Front matter

BULL-DOG DRUMMOND

THE ADVENTURES OF A DEMOBILISED OFFICER WHO FOUND PEACE DULL

BY “SAPPER” (Cyril McNeile)

HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED LONDON 1920

Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ltd., London and Aylesbury.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH HE TAKES TEA AT THE CARLTON AND IS SURPRISED

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH HE JOURNEYS TO GODALMING, AND THE GAME BEGINS

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH THINGS HAPPEN IN HALF MOON STREET

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH HE SPENDS A QUIET NIGHT AT THE ELMS

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH THERE IS TROUBLE AT GORING

CHAPTER VI

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

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH HE SPENDS AN HOUR OR TWO ON A ROOF

CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH HE GOES TO PARIS FOR A NIGHT

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH HE HAS A NEAR SHAVE

CHAPTER X

IN WHICH THE HUN NATION DECREASES BY ONE

CHAPTER XI

IN WHICH LAKINGTON PLAYS HIS LAST “COUP”

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH THE LAST ROUND TAKES PLACE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

In the month of December 1918, and on the very day that a British Cavalry Division marched into Cologne, with flags flying and bands playing as the conquerors of a beaten nation, the manager of the Hôtel Nationale in Berne received a letter. Its contents appeared to puzzle him somewhat, for having read it twice he rang the bell on his desk to summon his secretary. Almost immediately the door opened, and a young French girl came into the room.

“Monsieur rang?” She stood in front of the manager’s desk, awaiting instructions.

“Have we ever had staying in the hotel a man called le Comte de Guy?” He leaned back in his chair and looked at her through his pince-nez.

The secretary thought for a moment and then shook her head.

“Not as far as I can remember,” she said.

“Do we know anything about him? Has he ever fed here, or taken a private room?”

Again the secretary shook her head.

“Not that I know of.”

The manager handed her the letter, and waited in silence until she had read it.

“It seems on the face of it a peculiar request from an unknown man,” he remarked as she laid it down. “A dinner of four covers; no expense to be spared. Wines specified and if not in hotel to be obtained. A private room at half-past seven sharp. Guests to ask for room X.”

The secretary nodded in agreement.

“It can hardly be a hoax,” she remarked after a short silence.

“No.” The manager tapped his teeth with his pen thoughtfully. “But if by any chance it was, it would prove an expensive one for us. I wish I could think who this Comte de Guy is.”

“He sounds like a Frenchman,” she answered. Then after a pause: “I suppose you’ll have to take it seriously?”

“I must.” He took off his pince-nez and laid them on the desk in front of him. “Would you send the maître d’hôtel to me at once.”

Whatever may have been the manager’s misgivings, they were certainly not shared by the head waiter as he left the office after receiving his instructions. War and short rations had not been conducive to any particularly lucrative business in his sphere; and the whole sound of the proposed entertainment seemed to him to contain considerable promise. Moreover, he was a man who loved his work, and a free hand over preparing a dinner was a joy in itself. Undoubtedly he personally would meet the three guests and the mysterious Comte de Guy; he personally would see that they had nothing to complain of in the matter of the service at dinner....

And so at about twenty minutes past seven the maître d’hôtel was hovering round the hall-porter, the manager was hovering round the maître d’hôtel, and the secretary was hovering round both. At five-and-twenty minutes past the first guest arrived....

He was a peculiar-looking man, in a big fur coat, reminding one irresistibly of a cod-fish.

“I wish to be taken to Room X.” The French secretary stiffened involuntarily as the maître d’hôtel stepped obsequiously forward. Cosmopolitan as the hotel was, even now she could never hear German spoken without an inward shudder of disgust.

“A Boche,” she murmured in disgust to the manager as the first arrival disappeared through the swing doors at the end of the lounge. It is to be regretted that that worthy man was more occupied in shaking himself by the hand, at the proof that the letter was bona fide, than in any meditation on the guest’s nationality.

Almost immediately afterwards the second and third members of the party arrived. They did not come together, and what seemed peculiar to the manager was that they were evidently strangers to one another.

The leading one—a tall gaunt man with a ragged beard and a pair of piercing eyes—asked in a nasal and by no means an inaudible tone for Room X. As he spoke a little fat man who was standing just behind him started perceptibly, and shot a bird-like glance at the speaker.

Then in execrable French he too asked for Room X.

“He’s not French,” said the secretary excitedly to the manager as the ill-assorted pair were led out of the lounge by the head waiter. “That last one was another Boche.”

The manager thoughtfully twirled his pince-nez between his fingers.

“Two Germans and an American.” He looked a little apprehensive. “Let us hope the dinner will appease everybody. Otherwise——”

But whatever fears he might have entertained with regard to the furniture in Room X, they were not destined to be uttered. Even as he spoke the door again swang open, and a man with a thick white scarf around his neck, so pulled up as almost completely to cover his face, came in. A soft hat was pulled down well over his ears, and all that the manager could swear to as regards the newcomer’s appearance was a pair of deep-set, steel-grey eyes which seemed to bore through him.

“You got my letter this morning?”

“M’sieur le Comte de Guy?” The manager bowed deferentially and rubbed his hands together. “Everything is ready, and your three guests have arrived.”

“Good. I will go to the room at once.”

The maître d’hôtel stepped forward to relieve him of his coat, but the Count waved him away.

“I will remove it later,” he remarked shortly. “Take me to the room.”

As he followed his guide his eyes swept round the lounge. Save for two or three elderly women of doubtful nationality, and a man in the American Red Cross, the place was deserted; and as he passed through the swing doors he turned to the head waiter.

“Business good?” he asked.

No—business decidedly was not good. The waiter was voluble. Business had never been so poor in the memory of man.... But it was to be hoped that the dinner would be to Monsieur le Comte’s liking.... He personally had superintended it.... Also the wines.

“If everything is to my satisfaction you will not regret it,” said the Count tersely. “But remember one thing. After the coffee has been brought in, I do not wish to be disturbed under any circumstances whatever.” The head waiter paused as he came to a door, and the Count repeated the last few words. “Under no circumstances whatever.”

“Mais certainement, Monsieur le Comte.... I, personally, will see to it....”

As he spoke he flung open the door and the Count entered. It cannot be said that the atmosphere of the room was congenial. The three occupants were regarding one another in hostile silence, and as the Count entered they, with one accord, transferred their suspicious glances to him.

For a moment he stood motionless, while he looked at each one in turn. Then he stepped forward....

“Good evening, gentlemen”—he still spoke in French—“I am honoured at your presence.” He turned to the head waiter. “Let dinner be served in five minutes exactly.”

With a bow the man left the room, and the door closed.

“During that five minutes, gentlemen, I propose to introduce myself to you, and you to one another.” As he spoke he divested himself of his coat and hat. “The business which I wish to discuss we will postpone, with your permission, till after the coffee, when we shall be undisturbed.”

In silence the three guests waited while he unwound the thick white muffler; then, with undisguised curiosity, they studied their host. In appearance he was striking. He had a short dark beard, and in profile his face was aquiline and stern. The eyes, which had so impressed the manager, seemed now to be a cold grey-blue; the thick brown hair, flecked slightly with grey, was brushed back from a broad forehead. His hands were large and white; not effeminate, but capable and determined: the hands of a man who knew what he wanted, knew how to get it, and got it. To even the most superficial observer the giver of the feast was a man of power: a man capable of forming instant decisions and of carrying them through....

And if so much was obvious to the superficial observer, it was more than obvious to the three men who stood by the fire watching him. They were what they were simply owing to the fact that they were not superficial servers of humanity; and each one of them, as he watched his host, realised that he was in the presence of a great man. It was enough: great men do not send fool invitations to dinner to men of international repute. It mattered not what form his greatness took—there was money in greatness, big money. And money was their life....

The Count advanced first to the American.

“Mr. Hocking, I believe,” he remarked in English, holding out his hand. “I am glad you managed to come.”

The American shook the proffered hand, while the two Germans looked at him with sudden interest. As the man at the head of the great American cotton trust, worth more in millions than he could count, he was entitled to their respect....

“That’s me, Count,” returned the millionaire in his nasal twang. “I am interested to know to what I am indebted for this invitation.”

“All in good time, Mr. Hocking,” smiled the host. “I have hopes that the dinner will fill in that time satisfactorily.”

He turned to the taller of the two Germans, who without his coat seemed more like a cod-fish than ever.

“Herr Steinemann, is it not?” This time he spoke in German.

The man whose interest in German coal was hardly less well known than Hocking’s in cotton, bowed stiffly.

“And Herr von Gratz?” The Count turned to the last member of the party and shook hands. Though less well known than either of the other two in the realms of international finance, von Gratz’s name in the steel trade of Central Europe was one to conjure with.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Count, “before we sit down to dinner, I may perhaps be permitted to say a few words of introduction. The nations of the world have recently been engaged in a performance of unrivalled stupidity. As far as one can tell that performance is now over. The last thing I wish to do is to discuss the war—except in so far as it concerns our meeting here to-night. Mr. Hocking is an American, you two gentlemen are Germans. I”—the Count smiled slightly—“have no nationality. Or rather, shall I say, I have every nationality. Completely cosmopolitan.... Gentlemen, the war was waged by idiots, and when idiots get busy on a large scale, it is time for clever men to step in... That is the raison d’être for this little dinner.... I claim that we four men are sufficiently international to be able to disregard any stupid and petty feelings about this country and that country, and to regard the world outlook at the present moment from one point of view and one point of view only—our own.”

