III
Hugh stopped his car at Guildford station and, lighting a cigarette, strolled restlessly up and down. He looked at his watch a dozen times in two minutes; he threw away his smoke before it was half finished. In short he manifested every symptom usually displayed by the male of the species when awaiting the arrival of the opposite sex. Over the telephone he had arranged that SHE should come by train from Godalming to confer with him on a matter of great importance; SHE had said she would, but what was it? He, having no suitable answer ready, had made a loud buzzing noise indicative of a telephone exchange in pain, and then rung off. And now he was waiting in that peculiar condition of mind which reveals itself outwardly in hands that are rather too warm, and feet that are rather too cold.
“When is this bally train likely to arrive?” He accosted a phlegmatic official, who regarded him coldly, and doubted the likelihood of its being more than a quarter of an hour early.
At length it was signalled, and Hugh got back into his car. Feverishly he scanned the faces of the passengers as they came out into the street, until, with a sudden quick jump of his heart, he saw her, cool and fresh, coming towards him with a faint smile on her lips.
“What is this very important matter you want to talk to me about?” she demanded, as he adjusted the rug round her.
“I’ll tell you when we get out on the Hog’s Back,” he said, slipping in his clutch. “It’s absolutely vital.”
He stole a glance at her, but she was looking straight in front of her, and her face seemed expressionless.
“You must stand a long way off when you do,” she said demurely. “At least if it’s the same thing as you told me over the ’phone.”
Hugh grinned sheepishly.
“The Exchange went wrong,” he remarked at length. “Astonishing how rotten the telephones are in Town these days.”
“Quite remarkable,” she returned. “I thought you weren’t feeling very well or something. Of course, if it was the Exchange...”
“They sort of buzz and blow, don’t you know,” he explained helpfully.
“That must be most fearfully jolly for them,” she agreed. And there was silence for the next two miles....
Once or twice he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, taking in every detail of the sweet profile so near to him. Except for their first meeting at the Carlton, it was the only time he had ever had her completely to himself, and Hugh was determined to make the most of it. He felt as if he could go on driving for ever, just he and she alone. He had an overwhelming longing to put out his hand and touch a soft tendril of hair which was blowing loose just behind her ear; he had an overwhelming longing to take her in his arms, and ... It was then that the girl turned and looked at him. The car swerved dangerously....
“Let’s stop,” she said, with the suspicion of a smile. “Then you can tell me.”
Hugh drew into the side of the road, and switched off the engine.
“You’re not fair,” he remarked, and if the girl saw his hand trembling a little as he opened the door, she gave no sign. Only her breath came a shade faster, but a mere man could hardly be expected to notice such a trifle as that....
He came and stood beside her, and his right arm lay along the seat just behind her shoulders.
“You’re not fair,” he repeated gravely. “I haven’t swerved like that since I first started to drive.”
“Tell me about this important thing,” she said a little nervously.
He smiled, and no woman yet born could see Hugh Drummond smile without smiling too.
“You darling!” he whispered, under his breath—“you adorable darling!” His arm closed around her, and, almost before she realised it, she felt his lips on hers. For a moment she sat motionless, while the wonder of it surged over her, and the sky seemed more gloriously blue, and the woods a richer green. Then, with a little gasp, she pushed him away.
“You mustn’t ... oh! you mustn’t, Hugh,” she whispered.
“And why not, little girl?” he said exultingly. “Don’t you know I love you?”
“But look, there’s a man over there, and he’ll see.”
Hugh glanced at the stolid labourer in question, and smiled.
“Go an absolute mucker over the cabbages, what! Plant carrots by mistake.” His face was still very close to hers. “Well?”
“Well, what?” she murmured.
“It’s your turn,” he whispered. “I love you, Phyllis—just love you.”
“But it’s only two or three days since we met,” she said feebly.
“And phwat the divil has that got to do with it, at all?” he demanded. “Would I be wanting longer to decide such an obvious fact? Tell me,” he went on, and she felt his arm round her again forcing her to look at him—“tell me, don’t you care ... a little?”
“What’s the use?” She still struggled, but, even to her, it wasn’t very convincing. “We’ve got other things to do.... We can’t think of...”
And then this very determined young man settled matters in his usual straightforward fashion. She felt herself lifted bodily out of the car as if she had been a child: she found herself lying in his arms, with Hugh’s eyes looking very tenderly into her own and a whimsical grin round his mouth.
