Bulldog Drummond

Volume 2

by

Sapper

Book Index

The Female of the Species (1928)

The Return of Bulldog Drummond (1932)

Bulldog Drummond at Bay (1935)

The Female of the Species

First Published 1928

Contents

1. In Which I Make Drummond's Acquaintance

2. In Which I Find a Deserted Motor Car

3. In Which I Get it in the Neck

4. In Which We Get the Semblance of a Clue

5. In Which the Letter Arrives

6. In Which I Get the Second Clue

7. In Which We Come to the Mere

8. In Which We Explore the Mere

9. In Which We Get the Second Clue

10 In Which the Third Clue is Solved

11. In Which I go to Friar's Heel by Day

12. In Which I Write My Mind to Drummond

13. In Which I go to Friar's Heel by Night

14. In Which I Meet Mrs Drummond

15. In Which Some of the Others Join Me

16. In Which We Have a Rehearsal

17. In Which the Curtain Rings Down

1. In Which I Make Drummond's Acquaintance

Even now, after three months' calm thought, I sometimes feel that I must have dreamed the whole thing. I say to myself that this is England: that I am sitting at lunch in my club hoping that that gluttonous lawyer Seybourne will not take all the best part of the Stilton: that unless I get a move on I shall be very late at Lord's. I say all that just as I always used to say it—particularly about Seybourne. And then it suddenly comes over me—the events of those amazing days.

I don't suppose anybody will believe me: I wouldn't believe the story myself if somebody else told it to me. As I say, I sometimes think it must be a dream. And then I turn back my left sleeve nearly to the elbow and look at a three-inch scar, still red and angry, though it's healing nicely now. And I know it was no dream.

Was it a joke? If so, it was the grimmest and most desperate jest that has ever been cracked, and one wherein the humour was difficult to find. Moreover, it was a joke that would have brought the propounder of it to the gallows—had we but been able to catch her. For there was a woman at the bottom of it, and women can suffer the death penalty in England for murder.

No it was no dream: no jest. It was grim, stern reality played for a stake sufficient to crack the nerve of the principal player on our side had he been possessed of nerves to crack. A game played against time: a game where one mistake might have proved fatal.

Personally I am a peace-loving individual of mild appearance: I like my rubber of bridge at the club and my round of golf: I am not averse to letting people know that I was wounded in the leg in France. Moreover, I fail to see why I should gratuitously add the information that I was in the horse lines at the time, and Heaven alone knows where the bullet came from. I mention these points merely to show that I am just a very ordinary sort of person, and not at all of the type which seems to attract adventure. In fact, until that amazing Whitsun, the only thing in any way out of the ordinary which had ever happened to me was when I, on one occasion, tried to stop a runaway horse. And the annoying thing then was that the driver assured me he had the horse under control. Three weeks had elapsed, and I was still in hospital, so I didn't argue the point.

The truth is that I am not one of those enviable men who are at their best when in a tight corner, or when confronted with the need for immediate action. If, as I read somewhere once, men consist of two classes—those who can stop a dog fight and those who can't—honesty compels me to admit that I belong to the latter. In fact, put in a nutshell, I am a rabbit.

And yet I wouldn't have missed that adventure for anything. I can't flatter myself that I did very much: indeed, there were times when I fear I was merely in the way. For all that, never once did a single member of the extraordinary bunch of men who were playing on our side say any word of reproach or irritation. They never let me feel that I was a passenger even when the strain was greatest.

However, enough of this preamble. I will start at the beginning. For many years it has been my custom to spend a few days round Whitsuntide with some old friends of mine called Tracey. They have a charming house not far from Pangbourne—Elizabethan, and standing in delightful grounds. There is generally a small party—perhaps a dozen in all—and I may say that the keyword to the atmosphere of the house is peace. It may be that I am a little old-fashioned, but the pleasure to be derived from what is sometimes described as an evening's jolly seems to me to be overrated.

As usual I went to them this year, arriving on the Thursday before Whitsuntide. The motor met me at the station, and, having shaken Jenkins, the chauffeur, by the hand, I got in. Somewhat to my surprise, he did not at once drive off: he appeared to be waiting for someone else.

"Captain Drummond, sir," he said to me, "who is stopping at the house, came down to get a paper."

"Captain Drummond, Jenkins," I mused. "Do I know him?"

"I think not, sir," he answered, and it seemed to me that a very faint smile twitched round his lips. In fact, there was a sort of air of expectancy about Jenkins—excitement almost—that was most unusual. Jenkins I have always regarded as a model servant.

"Five to one, my trusty lad. That's better than breaking your false teeth on a plum stone."

I turned at this somewhat astounding utterance and regarded the speaker. He was still immersed in the paper, and for the moment I couldn't see his face.

"Put anything on Moongazer?"

"'Alf a dollar each way, sir," said Jenkins, so far forgetting himself as to suck his teeth in his excitement.

"You'll get your money back. Second at fours. That's not so bad for the old firm."

"Pity about cook, sir," said Jenkins earnestly. "She don't 'old with backing both ways. Moongazer—win only—she was." He consulted a small notebook, apparently to verify the statement.

"That sheds a bit of gloom over the afternoon, Jenkins."

Captain Drummond lowered the paper, and seemed to become aware of my existence for the first time. "Hullo! hullo! hullo!" he exclaimed. "The new arrival. Home, Jenkins—and for God's sake don't break it to the cook till after dinner."

He got into the car, and it struck me that I had seldom seen a larger individual.

"Do you think it is quite wise to encourage the servants to bet?" I inquired a little pointedly as we started.

"Encourage, old lad?" he boomed. "They don't want any encouragement. You have to keep 'em off it with a field gun."

He waved a friendly hand at an extremely pretty girl on the pavement, and I took off my hat.

"Who was that?" he said, turning to me.

"I don't know," I answered. "I thought you waved at her."

"But you took off your hat."

"Because you waved at her."

He pondered deeply.

"I follow your reasoning," he conceded at length. "The false premise, if I may say so, is your conclusion that a friendly gesture of the right hand betokens previous acquaintance. I regret to say I do not know the lady: I probably never shall. Still, we have doubtless planted hope in her virginal bosom." He relapsed into silence, while I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. A strange individual, I reflected: one, somehow, I could hardly place at the Traceys'. Now that he was sitting beside me he seemed larger than ever—evidently a very powerful man. Moreover, his face was rather of the type that one associates with pugilism. He certainly had no claims to good looks, and yet there was something very attractive about his expression.

"The Cat and Custard Pot," he remarked suddenly, and Jenkins touched his hat.

"It's nearly an hour," he said, turning to me, "since I lowered any ale. And I don't really know Bill Tracey well enough to reason with him about his. The damned stuff isn't fit to drink."

The car pulled up outside a pub, and my companion descended. I refused his invitation to join him—ale is not a favourite beverage of mine—and remained sitting in the car. The afternoon was warm, the air heavy with the scent of flowers from a neighbouring garden. And in the distance one got a glimpse of the peaceful Thames. Peaceful—the mot juste: everything was peaceful in that charming corner of England. And with a feeling of drowsy contentment I lay back and half closed my eyes.

I don't know what drew my attention to them first—the two men who were sitting at one of the little tables under a tree. Perhaps it was that they didn't seem quite to fit in with their surroundings. Foreigners, I decided, and yet it was more from the cut of their clothes than from their actual faces that I came to the conclusion. They weren't talking, but every now and then they stole a glance at the door by which Drummond had gone in. And then one of them turned suddenly and stared long and earnestly at me.

"Who are those two men, Jenkins?" I said, leaning forward.

"Never seen 'em before today, sir," he answered. "But they was 'ere when the Captain stopped for his pint on the way down. Lumme—look there."

I looked, and I must admit that for a moment or too I began to have doubts as to Drummond's sanity. He had evidently come out by some other door, and he was now standing behind the trunk of the tree under which the men were sitting. They were obviously quite unaware of his presence, and if such a thing hadn't been inconceivable I should have said he was deliberately eavesdropping. Anyway, the fact remains that for nearly half a minute he stood there absolutely motionless, whilst I watched the scene in frank amazement. Then one of the two men happened to glance at me, and I suppose my face must have given something away. He nudged his companion, and the two of them rose to their feet just as Drummond stepped out from behind the tree.

"Good afternoon, my pretties," he burbled genially. "Are we staying long in Pangbourne's happy clime—or are we not?"

"Who the devil are you, sir?" said one of the men, speaking perfect English, except for a slightly guttural accent.

Drummond took out his case and selected a cigarette with care.

"Surely," he remarked pleasantly, "your incompetence cannot be as astounding as all that. Tush! tush!—"; he lifted a hand like a leg of mutton as the man who had spoken started forward angrily. "I will push your face in later, if necessary, but just at the moment I would like a little chat. And since the appearance of you both is sufficient to shake any man to the foundations, let us not waste time over unnecessary questions."

"Look here," snarled the other angrily, "do you want a rough house, young man?"

"Rough house?" said Drummond mildly. "What is a rough house? Surely you cannot imagine for one minute that I would so far demean myself as to lift my hand in anger against my neighbour."

And then the most extraordinary thing happened. I was watching the strange scene very closely, wondering really whether I ought not to interfere—yet even so I didn't see how it was done. It was so incredibly quick, and as far as I could tell, Drummond never moved.

The two men seemed to close in on him suddenly with the idea obviously of hustling him out of the garden. And they didn't hustle him out of the garden. Far from it. There came a noise as of two hard bodies impinging together, and the gentleman who had not yet spoken recoiled a pace, holding his nose and cursing.

I sympathized with him: it is a singularly painful thing to hit one's nose hard on somebody else's head. In fact, the only completely unmoved person was Drummond himself.

"You shouldn't kiss in public places, laddies," he remarked sadly. "It might make the barmaid jealous. And I do declare his little nosey-posey is beginning to bleed. If you ask the chauffeur nicely he might lend you a spanner to put down your back."

The two men stood there glaring at him, and they were not a prepossessing pair. And then the one who had done the talking drew his friend of the damaged nose on one side, and spoke to him in a low tone. He seemed to be urging some course on the other which the latter was unwilling to accept.

"My God, sir," muttered Jenkins to me, "the bloke with the bleeding nose has got a knife."

"Look out. Captain Drummond," I called out. "That man has a knife."

"I know, old lad," he answered. "He's been playing at pirates. Not going, surely? Why, we've never had our little chat."

But without a backward glance, the two men passed through the gate and started walking rapidly down the road in the direction of the station. And after a time Drummond sauntered over to the car and got in.

"After which breezy little interlude," he murmured, "the powerful car again swung forward, devouring mile after mile."

"Would you very much mind explaining?" I remarked dazedly.

"Explaining?" he said. "What is there to explain?"

"Do you usually go about the country molesting perfect strangers? Who are those men?"

"I dunno," he answered. "But they knew me all right." He was staring at the road ahead and frowning. "It's impossible," he muttered at length. "And yet—"

He relapsed into silence, while I still gazed at him in amazement. "But," I cried, "it's astounding. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I couldn't have believed it possible."

He grinned suddenly. "I suppose it was a bit disconcerting," he answered. "But we're moving in deep waters, laddie—or, rather, I am. And I tell you frankly I don't quite know where I am. Why should those two blokes have followed me down here?"

"Then you have seen them before?"

He shook his head. "No. At least, I saw them when I stopped for some ale on the way down to the station. And they aren't very clever at it."

"Clever at what?"

"The little game of observing without being observed. Apart from their appearance, which made them stick out a mile when seen in an English country inn, the man whose nose suffered slightly positively hissed into the other's ear when he first saw me. In fact, I very nearly dealt with them then and there, only I was afraid I'd be late for your train."

"But why should they follow you?" I persisted. "What's the idea?"

"I wish to God I knew," he answered gravely. "I don't think I'm losing my nerve, or anything of that sort—but I'm absolutely in the dark. Almost as much as you are, in fact. I loathe this waiting game."

"Of course," I remarked resignedly, "I suppose I am not insane. I suppose there is some sense in all this, though at the moment I'm damned if I can see it."

"Presumably you read Kipling?" he said suddenly. I stared at him in silence—speech was beyond me. "A month ago," he continued calmly, "I received this."

From his breast pocket he took a slip of paper, and handed it to me. On it some lines were written in an obviously feminine hand.

'When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, he shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside. But the she-bear, thus accosted, rends the peasant tooth and nail. And the point, I warn you, Drummond, is discovered in the tail.'

I handed the paper back to him.

"What do you make of it?" he asked.

"It looks like a stupid joke," I said. "Do you know the writing?"

He shook his head.

"No; I don't. So you think it's a joke, do you?"

"My dear sir," I cried, "what else can it be? I confess that at the moment I forget the poem, but the first three lines are obviously Kipling. Equally obviously the fourth is not."

"Precisely," he agreed with a faint smile. "I got as far as that myself. And so it was the fourth line that attracted my attention. It seemed to me that the message, if any, would be found in it. It was."

"What is the fourth line?" I asked curiously.

"'For the female of the species is more deadly than the male'" he answered.

"But, surely," I cried in amazement, "you can't take a thing like that seriously. It's probably a foolish hoax sent you by some girl you cut at a night club."

I laughed a little irritably: for a man to take such a message in earnest struck me as being childish to a degree. A stupid jest played by some silly girl, with a penchant for being mysterious. Undoubtedly, I reflected, the man was a fool. And, anyway, what had it got to do with the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot?

"'The female of the species is more deadly than the male,'" he repeated, as if he hadn't heard my remark. "No hoax about it, old lad; no jest, believe you me. Just a plain and simple warning. And now the game has begun."

For a moment or two I wondered if he was pulling my leg; but he was so deadly serious that I realized that he, at any rate, believed it was genuine. And my feeling of irritation grew. What an ass the man must be! "What game?" I asked sarcastically. "Playing peep-bo behind the trees?"

He let out a sudden roar of laughter.

"You probably think I'm bughouse, don't you?" he cried. "Doesn't matter. The only real tragedy of the day is that the cook didn't back Moongazer each way."

Once again he relapsed into silence as the car rolled through the gates of the Traceys' house.

"Good intelligence work," he said thoughtfully. "We only decided to come down here yesterday. But I wish to the Lord you'd learn to control your face. If you hadn't given a lifelike representation of a gargoyle in pain I might have heard something of interest from those two blighters."

"Confound you!" I spluttered angrily.

"You couldn't help it." He waved a vast hand, and beat me on the back. "I ought to have warned you. Must have looked a bit odd. But it's a pity—"

The car pulled up at the door, and he got out.

"Little Willie wants a drink," he remarked to Tracey, who came out to greet us. "His nervous system has had a shock. By the way, where's Phyllis?"

"Playing tennis," said our host, and Drummond strolled off in the direction of the lawn.

"Look here. Bill," I cried when he was out of earshot, "is that man all there?"

"Hugh Drummond all there?" he laughed. "Very few men in England more so. Why?"

"Well, if he hits me on the back again I shan't be. He's rammed my braces through my spine. But, honestly, I thought the man was mad. He's been talking the most appalling hot air on the way up, and he assaulted two complete strangers at the Cat and Custard Pot."

Bill Tracey stared at me in surprise. "Assaulted two strangers at the Cat and Custard Pot!" he repeated. "What on earth did he do that for?"

"Ask me another," I said irritably. "Two foreign-looking men."

"That's funny," he remarked thoughtfully. "Rodgers—the gardener—was telling me only a few minutes ago that he had seen two foreign-looking men hanging round the house this morning, and had told them to clear off. I wonder if they were the same."

"Probably," I said. "But the fact that they were hanging round here hardly seems an adequate reason for Captain Drummond's behaviour. In fact, my dear Bill—What's the matter?"

He was staring over my shoulder in the direction of the lawn, and I swung round. Drummond was running towards us over the grass, and there was a peculiar strained look on his face. He passed us without a word, and went up the stairs two at a time. We heard a door flung open, and then we saw him leaning out of his bedroom window.

"I don't like it, Algy," he said. "Not one little bit."

A somewhat vacuous-looking individual with an eyeglass had joined us, whom the remark was obviously addressed to.

"Ain't she there, old bean?" he remarked.

"Not a trace," answered the other, disappearing from view.

"Can't understand old Hugh," remarked the newcomer plaintively. "I've never seen him in this condition before. If I didn't think it was impossible I should say he'd got the wind up."

"What's stung you all?" said Bill Tracey. "Isn't Mrs Drummond playing tennis?"

"She was—after lunch," answered Algy. "Then she got a note. Your butler wallah brought it out to her on the court. It seemed to upset her a bit, for she stopped at once and came into the house."

"Where," remarked Drummond, who had joined us, "she changed her clothes. It was a note, was it, Algy: not a letter? I mean, did you happen to notice if there was a stamp on the envelope?"

"As a matter of fact, old lad, I particularly noticed there was not. I was sitting next her when she took it."

The butler passed us at that moment, carrying the tea things.

"Parker," said Drummond quietly, "you gave a note to Mrs Drummond this afternoon, I understand."

"I did, sir," answered the butler.

"Did you take it yourself at the front door?"

"I did, sir."

"Who delivered it?"

"A man, sir, who I did not know. A stranger to the neighbourhood, I gathered."

"Why?" snapped Drummond.

"Because, sir, he asked me the nearest way to the station."

"Thank you, Parker," said Drummond quietly. "Algy, it's quicker than I expected. Hullo! Jenkins, do you want me?"

The chauffeur touched his cap.

"Well, sir, you know you asked me to adjust your carburettor for you. I was just wondering if you could tell me when the car will be back."

"Be back?" said Drummond. "What do you mean?"

"Why, sir, the Bentley ain't in the garage. I thought as 'ow Mrs Drummond had probably taken it out."

And if anything had been needed to confirm my opinion that this vast individual was a little peculiar, I got it then. He lifted his two enormous fists above his head and shook them at the sky. I could see the great muscles rippling under his sleeves, and instinctively I recoiled a step.

The man looked positively dangerous.

"Thrice and unutterably damned fool that I am," he muttered. "But how could I tell it would come so soon?"

"My dear fellow," said Bill Tracey, gazing at him apprehensively, "surely there is nothing to get excited about. Mrs Drummond is a very good driver."

"Driver be jiggered," cried Drummond. "If it was only a question of driving I wouldn't mind. I'm afraid they've got her. For the Lord's sake, give me a pint of ale. Yours is pretty bad—but it's better than nothing."

And then he suddenly turned on me of all people.

"If only you could have kept your face in its place, little man, I might have heard something. Still, it can't be helped. God made you like it."

"Really," I protested angrily, but this extraordinary individual had gone indoors again. "The man is positively insulting."

"Nothing to what he can be if he dislikes you," said the being called Algy placidly. "He'll be all right after he's had his beer."

2. In Which I Find a Deserted Motor Car

Now, in view of the fact that this is my first essay in literature, I realize that many of my relatives may feel it their bounden duty to buy the result. Several, I know, will borrow a copy from one another, or else will endeavour to touch me for one of the six free copies which, I am given to understand, the author receives on publication. But most of them, in one way or another, will read it. And I am particularly anxious, bearing in mind the really astounding situations in which I found myself later, that no misconception should exist in their minds as to my mood at the beginning.

Particularly Uncle Percy—the Dean of Wolverhampton. He is, I am glad to say, a man of advanced years and considerable wealth. He is also unmarried, a fact which has never occasioned me great surprise. But few women exist who would be capable of dealing with his intellect or digestion, and so far he does not seem to have met one of them. For his benefit, then, and that of others who know me personally, I may state that when I saw Captain Drummond engaged in the operation, as he called it, of 'golluping his beer with zest', I was extremely angry. He, on the contrary, seemed to have recovered his spirits. No longer did he shake his fists in the air; on the contrary, a most depressing noise issued from his mouth as he put down the empty tankard on the table. He appeared to be singing, and, incredible though it may seem, to derive some pleasure from the operation. The words of his dirge seemed to imply that the more we were together the merrier we would be—a statement to which I took the gravest exception.

I was to learn afterwards the amazing way in which this amazing individual could throw off a serious mood and become positively hilarious. For instance—on this occasion—having delivered himself of this deplorable sentiment, he advanced towards me. Fearing another blow on the back, I retreated rapidly, but he no longer meditated assault. He desired apparently to examine my cuff-links, a thing which did not strike me as being in the best of taste.

"You approve, I trust?" I said sarcastically.

He shook his head sadly.

"I feared as much," he remarked. "Or have you left 'em at home?" he added hopefully.

I turned to Bill Tracey. "Have you turned this place into a private lunatic asylum?" I demanded.

And all Bill did was to shout with laughter. "Cheer up, Joe," he said. "You'll learn our little ways soon."

"Doubtless," I remarked stiffly. "In the meantime I think I'll go and have some tea."

I crossed the lawn to find several people I knew assembled in the summerhouse. And, having paid my respects to my hostess, and been introduced to two or three strangers, I sat down with a feeling of relief beside Tomkinson, a dear old friend of mine.

"Really," I said to him under cover of the general conversation, "there seem to be some very extraordinary people in this party. Who and what is that enormous man who calls himself Drummond?"

He laughed, and lit a cigarette. "He does strike one as a bit odd at first, doesn't he? But as a matter of fact, your adjective was right. He is an extraordinary man. He did some feats of strength for us last night that wouldn't have disgraced a professional strong man."

"He nearly smashed my spine," I said grimly, "giving it a playful tap."

"He is not communicative about himself," went on Tomkinson. "And what little I know about him I have learned from that fellow with the eyeglass—Algy Longworth—who incidentally regards him as only one degree lower than the Almighty. He has got a very charming wife."

He glanced round the party.

"You won't see her here," I remarked. "She has apparently taken his Bentley and gone out in it alone. Having discovered this fact, he first of all announces 'They've got her!' in blood-curdling tones, and then proceeds to lower inordinate quantities of ale. And his behaviour coming up from the station—"

"What's that you said?"

A man whose face was vaguely familiar turned and stared at me.

"Why, surely you're Mr Darrell!" I cried. "You play for Middlesex?"

He nodded.

"I do—sometimes. But what's that you were saying about Drummond having said 'They've got her?'"

"Just that—and nothing more," I answered. "As I was telling Tomkinson, Mrs Drummond has apparently gone out in his Bentley alone, and when he heard of it he said, 'They've got her.' But who 'they' are I can't tell you."

"Good God!" His face had suddenly become grave. "There must be a mistake. And yet Hugh doesn't make mistakes."

He made the last remark under his breath.

"It all seems a little hard to follow," I murmured with mild sarcasm. But he paid no attention: he had glanced up quickly, and was staring over my shoulder.

"What's this I hear about Phyllis, old boy?" he said.

"The Lord knows, Peter." Drummond was standing there with a queer look on his face. "She got a note delivered here by a stranger. It came while I was at the station. And Algy said it seemed to upset her. Anyway, she went indoors and changed, and then went out alone in the Bentley."

A silence had fallen on the party which was broken by our hostess. "But why should that worry you. Captain Drummond? Your wife often drives, she tells me."

"She knows no one in this neighbourhood. Mrs Tracey, except your good selves," answered Drummond quietly. "So who could have sent a note here to be delivered by hand?"

"Well, evidently somebody did," I remarked. "And when Mrs Drummond returns you'll find out who it was."

I spoke somewhat coldly: the man was becoming a bore.

"If she ever does return," he answered.

I regret to state that I laughed.

"My dear sir," I cried, "don't be absurd. You surely can't believe, or expect us to believe, that some evilly-disposed persons are abducting your wife in broad daylight and in the middle of England?"

But he still stood there with that queer look on his face. "Peter," he said, "I want to have a bit of a talk with you."

Darrell rose instantly, and the two of them strolled away together. "Really," I remarked irritably, when they were out of earshot, "the thing is perfectly preposterous. Is he doing it as a joke, or what?" Algy Longworth had joined them, and the three of them were standing in the middle of the lawn talking earnestly.

"I must say it does all seem very funny," agreed our hostess. "And yet Captain Drummond isn't the sort of man to make stupid jokes of that sort."

"You mean," I said incredulously, "that he really believes that someone may be abducting his wife? My dear Mary, don't be so ridiculous. Why should anyone abduct his wife?"

"He's led a very strange life since the War," she answered. "I confess I don't know much about it myself—neither he nor his friends are very communicative. But I know he got mixed up with a gang of criminals."

"I am not surprised," I murmured under my breath.

"I'm not very clear about what happened," went on Mary Tracey. "But finally Captain Drummond was responsible somehow or other for the death of the leader of the gang. And a woman, who had been this man's mistress, was left behind."

I stared at her: absurd, of course, but that bit of doggerel at the end of Kipling's verse came back to me. And then common-sense reasserted itself. This was England, not a country where secret societies nourished and strange vendettas took place. The whole thing was a mere coincidence. What connection could there possibly be between the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot and the fact that Mrs Drummond had gone out alone in a motor car?

"It seems," Mary Tracey was speaking again, "from what Bill tells me, that this woman vowed vengeance on Captain Drummond. I know it sounds very fantastic, and I expect we shall all laugh about it when Phyllis gets back. And yet—" she hesitated for a moment. "Oh! I don't want to be silly, but I do wish she'd come back soon."

"But, Mrs Tracey," said someone reassuringly, "there can be no danger. What could happen to her?"

"I quite agree," I remarked. "If on every occasion a woman went out alone in a motor car her friends and relations panicked about her being abducted, life would become a hideous affair."

And then by tacit consent the subject dropped, and we dispersed about our lawful occasions. I didn't see Drummond, but Darrell and Longworth were practising putting on the other side of the lawn. I strolled over and joined them.

"Your large friend," I laughed, "seems to have put the wind up most of the ladies in the party fairly successfully."

But they neither of them seemed to regard it as a subject for mirth.

"Let us hope it will end at that," said Darrell gravely. "I confess that I have rarely been so uneasy in my life."

And that, mark you, from a man who played for Middlesex! Really, I reflected, the thing was ceasing to be funny. And I was just getting a suitable remark ready, when Longworth suddenly straightened up and stared across the lawn. Bill Tracey was coming towards us, and at his side was a police sergeant. And Bill Tracey's face was serious.

"Where's Drummond?" he called out.

"He said he was going to stroll down to the river," said Darrell.

He cupped his mouth with his hands and let out a shout that startled the rooks for miles around. And very faintly from the distance came an answering cry.

"What's happened?" he said curtly.

"I don't know," answered Bill uneasily. "Quite possibly it's capable of some simple explanation. Apparently the Bentley has been found empty. However, we'd better wait till Drummond comes, and then the sergeant can tell his story."

I noticed Darrell glance significantly at Longworth; then he calmly resumed the study of a long putt. With a bang the ball went into the hole, and he straightened himself up.

"My game, Algy. So Hugh was right: I was afraid of it. Here he comes."

We watched him breasting the hill that led down to the river, running with the long, easy stride of the born athlete. And it's curious how little things strike one at times. I remember noticing as he came up that his breathing was as normal as my own, though he must have run the best part of a quarter of a mile.

"What's up?" he said curtly, his eyes fixed on the sergeant.

"Are you Captain Drummond?" remarked the officer, producing a notebook.

"I am."

"Of 5a, Upper Brook Street?" He was reading these details from the book in his hand.

Drummond nodded. "Yes."

"You have a red Bentley car numbered ZZ 103?"

"I have," said Drummond.

With maddening deliberation the worthy sergeant replaced his notebook in his breast pocket. And another curious little thing struck me: though Drummond must have been on edge with suspense, no sign of impatience showed in his face.

"Have you been out in that car today, sir?"

"I have not," said Drummond. "But my wife has."

"Was she alone, sir?"

"To the best of my belief she was," answered Drummond. "She left here when I was down at the station in Mr Tracey's car meeting this gentleman."

The sergeant nodded his head portentously. "Well, sir, I have to report to you that your car has been found empty standing by the side of the road not far from the village of Tidmarsh."

"How did you know I was here?" said Drummond quietly.

"The constable who found the car, sir, saw your name and address printed on a plate on the instrument board. So he went to the nearest telephone and rang up your house in London. And your servant told him you was stopping down here. So he rang up at the station in Pangbourne."

"But why take all the trouble?" said Drummond even more quietly. "Surely there's nothing very extraordinary about an empty car beside the road?"

"No, sir," agreed the sergeant. "There ain't. That's true. But the constable further reported"—his voice was grave—"that he didn't like the look of the car. He said it struck him that there had been some sort of struggle."

"I see," said Drummond. Quite calmly he turned to Darrell.

"Peter—your Sunbeam, and hump yourself. Algy—ring up Ted and Toby, and tell 'em they're wanted. Put up at the hotel. Sergeant—you come with me. Tracey, ring up the railway station and find out if two foreign-looking men have been seen there this afternoon. If so, did they take tickets, and for what destination? Let's move."

And we moved. Gone in a flash was the large and apparently brainless ass; in his place was a man accustomed to lead, and accustomed to instant obedience. Heaven knows why I got into the Sunbeam: presumably because I was the only person who had received no definite instructions. And Drummond evinced no surprise when he found me sitting beside him in the back seat. The sergeant, a little dazed at such rapidity of action, was in front with Darrell, and except for him none of us even had a hat.

"Tell us the way. Sergeant," said Drummond, as we swung through the gates. "And let her out, Peter."

And Peter let her out. The worthy policeman gasped feebly once or twice concerning speed limits, but no one took the faintest notice, so that after a time he resigned himself to the inevitable and concentrated on holding on his hat. And I, having no hat to hold on, concentrated on the man beside me.

He seemed almost unaware of my existence. He sat there, motionless save for the swaying of the car, staring in front of him. His face was set and grave, and every now and then he shook his head as if he had arrived at an unpleasant conclusion in his train of thought.

My own thoughts were frankly incoherent. Somehow or other I still couldn't believe that the matter was serious—certainly not as serious as Drummond seemed to think. And yet my former scepticism was shaken, I confess. If what the sergeant said was right: if there were signs of a struggle in the car, it was undoubtedly sufficiently serious to make it very unpleasant. But I still refused to believe that the whole thing was not capable of some simple solution. A tramp, perhaps, seeing that an approaching car contained a woman alone had stopped it by the simple expedient of standing in the middle of the road. Then he had attacked Mrs Drummond with the idea of getting her money.

Unpleasant, as I say—very unpleasant. But quite ordinary. A very different matter to all this absurd twaddle about gangs of criminals and dead men's mistresses. Moreover, I reflected, with a certain amount of satisfaction, there was another thing that proved my theory. On Drummond's own showing he attached considerable importance to the two foreign-looking men at the Cat and Custard Pot. Now it was utterly impossible that they could have had anything to do with it since they were sitting there in the garden at the very time that Mrs Drummond must have left Tracey's house in the car. Which completely knocked Drummond's conclusion on the head. The whole thing was simply a coincidence, and I said as much to the man beside me. He listened in silence.

"Ever been ratting?" he asked when I'd finished.

Once more did I stare at this extraordinary individual in amazement. What on earth had that got to do with it?

"Well—have you?" he repeated when I didn't answer.

"In the days of my youth I believe I did," I answered. "Though the exact bearing of a boyish pastime on the point at issue is a little obscure."

"Then it oughtn't to be," he remarked curtly. "It's only obscure because your grey matter is torpid. When a party of you go ratting, you put a bloke at every hole you know of before you start to bolt your rats."

He relapsed again into silence, and so did I. The confounded fellow seemed to have an answer for everything. And then just ahead of us we saw the deserted car.

A constable was standing beside it, and a group of four or five children were looking on curiously. It stood some three or four feet from the left-hand side of the road, so that there was only just room for another car to pass. And the road itself at this point ran through a small wood—barely more than a copse.

"You've moved nothing. Constable?" said the sergeant.

"Just as I found it, Sergeant."

We crowded round the car and looked inside. It was an ordinary open touring model, and it was obvious at once that there were signs which indicated a struggle. The rug, for instance, instead of being folded, was half over the front seat and half in the back of the car. A lady's handkerchief, crumpled up, was lying just behind the steering-wheel, and one of the covers which was fastened to the upholstery by means of press studs, was partially wrenched off. It was the cover for of the side doors, and underneath it was a pocket for maps and papers.

"This is your car, sir?" asked the sergeant formally.

"It is," said Drummond, and once more we fell silent.

There was something sinister about that deserted car. One felt an insane longing that the rug could speak, that a thrush singing in the drowsy heat on a tree close by could tell us what had happened. Its head, of course, was pointed away from Pangbourne, and suddenly Drummond gave an exclamation. He was looking at the road some fifteen yards in front of the bonnet.

At first I noticed nothing, though my sight is as good as most men's. And it wasn't until I got close to the place that I could see what had attracted his attention. Covered with dust was a pool of black lubricating oil—and covered so well that only the sharpest eye would have detected it.

"That accounts for one thing, anyway," said Drummond quietly.

"What is that, sir?" remarked the sergeant, with considerable respect in his voice. I was evidently not the only one who had been impressed with the keenness of Drummond's sight.

"I know my wife's driving better than anybody else," he answered, "and, under normal circumstances, if she pulled up, she would instinctively get into the side of the road. So the first question I asked myself was why she had stopped with the car where it is. She was either following another car which pulled up in front of her, or she came round the corner and found it stationary in the middle of the road, not leaving her room to pass. And the owners of the car that did not leave her room to pass wanted to conceal the fact that they had been here, if possible. So, finding they had leaked oil, they tried to cover it up. God! if only the Bentley could talk."

It was over in a moment—that sudden, natural spasm of feeling, and he was the same cool, imperturbable man again. And I felt my admiration for him growing. Criminal gangs or no criminal gangs, it's a damnable thing to stand on the spot where an hour or two earlier your wife has been the victim of some dastardly outrage, and feel utterly impotent to do anything.

"Do you think it's possible to track that car?" said Darrell. We walked along the road for a considerable distance, but it was soon obvious that the idea was impossible. Far too much traffic had been along previously, and since there had been no rain the chance of following some distinctive tyre marking had gone. "Hopeless," said Drummond heavily. "Absolutely hopeless. Hullo! one of those kids has found something."

They were running towards us in a body led by a little boy who was waving some object in his hand.

"Found this, governor, in the grass beside the road," he piped out.

"My God!" said Drummond, staring at it with dilated eyes.

For "this" was a large spanner, and one end was stained a dull red. Moreover, the red was still damp, and when he touched it, it came off on his finger. Blood. And the question which rose in all of our minds, and the question which none of us dared to answer was—Whose? I say, none of us dared to answer it out loud. I think we all of us had answered it to ourselves.

"You don't recognize the spanner, I suppose, sir?" said the sergeant. "Is it one from your car or not?"

"I do recognize it," answered Drummond. "It's the regular set spanner I keep in the pocket with the maps and papers and not in the toolbox, because it fits the nut of the petrol tank."

"The pocket that was wrenched open," I put in, and he nodded.

"Show us just where you found it, nipper," said the sergeant, and we all trooped back to the Bentley.

"Here, sir," said the urchin. "Behind that there stone." He was pointing to a place just about level with the bonnet, and it required no keenness of vision such as had been necessary to spot the dust-covered pool of oil to see the next clue. From the stone where the spanner had been found to a point in the grass opposite where the other car must have stood, there stretched a continuous trail of ominous red spots. Some were big, and some were small, but the line was unbroken. Blood once again—and once again the same unspoken question.

"Well, sir," said the sergeant gravely, "it's obvious that there has been foul play. I think the best thing I can do is to get back to the station and phone Scotland Yard. We want a lookout kept all over the country for a motorcar containing a wounded lady."

Drummond gave a short laugh.

"Don't be too sure of that, sergeant," he remarked. "It was only my wife who knew where that spanner was kept. I should be more inclined, if I were you, to keep a lookout for a motor containing a wounded man. Though I tell you candidly if this thing is what I think it is—or, rather, what I know it is—you're wasting your time."

And not another word would he say.

3. In Which I Get it in the Neck

It was hopeless, of course, as I think we all realized from the beginning. But it was impossible to sit still and do nothing. And for the rest of that afternoon, until long past the time for dinner, we scoured the country. Drummond drove the Bentley alone—he was in no mood for talking—and I went with Darrell.

It was in the course of that wearisome and fruitless search that I began to understand things a little more clearly. My companion amplified Mary Tracey's vague remarks, until I began to ask myself if I was dreaming. That this affair was the work of no ordinary person was obvious, but for a long time I believed that he must be exaggerating. Some of the things he told me sounded too incredible.

They concerned a man called Carl Peterson, who, it appeared, had been the head of the gang our hostess had alluded to. This man was none other than Wilmot, of airship fame. I, naturally, remembered the name perfectly—just as I remembered the destruction of his airship, mercifully after all the passengers had disembarked. Wilmot himself was killed—burned to death, as were the rest of the crew.

And here was Darrell, in the most calm and matter-of-fact way, stating something completely different.

"I was one of the passengers that night," he said. "I know. Wilmot—or, rather Peterson, as we prefer to call him—was not burned to death. He was killed by Drummond."

"Killed!" I gasped. "Good God! what for?"

Darrell smiled grimly.

"It was long overdue," he answered. "But that was the first opportunity there had been of actually doing it."

"And this woman knows that he killed him?" I said.

"No—and yes," he said. "She was not there at the time, but four days later she met Drummond by the wreckage of the airship. And she told him the exact hour when Peterson had died. I don't know how to account for it. Some form of telepathy, I suppose. She also told him that they would meet again. And this is the beginning of the meeting."

"So that verse was sent by her, was it?"

He nodded.

"But it seems rather an extraordinary thing to do," I persisted. "Why go out of your way to warn a person?"

"She is rather an extraordinary woman," he answered. "She is also a most terribly dangerous one. Like all women who have a kink, they are more extreme than men. And I don't mind telling you, Dixon, that I'm positively sick with anxiety over this show. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth—you know the old tag? I'm afraid it's going to be a life for a life."

"You mean they may kill Mrs Drummond?" I cried in horror.

"Just that and nothing more," he said gravely. "Drummond killed her lover: she will kill his wife. She would have no more scruples over so doing than you would have over treading on a wasp. The only thing is—does it suit her book? Is she going to try and get Drummond into her power by using his wife as a lever? And only time will tell us that."

"What sort of a woman is she?" I said curiously.

"To look at she is tall, dark, and very soignee. She's handsome rather than pretty, and I should think has some Southern blood in her." He smiled slightly. "But don't run away with the impression that she'd be likely to look like that if you met her. Far more probably would she be a wizened-up crone covered with spectacles, or a portly dame with creaking corsets. So much for her appearance. Her character is a thing to stand aghast at. She has the criminal instinct developed to its highest degree: she is absolutely without mercy: she is singularly able. How much, of course, was her and how much Carl Peterson in the old days is a thing I don't know. But even if it was him principally, to start with, she must have profited considerably by seeing him at work. And a final point which is just as important if not more so than those I've already given, she must be a very wealthy woman. Peterson's life was not a wasted one as far as other people's money was concerned."

"It sounds a tough proposition," I murmured.

"It is," he agreed gravely. "A damned tough proposition. In fact, Dixon, there is only one ray of sunshine that I can see in the whole business. To do them both justice, in the past they have never been crude in their methods. In their own peculiar way they had a sense of art. If that sense of art is stronger now with her than her primitive desire for revenge, there's hope."

"I don't quite follow," I said.

"She will play the fish—the fish being us. To kill Mrs Drummond offhand would be crude."

"I fail to see much comfort," I remarked, "in being played if the result is going to be the same. It's only prolonging the agony."

"Quite so," he said quietly, "but is the result going to be the same?"

A peculiar smile flickered for a moment round his lip.

"You probably think I'm talking rot," he went on. "At least, that I'm exaggerating grossly."

"Well," I admitted, "it's all a little hard to follow."

"Naturally. You've never struck any of these people before. We have. We met them quite by accident at first, and since then we've almost become old friends. We know their ways: they know ours. Sometimes we've fought with the police on our side: sometimes we've fought a lone hand. And up to date on balance we have won hands down. That is why I cannot help feeling—at any rate hoping—that this woman would not regard the slate as being clean if she merely killed Mrs Drummond. It has been our wits against theirs up till now. She wants much fuller revenge than such a crude action as that would afford her."

"I am glad you feel optimistic over the prospect," I murmured. "Chacun a son gout."

"Of course," he went on thoughtfully, "I may be wrong. If so—it's hopeless from the start. They've got Drummond's wife: if they want to they can kill her right away. But somehow or other—"

He broke off, staring at the road ahead. The light was of that half-and-half description when headlamps are useless and driving is most difficult.

"Anyway, I'm afraid this is a pretty hopeless quest," I said. "We don't even know what sort of a car we are looking for—"

He touched the accelerator with his foot.

"What's that dark thing there beside the road?" he said. "It's a car right enough, and you never can tell."

We drew up beside it, and the first thing I noticed was a pool of lubricating oil in the road, under the back axle. Only a coincidence, of course, I reflected, but I felt a sudden tingle of excitement. Could it possibly be the car we were looking for?

We got out and walked up to it. The car was empty—the blinds of the back windows drawn down. "We'd better be careful," I said a little nervously, "the owner may be in the field."

"On the other hand, he may not," said Darrell coolly, and opened the door.

It was an ordinary standard limousine, and at first sight there seemed nothing out of the normal to be seen. There was no sign of disorder, as there had been in the Bentley: the rug on the seat was carefully folded. And it was almost mechanically that I opened one of the back doors, to stand nearly frozen with horror at what I saw. The covering of the front bucket seat beside the driver's was saturated with blood from the top right down to the floorboards.

"Good God!" I muttered, "look here."

Darrell came and looked over my shoulder, and I heard him catch his breath sharply.

"This evidently," he remarked, "is the car we are after. There's a torch in the pocket of the Sunbeam: get it, like a good fellow."

By its light we examined the stain more closely. The average width was about six inches, though it narrowed off towards the bottom. But one very peculiar point about it was that near the top were a number of strange loops and smears, stretching away out of the main stream. They were the sort of smears that a child might make who had dipped its fingers in the blood, and had then started to draw patterns.

"The person who sat in this seat must have bled like a pig," said Darrell gravely. "From a wound in the head obviously."

Whose head? Who was it who had sat in the seat? Once again the same ghastly question, unasked and unanswered, save in our own minds. But I remember that to me all his hopes and ideas about crudeness and art suddenly became rather pitiful. To me there seemed no doubt who it was who had sat in that seat. And I felt thankful that Drummond wasn't there with us.

One could picture the poor girl sitting there, probably unconscious, with the blood welling out from some terrible wound in her head, while the devil beside her drove remorselessly on. A hideous thought, but what alternative was there?

"What do you make of it, Dixon?"

Darrell's voice cut into my thoughts.

"I'm afraid it's pretty obvious," I said. "And I'm afraid it rather disposes of your hopes as to crudity and art. This is the crudest and most brutal attack on a woman, that's all."

"You think so?" he said thoughtfully, "And yet it's all a little difficult to understand. Why did they stop here? What has become of them?"

"It's a road without much traffic," I answered. "Probably they changed into another car to put people still more off the scent. Don't forget that if they had garaged this car anywhere for the night they would have had some pretty awkward questions to answer."

"That's true," he agreed. "And yet it presupposes that the thing had been arranged beforehand."

"It probably was," I pointed out. "They were anyway going to change cars, and the fact that the poor girl was so terribly wounded did not make them alter their plans."

"But why mess up two cars?" he argued. "That's what I can't get at."

He once more switched the torch on to the stained cover.

"You know," he said, "those loops and smears puzzle me. What on earth can have caused them? What possible agency can have made that stream of blood divert itself like that? Hold the torch a moment, will you? I'm going to copy them into a notebook."

"My dear fellow," I remarked, "what on earth is the use? Do it if you like, but I should say that the best thing we can do is to make tracks for the nearest police station and give them the number of this car. We want to find the owner."

"It won't take a moment," he said, "and then we'll push off. There—is that about right?"

He handed me his rough sketch: a copy of it is before me, as I write.

[The book here includes a picture of a scrawled message]

"Yes," I remarked, "that's pretty well how it looks. But I'm afraid it's not going to help us much."

"You never can tell," he answered. "Those marks didn't come there accidentally—that I swear. It's a message of sorts: I'm certain of it."

"It may be a message, but it's absolute gibberish," I retorted. "Now don't you think we'd better push on to a police station. I've got the number of this car—ZW 3214."

He looked at me thoughtfully.

"Can you drive my Sunbeam?" he said.

"I blush to admit it," I answered, "but I'm one of those extraordinary people who have never driven a car in my life."

"That's a pity," he remarked. "Because I was going to propose that I stopped here while you went. I think one of us ought to remain in case anything happens."

"Good God!" I said, "hasn't enough happened already? However, I don't mind staying. Only get a move on: I'm beginning to feel like dinner."

"Stout fellow," he cried. "I'll be as quick as I possibly can."

He got into his car, and in half a minute was out of sight.

Now as I have already explained I am not one of those fortunate individuals to whom battle, murder, and sudden death come as the zest of life. And honesty compels me to admit that at no period of my career have I more bitterly regretted not having had lessons in driving. Moreover, I am essentially a town man: the country always seems to me to be so full of strange noises. Especially at night—and it was dark by now.

I lit a cigarette—quite unaware of the horror with which Drummond would have viewed such a proceeding. To see and not be seen, to hear and not be heard, was a dictum of his I was to learn later.

All sorts of weird whispering sounds came to my ears as I stood there beside the car. And once I gave a terrific start as a shrill scream came from the field close by.

"An animal," I reflected angrily. "A rabbit caught by a stoat. Don't be such a fool."

I began pacing up and down the middle of the road, conscious of an absurd desire for someone to speak to, even if it was only an inebriated farm labourer. And then by way of forcing discipline on my mind, I made myself go over the whole amazing business from the beginning.

What was the letter that had made Mrs Drummond leave the house? Where did the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot come in? Why had this car stopped here and what had happened after? And finally those strange smears. Were they indeed some message, and if so who had written it? Was it that poor girl trying to write some final communication as she felt her life slipping away from her?

My thoughts turned to Drummond, and I felt most bitterly sorry for my earlier sarcasm. Still, there had been some excuse: I defy any ordinary person to have viewed his behaviour without feeling some doubts as to his sanity. The fact remained, however, that I owed him the most abject apology. Not that my apology would be much use to the poor devil in exchange for his wife.

I ground my cigarette out with my heel, and stared down the road. Surely it was about time for Darrell to get back. And as I stood there leaning against the bonnet, a bird got up with a sharp cry from a point in the hedge some hundred yards away. It was the cry of sudden alarm from which a poacher might have read much, but I read nothing.

And then a twig cracked: I heard it distinctly and stiffened. Another—and yet another, whilst I stood there motionless peering into the darkness. Did my eyes deceive me, or was there something dark moving cautiously along the grass beside the road, in the shadow of the hedge? I recalled times in France when strange things took shape in No-Man's-Land: when men became as bushes and bushes as men. And putting my hand to my forehead I found it was wet with sweat.

I listened again: all was silent. The stealthy mover, if there was a mover, was moving no more. My imagination probably, and with a shaking hand I extracted my cigarette case. Damn it! what was there to be frightened at?

"Lawks sakes—look at this 'ere!"

The voice came from the hedge not ten yards away, and in my fright I dropped my case in the road. Then with an effort I pulled myself together: to be frightened at my time of life by a mere yokel was not good for one's pride.

"Look 'e 'ere, mister."

"Where are you?" I said. "I can't see you."

The fellow gave a cackling laugh which made me think he was not quite right in his head. And then came another remark which caused me to start forward in horror.

"A dead 'un."

"Where?" I cried, moving towards him slowly. My mouth felt suddenly dry. It required all my will power to force myself to go. I knew what I was going to see: I knew that there in the darkness just ahead of me I would find some half-witted yokel staring inquisitively at the body of the unfortunate girl. There would be a terrible wound in her head, and at each step I took my reluctance increased. I loathed the thought of having definite proof: up to date there had been a doubt, however shadowy.

"Where?" I said thickly, once again, and then I saw him just in front. His back was towards me, and he was bending over something that lay in the ditch close to the hedge. He was chuckling to himself in an idiotic way, and I heard a voice croak at him: "Shut up!" It was my own.

I reached his side, and bent over, too. And for a moment or two I stood there staring, hardly able to believe my eyes. True, a body was there, lying in that peculiar twisted position which tells its own tale. True, there was a terrible wound in the head, dearly visible even in the darkness. But it was not a woman; it was a man. And the feeling of relief was stupendous.

I turned to the yokel foolishly: turned and froze into immobility. The idiotic chuckling had ceased, and the face that was thrust near mine wore a sarcastic smile.

"Too easy," he remarked.

A pair of hands fastened on my throat, and I began to struggle desperately. Dimly I realized that it was a trap: that the man had been acting a part so as to draw me into an advantageous position in which to attack me. And then all other thoughts were blotted out by the appalling knowledge that as far as strength went I was a child in his hands. There was a roaring in my ears, a ghastly tightness in my throat. And I remember that my last coherent thought before I became unconscious was that if Drummond had been in my place the result would have been very different.

It was fitting, therefore, that the first man I should see when I opened my eyes was Drummond himself. For a moment or two I couldn't remember what had happened, and I stared foolishly around. I was lying on the grass beside the road, and my head and coat were sopping wet. Drummond with Darrell and another man were standing close to me in the light of the headlamps of a car.

"Hullo!" I said feebly.

They swung round.

"Hullo! little man," said Drummond. "You gave us a nasty shock. What fun and laughter have you been engaged in?"

"Where's the dead man?" I cried, sitting up.

They all stared at me.

"What's that?" said Drummond slowly. "A dead man, you say?"

I struggled to my feet, and stood swaying dizzily.

"Steady, old man," said Drummond. "Easy does it."

"There was a dead man," I repeated, and then I stared round. "Where's the other car?"

"Precisely," agreed Drummond. "Where is it? It wasn't here when we arrived."

"Not here," I repeated stupidly, "I don't understand. What's happened?"

"That's easily told," said Drummond. "By mere chance I ran into Peter at the police station, and when I heard what you'd found I came along with him and this officer. We must have gone half a mile beyond here before he knew we'd gone too far. So we turned and came back. And the pool of oil told us where the car had been. Peter knew you couldn't drive, so we thought you must have been abducted in the car. And then quite by chance the officer found you in the ditch. You looked like a goner at first, but we sluiced you with cold water, and you'll be as fit as a trivet in a minute or two. When you do let's hear what happened to you."

"I'm all right now," I said. "A bit dizzy, that's all. Let me sit down in the car for a little."

It was quite true. My head was quite clear, and, except for a most infernally stiff neck, I felt none the worse for my experience. And I told them exactly what had taken place. They listened in silence, and it was only when I hesitated a little over saying who it was I had expected to find in the ditch that Drummond spoke.

"I understand," he said curtly. "Go on."

I finished my story, and then he spoke again.

"If any confirmation is needed," he remarked, "the ditch should supply it. Where was the body lying?"

I got out of the car and led them to the spot. As he had said, the ditch did supply it. A great pool of blood showed up red and sinister in the light of Darrell's torch, but of the body of the man whose blood it was there was no trace.

"So what happened," said Drummond thoughtfully, "is fairly easy to spot. But the reason for it is a little more obscure. The gentleman who caressed your windpipe had evidently been sent back to retrieve car and corpse. Finding you here he gave you the necessary medicine. Then he removed corpse in car. But if that was the great idea, why were car and corpse left here in the first place?"

"Would you recognize the man who attacked you, sir?" said the police officer, speaking for the first time.

"I think I'd recognise him," I said, "but I couldn't give you a description of him that would be the slightest help."

"Well, there doesn't seem much use our standing here any more," remarked Drummond at length, and his voice was weary. "We know the number of the car, so the owner can be traced. But I shall be very much surprised if we find that helps us much."

He sighed, and lit a cigarette. "Come on, Peter, we'd better be getting back. My stomach is flapping against my backbone for want of food, and we can't do any more good here."

And I, for one, agreed with him fervently.

4. In Which We Get the Semblance of a Clue

Looking back on it now after the lapse of time, I find it hard to recall my exact state of mind that night. I remember that amongst certain members of the house party I found myself in the position of a popular hero. To have been assaulted and left for dead conferred an air of distinction on me which I found rather grateful and comforting. The tacit assumption seemed to be that only abnormal strength of constitution on my part had saved my life.

I also remember experiencing a distinct feeling of pique that amongst other members of the party my adventure seemed to cut no ice at all. They appeared to regard it as the most ordinary thing in the world. Two new arrivals had come—the two whom Longworth had been told to summon under the names of Ted and Toby. Their surnames were respectively Jerningham and Sinclair, and Tracey had managed to squeeze them into the house. And it was in describing the events of the afternoon and evening to these two that the point of view of this second section of the party became obvious. Not, I mean, that I wished it to be exaggerated in any way: at the same time I admit that I felt, when all was said and done, that whilst Drummond and Darrell had been in perfect safety at a police-station, I had had a murderous assault made on my life. And to have it described by Darrell as getting a clip over the earhole struck me as somewhat inadequate. The replies of the audience also left, I thought, a certain amount to be desired.

Jerningham said: "Pity you didn't ladle the bloke one back."

Sinclair said: "Splendid! So we know one of them by sight, anyway."

Then they all dismissed the matter as trifling, and resumed the interminable discussion. Not that I minded, you understand—but it struck me that it showed a slight lack of a proper sense of proportion.

However, I waived the matter: it was not my wife who had been forcibly dragged from her car in broad daylight. Had it been I should have been insane with worry. And that was the extraordinary thing about Drummond. Outwardly he seemed the most self-possessed of us all, and only the strained look in his eyes showed the mental condition he was in.

Bill Tracey was absolutely beside himself. That such a thing should have happened in his house made him almost incoherent. And it was characteristic of Drummond that, in spite of his own agonising suspense, he should have gone out of his way to ease things for Bill.

"My dear fellow," he said more than once, "please don't blame yourself. The fact that it happened to take place here is nothing whatever to do with you. They waited till they were ready and then they struck. That they happened to become ready when we were staying with you is just pure chance."

Which, though perfectly true, did but little to alleviate his feelings of responsibility. It was his house, and the bald fact remained that one of his guests, and a woman at that, had been decoyed away from it and been made the victim of foul play. And apart from his natural grief at such a thing happening, the prospect of the notoriety involved concerned him, of course, more than any of us save Drummond himself. It was Jerningham who summarized the situation after a while.

"Let's just see," he said, "that we've got this thing clear. Whilst playing tennis this afternoon Phyllis got a note delivered by hand of such importance that she stops playing and goes out alone in the Bentley. At that time Hugh was having a bit of back chat with the two foreign-looking blokes—"

"Who have not been traced at the railway station," put in Tracey.

"Who have since disappeared," went on Jerningham. "But it is generally agreed that they had something to do with it, though what we don't know. Shortly after, the Bentley is found deserted, showing every sign of having been the scene of a struggle."

"She dotted him one, Ted," said Drummond with certainty. "She dotted him good and hard with that spanner. In fact she killed him—glory be to Allah!"

They pondered this point in silence for a while.

"It stands to reason, old boy," went on Drummond, "that the man Dixon saw lying in the ditch is the same man whose trail we followed on the grass beside the Bentley."

"Very well then," said Jerningham, "make it so. She dotted him one. Finding herself suddenly attacked she out with the spanner and slogged him good and hard. So then the other bloke—there must have been at least one more—bunged Phyllis into the back of the other car, stuffed his pal into the seat beside him, and pushed off."

"It don't sound right to me, Ted," said Drummond slowly.

"What's wrong?" demanded Jerningham.

"All the last part. If you were driving a motorcar in broad daylight, and had to take with you a fellow who was bleeding like a pig from a wound in the head, would you put him on the seat beside you? Especially if you did not want to draw attention to yourself."

He took a long gulp of beer.

"Not so, old lad: you'd bung him on the floor at the back. And from Peter's description of the blood in the car that's what happened. If he'd been sitting in the seat beside the driver, the front of it would have been stained, too. It wasn't—only the back."

"I don't see that it matters much, anyway," I remarked. "Back or front the result is the same. Perhaps Mrs Drummond was beside the driver."

"Good Lord!" said Drummond, sitting up and staring at me. "I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps she was."

"What's stung you?" said Darrell, surprised, and we all looked at him curiously. He seemed strangely excited.

"Supposing Phyllis was sitting in that seat," he remarked. "Supposing the man was bleeding to death behind. Supposing she managed to get her hand over the back of the seat, with the idea of getting some message through by dipping her finger in the blood and writing on the cover."

His excitement infected us all though, for the life of me, I couldn't see what he was getting at.

"Well—get on with it," said Darrell.

"Don't you see that the writing would be upside down?" cried Drummond. "Where's your notebook, Peter? Turn the page the other way round."

We crowded over his shoulder and stared at the rough sketch.

"It is," shouted Drummond. "Smeared letters, or I'll eat my hat. There's a K there: two K's. And L: and E. What's that first word? Something KE... LUKE is it?

"Like," I hazarded. "That first letter might be L."

"Then it's LIKE LAK," said Drummond, and we stared at one another a little blankly. If that was the solution it didn't seem to advance us much. Like Lak. It was meaningless. Probably not realizing that it was useless the message had continued into the stream of blood where it had been obliterated. But that was no help.

"Anyway," said Drummond quietly, "it proves one thing. She wasn't unconscious."

He got up and went to the open window, where he stood with his back to us, staring out into the darkness. His shoulders were a little bowed: his hands were in his pockets. And, by Jove! I felt for the poor chap. Somewhere out under those same stars—perhaps twenty miles away, perhaps a hundred—his wife was in the hands of this infamous gang. Up-to-date, action had kept him going, even if it had only consisted of futile motoring up and down roads. Now the time of forced inaction had come. There was nothing to distract his thoughts, nothing to take his mind off the ghastly possibilities of the situation.

There was no use sympathizing with him: the matter had passed beyond words. Besides, it struck me that he was of the brand that is apt to shy away from sympathy like a frightened colt. And so we sat on in silence, hardly daring to meet one another's eyes, with the same fear clutching at all our hearts. It didn't seem to matter very much whether or not Mrs Drummond had been conscious in the car. Was she conscious now? Was she even alive? It seemed too incredible to be sitting there in that peaceful room contemplating such an appalling thought. And yet what was there to be done? That was the maddening part of it. Literally the only clue in our possession was the number of the car—ZW 3214. It was true that I might recognize the man who had nearly throttled me, but even on that point I felt doubtful. And that wasn't going to be much use unless I saw him again.

The same applied to the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot. Both Drummond and I would recognize them again—but where were they? And even if they were found they would probably prove to be only very minor characters in the caste. The telephone on Tracey's desk rang suddenly, sounding unnaturally loud in the silence, and we looked at it almost apprehensively. Was it some further complication, or was it news?

"Hullo!" said Tracey, picking up the receiver. "Yes—speaking."

Drummond had swung round, his hands still in his pockets. And he stood there, his face expressionless, while the metallic voice from the machine, punctuated by occasional grunts from our host, droned on. At last Tracey replaced the receiver, and shook his head gloomily.

"Nothing, I'm afraid," he said. "It was the police. They've traced the car, and it belongs to a man called Allbright in Reading. He's a retired grocer, and absolutely above suspicion. He is away from home at the moment, and the car must have been coolly stolen from his garage this morning. He has a deaf housekeeper, who is also above suspicion, and who was in complete ignorance that the car had gone until visited by the police this evening."

Once more silence fell on the room, and Drummond, with the faintest perceptible shrug of his shoulders, again turned his back on us and stared into the darkness. Our only positive clue gone—or at any rate valueless, the outlook blacker, if possible, than before. The butler brought in a tray of drinks and Tracey waved his hand at it mechanically.

"Help yourselves," he remarked, but nobody moved.

And then at last Drummond spoke. His back was still towards us: his voice was perfectly quiet. "This situation is too impossible to continue," he said. "Something is bound to happen soon."

And as if in answer to his remark the telephone bell jangled a second time.

"I told you so," he said calmly. "This is news."

Tracey had again taken the receiver: and again we watched him with a kind of feverish anxiety. Was Drummond right? Or was it some further futile communication from the police?

"A lady wishes to speak to you, Drummond," said Tracey, and the tension suddenly became acute. "She won't give her name."

Drummond went to the instrument, and we waited breathlessly. And if there is a more maddening proceeding during a time of suspense than having to listen to one end of a telephone conversation I have yet to experience it. We heard the metallic voice of the other speaker; we saw Drummond give an uncontrollable start, and then freeze into absolute immobility.

"So it is you," he said in a low voice. "Where is Phyllis?"

Again that metallic voice, and then quite clearly a laugh.

"Damn you," said Drummond, still in the same quiet tone. "What have you done with her?"

This time the voice went on for nearly a minute, and all we could do was to watch the changing expressions on his face and try to imagine what was causing them. Anger, bewilderment, and finally blank surprise were all registered, and it was the latter which remained when the voice ceased.

"But look here!" he cried. "Are you there? Damn it—she's gone!"

He rang the bell furiously for the Exchange.

"Where did that last call come from?" he asked. "London. Can you possible get me the number?"

We waited eagerly, only to see him lay down the receiver wearily.

"The public callbox at Piccadilly Circus," he said.

"It was Irma?" almost shouted Darrell.

"Yes—it was."

He stood there frowning, and we waited eagerly.

"It was that she-cat right enough. I'd know her voice anywhere. And she's got some dirty game up her sleeve."

"What did she say?" asked someone.

"She first of all said that she was charmed to renew her acquaintance with Phyllis, and that it seemed quite like old times. She went on to say that so far she had only been able to have a very brief chat with her, but that she hoped for many more in the near future. She was sure I would like to know that she was unhurt, but how long that condition of affairs lasted depended on me entirely. That I should have a letter from her in the morning making things quite clear, and that all she could advise me to do for the present was to have a good night in. Then she rang off."

"Well—that's something," said Darrell. "We know she's unhurt."

"Yes—I don't think she would lie," agreed Drummond. "But what's she getting at? How can it depend on me?"

"That seems fairly obvious," said Jerningham gravely. "You're going to be put through it, old man, and if you don't play nicely Phyllis is going to suffer. There's no good not facing facts, and she's got you by the short hairs."

Drummond sat down heavily.

"I suppose you're right," he said slowly. "I'll do anything—anything. I wanted to ask her tonight if she would take me instead of Phyllis, but she'd rung off."

Darrell laughed shortly.

"I don't think the answer would have been very satisfactory even if she hadn't," he said. "You're not a very comfortable person to have about the house, old boy."

"Hell!" said Drummond tersely.

Then he stood up, and the expression on his face made me feel profoundly thankful that I was never likely to come up against him.

"I'm going to take one of your boats, Tracey," he remarked. "Don't wait up for me: I shan't go to bed tonight."

The next moment he had vanished through the open window.

"Poor devil," said Bill. "I'm sorry for him. But I don't see that there's anything to be done."

"There isn't," said Darrell. "We can only wait for this letter tomorrow morning."

He helped himself to a whiskey and soda, and I followed his example. That was all we could do—wait for the letter. But it was impossible to prevent oneself speculating on the contents. What test was Drummond going to be put to? Was he going to be told to commit some crime? Some robbery possibly with his wife's safety depending on his success? What a ghastly predicament to be in! To have to run the risk of a long term of imprisonment, or else to know that he was putting his wife in danger. And even if he ran the risk how could he be sure that the others would stick to their side of the bargain? Avowedly they were criminals of the worst type, so what reliance could possible be put on their word?

The others had gone off to the billiard room, leaving Tracey and me alone. And suddenly the utter incredibility of the whole situation came over me in a wave. Not twelve hours ago had I been sitting peacefully in my club, earnestly discussing with the secretary whether the new brandy was as good as the last lot. He had said yes: I had disagreed. And it had seemed a very important matter.

I laughed: and he looked up at me quickly. "I don't see anything very humorous in the situation," he remarked.

I laughed again. "No more do I, Bill, not really. But it had just occurred to me that if I was suddenly transported to the smoking-room of the club, and I told the occupants that since I last saw them a lady had been kidnapped from your house, I had found a dead man in a ditch, and finally had been nearly murdered for my pains—they might not believe me."

He grunted. "You're right," he said. "They might not. At times I hardly believe it myself. Damn this accursed woman Irma—or whatever she calls herself!" He mixed himself a drink savagely. "We're going to have hordes of newspaper men round the place, poking their confounded noses into everything. And, being Whitsuntide, they'll probably run special steamers to view the scene of the crime. I tell you, Joe, I wouldn't have had it happen for worlds. Of course I'm very sorry for Drummond—but I wish it had taken place somewhere else."

"Naturally," I agreed. "At the same time. Bill, don't forget that everything that happened did take place somewhere else. The dead man I found was twelve miles from here—and he has since disappeared. The car has disappeared, too. In fact there's nothing to connect the matter with this house."

"What do you mean?" he said. "Nothing to connect it with this house! What about Mrs. Drummond? Wasn't she staying here?"

"She was—undoubtedly. But hasn't it occurred to you—mind you, I only put it forward as a possibility—that Drummond may be compelled by the gang who have got her to keep the fact of her disappearance quiet?"

"But the police know it already," he cried.

"They know she went out in a car, and that the car was found empty. That does not necessarily mean that she has disappeared. We know she has, but that's a very different matter. And if, as I surmise, Drummond is going to be ordered to commit a crime as the price for his wife's life—or at any rate safety—the first essential is that he should keep the police out of it as much as possible."

"Commit a crime!" He stared at me for a moment or two and then put down his glass on the table. "You really think that that is going to be the next move?"

"I don't know any more than you do," I said. "The whole thing is so absolutely amazing that no ordinary rules seem to apply. If they had murdered the poor girl outright as an act of revenge it would at any rate have been understandable. But this new development can only mean that they are going to put pressure on him through his wife."

"Well, I must frankly admit," he said at length, "that the less that is known about this affair the better I shall be pleased. At the same time I'd hate to know that Drummond was running round the country robbing churches or something of that sort."

He paused, struck by a sudden thought.

"It might be a case, not of blackmail exactly, but of ransom. On the payment of a sum of money she will be returned."

"Is he a wealthy man?" I asked.

"Quite well off. Do you think that's the solution, Joe?"

"My dear old man," I cried, "ask me another. I don't think I've ever been so hopelessly at sea in my life. I shall put a cold compress round my neck, and go to bed. Presumably all our questions will be answered tomorrow morning."

And to bed I went—but not to sleep. Try as I would I could not stop thinking about the affair. That last idea of Bill Tracey's had a good deal to be said for it. And what would happen if Drummond wouldn't pay—or couldn't? People of the type we were up against were not likely to ask a small sum.

Would they go on keeping her a prisoner until he had scraped together the money? Or would they murder her? I shuddered at the thought: this was England, not a bandit-infested desert. They would never dare to run such an appalling risk. They might threaten, of course, but at that it would stop. And then as if to mock me I saw once again that evil face with its cynical smile, heard that voice: "Too easy," felt those vicelike hands on my throat. Would they stop at that?

At last I could bear it no longer. I got up and lit a cigarette: then I went and sat down by the open window. A very faint breeze was stirring in the trees: from the other end of the lawn came the mournful cry of an owl. And somewhere out there in the darkness was that poor devil Drummond, on the rack with anxiety and worry.

Suddenly the moon came out from behind a cloud, throwing fantastic shadows across the lawn—the clear-cut black and white shadows of the night. And after a while I began to imagine things, to see movement where there was no movement, to hear noises when there was no noise. Every board that creaked in the house seemed like the footsteps of a man, and once I started violently as a bat flitted past close to. In fact I came quite definitely to the conclusion that during the hours of darkness Piccadilly was good enough for me. With which profound reflection I got back into bed, and promptly fell asleep. But what the footman thought, I don't know. Because when a motor car with blood spouting from the radiator is on the point of knocking you down, and you see that it isn't really a radiator, but the face of a man with a cynical smile who continually says "Too easy," it is only natural that you should push that face. I did—and it was the footman's stomach. The only comfort was that he had already put down the tea.

5. In Which the Letter Arrives

And now I come to the beginning proper of the amazing adventure which was to occupy us for the next few days. The happenings of the preceding day were only the necessary preliminaries without which the adventure could not have started.

As I have said, the two alternatives which I had in my mind as I went downstairs the next morning could be summed up in the two words—ransom or crime. And it was with a queer feeling of excitement that I saw Drummond standing in the hall holding a bulky letter in his hand. THE letter.

"How's the neck?" he remarked.

"So so," I said. "You've heard from that woman?"

He nodded his head thoughtfully.

"I have. And I'll be damned if I can make out if I'm mad or if she is. Go and hit a sausage, and then we'll have a council of war."

I went into the dining-room, to find that the rest of his pals had nearly finished. None of the women were down yet, so conversation was non-existent. And ten minutes later we all duly assembled in Tracey's study.

"I've read this letter twice," said Drummond, coming straight to the point, "and as I said to Dixon I don't know whether I'm mad or she is. He looked a bit fine-drawn, I thought, but much less worried than he had done the previous night.

"I should think the best thing to do is for me to read it aloud to you," he went on. "The postmark on the envelope is of no assistance. It was posted in London, and that doesn't help. Somewhat naturally also there is no address."

He spread out the sheets and began.

'MON AMI,

'In case you have forgotten, I wish to recall to your memory the circumstances of our last meeting. A little more than six months ago you may remember we met beside the wreckage of the airship. And I told you then that I knew you had killed Carl. It matters not how I knew: some things are incapable of ordinary explanation. But if it is of any interest to you, I did, as a matter of fact, make further inquiries from people who had been on that last voyage. And from them I learned that I was right, and that you did kill him.

'Six months ago, Drummond, and during those six months you have never been out of my thoughts for long. There was no hurry, and during a winter spent in Egypt I have been indulging in the luxury of anticipation. They say it is better than realization: the next few days should decide that point as far as this particular case is concerned. There was another reason also which necessitated a little delay. Various arrangements had to be made in England—arrangements which took time. These have now been made, and I trust that in the near future you will find them satisfactory.

'However, I go too fast. The first thing I had to decide was what method I should adopt for punishing you adequately. My revenge, if I was to enjoy it to the full, had to be carefully thought out. I wanted nothing crude;' (I caught Darrell's eye at that moment) 'I wanted something artistic. And above all I wanted something long drawn out.

'And so your brilliant intellect will at once perceive that no mere death coming suddenly out of the blue could fit into my ideas. You smile, perhaps: you recall that in the past you were frequently threatened with death and that you are very much alive today. Agreed, mon ami; but do not forget the little verse I sent you. Doubtless you have inspected the message contained in it, and it is up to me to prove that that message is no empty boast.

'For example, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have killed your dear Phyllis yesterday afternoon. And her positively murderous assault on one of my most trusted assistants really made me very angry for a while. The poor man is quite dead.

'In parenthesis, mon cher, who on earth is the funny little man you left to guard the car when you found it? From the description I've heard he's a new one on me.'

"Damn the woman!" I spluttered, and even Drummond grinned suddenly. Then he went on.

'To return, however. It would have been very easy to have killed her, but so far from doing so the dear girl is sitting with me as I write. Not only easy—but just. We should have been all square. But I want more satisfaction than that, Drummond, much more. And so I will come down to my little scheme.

'In the past your physical strength has always excited my warmest admiration. But I have never been quite so certain about your mental ability. Luck, I think, has entered a good deal into the matter, and though I should be the last person to belittle luck, yet it is apt to affect the issue somewhat unfairly.

'And so on this occasion I propose to test your brain. Not unduly, I trust, but enough to afford me a certain amount of amusement. Do not be alarmed—your physical strength will be tested also. If you emerge triumphant your dear Phyllis will be restored to your bosom. If on the other hand you fail, then I shall claim my pound of flesh. In other words, what might have so easily been done yesterday afternoon will merely have been postponed.

'The test is expressed simply by two words: Find Phyllis. You raise your eyebrows: that, you say, is somewhat naturally the test. But wait, mon ami, and I will explain a little further. You have doubtless heard of hidden treasure hunts: perhaps joined in one yourself. This is going to be run on the same rules. You will receive clues which you will interpret to the best of your ability. These clues will lead you to various places where further clues will await you. They will also lead you to various places where you may or may not enjoy yourself. Things will happen which you may or may not like. In fact, my dear Drummond, to put the matter in a nutshell, you may or may not pull through. As I said, I have made my arrangements with some care.

One further word. This little matter is between you and me. I have no objection to your roping in your friends—in fact, the more the merrier. But I don't want the police butting in. You could not avoid it yesterday afternoon, I know, so you are forgiven for that. But get them out of it now—quickly. Another thing, too. I don't want Uncle Percival or whatever he calls himself asking absurd questions from any of the Broadcasting centres. If that should happen our little game would cease abruptly. So bear those two points in mind: no police, no broadcasting. And that, I think, is all. You will get your first clue today.'

Drummond laid down the letter, and lit a cigarette. "What do you think of it?" he said.

"The thing is a fantastic leg pull," cried Tracey.

But Drummond shook his head doubtfully. "I wonder," he said. "What do you think, Peter?"

"That she means every word of it, old boy," answered Darrell, positively. "That's no leg pull: it's damned grim earnest."

"Hear, hear," said Jerningham. "We're for the trail again."

"You mean to tell me," spluttered Tracey, "that this woman has hidden your wife, and now expects you to go chasing round the country till you find her! Dash it—it's absurd."

"Absurd or not absurd," said Drummond gravely, "that is exactly what this woman has done. And from what I know of her it's going to be some chase." He got up, and suddenly, to my amazement, an almost ecstatic grin spread over his face.

"Gosh! boys," he said, "if it wasn't that it was Phyllis, what a glorious time we should have. Why did we never think of it before with Carl? We might have had two or three games in our spare time."

Then he became serious again.

"Look here, Tracey," he said: "and you, too, Dixon, may I rely on you not to say a word of this even to the ladies? The fewer people who know about it the better. If this came to the ears of a newspaper man we'd have the whole of Fleet Street on our heels. So—not a word to a soul."

"A police sergeant to see you, sir."

The butler was holding the door open.

"Mind," said Drummond urgently, "not a word."

The officer who had gone with us to the deserted Bentley the previous afternoon entered the room.

"Good morning. Sergeant," said Drummond quietly. "Found Mr Allbright's car yet?"

The policeman shook his head.

"I'm afraid not, sir," he said. "May I ask if you have any news of your wife?"

Drummond frowned suddenly: then he gave a short laugh. "Yes—I have. Look here. Sergeant—you're a man of discretion."

I looked at him covertly: what tale was he going to tell?

"Well, sir," said the officer, with a slightly gratified smile, "they don't make you a sergeant for nothing."

"Precisely," said Drummond. "Well—the fact of the matter is this. My wife has run away—bolted. With another man." He lit a cigarette with a sort of savage resignation. "I didn't say so yesterday, but I feared even then that that note that was brought her was from the swine who—"

He broke off abruptly—words had failed him—and strode to the window.

"Poor old Hugh," said Sinclair sadly. "It's a devilish business. That dirty little sweep of all people, too."

Drummond invoked the Deity twice, while the sergeant stared at him blankly.

"But look here, sir," he said, "what about all that blood?"

"That, Sergeant," remarked Drummond, "is the staggering part of the whole business. When my wife rang me up last night to tell me that she had—she had left me, she said 'I suppose you've found the Bentley by now.' I said to her, 'But what about the blood on the grass?' She said 'What on earth are you talking about? If it's a riddle I haven't got time to buy it now.' Then she rang off. She knew nothing about it, sergeant—absolutely nothing."

The officer's face was blanker than before.

"Since then," went on Drummond, "we've been trying to reconstruct what happened. And the only possible conclusion we can come to is this. The car belonging to Mr Allbright was stolen by two or three men. Driving along the road they came on the deserted Bentley. Well, if they'd steal one car, they'd steal another. So they decided to steal that too. And then they fell out—why. Heaven alone knows. Probably one of them was already at the wheel of the Bentley—and there was a struggle in which somebody got hit over the head with the spanner. Much harder than was intended. They all became frightened, and bundled the wounded man into the closed car. Of course," he continued modestly, "it's only crude amateur deduction: there are doubtless many objections to our theory—"

"Many," agreed Darrell, staring out of the window.

"Which your trained brain will spot," went on Drummond. "But the great point as far as we are concerned is this. As far as I am concerned, I should say. The whole thing is merely an amazing coincidence. The blood we saw on the road, the blood in Mr Allbright's car, has nothing to do with my wife's disappearance. And since I still have hopes that she will realize the error of her way and come back to me, the last thing I want is to run any risk of hardening her heart by worrying her with police inquiries."

"You know my views, Hugh," said Jerningham.

"And I damned well don't want to hear them again," snapped Drummond.

"A lounge lizard like that!" cried Jerningham scornfully. "How you can dream of forgiving her I don't know."

"Lounge lizard, gentlemen?" said the bewildered policeman.

"That's right, sergeant," Jerningham pointed an outraged finger at space. "A lounge lizard. A ballroom snake. What matter that his Black Bottom is the best in London."

"My Gawd! sir," gasped the other. "His 'ow much?"

"What matter, I say?" swept on Jerningham. "Is that a thing which should commend itself to reasonable decent men?"

"I should 'ardly say so myself, sir," agreed the sergeant fervently.

Jerningham paused to recover his breath.

"What is the gent's name, sir," said the sergeant, producing his pencil and notebook.

"Albert. Albert Prodnut," said Jerningham, and Drummond sat down abruptly.

"And his address?"

"I wish we knew," answered Jerningham. "If we did, doubtless by this time Captain Drummond would have removed his liver with a rusty penknife. I speak metaphorically."

"So you don't know where he is, sir?"

"Somewhere on the Continent," said Drummond in a hollow voice.

"And your wife, too?"

Drummond groaned and hid his face in his hands, while Jerningham rose and took the sergeant by the arm.

"No more now, sergeant," he whispered confidentially. "He is strung up to breaking point. In a week or two, perhaps. Or a month. And in the meantime you will treat what we have told you as absolutely confidential, won't you?"

He propelled him gently towards the door.

"It's all very strange, sir," he said in a worried voice.

"If you knew Albert Prodnut you'd think it was a damned sight stranger," said Jerningham feelingly. "One of those strange cases of mental aberration. Sergeant—almost I might say of psycho-sclerosis—which baffle the cleverest doctor. Leave him to us now."

The door dosed behind the harassed officer, and Jerningham held up his two thumbs.

"Prodnut," said Drummond weakly. "Why Prodnut?"

"Why not? It's very difficult to think of a name when you're suddenly asked for one. There is a ring of sincerity about Albert Prodnut that carries entire conviction."

"Look here, you fellows," said Tracey seriously, "this is getting beyond a joke. You can't expect any man out of a lunatic asylum to believe that absurd rigmarole."

"We had to say something," remarked Drummond. "Personally I think we told the tale rather well."

"Yes—but what about me?" said Tracey. "It's a tissue of lies from beginning to end."

"We can't tell the truth," answered Drummond gravely. "Look here, Tracey. I'm very sorry about this, and I quite appreciate the difficulties of your position. In the bottom of your mind you probably think that that woman's letter is a bluff. I know it isn't. We've got to keep the police out of this if we possibly can. And I really couldn't think of anything better on the spur of the moment."

"You still mean," said Tracey amazed, "to take that woman at her word! To go hunting about all over England on clues she sends you which will probably lead you nowhere nearer your wife than you are at present!"

"What else can I do?" cried Drummond. "She's in the position of being able to dictate terms."

Once again the door opened and Parker came in, this time with a telegram on a salver. "For you, sir," he said, handing it to Drummond.

He tore open the yellow envelope, and as he read the message a look of complete bewilderment spread over his face. "Well, I'm damned!" he muttered. "No answer, thank you, Parker. Listen here, you fellows," he went on as the butler left the room, "what in the name of fortune do you make of this?

"My first a horse may draw or even two the rest is found at York and aids the view and when you've solved that bit by dint of trying an inn you'll find where fishermen are lying"

"It's the first clue," said Jerningham excitedly. "She said you'd get it this morning."

"But it's hopeless," cried Drummond in despair. "The simplest crossword reduces me to a jibbering wreck. If I've got to try and solve these damned things I'm done before I start."

"There are half a dozen perfectly good people to help you, old boy," said Darrell. "Sling the paper over. Let's put it down as it's meant to be—in the form of a verse."

He scribbled the words on a piece of paper while we leaned over his shoulder. And even Tracey seemed impressed by this sudden new development.

"Now then," said Darrell, "does that make it any better?"

My first a horse may draw, or even two; The rest is found at York, and aids the view. And when you've solved that bit by dint of trying, An inn you'll find where fishermen are lying.

"If line three is right," I said, "the first two are a complete clue in themselves."

"That's so," agreed Tracey. "But what sort of a clue? Is it the name of a man or a town or what?"

"Let's assume it's a town to start with," said Jerningham. "There's an inn mentioned in the last line."

"What's found at York?" demanded Drummond gloomily.

"Ham, dear old boy," burbled Algy Longworth.

"And Archbishops," said Sinclair hopefully.

"I don't know that it can be truthfully maintained," said Tracey mildly, "that either ham or Archbishops aid the view."

"Hold hard a bit," remarked Darrell. "Let's start at the beginning. 'My first a horse may draw, or even two.' Presumably that means two horses. So it's a horse-drawn vehicle suitable for one or two horses."

"By Jove! Peter, you're a bunking marvel," cried Drummond. "Cart, cab, wagon."

"You don't have a two-horse cab," objected Jerningham.

"Wagon sounds possible," said Darrell. "There must be places beginning with Wagon. Got a map Tracey?"

"Here's the Times Gazetteer," he answered. "By Jove! Wagonmound."

"Got it!" shouted Drummond. "There's bound to be a mound at York."

But Tracey was shaking his head.

"Sorry. I spoke too soon. The darned place is in New Mexico. And that's the only place beginning with Wagon that's mentioned."

"Hell!" said Drummond, and relapsed into silence.

"What about Dray," I remarked. "You speak of a one-horse dray and a two-horse dray."

"Stout fellow," cried Drummond. "Look up Dray, Tracey."

"There are about forty Draytons," he said. "Lots of Draycotts: Drayminster, Drayney."

"Drayminster!" I yelled. "Minster, York Minster."

"I believe you've got it," said Darrell. "It fits at any rate as far as the first two lines are concerned."

"By Jove! you fellows," cried Jerningham. "Listen here. This is the AA handbook. Drayminster. Population 2231, Sussex. 55 miles to London. Now brace yourselves for it. Hotel—the Angler's Rest. We have got it."

For a while we all stared at one another too excited to speak. Was there a mistake? Fishermen lying; Anglers' Rest. No one could say that York Minster was not an aid to the view: a dray could certainly be drawn by one or two horses. It fitted, every clue fitted.