The gaunt American gave a hoarse chuckle.

“It will be my object after dinner,” continued the Count, “to try and prove to you that we have a common point of view. Until then—shall we merely concentrate on a pious hope that the Hôtel Nationale will not poison us with their food?”

“I guess,” remarked the American, “that you’ve got a pretty healthy command of languages, Count.”

“I speak four fluently—French, German, English, and Spanish,” returned the other. “In addition, I can make myself understood in Russia, Japan, China, the Balkan States, and—America.”

His smile, as he spoke, robbed the words of any suspicion of offence. The next moment the head waiter opened the door, and the four men sat down to dine.

It must be admitted that the average hostess, desirous of making a dinner a success, would have been filled with secret dismay at the general atmosphere in the room. The American, in accumulating his millions, had also accumulated a digestion of such an exotic and tender character that dry rusks and Vichy water were the limit of his capacity.

Herr Steinemann was of the common order of German, to whom food is sacred. He ate and drank enormously, and evidently considered that nothing further was required of him.

Von Gratz did his best to keep his end up, but as he was apparently in a chronic condition of fear that the gaunt American would assault him with violence, he cannot be said to have contributed much to the gaiety of the meal.

And so to the host must be given the credit that the dinner was a success. Without appearing to monopolise the conversation he talked ceaselessly and well. More—he talked brilliantly. There seemed to be no corner of the globe with which he had not a nodding acquaintance at least; while with most places he was as familiar as a Londoner with Piccadilly Circus. But to even the most brilliant of conversationalists the strain of talking to a hypochondriacal American and two Germans—one greedy and the other frightened—is considerable; and the Count heaved an inward sigh of relief when the coffee had been handed round and the door closed behind the waiter. From now on the topic was an easy one—one where no effort on his part would be necessary to hold his audience. It was the topic of money—the common bond of his three guests. And yet, as he carefully cut the end of his cigar, and realised that the eyes of the other three were fixed on him expectantly, he knew that the hardest part of the evening was in front of him. Big financiers, in common with all other people, are fonder of having money put into their pockets than of taking it out. And that was the very thing the Count proposed they should do—in large quantities....

“Gentlemen,” he remarked, when his cigar was going to his satisfaction, “we are all men of business. I do not propose therefore to beat about the bush over the matter which I have to put before you, but to come to the point at once. I said before dinner that I considered we were sufficiently big to exclude any small arbitrary national distinctions from our minds. As men whose interests are international, such things are beneath us. I wish now to slightly qualify that remark.” He turned to the American on his right, who with his eyes half closed was thoughtfully picking his teeth. “At this stage, sir, I address myself particularly to you.”

“Go right ahead,” drawled Mr. Hocking.

“I do not wish to touch on the war—or its result; but though the Central Powers have been beaten by America and France and England, I think I can speak for you two gentlemen”—he bowed to the two Germans—“when I say that it is neither France nor America with whom they desire another round. England is Germany’s main enemy; she always has been, she always will be.”

Both Germans grunted assent, and the American’s eyes closed a little more.

“I have reason to believe, Mr. Hocking, that you personally do not love the English?”

“I guess I don’t see what my private feelings have got to do with it. But if it’s of any interest to the company you are correct in your belief.”

“Good.” The Count nodded his head as if satisfied. “I take it then that you would not be averse to seeing England down and out.”

“Wal,” remarked the American, “you can assume anything you feel like. Let’s get to the show-down.”

Once again the Count nodded his head; then he turned to the two Germans.

“Now you two gentlemen must admit that your plans have miscarried somewhat. It was no part of your original programme that a British Army should occupy Cologne....”

“The war was the act of a fool,” snarled Herr Steinemann. “In a few years more of peace, we should have beaten those swine....”

“And now—they have beaten you.” The Count smiled slightly. “Let us admit that the war was the act of a fool if you like, but as men of business we can only deal with the result ... the result, gentlemen, as it concerns us. Both you gentlemen are sufficiently patriotic to resent the presence of that army at Cologne I have no doubt. And you, Mr. Hocking, have no love on personal grounds for the English.... But I am not proposing to appeal to financiers of your reputation on such grounds as those to support my scheme.... It is enough that your personal predilections run with and not against what I am about to put before you—the defeat of England ... a defeat more utter and complete than if she had lost the war....”

His voice sank a little, and instinctively his three listeners drew closer.

“Don’t think that I am proposing this through motives of revenge merely. We are business men, and revenge is only worth our while if it pays. This will pay. I can give you no figures, but we are not of the type who deal in thousands, or even hundreds of thousands. There is a force in England which, if it be harnessed and led properly, will result in millions coming to you.... It is present now in every nation—fettered, inarticulate, unco-ordinated.... It is partly the result of the war—the war that the idiots have waged.... Harness that force, gentlemen, co-ordinate it, and use it for your own ends.... That is my proposal. Not only will you humble that cursed country to the dirt, but you will taste of power such as few men have tasted before....” The Count stood up, his eyes blazing. “And I—I will do it for you.”

He resumed his seat, and his left hand, slipping off the table, beat a tattoo on his knee.

“This is our opportunity—the opportunity of clever men. I have not got the money necessary: you have....” He leaned forward in his chair, and glanced at the intent faces of his audience. Then he began to speak...

Ten minutes later he pushed back his chair.

“There is my proposal, gentlemen, in a nutshell. Unforeseen developments will doubtless occur; I have spent my life overcoming the unexpected. What is your answer?”

He rose and stood with his back to them by the fire, and for several minutes no one spoke. Each man was busy with his own thoughts, and showed it in his own particular way. The American, his eyes shut, rolled his toothpick backwards and forwards in his mouth slowly and methodically; Steinemann stared at the fire, breathing heavily after the exertions of dinner: von Gratz walked up and down—his hands behind his back—whistling under his breath. Only the Comte de Guy stared unconcernedly at the fire, as if indifferent to the result of their thoughts. In his attitude at that moment he gave a true expression to his attitude on life. Accustomed to play with great stakes, he had just dealt the cards for the most gigantic gamble of his life.... What matter to the three men, who were looking at the hands he had given them, that only a master criminal could have conceived such a game? The only question which occupied their minds was whether he could carry it through. And on that point they had only their judgment of his personality to rely on.

Suddenly the American removed the toothpick from his mouth, and stretched out his legs.

“There is a question which occurs to me, Count, before I make up my mind on the matter. I guess you’ve got us sized up to the last button; you know who we are, what we’re worth, and all about us. Are you disposed to be a little more communicative about yourself? If we agree to come in on this hand, it’s going to cost big money. The handling of that money is with you. Wal—who are you?”

Von Gratz paused in his restless pacing and nodded his head in agreement; even Steinemann, with a great effort, raised his eyes to the Count’s face as he turned and faced them....

“A very fair question, gentlemen, and yet one which I regret I am unable to answer. I would not insult your intelligence by giving you the fictitious address of—a fictitious Count. Enough that I am a man whose livelihood lies in other people’s pockets. As you say, Mr. Hocking, it is going to cost big money; but compared to the results the costs will be a flea-bite.... Do I look—and you are all of you used to judging men—do I look the type who would steal the baby’s money-box which lay on the mantelpiece, when the pearls could be had for opening the safe.... You will have to trust me, even as I shall have to trust you.... You will have to trust me not to divert the money which you give me as working expenses into my own pocket.... I shall have to trust you to pay me when the job is finished....”

“And that payment will be—how much?” Steinemann’s guttural voice broke the silence.

“One million pounds sterling—to be split up between you in any proportion you may decide, and to be paid within one month of the completion of my work. After that the matter will pass into your hands ... and may you leave that cursed country grovelling in the dirty...” His eyes glowed with a fierce, vindictive fury; and then, as if replacing a mask which had slipped for a moment, the Count was once again the suave, courteous host. He had stated his terms frankly and without haggling: stated them as one big man states them to another of the same kidney, to whom time is money and indecision or beating about the bush anathema.

“Take them or leave them.” So much had he said in effect, if not in actual words, and not one of his audience but was far too used to men and matters to have dreamed of suggesting any compromise. All or nothing: and no doctrine could have appealed more to the three men in whose hands lay the decision....

“Perhaps, Count, you would be good enough to leave us for a few minutes.” Von Gratz was speaking. “The decision is a big one, and...”

“Why, certainly, gentlemen.” The Count moved towards the door. “I will return in ten minutes. By that time you will have decided—one way or the other.”

Once in the lounge he sat down and lit a cigarette. The hotel was deserted save for one fat woman asleep in a chair opposite, and the Count gave himself up to thought. Genius that he was in the reading of men’s minds, he felt that he knew the result of that ten minutes’ deliberation.... And then ... What then? ... In his imagination he saw his plans growing and spreading, his tentacles reaching into every corner of a great people—until, at last, everything was ready. He saw himself supreme in power, glutted with it—a king, an autocrat, who had only to lift his finger to plunge his kingdom into destruction and annihilation.... And when he had done it, and the country he hated was in ruins, then he would claim his million and enjoy it as a great man should enjoy a great reward.... Thus for the space of ten minutes did the Count see visions and dream dreams. That the force he proposed to tamper with was a dangerous force disturbed him not at all: he was a dangerous man. That his scheme would bring ruin, perhaps death, to thousands of innocent men and women, caused him no qualm: he was a supreme egoist. All that appealed to him was that he had seen the opportunity that existed, and that he had the nerve and the brain to turn that opportunity to his own advantage. Only the necessary money was lacking ... and ... With a quick movement he pulled out his watch. They had had their ten minutes ... the matter was settled, the die was cast....