“Cars pass here,” he remarked, “with great regularity. I know you’d hate to be discovered in this position.”
“Would I?” she whispered. “I wonder...”
She felt his heart pound madly against her; and with a sudden quick movement she put both her arms round his neck and kissed him on the mouth.
“Is that good enough?” she asked, very low: and just for a few moments, Time stood still.... Then, very gently, he put her back in the car.
“I suppose,” he remarked resignedly, “that we had better descend to trivialities. We’ve had lots of fun and games since I last saw you a year or two ago.”
“Idiot boy,” she said happily. “It was yesterday morning.”
“The interruption is considered trivial. Mere facts don’t count when it’s you and me.” There was a further interlude of uncertain duration, followed rapidly by another because the first was so nice.
“To resume,” continued Hugh. “I regret to state that they’ve got Potts.”
The girl sat up quickly and stared at him.
“Got him? Oh, Hugh! how did they manage it?”
“I’m damned if I know,” he answered grimly. “They found out that he was in my bungalow at Goring during the afternoon by sending round a man to see about the water. Somehow or other he must have doped the drink or the food, because after dinner we all fell asleep. I can just remember seeing Lakington’s face outside in the garden, pressed against the window, and then everything went out. I don’t remember anything more till I woke this morning with the most appalling head. Of course, Potts had gone.”
“I heard the car drive up in the middle of the night,” said the girl thoughtfully. “Do you think he’s at The Elms now?”
“That is what I propose to find out to-night,” answered Hugh. “We have staged a little comedy for Peterson’s especial benefit, and we are hoping for the best.’”
“Oh, boy, do be careful!” She looked at him anxiously. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you. I’d feel it was all due to me, and I just couldn’t bear it.”
“Dear little girl,” he whispered tenderly, “you’re simply adorable when you look like that. But not even for you would I back out of this show now.” His mouth set in a grim line. “It’s gone altogether too far, and they’ve shown themselves to be so completely beyond the pale that it’s got to be fought out. And when it has been,” he caught both her hands in his ... “and we’ve won ... why, then girl o’ mine, we’ll get Peter Darrell to be best man.”
Which was the cue for the commencement of the last and longest interlude, terminated only by the sudden and unwelcome appearance of a motor-’bus covered within and without by unromantic sightseers, and paper-bags containing bananas.
They drove slowly back to Guildford, and on the way he told her briefly of the murder of the American’s secretary in Belfast, and his interview the preceding afternoon with the impostor at the Carlton.
“It’s a tough proposition,” he remarked quietly. “They’re absolutely without scruple, and their power seems unlimited. I know they are after the Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls: I found the beautiful Irma consuming tea with young Laidley yesterday—you know, the Duke’s eldest son. But there’s something more in the wind than that, Phyllis—something which, unless I’m a mug of the first water, is an infinitely larger proposition than that.”
The car drew up at the station, and he strolled with her on to the platform. Trivialities were once more banished: vital questions concerning when it had first happened—by both; whether he was quite sure it would last for ever—by her; what she could possibly see in him—by him; and wasn’t everything just too wonderful for words—mutual and carriednem. con.
Then the train came in, and he put her into a carriage. And two minutes later, with the touch of her lips warm on his, and her anxious little cry, “Take care, my darling!—take care!” still ringing in his ears, he got into his car and drove off to an hotel to get an early dinner. Love for the time was over; the next round of the other game was due. And it struck Drummond that it was going to be a round where a mistake would not be advisable.
IV
At a quarter to ten he backed his car into the shadow of some trees not far from the gate of The Elms. The sky was overcast, which suited his purpose, and through the gloom of the bushes he dodged rapidly towards the house. Save for a light in the sitting-room and one in a bedroom upstairs, the front of the house was in darkness, and, treading noiselessly on the turf, he explored all round it. From a downstairs room on one side came the hoarse sound of men’s voices, and he placed that as the smoking-room of the gang of ex-convicts and blackguards who formed Peterson’s staff. There was one bedroom light at the back of the house, and thrown on the blind he could see the shadow of a man. As he watched, the man got up and moved away, only to return in a moment or two and take up his old position.
“It’s one of those two bedrooms,” he muttered to himself, “if he’s here at all.”
Then he crouched in the shadow of some shrubs and waited. Through the trees to his right he could see The Larches, and once, with a sudden quickening of his heart, he thought he saw the outline of the girl show up in the light from the drawing-room. But it was only for a second, and then it was gone....