"Get packed, boys," cried Drummond. "We lunch at the Angler's Rest. Gosh! I feel better. We've started. Beer, Tracey old lad, pints of beer! And you and Dixon shall wish us good hunting."

The beer arrived, and then Drummond raised his hand as for some solemn rite. Slowly he waved it to and fro, and once more did the words of his favourite refrain burst forth with vigour:

"The more we are together—together—together: the more we are together the merrier we shall be."

"A new music-hall song?" I inquired politely.

And all they did was to roar with laughter.

"When we start hunting, boys," he said, "that shall be the war-cry. Don't forget—once for the rally, twice for danger."

I suppose it was foolish of me, but I really couldn't help it. There was something contagious about the spirits of this extraordinary gang which must have infected me.

"I must learn the tune," I said. "For if you'll allow me I should very much like to join you in whatever is coming."

They all stared at me, then, a little doubtfully, at one another.

"Of course," I said stiffly, "if you'd prefer I didn't."

"It isn't that," interrupted Drummond. "Look here, Dixon, if you're going to come in on this thing you'd better be under no delusions. You got a taste last night of the sort of people we're going to be up against. And believe you me that's nothing to what we shall strike. I want you to understand quite clearly that if you do join us you'll be taking your life in your hands at most hours of the day and night. I mean it—quite literally. It's not going to be a question of merely solving little puzzles."

"I'll chance it," I answered. "As a matter of fact I dislike most strongly the implication behind the phrase funny little man."

Once more the whole lot burst out laughing. "Right," said Drummond. "That settles it. But don't say you weren't warned if you get your ear bitten badly."

6. In Which I Get the Second Clue

The village of Drayminster is one of the beauty spots of England. Somewhat out of the beaten track, it is as yet unspoiled by motor coaches and hordes of trippers. The river Dray meanders on its peaceful way parallel to the main street, and in the very centre of the village stands the Angler's Rest. A strip of grass separates it from the water's edge, and moored to two stakes a punt stretches out into the stream from the end of which the energetic may fish for the wily roach and perch. A backwater—but what a pleasant backwater.

"Your lady friend," I said to Drummond, "has undoubtedly an artistic eye." We were sitting on the lawn after lunch, and he grunted thoughtfully. The others had departed on a tour of exploration, and save for the motionless figure of the landlord's son at the end of the punt, we were alone.

"If only I could be absolutely certain that we were right," he remarked. "That we aren't wasting our time sitting here."

"Unless the whole thing is a stupid hoax," I said reassuringly, "I'm certain our solution was correct."

It was the inaction that chafed him, I could see. I think he had expected to find another clue waiting for us on our arrival. But there had been nothing, and gradually his mood of elation had left him. He had kept his eyes fixed so searchingly on an elderly parson and his daughter during lunch that the poor man had become quite hot and bothered. In fact, it wasn't until our host had assured him that the reverend gentleman had come to the hotel regularly for the last twenty years that he desisted.

"It's not a hoax," he said doggedly. "So why the devil, if we're right, haven't we heard something more?"

"Quite possibly that's all part of the game," I answered. "They may know that that is a method of rattling you."

"By Jove!" he cried, "I hadn't thought of that."

He looked quite relieved at the suggestion.

"There's one thing we might do," I went on. "It may not be any good, but it can't do any harm. Let's find out if there are any houses in the neighbourhood that have recently changed hands. If they are hiding your wife a house is the most likely place to do it in."

"Dixon," he said, "you're the bright boy all right. My brain at the moment is refusing to function altogether. Hi! John—or whatever your name is—cease tormenting fish and come here a moment."

Obediently the boy put down his rod and approached.

"Now, you know all the big houses in the neighbourhood, don't you?"

The boy nodded his head.

"That's right, mister. There be the Old Manor—that be Squire Foley's. And there be Park House. That do belong to Sir James—but he be away now."

"Has there been any house sold round about here recently," I put in.

The boy scratched his head.

"There be Widow Maybury's," he said. "She did sell her little cottage, and be gone to live with her darter near Lewes."

"Who bought it," I cried.

"They do say he be a writer from Lunnon, or sommat fulish like that. He just comes occasional like."

"Is he here now," asked Drummond.

"Ay," said the boy. "He come last night. There was a young leddy with him."

I caught Drummond's eye, and it was blazing with excitement.

"They come in a motor car," went on the boy.

"Where is the cottage?" said Drummond.

"End o' village," he replied. "'Lily Cottage,' it do be called."

Drummond had already risen to his feet, and the boy looked at him doubtfully.

"He be a terrible funny-tempered gentleman," he said. "He set about Luke Gurney with a stick, he did—two or three weeks ago. Had to pay Luke five pounds, he did, or old Gaffer Gurney would have had him up afore the beak."

"My lad," said Drummond, "there is half a crown. You may now resume your occupation of catching fish."

He turned to me. "Are you coming," he said.

"Well," I said a little doubtfully, "we'd better be careful, hadn't we? This fellow may be a perfectly harmless individual."

"In which case we will withdraw gracefully," he cried. "Damn it, man, I believe we're on the scent. Why—Good God! Phyllis may be actually there now."

"All right—I'll come," I said. "Only—cautious does it." But for the moment Drummond was beyond caution. The thought that possibly his wife was within half a mile of him had sent him completely crazy, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I restrained him from bursting straight into the house when we got there. "You can't, my dear fellow," I cried. "We must have some sort of excuse."

It was a small cottage standing back a little from the road. A tiny patch of garden in front was bright with flowers, and two pigeons regarded us thoughtfully from a dovecot. "We'll ask if it's for sale," he said, and then suddenly he gripped my arm like a vice.

"Look up at the top left-hand window," he muttered. I did so, and got a momentary glimpse of the saturnine, furious face of a man glaring at us. Then like a flash it was gone.

"Dixon," he said hoarsely, "we've done it. She's in there. And I'm going through that house with a fine comb."

A little dubiously I followed him up the path. Nothing that I could have done would have stopped him, but even before he knocked on the door I had a shrewd suspicion that he was making a blazing error. It seemed impossible that, after all the chat and bother there had been, the solution should prove so simple. And a blazing error it proved. The door was flung open and the man we had seen peering at us through the window appeared. And to put it mildly he was not amused.

"What the—" he began.

"Laddie," interrupted Drummond firmly, "something tells me that you and I will never be friends. Nevertheless I am going to honour your charming cottage with a call."

He extended a vast hand and the other man disappeared into the hat-rack—an unstable structure. Drummond disappeared upstairs. And the scene that followed beggared description. The hat-rack, in falling, had pinned the owner underneath. Moreover, as far as I could see, one of the metal pegs was running straight into the small of his back. Then came a shrill feminine scream from above, and Drummond appeared at the top of the stairs looking pensive. He was still looking pensive when he joined me.

"I fear," he murmured, "that someone has blundered."

A rending crash from behind announced that the hat-rack was still in the picture, and we faded rapidly down the street.

"A complete stranger," he remarked. "With very little on. Most embarrassing."

I began to shake helplessly.

"But I maintain," he went on, "that no man has a right to possess a face like that. It's enough to make anyone suspicious."

A howl of rage from behind us announced that the battle of the hat-rack was over.

"Pretend," said Drummond, "that I'm not all there."

"Hi, you, sir," came a shout, and we paused.

"You are addressing me, sir?" remarked Drummond majestically as the other approached.

"You scoundrel," he spluttered. "How dare you force your way into my house?"

"My Prime Minister will raise the point at the next meeting of Parliament," said Drummond. "Do you ever hit yourself hard on the head with a heavy spanner? Hard and often. You must try it. It's so wonderful when you stop. The audience is terminated."

He turned on his heel, and strode off down the street, whilst I touched my head significantly.

"Good God!" said the other. "Is he mad?"

"Touched," I murmured. "Result of shell shock. He'll probably be quite all right in an hour or two when he'll have completely forgotten the whole incident."

"But the cursed fellow ought to be locked up," he cried angrily.

"His relatives don't want it to come to that if it can be avoided," I said. "I much regret the incident, sir—but..."

"Bring me a mushroom omelette without..." Drummond had suddenly returned, and was staring fixedly at his late victim.

"Without?" stammered the other nervously. "Without what?"

"Without mushrooms, you fool. Damn it—the man's not right in his head. What else could it be without? Come, fellow, I would fain sleep."

He seized me by the arm, and stalked off in the direction of the Angler's Rest, leaving the other standing speechless in the road.

"Did we put it across him?" he said when we were out of hearing.

"More or less," I answered. "He said you ought to be locked up."

"I really don't blame him," he conceded. "She was a pretty girl, too," he continued irrelevantly as we arrived at the hotel. "Very pretty."

Darrell and Jerningham were both on the lawn, but the others had evidently not yet returned.

"Any luck?" they asked as we pulled up a couple of chairs.

"Damn all," said Drummond moodily. "I pushed a bloke's face into a hat-rack, and contemplated a charming lady with very little on, but we never got the trace of a clue. What's worrying me, chaps, is whether we ought to sit still and wait, or run round in small circles and look."

"After your recent entertainment," I remarked mildly, "I should suggest the former. At any rate for a time."

"Perhaps you're right," he agreed resignedly. "All I hope is that it won't be for long."

"But you don't imagine, do you, old boy," remarked Jerningham, "that Phyllis is likely to be round about here? Because I don't."

"What's that?" said Drummond blankly.

"This is but the beginning of the chase. And I don't think Mademoiselle Irma would have run the risk of bringing her to the place where all of us would certainly be, granted we solved the first clue. All we're going to get here is the second clue."

"And probably have a darned sticky time getting it," said Darrell.

He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes, and after a while I followed his example. The afternoon was drowsy, and if we were going to have a sticky time, sleep seemed as good a preparation for it as anything. And it seemed only a moment afterwards that a hand was laid on my shoulder, and I sat up with a start.

The shadows had lengthened, and at first I saw no one. The landlord's son had ceased to fish: the chairs that the others had occupied were empty.

"You will, I am sure, excuse me," came a pleasant voice from over my shoulder, "but your snores are a little disconcerting to the sensitive ear."

"I beg your pardon," I said stiffly as I rose. "Falling asleep when sitting up is always dangerous."

He regarded me affably—a pleasant-faced little white-haired man.

"Don't mention it," he said. "I do to others as I would they should do to me. And I feared you might collect a crowd, who would misconstrue the reason of the uproar in view of the proximity of the Angler's Rest."

He sat down in the seat recently occupied by Drummond.

"You are staying long?" he inquired pleasantly.

"That largely depends," I answered.

"A charming village," he remarked. "A bit of old-world England, the like of which I regret to say is becoming all too rare. They tell me it was fifth—or was it sixth—in the competition for the most beautiful village."

He frowned. "How annoying. Was it fifth or sixth?"

"Does it," I murmured, "make very much difference?"

For a moment or two he stared at me fixedly.

"It might," he said gravely, "make a lot."

Then he looked away, and I felt a sudden pricking feeling of excitement. Was he implying something? Was there a hidden meaning in his apparently harmless remark? Was he one of those people who really are worried by failing to remember some small, insignificant detail such as that—or was it the beginning of a new clue?

"Only, I should imagine, to the lucky inhabitants," I said lightly. "For my own part I am content with it whatever place it occupied in the list of honour."

He nodded. "Perhaps so. It is certainly very lovely. And the inn is most comfortable. I always feel that in such a setting as this the old-time English beverage of ale tastes doubly good—a point of view which was shared, I think, by a very large individual who was sitting in this chair half an hour or so ago."

"I know the man you mean," I answered. "He is a very capacious beer drinker."

"He crooned some incantation which seemed to assist his digestion," he went on with an amused smile. "You are all one party, I suppose?"

"As a matter of fact we are," I said politely, restraining a desire to ask what business it was of his. If there was anything to be got—I'd get it. "We are here," I added on the spur of the moment, "on a quest."

"Indeed," he murmured. "How interesting! And how mysterious! Would it be indiscreet to inquire the nature of the quest?"

"That I fear is a secret," I remarked. "But it concerns principally the large individual of whom you spoke."

"My curiosity is aroused," he said. "It sounds as if a lady should be at the bottom of it."

"A lady is at the bottom of it," I answered.

He shook his head with a whimsical smile.

"What it is to be young! I, alas! can only say with the poet 'Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.'" Once again did he give me a peculiar direct stare before looking away.

"At the moment," I remarked, "the quotation eludes me."

"It may perhaps return in time," he smiled. "And prove of assistance."

"In what possible way can it prove of assistance?" I said quickly.

"It is always an assistance to the mind when a forgotten tag is recalled," he remarked easily.

I said nothing: was I imagining things, or was I not? He seemed such a harmless old buffer, and yet...

"As one grows older," he went on after a while, "one turns more and more to the solace of books. And yet what in reality are words worth? 'Si jeunesse savait: si vieillesse pouvait.' The doctrine of life in a nutshell, my friend."

Still I said nothing: why, I know not, but the conviction was growing on me that there was a message underlying his remarks.

"Words may be worth a lot," I said at length, "if one fully understands their meaning."

For the third time he gave me a quick, penetrating stare.

"To do that it is necessary to use one's brain," he murmured. "You will join me in a little gin and vermouth?"

"Delighted," I said perfunctorily. Then—"May I ask you a perfectly straight question, sir?"

He returned to his seat from ringing the bell.

"But certainly," he said. "Whether I give you a perfectly straight answer, however, is a different matter."

"Naturally," I agreed. "Do you know why we are here or do you not?"

"You have already told me that you are in quest of a lady."

He raised his glass to his lips.

"Votre sante, m'sieur—and also to the success of your search. If any stray words of mine have assisted you I shall be doubly rewarded for having roused you from your slumbers."

He replaced his glass on the table.

"Exquisite, is it not—the gold and black of the colour scheme? But alas! the air grows a little chilly pour la vieillesse. You will pardon me, I trust—if I leave you. And once again—good hunting."

He went indoors and I sat on, thinking. More and more strongly was the conviction growing on me that the second clue lay in our conversation: less and less, could I see a ray of light. Was it contained in that quotation: 'Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance?' He had said it might prove of assistance—and then had passed off his remark.

Who had written it, anyway? It came back to me as a dimly remembered tag, but as to the author my mind was a blank. Had the well-known old French proverb any bearing on the case?

His voice from a window above me cut into my reverie.

"I feel sure that you are tormenting yourself over the author of my little quotation," he chuckled. "It has suddenly occurred to me that his name was actually mentioned in our conversation."

The window closed, leaving me staring blankly at it. Mentioned in our conversation! No author's name had been mentioned: to that I could swear. And yet would he have said so if it was not the case? It seemed stupid and unnecessary.

Once more I ran over it, trying to recall it word by word. It was maddening to think that I was now possibly in actual possession of the information we wanted, and yet that I couldn't get it.

I ordered another gin and vermouth: perhaps, after all, I had been mistaken. An old gentleman in all probability with an impish delight in the mysterious who was deliberately playing a little joke on me. And then the window above me opened again.

"Goodbye, my friend. I am sorry to say that I have to leave this charming spot. And I trust for all your sakes that your brain will prove equal to my little problem."

I got up quickly: surely that remark clinched the matter. He was one of the others, and I'd make him tell me more. A Ford was standing by the door, and a minute or two later I saw him getting into it. "Look here, sir," I said, "I must insist on your being more explicit. You do know why we are here; you have been giving me the second clue."

He raised his eyebrows.

"You have told me why you are here," he answered. "And as for the second clue, the phrase sounds most exciting. And as for me I have a train to catch. To the station, driver."

The car started, leaving me standing there blankly. And then he put his head out of the window.

"Good hunting."

I suppose Drummond would have pulled him out of the car by the scruff of the neck: I wasn't Drummond. I watched the car disappear up the road, then I went back to my neglected gin and vermouth, swearing under my breath.

"Who," I said to the landlord who came out at that moment, "is the old gentleman who had just driven off?"

"He entered himself in the book, sir, as Mr Johnson of London. More than that I can't tell you."

Evidently disposed for a chat he rambled on, whilst I pretended to listen. And suddenly—I don't know what the worthy man was talking about at the moment—I fired a question at him.

"Have you got any books of poetry in the hotel?"

It must have been a bit disconcerting, for he stared at me as if I had taken leave of my senses.

"I believe the missus has," he said in an offended voice. "I don't hold with the stuff myself. I'll ask her."

He went indoors to return in a few moments with the information that she had Longfellow, Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats. I cut short the catalogue with a yell, and this time the poor man looked really alarmed.

"Wordsworth," I said. "Please ask her to lend me Wordsworth."

He again went indoors, and I sat there marvelling at my denseness. "And yet what in reality are words worth?"

At the time the phrasing had struck me as peculiar, a little pedantic. And there it had been sticking out right under my nose. Now there was nothing for it but to go clean through until I found the quotation, and then if my reasoning was right we should find the clue in the context.

Mine host handed me the book with an air of hurt dignity, and retired once more indoors whilst I started on my lengthy task. In couples the others came back looking moody and disconsolate, and disinclined for conversation. They took no notice of me, and I, for fear I might raise false hopes, said nothing. Plenty of time to talk if I proved right.

Dinner came, and over the steak and kidney pie, I found it.

'Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.'

I stared at the page blankly. Lady of the Mere. What earthly good was that? Had all my time been wasted? Was the old man a harmless jester after all?

"Everything to your satisfaction, gentlemen?" The landlord came up to our table, and a I drew a bow at a venture. "Tell me, landlord," I said, "is there in this neighbourhood any place called the Mere?"

He stared at me for a moment or two without speaking. "There is," he answered at length, and his jovial expression had vanished. "May I ask why you want to know, sir?"

"Curiosity," I said, hardly able to keep the excitement out of my voice. "Is it a pond—or what?"

"It's a house," he said. "An old house. About three miles from here."

"Who is the owner?" I cried.

"Owner!" he gave a short laugh. "There ain't been no owner, sir, for nigh on ten years. And there ain't never likely to be."

"What's the matter with the place?"

"I bain't a superstitious man, gentlemen," he said gravely, "but it would take more'n a bag of gold to get me across the threshold of the Mere—even by day. And by night, I wouldn't go—not for all the money in the Bank of England."

"Haunted, is it?" I prompted.

"Maybe—maybe not," he answered. "There be grim things, sir, black things go on in that house. Ten years ago the owner, old Farmer Jesson, were murdered there. A fierce man he was: used to keep the most awful savage dogs. And they do say that he found his young wife with a lad—a powerful-tempered boy. And they had a terrible quarrel. The lad, so the story goes—'e struck the old man and killed him after an awful struggle. And as he died he cursed the lad and his young wife. He cursed the house: he cursed everything he could think of. Certain it is that the lad and the lass disappeared: folks do say they died where they stood and then were mysteriously removed. As I say, I bain't superstitious, and I don't rightly hold with that story. But what I do know is that since then there be strange lights and noises that come from the old place—for I've seen 'em and heard 'em myself. And I do know that there come a young gentleman from London who heard the tales and didn't believe them. He went there one night, and they found him next day on the ground outside, lying on his back and staring at the sky—as mad as a hatter. No, no, gentlemen—take my advice and give the Mere a wide berth, or you'll regret it."

He bustled off to attend to a new arrival.

"How fearfully jolly," I remarked.

The others were staring at me curiously.

"Why this incursion into local superstition?" asked Darrell.

"No particular reason," I answered on the spur of the moment. "As I said, just idle curiosity."

7. In Which We Come to the Mere

I really don't know why I didn't tell them at once. Somehow or other the whole thing seemed so terribly thin as I ran over it in my mind. And told secondhand it would have sounded even thinner. A tag from Wordsworth: the coincidence of a name. And that was positively all.

I felt that something more definite was wanted, and there seemed only one way of getting it. I would go there myself and reconnoitre. I admit that I didn't like the idea particularly: that bit about the man who was found on the ground outside, as mad as a hatter, was so wonderfully reassuring. At the same time I'd had three cocktails, and I was now having my second glass of port. And the suspicion that this cheery band regarded me as a rabbit rankled. Their opinion would change pretty rapidly if I came back with the next clue in my pocket.

After all it was I who had solved the first one and spotted Drayminster, and though I might not be their equal in mere physical strength it was brain that was needed on a show like this. And in that department I ventured to think the boot was on the other leg.

I ordered another glass of port. Just local superstition, of course: good enough for inebriated yokels wandering home at night. They would hear noises and see lights anywhere. But for an educated man to be put off by such an absurd story was nothing short of ridiculous. I'd borrow a bicycle after dinner, and have a look round the place. Only three miles mine host had said: I'd be back comfortably by eleven o'clock. And if I'd found nothing I would not mention my conversation of before dinner.

The others had drifted away from the table, and were sitting in the lounge outside as I went through. They seemed bored and depressed, and with difficulty I repressed a smile as I thought of the change that would occur when I came back with the goods. I should have to solve it for them too in all probability: in fact it had been a very fortunate moment for them when I had decided to help them.

The first thing to do was to get hold of a bicycle, and in that I was successful at once. The landlord's son would be only too pleased to lend me his, and after a few minutes it was brought round to the front door.

"Be you going far, mister," he said, "because there bain't too much oil in the lamp."

"I'm going to the Mere," I answered as casually as possible. "Which is the way?"

The boy's jaw dropped, and he stared at me speechlessly.

"To the Mere," he stammered at length. "But you can't go to the Mere at night. It bain't safe."

I smiled a little pityingly.

"Rot, my good boy," I said. "Anyway, I'll chance it. Now, which is the way?"

"Straight along the road," he answered, pointing up the street. "And when you get about two mile out of Drayminster, you'll find a turning going down to the right. Take that, and in about another half mile or so you'll see the house in front of you."

He hesitated for a moment: then he burst out with a further warning.

"It ain't safe, sir: it be a terrible place at night."

"Light the lamp, my lad," I said. "Your bicycle will be quite safe, anyway."

He fumbled with a match, and I glanced in through the open door. The others were still in the lounge, and just for a moment or two I hesitated. Should I tell them after all? When all was said and done it was their show more than mine, and the thought of Drummond beside me had much to commend it. And then I dismissed it: was I, a grown man, going to admit that I was frightened of a stupid story?

"The lamp be lit, sir," said the boy. "But you be terribly foolish to go."

He turned away and slouched in at the back door, while I got ready to mount. Foolish or not, I was going, and the sooner I started the sooner I'd be back.

It was a beautiful night, warm and without a breath of wind, and I was soon clear of the village. The moon had not yet risen, but there was no mistake about the road which ran for the first mile beside the river. Then it swung away to the left over some high ground. I found the turning the boy had spoken of without difficulty—one that evidently would lead back towards the river. The surface was poor—it was scarcely more than a lane, and little used at that—and very soon some high trees made the darkness so intense that the going was hard. In fact, after a short time I dismounted and pushed on on foot.

Now I make no bones about it, but the fact remains that with every step I took I found myself wishing more heartily that I had listened to the boy's advice. Whether it was due to the effects of the port wearing off or whether the reality was worse than what I had anticipated is immaterial. But after I'd walked about fifty yards it was only by the greatest effort of will that I prevented myself turning and fleeing incontinently.

There was a sort of dank feeling about that lane which got on my nerves, and the feeble little circle of light from the lamp dancing about in front of me as the bicycle jolted only seemed to make the surrounding darkness more impenetrable. And at last, acting on a sudden impulse, I blew it out, and left the bicycle standing against the hedge. If the landlord's three miles was right I must be very near my destination.

Came a sudden jink in the lane, and there within fifty yards of me stood the house. I stopped instinctively: what a fearsome-looking place it was. Trees were all round it except on one side where a large pool of water lay stagnant and unruffled—doubtless the pool that had given the place its name. The house itself was a big one, and gave an impression of indescribable gloom. It seemed to squat there in its setting of trees like a dead thing. No gleam of light came from any window: no sound broke the absolute silence.

I sat down on the bank beside the lane: some plan of action had to be decided on. Up till now I hadn't really thought what I was going to do when I got there: now it had to be faced. Obviously there was no use in sitting down and looking at the place: the clue, if my supposing was right, was not likely to be obtained that way. It would be inside the house, and if I wanted to get it that is where I should have to go. And the more I thought of it the less did I relish it.

I tried to find excuse for myself. How, for instance, could I get in? The answer to that was obvious—I certainly couldn't tell unless I tried. Was it wise for a man to attempt such a thing single-handed? The answer to that consisted of one word—coward. Had I come all this way—made all this song and dance in my own mind—merely to run away when I arrived. I forced myself to view the matter from a common-sense point of view.

"Here," I said out loud, "is an old untenanted house—set, it is true, in gloomy surroundings which look all the more gloomy because it happens to be dark. But it is merely a house consisting of bricks and mortar. You are a man of the world. Are you going to admit to yourself that you are afraid of exploring those bricks and mortar? Are you going to allow yourself to be influenced by an ancient story of something that happened ten years ago? At any rate go a bit closer and have a look."

At that I compromised to start with. I would go a bit closer and have a look. Very likely I should find everything shut and barred: if so I should have no alternative but to go home. Skirting along the undergrowth I approached the house. Stone steps covered with weeds led up to the front door, which was overhung with trailing creepers and ivy. For a moment I hesitated: then I went up the steps and cautiously tried the handle of the door. To my great relief it was locked, and the feeling that honour was satisfied was very strong. I could now go back to the Angler's Rest in order to get something to open the door with. And even as I so decided I seemed to hear Drummond's voice saying—"What about the ground floor windows? Didn't you try them?"

Right! I would. And then there would be no possibility of any back chat. Keeping close into the wall I skirted round the house. And I hadn't gone twenty yards before I was brought up standing. There in front of me was a wide-open window. All I had to do was to put my leg over the sill and I should be inside the house.

I peered in doubtfully: dimly I saw a table, some chairs, and, on the other side of the room, an open door. The musty smell of long disuse was overpowering, and I knew that if I hesitated for long I should hesitate for good. I flung a leg over, and stepped on to the floor.

The dust was thick everywhere. It rose in choking clouds, and deadened the sound of my feet as I crept towards the open door. It was almost like walking on a carpet, and it struck me that whatever might have happened in the past no one, could have been in the house for months, if not years. So what was the good of going on? I paused in the doorway to consider that new point. If no one had been in, the clue could not be in the house: it must, if I was on the right track, be in the garden outside.

In front of me was the hall. I could just see the staircase to my right, and opposite me was a piece of furniture that looked like a hat-rack. I peered across at it: was it my imagination, or was there something white that was hanging on one of the pegs—something that might be a piece of paper? Was it possible that here was the actual clue I was searching for?

I tiptoed across the hall: and almost trembling with excitement I struck a match. One word was written on it—Excelsior.

The match burned out, and I did not light another. No need to rack one's brain to interpret that message. True, it proved I was on the right track, which was gratifying to my pride as a solver of conundrums, but it also indicated with painful clearness the next move. There was only one way to Excelsior in that house, and that was to go upstairs. And the thought of going upstairs left me chilled to the marrow.

I stood staring at the dim outline of the staircase fading into utter blackness at the top. Where I was, a faint light did come from the open door by which I had entered. Above, the darkness was absolute. Should I, or should I not? And though I say it myself, I consider that a certain amount of credit was due to me for deciding in the affirmative. I'd go and have a look at the top of the stairs.

Still on tiptoe I crossed the hall to the foot of them. A mouldering carpet existed in patches, and I began to ascend cautiously for fear of tripping up. But no care on my part could prevent the stairs creaking abominably, and in the silence of the house each step I took sounded like a pistol shot.

At last I reached the top. Now that I was there the darkness was not quite so intense: a little of the light from the open door below managed to filter up. To my right and left ran a passage, and putting my hand in my pocket I counted the coins. Odd to the left: even to the right. There were seven, and I started feeling my way towards the left. And I can't have taken more than half a dozen steps when a strange creaking noise came from the hall, and at the same moment I realized it was getting darker. I stopped abruptly, and peered below. And what I saw froze me stiff with fright. The door by which I had entered was closing, and even as I looked at it, it shut with a bang. Then once more absolute silence.

For a moment or two I gave way to blind panic. I rushed as I thought in the direction of the stairs, and hit a wall. I turned round and rushed another way, and hit another wall. Then I forced myself to stand still: I'd lost my bearings completely: I hadn't an idea where the stairs were. Like a fool that I was I had walked straight into the trap, and the trap had shut behind me.

My first instinctive thought was to light a match—anything seemed better than this impenetrable blackness. And then prudence won. If there were people round me all I should do would be to give myself away. I was safer in the dark. At any rate we were on equal terms.

I crouched against the wall with my heart going in sickening thumps, and listened. Not a sound. The silence was as complete as the darkness. And I began to wonder if there was anyone in the house—any human that is. Was it a material agency that had shut that door—or was it something supernatural? Would some ghastly thing suddenly hurl itself on me: something against which even Drummond with all his strength would be powerless? Every ghost story I'd ever heard of came back to me along with the comforting reflection that I had always ridiculed the idea that there were such things. But it is one thing to be sceptical in the smoking-room of your club, and quite another when you are crouching in inky darkness in a deserted house from which your line of escape has been cut off.

Suddenly I started violently: an odd slithering noise had begun. It was rather as if a sack full of corn was being bumped on the floor, and it seemed to come from my left. I peered in what I thought was the right direction while the sweat ran off me in streams. Was it my imagination, or was there a faint luminosity in the darkness about three feet from the ground? I stared at it and it moved. With each bump it moved, and it was coming closer. Step by step I backed away from it: step by step it kept pace with me. And for the first time in my life I knew the meaning of the word terror. Frightened I had been many times: this was stark, raving horror. I was stiff and paralysed with fear. Was this the thing that had sent the other man mad?

Then, as if a veil had suddenly been torn away, came the change. One instant there had been merely a faint lessening of the darkness: the next I found myself staring into a shining yellow face of such inconceivable malignity that I almost screamed. It was not two feet away, and about on a level with my chest. I hit at it blindly, and found my wrist caught in a grip of steel. Then I felt a hand creeping up my coat until it reached my throat, and I began to struggle wildly.

I kicked into the darkness, and my foot hit something solid. There was a grunt of pain, and the grip on my throat tightened savagely. The face drew nearer, and there came a roaring in my ears. And I had just given myself up as finished when a thing happened so staggering that I could scarcely believe my eyes.

Out of the darkness from behind the shining face there came a pair of hands. I could see them clearly—just the hands and nothing more, as if they were disembodied. There was a curious red scar on the middle finger of the right hand, and the left thumbnail was distorted. With the utmost deliberation they fastened on the throat of my assailant, and began to drag him backwards. For a while he resisted: then quite suddenly the grip on my throat relaxed. Half insensible I sank down on the floor and lay there watching. For the moment my only coherent thought was relief that I could breathe again, that the yellow face was going. Writhing furiously, its mouth twisted into a snarl of rage, it seemed to be borne backwards by those two detached hands. And even as I tried foolishly to understand what it all meant, there came from down below a well-known voice—"The more we are together." The relief was too much: I did another thing for the first time in my life. I fainted.

I came to, to find the whole bunch regarding me by the light of half a dozen candles.

"Look here, little man," said Drummond, "what merry jaunt have you been up to this time?"

"How did you know I was here," I asked feebly.

"The landlord's son told us you'd borrowed his bicycle," he answered. "And since they all seemed very alarmed at the pub we thought we'd come along and see. We found your machine outside, and then we found you here unconscious. What's the worry? have you seen a ghost?"

"Seen and felt it," I said grimly. "A ghastly shining yellow face, with fingers like steel bars that got me by the throat. And he'd have killed me but for a pair of hands that came out of the darkness and got him by the throat as well."

They looked at me suspiciously until Jerningham suddenly peered at my neck.

"Good God!" he said, "look at the marks on his throat."

They crowded round, and I laughed irritably.

"You don't imagine I dreamed it, do you. The thing that attacked me had a grip like a mantrap."

"Tell us again exactly what happened," said Drummond quietly.

I told them, starting with my conversation with the old gentleman that afternoon. And when I'd finished he whistled softly.

"Well done, Dixon: well done! It was a damned sporting thing to come here alone. But, laddie don't do it again I beg of you. For unless I'm greatly mistaken, but for our happening to arrive when we did your only interest by this time would have been the site for your grave."

He lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

"Phosphorous evidently on the man's face who attacked you. An old trick. Probably our headlights alarmed them, and the owner of the hands dragged him off. So that there are at least two unpleasing persons in this house beside us."

He rubbed his hands gently together.

"Splendid! At last we come to grips. Blow out those candles, boys: there's no good advertising our position too clearly. And then I think a little exploration of the old family mansion."

Once more we were in darkness save for the beam of Drummond's torch. He had it focused on the floor, and after a while he stooped down and examined the marks in the dust.

"What an extraordinary track," he remarked. "There doesn't seem to be any sign of footmarks. It's one broad smear."

We crowded round, and it certainly was a most peculiar trail. In width about eighteen inches to two feet, it stretched down the middle of the passage as far as we could see. And suddenly Drummond turned to me with a queer look in his eyes. "You say this face seemed to be about on a level with your chest," he said.

"Just about," I answered. "Why?"

"Because it strikes me that you've had even a narrower escape that we thought," he remarked. "The thing that attacked you hadn't got any legs. It was a monstrosity: some ghastly abnormality. The owner of the pair of hands dragged it after him, and that's the trail it left."

"It is a jolly house," murmured Darrell. "What does A. do now?"

"What the devil do you think," grunted Drummond. "A. follows the trail, and for the love of Mike don't get behind the light."

Now I don't suppose I should ever have thought of that. I could see Drummond in front, his right arm fully extended, holding the torch, while he kept over to the left of the passage. Behind him, in single file, we all of us followed, and, once when I drifted over to the right, Sinclair, who was just behind me, pulled me back.

"If anyone shoots," he muttered, "they shoot at the torch. Keep in line."

And the words had hardly left his mouth when there came an angry phut from in front of us, and a splintering of wood from behind. Simultaneously Drummond switched off the light. Silence, save for our heavy breathing—and then once again did I hear that ominous slithering noise.

"Look out," I cried. "That's the thing moving."

Then came Drummond's voice, sharp and insistent. "Light. Give me light. My God! what is it?"

And never to my dying day shall I forget the spectacle we saw when Darrell's torch focused and steadied on Drummond. The thing was on him—clawing at him: a thing that looked like a black sack. Its hands were fastened on his throat, and it was by his throat that it was supporting itself. Because it had no legs—only two stumps. It was mouthing and gibbering, and altogether dreadful. Some faint luminosity still remained on its face, but in the light of the torch it was hardly noticeable. And then I forgot everything in watching that ghastly struggle.

The dust was rising in little eddies as Drummond moved, carrying the thing with him. Of its almost superhuman strength no one knew better than I, and in a few seconds the veins were standing out on Drummond's forehead. Then he braced himself against the wall, and gripped its wrists with his hands. I could see the muscles taut and bulging under the sleeves of his coat as he tried to wrench the thing's hands away from his throat. But in spite of his enormous strength, he told me afterwards that but for the knowledge of a certain ju-jitsu grip by which a man's fingers can be forced open, the thing would have throttled him unless we had helped. As it was, help was unnecessary: the murderous hold relaxed, and, with a heave, Drummond flung the thing away from him. It landed on the floor with a thud, and for a space it stood there balancing itself on its hands and glaring at us. Then, like some great misshapen ape, it disappeared up the passage, moving on its hands and stumps.

"Good Lord!" grunted Drummond, "what a little pet."

"Where's the gun, Hugh," said Darrell curtly. His torch was flashing on the empty passage. "Put it out, Peter," snapped Drummond. "I'm thinking that gun belonged to the other bloke. We'll follow up in darkness."

And then, before we had gone two steps, there came from in front of us a loud crash, followed by a terrible scream. The scream was not repeated: only a low moaning noise could be heard, and after a while that also ceased. Once again the silence was absolute.

"For the love of Heaven," came Drummond's hoarse whisper. "Keep your eyes skinned. Who is the last man?"

"I am," said Jerningham. "Don't worry about this end." We crept forward, guided by momentary flashes of Drummond's torch. The trail was easy to follow. It led along the passage for about fifteen yards, and then turned to the right through an open door.

"Stop here," said Drummond quietly. "I'm going in alone."

And just as little details about him had struck me before, so on this occasion did the almost incredible swiftness and silence of his movements impress my mind. One instant he was there: the next he was not, but no sound had marked his going.

We clustered round the open door waiting. Once a board creaked inside, and then suddenly we heard a startled exclamation, and Drummond rejoined us.

"There's something pretty grim happened," he muttered. "Stand well away from the door. I'm going to switch on the torch."

The beam flashed on, and outlined against it was the ominous silhouette of a revolver held in his other hand. And for a space the two remained motionless: then the revolver fell to his side.

"Great Scott!" he muttered. "Poor brute!"

The crash and the scream were accounted for: also the silence that had followed. Lying motionless on the floor close to the further wall was the thing that had attacked him. And it needed no second glance to see that it was dead. There was a dreadful wound in the head; in fact, it was split completely open. And further details are unnecessary.

For a while we stared at it stupidly—the same thought in all our minds. How had it happened? Because save for the motionless figure on the floor the room was empty. What was it that had struck the poor brute this ghastly blow in the darkness. Nothing had come out of the door, and the only window was boarded up.

It was a peculiar room with stone walls and a stone ceiling, and what it could have been used for in the past completely defeated me. Let into the wall near which the body was lying were six iron rings: except for them, the walls were absolutely bare. They were fixed in a straight line about a yard from the floor, and were three or four feet apart. And below each ring the boarding was worn away as if it had been gnawed by rats. "Didn't the landlord say that the farmer who was murdered kept savage dogs?" said Darrell. "He probably used those staples to chain them up."

"Maybe he did," said Drummond grimly. "But there ain't any dogs here now, Peter, and what I want to know is what killed that poor brute."

Once again we fell silent staring at the twisted body.

"He looks as if he had been bashed over the head with a steam-hammer," said Jerningham at length. "That crash we heard was it."

"Yes, damn it!" cried Drummond. "But what caused the crash."

He took a step or two towards the body, and even as he did so there came to me, out of the blue so to speak, an idea. What made me think of it I don't know: what made me suddenly remember my conversation with the old gentleman that afternoon, I can't say. But the fact remains that mercifully I did. It was the remark he had made to me that had first caused me to suspect him. I could see him, even as I stood there, giving me that strange, penetrating stare and saying "Was it fifth or sixth? It might make a lot of difference." And the dead thing was lying between the fifth and sixth ring.

"I think I've got it," I said slowly. "It's part of the clue I was given this afternoon, and up till now I'd forgotten it."

They listened while I told them, and when I'd finished Drummond nodded his head thoughtfully.

"You're probably right," he said. "Let's work on the assumption, at any rate."

"That's all very fine and large," grunted Darrell. "But we don't want the same result, old boy. And it strikes me that if you make a mistake you won't make a second."

"I've got to chance it, Peter," answered Drummond doggedly. "If Dixon is right, we're on the track of the next clue. And nothing matters except getting that. Let's think for a moment. What's the natural thing to do when you see a ring in a wall? Pull the blamed thing, isn't it?"

"Probably what that poor brute was doing when he was killed," said Sinclair.

"Then I will pull it, too," announced Drummond calmly.

"For Heaven's sake, man," cried Jerningham, "What's the use?"

"That remains to be seen," said Drummond. "But we're going to pull those rings—and we're going to pull 'em now. Toby, go back to the car with Algy. Keep close together going through the house. In the toolbox you'll find my towrope. Bring it. And don't forget that there is at least one unconsidered little trifle loose in the house."

"If I'm right," he went on as they left the room, "the danger must lie close to the wall. That thing never moved with a wound like that in his head: he died on the spot where he was hit. Anyway, one must take a chance."

And his hand as he lit a cigarette was as steady as a rock.

8. In Which We Explore the Mere

It is nervy work waiting. I know that my feelings were strongly reminiscent of those that I had experienced in France when the latest reports from the seats of the mighty indicated that enemy mining was proceeding underneath one's trench. To dangers seen and heard one can get tolerably used, but the unseen, silent horror of this room was making me jumpy. I felt I almost preferred my fight in the darkness with the thing that now lay dead.

At last, after what seemed an interminable time, Sinclair and Longworth returned with the rope.

"See anyone?" said Drummond casually.

"Not a soul. But I thought I saw a gleam of light from one of the top rooms," said Sinclair.

"Probably our friend of the gun. Give me the rope, and let's get on with it."

"Look here, old man," said Darrell, "let's toss."

"Go to hell," remarked Drummond tersely. "It's good of you, Peter, old lad, but this is my show. The only point is that in case anything happens I rely on you to carry on the good work."

He walked across to the fifth ring and slipped the rope through it. Then he stepped back, and we breathed again. Nothing had happened so far.

"Stand clear," he said. "I'm going to pull."

He gave a tug on the rope, and the next instant it was wrenched out of his hand. Some huge object had flashed downwards through the beam of his torch and landed with a sickening thud on the dead man, tearing the rope out of his grasp as it fell. Instinctively he turned the light upwards. In the ceiling was a square, black hole, and we had a momentary glimpse of a face peering at us through it. Then it was gone, and we were left staring upwards foolishly.

It was Drummond who recovered himself first.

"A booby-trap that I like not the smell of," he said savagely. "Keep that hole in the ceiling covered, Ted, and shoot on sight."

It must have weighed a couple of hundredweight—the slab that had come out of the ceiling. There was a staple let into the centre of it, with a wire rope attached, by which it had evidently been hoisted back into position the first time. One could see the faint outline of some sort of winding gear above the opening, but of the man who had operated it there was no sign.

"No—I like not the smell of it," he repeated grimly. "It's murder—pure and simple. But if the swine think they're going to stop us they're wrong."

"What's the next move?" said someone shakily.

"See what happens when we pull the sixth ring," he said. "If what Dixon said is right, that's the other important one."

"Probably the floor will give way this time." remarked Algy Longworth gloomily. "I feel I should like a mother's soothing comfort."

We waited tensely while Drummond again adjusted the rope. He began to pull, and suddenly he gave a triumphant exclamation.

"It's moving."

It was: a crack was appearing in the wall. And then with a faint creak the whole block of stone swung round on a pivot, leaving an opening about three feet wide and six feet high.

"The poor brute was looking for that, I suppose," said Drummond, "and in the darkness pulled the wrong ring."

He crossed the room, and then stopped abruptly. He was staring at a piece of paper fastened to the back of the part that had moved.

"Well done, little man," he read slowly. "Any casualties yet? But you've still got a long way to go, and I've got some far better jests for you before you've finished. Incidentally the charming gentleman without any legs is an impromptu turn as far as I am concerned. I found him on the premises when I arrived, and he struck me as being quite in keeping with the general character of the house. I rather think he must be the so-called ghost, and I do hope he's behaved himself. But if he hasn't don't blame me. His predilections seem quite delightfully murderous, and he resents any intrusion terribly. But doubtless somebody loves him. Phyllis is still quite well, though just a leetle bit off her food. Isn't this fun?"

"Damn the woman," said Drummond angrily. Then he began to laugh. "Though, 'pon my soul," he went on, "if it wasn't for Phyllis, I think I should agree with her."

"Time enough for that, old boy, when we're through," said Jerningham. "Hasn't it struck you that at the moment we're in a rather bad strategical position? It's a sitting shot either from the ceiling or through that opening."

"You've said a mouthful, Ted," agreed Drummond, "Back into the passage, and we'll have a council of war."

The moon had risen, and an eerie half light was filtering through the dirty windows, making the place seem, if possible, more ghostly than before.

"Now then," said Drummond, "let's get down to the meat juice. I should think that what our one and only Irma says is right, and that the poor devil dead in there has been responsible for all the stories about this place. Probably used that phosphorous trick to frighten people. Anyway, he's out."

"Next man in is the bloke with the hands who let drive with his bundook," said Darrell thoughtfully.

"And any other little pals of his who may be lying about," went on Drummond. "But the thing to decide is where is the next clue?"

"The betting is a pony to a dried pea that it's down that secret passage," said Jerningham.

"Then down the passage we go, old son. But not all of us. If this was an ordinary house I wouldn't mind. But that booby-trap in there was specially prepared, and there are probably others. The question is how many of us go. I think three are enough. That leaves three to guard this end. You five do fingers out for it: two of you to come."

"Let's all come in," said Sinclair. "You too, Hugh."

"No," said Drummond decisively. "I'm going, anyway. Get a move on."

"What are fingers out?" I asked mildly.

"Laddie," said Drummond, "you may be a whale at conundrums, and I take off my hat to you over this evening's show. But your education is a bit deficient. At the word go, extend as many fingers as you like in front of you. One hand only: thumbs don't count. Go."

I extended two: a complicated mathematical proceeding took place, and the winner appeared to be Sinclair. "Once again," said Drummond. "Only the four of you. Go."

This time I extended three, and hoped for the best.

"Thirteen in all, and we start with Dixon."

"Splendid," I murmured: I didn't mind who he started with. The passage, in spite of the dust, was comfortable: and, as far as I could see, the ceiling was ordinary lath and plaster.

"Come on then," said Drummond. "I'll go first, then Dixon, then Toby."

I opened my eyes abruptly. I suppose I'm not very clever at that game. I appeared to have won, anyway, which was frightfully jolly and all that.

"Just guard this end, you three," said Drummond. "And you'd better give us a couple of hours at least."

He stepped back into the room, and flashed his torch up at the hole in the ceiling. No sign of anyone, and he led the way across the floor to the opening in the wall.

"Don't forget," he whispered urgently, "that anything may happen."

"I won't," I assured him, and wondered if a ton of masonry on one's head was a comparatively painless death.

The passage led downwards, and the walls and ceiling gradually grew damper and damper, until large drops of water splashed on my head at each step I took forward. Drummond was in front with his torch, and progress was slow as he tested every foothold he took before advancing. At length he paused, and waited for us to come up with him.

"I believe we're under the mere," he announced.

"Hooray!" I cried enthusiastically. "I've always wanted to drown."

And suddenly he began to shake with laughter. "You priceless bird," he remarked. "Look here—you go back—you've done your fair share for tonight—and Toby and I will go on."

"Be blowed for a yarn," I said. "Let's get on with it." Once more we crept forward, and at length the passage started to rise again. It seemed to be bending right-handed the whole time, and was getting drier and drier. Suddenly Drummond paused; we had come to a fork. To the right a flight of stone steps led upwards: to the left it continued on the level.

"Shall we try the steps first," whispered Drummond, and the next instant he switched off his torch. For quite distinctly and from close to had come the sound of a woman's voice.

"It can't be possible that we've found her," he breathed.

"What—your wife?" I muttered.

"No—the other," he answered. "Supposing she didn't expect us to track her so quickly, and as a result we've caught her up."

Once again came the voice, and this time a man spoke too.

"It's up the steps," said Drummond. "Toby—you wait here: we may be putting our heads straight into it. If anything happens, sprint back to the others and tell them. Dixon—you come half way up as far as the bend."

I crept up behind him, feeling with my fingers on the walls. And suddenly I found Drummond's hand on my arm.

"Stay there," he whispered. "I'm going on alone."

Not two yards in front of us a beam of light shone out from under a closed door.

I waited tensely, crouched against the wall: could it be possible that we had run this woman to earth—that she was on the other side of the door? And, if so, how many men were likely to be with her? True, we had only heard one voice, but that meant nothing.

With a crash Drummond flung open the door and stepped into the room. A man and a woman were sitting at a table on which the remains of a meal were lying. Two candles guttered in the sudden draught, and with a cry of fear the woman rose to her feet.

"Keep your hands on the table—both of you," snapped Drummond.

"Who are you?" said the man in a surly voice, his eyes fixed on the revolver. "And what d'you want?"

"A little conversation, my friend," said Drummond. "In the first place—who are you? And who is the lady?"

He flashed his torch on her face, and stared at her intently. She was a haggard, unkempt woman. Her face was lined and wrinkled, her hair streaked with grey. And she looked most desperately ill.

"Never you mind who we are," said the man angrily. "It ain't no blasted business of yours, is it? What are you doing in this house, anyway?"

"I admit," answered Drummond pleasantly, "that under normal circumstances you would have a certain amount of justification for your question. But you can hardly call this house normal, can you?"

"Are you the police, mister?" said the woman, speaking for the first time.

"I am not," said Drummond. "I've got nothing to do with them."

"Well, what do you want," said the man again. "Are you one of the bunch who have been fooling round this house for the last few weeks."

"We get warm," remarked Drummond. "No—I am not one of the bunch. At the same time, though not of them I am after them, if you get me. But for them I should not be here. Am I to take it, then, that you disown them also."

The man cursed foully. "Disown them," he snarled. "For two pins I'd have murdered the lot."

"Then it was not you who rigged up that pleasant little booby-trap?"

"What booby-trap? Look here, mister, I'm getting fair sick of this. For God's sake clear out."

The woman put a restraining hand on his arm, and whispered something in his ear. She seemed to be trying to pacify him, and after a time he shrugged his shoulders and stood up. "Sorry, sir, if I lost my temper. But if you ain't the police, and you ain't one of that bunch, then what do you want?"

"One moment," said Drummond. "Dixon," he called over his shoulder.

"Look here," he whispered as I joined him, "would you recognize the hands of the man who dragged that thing away from you?"

"I certainly should," I answered. "And it's not this bloke."

He nodded. "Good. That's one thing settled, anyway. Now," he resumed. "I'll tell you what we want. Hidden somewhere in this charming country mansion is a piece of paper or a letter or a message of some sort which I am looking for. Do you know where it is?"

The man looked at the woman, and she looked at him. "I reckon I do," he said. "And it's in a place you'd never find if you looked for ten years."

Drummond's eyes never left his face. "How do you know where it is?" he said quietly.

"Because I saw one of them people put it there," answered the man.

"Will you show me where it is?" continued Drummond.

Once again the woman bent and whispered to him.

"All right," he said. "Look here, sir, I'll show you where it is if you'll give me your word that you won't tell a living soul you've seen us here."

And suddenly the truth dawned on me.

"I believe," I whispered to Drummond, "that this is the man who murdered the farmer ten years ago. They've been hiding here ever since."

"Are you the man who murdered Farmer Jesson?" shot out Drummond abruptly.

The woman gave a little scream, and clutched his shoulders.

"Never you mind who I am," he said angrily. "You've forced your way in here, and I've got to trust you. But unless you give me your word to say nothing, you can damned well look for that envelope yourself."

"I give you my word," said Drummond quietly.

"What about your friend?"

"I speak for all of us," said Drummond. "Now lead on. But you'd better understand one thing, my friend. Any monkey tricks, and you'll be for it good and strong."

The man looked straight at him.

"Why should there be any monkey tricks?" he remarked quietly. "All I want is to see the last of you as soon as possible. Follow me."

He took a lantern off a nail in the wall and lit the candle inside. Then he led the way down the stairs.

"Who's this?" He stopped suspiciously as the light showed up Toby Sinclair still waiting in the passage.

"A friend of mine," said Drummond. "My promise covers him."

"There's someone else about here, Hugh," said Toby in a low voice. "While you've been up there I've seen a gleam of light along the passage to the left, and I'm almost certain I heard movement."

Drummond turned to the man.

"Do you hear that?" he said curtly. "Who is it?"

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"Ask me another. This place has been like a rabbit warren lately."

"Which way do we go?"

"Along there," he pointed, "where your friend says he saw the light. Don't you want to go? It doesn't matter to me."

He stood there swinging his lantern. By its light I could see Drummond staring at him intently: was it or was it not a trap? The man's face was expressionless: he seemed completely indifferent as to whether we went or whether we didn't. And at last Drummond made up his mind.

"Lead on," he ordered. "But don't forget I'm just behind you, and there will be no soft music to herald the hitting."

Certainly there was no further gleam of light from in front, and the feeble flicker of the candle only seemed to intensify the surrounding darkness. The passage itself was opening out a little, and the roof was higher, so that walking was easy. And we must have gone about thirty yards when we came to a heavy wooden door. It was open, and our guide passed through without any hesitation.

"The note is in this room," he said, holding the lantern above his head. By its light we could see it was of a similar type to the one we had just left. There was a table and a couple of chairs, and the whole place smelt of disuse, and reeked of damp. Water dripped from the ceiling and the walls, and it struck me that wherever we had been before, we were now most certainly under the mere.

"Well, get it," snapped Drummond. "This place stinks worse than a seaside boarding-house."

"It isn't quite so easy to get it," said the man, and, even as he spoke, I knew we were trapped. A sudden look in his eyes; a scowl that was half a sneer—and then darkness. He had blown out the candle.

"Hell!" roared Drummond, and from the door the man toughed.

"You poor boobs," came his mocking voice. "You don't know enough to come in out of the wet."

Well—perhaps that remark was worth it to him: perhaps it was not. It just gave Drummond time to switch on his torch. By its light we saw the door closing, and the fingers of the man's hand round it. And the next instant a shot rang out. For quickness of shooting combined with accuracy I would never have believed it possible. Drummond had plugged him through the fingers. A torrent of blasphemy came from the other side of the door as we sprang towards it: but we were just too late. The bolt clanged home as we got there: we were shut in. And from the other side of the door the blasphemy continued.

At last it ceased, and Drummond bent and picked something off the floor.

"I have here," he said, "the top joint of one of your fingers. The next time I see you, my friend, you shall have it served up as a savoury."

We listened to the retreating footsteps, and he gave a short laugh.

"On balance I think we win," he remarked. "Peter and Co. are bound to find us, and until they do we can think out a few choice methods of cooking fingers."

He lit a cigarette thoughtfully, and then he laughed.

"Damn the fellow! And that fish-faced woman was in it, too, I suppose. They certainly fooled us all right."

He flashed his torch round the room. There was no trace of a window, but of one thing there was more than a trace. It stared us straight in the face—a sheet of notepaper pinned in the centre of the wall opposite the door. We crowded round it, and in silence we read the message written in the handwriting we were getting to know so well.

"Will you walk into my parlour said the spider to the fly? My dear friend, I grieve for you. This is not the old form at all. But then I always thought, little one, that your resemblance to a bull in a china shop was just a little too pronounced. And this time you've done it. Honestly I never thought the chase would end quite yet. In some ways I'm sorry: I had one or two beauties left for you. In fact the next clue is in tomorrow's Times, which I now fear you will never see.

"How many of you are there in here, I wonder? That will be reported to me naturally in due course, but my woman's curiosity prompts me to put down the question now. Because I have taken steps to cover all tracks, and I fear your bodies will never be recovered.

"Goodbye, mon ami. What I shall do with Phyllis remains to be seen. Play with her a little longer, anyway, I think."

We stared at one another speechlessly. What on earth did the woman mean—"bodies never recovered."

"That's where she's made her blooming error," grunted Drummond. But his voice didn't carry much conviction. "Let's have a look at that door," he went on. "There must be some way out."

But there wasn't; the door was as solid as the wall. And it was while we were examining the bolt that a faint hissing noise became audible. Drummond straightened up and stood listening.

"What the deuce is that?" he muttered. "And where does it come from?"

Once again his torch flashed round the room. The noise was increasing till it was almost a shrill whistle and we located it at once. It came from a small circular metal pipe that stuck out about three inches from the wall close by the door. I put my finger over it: the pressure was too great too keep it there. Some gas was being pumped into the room, and the same thought struck us all. There was no ventilation.

"She would seem," said Drummond calmly, "to have won. Unless Peter arrives in time. Sorry, you chaps."

"What's the gas," cried Toby Sinclair. "I used to know something about chemistry."

"Well, I didn't," said Drummond. "And whatever it is it's not likely to be for the benefit of our health."

"Keep the torch on the pipe, Hugh," said Toby quietly. He, too, put his finger on the end, then he tasted it and smelt it.

"I wonder," he muttered, and his voice was shaking a little. "No smell: practically no taste. Do you fellows mind if I take a chance."

"We mind strongly if you don't," said Drummond calmly. "And do it darned quickly."

Sinclair struck a match: came a sudden little pop and from the end of the pipe there shot out a long blue flame.

"I was right," he said, wiping his forehead. "It's carbon monoxide. Another five minutes and she would have won. As it is if we take turns at breathing through the keyhole we ought to escape with only a head like the morning after."

"Mother's bright boy," said Drummond lightly, but I saw his hand rest for a moment on Sinclair's shoulder. "Explain."

"Carbon monoxide, old boy. Don't taste, or smell, and you can't see it. One of the most deadly poisonous gases known to science. If you light it it forms carbon dioxide which isn't poisonous, but only suffocates. So if as I say we breathe through the keyhole in turn, and Peter isn't too long, we ought to get away with it."

It was a weird scene—almost fantastic. I remember thinking at the time that it simply couldn't be true; that it was some incredible nightmare from which I should shortly wake up. In turn we solemnly stooped down, put our mouths to the keyhole and sucked in the pure air from the other side of the door. One, two, three; one, two, three—for all the world like performing marionettes.

It was Sinclair who noticed it first, and nudged us both to draw our attention because speaking was ill-advised. The flame was decreasing in size. Now it was burning fitfully. At times it shot out to its original length. At others it almost died away. And then suddenly it went out altogether.

He took a piece of paper from his pocket and a pencil.

"Go on at the keyhole," he wrote. "Don't speak unless it's essential. Room full of carbon dioxide, but no more coming now."

One, two, three—suck; one, two, three—suck; till my back was aching and I cursed Darrell and the others for not coming. Surely to Heaven it must be at least three hours by now since we had left them. And then another ghastly thought struck me. Even when they did come how were they going to open the door without a key? And there was no key in the keyhole.

One, two, three—suck: damn this confounded woman and all her works. I felt that I would willingly have given the whole of my extremely modest fortune and then some to have had the privilege of putting her in the room, and laughing at her from the other side of the door.

One, two, three—suck; it was becoming utterly intolerable. Once I chanced it and took a breath in the room, and it felt as if an eiderdown had been pressed over my mouth. Carbon dioxide—used-up air. Old tags of chemistry came back to me in the intervals of one, two, three—suck.

Suddenly we all of us paused instinctively: a key had been put in the keyhole. The bolt was turning, and with our heads feeling as if iron bands were fastened round them we stood and watched. Trying not to breathe, and with our lungs bursting for air we watched the door open. A hand came round the edge—a hand with a curious red scar on the middle finger. It was the man who had dragged the thing away from me earlier in the evening.

I signed furiously to Drummond, but as he said afterwards it was a matter of complete indifference to him whose hand it was. All he wanted was air, and a grip on somebody's throat. He got both, and he was not feeling amused.

He was a big man, the owner of the hand, and he was wearing some form of respirator. He was also a powerful man, but as I have said Drummond was not feeling amused. He shot across the room, did the owner of the hand, as if he'd been kicked from close quarters by a mule—whilst we shot into the passage. Then having locked the door and removed the key we sat down and just breathed. And if anybody is ever in doubt as to what is the most marvellous sensation in the world, they may take it from me that it consists of just breathing—under certain circumstances.

From the other side of the door came the sound of furious blows. He seemed to be hurling himself against it with the whole weight of his body.

"What about it, Hugh," said Toby. "The respirator he has on is only of use against carbon monoxide."

"Then let him have a whack at breathing through the keyhole," said Drummond grimly. "Gosh! I wouldn't go through that last half hour again for twenty thousand quid. Besides I want my other little pal, and if I can find him he'll eat his finger here and now."

But of neither the woman nor him was there any trace. The room was empty; the birds had flown. And as we stood in the passage at the foot of the stairs that led to the room they had been in, the only sound that broke the silence was the hoarse shouting of the man who was caught in the trap that had been laid for us.

"I think we'll let the swab out," remarked Drummond thoughtfully. "We might get something out of him."

And it is possible we might have, had not the last little effort in that pleasing country mansion taken place. It was purely accidental, and I was responsible for it. About a yard along the passage beyond the fork a steel bar was sticking out from the wall. It looked strong: it looked quite capable of bearing my weight. So I sat on it, and found it was not capable of bearing my weight. It collapsed under me, and I found myself on the floor. And even as I picked myself up there came from the room we had left a frenzied scream of fear, and a strange rushing noise.

Stupidly we stared at the door, focusing our torches on it. From underneath it water was pouring through. From each side, getting higher and higher, it came trickling out, until it shot like a jet from a fountain through the keyhole.

"Run," roared Drummond. "Run like hell. If that door gives we're done. We've let the lake in."

It was true: the meaning of the phrase about the bodies not being recovered was clear at last. We raced wildly along the passage back towards the house. Would the door hold long enough? And it did—by about five seconds. We heard the crash as it gave when we were in the lowest part, and we pounded on up the rise. Behind us came the swish of the water now pouring unchecked through the open doorway. It came in a wall six feet high along the passage, and like a huge wave breaking on the shore it hurled itself after us two feet above the level of the mere, and then, angry and swirling, receded to its proper height.

In front of us we could see the opening into the house: behind us, black and evil-looking, the water still eddied and heaved. A chair which had been swept along by the torrent bobbed up and down on the surface and then gradually became still. But of the man who had been in the room there was no trace. Hidden somewhere in that underground labyrinth his body still remains, and the waters of the mere have sealed his tomb.

Slowly we climbed the last bit of the passage and stepped into the room.

"Thank the Lord," said Jerningham, "you're all right. We were just coming to find you, when the most extraordinary upheaval took place in the lake."

Dawn had come, and we followed him to the window outside.

"It's almost died away now," he went on. "But about five minutes ago, right out there in the centre, the water began to heave. Almost like a whirlpool. What's happened?"

"An airy nothing," remarked Drummond. "They've tried to gas us, and they've tried to drown us, and—" He broke off suddenly staring across the mere. "It's a difficult light to see in," he said, "but isn't there someone moving over there in the undergrowth?" Personally I could see nothing, but after a moment or two he nodded. "There is. I see 'em. Two. Back from the window, boys: this matter requires thought. No one has come out this way, I take it?"

"Not a soul," said Darrell.

"Then," said Drummond to Sinclair and me, "those two on the other side are fish-faced Lizzie and her gentleman friend."

"Shall we round 'em up?" remarked Toby.

Drummond lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

"I think not," he said at length. "Look here—let us consider this matter because it seems to me that we have come to the parting of the ways. I suppose nobody has a bottle of Bass? Bad staff work. However, let us pull ourselves together, and get the grey matter to function."

He sighed profoundly.

"A ghastly hour to do so, but I have the glimmerings of an idea. Now, first of all there were in this house four individuals that we know of. First, the legless bird who got a brick on his head. Now it's possible that what she said in her note was right, and that he wasn't one of the party, but just went with the house. Anyway it doesn't matter, he is out of it."

He held out an enormous finger.

"That's one. Secondly, there's the bloke who pulled him off Dixon, and whose face we saw through the hole in the ceiling. He, dear little chap, is very dead down below there. He's drowned."

Another finger joined the first.

"And short of sending down a diver his body can never be recovered. Nor any other body that might be down there. Do you get me?"

"Not the slightest," said Jerningham cheerfully. "Are there any more down below?"

"No—and at the same time, yes," remarked Drummond.

"Lucid as ever," murmured Peter Darrell. "Hasn't anybody got any beer to give him?"

Drummond grinned gently.

"It does sound a bit involved," he agreed. "But it isn't really. The passage we went down runs under the mere. Moreover, since the good-looking lady and gentleman on whom we called did not come out this way they must either still be below, or they got out some other. If they are below they also are drowned: if, on the other hand, they got out..."

"Then they're not," said Algy brightly.

"Sit on his head," remarked Darrell.

"There were two people moving on the other side of the mere," pursued Drummond. "So let us assume that the passage continues under the water and comes out in the undergrowth opposite. Further, that those two escaped. What then, my brave hearts—what then? What message of fun and laughter are they going to give to our little Irma?"

He paused triumphantly, and Algy scratched his head.

"Dashed if I know," he burbled.

"Sit on his head," repeated Darrell morosely.

"The last thing they saw of us," went on Drummond, "was when we were locked in that confounded room with carbon something or other pouring into it. And if old Toby hadn't had a brain storm that is the last that anyone would ever have seen of us. Do you get me now? For the purposes of this little affair that is the last that anyone will see of us."

We sat staring at him, realizing at length what he was driving at.

"But look here," said Toby doubtfully, "if we're going on with the chase they're bound to find out."

"Why?" demanded Drummond. "We've disguised ourselves pretty often before. Peter, Ted and Algy will carry on as before: you, Dixon, and I are dead. Drowned, laddie, in the cold, dark waters of the mere."

"By Jove! Hugh," said Darrell thoughtfully, "I believe that is a thundering good idea."

"I'm certain it is," said Drummond. "Look here," he went on gravely, "we've seen enough tonight to realize that this isn't a game of kiss-in-the-ring. I confess that I hadn't thought that she would go to quite the lengths she has done. It is by a sheer piece of luck only that one or all of us are not dead now. Don't let there be any mistake about that. She meant to kill us—or some of us. And that gives us a foretaste of what is to come. If she has gone to these lengths in the earlier stages of the hunt, we're going to have the devil's own time later. Well—what's she going to say to herself? She knows us of old. She knows that if we three had been killed, you three would not give up. She'll expect you after her."

Darrell nodded. "Quite right."

"So we'll have the hunter hunted," went on Drummond cheerfully. "You'll be chasing clues: they'll be chasing you and we'll be chasing them."

"There's one small flaw in your otherwise excellent scheme," I put in. "How are they to know that the next clue is contained in this morning's Times? Only we three saw her message to that effect, and we're dead."

"Damn the man," said Drummond. "He's quite right."

"Let's wait until we see the message," remarked Jerningham. "It may be obviously intended for you, in which case we should naturally spot it. Or it may prove necessary for us all six to cover our traces. Let's leave that for a bit. The thing that must be done at once is for you three to go to ground here somewhere, and for us three to register alarm and despondency. We'll go and search the grounds, and if by any chance we run into your two pals, we'll pretend we're looking for you. Ask them to help, or if they've seen you."

"You're right. Ted," said Drummond. "Go to it. We'll lie up here."

9. In Which We Get the Second Clue

And so began the second phase in this strange game. I know that I was feeling most infernally tired and yet sleep would not come. My brain was too busy with the amazing happenings of the previous night. Once again I saw that luminous face being dragged away from me through the darkness, and I fell to wondering what the poor brute had really been. Was the woman right in what she had written? Had this hideous, demented creature been the sole occupant of the house for years, and thus given it its bad reputation? Living by day in the secret passage under the mere, and coming out at night if it thought intruders were about. With a shudder I glanced through the open door where it still lay with the stone on top of it; anyway, death had been quick.

And then my thoughts turned to the amazing brain that had planned it all. What manner of woman could this be who dealt out flippant notes and death alternately? The labour of preparing the mechanism for dropping that heavy stone and then pulling it up again must have been enormous.

And suddenly Drummond spoke half to himself and half to me.

"She means to get us all: nab the whole bunch. She won't rest till she does." Then he smiled a little grimly. "And you thought it was a joke."

"Guilty," I acknowledged. "You must admit though that it's a little unusual."

He laughed shortly, and then he began to frown. "I can stand anything on two legs or on four," he grunted, "but these mechanical devices don't give a fellow a chance. And I'm uneasy about those other three. Seems to me we're letting them bear the brunt from now on. She'll concentrate on them."

He relapsed into a moody silence, and I said nothing. There seemed to be nothing to say. What he feared was quite correct, or so it appeared to me. Only the merest luck had saved several of our lives that night, and luck could not be expected to continue indefinitely. Any one of us might have pulled that fifth bolt instead of the wretched creature who now lay dead underneath it. And then, had there been time to wind it up, another might have been bagged as well.

That was the devil of it all: we weren't confronting ordinary dangers and risks, but specially and cunningly prepared ones. It was a case of the German booby-traps over again, where the most harmless-looking objects hid delay-action mines.

"What the dickens are we going to do with that body?" said Drummond suddenly.

"Why not put it into the water," said Sinclair, "and then close the passage up?"

"Not a bad idea. Stoop as you pass the window, in case those two are still outside."

And so we lifted the stone sufficiently to extricate it, and carried it down the passage to the water's edge. More wreckage had appeared to join the chair: the place smelt and felt like a charnel-house. We toppled the poor brute in, and beat it for the house: anything was better than that dank deathtrap. And then we pushed on the sixth ring and the secret door slipped back into position.

"Thank the Lord that's over," said Toby with a sigh of relief. "And all I can say is that I hope in future she confines her activities to the open air."

Footsteps on the stairs made us step back hurriedly, but it proved to be only the other three returning.

"What luck?" cried Drummond.

"I think we've done the trick, old boy," said Darrell. "We ran into them on the other side—a woman of repulsive aspect and a man with his hand bound up. We were running round in small circles pretending to look for you. Incidentally, what you thought was right: that passage comes out near a broken-down old ruin on the other side. There was a rusty iron door which they had presumably opened. And when we saw them we told 'em the tale. Asked them if they'd noticed the extraordinary upheaval in the lake, and inquired with the utmost agitation if they'd seen three men anywhere about. Said we'd been ghost-hunting. I don't know if they believed us or not, but I don't see that it matters very much if they did. We never let on by the quiver of an eyelid that we suspected them."

"What did they say?" said Drummond.

"'If your friends have been ghost-hunting,' the man said, 'I fear they've found a very substantial one. My wife and I were out for an early morning stroll, when we suddenly saw the upheaval in the lake. And if you will look down that passage'—he pointed through the opening—'you will see the water. I fear that your friends must have inadvertently found a most dangerous piece of mechanism, which I have heard of often but never believed to be really existent. Nothing more nor less, in fact, than a diabolical arrangement for flooding the whole of this underwater passage which comes out into the house on the other side. Doubtless you found the opening there.'

"We did," I said, registering horror and despondency.

"'Then if your friends have not come out that end, I very much fear they must all be drowned. For they certainly haven't come out this.'

"'How dreadful!' said the woman, and Algy made hoarse noises presumably meant to indicate grief."

"They were damned good," said Algy plaintively.

"My dear man, you sounded like a cow with an alcoholic stomach cough," said Jerningham.

"But what happened finally?" demanded Drummond.

"They drifted off, and it seemed to us they were still on the lookout for something. And then it suddenly struck us what it was. It's the other bloke: the one who is drowned down below. So we sprinted back here in order to prevent them coming at any rate yet. As there seem to be only the two openings they're almost bound to come and examine this end as soon as we are gone. And it was going to mess things up a bit if they found all you three here. So what I suggest is this. You three must go to ground in real earnest somewhere. And you must wait until we give you the all clear—in a day or two or perhaps a week."

"Go to blazes," said Drummond.

"We in the meanwhile will go and drown our sorrows in beer, and later on we'll bring you the corks to smell. We'll also get a copy of The Times, and then will come the problem of smuggling you out of this house unseen. We'll have to discuss that later."

"Right you are, Peter," said Drummond. "You've about hit it. Incidentally, where shall we go to ground?"

He glanced round, and finally stared at the ceiling.

"That seems to me to be the best spot," he remarked thoughtfully. "We know it can be inhabited because that bird was up there. And if those two come we might be able to hear something. Only how the deuce do we get up there? A chair on the top of the table and I might reach."

He could—just—and in an instant he had swung himself through the hole and disappeared from view.

"Splendid," His face reappeared through the hole. "Plenty of room for all three of us. Come along, Dixon—I'll pull you up."

He got me by the wrists, and heaved me up beside him as easily as I would lift a child. And then Toby Sinclair followed.

"Take away the chair and the table, Peter," he said. "And for the love of Allah bring back a dozen with you in your pockets. My mouth is like an asbestos washer."

"We'll come back, old boy, as soon as we possibly can," said Darrell. "I'll drive your car and take Dixon's bicycle. And we shall say that you have been suddenly summoned to London for failing to pay the poor girl her weekly postal order if any questions are asked."

"Say what you like," said Drummond resignedly. "But bring me beer."

And so commenced a weary vigil. A passage, evidently communicating with the rest of the network, led out of our hiding-place, but there was no longer any incentive to explore. All we could do was to sit and wait until the others came back and told us the coast was clear. And that might not be for hours. In fact it seemed to me that anyway it would be unsafe to go before night if we were to succeed in getting away unseen. Which left us with the joyful prospect of spending fourteen or fifteen hours in the most acute discomfort.

Suddenly Drummond sat up and put a finger to his lips. I had heard nothing myself, but as I had already discovered all his senses seemed twice as keenly developed as my own. And after a while I too heard a creak on the stairs outside, and then another.

"Not a sound," he breathed. "But if they find us we've got to sock 'em. Keep back from the opening or they may see us."

We drew back so that we could only just see the doorway, and waited. There was someone coming along the passage now, and a moment or two later our friend of the damaged hand put his head cautiously round the corner. Then he spoke to someone behind him.

"All right," he called out. "Come on."

The woman joined him.

"What's the use?" she said peevishly. "You're not going to find him here."

"Cut it out," he snarled. "If Jim was in the passage when the door gave with the water he may have escaped up this end and be waiting inside."

He tugged on the sixth ring, and the secret door swung open once more. Then he disappeared down the passage while the woman leaned against the wall.

"Not a sign." He came back into the room and dosed the door. "But those three guys have bunged that madman's body into the water."

He stood in the centre of the room gnawing his fingers.

"I wonder how much they knew," he muttered.

"What does it matter what they knew," said the woman. "Let's get out of this—I'm fed up."

"You'll get a clip under the jaw in a minute," he remarked. "We're getting a couple of hundred of the best for this job, and you ain't likely ever to earn a couple of hundred pence with a face like yours."

"Well, what is it you want to know?" cried the woman irritably.

"Whether those other three guys—the ones that came down to us—are really below there."

"Heaven save the man, where else can they be?" She stamped her foot. "You got 'em in the room, didn't you? And you locked 'em in the room, didn't you? And you turned on the gas, didn't you? And they were still in the room twenty minutes after. Where else can they be now?"

"I'd like to have seen 'em," he muttered.

"Well, since you ain't a ruddy fish, you can't," she remarked. "I'm going. I want some sleep."

She paused in the doorway.

"Come on. Bill," she said in a milder voice. "It's clear enough what happened. When Jim pulled the lever he didn't get out quick enough. He got caught by the water, poor old stiff—and he's down there himself now. And so are the other three."

"I suppose you're right," he answered. "We'll push off."

And then he glanced up towards the ceiling.

"What about putting that stone back?"

"Leave it," said the woman. "If anyone gets into trouble it's going to be those three who were fooling around outside. Nobody knows we've been here, and nobody ever will if you'll only get a move on instead of standing there like a dummy. Besides, you ought to have that hand of yours looked at."

"Blast that big fellow," said the man venomously. "I'd give something to have a once over with him."

The woman laughed shortly.

"You would," she said. "From what I saw of him you'd give up every hope of ever being recognized again. He'd eat you—with one hand. Come on—or I'll fall asleep where I stand. The telegraph office won't be open till nine, and there's nothing to be done till then. You've got her address, haven't you?"

"I've got the usual one," he answered, following her from the room.

Their voices died away as they went along the passage, and I thought the unfortunate Drummond was going to have an apoplectic fit. "Just as we were getting something useful," he groaned. "An address. The address."

"Probably only an accommodation one," said Toby sleepily. "Wake me if I snore, chaps, but I must have a bit of shut eye."

And still sleep would not come to me. I got into every conceivable position I could think of: I counted innumerable sheep going through a gate: but at the end of an hour I was wider awake than ever. The other two were peacefully unconscious, and at last I gave up trying. It was as well, in any case, that one of us should remain on guard, and so I settled myself as comfortably as I could and waited for the time to pass. From below came the occasional crack of a board as the sun's warmth began to penetrate into the house, but except for that no sound broke the silence. Seven o'clock came—eight: in my imagination I could smell the smell of hot coffee and bacon and eggs. I could see racks of toast and marmalade disappearing down the throats of the other three thugs at the Angler's Rest. And I wondered why Heaven was treating me so. To the best of my belief I was no worse than other men. Within reasonable limits I had paid my just whack of Income Tax: I had, only recently, registered enjoyment over the acidulated beverage which my Aunt Jane fondly imagined to be port. And as a reward I found myself sitting in an attic, several inches of dust and a bad smell on a beautiful summer's morning. Moreover when I gazed into the vista of the future all I could see was myself disguised as a German tourist or the hind legs of a cow having fun and games in even more damnable spots than the one in which I was at present. Emphatically not what the doctor had ordered....

I shifted my position so as to distribute the cramp more evenly throughout my anatomy, and in doing so I saw into the room below. Just the same except that the shadow thrown by the open door had moved as the sun got higher. A simple little problem in trigonometry, I reflected. If the door was eight feet high and the shadow was nine feet long what was the height of the sun above the horizon? Door over shadow was tangent of the angle. Or was it cosine? Anyway one would want a book of logarithms.... One would want...

My tongue grew suddenly dry. The height of the sun above the horizon had nothing to do with the sudden eddy of dust that swirled up in the passage outside. Nor had it anything to do with another shadow that had just appeared—the shadow of a human being. Someone was outside: someone whom I could not see—yet.

I glanced round at the other two. They were six or seven feet away: to wake them up would cause noise. Moreover they were sleeping silently, so it was best to leave them as they were.

Once more I turned back to the room: the shadow had materialized. Standing in the doorway was a woman—one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life. I put her age at about thirty, though it may have been two or three years more. She was, as far as my masculine eye could judge, perfectly dressed—but it was her face, or rather her expression, that held me spellbound. There was contempt in it, and hatred—and yet, mingled with them, a sort of pity and regret. Once her eyes travelled to the bolts in the wall, and she smiled—a lazy, almost Oriental smile. And then she did an extraordinary thing. Still standing motionless she glanced upwards. Not at me, not at the hole in the ceiling, but as a woman looks up in prayer. The whole expression of her face had changed: there was in it now a wonderful triumph. Her eyes were half-closed: her whole body seemed to relax into utter surrender. And suddenly she spoke:

"I would have kept him till last, my loved one—but it was not to be. But there are still the other three—and her. After, I will come to you."

And then it seemed to me that she took in her arms a head I could not see—and kissed lips that to her were real. Lingeringly, passionately as a woman kisses her lover. Gradually her arms fell to her side, and for a while she stood with her face transfigured and her eyes closed. Then she drew herself up: the vision had vanished. She gave one more glance round the room and was gone, leaving no trace of her visit save a faint, elusive scent. Jasmine, and yet not quite jasmine—something I had never smelt before, something I could never mistake in the future. Something unique, something in keeping with the woman herself. For she had seemed to me in that moment of self-revelation, when she spoke to the unseen, to be of the type for whom men will sacrifice their honour and even their lives.

Stiffly, like a man waking from a dream, I moved over to Drummond and shook him by the shoulder.

"What is it?" he said, instantly awake.

"Your friend Irma has been here," I answered quietly.

"What!" he almost shouted. "Then why in hell..."

He was standing up in his excitement, but with an effort he pulled himself together. "How do you know it was her? Tell me about it."

He listened in perfect silence whilst I told him what I had seen.

"I couldn't wake you without making a noise," I said when I had finished. "And I don't know," I added candidly, "that I could have wakened you anyway. I watched that woman almost as if I had been in a trance. But one thing is certain—she thinks you are dead. Another thing is certain—she is going for the other three. And your wife. And then she will commit suicide."

"You think she's mad," said Drummond.

"No, I don't think that she's mad. I think she's more dangerous even than that. She's a woman with an obsession—a mission in life. That man she spoke to was real to her—as real as you are to me. He is still her lover though he is dead. And her mission is to revenge his death. She's got foreign blood in her, and if I wanted any more proof than I have had already as to the seriousness of this show I've got it now. This is a vendetta—and only your deaths will finish it."

"Perhaps it's as well he didn't wake you up, Hugh," said Toby thoughtfully. "You can bet she's covered her traces pretty effectually, and what could you have done if you had caught her? It wouldn't have helped you to find Phyllis. In addition you'd have given away the fact that you're not dead."

"You may be right," agreed Drummond at length. "But, by Jove! I'd like to have seen her. You'd recognize her again, Dixon?"

"In a million," I said. "And I'd recognize that scent."

"Which is less likely to change than her appearance," he remarked shortly. And then he frowned suddenly. "You're quite certain, aren't you, that it was genuine—this performance of hers? I mean you don't think that she knew we were here and did it to bluff us."

"If that show wasn't genuine," I said, "she is the most marvellous actress the world has ever seen. No: I'm certain it was pukka."

He grunted thoughtfully and sat down again. "Perhaps so," he said after a while.

"Besides," I went on, "what could be her object in doing it if she knew we were here?"

"When you know the lady as well as I do," he answered, "you'll realize that she doesn't conform to ordinary rules."

He relapsed into silence, his chin sunk on his chest, and for the first time the full realization of what we were engaged in came to me. Before, this woman had been a legendary figure, a writer of would-be flippant letters, a maker of skilfully devised deathtraps. Dangerous certainly—more than dangerous—but with at any rate some idea of making a sporting game of it. I had believed that if we did pull through, if we did follow the clues successfully, she intended to play the game and restore Drummond's wife to him. And I had believed that she proposed to give us a sporting chance of so doing. Now I believed it no longer.

However much Drummond might doubt it I knew that what I had seen was genuine. The woman had ceased to be a legend and had become a reality—a reality ten times more dangerous than any legend. Gone was any hope of a sporting chance: she meant and always had meant to kill the lot of us. What strange jink in her brain had made her decide on this particular method of doing so was beside the point—probably the same jink that makes a cat play with a mouse before finishing it off. The cruelty that lies latent in the female. And she was gratifying that whilst pursuing her inexorable purpose. Letting us think we were playing a game, whilst all the time she had no intention of playing herself. Letting us think we had a chance of success, whilst all the time we had none.

For what chance had we? True by the most marvellous fluke we had escaped the night before—but flukes cannot continue indefinitely. Sooner or later she would have us, as she had always meant to have us. And the cellar below showed exactly the amount of mercy we should receive.

What chance had Drummond against such an antagonist? I glanced at him, sunk in thought, his great fists clenched by his side. Let him get his hands on anything on two legs—well and good. God help the thing! But this wasn't a question of brute strength: this was a question of cunning and brain. This wasn't man to man: this was a human being against mechanical traps. Strength was of no avail against poison gas and specially prepared devices.

I wondered if he was even now thinking out some plan of-campaign. To meet guile with guile was our only hope, and somehow he didn't strike me as being the right man for that. Something to hit hard and often and he won in a canter: but first find the thing to hit. "Gosh! I hope they've brought the beer."

I sighed a little wearily: such was our leader's mentality. "Doubtless they will when they come," I assured him.

"When they come!" he grunted. "You wouldn't hear a howitzer going off in the next room, laddie. They have come. That flat-footed blighter Algy has fallen over his own feet twice already. Cultivate the old ears, Dixon: in the dark they're worth more to you than your eyes."