He rose and walked across the lounge. At the swing doors was the head waiter, bowing obsequiously....

It was to be hoped that the dinner had been to the liking of Monsieur le Comte ... the wines all that he could wish ... that he had been comfortable and would return again....

“That is improbable.” The Count took out his pocket-book. “But one never knows; perhaps I shall.” He gave the waiter a note. “Let my bill be prepared at once, and given to me as I pass through the hall.”

Apparently without a care in the world the Count passed down the passage to his private room, while the head waiter regarded complacently the unusual appearance of an English five-pound note.

For an appreciable moment the Count paused by the door, and a faint smile came to his lips. Then he opened it, and passed into the room....

The American was still chewing his toothpick; Steinemann was still breathing hard. Only von Gratz had changed his occupation, and he was sitting at the table smoking a long thin cigar. The Count closed the door, and walked over to the fireplace....

“Well, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “what have you decided?”

It was the American who answered.

“It goes. With one amendment. The money is too big for three of us: there must be a fourth. That will be a quarter of a million each.”

The Count bowed.

“Have you any suggestions as to who the fourth should be?”

“Yep,” said the American shortly. “These two gentlemen agree with me that it should be another of my countrymen—so that we get equal numbers. The man we have decided on is coming to England in a few weeks—Hiram C. Potts. If you get him in, you can count us in too. If not, the deal’s off.”

The Count nodded, and if he felt any annoyance at this unexpected development he showed no sign of it on his face.

“I know of Mr. Potts,” he answered quietly. “Your big shipping man, isn’t he? I agree to your reservation.”

“Good,” said the American. “Let’s discuss some details.”

Without a trace of emotion on his face the Count drew up a chair to the table. It was only when he sat down that he started to play a tattoo on his knee with his left hand....

* * * * *

Half an hour later he entered his luxurious suite of rooms at the Hôtel Magnificent.

A girl, who had been lying by the fire reading a French novel, looked up at the sound of the door. She did not speak, for the look on his face told her all she wanted to know.

He crossed to the sofa and smiled down at her.

“Successful ... on our own terms. To-morrow, Irma, the Comte de Guy dies, and Carl Peterson and his daughter leave for England. A country gentleman, I think, is Carl Peterson. He might keep hens, and possibly pigs.”

The girl on the sofa rose, yawning.

“Mon Dieu! what a prospect! Pigs and hens—and in England! How long is it going to take?”

The Count looked thoughtfully into the fire.

“Perhaps a year—perhaps six months ... It is on the lap of the gods....”

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH HE TAKES TEA AT THE CARLTON AND IS SURPRISED

I

Captain Hugh Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., late of His Majesty’s Royal Loamshires, was whistling in his morning bath. Being by nature of a cheerful disposition, the symptom did not surprise his servant, late private of the same famous regiment, who was laying breakfast in an adjoining room.

After a while the whistling ceased, and the musical gurgle of escaping water announced that the concert was over. It was the signal for James Denny—the square-jawed ex-batman—to disappear into the back regions and get from his wife the kidneys and bacon which that most excellent woman had grilled to a turn. But on this particular morning the invariable routine was broken. James Denny seemed preoccupied, distrait.

Once or twice he scratched his head, and stared out of the window with a puzzled frown. And each time, after a brief survey of the other side of Half Moon Street, he turned back again to the breakfast table with a grin.

“What’s you looking for, James Denny?” The irate voice of his wife at the door made him turn round guiltily. “Them kidneys is ready and waiting these five minutes.”

Her eyes fell on the table, and she advanced into the room wiping her hands on her apron.

“Did you ever see such a bunch of letters?” she said.

“Forty-five,” returned her husband grimly, “and more to come.” He picked up the newspaper lying beside the chair and opened it out.

“Them’s the result of that,” he continued cryptically, indicating a paragraph with a square finger, and thrusting the paper under his wife’s nose.

“Demobilised officer,” she read slowly, “finding peace incredibly tedious, would welcome diversion. Legitimate, if possible; but crime, if of a comparatively humorous description, no objection. Excitement essential. Would be prepared to consider permanent job if suitably impressed by applicant for his services. Reply at once Box X10.”

She put down the paper on a chair and stared first at her husband and then at the rows of letters neatly arranged on the table.

“I calls it wicked,” she announced at length. “Fair flying in the face of Providence. Crime, Denny—crime. Don’t you get ’aving nothing to do with such mad pranks, my man, or you and me will be having words.” She shook an admonitory finger at him, and retired slowly to the kitchen. In the days of his youth James Denny had been a bit wild, and there was a look in his eyes this morning—the suspicion of a glint—which recalled old memories.

A moment or two later Hugh Drummond came in. Slightly under six feet in height, he was broad in proportion. His best friend would not have called him good-looking, but he was the fortunate possessor of that cheerful type of ugliness which inspires immediate confidence in its owner. His nose had never quite recovered from the final one year in the Public Schools Heavy Weights; his mouth was not small. In fact, to be strictly accurate, only his eyes redeemed his face from being what is known in the vernacular as the Frozen Limit.

Deep-set and steady, with eyelashes that many a woman had envied, they showed the man for what he was—a sportsman and a gentleman. And the combination of the two is an unbeatable production.

He paused as he got to the table, and glanced at the rows of letters. His servant, pretending to busy himself at the other end of the room, was watching him surreptitiously, and noted the grin which slowly spread over Drummond’s face as he picked up two or three and examined the envelopes.

“Who would have thought it, James?” he remarked at length. “Great Scot! I shall have to get a partner.”

With disapproval showing in every line of her face, Mrs. Denny entered the room, carrying the kidneys, and Drummond glanced at her with a smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Denny,” he said. “Wherefore this worried look on your face? Has that reprobate James been misbehaving himself?”

The worthy woman snorted. “He has not, sir—not yet, leastwise. And if so be that he does”—her eyes travelled up and down the back of the hapless Denny, who was quite unnecessarily pulling books off shelves and putting them back again—“if so be that he does,” she continued grimly, “him and me will have words—as I’ve told him already this morning.” She stalked from the room, after staring pointedly at the letters in Drummond’s hand, and the two men looked at one another.

“It’s that there reference to crime, sir, that’s torn it,” said Denny in a hoarse whisper.

“Thinks I’m going to lead you astray, does she, James?”

Hugh helped himself to bacon. “My dear fellow, she can think what she likes so long as she continues to grill bacon like this. Your wife is a treasure, James—a pearl amongst women; and you can tell her so with my love.” He was opening the first envelope, and suddenly he looked up with a twinkle in his eyes. “Just to set her mind at rest,” he remarked gravely, “you might tell her that, as far as I can see at present, I shall only undertake murder in exceptional cases.”

He propped the letter up against the toast-rack and commenced his breakfast. “Don’t go, James.” With a slight frown he was studying the typewritten sheet. “I’m certain to want your advice before long. Though not over this one.... It does not appeal to me—not at all. To assist Messrs. Jones & Jones, whose business is to advance money on note of hand alone, to obtain fresh clients, is a form of amusement which leaves me cold. The waste-paper basket, please, James. Tear the effusion up and we will pass on to the next.”

He looked at the mauve envelope doubtfully, and examined the postmark. “Where is Pudlington, James? and one might almost ask—why is Pudlington? No town has any right to such an offensive name.” He glanced through the letter and shook his head. “Tush! tush! And the wife of the bank manager too—the bank manager of Pudlington, James! Can you conceive of anything so dreadful? But I’m afraid Mrs. Bank Manager is a puss—a distinct puss. It’s when they get on the soul-mate stunt that the furniture begins to fly.”

Drummond tore up the letter and dropped the pieces into the basket beside him. Then he turned to his servant and handed him the remainder of the envelopes.

“Go through them, James, while I assault the kidneys, and pick two or three out for me. I see that you will have to become my secretary. No man could tackle that little bunch alone.”

“Do you want me to open them, sir?” asked Denny doubtfully.

“You’ve hit it, James—hit it in one. Classify them for me in groups. Criminal; sporting; amatory—that means of or pertaining to love; stupid and merely boring; and as a last resort, miscellaneous.” He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “I feel that as a first venture in our new career—ours, I said, James—love appeals to me irresistibly. Find me a damsel in distress; a beautiful girl, helpless in the clutches of knaves. Let me feel that I can fly to her succour, clad in my new grey suiting.”

He finished the last piece of bacon and pushed away his plate. “Amongst all that mass of paper there must surely be one from a lovely maiden, James, at whose disposal I can place my rusty sword. Incidentally, what has become of the damned thing?”

“It’s in the lumber-room, sir—tied up with the old humbrella and the niblick you don’t like.”

“Great heavens! Is it?” Drummond helped himself to marmalade. “And to think that I once pictured myself skewering Huns with it. Do you think anybody would be mug enough to buy it, James?”

But that worthy was engrossed in a letter he had just opened, and apparently failed to hear the question. A perplexed look was spreading over his face, and suddenly he sucked his teeth loudly. It was a sure sign that James was excited, and though Drummond had almost cured him of this distressing habit, he occasionally forgot himself in moments of stress.

His master glanced up quickly, and removed the letter from his hands. “I’m surprised at you, James,” he remarked severely. “A secretary should control itself. Don’t forget that the perfect secretary is an it: an automatic machine—a thing incapable of feeling....”

He read the letter through rapidly, and then, turning back to the beginning, he read it slowly through again.