He peered at his watch: it was just ten o’clock. The trees were creaking gently in the faint wind; all around him the strange night noises—noises which play pranks with a man’s nerves—were whispering and muttering. Bushes seemed suddenly to come to life, and move; eerie shapes crawled over the ground towards him—figures which existed only in his imagination. And once again the thrill of the night stalker gripped him.
He remembered the German who had lain motionless for an hour in a little gully by Hebuterne, while he from behind a stunted bush had tried to locate him. And then that one creak as the Boche had moved his leg. And then ... the end. On that night, too, the little hummocks had moved and taken to themselves strange shapes: fifty times he had imagined he saw him; fifty times he knew he was wrong—in time. He was used to it; the night held no terrors for him, only a fierce excitement. And thus it was that as he crouched in the bushes, waiting for the game to start, his pulse was as normal, and his nerves as steady, as if he had been sitting down to supper. The only difference was that in his hand he held something tight-gripped.
At last faintly in the distance he heard the hum of a car. Rapidly it grew louder, and he smiled grimly to himself as the sound of five unmelodious voices singing lustily struck his ear. They passed along the road in front of the house. There was a sudden crash—then silence; but only for a moment.
Peter’s voice came first:
“You priceless old ass, you’ve rammed the blinking gate.”
It was Jerry Seymour who then took up the ball. His voice was intensely solemn—also extremely loud.
“Preposhterous. Perfectly preposhterous. We must go and apologise to the owner.... I ... I ... absholutely ... musht apologise.... Quite unpardonable.... You can’t go about country ... knocking down gates.... Out of queshtion....”
Half-consciously Hugh listened, but, now that the moment for action had come, every faculty was concentrated on his own job. He saw half a dozen men go rushing out into the garden through a side door, and then two more ran out and came straight towards him. They crashed past him and went on into the darkness, and for an instant he wondered what they were doing. A little later he was destined to find out....
Then came a peal at the front-door bell, and he determined to wait no longer. He darted through the garden door, to find a flight of back stairs in front of him, and in another moment he was on the first floor. He walked rapidly along the landing, trying to find his bearings, and, turning a corner, he found himself at the top of the main staircase—the spot where he had fought Peterson two nights previously.
From below Jerry Seymour’s voice came clearly.
“Are you the pro-propri-tor, ole friend? Because there’s been ... acchident....”
He waited to hear no more, but walked quickly on to the room which he calculated was the one where he had seen the shadow on the blind. Without a second’s hesitation he flung the door open and walked in. There, lying in the bed, was the American, while crouched beside him, with a revolver in his hand, was a man....
For a few seconds they watched one another in silence, and then the man straightened up.
“The soldier!” he snarled. “You young pup!”
Deliberately, almost casually, he raised his revolver, and then the unexpected happened. A jet of liquid ammonia struck him full in the face, and with a short laugh Hugh dropped his water-pistol in his pocket, and turned his attention to the bed. Wrapping the millionaire in a blanket, he picked him up, and, paying no more attention to the man gasping and choking in a corner, he raced for the back stairs.
Below he could still hear Jerry hiccoughing gently, and explaining to the pro ... pro ... pritor that he pershonally would repair ... inshisted on repairing ... any and every gateposht he posshessed.... And then he reached the garden....
Everything had fallen out exactly as he had hoped, but had hardly dared to expect. He heard Peterson’s voice, calm and suave as usual, answering Jerry. From the garden in front came the dreadful sound of a duet by Algy and Peter. Not a soul was in sight; the back of the house was clear. All that he had to do was to walk quietly through the wicket-gate to The Larches with his semi-conscious burden, get to his car, and drive off. It all seemed so easy that he laughed....
But there were one or two factors that he had forgotten, and the first and most important one was the man upstairs. The window was thrown up suddenly, and the man leaned out waving his arms. He was still gasping with the strength of the ammonia, but Hugh saw him clearly in the light from the room behind. And as he cursed himself for a fool in not having tied him up, from the trees close by there came the sharp clang of metal.
With a quick catch in his breath he began to run. The two men who had rushed past him before he had entered the house, and whom, save for a passing thought, he had disregarded, had become the principal danger. For he had heard that clang before; he remembered Jem Smith’s white horror-struck face, and then his sigh of relief as the thing—whatever it was—was shut in its cage. And now it was out, dodging through the trees, let loose by the two men.
