. Green got back and told me you’d shoved your great mutton-head in it again, I thought I’d better bring the whole outfit.”

“Oh, you daisy!” cried Hugh, rubbing his hands together, “you pair of priceless beans! The Philistines are delivered into our hands, even up to the neck.” For a few moments he stood, deep in thought; then once again the grin spread slowly over his face. “Right up to their necks,” he repeated, “so that it washes round their back teeth. Get the boys in, Peter; and get these lumps of meat carted out to the lorry. And, while you do that, we’ll go upstairs and mop up.”

III

Even in his wildest dreams Hugh had never imagined such a wonderful opportunity. To be in complete possession of the house, with strong forces at his beck and call, was a state of affairs which rendered him almost speechless.

“Up the stairs on your hands and knees,” he ordered, as they stood in the hall. “There are peculiarities about this staircase which require elucidation at a later date.”

But the murderous implement which acted in conjunction with the fifth step was not in use, and they passed up the stairs in safety.

“Keep your guns handy,” whispered Hugh. “We’ll draw each room in turn till we find the girl.”

But they were not to be put to so much trouble. Suddenly a door opposite opened, and the man who had been guarding Phyllis Benton peered out suspiciously. His jaw fell, and a look of aghast surprise spread over his face as he saw the four men in front of him. Then he made a quick movement as if to shut the door, but before he realised what had happened the American’s foot was against it, and the American’s revolver was within an inch of his head.

“Keep quite still, son,” he drawled, “or I guess it might sort of go off.”

But Hugh had stepped past him, and was smiling at the girl who, with a little cry of joyful wonder, had risen from her chair.

“Your face, boy,” she whispered, as he took her in his arms, regardless of the other, “your poor old face! Oh! that brute, Lakington!”

Hugh grinned.

“It’s something to know, old thing,” he remarked cheerily, “that anything could damage it. Personally I have always thought that any change in it must be for the better.”

He laughed gently, and for a moment she clung to him, unmindful of how he had got to her, glorying only in the fact that he had. It seemed to her that there was nothing which this wonderful man of hers couldn’t manage; and now, blindly trusting, she waited to be told what to do. The nightmare was over; Hugh was with her....

“Where’s your father, dear?” he asked her after a little pause.

“In the dining-room, I think,” she answered with a shiver, and Hugh nodded gravely.

“Are there any cars outside?” He turned to the American.

“Yours,” answered that worthy, still keeping his eyes fixed on his prisoner’s face, which had now turned a sickly green.

“And mine is hidden behind Miss Benton’s greenhouse unless they’ve moved it,” remarked Algy.

“Good,” said Hugh. “Algy, take Miss Benton and her father up to Half Moon Street—at once. Then come back here.”

“But, Hugh——” began the girl appealingly.

“At once, dear, please.” He smiled at her tenderly, but his tone was decided. “This is going to be no place for you in the near future.” He turned to Longworth and drew him aside. “You’ll have a bit of a job with the old man,” he whispered. “He’s probably paralytic by now. But get on with it, will you? Get a couple of the boys to give you a hand.”

With no further word of protest the girl followed Algy, and Hugh drew a breath of relief.

“Now, you ugly-looking blighter,” he remarked to the cowering ruffian, who was by this time shaking with fright, “we come to you. How many of these rooms up here are occupied—and which?”

It appeared that only one was occupied—everyone else was below.... The one opposite.... In his anxiety to please, he moved towards it; and with a quickness that would have done even Hugh credit, the American tripped him up.

“Not so blamed fast, you son of a gun,” he snapped, “or there sure will be an accident.”

But the noise he made as he fell served a good purpose. The door of the occupied room was flung open, and a thin, weedy object clad in a flannel nightgown stood on the threshold blinking foolishly.

“Holy smoke!” spluttered the detective, after he had gazed at the apparition in stunned silence for a time. “What, under the sun, is it?”

Hugh laughed.

“Why, it’s the onion-eater; the intimidated rabbit,” he said delightedly. “How are you, little man?”

He extended an arm, and pulled him into the passage, where he stood spluttering indignantly.

“This is an outrage, sir,” he remarked; “a positive outrage.”

“Your legs undoubtedly are,” remarked Hugh, gazing at them dispassionately. “Put on some trousers—and get a move on. Now you”—he jerked the other man to his feet—“when does Lakington return?”

“Termorrow, sir,” stammered the other.

“Where is he now?”

The man hesitated for a moment, but the look in Hugh’s eyes galvanised him into speech.

“He’s after the old woman’s pearls, sir—the Duchess of Lampshire’s.”

“Ah!” returned Hugh softly. “Of course he is. I forgot.”

“Strike me dead, guvnor,” cringed the man, “I never meant no ’arm—I didn’t really. I’ll tell you all I know, sir. I will, strite.”

“I’m quite certain you will,” said Hugh. “And if you don’t, you swine, I’ll make you. When does Peterson come back?”

“Termorrow, too, sir, as far as I knows,” answered the man, and at that moment the intimidated rabbit shot rapidly out of his room, propelled by an accurate and forcible kick from Toby, who had followed him in to ensure rapidity of toilet.

“And what’s he doing?” demanded Drummond.

“On the level, guvnor, I can’t tell yer. Strite, I can’t; ’e can.” The man pointed at the latest arrival, who, with his nightdress tucked into his trousers, stood gasping painfully after the manner of a recently landed fish.

“I repeat, sir,” he spluttered angrily, “that this is an outrage. By what right...”

“Dry up,” remarked Hugh briefly. Then he turned to the American. “This is one of the ragged-trousered brigade I spoke to you about.”

For a while the three men studied him in silence; then the American thoughtfully transferred his chewing-gum to a fresh place.

“Wal,” he said, “he looks like some kind o’ disease; but I guess he’s got a tongue. Say, flop-ears, what are you, anyway?”

“I am the secretary of a social organisation which aims at the amelioration of the conditions under which the workers of the world slave,” returned the other with dignity.

“You don’t say,” remarked the American, unmoved. “Do the workers of the world know about it?”

“And I again demand to know,” said the other, turning on Drummond, “the reason for this monstrous indignity.”

“What do you know about Peterson, little man?” said Hugh, paying not the slightest attention to his protests.

“Nothing, save that he is the man whom we have been looking for, for years,” cried the other. “The man of stupendous organising power, who has brought together and welded into one the hundreds of societies similar to mine, who before this have each, on their own, been feebly struggling towards the light. Now we are combined, and our strength is due to him.”

Hugh exchanged glances with the American.

“Things become clearer,” he murmured. “Tell me, little man,” he continued, “now that you’re all welded together, what do you propose to do?”

“That you shall see in good time,” cried the other triumphantly. “Constitutional methods have failed—and, besides, we’ve got no time to wait for them. Millions are groaning under the intolerable bonds of the capitalist: those millions we shall free, to a life that is worthy of a man. And it will all be due to our leader—Carl Peterson.”

A look of rapt adoration came into his face, and the American laughed in genuine delight.

“Didn’t I tell you, Captain, that that guy was the goods?” But there was no answering smile on Hugh’s face.

“He’s the goods right enough,” he answered grimly. “But what worries me is how to stop their delivery.”

At that moment Darrell’s voice came up from the hall.

“The whole bunch are stowed away, Hugh. What’s the next item?”

Hugh walked to the top of the stairs.

“Bring ’em both below,” he cried over his shoulder, as he went down. A grin spread over his face as he saw half a dozen familiar faces in the hall, and he hailed them cheerily.

“Like old times, boys,” he laughed. “Where’s the driver of the lorry?”

“That’s me, sir.” One of the men stepped forward. “My mate’s outside.”

“Good,” said Hugh. “Take your bus ten miles from here: then drop that crowd one by one on the road as you go along. You can take it from me that none of ’em will say anything about it, even when they wake up. Then take her back to your garage; I’ll see you later.”

“Now,” went on Hugh, as they heard the sound of the departing lorry, “we’ve got to set the scene for to-morrow morning.” He glanced at his watch. “Just eleven. How long will it take me to get the old buzz-box to Laidley Towers?”

“Laidley Towers,” echoed Darrell. “What the devil are you going there for?”

“I just can’t bear to be parted from Henry for one moment longer than necessary,” said Hugh quietly. “And Henry is there, in a praiseworthy endeavour to lift the Duchess’s pearls.... Dear Henry!” His two fists clenched, and the American, looking at his face, laughed softly.

But it was only for a moment that Drummond indulged in the pleasures of anticipation; all that could come after. And just now there were other things to be done—many others, if events next morning were to go as they should.

“Take those two into the centre room,” he cried. “Incidentally there’s a dead Boche on the floor, but he’ll come in very handy in my little scheme.”

“A dead Boche!” The intimidated rabbit gave a frightened squeak. “Good Heavens! you ruffian, this is beyond a joke.”

Hugh looked at him coldly.

“You’ll find it beyond a joke, you miserable little rat,” he said quietly, “if you speak to me like that.” He laughed as the other shrank past him. “Three of you boys in there,” he ordered briskly, “and if either of them gives the slightest trouble clip him over the head. Now let’s have the rest of the crowd in here, Peter.”

They came filing in, and Hugh waved a cheery hand in greeting.

“How goes it, you fellows,” he cried with his infectious grin. “Like a company pow-wow before popping the parapet. What! And it’s a bigger show this time, boys, than any you’ve had over the water.” His face set grimly for a moment; then he grinned again, as he sat down on the foot of the stairs. “Gather round, and listen to me.”