“My dear Box X10,—I don’t know whether your advertisement was a joke: I suppose it must have been. But I read it this morning, and it’s just possible, X10, just possible, that you mean it. And if you do, you’re the man I want. I can offer you excitement and probably crime.

“I’m up against it, X10. For a girl I’ve bitten off rather more than I can chew. I want help—badly. Will you come to the Carlton for tea to-morrow afternoon? I want to have a look at you and see if I think you are genuine. Wear a white flower in your buttonhole.”

Drummond laid the letter down, and pulled out his cigarette-case. “To-morrow, James,” he murmured. “That is to-day—this very afternoon. Verily I believe that we have impinged upon the goods.” He rose and stood looking out of the window thoughtfully. “Go out, my trusty fellow, and buy me a daisy or a cauliflower or something white.”

“You think it’s genuine, sir?” said James thoughtfully.

His master blew out a cloud of smoke. “I know it is,” he answered dreamily. “Look at that writing; the decision in it—the character. She’ll be medium height, and dark, with the sweetest little nose and mouth. Her colouring, James, will be——”

But James had discreetly left the room.

II

At four o’clock exactly Hugh Drummond stepped out of his two-seater at the Haymarket entrance to the Carlton. A white gardenia was in his button-hole; his grey suit looked the last word in exclusive tailoring. For a few moments after entering the hotel he stood at the top of the stairs outside the dining-room, while his eyes travelled round the tables in the lounge below.

A brother-officer, evidently taking two country cousins round London, nodded resignedly; a woman at whose house he had danced several times smiled at him. But save for a courteous bow he took no notice; slowly and thoroughly he continued his search. It was early, of course, yet, and she might not have arrived, but he was taking no chances.

Suddenly his eyes ceased wandering, and remained fixed on a table at the far end of the lounge. Half hidden behind a plant a girl was seated alone, and for a moment she looked straight at him. Then with the faintest suspicion of a smile, she turned away, and commenced drumming on the table with her fingers.

The table next to her was unoccupied, and Drummond made his way towards it and sat down. It was characteristic of the man that he did not hesitate; having once made up his mind to go through with a thing, he was in the habit of going and looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. Which, incidentally, was how he got his D.S.O.; but that, as Kipling would say, is another story.

He felt not the slightest doubt in his mind that this was the girl who had written him, and, having given an order to the waiter, he started to study her face as unobtrusively as possible. He could only see the profile, but that was quite sufficient to make him bless the moment when more as a jest than anything else he had sent his advertisement to the paper.

Her eyes, he could see, were very blue; and great masses of golden brown hair coiled over her ears, from under a small black hat. He glanced at her feet—being an old stager; she was perfectly shod. He glanced at her hands, and noted, with approval, the absence of any ring. Then he looked once more at her face, and found her eyes were fixed on him.

This time she did not look away. She seemed to think that it was her turn to conduct the examination, and Drummond turned to his tea while the scrutiny continued. He poured himself out a cup, and then fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. After a moment he found what he wanted, and taking out a card he propped it against the teapot so that the girl could see what was on it. In large block capitals he had written Box X10. Then he added milk and sugar and waited.

She spoke almost at once. “You’ll do, X10,” she said, and he turned to her with a smile.

“It’s very nice of you to say so,” he murmured. “If I may, I will return the compliment. So will you.”

She frowned slightly. “This isn’t foolishness, you know. What I said in my letter is literally true.”

“Which makes the compliment even more returnable,” he answered. “If I am to embark on a life of crime, I would sooner collaborate with you than—shall we say—that earnest eater over there with the tomato in her hat.”

He waved vaguely at the lady in question and then held out his cigarette-case to the girl. “Turkish on this side—Virginian on that,” he remarked. “And as I appear satisfactory, will you tell me who I’m to murder?”

With the unlighted cigarette held in her fingers she stared at him gravely. “I want you to tell me,” she said at length, and there was no trace of jesting in her voice, “tell me, on your word of honour, whether that advertisement was bona fide or a joke.”

He answered her in the same vein. “It started more or less as a joke. It may now be regarded as absolutely genuine.”

She nodded as if satisfied. “Are you prepared to risk your life?”

Drummond’s eyebrows went up and then he smiled. “Granted that the inducement is sufficient,” he returned slowly, “I think that I may say that I am.”

She nodded again. “You won’t be asked to do it in order to obtain a halfpenny bun,” she remarked. “If you’ve a match, I would rather like a light.”

Drummond apologised. “Our talk on trivialities engrossed me for the moment,” he murmured. He held the lighted match for her, and as he did so he saw that she was staring over his shoulder at someone behind his back.

“Don’t look round,” she ordered, “and tell me your name quickly.”

“Drummond—Captain Drummond, late of the Loamshires.” He leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigarette himself.

“And are you going to Henley this year?” Her voice was a shade louder than before.

“I don’t know,” he answered casually. “I may run down for a day possibly, but——”

“My dear Phyllis,” said a voice behind his back, “this is a pleasant surprise. I had no idea that you were in London.”

A tall, clean-shaven man stopped beside the table, throwing a keen glance at Drummond.

“The world is full of such surprises, isn’t it?” answered the girl lightly. “I don’t suppose you know Captain Drummond, do you? Mr. Lakington—art connoisseur and—er—collector.”

The two men bowed slightly, and Mr. Lakington smiled. “I do not remember ever having heard my harmless pastimes more concisely described,” he remarked suavely. “Are you interested in such matters?”

“Not very, I’m afraid,” answered Drummond. “Just recently I have been rather too busy to pay much attention to art.”

The other man smiled again, and it struck Hugh that rarely, if ever, had he seen such a cold, merciless face.

“Of course, you’ve been in France,” Lakington murmured. “Unfortunately a bad heart kept me on this side of the water. One regrets it in many ways—regrets it immensely. Sometimes I cannot help thinking how wonderful it must have been to be able to kill without fear of consequences. There is art in killing, Captain Drummond—profound art. And as you know, Phyllis,” he turned to the girl, “I have always been greatly attracted by anything requiring the artistic touch.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “Alas! I must tear myself away. Are you returning home this evening?”

The girl, who had been glancing round the restaurant, shrugged her shoulders. “Probably,” she answered. “I haven’t quite decided. I might stop with Aunt Kate.”

“Fortunate Aunt Kate.” With a bow Lakington turned away, and through the glass Drummond watched him get his hat and stick from the cloakroom. Then he looked at the girl, and noticed that she had gone a little white.

“What’s the matter, old thing?” he asked quickly. “Are you feeling faint?”

She shook her head, and gradually the colour came back to her face. “I’m quite all right,” she answered. “It gave me rather a shock that man finding us here.”

“On the face of it, it seems a harmless occupation,” said Hugh.

“On the face of it, perhaps,” she said. “But that man doesn’t deal with face values.” With a short laugh she turned to Hugh. “You’ve stumbled right into the middle of it, my friend, rather sooner than I anticipated. That is one of the men you will probably have to kill....”

Her companion lit another cigarette. “There is nothing like straightforward candour,” he grinned. “Except that I disliked his face and his manner, I must admit that I saw nothing about him to necessitate my going to so much trouble. What is his particular worry?”

“First and foremost the brute wants to marry me,” replied the girl.

“I loathe being obvious,” said Hugh, “but I am not surprised.”

“But it isn’t that that matters,” she went on. “I wouldn’t marry him even to save my life.” She looked at Drummond quietly. “Henry Lakington is the second most dangerous man in England.”

“Only the second,” murmured Hugh. “Then hadn’t I better start my new career with the first?”

She looked at him in silence. “I suppose you think that I’m hysterical,” she remarked after a while. “You’re probably even wondering whether I’m all there.”

Drummond flicked the ash from his cigarette, then he turned to her dispassionately. “You must admit,” he remarked, “that up to now our conversation has hardly proceeded along conventional lines. I am a complete stranger to you; another man who is a complete stranger to me speaks to you while we’re at tea. You inform me that I shall probably have to kill him in the near future. The statement is, I think you will agree, a trifle disconcerting.”

The girl threw back her head and laughed merrily. “You poor young man,” she cried; “put that way it does sound alarming.” Then she grew serious again. “There’s plenty of time for you to back out now if you like. Just call the waiter, and ask for my bill. We’ll say good-bye, and the incident will finish.”

She was looking at him gravely as she spoke, and it seemed to her companion that there was an appeal in the big blue eyes. And they were very big: and the face they were set in was very charming—especially at the angle it was tilted at, in the half-light of the room. Altogether, Drummond reflected, a most adorable girl. And adorable girls had always been a hobby of his. Probably Lakington possessed a letter of hers or something, and she wanted him to get it back. Of course he would, even if he had to thrash the swine to within an inch of his life.

“Well!” The girl’s voice cut into his train of thought and he hurriedly pulled himself together.

“The last thing I want is for the incident to finish,” he said fervently. “Why—it’s only just begun.”

“Then you’ll help me?”

“That’s what I’m here for.” With a smile Drummond lit another cigarette. “Tell me all about it.”

“The trouble,” she began after a moment, “is that there is not very much to tell. At present it is largely guesswork, and guesswork without much of a clue. However, to start with, I had better tell you what sort of men you are up against. Firstly, Henry Lakington—the man who spoke to me. He was, I believe, one of the most brilliant scientists who has ever been up at Oxford. There was nothing, in his own line, which would not have been open to him, had he run straight. But he didn’t. He deliberately chose to turn his brain to crime. Not vulgar, common sorts of crime—but the big things, calling for a master criminal. He has always had enough money to allow him to take his time over any coup—to perfect his details. And that’s what he loves. He regards a crime as an ordinary man regards a complicated business deal—a thing to be looked at and studied from all angles, a thing to be treated as a mathematical problem. He is quite unscrupulous; he is only concerned in pitting himself against the world and winning.”