Turning his head from side to side, peering into the gloom, he ran on. What an interminable distance it seemed to the gate ... and even then ... He heard something crash into a bush on his right, and give a snarl of anger. Like a flash he swerved into the undergrowth on the left.
Then began a dreadful game. He was still some way from the fence, and he was hampered at every step by the man slung over his back. He could hear the thing blundering about searching for him, and suddenly, with a cold feeling of fear, he realised that the animal was in front of him—that his way to the gate was barred. The next moment he saw it....
Shadowy, indistinct, in the darkness, he saw something glide between two bushes. Then it came out into the open and he knew it had seen him, though as yet he could not make out what it was. Grotesque and horrible it crouched on the ground, and he could hear its heavy breathing, as it waited for him to move.
Cautiously he lowered the millionaire to the ground, and took a step forward. It was enough; with a snarl of fury the crouching form rose and shambled towards him. Two hairy arms shot out towards his throat, he smelt the brute’s foetid breath, hot and loathsome, and he realised what he was up against. It was a partially grown gorilla.
For a full minute they fought in silence, save for the hoarse grunts of the animal as it tried to tear away the man’s hand from its throat, and then encircle him with his powerful arms. And with his brain cold as ice Hugh saw his danger and kept his head. It couldn’t go on: no human being could last the pace, whatever his strength. And there was only one chance of finishing it quickly, the possibility that the grip taught him by Olaki would serve with a monkey as it did with a man.
He shifted his left thumb an inch or two on the brute’s throat, and the gorilla, thinking he was weakening, redoubled its efforts. But still those powerful hands clutched its throat; try as it would, it failed to make them budge. And then, little by little, the fingers moved, and the grip which had been tight before grew tighter still.
Back went its head; something was snapping in its neck. With a scream of fear and rage it wrapped its legs round Drummond, squeezing and writhing. And then suddenly there was a tearing snap, and the great limbs relaxed and grew limp.
For a moment the man stood watching the still quivering brute lying at his feet; then, with a gasp of utter exhaustion, he dropped on the ground himself. He was done—utterly cooked; even Peterson’s voice close behind scarcely roused him.
“Quite one of the most amusing entertainments I’ve seen for a long time.” The calm, expressionless voice made him look up wearily, and he saw that he was surrounded by men. The inevitable cigar glowed red in the darkness, and after a moment or two he scrambled unsteadily to his feet.
“I’d forgotten your damned menagerie, I must frankly confess,” he remarked. “What’s the party for?” He glanced at the men who had closed in round him.
“A guard of honour, my young friend,” said Peterson suavely, “to lead you to the house. I wouldn’t hesitate ... it’s very foolish. Your friends have gone, and, strong as you are, I don’t think you can manage ten.”
Hugh commenced to stroll towards the house.
“Well, don’t leave the wretched Potts lying about. I dropped him over there.” For a moment the idea of making a dash for it occurred to him, but he dismissed it at once. The odds were too great to make the risk worth while, and in the centre of the group he and Peterson walked side by side.
“The last man whom poor Sambo had words with,” said Peterson reminiscently, “was found next day with his throat torn completely out.”
“A lovable little thing,” murmured Hugh. “I feel quite sorry at having spoilt his record.”
Peterson paused with his hand on the sitting-room door, and looked at him benevolently.
“Don’t be despondent, Captain Drummond. We have ample time at our disposal to ensure a similar find to-morrow morning.”
CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH HE SPENDS AN HOUR OR TWO ON A ROOF
I
Drummond paused for a moment at the door of the sitting-room, then with a slight shrug he stepped past Peterson. During the last few days he had grown to look on this particular room as the private den of the principals of the gang. He associated it in his mind with Peterson himself, suave, impassive, ruthless; with the girl Irma, perfectly gowned, lying on the sofa, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and manicuring her already faultless nails; and in a lesser degree, with Henry Lakington’s thin, cruel face, and blue, staring eyes.
But to-night a different scene confronted him. The girl was not there: her accustomed place on the sofa was occupied by an unkempt-looking man with a ragged beard. At the end of the table was a vacant chair, on the right of which sat Lakington regarding him with malevolent fury. Along the table on each side there were half a dozen men, and he glanced at their faces. Some were obviously foreigners; some might have been anything from murderers to Sunday-school teachers. There was one with spectacles and the general appearance of an intimidated rabbit, while his neighbour, helped by a large red scar right across his cheek, and two bloodshot eyes, struck Hugh as being the sort of man with whom one would not share a luncheon basket.