For five minutes he spoke, and his audience nodded delightedly. Apart from their love for Drummond—and three out of every four of them knew him personally—it was a scheme which tickled them to death. And he was careful to tell them just enough of the sinister design of the master-criminal to make them realise the bigness of the issue.

“That’s all clear, then,” said Drummond rising. “Now I’m off. Toby, I want you to come too. We ought to be there by midnight.”

“There’s only one point, Captain,” remarked the American, as the group began to disperse. “That safe—and the ledger.” He fumbled in his pocket, and produced a small india-rubber bottle. “I’ve got the soup here—gelignite,” he explained, as he saw the mystified look on the other’s face. “I reckoned it might come in handy. Also a fuse and detonator.”

“Splendid!” said Hugh, “splendid! You’re an acquisition, Mr. Green, to any gathering. But I think—I think—Lakington first. Oh! yes—most undoubtedly—Henry first!”

And once again the American laughed softly at the look on his face.

CHAPTER XI

IN WHICH LAKINGTON PLAYS HIS LAST “COUP”

I

“Toby, I’ve got a sort of horrid feeling that the hunt is nearly over.”

With a regretful sigh Hugh swung the car out of the sleeping town of Godalming in the direction of Laidley Towers. Mile after mile dropped smoothly behind the powerful two-seater, and still Drummond’s eyes wore a look of resigned sadness.

“Very nearly over,” he remarked again. “And then once more the tedium of respectability positively stares us in the face.”

“You’ll be getting married, old bean,” murmured Toby Sinclair hopefully.

For a moment his companion brightened up.

“True, O King,” he answered. “It will ease the situation somewhat; at least, I suppose so. But think of it, Toby: no Lakington, no Peterson—nothing at all to play about with and keep one amused.”

“You’re very certain, Hugh.” With a feeling almost of wonder Sinclair glanced at the square-jawed, ugly profile beside him. “There’s many a slip...”

“My dear old man,” interrupted Drummond, “there’s only one cure for the proverb-quoting disease—a dose of salts in the morning.” For a while they raced on through the warm summer’s night in silence, and it was not till they were within a mile of their destination that Sinclair spoke again.

“What are you going to do with them, Hugh?”

“Who—our Carl and little Henry?” Drummond grinned gently. “Why, I think that Carl and I will part amicably—unless, of course, he gives me any trouble. And as for Lakington—we’ll have to see about Lakington.” The grin faded from his face as he spoke. “We’ll have to see about our little Henry,” he repeated softly. “And I can’t help feeling, Toby, that between us we shall find a method of ridding the earth of such a thoroughly unpleasing fellow.”

“You mean to kill him?” grunted the other non-committally.

“Just that, and no more,” responded Hugh. “To-morrow morning as ever is. But he’s going to get the shock of his young life before it happens.”

He pulled the car up silently in the deep shadows of some trees, and the two men got out.

“Now, old boy, you take her back to The Elms. The ducal abode is close to—I remember in my extreme youth being worse than passing sick by those bushes over there after a juvenile bun-worry...”

“But confound it all,” spluttered Toby Sinclair. “Don’t you want me to help you?”

“I do: by taking the buzz-box back. This little show is my shout.”

Grumbling disconsolately, Sinclair stepped back into the car.

“You make me tired,” he remarked peevishly. “I’ll be damned if you get any wedding present out of me. In fact,” and he fired a Parthian shot at his leader, “you won’t have any wedding. I shall marry her myself!”

For a moment or two Hugh stood watching the car as it disappeared down the road along which they had just come, while his thoughts turned to the girl now safely asleep in his flat in London. Another week—perhaps a fortnight—but no more. Not a day more.... And he had a pleasant conviction that Phyllis would not require much persuasion to come round to his way of thinking—even if she hadn’t arrived there already.... And so delightful was the train of thought thus conjured up, that for a while Peterson and Lakington were forgotten. The roseate dreams of the young about to wed have been known to act similarly before.

Wherefore to the soldier’s instinctive second nature, trained in the war and sharpened by his grim duel with the gang, must be given the credit of preventing the ringing of the wedding-bells being postponed for good. The sudden snap of a twig close by, the sharp hiss of a compressed-air rifle, seemed simultaneous with Hugh hurling himself flat on his face behind a sheltering bush. In reality there was that fraction of a second between the actions which allowed the bullet to pass harmlessly over his body instead of finishing his career there and then. He heard it go zipping through the undergrowth as he lay motionless on the ground; then very cautiously he turned his head and peered about. A man with an ordinary revolver is at a disadvantage against someone armed with a silent gun, especially when he is not desirous of alarming the neighbourhood.

A shrub was shaking a few yards away, and on it Hugh fixed his half-closed eyes. If he lay quite still the man, whoever he was, would probably assume the shot had taken effect, and come and investigate. Then things would be easier, as two or three Boches had discovered to their cost in days gone by.

For two minutes he saw no one; then very slowly the branches parted and the white face of a man peered through. It was the chauffeur who usually drove the Rolls Royce, and he seemed unduly anxious to satisfy himself that all was well before coming nearer. The fame of Hugh Drummond had spread abroad amongst the satellites of Peterson.

At last he seemed to make up his mind, and came out into the open. Step by step he advanced towards the motionless figure, his weapon held in readiness to shoot at the faintest movement. But the soldier lay sprawling and inert, and by the time the chauffeur had reached him there was no doubt in that worthy’s mind that, at last, this wretched meddler with things that concerned him not had been laid by the heels. Which was as unfortunate for the chauffeur as it had been for unwary Huns in the past.

Contemptuously he rolled Drummond over; then, noting the relaxed muscles and inert limbs, he laid his gun on the ground preparatory to running through his victim’s pockets. And the fact that such an action was a little more foolish than offering a man-eating tiger a peppermint lozenge did not trouble the chauffeur. In fact, nothing troubled him again.

He got out one gasping cry of terror as he realised his mistake; then he had a blurred consciousness of the world upside down, and everything was over. It was Olaki’s most dangerous throw, carried out by gripping the victim’s wrists and hurling his body over by a heave of the legs. And nine times out of ten the result was a broken neck. This was one of the nine.

For a while the soldier stared at the body, frowning thoughtfully. To have killed the chauffeur was inconvenient, but since it had happened it necessitated a little rearrangement of his plans. The moon was setting and the night would become darker, so there was a good chance that Lakington would not recognise that the driver of his car had changed. And if he did—well, it would be necessary to forgo the somewhat theatrical entertainment he had staged for his benefit at The Elms. Bending over the dead man, he removed his long grey driving-coat and cap; then, without a sound, he threaded his way through the bushes in search of the car.

He found it about a hundred yards nearer the house, so well hidden in a small space off the road that he was almost on top of it before he realised the fact. To his relief it was empty, and placing his own cap in a pocket under the seat he put on the driving-coat of his predecessor. Then, with a quick glance round to ensure that everything was in readiness for the immediate and rapid departure such as he imagined Lakington would desire, he turned and crept stealthily towards the house.

II

Laidley Towers was en fête. The Duchess, determined that every conceivable stunt should be carried out which would make for the entertainment of her guests, had spared no pains to make the evening a success. The Duke, bored to extinction, had been five times routed out of his study by his indefatigable spouse, and was now, at the moment Hugh first came in sight of the house, engaged in shaking hands with a tall, aristocratic-looking Indian....

“How d’y do,” he murmured vacantly. “What did you say the dam’ fellah’s name was, my dear?” he whispered in a hoarse undertone to the Duchess, who stood beside him welcoming the distinguished foreigner.

“We’re so glad you could come, Mr. Ram Dar,” remarked the Duchess affably. “Everyone is so looking forward to your wonderful entertainment.” Round her neck were the historic pearls, and as the Indian bowed low over her outstretched hand, his eyes gleamed for a second.

“Your Grace is too kind.” His voice was low and deep, and he glanced thoughtfully around the circle of faces near him. “Maybe the sands that come from the mountains that lie beyond the ever-lasting snows will speak the truth; maybe the gods will be silent. Who knows ... who knows?”

As if unconsciously his gaze rested on the Duke, who manfully rose to the occasion.

“Precisely, Mr. Rum Rum,” he murmured helpfully, “who indeed? If they let you down, don’t you know, perhaps you could show us a card trick?”

He retired in confusion, abashed by the baleful stare of the Duchess, and the rest of the guests drew closer. The jazz band was having supper; the last of the perspiring tenants had departed, and now the bonne bouche of the evening was about to begin.

It had been the Marquis of Laidley himself who had suggested getting hold of this most celebrated performer, who had apparently never been in England before. And since the Marquis of Laidley’s coming-of-age was the cause of the whole evening’s entertainment, his suggestion had been hailed with acclamation. How he had heard about the Indian, and from whom, were points about which he was very vague; but since he was a very vague young man, the fact elicited no comment. The main thing was that here, in the flesh, was a dark, mysterious performer of the occult, and what more could a house party require? And in the general excitement Hugh Drummond crept closer to the open window. It was the Duchess he was concerned with and her pearls, and the arrival of the Indian was not going to put him off his guard.... Then suddenly his jaw tightened: Irma Peterson had entered the room with young Laidley.

“Do you want anything done, Mr. Ram Dar?” asked the Duchess—“the lights down or the window shut?”

“No, I thank you,” returned the Indian. “The night is still; there is no wind. And the night is dark—dark with strange thoughts, that thronged upon me as I drew nigh to the house—whispering through the trees.” Again he fixed his eyes on the Duke. “What is your pleasure, Protector of the Poor?”

“Mine?” cried that pillar of the House of Lords, hurriedly stifling a yawn. “Any old thing, my dear fellow.... You’d much better ask one of the ladies.”