"Damn the man," I reflected, but a suitable reply eluded me. For I could hear absolutely nothing even then. "I wonder if they butted into little Pansy?" He got up and yawned prodigiously, and as he did so I heard cautious footsteps coming along the passage. The next moment Peter Darrell appeared in the door followed by the other two. "All right, Hugh?"

"Thirsty, Peter—darned thirsty. Where's the ale?" He lowered himself though the hole and dropped to the floor.

"We've got a dozen, old boy. Is that enough?"

"Do you drink beer, Dixon?" asked Drummond, looking up.

"Not usually at this hour of the morning," I answered. "Thank God for that," he said in a relieved voice. "It's a most deplorable habit, and I'm glad you don't suffer from it. Incidentally, chaps, you haven't run into Irma by any chance, have you?"

"Well I'm damned!" Jerningham glanced at Darrell. "Why do you ask, Hugh?"

"Because according to Dixon the poppet has been here, holding spiritual converse with our late lamented Carl. Of course he doesn't know the darling by sight, and Toby and I were both asleep. But from his account of the interview it must have been her." He paused with his glass half way to his mouth. "Have you seen her?"

"As we were leaving the village, old boy," said Jerningham, "a closed car, going fast, met us. And as we passed it a woman looked out of the window. Peter was driving, and Algy was in his usual condition of comatose imbecility, so it was only I who saw her. I just got a fleeting glimpse, but I thought it was Irma myself. I wasn't sure; but from what you say it must have been. I tried to get the number of the car, but the road is dusty and I couldn't see it. And then just as I was telling Peter, we went and punctured. Otherwise we could have followed. What did she come here for?"

"To gloat over my corpse, Ted, and to assure Carl that you three weren't forgotten," said Drummond. "She's out for the lot of us."

"Bless her little heart," remarked Peter. "But she'll have to be a bit more explicit as far as I'm concerned."

He produced a copy of The Times from his pocket.

"Here's the invitation to the party: but Allah alone knows what it means."

He pointed to two verses in the Personal Column. They were headed—To dear Hugh.

A lily with the plural put before A thing of beauty, but in this case, more Like the fair lady whom you met last night. When found, at any rate, you'll start quite right. Dipped in the river Styx one part alone stayed dry. Leave out the next, but take the cry Of every schoolboy. That should give a man. And now, you poor fish, find it if you can.

"Does anyone know the story of the girl who went to a fancy dress ball dressed as a lily," said Algy hopefully.

"Sit on his head," groaned Peter. "What the hell does it mean?"

10. In Which the Third Clue is Solved

I have said earlier that this is my first essay in writing, but I should imagine that one of the rules must be to refrain as far as possible from boring the misguided optimists who are endeavouring to wade through the completed effort. And, therefore, I will refrain from giving any description of the rest of that day. It had been unanimously decided that it would be unsafe for Drummond, Sinclair and me to leave before nightfall if we were to avoid any risk of being spotted. And so beyond mentioning that the beer expired shortly after midday, that Toby Sinclair revoked twice at bridge and was soundly beaten by Drummond for his pains, and that I got an acute attack of the hiccoughs due to ale on an empty stomach, I will draw a veil over our doings. Quiet reigned on the Western Front, broken only by the curses of the particular individual who was, at the moment, wrestling with the doggerel in The Times.

Drummond from the outset gave it up. With a graceful movement of the hand he waved it from him, as a child might wave a plate of prunes and semolina pudding, Algy Longworth having at last got his story about the lily off his chest was found guilty of telling the world's hoariest chestnut, and having been thrown into the passage refused to play any more. So it was left to the rest of us to try and solve it. And honesty compels me to admit that we failed—utterly. It seemed completely meaningless.

'A lily with the plural put before.'

That seemed to give Slily. Toby Sinclair insisted that there was a loch of that name somewhere in the Hebrides, but on being pressed was not quite sure it wasn't an island off the coast of Cork. And that was about as far as we got. Except for Achilles: I got that.

'Dipped in the river Styx one part alone stayed dry.'

That seemed to point to the Achilles Statue, an unsuitable spot, as Drummond pointed out moodily, for erecting a booby-trap. And we were all somewhat moody when we left at ten that night for his house in London. Concealment was necessary and personally I was hidden under a rug at the back of the first car. Before that I had always felt a certain contempt for individuals who endeavour to evade paying for a railway ticket by travelling under the seat. Now I regard them with nothing short of admiration. To walk is a far, far better thing.

But we arrived at length, and having got Algy Longworth's shoe out of my mouth we crept through two dustbins to the back door. It was a risk coming to his house at all but it had to be run, since all his props for makeup were there. And after a short pause the door was opened by a manservant, who evinced not the slightest surprise at the sight of the procession.

"Have you seen any one loitering about the house, Denny?" said Drummond as the door closed behind us.

"No, sir. But a man called this afternoon and asked for you."

"What sort of a man?"

"A stranger, sir. And I am inclined to think, not an Englishman."

"What did you say?"

"The truth, sir. I said you were away from home."

Drummond looked thoughtful.

"Look here, Peter—we've got to try and ride them off. I'm tolerably certain we weren't spotted coming in here, but it looks as if they were watching the front. Go with Ted and drive up openly to the house. Ring the bell. When Denny comes—tell him the news in a voice broken with grief. Tell him I'm dead. Tell him twice if you think the blighter outside hasn't heard. Denny—you will clutch the door, turn pale with anguish and sob out—'No man had ever a better master.' And for God's sake don't breathe port all over the street. After that, Peter, you three go off to your rooms and wait for further orders. Somehow or other we've got to solve this confounded thing."

"Right-ho, old boy, I'll pitch Denny the tale. And then we'll wait to hear further from you."

And it was while we were waiting for them to come that I had an idea. Old Tom Jenkinson. If any man in London could solve it he could. A former schoolmaster of mine now retired, and a member of my club. He still appeared to regard me as a dirty and inkstained schoolboy. But over acrostics, riddles or crosswords he was a perfect genius. I said as much to Drummond.

"Splendid," he remarked. "Is he likely to be at the club now?"

"Never leaves it before midnight."

"Then go and scribble a line to him, old boy, explaining what we want—and I'll send it round by Denny. You'll find paper in that room up there, but see that the curtains are pulled tight before you switch on the light."

'Dear Mr Jenkinson, (I wrote)

'I would be deeply obliged to you if you would send me the solution of the enclosed rhyme. It represents a town or locality or place of some sort, presumably in the British Isles. It is a matter of urgent importance that I should get the answer as soon as possible. Knowing you I feel sure that you can solve it at once, and the bearer of this note will wait for a reply. I hope Mrs Jenkinson is in the best of health.

'Yours sincerely,

'JOE DIXON'

"Splendid," said Drummond. "Peter has been, and according to Denny there was a man loitering by the railings who overheard what was said. Moreover, he's gone now, so it may have done some good. Anyway we'll send Denny round with that note at once."

"Go out by the back door," he said as his servant came in, "and take this to the Junior Reform. Wait for an answer. And don't forget—if anyone asks you—I'm dead."

"Very good, sir," said the man impassively. "There is a new cask, sir, behind the door."

"A good fellow," remarked Drummond. "And improved considerably since the death of his wife. She was a muscular woman and a martyr to indigestion, and the result left much to be desired."

He lit a cigarette, and began pacing up and down the room.

"Lord! but I hope this old buster of yours solves it," he said once or twice.

"If he doesn't, it's insolvable," I assured him. "But there's just a chance, of course, that he may not be in London."

And the instant I'd said it I regretted having spoken. His face fell, and he stared at me blankly.

"If so," I hastened to add, "we can always get him through, the club. Letters will be forwarded."

"But it means delay," he muttered. "More hanging about."

An hour passed, and two, and suddenly he lifted his head listening.

"Denny's back," he said. "Now we shall know."

His voice was quiet, but there was a strained look in his eyes as he watched the door. Should we have the answer, or did it mean further waiting? And mercifully it was the former, his servant had brought an answer. I opened it, and the others listened breathlessly.

'Dear Dixon, (it ran)

'Before giving you the solution of your ridiculous little problem there are one or two points to which I would draw your attention. In days gone by, when you went, if memory serves me aright, by the name of Stinkhound, I endeavoured, for my sins, to teach you the rudiments of English composition. Why then do you offend my eyes, and give me further proof, if such were needed, of my complete failure, by using the word 'would' twice in the first sentence. 'I should be,' not 'I would be,' is the correct opening to your ill-written missive. Again, if the matter is of urgent importance, obviously you require the answer as soon as possible—a clear case of tautology. Lastly, your interest in Mrs Jenkinson's health, though doubtless well meant, is a little tardy. She died some five years ago.

'However—to your problem. My opinion of your intellect was always microscopic: even so, it is incredible that any one out of an asylum could have failed to solve it at sight—knowing that it was meant to represent a place. Let us take the first stanza. Clearly the last line has nothing to do with it: it is put in to cheer you on when you have interpreted the other three. Now, of course, I do not know the nature of the lady you met last night: your repellent habits are, I am glad to say, a closed book to me. But in this case she was obviously not a thing of beauty. Ergo—she was ugly or plain. But few places contain the letters UGLY: whereas there are many Plains in the British Isles. One in particular leaps to the mind—Salisbury Plain.

'You may at this point ask what relation Salisbury has to a lily with the plural put before. Knowing your abysmal ignorance of everything remotely approaching to culture you probably will. The ancient name for Salisbury, my dear Dixon, was Sarum. To this day you will see the word written on many of the milestones around the town. Well, I suppose even you have heard of an Arum Lily. And therefore the first stanza is solved and gives us—Salisbury Plain, a large area—comprising as it does a considerable portion of the County of Wiltshire.

'The second stanza is clearly designed to narrow our field. It does—to a remarkable degree. The first line could, of course, be solved by a child of six. But as Ruff's Guide to the Turf is doubtless more familiar to you than Homer's Iliad I shall assume that your mind has not even reached that infantile standard. Achilles was the son of Peleus by Thetis, one of the Nereids. And ancient mythology tells us that to make him invulnerable she dipped him in the Styx, holding him by the heel. Hence the phrase, the heel of Achilles which was the only part that remained dry. The first line therefore gives us Heel.

'The cry of every schoolboy.'

'What the repulsive little horrors call it now I do not know—but when you were one of them, what word rose most often to your lips? What was your moan—your everlasting bleat? Tuck. You gorged your bellies on tuck, and slept, as a result, in school—making disgusting noises. Tuck, Stinkhound—tuck.

'That should give a man.'

'Have you never read 'Ivanhoe'? Have you never heard of Robin Hood, and the fat and jovial Friar Tuck, his constant companion and father confessor?

'And so we have Heel, Tuck and Friar. A glance at the verse will show us that Tuck is to be left out—and that reduces us to Heel and Friar.

'On Salisbury Plain is an ancient Druidical temple known as Stonehenge. Outside the main circle is a great stone—the sun-stone. This is the point where a spectator, centrally placed within the temple, would see the sun rise on Midsummer Day. And the common name for the sun-stone is the Friar's Heel.

'Wherefore, the solution of your childish effusion is the monolith known as the Friar's Heel at Stonehenge on Salisbury Plain. And in conclusion I can only endorse most wholeheartedly the terse and apt description of you given in the middle of the last line.

'Faithfully yours,

'THOMAS JENKINSON.

'PS—I have often wanted to know one thing. Were you or were you not the miserable little boy who first nicknamed me Wart Hog and the late Mrs Jenkinson Slab Face? A nickname—like a caricature—should bear some relation to the truth, Dixon, if it is to be considered clever. And to call me a Wart Hog is positively stupid.'

"I got Achilles at any rate, confound the old ass," I remarked, as I put the letter down. "Well—there you are. Now we know."

"Stonehenge," said Drummond. "Close to Amesbury."

"With cantonments all round it," put in Toby Sinclair. "I motored past it last summer."

"How far away?" Drummond looked at him thoughtfully. "I haven't been there since I was a kid, and there was nothing built then."

"I suppose about a mile to the nearest," said Sinclair. "Perhaps less. And there's another thing, too. By day there are hordes of trippers all over the place—guides and all that sort of stunt. You've got to pay to go in."

"So nothing can happen by day. And by night—with troops as close as that—they will have to be careful."

He went to the telephone, and gave a number.

"Peter," he said as soon as he got through, "come round at once—all of you. Back door, as before."

He sat down and stared at me.

"I wonder what is the best rig for you," he pondered. "In a way, you're the least important as only the man and the woman of last night know you."

"And our venerable friend of the Angler's Rest," I reminded him.

"True. I'd forgotten him. Still a moustache, a pair of spectacles and the earnest air of a tourist should meet the case. And if you see any of those three, efface yourself. Toby—I've got a very good line in elderly professors for you. Butterflies, I think. You can gambol lightly over Salisbury Plain making a noise like a killing-bottle."

"Thanks, dear old boy," said Sinclair. "What are you going to be?"

"That remains to be seen," answered Drummond with an enigmatic smile. "I've got two or three half formed ideas."

The smile faded slowly from his face.

"But whatever it is, I'm thinking that the sooner we begin to put the fear of God into this bunch the better."

And I realized suddenly how he had earned the sobriquet of Bulldog.

A minute or so later Peter Darrell and the other two came in.

"You've solved it?" asked Jerningham eagerly.

"A pal of Dixon's has," said Drummond. "A stone called the Friar's Heel at Stonehenge. You can read the letter later."

"And you can read this one now," said Darrell. "Delivered by hand."

It consisted of one line.

'Read today's Times. Personal column.'

"So she really does think we're dead, Peter." Drummond rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. However, let's get down to it. In the first place, from now on you three have got to run this show alone. Officially, that's to say. And, dash it all, I don't like it."

"Cut it out, you ass," laughed Jerningham.

"It's all very fine and large, Ted—but they mean business. And I don't want any casualties. I believe that what Dixon said is absolutely right. Whether she is insane or not is beside the point: there's not much sign of insanity about her plans up to date. But from what he heard her say this morning we are all for it, and Phyllis as well, before she goes to join Peterson. She was never remarkable, was she, for the quality of mercy. And now that she's obsessed with this idea, she will be utterly merciless. It's revenge run mad. So for the love of Heaven be careful. I'd never forgive myself if one of you took it in the neck."

"We'll be careful all right, old boy," said Darrell quietly. "But Phyllis has got to be found, hasn't she?"

"I know that. But I'm wondering if it wouldn't be better for you three to chuck it and leave it to me."

"We have but little desire for a rough house," said Jerningham, "but there's going to be one in a moment unless you cease talking tripe."

"Well, well; so be it," grinned Drummond. "But I thought I'd just mention it. So as I said before—let's get down to it. From what Toby says, the place is stiff with people all the day. So by day there can't be any risk. Now, it's possible that all we are going to get there is another clue—in fact, it's probable. I really don't see how they can rig up anything in a public place like that which can be dangerous—even at night. And so as I see it—there's just one thing to fear, and that can only happen at night."

"What's that?" said Darrell.

"Common or garden murder, Peter," said Drummond gravely. "There may be a clue; on the other hand, it may be a trap."

"Murder," I said doubtfully. "In a place like that."

"Why not?" said Drummond coolly. "What leads in nine cases out of ten to the discovery of a murder? Motive. And what possible known motive is there for killing any of them. We know the motive: who else does? If we told this story to the police we'd be laughed out of court."

"And Phyllis would pay the price," said Jerningham gravely.

"We know they are utterly unscrupulous: we know that they intend to kill them. What more likely than that they'll have a dip at it at the Friar's Heel. And that is a thing I do not propose to risk unless it is absolutely essential. No, Peter, my mind is made up, old boy—so there's no use your looking like that. I promise you that when it is necessary, I'll send for you."

"What is your suggestion, Hugh?" said Jerningham after a whale.

"This, Ted. From what Dixon overheard Irma say, this little show will not be concluded until they've got you—all three. I may be wrong, but I don't think they will try for you in London: in her own distorted way she is going to play this game through to the end in the way she intended. And, therefore, nothing further will take place until you come to the Friar's Heel. Now my proposal is this. But for this freak pal of Dixon's, Heaven alone knows when we should have solved that last clue. So there will be nothing surprising about it if you take at least a couple of days over finding the answer. And during those two days—or until I wire for you—you will remain in London, ready to leave the instant you hear from me."

"And you three?" asked Darrell.

"We'll go down in disguise and spy out the land. Maybe we shall find nothing; maybe the clue, if there is one at the Friar's Heel, will only be given to one of you. If so, I'll wire you. But it's possible that we shall find the clue, and get a short cut to what we want."

"I don't like it, Hugh," said Jerningham.

"Ted, old boy, it's best from every point of view. I don't want one of you killed—or the lot. And, my dear old lad, they mean business. Supposing you were all killed, from another point of view altogether—where should we be? Ignorant of where Phyllis is, with the game over as far as they are concerned. The whole bunch of us wiped out. The only person left then to finish off is Phyllis. There are such things as silencers for guns, laddie, as we know only too well. No, no: it's absolutely obvious. We will go first and see what we can find out. If we find out nothing—then you come in. If, on the contrary, we get on their tracks—then you still come in, but in a far sounder strategical position than if you went down now. Because when you arrive they will think the Friar's Heel is your objective, whereas in reality it won't be. They will lie up for you there, and you will short-circuit them."

"He's right, Ted; perfectly right," said Darrell unwillingly. "I wish he wasn't; but he is."

"So I shall rig up Toby and Dixon tomorrow, and they will go to some pub in Amesbury."

"What's your own game, Hugh," said Algy.

"That, old boy, you will know in due course. For the time being I think it's best that none of you should know. It's going to be touch and go—this show—and I'd sooner have an absolutely free hand. And finally, don't forget the old Froth Blower's dirge. Twice for danger."

"Froth Blower's?" I asked. "Is that the thing I've heard you singing?"

"Laddie," laughed Drummond, "you can't be real. When peace comes your education shall be taken in hand. Now is all clear?"

"Absolutely," said Darrell.

"Then a long night in, chaps. We'll want all we can get in the sleep line. And one other thing. If you want to get me, drop a line to John Bright at the Post Office, Amesbury."

They went casually with a nod and a grin—did the other three; demonstrativeness was not a characteristic of this crowd. But when they'd gone, Drummond sat for some time staring in front of him with his beer untasted on the table at his side. And at last he rose with a grunt. "Come on; bed. I hope to Heaven they'll be all right in London."

He showed me to my room, where a pair of his pyjamas had been laid out.

"Hope they won't be too small," he said with a grin. Then he paused by the door. "Deuced good of you and all that, Dixon, to mix yourself up in this show. Though, 'pon my soul, I don't know what we'd have done without you."

And, astounding though it may seem, I can recall no remark made to me in my life that has occasioned me greater pleasure. Whether it had anything to do with it, I don't know, but certain it is that no sooner had my head touched the pillow than I was asleep. And the next thing I knew was his servant shaking me by the shoulder the next morning.

"Nine o'clock, sir," he said. "And the Captain would like you to come along to the music-room as soon as you've had your bath."

The music-room appeared to be so-called because there was no trace of any musical instrument in it. It resembled nothing so much as an old clothes shop. Suits of all sorts and descriptions littered the floor; wigs, false hair and the usual makeup appliances were on the table. Drummond was standing in the middle with two complete strangers by him. One of them was obviously of the hairdresser type; the other was an elderly man of scholastic appearance.

"Morning, Dixon," said Drummond. "Now, Albert, there you are. What are we to do with him? A minimum on his face, because he's not used to it."

The hairdresser man eyed me critically.

"I thought a moustache," went on Drummond. "And glasses. For Mr Seymour. Don't forget, Dixon—Fred Seymour."

"Can't we dispense with the moustache?" I said. "It's certain to fall off at the wrong moment."

"Not as I shall fix it, sir," said the hairdresser in a pained voice. "Will you kindly take a seat here?"

"Who is the old bloke?" I whispered to Drummond as I passed him.

"My dear fellow," he cried, "excuse me. I quite forgot. This is a very old friend of mine—Professor Stanton—Mr Dixon. He's come to give Toby some advice on butterflies."

"A fascinating hobby, Mr Dixon," remarked the Professor, and I stared at him in amazement. Surely I knew that voice.

"Great Scott," I muttered. "It's you, Sinclair."

They all laughed.

"What an amazing disguise," I cried. "But for your voice I'd never have known you."

"And under the ministrations of the excellent Albert the result will be the same in your case," remarked Drummond. "The whole essence of disguise, Dixon, is to make it as simple as possible, and therefore as unnoticeable."

He was watching Albert's efforts as he spoke.

"Most people are extraordinarily unobservant," he went on. "If you wear different clothes to usual, alter your walk a little, and put on a pair of dark spectacles, you'll pass nine people out often that you know in the street without being recognized. Whereas if you wear a large red nose and fungus all over your face you may not be recognized, but you'll certainly be noticed. And once you're noticed the danger begins. Albert, I think a respectable bank clerk of about thirty-five is what we want."

He began rummaging in the pile of clothes.

"We'll give you a rather badly cut suit of plus fours, and a cap. Horn rimmed spectacles, Albert. Now let's have a look at him."

The three of them stared at me critically.

"Get into these clothes," said Drummond. "I can't be sure till you're out of that dressing-gown."

I contemplated the garments with distaste. "I suppose there are people who wear things like that," I remarked, "or nobody would make them."

"It's a misfit," he said. "I bought a dozen of 'em once, and that's about the last. Don't mind if your stockings come down a bit; it helps the effect. Yes, Albert: that will do."

"I think so, sir," said Albert complacently, and at that moment I saw myself in the glass.

The shock was ghastly, but at the same time I was forced to admit that the result was amazing. I do not look at my face more often than necessary as a general rule, it shakes me too badly to see it. But the reflection that confronted me as I stood there was that of a complete stranger. Moreover, it was true to type. I had seen hundreds of similar examples at the seaside during August, or on char-a-banc trips.

"Then that's finished," said Drummond. "Now the only pub, as far as I can make out, is the Amesbury Castle. I think you'd better arrive separately, and you can strike up an acquaintance afterwards."

He smiled suddenly and held out his hand.

"Thank you, Dixon; I'll take charge of that."

"Charge of what?" I said blankly.

"Blokes dressed like you, old boy, do not use expensive gold and platinum cigarette cases with Asprey written all over 'em. We'll put that in my safe, and here is a tasty little thing in leather. Nor, laddie, do most bank clerks smoke Balkan Sobranies. I suggest the perfectly good yellow packet...."

"I loathe Virginian cigarettes," I groaned.

"Well," he conceded, "you may smoke cheap Turkish if you like. But a Balkan Sobranie would shout aloud to heaven. Anything more, Toby?"

"Nothing, I think, Hugh. We aren't to know you, are we?"

Drummond smiled. "You won't know me, Toby," he said quietly. "All you've got to do is to keep your mouths shut, and your eyes open—and if you want me, John Bright at the Post Office finds me. If I want you I'll let you know."

He grinned again. "So long, boys. Leave the house by the back door separately, and for Heaven's sake, Dixon, try not to appear self-conscious. Be a city clerk: don't only look it."

Which was a policy of excellence, but not quite so easy as it sounded. As I walked along Berkeley Street I felt that everybody was looking at me. And when I ran straight into a woman I knew opposite the Ritz, I instinctively lifted my cap. She stared at me in blank surprise, and I dodged down Arlington Street to recover. Ass that I was—giving myself away at the very first moment. But after a while confidence began to return. I realized that though Joe Dixon would have caused a mild sensation garbed as I was—Fred Seymour caused none at all. And I further realized that if I as Joe Dixon had met me as Fred Seymour, I should have paid no attention to me. Fred Seymour was just one of a numerous type—no more conspicuous than any other individual of that type. The truth of Drummond's remark about the red nose was obvious. I was just an inconspicuous unit amongst thousands of others.

And so, as I say, gradually my confidence returned. I walked normally, and to test myself I determined to pass the commissionaire outside my club. I looked him straight in the face: he returned the look without a sign of recognition. And he on an average must see me five hundred times a year.

A sudden thought struck me: I had no baggage. For a while I debated between the rival merits of a rucksack and a handbag, deciding finally on the former. Then I bought a couple of shirts and some socks, and thus equipped, I made my way to Paddington. The last phase of the game, though I little knew it, had begun.

11. In Which I go to Friar's Heel by Day

Up to this point the telling of my story has been easy, even if the manner of the telling has been crude and poor. But from now on it becomes more difficult. Things happened quickly, and we were all of us scattered in a way we had not been before. In fact, for the greater part of the time, the only member of the bunch who I was able to talk to was Toby Sinclair. But I will do my best to make clear the happenings that led up to that last astounding denouement, which even now seems like some fantastic nightmare to me. And if some of those happenings are boring I can only crave pardon, and assure my readers that it is necessary to write of them for the proper understanding of what is to follow.

I arrived then, at the Amesbury Castle in time for a late lunch. It was a typical hotel of the English country town, relying more, I should imagine, on lunches and dinners to pay its way than on people taking a bed. The food was of that grim nature which one associates with hotels of the type—plain and tough. An aged waiter, with most of yesterday's ration on his shirt front, presided over the dining-room, and looked at me in a pained way as I came in.

"Very late, sir," he remarked.

"And I am very hungry," I answered cheerfully. He polished a menu card morosely on his trousers.

"Mutton hoff," he said. "Beef, 'am, tongue—and pertaters. Been a run on the mutton today," he added confidentially.

I gazed at the flies making a run on the beef and decided on ham and tongue.

"Many people staying here?" I asked.

"Full up for lunch," he said. "And the hotel be fairly full, too. A bunch of people came last night. Lumme! 'ere's another."

I glanced at the door to see Toby Sinclair coming in.

"Splendid," he cried, in a high voice that nearly made me laugh. "Food, waiter, for the inner man, and then to resume my search. Tell me, have you seen a Bragmatobia fuliginosa?"

The waiter recoiled a step.

"A'ow much," he demanded. "There's beef, 'am, tongue and pertaters."

"And only this morning," went on Toby, "I am convinced I perceived a Psecadia pusiella. Members, my dear sir," he said to me, "of the great family of lepidoptera. In other words butterflies."

"Beef, 'am or tongue," said the waiter resignedly. "The mutton's hoff."

"Ham, waiter, with a fragment of chutney. You are, sir," he turned again to me, "on a walking tour perhaps?"

"That is my idea," I said. "But I propose to make this hotel my headquarters."

"You may possibly care to come out with me once or twice. My name is Stanton—Professor Stanton."

"Mine is Seymour," I told him.

"Well, Mr Seymour——" He broke off suddenly. "Waiter, I asked for ham and chutney, not the mummified sole of a shoe covered with glue."

"The tongue is worse," said the waiter drearily. "And that there chutney has been here two years to my certain knowledge."

"As far as I am concerned it will remain for another two years. Give me some bread and cheese. Dixon," he said to me urgently, as the waiter left the room, "there's a man in the lounge outside I want you to have a look at. I only got a glimpse of him that night at the Mere, but I believe it's the bloke who was with the woman. Anyway he's got his hand bandaged up. No Mr Seymour, a lifetime is all too short for my entrancing hobby. Bless me! waiter, I think this cheese must have been here for two years also. Get me a pint of ale, will you? Yes, sir—a lifetime is too short. Nevertheless I hope to capture the Cyligramma fluctuosa before I die. Are you doing anything this afternoon?"

"I thought of going over to Stonehenge," I remarked.

He nodded. "We'll go over to Stonehenge. I wonder if one can hire a car."

And at that moment a man passed through the lounge. He looked in at the door, gave us both a casual glance and then disappeared.

"It is certainly our friend of the Mere," I said. "I'd know him anywhere. Now what the devil is he doing here?"

"Why shouldn't he be here?" said Toby. "This is the centre of activity at the moment."

"It may be," I agreed. "But don't forget that Darrell and Co. know him just as well as we do, and they might come at any moment as far as the enemy knows."

"That's true," he said. "Still, their intelligence work is probably good. We've got to watch him, Dixon. Waiter," he called out, "is it possible to hire a motor car? Mr Seymour and I were thinking of visiting Stonehenge."

"There be a Ford down at the garage," answered the waiter. "You might be able to get 'old of that if no one eke ain't already. Be you staying 'ere or do you want the bill?"

"Staying," said Toby. "Room 23. Well, Mr Seymour, shall we go and see about this Ford? I have an idea that I might perhaps see a Cerostoma asperella if my luck is in. Ah! pardon, sir—pardon."

He had bumped into a man just outside the door—the man we had both recognized.

"I trust I have not hurt your hand at all," he went on earnestly. "So clumsy of me."

The man muttered something and sheered off, whilst I followed Sinclair into the street.

"The gentleman was suspiciously close to the door, Dixon," he said quietly.

"Still, I don't think he suspected us," I answered.

"Not as us, perhaps. But I think the whole bunch of them suspect everybody. When you boil down to it, they're tackling a pretty dangerous proposition. If the police did get hold of them, abduction and attempted murder form a nasty charge."

"That is the very point that has occurred once or twice to me," I said. "One can understand the lady risking it: she has the best of motives—revenge. But I'm blowed if I see where these other fellows come in. There's no question of revenge with them. So what the devil are they doing it for?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Money. I'm told that in Chicago you can hire a gunman for a dollar. And I haven't the very smallest doubt that you can do the same in England if you know where to look. We heard that bloke at the Mere mention two hundred pounds. And there are scores of swine who would murder their mothers for that. Good Lord!"

His voice changed suddenly to that of the Professor.

"And so, my dear Seymour, if we can get this car I will try and show you some of those beauties of nature which I feel sure are as yet quite unsuspected by you."

A man brushed past, favouring us both with a penetrating stare.

"What's the matter?" I said, when he was out of earshot.

"Just for a moment I thought the dead had come to life," said Sinclair. "You saw that man who passed us?"

"That thin-lipped blighter who stared? Yes: I saw him. Is he one of them?"

"I haven't a notion," he remarked. "Look here, I'm just going to drop a line to Hugh, and I'll tell you the rest when we get in the car. Here's the garage."

The Ford turned out to be available, and I got in and waited for Sinclair, who was scribbling a note in the office.

"We'll post it in some pillarbox as we go out," he said as he joined me. "Better than leaving it at the main post office. Stonehenge, please, driver."

"What did you say," I asked, when we'd started.

"I told him about the man at the pub," he answered. "And also about that other bloke. Of course there may be nothing in it, but the likeness is really so astounding to a man we once had dealings with and who was one of the leaders of this very gang, that for a moment I thought it was him."

"Is there any reason why it shouldn't be?"

"Every reason. He died most substantially three or four years ago. Hugh killed him."

He grinned suddenly.

"Of course this is all Greek to you, so I'll tell you about it. When we first bumped into Carl Peterson—now defunct—and the lady you saw at the Mere, it was at the instigation of Mrs Drummond—before she was Mrs Drummond. It's altogether too long a story to tell you the whole thing; but in a nutshell, they were engaged in a foul criminal plot. Assisting them was one of the biggest swine it has ever been my misfortune to run into—a man called Henry Lakington. He was a mixture of chemist, doctor, thief, murderer and utter blackguard. But clever—damned clever. He wasn't as big a man as Peterson because he hadn't got the vision—but he was a far more ineffable swab. Peterson, at any rate, at times had the saving sense of humour: this man had none. And in the course of our little contest Drummond fought him and killed him. It was one or the other, and that's a bit dangerous for the other, if the one is Hugh. Now that man who passed us is the living spit of Henry Lakington; he might be—and for all I know is—his twin brother. And the coincidence struck me as so peculiar that I thought I'd mention it to Hugh. Of course, there's probably nothing in it."

"You are convinced," I said, "that this man Lakington was killed."

"Absolutely certain of it," he answered. "On that point there's not a shadow of doubt. But if there's anything in the theory that certain types of mentality have certain types of faces that man would steal the bird seed from a pet canary's beak. Hullo! here we are."

It was years since I had been to Stonehenge, and emphatically the impressiveness of the ruin had not been increased by the military buildings that had sprung up around it. Equally emphatically the difficulty of playing any monkey tricks there either by day or night had considerably increased.

At the time we arrived several empty char-a-bancs were standing on the road, and crowds of trippers were wandering round the huge stones escorted by guides. And having paid our modest entrance fee we joined a group.

"There, ladies and gentlemen, you have the slaughter stone on which the victim was sacrificed as the first rays of the sun, rising over the Friar's Heel, touched his body. Inside you perceive the altar stone...."

The guide droned on, but I paid scant attention. My thoughts were concerned with the present, and not with the past. Was Drummond right in his surmise, was this place—the scene of so much death in the dawn of history—to be the setting for murder as merciless as anything of old? What he had said was correct in one respect certainly; if Darrell, or any of them, were done to death it would be, to the world at large, a crime without motive. And the instant those three were disposed of, the end would come for Mrs Drummond.

It had been sound generalship on his part, leaving them in London. But the crux of the whole matter was whether, if there really was a clue to be obtained, we should get it. True, that we saved them the risk of being murdered, but did we not also prevent any possibility of getting information? Granted that our disguises held, what reason was there for us being told anything? To get a short cut to our goal, as Drummond hoped, presupposed our obtaining the necessary clue. And as far as I could see at the moment, the only connecting link we possessed was the man with the wounded hand.

To the other who, Toby Sinclair said, was like this dead man Lakington, I attached no importance whatever. Chance likenesses are frequent, and the mere fact that he bore a striking resemblance to a dead criminal was no proof that he was a criminal himself. No, the man with the damaged finger was our only link, and I began to wonder if we hadn't been foolish in losing sight of him.

I glanced round: Toby Sinclair had wandered off and joined another group. And it suddenly occurred to me that it could do no harm to make a closer inspection of the Friar's Heel. It was a perfectly ordinary and normal thing to do, and would not cause any suspicion even if our opponents had spies in the crowd. And there was always the bare possibility of finding a clue.

I wandered over to it, to find a big man in rough seafaring clothes staring at it curiously.

"Rum old pile this, guv'nor, ain't it? I've seen the same sort of thing at Stornoway up in Lewis. Though I reckons the stones there ain't as big. This Friar's Heel as they call it is a big 'un all right."

"You've been to the Hebrides," I said casually.

"Been there! Lor' bless you, there's not many parts of this little old globe that I ain't been to. And with it all I guess there are as curious things and as beautiful things in England as anywhere else. Only people don't know it, or else they're too lazy to go and look."

I looked at him curiously out of the corner of my eye. Could this be another clue? If it was it meant we had been spotted. And then I took a pull at myself: I was beginning to suspect everybody and everything.

"Stopping in these parts?" he went on.

"For a few days," I said.

"Funny sort of country," he remarked. "Good for the soldiers, I suppose, but it's a bit too bare for me. I like it with a few more woods and trees. Still—it's fine, especially at night. I reckon that these pebbles would look grand with the moonlight shining on them."

Once again I stared at him thoughtfully.

"Yes, one could imagine all sorts of terrible things happening here at night," I said quietly. "Ghosts of old Britons who had been sacrificed: and violent deaths, and—murder."

He laughed. "You ain't half got an imagination, guv'nor, have you? But I take it you're one of the townbred lot—meaning no offence. Put you down in the country at night and you begin to see things that ain't there—and hear things that ain't real. Murder! Who's going to murder anyone here?" He laughed again. "I don't suppose anyone ever comes to a place like this at night," he went on. "And yet it's a rum thing. I was bicycling along that road late last night—been seeing some friends of mine—and it seemed to me as if there was something moving about the place. Round this very stone. Of course it was dark and I may have been mistaken, but there ain't generally much wrong with my sight."

Last night, I reflected. Had the clue been guessed at once, Darrell and the other two could have been at the Friar's Heel by then. Had there been someone here in readiness? To give them a further clue, or to deal with them—otherwise?

"You didn't investigate?" I asked casually. "See if you were right?"

"Not me, guv'nor. None o' my business. And one of Ben Harker's rules in life has always been to mind his own business."

He produced a well-used old briar from his pocket, and proceeded to fill it from a weatherbeaten leather pouch.

"Have a fill?" he said. "Ship's tobacco; the best in the world."

"A bit strong for me, I'm afraid, Mr Harker," I thanked him. "We miserable city clerks are hardly used to that sort of smoke."

"You prefer them damned fags, I suppose," he grunted. "Ah! well, everyone to his own taste. Personally..."

He paused, and I glanced at him. His fingers had ceased filling his pipe, and he was standing absolutely motionless staring over my shoulder. Only for the briefest fraction of time did it last, and then he continued his interrupted sentence.

"Personally, I can't ever get any taste out of a cigarette."

As I say the pause was only for a fraction of a second—a pause which I might quite easily have missed had I not happened to have been watching his hands. But I hadn't missed it, and I knew that he had seen somebody or something behind me that had caused it.

"A match at any rate, I can offer you," I said, and as I spoke I turned round casually. Coming slowly towards us was the thin-lipped man who resembled Lakington.

"Thanks," he answered, lighting his pipe in the unmistakable method of a man used to the wind. Then he handed me back the box. "Well, good day to you," he said. "Maybe if you're staying in these parts we shall meet again."

He strolled off with the slight roll of the seaman, and I lit a cigarette. Certainly nothing he had done or said connected him in the slightest degree with the game, and yet I wasn't quite sure. Why that sudden pause in the middle of a sentence? And then it struck me that there was nothing to connect the man who had caused it with the game either except a resemblance to a dead criminal.

I sat down on the ground, and proceeded to study the huge stone, acutely conscious that the thin-lipped man was standing just behind me.

"You are interested in this sort of thing?" he remarked politely.

"As much as a bank clerk who knows nothing about it can be," I answered.

"It has always been a hobby of mine," he said. "The past is so infinitely more interesting than the present. One admits of imagination; the other is bare and brutal fact. These motor cars; this crowd of terrible people peering in their asinine way at the scene of age-old mysteries. Doing the place at high pressure, instead of steeping themselves in the romance of it."

He talked on, and there was no denying that he could talk. His voice was pleasant and well modulated, and after a while I began to listen entranced. Evidently a widely travelled and well-read man, with the rare gift of imparting information without becoming a bore. And after a while I began to keep up my end of the conversation.

It was when he happened to mention the Zimbabwe Ruins in Mashonaland, ruins that I had broken my journey at Fort Victoria in order to see; ruins, as many believe, of a vanished civilization, which had fascinated me at the time, that I became really interested.

He, too, knew them, and we started an argument. I maintained that they were an ancient legacy from some civilized people dating back, perhaps, to before the days of Solomon: he inclined to the theory that they were only the work of local natives and, at most, mediaeval.

"Evidently," he said at length, "you have studied the matter more closely than I have. Did you spend long there?"

"I was actually in South Africa for about six months," I told him. "And I used to collect opinions from those qualified to express them."

"A fascinating country. Though perhaps for any big scheme of emigration which would cover all classes of our countrymen Australia is more suitable."

"I've never been there," I said. "As a matter of fact I'm thinking of going next year. And to New Zealand."

"By the way," he said affably, after we had chatted for another ten minutes or so, "if you are staying in this neighbourhood you might care to have a look at my collection of curios. Though I say it myself I think I may say there are few finer in the country. And a man of taste like yourself would appreciate them."

"It is very good of you," I remarked, "and I should greatly like to see them."

He had risen, and I stood up also.

"Where is your house?"

He glanced at his watch thoughtfully.

"I have my car here," he said, "and if you can spare an hour I could run you over and show them to you. Then my car can take you back to your hotel."

"There is only one small difficulty," I said, "I came over from Amesbury with a gentleman I happened to meet at lunch. I see him over there—Professor Stanton. An enthusiast on butterflies."

"Professor Stanton," he cried. "Not the Professor Stanton."

"I really don't know," I murmured. "I met him quite by chance at lunch today."

"But," he exclaimed excitedly, "if it's Professor John Stanton his reputation is worldwide."

I suppressed a slight smile; whatever Toby Sinclair's reputation might be in certain purlieus of London, it could hardly be described as worldwide.

"He's coming to join us," I remarked, "and you can ask him."

"But it is him," he cried, as Toby approached. "What stupendous luck. My dear Professor," he advanced with outstretched hand, "you remember me. What a fool I was not to recognize you in Amesbury when I passed you."

Sinclair stared at him blankly.

"I fear you have the advantage of me, sir," he remarked.

The other waved a deprecating hand. "Ah! but, of course, you would not recall me. I am merely one of the thousands who have sat at your feet. It was presumption on my part to imagine that my face would be familiar to you. But how entranced I was at that lecture you gave on the habits of Pieris Rapae."

"You must be making some mistake, sir," said Toby coldly. "I am not the gentleman you think."

"Modesty, Professor, modesty. Tell me have you discovered a specimen of it yet? You told us, if you remember, that it was to be your life work."

"Though you are making a mistake, sir, as to my identity—yet I can well imagine that it would have been the life work of the man I resemble. The rarest of all the species, perhaps. But I have seen today a marvellous specimen of the Opsiphanes syme."

"Stupendous," said the other admiringly. "What eyesight: what wonderful eyesight. Well, I mustn't detain a public character. Good day sir, good day. And if you care to join your friend in a little visit he has promised to make to my humble abode, I shall be delighted to show you my amateur collection."

He bowed courteously and walked off, leaving Sinclair and me staring at one another.

"I say, old boy," said Sinclair, "I hope this is all right. I wonder who the hell Professor Stanton really is. Hugh's made a bit of a bloomer there. He oughtn't to have given me the name of a pukka character. Anyway, I think I pulled the jargon on him all right. I must consult my list of names again."

And it was as he was pulling it out of his pocket that a strange noise close by drew our attention. It appeared to come from a little man of astonishing aspect, whose fake teeth were clicking together in his excitement. He also seemed to be trying to speak. We waited. By this time I was prepared for anything.

"Are you acting for the films," he spluttered at length. "Or are you being more stupid than you look for some purpose?"

"Explain yourself, little man," said Toby with interest.

"Lying, sir—lying offensively on a subject which is sacred to some of us." His teeth nearly fell out, but he pushed them back with the care of long practice. "Using words, sir, which betray you as an impostor. How, sir, did you see a specimen of Opsiphanes syme?"

"With the jolly old peepers, laddie," said Toby soothingly.

"Bah!" cried the little man. "Are you so profoundly ignorant of the subject you desecrate that you do not know that only in the swamps of Brazil is that beautiful butterfly found?"

"No wonder he said my eyesight was good," said Toby thoughtfully.

"And further, sir—do you see that?" He pointed a shaking finger at two Cabbage Whites chasing one another nearby. "The rarest of all the species, you called them. Pieris Rapae, sir. Bah! you make me sick. You should be prosecuted, sir; you should be prosecuted."

"Look here, you'll swallow your teeth in a minute," said Toby, but the astounding little creature had already departed, waving his fists in the air.

"Takes all sorts to make a world, gents," came a laughing voice from behind us. "But you do certainly seem to have said the wrong thing." We swung round: the man who looked like a sailor was standing there. "Don't you know anything about butterflies—or is he talking through his hat?" He gave Toby a penetrating stare. "Dangerous thing, sir, pretending to know more than you do. Or be what you ain't."

He strolled away, and once again we looked at one another. "He's one of 'em," I said. "For a certainty. That's torn it."

"Hell," he remarked. "And again, hell. What about Lakington the second? Is he one, too?"

12. In Which I Write My Mind to Drummond

Toby Sinclair was thoroughly despondent. "I looked up a bunch of Latin names in an encyclopaedia," he said morosely. "How the dickens was I to know that the damned thing only lived in Brazil?" We were sitting in his room at the hotel. "And the devil of it is, Dixon," he went on, "that if Lakington is not one of them we've still given the show away to that sailor bloke. You could see his suspicions sticking out a yard."

"Hold hard a moment," I said. "You say we've given it away."

"Well then—I have, if you like that better," he said sulkily.

"Don't get huffy, old man," I laughed. "I'm not trying to pretend that I should have done any better than you if I'd been the Professor. But as luck would have it I was only a clerk."

"What are you driving at?" He looked at me curiously.

"Simply this. Up to date I have not given myself away—either to the sailor or to the man you call Lakington. I think I may say that I have been the bank clerk on holiday to the life."

"Yes—but they know you know me," he objected.

"They know—and if they choose to take the trouble to ask it will be corroborated—that you and I met casually in the coffee room at lunch today. If you are an impostor, which unfortunately they must know by now, there is still no reason whatever why I should have known it earlier."

"But you know it now as well as they do."

"Now—yes," I agreed. "But the fact that I went to Stonehenge with you throws no suspicion on me. I didn't know it then."

"I'm hanged if I get you," he said.

"You've got to clear out," I remarked. "Vamoose. Hop it. Disappear from this place for good."

"I'm blowed if I do," he said.

"My dear fellow—you must. If we're to do any good and help Drummond in any way, it's impossible that you should stay on. They know you're an impostor; they know I know you're an impostor. Well, how can we both stop on here? Am I to cut you dead? Or am I to continue talking to you realizing that you are an impostor? Don't you see that it's sufficient to bring suspicion on me at once? Besides—I'm going to speak quite frankly. Your value to the side at the moment is nil. In fact, old man, you're a positive source of weakness."

"I suppose you're right," he agreed reluctantly. "Well—what do you suggest?"

"That you tell them downstairs that you've changed your mind and will not require your room. Then you hop it, and I'm sorry to say, as far as I can see, you fade out of the picture. I shall stay on, and without being blatant about it, I shall drop an occasional remark about your extraordinary idea of a holiday. The strange sort of kink that makes a man pretend to be what he isn't—that line of gup. Form of conceit—you know. I can easily cough it up. And by doing that I shall remove any small half-formed suspicion they may have about me. I am just an ordinary bank clerk taken in by you, as anyone else might have been."

He grunted and rose to his feet. "You're right. I'll go. Drop a note to Hugh explaining things—and tell him I'm eating mud." And then he suddenly paused. "But, good Lord! Dixon—it's no good. The damage is done. If they've got a line on me they'll know Hugh and you and I aren't dead."

"They haven't got a line on you as yourself," I said. "You might be somebody else rigged out like that—Algy Longworth for instance. Clear out and clear out quick. For unless you do, if I'm not greatly mistaken you'll be for it. They will think you're just another member of Drummond's bunch, and as such require to be exterminated. I'm going down now into the bar; if I happen to see you before you go I shall be pretty terse in my remarks."

"What sickening luck," he muttered. "Damn that blinking butterfly."

"It's bad luck," I said, "but I'm sure it's the only thing to do. Look out into the passage and see if there's anyone about. Then I'll make a bolt for it."

He opened his door, and gave me the all clear. And a few moments later I strolled into the bar. A little to my surprise the seafaring man was there, seated in a corner. He was talking earnestly to someone, and as I saw who his companion was, my pulse beat a little quicker. It was our friend of the Mere, the man with the damaged hand. Proof—absolute and definite.

I ordered a pint of ale and sat down near them. And the instant he saw me the sailor leaned across and beckoned me to join them. "Draw up, mate," he cried. "You know it's none o' my business, but what was your friend's great idea this afternoon. I've just been telling this gentleman about it. Your butterfly pal, I mean, who knew nothing about butterflies."

"I assure you," I said a little stiffly, "he's no friend of mine. He's the most casual acquaintance. He happened to be lunching late at the same time as I was, and I gathered that he was a Professor Stanton, and an authority on butterflies. And he suggested we should go to Stonehenge together."

"Can't understand it," said the sailor man. "Now, if one of you started to talk to me about seafaring matters, I guess I'd spot in two shakes how much you know about the sea. And what's the good, anyway, of pretending you know what you don't know? You look such a blazing fool when you're found out."

"I think the explanation is very simple," I remarked. "It's merely a peculiar form of conceit. That man probably knows a smattering about butterflies, and for some reason or other likes to pose as an expert. He got it in the neck all right from that little man with the false teeth."

The sailor slapped his thigh with a blow like a pistol shot and roared with laughter. "Got it in the neck! Not half he didn't. Well, it will teach him a lesson. And butterflies—of all things. Look out—here he is."

Tony Sinclair came fussing in, and as soon as he saw me he crossed to our table.

"Ah! Mr Seymour," he said, "our little trip tomorrow must be cancelled, I fear. I have been unexpectedly called back to London, to my annoyance."

"I am sorry to hear that—er—Professor," I said a little stiffly.

"Going to catch Opsi—whatever it was—in Trafalgar Square," chuckled the sailor.

"I quite fail to understand you, sir," said Toby, drawing himself up. "Well—goodbye." He turned to me and held out his hand. "I trust you will enjoy the remainder of your holiday."

He went out into the lounge, and I watched him paying his bill.

"Really an extraordinary case," I said thoughtfully. "He's the last man in the world I should have thought would do anything so foolish. Even now I can't help thinking there must be some explanation. Though I suppose it's really a very unimportant matter."

"You never can tell," said the sailor darkly. "It may be that you're well clear of him, mate. Blokes don't masquerade like that unless they've got to. And they haven't got to unless there's something wrong somewhere."

"I quite agree," said the man with the damaged finger, speaking for the first time. "And as I happen to be a member of the police, I think I'll just keep an eye on the gentleman."

He finished his drink and left the room, and the sailor whistled under his breath.

"I wonder what the bloke has done," he said. "Or whether it's what you said—just a form of conceit. Anyway—have another."

For a moment or two I sat there undecided. Only too well did I know that the man with the damaged hand was not a member of the police, only too well did I know what he was a member of.

"Thanks," I said perfunctorily. "The same again, please." Should I, too, follow and tell Toby? But if I did, the sailor would in all probability begin to suspect me. He was a member of the gang, too, and it was vital that I should be thought genuine. At the same time, how could I possibly let Sinclair run into some trap? He'd been a fool to come over and speak to me, seeing who I was with. Still, I couldn't let him down. He must be warned.

"I think, after all, I won't have another at the moment," I said. "I shall go out for a bit of a stroll. I'll go on up and get my hat."

"Right ho! mate. You might see the Professor getting more butterflies."

I left the bar and went upstairs to my room. Was I doing the right thing or was I not? After all, nothing much could happen in Amesbury in the middle of the afternoon, and Toby was quite capable of tackling the man with the damaged finger single-handed. If he knew about him—that was the point.

I went down slowly into the lounge, trying to decide. The sailor was still sitting in his corner of the bar: he evidently regarded the rest of the half-section as preferable to a walk.

"A note for you, sir." The girl called to me out of the office.

"For me?" I said, staring at her.

She was holding it out, and I glanced at it. It was addressed to F. Seymour, and the unfamiliar name almost caught me napping.

"That's not—" I began, and then I remembered and took it. "Thank you," I said. "Who left it?"

"I really don't know, sir," she said. "I've been out of the office for a few minutes and I found it lying here when I got back."

Who on earth could it be from? No one knew me: and then, of course, I got it. Toby had left it on his way out. I slit open the envelope, and for a moment I stared at the contents uncomprehendingly.

'Do not follow Toby—H. D.'

H.D. Drummond! but where was he? How on earth did he know I had intended to follow Toby? And even as I racked my brains for an answer, a thickset man in plus-fours crossed the lounge and entered the bar. He had a short, clipped beard, flecked with grey, and his hair was thinning a little over the temples.

With an immense feeling of relief I followed him. Thank Heaven! He had arrived on the scene. Naturally I was not going to pretend to know him, but I couldn't resist throwing him a casual glance as I passed. By the mere fact that I was there he would know that I had carried out his orders so that it was unnecessary for me to do more. And I had the satisfaction of getting a quick look of approval.

"Changed your mind, mate, after all," called out the sailor. "However, better late than never, and good beer tastes none the worse for the waiting."

"It looked so infernally hot in the street," I said. "And even the chance of seeing our butterfly expert arrested for bigamy wasn't a sufficient inducement to go out."

I purposely spoke in a loud voice so that Drummond should hear.

"Bigamy; that's good," chuckled the sailor. "With a face like his I should think he'd be lucky to get one. Say"—he lowered his voice confidentially—"what do you make of the bloke in the corner. The one with the grouse moor on his face?"

"Nothing much," I said. "Why? You don't think he's another criminal, do you? Seems a perfectly ordinary sort of bird."

And then it suddenly occurred to me that it would be a good thing to let Drummond know that this man I was talking to was one of the enemy.

"By the way," I said casually, "seeing that you're a beer drinker, I suppose you're a Froth Blower."

The sailor shook his head. "I've heard of it," he remarked. "But I ain't a member. What's the idea?"

"Well, they've got a sort of anthem," I said, conscious that Drummond was looking in our direction, "by which they recognize one another. It goes something like this."

"Great Scott!" said the sailor after I'd finished. "Does it? You've got a funny sort of voice, haven't you, mate? Or is that really the tune?"

"It should under certain circumstances be sung twice," I remarked. "This is one of them."

"I'll take your word for it," he said urgently. "I don't want to be rude, guv'nor, but your voice is one of them things when a little goes a long way. Have another gargle?"

I declined his offer, and a little later I made my way into the lounge. Drummond had left the hotel, and it was fairly obvious that the only interest that the seafaring gentleman could have in me was one of curiosity. Though we had done our best to allay suspicion, Toby Sinclair's mistake had greatly increased my difficulties. To be associated, however innocently, with a man who has been found out as a fraud is bound to make one conspicuous. And that is exactly what I had no desire to be.

The saving point in the situation up to date had been—though I said it myself—my own acting. And as I sat in the lounge, idly scanning a local paper, I confess I felt a little amused. Drummond's absolute assurance that we should not recognize him struck me as being distinctly funny. Seldom had I seen a more obvious disguise than the one he had adopted. Of course, I realized that he had definitely given himself away to me by writing the note, but even without that I should have known him anywhere. The beard was so very obviously false. In fact, I made up my mind that when I dropped him a line to tell him exactly what had happened over Toby Sinclair I would warn him about that beard. It looked the sort that might fall off in the soup. And one thing was certain. If any of the enemy who had known him in days gone by—the woman herself, for instance—should chance to see him, he would be spotted for a certainty.

It surprised me, I confess. In one way and another I had heard so much of his resource and daring that it seemed all the more amazing that he should be so crude. To do him justice, the results he had obtained with Sinclair and myself were extremely good. Why, then, did he fail so dismally over himself? Could it be that he was so self-confident that he had become careless? Or was it merely that he was relying absolutely on the fact that the other side thought we were dead?

A very strong asset, doubtless—immensely strong—for just so long as they continued to think so. And that was where the great danger of Toby Sinclair's mistake lay. Supposing they got him and stripped off his disguise. He had been a member of Drummond's gang all through: he would be recognized at once by the woman. And the instant he was recognized it would be obvious to the meanest capacity that we had not been drowned. If he had escaped we must all have escaped. And once that fact was known, suspicion would be bound to fall on me in spite of anything I might do. As for Drummond with his beard, a child would spot him at the other end of the street. Had not the sailor himself been suspicious the instant he saw him? And did it not prove, if further proof was necessary, that up to date I was entirely unsuspected? Otherwise would he have spoken as he did to me?

It certainly gave me a feeling of confidence, but just as certainly it increased my responsibility. As far as I could make out, I was the only person who with any degree of safety could carry on. Sinclair was out of it; and I found myself hoping to Heaven that Drummond would stop out too. Of course, I knew he wouldn't, but with his extremely conspicuous appearance he would do far mere harm than good. In fact, as I continued to think over it I began to feel thoroughly irritable. This wasn't a game of Hunt the Slipper, or Kiss in the Ring. It was a game in which, as we knew to our cost, any false step might prove fatal. And it wasn't playing fair to any of us to come into the thick of it with an appearance that called to high heaven—this is a disguise. Toby Sinclair's mistake had been foolish, perhaps, but that I had managed to rectify by acting promptly. But nothing I could do would rectify Drummond's. He, once he was seen, was beyond hope.

I crossed to a writing-table: something must be done. He might be our leader and all that, but I failed to see the slightest reason why I should run a considerably increased risk of getting it in the neck.

"Surely," I began, "it is nothing short of insane to come here with such a blatantly false beard on. The thing shrieks at one. The man who looks like a sailor, and who, as I told you by signal in the bar, is one of them, suspected you at once. I rode him off, of course—but if the woman should see you, you're done for. We all are. Would it not be wiser, in view especially of Sinclair's bad mistake this afternoon, for you to leave this thing in my hands for the moment. I am the only one who is unknown to the other side. I obeyed your instructions, and did not go after him when he left the hotel, but are you aware that he was followed by the man whose finger you shot off. What is going to happen if they catch him? Don't you see that the whole show is up? They will realize at once that none of us were drowned. And what then? Once that occurs, you will forgive my blunt speaking, but you won't last a minute. You will be spotted immediately. And because of my association with Sinclair they will even suspect me.

"Would it not, therefore, be better if, as I said before, you lie low for a bit? I will keep my eyes open, and find out what I can—notifying you at once of any developments. My principal hope lies in the sailor, and in the man with the damaged hand. The latter we know is one of them: the former I am equally certain is one also. Not, of course, absolutely so: but his whole demeanour at Stonehenge this afternoon was most suspicious. In fact, only the certainty of my perfect disguise prevents me from thinking that he was giving me the next clue. And if he was, it is Stornoway, in the island of Lewis. But of this I am not sure. Why should he waste a clue on an inoffensive bank clerk? Let us hope, at any rate, that I am wrong. Our difficulties in crossing undiscovered to such a sparsely populated locality as the Hebrides will be great.

"Then there is another man about whom I think Sinclair wrote to you. He resembles apparently a man you killed some years ago called Lakington. We met him in the street here before starting for Stonehenge; and we again met him at the Friar's Heel itself. I had a long talk with him first, and found him a most delightful and cultivated individual. In fact, I cannot believe that he is one of the enemy. Then Sinclair joined us, and committed his terrible gaffe. He told him he had actually seen a butterfly which, as we subsequently gathered, only grows in Brazil! Now whether this man, who for purposes of reference I will call Lakington, actually spotted this mistake, or whether he didn't, I cannot say with any degree of certainty. But the point is really immaterial. Because the man who looks like a sailor most certainly did. After Lakington had left us, an odd little man, who obviously knew what he was talking about, though he acted as if he wasn't all there, told Sinclair to his face that he was an impostor. And the sailor, who was close by, heard. Now do you see the danger we are in? Sinclair is spotted: you, I'm afraid, are spotted also, so that only I am left. And if by any chance they begin to suspect me—which is not likely, but at the same time is a possibility we must reckon with—the coincidence would be too marked to escape their notice. One newcomer in disguise might be anybody: three—one of whom is a big man—tapes us unerringly. We shall have lost the priceless asset of secrecy.

"Wherefore I beg of you lie low. Hide, if necessary, in whatever room you may have taken, and wait for information from me. I am repeating myself, I know, but frankly, my dear fellow, it never even dawned on me that you would appear quite as you are. I venture to think it would almost have been better if you had come as yourself. However, the mischief is done now—and all that we can try to do is to rectify it.

"You may rely implicitly on me; but please do not make my task any harder than it is already."

I read through what I had written. Strong, perhaps—but not one whit too strong. He must be made to understand the enormity of his offence. And if he didn't: if he persisted in going about the place as he was, I should have to consider very seriously whether or not I would throw the thing up. Where would they have been without me up to date? I had more than half solved the first clue: I had completely solved the second: and, through old Jenkinson, I had given them the answer to the third. Which entitled me to express my opinion pretty tersely. And if Drummond didn't like it, he could damned well lump it.

I addressed an envelope to John Bright, and called for a stamp. And it was while I was waiting for it to be brought that a trick of memory brought to my mind an incident in some detective story I had read years ago. A man had given himself away by leaving behind him a piece of blotting-paper which he had just used. And the blotting-paper, when held up to a looking-glass, revealed exactly what he had written.

Just one of those little things, I reflected, where brain counts. One of those small details where the blundering type of fellow is apt to get caught. So I took the blotting-paper, tore it into small pieces, and dropped them in the paper-basket. "Bit extravagant, aren't you, mate?" With a feeling of annoyance, I turned round in my chair. Standing by the door of the bar was the sailor, and with him was the man with the damaged hand. And they were both staring at me.

For a moment I was tempted to ask him angrily what the devil it had to do with him, but I instantly suppressed the impulse. After all, it was a very harmless remark—one, moreover, which I was quick enough to see gave me an excellent opportunity of consolidating my position.

"A habit we clerks get into in a bank," I said. "Clean blotting-paper always after finishing a job."

"Is that so?" he remarked. "What a good idea." I rose and crossed to the front door—I had no wish to post the letter in the hotel. And it was as I was actually stepping on to the pavement that a sudden awful thought struck me. Supposing—what was to prevent them, as soon as I was gone, from getting the torn-up pieces out of the basket and fitting them together.

At all costs I must prevent that, and the question was how. The sailor was still by the door, though the other man had disappeared. There was only one thing to be done: get back to the table, write another letter, and in some way or other retrieve those incriminating pieces.

I wrote another letter, and still he stood there. But at last he went, and I made a dive for the basket. The bits were all together, but mixed up to a certain extent with old cigarette ends and two used pipe-cleaners. However, there was no time to worry over trifles: it was imperative that I should get that blotting-paper. I grabbed the lot, including the pipe-cleaners, and some soft, wet object, and crammed everything into my pocket. Then, breathing freely, I once more stood up, only to see that confounded sailor pop out again like a jack-in-the-box from the bar.

"Lumme, mate!" he cried, "what have you got on your coat? It looks like something out of a dustbin."

I glanced down, just as the soft, wet object fell with a flop on the carpet.

"Why," he said with interest, "that's the rotten plum I threw away an hour ago. You don't half have funny habits at your bank, old man, do you?"

The situation was undeniably difficult, and the only thing to do was to carry it off lightly.

"I threw away an important paper by mistake," I laughed.

"Well, you must have had St Vitus's dance in your fingers when you picked it up again," he said. "You've got an old bootlace and two toothpicks on your coat, sticking in the plum juice."

He retired into the bar again leaving me fuming inwardly. The man was absolutely ubiquitous: it seemed impossible to get rid of him. Moreover, it was one of those stupid little things that have the power of irritating one profoundly. To be seen by anybody grabbing rotten plums out of a wastepaper basket is annoying: in this case it might have been worse but for the cool way I had ridden him off.

However, there was only one thing to be done—dismiss the matter as unimportant. I had retrieved the blotting-paper which was the main point: the next item on the programme was to post my letter to Drummond. And then the real business would begin.

I strolled along the street, thinking out the best means of tackling the problem. The whole thing boiled down to a question of subtlety and brain: of meeting cunning with cunning. Once I had obtained the next clue, or located our opponents' main even if only temporary headquarters—strength would doubtless be required. And then Drummond could shed his ridiculous beard and emerge from seclusion. But until then—well, my letter was concise on that point.

My eyes suddenly narrowed: surely there was Drummond himself—beard and all—going into the Post Office. I quickened my steps. I felt that my letter was so vitally important that it would be worth while running some small risk to obtain immediate delivery. Every additional moment that he was at large in that absurd and obvious get-up increased our danger.

He was leaning over the counter as I entered, and I went and stood next to him.

"Are there any letters here for Bright?" he asked the girl "John Bright."

She turned round to look, and I nudged his arm gently, showing him at the same time the letter I held in my hand. Then I dropped it on the floor.

"One just come," said the girl handing over Toby Sinclair's note.

Drummond took it, and then, as she attended to me, he stooped down and picked up mine. I bought some stamps, and stayed chatting with the girl for a few moments to give him time to get away. Then with a feeling of relief that my warning had reached him safely I followed at a reasonable distance. That vital matter was settled anyway.

Once more I returned to the problem. Two main lines of action presented themselves, so it seemed to me. The first lay in shadowing the sailor, or the man with the damaged finger, or possibly both: the second entailed a further visit or visits to the Friar's Heel, and both courses involved certain obvious difficulties.

It was true that up till now I had successfully avoided suspicion, but if I proceeded to attach myself permanently to either of the two men, how long should I continue avoiding it? If I tried to stalk them at a distance I was at once confronted with the fact that Salisbury Plain is not a very populous spot, and that I was almost certain to be discovered. On the other hand, if I went to the Friar's Heel, what chance should I have of obtaining any clue? Why should anything be said to an inoffensive bank clerk?

The best course I decided would probably be a mixture of the two. I could cultivate the sailor's acquaintance, and if I kept my ears open I might learn something of value either from him or the man with the damaged hand. But I would confine my dealings with them to the bar, or at any rate the hotel, unless some opportunity presented itself to accompany them anywhere outside. In addition I would pay a further visit to the Friar's Heel, and see if I could pick up anything there.

And that was the conclusion I had reached as I turned into the lounge. Prudent, and at the same time calculated to give the maximum of result. The sailor was in his usual corner of the bar, and he waved a cheerful hand at me as I entered.

"Been picking up any more plums?" he inquired. "Anyway, what about that gargle you wouldn't have before?"

"My shout this time," I said genially as I sat down. "Just been having a stroll through the town. What is it?"

He was leaning towards me, and signing me to put my head close. "I believe," he said in a hoarse whisper, "that that man's beard is false."

"What man?" I asked bewildered.

And then, to my rage and fury I saw that Drummond had just entered the bar. For a moment or two I could scarcely speak, so angry did I feel. After my urgent letter, after my imperative warning, for the triple distilled fool to parade himself again in the hotel of all places was too maddening.

"I don't think so," I managed to get out after a while. "Why should a man wear a false beard?"

"Why should a man pretend to know about butterflies when he doesn't?" he remarked. "Why should a man pick rotten plums and toothpicks out of a wastepaper basket?"

"I trust," I said stiffly, "that you don't think there is anything mysterious about me."

"Lumme! no, mate," he laughed. "There ain't nothing mysterious about you." He was staring covertly at Drummond all the time. "It is false," he affirmed. "It waggles."

"Confound him and his beard," I cried. "Let's have that drink."

And even as I beckoned to the waiter, what little self-control that I still had after Drummond's colossal idiocy very nearly left me. Who should be crossing the lounge and heading straight for the bar but Algy Longworth?

He came drifting in and I stared at him speechlessly. Had everybody gone mad I wondered. That he should come here at all must be due to Drummond. And that Drummond should have sent him knowing that the man with the damaged hand was in the hotel could only be explained by the fact that our much vaunted leader's brain had failed.

True they took no notice of one another, and after a time, Longworth came over and sat down at the next table to ours. He, of course, did not know me, and I therefore judged it safe to address a casual remark to him. It might perhaps enable him to clear out.

"Motoring through?" I said casually.

He nodded.

"Jolly place, isn't it?" he remarked. "I always love dear old Salisbury Plain, ever since I spent six months on it at the beginning of the war. But I don't know this end very well: I was up Ludgershall way. Is it far from here to Stonehenge?"

"Stonehenge," repeated the sailor. "About three miles, I suppose. This gentleman and I were there this afternoon."

"I thought of going tonight," said Algy, and I felt I could have cheerfully murdered him.

"Did you?" remarked the sailor, staring at him thoughtfully. "Well, it's an interesting place, ain't it, mate?"

He turned to me.

"What did they call that stone where we were talking? The Friar's Heel, wasn't it?" And as he said it he deliberately raised his voice. I had a momentary glimpse of the man with the damaged hand standing in the door staring at Algy. Then he disappeared, and I saw him leave the hotel quickly. The damage was done: the message had been given.

13. In Which I go to Friar's Heel by Night

I don't mind confessing that I very nearly chucked in my hand. The whole thing was too disheartening. It was worse than disheartening—it was suicidal. I realized, of course, that my letter had not reached Drummond in time for him to warn Longworth that the sailor was one of the other side, but even so Algy should have known better than to discuss his plans with two complete strangers. And now the thing was what to do.

Drummond had left the bar shortly after, and up till dinner time I had no chance of a private word with Longworth. I made him one or two covert signs when the sailor was not looking, but he missed them all. In fact he seemed to me to be wilfully dense. He must know that I was about somewhere, even if he didn't actually recognize me.

At dinner it was just the same. I came in to find him sitting at the long table between an elderly lady and a man who looked like a prosperous farmer. And not once did he even glance in my direction though I tried to catch his eye on several occasions.

The sailor had beckoned to me as I came in to sit at his table, but I had pretended not to see. I wanted peace and quiet to think out this new development. If Algy went to the Friar's Heel that night he was for it. That much was obvious. Unless, of course, Drummond proposed to be there, too, and bring the matter down to brute force. But even if he did, surely he must realize that it was very unlikely it would help us to find his wife's hiding place.

Or did Drummond intend to lie hidden in the hope of getting a clue, and to use Longworth as a decoy without whom the clue would not be given? That, of course, was possible. But what the damned fool seemed to fail utterly to realize even now was the folly of doing such a thing in his present disguise. Already the sailor suspected him: once let him be discovered at the Friar's Heel, even if his great strength did enable him to get away, suspicion would become certainty. Then they would either move Mrs Drummond, or finish her off right away, and we should be in a far worse position than we were now.

If only he would leave the thing to me. It seemed such an obvious solution to the whole matter. Instead of which, here they were blundering round, suspected by everybody and finding out nothing.

At length I finished my dinner, and went into the lounge. I had seen Longworth go out previously, but there was no sign of him as I sat down. And as I tried to drink some of the concoction that passes in the average English hotel for coffee, the sailor went by towards the door.

"Goodnight, mate," he called out.

"Where are you off to?" I asked carelessly.

"Going to see some friends out Netheravon way," he answered with a wink. "At least—a friend."

He went out under the pleasing delusion that he had deceived me, and I sat on. Where was Algy?

A quarter of an hour passed: a half, and at length I could stand it no longer. I would chance it and go to his room. I got up and strolled over casually to the office. There was the entry in the book right enough—A. Longworth, Room 15. I went upstairs; the room was facing me. And after a quick glance round to see that no one was about I opened the door and went in.

The room was empty, and I stood there wondering what to do next. It seemed obvious that he must have left the hotel, and if so he was probably on his way to Stonehenge by now. And the only thing to do as far as I could see was to follow him. After all, who knew what he might be up against, and even if Drummond was there a third person would do no harm.

I decided that I would walk. The night was fine though dark, and an hour, I calculated, would just about see me there. Then I would lie concealed unless my help was wanted, and find out what I could.

It was just about eleven when I reached the slight hill that passes the monument. I was walking on the grass beside the road to deaden the sound of my footsteps, and when I got level with the great stones I sat down for a while to reconnoitre. I could see them dimly outlined in the darkness some hundred yards away, and I craned my eyes to see if I could make out any sign of movement. There was nothing: all was silent and motionless, until after a while I began to imagine things.

I recalled that vigil of the other night by the stranded motorcar, and realized that unless I did something soon my nerves would begin to go. And one thing was obvious: if I did want to find out anything I would have to go nearer.

I put a leg through the wire fence, and even as I did so I heard a sound that froze me into immobility and brought me out in a cold sweat. It was a shrill scream of fear, and the voice was the voice of a man.

It came from the direction of Stonehenge, and I crouched there listening with every sense alert. The scream was not repeated, though it seemed to me that I heard a hoarse worrying noise for a time. Then utter silence.

Suddenly I became aware of something else. I was still standing half straddled over the fence, when I felt by the faintest movement of my legs that someone else was touching the wires. And not very far away either.

I peered into the darkness: was that the dark outline of a man—or was it only a little mound? It was moving, I could swear it was moving. But it was moving away from the road and towards Stonehenge.

Then came the next unexpected development. This time there was no mistake about it: someone was scrambling through the fence without taking any precautions whatever. The wires literally twanged, and once again I crouched down waiting. Well for me that I did so: well for me that I was not still in the place where I had sat down first.

For a moment later a man, bent almost double, came swiftly past right over the spot from which I had only just moved. The fence was between us but even so, he was so close that I could have touched him, and how he missed seeing me I do not know. But I saw him, and long after he had vanished into the darkness I sat there motionless, trying to puzzle out this new development. Even without the momentary glimpse I had got of his face, another sense would have proclaimed the truth. The man was a coal-black negro.

I looked round again: the mound was no longer there, and after a little hesitation I too started to crawl cautiously towards Stonehenge. Whether I liked it or not, the reason of that dreadful scream had got to be discovered.

Foot by foot I wormed my way forward, peering ahead at every step to try and see the other man who I knew must be somewhere in front of me. Suddenly from about twenty yards away came the faint glow of a screened electric torch. I stopped instantly: without realizing it I had almost reached one of the great stones. And for a space I stared at the terrible spectacle the light revealed.

Lying on his back, his legs sprawling drunkenly, was a man, and it only needed one glance to see that he was dead. There were ghastly marks round his throat, and his head lolled sideways. The poor brute had been throttled by a man of immense strength, and it looked to me as if his neck had been broken.

It was not Algy Longworth: the dead man was a complete stranger. But who was the man who held the torch? His face was in shadow: I could not see the outline of his body. Was it the sailor? Or was it the man with the damaged hand? I craned forward, and as I did so the torch was extinguished. I had a blurred impression of movement, and then silence. The man, whoever he was, had gone. I was alone with the dead body. And even as I realized it and began to wonder what I should do next, I heard the faint thrumming of a motor car from the road. Then came the slight squeak of a brake and the sound of a door being opened. I looked round. Whoever it was was running without lights.

Very cautiously I backed away from the murdered man. An unlighted car stopping where this one had seemed too suspicious for my liking. And having gone what I thought was a safe distance I lay down and waited: waited until the next thing happened, a thing which almost made me throw caution to the winds.

"To the right," came the voice of a man, speaking low. "You have your torch?" came the answer, and the man grunted assent.

And the second speaker was a woman. I could see them dimly outlined against the darkness not five yards away. But it wasn't that that filled me with a wild excitement: it was the smell of a scent like jasmine—and yet not quite jasmine. It was the woman herself—Irma—our arch-enemy. They moved away, and I wormed after them. "Here he is," said the man's voice. "I'll switch on the torch for a second."

Once more came the faint glow, and then a sharp exclamation from her. "This isn't one of them. I've never seen this man before in my life."

The torch was extinguished. "Darling—Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," she said fiercely. "I know the whole brood by sight. That is no more Longworth than you are."

"Then what on earth was he doing here?" muttered the man.

"How should I know?" she answered. "That fool Pedro has killed the wrong man."

"Unless this man is a new member of their gang," said her companion.

She almost spat at him.

"I'm not concerned with new members. I want the old lot."

"My beloved," came his voice, vibrant with love and passion, "can't you chuck it? This is all such a ghastly risk. Drummond is dead already: you've got his wife. Isn't that enough?"

"It is not," she said coldly.

"Well, what are we going to do about this body?" he asked wearily. "Every moment we're here increases our danger."

"Are those sheds over there empty?"

"But the risk, cherie. It is bound to be discovered."

"Not until we have finished," she said in a peculiar voice. "Send Pedro back from the car to carry it there."

They were moving away, back towards the road. And to my mind there returned those strange words of hers—"After, I will come to you." And her voice as she said the word "Finished," had been the same. What was in this strange woman's brain? What dark, hideous plan had she conceived? Because the conviction was growing on me that she was not only a woman obsessed with an idea—she was mad.

And who was this man, her companion, who evidently loved her? Where did he come in? Did he hope for reward after her plans were fulfilled—did he hope for her? What wouldn't I have given for the clue to the events of the night. Who was the dead man? Who was the man who had first examined him and then disappeared into the darkness?

And then the noise of the car starting recalled me to the present. Pedro must be the black man I had seen dodging past me down the road, and I had no wish to meet Pedro whatever. Crouching low, I dodged away from the place where the body lay. I had seen enough. I would go back to the hotel and think things over tomorrow.

I reached the railings, and cautiously crawled through them. Then I started on my three-mile walk. From behind me came the harsh cry of a night bird, and once I paused and listened. It seemed to me that I heard a strange, worrying noise, followed by a sharp shout that was instantly suppressed. With an involuntary shudder I walked on till the dim outline of the giant stones were hidden by the hill. Nothing would have induced me to return to the place again. But I couldn't help wondering what further horror had happened there. Had the negro suddenly encountered the other wanderer by night? And who was it who had shouted?

One ray of light, and one ray only shone in the general fog. They had intended to kill Algy Longworth that night: they therefore intended to kill Darrell and Jerningham. The last lingering doubt that this woman intended to play the game had been dispelled. And it was therefore imperative that they should be warned. They must at all costs be kept away from the place. Once they were caught, the end would come at once: nothing could save Drummond's wife. This woman Irma would imagine that we were all accounted for, and no further reason would exist for delay. So Algy would have to be sent away as soon as possible, and told to stop away until at any rate I had discovered the headquarters of our enemy.

It ought not to be difficult, I reflected. Surely someone in the neighbourhood must have seen the negro. He would be a conspicuous figure in a locality like this. And once he was identified the house was identified. And once that was done, there was one thing on which I was absolutely determined. The police must be informed. If Drummond wouldn't do it, then I would. It was essential: the house must be completely surrounded by a cordon of men. The time for fooling with matters was past: things were altogether too serious. We were up against a mad woman and a man who was infatuated with her. And they would have to be put under restraint, or else exterminated.

Then another thought struck me. What if I informed the police at once or first thing next morning of what I had seen? Told them that in one of those old disused military sheds they would find the dead body of a man, and that the murderer was a negro. That would take them direct to the place and settle things. As a foreigner, I took it, he would have to be registered: his address would, therefore, be known. The only trouble was that my own doings might require a little explanation. Why was I masquerading about in a disguise? Why had I entered my name in the hotel books as Seymour when it was really Dixon? Well—I should have to tell them everything, that was all, though I frankly did not relish the idea of trying to make a stolid local police officer believe me. The whole thing sounded too much like a nightmare induced by a surfeit of lobster.

I paused to light a cigarette, and as I did so I saw a red light on the road ahead of me. It was the tail-light of a car, and it was stationary. It seemed to be about a hundred yards away, and for a moment or two I stared at it thoughtfully. True, there was nothing inherently suspicious about a stationary motor car, but tonight I was in a mood to suspect anything.

I crept cautiously a little nearer. Something had evidently gone wrong, I could see the outline of the chauffeur as he peered into the bonnet. Another man was standing beside him holding an electric torch in his hands, and the chauffeur was tinkering with a spanner.

Suddenly the man holding the light turned it for a moment on to the chauffeur's face, and I stopped abruptly. For the chauffeur was the man who had sprung at me out of the ditch three nights before, and whose hands I could still feel on my throat. No doubt about it now: the car in front of me belonged to the enemy. And surely, unless it was a very amazing coincidence, it must be the same car that had stopped by Stonehenge earlier.

I crawled into the hedge and tried to decide on a line of action. There in front of me lay the means of running the gang to earth if only I could seize it. But how? Once the defect was put right the car would be off, and manifestly I couldn't follow it on foot. I cursed myself for not having come on a bicycle: then I might have had some chance. Now it was hopeless. And yet I knew that if I could but track that car to its destination our problem was solved.

I crept a little nearer, and suddenly an idea dawned on me. The luggage grid was down at the back. Suppose I managed to get on that! It would have to be done with the utmost care: the exact psychological moment would have to be seized. Just as he let in his gear would be the time. And if I was spotted, I would pretend that I was trying to jump a ride. Disguised as I was, the chauffeur would not recognize me: the woman, anyway, did not know me, and the only danger was the other man of whose identity I was still in ignorance. Still, it was worth the risk: the information, if I could get it, would be so invaluable.

The chauffeur was closing the bonnet. The man who had been holding the light opened the door and got in. The moment had come. Stooping low, I ran the few yards to the back of the car, just as I heard the noise of the self-starter. Then the engine was raced for a few seconds, and I gripped the grid with both hands, and swung myself on to it. We were off.

A wild feeling of triumph swept over me: so far, I had not been spotted. But it didn't last long, and if the road had not been good, it would have lasted an even shorter time. For sheer discomfort commend me to a ride on the luggage grid of a fast car. Several times I was nearly shot off as we went over bumps. In addition, the car was over lubricated, and emitted a dense cloud of blue smoke from just underneath me. But for all that, I felt it was worth it: I'd done the trick. I'd succeeded where, at any rate up to date, the others had failed. All that was necessary now was to hang on until we reached our destination, drop off as the car slowed down, and escape into the darkness. And in spite of my extreme agony, I almost laughed as I pictured Drummond's face the next morning when he heard the news.

I felt the brakes being applied and heaved a sigh of relief. And then the car swung right-handed, and turned through a gate. I could tell by the scrunch of gravel under the tyres that we were in a drive, and suddenly a light inside the car was switched on. That was a complication I had not thought of, for now the ground behind the car was illuminated through the back window. And if either of the occupants happened to look out they were bound to see me when I dropped off. I hesitated, squeezing myself as close as possible to the car. Should I chance it? And while I was trying to make up my mind, the car stopped at the front door.

Now I thought detection was certain, but still my luck held. The man and the woman passed into the house: the door closed behind them. And the next instant the car moved on. Once again did I get ready to jump off, when the noise of the gravel ceased and I realized we were in the garage. Moreover, it was a big garage, and the chauffeur had driven the car in as far as it would go so that I had at least ten yards to cover before reaching the door. I heard him get down and start fiddling with some tools on a bench. Should I make a dart for it now? Then the lights were switched off, and he yawned prodigiously. He had evidently finished for the night, and I only just had time to dodge to one side of the car as he came by on the other.

He heaved on the sliding doors, and they met with a clang. A key turned: his footsteps died away. And I couldn't help it—I laughed. The situation really had its humorous side. Without doubt I had successfully tracked the tiger to its lair—so successfully that I was inside while the tiger was out. And as my position came home to me I stopped laughing. The humour of the situation lay with the tiger.

I started to make a tour of inspection. The main doors were locked: there was nothing to be hoped for in that quarter. And a brief survey of the windows showed that none of them were made to open. Cautiously I felt my way along to the further end. A wooden bench littered with spanners and things filled three-quarters of it: in the other quarter, and my hopes rose as I saw it, was a second door. I tried the handle. It was locked. That finished it. I was caught like a rat in a trap. With the arrival of the chauffeur next morning I must be discovered. Nothing could prevent it.

What a drivelling idiot I had been! I had accomplished absolutely nothing. I didn't even know where I was, which would have been some recompense. Then, even if they kept me a prisoner, I might have found an opportunity of communicating with Drummond. As it was, all that I had succeeded in doing was to get locked up in a unknown place.

What about breaking one of the windows? It gave me a possibility of escape whereas if I waited there was none. But I soon realized the difficulty of the idea. The panes were small—far too small for me to squeeze through. It would mean smashing wood and everything, and there, not ten yards away, was the house. Still, it was a possibility. I was bound to be heard but in the general confusion I might escape. And even as I was turning the matter over in my mind I stiffened into sudden rigidity. A light was shining below the bottom of the second door, and I could hear footsteps approaching.

The key turned, and I dodged behind the car. A man came in, and I could hear him cursing under his breath. He had an electric torch in his hand, and he appeared to be searching for some tool on the bench. His back was towards me, and for a moment I had the wild idea of hurling myself on him and taking him unawares. I think if I had had any weapon in my hand I would have done so and chanced it.