“I know he’d snatch both drumsticks and gnaw them simultaneously,” he reflected, staring at him fascinated; “and then he’d throw the bones in your face.”
Peterson’s voice from just behind his shoulder roused him from his distressing reverie.
“Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce to you Captain Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., the originator of the little entertainment we have just had.”
Hugh bowed gravely.
“My only regret is that it failed to function,” he remarked. “As I told you outside, I’d quite forgotten your menagerie. In fact”—his glance wandered slowly and somewhat pointedly from face to face at the table—“I had no idea it was such a large one.”
“So this is the insolent young swine, is it?” The bloodshot eyes of the man with the scarred face turned on him morosely. “What I cannot understand is why he hasn’t been killed by now.”
Hugh waggled an accusing finger at him.
“I knew you were a nasty man as soon as I saw you. Now look at Henry up at the end of the table; he doesn’t say that sort of thing. And you do hate me, don’t you, Henry? How’s the jaw?”
“Captain Drummond,” said Lakington, ignoring Hugh and addressing the first speaker, “was very nearly killed last night. I thought for some time as to whether I would or not, but I finally decided it would be much too easy a death. So it can be remedied to-night.”
If Hugh felt a momentary twinge of fear at the calm, expressionless tone, and the half-satisfied grunt which greeted the words, no trace of it showed on his face. Already the realisation had come to him that if he got through the night alive he would be more than passing lucky, but he was too much of a fatalist to let that worry him unduly. So he merely stifled a yawn, and again turned to Lakington.
“So it was you, my little one, whose fairy face I saw pressed against the window. Would it be indiscreet to ask how you got the dope into us?”
Lakington looked at him with an expression of grim satisfaction on his face.
“You were gassed, if you want to know. An admirable invention of my friend Kauffner’s nation.”
A guttural chuckle came from one of the men, and Hugh looked at him grimly.
“The scum certainly would not be complete,” he remarked to Peterson, “without a filthy Boche in it.”
The German pushed back his chair with an oath, his face purple with passion.
“A filthy Boche,” he muttered thickly, lurching towards Hugh. “Hold him the arms of, and I will the throat tear out....”
The intimidated rabbit rose protestingly at this prospect of violence; the scarred sportsman shot out of his chair eagerly, the lust of battle in his bloodshot eyes. The only person save Hugh who made no movement was Peterson, and he, very distinctly, chuckled. Whatever his failings, Peterson had a sense of humour....
It all happened so quickly. At one moment Hugh was apparently intent upon selecting a cigarette, the next instant the case had fallen to the floor; there was a dull, heavy thud, and the Boche crashed back, overturned a chair, and fell like a log to the floor, his head hitting the wall with a vicious crack. The bloodshot being resumed his seat a little limply; the intimidated bunny gave a stifled gasp and breathed heavily; Hugh resumed his search for a cigarette.
“After which breezy interlude,” remarked Peterson, “let us to business get.”
Hugh paused in the act of striking a match, and for the first time a genuine smile spread over his face.
“There are moments, Peterson,” he murmured, “when you really appeal to me.”
Peterson took the empty chair next to Lakington.
“Sit down,” he said shortly. “I can only hope that I shall appeal to you still more before we kill you.”
Hugh bowed and sat down.
“Consideration,” he murmured, “was always your strong point. May I ask how long I have to live?”
Peterson smiled genially.
“At the very earnest request of Mr. Lakington you are to be spared until to-morrow morning. At least, that is our present intention. Of course, there might be an accident in the night: in a house like this one can never tell. Or”—he carefully cut the end off a cigar—“you might go mad, in which case we shouldn’t bother to kill you. In fact, it would really suit our book better if you did: the disposal of corpses, even in these days of advanced science, presents certain difficulties—not insuperable—but a nuisance. And so, if you go mad, we shall not be displeased.”
Once again he smiled genially.
“As I said before, in a house like this, you never can tell....”
The intimidated rabbit, still breathing heavily, was staring at Hugh, fascinated; and after a moment Hugh turned to him with a courteous bow.
“Laddie,” he remarked, “you’ve been eating onions. Do you mind deflecting the blast in the opposite direction?”