“As you will,” returned the other gravely, “but if the gods speak the truth, and the sand does not lie. I can but say what is written.”

From a pocket in his robe he took a bag and two small bronze dishes, and placing them on a table stood waiting.

“I am ready,” he announced. “Who first will learn of the things that are written on the scroll of Fate?”

“I say, hadn’t you better do it in private, Mr. Rum?” murmured the Duke apprehensively. “I mean, don’t you know, it might be a little embarrassing if the jolly old gods really do give tongue; and I don’t see anybody getting killed in the rush.”

“Is there so much to conceal?” demanded the Indian, glancing round the group, contempt in his brooding eyes. “In the lands that lie beyond the snows we have nothing to conceal. There is nothing that can be concealed, because all is known.”

And it was at that moment that the intent watcher outside the window began to shake with silent mirth. For the face was the face of the Indian, Ram Dar, but the voice was the voice of Lakington. It struck him that the next ten minutes or so might be well worth while. The problem of removing the pearls from the Duchess’s neck before such an assembly seemed to present a certain amount of difficulty even to such an expert as Henry. And Hugh crept a little nearer the window, so as to miss nothing. He crept near enough, in fact, to steal a look at Irma, and in doing so saw something which made him rub his eyes and then grin once more. She was standing on the outskirts of the group, an evening wrap thrown loosely over her arm. She edged a step or two towards a table containing bric-à-brac, the centre of which was occupied, as the place of honour, by a small inlaid Chinese cabinet—a box standing on four grotesquely carved legs. It was a beautiful ornament, and he dimly remembered having heard its history—a story which reflected considerable glory on the predatory nature of a previous Duke. At the moment, however, he was not concerned with its past history, but with its present fate; and it was the consummate quickness of the girl that made him rub his eyes.

She took one lightning glance at the other guests who were craning eagerly forward round the Indian; then she half dropped her wrap on the table and picked it up again. It was done so rapidly, so naturally, that for a while Hugh thought he had made a mistake. And then a slight rearrangement of her wrap to conceal a hard outline beneath, as she joined the others, dispelled any doubts. The small inlaid Chinese cabinet now standing on the table was not the one that had been here previously. The original was under Irma Peterson’s cloak....

Evidently the scene was now set—the necessary props were in position—and Hugh waited with growing impatience for the principal event. But the principal performer seemed in no hurry. In fact, in his dry way Lakington was thoroughly enjoying himself. An intimate inside knowledge of the skeletons that rattled their bones in the cupboards of most of those present enabled the gods to speak with disconcerting accuracy; and as each victim insisted on somebody new facing the sands that came from beyond the mountains, the performance seemed likely to last indefinitely.

At last a sudden delighted burst of applause came from the group, announcing the discomfiture of yet another guest, and with it Lakington seemed to tire of the amusement. Engrossed though he was in the anticipation of the main item which was still to be staged, Drummond could not but admire the extraordinary accuracy of the character study. Not a detail had been overlooked; not a single flaw in Lakington’s acting could he notice. It was an Indian who stood there, and when a few days later Hugh returned her pearls to the Duchess, for a long time neither she nor her husband would believe that Ram Dar had been an Englishman disguised. And when they had at last been persuaded of that fact, and had been shown the two cabinets side by side, it was the consummate boldness of the crime, coupled with its extreme simplicity, that staggered them. For it was only in the reconstruction of it that the principal beauty of the scheme became apparent. The element of luck was reduced to a minimum, and at no stage of the proceedings was it impossible, should things go amiss, for Lakington to go as he had come, a mere Indian entertainer. Without the necklace, true, in such an event; but unsuspected, and free to try again. As befitted his last, it was perhaps his greatest effort.... And this was what happened as seen by the fascinated onlooker crouching near the window outside.

Superbly disdainful, the Indian tipped back his sand into the little bag, and replacing it in his pocket, stalked to the open window. With arms outstretched he stared into the darkness, seeming to gather strength from the gods whom he served.

“Do your ears not hear the whisperings of the night?” he demanded. “Life rustling in the leaves; death moaning through the grasses.” And suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, a fierce, mocking laugh; then he swung round and faced the room. For a while he stood motionless, and Hugh, from the shelter of the bushes, wondered whether the two quick flashes that had come from his robe as he spoke—flashes such as a small electric torch will give, and which were unseen by anyone else—were a signal to the defunct chauffeur.

Then a peculiar look came over the Indian’s face, as his eyes fell on the Chinese cabinet.

“Where did the Protector of the Poor obtain the sacred cabinet of the Chow Kings?” He peered at it reverently, and the Duke coughed.

“One of my ancestors picked it up somewhere,” he answered apologetically.

“Fashioned with the blood of men, guarded with their lives, and one of your ancestors picked up it!” The Duke withered completely under the biting scorn of the words, and seemed about to say something, but the Indian had turned away, and his long, delicate fingers were hovering over the box. “There is power in this box,” he continued, and his voice was low and thoughtful. “Years ago a man who came from the land where dwells the Great Brooding Spirit told me of this thing. I wonder ... I wonder...”

With gleaming eyes he stared in front of him, and a woman shuddered audibly.

“What is it supposed to do?” she ventured timidly.

“In that box lies the power unknown to mortal man, though the priests of the Temple City have sometimes discovered it before they pass beyond. Length you know, and height, and breadth—but in that box lies more.”

“You don’t mean the fourth dimension, do you?” demanded a man incredulously..

“I know not what you call it, sahib,” said the Indian quietly. “But it is the power which renders visible or invisible at will.”

For a moment Hugh felt an irresistible temptation to shout the truth through the window, and give Lakington away; then his curiosity to see the next move in the game conquered the wish, and he remained silent. So perfect was the man’s acting that, in spite of having seen the substitution of the boxes, in spite of knowing the whole thing was bunkum, he felt he could almost believe it himself. And as for the others—without exception—they were craning forward eagerly, staring first at the Indian and then at the box.

“I say, that’s a bit of a tall order, isn’t it, Mr. Rum Bar?” protested the Duke a little feebly. “Do you mean to say you can put something into that box, and it disappears?”

“From mortal eye, Protector of the Poor, though it is still there,” answered the Indian. “And that only too for a time. Then it reappears again. So runs the legend.”

“Well, stuff something in and let’s see,” cried young Laidley, starting forward, only to pause before the Indian’s outstretched arm.

“Stop, sahib,” he ordered sternly. “To you that box is nothing; to others—of whom I am one of the least—it is sacred beyond words.” He stalked away from the table, and the guests’ disappointment showed on their faces.

“Oh, but Mr. Ram Dar,” pleaded the Duchess, “can’t you satisfy our curiosity after all you’ve said?”

For a moment he seemed on the point of refusing outright; then he bowed, a deep Oriental bow.

“Your Grace,” he said with dignity, “for centuries that box contained the jewels—precious beyond words—of the reigning Queens of the Chow Dynasty. They were wrapped in silver and gold tissue—of which this is a feeble, modern substitute.”

From a cummerbund under his robe he drew a piece of shining material, the appearance of which was greeted with cries of feminine delight.

“You would not ask me to commit sacrilege?” Quietly he replaced the material in his belt and turned away, and Hugh’s eyes glistened at the cleverness with which the man was acting. Whether they believed it or not, there was not a soul in the room by this time who was not consumed with eagerness to put the Chinese cabinet to the test.

“Supposing you took my pearls, Mr. Ram Dar,” said the Duchess diffidently. “I know that compared to such historic jewels they are poor, but perhaps it would not be sacrilege.”

Not a muscle on Lakington’s face twitched, though it was the thing he had been playing for. Instead he seemed to be sunk in thought, while the Duchess continued pleading, and the rest of the party added their entreaties. At length she undid the fastening and held the necklace out, but he only shook his head.

“You ask a great thing of me, your Grace,” he said. “Only by the exercise of my power can I show you this secret—even if I can show you at all. And you are unbelievers.” He paced slowly to the window, ostensibly to commune with the gods on the subject; more materially to flash once again the signal into the darkness. Then, as if he had decided suddenly, he swung round.

“I will try,” he announced briefly, and the Duchess headed the chorus of delight. “Will the Presences stand back, and you, your Grace, take that?” He handed her the piece of material. “No hand but yours must touch the pearls. Wrap them up inside the silver and gold.” Aloofly he watched the process. “Now advance alone, and open the box. Place the pearls inside. Now shut and lock it.” Obediently the Duchess did as she was bid; then she stood waiting for further instructions.

But apparently by this time the Great Brooding Spirit was beginning to take effect. Singing a monotonous, harsh chant, the Indian knelt on the floor, and poured some powder into a little brazier. He was still close to the open window, and finally he sat down with his elbows on his knees, and his head rocking to and fro in his hands.

“Less light—less light!” The words seemed to come from a great distance—ventriloquism in a mild way was one of Lakington’s accomplishments; and as the lights went out a greenish, spluttering flame rose from the brazier. A heavy, odorous smoke filled the room, but framed and motionless in the eerie light sat the Indian, staring fixedly in front of him. After a time the chant began again; it grew and swelled in volume till the singer grew frenzied and beat his head with his hands. Then abruptly it stopped.

“Place the box upon the floor,” he ordered, “in the light of the Sacred Fire.” Hugh saw the Duchess kneel down on the opposite side of the brazier, and place the box on the floor, while the faces of the guests—strange and ghostly in the green light—peered like spectres out of the heavy smoke. This was undoubtedly a show worth watching.

“Open the box!” Harshly the words rang through the silent room, and with fingers that trembled a little the Duchess turned the key and threw back the lid.

“Why, it’s empty!” she cried in amazement, and the guests craned forward to look.