He found what he wanted, and left the garage. My opportunity, if it ever really had been an opportunity, had gone. But had it? For he had left the door wide open.

Light streamed in, and I crept a little nearer. He was walking along a short passage, and a further door at the other end was open. It led into a room, and it was from the room that the light came. The passage was evidently to enable one to reach the garage from the house under cover, but it was not of such prosaic details that I was thinking. It was the brief glimpse I had obtained of the interior of the room that made me rub my eyes and wonder if I was dreaming.

The entire furniture appeared to consist of big stones. I had seen no chair, no table, only square and oblong stones. At least, I thought they were stones: they certainly looked like stones—stones about three or four feet long and a foot thick. And if they were stones, what in the name of fortune were they there for? Had I come to a private lunatic asylum? Was the whole place bughouse?

He had half closed the second door behind him so that I could no longer see anything from the garage. But I could still hear, and the noise was the noise a stonemason makes when chipping with a cold chisel.

I crept even nearer. Confound the risk, I thought; I was caught, anyway. And by this time my curiosity was so intense that it banished fear. At last I got near enough to see into the room, or, rather, into a part of it. And what I saw confirmed my opinion. They were bughouse: the whole darned lot of them.

The room was a big one, and the first impression that it gave was that it had been specially prepared for some mystical religious ceremony. The walls were completely concealed with black curtains, and a thick black carpet covered the floor. On this carpet, in the portion of the room that I could see, big greyish-white stones were lying about apparently haphazard. Some were on their sides: others stood endways. Some lay isolated: others were arranged as a child might arrange bricks. One particular group that I could see consisted of four stones on end and spaced at intervals of about a foot, with a fifth laid flat across their tops. In short, the whole effect was that of a stonemason's yard arranged by its owner when under the influence of alcohol.

Through the black curtains the lights stuck out—big, white, frosted lights that seemed to hang unsupported in the air. And after a while, as I looked at the one opposite me, it began to have the most extraordinary effect on my brain. First it would diminish in size, receding into the distance until it was only the size of a pin's head; then it would come rushing towards me, blazing bigger and bigger till it seemed to fill the whole room. I found myself swaying, and with a monstrous effort I looked away. Almost had I walked towards that light, self-hypnotized.

I forced myself to think of other things, and after a while the influence waned. What on earth was this extraordinary room? What was the man doing on the other side of the door? I could not see him, but steadily, monotonously, the chip, chip, chip went on. And then it suddenly stopped.

I glanced up only to shrink back against the wall of the passage. Where she had come from I did not know, but there, standing in the middle of the room, was the woman. It was the first time I had seen her without a hat, and for a while I could only gaze at her speechlessly.

She was dressed in some sort of loose white robe, and as she stood there outlined against the black background, a hand resting lightly on one of the big stones, she seemed like the priestess of some ancient cult. Her beauty was almost unearthly: her whole appearance utterly virginal. In her eyes there glowed a strange light—a light such as might have shone in the eyes of a martyr. And I felt that her soul was all the depth and height of space away.

It was incredible to think ill of such a woman—to believe her capable of evil. Almost did I believe that she was someone else—someone I had not seen before. To think that it was she who had planned the death trap at the Mere; to think it was her I had heard talking coarsely and brutally at Stonehenge not two hours ago seemed unbelievable. And then it came once more, that faint scent like jasmine—and yet not quite jasmine.

"Have you finished?"

She spoke quietly, and now her voice was a delight to hear. And then she stiffened and drew herself up. Into her face there came a look of disgusted contempt. But the poor fool kneeling at her feet, with his arms round her knees, was oblivious of it. He was stammering wild words of love, was the man who looked like Lakington; and so engrossed was I in the scene that the fact of my unknown man being the man who looked like Lakington seemed almost trivial. What did it matter who he was, poor devil: he was just an actor in the game that is age-old.

"When, my beloved, are you coming to me?"

Again and again he said it, his voice shaking, his hands trembling. And she just stood there, utterly aloof: to her he was non-existent. Her eyes were fixed in front of her, and once her lips moved as if she was speaking to someone no earthly vision could see. Even as I had seen her speak at the Mere. "Have you finished?"

With a sigh of utter weariness the man rose to his feet. "Yes," he said. "I have."

She smiled, and held out her hand. "Good. For now there must be no delay, my friend. Pedro's mistake has forced our hand. By the way, is he back?"

The man shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Probably by this time."

"Anyway, I have written a letter which must be delivered to one of the three tomorrow morning. We know that Longworth is here, so he will therefore be the one. Listen, I will read it to you:

"'My friends, the game has begun to pall. My revenge is sufficient. If you will follow the bearer of this you will come to your destination. And the widow shall be handed over to you. If you don't: if you are afraid to come, you will still be quite safe. No further steps will be taken against you. You will not be worth it. But Phyllis Drummond will die. So take your choice. Her life lies in your hands.

"'But let me repeat the warning given to your late lamented leader. My information is good, so no police. Otherwise Phyllis Drummond will die before you get here.'"

"But, carissima," cried the man, "will they come on that? It seems such an obvious trap."

"Quite clearly, Paul," she said, "you have much to learn concerning the mentality of Englishmen of their type. They will come, even if a cordon of machine-gunners stood in their way. And we shall be ready for them."

"And then? After it is over?" He stared at her hungrily as if trying to read her very soul.

"After it is over," she repeated coolly. "Why, then, my dear Paul, we shall see."

"But you promised," he muttered. "You promised by all you held sacred. Beloved"—his voice grew urgent and pleading—"for nearly a year I have worked unceasingly to give you your revenge. Worked without reward: at times without thanks. Only hope has kept me going, carissima—the hope that when all was over you would come to me. And now you say, 'We shall see.' Never have I kissed your lips during all these long months. Irma—say to me, promise me again—that I have not worked in vain."

"No, mon ami," she said. "You have not worked in vain."

With a cry of joy he snatched one of her hands and smothered it with kisses. And over his bent head I saw her face. She was shaking with hideous, silent laughter. I craned forward fascinated: that such a change could take place in any human being's expression seemed impossible. No longer a priestess of unearthly beauty, but evil incarnate that made one shudder to look at.

Suddenly the man straightened up, and instantly her face became a mask. Even did she go so far as to smile encouragingly at the poor fish.

"No, Paul," she repeated. "You have not worked in vain. Tomorrow night..."

The sentence was never finished, too late I realized that in my absorption I had stepped into the light. For a moment or two she stared at me in silence. Then—"Who is that man?"

Like a flash her companion swung round. "Why," he said softly, "it's the bank clerk. Have you come to see my collection?" He was moving towards me as he spoke, and in his right hand there gleamed a wicked-looking automatic. "Come in, bank clerk," he said, still in the same deadly soft voice. "I am honoured indeed, even if the hour is a little unconventional."

14. In Which I Meet Mrs Drummond

The situation was undeniably awkward. The fact that I had realized all along that detection was inevitable made it none the less unpleasant when it came. And I liked neither the look of the automatic nor that on the man's face. I stepped into the room.

"I fear it must seem a little strange," I began, making a valiant endeavour to keep my voice steady.

"It does," he agreed suavely. "May we be favoured with an explanation?"

I plunged desperately. "To tell you the truth," I said, "I lost my way. I went out for a long walk tonight, and after taking one or two turnings I realized I hadn't the faintest idea where I was. Passing along the road I saw this house, and I came up to see if someone could put me right. I couldn't get any answer, but I saw your garage door was open. So I went in, meaning to ask when the car returned. And I suppose I must have fallen asleep, for when I woke up the car was back and the door locked."

"I see," said the man. "It seems a pity that such a big discrepancy exists between the first few words of your explanation and the rest."

"I don't understand what you mean," I remarked, uncomfortably conscious that a pulse was hammering in my throat.

"You prefaced your interesting little story," he explained, "by the five words, 'To tell you the truth.' Why not do so?"

With a faint feeling of relief, I saw that the automatic was no longer in his hand. "I am not accustomed——" I began haughtily.

"Be silent," said the woman imperiously. "Do I understand you know this man, Paul?"

"I met him at Stonehenge yesterday afternoon, my dear," he remarked. "A bank clerk with lengthy holidays. South Africa last year, Australia next. I must apply for a position in that bank."

His eyes were boring into me, and I could have kicked myself with mortification. I, who had thought that my playing of the part had been perfect—that I alone was unsuspected. I tried another bluff.

"You are very clever, sir," I said coldly. "But not quite clever enough. My father keeps one of the few remaining private banks in which I am a clerk. But, as you will understand, not an ordinary clerk. And to broaden my mind he has allowed me to travel extensively."

"Most interesting," he answered. "And most considerate of your father. Anyway, that's better than the one before. You're improving."

"Stop all this nonsense," said the woman harshly. "Why wasn't I told about this man?"

"My dear," he said pleadingly, "what was the use?"

"On your own showing," she snapped, "you suspected him. Why wasn't I told?" Her voice was vibrating with anger. She swung round on me. "Who are you, you little rat?"

"My name is Seymour," I stammered.

Suddenly her mood changed, and she lit a cigarette.

"Put him in one of the seats," she ordered quietly.

"This way, Mr Seymour," said the man.

"And what if I refuse," I blustered.

For a moment he stared at me—thin lipped and motionless. "Just this," he said gently, "I will blow out your brains where you stand."

"A messy proceeding." I strove to speak jauntily. "But may I ask—"

He whipped out his revolver and covered me. "Move," he snarled. "And move damned quick. Come here."

He crossed to one of the stones. So did I. The more I saw of that man, the less I liked him.

I found that the stone at which he was pointing had been fashioned into a sort of rough seat. "Sit down, and put your arms where I tell you. There—and there."

I obeyed: there didn't seem anything else to do. And then there came a sudden click, and I felt two thin steel bars close over my wrists. I tugged and he laughed quietly. "I wouldn't waste your time," he remarked. "You're as much a part of the furniture now as the stone you are sitting on."

"Look here, sir," I said, "this is going beyond a joke. I admit that I had no right whatever to be in your garage, but that doesn't afford you any justification for treating me like this."

He took no notice. He was speaking in low tones to the woman. And suddenly she nodded and came towards me. For a time she stood in front of me staring into my eyes, and then she spoke. "Do you know Hugh Drummond?"

Now subconsciously, I suppose, I had been expecting that question, and on that one little effort of mine I do flatter myself.

"Hugh Drummond." I looked at her blankly. "I've never heard of the man in my life."

Still she stared at me, but my face gave nothing away. And at last she turned and spoke to the man.

"Well," I heard him say, "we might try."

She crossed to a door hidden in the curtains and disappeared, leaving me alone with the man.

"What has happened," he said suddenly, "to that egregious fraud who was pretending to collect butterflies?"

"I haven't any idea," I answered. "He left the hotel before dinner."

"Say nothing about him," he said curtly. "It will pay you not to."

"I wasn't proposing to," I remarked. "I fail to see the slightest reason for discussing a casual hotel acquaintance, or what bearing he has on my present position."

"If you hadn't been a damned fool you wouldn't be in your present position. Now the truth, my friend. Who are you, and how did you come here?"

"I have nothing to add to what I have already said," I answered.

He stared at me moodily, and I grew more and more puzzled. Try as I would I couldn't get a line on his mental attitude. If, as I now knew, he had spotted Toby Sinclair as a fraud, and me also, one would have expected him to show signs of gratification, even of triumph at having caught one of us so easily. Instead of which he seemed positively annoyed at my presence. True I had interrupted him in the middle of his love-making, but I felt that didn't account for it.

"You must be one of them," he said half to himself. "And that butterfly fool as well. Damn it! you swarm like rabbits."

I said nothing. Light was beginning to dawn on the situation. Our thin lipped friend wanted the lady, and wanted her quickly. But before he got her he had, in the vernacular, to do a job of work. And that job had consisted up till now of disposing of the six of us. He believed that three were accounted for: the others were to be settled in the near future. And now he was confronted as he thought with further additions to the party, and therefore further delay in obtaining his purpose.

"How the devil did you get here?" he repeated angrily.

"I have nothing to add to what I have already said," I repeated with a smile.

"Damn you," he snarled. "You'll smile the other side of your face before long. It may amuse you to know that you'll never leave this room alive."

"That," I remarked with a confidence I was very far from feeling, "remains to be seen."

He took out his cigarette case savagely and started pacing up and down. And I for the first time since I had come into the room began to examine it more thoroughly. And the more I examined it the more amazing did it become. The whole of it was in keeping with the part I had seen from the passage. Stones and yet more stones, placed apparently indiscriminately. And yet, were they? Was there not some definite design? And as I stared round trying to find the solution I noticed a thing which gave me a queer little thrill. There were other roughly shaped seats beside the one I was sitting in—five others, making six in all. And each one was fitted with the same steel bars that encircled my own wrists. Six chairs, and six of us. What fantastic scheme had been evolved in that woman's deranged brain? Time, I reflected grimly, and time alone would tell.

The sound of a door opening made me turn my head. Irma had returned. But now another woman was with her—a woman who was blindfolded. And with a sudden quickening of my pulse I realized that this must be Phyllis Drummond herself.

She had evidently been awakened from sleep. Her bare feet were thrust into slippers, and she had slipped a peignoir over her pyjamas. Her face under the handkerchief that covered her eyes was pale but absolutely determined. Guided by her captor's hand on her arm she walked firmly and without hesitation until she was halted in front of my chair.

"What new foolery is this?" she asked scornfully, and I metaphorically took off my hat to her. Captivity had not broken her spirit.

"No foolery at all, my dear, but a very pleasant surprise for you."

Mrs Drummond's hands clenched convulsively. "You don't mean that Hugh has found me?" A faint smile passed over Irma's face, the news of Drummond's supposed death had evidently been suppressed. "Not quite that," answered the other, "but one of his friends has."

"Then," said Mrs Drummond breathlessly, "he has succeeded. And so I am free to go. Who is it? Is it you, Peter?"

With a quick movement Irma whipped off the handkerchief and for a while Drummond's wife stared at me blankly. Then she turned wearily to her captor. "Why torment me?" she said. "What's the good? You know Hugh's friends. I've never seen this man before in my life."

And Irma who had been watching her intently relaxed and turned to the man. "That's genuine," she said briefly.

"Is this by any chance," I remarked ponderously, "a private lunatic asylum?"

"You may well ask, sir," said Mrs Drummond. "I don't know who you are, or how you came here, but there is at any rate one mad person present. And that is this woman."

Irma laughed, and lit a cigarette. "Dear little Phyllis," she murmured. "Always so direct and positive, aren't you? And now that you've been introduced to this room a little sooner than I had intended, tell me what you think of it?"

Mrs Drummond looked about her, a look of complete bewilderment spreading gradually over her face.

"What on earth does it all mean," she said at length. "What are all these stones for?"

"A model, my dear," answered the other gently, "that it has taken Paul much labour and trouble to construct. A model that is accurate in every detail."

"A model of what?"

"Of Stonehenge. One or two of the stones have been left out, but all the important ones are here. There for instance you see the Friar's Heel, and that one is the altar stone. You know the legend, of course. Some authorities do not believe in it, but it's a very pretty fairy story anyway. It runs that when the first rays of the rising sun on Midsummer Day shining over the Friar's Heel strike this third stone, the name of which I have not yet told you, the ceremony begins."

Her voice was soft and almost caressing, nevertheless my lips were dry. For I knew what the third stone was.

"It must have been an interesting ceremony, Phyllis. Can't you see those wild-eyed priests clad in fantastic garments? Can't you see that great rolling plain and the waiting multitude of savages—waiting in the hush that comes before the dawn for the first gleam of the sun above the horizon?"

I was staring at her fascinated: her eyes were glittering feverishly—her cigarette was forgotten.

"A minute more—and a sigh runs round the spectators. A few seconds, and the excitement grows. You can feel it—hear it like wind rustling in the trees.

"Inside the sacred circle stand the priests—some by the altar stone, some by this third stone here. All eyes are turned towards the east to greet the arrival of their god. This is the day on which he vouchsafes them his visible presence longest: this is the day on which it is meet and proper that he should be propitiated and thanked. An offering must be made: a sacrifice given.

"And on this third stone, waiting, too, for that first ray to strike her, lies the sacrifice. For those around her, for the hushed multitude outside, the moment that is just coming means life—the continuation of the benefits their god has bestowed on them since last Midsummer Day. For her it means—death: the stone on which she lies is the Slaughter Stone."

She fell silent, and I glanced at Mrs Drummond. She was staring at the speaker with a dawning horror in her eyes, and suddenly she bit the back other hand to keep back a cry. She knew—and I knew. But after a moment she pulled herself together with a great effort.

"Most interesting," she remarked steadily. "And did you have all these stones put up so that you could play charades on them?"

Slowly the madness faded from the other's face, and she flicked the ash from her cigarette on to the carpet. "That's it," she smiled. "A little game of let's-pretend. We shall be playing it tomorrow, my dear—or rather tonight. What part would you like to take?"

The silence grew unbearable, and yet once again did I take off my hat to that poor girl. She was powerless: she was trapped—but she was white clean through.

"I am not very good at acting," she said indifferently.

"Yours will be a passive—even if a very important role," returned the other. "No histrionic ability will be required."

"And may I ask," I remarked politely, "if I am to be privileged with a part. I must say I don't think much of the comfort of your stalls."

For the moment at any rate my role was clear: I must remain the outsider who had blundered into a madhouse. Slowly the woman turned and stared at me.

"I think you will look nice as a dead-head," she murmured.

"Am I to understand that the rest of the audience will have paid for their seats?"

"They will at any rate have worked hard," she returned. "But I can assure you there will be no jealousy on that account. The unexpected guest is always welcome."

"Charming," I said cheerfully. "At the same time, if it is all the same to you, I would rather like to know the hour the show starts so that until then I can enjoy my very short holiday in the manner I had intended to. Frankly this seat is giving me cramp."

I winked ostentatiously at Mrs Drummond: obviously this female must be humoured. But there was no response from her: somewhat naturally she accepted my role at its face value.

"This gentleman knows nothing about your wicked game," she burst out. "It's unfair, it's unjust to keep him here."

"To know nothing about the play is always an advantage," returned the other. "However, I grow weary. We will retire, my dear Phyllis—so that we shall both be fresh for the performance."

She led the way to the door, and I was left alone with the man.

"Look here, sir," I said angrily, "this has gone far enough. I admit that what I told you sounds a bit fishy: nevertheless it happens to be the truth. And I insist upon being allowed to go. Or if you wish to give me in charge then send for the police. But this is preposterous. You now know that I am not one of them, whoever 'they' may be."

"And you," he retorted calmly, "now know altogether too much. So for the purposes of this entertainment—positively for one night only—I fear you will have to be treated as if you were one of them."

He strolled through the door leading to the garage, and I heard the chink of metal against metal as he put the tools back on the bench. My last hope had gone, my last bluff had failed. When Mrs Drummond had failed to recognize me, and Irma herself had said "that's genuine," there had seemed for a while a possibility of escape. Now there was none. Now everything must depend on Drummond. He would follow the other three, of course, but without any idea of the strength he was walking into.

I counted them up in my mind. There was the man called Paul, the chauffeur, the man with the damaged hand; the sailor—and last but not least the negro. So many I knew of personally; how many more there were remained to be seen. And what chance had Drummond against a bunch like that? If only I could have got away I could have warned him. I began to tug desperately at the steel bars until a woman's laugh made me look up suddenly. Irma had returned.

"You can save yourself the trouble, bank clerk," she said mockingly, and at the sound other voice Paul returned.

"I suppose we had better gag him, my dear," he remarked, and she nodded carelessly.

"Yes," she said. "Gag him—and then go."

"This is an outrage," I spluttered, and the next instant he had deftly slipped a gag into my mouth, and then wrapped a handkerchief round me.

"If I hear a sound," he said quietly, "I shall come down and finish you off on the spot. Carissima, you must be tired." He crossed to the woman. "Won't you come to bed?"

"Go," she said curtly. "I shall come in a few minutes."

He went unwillingly, and for a while the woman stood motionless staring in front of her. The strange look had returned to her eyes: she had forgotten my existence. Noiselessly she moved about on the thick black carpet, the incarnation of grace and beauty. First to one stone, and then to another she glided, as a hostess might move round her drawing-room, giving it the finishing touches before the arrival of her guests.

And then at last she paused before the altar stone. She knelt down and ran her fingers along underneath it searching for something. At length she found it and pulled it out. It was the photograph of a man.

Fascinated I watched her as she kissed it passionately: then she placed it on the altar in front of her, and bowed her head as if in prayer. I heard the murmur of her voice, but the actual words I could not distinguish. And after a while I began to feel drowsy. The gleaming white light opposite seemed to be growing bigger and bigger my head lolled back. And on the instant I was wide awake again.

Part of the roof was glassed in, like the roof of a racquet court, and some of the panes were open for ventilation. And staring through one of the openings was a man. His eyes were fixed on the kneeling woman: his face was inscrutable. Then he glanced at me, and for a brief second our eyes met. In am instant he had disappeared, and I was left trying to fit this new development into the jigsaw. For the man who had been staring through the skylight was the sailor.

Still her voice droned on musically, but I paid no attention. It confirmed, of course, my knowledge that the sailor was one of them, but why should he be on the roof? Spying, presumably: spying on the woman. And when he realized that I had seen him he had disappeared at once for fear I might say something.

"My lover! My god!"

Her words, clear at last, came through the silent room, and once again I looked at her. With her hands clasped together she was rocking to and fro on her knees in front of the photograph.

"Tonight, I come to you, my beloved."

And the lights shone on, gleaming like great stars against the black curtains. And the carpet seemed to glisten like some dark mountain pool deep hidden in the rocks. And the great white stones that rose from it took unto themselves life, and joined in a mighty chorus—"My beloved."

I closed my eyes: I was dreaming. It was some dreadful nightmare.

"My beloved, I come to you."

The sailor was shouting it: the man who had sprung at me out of the ditch was shouting it: Paul, his face a seething mass of black passion, was shouting it. I was shouting it, too—shouting it better than anyone—shouting it so well and so loudly that the woman herself, Irma, looked into my eyes and praised me. I could feel her fingers on my eyelids, from a great distance she nodded as if satisfied. Then came darkness. I slept.

It was daylight when I woke, cramped and stiff in every limb. There was a foul taste in my mouth, and I wondered if I had been drugged. I had noticed nothing peculiar on the handkerchief, but only on that supposition could I account for my condition. My head ached, my eyes felt bleary, and I'd have given most of my worldly possessions for a cup of tea.

By a stupendous feat of contortion I twisted my head so that I could see my wrist watch, only to find that the damned thing had stopped. Not, I reflected, that it mattered very much what the time was: an odd hour or two this way or that was of little account situated as I was. And after a while I began to curse myself bitterly for having been such an utter fool. If only I hadn't shown myself in the passage: if only...

But what was the use? I hadn't slipped off the car: I had shown myself in the passage. And here I was caught without, as far as I could see, a chance of getting away. What made it more bitter still was the knowledge I possessed, the invaluable knowledge, if only I could have passed it on. Why, if Hugh Drummond only knew, he, with his marvellous shooting ability, could dominate the whole scene from the roof. But he didn't know, and all he would do would be to walk straight into the trap after the other three.

After a while my thoughts turned in another direction—even less pleasant than the first. What was in store for us? Was it all some grim, fantastic jest, or was it a revenge so terrible that the mere thought of it made me almost sick? Could it be conceivably possible that this foul woman intended to kill Mrs Drummond in front of us all? And afterwards deal with us?

It seemed inconceivable, and yet the trap at the Mere was just as dastardly. It was no good judging her by ordinary standards: therein lay the crux. She was mad, and to a mad woman everything is conceivable. Anyhow the present was bad enough without worrying over the future.

Faintly through the wall I heard the self-starter being used, and then the car leave the garage. That must be the note going to Darrell and Co. Would they walk into it blindly, or would they take some rudimentary precautions? Would they believe that this woman did really intend to set Mrs Drummond free if they came?

From every angle I turned the thing over in my mind only to arrive at the same brick wall each time. Whatever they did do or didn't do, I was out of the picture. I was powerless to help them in any way so there wasn't much use worrying.

"Have we slept well?" came a sardonic voice from the door.

Paul, with a sneering smile on his thin lips, was standing there looking at me. Then he came over and removed the handkerchief and the gag. For a time I could only move my jaws stiffly up and down, and make hoarse grunting noises—a thing which seemed to cause him unbounded amusement.

"Damn you," I croaked at last, "did you dope me last night?"

"A very efficacious and but little known narcotic, Mr Seymour," he remarked suavely, "was on the handkerchief I put round your mouth. Was your sleep dreamless and refreshing?"

"For God's sake," I muttered, "give me something to drink. My tongue feels like a fungoidal growth."

"A defect, I admit," he said, "in that particular drug. It leaves an unpleasant taste. And so I have much pleasure in telling you that it is on the matter of breakfast that I have come."

"Breakfast," I shuddered. "If I saw an egg I'd be sick."

There came a little click from behind my chair, and the steel bars slipped off my wrists.

"Stand up," he said. "At the moment the warning is unnecessary, I know. But bear in mind that freedom from your late position does not imply any further concession. So—no monkey tricks."

He was right: at the moment—and for a considerable number of moments—the warning was unnecessary. Both my arms had gone to sleep: and as soon as I got up I was attacked by the most agonizing cramp in my left leg. But at last I managed to regain some semblance of normality.

"Where's that drink?" I muttered.

"All in due course," he returned. "Owing to the fact that certain small preparations have to be made here for our little entertainment tonight we have to find other accommodation for you today. It would be a great pity if the element of surprise was lacking. And so you will come with me, Mr Seymour: and you will bear in mind that I have a revolver in my hand, Mr Seymour, and that my finger is on the trigger, Mr Seymour. And that should you give me the slightest trouble, you wretched interfering little busybody, that finger will connect with the trigger and the result will connect with you. So, hump yourself."

I could feel the muzzle of his gun in the small of my back as he pushed me towards the door. But I didn't care: anything was better than the atrocious discomfort of that stone seat. Moreover a drink appeared to be looming on the horizon.

The door led into the hall. No one was about, and still in the same positions we reached the foot of the stairs.

"Up," he said curtly.

At a turn in the staircase stood a grandfather clock, and I saw it was half past nine. So I reckoned I must have slept for five or six hours.

"Through that door," he ordered.

A man I had never seen before rose as we came in. But I didn't care about him: my eyes were riveted on a teapot.

"Charles will be your companion for today," he remarked. "And you had better look at Charles." I did: then I returned to the teapot. As an object to contemplate Charles did not appeal to me.

"Charles has orders," continued the other, "to deal faithfully with you in the event of the slightest trouble. That is so, isn't it, Charles?"

"I'll deal with 'im faithfully, guv'nor," he chuckled. "'E won't try nothing on twice, I gives yer my word. Why, I'd eat a little mess like that."

He emitted a whistling noise through a gap in his teeth.

"Paint the wall wiv 'is faice, I will," he continued morosely.

"A character is Charles," said Paul to me. "Equally handy with his fists or a knife. So be careful, Mr Seymour—very careful."

I gulped down my cup of tea and began to feel better. "I am sure I shall find him a most entertaining companion," I murmured. "Now don't let me detain you any more, little man. Run away and have your children's hour with the bricks downstairs. Or are you going to play puffers in the passage?"

And, astounding to relate, it got home. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. His face was white with rage, his fists were clenched—evidently a gentleman without the saving grace of humour. But he controlled himself and went out slamming the door behind him, and I began to feel better still.

Anyway my limbs were free, and I'd had something to drink. Moreover there were cigarettes in my pocket. "Charles," I said, "will you smoke?"

Charles said—"Yus," and I began to take close stock of Charles. And one thing was quite obvious at first glance. He was perfectly capable of painting the wall with my face if it came to a trial of strength. So that if I was going to turn the change of quarters to my advantage it would have to be a question of brain and cunning and not force. And the first and most obvious method seemed bribery.

I led up to it tactfully, but diplomacy was wasted on Charles. At the mention of the word money his face became quite intelligent.

"'Ow much 'ave you?" he demanded.

"About thirty pounds," I answered. "It's yours here and now if you'll let me go, and then there's nothing to prevent you clearing out yourself."

"Let's see the colour of it," he said, and with a wild hope surging up in me I pulled out my pocket book. If I got away at once I'd be in time.

"There you are," I cried. "Twenty-eight pounds."

"Looks good to me," he remarked. "Though I ain't partial to fivers myself. Some suspicious blokes takes the numbers. You ain't suspicious are you, matey?"

He slipped the bundle into his pocket, and I stood up.

"Is it safe now," I said eagerly.

"Is wot safe now?"

"For me to go, damn it."

"Go where?"

"Out of the house, as you promised."

"Naughty, naughty," he said reproachfully. "Do you mean to say that that there money was hintended as a bribe?"

I stared at him speechlessly.

"And I thort as 'ow it was just a little return for the pleasure of be'olding my faice."

"You confounded scoundrel," I spluttered. "Give me back my notes."

Charles became convulsed with an internal upheaval that apparently indicated laughter.

"Yer know, matey," he said when he could at last speak, "I didn't know that they let things like you out of a 'ome."

Once more the convulsion seized him, and a dull overmastering rage began to rise within me. The limit of my endurance had been reached. I felt I didn't care what happened. Damn Drummond and all his works: damn the moment I'd ever let myself in for this fool show. Above all, damn this great hulking blackguard who had pinched my money, and now sat there nearly rolling off his chair with laughter.

And suddenly I saw red. I sprang at him and hit him with all my force in the face. Then while he was still too surprised to move I got in a real purler with the teapot over his right eye. And after that I frankly admit I don't remember much more. I recall that he did not remain too surprised to move for long. I recall seeing something that gleamed in his hand, and feeling a searing, burning pain in my forearm. I also recall that an object which felt like a steam hammer hit my jaw. Then—a blank.

15. In Which Some of the Others Join Me

When I came to myself I was back in the room below, fastened to the same seat as before. The filthy taste was in my mouth again, so I guessed they had used the narcotic on me once more. But this time that wasn't my only trouble. My jaw felt as if it had been broken: and my arm, which some one had bound up roughly, ached intolerably.

For a while I sat there motionless. I was feeling dazed and drowsy. I'd almost come to the end of my tether. A sort of dull apathy had told of me. I felt I didn't care what happened as long as it happened quickly.

The room was absolutely silent, and after a time I forced my brain to work. I was alone: I was ungagged. Supposing I shouted for help. There was a bare chance that I might be heard by some stray passer-by. Anyway it was worth trying.

"Help!" I roared at the pitch of my lungs. "Help!"

I listened: still no sound. Very good: I'd try again. I opened my mouth: I shut it. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say it shut itself.

A huge black hand had suddenly materialized from nowhere—a hand with the fingers curved like a bird's talon. I stared at it fascinated, as it moved gently towards my throat. There was no hurry, but the utmost deliberation in the whole action. And this time I nearly screamed in sheer terror.

The fingers closed round my throat, and began playing with it. Still quite gently. No force was used; but every touch of those fingers gave its own message of warning.

As suddenly as it had appeared, it went, and I sat there sweating and silent. So I was not alone: somewhere behind me, out of sight, was that cursed nigger Pedro. The hand that had closed on my throat was the actual hand that had murdered that poor devil the night before. And as if he had read my thoughts there came from above my head a hideous throaty chuckle. Then silence once again.

Gradually I grew calmer, though the thought of that great black brute lurking behind me was horrible. If only I could see the devil it would be better. But he remained out of sight, and after a time I began to think he must have gone. Into the garage perhaps—the passage leading to it was behind me. Whether he had or whether he hadn't, however, I dismissed the idea of calling for help.

To distract my mind, I studied the room with closer attention. I could see more than half, and I wondered what the small preparations were that Paul had spoken of. As far as I could see nothing was changed: the same stones, the same carpet. And then it struck me that on one of the stone seats was what looked like a block of wood. It was about the size of a box of a hundred cigarettes, and a cord stuck out from one end on to the carpet.

I looked at the other seats. A similar block was on each one of them, and by pushing myself backwards in my own, I could feel the sharp edge against my spine.

By twisting my head I could just see the cord attached to it. It was a long one, and I followed it idly with my eyes across the carpet until it disappeared behind the next stone. Part of the preparations evidently, but with what purpose was beyond me. Just as everything else was beyond me. Time alone would show.

But that fact didn't stop one thinking. Round and round in my head ran the ceaseless question—what was going to happen that night? From every angle I studied it till my brain grew muzzy with the effort. What was going to be done to us? Did that woman really mean all she had implied, or had it been a jest made to frighten Mrs Drummond?

After a while I dozed off, only to wake up sweating from an appalling dream in which two of the great stones were being used to crush my head by the nigger. Looking back now I suppose I was a little light-headed, but at the time I wasn't conscious of it. I had lost a good deal of blood from the wound in my arm though I didn't know it then. And as the day wore on, and the room gradually grew darker and darker, I sank into a sort of stupor. Vaguely I heard odd sounds, the car in the garage, a man's voice in the hall, but they seemed to come from a long way off. And the only real things in my mental outlook were those cursed white stones.

They moved after a while, passing me in a ceaseless procession. They heaved and dipped and formed fours till I cursed them foolishly. And something else moved, too—a great black form that flitted between them peering and examining. Twice did I see it, and the second time I forced myself back to reality.

It was the negro, and he seemed intensely interested in everything—almost childishly so. He touched stone after stone with his fingers. Then he picked up one of the little blocks that I had noticed, and examined it closely, grunting under his breath.

Suddenly he straightened up and stood listening. Then with a quick movement he replaced the block, and vanished behind me just as the door into the hall opened and Paul came in. He crossed to my stone and stood looking down at me, while I feigned sleep. And after a time he too began to stroll round amongst the other stones.

He examined each of the blocks, and the cords that ran from them. And as I watched him out of the corner of my eye I noticed a thing I had missed before. On the altar stone was a little black box, and all the cords appeared to lead to it. He seemed particularly interested in that box, but in the bad light I couldn't see what he was doing. At length, however, he put it down, and lighting a cigarette once more came and stood in front of me. I looked up at him dully.

"You really are the most congenital ass I've ever met, Mr Seymour," he said pleasantly. "Did you honestly think Charles would let you go?"

"I've given up trying to think in this mad house," I retorted. "When is this ridiculous farce going to end?"

He made no reply for a while, but just stood staring at me thoughtfully. "I really am rather interested in you," he said at length. "It would be most devilish funny if you really have got nothing to do with them."

"I've already told you that I don't know what you are talking about," I cried. "You're making a fearful mistake. I don't know who you mean by them."

He began to chuckle. "'Pon my soul," he said, "I'm almost beginning to think that you don't. Which makes the jest excessively rich."

"A positive scream," I agreed sarcastically. "Would it be too much to hope that I might be permitted to share it?"

"I fear," he answered, "that you might not quite appreciate it."

He continued to chuckle immoderately.

"You will in time, I promise you," he went on. "And then you will see how terribly funny it all is. I must say," he continued seriously, almost more to himself than to me, "I did think yesterday that you and the butterfly gentleman were mixed up in it."

"I wish to Heaven," I said wearily, "that you would realize that I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about. And I further wish you to be under no delusions as to what I'm going to do when I do manage to get out of this place."

He started laughing again. "What are you going to do?" he asked. "Don't, I beg of you, terrify me too much!"

I stuck to it good and hard. Useless it might be, but at any rate it was better than nothing. "I shall go straight to the police," I said, "and lodge a summons against you for assault and battery. And as for that cursed ruffian upstairs..."

"Poor Charles," he remarked. "You dotted him one with the teapot all right. Well, thank you for your kindly warning. You'll have some other privileged spectators coming to join you soon—three of them." He strolled to the door, and looked back as he reached it. "I can keep no secrets from you, bank clerk," he said. "You have an indefinable attraction for me. Do you see those little blocks in the seats?"

"Yes," I said.

"There is one in yours, just behind you."

"I've felt it already," I remarked.

"Well, be very careful how you feel it," he said gently. "Do nothing rough with it. Treat it as a mother treats a sickly child—gently and tenderly. Because it happens to be gun-cotton. Admittedly a safe explosive—but one never knows."

For a moment I was absolutely speechless.

"Gun-cotton," I stammered at length. "Good God! man—are you joking?"

"Far from it," he said. "But I can assure you that there's no chance of it going off—yet." He smiled genially. "The fact of the matter is, bank clerk, that you have butted your head into some rather dirty work. I don't mind admitting that there are moments when I think it is almost too dirty. But"—he shrugged his shoulders—"when the ladies get ideas in their charming heads, who are we to gainsay them?"

"If by the ladies you allude to that partially demented female who was talking such infernal rot last night," I said grimly, "I'll tell you one idea that she has got wedged in hers. She's got about as much use for you as a Cockney has for a haggis."

"I don't understand you," he said softly, but I noticed that, of a sudden, he was standing very still.

"Then I'll make myself clearer," I remarked. "You cut no ice with her, Paul: she loathes the sight of your face. I watched her last night when you were pulling out the knee clutching business, and her expression was that of one who contemplates a bad egg from close range."

"You are pleased to be insolent, Mr Seymour." He was still standing motionless by the door.

"I am pleased to be nothing, you flat-headed skate," I answered. It struck me that a little of Drummond's vocabulary might assist. "But if you imagine that after you've done whatever fool tricks you are going to do you're then going to land the beauteous lady you're making the deuce of an error. Nothing doing, Paul: you can take my word for it."

"But for the fact," he remarked after a time, "that the death you are going to die is such a particular choice one, I would strangle you here and now for those words."

"Doesn't alter the fact that she loathes the sight of your face, laddie," I mocked. "And I certainly don't blame her."

He sprang across the room towards me, and I don't think I have ever seen such a look of demoniacal rage on any man's face before. In fact, but for the interruption, I believe he would have carried out his threat. As it was he managed to control himself with a monstrous effort as the door opened and the woman herself came in.

"Quick, Paul," she cried. "They are coming—the three of them. Where's Pedro? Charles is here but we want the nigger. And gag that fool of a clerk."

He stuffed a gag into my mouth, and glared at me. "One sound, and I'll knife you," he muttered. "Pedro!" He looked over my shoulder. "Where is the damned fool?" he said irritably. "I've hardly seen him the whole day? Pedro!"

There was a guttural grunt, and then the huge nigger shambled past me. His head was down, and in the dim light he looked a terrifying sight.

"Get behind the curtains, Pedro. And don't kill. We want them alive in the chairs. Charles—get the other side of the door."

Sick with anxiety I waited. Could nothing be done to warn them? They were walking straight into the trap, and suddenly the full realization of our position seemed to strike me. All very well to gain a little cheap satisfaction by taunting the man over his love affair, but it didn't alter the fact that once these three men were caught the odds against us were wellnigh hopeless. Drummond couldn't fight half a dozen men, especially when two of them had the strength of the negro and the one called Charles.

The woman had left the room: the three men were hiding behind the curtains, so to all appearances except for myself it was empty. And then I heard Darrell's voice in the hall.

"So we meet again, madame," he said gravely. "As you probably know we have come without informing any one, trusting that you will keep your side of the bargain."

"Quite like old times seeing you," she answered. "And Mr Jerningham and Mr Longworth, too."

"Shall we cut the conversation, madame?" he remarked. "At your instigation three men—one of whom was Hugh himself—have been foully murdered. So you will pardon me if I say that the sooner you hand Mrs Drummond over to us the better I shall be pleased. In your letter you said that your revenge was sufficient. Let us then be done with it."

"We seem much milder than of yore," she mocked.

"You have Mrs Drummond in your power," he said simply. "We have no alternative. Well, madame, we are waiting."

"Yes, mes amis, you are right," she answered after a pause. "We will be done with it. You shall have Phyllis. And believe me I am almost sorry now that I ever started it. Moods change. A few weeks ago there was nothing I desired more than the deaths of all of you. Today I regret the Mere. Come this way."

"One moment, madame. Does she know that her husband is dead?"

"No—she does not. Mr Darrell, it is easy to say, I know, but I wish he were not."

"A pity you didn't think of that a little earlier, madame," he said grimly. "Where are we to go? Why cannot Mrs Drummond be handed over to us in this hall?"

"You will soon see why," she answered, appearing in the door. "Besides I particularly want to show you all this room."

I gave an agonized guttural choke but it was no good. As she had doubtless anticipated they paused inside the door, completely taken off their guard by the strangeness of their surroundings.

"What on earth," began Jerningham, and even as he spoke the three hidden men sprang on them.

In a few seconds it was all over. Paul had a revolver in Jerningham's neck. Charles gave the same attention to Darrell. And poor little Algy Longworth was the negro's share. He was merely picked up like a kicking baby and deposited in a seat. Then the steel bars were turned and he sat there glowering.

"You damned dirty nigger," he shouted angrily.

"Silence, you little rat," said Irma. "Get the other two fixed. Shoot, Paul, if they give any trouble."

But the muzzle of a revolver in the nape of a man's neck is a good preventer of trouble, and soon the four of us were sitting there like trussed birds.

"So it was a trick, was it?" said Darrell quietly.

The woman began to shake with laughter.

"You fools," she cried, "you brainless fools. Did you really imagine that I was going to hand Phyllis over to you and let you walk out of the house. You must be mad."

She turned on Charles and the nigger.

"Go! Get out! But be around in case I want you. Paul—you can ungag the bank clerk."

Her glance roved from one to the other of us.

"Four," she said musingly. "And there should have been six. You see, Darrell, that there are six seats prepared for your reception."

Her eyes were beginning to glitter feverishly, and as she stood in the centre of the room her body swayed gracefully from side to side as if she was dancing. To me it was not unexpected, but the other three were staring at her in amazement. As yet they had not seen one of her outbursts.

"Still we must make do with four, I suppose," she went on. "Unless, Paul, we sent out for two more. No—better not. Let us keep our final meeting as intimate as possible. And we already have one stranger."

"Where is Phyllis Drummond?" said Jerningham.

She turned and looked at him dreamily.

"Phyllis is waiting." she answered. "For days she has been waiting for you to come, and now very soon she will join you."

"And what then," snapped Darrell.

"Why then, mon ami, you shall all go on a journey together. A long journey. Ah! if only Hugh was here: if only my circle was complete. Then indeed the reunion would be a wonderful one."

And now the crazy glitter in her eyes grew more pronounced till I marvelled that the man called Paul could ever have hoped for any return for his love. The woman was frankly crazy, and stealing a glance at him I saw that he was staring at her with a dawning horror in his face.

"Carissima," he muttered. "I beseech of you, do not excite yourself."

"But as it is we shall have to make do with four." Her voice had risen. "Four instead of six. And the principal guest not here. Why—the whole lot of you could go if only Drummond was here. But I did my best, Carl—I did my best."

She had turned to the altar stone, and was speaking to it.

"I did my best, beloved—I did my best. And his end was not unworthy. Gassed—and drowned like a rat in a trap."

She threw herself across the stone, her arms outstretched, and for a space there was silence in the darkening room. Then abruptly she rose and swept to the door.

"At nine o'clock, Paul, we will begin."

"Look here," I said when she had gone, "Paul—or whatever your name is—what is the good of going on with this?"

He stared at me dully.

"The woman is clean plumb crazy. She is as mad as a hatter. So what are you going to get out of it? You can't marry a mad woman: you can't even make love to her."

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

"For God's sake, man," I went on urgently, "pull yourself together. Set us free, and let us go."

"She'll be all right—after," he said at length. "Quite all right—after." He turned towards the door, and in desperation I played my last card.

"You poor ass," I cried, "there isn't going to be an after for her. When she has finished us, she's going to commit suicide. And whatever you choose to do with a lunatic, you're stung good and strong with a corpse."

It was no good. He opened the door and went out. In fact I doubt if he even heard what I said, and with a feeling of sick despair I looked at the others.

"So they haven't spotted you, Dixon," said Darrell in a low voice.

"Not yet," I answered. "I don't think it ever dawned on them that I was one of the three they think were drowned at the Mere. But, for a while they suspected me of being another member of the bunch—a new one. Then Mrs Drummond rode them off."

"You've seen her?" said Jerningham eagerly.

"Last night," I said. "She was brought down here blindfolded and suddenly confronted with me. And there was no mistake about her failure to identify me being genuine. Not that it matters much," I went on gloomily. "We're hopelessly for it unless Drummond can do something. Why in Heaven's name did you fellows walk into it so easily?"

"Because he told us to," answered Darrell calmly.

"Told you to," I echoed in amazement.

"A short note," he said. "Just—Follow the messenger—all three of you. Be surprised at nothing. And tell Dixon that he must not reveal my identity until he hears the Anthem whistled once."

"He knows I'm here?" I cried. "But I don't understand."

"Frankly—no more do I," said Algy. "What's this damned stone quarry?"

"It's a model," I said, "of Stonehenge. Look here, you fellows, I'll tell you all I know. I can pretend that we are strangers if anyone comes in. But there is no reason why we shouldn't talk in view of the position we are in—its most damnably serious."

"Fire ahead," said Jerningham quietly.

I told them everything; what I knew, and what I only suspected. I told them of the dead man at Stonehenge, and the scene of the night before. And they listened with consternation growing on their faces.

"It was our last hope," I said, "trying to make that man realize she was mad. But he's wild about her—absolutely wild."

"You really think she's going to commit suicide," said Darrell doubtfully.

"I do," I answered. "Though the point is of academic interest only as far as we are concerned. She is going to do all of us in first."

"Man—but it's a fearful risk." said Jerningham.

"Don't you see," I cried, "that she doesn't care a damn about the risk. What does the risk matter to her if she's going to join Carl, as she thinks, after? And that poor fish, Paul, is so infatuated with her that he is prepared to run any risk to get her."

We argued it from every angle whilst the room grew darker and darker. To them the only thing that mattered was that Drummond had told them to come: that Drummond had something up his sleeve. But try as I would, I couldn't share their optimism. What could he do alone—or at best with Toby Sinclair to help him? The odds were altogether too heavy. Had we all been free it would have been different. Then we could have put up a good show. As it was the thing seemed hopeless to me. And yet he had deliberately told these three to walk into the trap. It was incomprehensible.

It appeared that they had not seen him, but had only received the note. And the previous night Algy Longworth had also got a note which explained his movements to me. It had contained instructions to the effect that he was to announce publicly his intention of going to Stonehenge after dinner, that as he valued his life he was not to go but was to take a walk in the opposite direction.

"If I had gone," he said, "I suppose I should have shared the fate of the poor devil you saw dead. I wonder who he was."

"Ask me another," I remarked. "He was a complete stranger to me. But he was undoubtedly murdered by that foul brute of a nigger."

Conversation became desultory. All our nerves were getting frayed. The light had almost gone; we were just vague shapes to one another as we sat there fastened to those fantastic stones, waiting for nine o'clock.

"I can't believe it," burst out Jerningham once. "Damn it—it's like a nightmare."

No one answered; only the throaty chuckle that I had heard before came from somewhere behind me. "It's the nigger," grunted Darrell. "Get out, you filthy brute."

He chuckled again, and then like some monstrous misshapen animal he began to shamble round the room. I could just see him in the darkness peering first at one thing and then at another. He went to the two unoccupied seats and began fiddling with the mechanism that moved the two curved steel bars. He worked it several times, chuckling to himself like a child, and suddenly came Jerningham's voice strained and tense.

"Come and do that to my chair, nigger. I'll give you some cigarettes and money if you do."

But the black man took no notice. He had transferred his attentions now to the black box that lay upon the altar stone. That occupied him for a long while, and all the time the throaty chuckling continued. Every now and then came the chink of tin on stone: then, as silently as he had come, he vanished again.

It was the suspense of waiting that was so appalling, and I began to long for nine o'clock. A mood of dull resignation had come over me. I felt I simply didn't care. Anything—so long as they got on with it. And as if in answer to my thoughts the door leading into the hall slowly opened, and a clock outside began to chime.

"Nine," muttered somebody.

The final act was about to begin.

16. In Which We Have a Rehearsal

I think my main feeling was one of intense curiosity. There was no light in the hall, but a faint lessening of the general darkness marked the door. For a time nothing happened, then something white appeared in the opening, and the room was flooded with light.

The woman Irma was standing there clad in the same white garment she had worn the preceding night. Behind her hovered Paul—his face more saturnine than ever, but it was on her that all our attention was concentrated. In her hands she held some largish object which was covered with a silken cloth, and after a while she advanced to the altar stone and placed it there reverently. Then she removed the wrap, and I saw that it was a full size plaster cast of a man's head.

"Dashed if it isn't our late lamented Carl," muttered Darrell.

The woman took no notice, she was staring intently at the cast. Once or twice her lips moved, but I heard no words, and for a time her hands were clasped in front of her as if in prayer. Then quite suddenly she turned her back on the altar and began to speak, whilst we watched her fascinated.

"A few months ago," she said, "I stood beside the wreckage of Wilmot's giant airship, and over the charred body of my man I swore an oath. That oath will be finally fulfilled tonight."

Her voice was quiet and conversational.

"But for an accident last night—a mistake on the part of one of my servants—I should not have sent you three the note I did. But Pedro, whom you have doubtless seen, killed a man at Stonehenge, and that necessitated a hastening in my plans. Why did you not go to Stonehenge, Longworth?"

"Got hiccoughs after dinner, darling," said Algy cheerfully. "Tell me, my poppet, is that a new line in nightdresses?"

And just as Paul became livid with rage when I had jeered at him that morning, so now did the woman turn white to the lips with passion.

"You dog," she screamed. "How dare you? Strike him, Paul—strike him across the face."

Then she controlled herself.

"Stay," she said in a calmer voice. "He is not worth it. I will continue—for there is much to say. But for that accident, I might—in fact I think I would—have given you one further clue. And yet I do not know: the game in very truth had begun to pall since Drummond died. You were only the puppies that followed your master. He was the one I wanted—not you. However, it was not to be, and because the finish comes tonight I thought that Phyllis should have you with her as she cannot have her husband. As yet she does not know that you are here: she does not even know her husband is dead. That she shall learn later—just before the end."

She paused, and I saw that Darrell was moistening his lips with his tongue, and that Jerningham's face was white. There was something far more terrifying in this calm matter of fact voice than if she had ranted and raved.

"This fourth man," she continued, "this bank clerk presented a conundrum. Believe me, sir," she turned to me, "I have no enmity against you. It is a sheer misfortune that you should be here, but since you are, you've got to stay."

"Please don't apologize," I said sarcastically. "Your treatment of your guest has left nothing to be desired."

But she seemed to have forgotten my existence: her real audience consisted of the other three.

"The Friar's Heel," she remarked. "You solved that quicker than I thought you would. And here you are. This gentleman has doubtless already told you that these stones form a model of Stonehenge. And you wonder why I should have taken so much trouble. I will tell you.

"Revenge is sweet, but to taste of its joys to the utmost, to extract from it the last drop of satisfaction, it must be as carefully planned as any other entertainment. That is why I regret so bitterly that it was Drummond himself who died at the Mere. I like to think of him struggling in that room—struggling to breathe—and knowing all the time that it was I who had done it. But I would far sooner have had him here; because he has escaped the supreme thing I planned for him."

With one hand outstretched she stood facing the other three.

"He killed my man. You know it. You cannot deny it."

"If by that you mean he killed Carl Peterson, I do not deny it," said Darrell calmly. "And no man ever deserved death more richly."

"Deserved death!" Her voice rose. "Who are you, you dogs, to pronounce judgment on such a man?" With an effort she controlled herself. "However, we will not bandy words. He killed my man—even as I shall shortly kill his woman."

She fell silent for a while staring at the plaster cast, and I saw Darrell's anxious eyes roving round the room. They met mine for a moment, and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. It was out now: there was no bluff about it. Death was in sight, and the manner of it seemed of but little account. Death—unless...

Feverishly I stared around. Death, unless Drummond intervened. I looked up at the roof, remembering the sailor of the night before. But this time it was empty. And all the time the man called Paul stood watching the woman with sombre eyes.

"It has not been very easy, Darrell." She was speaking again. "My servants have blundered. Mistakes have been made. But from the moment she fell into my hands the final issue has never been in doubt. I might have had to forego this. I might even have had to forego getting the lot of you. But her life has been forfeit since that moment. I have played with her at times, letting her think that she would be free if you found her, and she, stupid little fool, has believed me. Free!" She laughed. "There have been times when only the greatest restraint has prevented me killing her with my own hands. And now I am glad, for I would like you to see her die."

"Carissima," said the man called Paul, "is it wise to delay? All has gone so well up to now, and I fear something may happen."

"What can happen," she said calmly, "who can interrupt us? The time has passed when there was danger of surprise. Your police, Darrell, are stickers. And although I did not think you would enlist their aid, there was the little matter of the blood in the ditch. I felicitated dear Phyllis on that. Paul tells me that she practically killed him with one blow of that heavy spanner—naughty girl."

"For God's sake get on with it, woman," said Jerningham harshly.

"The essence of satisfactory revenge, my friend," she remarked, "is not to hurry. The night is yet young."

I closed my eyes. The powerful gleaming lights against the black made me drowsy. It was a dream all this—it must be. In a few moments I should awake, and see my own familiar room.

"What think you of the setting of my revenge?" From a great distance her voice came to me, and I forced myself back to reality again. "Stonehenge—in miniature. Theatrical—perhaps. But the story fascinates me. And because in this year of grace the real place cannot be used it was necessary to make a model." With brooding eyes she stared in front of her. "We will rehearse it once, Paul. I am in the mood. Turn out the lights."

"Carissima," he protested, "is it wise?"

"Turn out the lights," she said curtly, and with a muttered oath he obeyed.

"I am in a strange mood tonight," Her voice—low and throbbing—came to us out of the darkness. "It is true that I have rehearsed it before, that I know exactly every effect. But I would postpone it awhile. Besides it may be that you, who will watch the real performance, can suggest something at the rehearsal. Think well, you watchers: use your imagination, for only thus will you appreciate my plan.

"Night. Darkness such as this. Around us on the grass a multitude who wait."

I sat up stiffly: was it imagination or had something passed close to my chair?

"They wait in silence, whispering perhaps amongst themselves of what is about to happen. They have seen it before—many times, but the mystery of what they are about to see and the wonder of it never palls.

"Darkness—and then in the east the faint light that comes before the dawn. Look!"

It was clever—damnably clever. How the lights had been arranged to give the effect I cannot say, but at the end of the room behind the Friar's Heel there came a faint luminosity. It was more a general lessening of the darkness than anything else, and one could just see the outlines of the stones against it.

"A murmur like a wave beating on the shore—then silence once again. A gentle breeze, faint scented with the smell of country kisses their faces, and is gone, whilst all the time the dawn comes nearer: the tense expectancy increases."

I couldn't help it. I was fascinated in spite of myself. My reason told me that all these elaborate preparations were nothing more nor less than the preliminaries to cold-blooded murder. And yet, theatrical though they might be, and were, they were also artistically impressive. I remember that I found myself thinking what a marvellous stage effect it would be.

Gradually the light behind the Friar's Heel increased, and then the woman began to sing. Her voice was small but true, and she sang in a tongue I did not know. It was a wild barbaric thing that sounded like one of those bizarre Magyar folk songs. And the effect was incredible. I found myself sweating with sheer excitement, all danger forgotten; and the others said after they had felt the same. The light grew brighter: her song wilder and more triumphant. And then suddenly she ceased.

"It comes," she cried. "The god comes. And as the first rays fall on the slaughter stone, and the woman who lies there, the sacrifice is made."

Out of the lessening darkness came a rim of golden light. It appeared behind the Friar's Heel, and gradually grew larger and larger, even as the sun appears above the horizon, a yellow ball of electric light being raised slowly on a winding gear. So said reason. But imagination saw the scene of countless centuries ago.

"The shadows shorten," she whispered. "Soon they will reach the slaughter stone and pass it by. This time there is no victim—but next.... My God! What's that?"

Her voice rose to a sudden shrill cry, and for a while we all stared stupidly. For now the slaughter stone was bathed in light, and on its smooth surface was a gruesome object. One end was red with dried up blood, and the other had a nail.

The man called Paul moved slowly towards it.

"It's a man's finger," he muttered, and his voice was shaking.

"A man's finger," repeated the woman. "But how did it get there? How did it get there?" she screamed. "How did it get there, you fool?"

And Paul could give no answer.

"A man's finger," she said once more, and glancing at her I saw that every drop of blood had drained from her face. "Where is Grant?"

"Grant," said Paul stupidly. "Why do you want Grant?"

"Drummond shot his finger off," she answered. "In the room below the Mere. Get him. Get him, you wretched fool, at once."

"But will you be all right," he began, and again from behind me came a throaty chuckle. "Great Scott! the butterfly man."

I turned round. Sure enough there was Toby Sinclair, powerless in the hands of the negro. The mystery of the finger was explained.

"Damn you!" he cried, "this is an outrage."

"Put him in a seat, Pedro," said the woman, and Toby was forced into the chair next to mine.

"If it isn't Mr Seymour," he fumed angrily. "Are these people mad? Is this place a lunatic asylum?"

He subsided into angry mutterings, and I said nothing. For now I was too excited to speak. It was evident that the game was beginning in grim earnest.

"Get Grant," said the woman, and Paul left the room.

She stood motionless leaning against the altar stone whilst that damnable nigger shambled round the room and then disappeared again. Toby Sinclair still continued to curse audibly, and the other three stared in front of them with eyes bright with anticipation. What was going to happen next? Once Sinclair stole a glance at me and winked, and I must confess that wink heartened me considerably. Because even now I saw very little light in the darkness.

The door opened, and Paul came in followed by the man with the damaged hand.

"Grant," said the woman quietly, "is that your finger?"

He gave a violent start: then he picked it up with a trembling hand. "It is," he muttered foolishly. "At least, I—I think it is. It must be."

"Do you recognize any of these men?" she went on.

"I recognize those three," he stammered, and Darrell nodded pleasantly.

"A little morning exercise by the waters of the Mere," he remarked.

"And what of the others?" she said.

He looked at Toby and me, and shook his head.

"I've seen them," he said. "At Amesbury. And I thought"—he looked sideways at Paul—"I thought. The boss," he went on sullenly, "said that I was to say nothing about them."

For a moment she stared at Paul with a look of such concentrated cold fury that I almost felt sorry for the man. After all, swine though he was, he did love her, and had only embarked on this affair for her sake. But what she was going to say to him we shall never know, for at that moment there came a diversion.

The man with the damaged hand had suddenly come very close to me and was peering into my face. Then with a quick movement he seized my moustache and tore it off.

"God in Heavens!" he muttered, "it's one of them. One of the three that were drowned."

A dead silence settled on the room, which was at last broken by Toby. "What about Opsiphanes syme?" he burbled genially.

Another dead silence, broken this time by the woman. "So Drummond is not dead," she said softly. "How very interesting."

"I seem to recall," drawled Jerningham pleasantly, "in those dear days of long ago, that our lamented friend whose repulsive visage adorns the altar had frequent necessity to remark the same thing."

And then Paul spoke with sudden fear in his voice. "It's a trap. An obvious trap. He's probably got the police with him."

"There wasn't a soul outside when I came in," said Grant. "There hasn't been a thing past the gate since eight o'clock."

"Go out," said the woman, "and mount guard again. Paul—fetch Phyllis."

For a moment or two he seemed on the point of arguing with her: then he thought better of it and both of them left the room.

"So you are Sinclair," she said, coming over to Toby.

"Quite right, sweet girl of mine," he answered. "And how have we been keeping since our last merry meeting?"

"All of you except Drummond." She was talking half to herself. "Helpless: at my mercy."

A triumphant smile was on her lips, and as it seemed to me with justice. It exactly expressed the situation, and now that the momentary excitement of the finger episode had worn off I began to feel gloomier than ever. It was all very well for the others to be flippant, but unless they were completely blind to obvious realities it could only be due to bravado. We were absolutely in this woman's power, there was no other way of looking at it. That their mood might be due to a blind unquestioning faith in Drummond's ability was also possible, but unless he came with four or five exceptionally powerful men to help him, this was going to be a case of the pitcher going to the well once too often. For what none of them seemed to realize was the fact that this woman was careless of her own life. There lay the incredible danger. Discovery meant nothing to her provided her revenge had come first.

I came out of my reverie to find Darrell's eyes fixed on me. "Learnt that tune yet, Dixon?" he said.

Toby Sinclair was humming the Froth Blower's Anthem, and I nodded. I was free now to give Drummond away, but what earthly good it was going to be heaven alone knew.

"A new recruit, dear Irma," went on Darrell. "You will be pleased to know that it was he who solved most of your clues."

She turned her strange brooding eyes on me. "How did you get out of the Mere," she asked curiously.

"A little substitution," I remarked. "The gentleman you left below arrived too soon, and then I sat on the water handle by mistake."

"I am glad," she said. "The audience will now be complete."

"Think so," said Jerningham mockingly. "One seat, and a rather important one, still remains to be occupied."

"It is possible that it may remain unoccupied," she said enigmatically. "Good evening, Phyllis. Your husband's friends have all arrived, as you see."

Mrs Drummond stared round with a wan little smile. "Hullo! chaps," she said. "Where's Hugh?"

"The Lord knows, Phyllis," answered Darrell. "We don't."

"He will come," said Mrs Drummond calmly. "Don't worry."

"You think so," answered Irma. "Good. And anyway why should you worry. Whether he comes, or whether he doesn't, the result as far as you are concerned will be the same. In fact I am not sure that my revenge would not be all the sweeter if he didn't come—until too late." Once more she was leaning against the altar stone, with one hand resting on the bust of Carl Peterson. "Imagine his feelings for the rest of his life if he arrived to find you all dead, knowing that at last he had failed you."

"May I remind you once again of the number of times we have heard remarks of a similar nature from your late lamented—er—husband—" said Jerningham with a yawn.

"And may I remind you," she answered, "of my original little verse to Drummond concerning the Female of the Species. I shall wait a little, and then we will proceed. Should he come in the interval I shall be delighted for him to participate in our little ceremony. Should he fail to appear he will not. He will merely find the results. And should he be so injudicious as not to come alone he will encounter two locked doors, doors which will take even him some time to knock down. He will hear you screaming for help inside here—and then——"

Her voice rose: her breast heaved: she was tasting of her triumph in advance.

"Bonzo's meat cubes are highly recommended for preserving a placid disposition," said Algy brightly. "You'll split a stay lace, my angel woman, unless you're careful."

"Why do we delay, dear one?" said Paul anxiously. "Let us be done with it now, and leave him to find what he will find."

But she shook her head. "No: we will give him half an hour. And if he is not here by then..."

I thought furiously: every moment gained might be an advantage. "How is he to know anything about it," I said. "If he is where I last saw him, he is in Amesbury. And it will take more than half an hour get a messenger to him and for him to reach here."

She looked at me thoughtfully. "Is he also disguised like you and Sinclair?"

"He is," I said shortly. "He has a large black beard...."

"You fool," howled Sinclair. "You damned treacherous fool. My God! We're done."

I stared at him stupidly, and a sudden deadly sick feeling came over me. "But," I stammered, "I thought..."

I looked across helplessly at Darrell. What had I said? Surely the message was clear, to say who he was after I heard the anthem once.

"I could kill you where you sit, you cur," went on Sinclair idly, "if only I had my hands free."

"You seem to have said the wrong thing, Mr Dixon," said Irma pleasantly. "So dear Hugh is disguised in a large black beard, is he? I don't think I should like Hugh in a black beard. Well, well! I wonder what little amusement he has in store for us. We will certainly wait, Paul, until he arrives. I couldn't bear to miss him in a black beard."

"He had a scheme," said Sinclair furiously to the other three. "An absolute winner. But everything depended on his disguise. You fool, Dixon: you fool."

"Shut up, Toby," said Mrs Drummond peremptorily. "I'm sure Mr Dixon didn't mean to do any harm, and anyway—" she turned to me—"thank you a hundred times for all you've been through on my behalf."

I looked at her gratefully, though I was too much upset to speak. I simply couldn't understand the thing. Evidently Drummond had altered his plans since he'd sent the message through Darrell. But if so—and he didn't want me to comply with his first instructions—why hadn't he sent countermanding orders through Sinclair? And after a while I began to feel angry: the man was a damned fool. From beginning to end he had bungled every single thing. It was I who had borne the burden and heat of the whole show. And what possible hope had he got of deceiving anybody with that absurd false beard?

"And have you any idea if our friend is coming soon?" pursued Irma sweetly. "Or shall we send a note to Amesbury, addressed to Mr Blackbeard?"

"You needn't worry," said Sinclair sullenly. "He's coming all right."

He glowered vindictively at me, and I glowered back at him. I was absolutely fed up—so fed up that I almost forgot what was in store for us. Of all the bungling, incompetent set of fools that I had ever known this much vaunted gang won in a canter. And their so-called leader was the worst of the lot.

My mind went back to Bill Tracey's remarks about him and the extraordinary things he had done. I'd tell Bill the truth when I next saw him. I'd put him wise. And then my stomach gave a sick heave: I should never see Bill again. The sweat poured down me. My anger had gone—reality had returned. In a short while this astounding farce would be over, and I should be dead.

The room swam before me. I could only see the faces of the others through a mist. Dead! We should all be dead. By a monstrous effort I bit back a wild desire to shout and rave. That would be the unforgivable sin in front of this crowd. They might lack brains, but they didn't lack courage. I pulled myself together and stared at them. Boredom was the only emotion they displayed—boredom and contempt. This foul woman could kill them all right: she could never make them whimper. "I'm damned sorry," I said suddenly. "But for God's sake don't think it was treachery."

For a moment no one spoke. Then—"Sorry I said that," said Toby gruffly. "Withdraw it and all that sort of rot."

Silence fell again: the only movement was Paul's restless fidgeting. The woman still leaned gracefully against the altar stone. Mrs Drummond sat motionless, staring at the door.

"He will probably be coming soon, Paul," said Irma suddenly. "And it would be better not to give him any warning. Gag them."

"What about the girl?" he said.

"Gag her as well, and put her in the vacant chair for a time."

"Don't touch me you foul swine," said Mrs Drummond coldly. "I will go there."

"And then when dear Hugh comes," said Irma, "he shall take your place, Phyllis. Whilst you will be placed elsewhere."

She clenched her hands, and for a moment the feverish glitter returned to her eyes. Then she grew calm again.

"Now turn out all the lights except the one at the end."

And so for perhaps ten minutes we sat there waiting. Once I heard Pedro's throaty chuckle that seemed to come from the passage leading to the garage: and once I thought I heard the sound of a car on the road outside. Otherwise the silence was absolute.

Through the open skylight I could see the stars, and I began wondering what had become of the sailor. Somewhere about the house I supposed: one of the infamous gang. And then I started to wonder how Drummond would come.

Should I suddenly see his bearded face peering through at us—covering the woman with a revolver? But the stars still shone undimmed by any shadow, and after a while my brain refused to act. My arm was throbbing abominably. My thoughts began to wander.

I was back in my club, and the woman Irma was the Wine Steward. It was absurd that I couldn't get a drink before eleven o'clock in the morning in my own club. A fatuous wartime regulation that should be repealed. I'd write to my MP about it. Everybody ought to write to their MP about it. Here was that doddering ass old Axminster coming in. Thought he owned the place because he was a peer.... What was he saying? I listened—and suddenly my thoughts ceased to wander.

It wasn't Axminster: it was the man with the damaged hand. "A big bloke with a black beard is dodging through the bushes towards the house," he said. "What are we to do?"

The woman stretched out her arms ecstatically. "Let him come," she cried triumphantly. "Pedro." Came another throaty chuckle from behind me. "Come into the room after him, Pedro. Don't let him see you. Then I leave him to you. But don't kill him."

17. In Which the Curtain Rings Down

As long as I live I shall never forget the tension of the next few minutes. The light was so dim that the faces of the others were only blurs. Paul had joined the woman, and they were standing side by side against the altar stone. The door in the hall was ajar, and the hall itself was in darkness so that it was impossible to see anything distinctly.

"He had a scheme: an absolute winner."

Sinclair's words came back to me, and I wondered what it was. Had I really done the whole lot of us in by my indiscretion? But at last the period of waiting was over. Drummond's voice could be heard in the hall.

"Very little light in this house."

The woman by the altar stiffened. "His voice," she said exultingly. "Drummond at last."

And then, or was it my imagination, there seemed to come a funny sort of hissing noise from the hall. Had the negro got him already? But no, he was speaking again. "I am a police inspector, and I wish to see the lady of the house on a very important matter."

In the dim light I could just see Darrell's expression of blank amazement, and I sympathized with him. Was this the brilliant scheme? If so, was a more utterly fatuous one ever thought of. Why, his voice gave him away.

"A very serious matter. I may say that I have two plain clothes men outside. What is that door at the end there? Don't attempt to detain me. Oh! I see—you're leading the way, are you."

The door opened, and there stood Drummond. I could just see his black beard, but it wasn't at him that I looked for long. He took a couple of steps into the room, and like a shadow the negro slipped in—dodging behind the curtain. I heard hoarse gurgling noises coming from the others as they strove to warn him, but Paul had done his work too well.

With a swift movement he stepped back and shut the door, so that Pedro was not more than a yard from him.

"Good evening. Inspector. Your voice is very familiar."

"A little ruse, my poppet," said Drummond pleasantly, "for getting into the august presence. May I say that I have a revolver in my hand, in case you can't see it in this light? And will you and your gentleman friend put your hands up. I've dealt with one of your myrmidons outside in the hall, and my temper is a bit ragged."

With a faint smile the woman raised her hands, and Paul followed suit.

"How are you, mon ami," she said. "We only required you to complete the family circle. In fact I was desolated when I thought you'd succumbed at the Mere."

I worked madly at the handkerchief with my jaws. Why didn't he come further into the room? At any second the negro might spring on him.

"And what is this ridiculous entertainment?" he asked.

"Specially staged for you, Hugh," she answered.

"I'm sorry you've wasted your time," he said shortly. "A truce to this fooling. I've had enough of it. You and the swine with you are for it now."

"Are we?" she mocked.

"Yes—you are. Come here, you swab. I don't know your name, and I don't want to, but hump yourself."

"And if I refuse," said Paul easily.

"I'll plug you where you stand," answered Drummond. "I don't know how my wife and friends are secured, but set them free. And no monkey tricks."

And then, with a superhuman effort, I got the handkerchief half off my mouth.

"Look out behind," I croaked, and even as I spoke the gleaming white teeth of the negro showed over his shoulder. That was all I could see at that distance, but I could hear.

There came a startled grunt from Drummond, that foul throaty chuckle from the black man, and the fight commenced. And what a fight it was in the semi-darkness. I forgot our own peril, forgot what depended on the issue in the thrill of the issue itself. Dimly I could see them swaying to and fro, each man putting forward every atom of strength he possessed, whilst Irma swayed backwards and forwards in her excitement, and the man Paul went towards the struggling pair in case he was wanted.

"Leave them, Paul," she cried tensely. "Let Drummond have his last fight."

And then Darrell got his gag free. "Go it, Hugh; go it, old man," he shouted.

I heard someone croaking hoarse sounds of encouragement and suddenly realized it was myself. And then gradually the sounds ceased, and my mouth got strangely dry. For Drummond was losing.

From a great distance I heard Darrell muttering "My God!" over and over again to himself, and from somewhere else came pitiful little muffled cries as Mrs Drummond realized the ghastly truth. Her husband was losing.

It was impossible to see the details, but of the main broad fact there was no doubt. At long last, Drummond had met his match. The nigger's chuckles were ceaseless and triumphant, though Drummond fought mute. But slowly and inexorably he was being worn down. And then step by step the black man forced him towards the chair where his wife was sitting.

"Take Phyllis out, Paul," cried Irma suddenly. "Take her out."

Foot by foot, faster and faster the pair swayed towards the empty seat. Drummond was weakening obviously, and suddenly with a groan he gave in and crumpled. And then in a couple of seconds it was over. He was flung into the chair, and with a click the steel bars closed over his wrists. He was a prisoner, the family circle was complete.

With a heart broken little cry his wife, who had torn off her gag, flung her arms around him and kissed him.

"Darling boy," she cried in an agony. Then abruptly she straightened up and stood facing her enemy. And if her voice when she spoke was not quite steady, who could be surprised?

"You foul devil," she said. "Get it over quickly."

And Pedro's evil chuckle was the only answer. I glanced at Irma, and for the time she was beyond speech. Never have I seen such utter and complete triumph expressed on any human being's face. She was in an ecstasy. Standing in front of the bust of Peterson, she was crooning to it in a sort of frenzy. The madness was on her again.

"My love, my King: he has been beaten. Do you realize it, my adored one? Drummond has been beaten. You are here, my Carl: your spirit is here. Do you see him—the man who killed you—powerless in my hands?"

Gradually she grew calmer, and at length Paul spoke.

"There is no reason for more delay now, Carissima," he said urgently. "Let us finish."

She stared at him broodingly. "Finish—yes. All will be finished soon, Paul. But for a few minutes I will enjoy my triumph. Then we will stage our play."

She looked at each of us in turn—a look of mingled triumph and contempt. "Ungag them, Paul, and Pedro—you attend to the white woman should she give trouble."

She waited till Paul had obeyed her, gloating over us, and the full realization of our position came sweeping over me. Great though the odds against him had been, some vestige of hope had remained while Drummond was still free. Now our last chance had gone: we were finished—outwitted by this woman. And though nothing could have been more utterly futile and fatuous than Drummond's behaviour, I felt terribly sorry for him.

Still breathing heavily after his fight, he sat there with his chin sunk on his chest looking the picture of despondency. And I realized what he must be going through. Beaten, and knowing that the result of that beating meant death to us all and to his wife. And yet—angry irritation surged up in me again—how on earth could he have expected anything else? If ever a man had asked for trouble he had. Now he'd got it, and so had we.

All the fight seemed to have gone out of him: he was broken. And when I looked at the others they seemed broken too—stunned with the incredible thing that had happened. That Drummond, the invincible, should have met his match at last—should be sitting there as a helpless prisoner—had shattered them. It was as if the Bank of England had suddenly become insolvent. And it was like Peter Darrell to try and comfort him.

"Cheer up, old son," he said lightly. "If that nigger hadn't caught you unawares from behind, you'd have done him." And Drummond's only reply was a groan of despair, whilst his wife stroked his hair with her hand, and Pedro, like a great black shadow, hovered behind her.

"Possibly," answered Irma. "That 'if' should be a great comfort to you all during the next half hour."

"All is ready," said Paul. "Let us start."

"Yes, we will start. But, as this is our last meeting, are there any little points you would like cleared up or explained? You, my dear Drummond, seem strangely silent. It's not surprising, I admit; complete defeat is always unpleasant. But, honestly, I can't congratulate you on your handling of the show. You haven't been very clever, have you? In fact, you've been thoroughly disappointing. I had hoped at any rate, for some semblance of the old form, certainly at the end, but instead of that you have given no sport at all. And now—it is over."

She fell silent, that strange brooding look on her face, until at length Paul went up to her. "For Heaven's sake, Carissima," he said urgently, "do not let us delay any longer. I tell you I fear a trap."

"Why do you fear a trap?" she demanded.

"They have come into our power too easily," he said doggedly. "They have walked in with their eyes open, it seems to me."

"All that matters is that they have walked in," she answered. "And now, whatever happens, they will never walk out again. Do you hear that, Drummond, I said—whatever happens."

He made no answer until the negro, with a snarl of rage, thrust his evil face close to him.

"I hear," he said sullenly.

"It matters not," she cried triumphantly, "if a cordon of police surround the house; it matters not if they batter at the doors—they will be too late. Too late!" She breathed the words deliriously; the madness was coming on her again.

"But," stammered Paul, "how shall we get away?"

She waved him from her imperiously. "Be silent; you bore me," Once more she turned to the plaster cast. "Do you realize, my Carl, what has happened? They are all here—all of them. Drummond and his wife are here; the others are here waiting to expiate their crime. Their lives for yours, my King; I have arranged that. Is it your will that I delay no longer?" She stared at the bust as if seeking an answer, and somebody—I think it was Algy—gave a short, high-pitched laugh. Nerves were beginning to crack; only Mrs Drummond still stood cool and disdainful, stroking her husband's hair.

Suddenly the wild futility of the whole thing came home to me, so that I writhed and tugged and cursed. Seven of us were going to be killed at the whim of a mad woman! Murdered in cold blood! God! it was impossible—inconceivable.... Why didn't somebody do something? What fools they were—what utter fools!

I raved at them incoherently, and told them what I thought of their brains, their mentality, and the complete absence of justification for their existence at all.

"I told you she meant to kill us," I shouted, "and you five damned idiots come walking into the most obvious trap that has ever been laid."

"Shut that man's mouth," said Irma quietly, and for the second time Pedro's huge black hand crept round my throat, squeezing, throttling, so that, half choked, I fell silent. After all, what was the use? Mad she might be and undoubtedly was, but as she had said to Drummond, we were finished, whatever happened. And it was more dignified to face it in silence.

"We will begin," she said suddenly. "Paul, get Phyllis."

With a little cry, Mrs Drummond flung her arms round her husband's neck. "Goodbye, my darling," she cried, kissing him again and again. But he was beyond speech, and at length the negro seized her and dragged her away.

"Let me go, you foul brute," she said furiously, and Paul, who was standing by the stone of sacrifice, beckoned to her to come. Proudly, without faltering, she walked towards him.

"Lie down," he said curtly.

"Get it accurate, Paul," cried Irma anxiously. "Be certain that it is accurate."

"I will be certain," he answered.

And then for the first time I realized that there were ropes made fast to rings in the stone. She was going to be lashed down. She didn't struggle even when Pedro, chuckling in his excitement, helped to make her fast. And on her face was an expression of such unutterable contempt that it seemed to infuriate the other woman. "You may sneer, my dear Phyllis," she stormed. "But look above you, you little fool; look above you."

With one accord we all looked up, and at the same moment a small light was turned on in the ceiling. And when he had seen what it illuminated Ted Jerningham began to shout and bellow like a madman. "Stop it, you devil," he roared. "Let one of us go there instead of her. My God! Hugh. Do you see?"

But Drummond was still silent, and after a while Jerningham relapsed into silence too. And as for me, I was conscious only of a deadly feeling of nausea. Hanging from a rafter was a huge, pointed knife. It was of an uncommon Oriental design, and it looked the most deadly weapon.

"Yes, Hugh—do you see?" cried Irma mockingly. "Do you see what it is that hangs directly above your wife's heart? It has been tested, not once, but many times, and when I release the spring it will fall, Hugh. And it will fall straight." And still Drummond sat silent and cowed. "But I shall not release it yet: that I promise you. There is a little ceremony to be gone through before our finale. The rest of them have seen it, Drummond, but to you as my principal guest it will come as a surprise. And after it is over, and the knife that you see up there is buried in Phyllis's heart, your turn will come."

She was rocking to and fro in her mad excitement.

"Paul has arranged it," she cried exultingly. "Clever Paul. Behind each one of you is enough explosive to shatter you to pieces. But Paul has so arranged it that even as Phyllis waits and waits for death to come—so will you all wait. You will see it creeping closer and closer, and be powerless to do anything to save yourselves. I shall light the fuse, and you will see the flame burning slowly towards this little box. And when it reaches that box—suddenly, with the speed of light, the flame will dart to the gun-cotton behind your backs. For the fuse that connects the gun-cotton to the box is of a different brand to the one I shall light. Paul knows all these things: Paul is clever."

And now the madness was on her in earnest. She walked to and fro in front of the altar stone, her arms outstretched, worshipping the plaster cast of Peterson. "Is my revenge worthy, my King?" she cried again and again. "Does it meet with your approval? First she shall be killed before their eyes, and then they will wait for their own death. They will see it coming closer every second, until, at last..."

"Great Heavens! man," shouted Darrell to Paul, "you can't let her go on. The woman is mad."

But he took no notice. His eyes were fixed on the woman who had now become silent. She seemed to be listening to a voice we could not hear, and something told me that we were very near the end. "Put out the lights, Paul," she said gravely.

I took one last look round the room; at Mrs Drummond, lying bound, with the black man gloating over her; at Irma, standing triumphant by the altar stone; and finally at Drummond. Even now I could hardly believe that it was the finish, and that he had nothing up his sleeve. But there he still sat with his head sunk on his breast, the personification of desolate defeat. And then the lights went out.

Once again we were plunged in darkness that could be felt, but this time it was not a rehearsal. In a few minutes that knife would fall from the ceiling, and the poor girl would be dead. And we should see it actually happen. The sweat poured off me in streams as the full horror of it came home. I scarcely thought of what was going to be the fate of the rest of us afterwards. To be lying there bound, knowing that at any moment the knife might fall, was enough to send her crazy. More merciful if it did.

"A model of Stonehenge, Drummond. You have realized that?"

At last he seemed to have recovered the use of his tongue. "Yes, I have realized that." His voice was perfectly steady, and I wondered if even now he realized what was coming.

"And the stone on which Phyllis lies is the stone of sacrifice. Do you think she is a worthy offering?"

"Do you really mean to do this monstrous thing, Irma Peterson?" he asked.

"Should I have gone to all this trouble," she mocked, "if I didn't?"

"And yet, when on one occasion you asked me, I spared Carl's life. Do you remember?"

"Only to kill him later," she cried fiercely. "Go on, Drummond: beg for her life. I'd like to hear you whining."

"You won't do that," he answered. "If I ask you to spare her it is for a different reason altogether. It is to show that you have left in you some shred of humanity."

"As far as you are concerned I have none," she said. "As I say, should I have done all this for nothing? Listen, Drummond.

"It was in Egypt, as I told you in my first letter, that the idea came to me. By the irony of fate, it was suggested to me by a man who knows you well, Drummond. You and dear Phyllis had been staying at the same house with him, and he was so interested to find out that I also knew you. He told me about this splendid game of hidden treasure, and it appeared that you had won. I asked him the rules, and he said they were exceedingly simple. Everything depended on having good clues. I trust that mine have been up to standard."

She paused, and no one spoke.

"From the game, as you played it then, to the game as you have played it now, was but a short step. Preparation was necessary, it is true; but the main idea was the same. I would give you a hidden-treasure hunt, where the prize was not a box of cigarettes, but something a little more valuable. And I would leave you to think"—her voice rose suddenly—"you poor fool, that if you succeeded you would get the prize."

She laughed, and it had an ugly sound.

"However, of that later. Having made my preparations, the next thing was to obtain the prize. That proved easier than I expected. Twice, but for one of those little accidents which no one could foresee, Phyllis would have got into a special taxi in London—a taxi prepared by me. But I could afford to wait. For weeks you were watched, Drummond—and then you went to Pangbourne where you began to realize that I was after you. And then came the opportunity. A hastily scrawled note in your handwriting—Paul is an adept at that, and I had several specimens of your writing—and the thing was done.