His calm imperturbability seemed to madden Lakington, who with a sudden movement rose from his chair and leaned across the table, while the veins stood out like whipcord on his usually expressionless face.
“You wait,” he snarled thickly; “you wait till I’ve finished with you. You won’t be so damned humorous then....”
Hugh regarded the speaker languidly.
“Your supposition is more than probable,” he remarked, in a bored voice. “I shall be too intent on getting into a Turkish bath to remove the contamination to think of laughing.”
Slowly Lakington sank back in his chair, a hard, merciless smile on his lips; and for a moment or two there was silence in the room. It was broken by the unkempt man on the sofa, who, without warning, exploded unexpectedly.
“A truce to all this fooling,” he burst forth in a deep rumble; “I confess I do not understand it. Are we assembled here to-night, comrades, to listen to private quarrels and stupid talk?”
A murmur of approval came from the others, and the speaker stood up waving his arms.
“I know not what this young man has done: I care less. In Russia such trifles matter not. He has the appearance of a bourgeois, therefore he must die. Did we not kill thousands—aye, tens of thousands of his kidney, before we obtained the great freedom? Are we not going to do the same in this accursed country?” His voice rose to the shrill, strident note of the typical tub-thumper. “What is this wretched man,” he continued, waving a hand wildly at Hugh, “that he should interrupt the great work for one brief second? Kill him now—throw him in a corner, and let us proceed.”
He sat down again, amidst a further murmur of approval, in which Hugh joined heartily.
“Splendid,” he murmured. “A magnificent peroration. Am I right, sir, in assuming that you are what is vulgarly known as a Bolshevist?”
The man turned his sunken eyes, glowing with the burning fires of fanaticism, on Drummond.
“I am one of those who are fighting for the freedom of the world,” he cried harshly, “for the right to live of the proletariat. The workers were the bottom dogs in Russia till they killed the rulers. Now—they rule, and the money they earn goes into their own pockets, not those of incompetent snobs.” He flung out his arms wildly. “It is freedom; it is the dawn of the new age.” He seemed to shrivel up suddenly, as if exhausted with the violence of his passion. Only his eyes still gleamed with the smouldering madness of his soul.
Hugh looked at him with genuine curiosity; it was the first time he had actually met one of these wild visionaries in the flesh. And then the curiosity was succeeded by a very definite amazement; what had Peterson to do with such as he?
He glanced casually at his principal enemy, but his face showed nothing. He was quietly turning over some papers; his cigar glowed as evenly as ever. He seemed to be no whit surprised by the unkempt one’s outburst: in fact, it appeared to be quite in order. And once again Hugh stared at the man on the sofa with puzzled eyes.
For the moment his own deadly risk was forgotten: a growing excitement filled his mind. Could it be possible that here, at last, was the real object of the gang; could it be possible that Peterson was organising a deliberate plot to try and Bolshevise England? If so, where did the Duchess of Lampshire’s pearls come in? What of the American, Hiram Potts? Above all, what did Peterson hope to make out of it himself? And it was as he arrived at that point in his deliberation that he looked up to find Peterson regarding him with a faint smile.
“It is a little difficult to understand, isn’t it, Captain Drummond?” he said, carefully flicking the ash off his cigar. “I told you you’d find yourself in deep water.” Then he resumed the contemplation of the papers in front of him, as the Russian burst out again.
“Have you ever seen a woman skinned alive?” he howled wildly, thrusting his face forward at Hugh. “Have you ever seen men killed with the knotted rope; burned almost to death and then set free, charred and mutilated wrecks? But what does it matter provided only freedom comes, as it has in Russia. To-morrow it will be England: in a week the world.... Even if we have to wade through rivers of blood up to our throats, nevertheless it will come. And in the end we shall have a new earth.”
Hugh lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.
“It seems a most alluring programme,” he murmured. “And I shall have much pleasure in recommending you as manager of a babies’ crèche. I feel certain the little ones would take to you instinctively.”
He half closed his eyes, while a general buzz of conversation broke out round the table. Tongues had been loosened, wonderful ideals conjured up by the Russian’s inspiring words; and for the moment he was forgotten. Again and again the question hammered at his brain—what in the name of Buddha had Peterson and Lakington to do with this crowd? Two intensely brilliant, practical criminals mixed up with a bunch of ragged-trousered visionaries, who, to all intents and purposes, were insane....