“Put not your hand inside,” cried the Indian in sudden warning, “or perchance it will remain empty.”

The Duchess rapidly withdrew her hand, and stared incredulously through the smoke at his impassive face.

“Did I not say that there was power in the box?” he said dreamily. “The power to render invisible—the power to render visible. Thus came protection to the jewels of the Chow Queens.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Ram Dar,” said the Duchess a little apprehensively. “There may be power in the box, but my pearls don’t seem to be.”

The Indian laughed.

“None but you has touched the cabinet, your Grace; none but you must touch it till the pearls return. They are there now; but not for mortal eyes to see.”

Which, incidentally, was no more than the truth.

“Look, oh! sahibs, look; but do not touch. See that to your vision the box is empty....” He waited motionless, while the guests thronged round, with expressions of amazement; and Hugh, safe from view in the thick, sweet-smelling smoke, came even nearer in his excitement.

“It is enough,” cried the Indian suddenly. “Shut the box, your Grace, and lock it as before. Now place it on the table whence it came. Is it there?”

“Yes.” The Duchess’s voice came out of the green fog.

“Go not too near,” he continued warningly. “The gods must have space—the gods must have space.”

Again the harsh chant began, at times swelling to a shout, at times dying away to a whisper. And it was during one of these latter periods that a low laugh, instantly checked, disturbed the room. It was plainly audible, and someone irritably said, “Be quiet!” It was not repeated, which afforded Hugh, at any rate, no surprise. For it had been Irma Peterson who had laughed, and it might have been hilarity, or it might have been a signal.

The chanting grew frenzied and more frenzied; more and more powder was thrown on the brazier till dense clouds of the thick vapour were rolling through the room, completely obscuring everything save the small space round the brazier, and the Indian’s tense face poised above it.

“Bring the box, your Grace,” he cried harshly, and once more the Duchess knelt in the circle of light, with a row of dimly seen faces above her.

“Open; but as you value your pearls—touch them not.” Excitedly she threw back the lid, and a chorus of cries greeted the appearance of the gold and silver tissue at the bottom of the box.

“They’re here, Mr. Ram Bar.”

In the green light the Indian’s sombre eyes stared round the group of dim faces.

“Did I not say,” he answered, “that there was power in the box? But in the name of that power—unknown to you—I warn you: Do not touch those pearls till the light has burned low in the brazier. If you do they will disappear—never to return. Watch, but do not touch!”

Slowly he backed towards the window, unperceived in the general excitement; and Hugh dodged rapidly towards the car. It struck him that the séance was over, and he just had time to see Lakington snatch something which appeared to have been let down by a string from above, before turning into the bushes and racing for the car. As it was he was only a second or two in front of the other, and the last vision he had through a break in the trees, before they were spinning smoothly down the deserted road, was an open window in Laidley Towers from which dense volumes of vapour poured steadily out. Of the house party behind, waiting for the light to burn low in the brazier, he could see no sign through the opaque wall of green fog.

It took five minutes, so he gathered afterwards from a member of the house party, before the light had burned sufficiently low for the Duchess to consider it safe to touch the pearls. In various stages of asphyxiation the assembled guests had peered at the box, while the cynical comments of the men were rightly treated by the ladies with the contempt they deserved. Was the necklace not there, wrapped in its gold and silver tissue, where a few minutes before there had been nothing?

“Some trick of that beastly light,” remarked the Duke peevishly. “For heaven’s sake throw the dam’ thing out of the window.”

“Don’t be a fool, John,” retorted his spouse. “If you could do this sort of thing, the House of Lords might be some use to somebody.”

And when two minutes later they stared horror-struck at a row of ordinary marbles laboriously unwrapped from a piece of gold and silver tissue, the Duke’s pungent agreement with his wife’s sentiment passed uncontradicted. In fact, it is to be understood that over the scene which followed it was best to draw a decent veil.

III

Drummond, hunched low over the wheel, in his endeavour to conceal his identity from the man behind, knew nothing of that at the time. Every nerve was centred on eluding the pursuit he thought was a certainty; for the thought of Lakington, when everything was prepared for his reception, being snatched from his clutches even by the majesty of the law was more than he could bear. And for much the same reason he did not want to have to deal with him until The Elms was reached; the staging there was so much more effective.

But Lakington was far too busy to bother with the chauffeur.

One snarling curse as they had started, for not having done as he had been told, was the total of their conversation during the trip. During the rest of the time the transformation to the normal kept Lakington busy, and Hugh could see him reflected in the wind-screen removing the make-up from his face, and changing his clothes.

Even now he was not quite clear how the trick had been worked. That there had been two cabinets, that was clear—one false, the other the real one. That they had been changed at the crucial moment by the girl Irma was also obvious. But how had the pearls disappeared in the first case, and then apparently reappeared again? For of one thing he was quite certain. Whatever was inside the parcel of gold and silver tissue which, for all he knew, they might be still staring at, it was not the historic necklace.

And he was still puzzling it over in his mind when the car swung into the drive at The Elms.

“Change the wheels as usual,” snapped Lakington as he got out, and Hugh bent forward to conceal his face. “Then report to me in the central room.”

And out of the corner of his eye Hugh watched him enter the house with one of the Chinese cabinets clasped in his hand....

“Toby,” he remarked to that worthy, whom he found mournfully eating a ham sandwich in the garage, “I feel sort of sorry for our Henry. He’s just had the whole complete ducal outfit guessing, dressed up as an Indian; he’s come back here with a box containing the Duchess’s pearls or I’ll eat my hat, and feeling real good with himself; and now instead of enjoying life he’s got to have a little chat with me.”

“Did you drive him back?” demanded Sinclair, producing a bottle of Bass.

“Owing to the sudden decease of his chauffeur I had to,” murmured Hugh. “And he’s very angry over something. Let’s go on the roof.”

Silently they both climbed the ladder which had been placed in readiness, to find Peter Darrell and the American detective already in position. A brilliant light streamed out through the glass dome, and the inside of the central room was clearly visible.

“He’s already talked to what he thinks is you,” whispered Peter ecstatically, “and he is not in the best of tempers.”

Hugh glanced down, and a grim smile flickered round his lips. In the three chairs sat the motionless, bound figures so swathed in rope that only the tops of their heads were visible, just as Lakington had left him and Toby and Algy earlier in the evening. The only moving thing in the room was the criminal himself, and at the moment he was seated at the table with the Chinese cabinet in front of him. He seemed to be doing something inside with a penknife, and all the time he kept up a running commentary to the three bound figures.

“Well, you young swine, have you enjoyed your night?” A feeble moan came from one of the chairs. “Spirit broken at last, is it?” With a quick turn of his wrist he prised open two flaps of wood, and folded them back against the side. Then he lifted out a parcel of gold and silver tissue from underneath.

“My hat!” muttered Hugh, “what a fool I was not to think of it! Just a false bottom actuated by closing the lid. And a similar parcel in the other cabinet.”

But the American, whistling gently to himself, had his eyes fixed on the rope of wonderful pearls which Lakington was holding lovingly in his hands.

“So easy, you scum,” continued Lakington, “and you thought to pit yourselves against me. Though if it hadn’t been for Irma”—he rose and stood in front of the chair where he had last left Drummond—“it might have been awkward. She was quick, Captain Drummond, and that fool of a chauffeur failed to carry out my orders, and create a diversion. You will see what happens to people who fail to carry out my orders in a minute. And after that you’ll never see anything again.”

“Say, he’s a dream—that guy,” muttered the American. “What pearls are those he’s got?”

“The Duchess of Lampshire’s,” whispered Hugh. “Lifted right under the noses of the whole bally house party.”

With a grunt the detective rearranged his chewing-gum; then once more the four watchers on the roof glued their eyes to the glass. And the sight they saw a moment or two afterwards stirred even the phlegmatic Mr. Green.

A heavy door was swinging slowly open, apparently of its own volition, though Hugh, stealing a quick glance at Lakington, saw that he was pressing some small studs in a niche in one of the walls. Then he looked back at the door, and stared dumbfounded. It was the mysterious cupboard of which Phyllis had spoken to him, but nothing he had imagined from her words had prepared him for the reality. It seemed to be literally crammed to overflowing with the most priceless loot. Gold vessels of fantastic and beautiful shapes littered the floor; while on the shelves were arranged the most wonderful collection of precious stones, which shone and scintillated in the electric light till their glitter almost blinded the watchers.

“Shades of Chu Chin Chow, Ali Baba and the forty pundits!” muttered Toby. “The dam’ man’s a genius.”

The pearls were carefully placed in a position of honour, and for a few moments Lakington stood gloating over his collection.

“Do you see them, Captain Drummond?” he asked quietly. “Each thing obtained by my brain—my hands. All mine—mine!” His voice rose to a shout. “And you pit your puny wits against me.” With a laugh he crossed the room, and once more pressed the studs. The door swung slowly to and closed without a sound, while Lakington still shook with silent mirth.

“And now”—he resumed rubbing his hands—“we will prepare your bath, Captain Drummond.” He walked over to the shelves where the bottles were ranged, and busied himself with some preparations. “And while it is getting ready, we will just deal with the chauffeur who neglected his orders.”

For a few minutes he bent over the chemicals, and then he poured the mixture into the water which half filled the long bath at the end of the room. A faintly acid smell rose to the four men above, and the liquid turned a pale green.

“I told you I had all sorts of baths, didn’t I?” continued Lakington; “some for those who are dead, and some for those who are alive. This is the latter sort, and has the great advantage of making the bather wish it was one of the former.” He stirred the liquid gently with a long glass rod. “About five minutes before we’re quite ready,” he announced. “Just time for the chauffeur.”