"'Bring the Bentley at once to Tidmarsh, old girl. A most amazing thing has happened.—H.' Do you remember the note, Phyllis? I don't blame you for falling into the trap: it said neither too much nor too little, that note. And so I got the prize at a trifling cost. It was naughty of you to hit him so hard, my dear, as I've told you before. Paul said it was a positively wicked blow."

Once again that mocking laugh rang through the room, but I hardly heard it. With every sense alert, I was listening to another sound—the sound of heavy breathing near me. Something was happening close by—but what? Then came a groan, and silence. "What was that? Who groaned?" Her words came sharp and insistent.

"Who, indeed?" answered Drummond's voice. "Why don't you continue, Irma Peterson? We are waiting for the theatrical display."

"Pedro! Pedro! Is Drummond still in his chair?" Came that same throaty chuckle, followed by Drummond's voice again: "Take your hands off me, you foul swab."

"It is well," she said, and there was relief in her voice. "I should not like a mistake to occur now. And, with you, Drummond—one never knows."

"True," said he, "one never knows. Even now, Irma—there is time for you to change your mind. I warn you that it will be better for you if you do."

"Thank you a thousand times," she sneered. "Instead, however, of following your advice, we will begin. The sacrifice is ready; we have delayed enough." Once more I became conscious of movement near me, and my pulses began to tingle. "Just for the fraction of a second, Drummond, will you again see Phyllis alive: then the knife will fall."

The faint light was beginning behind the Friar's Heel, in a couple of minutes it would be all over. Unless... unless... My heart was pounding; my tongue was dry. Was it the end, or were strange things taking place?

"The dawn," she cried. "You see the dawn, Drummond. Soon the sun will rise, the rays will creep nearer and nearer to Phyllis. And then... See... the rim is already there. It is coming, Drummond, coming. Have you any last message, you poor damned fool, for her? If so speak now for my hand is on the lever of the knife."

"Just one," said Drummond lightly, and to my amazement his voice did not come from the chair in which he was imprisoned. "Every beard is not false, but every nigger smells. That beard ain't false, dearie, and dis nigger don't smell. So I'm thinking there's something wrong somewhere."

There was a moment's dead silence, then she gave a little choking gasp. Came a streak of light as the knife shot down, a crash, and on the stone of sacrifice lay the bust of Carl Peterson, shattered in a hundred pieces. For a while I couldn't grasp it. I stared stupidly at the woman who was cowering back against the altar stone; at the crumpled figure of Paul lying on the ground close by me. And then I looked at the nigger, and he was grinning broadly.

"So it ain't poor dear Drummond in dat chair," he chuckled. "That is my very good friend John Perkins, and when you thought John was talking, it was really dis nigger what spoke, so you see you weren't quite as clever as you thought, my poppet."

Suddenly she began to scream hysterically, and Drummond raced round the chairs setting us free.

"Guard Phyllis," he shouted, as the door opened and Charles followed by the chauffeur came rushing in. It lasted about five seconds—the scrap—but that five seconds was enough. For when it was over and we looked round for Irma she had gone. Whether there was some secret door which we didn't discover, or whether she fled through the passage into the garage we shall never know. But from that day to this there has been no trace seen of her. And I don't even know the ultimate fate of the various men of the house party. Having caught the lot, including Charles, we put them in our chairs. And then Drummond lit the fuse and we left them bellowing for mercy.

"Let 'em sweat for ten minutes," he remarked. "I've disconnected at the junction box, but they don't know that I have. Now then, boys, once again—and all together—Froth Blowers for ever."

We stood in the road and we yelled at the tops of our voices. And it was only when we'd finished that I suddenly remembered the sailor.

"That's all right, old boy," laughed Drummond. "Been retrieving any more bad plums out of waste paper baskets lately?"

And so the game ended, and I know that that night I was too tired even to think about the strangeness of it, much less ask. It wasn't till lunch next day that Drummond cleared up the loose ends. I can see him now, lolling at the end of the table with a lazy grin on his face, and a tankard of beer beside him.

"You'll probably curse my neck off, chaps," he said, "for keeping you in the dark, but honestly, it seemed the only way. It was touch and go, mark you—especially for Phyllis, and that was where the difficulty came in!"

"For the Lord's sake start at the beginning," said Darrell.

"In the first place, I wasn't too sure that they really did think we'd been killed at the Mere. And so it became absolutely vital that I should not be caught. But how to arrange it, and at the same time lull her suspicions, and make her think she'd got me, was the problem. Obviously by providing myself with a double, which is where dear old John came in. He acts for the movies, and he'd grown that awful fungus for a part he has to play shortly. When it is removed, however, he really does look rather like me; moreover he's the same build. So off we set—me as a sailor, him as me—without the smell of an idea as to what we were going to slosh into down here.

"Then came an amazing piece of luck. We motored down—John and I—and we passed the house of last night. There was of course nothing suspicious about it—nothing to mark it as the spot we wanted. Except one thing, and therein lay the luck. As we went past the drive another car coming towards us slowed up, evidently with the intention of turning in. And sitting beside the driver in the front seat was the gent called Paul. That settled it."

"Why?" I asked.

"You couldn't be expected to know," he answered, "but I should have thought old Toby's grey matter would have heaved to it, especially as he spotted the astounding likeness to the late lamented Lakington. Don't you remember the message Phyllis scrawled with her finger, in the blood at the back of her seat? LIKE LAK. It couldn't mean anything else, unless it was the most astounding coincidence. So we were a bit on the way, but not far. We'd found a house connected with them, but whether Phyllis was inside or not I hadn't an idea. However, being a bit of an adept at exploring houses at night, I intended to do so until you two bung-faced swabs went and made fools of yourselves at Stonehenge that afternoon."

"Never," he grinned cheerfully, "in the course of a long and earnest career have I heard two people give themselves away so utterly and so often as Toby and Dixon did that afternoon. It was staggering, it was monumental. And the man they deliberately selected to be the recipient of their maidenly confidence was Paul himself. Beer—more beer—much more beer."

"Damn it, Hugh," cried Sinclair.

"My dear lad," Drummond silenced him with a wave of his hand, "you were the finest example of congenital idiocy it has ever been my misfortune to witness. The stones of Stonehenge are little pebbles compared to the bricks you dropped, but I forgive you. I even forgive jolly old Dixon's scavenging propensities in waste paper baskets. Such is my nature—beautiful, earnest and pure. But you assuredly caused me a lot of trouble: I had to change my plans completely.

"Paul obviously suspected you. No man out of a lunatic asylum could possibly avoid doing so. And as I had no possible means of knowing that all he wanted to do was to get on with the job, I had to assume that he would pass on his suspicions to Irma, and proceed to rope the pair of you in. Time had become an urgent factor. So I wired Algy, and when he arrived, I told him by letter what to do. He was to announce loudly that he proposed to go to the Friar's Heel by night, but as he valued his life, he wasn't to do anything of the sort."

He leaned back in his chair, and looked at me with twinkling eyes. "You may be a damned idiot, Joe," he said, "but I looks towards you and I raise my glass. Had it remotely dawned on me that you were going there yourself, I'd have given you the same warning. But it didn't."

"You knew I was there?" I stammered.

"Laddie," he remarked, "hast ever listened to a vast herd of elephants crashing their way through primeval forest? Hast ever heard the scaly rhinoceros and young gambolling playfully on a shingly shore whilst they assuage their thirst? Thus and more so, was your progress that night. Like a tank with open exhaust you came into action. Like a battalion of panting men you lay about, in the most obvious places you could find, and breathed hard. You were, and I say it advisedly, the most conspicuous object in the whole of Wiltshire."

He frowned suddenly.

"You know what we found there, the others don't. Some poor devil who looked like a clerk—stone dead. What he was doing there we shall never know, but it was perfectly obvious that he had been mistaken for Algy. The nigger had blundered, and it was a blunder which might prove awkward. You heard them talking, Joe—Paul and Irma: but it didn't require that confirmation to see how the land lay. All along I had realized that Phyllis and I were the principal quarry. If she got you so much the better, but we came first. And what I was so terribly frightened of, as soon as I saw that body, was that Irma would get nervous, and believing I was already dead, would go back, finish off Phyllis straight away, and then clear out. I still had no definite scheme; I didn't even have a definite scheme after I'd functioned with the nigger. In fact I didn't really intend to fight him at all.

"I suppose he must have smelt me or something, at any rate he came for me. And by the Lord Harry, it was touch and go. However"—he shrugged his shoulders—"I pasted him good and hearty in the mazzard, and that was that. In fact he is in an awkward predicament that nigger. I dragged him into one of those disused sheds, and handcuffed him to a steel girder. Then I put his victim beside him. And he will find explanations a little difficult.

"The trouble was that all this had delayed me. I hadn't got a car, only a bicycle—and that house had to be explored at once. My hat! laddie," he said to me, "I didn't expect to find you as part of the furniture. How on earth did you get there?"

"On the luggage grid of their car," I said.

"The devil you did," he grinned. "The devil you did! Joe—you are a worthy recruit, though when I saw you through the skylight I consigned you to the deepest pit of hell. But, thank Heavens! you didn't give away the fact that you'd seen me."

"I thought you were one of them," I said.

"I know you did, old boy," he laughed, "What we'd have done without your thoughts during this show I don't know. They have all been so inconceivably wide of the mark that they've been invaluable."

"Don't pay any attention to him, Mr Dixon," said his wife.

"My darling," he protested, "I mean it. Joe has been invaluable. The air of complete certainty with which he proclaimed the exact opposite to the truth has saved the situation. I've been able to bank on it. And once I realized what that foul female intended to do I wanted every bit of assistance I could get.

"The first alternative was to try and get you out of the house single-handed, but I dismissed that as impossible. I didn't know your room, the house was stiff with men, and—most important of all—that woman would have shot on sight.

"The second alternative was to get all the bunch into the house without arousing her suspicions. And when I heard her reading the letter she was sending Algy I realized we were getting on. John and Toby could be brought in at a suitable time, and there only remained the problem of what I was going to do. I confess I didn't think of it. John suggested the nigger. It was a risk, but it proved easier than I thought."

"Damn it, Hugh," cried Darrell, "why didn't you say who you were in the afternoon? You were alone with us, and if you'd set us free then we could have tackled the whole bunch."

"Because, Peter," said Drummond gravely, "it would have taken us some minutes to tackle them. It would have taken Irma half a second to kill Phyllis."

"At any rate," said Jerningham, "you might have let us know. Jove! old boy, I never want to go through twenty minutes like that again."

"I know, chaps—and I'm sorry. I'd have spared you that if I'd thought it safe. But then you would all of you have been acting, and I wanted the real thing. I knew that Dixon thought John was me, and would tell you so, too. And I wanted you all to carry on as if you thought so. The rest you know. It was easy for me to talk every time instead of John, with the room in semi-darkness as it was. And I think you'll admit we staged a damned good fight."

"When did you spot it, Phyllis?" said Darrell.

"When I kissed John," she laughed.

"And very nice too," grinned that worthy. "Unrehearsed effects are always best."

Drummond rose and stretched himself.

"All over, chaps, all over. Back to the dreary round. Algernon," he hailed a passing waiter, "bring, my stouthearted fellow, eight of those pale pink concoctions that the sweet thing in the bar fondly imagines are Martinis. I would fain propose a toast. But first—a small formality. Mr Joseph Dixon will place his hand in his pocket and extract there from coins to the value of five shillings. I will then present him here and now with the insignia of the Ancient Order, feeling that he has well merited that high honour. Our anthem he knows; he has already sung it twice in his cracked falsetto. The privileges attendant to our Order you will find enumerated in this small book, Mr Dixon, and they should be studied in the solitude of your chamber when alone with your thoughts. Especially our great insurance treble which guards your dog from rabies, your cook from babies, and yourself from scabies. Great words, my masters, great words, I perceive that Algernon, panting and exhausted after his ten-yard walk, is with us again, carrying the raspberry juice with all his well-known flair. Lady and Gentlemen—to our new Froth Blower. And may I inquire which of you bat-faced sons of Belial has pinched the five bob?"

THE END

The Return of Bulldog Drummond

First Published 1932

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter I

Slowly but relentlessly the mist was creeping over the moor. It moved in little eddies; then it would make a surge forward like a great silent wave breaking on the shore and not receding. One by one the landmarks were blotted out, until only some of the highest tors stuck up like rugged islands from a sea of white.

As yet it had not reached Merridale Hall, which stood on highish ground, some hundred yards from the main road to Yelverton, though already it was drifting sluggishly round the base of the little hill on which the house was built. Soon it would be covered: it would become a place cut off from the outside world, a temporary prison of stones and mortar whose occupants must perforce rely upon themselves. And it is possible that a dreamer standing at the smoking-room window, and gazing over the billowing landscape of cotton wool, might have pondered on the different dramas even then being enacted in all the other isolated dwellings. Strange stories of crime, of passion; tragedies of hate and love; queer figments of imagination would perhaps have passed in succession through his mind, always provided that the dreamer was deaf. For if possessed of normal hearing, the only possible idea that could have occupied his brain would have been how to preserve it.

Twice already had the butler entered, only to retire defeated from the scene. The cook, who had been trying to obtain a little well-earned rest herself, had then advanced into the hall and dropped a fusillade of saucepans one after another on the tiled floor without the slightest success. And finally, in despair, the staff had barricaded itself in the pantry and turned on the gramophone.

There was something majestic about the mighty cadence. The higher note caused the window to rattle slightly: the lower one seemed to come from the deep places of the earth and dealt with the rest of the room. And ever and anon a half-strangled snort shook the performer with a dreadful convulsion. In short, Hugh Drummond was enjoying a post-prandial nap.

His hands were thrust deep in his trouser pockets, his legs were stretched out straight in front of him.

Between them, her head on one knee, sat Bess, his black cocker spaniel. Unperturbed by the devastating roars that came from above her, she, too, slept, trembling every now and then in an ecstasy of dream hunting. And the mist rolled slowly by outside, mounting nearer and nearer to the house.

Suddenly, so abruptly that it seemed as if a sound-proof door had been shut, the noise ceased.

And had the mystical dreamer by the window been really present, he would have seen a rather surprising sight. For the man who the fraction of a second before had been sound asleep was now sitting up in his chair with every sense alert. The dog, too, after one look at her master's face, was sitting rigid with her eyes fixed on the window. Volleys of saucepans might be of no avail, but the sound which had caused this instantaneous change was different. For from the direction of the main road had come the crack of a rifle.

Still with his hands in his pockets, the man got up and crossed to the window. The mist was not more than twenty yards away, and for a while he stared down the drive. Who could be firing on a day like that? And yet he knew that he had not imagined that shot.

Suddenly his eyes narrowed: the figure of a man running at top speed came looming out of the fog. He raced towards the house, and on his face was a look of abject terror. And the next moment he heard the front door open and shut, and the sound of footsteps in the hall outside.

"Down, girl!" he ordered quietly, as Bess began to growl. "It would seem that there are doings abroad."

Drummond strode to the door and stepped into the hall. Cowering in a corner was a young man, whose breath still came in great choking gasps, and whose trembling hands gave away the condition he was in. For a moment or two he stared at Drummond fearfully; then, getting up, he rushed over to him and seized his arm.

"For God's sake save me!" he stammered. "They're after me."

"Who are after you?" asked Drummond quietly, and even as he spoke there came a ring at the door, accompanied by an imperative tattoo on the knocker.

"Quick: tell me," he went on, but he spoke to empty air. For with a cry of terror, the youngster had darted into the smoking-room and shut himself in.

There came a further loud knocking, and with a shrug of his great shoulders Drummond crossed the hall and opened the front door. Outside stood two men in uniform, each with a rifle slung over his back, and he recognised them at once as warders from Dartmoor.

"Good afternoon," he said affably. "What can I do for you?"

The senior touched his cap. "Do you mind if we search your outbuildings, sir?" he said. "A man we're after disappeared up your drive, and got away in the fog. But he must have come here: there ain't nowhere else he could have gone."

"Who is this fellow you're looking for?" asked Drummond.

"A mighty dangerous customer, sir," said the warder. "You look as if you could take care of yourself all right, but there are a good many people round here who won't sleep happy in their beds till we've got him under lock and key again. It's Morris, sir, the Sydenham murderer: escaped in the mist this morning. An a more brutal devil never breathed."

Drummond raised his eyebrows: anyone less like a brutal murderer than the frightened youngster who had taken sanctuary in the house it would have been hard to imagine.

"Very near killed a warder this morning," went on the officer. "And then dodged away across the moors. Of course, with a face like his he never had a chance from the beginning, but if he is here, sir, as we think, we'll take him along with us."

"What is the peculiarity about his face?" demanded Drummond.

"He's got a great red scar down one cheek," said the warder.

"I see," said Drummond. "Look here, officer, there has evidently been some error. It is perfectly true that a man dashed into this house just before you arrived and implored me to hide him. But it is equally true that from your description he is not Morris. So we will elucidate the matter. Come in."

He crossed the hall to the smoking-room, with the two warders at his heels.

"Now then, young feller," he cried, as he flung open the door, "what's all this song and dance about? I presume this is not the man you want."

He turned to the warders, who were staring in a bewildered way at the panic-stricken youth cowering behind a chair.

"Never seen the gentleman before in my life, sir," said one of them at length.

"Get up, man!" remarked Drummond contemptuously. "No one is going to hurt you. Now then," he continued, as the youth slowly straightened himself and came out into the room, "let's hear what happened."

"Well, sir," said the one who was obviously the senior of the two officers, "it was this way. My mate and I were patrolling the road just by where your drive runs into it. Suddenly behind the gate-post we saw someone move, someone who it seemed to me had been hiding there. In this fog one can't see much, and it wasn't possible to make out the face. But when he sprang to his feet and rushed away it naturally roused our suspicions. So I fired a shot wide, as a warning, and we followed him up here."

"But surely you could have seen he wasn't in convict's kit," said Drummond.

"The first thing an escaped man does, sir, is to steal a suit of civvies. He either lays out some bloke he meets and strips him, or he breaks into a house. And a man like Morris, who is as powerful as they make 'em, and is absolutely desperate into the bargain, wouldn't' stick at either course. I'm sorry, sir," he continued to the youngster, "if I've given you a fright. But you must admit that your behaviour was hardly that of a man who had nothing to fear."

"I quite agree," said Drummond tersely. He was covertly examining the youngster as he spoke, and there were times when those somewhat lazy eyes of his could bore like gimlets. But his next remark gave no indication of his thoughts.

"A drink, my stouthearted sportsmen," he boomed cheerfully. "And good hunting to you. By the way," he went on, as he produced glasses and a tantalus, "you say this man is a murderer. Then why didn't they hang him?"

"Don't you remember the case, sir? About four years ago. An old man was found with his head bashed in, in some small street in Sydenham. They caught this fellow Morris and they found him guilty. And then at the last moment the Home Secretary reprieved him and he got a lifer. Some legal quibble, and he got the benefit of the doubt."

The warder smiled grimly. "It's not for the likes of me to criticise the decision," he went on, "but I'd willingly bet my chances of a pension that he did it."

"That's so," agreed his mate.

"A more callous brutal swine of a man never drew breath. Well, sir, we must be getting along. Here's your very good fortune." The two warders raised their glasses. "And if I might make so bold as to advise you, sir, I'd have a pretty sharp look round to-night. As I said before, from the looks of you Mister Morris would find he'd met his match. For all that, he's a desperate man, and he might get at you while you were asleep."

He put down his empty glass.

"And as for you, sir," he went on, turning to the youngster, into whose cheeks a little colour had returned, "all I can say is, once again, that I'm sorry. But it's a dangerous thing to run from an armed warder, in a fog, down these parts, when a convict has escaped that very day. Good afternoon, gentlemen: thanking you very much again."

The two men picked up their hats, and Drummond went with them to the front door. Then he returned to the smoking-room, and having lit a cigarette, he threw himself into an arm-chair, and signed to the youngster to do likewise.

"Now, young feller," he said quietly, "it strikes me that there is rather more in this affair than meets the eye. You wake me from a refreshing doze by dashing into the house with a remark that they are after you, and it then turns out to be a completely false alarm. Why should you think that two warders were after you?"

"In the mist I didn't realise they were warders," stammered the other.

And once again Drummond stared at him thoughtfully.

"I see," he remarked. "And who, may I ask, did you mean by 'they'?"

"I can't tell you," muttered the other. "I daren't."

"As you will," said Drummond casually. "I must confess, however, to a certain mild curiosity as to the identity people who can reduce anyone to such a condition of pitiable funk as you were in. Also as to why you should anticipate meeting them on Dartmoor in a fog. Incidentally, my name is Drummond—Captain Drummond: what's yours?"

"Marton," said the other, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarette-case.

For a while Drummond looked at him in silence. The youngster was clearly a gentleman: his age he put down at about twenty-one or two. His face was good looking in a weak sort of way, and though he had the build and frame of a big man, he was obviously in rotten condition. In fact, it would have been impossible to produce a better specimen of the type that he utterly despised. If fit, Marton would have been big enough and strong enough for anything on two legs; as he was, one good punch and he would have split like a rotten apple.

Drummond watched him light a cigarette with a trembling hand, and then his glance travelled over his clothes. Well cut: evidently a West-End tailor, but equally evident West-End clothes. And why should a man go careering about Dartmoor dressed as he was and in fear of his life? Was it just some ordinary case of a youngster absconding with cash, whose nerves had brought him to the condition he was in? Or could it be that there was something more in it than that? And at the bare thought of such a possibility his eyes began to glisten.

Life had been intolerably dull of late: in fact, since the affair with the masked hunchback on Romney Marsh nothing had happened to make it even bearable. He had shot, and fished, and consumed innumerable kippers in night clubs, but beyond that nothing—positively nothing. And now could it be possible that as the result of a sudden whim which had caused him to spend a week with Ted Jerningham something amusing was going to happen? The chances were small, he reflected sadly, as he again looked at Marton: still, it was worth trying. But the youngster would have to be handled carefully if anything was to be got out of him.

"Look here, Marton," he said, not unkindly, "it seems to me that you're in a condition when it will do you no harm to shoot your mouth to somebody. I'm considerably older than you, and I'm used to handling tough situations. In fact, I like 'em. Now what's all the trouble about?"

"There's no trouble," answered the other sullenly. "At least none where anyone else can help."

"Two statements that hardly tally," remarked Drummond. "And since the first is obviously a lie, we will confine ourselves to the second. Now, might I ask what you are doing in that rig down here, hiding behind the gate-post of this house?"

"I tell you I saw them looming out of the fog," cried the other wildly. "And I thought—I thought—"

"What did you think?"

"I just lost my head and bolted. And then when one of them fired—" He broke off and stared round the room. "What is this house?"

"Merridale Hall," said Drummond quietly. "Now out with it, young feller. What—have you been up to? Pinching boodle or what?"

"I wish it was only that." He lit another cigarette feverishly, and Drummond waited in silence. If he was trying to bring himself up to the point of telling his story, it would be better to let him do it in his own way. "God! What a fool I've been."

"You're not the first person to say that," Drummond remarked. "But in what particular line have you been foolish?"

His curiosity was increasing now that any question of money was ruled out. However poor a specimen Marton might be, there must be something pretty seriously wrong to produce such a result on his nerves. So once again he waited, but after a while the other shook his head.

"I can't tell you," he muttered. "I daren't."

"You damned young fool," said Drummond contemptuously, losing his patience. "What on earth is there to be frightened of? Your affairs don't interest me in the slightest, but you've made a confounded nuisance of yourself this afternoon, and frankly I've had enough of you. So unless you can pull yourself together and cease quivering like a frightened jelly, you'd better push on to wherever you're going."

He had no intention whatever of turning him out of the house, but it struck him that the threat might produce some coherence in the other. And his surprise was all the greater at the unexpected answer he received. For the youngster for the first time pulled himself together and spoke with a certain quiet dignity.

"I'm sorry. Captain Drummond," he said. "And I apologise for the exhibition I've made of myself. I know my nerves are all to hell, and though it was my fault in the beginning, it hasn't been entirely so since. And so, if I might ask you for a whisky and soda, I'll be getting on."

"Now," said Drummond cheerily, "you're beginning to talk. I was trying to get you into some semblance of coherence, that's all. There can be no question whatever of your leaving to-night: you'd be lost in this fog in half a minute. And I know that my pal Jerningham, whose house this is, will agree with me when he gets back—that is, if he gets back at all: with this weather he'll very likely stay the night in Plymouth. So here's a drink, young feller, and again I tell you candidly that if you're wise you won't bottle this thing up any more. Whatever it is, I won't give you away, and, unless it's something dirty, I may be able to help you."

Marton drained his glass, and into his eyes there came a look of dawning hope.

"Good Lord!" he cried, "If only you could. But I'm afraid it's beyond anyone: I've got to go through with it myself. Still, it will be an awful relief to get it off my chest. Do you go much to London?"

"I live there," said Drummond.

"And do you go about a good deal?"

"I trot round," remarked the other with a faint smile, "the same as most of us do."

"Have you ever run across a woman called Comtessa Bartelozzi?"

Drummond thought for a moment, and then shook his head.

"Not that I know of: she's a new one on me. Hold hard a minute: we'll have the other half-section before you go on."

He rose and crossed to the side table, carrying Marton's glass and his own. So there was a woman in the situation, was there? Name of Bartelozzi. Sounded a bit theatrical: might be real—might be false. And as for the title, Comtessas grew like worms in a damp lawn. In fact, he was so occupied with his thoughts and the mixing of two drinks, that he failed to see the hard hatchet face of a man that for one second was pressed against the window. And Marton, who had his back to it also, sat on in ignorance that, in that fleeting instant, every detail of the room had been taken in by the silent watcher outside.

"Now then," said Drummond, returning with the glasses, "we've got as far as the Comtessa Bartelozzi. Is she the nigger or rather negress in the wood pile?"

"If only I'd never met her!" said the other. "I was introduced to her one night at the Embassy, and....Great Scot! what's that?"

From outside had come the sound of a crash.

It was some distance away, but in the still air it was clearly audible. And it was followed almost immediately by a flood of vituperation and loud shouts of 'Hugh'. Drummond grinned gently, and going to the window opened it.

"Hullo! Peter," he shouted. "What has happened, little one?"

"That perishing, flat-footed idiot Ted has rammed the blinking gate-post," came an answering shout. "We've taken two and a half hours to get here from Plymouth, most of the time in the ditch, and now the damned fool can't even get into his own drive."

The voice was getting nearer.

"What's Ted doing, Peter?" demanded Drummond.

"Sitting in the car drinking whisky out of my flask. Says that God doesn't love him, and that he won't play any more."

Peter Darrell loomed out of the fog and came up to the window.

"Hullo!" he muttered, "who is the boy friend?"

"We'll go into that after," said Drummond. "Does Ted propose to sit there the whole night?"

"He says to you to come down and help," answered Darrell. "The car is half stuck, and you can barely see your hand in front of your face."

"All right, I'll come. You wait here, Marton, and carry on with your yarn later."

"Bring a torch, old boy," went on Darrell. "Not that it's much use, but it might help to pilot him up the drive."

"There's one in the hall," said Drummond. "I'll get it. And, Marton, you'll find cigarettes in the box there."

He got the torch and joined Darrell outside.

And as they disappeared into the mist, their feet crunching on the gravel, two dim figures crouching near the wall began to creep slowly towards the open window. Their footsteps were noiseless in the earth of the flower-bed that bordered the wall, and the youngster sat on in utter ignorance of the fate that was threatening him. A good sort, this Captain Drummond, he reflected: was it possible that he would be able to help him? And even as the dawn of hope began in his mind there came a sound from behind him. He swung round in his chair: his jaw dropped: wild terror shone in his eyes. Not a yard away stood the man he had seen only once before—but that once had been enough.

He gave a hoarse, choking cry and tried to get up. And as he moved he felt his neck held in a vice-like grip. He struggled feebly, staring into the cruel, relentless eyes of his assailant. And then there came a roaring in his ears: the room spun round until at length everything grew black.

"Take his hat, Steve, and then give me a hand with the young swine. Those guys may be back at any moment."

"Have you killed him?" asked the second man.

"No. But we'll have to carry him. I guess it's the first time I've been thankful for this darned fog."

And a few moments later the only moving thing in the smoking-room was the mist that eddied in through the open window, whilst all unconscious of what had happened, Drummond and Darrell were groping their way down the drive.

"All sorts of excitement here, Peter," said Drummond. "There is an escaped murderer wandering about at large—"

"We heard in Plymouth that a convict had got away. Poor devil! I'd sooner be tucked up in my cell than wandering about this bit of the country on a night like this."

"And then the arrival of that youth."

"He seems a rather leprous-looking mess, old boy."

"Nothing to what he was when he first appeared. He's just beginning to tell me the scent of his young life. Evidently got into the deuce of a hole somehow, and probably wants the seat of his pants kicked good and hearty. However, Ted will have to give him a shake-down: can't turn him out in this fog. And we'll hear what the worry is."

"Doesn't sound a particularly absorbing evening's entertainment," remarked Darrell dubiously.

"Probably not," agreed Drummond. "But there's just a bare possibility it might lead to some amusement. And, by Gad! Peter, anything would be welcome these days."

"A drink most emphatically would be," said the other. "Here is the car."

The side-lights suddenly showed up a yard in front of them, and Darrell demanded his flask.

"Finished, dear old lad," came Jerningham's voice happily. "Quite, quite finished. What an infernal time you've been! Now if you'll both push hard I'll get her into reverse, and we ought to do it!"

The wheels skidded on the greasy turf, but with Drummond's great strength to help they at length got her into the road.

"The gate is open, Ted," he said. "Wait a moment now until I mark the right-hand pillar with the torch."

He stood beside it, throwing the light down on the ground, and as he did so a piece of paper lying at his feet caught his eye. It was clean and looked like a letter, and almost mechanically he picked it up and put it in his pocket as the car went slowly past him. Then, leaving Darrell to shut the gate, he piloted Jerningham up the drive until they got to the house.

"Parker can put her away," remarked the owner, getting out. "Jove! old boy, we've had an infernal drive."

"I thought you'd probably stop in Plymouth, Ted," said Drummond.

"It wasn't too bad when we started," said the other, "was it, Peter? Let's get into the smoking-room, and I'll ring for someone to get your kit."

"Wait a moment, Ted," said Drummond. "There's a visitor."

"A visitor! Who the devil has rolled up on an evening like this?"

"Fellow by the name of Marton," went on Drummond, lowering his voice. "He's a pretty mangy piece of work, and he's in a state of mortal terror over something or other. He'd just begun telling me about it when you arrived. I'll tell you the beginning of the thing later on, but treat him easy now. He's as frightened as a cat with kittens."

He opened the smoking-room door.

"Now then, Marton, here's the owner—"

He broke off abruptly: the room was empty.

And for a while the three of them stared round in silence.

"Have you got 'em again, Hugh?" demanded Jerningham.

"No. I can vouch for the boy friend," said Darrell. "I saw him."

Drummond stepped into the hall, and shouted. And the only result was the arrival of the butler.

"Jennings, have you seen a young gentleman lying about anywhere?" he asked.

"No, sir," said the butler, looking slightly bewildered. "What sort of a young gentleman?"

"Any sort, you old fathead," said Jerningham, and once again Drummond shouted 'Marton' at the top of his voice.

They waited, and at length Jerningham spoke.

"Your young friend has apparently hopped it, old boy," he remarked. "And if, as you say, he's a bit of a mess I shouldn't think he's much loss. Get Mr. Darrel's kit out of the car, Jennings, and tell Parker to put her in the garage."

He led the way back into the smoking-room and Drummond followed slowly. To the other two the matter was a trifling one: a youngster whom neither of them had met had come and gone. But to him the thing was much more puzzling. Even if Marton's terror had finally proved groundless, it had been very real to him.

And so what had induced him to leave a place where he knew he was safe? And why had they not met him going down the drive?

"There's something damned funny about this, you chaps," he said thoughtfully. "I'll tell you the whole tale."

They listened in silence as he ran over the events of the afternoon, and when he'd finished, Jerningham shrugged his shoulders. "It seems pretty clear to me, old boy," he remarked. "When you left him and he began to think things over he came to the conclusion that he'd been talking out of his turn. He realised that, having once started, it would be difficult for him not to continue. Possibly, too, what he might have been prepared to tell to you alone he funked giving tongue to before a bunch of us. And so he decided to beat it while the going was good, which would get him out of his dilemma. And that answers your query about not meeting him as we came up the drive. Naturally he didn't want to be seen, so he just stood a couple of yards in on the grass as we went past. In this fog we'd never have spotted him."

"That answers it, Ted, I agree," said Drummond. "And yet I'm not satisfied. Don't know why, but there it is. By the same token, do either of you blokes know this Comtessa Bartelozzi?"

They both shook their heads.

"Not guilty," said Darrell. "Did he give any description of her?"

"No," answered Drummond. "He'd only just started to tell his little piece when you arrived."

"Anyway," said Jerningham, "I don't see that there is anything to be done. He's not here, and that's an end of it the point that now arises is what the deuce to do to-night. I'd ring up the doctor and ask him round for a rubber, but I doubt if he'd get here. What are you staring at, Hugh?"

Drummond had his eyes riveted on a spot on the carpet, and suddenly he bent down and touched it with his fingers. He gave a low whistle and straightened up.

"I knew I was right," he said quietly. "It's earth. And more there—and there. Somebody has been in through the window, Ted."

"By Jove! he's right," said Darrell, peering at the marks on the floor.

"And look at those two close by the chair Marton was sitting in. Whoever it was who came in stood by that chair."

"Come here," called out Darrell, who, with the electric torch in his hand, was leaning out of the window. "There are footmarks all along the flower-bed."

"Let's get this clear," said Jerningham. "You're certain those marks weren't there before?"

"Of course I'm not," cried Drummond. "I don't spend my time examining your bally carpet. But that mud is still damp. Well, I was asleep here after lunch until young Marton arrived, and all that time the window was shut. In fact, it was never opened till I heard Peter shouting."

"What about the two warders?"

"Neither of them ever went near the window. Nor did Marton. Lord! man, it's as clear as be damned. It's a definite trail from the window to the chair the youngster was sitting in."

"There's no sign of a struggle," said Darrell.

"Why should there have been one?" demanded Jerningham. "It may have been some bloke he knew with whom he toddled off all friendly like."

"Seems to me there are two pretty good objections to that," said Drummond. "In the first place, how did anyone know he was here? Secondly, if it was a pal who, by some extraordinary fluke, arrived at the window, why did he bother to come into the room? Why not just call out to him?" He shook his head gravely. "No, chaps: as I see it, there's only one solution that fits. The visitor was Morris—the escaped convict. He was lying hidden in the garden and seized his chance when he saw Marton alone."

"By Jove! that's possible," said Darrell thoughtfully.

"But, damn it—why should he go off with a bally convict?" demanded Jerningham.

"Probably Morris dotted him one over the head," said Drummond. "Then dragged him outside, and, hidden by the fog, stripped him. It's the very point the warders mentioned: the first thing an escaped man does is to try to get civilian clothes."

"Then in that case the wretched bloke is probably lying naked in the shrubbery," cried Jerningham. "We'd better have a search-party; though our chances of finding him, unless we walk on top of him, are a bit remote."

"Doesn't matter: we must try," said Drummond. "Got any lanterns, Ted?"

"I expect Jennings can produce something," answered the other. "Though I'm afraid it's pretty hopeless."

He rang the bell, and as he did so there came from outside the sound of footsteps on the drive.

All three stared at the window expectantly: was this Marton coming back? But it was one of the warders who materialised out of the mist, to be followed a moment or two later by his mate.

"Beg your pardon, gentlemen," he said, "but as I was passing I thought I'd let you know that Morris was seen about a quarter of a mile from here an hour ago. So warn your servants to keep the windows shut and the doors bolted."

"I'm rather afraid it's a bit late, officer," said Drummond. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, Morris has been here within the last quarter of an hour. And those "—he pointed to the marks of mud—"are his tracks."

"But what were you doing, sir?"

"Helping Mr. Jerningham to get his car out of the ditch. You remember that youngster who was here? Well, I left him in this room, and when I came back he was gone. And the only possible solution that I can think of is that Morris laid him out in order to get his clothes. We're just going to have a search through the grounds now."

"I've told Jennings to get lanterns," said Jerningham.

"Possibly you're right, sir," said the warder. "He'd seize a chance like that. But there is another thing that may have happened: the young gentlemen may have joined his friends."

"What friends?" demanded Drummond.

"Well, sir, just after me and my mate left you this afternoon and got into the main road we ran into two gentlemen walking along. So we stopped them and warned them about Morris. One of them, a great, big, powerful-looking man he was, began to laugh.

"'Thank you, officer,' he says. 'But if this guy Morris tries any funny stuff with me he won't know whether it was a steam hammer or a motor lorry that hit him.'

"'No, sir,' I answers, 'you look as if you could take care of yourself—same as another gent I've just been talking to.' Meaning you, sir, of course." He turned to Drummond. "Well, he seemed interested like," went on the warder, "and so I told him what had just happened—about the young gentleman being in such a panic and all that.

"'Can you describe him?" says he, and when I done so he turns to his friend. 'Quite obviously it's the boy we were expecting.' he says. 'The poor lad must have lost his way in the fog. Up there, is he, officer? And what is the name of the house?'

"'Merridale Hall,' I tells him. 'You can't miss it: you are only thirty yards from the entrance gate.'

"And with that he says good afternoon and walks on. So I should think, sir, that in this case that is what happened: the young gentleman went off with his friends. Not that you thought wasn't very probable: Morris would stick at nothing. And, of course, you didn't know any-thing about these two gents."

"No," said Drummond slowly. "I didn't. They did not, by any chance, say where they were stopping?"

"No, sir, they didn't. Well, good night, gentlemen: we must be getting along."

"The plot thickens," said Drummond, as the footsteps of the two warders died away. "And, boys, it seems to me it thickens in a rather promising manner."

"I don't see much ground for optimism at the moment, old lad," said Darrell.

"Don't you, Peter? I do. It seems to me that we have at any rate established the fact that Marton's story was not entirely a cock-and-bull one: nor was it mere groundless panic."

"I'm darned if I see why," said Jerningham. "Anyway, we shan't want those lanterns now, I take it." He went to the door and shouted the fact to Jennings: then he came back to his chair.

"Those warders," went on Drummond quietly, "met these two men just outside the gate. Now it would have taken them, at the most, two minutes to walk up the drive. At a conservative estimate it was at least twenty minutes after when you two rammed the gate-post. What do you suggest they were doing during the gap? Why, if they were friends of Marton, didn't they ring the front-door bell and inquire if he was here? Why, when they finally did come in, did they come in through the window? No, my boy—it's a fiver to a dried orange pip that those two men are the 'they' he was so terrified of. And now, owing to the mere fluke of that warder meeting them, they've got him."

"I'll grant all that, old lad," said Jerningham. "But what I want to know is, what the deuce you propose to do about it. You don't know where these men are living: you don't know anything about 'em. All we do know is that your boy friend's name is Marton, which cannot be called a very uncommon one."

"Afraid I'm rather inclined to agree with Ted, old boy," said Darrell. "Doesn't seem to me that we've got anything to go on. True, we know about this female—Bartelozzi or whatever her name is—but as she is presumably in London, that doesn't help much."

Drummond gave a sudden exclamation, and pulled out of his pocket the piece of paper he had found on the drive. "I clean forgot—all about this," he said, opening it out. "Picked it up by the gate-post."

"Anything interesting?" cried Darrell, as he watched the other's face.

Without a word Drummond laid it on the table, and they all three stared at it. It was an ordinary piece of office notepaper with the name and address of the firm stamped at the top.

MARTON, PETERS & NEWALL, SOLICITORS

134, Norfolk Street, Strand WC2.

Underneath was written in pencil the two words:

'Glensham House'.

"At any rate that establishes something else." remarked Jerningham: "a point that does give us a foundation to work on. Glensham House is about half a mile down the road towards Yelverton."

"The deuce it is," said Drummond, his eyes beginning to gleam.

"It's a big house, and it's been empty for some years. They say it's haunted, but that is probably poppy cock. It has recently been let to a wealthy American, who has installed a housekeeper and is, I believe, shortly coming to live there himself."

"Things are marching," remarked Drummond. "It is, I take it, a fair assumption that Glensham House was Marton's objective."

The other two nodded.

"It is also, I take it, another fair assumption that the Marion who seems to be the senior member of the firm is this fellow's father or uncle."

"Go up top," murmured Darrell.

"Why, then, my stouthearted warriors, should the junior bottle-washer of a firm of respectable lawyers be wandering about Dartmoor in such a state of abject terror?

"Wait a moment," said Jerningham suddenly.

"Where have I heard or seen the name of that firm recently? By Jove! I believe I've got it."

He crossed the room and picked up the morning paper.

"Here it is," he cried excitedly. "I knew I wasn't mistaken."

"TRAGEDY AT SURBITON. LONDON LAWYER'S DEATH"

"A shocking tragedy occurred yesterday at 4, Minchampton Avenue, Surbiton, the residence of Mr. Edward Marton, senior partner of the well-known firm of Norfolk Street solicitors—Marton, Peters and Newall. Mr. Edward Marton, who was a very keen sportsman, went into his smoking-room after dinner with the intention of overhauling his guns. A few minutes later his wife and daughters, who were sitting in the drawing-room, were alarmed by the sound of a shot. They rushed into the smoking-room, and were horrified to find Mr. Marton lying on the carpet with a dreadful wound in his head. A gun was by his side, and some cleaning materials were on the table close by. A doctor was at once summoned, but the unfortunate gentleman was beyond aid. In fact, the medical opinion was that death had been instantaneous. It is thought that Mr. Marton, who frequently shot during the week-end, must have taken down his gun for the purpose of cleaning it. By some fatal mischance a cartridge had been left in one of the barrels, which went off killing Mr. Marton immediately. The deceased, who was a very popular member of Surbiton society, leaves one son and three daughters."

Drummond lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

"The Marton family don't appear to be in luck," he remarked. "Ted," he went on suddenly, "have you ever left a cartridge in a gun?"

"Can't say I have, old boy. Why?"

"Well-known sportsman,'" quoted Drummond. "Frequently shot over the week-end.' I wonder: I wonder very much. Confound it, you fellows, when you clean a gun you break it first, don't you? And when you break a gun you can see the blamed thing is loaded. Mark you, I'm not saying it wasn't an accident, but, once again, I wonder."

"You mean you think he shot himself?" said Darrell.

Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

"I can understand a gun being loaded and a man fooling about with it and by accident potting somebody else. I can understand a man climbing a fence, and through not holding his gun properly or forgetting to put it at safety, getting peppered himself. But I find it deuced difficult to under-stand it in this case."

"And supposing you're right—what then?" said Jerningham curiously.

"Son in a condition of abject terror: father committing suicide. Surely there must be some connection."

"Do you think the son knows what's happened?"

"Can't tell you: he said nothing about it to me. But in the account in the paper it specifies Mrs. Marton and her daughters only, so possibly he doesn't. Anyway, Ted, your question as to what to do to-night is now answered."

The other two stared at him.

"We pay a little visit to Glensham House. You say the new owner is not yet in residence."

"As far as I know, he isn't," said Jerningham doubtfully.

"Splendid! And if by chance he is, we'll swear we've lost our way in the fog. Great Scot! chaps, think of the bare possibility of having stumbled on something. Admittedly it may prove a hopeless frost, but it would be nothing short of criminal to neglect such an opportunity."

"That's all right, old bean," said the other, "and no one likes a bit of fun and laughter better than I do. But don't forget I live in this bally locality, and what you're proposing is nothing more nor less than housebreaking."

"I know, Ted." Drummond grinned happily. "Maximum penalty ten years. But we'll plead we're first offenders."

"Confound you, Hugh," laughed Jerningham. "What do you expect to find there anyway?"

Drummond waved a vast hand.

"What about a perfectly good ghost? You say it's haunted. Honestly, chaps, I've got a feeling that we're on to something. And what-ever you two blokes decide to do—I'm going."

"That settles it, Peter," said Jerningham resignedly. "Tell mother that my last thoughts were of her."

Chapter II

Glensham House was a large, rambling old place.

It stood on low ground surrounded by trees, about half-way between the main road and the deadly Grimstone Mire. For generations it had belonged to the Glensham family, but increasing taxation and death dues had so impoverished the present owner that he had been compelled to let.

Legends about the place abounded, and though some of them were undoubtedly founded on fact, many were merely local superstitions. For the house was an eerie one, set in eerie surroundings: the sort of place round which stories would be likely to grow—especially in the West Country.

But whatever the truth of some of the modern yarns—strange lights seen without human agency, footsteps when there was no one there to make them—certain of the older legends were historically true. The house was honeycombed with secret passages, and there was documentary proof that it had sheltered many of the Royalists during the Civil War with Cromwell.

For the last two years it had been empty, the tenants having left abruptly because, so they said, of the servant troubles. An old woman who lived in a cottage not far away had aired the place and kept it more or less clean, but there was a dark and unlived—in atmosphere about the house as it loomed up that made the man who was feeling his way cautiously forward along the edge of the drive shiver involuntarily and hesitate.

He was cold and hungry: for eight hours, like a phantom, he had been dodging other phantoms through the fog. Once he had butted straight into a woman, and she, after one glance at his clothes, had fled screaming. He had let her go: anyway there would not have been much good in attempting to follow her in that thick blanket of mist.

And in some ways he was glad she had seen him.

Already he was regretting bitterly the sudden impulse that had made him bolt, and she would most certainly say she had seen him, which would localise the hunt. In fact, only a certain pride and the knowledge that he was hopelessly lost prevented him from going back to the prison and giving himself up.

Sheer chance had guided his footsteps to Glensham House. He knew the dangers of the moor in a fog: he knew that the risk he ran of being caught by a patrol of warders was a lesser evil far than a false step into one of those treacherous green bogs, from which there was no return. But he also knew that the main road was more dangerous than a side track, and when he had accidentally blundered off the smooth surface on to gravel he had followed the new direction blindly. Food and sleep were what he wanted: then perhaps he would feel more capable of carrying on. Perhaps he might even do the swine yet, and make a clear get away. Other clothes, of course—but that would have to wait. It was food first and foremost.

And now he stood peering at the house in front of him. He could see no trace of a light: not a sound broke the silence save the melancholy drip, drip from the sodden branches above his head.

And once again did Morris, the Sydenham murderer, shiver uncontrollably.

Like most men of low mentality, anything at all out of the ordinary frightened him. And having been born in a town, and lived all his life in crowds, the deadly stillness of this gloomy house almost terrified him. But hunger was stronger than fear: where there was a house there was generally food, and to break into a place like this was child's play to him.

He took a few steps forward until he reached the wall: then he began to circle slowly round the house in the hope of finding a window unlatched.

To save himself trouble had always been his motto, and in case there should be anyone about it would minimise the risk of making a noise. But ten minutes later he was back at his starting point without having found one open. He had passed three doors, all bolted, and he had definitely decided in his own mind that the place was empty.

And now the question arose as to what to do.

If it was empty there would probably be no food: at the same time it was shelter—shelter from this foul fog. He would be able to sleep: and, he might find something to eat. Perhaps the owners were only away for the night, in which case he might even get some other clothes. Anyway it was worthwhile trying, and a couple of minutes later there came a sharp click, followed by the sound of a window being gently raised.

Inside the room he paused again and listened: not a sound. Once a board cracked loudly outside the door, and he waited tensely. But there was no repetition, and after a while he relaxed.

"Empty," he muttered to himself. "I guess we'll do a bit of exploring, my lad."

He turned and softly shut and rebolted the window. Then he crept cautiously towards the door. There was a carpet on the floor, but except for that it struck him the room was very sparsely furnished. And hopes of food drooped again, only to be resurrected as he tiptoed into the hall.

For close beside him in the darkness a clock was ticking. Another thing struck him also: the temperature in the hall seemed appreciably warmer than in the room he had just left.

He paused irresolutely: he was beginning to doubt after all if the house was empty. And then the clock began to strike. He counted the chimes—eight: why, if there were people in the house, were they all upstairs or in bed so early?

The darkness was absolute, and if he had had any matches he would have chanced it and struck one. But matches are not supplied to His Majesty's convicts, and so he could only grope forward blindly and trust to luck that he would not kick anything over.

He wanted, if he could, to locate the kitchen, as being the most likely place to find food. And so, guessing it would be at the back of the house, he tried to move in a straight line directly away from the room by which he had entered. And he had taken about ten paces when his foot struck something. All too late he knew what it was—one of those rickety little tables which are specially designed to upset on the slightest provocation.

He felt it going, and his hand shot out to try to save it, with the result that he gave it the coup de grace. It fell with a crash, and a thing that sounded as if it must be a brass bowl went with it.

In the silence the noise was appalling, and the convict, with the sweat pouring off his forehead, stood motionless. He'd find out now sure enough if the house was empty or not. Was that somebody moving upstairs, or was it his imagination?

He waited for what seemed an eternity: no further sound came. And at length his heart ceased to race, and with a sigh of relief he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Safe, so far.

Once more he went cautiously ahead, and a few moments later he bumped into a door. He tried the handle: it was unlocked, and he opened it. And at once he knew that he had struck lucky, for there came to his nostrils the unmistakable smell of food. Another thing, too—and this time there was no doubt at all about it—the room he was now in was much warmer. He groped his way forward, until his hands encountered a table—a solid, substantial table. Very gently he moved them over the surface. What was that? A cup and saucer, a loaf of bread, and last but not least a candle. And if there was a candle there might be matches.

He went on feeling with his fingers: a knife, a plate with meat on it, and—but that seemed too good to be true—a bottle with a screw stopper: a bottle of a shape he had only seen in his dreams for years: a bottle of beer. And then, when he had almost decided to begin to eat, he touched a box of matches.

For a while he hesitated: was it safe? There was still no sound from outside, and he decided to risk it: he wanted to gloat over that wonderful bottle. The next moment the candle illuminated the repast in front of him, and like a famished wolf the convict fell on it.

He tore the bread in hunks from the loaf, beautiful white bread the taste of which he had almost forgotten. He crammed his mouth with beef—beef cut in thin slices. And finally he washed it down will great gulps of beer.

At last the immediate pangs were appeased, and he began to think things over. The room he was in was apparently the servants' hall, and since the meal had obviously not been prepared for him, there must be someone in the house. Then why had nothing happened when he upset the table in the hall?

After a while a possible solution dawned on him. The owners of the house were clearly away, and had left the house in charge of a caretaker, who had gone out and been unable to get back owing to the fog.

The point was, would he or she return that night? And even as he cogitated over it, his throat turned dry and he froze into a rigid block of terror. A mirror was hanging on the wall in front of him, and in it he could see the reflection of the door behind his chair. And it was slowly opening.

He watched it with distended eyes, unable to move or speak: what was coming in? And nothing came: as silently as it had opened, it closed: almost he might have imagined the whole thing.

But he knew he hadn't imagined it: he knew that the door had opened and shut. Who had done it? Who had peered in and seen him sitting there? He had heard no sound: he had seen nothing. But that silent watcher had seen him!

At last he forced himself to get up from his chair and turn round. The movement caused the candle to flicker, and the distorted shadows danced fantastically on the walls and ceiling. The only sound in the room was his heavy breathing as be stared fearfully at the door. Who was on the other side?

He took a step forward: another. And then with a sudden run he darted at it and flung it open. The passage was empty: there was no one there.

He rubbed his eyes dazedly: then, going back into the room, he got the candle, and holding it above his head once again examined the passage. No sign of anyone: no sound. The door which led into the hall was shut: so were two others that he could see. And suddenly a thought occurred to him that drove him back into the room almost frantic with fear: supposing there had never been anyone there, supposing it had been a ghost that had stood in the passage?

Almost gibbering with terror, he shut the door again and fumbled wildly for the key. It was not there: if there was one at all, it was on the other side of the door. But not for a thousand pounds would Morris, brutal murderer though he might have been, have opened it again. All the horrors of the unknown were clutching at his heart: he would have positively welcomed the tramp of heavy boots in the hall, and the sight of a warder with a gun.

Keeping the table between him and the door, he crouched on the floor, staring with fascinated eyes at the handle. Was it going to turn again or not?

And after a while imagination began to play him tricks: he thought it was moving, and he bit his hand to prevent himself crying out. And then it didn't: nothing happened.

Suddenly he straightened up: for the moment the ghost was forgotten. A sound had come from above his head—the unmistakable sound of a footstep. It was repeated, and he stood there staring upwards, listening intently. No ghost about that, be reflected: somebody was in the room above him, and by the heaviness of the tread it sounded like a man.

He leaned forward to blow out the candle: then he paused, torn between two conflicting fears. If he left it burning it might be seen, but if he blew it out the room would be in darkness. And darkness with the thing outside in the passage was impossible to contemplate: if the door was going to open again he felt he must see it. And even as he hesitated there came a strange, half-strangled cry from overhead followed by a heavy bump that shook the ceiling.

He began to tremble violently: things were happening in this house that he could not understand. Give him a squalid slum, the lowest of boozing dens with murder in the air, and he was as good a man as anyone. But this was something he had never met before, and it was making him sweat cold. That noise upstairs—it wasn't normal: and now there were other sounds, for all the world like the flounderings of some huge fish on the floor above. Gradually they died away, and once again silence settled on the house.

After a while, as the silence continued, he grew a little calmer: he must decide what he was going to do. On one thing he was absolutely determined: clothes or no clothes, nothing would induce him to go upstairs. And the only point was whether he should go through the window now and out into the foggy night, or whether he dared to wait a few more hours. He opened the shutters, and found the point was settled for him: there were bars outside, and so that means of exit was cut out. And the bare idea of going through the hall until daylight came was out of the question.

He sat down once more in the chair by the table, and tilted up the bottle of beer to see if by chance a drop remained. Then he spied a cupboard in the corner, and crossing the room he looked inside. And there, to his joyful amazement, he found five more. He greedily seized one, and turned back towards the table to get the glass.

And the next moment the bottle fell from his nerveless fingers on the carpet. For the door had opened again.

He stared at it, making hoarse little croaking noises in his throat. He was in such a position that he could not see into the passage. All he knew was that was open wide enough to admit a human being, or whatever it was that was outside.

And now it was opening wider still, and he cowered back with his arm over his eyes. In another second he felt he would yell: his reason would give.

And then suddenly the tension snapped. He heard a voice speaking, and it was a woman's voice, though curiously deep and solemn.

"My poor man, do not be frightened. I am here to help you."

He lowered his arm: the door was now wide open. And framed in the entrance was a grey-haired woman dressed in black. She stood very still. Her features were dead white, her hands like those of a corpse. But for her eyes, that gleamed strangely from her mask-like face, she might have been a waxwork model.

The convict swallowed twice, and then he spoke.

"Gaw lumme, mum, you didn't 'alf give me a start opening that there door like that. The fust time was bad enough, but this time I thought as 'ow I was going to go barmy."

"The first time?" she said, still in the same deep voice. "This is the first time that I have been here to-night."

"Then 'oo was monkeying with that blinking door quarter of an hour ago?"

She came slowly into the room, and the convict backed away. There was something almost as terrifying about this woman as if she had actually been a ghost.

"Strange things happen in this house," she said. "It is not wise to ask too many questions."

"There was a norful row going on above 'ere a few minutes ago," he said nervously.

"So you heard them too, did you?" she answered gravely. "Every foggy night the curse must be fulfilled: such is the penalty that even in death they must carry out."

"Spooks!" he muttered. "Is that wot you mean?"

"Thirty years ago my son killed a man in the room above. He deserved to die if ever a man did, but they took my son, and they hanged him. Even, Morris, as they might have hanged you."

He took a step forward, snarling, only to stand abashed before those glowing eyes.

"'Ow do you know my name is Morris?" he muttered sullenly.

"There are many things that I know," she said: "things that are whispered to me in the night by those who live around my bedside: those whom you could never see."

He shivered uncomfortably.

"But it was not they who told me about you," she went on. "This afternoon a warder came and warned me to be on my guard against you. I listened to what he had to say, and when he had gone I laughed. For I knew you would come, Morris: I willed you to come to me through the fog: it was for you I prepared the meal."

"Very nice of you, I'm sure, mum," he said, scratching his head in a bewildered way. "But I don't quite—"

"Listen," she interrupted imperiously. "I have told you that they hanged my son, and I have sworn to be revenged on them. Then perhaps the curse may be lifted."

He stared at her, and for the first time noticed that she was carrying a suit of clothes over her arm.

"And for that reason, Morris, I have brought you these."

She laid the clothes on a chair.

"I am going to help you to escape so that I can revenge myself on those who hanged my son. They are my son's clothes, which I have kept against such a day as this. When I leave you, you will put them on. In the pockets you will find money, and cigarettes. Leave your own clothes on the floor here: I will dispose of them to-morrow. Do not thank me." She held up her hand to stop him. "I do this not for you, but for my son: so that the curse may be lifted. One thing, and one thing only, do I say to you: as you value your life, and more than your life, do not go upstairs. For when the fog is on Dartmoor, there is death in this house."

The convict stared at her fearfully and the hair on the back of his scalp began to tingle and prick.

Her eyes seemed to be glowing more than ever: her right arm was outstretched, with finger pointing directly at him. And even as he watched her she appeared to recede through the doorway: a moment later he was alone. The door was shut: the candle still flickered on the table, but of his mysterious visitor no trace remained save the clothes lying on the chair.

"Barmy," he muttered to himself. "Clean barmy. But, strewth, the old gal guessed right."

His nerves were still on edge, and the sound of his own voice comforted him.

"Suppose them ruddy clothes are real," he went on. "Not ghost clothes, are they, like everything else in this blinking spookery?"

He crossed to the chair and picked them up: no ghost about them. He ran his fingers eagerly through the pockets: notes, silver, cigarettes were all there.

"Lumme!" he chuckled, "'ere's luck to the old geyser. May 'er curse be lifted. But if ever I sees 'er again, I'll ask er to wear glasses. Luv-a-duck, them eyes of 'ers were 'orrid."

He lit a cigarette, and blew out a cloud of smoke luxuriously. Then he poured out the beer, and bringing the other four bottles he ranged them on the table.

"If the meal was for me," he announced, "I'll show the old gal that I appreciates it."

He finished his cigarette, and then began to change his clothes. His convict rig he threw into the cupboard, and to his joyful amazement he found that the others fitted passably well. A little tight round the shoulders, and a little long in the legs, but not too bad, he considered, as he toasted his reflection in the mirror. The hat was a bit small, which was a pity, but by ripping out the lining of it he could just get it on.

Anyway, what was a hat? He had already counted the money—fifteen pounds odd: he would buy another at the first opportunity. And having by that time lowered the third bottle of beer, he decided that it was time he made some plans.

Here he was with clothes and money, full of good food and good drink—in fact, in a position that would have seemed impossible half an hour ago—but he was not out of the wood by any manner of means yet. He poured out the fourth bottle, and began to think.

Presumably he could wait there till the morning if he wished to—the beer had produced a certain contempt for such trifles as spooks. And if he went now he would undoubtedly again lose his way in the fog. Of course daylight was dangerous: he knew that his description would have been circulated everywhere. But even if he went now, daylight would still come, and he would have the intense discomfort of wandering about in the fog all the night.

And then another idea struck him which was so wonderful that he promptly broached the fifth bottle. Why should he go at all—at any rate for days? If the old trout really wanted to lift the curse from her son, the best thing he could do would be to hide him until the hue and cry had blown over. Give him his half dozen, or dozen bottles of beer a day, and three or four good square meals, and he'd be perfectly happy. In fact, he'd do all he could to help the poor old thing with regard to her son.

A righteous glow was spreading over him: of course he'd help her. A shame, he reflected, that the old girl should be haunted like that every foggy night. Lucky thing he'd come here, instead of wandering about on the moor, where he might have fallen into a bog. Which brought a sudden idea to him of such stupendous magnificence that he bolted the last half of the fifth bottle and seized the sixth.

The bogs! Why in Heaven's name hadn't he thought of them before? The next morning he would give her his convict's cap, and tell her to take it to the nearest one. She could there place it on a tuft of grass at the edge where it was bound in time to be discovered. Everyone would immediately think that he had fallen in, and the search would be given up. Then in due course he would leave comfortably and go overseas: the old lady was sure to have a bit of savings put by. The least she could do if he was going to help her over this curse business was to pass them across.

If she wouldn't—well, there were ways of making her. And at that stage of his reflections anyone looking at his face would have realised the truth of the warder's remarks that afternoon about his character. The features bloated with the unaccustomed beer, the great red scar on his cheek standing out the more vividly for it, the small vicious eyes, the heavy jowl—all combined to show the murderer through instinct. And between him and the murderer through sudden passion a gulf is fixed which is immeasurable.

He finished his glass, and lit a final cigarette.

Having decided on his plans for the future, a desire for sleep was beginning to make itself felt. And after a while his head began to nod, and he was on the verge of falling right off, when a bell began to ring in the passage outside. The sound brought him scrambling to his feet. His head was feeling fuddled and muzzy, and for a while he stood staring stupidly in front of him. Who on earth could be ringing that infernal bell? Was it someone in the house, or was it someone outside at the front door? Again it pealed, and he began to curse foully under his breath. Could it be that the warders had got on to him?

In a panic of fear he blew out the candle and stood listening intently. Would the old woman answer the door? If she did, the swine might insist on searching the house, and they would be bound to find him. And then as the seconds went by and the ring was not repeated, he began to breathe freely again. There was no sound in the hall, and he knew that if the warders had come in they would not trouble to walk quietly. So she hadn't answered the bell, and with luck they would go away, believing the house to be empty.

But what if they broke in—the same as he had done? The thought set him trembling again: surely luck couldn't be so cruel just after he'd thought out this wonderful scheme. Warders wouldn't dare to break into a house: it was against the law. A minute passed: two—still no sound.

And he was on the point of sitting down again when he saw a thing that turned him cold with fright. A light had shone for a moment under the door.

He strained his ears, though all he could hear was the heavy thumping of his own heart. And then above it came the sound of muffled voices just outside the room. He backed away into the corner farthest from the door, and crouched there.

There were men outside in the passage. Who were they, and how many?

Suddenly the door opened, and a voice came out of the darkness.

"Look out, chaps. The place reeks of cigarette smoke, and a candle has just been blown out. Stand away from me: I'll switch on the torch."

Came a little click, and the beam travelled round the room till it picked up the snarling figure in the corner: then it checked.

"Hullo! hullo!" came a quiet voice. "What have we here?"

Slowly Morris straightened up, his great fists clenched by his sides. He could see nothing behind the torch, but he could hear. And by the voice he knew that this was no warder, but a blasted toff. Trouble was there was more than one, but—Gawd! he'd learn 'em.

"Light that candle, will you, Peter?" went on the voice, and someone stepped into the circle of light. He was a youngish man, and he didn't look too big. And as he took a box of matches out of his pocket, with a grunt of rage the convict sprang at him.

What happened then was not quite clear to him.

It seemed that the torch wavered for a moment and then a thing like a battering-ram hit him on the point of the jaw. He had a fleeting recollection of being hurled backwards: he felt his head strike the wall: and then for a space he slumbered.

When he came to himself again, he lay still for a moment or two trying to collect his thoughts.

The candle had been relit, and he saw that there were three men in the room. They were standing by the table regarding him dispassionately, and he particularly noticed that one of them was quite the largest individual he had ever seen. And it was this one who spoke.

"Don't do that again, Morris: next time I shall really hit you."

The convict scrambled sullenly to his feet.

"'Oo the 'ell are you calling Morris?"

He knew he was caught, but there was no harm in trying the bluff.

"You," said the large man quietly. "I had an accurate description of your face given me by one of your kind warders this afternoon. And I must admit I had not quite anticipated finding you here. But if you will smoke cigarettes in an empty house, you must expect to be discovered. However, the point that now arises is what the devil to do with you. You seem to have done yourself pretty well, judging by the table: and, not to mince words, you're an infernal nuisance. What do you say, Ted?"

"Well, old boy," said the third individual, "I don't know. If there's a 'phone here we ought to ring up the prison, I suppose."

"But that means sitting and mounting guard on the damn fellow," remarked the big man peevishly.

A ray of hope dawned in the convict's mind.

"Give us a chance, guv'nor," he cried, coming into the centre of the room. "Give us a chance. If they cops me, I won't never give yer away. I swears it. But yer don't know wot it's like up in that blarsted place. Give us...Gaw lumme, guv'nor, wot are yer looking at me like that for?"

He cowered back, staring at the big man, whose face had suddenly changed from being almost good-natured, to an expression that the convict couldn't understand.

"Where did you get those clothes from, Morris?" he said in a terrible voice.

"Strewth, guv'nor," he stammered. "I...I"

"Where did you get them from, damn you? Answer me."

"The old woman—she give 'em to me, sir. Belonged to 'er son, wot was 'anged."

"You're lying, you scum. If you don't tell me the truth I'll smash your face in."

"I swear to Gawd, guv'nor, I'm telling yer the truth," he said earnestly.

"What's the great idea, Hugh?" said the man called Peter.

"That suit is the one young Marton was wearing this afternoon. As soon as he came nearer the light I recognised it at once. Now listen to me."

He took a step forward, and stood towering over the convict. "Those clothes belong to a young man whom I was talking to this afternoon. Where is he, and what have you done to him?"

"I ain' seen no young man, sir," answered the convict quietly. "They was given to me by the old woman in the 'ouse 'ere, and she told me they belonged to 'er son 'oo murdered a man in the room above thirty years ago."

He looked upwards and pointed, and the next instant every drop of colour had left his face.

"'Oly 'Eaven, look at that!" he screamed. "It's the mark of wot 'e did, and I ain' noticed it before."

A circular crimson patch stained the white ceiling, and for a space they all stared at it—stared at it until, with a yell of terror, the convict made a dart for the door. For the patch was growing bigger.

The three men hurled themselves on him, and he struggled like a maniac till another blow from Drummond's fist knocked him half silly.

"Lemme go," he whimpered. "I can't abear it. I'd sooner be copped, strite I would. It weren't there when I came: I swear it weren't. And I 'eard 'em, guv'nor: I 'eard the ghosts a-murdering one another. And now there's ghost blood too. It ain't real: Gawd! it cawn't be real. It just comes every foggy night, like wot the old woman said, and then goes away again. Let's get out of the 'ouse, guv'nor: it's 'orrible."

The man was almost mad with fear, and Drummond watched him curiously. Then once again he looked at the ceiling. The patch had grown enormously, and now a dark central nucleus was visible, in which great drops formed sluggishly and fell to the floor.

"Come here, Morris," he said quietly. "Put out your hand: hold it there."

He seized the convict's arm, and forced it into the line of falling drops.

"Is that ghost blood?" he demanded.

Like a crazy thing Morris stared at the palm of his hand: then at the three men.

"I don't understand," he muttered helplessly. "This 'ere is real blood."

"It is," said Drummond even more quietly. "Real blood. And now we're all going upstairs, Morris, to see where that real blood is coming from."

But that was too much for the convict. He flung himself on his knees, and literally gibbered in his terror.

"Not me, guv'nor: for pity's sake, not me! I dursn't do it—not if you was to let me off the rest of me sentence. There's death in the 'ouse on foggy nights: the old woman said so. As you values yer life, she says to me, don't go up them stairs. I cawn't understand about this 'ere blood but it's ghosts, don't yer see?—ghosts wot are upstairs. I 'eard 'em."

"And now you're going to see them, Morris," answered Drummond. "There's no good protesting, my man: you're coming upstairs with us. Get his arms, you two fellows, and bring him along. I've got a pretty shrewd notion what we are going to find. I'll go first with the torch."

He led the way to the stairs, while Darrell and Jerningham forced the struggling convict to follow. Once or twice he almost threw them off in his frenzied endeavours to escape, but between them they half pushed, half carried him up the stairs.

"Stop that damned noise," snapped Drummond, when they reached—the top, "or I'll lay you out. I want to listen."

But no sound broke the silence, and save for his torch there was not a glimmer of light anywhere.

And after a while he led the way along a passage, the end of which was barred by a green baize door.

"Through here," he said, "and it should be the first room on the left, if my bearings are correct. Ah!" He drew in his breath sharply. "It's what I expected. Bring that man in here."

He had flung open the door of the room, and the others followed with the convict between them.

"Stay there, Peter, till I see if this gas will light. And mind where you put your feet."

He had turned his torch on the gas bracket, so that the floor was in darkness. But a moment later the light flared up, and Darrell and Jerningham gave a simultaneous gasp. Sprawling on the boards was the body of a man, clad only in a shirt and underclothes. It was obvious at a glance that he was dead; his head had been battered in with inconceivable ferocity. But his face was just recognisable: the dead man was young Marton.

"Now, Morris," said Drummond quietly, "is that a ghost?"

The convict was staring foolishly at the body: his mouth kept opening and shutting, though no sound came from it.

"I don't understand, guv'nor," he said hoarsely after a while. "The old woman said as 'ow it was a ghost."

"Where is the old woman?" demanded Drummond.

"I dunno, guv'nor. I ain't see'd 'er since she give me these clothes."

"You realise, don't you, Morris, that those clothes you are wearing belong to that man who has been murdered?"

"Well, I didn't know it, guv'nor: 'ow could I? She said as 'ow they were 'er son's."

"Was there ever any old woman, Morris?" cried Drummond sternly.

"In course there were, guv'nor: ain't I been telling yer? It was she wot told me abaht the ghost."

And then suddenly the real significance of his position penetrated his slow brain.

"Gawd! guv'nor," he screamed, "yer don't think I did it, do yer? Yer don't think I croaked the young gent? I ain' never seen 'im in my life: I swears it on me mother's grave."

"How long have you been in this house?" demanded Drummond.

"It struck eight, guv'nor, as I was standing in the 'all."

Drummond looked at his watch. "So you've been here two hours," he remarked. "Did anyone see or hear you come in?"

"I suppose the old woman must 'ave, sir. And then the door opened once in the room dahn below: opened and shut, it did. She said as 'ow queer things took place in this 'ere 'ouse."

"Was that before she gave you those clothes?"

"Yus, guv'nor—afore that."

"And before you heard the ghosts fighting up here?"

"That's right, sir," said the convict eagerly. "Yer do believe me, sir: yer don't think as 'ow I done that bloke in?"

"It doesn't much matter what I think, Morris," said Drummond gravely, "but you're in a devilish serious position, and there's no good pretending you're not. We find you in this house alone with a murdered man, and wearing his clothes. And all you can say about it is that some old woman who can't be found spun you a yarn about ghosts. It's pretty thin, my lad, and you may find the police a little difficult to convince."

The convict was looking round him like a trapped animal. Why this thing had been done to him he didn't know, but all too clearly did he realise the truth of this big man's words. The whole affair had been a frame-up from beginning to end: what he had thought were ghosts had been nothing of the sort. The noise he had heard had been the actual murder of the man who lay on the floor with his head battered in.

And suddenly his nerve broke completely. For the moment his three captors were not looking at him, and with a cry of terror he sprang through the door and banged it behind him. Then he rushed blindly along the passage to the top of the stairs. To get away from that dead man whose clothes he wore was the only thought in his brain as he blundered through the hall. And a moment later he had flung open a window and the fog had swallowed him up.

"Excellent," said Drummond thoughtfully. "Thank Heavens he decided to make a bolt for it! I was wondering what we were going to do with him. Hullo!" He paused, listening intently. "Some more people playing. This house is getting quite popular."

He opened the door, and the sound of angry voices came up from below. And then, followed by the other two, he rolled to the top of the stairs.

A light had been lit in the hall, and two men were standing there who fell silent a soon as they saw them.

"Say," shouted one of them after a while "are you the damned ginks who have eaten our supper?"

"Perish the thought, laddies," remarked Drummond affably. "We dined on caviare and white wine before coming to call."

"Well, who is the guy who rushed through the hall and jumped out of a window a few moments ago just as we were coming in?"

"He also came to call, but he didn't seem to like the house. He got the willies about it and decided to leave."

"Look here," said the other savagely, beginning to mount the stairs, "is this whole outfit bug house? What under the sun are you doing up there anyway?"

He paused in front of Drummond, a great, powerful, raking man with a nasty look in his eyes.

"We've been ghost-hunting, Percy," said Drummond genially. "Very naughty of us, but we thought the house was empty. And instead of that we find a delightful escaped convict replete with your supper, and other things too numerous to mention."

"If you call me Percy again," snarled the other, you won't speak for a few days."

"Is that so, Percy darling?" said Drummond lazily. "I always thought it was such a nice name."

The veins stood out on the other's forehead, and he took a step forward with his fists clenched.

And then the look in Drummond's eyes made him pause, while his companion whispered something in his ear.

"Well, the house isn't empty," he remarked sullenly. "So you can damned well clear out before I send for the police."

"But how inhospitable of you," said Drummond mildly. "However, I fear that anyway you will have to communicate with that excellent body of men. You must do something about the dead man, mustn't you?"

The other stared at him.

"The dead man," he said at length. "What in fortune are you talking about?"

"I told you we'd found a lot of other things," remarked Drummond. "Come along, and you shall see for yourself."

They walked along the passage to the room where the body lay.

"Holy Smoke!" cried the big man, pausing by the door. "Who's done that?"

"Who indeed," murmured Drummond thoughtfully.

"Where are his clothes?" asked the other.

"Adorning Mr. Morris, the escaped convict," said Drummond: "the gentleman who left the house so rapidly."

For a while the other looked at him in a puzzled way. "This seems to me to be a mighty rum affair," he remarked at length.

"Mighty rum," agreed Drummond.

"Since you say the convict was wearing his clothes, it looks as if he had done it."

"It certainly does," Drummond again agreed.

"What a damnable crime! Jake! if we hadn't gone out for a breather this would never have happened. I guess I'll never forgive myself."

"It sure is tough on the poor young chap," said his companion.

"A young friend of ours, Mr...Mr...?"

"Drummond is my name. Captain Drummond."

"Hardcastle is mine. And my pal is Jake Slingsby. To think that this poor young fellow should be murdered like that: I guess I can't get over it."

"The strange thing is that he should have had a premonition of danger," remarked Drummond. "I saw him this afternoon when he lost his way in the fog."

"He told us he had called in at the wrong house," said Hardcastle.

"A call is one way of describing his visit," murmured Drummond. "I gathered his name was Marton."

"That's so. Down on business about the house. Well, well! This is terrible: I don't know how I shall break the news to his father."

"Nor do I," said Drummond. "For, unless I am greatly mistaken, his father was killed last night through a gun accident."

"What's that you say?" shouted Hardcastle, and his companion seemed equally perturbed, "Old Marton dead?"

"According to the papers he is," answered Drummond. "It must be a great shock to you, Mr. Hardcastle, to have a firm with whom you are doing business dying off so rapidly."

The other looked at him suspiciously, but Drummond's face was expressionless.

"Well, I suppose we ought to ring up the police," he went on after a pause.

"That would seem to be the thing to do," remarked Drummond. "And since they will probably take some time coming on a night like this, I think we might wait for them elsewhere, don't you? You must be very fond of fresh air, Mr. Hardcastle," he continued as they left the room.

"How do you make that out?" demanded the other.

"To go for a stroll on a night like this," said Drummond. "I should have thought that a book and a whisky and soda would have been preferable."

"Then why don't you follow your own advice?"

"Ah! it was different in our case. You see, it is only on foggy nights that the ghost is supposed to walk."

"What is all this rot about a ghost?" said Hardcastle contemptuously. "I reckon the ghost isn't made yet that I shall ever see."

"Do not scoff, Mr Hardcastle, at things beyond your ken," said Drummond "What would your housekeeper say if she heard you?"

The other paused and stared at him. "Housekeeper!" he cried. "What fly has stung you this time? If there's a housekeeper here it's the first I've heard of it."

"Really: you surprise me."

Drummond stopped suddenly and began to sniff the air.

"By the way, Ted," he remarked, "which was the room you told me was haunted? The second from the top of the stairs, wasn't it?"

And before anyone realised what he was going to do, he flung the door open.

"Most extraordinary," he said blandly. "Do you use scent, Mr. Hardcastle? Or is it Mr. Slingsby? But I don't see any ghost, Ted."

He let the light of his torch travel round the room, until it finally rested on the bed.

"Oh!" he cried, covering his eyes with his hand, "is that your nightie, Mr. Hardcastle? Or yours, Mr. Slingsby? It makes me go all over goosey."

But by this time Hardcastle had recovered from his surprise, and there was murder in his eyes.

"How dare you go butting into a lady's bedroom," he shouted furiously. "Get out of it, you damned meddling young swine."

He seized Drummond by the arms, and then for half a minute there ensued a struggle the more intense because neither man moved.

It was just a trial of strength, and the others watched it breathlessly. For to all of them it seemed that far more depended on the result than what happened at the moment. It was the first clash between the two men: the outcome would be an omen for the future.

Their breathing came faster: the sweat stood out on both their foreheads. And then, after what seemed an eternity, Drummond began to smile, and the other to curse. Slowly and inexorably Hardcastle was forced back, and then Drummond relaxed his hold.

"Not this time, Percy," he remarked quietly, "And I must really apologise for entering the lady's bedroom. It's this confounded ghost business that is responsible for it. By the way, where is she? Did you carelessly lose her in the fog?"

"What the hell is that to do with you?" snarled Hardcastle.

"My dear fellow!" Drummond lifted his hands in horror. "As the president of several watch committees, to say nothing of societies for moral uplift, the thought of the owner of that delicious garment wandering forlornly over Dartmoor distresses me beyond words!"

The other looked at him sullenly: the type was a new one to him. Accustomed all his life to being top dog, either by physical strength or through sheer force of will, he found himself confronted by a man who was his match.

"You needn't worry yourself," he muttered. "My daughter is in Plymouth."

"And a charming spot it is, too," boomed Drummond genially. "I must give you the address of the Girls' Home from Home there: or is it the Decayed Gentlewoman's Aid Post? Well, well, to think of that now. The jolly old daughter in Plymouth of all places! Happy days we used to have there, didn't we, Peter, prancing along the Hoe?"

His torch, in apparently a haphazard way, was flashing about the room as he rambled on, and suddenly it picked up a box of cigarettes lying open on the dressing-table.

"But how careless of her, Mr. Hardcastle!" he cried. "They will all get stale. I must really close it up."

He crossed the room and shut the box: then he calmly returned and strolled towards the top of the stairs.

"Daughter or no daughter, duty calls us, Mr. Hardcastle. We must ring up that fine body of men, the Devon constabulary."

"A thing that ought to have been done ten minutes ago, but for your infernal impertinence," said the other furiously.

He crossed the hall to the telephone, and rang up the exchange. He did it again: then a third time, and gradually a smile spread over Drummond's face.

"Most extraordinary!" he murmured. I expect the telephone girl is in Plymouth too. Or can it be that you aren't connected up, Mr. Hardcastle?"

"The damned line must be out of order," grunted the other.

And Drummond began to shake with laughter.

"You sure are out of luck to-night, aren't you?" he remarked. "A dead man in the house: a daughter painting Plymouth red: a telephone that doesn't function: and last but not least, three interfering ghost-hunters. However, don't be despondent: the darkest hour is always just before the dawn."

He paused for the fraction of a second, and only Darrell saw the look that flashed momentarily into his eyes. He had noticed something, but his voice as he went on was unchanged.

"We'll do the ringing up for you, Mr. Hardcastle, from Merridale Hall, and tell the police all your maidenly secrets. And as your next-door neighbours, welcome to our smiling countryside. Which concludes the national programme for this evening: a depression over Iceland is shortly approaching us: good night. Good night."

Chapter III

The fog had lifted a little as they left the house, though it was still sufficiently thick to make progress slow. And they had only gone some thirty or forty yards down the drive when a cry came echoing faintly over the moor. They stopped abruptly: it was repeated again and again. It sounded as if someone was calling for help, and then as suddenly as the shouts had started they ceased.

"That's the direction of Grimstone Mire," said Jerningham gravely. "Surely no one could be such a damned fool as to go near it on a night like this."

"Dangerous, is it?" said Drummond.

"Dangerous, old boy! Why, it's a death-trap even by day. And in the dark, and foggy at that, it would be simply suicide. No one who lives round here would go within half a mile of the place."

"No good going to have a look, I suppose?"

"Not the slightest, Hugh. Whoever it is has either scrambled out by now, or it's all over, with the odds on the latter."

"Then let's get back," said Drummond. "We've got to put on our considering caps, you fellows, but it darned well can't be done till I've lowered some ale. For unless I'm much mistaken we've stepped right into one of the biggest things we've ever handled. And the first thing to be considered is what we're going to do about Mr. Morris."

"You think he did in Marton?" said Darrell.

"I'm damned certain he didn't," answered Drummond shortly. "But they'll hang him all the same. It's one of the most diabolically clever bits of work we've ever butted into, comparing quite creditably with the deeds of our late lamented Carl. Thank the Lord! here's the house. Ale, Ted, in buckets. Then you, as the resident, get on to the police. Tell 'em a man has been murdered at Glensham House, and say that we shall be here to give 'em all the information we can. And one other thing, old lad. Ask the exchange if Glensham House is disconnected or not."

"What was the sudden brainstorm in the hall, Hugh, just before we left?" said Darrell curiously.

Jerningham was telephoning, and Drummond's face was buried in a tankard, which he drained before answering.

"A little matter of dust," he remarked. "But all in good time, Peter: we've got to get down to of this pretty carefully."

"The house hasn't been connected up for two years," said Jerningham, coming back into the room; and Drummond nodded thoughtfully. "I've told the police, who darned near fused the wire in their excitement. They'll be round as soon as they can."

"And before they come we've got to decide exactly what we are going to say," remarked Drummond, lighting a cigarette. "I'll take the chair for the moment: you stop me the instant you disagree with anything. Point one: was the story told us by Morris true? I unhesitatingly maintain that it was, for one very good reason. That man at the best of times hasn't got the brains to invent such a wildly fantastic yarn and stick to it. And half screwed as he was when we found him, the thing is an utter impossibility. No, he was speaking the truth the whole way through; I watched him closely."

"I agree," said Jerningham. "Or else he is the most consummate actor."

Drummond shook his head. "He wasn't acting, Ted. What do you say, Peter?"

"I agree with you, old boy. Which brings us to point two: if Morris didn't murder Marton, who did?"