Fragments of conversation struck his ears from time to time. The intimidated rabbit, with the light of battle in his watery eye, was declaiming on the glories of Workmen’s Councils; a bullet-headed man who looked like a down-at-heels racing tout was shouting an inspiring battle-cry about no starvation wages and work for all.
“Can it be possible,” thought Hugh grimly, “that such as these have the power to control big destinies?” And then, because he had some experience of what one unbalanced brain, whose owner could talk, was capable of achieving; because he knew something about mob psychology, his half-contemptuous amusement changed to a bitter foreboding.
“You fool,” he cried suddenly to the Russian; and everyone ceased talking. “You poor damned boob! You—and your new earth! In Petrograd to-day bread is two pounds four shillings a pound; tea, fifteen pounds a pound. Do you call that freedom? Do you suggest that we should wade tothat, through rivers of blood?” He gave a contemptuous laugh. “I don’t know which distresses me most, your maggoty brain or your insanitary appearance.”
Too surprised to speak, the Russian sat staring at him; and it was Peterson who broke the silence with his suave voice.
“Your distress, I am glad to say, is not likely to be one of long duration,” he remarked. “In fact, the time has come for you to retire for the night, my young friend.”
He stood up smiling; then he walked over to the bell behind Hugh and rang it.
“Dead or mad—I wonder which.” He threw the end of his cigar into the grate as Hugh rose. “While we deliberate down here on various matters of importance we shall be thinking of you upstairs—that is to say, if you get there. I see that Lakington is even now beginning to gloat in pleasant anticipation.”
Not a muscle on the soldier’s face twitched; not by the hint of a look did he show the keenly watching audience that he realised his danger. He might have been an ordinary guest preparing to go to bed; and in Peterson’s face there shone for a moment a certain unwilling admiration. Only Lakington’s was merciless, with its fiendish look of anticipation, and Hugh stared at him with level eyes for a while before he turned towards the door.
“Then I will say ‘Good night,’” he remarked, casually. “Is it the same room that I had last time?”
“No,” said Peterson. “A different one—specially prepared for you. If you get to the top of the stairs a man will show you where it is.” He opened the door and stood there smiling. And at that moment all the lights went out.
II
The darkness could be felt, as real darkness inside a house always can be felt. Not the faintest glimmer even of greyness showed anywhere, and Hugh remained motionless, wondering what the next move was going to be. Now that the night’s ordeal had commenced, all his nerve had returned to him. He felt ice cold; and as his powerful hands clenched and unclenched by his sides, he grinned faintly to himself.
Behind him in the room he could hear an occasional movement in one of the chairs, and once from the hall outside he caught the sound of whispering. He felt that he was surrounded by men, thronging in on him from all sides, and suddenly he gave a short laugh. Instantly silence settled; strain as he would he could not hear a sound. Then very cautiously he commenced to feel his way towards the door.
Outside a car went by honking discordantly, and with a sort of cynical amusement he wondered what its occupants would think if they knew what was happening in the house so near them. And at that moment someone brushed past him. Like a flash Hugh’s hand shot out and gripped him by the arm. The man wriggled and twisted, but he was powerless as a child, and with another short laugh Hugh found his throat with his other hand. And again silence settled on the room....
Still holding the unknown man in front of him, he reached the foot of the stairs, and there he paused. He had suddenly remembered the mysterious thing which had whizzed past his head that other night, and then clanged sullenly into the wall beside him. He had gone up five stairs when it had happened, and now with his foot on the first he started to do some rapid thinking.
If, as Peterson had kindly assured him, they proposed to try and send him mad, it was unlikely that they would kill him on the stairs. At the same time it was obviously an implement capable of accurate adjustment, and therefore it was more than likely that they would use it to frighten him. And if they did—if they did ... The unknown man wriggled feebly in his hands, and a sudden unholy look came on to Hugh’s face.
“It’s the only possible chance,” he said to himself, “and if it’s you or me, laddie, I guess it’s got to be you.”
With a quick heave he jerked the man off his feet, and lifted him up till his head was above the level of his own. Then clutching him tight, he commenced to climb. His own head was bent down, somewhere in the regions of the man’s back, and he took no notice of the feebly kicking legs.
Then at last he reached the fourth step, and gave a final adjustment to his semi-conscious burden. He felt that the hall below was full of men, and suddenly Peterson’s voice came to him out of the darkness.
“That is four, Captain Drummond. What about the fifth step?”