He went to a speaking-tube, down which he blew. Somewhat naturally there was no answer, and Lakington frowned.

“A stupid fellow,” he remarked softly. “But there is no hurry; I will deal with him later.”

“You certainly will,” muttered Hugh on the roof. “And perhaps not quite so much later as you think, friend Henry.”

But Lakington had returned to the chair which contained, as he thought, his chief enemy, and was standing beside it with an unholy joy shining on his face.

“And since I have to deal with him later, Captain Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., I may as well deal with you now. Then it will be your friend’s turn. I am going to cut the ropes, and carry you, while you’re so numbed that you can’t move, to the bath. Then I shall drop you in, Captain Drummond, and when, afterwards, you pray for death, I shall mercifully spare your life—for a while.”

He slashed at the ropes behind the chair, and the four men craned forward expectantly.

“There,” snarled Lakington. “I’m ready for you, you young swine.”

And even as he spoke, the words died away on his lips, and with a dreadful cry he sprang back. For with a dull, heavy thud the body of the dead German Heinrich rolled off the chair and sprawled at his feet.

“My God!” screamed Lakington. “What has happened? I—I——”

He rushed to the bell and pealed it frantically, and with a smile of joy Hugh watched his frenzied terror. No one came in answer to the ring, and Lakington dashed to the door, only to recoil into the room with a choking noise in his throat. Outside in the hall stood four masked men, each with a revolver pointing at his heart.

“My cue,” muttered Hugh. “And you understand, fellows, don’t you?—he’s my meat.”

The next moment he had disappeared down the ladder, and the three remaining watchers stared motionless at the grim scene. For Lakington had shut the door and was crouching by the table, his nerve utterly gone. And all the while the puffed, bloated body of the German sprawled on the floor.... Slowly the door into the hall opened, and with a scream of fear Lakington sprang back. Standing in the doorway was Hugh Drummond, and his face was grim and merciless.

“You sent for your chauffeur, Henry Lakington,” he remarked quietly. “I am here.”

“What do you mean?” muttered Lakington thickly.

“I drove you back from Laidley Towers to-night,” said Hugh with a slight smile. “The proper man was foolish and had to be killed.” He advanced a few steps into the room, and the other shrank back. “You look frightened, Henry. Can it be that the young swine’s wits are, after all, better than yours?”

“What do you want?” gasped Lakington, through dry lips.

“I want you, Henry—just you. Hitherto you’ve always used gangs of your ruffians against me. Now my gang occupies this house. But I’m not going to use them. It’s going to be just—you and I. Stand up, Henry, stand up—as I have always stood up to you.” He crossed the room and stood in front of the cowering man.

“Take half—take half,” he screamed. “I’ve got treasure—I’ve...”

And Drummond hit him a fearful blow on the mouth.

“I shall take all, Henry, to return to their rightful owners. Boys”—he raised his voice—“carry out these other two, and undo them.”

The four masked men came in, and carried out the two chairs.

“The intimidated rabbit, Henry, and the kindly gentleman you put to guard Miss Benton,” he remarked as the door closed. “So now we may regard ourselves as being alone. Just you and I. And one of us, Lakington—you devil in human form—is going into that bath.”

“But the bath means death,” shrieked Lakington—“death in agony.”

“That will be unfortunate for the one who goes in,” said Drummond, taking a step towards him.

“You would murder me?” half sobbed the terrified man.

“No, Lakington; I’m not going to murder you.” A gleam of hope came into the other’s eyes. “But I’m going to fight you in order to decide which of us two ceases to adorn the earth; that is, if your diagnosis of the contents of the bath is correct. What little gleam of pity I might have possessed for you has been completely extinguished by your present exhibition of nauseating cowardice. Fight, you worm, fight; or I’ll throw you in!”

And Lakington fought. The sudden complete turning of the tables had for the moment destroyed his nerve; now, at Drummond’s words, he recovered himself. There was no mercy on the soldier’s face, and in his inmost heart Lakington knew that the end had come. For strong and wiry though he was, he was no match for the other.

Relentlessly he felt himself being forced towards the deadly liquid he had prepared for Drummond, and as the irony of the thing struck him, the sweat broke out on his forehead and he cursed aloud. At last he backed into the edge of the bath and his struggles redoubled. But still there was no mercy on the soldier’s face, and he felt himself being forced farther and farther over the liquid until he was only held from falling into it by Drummond’s grip on his throat.

Then, just before the grip relaxed and he went under, the soldier spoke once:

“Henry Lakington,” he said, “the retribution is just.”

Drummond sprang back, and the liquid closed over the wretched man’s head. But only for a second. With a dreadful cry, Lakington leapt out, and even Drummond felt a momentary qualm of pity. For the criminal’s clothes were already burnt through to the skin, and his face—or what was left of it—was a shining copper colour. Mad with agony, he dashed to the door, and flung it open. The four men outside, aghast at the spectacle, recoiled and let him through. And the kindly mercy which Lakington had never shown to any one in his life was given to him at the last.

Blindly he groped his way up the stairs, and as Drummond got to the door the end came. Someone must have put in gear the machinery which worked on the fifth step, or perhaps it was automatic. For suddenly a heavy steel weight revolving on an arm whizzed out from the wall and struck Lakington behind the neck. Without a sound he fell forward, and the weight, unchecked, clanged sullenly home. And thus did the invention of which he was proudest break the inventor’s own neck. Truly, the retribution was just....

“That only leaves Peterson,” remarked the American, coming into the hall at that moment, and lighting a cigar.

“That only leaves Peterson,” agreed Drummond. “And the girl,” he added as an afterthought.

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH THE LAST ROUND TAKES PLACE

I

It was during the next hour or two that the full value of Mr. Jerome K. Green as an acquisition to the party became apparent. Certain other preparations in honour of Peterson’s arrival were duly carried out, and then arose the question of the safe in which the all-important ledger was kept.

“There it is,” said Drummond, pointing to a heavy steel door flush with the wall, on the opposite side of the room to the big one containing Lakington’s ill-gotten treasure. “And it doesn’t seem to me that you’re going to open that one by pressing any buttons in the wall.”

“Then, Captain,” drawled the American, “I guess we’ll open it otherwise. It’s sure plumb easy. I’ve been getting gay with some of the household effects, and this bar of soap sort of caught my eye.”

From his pocket he produced some ordinary yellow soap, and the others glanced at him curiously.

“I’ll just give you a little demonstration,” he continued, “of how our swell cracksmen over the water open safes when the owners have been so tactless as to remove the keys.”

Dexterously he proceeded to seal up every crack in the safe door with the soap, leaving a small gap at the top unsealed. Then round that gap he built what was to all intents and purposes a soap dam.

“If any of you boys,” he remarked to the intent group around him, “think of taking this up as a means of livelihood, be careful of this stuff.” From another pocket he produced an india-rubber bottle. “Don’t drop it on the floor if you want to be measured for your coffin. There’ll just be a boot and some bits to bury.”

The group faded away, and the American laughed.

“Might I ask what it is?” murmured Hugh politely from the neighbourhood of the door.

“Sure thing, Captain,” returned the detective, carefully pouring some of the liquid into the soap dam. “This is what I told you I’d got—gelignite: or, as the boys call it, the oil. It runs right round the cracks of the door inside the soap.” He added a little more, and carefully replaced the stopper in the bottle. “Now a detonator and a bit of fuse, and I guess we’ll leave the room.”

“It reminds one of those dreadful barbarians the Sappers, trying to blow up things,” remarked Toby, stepping with some agility into the garden; and a moment or two later the American joined them.

“It may be necessary to do it again,” he announced, and as he spoke the sound of a dull explosion came from inside the house. “On the other hand,” he continued, going back into the room and quietly pulling the safe door open, “it may not. There’s your book, Captain.”

He calmly relit his cigar as if safe opening was the most normal undertaking, and Drummond lifted out the heavy ledger and placed it on the table.

“Go out in relays, boys,” he said to the group of men by the door, “and get your breakfasts. I’m going to be busy for a bit.”

He sat down at the table and began to turn the pages. The American was amusing himself with the faked Chinese cabinet; Toby and Peter sprawled in two chairs, unashamedly snoring. And after a while the detective put down the cabinet, and coming over, sat at Drummond’s side.

Every page contained an entry—sometimes half a dozen—of the same type, and as the immensity of the project dawned on the two men their faces grew serious.

“I told you he was a big man, Captain,” remarked the American, leaning back in his chair and looking at the open book through half-closed eyes.

“One can only hope to Heaven that we’re in time,” returned Hugh. “Damn it, man,” he exploded, “surely the police must know of this!”

The American closed his eyes still more.

“Your English police know most things,” he drawled, “but you’ve sort of got some peculiar laws in your country. With us, if we don’t like a man—something happens. He kind o’ ceases to sit up and take nourishment. But over here, the more scurrilous he is, the more he talks bloodshed and riot, the more constables does he get to guard him from catching cold.”

The soldier frowned.

“Look at this entry here,” he grunted. “That blighter is a Member of Parliament. What’s he getting four payments of a thousand pounds for?”

“Why, surely, to buy some nice warm underclothes with,” grinned the detective. Then he leaned forward and glanced at the name. “But isn’t he some pot in one of your big Trade Unions?”

“Heaven knows,” grunted Hugh. “I only saw the blighter once, and then his shirt was dirty.” He turned over a few more pages thoughtfully. “Why, if these are the sums of money Peterson has blown, the man must have spent a fortune. Two thousand pounds to Ivolsky. Incidentally, that’s the bloke who had words with the whatnot on the stairs.”