"Exactly. But let's go back a bit farther, and see what we can build up on the assumption that Morris's story is true. Clearly there were people in the house when Morris broke in. There was a woman, young Marton, and another man or men. Right! They hear him come in, or someone—they don't know who. The woman comes down, sees the glint of the candle and opens the door just enough to see who the visitor is. A convict: must be Morris. And it's at this point, you fellows, that I maintain we get a line on to what we are up against which gives one pretty furiously to think. Because without the smallest hesitation they seized on a thing that had happened by the merest fluke, and had turned it to advantage with a brutality that is damned near unprecedented. Common or garden murder we know, but they don't stick at butchery. I'm not often serious, as you know, but, 'pon my soul, this show is a bit over the odds. For some reason we haven't got, they wanted young Marton out of the way: behold the unsuspecting scapegoat all ready to hand. Morris can be hanged for what they've done. But in order to make it doubly sure, they asked themselves the safest way of killing Marton. A revolver? Out of the question: Morris wouldn't have one. A knife means finger-prints on the shaft, which Morris could prove were not his. And so these beauties, remembering that in the Sydenham case he was reputed to have bashed his victim's head about, and acting on the well-known truth that a murderer rarely changes his methods, went and did likewise. They deliberately killed young Marton by battering his head in."

"Sounds O.K. so far, Hugh," said Jerningham.

"Hold hard, old boy, for a minute: we've got to go a bit farther. Down comes this woman with Marton's clothes and pitches Morris a yarn which was exactly the kind to impress and frighten an ignorant man. Ghost and foggy night: just the stuff to scare the fellow stiff. And then she disappears, intending in all probability to come back later and get his convict's uniform, so that there shall be no chance of his not putting on Marton's clothes. And from that moment Morris would have been a doomed man. Supposing we hadn't heard his yarn under the circumstances we did, should we have believed it? No: and that is the only point where the plan miscarried. No one was ever intended to hear it under such circumstances. It rang true tonight; it wouldn't have rung true two or three days from now, when Morris was found wandering about. He would not have had a dog's chance. The woman would either have disappeared, or she would have denied his story in toto. And then, unfortunately for them, we came barging in, which necessitated a considerable change in their plans. For my own belief is that, if we had not arrived, they would merely have left, with the absolute certainty that it was only a question of time before Morris was caught. Our arrival altered matters, and completely forced their hands, so that we were treated to the theatrical performance we've just had. They knew we should have to ring up the police, and the instant the police arrived they were in the soup. What were they doing while this wretched boy's head was being bashed in by Morris? It can't have been a silent proceeding: why didn't they hear it? They could only pretend they were out of the house, and if they were going to do that, the sooner they took the bull by the horns the better."

"You think they were in the house the whole time?" said Darrell.

"My dear old Peter, who goes for a walk on a night like this for fun? Of course they were, though there is no denying that that swine Hardcastle's acting was damned good. Probably to the police they will say they were walking back from Yelverton, which sounds feasible, because the police won't be able to get beyond the point that Morris is the murderer."

"You think those two did it?" said Jerningham.

Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

"There, old boy, we're getting into the region of guess-work. From what I saw of Hardcastle I should think he's quite capable of anything. But it was either them or pals of theirs."

"And what about the housekeeper?" said Darrell.

"Housekeeper, my aunt, Peter! Who ever heard of a housekeeper with a nightdress like that? Who ever heard of a housekeeper who smoked expensive cigarettes with purple-tipped mouthpieces? It's just possible that the woman who fooled Morris was really Hardcastle's daughter made up for the part, but there was never any housekeeper."

"And where was she all the time?"

"In the hall, just as we were going, I happened to look at the floor close by the wall. It was very a dusty, and I saw the marks of a woman's footsteps going up to a big piece of panelling. There were none coming away from it."

"There undoubtedly are secret passages in the house," said Jerningham thoughtfully. "So you think the fairy was there, and not in Plymouth?"

"Do we or do we not accept Morris's story? That's the answer, Ted. If we do, she was there."

"In which case she is there now. Are we to tell the police?"

Drummond refilled his tankard thoughtfully.

"I think we must tell the police the entire story that Morris told us. I don't think any good will be done by putting in any comment on it: we must leave them to form their own conclusions. You see, a mere statement on our part that we believe the yarn cuts no ice anyway. At the same time, I think it's going to be a little awkward for them. There are a whole lot of points they will have to explain away which would never have cropped up but for our arrival on the scene. Jove! they must have been as wild as civet cats when we appeared."

He rubbed his hands together and began to grin.

"Boys, we're going to have some fun. What is that galaxy doing there at all? Why do they know so little about it that they don't even realise the telephone is not connected up? Why do they want to murder young Marton? Why does the old man have a gun accident? And I'm just wondering how much will come out when Morris is caught. Nothing—if we hadn't come into it. But we have, and we're damned well not going out."

He paused as a ring came at the front door bell.

"Is that the police already? They've been pretty quick. Now don't forget, you fellows, we were ghost-hunting, believing the house to be empty. And, for the rest, we give Morris's story without expressing any opinion."

"It's not the police," said Jerningham, who had gone to the door. "It's a woman's voice."

A moment or two later Jennings entered the room.

"A lady, sir, has lost her way. She is looking for Glensham House."

"Have you directed her?" asked his master, glancing at Drummond.

The butler hesitated. "She seems very tired, sir. I was wondering if I should offer her a glass of wine. She is, if I may say so," he continued confidentially, "distinctly—er—worthwhile."

"Bring her in, Ted," said Drummond. "Tell Jennings to bring some champagne and sandwiches. Peter," he went on, as they left the room, "the rush on Glensham House is making me giddy."

"But it is too kind of you," came a woman's voice from the hall. "I really am quite exhausted. If I could rest a little before continuing it would make all the difference."

She entered the room, and paused in momentary embarrassment on seeing the other two.

"Of course," cried Jerningham. "I have ordered some sandwiches for you. May I introduce Captain Drummond and Mr. Darrell? My own name is Jerningham."

He pulled up a chair, and she sat down with a charming smile that embraced all three. And, as Jennings had remarked, she was distinctly worthwhile. Dark and of medium height, she had a complexion that was simply flawless. Her eyes, of which she knew how to make full use, were a deep blue: in fact the only thing that struck an incongruous note was her frock, which was more suitable for Ascot than Dartmoor.

"I have been over in Plymouth," she explained, "and had intended to spend the night there. And then I suddenly decided to return. If only I had realised what a fog on Dartmoor was like, nothing would have induced me to. No taxi at the station: not even a cab. So I started to walk, and when I got to your gates I thought it was Glensham House. Luckily my father thinks I'm still in Plymouth, so he won't be worried."

"Have we the pleasure of meeting Miss Hardcastle?" asked Drummond.

She laughed merrily. "It is some time since I was called that," she said. "I am Comtessa Bartelozzi." And then she gave a puzzled little frown. "But how did you know my father's name?"

"Your father and we have been having a lot of fun and excitement this evening," explained Drummond genially. "I feel we're quite old friends."

"But I didn't know that he had met anyone round here," she said. "You see, we're only newcomers. My father has rented Glensham House, and we just came down for a night or two to see what furniture was wanted."

"Well, I'm afraid your preliminary reconnaissance has not been devoid of incident, Comtessa," he remarked. "It's a merciful thing for you that you were in Plymouth; otherwise I fear the shock would have been considerable. A young man has had his head battered in at Glensham House."

She stared at him in speechless amazement.

"Head battered in! A young man! But who?"

"I gathered his name was Marton," answered Drummond. "Ah! here is the champagne."

"Marton! But he's our solicitor. Captain Drummond—please explain."

With a completely expressionless face, he told her the story, which she listened to with ever-increasing horror.

"But how dreadful!" she cried as he finished. "Poor, poor boy! What a brute that convict must be!"

"It certainly is one of the most brutal murders I have ever come across," he agreed. "And we are expecting the police at any moment to hear what we have to tell them about it."

"Oh! I hope they catch the brute," she cried passionately. "What a pity you ever let him escape! I can't understand how you could have been taken in for a moment by such a story."

"You mean with regard to the housekeeper?"

"Of course. There's no such person in the house. Why, if there had been you would have seen her."

"That is true, Comtessa: perhaps we were credulous. Anyway, Morris is bound to be caught very shortly, and the whole thing will have to be thrashed out in court. Are you proposing to stay long at Glensham House?"

He poured her out another glass of champagne.

"It all depends on my father," she answered. "Mr. Hardcastle is very interested in cinema work, and he wants a place where he can work undisturbed at a new invention of his which he thinks is going to revolutionise the whole business."

"Indeed," murmured Drummond. "Then we can only hope there are no more diversions of the sort that occurred to-night. It will have a most upsetting effect on his studies. By the way, you know it is your room, don't you, that is reputed to be haunted?"

"What: my bedroom!" she cried. "Is that really so?"

"My host, Mr. Jerningham, is quite positive about it," he answered. "We didn't see anything, I must admit, but perhaps your father and Mr. Slingsby have an antagonistic aura for ghosts. Fortunately we did one good deed in shutting up a box of your cigarettes, which would otherwise have got dreadfully stale."

She stared at him thoughtfully.

"Do you think it's possible," she remarked at length, "that the woman this man Morris said he saw was a spirit?"

"My dear Comtessa," said Drummond gravely, "I have reached the age when I never think anything is impossible. And there is no doubt that the amount of beer he had consumed might have rendered him prone to see things. However, those surely are the fairy footsteps of the police I hear on the drive. After we have talked to them, you must allow us to see you home."

It turned out to be a sergeant, who stood in the door with his helmet under his arm.

"Mr. Jerningham?" He looked round the group, and Jerningham nodded.

"That's me," he said.

"It was you that telephoned, sir, wasn't it, about this murder at Glensham House? Well, sir, the Inspector has gone straight there, and he gave me orders to ask you to go round there at once and the other gentlemen that were with you."

"Of course," cried Drummond. "We'll all go. And you too, Comtessa."

"He didn't say nothing about any lady, sir," said the sergeant dubiously.

"The Comtessa is living at Glensham House," said Drummond. "Fortunately for her, she has been in Plymouth to-day, and lost her way in the fog coming back."

"Then that's a different matter, sir," answered the sergeant. "It's much clearer now: we shan't have any difficulty in getting there."

"Good," said Drummond. "Let's start."

The sergeant proved right: a few isolated stars were showing as they left the house. Pockets of mist still hung about the road, but they grew thinner and thinner each moment. And in a few minutes they could see the outline of Glensham House in front of them. There were lights showing in several of the downstair rooms, and finding the front door open, they walked straight in.

An inspector, with a constable beside him, was seated at the table: opposite him were Hardcastle and Slingsby and a third man who was smoking a cigar.

"Gee, honey," cried Hardcastle, springing to his feet, "what under the sun are you doing here? I thought you were in Plymouth."

"I suddenly decided to come back, Dad," she said, "and in the fog I went to this gentleman's house by mistake. What is this awful thing I hear?"

He patted her on the arm.

"There, there," he cried soothingly. "It's just one of the most terrible things that's ever happened. An escaped convict has murdered poor young Bob Marton."

"Are you the gentleman who telephoned?" asked the Inspector, rapping on the table for silence.

"I telephoned from Merridale Hall," said Jerningham.

"I've explained that our instrument was disconnected," said Hardcastle.

"Please allow me, sir, to do the talking," said the Inspector firmly. "Now, sir, would you be good enough to tell me exactly what happened? But before you begin, would you, sir,"—he swung round in his chair and addressed Drummond—"be good enough to stop walking about?"

"Sorry, old lad," boomed Drummond, coming back into the centre of the room. "Carry on, Ted."

"One moment," interrupted Hardcastle. "I'm sure you don't want to ask my daughter anything, Inspector, and she must be tired. Go to bed, honey: go to bed."

"Well, if the Inspector will allow me, I think I will," she said.

"Certainly, miss," he said. "If I do want to ask you anything I will do so to-morrow. Now, sir"—he turned to Jerningham as Hardcastle led the Comtessa upstairs—"will you fire ahead?"

He listened to the story, taking copious notes, whilst Drummond studied the third man covertly.

"By Gad! Peter," he whispered after a while. "Number Three looks, if possible, a bigger tough than the other two. What's that you say, Inspector?"

"This gentleman says that it was you who identified the man as Morris. How did you know him?"

"By the red scar on his face," said Drummond. "Two warders this afternoon described him to me. And afterwards he admitted it."

"And you knew the clothes were the clothes of the murdered man. How?"

"Because I saw them on Marton this afternoon, when he lost his way in the fog and came to Merridale Hall instead of here," answered Drummond. "They were so obviously London clothes that I noticed them particularly. When you catch him you'll see what I mean."

"I guess the Inspector will have to take it on trust," said the newcomer shortly. "That was the guy right enough: the scar proves it. Say, mister"—he turned to Drummond—"when he bolted was he wearing a hat?"

"He was not," remarked Drummond.

"Then that settles it. He's cheated the hangman all right. He went bathing in Grimstone Mire."

"What's that?" said Drummond slowly. "You say he fell into Grimstone Mire?"

"Yep," answered the other. "There can't be two birds like him loose. I was in the garage tinkering with the car when I heard someone crashing about in the bushes near by. So I went out and flashed a torch around. Suddenly I saw him: a wild-looking fellow without a hat and a great red scar on his face. He bolted like a hare towards the Mire, and I went after him to try to stop him, but I couldn't do anything in the fog. And in he went—splosh. Let out one yell, and then it was all over."

"An amazing development, isn't it. Captain Drummond?" said Hardcastle, who had rejoined them.

"Most amazing," agreed Drummond. "However, as you say, it saves the hangman a job."

And at that moment the constable let out a yell. "Look at the top of the stairs, sir!"

They all swung round and stared upwards.

Standing motionless in the dim light was a woman dressed in black. Her hair was grey; one arm was outstretched, pointing towards them. And the only thing that seemed alive in her were her two eyes that gleamed from her dead-white face.

For a few seconds they all stood rooted to the ground; then very slowly, almost as if she was floating on air, the woman receded, and disappeared from sight.

"What the devil?" cried Hardcastle, and the next instant he dashed up the stairs, followed by the others. For a scream of terror had come from the Comtessa's room.

It was Hardcastle who reached it first, to find that the door was locked.

"Honey," he shouted. "Honey: open the door. Are you all right?"

There was no reply, and in a frenzy he beat on the door with his fists. But the wood was stout, and it was not until they had all charged it several times with their shoulders that it began to show signs of giving. At last the bolt tore away from its fastening and in a body they surged into the room.

The Comtessa was lying on the bed clad in pyjamas. She was motionless, and Hardcastle rushed to her and picked her up.

"It's only a faint, boys," he cried. "Get some brandy."'

But even as he spoke, with a shuddering sigh the Comtessa opened her eyes. For a moment she stared in bewilderment at the group of men; then suddenly they dilated with terror.

"Where is she?" she screamed. "What is she?"

"There, there, honey," said Hardcastle, "it's quite all right now. Tell your old Dad what frightened you."

"Oh! it was horrible," she moaned. "I was just getting into bed when a hand touched me on the shoulder. A woman was standing there—a woman in black with grey hair. Her arm was stretched out pointing at me—and her eyes—"

She began to shudder violently.

"They seemed to shine like balls of fire. And then, while I was looking at her in amazement, she just vanished. She was standing just where you are. Captain Drummond, and she disappeared."

Hardcastle looked significantly at the other men; then he turned soothingly to his daughter.

"Perhaps you imagined it, honey: maybe it was a trick of the light."

"But it wasn't," she cried wildly. "And Mr. Jerningham said this room was haunted, didn't you?"

She appealed to him, and he nodded.

"That's right, Comtessa," he agreed.

"It was a ghost," she went on. "It must have been a ghost. It must have been her the convict saw. Oh, let me get out of this room! I can't stop here another moment. And never again after to-morrow will I set foot inside this house."

"Honey, don't take on so," implored her father. "Even if it was a ghost, the poor thing didn't do you any harm. Come into your Dad's room, and he'll stop with you till you're all right again."

He put his arm round her waist, and led her gently out, whilst the others, after a brief pause, trooped down into the hall again.

"Well, if that don't beat cock-fighting, gentlemen," said the Inspector, scratching his head. "I take it we all saw the woman or the ghost or what—ever it was."

"Very clearly," agreed Drummond. "And, gentlemen, the lady's door was locked. Locked on the inside. It must have gone clean through the wood."

Slingsby lit a cigarette with a puzzled frown. "I guess," he said, "that I'm a converted man. Up till now I've regarded any guy who got chatting about ghosts as dippy. And now, damn it, I've seen one with my own eyes. Gosh! it gave me the creeps."

"She is quieter now," said Hardcastle, coming down the stairs. "I've given her a dose of sleep dope. And the first thing that I guess I owe is an apology to you. Captain Drummond, for my sneering remark about ghosts earlier in the evening."

"Don', mention it, Mr. Hardcastle," answered Drummond. "We are all of us wiser and more tolerant men, I trust, after the amazing escapade of psychic phenomena we have just witnessed."

Darrell glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but his face was expressionless.

"Moreover, as my daughter says, it does seem to bear out part of Morris's story," went on Hardcastle. "If we saw it, so may he have done."

"That's so, sir," said the Inspector. "But there's one point we mustn't forget. A ghost can go through a closed door: we've seen it happen. But a ghost can't carry a suit of clothes through a closed door: a ghost can't carry anything at all."

He glared round the group as if challenging anyone to contradict him.

"That being so," he continued, "we still have not accounted for Morris having on the murdered man's clothes."

"That's very true," agreed Hardcastle. "Don't you think so, Penton?"

The third man rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other before replying.

"I guess I don't know what to think," he remarked at length. "I'm with Jake in what he said. The whole thing is a new one on me."

"Anyway, gentlemen," said the Inspector, "clothes or no clothes, one thing is certain: no ghost can murder a man, certainly not by bashing his head in."

"I suppose that's a fair assumption," said Penton.

"Very well, then: let's disregard the ghost for a moment, and I think we can reconstruct what happened. Morris broke in, and in all probability thought the place was empty. All you gentlemen were out: only Mr. Marton was in the house. Maybe he came downstairs, thinking it was one of you returning, and Morris attacked him. Marton fled and Morris pursued him, finally doing him to death in the room above. Then he changed clothes, came down and found the supper spread out. While he was in the room he suddenly saw the ghost, which terrified him so much that he daren't leave. And there you other gentlemen found him. To his dismay, you recognised his clothes, and the blood on the ceiling showed him the game was up. Half tipsy with beer, and with the thought of the ghost in his mind, he said the first story that came into his head."

"That sounds very feasible," said Hardcastle: "very feasible indeed."

"Another point that goes to prove it," continued the Inspector, "was his great reluctance to go upstairs and look at the body—a well-known characteristic of murderers. That's what happened, gentlemen, or as near to what happened as we are ever likely to get now the man is dead. I don't wonder, sir"—he turned to Drummond—"that you were taken in for a bit. You didn't know that there wasn't a caretaker in the house: besides, it's amazing the yarns these old lags will spin."

"So it seems," answered Drummond. "By the way, has the weapon with which Marton was murdered been discovered?"

"Not yet. He probably threw it out of the window, and I'll have the ground searched thoroughly to-morrow morning. Then we'll have his finger-prints and absolute proof."

"Look here, Mr. Inspector," said Hardcastle in a rather hesitating voice, "I don't know if what I'm going to suggest is very irregular, but if it is you must put it down to my ignorance of the law. Now I take it we are all agreed that Morris murdered Marton in some such manner as you described, and then blundered into Grimstone Mire. At any rate, Morris can never be brought to trial. Wait—I've just obtained a lease of this house; I'm engaged in certain scientific researches, and I must frankly admit I don't want to be disturbed. Now what I want to know is this: is it necessary to say anything about this ghost? I quite understand that if Morris wasn't dead it would be impossible not to allude to it: he would tell the same story he told Captain Drummond. But now that he is dead, are we defeating the ends of justice in any way if we keep our mouths shut about it? It can do neither Morris nor Marton any good, and the only result that is going to happen is that this house will be surrounded with swarms of journalists and sightseers."

A faint smile twitched round Drummond's lips, but his face was in the shadow.

"In addition to that," Hardcastle continued, "though naturally such a thing will not deter us if it is our duty to speak, I'm sadly afraid we're all of us going to have our legs pulled nearly off. We have seen it—we know; but that's a very different thing from convincing somebody else. If we hadn't been here to-night, would we have believed it if we'd been told it? Your police are second to none in the world, but they're a hard-headed body of men. And I can't help thinking, Inspector, that you're going to come in for the hell of a lot of chaff from your brother officers. What do you say, Captain Drummond?"

"Don't you think," Drummond murmured, "that in a case of such remarkable psychic interest we ought to get in touch with that jolly old society that goes spook-hunting?"

"I do not," said the other firmly. "If, in the interests of justice, the Inspector considers we must speak—that's one thing. But I flatly refuse to have bunches of people sitting all over the place on the chance of seeing something."

"I quite see your point," agreed Drummond pleasantly. "I believe most of 'em are trained to the house, but it would be deuced boring to have an ancient professor permanently in the bathroom. Well, well—the Inspector must decide. Do we burble of ghosts or do we not?"

The Inspector cleared his throat. Until Hardcastle's remarks, that aspect of the case had not struck him. Now it did—forcibly. No one knew better than he did that there was an enormous amount in what had been said. He could imagine the headlines in the papers: "Police Inspector sees Ghost. New Scope of Activity for Scotland Yard." And even nearer ahead, the thought of telling his own Chief Constable, a retired Major of unimaginative temperament—was not one that he relished. If only the constable wasn't there it would be so much easier. And then a sudden inspiration came to him—a perfect way out of the dilemma. He cleared his throat again.

"I think we can look at it this way, gentlemen," he remarked. "The crime we are investigating began with the death of Morris in Grimstone Mire. Nothing that has happened subsequent to that can have any bearing on the crime. In other words, the fact that we saw this ghost has nothing whatever to do with the matter. It lends a certain air of truth to part of Morris's rigmarole, I agree: and, as you said, Mr. Hardcastle, if he were still alive it would be our duty to say what we had seen. But as he isn't, it is a thing which it seems to me does not come within the scope of enquiry.

"Naturally, Captain Drummond will have to state what was said by Morris to him and his friends, but at that I think we are entitled to leave it. It is no part of the duty of the police to cause inconvenience to law-abiding citizens, and I quite understand that you, sir, would find it most annoying to have crowds of inquisitive people all round the house."

"Good," said Drummond. "The oracle has spoken: ghosts are off. And that being so, I think we might go home, Ted, and hit the hay. My kindest regards, Mr. Hardcastle, to the Comtessa, and I sincerely hope that the little wanderer is laid for to-night, at any rate. But you must certainly rope her in for the cinema work your daughter tells me you are interested in. Damned good performer, and no screw to pay. Night, night, souls: we shall doubtless hear, Inspector, when and where our presence is desired."

And it was not until they reached the main road that he spoke again.

"There's no doubt about it, boys," he said, "that that little bunch of beauties is pretty high up in the handicap. It's a pleasure to have met them. There's a calm nerve about their doings which beats the band. It's gorgeous. And having shown us the damned old ghost, the subtle way Hardcastle got round the Inspector was a delight. The actual suggestion to say nothing about it came much better from the police than from anyone else."

"I gathered from your face you were a bit sceptical about the spectre," said Darrell.

"Sceptical!" laughed Drummond. "I should say. For a moment I admit I was taken in: the thing was staged so well. And I'd been going on the assumption that there was only one female in the house. But then I went back to our one basic idea—that Morris was speaking the truth. And that being so, the Inspector's profound statement that a ghost can't carry a suit of clothes on its arm assumes a rather different complexion from what the worthy warrior intended. That was the woman whom Morris saw, and who gave him the clothes. And having done her little piece at the top of the stairs, she backed into 'honey's' room, who then bolted the door and let out an ear-splitter. Meanwhile, the ghost vanishes through some secret panel, and that's that."

"Probably you're right, old boy," said Jerningham. "But for the life of me I can't see their object in doing it."

"That's what I was trying to get at, Ted, all the time we were in the hall. And I think it's this way. Their original plan miscarried owing to our being there, and so they had to amend it. They knew the police would arrive shortly, and that from then on there would always be at least one constable in the house. They knew also that we should mention the woman, which would cause awkward questions. So the first thing they do is to send the Comtessa along after us—I saw the marks of footsteps leaving that panel in the hall—partially to find out what we were going to say, and partially to sustain the bluff that she had been in Plymouth. Now, since that cry we heard was almost certainly Morris in Grimstone Mire, the sweet thing must have known of his death before she saw us. And, incidentally, I wonder if he fell or was pushed: his death was a godsend to them. However, to continue—back we go with the lady, who is suitably greeted by dear Dad, once more registering her absence in Plymouth. Then what about the other woman? If 'honey' was in Plymouth, what about the female Morris said he saw? Where was she? Or was it a complete invention? Great idea—stage her as a ghost; and, as I said before, they staged her damned well."

"Do you really think—we ought to let them get away with it?" said Darrell.

"How can we prevent it, old boy? If Morris wasn't dead, I'd agree with you: he may have been a swine, but we couldn't have let the poor blighter swing without making an effort to save him. But now he's dead, what's the use of worrying? Put it how you will, the only thing we can say is that we believed his story. Who cares? We should merely be regarded as gullible mugs. No, our line is to pretend that we are in complete agreement with the theory put forward by the Inspector, and once the inquest is over set to work from the other end. I'm inclined to think that if there are any survivors left at all of the firm of Marton, Peters and Newall, we might be able to get on to something."

"I'm just wondering," said Jerningham, "if by chance that is one Dick Newall with whom I've played a lot of golf. As far as I remember, he is a legal bird of sorts."

"The rum thing, to my mind, is what they're doing down here at all," said Darrell, as they turned in at the gate of Merridale Hall.

"The solution of that little problem, old lad," cried Drummond, "may possibly prove to be the solace of our declining years. But don't forget that the one essential thing is to make that bunch believe that they've fooled us. We've got to do a bit in the acting line ourselves. For, unless I'm much mistaken, the situation is this at the moment. They know they've bluffed the Inspector: they're not certain about us. And it therefore behoves us to allay their maidenly fears. Even as the trout must we swallow their little effort. And that is going to entail a certain discretion at the inquest: I should loathe to get it in the neck for perjury."

Chapter IV

As was only to be expected, the affair attracted an enormous amount of attention. The escape of Morris, duly reported in all the evening papers, had already brought Dartmoor into the centre of the limelight: the subsequent development increased the interest. Reporters swarmed like blue-bottles; it was unsafe for anyone even remotely reconnected with the matter to be seen in the open.

Two facts, one positive and one negative, came to light the next day. The first was the clear imprint of a boot of regulation prison pattern on the track over Grimstone Mire—a boot, moreover, of the size taken by Morris. The second was the complete failure of the police to discover any trace of the weapon with which the crime had been committed.

And when the inquest opened at eleven o'clock the day after, there was still no sign of it.

With some reluctance Mr. Hardcastle had agreed to it being held at Glensham House. At first he demurred on the grounds of the added publicity, but when it was pointed out to him how very much proceedings would be facilitated if the enquiry was held on the spot, he finally consented.

"The whole thing is most annoying. Captain Drummond," he remarked, as they met in the hall. "I particularly dislike notoriety in any form, and then a crime like this occurs, literally in my house."

"Deuced boring, Mr. Hardcastle," agreed the other sympathetically. "I, too, like to blush unseen. Been worried by the jolly old newspaper men?"

"They swarm like maggots in a bit of bad meat," snorted Hardcastle.

"An apt and charming simile," murmured Drummond. "Ah, well, if you will have these regrettable incidents in the old family mansion, you must expect 'em to sit up and take notice. By the way "—he lowered his voice confidentially—"any further sign of the ghost?"

The other glanced quickly round the room; then, taking his arm, he drew Drummond on one side.

"Yes—last night. She was in exactly the same place at the head of the stairs. But not a word to my daughter about it."

"The Comtessa has remained on, has she?"

"I persuaded her to. For one thing alone, I thought it better she should be here over the inquest, in case they want to ask her questions. Tell me, Captain Drummond, what do you make of that apparition?"

"'Pon my soul, Mr. Hardcastle, it's deuced difficult to say, isn't it? We've all seen her, and in my own mind I have no doubt that Morris saw her. It's a strange thing, this haunting of old houses. I remember a great pal of mine whose house was haunted by a little green man. Most astonishing case it was. The little fellow used to come and perch on the end of his bed. And one night, after we'd got my friend there with some trouble—I may say he suffered from another delusion, and that was that whisky didn't affect his head—we suddenly heard an awful crash outside. My poor old pal had jumped out of the window. We picked him up, Mr. Hardcastle, and with his dying breath he told us what had happened. Thirteen little green men had come just after we left him, all armed with rifles. And as he'd always promised his mother he'd never be shot, he just jumped out. I cried like a child as the dear fellow passed away. Ah! there, if I mistake not, is your charming daughter. Good morning, Comtessa: I hear you have decided to risk the ghost."

"Please don't speak about it, Captain Drummond," she cried. "My father persuaded me to stay on the one more night just for this inquest, but I leave this afternoon. You only saw her in the distance, don't forget: when I saw her she was as close as I am to you."

"A terrifying experience, Comtessa," he remarked gravely. "Hullo! it looks as if the individual with the somewhat bulbous nose is about to kick off. Incidentally, who is the man talking to your father?"

"Mr. Peters," she said. "He is one of the members of Bob Marton's firm."

He proved to be the first witness, and identified the murdered man as Robert Marton. He explained that no relative was available for the purpose owing to the recent death of Mr. Marton, senior, and that he had therefore come down from London on hearing the news. He further added that it was he who had sent him down at the request of Mr. Hardcastle, who had recently acquired the lease of Glensham House through his firm.

"When did he receive your instructions?" demanded the Coroner.

"On Tuesday afternoon—the day before he was murdered. I gave him the address on a piece of paper, as he did not know the house."

The Coroner consulted some documents in front of him. "Am I not right in supposing that it was on Tuesday evening that his father was killed owing to an accident with a gun?" he asked.

"Perfectly right," said Peters, speaking with some emotion. "I may say that the two things coming so close together has been a very great shock to me and the other members of the firm."

The Coroner nodded sympathetically. "I am sure that we understand that, Mr. Peters," he said. "But there is one point that I should like to get clear. You say that you gave him his instructions on Tuesday afternoon, so that he left London on Wednesday morning. Where did he spend Tuesday night? I assume he cannot have been at home; for if he had been, his father's death would naturally have prevented him coming here."

"Exactly," agreed the witness. "From inquiries I have made I find that Robert Marton did not go home on Tuesday night."

"Have you any idea where he stayed?"

"None whatever, sir. His train on Wednesday morning left Paddington very early, and he probably stopped at some hotel."

"So he was in ignorance of his father's death?"

"That I can't tell you, as he may have seen it in the papers. But I assume he did not, as otherwise he would surely have got out at the first stop and returned to Surbiton."

"And he did not telephone to his father or mother or send them any message saying he was remaining in London for the night?"

"Certainly not to his mother. With regard his father, unfortunately I cannot tell you, I should think in all probability not. Had done so, I think he would have told Mrs. Merton."

Peters stood down, and Hardcastle was called.

"Now, Mr. Hardcastle," said the Coroner, "will you kindly tell us all you know of this distressing affair?"

The witness bowed gravely.

"Distressing is too mild a word for it, sir," he remarked. "I feel that I shall never forgive myself for having been the unwitting cause of this poor boy's death. He was down here on business for me, and then this ghastly thing happened to him."

He paused, overcome with emotion.

"However," he continued, after recovering his composure, "I will tell you all I know. My daughter, my friends and I came down here on Tuesday to have a look at the house, which, as Mr. Peters told you, I have recently leased. Marton was to come down on Wednesday, as you have heard. That morning we all went over to Plymouth to see that some alterations on my yacht had been carried out. Then, leaving my daughter there, we returned here to find that a dense fog had come down. I may say," he remarked with a faint smile, "that we are accustomed to things on a big scale in my country, but that fog beat anything we've ever turned out. You gentlemen may be used to it, but it defeated us. However, as time went on and he did not appear, we realised he must have lost his way, and so my friend Mr. Slingsby and I went out to look for him. And it was then we ran into two warders on the road, who told us about the escaped convict, and also mentioned that they had met a young man who was obviously lost, but who had finally reached Merridale Hall—the property of this gentleman."

He bowed to Jerningham.

"From their description of him we realised it must be Marton, and so we walked on with the idea of finding Merridale Hall. In the fog we missed it, and then we got hopelessly lost ourselves. We wandered backwards and forwards, and then there came a crash from some little distance off which sounded like a car running into a gate or a wall. We blundered on until, quite suddenly, Marton ran right into us. He told us he had had a drink at Merridale Hall, and had then come on in another attempt to find us."

He paused and blew his nose.

"I now come, sir, to the dreadful tragedy. The boy, I may say, did not seem at all himself. He was nervy, and about seven o'clock he began to shiver. Clearly he'd got fever, and so I gave him some quinine and told him to go to bed. And that "—his emotion was evident—" was the last time I saw the poor lad alive."

"Take your time, Mr. Hardcastle," said the Coroner. "We all of us understand how you feel."

"I thank you, sir," continued the witness, after a moment or two. "I should think it was about eight o'clock that Mr. Slingsby and I decided to go for a walk. It seemed to us that the fog had lifted a little, and we felt the need of some exercise. Mr. Penton refused to come, but went to the garage instead, as something had gone wrong with the car. We thought that if we stuck to the main road we should have no difficulty, but somehow or other we got off it, and once again we found ourselves lost. And it was not until well after ten that we finally got back to the house. The first thing we found was that the whole of our supper had been eaten, and we were just blaming Mr. Penton, as being the only possible person who could have taken it, when a man dashed down the stairs, rushed through the hall and vanished into the night. We stood dumbfounded, and a moment or two later we saw three gentlemen standing on the top of the stairs. And they told us what had happened in our absence."

He paused again, and sighed deeply.

"I blame myself bitterly, Mr. Coroner, for having gone out and left that sick boy alone in the house. I knew about this escaped convict, but frankly the thought of such a ghastly tragedy never entered my head. Had it done so, I need hardly state that nothing would have induced me to leave the house."

He sat down, and a murmur of sympathy came from the jury.

"Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle," said the Coroner. "I speak for the Jury as well as myself when I say that your feelings are only natural. But I can assure you that no vestige of blame can be attached to you for what you did. There is, however, one question I would like to ask you. Did the murdered man say anything to you about his father's death?"

"No, sir: not a word. The first I heard of it was from this gentleman, Captain Drummond."

"Thank you. Then I think we may safely conclude that Robert Marton was in ignorance of the fact. And now, to keep things in their correct order, I will call Captain Drummond. My first question, sir, is to ask what brought you here at all?"

"My friends and I, believing the house to be empty, decided that we would come along and see if the rumour of its being haunted was true," answered Drummond.

"And did you see a ghost?" asked the Coroner with ponderous sarcasm.

"Other things occupied our attention, sir," murmured Drummond.

"Kindly tell us what happened?"

"The first thing was that a strong reek of cigarette smoke proved the house was not empty. And we traced it to the room in which we found Morris."

"Did you know it was Morris as soon as you saw him?"

"Yes," said Drummond. "A warder had given me a description of him earlier in the day, and I spotted him by the red scar on his face."

"And then?"

"I recognised the clothes he was wearing as belonging to a young man called Marton who had lost his way during the afternoon and come to Merridale Hall."

Briefly Drummond outlined the events of the afternoon, and Darrell watched Hardcastle covertly. But his face was as expressionless as the Sphinx.

"You, too, say that he seemed nervy," said the Coroner when Drummond had finished.

"He did."

"Did he give you any reason?"

"I think the unexpected appearance of the two warders looming out of the fog and the discharge of a rifle had shaken him considerably."

"Were you not surprised when you returned with your friends to find him gone?"

"Very. And my assumption was that he was a little ashamed of the condition of fright he had been in and had left."

"Did he say he was going to Glensham House?"

"He never mentioned Glensham House."

"Now, Mr. Hardcastle stated that it was you who told him of the death of Mr. Marton, senior. How did you know?"

Once again Darrell glanced at Hardcastle, whose eyes were now fixed on Drummond.

"Marton told me his name and the name of his firm," said Drummond. "And when I happened to see the account of the accident in the paper, I assumed it was either his father or his uncle who was dead."

Almost imperceptibly Hardcastle relaxed.

"I see," said the Coroner. "Now, Captain Drummond, will you please continue from the point where you found Morris hiding in the room here?"

"I first of all asked him where he got his clothes from."

"What did he say?"

"He told me that an old woman had given them to him and that they belonged to a son of hers who was dead."

"But since you knew they belonged to Marton you must have known that his statement was a lie."

"My brain was moving on those lines," said Drummond mildly, "when we saw the stain on the ceiling."

"What did you do when you saw the stain?"

"We took Morris with us upstairs and went; and investigated. And we then found the murdered man."

"Did Morris show any reluctance to going upstairs with you?"

"The very strongest."

"What did he say when he saw the body?"

For a moment or two Drummond hesitated; then he shrugged his shoulders.

"He said something about a ghost," he remarked.

The Coroner smiled. "Ghosts seem to have been popular that night. Now, Captain Drummond," he went on severely, "are you seriously asking the jury to believe that when you found a man foully murdered on the floor, and an escaped convict, with a record like Morris, wearing the dead man's clothes in an empty house at that hour of the night, you still harped on the subject of ghosts?"

"I come of a very superstitious family," said Drummond. with the utmost gravity. "My mother was the thirteenth child of a thirteenth child, and I suppose I have inherited a strain of the whimsical, of the mystical, one might almost say a Puck-like, elfin streak which at times has had the strangest results in my life."

The Coroner looked at him suspiciously, while Jerningham was suddenly shaken with a bad fit of coughing.

"Would you kindly answer my question, Captain Drummond?" said the Coroner. "These family details, though interesting, are hardly relevant. Did you, or did you not, attach any importance to this story of Morris's?"

"He certainly seemed to attach a great deal of importance to it himself," answered Drummond. "And then, before we realised what he intended to do, he bolted. I knew it would be useless to pursue him in the fog, and that sooner or later he would certainly be caught. And we were just going to ring up the police when we met Mr. Hardcastle and Mr. Slingsby here in the hall."

"Now, Captain Drummond, I am going to put a leading question to you. You and your friends are the only people who actually saw and spoke to Morris. I dismiss the brief glimpse that Mr. Hardcastle got of him as he dashed through the hall. Have you any doubts in your mind that Morris was the murderer of Robert Marton?"

"The evidence on the point appears conclusive, Mr. Coroner," said Drummond, and the jury nodded their heads in agreement. They were getting bored: the case was such an obvious one. But the Coroner—a man of stern determination—was not to be baulked. First Darrell, then Jerningham, was called to substantiate Drummond's story. Then Penton deposed to what he had seen when working on the car in the garage. And finally the Inspector put forward his reconstruction of the crime.

"The only thing wanting, sir, for absolute proof," he concluded, "is the discovery of the weapon with which the murder was committed. The doctor has told us that the crime took place round about nine o'clock; he also says that in his opinion the weapon used was something in the nature of a meat-chopper. On the handle of that weapon, if we find it, will be the finger-prints—finger-prints of the murderer: the finger-prints of Morris. But so far the most exhaustive search has failed to bring it to light."

"Is it possible that he had it with him the whole time?" suggested the Coroner, glancing at Drummond.

"An axe is a difficult thing to conceal about one's person," remarked the latter mildly. "In fact, I feel almost sure we should have noticed it."

"You have searched the grounds?" continued the Coroner to the witness.

"Yes, sir. But they are, of course, extensive, and we have not given up hope of discovering it. As Captain Drummond says, it is almost impossible that he should have had it on him, and in all probability, therefore, it is either hidden in the house, or he threw it from the window of the room in which he killed Marton."

Finally the sergeant was called, who gave evidence of his call at Merridale Hall, and the presence there of Comtessa Bartelozzi, whom the Coroner decided it was not necessary to trouble. And so the inquest ended with the verdict that had been obvious from the commencement: "Wilful murder by John Morris, subsequently believed drowned in Grimstone Mire." They further added a rider to the effect that no pains should be spared to discover the weapon with which the crime was committed.

"I think we may congratulate ourselves on the way that went off" said Hardcastle to Drummond, as the jury began to disperse. "It was most masterly the way you avoided any direct reference to the ghost, and I'm very much obliged to you."

"Don't mention it," said Drummond affably. "It is a pleasure to assist you in any way. But you'll still have to watch it. We may have finished with the inquest, but we've not got rid of the reporters yet. Here's one of the blighters bearing down on us now."

But it was not at the newspaper man that Hardcastle was looking, and following the direction of his glance, Drummond saw Jerningham, at the other side of the hall, chatting to Mr. Peters.

"May I trouble you for a few moments, gentlemen?" The reporter, notebook in hand, paused hopefully.

"You may not," laughed Drummond. "Nothing on this earth is going to keep me one minute longer from the consumption of ale. My throat is like a lime-kiln. So long, Mr. Hardcastle: doubtless we shall meet again in less stirring times. Are you coming, Ted? Peter is in the bus already."

"A stroke of luck, Hugh," said Jerningham as they left. "You remember my telling you about Dick Newall, whom I've often played golf with. Well, he is in the firm. He's the sort of opposite number to young Marton. There's an old Newall, and Dick is his nephew."

"What sort of a bloke is he, Ted?"

"Quite a cheery lad, and plays no bad game."

"Good! But we'll have to get hold of him on the quiet. Hardcastle had an eye like a gimlet on you when you were talking to Peters."

"And he had an eye like a gimlet on you when you were giving evidence, old son," said Darrell.

"I know he had, Peter. He's not very good at disguising his expression. I thought I was pretty hot stuff over the Puck-like elfin streak, didn't you?"

"I damned near gave it away by laughing," said Jerningham. "And as for your thirteenth child of a thirteenth child, it's seventh, you ass."

"To the great artist what is a trifle of that sort?" remarked Drummond. "It is the general atmosphere that counts. And incidentally," he continued more seriously, "there's nothing much wrong with the general atmosphere the other side have managed to produce, as far as they're concerned. What a stroke of luck for them that Morris hadn't got to be reckoned with! But, for all that, the more you look into it, the more masterly do you find the way they've extricated themselves from a very nasty position."

"What's going to happen if they do find the chopper?" said Darrell.

"Find your grandmother, Peter! Morris was not the only thing that went into Grimstone Mire that night. They aren't the type of bunch who would keep a weapon covered with finger-prints that are not Morris's. No: I should say that delightful creature Penton bunged the chopper into the bog immediately the thing was done, and I'm wondering how it's going to strike the Inspector when he fails to find it."

"Bring the cocktails, Jennings," shouted Jerningham, as they got out of the car.

"Because, if he only realises it, it knocks the whole verdict endways. If the original scheme had gone through, and Morris had been caught later, the point didn't arise: naturally he would have thrown it away, where it could never be found. And little Willie isn't going to find it."

"It would take more than a trifle of that sort to worry him," said Darrell. "But the point now is, what's the next move?"

"The trail here is dead for the moment," remarked Drummond, lighting a cigarette. "I think we'd better try this pal of yours, Ted—young Newall."

"Right you are, old lad: there's nothing to stop us. We can easily beetle up to Town by the three o'clock train from Plymouth. But I can't promise that we'll get anything out of him. I mean, even if by chance he knows something, he may flatly refuse to pass it on."

"We can but have a dart at it," answered Drummond. "Because it's perfectly obvious that the matter can't stop where it is. I haven't enjoyed myself so much for a long while."

"It was rather interesting to hear that friend Hardcastle has a yacht," said Darrell, as Jennings announced lunch.

"The whole thing is deuced interesting," cried Drummond cheerfully. "Let's get to the stewed hash, Ted, and tell him to throw a few tooth-brushes into a bag. And you never can tell: I shouldn't be surprised if we didn't find ourselves travelling up with little Pansy-face."

He paused, struck with a sudden idea. "I say, chaps—what's Algy Longworth doing these days?"

They both stated at him.

"Algy!" said Jerningham. "The last time I saw him he was pretending to do a job of work in his uncle's office. What's the idea?"

"Algy and Pansy-face: our Comtessa. Might be rather useful if they met one another. Algy wouldn't know us: we wouldn't know Algy. Perhaps we'd get on to something that way."

"How are we going to get them to meet?"

"I haven't an earthly at the moment," admitted Drummond. "But it's a possibility that's worth bearing in mind. If we do travel up with Pansy-face—and she said she was going this afternoon—we'll try and find out her haunts in Town."

And, as it turned out, the first person they saw on the platform at Plymouth was the Comtessa. Hardcastle was with her, and she gave them a charming smile.

"Are you all going up to London as well, Captain Drummond?" she asked.

"That's the idea, Comtessa. The country is really getting so deuced exciting these days, that one has to calm one's nerves in the old Metropolis.

"Got rid of the reporters yet, Mr. Hardcastle?"

"No, confound it!" cried the other. "That constable or the sergeant has been talking, and they've got on to a rumour about the ghost."

"Barricade the front door and bark at them," advised Drummond, as the train began to move out of the station. "So long, Mr. Hardcastle: my love to your boy friends."

"How thankful I am to get away from that dreadful place!" said the Comtessa, as he sat down opposite her. "These last two or three days have seemed like an awful nightmare."

"They have certainly been full of incident," agreed Drummond. "Ted is quite jealous that it didn't happen at Merridale Hall."

"I thought it was charming of you to give your evidence about the poor boy in the way you did," she said, leaning towards him and lowering her voice.

He looked a little puzzled. "I hope I'm not being dense, Comtessa, but I don't quite follow you. In what other way could I have given it?"

"My dear man, you're not going to tell me that you really thought the cause of his nerves was due to the fact that two warders suddenly loomed out of the fog?" She smiled and lit a cigarette. "No, Captain Drummond—that did well enough for the inquest, and it is much better that his poor mother should think so—but as a man of the world you cannot really believe it yourself."

"My dear Comtessa," he remarked, "you are, in our English phraseology, barking up the wrong tree. The youngster struck me as being very unfit: I should say he had been drinking too much and hitting it up generally. But more than that I frankly know nothing about."

"Do you mean to say that he didn't tell you he was in very serious trouble?"

Drummond nodded. "My dear lady, he was a complete stranger to me. I was with him for ten minutes at the most. Would he be likely to spring an intimate confession on me in such a very short time? Now that you mention it, his condition, if what you say is true, is far more comprehensible. But it's the first I've heard of it."

She looked at him keenly, but Hugh Drummond was not accounted one of the best poker-players in London for nothing.

"I'll tell you why I thought you must know more than you said," she continued after a moment. "To be perfectly candid. Captain Drummond, I did not believe that you went to. Glensham House in search of ghosts."

"It did sound a bit thin, I admit," he laughed.

"And yet there was the ghost that you and I both saw. However, if it wasn't the ghost that took us there, what did you think it was?"

"I thought you were worried over Bob Marton, and that, knowing he was going to Glensham House, you came along to see if he was all right."

"At ten o'clock at night! Really, Comtessa, it seems an odd hour to pay a call. And you are ignoring the somewhat important fact that he never even mentioned Glensham House to me."

"It was such an extraordinary coincidence, wasn't it, you selecting that particular night?"

"Foggy, you see. It is then that the ghost walks. Though the story current in these parts is of a very different type of manifestation from the one we saw."

"Really! What is that?"

"Honestly I would sooner not tell you, Comtessa." He shook his head gravely and stared out of the window.

"But I would like to know," she insisted.

"Comtessa," he said after a while, "you wouldn't think, would you, to look at me that I am at all a nervous individual? And I must say for myself that it has to be something pretty large in the human line for me to get the wind up. But when it comes to the thing that is reputed to haunt Glensham House, it's a different matter. Ted knows more about it than I do, he'll tell you."

"What's that, old lad?" said Jerningham, apparently waking up suddenly.

"I was telling the Comtessa about the horror of Glensham House," explained Drummond. It's a thing, Comtessa—a monstrous misshapen thing."

"That's right," said Jerningham. "No one knows what is for certain, because everyone who has seen it either goes mad or dies—some people say it is an elemental of incredible strength and ferocity; others say that it is some dark secret of the Glenshams. And one of the few facts that seems to be known about it is that its appearance is always preceded by a horrible vault-like smell. Whether, of course, there is any truth in it at all, I don't know. West Country people are notoriously superstitious. And it may be that occasionally on foggy nights Grimstone Mire produces this strange fetid odour, which by some means or other reaches the house."

"And that is what you came to see," she exclaimed a little breathlessly.

"That was our idea," answered Drummond. "Though probably the whole thing is a fable."

"That is what I say when sitting in a comfortable carriage on the way to London," said Jerningham. "But what was it that sent young Roger Glensham mad in the course of a single night? Was it an accident that caused his great-uncle to fall from his bedroom window and break his neck, or was that look of terror in his staring eyes due to something else? I always think that it is one thing to talk about these matters in the broad light of day, and quite another when one is in an old house at night."

"But has no one ever heard of the ghost that we saw?" asked the Comtessa.

"The Glenshams are notoriously uncommunicative about the whole thing," said Jerningham. "I personally had never heard of a woman haunting the house, but since we all saw her, the matter is proved. And for my part, at any rate, I'm glad it was that one we saw, and not the other."

The train was slowing down for Exeter, and he rose.

"What about a spot of tea?" he remarked.

"I'm with you, Ted," said Darrell, but Drummond shook his head.

"I'll come along a bit later, old boy," and he said.

"Now, Comtessa," he continued, as the other two left the compartment, "to revert once more to the question of young Marton. Don't say anything if you would prefer not to: naturally I don't want to pry into any secrets. But since you mentioned the matter in the first instance yourself, what was this trouble he was in?"

She hesitated: then, taking her cigarette-case from her bag, she opened it. And over the match which Drummond held for her their eyes met.

"Very serious financial trouble. Captain Drummond," she said gravely. "The poor lad confided in me. I can't tell you the details: they are too complicated. And anyway, it's not my secret."

"I quite understand, Comtessa," answered Drummond. "And I shall, of course, respect your confidence. Confound it!—here are some people getting in. Why is it that certain individuals are born without tact?"

She smiled at him sweetly.

"Do you ever dance in London?" she asked.

"I periodically tread a measure and then mangle a kipper," he said. "Ciro's and the Embassy, and one or two others of the smaller places."

"Do you know the Custard Pot in Wardour Street?"

"That's a new one on me," he answered. "Is it a good spot?"

"It is a quiet one," she murmured.

"Then it shall be added to my list, Comtessa," he said. "Do you go there often?"

"It depends," she answered. "Most young men in London to-day are so boring, aren't they?"

"If you dare to risk it," said Drummond, "the Senior Sports will always find me."

"I think I might—once. And my telephone number is Mayfair 0218."

He scribbled the number in his notebook, and once again their eyes met.

"What about some tea, Comtessa?" he remarked but she shook her head.

"I detest eating in a train, mon ami," she answered "But don't let me stop you."

"It always sounds better to call it tea," he grinned. "So, if you will excuse me, I'll join the other two for a while."

He strolled along to the dining-car, and having joined them at their table, he ordered a whisky and soda.

"Have we or have we not?" he remarked thoughtfully.

"Have we not what?" said Darrell.

"Allayed her suspicions," answered Drummond. "Since you left, chaps, I've got off with Pansy-face: we purpose dancing together at the Custard-Pot in Wardour Street. But does she still think that Marton told me something while he was in the house? That is the crux."

"Didn't you think Ted was inventing the whole of that ghost stuff?" put in Darrell.

Drummond stared at him.

"Of course I did. And I thought he did it deuced well, though what he wanted to introduce the smell for, the Lord alone knows. You don't mean to say there's any truth in it, Ted?"

"No, I don't say that. But for the first time to-day, funnily enough—and I'd forgotten to mention it before—I heard that story. Some bloke at the inquest told me. That is the Glensham legend."

"Well, I think Pansy-face swallowed it all right. But it's the other point that is the really important one. I asked her point blank what was the trouble she alluded to, and she said he had got into a mess over money, and had confided in her."

"Possibly the truth," said Darrell.

"He said to me that afternoon, I wish it was only that,'" answered Drummond. "A mess over money doesn't make a fellow go in fear of his life; and most certainly a mess over money isn't going to cause them to murder him. No, Peter: it must be more than that. You may bet your bottom dollar that young Marton had served their purpose and had lost his nerve in so doing. They were afraid of his squealing, and wanted him out of the way. But what was the purpose?—that's the point."

He relapsed into silence and stared out of the window at the flying countryside. And though his most fervent admirer would never have called Hugh Drummond a second Newton, yet he possessed a great deal of sound common sense, which he could use to advantage on an occasion such as this.

And here, it seemed to him, those facts were clear. Marton had been murdered for some reason as yet unknown, and the murderers had got away with it as far as the police were concerned. But what the murderers did not know was how far they had got away with it where he and Ted and Peter were concerned.

He tried to put himself in the position of the opponents. Assuming his basic foundation was correct, what line of action would they take?

Would they take the point of view that since they had bluffed the police the other thing didn't matter?

Something big was on foot, since they had not hesitated to murder a man: would they merely carry on with their plans, and completely disregard him and the two sitting opposite him? They might reasonably assume that, since he had said nothing up to date, he proposed to let the matter drop altogether. They might even assume that their bluff had been successful all round. And it seemed to him that until they were certain one way or the other, their policy must be to wait and see.

If they did anything else, if they gave the slightest hint that they were not sure if he believed the story, they gave themselves away at once. It was a question of the old chestnut—'That's my story, and I'm going, to stick to it.'

For the moment, therefore, it seemed to him that the other side would do nothing. In fact they would do nothing until their own next move proved that they had not been bluffed. Then the scrap would begin in earnest. But the difficulty lay in what the next move was going to be. Unless they could get some information out of Dick Newall, it looked as if they were up against a blank wall. And he realised that Jerningham's fears were not groundless: to ask a lawyer, however great a friend he might be, to reveal what were possibly office secrets was to ask a lot.

"When can we get in touch with your pal, Ted?" he asked.

"Almost certainly this evening, old boy. He's nearly always in the club before dinner. Hullo! here is Mr. Peters."

The solicitor paused by their table on seeing Jerningham.

"Afternoon, Mr. Peters. I didn't know you were on the train. Let me introduce Captain Drummond and Mr. Darrell. Won't you take a seat at our table?"

"Thank you, thank you," cried the other. "With pleasure. I am really so worried and distracted over this shocking affair, coming so closely on top of the other, that I hardly know what I'm doing. I fear it will completely break up poor Mrs. Marton. She idolised Bob."

"It's very sad indeed," agreed Drummond.

"Such shocking bad luck. By the way, Mr. Peters, I didn't like to ask him personally, but perhaps you can tell me. My father knew a man called Hardcastle very well indeed a few years ago in South Africa. I was wondering if it was the same one."

"I really can't say," answered the lawyer. "He may have been in South Africa—in fact I should think it is more than likely he was. He seems to have travelled extensively. All I know about him is that he wanted to rent Glensham House. And as we have been the family solicitors for years, he naturally came to us about it. I was a little surprised, I must admit. It didn't strike me as at all the sort of place a man like him would want. But houses of that size are difficult things to let these days, especially so far away from London, and so I closed with his offer at once, though it was for a very short lease."

"So he is not proposing to make his home there?"

"Dear me, no! He has taken it for three months only."

"Then he certainly must be very wealthy," remarked Drummond. "He'll want a great deal of furniture to make it habitable."

"No: all the remainder is stored in Plymouth, so that he won't have to buy anything."

"I hear that he is inventing some cinema gadget," went on Drummond casually. "At least we gathered so from his daughter."

"I know he is interested in the films," said the lawyer. "In fact, we did some business for him in that line. But I think he is a man with many irons in the fire."

"I suppose you don't happen to know anything about the legend of the house," put in Jerningham.

"My dear Sir," said the other, "in my profession, we deal with facts. Those give us quite enough trouble without going into supposition is. There is some legend, I believe—in fact, I think I once had told me. But I pay no attention to that sort of thing at all, though from idle chatter I heard at the inquest today, some idiot seems to have revived the story. And of course, now I come to think of it, it was that that took his three young men over there in the first place."

He smiled currently.

"Well, well, it's all very fine to people of your age. But when you come to mind, you'll find that flesh and blood cause quite sufficient worry, without chasing round after spirits."

"Most old houses have some sort of legend attached to them, don't they?" Said Drummond. "Especially when they have secret passages as well."

"Now that IS a fact with regard to Glensham House," said the lawyer. "The place is honey-combed with them. And, funnily enough, that is a thing that particularly attracted Mr. Hardcastle. As an American he seemed to consider that no old English house was worth ten cents—I think that was his phrase—unless it had a secret passage."

"Indeed," murmured Drummond. "Well, he seems to have got his money's worth this time. Do you know the entrances to any of them?"

"I haven't an idea," answered the other. "And I can't say that I want to have one. Between ourselves, as I don't think I see a prospective tenant in any of you, the non-secret part of the house is sufficiently gloomy, to my mind, without worrying over anything else."

He called for his bill.

"Well, I must be getting back to my carriage," he continued. "I've got an hour's work in front of me before we reach London. Good day to you, gentlemen: good day."

"Interesting, that point about Hardcastle and the secret passages," said Drummond, as the lawyer disappeared. "May mean something: may not. What about the other half, chaps? And then I think I'll rejoin Pansy-face. I'd hate her to think my love for her had waned."

But the Comtessa was immersed in a novel when they returned to their compartment, and save for one swift smile and a hope that the tea had been good, nothing more was said till the train reached Paddington. And then in the general rising their shoulders touched.

"You won't forget the Custard Pot?" she murmured.

"I shall haunt the door," he answered, "till I get arrested as a street nuisance. Let me take your dressing-case and I'll see you into a taxi."

"The car should be here," she said leaning out of the window. "Yes: there's the chauffeur."

She beckoned to a man in livery who was standing on the platform.

"Au revoir, Captain Drummond. Don't forget, Mayfair 0218."

"The line will probably fuse," he murmured as he strolled at her side towards the car. "Is your husband—er—in London?"

"Not at present," she answered gravely. "He travels abroad a lot. Ah! cherie, let me introduce Captain Drummond—Madame Saumur."

And for a space there was utter silence. For Drummond and a woman already seated in the car were staring at one another speechlessly, while the Comtessa looked from one to the other in growing bewilderment.

"Enchante, Madame," said Drummond at length. "It is a long time since we met, is it not? Saumur, did you say, Comtessa?

"So you two know one another?" she cried.

"A rose by any other name, dear lady," remarked Drummond with a smile. "Does Madame also adorn the Custard Pot?" He stood back as the chauffeur closed the door, and bowed. "If so my cup of happiness will be complete."

"Posing as a statue, old lad," said Darrell a few moments later. "Or watching the last of the loved one?"

"Madame Saumur, Peter," answered Drummond dreamily. "Pansy-face's girl friend. She was in the car. Madame Saumur, Peter: think of it."

"I'm thinking," said the other. "What about it?"

"She was Irma, Peter: our long-lost Irma Peterson."

"Irma!" cried Darrell incredulously. "Rot, man!"

"Do you suppose I'd make a mistake over her?" said Drummond with a grin.

"Did she say anything?"

"Not a word. We were both so flabbergasted for a moment or two that we gaped at one another like a couple of codfish. Then I made some fatuous remark and they pushed off."

"What an amazing thing!" said Jerningham, as they got into a taxi. "How is it going to affect matters?"

"In this way, Ted. There's no earthly use now in our playing a canny game. We can still pretend, of course, that we agree with the verdict to-day, but we can't fool her into thinking we've dropped the matter. She knows us a great deal too well to believe it for an instant."

"And she didn't speak at all?"

Drummond shook his head. "Not with her tongue. But just as the car drove off she gave me one look that said volumes. It was as clear as if she had shouted it through a megaphone. It's a fight to a finish this time."

Chapter V

They drove to Ted Jerningham's club, and one of the first members they met in the smoking-room, was the man they wanted. He was reading an evening paper, and the instant he saw them he gave them a hail.

"Ted, old lad, come here. Of all the amazing things I've ever known this wins in a canter. Fancy you being mixed up in this performance."

"Evening, Dick," said Jerningham. "I want you to meet Drummond and Darrell."

"The three musketeers complete," grinned the other, and then grew serious again. "It's a pretty damnable business, isn't it? I suppose this account is accurate?"

Drummond, who had skimmed through the report, nodded.

"Yes," he said. "That just about gives the finding of twelve good men and true, and to that extent, therefore, it is accurate."

Newall stared at him.

"Are you implying that there is some inside information going around which is not mentioned in the report?"

"Is there any spot that we can go to, Ted," said Drummond, "where there will be no chance of our being overheard?"

"Sure bill," he answered. "The small card-room is bound to be empty."

He led the way to the lift, and the others followed with Newall, who was still carrying the paper in his hand. And, having ordered a round of the necessary, he closed the door.

"Now we shan't be disturbed," he said. "Get on with it, Hugh."

"Right oh!" answered Drummond. "Now then, Newall, we'll take the whole bally hurdle in one. That story as given in the paper you're holding is a lie from beginning to end."

"What on earth do you mean?" cried the other. "You aren't telling me that Bob Marton is still alive, are you?"

"No, not that. What I am telling you is that he was not murdered by Morris, the escaped convict."

"Then who the devil was he murdered by?"

"Before we go into that, have I your word that what we're going to tell you won't go any further?"

"Yes," said Newall, "you have."

"Good! Then Marton was murdered by one of the trio Hardcastle, Slingsby and Penton—or by all of them."

"My dear sir," stuttered Newall after a pause, during which his eyes almost came out of his head, "you're pulling my leg. What under the sun should they want to murder Marton for?"

"That," said Drummond with a faint smile, "is where we hope you'll be able to help us."

"I say, Ted," cried the other, "is he really being serious?"

"Absolutely, Dick. It's an extraordinary yarn, but you can take it from me that every word is gospel truth."

Briefly, but at the same time omitting nothing, Drummond gave him the story, and the lawyer listened with increasing amazement. But at the end he shook his head.

"Sorry," he said, "but I fear you haven't convinced my legal mind. It's quite clear that you believed the yarn this convict spun to you, but what I am asking myself, in view of the well-nigh inconceivable alternative you suggest, is whether you is weren't deceived by him yourselves."

"I expected you to say that," said Drummond quietly. "And it was the realisation that everybody would think that that made us say nothing about it. Nevertheless, Morris did not deceive us: what he said was the truth."

"But, damn it, man," cried Newall, "what possible motive could there have been for such a thing? Hardcastle, a perfectly good American millionaire—why should he want to put Bob Marton out of the way? It's preposterous: it's—it's inconceivable, as I said before."

"There is no important document, or something of that sort, missing from the office, is there?"

"Nothing: nothing at all. Why, as far as I know, there isn't a document in the office that is worth a tanner to anyone else. Honestly, you fellows, I think you're after the wrong fox this time with a vengeance. And if you don't mind my giving you a word of professional advice, you'd better be damned careful. What you've said to me is safe—it won't go beyond me. But there's such a thing as libel, and a story like that renders you liable to thumping damages."

"You need have no fears on that score," said Drummond. "We aren't going to mention it. We didn't say a word about it even to old man Peters. One question, though, Newall. However much we imagined over what Morris said to us, there is no doubt over Marton's remarks to me. How do you account for those? Who are the 'they' he was terrified of?"

"I confess that defeats me," said the other slowly. "Of course he was in a rotten condition of nerves."

"Rotten enough to imagine some non-existent beings?"

Dick Newall lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

"It's a poser, I admit," he remarked. "You say he mentioned this woman Comtessa Bartelozzi by name?"

"Certainly," said Drummond. "He mentioned her in connection with his trouble, and she is Hardcastle's daughter."

"What is she like to look at?"

"Extraordinarily attractive. If you happen frequent a night club called the Custard Pot, you may have seen her there."

"What's that?" cried the other. "The Custard Pot! Why, she must be the woman I saw there with Bob Marton one night. I pulled his leg about it next day, and he got quite shirty about it."

"Had Hardcastle been to your firm then?"

Newall stared at him.

"Yes, he had. Hardcastle came to us about two months ago, and this incident I'm talking about was last week."

"Seems strange that Marton didn't tell you who the lady was," said Drummond. "Look here, Newall," he went on quietly, "I know our story must seen a bit thin to you. For all that, it's the truth. Young Marton was foully murdered by Hardcastle and his bunch, and up to date they have got clean away with it. There is some big crime in contemplation: what it is I know no more than you. But Marton knew, and that's why they outed him."

A waiter entered, and came up to Newall. "You're wanted on the telephone, sir," he announced.

"I'll come back at once," said the lawyer, rising.

He followed the man from the room, and Drummond turned to the other two.

"I don't blame him in the slightest being sceptical," he remarked. "So would we be in his place. And it only shows what the result would have been if we put forward at the inquest."

"Would it be any use telling him about Irma?" suggested Darrell. "Birds of a feather and that sort of idea."

Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

"She would only be a name to him," he said. "He's had no first-hand experience of her little ways. Still, it's a possibility, Peter."

And at that moment Newall returned with a worried expression on his face.

"It's a very strange thing," he said, "in view of what we've been talking about, but my uncle has just rung me up. And quite obviously something is wrong. It's getting on for eight o'clock, and unless it was serious it could surely have kept till to-morrow. I'm going round to see him at once. Will you fellows be dining here?"

"They can feed with me," said Jerningham.

"Right: I'll come back as soon as I've seen the old man. Of course it may be nothing at all, but it's the first time I've ever known him do such a thing."

He left the room, and Drummond rubbed his hands together.

"I wonder if that means we're on the track of something," he said. "Your pal seems a cheery sort of bloke, Ted: I hope he won't be as close as an oyster if he finds out anything."

"So do I, old boy," answered Jerningham. "On that point we'll just have to wait and see. But one can't expect him to tell us much if it's a secret concerning one of the firm's clients. Anyway, what about some food?"

There was no sign of Newall during dinner, and it was not until after ten that he came into the smoking-room and ordered some sandwiches. A glance at his face showed that something had happened, but he said nothing until the waiter had brought them. Then abruptly he turned to the other three.

"It is my turn now," he said, "to ask you to promise that you won't pass on what I'm going to tell you."

"You have it," answered Drummond.

"Whether I ought to say anything about it at all is doubtful," went on Newall, "because, as far as I can see, it has no connection with Bob Marton's death. I mean it doesn't in any way bear out your theory as to who murdered him. At the same time, since we have been discussing him confidentially, it may interest you to know that five thousand pounds' worth of bearer bonds, which were deposited with us a little while ago by a client, are missing. They should have been in his father's safe—a safe to which Bob had access, and their loss only became known to my uncle to-day when he was going through the contents. At first he thought old Marton might have taken them down to his house in Surbiton, though it would have been a very unusual proceeding. And so, though the funeral is not till to-morrow, he went down there himself this afternoon to see if he could find them.

"A particular reason for the haste is that the client who left them with us is now back in London, and she may want them at any moment. Well, they've gone: vanished completely. And since the bare idea of suspecting old Marton is simply laughable, I'm sorry to say that it looks as if it was proof of what you were saying about young Bob. There's no one else who can have taken the damned things. As you can appreciate, it's a most unpleasant thing for the firm, for though our client will suffer no financial loss—we shall naturally ante up the five thousand—yet she may cut up nasty. You know what women are in matters of that sort—especially foreigners."

Drummond leaned forward suddenly in his chair.

"Newall," he said quietly, "I'm going to ask you a question which you may think gross impertinence. What is the name of this client?"

"That I'm afraid I can't tell you," answered the other. "It can have no possible bearing on the matter, can it?"

"Then I will draw a bow at a venture," continued Drummond. "I can't help it: I've got a hunch. Is it by any chance Madame Saumur?"

The lawyer started and stared at him.

"I see that it is," said Drummond quietly. "Boys, this affair grows more mysterious every moment."

"But do you know her?" cried Newall.

"Do we know her?" Drummond laughed gently. "Yes Newall, we do, though not under that name. Many times in the past have enjoyed a merry roundelay with her, and you can take it from me that she is one of the most dangerous criminals alive to-day. And to complete the circle, so to speak, when the Comtessa Bartelozzi arrived at Paddington this afternoon, Madame Saumur was there to meet her. And it was that fact that made me ask you."

"Well, I'll be damned!" said Newall. "Confound it—are all our clients criminals?"

"You can take it from me that the Saumur-Hardcastle combination don't waste their time in a Sunday school," grinned Drummond.

"We must get the police on to them," cried the lawyer.

"And what are you going to say to the police?" demanded Drummond. "That some member of your firm, now dead, has embezzled five thousand quid? Guess again, boy: you've got nothing to go to the police about at present. This is a show in which we've got to act on our own. And at the moment we're simply blundering about blindly in the dark. What is the motive underlying the whole affair? That's what we've got to try and get at. What is all this leading up to?"

"But you surely don't mean to imply that there is any connection between Bob Marten's murder and the deposit of those bearer bonds," said Newall incredulously.

"It does sound a bit far-fetched, doesn't it?" admitted Drummond. "And yet they're all in the same bunch: don't forget that fact. What sort of reason did she give for leaving them with you?"

"I couldn't say," answered the other. "Her interview was with old Marton. I could find out, of course, quite easily, from his confidential clerk. But anyway, Drummond, you can't expect me to believe that she left them with us in order that they should be stolen."

"That is exactly what I do believe," said Drummond calmly. "For that reason and no other, Further, she intended that they should be stolen by young Marton and no one else."

"But it sounds fantastic," cried Newall. "Surely it is a somewhat novel trait in a criminal to set about being robbed."

"She knew she would never lose her money," said Drummond. "What have you just said yourself?—the firm is going to make it up to her. She knew she was as safe as if the bonds were in a bank."

"Then what was the great idea?" said the other feebly. "My grey matter is failing me."

"The great idea was to get Marton in their power," answered Drummond. "Why—I haven't a notion, but that was the scheme. And it succeeded. He was in their power, and then, when he'd done what they told him to do, they got rid of him."

He lit a cigarette; then he leaned forward and tapped Newall on the knee.

"Look here, old lad," he said, "you've got to get one fact wedged in the legal brain. And you've got to readjust your ideas from a new standpoint. Leave out for the moment, Hardcastle and his crowd: assume, if you will, that we are mistaken there. But with regard to Madame Saumur, as she now calls herself, you've to believe us. She is a criminal of the first order—a woman without mercy or scruple. And so, as I say, get that into your head as a fact and not as surmise, and start from the beginning again."

"We can bear out every word of that, Dick," put in Jerningham.

"Right oh!" said the lawyer resignedly. "I'll take your word for it."

"Good!" cried Drummond. "Then let's start off by trying to get some sort of chronological order. First of all—do you know when young Marton first met this Bartelozzi woman?"

Newall shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't," he said. "The only time I saw 'em together, as I told you, was last week."

And then he paused suddenly. "By Jove! I wonder."

He closed his eyes as if trying to collect his thoughts.

"Wait a moment, you fellows," he said, "I'll get it shortly."

He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and studied it.

"Now, this is not proof: it's not even evidence, but it's a possibility. On April 15, Bob Marten had a job of work given him to do in Liverpool, which entailed his being away for the night. He came to me the day before and asked me if I'd take it on for him, and when I asked him why, he told me that the most glorious woman he had ever seen in his life had got a date with him on the 15th. He said that if he didn't appear she'd get fed up, and, anyway, he was so darned serious about it that I said I would. Here's the entry in my diary—Liverpool, Baxter and Co. on the 15th: round at Hoylake in morning of the 16th. Furthermore—though on this point I've got to trust my memory—it was about then that he started talking about the Custard Pot. Well, you say this wench goes there a lot, so it is possible that that is when he met her."

"Which would make it about four months ago," said Drummond. "And Hardcastle came to you about two months after?"

Newall turned over the pages of his notebook. "The first entry of him I have is on June 29th," he answered. "But old Marton did his business, and so it is quite on the cards he came earlier."

"When were the bonds deposited?"

"I couldn't say off-hand; but that, again, I can find out from Merridew, the confidential clerk to-morrow."

"But it was fairly recently?"

"If I had to guess, I should say it was some time in July."

"Therefore after Marton had met Comtessa Bartelozzi?"

"If our surmise about April 15th is correct—yes. But remember that is only surmise. The only proof we have there is that I saw 'em together a week ago."

"Were they pretty matey?"

"Taking it by and large—yes."

"So presumably it was not their first meeting?"

"If it was, rapidity must have been the order of the evening," said Newall, with a grin.

"Now look here, old boy," went on Drummond, "that's another point that strikes me. The poor devil is dead, so that's that; but frankly, what did you think of Marton? I only saw him for about ten minutes; but not to mince words, I didn't put him very high in the handicap."

"He wasn't a bad fellow," answered the other. "Why do you ask?"

"For this reason. The Bartelozzi woman, as far as looks are concerned at any rate, is a winner. Then why does she select Marton?"

"I get you," said Newall thoughtfully. "And there's a good deal in what you say. You mean it points definitely to an ulterior motive?"

"Of course it does. He may not have been a bad fellow, but, my dear old lad, if you were a damned pretty woman would you have selected him as your boy friend? Echo answers no, and I'll take a spot of ale."

"I suppose you're right," agreed Newall, beckoning to a waiter. "But the thing that stumps me is what that ulterior motive can possibly have been. We're back at the beginning again. Assuming that everything you say is true: assuming that the bonds were deposited with us and he was goaded into stealing 'em—what then? What earthly use can the junior member of a firm of respectable solicitors be to a bunch of crooks?"

"There you have me," said Drummond. "But I can't help thinking that when you go more carefully through the papers belonging to his father you'll find that something very important is missing. Our Bartelozzi, having fleeced him good and hearty, by some means or other lets him know that she is fully aware of the bond transaction. Possibly she pitched him some yarn about them having been stolen from her. Anyhow the poor sap pinches them. Then he's in the soup. The lady ceases to be kind, and puts the screw on. As the price of her silence, he's got to get the other thing."

"My dear fellow," cried Newall, "your theory would be admirable if I could even remotely begin to imagine what this other thing can be. That's where the snag comes."

"We'll find out in time," answered Drummond quietly. "You can put your shirt on that. But for the moment let's go to Hardcastle. What was the business that brought him to you in the first instance?"

"The lease of Glensham House, as far as I know. In fact, I'm sure that was it, because I remember the matter being discussed. And subsequently we put through some negotiations for him with regard to a studio down in Essex which was empty. It belonged to a film company that went bust, and he wanted to carry out some experiments there."

"Where exactly is it?"

"About ten miles from Colchester on the main London road. Not far from the Tiptree jam-works. It's called the Blackwater studio." And then he began to laugh. "Do you anticipate villainy there?"

"I'd anticipate it in Canterbury Cathedral if that bunch was around," said Drummond grimly. "And so will you, old lad, by the time we've finished."

Newall rose with a smile.

"In which case I'd better fortify myself for it with some sleep. The old man wants me at the office at crack of dawn to-morrow, so I'll push off. And if you all want to make your wills, the firm might make a reduction for numbers."

With a cheery wave he was gone, and Drummond grinned.

"That lad is going to get an eye-opener before he's much older," he remarked. "Though I must admit he's got lots of excuse for being sceptical. The whole thing is damned obscure at the moment."

And the obscurity did not diminish during the next few days. It transpired that the bonds had been deposited on July 15th as cover for a deal in land which Madame Saumur was trying to put through. As she was going abroad for a few weeks, she wanted someone on the spot to act for her, and instead of giving them the money, she preferred to leave the bearer bonds, with instructions to sell should the transaction come to anything.

"All perfectly normal and in order," said Newall, when he met the three friends a few days later. "What was the good of selling out if the deal came to nothing? And since the agreement would have to be checked legally, it was necessary to do the business through a lawyer and not through a bank."

"Who put her on to your firm particularly?" demanded Drummond.

"Was there ever such a man?" laughed Newall. "If you must know, it was the Dean of Murchester's wife, whom she met at Mentone. You'll be telling me that she has got criminal instincts next."

Further, as the result of an exhaustive search, the only thing missing from the office was a sixpenny postal order for a football competition, on which dark matter the junior clerk and the office-boy had had words.

"Honestly, Drummond," said Newall, "I'm convinced you're barking up the wrong tree. Whatever the lady may have been in the past, there is nothing about this transaction which isn't absolutely straightforward. And it seems to me that there is a perfectly simple solution. Bob, the silly young ass, got tied up with the Bartelozzi woman, who, perhaps without meaning to, bled him. She is probably a fairy with expensive tastes who expects money to be poured out like water on her. And he, finding he couldn't stand the pace, stole the bonds. He had access to his father's safe: for all I know, he may have been present at the interview. There are a dozen ways in which he could have found out the bonds were there—quite normal ways. So why assume some dark conspiracy? And then, realising what he had done—presumably he sold 'em—his nerves went. He knew that sooner or later his father must find out. It wasn't as if it had been money, which conceivably he might have replaced: with bonds the position was hopeless. And that undoubtedly explains his remarks to you. He had always drunk a good deal more than was good for him, which didn't help matters, and that contributed to his condition of funk. By 'they', he meant the police, and in the fog he must have thought the warders were policemen. And when he said it wasn't only a question of money, or that it was worse than that, he had in his mind that he had stolen bonds."

"You think, then," said Drummond, "that the verdict at the inquest was correct, and that Morris murdered him."

"Frankly, old boy, I do," answered Newall. "You were so in earnest about it, and so positive, that to start with you almost convinced me. But now that we find that nothing else has been stolen, the utter pointlessness of the crime is what I can't get over. Nobody out of a madhouse murders a man for no rhyme or reason whatever. And if you're going to tell me that by some method they found out he had stolen the bonds, and killed him as a punishment, well, frankly, I can't swallow it. No: now that we have a reasonable explanation for his agitation with you, which was the inexplicable thing before, I definitely accept the jury's verdict."

And for a while Hugh Drummond himself was shaken. It was the insuperable question of motive that defeated him. Of course it was possible that Marton had found out that they were plotting some crime, and had threatened to give them away. Then why the bearer bonds? How did they fit in?

Could it be that he had made a howling blunder, and that everything was genuine from beginning to end? That the deal in land was a bona fide one: that it was merely a common or garden case of stealing money, and that Morris was the murderer after all? His reason answered yes: every instinct he possessed said no.

He had not yet heard from the Comtessa, nor had he rung her up, and the day following his last talk with Newall he came to a decision. He would ask her to go with him to the Custard Pot that night, and there he would settle things one way or the other. He would carry the war into the enemy's country by pretending he knew a great deal more than he did.

"If Dick Newall is right," he said, talking things over with Jerningham, "no harm is done. She will merely think I'm a bit loopy. If, on the contrary, I'm right, I may force their hand. And anything is preferable to sitting still and doing nothing, while they carry on and disregard us completely."

The Comtessa was at home when he rang up, and came to the telephone herself.

"I was afraid you'd quite forgotten me," she said. "I shall be delighted to come. I'm going to a play, so shall I meet you there at half-past eleven?"

"Excellent," he said. "Until then—au revoir." He went back to the smoking-room, to find that Peter Darrell had arrived.

"I say, Hugh," he sang out, "it was Blackwater studio, wasn't it, that Hardcastle took?"

"That's right, Peter. Why?"

"Look at this advertisement in Film Echoes."

He held out the paper to Drummond.

"Blackwater Studio. Actor required for small but important character part. Must be young, clean shaven, fair, six feet tall, and between thirty-eight and forty inches round the chest. Previous experience desirable, but not essential. Applicants will be interviewed in person at the studio every day between ten and six."

"That looks as if the interest in the film business was genuine enough," said Drummond, handing the paper back. "'Pon my soul, chaps, if it wasn't for our one and only Irma being mixed up in it, I'd almost be inclined to believe that the whole thing is a mare's nest."

"I thought I'd apply myself," said Darrell. "I comply with all the requirements, and it gives one an excuse for having a look round."

"Not a bad idea, Peter. Go down to-morrow. I don't suppose for a moment they will take you, but you might spot something."

"I hear you're fixing a date with Pansy-face for to-night."

"Yes: we're meeting at the Custard Pot." Drummond shrugged his shoulders. "The Lord knows if it will lead anywhere, but one might be able to bluff her into saying something incriminating. Though it strikes me," he added with a grin, "that one would have to get up pretty early in the morning to trip that lady up, especially since she is being coached by Irma. So long, fellows: we might both come down with you to-morrow, Peter, to the studio."

He lounged out of the room, and hailing a taxi drove back to the service flat he was occupying during his wife's absence in America. Ever since he had met Irma at Paddington he had been conscious of a feeling of profound relief that Phyllis was out of harm's way: he had no wish for a repetition of that ghastly hunt which had so nearly terminated disastrously in the house on Salisbury Plain, and the mere remembrance of which could even now bring him out in a cold sweat. But this time, if Madame Saumur—to give her her present title—struck, she could not do it through Phyllis: it would have to be direct at him. And when, at eleven-thirty exactly, he passed through the swing doors of the Custard Pot, he was conscious of a feeling of exhilaration, of expectancy, like the hunter who hears hounds in the distance. Gone were all the doubts engendered by Dick Newall: he knew there was some game afoot. And it would not be for want of trying if he didn't play.

The club was typical of a score of others. After a small formality at the office, which cost him a pound, he duly became a member, and passing up a flight of stairs, he entered the dancing-room. The Comtessa, he had been told below, had not yet arrived, but on informing the head waiter he was expecting her, he was at once shown to a special table in the corner.

"Will M'sieu order now?" he was asked.

"Put a bottle of Clicquot on the ice," he answered, "and we'll leave the food till later."

The room was tastefully got up for a place of the type. It was small, but not too hot, and the lighting was soft and restful to the eyes. On a microscopic expanse of floor in the centre three couples were dancing to the music of a small band sitting in a balcony half-way up one wall.

The place was full: in fact, he had been shown to the last available table. And he realised the Comtessa must have telephoned through instructions that it was to be kept for her. The flowers, he noticed, were special ones: evidently the lady was something of a noise in the place.

His eyes travelled round the assembled company, but he saw no one whom he knew. The usual pairs; two or three parties of four—it might have been any of the smaller night clubs, save for one thing. There was about the whole atmosphere of the place a definite sense of smartness which as a rule is so conspicuously lacking from similar establishments. It might have been an overflow from the Embassy.

Suddenly there came a little buzz of interest, and Drummond glanced towards the door: the Comtessa had arrived. Escorted by an obsequious head waiter, she was crossing the room towards him, and he rose with a bow. The eyes of most people present followed her as she moved, and Drummond admitted to himself that an evening frock turned her into a ravishing beauty. She was wearing a clinging black chiffon dress, the long skirt of which floated gracefully out as she walked, and the low-cut back showed up the whiteness of her skin and her perfect figure.

"My dear Comtessa," he murmured, bending over her hand, "forgive my British bluntness, but you are superb."