“A very good-looking one as far as I remember,” answered Hugh. “I’m just going to get on to it.”
“That should prove entertaining,” remarked Peterson. “I’m just going to switch on the current.”
Hugh pressed his head even lower in the man’s back, and lifted him up another three inches.
“How awfully jolly!” he murmured. “I hope the result will please you.”
“I’d stand quite still if I were you,” said Peterson suavely. “Just listen.”
As Hugh had gambled on, the performance was designed to frighten. Instead of that, something hit the neck of the man he was holding with such force that it wrenched him clean out of his arms. Then came the clang beside him, and with a series of ominous thuds a body rolled down the stairs into the hall below.
“You fool.” He heard Lakington’s voice, shrill with anger. “You’ve killed him. Switch on the light....”
But before the order could be carried out Hugh had disappeared, like a great cat, into the darkness of the passage above. It was neck or nothing; he had at the most a minute to get clear. As luck would have it the first room he darted into was empty, and he flung up the window and peered out.
A faint, watery moon showed him a twenty-foot drop on to the grass, and without hesitation he flung his legs over the sill. Below a furious hubbub was going on; steps were already rushing up the stairs. He heard Peterson’s calm voice, and Lakington’s hoarse with rage, shouting inarticulate orders. And at that moment something prompted him to look upwards.
It was enough—that one look; he had always been mad, he always would be. It was a dormer window, and to an active man access to the roof was easy. Without an instant’s hesitation he abandoned all thoughts of retreat; and when two excited men rushed into the room he was firmly ensconced, with his legs astride of the ridge of the window, not a yard from their heads.
Securely hidden in the shadow he watched the subsequent proceedings with genial toleration. A raucous bellow from the two men announced that they had discovered his line of escape; and in half a minute the garden was full of hurrying figures. One, calm and impassive, his identity betrayed only by the inevitable cigar, stood by the garden door, apparently taking no part in the game; Lakington, blind with fury, was running round in small circles, cursing everyone impartially.
“The car is still there.” A man came up to Peterson, and Hugh heard the words distinctly.
“Then he’s probably over at Benton’s house. I will go and see.”
Hugh watched the thick-set, massive figure stroll down towards the wicket gate, and he laughed gently to himself. Then he grew serious again, and with a slight frown he pulled out his watch and peered at it. Half-past one ... two more hours before dawn. And in those two hours he wanted to explore the house from on top; especially he wanted to have a look at the mysterious central room of which Phyllis had spoken to him—the room where Lakington kept his treasures. But until the excited throng below went indoors, it was unsafe to move. Once out of the shadow, anyone would be able to see him crawling over the roof in the moonlight.
At times the thought of the helpless man for whose death he had in one way been responsible recurred to him, and he shook his head angrily. It had been necessary, he realised: you can carry someone upstairs in a normal house without him having his neck broken—but still ... And then he wondered who he was. It had been one of the men who sat round the table—of that he was tolerably certain. But which...? Was it the frightened bunny, or the Russian, or the gentleman with the bloodshot eye? The only comfort was that whoever it had been, the world would not be appreciably the poorer for his sudden decease. The only regret was that it hadn’t been dear Henry.... He had a distaste for Henry which far exceeded his dislike of Peterson.
“He’s not over there.” Peterson’s voice came to him from below. “And we’ve wasted time enough as it is.”
The men had gathered together in a group, just below where Hugh was sitting, evidently awaiting further orders.
“Do you mean to say we’ve lost the young swine again?” said Lakington angrily.
“Not lost—merely mislaid,” murmured Peterson. “The more I see of him, the more do I admire his initiative.”
Lakington snorted.
“It was that damned fool Ivolsky’s own fault,” he snarled; “why didn’t he keep still as he was told to do?”
“Why, indeed?” returned Peterson, his cigar glowing red. “And I’m afraid we shall never know. He is very dead.” He turned towards the house. “That concludes the entertainment, gentlemen, for to-night. I think you can all go to bed.”
“There are two of you watching the car, aren’t there?” demanded Lakington.
“Rossiter and Le Grange,” answered a voice.
Peterson paused by the door.
“My dear Lakington, it’s quite unnecessary. You underrate that young man....”
He disappeared into the house, and the others followed slowly. For the time being Hugh was safe, and with a sigh of relief he stretched his cramped limbs and lay back against the sloping roof. If only he had dared to light a cigarette....