In silence they continued their study of the book. The whole of England and Scotland had been split up into districts, regulated by population rather than area, and each district appeared to be in charge of one director. A varying number of sub-districts in every main division had each their sub-director and staff, and at some of the names Drummond rubbed his eyes in amazement. Briefly, the duties of every man were outlined: the locality in which his work lay, his exact responsibilities, so that overlapping was reduced to a minimum. In each case the staff was small, the work largely that of organisation. But in each district there appeared ten or a dozen names of men who were euphemistically described as lecturers; while at the end of the book there appeared nearly fifty names—both of men and women—who were proudly denoted as first-class general lecturers. And if Drummond had rubbed his eyes at some of the names on the organising staffs, the first-class general lecturers deprived him of speech.

“Why,” he spluttered after a moment, “a lot of these people’s names are absolute household words in the country. They may be swine—they probably are. Thank God! I’ve very rarely met any; but they ain’t criminals.”

“No more is Peterson,” grinned the American; “at least not on that book. See here, Captain, it’s pretty clear what’s happening. In any country to-day you’ve got all sorts and conditions of people with more wind than brain. They just can’t stop talking, and as yet it’s not a criminal offence. Some of ’em believe what they say, like Spindle-shanks upstairs; some of ’em don’t. And if they don’t, it makes ’em worse: they start writing as well. You’ve got clever men, intellectual men—look at some of those guys in the first-class general lecturers—and they’re the worst of the lot. Then you’ve got another class—the men with the business brain, who think they’re getting the sticky end of it, and use the talkers to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for them. And the chestnuts, who are the poor blamed decent working-men, are promptly dropped in the ash-pit to keep ’em quiet. They all want something for nothing, and I guess it can’t be done. They all think they’re fooling one another, and what’s really going at the moment is that Peterson is fooling the whole bunch. He wants all the strings in his hands, and it looks to me as if he’d got ’em there. He’s got the money—and we know where he got it from; he’s got the organisation—all either red-hot revolutionaries, or intellectual windstorms, or calculating knaves. He’s amalgamated ’em, Captain; and the whole blamed lot, whatever they may think, are really working for him.”

Drummond, thoughtfully, lit a cigarette.

“Working towards a revolution in this country,” he remarked quietly.

“Sure thing,” answered the American. “And when he brings it off, I guess you won’t catch Peterson for dust. He’ll pocket the boodle, and the boobs will stew in their own juice. I guessed it in Paris; that book makes it a certainty. But it ain’t criminal. In a Court of Law he could swear it was an organisation for selling bird-seed.”

For a while Drummond smoked in silence, while the two sleepers shifted uneasily in their chairs. It all seemed so simple in spite of the immensity of the scheme. Like most normal Englishmen, politics and labour disputes had left him cold in the past; but no one who ever glanced at a newspaper could be ignorant of the volcano that had been simmering just beneath the surface for years past.

“Not one in a hundred”—the American’s voice broke into his train of thought—“of the so-called revolutionary leaders in this country are disinterested, Captain. They’re out for Number One, and when they’ve talked the boys into bloody murder, and your existing social system is down-and-out, they’ll be the leaders in the new one. That’s what they’re playing for—power; and when they’ve got it, God help the men who gave it to ’em.”

Drummond nodded, and lit another cigarette. Odd things he had read recurred to him: trade unions refusing to allow discharged soldiers to join them; the reiterated threats of direct action. And to what end?

A passage in a part of the ledger evidently devoted to extracts from the speeches of the first-class general lecturers caught his eye:

“To me, the big fact of modern life is the war between classes.... People declare that the method of direct action inside a country will produce a revolution. I agree ... it involves the creation of an army....”

And beside the cutting was a note by Peterson in red ink:

“An excellent man! Send for protracted tour.”

The note of exclamation appealed to Hugh; he could see the writer’s tongue in his cheek as he put it in.

“It involves the creation of an army....” The words of the intimidated rabbit came back to his mind. “The man of stupendous organising power, who has brought together and welded into one the hundreds of societies similar to mine, who before this have each, on their own, been feebly struggling towards the light. Now we are combined, and our strength is due to him.”

In other words, the army was on the road to completion, an army where ninety per cent. of the fighters—duped by the remaining ten—would struggle blindly towards a dim, half-understood goal, only to find out too late that the whip of Solomon had been exchanged for the scorpion of his son....

“Why can’t they be made to understand, Mr. Green?” he cried bitterly. “The working-man—the decent fellow——”

The American thoughtfully picked his teeth.

“Has anyone tried to make ’em understand, Captain? I guess I’m no intellectual guy, but there was a French writer fellow—Victor Hugo—who wrote something that sure hit the nail on the head. I copied it out, for it seemed good to me.” From his pocket-book he produced a slip of paper. “‘The faults of women, children, servants, the weak, the indigent, and the ignorant are the fault of husbands, fathers, masters, the strong, the rich, and the learned.’ Wal!” he leaned back in his chair, “there you are. Their proper leaders have sure failed them, so they’re running after that bunch of cross-eyed skaters. And sitting here, watching ’em run, and laughing fit to beat the band, is your pal Peterson!”

It was at that moment that the telephone bell rang, and after a slight hesitation Hugh picked up the receiver.

“Very well,” he grunted, after listening for a while, “I will tell him.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to the American.

“Mr. Ditchling will be here for the meeting at two, and Peterson will be late,” he announced slowly.

“What’s Ditchling when he’s at home?” asked the other.

“One of the so-called leaders,” answered Hugh briefly, turning over the pages of the ledger. “Here’s his dossier, according to Peterson. ‘Ditchling, Charles. Good speaker; clever; unscrupulous. Requires big money; worth it. Drinks.’”

For a while they stared at the brief summary, and then the American burst into a guffaw of laughter.

“The mistake you’ve made, Captain, in this country is not giving Peterson a seat in your Cabinet. He’d have the whole caboose eating out of his hand; and if you paid him a few hundred thousand a year, he might run straight and grow pigs as a hobby....”

II

It was a couple of hours later that Hugh rang up his rooms in Half Moon Street. From Algy, who spoke to him, he gathered that Phyllis and her father were quite safe, though the latter was suffering in the manner common to the morning after. But he also found out another thing—that Ted Jerningham had just arrived with the hapless Potts in tow, who was apparently sufficiently recovered to talk sense. He was weak still and dazed, but no longer imbecile.

“Tell Ted to bring him down to The Elms at once,” ordered Hugh. “There’s a compatriot of his here, waiting to welcome him with open arms.”

“Potts is coming, Mr. Green,” he said, putting down the receiver. “Our Hiram C. And he’s talking sense. It seems to me that we may get a little light thrown on the activities of Mr. Hocking and Herr Steinemann, and the other bloke.”

The American nodded slowly.

“Von Gratz,” he said. “I remember his name now. Steel man. Maybe you’re right, Captain, and that he knows something; anyway, I guess Hiram C. Potts and I stick closer than brothers till I restore him to the bosom of his family.”

But Mr. Potts, when he did arrive, exhibited no great inclination to stick close to the detective; in fact, he showed the greatest reluctance to enter the house at all. As Algy had said, he was still weak and dazed, and the sight of the place where he had suffered so much produced such an effect on him that for a while Hugh feared he was going to have a relapse. At length, however, he seemed to get back his confidence, and was persuaded to come into the central room.

“It’s all right, Mr. Potts,” Drummond assured him over and over again. “Their gang is dispersed, and Lakington is dead. We’re all friends here now. You’re quite safe. This is Mr. Green, who has come over from New York especially to find you and take you back to your family.”

The millionaire stared in silence at the detective, who rolled his cigar round in his mouth.

“That’s right, Mr. Potts. There’s the little old sign.” He threw back his coat, showing the police badge, and the millionaire nodded. “I guess you’ve had things humming on the other side, and if it hadn’t been for the Captain here and his friends they’d be humming still.”

“I am obliged to you, sir,” said the American, speaking for the first time to Hugh. The words were slow and hesitating, as if he was not quite sure of his voice. “I seem to remember your face,” he continued, “as part of the awful nightmare I’ve suffered the last few days—or is it weeks? I seem to remember having seen you, and you were always kind.”

“That’s all over now, Mr. Potts,” said Hugh gently. “You got into the clutches of the most infernal gang of swine, and we’ve been trying to get you out again.” He looked at him quietly. “Do you think you can remember enough to tell us what happened at the beginning? Take your time,” he urged. “There’s no hurry.”

The others drew nearer eagerly, and the millionaire passed his hand dazedly over his forehead.

“I was stopping at the Carlton,” he began, “with Granger, my secretary. I sent him over to Belfast on a shipping deal and——” He paused and looked round the group. “Where is Granger?” he asked.

“Mr. Granger was murdered in Belfast, Mr. Potts,” said Drummond quietly, “by a member of the gang that kidnapped you.”

“Murdered! Jimmy Granger murdered!” He almost cried in his weakness. “What did the swine want to murder him for?”

“Because they wanted you alone,” explained Hugh. “Private secretaries ask awkward questions.”

After a while the millionaire recovered his composure, and with many breaks and pauses the slow, disjointed story continued.

“Lakington! That was the name of the man I met at the Carlton. And then there was another ... Peter ... Peterson. That’s it. We all dined together, I remember, and it was after dinner, in my private sitting-room, that Peterson put up his proposition to me.... It was a suggestion that he thought would appeal to me as a business man. He said—what was it?—that he could produce a gigantic syndicalist strike in England—revolution, in fact; and that as one of the biggest shipowners—the biggest, in fact—outside this country, I should be able to capture a lot of the British carrying trade. He wanted two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to do it, paid one month after the result was obtained.... Said there were others in it....”