"British bluntness, mon ami," she answered, with a dazzling smile, "is often preferable to Continental diplomacy."

"I left the question of food until you arrived," he said. "What about some caviare?"

"I adore it," she answered. "Just that, and nothing else."

He gave the necessary order; then he turned to his companion.

"Would you care to dance now, afterwards, or not at all?" he asked.

"Afterwards," she said. "For the moment I want to talk to you. I had no idea you knew Natalie so well."

"Natalie!" he murmured. "I presume you mean Madame Saumur?"

She nodded.

"She has talked a lot to me about you these last few days: in fact, I very nearly suggested that you should bring one of those nice friends of yours to-night and make a parti carree."

"That would have been most entertaining. Comtessa," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "I don't think I have ever had the pleasure of having supper with—er—Natalie. By the way, you must forgive me if I sometimes call her by the wrong name. In the past it has changed with such bewildering rapidity that it will be a little difficult to remember."

"It is about that past that I want to talk to you, Captain Drummond."

"That should certainly prove interesting; dear lady," he said grimly.

She laid her hand on his arm.

"No one regrets it more bitterly than she does—believe me. She came under the influence of that man Carl Peterson when she was little more than a child." The Comtessa broke off suddenly.

"May I ask what you're laughing at?" she demanded.

"Forgive me, Comtessa," said Drummond, still shaking silently, "but this is richer than anything I ever dreamed of. You can't tell me that at this stage of history you're trying to kid me with the seduced girlhood stunt? Why, my dear soul, there were times when little Irma—I beg her pardon—Natalie left Carl Peterson at the post. If there was anything to it at all, I should say it was she who caught him young."

"Be that as it may, she's a changed woman now."

For a moment or two Drummond stared at her thoughtfully.

"What's the game, Comtessa?" he asked at length. "You are very far from being a fool: I also am conceited enough to regard myself as not quite an idiot. So once again I ask you—what's the game?"

"I find you somewhat gauche, Captain Drummond," she said coldly. "There is no game, as you call it. Natalie Saumur is a friend of mine, who admittedly in the past has been injudicious. She is sincerely sorry for that past, and wished me to tell you so. And I, believing that an Englishman generally accepted an apology in the spirit in which it was offered, undertook to give you her message."

"You used the word injudicious, Comtessa," he said quietly. "Is that how you would describe a cold-blooded attempt to murder my wife?"

She laughed merrily.

"My dear man," she cried, "you don't really imagine she ever intended to do it, do you? Why—she told me all about it: how you came in disguised as a nigger and all the rest of it."

"Shall we drop this fooling, Comtessa?" said Drummond, a little wearily. "If you are friends with her, you are friends with one of the most dangerous criminals in Europe. I know it, and all I'm wondering is whether you don't know it too."

"Are you aware what you're implying?" she cried angrily.

"Perfectly," he answered. "Come now, Comtessa, shall we put the cards on the table? Don't forget that that poor devil Marton and I did not sit in silence during the time he was at Merridale Hall."

Not a muscle of her face moved: her expression was one of bored indifference.

"Presumably not," she said. "What did you discuss: the weather?"

"Amongst other things," he answered. "And one of those other things was your charming self."

"Indeed! And why should he discuss me with a complete stranger?"

"You seemed to have a fascination for him which, now that I have met you, I can quite understand."

"You did not mention it at the inquest."

"There were several things I did not mention at the inquest," said Drummond calmly. "Muddy footmarks on the carpet for one."

"Really, Captain Drummond, you talk in riddles. What carpet are you alluding to?"

"The one in the smoking-room at Merridale Hall," he answered. "My dear Comtessa, there were more lies packed into that inquest than there are currants in a plum-pudding."

"You mean you perjured yourself?" she cried.

"In excellent company," he remarked. "Though my crime was more in the nature of suppressing the truth, rather than of inventing lies. By the way, how is your dear father, Mr. Hardcastle?"

"Really, Captain Drummond, I find you perfectly intolerable," she exclaimed furiously. "First of all you are extremely rude to me personally, and then you imply that my father was telling lies. You know yourself that the only thing which it was agreed should not be mentioned was the appearance of the ghost."

He smiled faintly.

"Yes: that was the only thing which was agreed," he remarked.

"Captain Drummond," she said quietly, "I insist on your telling me what you are hinting at."

He looked at her steadily. What a superb actress she was! And for a moment he was tempted to tell her exactly what he was hinting at; then he decided to temporise.

"My dear Comtessa," he murmured, "aren't we becoming unduly serious? It was all most unpleasant, but it is over and done with. And the only thing that is worrying me is that perhaps I ought to have mentioned what Marton told me."

"What did he tell you?" Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of anxiety in her voice?

He shook his head. "I feel I must treat it as confidential even from you," he said gravely. "Let's talk of something else. You remember Peter Darrell, don't you? He is going down to your father's studio to-morrow to see if he is suitable for that vacancy that is being advertised."

And the next instant, to his unbounded amazement, he realised that he had scored a bull's-eye.

Not by the quiver of an eyelid did he give away the fact; but he had noticed the knuckles of her right hand, which was loosely holding the edge of the table, suddenly gleam white. And the complete unexpectedness of it, for the moment, bewildered him. He had made the remark quite casually, for want of something better to say, and to extricate himself from a difficult position. Since Marton had said nothing to him, he couldn't very well tell the Comtessa what it was. And then to find that, by a sheer fluke, he had pierced her armour, was a most extraordinary thing—a thing, moreover, which required careful thought.

He drained his champagne and refilled both their glasses.

"He seems to fill the bill," he went on casually, "as far as physical requirements are concerned. You might put in a word for him, Comtessa."

"I'm afraid I have nothing to do with the running of the studio," she said. "By the way, how did you know it was my father's?"

Her voice was quite normal: save for that tell-tale tautening of her fingers, she had given no sign at all that he had got home.

"I think he mentioned it to me," he lied glibly. "And I was thinking of going down with Peter," he continued. "If Mr. Hardcastle is there, he might perhaps allow me to look on for a bit."

She made some perfunctory reply, and then suggested they should dance, to which he at once agreed. He wanted time to think, and as the slow procession of packed sardines that now occupied the floor entailed no mental strain for steering, his brain could concentrate on this new development. Why had his casual remark upset her?

There could be no secret about the studio, since it was advertising publicly. What, then, had caused her agitation? And after puzzling it out through three fox-trots he decided that it could be only one thing—the fact that he had, quite accidentally, let his remark about Peter Darrell and the studio immediately follow the conversation about young Marton. In his mind there had been no connection whatever: in hers there had. And the thought at once opened up a new line of country. Was it possible that the ordinary activities of the studio were a cloak for something criminal, and that Marton had found out about it? That that was why they had killed him, and that her agitation was due to the fear that he had been told about it by Marton on the afternoon of his death? The close juxtaposition of the two remarks might have made her think so—might have made her believe that he was playing a far deeper game than in reality he had been.

"I'm tired," she said suddenly, "and this crowd is insufferable. What were we talking about?" she continued as they sat down again. "Of course!—I remember: your friend and the studio. Has he ever done any film work before?"

"Never," said Drummond. "But the advertisement says that previous experience is not essential. What film are they making?"

"I think it is called 'High Finance'," she answered. "I know that part of it is going to be done down in Devonshire. That was why my father was so anxious to get hold of Glensham House. But perhaps Mr. Marton told you that?"

"I don't think he actually mentioned that point," he said gravely. He was conscious that she was watching him covertly, and he realised that it was going to be a battle of wits.

"But he talked about the film?"

"Vaguely," said Drummond. "In a general sort of way, you know."

"He was very keen to act himself, poor boy," she went on. "In fact, there was some talk of his having a small part in this very film."

"Indeed," he said. "A little difficult to fit in, I should think, with his other work."

"It was merely a walking-on part," she explained. "And, of course, he might not have been suitable."

"Quite," said Drummond politely, handing her his open cigarette-case.

She took one, and as he held the match for her to light it he tried to puzzle out what was behind her apparently harmless remarks. What were they leading up to? Or was it just ordinary banal conversation?

"I'm surprised he didn't say that he might be acting, when he talked to you about the film," she said. "He was so very full of it, my father said, when he got to Glensham House."

"I think he was too nervy to talk about anything of that sort, Comtessa," remarked Drummond.

"I know—that money trouble. Captain Drummond, I rather blame myself over that. He used to take me out a good deal, and I suppose it must have cost more than he could afford. If only the poor boy had told me instead of posing as being very wealthy."

"The junior partner in a firm of solicitors is rarely very wealthy," he said curtly.

"If only I had realised that sooner," she sighed, glancing at her wrist watch. "Will you think me very rude if I run away now? My father has a very important individual coming to lunch with him to-morrow, and I must appear at my best. I wonder if you know him by any chance—Sir Edward Greatorex?"

"Never heard of him in my life," he said. "Who is he?"

"A well-known business man," she answered. "But he spends most of his time abroad, so I'm not surprised that you don't know him."

He called the waiter and paid the bill; then he I accompanied her to the door.

"I am calling for my father," she said, "so don't trouble to see me home. Good night. I wish I could persuade you about Natalie."

And ten minutes later she let herself into her maisonnette in South Audley Street. The sound of voices was coming from a downstair room, which ceased as she threw open the door. Hardcastle, Slingsby, and Penton were sitting round the table with a bottle of whisky between them, whilst curled up in an easy-chair was Natalie Saumur.

"How did the party go?" cried Hardcastle.

"Did you tell that guy, Tom, where your studio was?" she said as she flung off her cloak.

"I never even told him I had a studio," he answered. "What's happened, kid?"

"Just this. Captain Hugh Drummond has got to go."

"You mean he's wise to things?" The three men sat motionless, staring at her.

"He's wise to a great deal too much. Especially about that young fool's death And when I tried the Christian repentance stunt about Natalie it didn't cut enough ice to keep a louse in cold storage."'

"Damn all that," snarled Hardcastle. "What about the big thing?"

"I don't know, Tom: frankly, I don't know." She lit a cigarette and sat down. "He started talking about the studio: one of his friends is rolling up to-morrow in answer to the advertisement—that fair-haired man, Darrell. Drummond is going down too: wants to know if you'll let him look on. Now how did he know it was your studio? He said to me that you had told him."

"You mean Marton may have told him," said Penton softly.

"Exactly. And if he told him that, he may have told him other things as well."

"Then surely he would have informed the police," said Slingsby.

And then, for the first time, the woman in the chair spoke. Her voice was deep and musical: her English held no trace of any foreign accent. "That is where you are wrong," she said. "Hugh Drummond does not tell the police unless it is absolutely essential. In all the years I have known him he has never once called them in: he prefers to keep the thing to himself."

"Then what do you suggest?" demanded Hardcastle.

She lit a fresh cigarette from the stump of the old one. "Let us start see where we stand," she answered. "The mere fact that you have not mentioned the studio to him proves nothing. There is no secret about the matter: there are several quite ordinary ways in which he could have found out that you had rented it. At the same time, I quite admit that Marton may have told him, and therefore we had a better act on that assumption."

She paused suddenly, and a spasm of anger shook her. "You damned fools—the lot of you—for letting that young cub know the whole truth. If it hadn't been for that this situation would never have arisen. However "—she controlled herself and continued calmly—"it is no good crying over that. The situation has arisen, and we've got to deal with it."

"Give me his address," said Penton harshly, "and leave him to me. I've dealt with his sort before."

The woman in the chair looked at him with a pitying smile. "My poor friend," she murmured, "do not be any more ridiculous than God intended you to be. You have no more chance of dealing single-handed with Hugh Drummond than a board-school child would have. He would simply play with you, as he has in the past with men of four times your ability. You can't handle him that way."

Penton, his face white with rage, started angrily to his feet.

"Sit down," she said curtly. "This is not the time for quarrelling: too much is at stake. After months of preparation, we are on the verge of pulling off the biggest coup of our lives, and once again—Drummond intervenes."

For a moment or two the others stared at her speechless; the expression on her face was almost in that of a mad woman. And they realised that her mind was back in the past: she was thinking of those other encounters with this same large Englishman. Then abruptly the look faded: she was cool and collected once more.

"It is a pity," she went on thoughtfully, "that I met your train at Paddington, cherie. There was no harm in your trying to pretend about me to-night, but I knew it would be useless: he and I know one another too well. By the way, do you know where he is living now?"

"Queen Anne's Mansions, my dear one," came a genial voice from the door.

Drummond, his hat tilted on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets, was standing there, regarding them with a benevolent smile.

Chapter VI

For a moment or two there was dead silence in the room; then Hardcastle sprang to his feet.

"How the devil did you get in here, damn you!" he shouted.

Drummond held up a protesting hand.

"My dear Sir, ladies are present. I will therefore remove my hat. Please take care of it: it isn't paid for yet. How did I get in? you ask. Through an open window in the basement. And I must beg of you, Comtessa, to demonstrate with your cook a table on which I inadvertently sat was covered with old tea leaves."

"How did you find this house. Captain Drummond?" said the Comtessa quietly.

"My heart smote me, dear lady, when you left the Custard Pot alone: there are so many rude men in London. So, waving my hand in sprightly fashion to that large beef-eater man at the door, I leaped into another taxi and told the driver to follow you. And he, scenting romance, and therefore a large tip, complied in masterly manner with my request."

A faint smile was playing round his lips: the looks passing between the three men had not escaped him.

"I think it is the grossest piece of impertinence I have ever heard of in my life," she said icily. "What is there to prevent me ringing up the police and giving you in charge for house-breaking?"

"Absolutely nothing," said Drummond brightly. "There is the telephone in the corner."

She bit her lip, and turned appealingly to Madam Saumur, who was staring thoughtfully at Drummond.

"Look here, young man," said Penton aggressively, "are you going to clear out of your own free will, or am I going to pitch you out on your ear?"

"Not on my ear, Harold, I beg of you," cried Drummond anxiously. "I shall probably have to consult an aurist anyhow to-morrow. The draught through that key-hole of yours is positively wicked."

"You mean that you've been listening?" said Hardcastle softly.

"Yes, dear Tom. My ear has been glued to the orifice for quite a time. I heard you all being ticked off by Irma—I beg your pardon, Madame, Natalie—you naughty things."

The three men began to crowd in on him, and Drummond's smile grew more pronounced.

"Apropos of ringing up the police, Comtessa," he remarked, "I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't one knocking about outside. There was when I got out of my taxi thirty or forty yards away. A charming young fellow: a credit to the Force. And the instant I saw him I felt impelled to give him my celebrated impersonation of a gentleman who has taken one over the eight. 'Ole friend of my youth,' I hiccupped at him, 'my name is Drummond, Captain Hugh Drummond. And I live at Queen Anne's Mansions. What, then, you ask me, am I doing up here? I will tell you. I am visiting a lady—a very beautiful lady—the Comtessa Bartelozzi. But, my dear old officer, like so many beautiful ladies, she has a jealous husband. If therefore my dead body is found lying about the streets you will know where to start inquiries.' Then I kissed him on both cheeks and we parted."

"I don't know what the devil to do with you," snarled Hardcastle.

"There would seem to be two alternatives," said Drummond affably. "Either get my young friend from outside, or else offer me a drink and we will chat on this and that. Of course, there is a third—we might have a rough house. But if we do, this furniture is going to look a bit tired to-morrow."

He strolled over to the fireplace and lit a cigarette. "Do you know, Irma darling," he murmured, "I don't think that I like your new friends—always excepting this most delightful lady, of course—as much as I did Carl. You, if I may say so, are still your adorable self, but I don't know that I want any of them to tuck me up at night."

"So we meet again, Drummond, do we?" she said.

"My dear," he cried, "I protest. As a conversational effort after all these years, that remark is not worthy of you."

"How long have you been listening outside that door?"

"From the acute agony in my ear I should put it at a day or two," he answered. "But maybe it was worth it. Anyway, here we all are—a merry united party, brimming over with girlish secrets. Tell me—just to satisfy my vulgar curiosity—why did you murder young Marton?"

Once again dead silence settled on the room.

"He seemed to me," continued Drummond calmly, "a poor sort of specimen, but comparatively harmless withal."

"Are you mad?" said Hardcastle at length. "What possible reason could we have for killing him?"

"That's just what I'm asking you, Tom. It seems such a drastic method of dealing with the poor bloke."

"I presume you're trying to be funny. Captain Drummond," answered Hardcastle. "Or else your conversation with the policeman outside is indicative of your true condition. Why, if you suffered from this absurd delusion, did you say nothing about it at the inquest?"

"Middle stump gone west," said Drummond. "But I was forgetting that you know but little of our national game. I will tell you. I said nothing about it because, though I knew it, I was, and am, quite unable to prove it."

"Then how dare you make such a monstrous accusation?" shouted Slingsby. "Are you aware, you young cub, that we can sue you for libel?"

"Of course," agreed Drummond pleasantly. "Why not start proceedings to-morrow? My old friend Peanut of Peanut, Walnut and Chestnut has always acted for me in similar cases in the past. And in the meantime, may I help myself to a drink? In the past, Madame "—he turned to the woman in the chair, who was still watching him steadily—"I was a little chary of drinking at any of your parties, but I feel that, since you are not expecting me, this whisky will prove quite safe."

He splashed some soda into his glass and returned to the fireplace. It was a dangerous game that he was playing, and no one was more alive to it than Drummond himself. As a matter of fact, he had heard very little outside the door; he had only got there are a few seconds before he had heard the question as to where he lived. But he fully realised that whatever he might have heard would prove useless if they rang up the police. It was only his word against all of theirs, and they would simply deny his statements. Further, he had put himself outside the law by breaking into the house in the first place.

In fact, they held every card except one: and, if they had only known it, they held that too. But because they did not know it, they dared not ring up the police-station, for fear of what he might say, not with regard to the past, but with regard to the future. And the humour of the situation was that on that point they need not have feared at all.

"I don't think you're being at all matey," he remarked after a while. "I seem to be doing all the talking."

"As far as I can make out, Drummond," said Madame Saumur quietly, "your assertion is that Marton was murdered by these three gentlemen."

"Exactly, Madame. You have put it in a nut-shell."

"And, in view of the evidence, what makes you think so?"

"The conviction that he was not murdered by Morris."

She raised her eyebrows. "Really, your logic appears to me a little thin. Why because, for some obscure reason of your own, you consider Morris innocent, should you consider them guilty?"

"The reason is hardly obscure, but very simple. They were the only people who could have done it."

"My recollection of the evidence hardly bears that out. Who first found the body?"

And for the fraction of a second Drummond stiffened: all too clearly he saw the line she was going to take up. But his voice was perfectly calm as he answered—"My friends and I."

"Indeed," she murmured. Then it seems to me that you also could have done it."

"Except for the trifling difficulty that the first thing that took us upstairs was the sight of the blood on the ceiling."

"So you say. I regret that I am unable to believe you. I have only your word for it."

"What possible reason could we have for murdering him?"

"What possible reason had they?"

Drummond began to laugh, though his brain was working at full pressure. A super bluff, of course; but a clever one. It was a bold attempt to force his hand one way or the other.

"Come, come, my dear Lady," he answered, "you can't expect to catch an old stager like myself as easily as that—Marton when I saw him was in a state of pitiable agitation, far too pronounced to be accounted for by such comparative trifles as over-drinking and late hours. He was frightened out of his wits about something, and since I'd never seen the fellow before, it couldn't have been anything to do with me. A few hours later he is found battered to death at Glensham House. The connection seems obvious, doesn't it?"

"Once again we have only your word for all this," she said.

"And a pretty line in words it is, too," he remarked. "Irma, my pet, you have meant much to me in my young life, and I can assure you that any faint lingering doubts I possessed as to what happened that night at Glensham House were dispelled the moment I saw you at Paddington. And one other thing I propose to say," he continued grimly, swinging round on the three men. "Of all the damnable methods of killing the poor devil, yours won in a canter. I admit that it was quick to take advantage of Morris having blundered into the house, and act as you did on the spur of the moment. But it shows a cold-blooded ferocity that I have never heard equalled before. And I tell you here and now I'm going to get level with you over it."

The masks were off their faces now: in another moment, the three of them would have been at him, and he crouched a little, waiting for the attack.

And then Madame Saumur's quiet laugh broke the tension.

"The same old Drummond," she cried, "but this time with quite a hive of bees in his bonnet. Listen, mon ami, and we will see just where we stand. Evidently nothing that we can say will get this absurd delusion out of your head. And really, my dear Hugh, as far as we are concerned, it can remain there. I think I have shown you fairly clearly that, with your strange obsession to vindicate Morris, you and your friends have laid yourselves open—in the eyes of the police—to grave suspicion yourselves. In fact, were I in the police, I should regard your monstrous allegation as being due to a desire to cover your own crime by accusing someone else."

"Why not ring up the police now?" he said quietly.

"For a very good and simple reason," she answered. "My friends and I are engaged at the moment in a very important business deal. The last thing we desire is the publicity which would inevitably attend the investigation of your ridiculous charge. We really have not got the time for such folly. And it is for that reason, and that reason only, that we have tolerated your monstrous impertinence in breaking in here to-night."

"Splendid," laughed Drummond. "I congratulate you. And supposing I went to Scotland Yard, and told them one or two things. Emphasised, for instance, the strange fact that the weapon with which it was done has never been found: mentioned the footmarks on the carpet at Merridale Hall, and a few other points of that sort."

"You pain me, Drummond," she said: "positively pain me. In the past, my friend, you always had a rooted objection to the police, and this time it has recoiled on you. Their first remark to you would be to ask why these things were not mentioned at the inquest. You can't disregard them, you know, and then call them in. No, mon ami: somehow or other I don't quite see you going to Scotland Yard. You would get it—what is your English phrase?—most dreadfully in the neck if you did."

"Perhaps you're right," he agreed. "You were always quick on the uptake, weren't you, dear one? And so, that being that, I will reluctantly bid you au revoir, as I don't think we shall get very much further at the moment."

He crossed the room and picked up his hat.

"Doubtless we shall meet anon," he remarked from the door. "And please don't forget to tell your cook about the tea-leaves, Comtessa."

He let himself into the street, which was deserted, and began to stroll towards Piccadilly. And as he rounded the first corner, he almost ran into a man in evening clothes who was coming the other way.

"A thousand apologies, sir," remarked the stranger, taking off a soft black hat. "Could you tell me if I am anywhere near South Audley Street?"

He spoke with a strong foreign accent, and Drummond, glancing at his face by the light of a street lamp, put him down as an Italian.

"You are actually in South Audley Street," he answered. "I have just been walking along it."

"Thank you," said the other. "Sorry to have troubled you, but I am a stranger to London."

"Not at all," remarked Drummond politely.

"Good night."

He walked on, and in a moment the incident had passed from his mind. Other somewhat disquieting thoughts occupied it, which, put in a nutshell, boiled down to the conviction that he had made a damned fool of himself. Useless to argue that he would do the same thing again: useless to say that the impulse to enter the room on hearing Irma's question had been so overwhelming that he could never have resisted it: the fact remained that he had acted like an ass.

Had he stopped outside the door, he might, and probably would, have heard something of value; as it was, he had learned nothing at all. And not only that, he had successfully put them on their guard. He had confirmation, which he did not require, that in spite of their indignant denials they had murdered Marton: no business, however important, would have prevented them ringing up the police had they been innocent. But with regard to the all-important point as to why they had done so, he was as much in the dark as ever.

Another thing, too, would be an inevitable result of his foolishness: he would not be received with a brass band and a red carpet at the studio. Having called the owner a murderer, he could scarcely expect to be greeted by him like a long-lost brother.

Moreover, the same thing applied to Peter Darrell. It would be useless for him to turn up in the morning in answer to the advertisement. And the devil of it, was that he felt instinctively that in the studio lay the solution to the whole problem.

One 't' had certainly been crossed as a result of the interview: the men were an ugly bunch of customers. His bluff concerning the policeman had worked all right this time, but he was under no delusions with regard to the future. Up to date they had not been sure as to what he knew: now that uncertainty was over. And he realised that if an opportunity arose they would have no scruples whatever in putting him out of the way if they could.

However, that aspect of the matter troubled him not at all: he had always preferred to have the gloves off. What did annoy him was that, as a result of his impetuosity in entering the room when he did, he was fighting in the dark. And as he let himself into his flat he was cursing himself whole-heartedly.

A light was shining under the sitting-room door: Darrell and Jerningham were inside waiting for him.

"Chaps," he remarked, "you here perceive the most triple-distilled damned fool in London."

They listened in silence while he told them what had happened, and then Ted Jerningham spoke. "It's certainly not your brightest effort, old boy," he remarked. "In fact, it seems to me you've completely queered our pitch. We don't know where to begin."

"We begin in the studio, Ted, if only we can get inside the bally place."

"Look here," said Darrell, "Algy answers to that advertisement just as well as I do. And they don't know him."

"Irma does," said Drummond.

"We'll have to chance her not being there. I saw him this evening, as it happens, beetling round at Giro's. It's a late night there: let's ring up and see if we can get hold of him."

"Right you are, Peter: it's worth trying. Tell him to come round here."

They caught him just as he was leaving, and a quarter of an hour later he arrived.

"I have met," he remarked on entering, "the only woman in the world. Her charm is as of an exotic orchid, her eyes are as mountain violets. And, straight from her arms, I come to you three horrible thugs. Give me rare wine, or I swoon at the contrast."

"Sit down, wart-face," said Drummond, "and cease talking such unmitigated bilge. You're going on the films to-morrow."

"I'm going on the what?" cried the other, a cigarette half-way to his lips.

"Listen, Algy," said Drummond, "the game is afoot. Who do you think we've butted into once more?"

Algy Longworth stared at him in amazement.

"Not Irma," he burst out at length. "Don't tell me that, old lad."

"Just her, and no one else," answered Drummond. "How much are you round the chest, Algy?"

"Look here," said the other feebly, "are you fellows tight, or am I?"

"Put your nose into that," cried Darrell, throwing the copy of Film Echoes at him. "It's the paragraph marked with a blue pencil."

"But what the deuce has this got to do with Irma?" he demanded after he had read it.

"Get outside some beer, Algy, and listen," said Drummond. "We've been having a bit of fun lately."

"I saw you were getting mixed up in something or other down in Devonshire," said the other. "In fact, I very nearly came down to see what was up. Tell me all about it."

Briefly Drummond ran over the events of the past few days, and when he had finished, Algy Longworth nodded thoughtfully.

"I get you," he said. "Rightly or wrongly, you believe that the key of the mystery lies in Blackwater studio, and you want me to see if I can spot anything."

"That's the notion, old lad. It's a forlorn hope, and if by chance Irma is there and sees you, you'll probably get bunged into the river. But that won't do you any harm: it's an awfully jolly sort of river."

"Oh! yeah—Cuthbert," grunted the other. "But, joking apart, old boy, it is, as you say, a mighty forlorn hope. I mean if there is any dirty work going on down there, it's not going to be where anyone walking in casual like is going to see it. The blokes will probably take one look at my face, burst into floods of tears, and that will end the interview."

"Can't help it, Algy: we've got to try it. It's the only hope. Why, dash it all, old boy, you might even get taken on, in which case you'd have the run of the studio."

"And get thrown daily into the Blackwater," said Longworth gloomily. "Damn it! I don't want to act in a film, Hugh. I am sick with love: every moment of my life is occupied."

"You haven't started to quote Ella Wheeler Wilcox at her, have you?" demanded Drummond suspiciously.

"Only one or two chosen fragments' said the other.

"Then it's high time, for the poor girl's sake, that you vanished from her sight. The last wretched woman you treated in that way had to go into a mental home. You're a menace, Algy, when you're in that condition. What is she like, this new wench of yours?"

With a howl of anguish, Darrell leaped from his seat.

"Are you mad, Hugh? You'll start him off."

"I find you rather offensive, Peter," said Longworth with dignity. "She is dark—"

"We'll take that for granted," cut in Drummond hurriedly. "What I want to know is whether she has a face at which an ordinary man can look without using smoked glasses. Yes or no."

"Most emphatically yes," spluttered Longworth indignantly.

"Right. Then take her down with you to-morrow," said Drummond. "When you're in love, your brain is more microscopic than usual, and she might very likely notice one or two things that you wouldn't. Tell her a certain amount, but not everything. Leave out all the Devonshire part of the show: just tell her to keep her eyes open and see if she can spot anything suspicious. She might even apply for a part herself. What is the matter with you, Algy? Are you in pain?"

"Listen, chaps," he said thoughtfully. "Two days ago, when I first met her at a cocktail party, and we talked awhile on the drama and bi-metallism, she said something about films." He frowned horribly at the mental strain. "Was it that she adored Charlie Chaplin, or was it that she herself had once played a part at Elstree?"

"There would seem to be a trifling difference," said Drummond mildly.

"At any rate, I think it's a deuced good idea," went on Longworth happily. "We will have a healthy day in Kent to-morrow."

"Essex, you damned fool! And no dallying on the road. If you want to quote Wilcox at her, you'll quote it in the studio. Now, push off: I want to go to bed."

But for a long time after the others had gone Hugh Drummond sat on smoking. And when at last he got up and switched off the light, there was a glint in his eyes which those who knew him well could have interpreted at once. He had evolved a plan, and the plan seemed to him to be good.

Moreover, it still seemed good to him when his servant Denny arrived the next morning with tea and the daily papers. Many an idea conceived overnight fails to stand the remorseless logic of the following day, but this one did. It was simple, and more or less fool-proof, and for the space of two cigarettes he cogitated over it; then he opened The Times, more from habit than from any desire to see the news. And as he glanced down the Court Circular one item caught his eye.

"Sir Edward Greatorex arrived at the Ritz Carlton yesterday afternoon from Berlin. He expects to remain in London about a fortnight."

The name seemed vaguely familiar, and for a while he lay in bed trying to remember where he had heard it. And then suddenly it came to him: Greatorex was the man the Comtessa had mentioned overnight as lunching with Hardcastle that day.

A well-known business man, was how she described him, in which case he presumably was quite capable of looking after himself. For his sake, at any rate, reflected Drummond as he went into the bathroom, he hoped so.

Breakfast over, he proceeded to ring up Algy Longworth.

"Look here, old boy," he said, "there's a point that occurred to me after you'd gone last night. If Irma is down at the studio you're stung anyway. But if she isn't it would be better for you not to give your real name. For if by any chance they do take you, she will certainly get to hear of it, and then the fat will be in the fire and you'll get the push."

"Right you are, Hugh," came the answer. "I've just rung up Laura, and she's all on for coming. And she has acted in a small part."

"You didn't say anything about what I told you last night over the 'phone, did you?"

"Not a word. I'm lunching with her, and we'll push down afterwards. Where shall I find you this evening to report the doings?"

"Come to the club, Algy, about nine."

He rang off, and lit a cigarette thoughtfully; then he shouted for Denny. "We're on the warpath again, old warrior," he said as his servant came in. "And for the next few days I shall be here, and I shall not be here. Do you get me?"

"You mean, sir, that you wish to be thought within when in reality you are without."

"More or less, Denny. There will probably be a caller or two, and almost certainly some telephone messages. You will have to deal with them, and either I have just gone out or I am just coming in. If at luncheon-time, I am feeding at a private house—not an hotel: don't forget that. Dinner the same thing. In short, I want you to give the impression that I am leading my ordinary normal life in London. Do you get me?"

"Perfectly, sir. I am to be vague as to your actual movements, but definite that movement is taking place."

"You've hit it. I shall sleep here to-night, after that it's doubtful. Look up my small automatic some time to-day, and see that it is oiled and pulling light."

"Very good, sir. And in case of necessity where can I get hold of you?"

Drummond thought for a moment or two.

"Post Office, Colchester," he said. "Address me as Henry Johnson, and use a common envelope."

"Exactly, sir," said Denny, making a note on his cuff. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes, Denny, it is. Get me my hat and stick: the club will find me for the next hour or so. Should anyone ring up, you can tell 'em so."

Refusing a taxi, he started to stroll across the Park. The birds were singing: the morning was perfect, and as he turned into his club, he felt at peace with the world.

Two men whom he knew slightly were in the smoking-room, and he nodded to them as he passed.

And he was just going to sit down when a sentence from one of them caught his ear.

"I see that fellow Greatorex has arrived in London."

The speaker was a stockbroker, and, acting on a sudden impulse, Drummond crossed over to where they were sitting.

"I couldn't help over-hearing your remark, Blackton," he said. "Who is this man Greatorex? Somebody mentioned him last night, and seemed surprised I'd never heard of him. Business bird of sorts, isn't he?"

"I don't think he'd be particularly flattered at that description," answered the other, with a laugh. "Sir Edward Greatorex is a man before whom Governments tremble. He's an international financier with a finger in innumerable pies."

"Is he wealthy?"

"Wealthy! My dear fellow, he's one of the three richest men in the world. He is the richest, save for one or two Indian Maharajahs, outside America."

"What is he doing over here?"

"Ask me another: I'm not on dining terms with him. And he is one of the hardest men to get near there is. Making a few more millions, I suppose."

"I see," said Drummond. "No wonder people were surprised last night at my ignorance."

He lounged back to his own chair thoughtfully.

What was a man like that doing in the Hardcastle galaxy? True, Hardcastle was reputed to be wealthy, but Greatorex seemed pretty high game for him to have a business lunch with. He glanced at his watch: a sudden idea had come to him. It was just half-past eleven: the bar at the Ritz Carlton would be open. Charlie, the barman, was an old friend: he would go round there and have a cocktail. With luck he might see the man himself: anyway, Charlie was a positive fountain of gossip.

The bar was empty when he got there, save for the barman polishing glasses, who hailed him delightedly.

"Good morning, sir," he cried. "It's a long while since you've been here."

"'Morning, Charlie," said Drummond. "Your drinks are too damned expensive for anyone short of a millionaire to come here often. But since I am here, I'll gargle with a Bronx."

"How are you, sir?" continued the other. "You're looking as fit as ever."

"Just living from hour to hour. Anyone interesting stopping in the pub?"

Charlie shook his head.

"Business very slack, sir. We've had a good season on the whole, but it's pretty well over. Sir Edward Greatorex is here for a fortnight, but he's no help to me."

"Even he can't afford to pay your prices, I suppose?"

The barman grinned. "Strict teetotaler, sir."

"What sort of a fellow is he, Charlie?"

"Well, sir," said the other confidentially, "the last time he was here he stayed for three weeks. He had the royal suite, and most of his meals were served in it. And when he left he tipped the floor-waiter a quid in mistake for a ten-bob note, and then wanted change when he found out what he'd done—"

"Mean as that, is he?"

"Mean, sir! Why, if people write him enclosing stamped envelopes for his reply, he first of all floats the stamps off, and then he borrows from the hotel gum to stick 'em on his own letters."

"That's a good 'un, Charlie," laughed Drummond.

"I wouldn't be that poor bloke of a secretary of his—not if you paid me five thousand a year," went on the other. "Treats him like a dog, he does."

He gave a sudden cough, and, with a warning look at Drummond, turned to greet a man who had just entered the bar.

"Good morning, sir. The usual, I suppose?"

"Please, Charlie."

And Drummond, happening to glance at the newcomer, gave a little start of surprise. It was the man who had asked him the way to South Audley Street the previous night. He knew him immediately, though the other showed no sign of recognition. And then he remembered that during the few seconds they had talked his back had been to the street lamp, leaving his face in shadow.

For a moment or two he debated whether he should remind him of their meeting and ask him if he had found his destination all right: then he decided not to. He had no desire to drink with him, which the other would probably suggest if he spoke. So he picked up a midday paper and ran his eye down the racing news, until the man, having finished his drink, left the bar.

"Funny we should have been talking about him, sir, just as he came in," said Charlie.

Drummond stared at him in surprise.

"You mean that he is the secretary?" he said at length.

"Of course, sir. That's why I coughed."

"Well, I'm damned," said Drummond. "I thought you merely meant that someone was coming in and you wanted to change the conversation. So he is the secretary, is he? Charlie, give me another Bronx."

The barman looked at him curiously.

"Almost looks as if you knew him, sir."

"No, I don't know; but I've seen him. He has the hell of a time, has he?"

"All of that, from what I hear, sir. And yet he seems to stick it all right. He was with Sir Edward, the last time he was here, and that's eighteen months ago."

"Italian, I should imagine."

Charlie nodded.

"Gardini is his name—Benito Gardini. He generally comes in here in the morning for a quick one. Your Bronx, sir."

"Thank you, Charlie. Have one yourself. Look here, could you find out something for me? I want to know if Sir Edward is lunching in his suite to-day, or whether he's coming downstairs."

"Certainly, sir: nothing easier." He turned round. "Bert!" he called.

A youth in his shirt-sleeves popped his head out of an inner sanctum.

"Yes, Mr. Green."

"Put on your coat and run upstairs to Number 40. Get hold of Leonard and find out whether lunch is being served in the room or not. And look slippy."

"I'm rather curious to see Sir Edward," said Drummond, as the boy departed. "I've heard so much about him, but to the best of my belief I've never even seen a picture of him."

"He doesn't look a bad sort at all, sir," said Charlie. "Tall, with a small fair beard. But handsome is as handsome does. Well, Bert?"

"Number 40 is going hout for lunch, Mr. Green," said the boy. "Leonard don't know where, but 'e 'eard them talking abaht it this morning. There's a car coming for them at 'alf-past twelve."

"Well done, Bert," said Drummond, handing him a shilling. "Be sure and put it in the plate on Sunday."

He glanced at his watch: twenty minutes past twelve. He would take up a position in the lounge that commanded both exits, and since the secretary would almost certainly accompany him, at any rate as far as the car, there would be no difficulty in spotting him.

He found a suitable chair and lit a cigarette.

The Comtessa's house was in South Audley Street: was that where the secretary had been going? He wished now that he had waited to see, but there had been nothing in the harmless request for direction which could possibly have aroused his suspicions. And so it was the purest guesswork that her house had been his destination, but if the guess was correct, it was a funny hour to make a call.

A sudden stir in the lounge roused him from his reverie. Two men were coming down the stairs, and one of them was Gardini. And for the second time that morning Drummond, as he studied the other, was conscious of a little shock of surprise.

For somewhere, at some time or other, he had seen him before. The man was definitely familiar, and for a long time after they had passed through the lounge he sat on trying to puzzle out where they could have met. But try as he would, it eluded him, and when finally he left the hotel himself, he could only imagine that Sir Edward must have been pointed out to him on one of his previous visits to England, and that he had forgotten all about it. In any event, his hour at the Ritz Carlton had not been wasted.

For the rest of the afternoon he killed time: there was nothing to do now except wait for Algy Longworth. He turned up just after nine, and a glance at his face showed that something had happened.

"The most extraordinary thing, old boy," he cried. "They have engaged both of us."

"The devil they have," said Drummond. "Let's hear all about it."

"We rolled up to the studio at half-past three," began the other. "And the first thing that hit one was the army of blokes who had evidently come in answer to the advertisement. They were all over the place, scowling at one another, and it struck me that little Algy wasn't going to have much of a chance. However, I beetled up to a door-keeper warrior, and told him what I wanted.

"First left, second right," he said wearily. "There are only about sixty in front of you."

"So we joined the glad throng, and after a while we noticed one thing. We might be sixtieth, but it wasn't going to take long. Each interview was the shortest thing on record: it was more like a procession passing by a judge. At last our turn came, and in I barged with Laura. A damned great fellow in shirt-sleeves with a cigar in his mouth was sitting at a table. He took one look at me and shook his head.

"'No go,' he said. Next.'"

"But I thought you said they'd taken you," cried Drummond.

"Wait a moment, old boy: I'm coming to that. Out we pushed again, wondering how we could get a closer look at the place. All we'd seen up to date were a couple of passages and a small room, and from what Laura had said on the way down I gathered it was about all we were likely to see. The door into the actual studio was shut, and when we started to go in the commissionaire fellow let out a shout.

"'Not allowed in there,' he cried, 'without a permit.'

"And we were just on the point of pushing off when another man in shirt-sleeves came dodging through the crowd that still blocked the passage.

"'Hi! You.' he called out to me, 'you're wanted. Come back to the office, and the young lady too.' So back we went, and found the big man still sitting there.

"'Are you both wanting engagements?' he asked.

"'That's the idea,' I said. 'Anything doing?'

"'Not with regard to the advertisement,' he answered. 'You don't fill that bill. But it occurred to me after you'd gone that as there are two of you, we might be able to arrange something. Ever done any film work?'

"I told him that I hadn't, but that Laura had, and to cut a long story short, we were engaged at five pounds a week each. She gave her real name of Laura Mainwaring: I gave mine as Algy Wentworth.

"'I don't quite know what we shall fix you with,' he said in conclusion, 'but there are one or two small parts that remain to be filled. Mr. Slingsby—' he was the man who had come after us and fetched us back—'will take you along into the studio and introduce you to our producer, Mr. Haxton. You'd better just have a look round and get the atmosphere of the piece we are doing. Society picture, with strong human appeal.'

"So off we toddled to meet Mr. Haxton, and to begin with Mr. Haxton was not amused. He wanted to know what the adjectival hell he was expected to do with us, as he couldn't possibly begin shooting our bit for a week at least. However, Slingsby pacified him, and that was that. So the net result is that we have both been taken on, and if there's anything to find out we've got a reasonable chance of doing it."

"Did everything seem quite normal?" asked Drummond.

"Absolutely," said the other. "We watched 'em shoot an impassioned love-scene between the two principals; then we strolled about."

"What sort of place is it?"

"Pretty big. Laura says you could do three or four pictures there at the same time."

"Are you both going down to-morrow?"

"That's the notion. What are you going to do?"

"I shall totter about somewhere, Algy," he said vaguely. "I might even put my nose in at the studio: if I do, of course you don't know me."

"What happens if I find out anything?" demanded the other.

"If I'm in the club you can come and tell me about it; and if I'm not, drop me a line to the flat."

"Right you are, old boy. Laura and I are having a bite somewhere, so I'll push off."

The door swung to behind him, and Drummond ordered a whisky and soda. The big man had presumably been Penton: why had he changed his mind over engaging Algy Longworth? Was it that he genuinely did want to fill two minor parts; if so, there were scores of actors with experience from whom he could make a selection. So why Algy? It was possible that the two of them going in together had influenced him, but if that were so why didn't he think of it at once? And he was still cogitating over the problem when an hour later he switched off his bedroom light.

Chapter VII

Sir Edward Greatorex was enjoying himself.

Stretched at ease in the most comfortable chair of his luxurious suite at the Ritz Carlton, he had permitted himself the extravagance of a cigar. On a small table at his side stood a shaded reading-lamp and a bottle of Vichy water, on his knees were some typewritten sheets of paper clipped together at one corner.

The title of the document he was reading was "High Finance," an eminently suitable one for the great financier, but one which, strangely enough, from time to time caused him to laugh, or at any rate give vent to a noise which was as close to laughter as he ever got. Occasionally, too, he frowned, making little clucking sounds indicative of displeasure.

But if any onlooker who had been privileged to intrude on Sir Edward's privacy had imagined that these manifestations were due to scorn or disapproval of the financial opinions expressed by the writer, he would have been sadly wrong. If, further, he had peeped over the reader's shoulder, he would have been hard put to it to reconcile the title with the script. What, for instance, had the following paragraph to do with the finer points of international exchanges?

"Paula enters the room, and believing for the moment that it is empty, allows her utter despair to show on her features. Ruin stares the man she loves in the face: foolishly, perhaps, but not fraudulently, he has been dabbling in interests which were too big for him, and now he has lost everything.."

"Serves the damned fool right," came a mutter from the chair.

"'Is there nothing to be done?' she asks herself again. Must she stand by and see Jack go down and out? Distraught, she turns towards the window, and for the first time she sees that the man principally responsible for her lover's ruin is in the room watching her with an amused smile."

Once again Sir Edward laid the typescript on his knee: that, he reflected, was the stuff to give 'em.

He fancied himself in that part, and with a cautious glance towards the next room, where his secretary was going through the evening mail, he got up and stood in front of the glass. Amused smile—slightly contemptuous, but slightly pitying. He rehearsed two or three effects, and Gardini, entering the room noiselessly, retreated badly shaken. Mercifully Sir Edward had not seen him, and after a quick drink to restore his nerves he gave a short cough and returned.

"Are you ready, sir, for your mail?" he asked deferentially.

Sir Edward reseated himself.

"In a minute or two," he said. "I like this stuff, Benito."

The secretary breathed more freely: 'Benito' evenings were all right: 'Gardini' ones were a toss up: 'you damned infernal idiot' ones distinctly trying.

"I think it's very good. Sir Edward," he agreed. "It's got punch in it, the action is rapid, and the love interest holds one."

Sir Edward snorted contemptuously.

"Far too much of it," he cried. "I shall speak to Hardcastle about that. Some of it might be cut, and the part in the office in Paris where Sir John is making up his mind whether to crush Bessonia or not should, I think, be considerably strengthened."

"Perhaps so, sir," said the other tactfully. "Of course, one has to remember that the film-going public insist on having love, and you won't have a success unless you give it to them."

At which point the intelligent reader will guess that the document was not concerned with the flight of the dollar, but was a brief scenario of the film being made at the Blackwater studio. But what the intelligent reader will find a little difficult to understand is why the said scenario should have found its way into the hands, and the interested hands, of a man like Sir Edward Greatorex. And to make that clear it is necessary to reveal a secret, jealously guarded save from the very few, of Sir Edward's mentality.

Most male children have yearned passionately to drive a railway engine: to be a drum major: even perchance to draw a gun on sight and shoot apples flung in the air into a thousand pieces. And since most male children do none of these things in later life, presumably the yearning ceases with advancing years.

In Sir Edward's case, however, the yearning had been a different one and had not ceased. From the moment when he had first seen Douglas Fairbanks slaying thousands, and had watched Charlie Chaplin's magic feet twinkling over the screen, he had had but one real ambition, beside which a few odd millions more or less counted for nothing at all.

And that ambition had been to play a leading part in a big film.

He had realised that he could hardly hope to compete against either of them in their own particular line: in fact, he had not wished to. A strong and silent role was what he passionately desired to play; a great statesman, calm and unruffled, steering the national ship through troubled waters; a great surgeon with life and death in his steady hand; a great financier with the destinies of hundreds in his control. A rugged and even ruthless type of part was what he saw himself in.

Now, beyond question, had he so wished he could have gratified his desire at any time. With a week's income he could have bought studios, camera men, authors, and even bribed the public to come and see the result. But two things prevented him. The first was a certain diffidence caused by the thought that it was just possible he might not be quite so successful as, say, John Barrymore; the second was the question of the money involved. It would cost a lot, and that was as gall and wormwood to the soul of Edward Greatorex. And so, but for a strange turn of the wheel, his secret ambition would in all probability have remained a secret till his death.

It had occurred six months previously, when he was taking the waters at Baden. Seated next to him one day in the lounge was an extremely pretty woman; and though he liked to pose as a misogynist, in reality he was far from being one. At heart he was a sensualist, and it was only the fact that women cost a lot of money that kept him in the straight and narrow path. However, there was no charge for a little mild conversation, and when she dropped her handkerchief he retrieved it for her.

It transpired that her name was Madame Saumur, who was staying there with a great friend, the Comtessa Bartelozzi, and for the next few days he was frequently with either one or the other. Indeed, so charming did he find them both, that his secretary was amazed at his expansiveness. Now it happened one evening that, in the course of the conversation, a film showing at one of the local cinemas was under discussion. And in criticising the performance Sir Edward delivered himself of some scathing comments on the actor playing the principal role.

"Had I been playing it," he remarked, "I should have given a totally different rendering. His conception of the part was all wrong."

Madame Saumur paused in the act of lighting a cigarette.

"Have you ever done any film-work. Sir Edward?" she asked.

"My dear lady," he answered, with a tolerant smile, "I'm afraid my life has been too busy for frivolities of that sort. At the same time, had it been cast along different lines, I feel moderately confident that my name would not have been entirely unknown to what I believe are called film fans."

"I'm sure of it," she said quietly. "Why don't you try in your spare time?"

He waved the suggestion away with an indulgent hand: not even to this lovely creature would he admit that her suggestion was one that had obsessed him for years. But as the days passed she returned to the subject more than once.

"I am in earnest, Sir Edward," she said. "I have some knowledge of film requirements myself, and I have been studying your features. And I believe that for certain roles you possess a marvellous film face."

Again he waved a deprecating hand, but it was clear that he was not displeased at the idea.

"Now I am going to make a suggestion to you," she continued. "I have an American friend—a Mr. Hardcastle—who is coming here in a day or two and staying a week. He is closely in touch with the film business, and, what is far more important, he could give you a candid and truthful opinion at once. Not that it would be of more than academic interest," she added. "Naturally, to a man like yourself such a matter is too trivial. But all the artist in me cries out in protest against features such as yours being wasted."

And Sir Edward was even less displeased: most certainly as a matter of academic interest he would be delighted to hear Mr. Hardcastle's unbiased opinion. The trouble was that Mr. Hardcastle's opinion would have been more unbiased but for an interview which took place before the meeting: an interview at which the financier was not present.

It occurred in Madame Saumur's sitting-room, and speech was frank.

"See here, Tom," she said. "I've got nothing worked out yet, but the details will come later. We've been in this hole a fortnight now sitting in that slob-eyed skate's pocket, and all we've got out of him is an orangeade he forgot to pay for. But he's got a hunch that he can act for the films. It doesn't matter that his face would empty any cinema in a minute, if it hadn't cracked the machine first: you've got to guy him good and hearty."

"Put me wise, honey, and I'll do what I can," said Hardcastle amiably.

"You're one of the big noises in the American film world," she explained. "A power behind the throne: a man with unrivalled experience in spotting winners for the screen. Goldwyns and Paramount never engage anyone without you giving him the once over."

"Sounds good to me," he said. "What comes next?"

"You've got to give an opinion on his face."

"Suffering Sam!" he cried. "Have you got the necessary for a high ball?"

"You've got to tell him that his features fulfil every known requirement for a successful film career. Don't try any funny stuff: he knows he wouldn't beat Ronald Colman in a competition for looks, and he's no fool. Character parts—that's the line to take."

"I get you, honey," said Hardcastle. "Lead me to him."

"And don't forget you're a big noise in America."

"It would be easier to remember that bit if you could part with the equivalent of a ten-dollar bill. I'm broke."

"Here you are, Tom." She pressed some money into his hand. "You go down and take a walk. We'll join up with Sir Edward in the lounge. Then when you come in we'll meet for the first time. Don't rush things: he's a wary bird."

And twenty minutes later, Hardcastle, with a large cigar in the corner of his mouth, entered the hotel. For a few moments he stood looking round him; then, with a sudden start of recognition, he crossed to Madame Saumur.

"This is a real pleasure," he remarked, "though not unexpected. Lord Downingham told me you were here. And you, Comtessa. Well, well—this is bully."

"Mr. Hardcastle, I don't know if you've ever met Sir Edward Greatorex?"

"Put it there. Sir Edward," he said cordially, holding out his hand. "I have not had that honour, though it would be idle to pretend that I don't know who you are. The penalty of fame, sir: the penalty of fame. Now may I offer you ladies a little light refreshment, or is it forbidden by the rules of the cure?"

"And what have you been doing since I last saw you?" asked Madame Saumur, as the waiter departed with an order.

"Trotting around," he said. "I was down in Hollywood for a couple of months." He turned to Sir Edward. "My line of business, sir, is a humble one compared to your great interests. I am in the film trade."

"Most interesting, Mr. Hardcastle," said the financier. "And what particular branch of that business? Do you produce?"

"No, sir: at least not as a general rule. I have produced: two years ago I did one of the Metro super films for them. But my principal line is not that: it's something which very few people know exists." He leaned forward confidentially. "Now take this lounge at the present moment. Subconsciously I am taking in everyone's face from the point of view of screen work. There are many very good-looking people. Sir Edward, who are useless for film purposes: others, not so good looking, would be an instant success. Instinctively when I go into a room I find myself putting everyone I meet into one or other category. And because I don't make a mistake once in a hundred times, I have more or less specialised in that branch. Variety, sir: that's what the public wants. We're looking for new people all the time. Of course there will always be great popular favourites; but they've got to be supported by others. Ladies, your very good health. Sir Edward, I'm pleased to meet you."

"I find you most interesting, Mr. Hardcastle," said the other. "Let us hear your criticisms on the people in this lounge."

Hardcastle shifted his chair slightly so as to get a better view.

"Wal," he said, "there are about forty one can dismiss at once. Ah I wait—here's a good example. You see that pretty girl who has Just come in. Good figure: good mover: exactly the type which throngs round studio doors believing they are second Mary Pickfords. Whereas I can see in a moment that that girl would be useless on the screen. It's a gift, Sir Edward, which I happen to possess. Once again—take that rather big ugly guy over by the door: in certain roles that man would be bully."

"What about me, Mr. Hardcastle?" asked Madame Saumur, with a smile.

"I'll answer you seriously, Madame," he said. "And as a matter of fact here is a very interesting example. Sir Edward, of my job. Take these two ladies: both equally beautiful in their different ways. And yet I say, without a shadow of doubt, that whereas Madame Saumur would be a success on the screen, the Comtessa would not."

"That's one for me," laughed the Comtessa. "Now we'll put Sir Edward through it: what about him?"

"Sir Edward! Why, he was sorted, out in my mind as soon as I saw him." He tapped the table with his finger impressively. "If Sir Edward had not been who he is, and I had happened to meet him nine months ago, it would have saved me weeks of frenzied search. And when I think of what I finally managed to get hold of..." He lifted despairing hands to heaven. "No, sir," he continued quietly, "if you weren't who you are, I should be tempted to make you an offer on the spot. At the most you could only turn it down. You are one of the finest examples of a type that is in great demand, but which for some reason or other is the hardest to find. Film face! Gee whizz! If ever you lose your money, Sir Edward "—and he laughed heartily at the bare idea—"you just cable Tom Hardcastle, Hollywood. He'll find you your weekly pocket money."

"You really mean that you think I'm suitable, Mr. Hardcastle," said the financier.

"Believe me. Sir Edward, in my profession we get out of the habit of wasting time. And paying compliments to a woman, or telling lies to a man is waste of time. In jest the Comtessa asked me what I thought of you: I've told you. If the necessity arose in your case, you could earn big money—very big money. Wal! I guess I must be getting along; and I hope I may see something of you during the time I'm here."

He bowed to them all and sauntered out of the hotel—a typical, prosperous American business man.

"What did I tell you. Sir Edward?" said Madame Saumur, with a smile. "The question of academic interest has been answered in the way I knew it would be."

"Undoubtedly a most interesting and intelligent man," he remarked. "I should like to have another talk with him on the subject."

A wish, had he known it, that there was every promise of being fulfilled. The only trouble was that it was a little difficult to decide what the next move was going to be. And at a council of war held that afternoon in Madame Saumur's sitting-room not much progress was made.

"I reckon I played my part pretty well, girls," said Hardcastle. "But for the life of me I don't see what good it's going to do us. We've made that guy believe that his dial bears some resemblance to a face, but where's it lead to? If he went incognito to any studio and asked for a job they'd set the dog on him."

"Doesn't matter, Tom," said Madame Saumur: "we've taken the first step. He's interested in you, and if we can't find some method of making him part, we must have lost our cunning. Keep him going: we'll think of something."

"All right, honey," he answered. "I'll do my best. By the way, as I came in there was a man asking for Sir Edward's letters—a foreign-looking chap. Who is he?"

"Gardini—the private secretary. Why?"

Hardcastle shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth.

"Watch him," he said tersely. "I didn't like the look he gave me. Yours truly may know nothing about film faces, but he knows the hell of a lot about ordinary ones. So watch him."

For the next three or four days nothing happened, if the inconceivable fact that Sir Edward invited Hardcastle to dinner can be regarded as nothing.

But as far as coming to any decision as to how to relieve the financier of any dough, the situation remained unchanged. It became increasingly obvious that the trout had swallowed the fly—time after time he brought the conversation back to films in general and himself in particular—but at that it stuck, and at that it would have stuck, in all probability, for good, but for a very unexpected development.

They were all sitting despondently in Madame Saumur's room one morning when there came a knock at the door and the secretary entered.

"Come right in, Mr. Gardini," said Hardcastle heartily, but with shrewd eyes fixed intently on the other's face. "Take a seat."

The Italian bowed and sat down.

"I do not propose," he began, "to waste time by beating about the bush. To do so would be an insult to all our mentalities. Let us therefore come to the point. In the first place, it was no matter of health that brought any of you here, was it?"

It was not a question: it was a statement, and no one bothered to reply.

"I admit," he continued, "that when Mr. Hardcastle first came on the scene I was deceived. You ladies, if I may be forgiven for saying so, were comparatively easy: there was nothing original about you. But Mr. Hardcastle was different. However, being of an inquiring turn of mind, I cabled a man I know very well in Los Angeles, who is one of the big people in the Metro firm. Here is his answer."

He produced it from his pocket.

"'Never heard of the man in my life.' Once again," he continued with a smile, "I will not insult your intelligence by asking you to what question that is an answer. All I want to know is what you are hoping to get out of it."

And suddenly Hardcastle lay back in his chair and roared with laughter. Nothing criminal had been done; he could afford to laugh. And the humour of the situation struck him.

"That's all we want to know, Mr. Gardini," he said.

"Then you have no plan?" said the other, puzzled.

"Devil a one," cried Hardcastle. "It was just a chance shot, and it doesn't really matter that you're wise to it, because, as far as I can see, nothing could ever have come of it."

"Then, my dear Mr. Hardcastle," said the Italian softly, "you are not as clever a man as I thought you to be."

An instant silence settled on the room, and the three of them stared at the secretary. What was he driving at?

"I don't quite get you, Mr. Gardini," said Hardcastle quietly. "You are presumably acting in Sir Edward's interests."

And the answer came before the Italian spoke a word. For there flashed over his face a look of such diabolical hatred as only a Southerner can give. There was murder in it—murder by torture—and the American whistled under his breath.

"In his interests?" hissed the other. "If I could see him lying dead at my feet, knowing that I had killed him, I would dance on his body."

"Is that so?" remarked Hardcastle genially. "Have a drink, and tell us all about it."

"For months he has treated me like a dog," snarled the other, "generally in front of other people. And I, because I have no money, must put up with it."

"Quite so," said the American soothingly. "But shall we get to the point? The thought of you dancing on his dead body, though a charming picture, is not going to help us much. Now are we to understand that you have some scheme in your head which is likely to part Sir Edward from a considerable wad of money?"

"I have," answered the other quietly. "And if you listen to me I will tell it to you."

"Fire ahead," said Hardcastle. "We'll do the listening all right."

And when, ten minutes later, the Italian had finished, the eyes of his audience were gleaming with excitement.

"It's genius," cried the American: "sheer genius. Gardini, you're wasted."

"There are many details still to be thought out," said the secretary, "but we have plenty of time. I would suggest that you approach him as soon as possible, but wait for a sign from me that he is in a good temper. For on this first step rests everything. And then, my friends, if that is successful, we shall know what to do. You working at your end, and I at mine, will between us get that devil where he has put so many others—in the dust."

And with a gloating look of anticipation in his eyes Benito Gardini left the room.

"You're right, Tom," said the Comtessa, as the door closed, "it's sheer genius. But can we pull it off?"

"We can have a damned good shot at it, my dear," he answered. "You'd better let me put it up to him first as a business proposition; then if he havers about it you two might be able to turn the scales. But you'll know nothing about it till I tip you the wink."

It was after dinner that same night that the secretary gave Hardcastle a meaning glance which told him that the moment was propitious. The millionaire was in the lounge enjoying a cup of coffee, and as the American halted by his table he smiled at him.

"Come and join me, Mr. Hardcastle," he said affably. "Where are the two charming ladies?"

"Playing bridge, I think." He pulled up a chair and sat down: he had already decided that direct methods would be the most likely to succeed. "And I am rather glad they are. Sir Edward," he continued, "because I should like the pleasure of a few minutes' private conversation with you. For the last two or three days I have been turning over in my mind a certain idea, and with your permission I would like to put it before you. I may say at once that it is connected with film work."

The slight frown that had been gathering on the financier's forehead disappeared.

"Now we are both men who are accustomed to come to the point at once, so I will do so now. Does the thought of playing a big part in a story I have in mind appeal to you at all? Wait a moment. Sir Edward, before you reply. My reason for asking a man of your great wealth and position is a simple one. It is solely a question of art. You fulfil my conception of this part, in a way that no one else can—at least no one else that I have yet met. And it occurred to me that it might amuse you, in the same way that amateur theatricals amuse some people, to act this role. It would be an experience, if nothing else, and the whole thing could be arranged to suit your convenience as far as time is concerned."

"It is a matter that requires careful thought, Mr. Hardcastle," said the other. "You will readily appreciate that a man in my position has to be very careful what he does."

Not a muscle in Hardcastle's face moved, but he knew the fish was rising.

"Naturally, Sir Edward," he remarked. "And those points would all have to be considered. But before wasting time over that, the thing I would like to know is whether—always provided they can be settled satisfactorily—you would be prepared to act the part."

"I think I may say," said the millionaire, after a pause, "that, subject to my other manifold interests not being interfered with, I would be prepared to do so."

Hardcastle lit a cigar: the fish was hooked.

"Good," he said quietly. "Then from now on we can talk business. That main vital point being settled, we can come to the details. And the details will not be uninteresting, I venture to think, for there is going to be money in this, and big money. To begin at the beginning, however. Until I met you, I had proposed to hand this story over to one of the American firms, take my fee as author, and wash my hands of the business. Now I have a very much larger scheme in my mind. And it is nothing less than this. Sir Edward: that you and I should go into partnership over it with the predominating interest yours. That we should acquire a studio—I know of one going for a mere song in England—get our own camera-men, scenario writers and all the usual paraphernalia of the film trade. I will obtain a first-class cast to support you, and then we will stage the thing ourselves, with you in the principal role."

"Why should the predominating interest be mine?" said the financier shrewdly.

"Because, Sir Edward, you are the predominating draw," answered the other candidly. "I realise, of course, that it will be impossible officially to state that Sir Edward Greatorex, the great financier, is acting on the films. But," he smiled meaningly, "there are methods of letting these things be known unofficially. You will be billed as Mr. X—the unknown man. That in itself will prove an attraction. But when, after a while, whispers get about as to who Mr. X really is, we'll have the biggest winner of modern times."

He smacked the palm of his hand with his fist enthusiastically.

"And what sort of a part are you proposing for me?" asked Sir Edward.

"That, sir, is where the cream of the idea comes. I want you to play the role of a world-famous financier: in other words, you will be yourself. Can you beat it? It would be indiscreet of me to mention the name of the very exalted person who was approached with the idea of playing the part of royalty in a recent production. But you can take it from me that so keen was the firm on getting royalty to play royalty that the terms they offered would have made the country solvent. And this is the same idea. To play the part of an international financier we get the greatest of them all."

His enthusiasm was contagious, and the millionaire's eyes began to glisten.

"It really seems a very sound proposition," he remarked.

"Sound, sir!" snorted the other. "Two or three more of the same sort and Tom Hardcastle can retire. I'll be candid with you. Sir Edward. I'm not in my business for the good of my health: I want money. And when I see a lump of it lying about waiting to be picked up, I don't look the other way."

The financier nodded approvingly: such sentiments always commanded his warmest admiration.

"Now I've worked out this thing pretty carefully," continued Hardcastle, "and if I'm any judge at all you may take it from me that we'll each of us handle six figures in pounds—not dollars—by the time we're through. Of course," he added, with a deprecating smile, "I know that such a sum as that is nothing to you. Still, you will have had the satisfaction of playing a big part for which you are entirely suited, and of showing the world that it is possible to combine intellectual and artistic genius."

He paused for a moment: was he laying it on a bit too thick? Apparently not: Sir Edward's face registered nothing but pleasure.

"Have you the story with you, Mr. Hardcastle?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. But it's only in here at the moment."

The American tapped his forehead. "And it's only roughed out. Until I get it cut and dried I would sooner not run the risk of giving you a false impression about it."

"Quite: quite. And one other thing. What about the original costs: the renting of the studio and other preliminaries?"

For the fraction of a second Hardcastle paused: should he chance it? In view of the millionaire's extreme affability, was it worthwhile trying to touch him for that? And then he remembered that there is always a to-morrow morning, and even if Greatorex agreed that night, it might just be sufficient to make him change his mind later.

"Leave all that to me. Sir Edward," he said, with a wave of his hand, "I will give you a full account of all expenses, and shall naturally deduct that sum from our total profits before we share the residue."

"And the basis of the sharing?"

Hardcastle considered the point. "Sixty-forty?" he said tentatively. "The sixty to you."

"Very fair," answered the other. "Then I take it you will keep me posted in all details?"

"Most certainly. But don't expect results too soon. To hurry anything when we have such a marvellous winner as this would be a crime. And one other thing, Sir Edward, which is most important. Say nothing about it to anyone. Half the punch will be gone if the secret leaks out too soon."

"I quite agree," said the financier, rising. "Hardcastle, I am more than ever pleased that I met you."

"Mutual, sir: mutual. And between us we will show 'em what can be done."

He watched the millionaire cross the lounge and enter the lift; then he beckoned a waiter.

"Bring me a bottle of Bollinger, boy," he said. "I haven't the capacity for a magnum."

Which brief account of how certain people drank the waters at Baden may serve to explain to the intelligent reader the reason of the scenario in Sir Edward's hands as he sat in his suite at the Ritz Carlton. And if it has also revealed the fact that Benito Gardini was not the model secretary he appeared to be on the surface, I can only retort that since his first introduction was when wearing a soft black hat, the intelligent reader should have been wise to his character long ago.

"They would like you at the studio as soon after ten-thirty as possible, sir," remarked Gardini. "The car will be here at half-past nine."

"I can manage that," said Sir Edward, putting down the scenario with obvious reluctance. "Any-thing important to-night?"

"The question of Peruvian Eagles is still in abeyance."

"What did they close at to-night?"

"They gave way to 5."

The millionaire grinned sardonically. "Did they indeed? Snap up every share you can to-morrow at that price and up to 5."

The secretary made a note.

"The report is here from Upper Burma," he continued.

"Good or bad?"

"I have not had time to read it very carefully, sir, but from a brief glance I should call it indifferent."

"I'll look at it later. What else?"

One by one Gardini ran through the items, receiving curt and concise instructions on each: Sir Edward prided himself on his brevity. Not once was an alteration necessary: he never spoke till his mind was made up, and then he went straight to the root of the matter. He had the gift of sloughing off irrelevant details and seeing in an instant the real point: in a complicated problem, while other men followed elusive will-o'-the-wisps, he found the vital issue, and never left it. And as Gardini stood there, motionless and deferential, pencil in hand, waiting for each decision, he was conscious, not for the first time, of an unwilling admiration for the brain that could control such vast destinies with so little apparent effort. And not for the first time also, did he marvel at the amazing mixture which, at one moment, dealt calmly with millions and the next haggled over sixpence in a bill.

The last letter finished with, Gardini returned to his own room, and Sir Edward threw himself back in his chair. For a while he did not pick up the script of the film: his frame of mind lay, at the moment, more in an abstract survey of his position rather than in the concrete study of the scenario.

It amused him to think that the very scene he had just enacted with his secretary was going to be seen by millions of people all over the world.

Would they realise, he wondered, that it was the actual truth? That that was how big finance was carried through? Just two men: a few quiet words, and later the repercussions felt in every corner of the globe. Or would they imagine enormous offices with typewriters clicking, and excited men dashing in and out all day? That had been his idea, he remembered, when he was a boy: he had pictured himself sitting in an inner holy of holies, with dozens of telephones on his desk and different coloured lights that flashed on according to who it was who wanted an interview.

But then he had been earning a pound a week: now—what was he worth?

A sudden gleam came into his eyes as the realisation of the power he wielded crossed his mind. Done on his own, too—from nothing. Every penny he possessed had been made by his own brain: he was indebted to no one. And if a few thousand people had crashed by the wayside to mark his victorious progress, the more fools they. That was more or less the theme of the film, and he picked up the scenario again.

But he still did not open it: another train of thought had started. Could it really be possible that he, a man of machine-like habits and customs, whose life was run on time-table methods, was actually going to act in a film next day? Now that the moment had come so near, he almost wished he had never consented. Supposing he made a mess of it: supposing Hardcastle for once had made a mistake, and he was not suitable for the part. He had been amazingly enthusiastic at lunch, but there was always the possibility that he was wrong. What was it he had said? "The most stupendous winner of the last ten years."

Good fellow—Hardcastle, and a capable business man. He seemed to have kept down expenses wonderfully, and from what Gardini said there was no sign of cheeseparing at the studio. However, that he would see for himself next day: no one could spot more quickly than he any wasteful extravagances. Must be a man with a certain amount of money, too, since he ran a yacht. Some idea of using it for one or two of the scenes, and at that a sudden fear struck him.

"Gardini," he called, and the Italian entered. "That yacht of Hardcastle's: is it his own or has he hired it?"

"I really couldn't say. Sir Edward," answered the other.

"There's no question of that being added to the expenses, is there, if he uses her for making some of the film?"

"I will inquire into the matter," said the secretary, turning away lest his employer should see the look of utter contempt in his eyes. "By the way, sir," he resumed a moment later, "I don't know if you have seen this paragraph in the evening paper."

He handed a copy to Sir Edward and indicated the place. "It is rumoured that a most sensational disclosure may take place in the near future with regard to one of the principal actors in the film 'High Finance' which is now being made at Blackwater studio. Inquiries there failed to elicit anything more than that his identity is cloaked under the pseudonym Mr. X."

"Excellent!" said Sir Edward. "He's doing it well, Benito: very well."

"Strict orders have been given, sir, at the studio, that your name is not to be mentioned. It is bound to leak out in time, of course, but he is very anxious that the air of mystery should be maintained as long as possible. So we have arranged that you should always drive up to a special private entrance, and just come on the stage for your own scenes."

The other nodded. "Very wise. What is the exact programme for to-morrow?"

"He is first of all going to run through what has been done already. You will realise, sir, that that will be quite disjointed. I mean we shall dodge from scene to scene, as no film is ever taken consecutively. Then he wants to do your three scenes in the room in Paris."

"I know them: I've been reading them to-night."

"Then, if there is time for any more, he proposes to tackle the ones in the London office."

"I must get on to them. Do you think, Benito,"—and for the first time in their association his voice was almost diffident—that I shall do all right?"

"Of course, Sir Edward," cried the other. "Who could possibly doubt it? You may feel a little nervous to start with, but that will soon pass off."

"It's a damned good story," said the financier. "The more I read it, the more I like it."

"And it might have been written specially for you," remarked the secretary suavely.

"It shows rare insight into the world of finance," said Sir Edward. "By the way, have you seen my understudy?"

"No, sir. But I gather they found a suitable man to-day."

"Do you really think it is essential to have one?"

"I don't, as things have turned out," answered Gardini. "But it was a wise precaution, I think. Anything might have occurred. Even now, sir, you may find yourself unable to go down some morning, in which case he can double you in certain of your smaller scenes where you do not figure prominently, thus saving everyone standing about idle. You see, sir, it is practically only your scenes now that are left to take, certainly as far as interiors are concerned."

"Anyway, he's there if he's wanted," said Sir Edward. "Well, good night, Benito: I shall be ready by half-past nine to-morrow."

And as the secretary bowed and retired, the millionaire again picked up the scenario and started to study his own scenes.

Chapter VIII

"You know, old soul, I think Hugh is on a stunner this time. The whole show here seems to me to be perfectly genuine."

Algy Longworth was seated beside Laura Mainwaring on a pile of old planks in a corner of the studio. In the centre the scene was set for the morning's work, but no one had yet started. The producer Haxton was talking, earnestly to Jake Slingsby: the camera-men, in their shirt-sleeves, lounged about aimlessly.

"What are they waiting for anyway?" demanded the girl.

"Haven't you heard?" he cried. "The loud noise is performing: they are going to shoot Sir John Harborough's scenes this morning."

"Who is he?" she said indifferently.

"That's where the hush-hush part comes in," he explained. "If you ask me, they've got a pretty cute boost across. It was in the evening papers yesterday. Mysterious individual known as Mr. X."

"I never saw it," she cried. "Algy—how exciting! Do you know who it is?"

"I haven't an earthly," he answered. "But he's somebody who is pretty well known."

"Excuse me, miss, but a couple of these 'ere planks are wanted."

A hefty-looking stage-hand came up, and they both rose.

"When are they beginning?" asked Longworth.

"Dunno, sir. They've got 'is nibs in the theatre showing 'im wot's been done up to date."

"Who is it? D'you know?"

The man lowered his voice confidentially.

"Sir Hedward Greatorex" he said. "But no body hain't supposed to let on. I only know through overhearing Mr. 'Axton."

"And who the hell is Edward Greatorex?" demanded Longworth blankly.

"Hask me another, sir. If it was 'Obbs, now, or 'Ammond? I could 'ave hunderstood it. But this 'ere bloke beats me. Financier, they calls 'im."

He went off with his planks, and they sat down again as Haxton strolled up.

"'Morning, Miss Mainwaring," he said affably. "We'll probably be shooting one of your scenes later on."

"Who is Sir Edward Greatorex, Mr. Haxton?" she asked.

"So you've heard, have you? I told Slingsby. It was hopeless trying to keep it dark. He's a multimillionaire, and he's got a hunch he can act for the films."

"Can he?"

"God knows! I've never seen him. But he's so keen on trying that he's put up the necessary dough for the whole of this outfit."

"What happens if he's a complete frost?" demanded Longworth.

"You remember that advertisement that brought you here in the first instance? That was to try and get somebody who could be made up sufficiently to double him. Well, we got a fellow yesterday afternoon. And if the worst comes to the worst, we'll have to shoot all Sir John Harborough's scenes twice."

"But he's bound to spot it when he sees 'em being run through."

Mr. Haxton winked. "He'll see his own in the run through. Then later, when he's out of it, we'll substitute the others. And if he gets angry when he sees the final result we'll have to spin him some yarn about his length of film having got spoiled. But don't forget," he continued, "we've all got to play the game. Whatever he's like we've got to pretend that he's the goods. And another thing too: don't go shouting it all round London that he's playing this part. We want to keep it dark as long as we can for the sake of the ad."

He wandered away, and Algy Longworth lit a cigarette. "So that's the scheme, is it?" he said. "But I'm blowed if I see what's the object of all this mystery. Hullo! there he is, presumably. Come on, old bean: let's go and inspect the blighter from a close up."

They sauntered over towards a small group that had just emerged from the theatre. It consisted of Hardcastle and Penton, who were deferentially talking to a man with a fair beard accompanied by a dark-skinned, foreign-looking individual.

"So you approve of it up to date, Sir Edward," Hardcastle was saying.

"Very much indeed," answered the bearded man.

"Good! Then I should like you to meet our producer—Mr. Haxton. And this is Miss Gayford—our leading lady: Mr. Montrevor—our junior lead."

"I must congratulate you," said Sir Edward. "The scenes I have just been looking at are admirable."

"And now, Sir Edward, I will show you to your dressing-room," went on Hardcastle. "There is someone there to make you up."

The group passed on, and Mr. Montrevor contemplated Miss Gayford thoughtfully.

"Lettice, darling," he remarked, "that bloke is going to act us off the stage—I do not think. Paul, old warrior, what's the great idea?"

Paul Haxton grinned. "Just this, my boy. D'you know whose pocket your hundred a week is coming out of? His. He's paying for the whole outfit, and that being so, he considers he's entitled to play a part."

Jack Montrevor shrugged a pair of exquisitely tailored shoulders. "He can play forty, old boy, so long as his cheques ain't stumers."

"Not much fear of that," laughed Haxton. "His passbooks have to be specially printed with seven spaces in the pounds column. Now then, boys: set it alight. Scene 84. Let's get the set dressed before he comes. Lettice—you're here, darling: Wentworth—just sit there where Sir John is going to be. Jack, you're up left by the window."

He examined the grouping for a moment or two; then he nodded.

"O.K. All right, Wentworth, thank you. I'll probably take yours and Miss Mainwaring's next. 93, isn't it? Ah! here comes Sir Edward. Lights, please."

The arcs hissed and sizzled, then held steady as the financier stepped on to the stage.

"Now, Sir Edward," he went on, "we're taking Scene 84. It's the sitting-room in your hotel in Paris. Switch off some of those lights for the present, while we try it through. Jack and Lettice are here waiting for you, having come to plead for mercy. He is ruined as the result of having speculated foolishly in schemes controlled by you, and as a forlorn hope they have come to beg you to stay your hand. Their marriage cannot take place: their whole future is finished unless, perchance, you will relent. After all, you have countless millions: what are a few beggarly thousands? Everything to them: nothing to you. That is their reaction: what is yours? Amused contempt. If you did it for them, you'd have to do it for everybody in like position. And do they really imagine that you've got nothing better to do than to trot round after a bunch of damned fools, returning them money they ought never to have lost? That all clear? Good: let's start.

"You come in through that door. Sir Edward, holding in your hand some document. They are both here, but for a moment or two you do not see them: you are engrossed in what you are reading—something that evidently pleases you. Then some little sound makes you look up, and you realise you are not alone. You frown indignantly: who are these people who have forced their way into your private sitting-room? Then you realise that Lettice is an extraordinarily pretty girl, and the frown disappears: you like pretty girls. You close the door, and standing with your back to it you say, 'May I ask what you are doing in my private sitting-room?' Then, without waiting for an answer, you cross to the desk, sit down, and, still looking at Lettice, you say, 'Well, I am waiting for an answer.' Let's try as far as that. You go off. Sir Edward, and try your entrance."

Haxton stepped off the stage and joined Hardcastle, who, with Penton, was watching in silence.

"All right. Sir Edward, you can begin. Take it slowly: that's right. Now you're reading. Register pleasure. Sir Edward—pleasure. My sainted aunt!" he muttered under his breath, "the man looks as if he'd eaten a dead rat. Now look up. Frown: that's right. Close the door, and turn round. Now you see Lettice is pretty girl. Yes, you can moderate that a little, Sir Edward: I mean—er—you don't usually look at pretty girls like that, I'm sure. Now your sentence, sarcastic and coldly polite. Now over to your desk: slowly, Sir Edward, don't run. Sit down. Second remark, still addressed to Lettice. Thank you: that will do for the moment."

He turned to Hardcastle, and lowered his voice.

"Well, now we know," he remarked. "It may be stage fright, which will wear off: let's hope to Heaven it does. But he moves like a king penguin suffering from an acute attack of locomotor-ataxy; when he registered pleasure he looked like a deaf mute at a funeral who had fallen into the grave instead of the corpse; and the look he gave Lettice would have turned the butter rancid."

"Doesn't matter," said Hardcastle. "It can't be helped. Thank God! we've got the understudy. Shoot the scenes as quickly as you can, and don't let him see what you think."

"All right, old boy," answered the other. "But if one of the camera-men falls off the ladders from laughing and breaks his neck, don't blame me."

"But, Laura, my angel, he's simply dreadful," said Algy Longworth, as the scene proceeded. "Come with me into some remote corner, and make love to me: I need bucking up."

"He's pretty grim, Algy, isn't he? Still, I suppose, as he's paying for it, it's his worry if he wastes everybody's time and his own money."

"Do you really suppose it's being wasted?"

They both swung round: standing just behind them was a youngish man. He was smiling cynically, and they recognised him as one of the office staff, by the name of Tredgold.

"Well, the scenes will all have to be retaken," said the girl.

"My dear Miss Mainwaring," he replied, "that's no answer to my question. I don't mind telling you that there's something deuced fishy going on here."

"What do you mean?" cried Longworth quickly.

"There aren't many flies on yours truly," remarked the other. "I've been mixed up in this business for a good few years, and I tell you there's the hell of a lot more in this affair than meets the eye."

"What exactly are you driving at?"

"Never you mind," said Tredgold, with a knowing grin. "I'm keeping my eyes open, and if I don't find out something soon, my name ain't Henry Tredgold."

"Well, I haven't seen anything," remarked Longworth.

"Nor have I—yet," said the other. "But you're not in the office, and I am. And though I haven't seen, I've heard. And you can take it from me this isn't a bona-fide film studio. At least, it's a film studio all right, but it's not only that. Don't say I said so, and keep it to yourself. But if I don't spot what it is in the next two or three days I'll eat my hat."

"Now what the dickens is that bird getting at?" said Longworth, as the other moved off.

"If he's right, Algy, it seems to show that your friend Captain Drummond is not mistaken after all," answered the girl.

He lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

"That's so," he agreed. "But the only thing that beats me is what particular form of fun and laughter they can be up to. They might soak that man Greatorex in for a few odd thousands over expenses, but it seems a very elaborate scheme for such a small result, especially as I should think he's the type of man that it's mighty difficult to swindle."

And at that moment their friend the stage-hand came up again. "More planks." he said. "Gaw lumme, Miss, 'ave you ever seen hanything to equal that there bloke? Why, I'd do it better myself."

A sentiment which, as the morning proceeded, was cordially shared by everyone in the studio.

There was no question of stage fright about it: the man could not act to save his life; he could not even walk naturally across the stage and sit down; he couldn't make the most ordinary movement or remark without appearing self-conscious. In short, he completely wrecked every scene he came on in. And when he returned to London after lunch—it having been decided, for his benefit, not to take any scenes in the afternoon—a council of war was immediately held.

"It's out of the question," said Haxton firmly, "to use one foot of what was taken this morning. It is absolutely useless—the whole lot of it. I quite understand that we've got to keep up the pretence in front of him, and that we'll have to waste every morning the same as we've done this. But in the afternoons we must shoot the morning scenes over again with the understudy. Where is he?"

"Here I am, Mr. Haxton."

He appeared on the stage, and as he did so there came a loud crash. For the stage-hand, whose perpetual job seemed to be carrying planks, had selected that moment to drop them.

"Confound you!" shouted Haxton, "must you drop tons of wood on my feet?"

Then he resumed his inspection of the understudy. "Have you got the beard ready?" he asked. "You have. Good! Then go and get made up. What's his name, Mr. Hardcastle?"

"Travers. And with the beard he's the living spit of Sir Edward."

"Well, let's hope to Heaven he can act. That damned man this morning nearly sent me loopy. Set for Scene 84 again, boys. I know you're faint for food, Lettice, darling, but you'll be a good grown-up girl for your Paul's sake. By Jove!"

He broke off abruptly: Travers had returned made up.

"Well, I'm damned!" he remarked. "It's extraordinary. At this distance it might be Sir Edward himself. We'll still be able to keep the ad., Mr. Hardcastle. I'll defy the public ever to know the difference. Now then, let's get on with it. Were you watching this morning, Travers?"

The others nodded. "Yes, I remember the scene."