“An engaging fellah,” said Hugh. “What particular form of crime does he favour?”

“Anything that calls for brain, iron nerve, and refinement of detail,” she answered. “Principally, up to date, burglary on a big scale, and murder.”

“My dear soul!” said Hugh incredulously. “How can you be sure? And why don’t you tell the police?”

She smiled wearily. “Because I’ve got no proof, and even if I had...” She gave a little shudder, and left her sentence unfinished. “But one day, my father and I were in his house, and, by accident, I got into a room I’d never been in before. It was a strange room, with two large safes let into the wall and steel bars over the skylight in the ceiling. There wasn’t a window, and the floor seemed to be made of concrete. And the door was covered with curtains, and was heavy to move—almost as if it was steel or iron. On the desk in the middle of the room lay some miniatures, and, without thinking, I picked them up and looked at them. I happen to know something about miniatures, and, to my horror, I recognised them.” She paused for a moment as a waiter went by their table.

“Do you remember the theft of the celebrated Vatican miniatures belonging to the Duke of Melbourne?”

Drummond nodded; he was beginning to feel interested.

“They were the ones I was holding in my hand,” she said quietly. “I knew them at once from the description in the papers. And just as I was wondering what on earth to do, the man himself walked into the room.”

“Awkward—deuced awkward.” Drummond pressed out his cigarette and leaned forward expectantly. “What did he do?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said the girl. “That’s what made it so awful.

“‘Admiring my treasures?’ he remarked. ‘Pretty things, aren’t they?’ I couldn’t speak a word: I just put them back on the table.

“‘Wonderful copies,’ he went on, ‘of the Duke of Melbourne’s lost miniatures. I think they would deceive most people.’

“‘They deceived me,’ I managed to get out.

“‘Did they?’ he said. ‘The man who painted them will be flattered.’

“All the time he was staring at me, a cold, merciless stare that seemed to freeze my brain. Then he went over to one of the safes and unlocked it. ‘Come here, Miss Benton,’ he said. ‘There are a lot more—copies.’

“I only looked inside for a moment, but I have never seen or thought of such a sight. Beautifully arranged on black velvet shelves were ropes of pearls, a gorgeous diamond tiara, and a whole heap of loose, uncut stones. And in one corner I caught a glimpse of the most wonderful gold chaliced cup—just like the one for which Samuel Levy, the Jew moneylender, was still offering a reward. Then he shut the door and locked it, and again stared at me in silence.

“‘All copies,’ he said quietly, ‘wonderful copies. And should you ever be tempted to think otherwise—ask your father, Miss Benton. Be warned by me; don’t do anything foolish. Ask your father first.’”

“And did you?” asked Drummond.

She shuddered. “That very evening,” she answered. “And Daddy flew into a frightful passion, and told me never to dare to meddle in things that didn’t concern me again. Then gradually, as time went on, I realised that Lakington had some hold over Daddy—that he’d got my father in his power. Daddy—of all people—who wouldn’t hurt a fly: the best and dearest man who ever breathed.” Her hands were clenched, and her breast rose and fell stormily.

Drummond waited for her to compose herself before he spoke again. “You mentioned murder, too,” he remarked.

She nodded. “I’ve got no proof,” she said, “less even than over the burglaries. But there was a man called George Dringer, and one evening, when Lakington was dining with us, I heard him discussing this man with Daddy.

“‘He’s got to go,’ said Lakington. ‘He’s dangerous!’

“And then my father got up and closed the door; but I heard them arguing for half an hour. Three weeks later a coroner’s jury found that George Dringer had committed suicide while temporarily insane. The same evening Daddy, for the first time in his life, went to bed the worse for drink.”

The girl fell silent, and Drummond stared at the orchestra with troubled eyes. Things seemed to be rather deeper than he had anticipated.

“Then there was another case.” She was speaking again. “Do you remember that man who was found dead in a railway-carriage at Oxhey station? He was an Italian—Giuseppe by name; and the jury brought in a verdict of death from natural causes. A month before, he had an interview with Lakington which took place at our house: because the Italian, being a stranger, came to the wrong place, and Lakington happened to be with us at the time. The interview finished with a fearful quarrel.” She turned to Drummond with a slight smile. “Not much evidence, is there? Only I know Lakington murdered him. I know it. You may think I’m fanciful—imagining things; you may think I’m exaggerating. I don’t mind if you do—because you won’t for long.”

Drummond did not answer immediately. Against his saner judgment he was beginning to be profoundly impressed, and, at the moment, he did not quite know what to say. That the girl herself firmly believed in what she was telling him, he was certain; the point was how much of it was—as she herself expressed it—fanciful imagination.

“What about this other man?” he asked at length.

“I can tell you very little about him,” she answered. “He came to The Elms—that is the name of Lakington’s house—three months ago. He is about medium height and rather thick-set; clean-shaven, with thick brown hair flecked slightly with white. His forehead is broad, and his eyes are a sort of cold grey-blue. But it’s his hands that terrify me. They’re large and white and utterly ruthless.” She turned to him appealingly. “Oh! don’t think I’m talking wildly,” she implored. “He frightens me to death—that man: far, far worse than Lakington. He would stop at nothing to gain his ends, and even Lakington himself knows that Mr. Peterson is his master.”

“Peterson!” murmured Drummond. “It seems quite a sound old English name.”

The girl laughed scornfully. “Oh! the name is sound enough, if it was his real one. As it is, it’s about as real as his daughter.”

“There is a lady in the case, then?”

“By the name of Irma,” said the girl briefly. “She lies on a sofa in the garden and yawns. She’s no more English than that waiter.”

A faint smile flickered over her companion’s face; he had formed a fairly vivid mental picture of Irma. Then he grew serious again.

“And what is it that makes you think there’s mischief ahead?” he asked abruptly.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. “What the novelists call feminine intuition, I suppose,” she answered. “That—and my father.” She said the last words very low. “He hardly ever sleeps at night now; I hear him pacing up and down his room—hour after hour, hour after hour. Oh! it makes me mad.... Don’t you understand? I’ve just got to find out what the trouble is. I’ve got to get him away from those devils, before he breaks down completely.”

Drummond nodded, and looked away. The tears were bright in her eyes, and, like every Englishman, he detested a scene. While she had been speaking he had made up his mind what course to take, and now, having outsat everybody else, he decided that it was time for the interview to cease. Already an early diner was having a cocktail, while Lakington might return at any moment. And if there was anything in what she had told him, it struck him that it would be as well for that gentleman not to find them still together.

“I think,” he said, “we’d better go. My address is 60A Half Moon Street; my telephone 1234 Mayfair. If anything happens, if ever you want me—at any hour of the day or night—ring me up or write. If I’m not in, leave a message with my servant Denny. He is absolutely reliable. The only other thing is your own address.”

“The Larches, near Godalming,” answered the girl, as they moved towards the door. “Oh! if you only knew the glorious relief of feeling one’s got someone to turn to....” She looked at him with shining eyes, and Drummond felt his pulse quicken suddenly. Imagination or not, so far as her fears were concerned, the girl was one of the loveliest things he had ever seen.

“May I drop you anywhere?” he asked, as they stood on the pavement, but she shook her head.

“No, thank you. I’ll go in that taxi.” She gave the man an address, and stepped in, while Hugh stood bareheaded by the door.

“Don’t forget,” he said earnestly. “Any time of the day or night. And while I think of it—we’re old friends. Can that be done? In case I come and stay, you see.”

She thought for a moment and then nodded her head. “All right,” she answered. “We’ve met a lot in London during the war.”

With a grinding of gear wheels the taxi drove off, leaving Hugh with a vivid picture imprinted on his mind of blue eyes, and white teeth, and a skin like the bloom of a sun-kissed peach.

For a moment or two he stood staring after it, and then he walked across to his own car. With his mind still full of the interview he drove slowly along Piccadilly, while every now and then he smiled grimly to himself. Was the whole thing an elaborate hoax? Was the girl even now chuckling to herself at his gullibility? If so, the game had only just begun, and he had no objection to a few more rounds with such an opponent. A mere tea at the Carlton could hardly be the full extent of the jest.... And somehow deep down in his mind, he wondered whether it was a joke—whether, by some freak of fate, he had stumbled on one of those strange mysteries which up to date he had regarded as existing only in the realms of shilling shockers.

He turned into his rooms, and stood in front of the mantelpiece taking off his gloves. It was as he was about to lay them down on the table that an envelope caught his eye, addressed to him in an unknown handwriting. Mechanically he picked it up and opened it. Inside was a single half-sheet of notepaper, on which a few lines had been written in a small, neat hand.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, young man, than a capability for eating steak and onions, and a desire for adventure. I imagine that you possess both: and they are useful assets in the second locality mentioned by the poet. In Heaven, however, one never knows—especially with regard to the onions. Be careful.”

Drummond stood motionless for a moment, with narrowed eyes. Then he leaned forward and pressed the bell.

“Who brought this note, James?” he said quietly, as his servant came into the room.

“A small boy, sir. Said I was to be sure and see you got it most particular.” He unlocked a cupboard near the window and produced a tantalus. “Whisky, sir, or cocktail?”