“On that valuation,” interrupted the detective thoughtfully, “it makes one million pounds sterling,” and Drummond nodded. “Yes, Mr. Potts; and then?”

“I told him,” said the millionaire, “that he was an infernal scoundrel, and that I’d have nothing whatever to do with such a villainous scheme. And then—almost the last thing I can remember—I saw Peterson look at Lakington. Then they both sprang on me, and I felt something prick my arm. And after that I can’t remember anything clearly. Your face, sir”—he turned to Drummond—“comes to me out of a kind of dream; and yours, too,” he added to Darrell. “But it was like a long, dreadful nightmare, in which vague things, over which I had no power, kept happening, until I woke up late last night in this gentleman’s house.” He bowed to Ted Jerningham, who grinned cheerfully.

“And mighty glad I was to hear you talking sense again, sir,” he remarked. “Do you mean to say you have no recollection of how you got there?”

“None, sir; none,” answered the millionaire. “It was just part of the dream.”

“It shows the strength of the drug those swine used on you,” said Drummond grimly. “You went there in an aeroplane, Mr. Potts.”

“An aeroplane!” cried the other in amazement. “I don’t remember it. I’ve got no recollection of it whatever. There’s only one other thing that I can lay hold of, and that’s all dim and muzzy.... Pearls.... A great rope of pearls.... I was to sign a paper; and I wouldn’t.... I did once, and then there was a shot and the light went out, and the paper disappeared....”

“It’s at my bank at this moment, Mr. Potts,” said Hugh; “I took that paper, or part of it, that night.”

“Did you?” The millionaire looked at him vaguely. “It was to promise them a million dollars when they had done what they said.... I remember that.... And the pearl necklace.... The Duchess of...” He paused and shook his head wearily.

“The Duchess of Lampshire’s?” prompted Hugh.

“That’s it,” said the other. “The Duchess of Lampshire’s. It was saying that I wanted her pearls, I think, and would ask no questions as to how they were got.”

The detective grunted.

“Wanted to incriminate you properly, did they? Though it seems to me that it was a blamed risky game. There should have been enough money from the other three to run the show without worrying you, when they found you weren’t for it.”

“Wait,” said the millionaire, “that reminds me. Before they assaulted me at the Carlton, they told me the others wouldn’t come in unless I did.”

For a while there was silence, broken at length by Hugh.

“Well, Mr. Potts, you’ve had a mouldy time, and I’m very glad it’s over. But the person you’ve got to thank for putting us fellows on to your track is a girl. If it hadn’t been for her, I’m afraid you’d still be having nightmares.”

“I would like to see her and thank her,” said the millionaire quickly.

“You shall,” grinned Hugh. “Come to the wedding; it will be in a fortnight or thereabouts.”

“Wedding!” Mr. Potts looked a little vague.

“Yes! Mine and hers. Ghastly proposition, isn’t it?”

“The last straw,” remarked Ted Jerningham. “A more impossible man as a bridegroom would be hard to think of. But in the meantime I pinched half a dozen of the old man’s Perrier Jonet 1911 and put ’em in the car. What say you?”

“Say!” snorted Hugh. “Idiot boy! Does one speak on such occasions?”

And it was so....

III

“What’s troubling me,” remarked Hugh later, “is what to do with Carl and that sweet girl Irma.”

The hour for the meeting was drawing near, and though no one had any idea as to what sort of a meeting it was going to be, it was obvious that Peterson would be one of the happy throng.

“I should say the police might now be allowed a look in,” murmured Darrell mildly. “You can’t have the man lying about the place after you’re married.”

“I suppose not,” answered Drummond regretfully. “And yet it’s a dreadful thing to finish a little show like this with the police—if you’ll forgive my saying so, Mr. Green.”

“Sure thing,” drawled the American. “But we have our uses, Captain, and I’m inclined to agree with your friend’s suggestion. Hand him over along with his book, and they’ll sweep up the mess.”

“It would be an outrage to let the scoundrel go,” said the millionaire fiercely. “The man Lakington you say is dead; there’s enough evidence to hang this brute as well. What about my secretary in Belfast?”

But Drummond shook his head.

“I have my doubts, Mr. Potts, if you’d be able to bring that home to him. Still, I can quite understand your feeling rattled with the bird.” He rose and stretched himself; then he glanced at his watch. “It’s time you all retired, boys; the party ought to be starting soon. Drift in again with the lads, the instant I ring the bell.”

Left alone Hugh made certain once again that he knew the right combination of studs on the wall to open the big door which concealed the stolen store of treasure—and other things as well; then, lighting a cigarette, he sat down and waited.

The end of the chase was in sight, and he had determined it should be a fitting end, worthy of the chase itself—theatrical, perhaps, but at the same time impressive. Something for the Ditchlings of the party to ponder on in the silent watches of the night.... Then the police—it would have to be the police, he admitted sorrowfully—and after that, Phyllis.

And he was just on the point of ringing up his flat to tell her that he loved her, when the door opened and a man came in. Hugh recognised him at once as Vallance Nestor, an author of great brilliance—in his own eyes—who had lately devoted himself to the advancement of revolutionary labour.

“Good afternoon,” murmured Drummond affably. “Mr. Peterson will be a little late. I am his private secretary.”

The other nodded and sat down languidly.

“What did you think of my last little effort in the Midlands?” he asked, drawing off his gloves.

“Quite wonderful,” said Hugh. “A marvellous help to the great Cause.”

Vallance Nestor yawned slightly and closed his eyes, only to open them again as Hugh turned the pages of the ledger on the table.

“What’s that?” he demanded.

“This is the book,” replied Drummond carelessly, “where Mr. Peterson records his opinions of the immense value of all his fellow-workers. Most interesting reading.”

“Am I in it?” Vallance Nestor rose with alacrity.

“Why, of course,” answered Drummond. “Are you not one of the leaders? Here you are.” He pointed with his finger, and then drew back in dismay. “Dear dear! There must be some mistake.”

But Vallance Nestor, with a frozen and glassy eye, was staring fascinated at the following choice description of himself:

“Nestor, Vallance. Author—so-called. Hot-air factory, but useful up to a point. Inordinately conceited and a monumental ass. Not fit to be trusted far.”

“What,” he spluttered at length, “is the meaning of this abominable insult?”

But Hugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, was welcoming the next arrival—a rugged, beetle-browed man, whose face seemed vaguely familiar, but whose name he was unable to place.

“Crofter,” shouted the infuriated author, “look at this as a description of me.”

And Hugh watched the man, whom he now knew to be one of the extremist members of Parliament, walk over and glance at the book. He saw him conceal a smile, and then Vallance Nestor carried the good work on.

“We’ll see what he says about you—impertinent blackguard.”

Rapidly he turned the pages, and Hugh glanced over Crofter’s shoulder at the dossier.

He just had time to read: “Crofter, John. A consummate blackguard. Playing entirely for his own hand. Needs careful watching,” when the subject of the remarks, his face convulsed with fury, spun round and faced him.

“Who wrote that?” he snarled.

“Must have been Mr. Peterson,” answered Hugh placidly. “I see you had five thousand out of him, so perhaps he considers himself privileged. A wonderful judge of character, too,” he murmured, turning away to greet Mr. Ditchling, who arrived somewhat opportunely, in company with a thin pale man—little more than a youth—whose identity completely defeated Drummond.

“My God!” Crofter was livid with rage. “Me and Peterson will have words this afternoon. Look at this, Ditchling.” On second thoughts he turned over some pages. “We’ll see what this insolent devil has to say about you.”

“Drinks!” Ditchling thumped the table with a heavy fist. “What the hell does he mean? Say you, Mr. Secretary—what’s the meaning of this?”

“They represent Mr. Peterson’s considered opinions of you all,” said Hugh genially. “Perhaps this other gentleman ...”

He turned to the pale youth, who stepped forward with a surprised look. He seemed to be not quite clear what had upset the others, but already Nestor had turned up his name.

“Terrance, Victor. A wonderful speaker. Appears really to believe that what he says will benefit the working-man. Consequently very valuable; but indubitably mad.”

“Does he mean to insult us deliberately?” demanded Crofter, his voice still shaking with passion.

“But I don’t understand,” said Victor Terrance dazedly. “Does Mr. Peterson not believe in our teachings, too?” He turned slowly and looked at Hugh, who shrugged his shoulders.

“He should be here at any moment,” he answered, and as he spoke the door opened and Carl Peterson came in.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he began, and then he saw Hugh. With a look of speechless amazement he stared at the soldier, and for the first time since Hugh had known him his face blanched. Then his eyes fell on the open ledger, and with a dreadful curse he sprang forward. A glance at the faces of the men who stood watching him told him what he wanted to know, and with another oath his hand went to his pocket.

“Take your hand out, Carl Peterson.” Drummond’s voice rang through the room, and the arch-criminal, looking sullenly up, found himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver. “Now, sit down at the table—all of you. The meeting is about to commence.”

“Look here,” blustered Crofter, “I’ll have the law on you....”

“By all manner of means, Mr. John Crofter, consummate blackguard,” answered Hugh calmly. “But that comes afterwards. Just now—sit down.”

“I’m damned if I will,” roared the other, springing at the soldier. And Peterson, sitting sullenly at the table trying to readjust his thoughts to the sudden blinding certainty that through some extraordinary accident everything had miscarried, never stirred as a half-stunned Member of Parliament crashed to the floor beside him.