“Whisky, I think, James.” Hugh carefully folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his pocket. And his face as he took the drink from his man would have left no doubt in an onlooker’s mind as to why, in the past, he had earned the name of “Bull-dog” Drummond.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH HE JOURNEYS TO GODALMING AND THE GAME BEGINS

I

“I almost think, James, that I could toy with another kidney.” Drummond looked across the table at his servant, who was carefully arranging two or three dozen letters in groups. “Do you think it will cause a complete breakdown in the culinary arrangements? I’ve got a journey in front of me to-day, and I require a large breakfast.”

James Denny supplied the deficiency from a dish that was standing on an electric heater.

“Are you going for long, sir?” he ventured.

“I don’t know, James. It all depends on circumstances. Which, when you come to think of it, is undoubtedly one of the most fatuous phrases in the English language. Is there anything in the world that doesn’t depend on circumstances?”

“Will you be motoring, sir, or going by train?” asked James prosaically. Dialectical arguments did not appeal to him.

“By car,” answered Drummond. “Pyjamas and a tooth-brush.”

“You won’t take evening clothes, sir?”

“No. I want my visit to appear unpremeditated, James, and if one goes about completely encased in boiled shirts, while pretending to be merely out for the afternoon, people have doubts as to one’s intellect.”

James digested this great thought in silence.

“Will you be going far, sir?” he asked at length, pouring out a second cup of coffee.

“To Godalming. A charming spot, I believe, though I’ve never been there. Charming inhabitants, too, James. The lady I met yesterday at the Carlton lives at Godalming.”

“Indeed, sir,” murmured James non-committally.

“You damned old humbug,” laughed Drummond, “you know you’re itching to know all about it. I had a very long and interesting talk with her, and one of two things emerges quite clearly from our conversation. Either, James, I am a congenital idiot, and don’t know enough to come in out of the rain; or we’ve hit the goods. That is what I propose to find out by my little excursion. Either our legs, my friend, are being pulled till they will never resume their normal shape; or that advertisement has succeeded beyond our wildest dreams.”

“There are a lot more answers in this morning, sir.” Denny made a movement towards the letters he had been sorting. “One from a lovely widow with two children.”

“Lovely,” cried Drummond. “How forward of her!” He glanced at the letter and smiled. “Care, James, and accuracy are essential in a secretary, The misguided woman calls herself lonely, not lovely. She will remain so, as far as I am concerned, until the other matter is settled.”

“Will it take long, sir, do you think?”

“To get it settled?” Drummond lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Listen, James, and I will outline the case. The maiden lives at a house called The Larches, near Godalming, with her papa. Not far away is another house called The Elms, owned by a gentleman of the name of Henry Lakington—a nasty man, James, with a nasty face—who was also at the Carlton yesterday afternoon for a short time. And now we come to the point. Miss Benton—that is the lady’s name—accuses Mr. Lakington of being the complete IT in the criminal line. She went even so far as to say that he was the second most dangerous man in England.”

“Indeed, sir. More coffee, sir?”

“Will nothing move you, James?” remarked his master plaintively. “This man murders people and does things like that, you know.”

“Personally, sir, I prefer a picture-palace. But I suppose there ain’t no accounting for ’obbies. May I clear away, sir?”

“No, James, not at present. Keep quite still while I go on, or I shall get it wrong. Three months ago there arrived at The Elms the most dangerous man in England—the IT of ITS. This gentleman goes by the name of Peterson, and he owns a daughter. From what Miss Benton said, I have doubts about that daughter, James.” He rose and strolled over to the window. “Grave doubts. However, to return to the point, it appears that some unpleasing conspiracy is being hatched by IT, the IT of ITS, and the doubtful daughter, into which Papa Benton has been unwillingly drawn. As far as I can make out, the suggestion is that I should unravel the tangled skein of crime and extricate papa.”

In a spasm of uncontrollable excitement James sucked his teeth. “Lumme, it wouldn’t ’alf go on the movies, would it?” he remarked. “Better than them Red Indians and things.”

“I fear, James, that you are not in the habit of spending your spare time at the British Museum, as I hoped,” said Drummond. “And your brain doesn’t work very quickly. The point is not whether this hideous affair is better than Red Indians and things—but whether it’s genuine. Am I to battle with murderers, or shall I find a house-party roaring with laughter on the lawn?”

“As long as you laughs like ’ell yourself, sir, I don’t see as ’ow it makes much odds,” answered James philosophically.

“The first sensible remark you’ve made this morning,” said his master hopefully. “I will go prepared to laugh.”

He picked up a pipe from the mantelpiece, and proceeded to fill it, while James Denny still waited in silence.

“A lady may ring up to-day,” Drummond continued. “Miss Benton, to be exact. Don’t say where I’ve gone if she does; but take down any message, and wire it to me at Godalming Post Office. If by any chance you don’t hear from me for three days, get in touch with Scotland Yard, and tell ’em where I’ve gone. That covers everything if it’s genuine. If, on the other hand, it’s a hoax, and the house-party is a good one, I shall probably want you to come down with my evening clothes and some more kit.”

“Very good, sir. I will clean your small Colt revolver at once.”

Hugh Drummond paused in the act of lighting his pipe, and a grin spread slowly over his face. “Excellent,” he said. “And see if you can find that water-squirt pistol I used to have—a Son of a Gun they called it. That ought to raise a laugh, when I arrest the murderer with it.”

II

The 30 h.p. two-seater made short work of the run to Godalming. Under the dickey seat behind lay a small bag, containing the bare necessaries for the night; and as Drummond thought of the two guns rolled up carefully in his pyjamas—the harmless toy and the wicked little automatic—he grinned gently to himself. The girl had not rung him up during the morning, and, after a comfortable lunch at his club, he had started about three o’clock. The hedges, fresh with the glory of spring, flashed past; the smell of the country came sweet and fragrant on the air. There was a gentle warmth, a balminess in the day that made it good to be alive, and once or twice he sang under his breath through sheer lightheartedness of spirit. Surrounded by the peaceful beauty of the fields, with an occasional village half hidden by great trees from under which the tiny houses peeped out, it seemed impossible that crime could exist—laughable. Of course the thing was a hoax, an elaborate leg-pull, but, being not guilty of any mental subterfuge, Hugh Drummond admitted to himself quite truly that he didn’t care a damn if it was. Phyllis Benton was at liberty to continue the jest, wherever and whenever she liked. Phyllis Benton was a very nice girl, and very nice girls are permitted a lot of latitude.

A persistent honking behind aroused him from his reverie, and he pulled into the side of the road. Under normal circumstances he would have let his own car out, and as she could touch ninety with ease, he very rarely found himself passed. But this afternoon he felt disinclined to race; he wanted to go quietly and think. Blue eyes and that glorious colouring were a dangerous combination—distinctly dangerous. Most engrossing to a healthy bachelor’s thoughts.

An open cream-coloured Rolls-Royce drew level, with five people on board, and he looked up as it passed. There were three people in the back—two men and a woman, and for a moment his eyes met those of the man nearest him. Then they drew ahead, and Drummond pulled up to avoid the thick cloud of dust.

With a slight frown he stared at the retreating car; he saw the man lean over and speak to the other man; he saw the other man look round. Then a bend in the road hid them from sight, and, still frowning, Drummond pulled out his case and lit a cigarette. For the man whose eye he had caught as the Rolls went by was Henry Lakington. There was no mistaking that hard-lipped, cruel face.

Presumably, thought Hugh, the other two occupants were Mr. Peterson and the doubtful daughter, Irma; presumably they were returning to The Elms. And incidentally there seemed no pronounced reason why they shouldn’t. But, somehow, the sudden appearance of Lakington had upset him; he felt irritable and annoyed. What little he had seen of the man he had not liked; he did not want to be reminded of him, especially just as he was thinking of Phyllis.

He watched the white dust-cloud rise over the hill in front as the car topped it; he watched it settle and drift away in the faint breeze. Then he let in his clutch and followed quite slowly in the big car’s wake.

There had been two men in front—the driver and another, and he wondered idly if the latter was Mr. Benton. Probably not, he reflected, since Phyllis had said nothing about her father being in London. He accelerated up the hill and swung over the top; the next moment he braked hard and pulled up just in time. The Rolls, with the chauffeur peering into the bonnet, had stopped in such a position that it was impossible for him to get by.

The girl was still seated in the back of the car, also the passenger in front, but the two other men were standing in the road apparently watching the chauffeur, and after a while the one whom Drummond had recognised as Lakington came towards him.

“I’m so sorry,” he began—and then paused in surprise. “Why, surely it’s Captain Drummond?”

Drummond nodded pleasantly. “The occupant of a car is hardly likely to change in a mile, is he?” he remarked. “I’m afraid I forgot to wave as you went past, but I got your smile all right.” He leant on his steering-wheel and lit a second cigarette. “Are you likely to be long?” he asked; “because if so, I’ll stop my engine.”

The other man was now approaching casually, and Drummond regarded him curiously. “A friend of our little Phyllis, Peterson,” said Lakington, as he came up. “I found them having tea together yesterday at the Carlton.”

“Any friend of Miss Benton’s is, I hope, ours,” said Peterson with a smile. “You’ve known her a long time, I expect?”

“Quite a long time,” returned Hugh. “We have jazzed together on many occasions.”

“Which makes it all the more unfortunate that we should have delayed you,” said Peterson. “I can’t help thinking, Lakington, that that new chauffeur is a bit of a fool.”

“I hope he avoided the crash all right,” murmured Drummond politely.

Both men looked at him. “The crash!” said Lakington. “There was no question of a crash. We just stopped.”

“Really,” remarked Drummond, “I think, sir, that you must be right in your diagnosis of your chauffeur’s mentality.” He turned courteously to Peterson. “When something goes wrong, for a fellah to stop his car by braking so hard that he locks both back wheels is no bon, as we used to say in France. I thought, judging by the tracks in the dust, that you must have been in imminent danger of ramming a traction engine. Or perhaps,” he added judicially, “a sudden order to stop would have produced the same effect.” If he saw the lightning glance that passed between the two men he gave no sign. “May I offer you a cigarette? Turkish that side—Virginian the other. I wonder if I could help your man,” he continued, when they had helped themselves. “I’m a bit of an expert with a Rolls.”

“How very kind of you,” said Peterson. “I’ll go and see.” He went over to the man and spoke a few words.

“Isn’t it extraordinary,” remarked Hugh, “how the eye of the boss galvanises the average man into activity! As long, probably, as Mr. Peterson had remained here talking, that chauffeur would have gone on tinkering with the engine. And now—look, in a second—all serene. And yet I daresay Mr. Peterson knows nothing about it really. Just the watching eye, Mr. Lakington. Wonderful thing—the human optic.”

He rambled on with a genial smile, watching with apparent interest the car in front. “Who’s the quaint bird sitting beside the chauffeur? He appeals to me immensely. Wish to Heaven I’d had a few more like him in France to turn into snipers.”

“May I ask why you think he would have been a success at the job?” Lakington’s voice expressed merely perfunctory interest, but his cold, steely eyes were fixed on Drummond.

“He’s so motionless,” answered Hugh. “The bally fellow hasn’t moved a muscle since I’ve been here. I believe he’d sit on a hornet’s nest, and leave the inmates guessing. Great gift, Mr. Lakington. Shows a strength of will but rarely met with—a mind which rises above mere vulgar curiosity.”

“It is undoubtedly a great gift to have such a mind, Captain Drummond,” said Lakington. “And if it isn’t born in a man, he should most certainly try to cultivate it.” He pitched his cigarette away, and buttoned up his coat. “Shall we be seeing you this evening?”

Drummond shrugged his shoulders. “I’m the vaguest man that ever lived,” he said lightly. “I might be listening to nightingales in the country; or I might be consuming steak and onions preparatory to going to a night club. So long.... You must let me take you to Hector’s one night. Hope you don’t break down again so suddenly.”

He watched the Rolls-Royce start, but seemed in no hurry to follow suit. And his many friends, who were wont to regard Hugh Drummond as a mass of brawn not too plentifully supplied with brains, would have been puzzled had they seen the look of keen concentration on his face, as he stared along the white dusty road. He could not say why, but suddenly and very certainly the conviction had come to him, that this was no hoax and no leg-pull—but grim and sober reality. In his imagination he heard the sudden sharp order to stop the instant they were over the hill, so that Peterson might have a chance of inspecting him; in a flash of intuition he knew that these two men were no ordinary people, and that he was suspect. And as he slipped smoothly after the big car, now well out of sight, two thoughts were dominant in his mind. The first was that there was some mystery about the motionless, unnatural man who had sat beside the driver; the second was a distinct feeling of relief that his automatic was fully loaded.

III

At half-past five he stopped in front of Godalming Post Office. To his surprise the girl handed him a wire, and Hugh tore the yellow envelope open quickly. It was from Denny, and it was brief and to the point:

“Phone message received. AAA. Must see you Carlton tea day after to-morrow. Going Godalming now. AAA. Message ends.”

With a slight smile he noticed the military phraseology—Denny at one time in his career had been a signaller—and then he frowned. “Must see you.” She should—at once.

He turned to the girl and inquired the way to The Larches. It was about two miles, he gathered, on the Guildford road, and impossible to miss. A biggish house standing well back in its own grounds.

“Is it anywhere near a house called The Elms?” he asked.

“Next door, sir,” said the girl. “The gardens adjoin.”

He thanked her, and having torn up the telegram into small pieces, he got into his car. There was nothing for it, he had decided, but to drive boldly up to the house, and say that he had come to call on Miss Benton. He had never been a man who beat about the bush, and simple methods appealed to him—a trait in his character which many a boxer, addicted to tortuous cunning in the ring, had good cause to remember. What more natural, he reflected, than to drive over and see such an old friend?

He had no difficulty in finding the house, and a few minutes later he was ringing the front-door bell. It was answered by a maidservant, who looked at him in mild surprise. Young men in motor-cars were not common visitors at The Larches.

“Is Miss Benton in?” Hugh asked with a smile which at once won the girl’s heart.

“She has only just come back from London, sir,” she answered doubtfully. “I don’t know whether...”

“Would you tell her that Captain Drummond has called?” said Hugh as the maid hesitated. “That I happened to find myself near here, and came on chance of seeing her?”

Once again the smile was called into play, and the girl hesitated no longer. “Will you come inside, sir?” she said. “I will go and tell Miss Phyllis.”

She ushered him into the drawing-room and closed the door. It was a charming room, just such as he would have expected with Phyllis. Big windows, opening down to the ground, led out on to a lawn, which was already a blaze of colour. A few great oak trees threw a pleasant shade at the end of the garden, and, partially showing through them, he could see another house which he rightly assumed was The Elms. In fact, even as he heard the door open and shut behind him, he saw Peterson come out of a small summer-house and commence strolling up and down, smoking a cigar. Then he turned round and faced the girl.

Charming as she had looked in London, she was doubly so now, in a simple linen frock which showed off her figure to perfection. But if he thought he was going to have any leisure to enjoy the picture undisturbed, he was soon disillusioned.

“Why have you come here, Captain Drummond?” she said, a little breathlessly. “I said the Carlton—the day after to-morrow.”

“Unfortunately,” said Hugh, “I’d left London before that message came. My servant wired it on to the Post Office here. Not that it would have made any difference. I should have come, anyway.”

An involuntary smile hovered round her lips for a moment; then she grew serious again. “It’s very dangerous for you to come here,” she remarked quietly. “If once those men suspect anything, God knows what will happen.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that it was too late to worry about that; then he changed his mind. “And what is there suspicious,” he asked, “in an old friend who happens to be in the neighbourhood dropping in to call? Do you mind if I smoke?”

The girl beat her hands together. “My dear man,” she cried, “you don’t understand. You’re judging those devils by your own standard. They suspect everything—and everybody.”

“What a distressing habit,” he murmured. “Is it chronic, or merely due to liver? I must send ’em a bottle of good salts. Wonderful thing—good salts. Never without some in France.”

The girl looked at him resignedly. “You’re hopeless,” she remarked—“absolutely hopeless.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Hugh, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Wherefore your telephone message? What’s the worry?”

She bit her lip and drummed with her fingers on the arm of her chair. “If I tell you,” she said at length, “will you promise me, on your word of honour, that you won’t go blundering into The Elms, or do anything foolish like that?”

“At the present moment I’m very comfortable where I am, thanks,” remarked Hugh.

“I know,” she said; “but I’m so dreadfully afraid that you’re the type of person who ... who...” She paused, at a loss for a word.

“Who bellows like a bull, and charges head down,” interrupted Hugh with a grin. She laughed with him, and just for a moment their eyes met, and she read in his something quite foreign to the point at issue. In fact, it is to be feared that the question of Lakington and his companions was not engrossing Drummond’s mind, as it doubtless should have been, to the exclusion of all else.

“They’re so utterly unscrupulous,” she continued hurriedly, “so fiendishly clever, that even you would be like a child in their hands.”

Hugh endeavoured to dissemble his pleasure at that little word “even,” and only succeeded in frowning horribly.

“I will be discretion itself,” he assured her firmly. “I promise you.”

“I suppose I shall have to trust you,” she said. “Have you seen the evening papers to-day?”

“I looked at the ones that come out in the morning labelled six p.m. before I had lunch,” he answered. “Is there anything of interest?”

She handed him a copy of the Planet. “Read that little paragraph in the second column.” She pointed to it, as he took the paper, and Hugh read it aloud.

“Mr. Hiram C. Potts—the celebrated American millionaire—is progressing favourably. He has gone into the country for a few days, but is sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual.” He laid down the paper and looked at the girl sitting opposite. “One is pleased,” he remarked in a puzzled tone, “for the sake of Mr. Potts. To be ill and have a name like that is more than most men could stand.... But I don’t quite see...”

“That man was stopping at the Carlton, where he met Lakington,” said the girl. “He is a multi-millionaire, over here in connection with some big steel trust; and when multi-millionaires get friendly with Lakington, their health frequently does suffer.”

“But this paper says he’s getting better,” objected Drummond. “‘Sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual.’ What’s wrong with that?”

“If he is sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual, why did he send his confidential secretary away yesterday morning on an urgent mission to Belfast?”

“Search me,” said Hugh. “Incidentally, how do you know he did?”

“I asked at the Carlton this morning,” she answered. “I said I’d come after a job as typist for Mr. Potts. They told me at the inquiry office that he was ill in bed and unable to see anybody. So I asked for his secretary, and they told me what I’ve just told you—that he had left for Belfast that morning and would be away several days. It may be that there’s nothing in it; on the other hand, it may be that there’s a lot. And it’s only by following up every possible clue,” she continued fiercely, “that I can hope to beat those fiends and get Daddy out of their clutches.”

Drummond nodded gravely, and did not speak.