“Sit down, I said,” remarked Drummond affably. “But if you prefer to lie down, it’s all the same to me. Are there any more to come, Peterson?”

“No, damn you. Get it over!”

“Right. Throw your gun on the floor.” Drummond picked the weapon up and put it in his pocket; then he rang the bell. “I had hoped,” he murmured, “for a larger gathering, but one cannot have everything, can one, Mr. Monumental Ass?”

But Vallance Nestor was far too frightened to resent the insult; he could only stare foolishly at the soldier, while he plucked at his collar with a shaking hand. Save to Peterson, who understood, if only dimly, what had happened, the thing had come as such a complete surprise that even the sudden entrance of twenty masked men, who ranged themselves in single rank behind their chairs, failed to stir the meeting. It seemed merely in keeping with what had gone before.

“I shall not detain you long, gentlemen,” began Hugh suavely. “Your general appearance and the warmth of the weather have combined to produce in me a desire for sleep. But before I hand you over to the care of the sportsmen who stand so patiently behind you, there are one or two remarks I wish to make. Let me say at once that on the subject of Capital and Labour I am supremely ignorant. You will therefore be spared any dissertation on the subject. But from an exhaustive study of the ledger which now lies upon the table, and a fairly intimate knowledge of its author’s movements, I and my friends have been put to the inconvenience of treading on you.

“There are many things, we know, which are wrong in this jolly old country of ours; but given time and the right methods I am sufficiently optimistic to believe that they could be put right. That, however, would not suit your book. You dislike the right method, because it leaves all of you much where you were before. Every single one of you—with the sole possible exception of you, Mr. Terrance, and you’re mad—is playing with revolution for his own ends: to make money out of it—to gain power....

“Let us start with Peterson—your leader. How much did you say he demanded, Mr. Potts, as the price of revolution?”

With a strangled cry Peterson sprang up as the American millionaire, removing his mask, stepped forward.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, you swine, was what you asked me.” The millionaire stood confronting his tormentor, who dropped back in his chair with a groan. “And when I refused, you tortured me. Look at my thumb.”

With a cry of horror the others sitting at the table looked at the mangled flesh, and then at the man who had done it. This, even to their mind, was going too far.

“Then there was the same sum,” continued Drummond, “to come from Hocking, the American cotton man—half German by birth; Steinemann, the German coal man; von Gratz, the German steel man. Is that not so, Peterson?” It was an arrow at a venture, but it hit the mark, and Peterson nodded.

“So one million pounds was the stake this benefactor of humanity was playing for,” sneered Drummond. “One million pounds, as the mere price of a nation’s life-blood.... But at any rate he had the merit of playing big, whereas the rest of you scum, and the other beauties so ably catalogued in that book, messed about at his beck and call for packets of bull’s-eyes. Perhaps you laboured under the delusion that you were fooling him, but the whole lot of you are so damned crooked that you probably thought of nothing but your own filthy skins.

“Listen to me.” Hugh Drummond’s voice took on a deep, commanding ring, and against their will the four men looked at the broad, powerful soldier, whose sincerity shone clear in his face. “Not by revolutions and direct action will you make this island of ours right—though I am fully aware that that is the last thing you would wish to see happen. But with your brains, and for your own unscrupulous ends, you gull the working-man into believing it. And he, because you can talk with your tongues in your cheeks, is led away. He believes you will give him Utopia; whereas, in reality, you are leading him to hell. And you know it. Evolution is our only chance—not revolution; but you, and others like you, stand to gain more by the latter....”

His hand dropped to his side, and he grinned.

“Quite a break for me,” he remarked. “I’m getting hoarse. I’m now going to hand you four over to the boys. There’s an admirable, but somewhat muddy pond outside, and I’m sure you’d like to look for newts. If any of you want to summon me for assault and battery, my name is Drummond—Captain Drummond, of Half Moon Street. But I warn you that that book will be handed into Scotland Yard to-night. Out with ’em, boys, and give ’em hell....

“And now, Carl Peterson,” he remarked, as the door closed behind the last of the struggling prophets of a new world, “it’s time that you and I settled our little account, isn’t it?”

The master-criminal rose and stood facing him. Apparently he had completely recovered himself; the hand with which he lit his cigar was as steady as a rock.

“I congratulate you, Captain Drummond,” he remarked suavely. “I confess I have no idea how you managed to escape from the somewhat cramped position I left you in last night, or how you have managed to install your own men in this house. But I have even less idea how you discovered about Hocking and the other two.”

Hugh laughed shortly.

“Another time, when you disguise yourself as the Comte de Guy, remember one thing, Carl. For effective concealment it is necessary to change other things besides your face and figure. You must change your mannerisms and unconscious little tricks. No—I won’t tell you what it is that gave you away. You can ponder over it in prison.”

“So you mean to hand me over to the police, do you?” said Peterson slowly.

“I see no other course open to me,” replied Drummond. “It will be quite a cause célèbre, and ought to do a lot to edify the public.”

The sudden opening of the door made both men look round. Then Drummond bowed, to conceal a smile.

“Just in time, Miss Irma,” he remarked, “for settling day.”

The girl swept past him and confronted Peterson.

“What has happened?” she panted. “The garden is full of people whom I’ve never seen. And there were two men running down the drive covered with weeds and dripping with water.”

Peterson smiled grimly.

“A slight set back has occurred, my dear. I have made a big mistake—a mistake which has proved fatal. I have under-estimated the ability of Captain Drummond; and as long as I live I shall always regret that I did not kill him the night he went exploring in this house.”

Fearfully the girl faced Drummond; then she turned again to Peterson.

“Where’s Henry?” she demanded.

“That again is a point on which I am profoundly ignorant,” answered Peterson. “Perhaps Captain Drummond can enlighten us on that also?”

“Yes,” remarked Drummond, “I can. Henry has had an accident. After I drove him back from the Duchess’s last night”—the girl gave a cry, and Peterson steadied her with his arm—“we had words—dreadful words. And for a long time, Carl, I thought it would be better if you and I had similar words. In fact, I’m not sure even now that it wouldn’t be safer in the long run....”

“But where is he?” said the girl, through dry lips.

“Where you ought to be, Carl,” answered Hugh grimly. “Where, sooner or later, you will be.”

He pressed the studs in the niche of the wall, and the door of the big safe swung open slowly. With a scream of terror the girl sank half-fainting on the floor, and even Peterson’s cigar dropped on the floor from his nerveless lips. For, hung from the ceiling by two ropes attached to his arms, was the dead body of Henry Lakington. And even as they watched it, it sagged lower, and one of the feet hit sullenly against a beautiful old gold vase....

“My God!” muttered Peterson. “Did you murder him?”

“Oh, no!” answered Drummond. “He inadvertently fell in the bath he got ready for me, and then when he ran up the stairs in considerable pain, that interesting mechanical device broke his neck.”

“Shut the door,” screamed the girl; “I can’t stand it.”

She covered her face with her hands, shuddering, while the door slowly swung to again.

“Yes,” remarked Drummond thoughtfully, “it should be an interesting trial. I shall have such a lot to tell them about the little entertainments here, and all your endearing ways.”

With the big ledger under his arm he crossed the room, and called to some men who were standing outside in the hall; and as the detectives, thoughtfully supplied by Mr. Green, entered the central room, he glanced for the last time at Carl Peterson and his daughter. Never had the cigar glowed more evenly between the master-criminal’s lips; never had the girl Irma selected a cigarette from her gold and tortoiseshell case with more supreme indifference.

“Good-bye, my ugly one!” she cried, with a charming smile, as two of the men stepped up to her.

“Good-bye,” Hugh bowed, and a tinge of regret showed for a moment in his eyes.

“Not good-bye, Irma.” Carl Peterson removed his cigar, and stared at Drummond steadily. “Only au revoir, my friend; only au revoir.”

EPILOGUE

“I simply can’t believe it, Hugh.” In the lengthening shadows Phyllis moved a little nearer to her husband, who, quite regardless of the publicity of their position, slipped an arm round her waist.

“Can’t believe what, darling?” he demanded lazily.

“Why, that all that awful nightmare is over. Lakington dead, and the other two in prison, and us married.”

“They’re not actually in jug yet, old thing,” said Hugh. “And somehow...” he broke off and stared thoughtfully at a man sauntering past them. To all appearances he was a casual visitor taking his evening walk along the front of the well-known seaside resort so largely addicted to honeymoon couples. And yet ... was he? Hugh laughed softly; he’d got suspicion on the brain.

“Don’t you think they’ll be sent to prison?” cried the girl.

“They may be sent right enough, but whether they arrive or not is a different matter. I don’t somehow see Carl picking oakum. It’s not his form.”

For a while they were silent, occupied with matters quite foreign to such trifles as Peterson and his daughter.

“Are you glad I answered your advertisement?” inquired Phyllis at length.

“The question is too frivolous to deserve an answer,” remarked her husband severely.

“But you aren’t sorry it’s over?” she demanded.

“It isn’t over, kid; it’s just begun.” He smiled at her tenderly. “Your life and mine ... isn’t it just wonderful?”

And once again the man sauntered past them. But this time he dropped a piece of paper on the path, just at Hugh’s feet, and the soldier, with a quick movement which he hardly stopped to analyse, covered it with his shoe. The girl hadn’t seen the action; but then, as girls will do after such remarks, she was thinking of other things. Idly Hugh watched the saunterer disappear in the more crowded part of the esplanade, and for a moment there came on to his face a look which, happily for his wife’s peace of mind, she failed to notice.

“No,” he said, à propos of nothing, “I don’t see the gentleman picking oakum. Let’s go and eat, and after dinner I’ll run you up to the top of the headland....”