For into his mind had flashed suddenly the remembrance of that sinister, motionless figure seated by the chauffeur. The wildest guess-work certainly—no vestige of proof—and yet, having once come, the thought stuck. And as he turned it over in his mind, almost prepared to laugh at himself for his credulity—millionaires are not removed against their will, in broad daylight, from one of the biggest hotels in London, to sit in immovable silence in an open car—the door opened and an elderly man came in.

Hugh rose, and the girl introduced the two men. “An old friend, Daddy,” she said. “You must have heard me speak of Captain Drummond.”

“I don’t recall the name at the moment, my dear,” he answered courteously—a fact which was hardly surprising—“but I fear I’m getting a little forgetful. I am pleased to meet you, Captain Drummond. You’ll stop and have some dinner, of course.”

Hugh bowed. “I should like to, Mr. Benton. Thank you very much. I’m afraid the hour of my call was a little informal, but being round in these parts, I felt I must come and look Miss Benton up.”

His host smiled absent-mindedly, and walking to the window, stared through the gathering dusk at the house opposite, half hidden in the trees. And Hugh, who was watching him from under lowered lids, saw him suddenly clench both hands in a gesture of despair.

It cannot be said that dinner was a meal of sparkling gaiety. Mr. Benton was palpably ill at ease, and beyond a few desultory remarks spoke hardly at all: while the girl, who sat opposite Hugh, though she made one or two valiant attempts to break the long silences, spent most of the meal in covertly watching her father. If anything more had been required to convince Drummond of the genuineness of his interview with her at the Carlton the preceding day, the atmosphere at this strained and silent party supplied it.

As if unconscious of anything peculiar, he rambled on in his usual inconsequent method, heedless of whether he was answered or not; but all the time his mind was busily working. He had already decided that a Rolls-Royce was not the only car on the market which could break down mysteriously, and with the town so far away, his host could hardly fail to ask him to stop the night. And then—he had not yet quite settled how—he proposed to have a closer look at The Elms.

At length the meal was over, and the maid, placing the decanter in front of Mr. Benton, withdrew from the room.

“You’ll have a glass of port, Captain Drummond,” remarked his host, removing the stopper, and pushing the bottle towards him. “An old pre-war wine which I can vouch for.”

Hugh smiled, and even as he lifted the heavy old cut glass, he stiffened suddenly in his chair. A cry—half shout, half scream, and stifled at once—had come echoing through the open windows. With a crash the stopper fell from Mr. Benton’s nerveless fingers, breaking the finger-bowl in front of him, while every vestige of colour left his face.

“It’s something these days to be able to say that,” remarked Hugh, pouring himself out a glass. “Wine, Miss Benton?” He looked at the girl, who was staring fearfully out of the window, and forced her to meet his eye. “It will do you good.”

His tone was compelling, and after a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the glass over to him. “Will you pour it out?” she said, and he saw that she was trembling all over.

“Did you—did you hear—anything?” With a vain endeavour to speak calmly, his host looked at Hugh.

“That night-bird?” he answered easily. “Eerie noises they make, don’t they? Sometimes in France, when everything was still, and only the ghostly green flares went hissing up, one used to hear ’em. Startled nervous sentries out of their lives.” He talked on, and gradually the colour came back to the other man’s face. But Hugh noticed that he drained his port at a gulp, and immediately refilled his glass....

Outside everything was still; no repetition of that short, strangled cry again disturbed the silence. With the training bred of many hours in No Man’s Land, Drummond was listening, even while he was speaking, for the faintest suspicious sound—but he heard nothing. The soft whispering night-noises came gently through the window; but the man who had screamed once did not even whimper again. He remembered hearing a similar cry near the brickstacks at Guinchy, and two nights later he had found the giver of it, at the edge of a mine-crater, with glazed eyes that still held in them the horror of the final second. And more persistently than ever, his thoughts centred on the fifth occupant of the Rolls-Royce....

It was with almost a look of relief that Mr. Benton listened to his tale of woe about his car.

“Of course you must stop here for the night,” he cried. “Phyllis, my dear, will you tell them to get a room ready?”

With an inscrutable look at Hugh, in which thankfulness and apprehension seemed mingled, the girl left the room. There was an unnatural glitter in her father’s eyes—a flush on his cheeks hardly to be accounted for by the warmth of the evening; and it struck Drummond that, during the time he had been pretending to look at his car, Mr. Benton had been fortifying himself. It was obvious, even to the soldier’s unprofessional eye, that the man’s nerves had gone to pieces; and that unless something was done soon, his daughter’s worst forebodings were likely to be fulfilled. He talked disjointedly and fast; his hands were not steady, and he seemed to be always waiting for something to happen.

Hugh had not been in the room ten minutes before his host produced the whisky, and during the time that he took to drink a mild nightcap, Mr. Benton succeeded in lowering three extremely strong glasses of spirit. And what made it the more sad was that the man was obviously not a heavy drinker by preference.

At eleven o’clock Hugh rose and said good-night.

“You’ll ring if you want anything, won’t you?” said his host. “We don’t have very many visitors here, but I hope you’ll find everything you require. Breakfast at nine.”

Drummond closed the door behind him, and stood for a moment in silence, looking round the hall. It was deserted, but he wanted to get the geography of the house firmly imprinted on his mind. Then a noise from the room he had just left made him frown sharply—his host was continuing the process of fortification—and he stepped across towards the drawing-room. Inside, as he hoped, he found the girl.

She rose the instant he came in, and stood by the mantelpiece with her hands locked.

“What was it?” she half whispered—“that awful noise at dinner?”

He looked at her gravely for a while, and then he shook his head. “Shall we leave it as a night-bird for the present?” he said quietly. Then he leaned towards her, and took her hands in his own. “Go to bed, little girl,” he ordered; “this is my show. And, may I say, I think you’re just wonderful. Thank God you saw my advertisement!”

Gently he released her hands, and walking to the door, held it open for her. “If by any chance you should hear things in the night—turn over and go to sleep again.”

“But what are you going to do?” she cried.

Hugh grinned. “I haven’t the remotest idea,” he answered. “Doubtless the Lord will provide.”

The instant the girl had left the room Hugh switched off the lights, and stepped across to the curtains which covered the long windows. He pulled them aside, letting them come together behind him; then, cautiously, he unbolted one side of the big centre window. The night was dark, and the moon was not due to rise for two or three hours, but he was too old a soldier to neglect any precautions. He wanted to see more of The Elms and its inhabitants; he did not want them to see more of him.

Silently he dodged across the lawn towards the big trees at the end, and leaning up against one of them, he proceeded to make a more detailed survey of his objective. It was the same type of house as the one he had just left, and the grounds seemed about the same size. A wire fence separated the two places, and in the darkness Hugh could just make out a small wicket-gate, closing a path which connected both houses. He tried it, and found to his satisfaction that it opened silently.

Passing through, he took cover behind some bushes from which he could command a better view of Mr. Lakington’s abode. Save for one room on the ground-floor the house was in darkness, and Hugh determined to have a look at that room. There was a chink in the curtains, through which the light was streaming out, which struck him as having possibilities.

Keeping under cover, he edged towards it, and, at length, he got into a position from which he could see inside. And what he saw made him decide to chance it, and go even closer.

Seated at the table was a man he did not recognise; while on either side of him sat Lakington and Peterson. Lying on a sofa smoking a cigarette and reading a novel was a tall dark girl, who seemed completely uninterested in the proceedings of the other three. Hugh placed her at once as the doubtful daughter Irma, and resumed his watch on the group at the table.

A paper was in front of the man, and Peterson, who was smoking a large cigar, was apparently suggesting that he should make use of the pen which Lakington was obligingly holding in readiness. In all respects a harmless tableau, save for one small thing—the expression on the man’s face. Hugh had seen it before often—only then it had been called shell-shock. The man was dazed, semi-unconscious. Every now and then he stared round the room, as if bewildered; then he would shake his head and pass his hand wearily over his forehead. For a quarter of an hour the scene continued; then Lakington produced an instrument from his pocket. Hugh saw the man shrink back in terror, and reach for the pen. He saw the girl lie back on the sofa as if disappointed and pick up her novel again; and he saw Lakington’s face set in a cold sneer. But what impressed him most in that momentary flash of action was Peterson. There was something inhuman in his complete passivity. By not the fraction of a second did he alter the rate at which he was smoking—the slow, leisurely rate of the connoisseur; by not the twitch of an eyelid did his expression change. Even as he watched the man signing his name, no trace of emotion showed on his face—whereas on Lakington’s there shone a fiendish satisfaction.

The document was still lying on the table, when Hugh produced his revolver. He knew there was foul play about, and the madness of what he had suddenly made up his mind to do never struck him: being that manner of fool, he was made that way. But he breathed a pious prayer that he would shoot straight—and then he held his breath. The crack of the shot and the bursting of the only electric-light bulb in the room were almost simultaneous; and the next second, with a roar of “Come on, boys,” he burst through the window. At an immense advantage over the others, who could see nothing for the moment, he blundered round the room. He timed the blow at Lakington to a nicety; he hit him straight on the point of the jaw and he felt the man go down like a log. Then he grabbed at the paper on the table, which tore in his hand, and picking the dazed signer up bodily, he rushed through the window on to the lawn. There was not an instant to be lost; only the impossibility of seeing when suddenly plunged into darkness had enabled him to pull the thing off so far. And before that advantage disappeared he had to be back at The Larches with his burden, no light weight for even a man of his strength to carry.