"Right. Then walk through it now. Good," he cried, after watching for a bit, "that's O.K. Lettice, you'll get your tea quite soon after all. Do it once more, and then we'll shoot."

And for the next four days the same programme was repeated. Every morning Sir Edward Greatorex solemnly waded through his scenes: every afternoon they were retaken with Travers in his place. But as far as Mr. Henry Tredgold was concerned, there seemed to be an imminent danger of his having to consume his head-gear. His investigations had evidently not progressed according to Cocker.

In fact, Algy Longworth had almost forgotten their conversation, when, one day after lunch, Tredgold strolled up with his hands in his pockets and a general air of mystery about him.

"You remember what I told you the other day, Mr. Wentworth," he remarked, "about there being more in this show than meets the eye?"

"I do," said Longworth. "Found out anything more?"

"You bet I have," announced the other complacently. "Trust yours truly for that. I'm on the trail, as they say. And do you know where the trail leads to?"

"Not an earthly," answered Longworth.

"I don't know if you've ever been round these studios properly," continued the other. "I hadn't—not till yesterday afternoon. And then, having nothing to do, I started on a tour of inspection. I wandered all over the place, and suddenly over in that corner, behind a pile of rubbish, I came on a door. Quite in innocence, I opened it and walked through, wondering where it led to. A passage with stone walls lay in front of me, but I hadn't taken two steps—when I heard someone coming towards me. And the next instant that man Penton came in sight. You know what a great, big, hulking fellow he is, and one glance at his face showed that he was in the hell of a rage."

"'What the something, something,' he shouted, 'are you doing here?'"

"'Keep it clean, girlie,' I said. 'I'm not doing anything particular. Just taking a little walking exercise, that's all.'

"'Then in future you can damned well take your walking exercise elsewhere,' he snarled. 'This is private in here.'

"'Then why don't you put up a notice to that effect on the door?' I cried.

"He didn't answer: just hustled me out of the place. Then he shut and locked the door, and I went back to the office. What do you make of that, Mr. Wentworth?"

"I can't say that I make very much," answered Algy. "Why shouldn't there be some private place through that door? I don't see that there is anything particularly suspicious about it."

"I had a dekko outside," went on Tredgold, "and that part beyond the door is where the stone cellars are."

"Well, what of it?"

"Do you think they can be hiding anything in them?" said the other mysteriously.

Algy Longworth began to laugh. "What the dickens should they want to hide things for? And what sort of things, anyway?"

But Tredgold was in no way perturbed by his laughter.

"I'm not going to say what I think, yet, Mr. Wentworth," he answered quietly. "But you mark my words: there's going to be some fun here before we've finished."

"Well, they'll have to hurry up, then," said Algy. "There is only about another week to go before we're through."

"Just so," agreed Tredgold. "And within that week we shall see what we shall see, if we keep our eyes open." Once again he lowered his voice mysteriously. "What was a motor-car doing at the entrance round at the back there at eleven o'clock last night?"

"If it comes to that," said Longworth, "what were you doing there?"

"Watching," said the other, in no way abashed. "I've got digs in the village, and after supper yesterday I took a walk up here. The whole place was in darkness, but as I rounded a corner I heard voices in front of me. I was wearing rubber shoes, so I made no noise. And as I crept nearer I recognised who they were, though they were talking low. Hardcastle was one of them, and Canton and Slingsby were with him. They'd got the door open—the one that leads from the outside to the cellars, and it seemed to me that they were taking stuff out of the car and carrying it inside."

In spite of himself, Algy Longworth began to feel impressed. After all, Drummond had specifically stated that he thought something was going on: was it possible that this foxy little man had ferreted it out?

"You can't tell me," continued Tredgold, "that it's the normal thing for the three boss men of a show like this to be creeping about at eleven o'clock at night in the back premises of the place. No lights, mark you: not even a torch."

"You're quite right," agreed Algy. "It does seem a bit fishy."

"Fishy!" snorted the other. "It smells to me like Billingsgate Market."

"But I still can't think what they can be hiding, and why they should bother to hide it here."

Tredgold lit a cigarette. "I don't know if you've studied psychology at all, Mr. Wentworth," he remarked—"crime psychology in particular. I have; and one of the first principles is that the more obvious a thing is the more likely a man is to get away with it. Within limits, of course. Put a valuable paper in the middle of your desk, and the betting is that a thief will overlook it and spend his time forcing the safe. Now in a different respect it's the same here. Everything on the face of it is straight and above-board: the making of the film has been advertised; the public know all about it; visitors are admitted to the studio; a well-known millionaire is actually acting. No one would dream of suspecting anything: why should they? In short, you have here the ideal atmosphere for carrying out a big coup right under everybody's nose."

Algy was listening intently: more and more was he getting impressed.

"Now," continued the other, "let's take the practical side of the show. Greatorex is putting up the money for this film. All right. But what does that amount to? What are the Hardcastle bunch going to get out of it? Even if this film is a howling success—which it won't be—they're not going to get enough by the time it's split up amongst 'em to pay for cigars. It isn't as if this was a regular company, making films all the year round, of which this was one. This is the first they've done, and so far as I know it's going to be the last. At any rate they've taken no steps to renew their lease. Of course Greatorex may be paying 'em a big fee. Even so, there's not going to be a vast amount in it. And my humble opinion is that they are using this film as a cloak for something else: something from which they really will handle big money."

"But how were they to know that Greatorex would put up the money?" said Algy. "If he hadn't, they'd never have been here."

"That's no objection, Mr. Wentworth. It was only after he had said he'd ante up, and presumably had commissioned them to go ahead, that this other scheme suggested itself to them."

"And have you any idea in your mind as to what this other scheme is?"

Tredgold glanced round cautiously. "What is it, Mr. Wentworth, that there is always a demand for? What is it that for its bulk is the most paying proposition in the world to unscrupulous men?"

"You mean dope?" cried Algy.

"Sh!" said the other warningly. "Yes: that's what I mean. Mark you, I've got no proof. It's only suspicion on my part. But I believe those beauties have taken advantage of having this studio to smuggle drugs on a large scale. You can take it from me that some pretty queer fish come floating around that office: men who have got nothing to do with the film business."

"How are we going to find out?"

Tredgold winked mysteriously. "You leave that to me," he said. "Mr. Blooming Penton isn't quite as clever as he thinks he is. And I know where he keeps the key of the door. It's in a drawer in his desk, and sometimes he forgets to lock it if he goes out for a few minutes. Now the next chance I get I'll take a wax impression; then we can have a key made. And once that is done it will be just a question of waiting for a suitable opportunity. Not a word to a soul, don't for a get. I'll keep you posted as to how things go."

He sauntered off, leaving Algy Longworth thinking deeply. Not a particularly pleasant little man, Mr. Tredgold, but he knew the breed: as sharp as they make them, and a regular nosey-Parker to boot. And the more he thought over their conversation, the more did it seem to him that there might be a lot in it. As far as he could see, there was no flaw in the reasoning: not only was it logically sound, but in addition, bearing in mind what he knew of the characters of the three men, it was inherently likely. And though he had purposely refrained from saying anything about that to Tredgold, he realised that his inside knowledge was strong confirmation of the little man's theory.

It supplied at once a plausible motive for the murder of young Marton. Somehow or other he must have found out what was going on behind the scenes, and had threatened to split on them.

The whole sequence of events fitted together perfectly, and the first thing to be done now was to get in touch with Drummond.

He wished Laura had been there, but she had not been wanted that afternoon. He would like to have had her opinion on it: she might have spotted some flaw. But try as he would, he couldn't: a thing seemed not only plausible, but probable. The fact of the three men having been there in the middle of the night, secretly, without lights, was in itself almost damning in its suspiciousness.

He strolled over to the corner indicated by Tredgold: there was the door. He tried the handle: it was locked. And then, since his scene was not due for another half-hour, he decided to have a little tour of inspection outside. He found that it was just as Tredgold had said—that end of the building was evidently the older, and constructed entirely of stone. A few small, cobwebby windows covered with iron bars occurred at intervals: the whole exterior gave the impression of decay and neglect.

Half-way round he came to the door, which was clearly the one at which Tredgold had seen the car. And he was on the point of trying that handle too when it suddenly opened and Hardcastle stepped out.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wentworth," he said quietly. "Not acting for the moment?"

"No," answered Algy. "Not for the next half-hour."

"I see. And so you're taking a little constitutional?"

"That's the notion. Quaint old studio, isn't it?"

Hardcastle locked the door before replying.

"Very quaint," he remarked. "But this end of the place is not the studio, Mr. Wentworth. Don't let me detain you from your walk."

Algy Longworth strolled on, feeling more convinced than ever that Tredgold was right. Something fishy was going on in that part of the building, and the instant he got back to London—he went round to Drummond's club. But there was no sign of him, and the hall porter said he had not been in for several days. There was nothing for it but to write him, which he did, at length: a letter which in due course found its way to the Post Office, Colchester, addressed to Mr. Henry Johnson, a gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to the hefty-looking stage-hand whose hobby was carrying planks.

To Drummond it came as a ray of light in the most impenetrable darkness. Quite frankly, he had admitted himself defeated; the fact, unknown of course to Algy, which had caused him to drop the planks in his surprise had seemed to lead nowhere on further thought. For as Travers had come on the stage he had spotted suddenly a thing that had eluded him till then. When he had first seen Sir Edward Greatorex in the Ritz Carlton, he had felt vaguely that he had met him before. But in that moment at the studio he realised the truth. For Travers might well have been Marton's brother, and it was Marton he had been reminded of when he saw the financier in the lounge of the hotel.

The difference in their ages had deceived him, but the instant he saw another young man who was like Marton the thing was obvious. Marton was to have been the understudy for the millionaire, and when he was killed it became necessary to find someone else. Hence the advertisement.

So far, so good; but it was after that that he had stuck. The motive for Marton's murder was still as obscure as ever. Why kill a perfectly good double when it might prove to be a matter of very considerable difficulty to replace him? That was what had been defeating him, and Longworth's letter seemed to supply the answer. In fact, it looked as if the whole plot could be reconstructed.

Sir Edward Greatorex had commissioned the Hardcastle crowd to stage a film for him, in which he proposed to play a part. They, realising the possibility of his being no use, had looked around for an understudy. By chance the Comtessa had met young Marton, and had instantly seen that there was the very man for their purpose owing to his amazing likeness to the millionaire. In some way or other he had discovered that other things beside making a film were intended, and had threatened to split on them.

There were difficulties, of course; not the least being the theft of the bearer bonds. Drummond had believed that that had been a deliberate plant, designed to get Marton more completely in their power; now, in view of this new development, he began to wonder. Because the thing which had been so obscure before was now as clear as daylight—namely, why Marton in particular should have been selected. The point that had stumped Newall and all of them as to why a junior partner in a solicitor's office should have come into the picture at all was explained. Indeed, it seemed to Drummond that they had been starting from the wrong end. It was young Marton who had led Hardcastle and Co. to the firm, not the firm to young Marton. By chance they had found that the man they wanted was a lawyer, and so, to save trouble, they used his firm for their business. In short, had the murdered man been anything but what he was, Messrs. Marton, Peters and Newall would never have come into the show at all.

It certainly simplified things enormously, because it permitted a much easier solution of the theft of the bonds. In the past Carl Peterson and Irma had combined legitimate business with their life of crime—there was no reason why the new combination should not do the same. It was more than possible that Newall was right: that Madame Saumur's transaction had been a perfectly genuine one, and that the theft was a simple case of embezzlement without any ulterior motive on the other side.

He reread Longworth's letter, and another point struck him. It accounted for a further difficulty which had puzzled him up to date—why Glensham House in particular had been taken. If his reconstruction was right, it all fitted in perfectly. From the foundation stone of young Marten's likeness to the millionaire, which was the beginning of the whole thing, they were led to Marton, Peters and Newall. From Marton, Peters and Newall they were led to a suitable house for taking exteriors, and it proved to be Glensham House. In fact, all the mystery which had appeared to surround the events of the last few days turned out to be no mystery at all. Every single thing was the logical outcome of the fact that a young man, who bore a striking resemblance to a millionaire, happened to belong to a certain firm of lawyers.

He called for a pint of ale gloomily: a sorry end to what had seemed a more promising beginning.

He didn't see himself getting any kick out of finding cocaine in a draughty cellar. It would be amusing to sting them good and hearty, but he had hoped for better things than that. He regretted now that he had ever bothered to go to the studio: it looked as if it was going to prove sheer waste of time. And what was still more galling was that he could take no credit to himself for anything: it was this man Tredgold who had done the unearthing of the whole plot. And a damned uninteresting plot it was at that; the next time he saw Irma he would tell her she must do better in future—she seemed to have lost her form.

For a while he pondered over things: should he chuck the whole show in and go back to London?

He could always get down at once if Algy wanted him, and he was getting rather bored with carting scenery about. But after a second pint had gone the way of its predecessor he decided to stick it out. There were only a few days more to go, and something amusing might happen. And so the following morning found Mr. Henry Johnson once again at the studio.

Up to date, somewhat to his relief, there had been no sign of Irma. With the others, and even with Algy, he knew he could escape recognition, so perfectly had he disguised himself: with her he was not so sure. He remembered of old her uncanny powers of detection. And though it would not matter very much now if he was spotted, he would have preferred to see it through to the end.

As a matter of fact he was becoming genuinely interested in the actual film. There was no denying that it was good stuff, and since a lot of the scenes now being taken were consecutive ones in the script, it was easy to follow. Every day, religiously at half-past nine. Sir Edward Greatorex appeared; every day his scenes were retaken with Travers in the part during the afternoon. Presumably the secretary had concocted some satisfactory explanation as to why he was never required in the mornings: at any rate, he showed no signs of suspecting anything. And with everybody pulling together to keep them in ignorance of the truth, the work ran smoothly.

It was on the third day after he had got Longworth's letter that Henry Johnson arrived at the studio to find a conference in progress. Sir Edward had not yet come, and a pow-wow was being held on the stage.

"We'll have to alter things a little to-day, boys," Haxton was saying, "because this night scene has got to be shot. Now Sir Edward will smell a rat if he doesn't play it, and that means he'll have to stop here the whole afternoon. And that further means that Travers will have to do all the repeats to-morrow: to-day will be entirely Sir Edward."

"I think Travers had better double him in the rough-house scene," said Hardcastle.

Haxton consulted his script. "That's to-night. Well, I suggest that Sir Edward plays it up to the actual knock-out, and then Travers can do the bit in the lorry. We may as well let him do as much as he can, since we've got to waste the day anyhow. Then we'll tell him that he's not wanted at all to-morrow. Hullo! here he is. Good morning, sir: can you manage the whole day to-day? We want to do your night scene this evening."

"Certainly, Mr. Haxton," said the millionaire. "I have no engagement, have I, Gardini?"

"No, sir: you're quite free," answered the secretary.

For a while Drummond hung about; then, seeing that he would not be wanted, he wandered outside. It was boring watching the same thing twice, and he preferred to see it when done by Travers.

The amusement of watching the financier performing had long worn off, and he was strolling along aimlessly when he saw on the path in front of him the butt end of a cigarette. It was still smoking, and the red marks of lip-stick could be seen on the purple tip. He glanced up: above his head was an open window. Evidently it had come from there, and almost as evidently it meant that the Comtessa was honouring the studio with a visit.

He began to stuff his pipe as an excuse for remaining where he was in case anyone looked out. And almost immediately he heard Penton's voice. "It's risky: damned risky. Why bring him here at all?"

"It's Natalie's idea" the Comtessa answered.

There came some grumbling remark from Penton which Drummond could not catch; then a door opened and shut, and he heard Hardcastle speaking.

"Everything is fixed, but I can't say I like it. However, since she insists on it...Here, what the devil are you doing hanging about there?"

He had come to the window, and Drummond looked up.

"Just lighting me pipe, guv'nor," he said. "Got to get 'old of a bit of 4 x 3 for that there wing."

He walked on towards a dump of timber, and busied himself turning over the wood. Who were they alluding to that it was risky to bring to the studio? He was conscious that Hardcastle was still watching him, but when, having found a suitable strut, he sauntered back again, the American had gone. And on reentering the studio he saw him watching the work.

"Now, Sir Edward, get a good hold of the situation."

Haxton was speaking, and, in accordance with his invariable custom, he was giving the millionaire as full instructions as if he intended to use the result. It saved time in the afternoon with Travers, and helped to foster the illusion for Sir Edward.

"You're putting up your proposal to the girl. If she will dispense with the trifling formality of a wedding ring, you will be prepared to see that the letters are returned to her fiance. He need never know: for her sake you will pretend to him that pity has softened your heart. But there has got to be no mistake about her side of the bargain. Now you have sent for her to come to you at your hotel: you are waiting for her to arrive. You pace up and down the room, gloating anticipation in your expression. Try that."

"Hell's bells," he muttered under his breath, "he looks as if he had a fish-bone stuck in his false teeth."

"Now then, Lettice, darling," he continued, "in you come. Register dawning hope: after all, he's not as hard as you thought him. Then you see his face: you realise the truth: you stand aghast."

"That shouldn't be difficult," he whispered to Hardcastle, "unless it sends her into hysterics."

For a while Drummond watched; then at the other end of the studio he saw Algy Longworth and Tredgold in earnest conversation. And as unobtrusively as possible he edged his way towards them. But before he reached them their talk had ended, and Algy had joined Laura Mainwaring.

He touched his forehead with his forefinger.

"'Morning, Miss," he said. "A fair bit of orl rite, Sir Hedward, ain' 'e, in that scene?"

"Good morning, Mr. Johnson," cried the girl with a smile.

"'Morning, Johnson," said Algy. "Look here, my dear," he went on urgently, "I must get hold of Hugh somehow." He lowered his voice. "It's to-night, according to what Tredgold says."

For a moment or two Drummond hesitated: should he reveal his identity to them or not?

"I can't make out where the old blighter has disappeared to." Algy was speaking again. "Three times have I tried to get him and failed. Damn it! here's our scene. Come on."

They both went off, and Drummond made up his mind. It was better not to give his disguise away: it was possible it would come in useful later on. And so, having sought out the foreman, and developed an agonising and quite imaginary toothache, he obtained leave of absence for the rest of the day.

Three hours later, having done certain things to his appearance in an old second-hand clothes shop in Whitechapel, he entered his flat in Queen Anne's Mansions.

"Yes, sir: quite a number of people have rung up," said Denny, in answer to his question. "Mr. Longworth some three or four times, and two ladies who would not give their names. I answered them as you told me."

"Good! And now I want you to ring up Blackwater studio and ask for Mr. Wentworth, which is the name Mr. Longworth is acting under. Don't say who you are, above all don't say I want him; but as soon as you hear his voice at the other end I'll take the receiver."

He waited, and five minutes later his servant beckoned to him.

"Don't mention my name, Algy," he said. "It's Hugh speaking. I'm very anxious to see you."

"Same here, old boy," answered Algy eagerly. "In fact, it's imperative that I should talk to you to-day, and I can't over the 'phone."

"Meet me at the Plough at Witham to-night at seven-thirty," said Drummond.

"Right," said Algy. "Did you get my letter?"

"I did."

"What I said in it has been confirmed to-day. Bring "—came a pause, and Drummond realised he was looking round for fear of being overheard—"bring a gun."

"Right oh, Algy!" he cried. "Seven-thirty—sharp."

He rang off, and told Denny to mix him a cocktail. Then he lit a cigarette, and once more turned his mind to the problem that had worried him ever since he had overheard Penton's remark that morning. Who was the 'him' he had alluded to? Natalie—Irma—had insisted on it, whatever 'it' was, so could it be that the person referred to was himself?

And if so, what did it mean? So far as he knew, no effort had been made to get him to the studio.

"Denny," he called. "Those ladies that rang up—did they seem to want anything in particular?"

"No, sir," said his servant. "They wanted to know when you were likely to be in, and I simply said I couldn't tell them."

Drummond lit another cigarette: the thing was beyond him at the moment. And he was still feeling just as much in the dark when he met Algy Longworth at the Plough that evening.

Chapter IX

Laura Mainwaring was with him, and Drummond was formally introduced.

"She insisted on coming, old bean," said Algy, "and we've both got to be back at the studio in an hour."

"Right," cried Drummond. "Heaven knows if the dinner here will poison us, but let's get down to it."

"I've ordered some gin and vermouth," said the other. "We might have 'em here. Hugh, unless I'm much mistaken, we're on a big thing."

"Fire ahead, old boy," remarked Drummond. "I'm all at sea myself."

"It's as I told you over the 'phone—confirmation of my letter."

"You mean you've found out for certain that they're using one end of the building as a distributing centre for dope?"

"I can't think what else it can be. There's certainly something damned mysterious going on there. Moreover, according to Tredgold it's coming to a head very shortly. I'll just give you the story as briefly as I can. We're doing scenes to-night, and consequently there will be a lot of activity going on round the studio. The centre of it will be at the genuine end of the place, and his theory is that that is the sort of occasion when it is safest for them to carry on at the other."

"Sound on the face of it," agreed Drummond.

"Now you remember I told you that he was going to get a wax impression of the key of the inside door. Well, he's done better than that. He's got one of the outside door, and here "—he produced a large key from his pocket—"is the result. Now Laura and I are acting to-night, and he will have to be on hand too. And his suggestion is that you should take this key—"

"Hold hard, Algy," cried Drummond quickly. "How does this man Tredgold know anything about me?"

"He doesn't. He merely said to me this morning, 'Do you know anyone on whom you can absolutely rely who could explore the place while the main scene is being taken?' I told him I did, though I didn't tell him your name."

"You didn't? Good! Go on."

"Well, his suggestion is this. When that scene is being taken to-night—it's a scene where a small lorry is used—Sir Edward will be watching it. I told you in my letter about the understudy, didn't I? And Travers—that's the bloke's name—will be doubling him in the lorry scene with his full knowledge and consent. Of course he has no idea at all that it's been done all the way through: it's the one thing that he's not been allowed to find out.

"But, because this is a rough-house bit, he has been persuaded not to do it himself for fear of getting hurt. And so, as I said before, he will be watching it. Now when he's around, Hardcastle and Co. simply sit in his pocket, and Tredgold's idea is that that is the most favourable moment for the place to be explored. They will all be out of the way, almost for certain, and he can think of no other time when the same thing is likely to occur. To-morrow night, for instance, when all the scenes except the lorry one will be taken again. Sir Edward won't be there: Travers will be playing. So there will be nothing to keep them at the other end of the building. In fact, I agree with him, Hugh, that it's a gorgeous opportunity, and one that is much too good to be missed. And Laura thinks so too."

"I do. Captain Drummond," said the girl. "It does seem to me that it's the best chance we're ever likely to get of finding out what really is going on there."

"Well, chaps, you seem to have settled my evening for me," said Drummond, with a grin. "I have no objection to having a look round. One point, though, Algy, you haven't made clear. What is the additional evidence that has come to light since you wrote me that letter?"

"Principally what Tredgold has overheard," said the other. "He's a foxy little blighter, with ears a yard long, and he keeps 'em open. And up to date it has really been more the cumulative effect of a lot of small things than anything specific. But this morning, just as he was going into the office, he heard Penton say to Hardcastle, 'The stuff is all there: we shan't have time for more.' And he was convinced by the way they both shut up on seeing him that they were not talking film business."

"Right oh!" cried Drummond. "I'll have a dart at it. Though what the deuce one does when one finds oneself completely surrounded by cocaine is at the moment a little beyond me."

"Get in touch with the police." said the girl.

"My dear soul, what a ghastly conclusion to the performance! Things going to the bow-wows, Algy, when the old firm have to rope in the minions of the law. However, I'd like to do that bunch down, I must say: that murder was a bit too cold-blooded to be funny."

He turned to the waitress.

"Sweet maiden, bring mugs of port, I pray thee. Because I take it, Algy, that you will shortly have to be getting back?"

"That's so, old boy. Do you know the way to the studio?"

"I do," said Drummond, with a faint smile.

"Well, we thought that nine o'clock would be a good sort of hour for you to get there. There's a track that leads up to it from behind, and there's a turning about a quarter of a mile away where you can leave your car. Hullo! here's Tredgold himself: I told him I was dining here."

"Good evening. Miss Mainwaring," said Tredgold, coming up to the table. "Is it all right, Mr. Wentworth? Is your friend on?"

"Absolutely. Let me introduce you to Captain Drummond. Hugh—this is Mr. Tredgold, who I've been telling you about."

"Draw up and put your nose inside a beaker of port," cried Drummond. "Anything new from the seat of war?"

"Quite a lot, Captain Drummond," said the other knowingly. "And it's most favourable. Penton and Slingsby left in a car for London about half an hour ago, which means that only Hardcastle will be there when they start work. Which further means that you're bound to have a free run. If the three of them had been there they might not all have remained with Sir Edward, but with only one of them it's a cinch Hardcastle won't leave his side till he goes back to London."

"And when is that likely to be?"

"Let me think," said Tredgold. "The drugging scene is being taken at nine-fifteen; the lorry one, which Sir Edward will be watching, comes after it. I should think you can rely on being undisturbed from nine-thirty to ten."

"That should give me plenty of time," said Drummond.

"More than enough," cried the other. "But they're cunning, don't forget. Just look and see what there is to be seen, but don't disturb anything. They may spot it, and if they did they'd have the stuff away in an instant. And we want to-morrow: we don't propose to ring up Scotland Yard to-night. And pretty fools we should look if the police arrived and found nothing at all."

"Admirable advice," murmured Drummond. "Well, you people had better push off: I'll come on later."

Gloomily he ordered himself some more port. What a ghastly fiasco the whole thing had turned out! He felt bored stiff, and though he tried to assure himself that he was acting as a worthy and God-fearing citizen in unmasking such villainy, his boredom only increased. There was no sport in it. No humour of any sort whatever. He was simply doing a common or garden spying job for a nasty-looking specimen of humanity who wanted the notoriety without incurring the risk.

At last he rose: the sooner he got down to it, the sooner he could get back to London. And having paid his bill, he drove off towards the studio.

It was nearly dusk, and as he passed by it on the main road he could just see that activity outside was beginning. Cameras were being wheeled into position, lights put into their proper places; and he wondered cynically if they were missing Henry Johnson.

He reached the turning and parked his car; then, pulling out his cigarette-case, he sat and waited.

It was a little early yet to approach the studio, even though everyone was at the other end. Some parties of villagers attracted by the novelty went past him towards the fun, but nobody took any notice of the big man moodily smoking by the side of the track.

At last he decided it was safe to start, though he would have to wait till the sightseers were out of the way before entering. And the spot he was making for was a small clump of bushes where he could remain under cover till the road was clear.

From his hiding-place he could see them acting in the distance, and Haxton's voice came distinctly through the air. Standing by one of the flares was Sir Edward Greatorex, talking to Hardcastle and Gardini; in the centre of the beam Algy and Jack Montrevor were waiting to run through their scene.

Suddenly he saw Sir Edward's two companions both turn to him solicitously, and the next moment Gardini hurried away to return with an overcoat. Evidently the great man was feeling chilly, and it instantly occurred to Drummond that it might precipitate his return to London, in which case Hardcastle would be free. And so, though he would have preferred to give it another ten minutes, he decided to act at once. With a quick glance round, he left his cover, and skirting cautiously out of sight of the acting, he reached the door.

The bolt slipped back smoothly, and he stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

The darkness was intense, but he could feel the rough walls on each side of him as he cautiously moved forward along the passage. He did not want to use his torch until he was further into the building for fear of the gleam being seen from the outside, and so his progress was slow. Every now and then he paused and listened, but he could hear nothing save an occasional faint shout from outside. And after a while even that ceased.

The passage was sloping downwards, and at length he decided it was safe to have some light.

He flashed his torch on cautiously: in front of him a flight of steps led down to a very solid-looking door—a door which, somewhat to his surprise, proved to be unlocked. He found himself in a fair-sized room. The walls were of stone, and high up in one of them was a small barred window encrusted in dirt. A few old sacks lay about the floor: otherwise it was empty. And opposite him was another door similar to the one he had come in by, which also, on inspection, proved to be open. A further flight of steps led down to yet a third door, beyond which was a much smaller room.

And as the light of his torch travelled round it, he realised with a sudden thrill that his quest was over.

Neatly arranged around the walls were scores of small brown-paper parcels, and he was on the point of picking up one of them to examine it, when from behind him there came a metallic click. He swung round, gun in hand: the door had shut.

For a moment he stared at it in bewilderment; then his mouth set grimly. For there was no handle on this side of it—only a keyhole. And he had no key. The door was evidently fitted with an automatic shutting device, and he was trapped.

He became conscious of a faint ticking noise coming from somewhere—a clock, presumably, which meant the room was used fairly constantly.

But that did not alter the predicament he found himself in. Sooner or later he was bound to be discovered unless he could find some method of escape.

He flashed his torch around the walls: there was no trace of any window. He was in a central strong room well below ground level—caught as securely as a rat in a trap. And so, having satisfied himself by an inspection of the door that there was no fear of suffocation, he lit a cigarette and proceeded to size up the situation.

Algy was the first hope. He would almost certainly go to the place where the car had been left, and, finding it there, he would know that Drummond was still in the building. But he would not be able to get in, as he had no key to the outside door. All he could do would be to hang about outside.

The next possibility was Hardcastle. Was he likely to come? If so, it was easy money: Hardcastle wouldn't have an earthly. If the other two were with him it would be different: Penton was a singularly powerful individual. And he couldn't hope to lay out the three of them. So clearly his best chance lay in Hardcastle coming alone.

He went to the door and listened intently, but everything was silent except for the monotonous ticking of the clock. And he was idly flashing his torch round in an endeavour to locate it when a sudden rasping noise started in one corner, and the next instant, to his utter amazement, he heard Irma speaking.

"Good evening, mon ami."

Completely dumbfounded, he turned his torch in the direction of the voice, and the mystery was solved. Partially hidden behind some of the packages was a gramophone which had just been turned on.

"I am more than sorry," continued the voice, "that I was not there personally to receive you. And before I go any further I will say at once that I quite realise you may now smash the record and terminate the entertainment. I hope you won't, for two reasons. First, I took a lot of trouble over making it; second, there is a very important message for you that comes right at the end. In that hope, therefore, I will proceed.

"I don't think, Hugh, that you've been very clever this time. In fact, dear friend, I am terribly disappointed in you. That you should walk straight into one of the most palpable traps imaginable is a sign of deplorably weakening intellect. Did you really believe that anyone in their senses would take on that unmitigated buffoon Longworth to do anything except scarecrows? But happening to be behind the scenes when he arrived that day, I realised he might be of assistance to me. And so I told Penton to engage him.

"That little man Tredgold is a good actor, isn't he? Quite good enough, anyway, to deceive poor Algy. And I must say he has played his part very well. A few mysterious references to dope, and your idiot friend rose like a fish. And so did you didn't you, Hugh?

"However, to proceed. You will have guessed by now that your present unpleasant predicament is very largely due to a system of electrical wiring. Your progress along the passage was marked by lights in the office upstairs. As you came to each door in turn a bulb went out: as you shut the door it went on again. And so your arrival in the room where you now find yourself was timed by us to a second. It would have been a pity to turn on the electric gramophone too soon.

"And now, because a record does not go on for ever, I must come to the point. Can you guess why I have taken the trouble to do all this? I think you can, Drummond, damn you! For years now I have had at the bottom of my mind one idea only. At times I have been occupied with other things, but ever and always has that main object of my life been with me—revenge on you. And now it is coming. Like the fly, you have walked straight into my parlour, and this time there is no escape. I could weep that I shall not be there actually to see it, but I am in the building, Drummond, alone with my imagination. And shortly I shall visualise you sweating with fear as you claw vainly for a way out.

"Did you hear that ticking noise when you first came in? What did you think it was, you fool—a clock? Guess again, Drummond, guess again. Go and look in the right-hand corner opposite the door. The only hour that that clock will ever mark is the second that sends you to eternity. It's a bomb, Drummond, and what are you going to do with it? Throw it out of the window? There is no window? Throw it through the door? You cannot open the door. You're alone with it, locked up, in that room.

"The others don't know that I've put it there, Drummond: they only think that you've been lured into your prison as a punishment for your unwarranted interference. They might have been frightened of the consequences of murdering you, but I'm not. As you hear these words I am sitting in an ecstasy of anticipation knowing that the aim of my life is about to be accomplished. I don't care if the building is blown sky high; I don't care if the drugs around you are scattered to the four winds of Heaven; I don't care who is killed so long as you die screaming for mercy. I may be mad, Drummond: perhaps I am. But that isn't going to help you much, is it? You've got ten minutes to live, and during those ten minutes you can ask yourself who has won in the long run, you or I."

The voice ceased, though the scraping of the machine still continued, and Hugh Drummond, putting his hand to his forehead, found that it was wet with perspiration. And then abruptly the gramophone itself stopped: the only sound was the monotonous ticking in the right-hand corner opposite the door.

He switched his torch in that direction, and cursed himself savagely when he found the beam was shaking. There it was—a harmless-looking brown box, and for a while he stared at it, his mind blank. What was he going to do? Was there anything to do? He was under no delusions, though the whole thing seemed like some monstrous nightmare. He knew, none better, that she was capable of anything where he was concerned, that to kill him she would willingly run the risk of being tried for murder herself.

With a tremendous effort he pulled himself together: he was not going under without some sort of fight. Feverishly he tore off his coat and trousers, and wrapped them as tightly as he could round the bomb: working like a maniac, he piled packages of dope against it to try and minimise the force of the explosion. Then, seizing more packages, he hurled them in a heap near the opposite corner with the idea of taking what cover he could behind them. And then, with nothing further to do to occupy his mind, the full horror of the situation came over him.

He glanced at his wrist-watch: two minutes of life left. God! what a fool he had been. He ought to have spotted that it was a trap all along.

And yet as he looked back he could think of nothing definite that should have given it away. Tredgold—curse the little swine!—was a good actor: when he laid his hands on him next time...

His jaw set grimly: he'd forgotten. There wasn't going to be a next time. It was the end. In the bottom of his heart he knew that his feeble precautions were utterly useless: he knew that he had a minute left to live. And for a few seconds his nerve broke, and he raved like a madman.

Then, with iron control, he got himself in hand again. Even if he was going out alone—like a rat in a trap, with no one to see—he'd go out decently.

He craved for a cigarette, but his case was in the pocket of his coat now wrapped round the bomb. There was no time to get it: even that solace was denied him. And suddenly, such can be the reactions of the human mind, he began to laugh.

That the show which a little while before he had regarded as the most boring of his career should have turned out be the one when he was to meet his death struck him as humorous. But the laughter soon died, and with another glance at his watch he lay down behind the heap of packages.

He waited tensely, muscles braced for the shock.

Now that the end had come, he felt strangely calm: anyway, it would be quick. One second—two—three, and then from the corner opposite came a little pouf, followed by a strong smell of burning cloth.

Cautiously he raised his head: smoke was issuing from the pile surrounding the bomb. And at first his brain refused to function. What had happened?

He stared at it foolishly, and then, with a sudden mad revulsion of feeling, he understood. The bomb had failed to explode.

With a shout of triumph he jumped up and dashed across the room. He hurled the packages away, and was just unwrapping his coat and trousers when roars of laughter came from behind him. He straightened up and swung round: Hardcastle and Slingsby were standing in the open doorway.

"Wal," said Hardcastle, "if that don't beat cock-fighting! Natalie, darling," he called over his shoulder, "I don't think you can come in. Captain Drummond is hardly dressed to receive ladies."

"So I see you believed it, my friend," she said quietly, as she joined the others. "I think your last ten minutes has equalised our score a little."

A cold, overmastering rage took hold of Drummond, though he said no word. Never in the course of his life had he found himself in such an utterly ignominious position. He realised it all now: the whole thing had been a leg-pull from beginning to end. There never had been a bomb—merely a box with a clock ticking inside it and some inflammable powder of sorts. And, to add insult to injury, the only things that had caught fire and were still smouldering were his trousers.

"A much-needed lesson, Drummond," she continued, still in the same quiet voice. "But I must confess that in my wildest dreams I never anticipated seeing you look such a complete fool as you do at the present moment."

She turned away, and he scrambled into his clothes. Damn the woman! She was right: never had he felt such a complete fool. But his voice as he answered her was quite normal.

"I quite admit you've scored this time," he remarked. "But you seem to have overlooked one small point. What do you propose to do about these?"

He picked up one of the packages, and again the two men began to laugh.

"Say, Captain," said Hardcastle, "you surely are the colour of the green, green grass. Why, you poor sap, you don't suppose, do you, that if that was really dope we were going to lead you to it? Open it and see. It's castor sugar: I guess the grocery department at Harrods thought we were starting a wholesale store. But we had to get something that would get you into the room and away from the door. Even you might have thought it funny at finding nothing but a gramophone and a bomb on the floor."

The muscles of Drummond's face tightened: fooled again. Fooled all along the line from the word "Go".

"As I said before, you're certainly one up on this evening's entertainment," he said quietly. "However, there will doubtless be other rounds in the game."

Hardcastle's expression grew ugly. "Look here, young man," he said, "we've had enough of you. If you give us any further trouble by butting in, you won't get off so easily next time. You keep clear of us, or it will be the worse for you."

Drummond smiled genially.

"I have an affection for you, Tom," he remarked, "that borders on madness. And you may rest assured that whilst you honour our shores with your presence I shall never be far from your side. You see, I've got to get back the price of this pair of trousers somehow. By the way, is the door at the other end open? Because if so I will now leave you."

"It's open," said Hardcastle. "And if you take my advice, Drummond, you'll say good-bye and not au revoir. We've been kind to you this time, and let you off with making the most unholy fool of yourself. Next time, should you be so foolish as to let there be a next time, the bomb may be real."

"A thousand thanks, Tom, for your remarks. But, as Irma knows, I'm one of those people who just can't take advice."

Filming was over when he got outside, and one of the first people he saw was Algy Longworth, who was hanging about near the door.

"Careful, Hugh," he said warningly. "Sir Edward has gone back to London, so Hardcastle may be anywhere."

"As you say, he may," answered Drummond grimly. "You don't happen to know where Mr. Tredgold is, do you?"

"As a matter of fact I haven't seen him for the last half-hour. Why?"

"I want a few words with Mr. Tredgold. And when I do have a few words with him Mr. Tredgold's mother won't know her baby boy for a week."

"Good Lord! old man, what's happened?"

"We've been stung, Algy: stung as we've never been stung before. And I'm sore as hell about it. The whole thing, my dear boy, was a plant from beginning to end. Irma was here the day you came, and it was because of her that you were engaged. Then, at her instigation, Tredgold fooled you with the sole object of getting me into the most ignominious position I've ever been in in my life. And, by Gad! they succeeded."

They were strolling towards Drummond's car, and he briefly told Algy what had occurred. "Just think of it," he concluded "I nearly split my sides with laughter Gosh! Algy, I could kick myself."

"I'm awfully sorry, old boy," said the other contritely. "It is more my fault than yours. But it never dawned on me that Tredgold was lying. I thought he was a foul little reptile, but I could have sworn he was speaking the truth."

Drummond laughed shortly.

"Don't worry: it doesn't matter. But you may take it from me, old lad, that I have known a pleasanter quarter of an hour than the one I spent down in that damned room."

He stopped suddenly and whistled under his breath.

"Great Scott!" he cried, "I hadn't thought of that. This show has driven everything else out of my head."

"What's stung you?" said Algy.

"Marton—young Marton. We thought we'd got the reason why they killed him, and we haven't."

They stared at one another in silence: it was only too true. Since there never had been any question of drugs, and the whole thing had proved a ramp, obviously they would have to look elsewhere for the solution of that mystery. But the point was—where?

"Is your girl still here, Algy?" said Drummond.

"No, she's taken the bus back to Town."

"Then let's get a move on in mine, and we'll try and think things out on the way up. Because I'm damned if this bunch is going to get away with it as easily as this. Confound my trousers: there's the dickens of a draught coming through the seat."

He swung the car round, and headed for London.

He drove slowly, engrossed in thought, and Algy Longworth, after a glance at his profile, was silent too.

"There are a lot of little points, Algy," he said at length, "which, now that I look back in the light of this new development, seem to me to stand out."

"Such as?" demanded his companion.

"To start with, I overheard Penton and the Comtessa talking at the studio this morning."

"What's that? How the devil did you overhear them?"

Drummond laughed. "I forgot I hadn't told you. Henry Johnson, at your service."

"Well, I'm blowed!" cried the other. "You old devil!"

"In the course of their conversation a remark occurred which I now know applied to me: at the time I wasn't sure, Penton said, 'It's risky: damned risky. Why bring him here at all?' Now what was there risky in their performance of to-night?"

"They might have thought you'd give someone a thick ear."

"Weak, old boy: very weak. Let's go a bit further. The work here finishes to-morrow, doesn't it? after which exteriors are going to be taken down at Glensham House. Now you have to act to-morrow; after that you're not wanted. Well, it's going to be a little awkward for them if you don't turn up."

"Granted. And I certainly shan't."

"That we'll see about: let's stick to the point. Why should they make it awkward for themselves unnecessarily? They could have soaked me to-morrow just as easily as to-night."

"It was the fact that Sir Edward was here that made 'em choose this evening."

"A perfectly sound reason if Tredgold had been speaking the truth. But he wasn't: he was in the plot. And so it would have been just as simple for him to cough up some other yarn which would have made to-morrow night the most suitable one."

"I don't quite get what you're driving at, Hugh."

"Just this. Was the whole of this elaborate hoax perpetrated merely to give me ten minutes' hell? If so, why choose to-night, when to-morrow would have been better?"

The other stared at him curiously: it seemed to him such an unimportant point. But he knew of old that Drummond did not harp on unimportant points.

"What else can it have been designed for?" he demanded.

"If I knew that I'd have solved the problem, Algy. Can it be that they wanted to be sure I should be out of the way to-night?"

"Why should they? Nothing happened of the smallest interest. We took a couple of scenes, which Sir Edward watched. Then apparently he felt chilly and went back to London with that secretary fellow. Travers did the lorry scene, and then came back, and that concluded the entertainment. Frankly, old boy, I think you're making a mystery where no mystery exists. Don't forget that Tredgold's bluff all the way through has been very good, and his reason for choosing to-night was a very convincing one. He might not have been able to get anything like such a good excuse for to-morrow."

"Perhaps you're right, Algy," said Drummond at length. "And yet every instinct I possess tells me you're wrong."

"Am I to go there to-morrow?"

"Certainly. And Henry Johnson will be there too. My debt to Mr. Tredgold will have to wait."

But if he thought he was going to discover anything more, he was doomed to disappointment.

Once again the same scenes were re-enacted, with Travers playing the millionaire's part, and since he had not seen them the previous day, he watched them for something better to do. Only Haxton was there: none of the Hardcastle gang put in an appearance. And after a while he again began to ask himself whether the whole thing wasn't a mare's nest.

For the film was a good one, especially this bit in the country house, where, having failed to move the financier to pity, the hero and a friend drug the glass of sherry which, according to invariable custom, he always drinks at half-past seven. He falls unconscious on the floor, and from behind the curtains the two men emerge. They bind him and gag him, and then, as they are on the point of removing him, steps are heard outside. There is just time to bundle the body into a large cupboard and dart back behind the curtains, when the door opens and his wife comes in. The room is empty: it is her chance to recover the letters.

He watched part of the walk through; then, wandering round behind one of the wings, he came on Travers, being freed from his bonds. Haxton's approving remarks could be heard, but it struck him that the actor was nervous and irritable, and after chancing a facetious remark which was met with a snarl, he moved away.

"Once more, boys," came Haxton's voice, "and then we'll shoot. Well done, old man," as Travers appeared, "you were fine. It's the last scene: we won't bother about the lorry bit again. I've seen the run through, and last night's was bully."

He strolled across the studio to where Algy and the girl were sitting, and after a cautious look round he spoke in his natural voice.

"I believe you're right, Algy," he said. "We're on a dud."

"What a marvellous disguise. Captain Drummond!" cried the girl. "I wouldn't believe Algy when he told me."

"All wasted," he grunted despondently. "I suppose he's told you about last night's little show."

She nodded. "It must have been a ghastly experience. I haven't seen that little brute Tredgold here to-day."

"Nor have I," said Drummond grimly. "Something heavy would have connected with him if I had. Hullo! They've finished. I say, I'm awfully sorry that you two should have wasted your time like this."

"Not a bit," she cried. "The person I'm sorry for is you. But I really think Algy is right, and that this film is perfectly genuine. After all. Sir Edward is a multi-millionaire, and he can afford to pay for his hobbies."

"That's true," agreed Drummond. "Well, so long: we'll meet again in the old village. At any rate I propose to touch these blighters for my pay."

With a grin, Henry Johnson moved off and joined a group of stage-hands.

"'Ullo, mate!" said one of them, "'ow's yer toothache?"

"Orl right. 'Ad the perisher out."

"Dodged a job o' work yesterday, you did."

"'Ow's that?"

"'Is nib's best girl come along. And may you hor I look at 'er? Ho no. So we 'as to rig hup a partition be'ind which 'er royal 'ighness may sit hunobserved. Not 'arf a peach she wasn't: could ave done with a bit like 'er meself."

For a moment or two Drummond stared at the speaker; then he remembered his role.

"Where did you put the partition?" he asked.

"Cross there. So as hevery time 'e went off 'e could walk right hinto 'er lovely harms. And when they bunged 'im hinto the cupboard, she could massage 'is bruises hunseen."

"Wot did she look like?"

"Dark: furriner, I should say. Natalie—or some name like that—'e called 'er."

Drummond turned away. So Irma had been watching. There seemed no reason why she shouldn't, but why the secrecy? Was it merely to prevent the risk of Algy seeing her? And with yet another unexplained riddle to puzzle him, Henry Johnson finished his work, drew his pay, and ceased to exist.

He found a wire from Ted Jerningham, who had returned to Merridale Hall, awaiting him at his flat.

"Penton arrived Glensham. Any further developments?"

He rolled it into a ball and flung it savagely into the paperbasket. No, confound it! there were no further developments. Nor did he see the slightest chance of there ever being any further developments. The whole thing was a frost of the worst order. And yet, strive as he would, the thought kept coming back to his mind that there was something he had missed—some clue that had eluded him.

It was the following morning that a paragraph in the society page of one of the illustrated dailies caught his eye.

"Sir Edward Greatorex, the well-known financier, has left the Ritz Carlton for a cruise in the steam yacht Firefly. The Firefly, which belongs to Lord Derringham, has been hired for two months by Mr. Hardcastle, a well-known American, and it is as his guest that Sir Edward is travelling. Though the secret has been well kept, it is now more or less common property that the millionaire has recently added yet a further activity to his many others, and that he has been playing the principal part in a film entitled 'High Finance'. The idea of getting Sir Edward to play the same role on the screen as he habitually plays in real life is ingenious, and should assist in making the film, which I am told is very good already, a still greater success. It is understood that some further scenes will be taken on board the yacht."

So that was where Hardcastle had got the yacht from. He knew Sandy Derringham quite well—one of those cheery individuals with an enormous income who, in spite of it, still managed to be permanently semi-broke. Not that it mattered much: once again on the face of it the whole thing seemed perfectly genuine. And he had almost succeeded in dismissing the affair from his mind when yet another announcement in the morning papers some four days later brought it all back again. For this time it was not in the society columns, but in the financial.

"SENSATION IN THE CITY.

"Extraordinary scenes occurred on the Stock Exchange yesterday in connection with Peruvian Eagles. This concern is largely under the control of Sir Edward Greatorex, the well-known financier, who is at present on a yachting trip. A complete panic set in, which resulted in the shares dropping to the unprecedentedly low price of 2.25. It will be recalled that ten days ago they were standing at over 7. It is understood that Sir Edward is in close touch with the situation by wireless."

He read on, but the details soon became technical, and he threw the paper aside. His knowledge of stocks and shares was microscopic: on the rare occasions that he had any money to invest he rang up his broker and resigned himself to fate. But the first part of the paragraph required no expert knowledge to understand. An upheaval had taken place in the City which was closely connected with Sir Edward, and that was quite enough to make Drummond desire to know more. And so, having finished his breakfast, he chartered a taxi and drove off to see his stockbroker, one Bill Templeton.

"Great Scott! old lad?" cried that worthy as he entered the office, "what brings you down these parts at this ungodly hour? Are you selling the war-saving certificate?"

"I would hold converse with you. Bill," he remarked, depositing himself in a chair. "Being what you are, you presumably know something about stocks and shares."

"You flatter me, dear boy. Do you want to invest some money?"

"God forbid! Whenever I do so the only sum that isn't irretrievably lost within a week is your commission. No, Bill: I want you to tell me all that is in your heart concerning Peruvian Eagles."

The other stared at him. "You don't hold any, do you?"

"Not so far as I know. But what I want to get at is the cause of the excitement amongst your brother robbers concerning them. For God's sake don't talk to me about bulls and bears or selling short, because I shan't have an idea what you mean. Just plain simple language."

Templeton lit a cigarette and pushed the box over the table.

"I can tell you in a few sentences, Hugh," he said. "Peruvian Eagles are a big oil concern. Up 'to a few days ago they were regarded in the City as being one of the finest investments—a little speculative, of course—obtainable. Then rumours began to circulate that all was not too well with the child. At first it was nothing more than that; then suddenly it began to come out that Sir Edward Greatorex, a man you may have heard of, and who holds far more than fifty per cent. of the shares, was selling them as fast as he could. That started the rot."

A clerk entered the office.

"What are Perus at now?" asked Templeton.

"1.125 to 1.25, sir."

"You see, Hugh: they've dropped another point this morning."

"And is that all there is to it?" demanded Drummond.

"All!" echoed the other. "A good many people are going to be ruined over it. And incidentally Sir Edward must have dropped a packet himself."

"Why did he sell?"

"He must have got inside information that something is very wrong," explained the other, "so he's cutting his losses. Up to a week ago he was buying the whole time: now he sells. It can only mean that. I should say it's the first time for many years that that gentleman has burnt his fingers," he added, with a short laugh. "Hullo! Jerry, you seem excited. What's stung you?"

A man, his top hat on the back of his head, had dashed into the office.

"Bill," he shouted, "have you heard, the latest about Perus? Rawlings has just got the report, and it exceeds anything that one could have hoped for in one's wildest dreams. Buy, man, buy, and go on buying."

Templeton leapt to his feet.

"Good God! Has Greatorex gone mad?"

He gave some orders down the telephone, and reached for his hat.

"Come and lunch with me at Sherry's, Hugh. I must dash. I'll get a thousand for you if you like."

"Right oh! old boy. I can't pay, but that doesn't matter, does it?"

He strolled out, and even to his eye, unused though he was to the City, he could see that the activity was unusual. Men, some bareheaded, some in toppers, were either running hard or else were standing about in little groups talking excitedly. And Perus was the one word he heard on everyone's lips.

It was the same at Sherry's, where Bill Templeton joined him at one o'clock.

"Gosh! boy," he cried, mopping—his forehead, "what a morning! I've bought you a thousand."

"Splendid, old lad! you shall have the postal order in due course. But what I'm even more interested in is what all the song and dance is about."

"It's this way," explained the other, spearing an oyster. "As I told you this morning, when Sir Edward started to sell, we all assumed that there was something wrong. Then out came the report, and, far from there being anything wrong, it's righter than anyone could have possibly hoped for. In short, either Greatorex is playing some astoundingly deep game—so deep, in fact, that none of us can understand it—or he's gone mad. In either case he's dropped about half a million. I gather he's been acting in a film called 'High Finance': better for him if he'd stuck to the genuine thing in real life."

"When did he start selling?" asked Drummond thoughtfully.

"Can' tell you exactly. But it was after he started on a yachting cruise."

"So instructions came by wireless?"

"They must have. Wait a moment"—he lowered his voice—"that's one of his brokers who has just come in. He's coming over here: I'll see if I can draw him. Morning, Lionel."

"Morning," snapped the other, and Templeton nudged Drummond. "Does every man who acts in a film go off his rocker?" he added savagely.

"You see, Hugh," said Templeton, as the other moved away, "he has been let down: they all have. I don't wonder: it's the most amazing thing of modern times. I mean, Greatorex may be a swine, but he's a genius. And such a colossal mistake as this is simply unbelievable."

And for a space Drummond was silent: an idea was beginning to dawn in his mind which almost staggered him with its possibilities.

"Listen, Bill," he said at length. "How do you know the instructions to sell came from Greatorex?"

"Because he uses a secret code, old boy, which only he knows. And it varies with each broker he deals with."

"But his secretary knows it.'

"Naturally his secretary would know it also. What of it?"

Once again Drummond fell silent: a glimpse of light was there, but the rest was still in darkness.

"Tell me. Bill," he said at length, "am I right in supposing that because he has lost this money somebody else has made it?"

"Not quite, old boy," answered the broker. "But you would be perfectly right in supposing that anyone who bought shares yesterday or early this morning is going to net a very handsome profit. What's worrying you, Hugh? You're going to make a nice little packet yourself, you know."

But the other was too intent on his line of reasoning to think about that.

"You're sure that no one but Greatorex or his secretary could have sent those instructions?"

"Certain. And you may take it from me that with a man like Greatorex such a thing is not left to his secretary. Have you got some suspicion of dark villainy in your mind?" Templeton added, with a laugh. "It might do for the film he was making, but it doesn't wash in real life."

"Perhaps you're right. Bill. Well, so long: we might have a round at Walton Heath one day."

He left the restaurant still deep in thought.

Was it possible that Hardcastle and his crowd were holding the millionaire a prisoner on board the yacht, and issuing false instructions which purported to come from him? That would presuppose that the secretary Gardini was in league with them—an assumption which was quite feasible when he recalled their first meeting in South Audley Street.

He hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to the Junior Sports Club. Sandy Derringham was usually to be found there round about that hour, and there were one or two things over which he might prove helpful. He found him at lunch, and came to the point at once.

"This is for your ears only. Sandy," he said. "You hired your yacht to one Hardcastle, didn't you?"

"That's the bally fellow's name, old boy."

"Is your own crew on board?"

"Yes, every one of them."

"And your own skipper?"

"Sure thing. Why?"

Briefly Drummond told him his suspicions and Lord Derringham's eyes grew rounder and rounder as he listened.

"Impossible, Hugh," he said. "Old man Wilkinson, the skipper, would never allow it for an instant. He's the most reliable man I know, and the hell of a martinet. And you can't keep a man a prisoner in a small yacht without the Captain finding out."

"Perhaps he's ill. Sandy: or they've doped him."

The other shook his head.

"If he was so ill that he couldn't attend to business," he said shrewdly, "they'd put back to port. And if he can attend to business your idea goes bust."

"Never mind," persisted Drummond. "I want you to do something for me. Send a private marconigram to Wilkinson, couched more or less like this—'Is passenger with fair beard well?' and sign it with your name."

The other shrugged his shoulders. "All right, old lad, I will if you like: though it seems pretty fair bilge to me. I'll send it at once. Let's go and have a spot of coffee and I'll get a form. Now then," he said as they went into the smoking-room, "what is it you want me to say? Is Greatorex well?'"

"No, don't mention him by name. Marconigrams can be read by other people, and I may be up the pole. Say what I told you, and then put—'Do not mention this cable to anyone'."

"Right oh!" said Derringham resignedly. "Old Wilkinson will probably think I've gone bughouse, but it can't be helped."

He signed the message, and gave it to a waiter to send.

"Do you want to wait for the answer?" he asked. "If so, we can probably get a rubber."

And it was perhaps as well that they were not in the middle of a hand when the reply came—a reply which caused Drummond to scratch his head in hopeless bewilderment. For it ran as follows.

"Cannot understand question. Only passenger on board clean-shaven dark man who is quite well. Wilkinson."

Where, then, was Sir Edward Greatorex?

Clearly Gardini was manipulating the market from the yacht, but what had happened to the millionaire? Was he in London doing some super cunning financial wangle?

"Don't say anything about it, Sandy," said Drummond, as he left the club. "There's something deuced rum somewhere, but at the moment it's beyond me."

He decided to walk across the Park, and it was as he was passing the Ritz Carlton that, acting on; a sudden impulse, he stopped and spoke to the commissionaire at the door.

"You didn't happen to be here the day Sir Edward Greatorex left, did you?"

The man, who knew him well, grinned.

"As a matter of fact, I was, sir," he said; "though Sir Edward didn't seem to notice it. He very rarely does notice people when he's leaving. Why, if I may ask, sir, do you want to know?"

"He's on a cruise now, isn't he?"

"That's right, sir. He was going straight to Plymouth when he left. Seemed to have a bit of a chill: he was all muffled up."

Drummond nodded and walked on. What had happened between leaving the hotel and reaching Plymouth to make him change his mind? Or had he never intended to go? He could well understand that for a man in his position it might frequently be an advantage if people believed he was somewhere when in reality he was nothing of the sort. But in this case, if what Bill Templeton had said was correct, it was a little difficult to see where the advantage came in. And yet, why had he even gone to the extent of having it advertised in the morning papers unless he had some very good reason for doing so?

"Hugh! Wait a moment."

He swung round: Algy Longworth and Peter Darrell were behind him.

"Hullo! chaps," he said. "How goes it?"

"Extraordinary thing, this Peruvian Eagle business" said Longworth. "I've just been talking to Peter about it. It might be the film in real life."

"How do you mean?" demanded Drummond.

"It's exactly the same story, only this time it's actually happened."

"I don't get you, Algy. To be candid, I'm not very clear as to what the end of the film was."

"Don't you remember they abducted the millionaire in a lorry, and kidnapped him on board a yacht. Then, by rigging the market in his absence, they nearly ruined him, and made a pot of money themselves."

"The only difference is," said Drummond, "that in this case he doesn't happen to be on board the yacht."

He told them about Derringham's marconigram and the captain's answer.

"So the analogy fails a bit, old boy," he concluded. "What his game is I can't guess, but I gather he's lost money all right."

"I saw Ted yesterday," said Darrell. "They're hard at work filming down at Glensham House."

"I suppose Sir Edward isn't there by any chance?"

"No," said Longworth. "I beetled down to have a look see the other day. Travers is doing it. Well, we must push on, Peter. So long, Hugh. It sure has been a frost this show."

Drummond continued his walk gloomily: Algy was right. And not the least frozen part of the performance was that the person who had really been in the ice-chest was he himself. To give it up and try and forget about it seemed the only thing, but it was easier said than done. And even after he had turned in that night he still found his thoughts running on it ceaselessly. Surely there must be a clue somewhere that he'd missed.

Suddenly he sat up in bed and switched on the light: a thought had struck him for the first time.

All the way through, the one endeavour of everybody at the studio had been to prevent Sir Edward realising that Travers was redoing his scenes. How, then, did it come about that now, quite openly, the whole thing was being done by the understudy, a fact which was bound sooner or later to be found out by Sir Edward? Had he really been in the yacht, and safely out of the way, it was understandable: they could take the genuine shots first, and then go through the farce again with Sir Edward when he returned. But he wasn't in the yacht: at any moment he might turn up at Glensham House, when the fat would be in the fire.

He lit a cigarette: the more he thought of it, the stranger it seemed. It was so utterly illogical to take elaborate precautions to prevent him finding out the truth during part of the film, and then relax them entirely. Unless they knew that he wouldn't turn up. And how could they know that, unless...

He sprang out of bed and began pacing up and down the room. They couldn't know that unless he was a prisoner. But how could they have made him a prisoner? Prominent men cannot be abducted from a Great Western Railway express, or in the broad light of day in London. And the commissionaire had seen him leaving the Ritz Carlton. Muffled up, true; but...

He halted abruptly, his mouth open. Then he made one wild bound for the telephone, and twiddled the dial feverishly.

"Who the hell is that?" came a sleepy voice from the other end.

"Algy," he cried, "come round here at once. I've had a brain-storm."

"Damn it, old boy, it's two o'clock," came a plaintive voice from the other end: "the hour before dawn, when people die."

"Put a coat over your pyjamas, Algy, and get a move on."

A quarter of an hour later Longworth appeared.

"You're the ruddy limit, Hugh," he protested. "It could surely have waited till the morning."

"Dry up, Algy, and get the grey matter working. I want you to tell me exactly what took place as far as the taking of the film was concerned that night that they decoyed me into the cellar. Begin with the scene in the study."

"You mean where they drugged the financier? He drank the sherry, and a few moments later, pitched forward unconscious. Then Montrevor and that other bloke whose name I can't remember came out from behind the curtains, bound and gagged him, and were just going to carry him through the window when they were interrupted by the wife's arrival. So they hid him in the big cupboard. Then the wife..."

"Doesn't matter about her. How was Sir Edward gagged?"

"With a handkerchief round his mouth and nose."

Drummond rubbed his hands. "Did you see him again after that?"

"Not until later, when he was watching the lorry scene e with Hardcastle."

"He didn't come back on the stage?"

"No. I gathered from a remark of Hardcastle's that he was having dinner."

"All right: carry on with the lorry scene."

"That was two hours after. Travers, bound and gagged just as Sir Edward had been, was in the cupboard. Montrevor and the other fellow carried him out, threw him into the lorry, which then drove off."

"Did Montrevor go in the lorry?"

"No; the driver was supposed to be in league with them."

"Who was the driver?"

Algy Longworth stared at him.

"Funny you should ask that. As a matter of fact it struck me as a bit odd at the time. It was Penton."

"Think carefully, Algy. Did that lorry come back after the scene was shot?"

"No, I don't think it did. I'm sure it didn't."

"Why didn't it?" Drummond's eyes were gleaming with excitement. "We're getting on to it, Algy. Go back a bit. What was Sir Edward doing?"

Talking to Hardcastle and Gardini."

"And my recollection is that he was standing in the shadow of one of the arcs."

"Yes, he was. Then he drove off in his car to London."

"Before or after the lorry had gone?"

"Before. I gathered he had got a chill."

"And then?"

"That's the lot, old boy. Travers returned and we shut up shop."

"How long was it before Travers returned?"

"About a quarter of an hour, I should say. What's the great idea, Hugh?"

Drummond took two or three turns up and down the room before replying, whilst the other watched him curiously.

"The great idea," he said at length, "is that my brain during the last few days would have disgraced an aboriginal lunatic."

Chapter X

"A most interesting and instructive day, Mr. Hardcastle. I am not a great film fan myself, I admit, though I go now and then. But this is the first occasion on which I have ever seen one in the making."

Mr. Joseph Hetterbury stretched out his legs under the dining-table and gently twisted the stem of his port-glass between a podgy finger and thumb. The big windows were open, the moor, turning slowly from purple to black, lay in front of him. He had just finished an excellent dinner, and felt at peace with the world. Glensham House was a welcome change after London.

"I thought it might amuse you," remarked his host, pushing the decanter towards him. "It is, as you say, most interesting to see the way the different scenes are taken, and then compare them with the finished article."

"It should be a great success. I suppose it is the first time that such an idea has been carried out?"

"You mean getting a well-known man to play himself, so to speak, in a film? I think it is. And when Sir Edward suggested it to me, the possibilities struck me at once."

"Ah! he was the originator of the idea?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Yes. He has always been keen on acting, and I could see what a valuable box-office draw he would prove. So between us we evolved a story round his central idea. You will hardly believe it, Mr. Hetterbury, but it had never occurred to me until then how far-reaching might be the results if a financier of his standing was kidnapped. To you, moving as you do in the City, doubtless it would have been obvious. But to me, though I am not exactly a poor man, it came quite as a revelation."

"That is the plot of the film, is it?"

"In brief, it is. I was talking to him one day concerning high finance—which is what we have called the film, as you know—and I asked him whether he ever took a holiday. He said to me, 'A man in my position can never afford one. I must always be in touch with the market.' And realising that if a man like him said so it must be true, the idea grew on me that it would make a wonderful peg on which to hang the story. Let him be kidnapped, and held prisoner on board a yacht, from which by wireless false information is sent to his brokers in London."

"And why particularly a yacht?" asked Hetterbury.

"For two reasons. The first and less important one is that sea scenes are always popular in a film. But the second was what made it imperative. As he pointed out, big operations such as his abductors intended would be bound to cause an upheaval in the City. Now if the actions which were supposed to emanate from him came from anywhere on land, his brokers would descend on him like a hive of bees. If they then found they couldn't see him, they would at once smell a rat. In parentheses I may tell you, Mr. Hetterbury, that every year the public grows more insistent on details in a film being correct. And when he explained that aspect of the case to me, I at once saw the force of it. We therefore had to think of some place from which his supposed instructions could come, and where he could not be reached by his brokers. And a yacht suggested itself immediately."

"He is actually on board your yacht now, I believe?"

"That is so," said Hardcastle, with a genial smile. "But not, I assure you, in durance vile."

The other laughed heartily and filled his glass.

"He developed a slight chill down at the studio, and I gather there is a certain tendency to bronchial weakness. At any rate, both his secretary and I agreed that it would be much better for him to have a complete rest before completing the rather arduous part of the film which has to be taken on board."

"Quite," remarked Hetterbury. "A very wise precaution. But reverting to the film for a moment—because I really am very interested in it—there is one point that strikes me, Mr. Hardcastle. What is there to prevent the brokers getting in touch with the yacht by marconigram, and asking for confirmation of the instructions?"

"We had to take a little licence there," explained the other. "Admittedly it is a thing which would be difficult to arrange in real life, but I don't think it matters in a film. We imagine that the entire yacht's crew, captain and everyone on board, are all in the pay of the abductors, so that the financier is a virtual prisoner. Messages do reach him, but they are answered by his secretary in his name. You see, no question of signature comes in where a telegram is concerned, and, since a secret code is used, the brokers have no alternative but to treat the communications as coming from him, and act on them. And I have no doubt that when we come to shooting the scenes, Lord Derringham's admirable Scotch skipper will play his part with gusto, even to the extent of putting Sir Edward in irons!"

"In view of the story, it certainly is a most amazing coincidence over Peruvian Eagles."

"Peruvian Eagles! I think I hold a few. What has happened?"

"My dear sir!" Hetterbury stared at him in amazement. "You don't mean to say that you don't know?"

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Hetterbury," said Hardcastle, "I have been so engrossed down here with the film for the last few days that I have hardly seen a paper. I trust that nothing has gone wrong with them, for, though my holding is small, in these hard days one doesn't want to lose the little one has."

"It has been the talk of the City for the last ten days. Sir Edward, as you may know, is, or rather was, the largest shareholder, and up till recently he has been buying all the time. A fortnight ago the shares were standing at 7, when it suddenly came out that he was selling as fast as he could. Down came the price with a rush, until at one period they actually dropped below par. The Stock Exchange was humming with excitement, naturally, and then, to everyone's amazement, it transpired that, far from anything being wrong with the company, its condition was even sounder than had been thought. And now the shares are back again to 6."

"What an extraordinary thing! Do you think Sir Edward really sold, or was it just a rumour started in his absence?"

"He sold all right, towards the end naturally at a dead loss. And what his game was no one can make out."

"Has he lost much money?"

"A packet, though he can well afford that. But what is defeating everybody is how a man of uncanny astuteness can have made such a mistake."

Hardcastle lit a cigar thoughtfully; then, leaning over the table towards his guest, he lowered his voice.

"Mr—Hetterbury," he said confidentially, "this is all news to me—as I told you, I have hard glanced at the papers lately—but I wonder if I can supply a possible reason to account for it."

"It will interest me profoundly if you can," remarked the other.

"I have, of course, been seeing a lot of Sir Edward recently. In fact, until he went off in the yacht I met him every day for some hours at stretch. And it struck me—I don't want to exaggerate—that he was, shall I say, a little queer at times."

"In what way do you mean, Mr. Hardcastle?"

"It is difficult to answer your question in so many words," said the other. "There was nothing specific on which one could lay hold and say that it was peculiar. But I think my daughter summed it up best one day when she said that he seemed to her to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Things take different people in different ways, and it is just conceivable that the unusual experience of acting in a film, coming at a time when perhaps he was not too fit, may have been too much for him."

"To the extent of selling Perus for no rhyme or reason!" cried Hetterbury. "In any event, surely his secretary would have prevented him."

Hardcastle pursed his lips.

"From what I saw of the relations between those two," he remarked drily, "it would have been useless for the secretary to say anything if Sir Edward had announced his intention of walking down Piccadilly in his birthday suit. Mind you, Mr. Hetterbury, it is only an idea of mine, put forward to try to account for what seems an amazing action on Sir Edward's part. Or again, there may be some deep underlying motive which only he knows."

"Of the two suggestions the first is the more likely," said the other. "In fact, it does supply a possible explanation for what has occurred, and one that I shall mention when I get back to London."

Hardcastle held up a warning hand.

"I beg of you to be discreet in what you say," he cried. "I would not like it to come to Sir Edward's ears that I had been spreading statements of that sort about him."

"My dear sir," protested the other, "you may rely on my discretion. Your name will not come into it at all. But everyone is asking the same question, and it is certainly a feasible answer. By the way, how much longer is he remaining at sea?"

"I couldn't tell you. Not very much longer, presumably, because the yacht will have to refuel. My honey! what is the matter?"

He swung round in his chair as the door burst open and the Comtessa came running in. She was in a state of great agitation, though she endeavoured to control herself on seeing Hetterbury, who had risen to his feet.

"The ghost, Tom," she cried, forgetting her role completely. "I've just seen the ghost."

"Come, come," laughed Hardcastle, though he gave her a warning frown. "We've all seen it, my love, and she's quite harmless. Come and drink a glass of port with your old Dad, and forget about it."

"I seem to remember reading something about a ghost in that dreadful murder case you had here," said Hetterbury.

"There was a little about it in the papers," answered Hardcastle. "Three young fools came over here ghost-hunting the very night it took place, though, to do them justice, we all saw it afterwards."

"What form did it take?"

"An elderly woman of the caretaker class. We saw her as clearly as I see you now, standing at the top of the stairs; then she vanished through the; door of my daughter's bedroom."

"How terrible for you, Comtessa! What did you do?"

"I'm sorry to say I was stupid enough to faint," she answered. "She was so close to me, and then she put out her hand and touched me. It was awful."

"And you have just seen her again in your bedroom?"

"It was in the passage this time," she said. "It's stupid of me, I know, but I dread anything of that sort."

"Very natural," remarked Hetterbury sympathetically, "Well, Mr. Hardcastle, I am sure the Comtessa would like to be quiet, so I will take my departure. Perhaps you could ring for my car."

"Certainly," said his host, with an alacrity that apparently his guest failed to notice. "I think it would be as well for my girl to rest."

Hetterbury bowed over the Comtessa's hand.

"I trust your visitor will not trouble you again to-night," he murmured, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Being a lady, it should confine its attention to our sex. And I must thank you for a most enjoyable afternoon."

He followed Hardcastle into the hall, and a few moments later his car drove off.

"For the love of Mike, what stung you, kid?" cried Hardcastle, coming back into the room. "What's all this bologney about a ghost? The only one we've ever had in the house was yourself, and darned well you did it."

"I haven't told you about it, Tom," she said: "in fact, until to-night I'd forgotten about it. You remember that I went up in the train with that man Drummond and his two friends. Well, it was the one called Jerningham who owns Merridale Hall who told me on the way up to London. This house is haunted."

"Bologney," repeated Hardcastle incredulously. "We worked a ramp then, but there's nothing to it."

"You listen to me, Tom Hardcastle," she said angrily, "and quit talking out of your turn. Haven't I told you I'd forgotten all about it till to-night? I'd gone down to see that he had got something to eat—incidentally he's getting weaker and weaker, and unless we watch it he'll die on us before we're ready. Anyway, he was moaning and groaning as usual, when suddenly I noticed a most peculiar smell, just the same as you get sometimes from that foul bog outside. I looked around, trying to locate it, when just beyond the range of the candle I saw something move. It didn't walk: it didn't seem to do anything except just give a sort of heave. Then it vanished without a sound."

"But what was it?" cried the man.

"A great black, shapeless sort of mass," she said, with a violent shudder. "And it stank."

"There, there, my dear," he said soothingly. "It was a trick of the light."

"I tell you it wasn't," she stormed. "It's an elemental—that's what that man Jerningham said. It's called the Horror of Glensham House, and people who see it either go mad or die."

"Well, honey, you haven't done either," he said quietly, though his eyes were fixed on her searchingly. She was in an acute state of nerves; obviously the shock had been very great. Now that Hetterbury had gone and there was no longer any necessity for her to control herself, her quivering lips and shaking fingers told their own tale.

He poured her out another glass of port.

"Take it easy, kid," he said, "and try and forget it. It's not much longer now."

"Nothing would induce me to go down there again, Tom," she cried.

"There's no reason why you should, honey," he assured her. "And if it was an elemental, or whatever you said, which sends people mad, it might save us a lot of trouble. I did a bit of good work at dinner to-night, after you'd left us."

"I never quite got who the man was," she said, pulling herself together with an effort.

"A guy from the City who has been doing some fishing near by. He was motoring back to London when he saw us working outside and stopped to look."

"And you asked him to dinner on that! You must be plumb crazy."

"Easy, honey: easy. Whereas the harm in asking him to dinner? Where's the harm in asking the whole world to dinner? Ain' we all straight and above-board in this outfit? There's nothing we mind anybody seeing."

"I'm getting nervy, Tom," she said. "I wish to God it was all over."

"It's this darned ghost has got you, dearie: don't you think about it. But listen here, kid: I'm telling you about dinner. This Hetterbury guy suddenly starts talking about Peruvian Eagles. Of course I know nothing about them: buried down here in my work and all that sort of bunk. So he tells me the whole story, and says that nobody in London can make out what Sir Edward is up to. That gives me my cue, and I flatter myself I took it well. Brought you into it: said that you had mentioned to me one day that you thought he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It's the thin end of the wedge: you mark my words. I told him to be sure he didn't mention my name as having said so, but it will be all over London to-morrow. What are you staring at, honey?"

"I thought I saw something move in those bushes out there, Tom," she cried.

The man went to the window and stared out. The light had almost gone, and for a moment it seemed to him also as if some dark object flitted through the undergrowth. Then all was still again.

"Tom—is it absolutely necessary? Must it be done?"

He swung round angrily: she was still sitting at the table. "Of course it must be done," he said harshly. "You don't want to spend the next few years of your life in prison, do you? To say nothing of losing every dime we've made. You're crazy—there's no risk. Haven't we planned out every detail? Let 'em suspect what they like: they can't prove anything. There, there, honey," he went on soothingly, laying his hand on her shoulder, "you're rattled to-night. This ghost business has upset you. We've just got the other big coup to pull off, and then we'll beat it."

"You got the radio from Gardini?"

"Sure. The boys were getting busy in London to-day. Now you get off to bed: I'm just going along to see that his nibs is all right."

Obediently she left the room, and for a while he sat on smoking. There were times when the amazing success of their plan up to date almost staggered him. Everything had worked literally without a hitch, and the results had exceeded their wildest expectations. And now two more days would see the whole thing through, with another enormous sum of money to their credit.

He ran over every detail in his mind since the commencement of the plot in Baden, and as a connoisseur he found no flaw save one—the butting in of those three damned young Englishmen on the night they had murdered Marton. And yet even that did not really spoil his appreciation of their scheme, because it had been in the nature of a fluke. The expert card-player whose plan is temporarily endangered by some card, led for no reason at all by a fourth-rate performer, does not feel that his reputation has suffered. And the steps they had at once taken to euchre this man Drummond had proved amply sufficient. In fact, he was sadly disappointed in him after all that Natalie had said. A large bovine type of great strength undoubtedly, but an unworthy opponent for a man of brains.

He refilled his glass, sipping the wine appreciatively, as became a man who in future would be able to afford a good cellar. Then his thoughts returned to the past few weeks, and this time to the film itself.

How amusing it would be later on to go and see it with his inside knowledge of what it had served to cover. To be able to say to himself at the psychological moment, "There under your noses, my dear audience, is one of the master crimes of the century being carried out and you don't know it."

Again he lifted the decanter: it seemed a pity not to finish it. There was no hurry, and the port was undoubtedly good. So good, in fact, that, having discovered another bottle in the sideboard, it was a full hour before he finally rose from the table. And had anyone been present to see his exit from the room he would have had to admit that Mr. Hardcastle's progress to the door did not exactly conform to Euclid's definition of a straight line.

Not that he was drunk: it took him only two attempts to find the nobs in the woodwork which operated the secret panel in the hall. But there was no denying that he was in a condition which is variously known as "slightly oiled" or "one over the eight."

The passage was narrow, and he took each side impartially as he walked along it, his torch throwing a beam of light in front of him. And at length he came to some steps leading off it, at the top of which he paused for a moment with an evil smile on his face. The wine had brought out all the bully in his nature, and he was proposing to enjoy himself.

He went down the steps and opened the door at the bottom. Then, swaying slightly; he gave a drunken chuckle as he contemplated the man lying bound and gagged on the bed with his back towards him.

"Are you awake, Sir Edward?" he said thickly, and a slight movement showed that he was.

"All right: don't answer. I don't care. All the same to me. But I'm going to have a little chat with you. That's what I came for, you damned old fool."

He lit a cigarette and sat down on the only chair.

"Had a gentleman asking about you this evening. Hetter...Hetter... forgotten his name. Doesn't matter. Big noise in the City. He couldn't understand about Peruvian Eagles: nobody in London can understand. Why should you lose so much money? Course I didn't tell him it was so that we could make it: he might have thought that a little peculiar. So I told him what I thought: that you'd suddenly gone loopy. Nervous breakdown. Sending orders from yachts to sell when you meant to buy! Shocking error of judgment, my boy: quite shocking. And this next one is worse. What the poor old stockbrokers in London will say when they get your instructions over Robitos I shudder to think."

No reply came from the man on the bed, and Hardcastle gave an ugly laugh.

"Still struck dumb, are you? I'll give you something to make you think, you fool. What do you suppose is going to be the end of this? You've got the plot up to date—haven't you?—but you don't know what's to come. Well, I'll tell you. When we've skinned you over Robitos the yacht will come in to Plymouth again. I shall meet her there, and to my amazement I shall find out that you are not on board. Pretty good that bit, isn't it? You can think of me registering amazement, with Gardini doing the same thing. He thought, you see, that there was some deep motive behind your orders to him. By the way, have I ever told you what your orders were? You told Gardini to go for a cruise, and to let it be understood if anyone sent a radio that you were with him on board. You also gave him instructions as to what to do about Perus and Robitos, which was devilish considerate of you, my dear fellow. He thought they were a bit rum at the time, but, being a model secretary, he dutifully carried them out. All right so far, isn't it? But now, though, comes the point—where are you? Where is the great Sir Edward Greatorex? Not on board the yacht: not anywhere. Tremendous hue and cry started by me. And what do you think is the answer? You've been suffering from loss of memory, brought on by a nervous breakdown. You've been wandering, and one night you unexpectedly turn up here, still in a strange condition. Doctors, specialists, bone-setters, dentists—I'll get the whole outfit—are wired for: the great Sir Edward has reappeared. And then a terrible thing takes place. Unknown to us, you go out for a walk before going to bed. Suddenly from Grimstone Mire there comes a scream of mortal terror. We rush horrified to the scene: a slight tremor in that treacherous bog is all that remains of the great financier. The doctors, specialists, bone-setters, dentists are all too late. Pretty good, don't you think?"

Still no word came from the other, and with a snarl of rage Hardcastle leaned forward.

"You're going to die, damn you: do you understand that?"

And then suddenly he became conscious of something else—something that brought the sweat out on his forehead. A strange, fetid smell was filling the room. He had forgotten about the ghost, and now it came back with a rush to his mind. He tried to turn round and could not: he knew that some appalling thing was in the room just behind him. And at last, with a croak of terror, he looked over his shoulder.

A monstrous black object was between him and the door, and Hardcastle, screaming with fear, backed against the wall. It slithered nearer him, and he clawed at the brickwork with his fingers in a frantic endeavour to escape. Nearer—still nearer it came, till the stench was overpowering. And then it sprang: seemed completely to envelop him.

He was conscious of a vice-like grip round his throat, there came a roaring in his ears: then—oblivion.

When he came to himself he was lying huddled up on the floor. His torch was beginning to grow dim, but of the ghostly visitor there was no trace, save a faint smell which lingered in the air. On the bed Sir Edward still lay motionless, and once again the same overmastering terror gripped him. Suppose it returned.

He scrambled to his feet, and seizing the torch, rushed blindly along the passage. Not until he was in the main part of the house would he feel safe, and as he fumbled with the secret door he kept glancing behind him in an agony of fear. At last he stumbled into the hall, and slammed the panel behind him.

The time was four o'clock: dawn had come. For five hours he had been lying unconscious. He walked shakily to the dining-room, and with a trembling hand poured himself out a glass of neat whisky. He gulped it down, and felt a little better.

Five hours! But what had it been—that ghastly foul-smelling black horror? He rubbed his neck gingerly: there had been nothing ghostly about the grip round his throat.

The window was still open, and he stepped through it on to the lawn. Bed was out of the question, and after a while, as he paced up and down in the cool morning air, he began to feel calmer.

When all was said and done, save for a stiff neck he was none the worse for his terrible experience.

Suddenly he paused, staring over the moor.

There was a column of dust in the distance, and even as he watched it a motor-car breasted a rise.

It was moving fast from the direction of London and he wondered idly who could be out at such an hour. And then, to his surprise, it swung off the road, and came up the drive towards him. He walked round to the front door, and to his amazement found that Penton and Slingsby were the occupants. Their faces were haggard, and with a queer feeling of foreboding he greeted them.

"Hullo! boys," he cried. "What brings you here?"

"There's something up," said Penton. "Something damned queer. Or else Gardini has double-crossed us."

"What do you mean?" snarled Hardcastle. "How could he?"

"The markets are all going crazy: just exactly the opposite to his instructions."

"Over Robitos?"

The other nodded, and walked into the house. "Where's the whisky? we need one."

"You haven't lost?"

"Every penny we made over Perus, and a wad more besides."

"When did it happen?"

"Yesterday. Something started the rot in the afternoon. It's all up, Tom, as far as the boodle is concerned."

"But what can have started it?"

"Search me," cried Penton. "Jake and I have been trying to get at it the whole way down. Anyway, we've got to clear."

"Clear out?" shouted Hardcastle. "Why?"

"Because we can't go near meeting our liabilities," answered the other. "And that means an investigation, which I guess we daren't risk. The point is—what are we going to do with him?"

He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder towards the secret passage.

"Do with him," said Hardcastle grimly. "There's only one thing we can do with him, unless we want prison. And that's what we intended."

The other two nodded. "There's no time to be lost," grunted Penton. "I'll get him now. We'll steer him down through the trees. There's no one about."

He left the room, whilst the other two helped themselves again to whisky.

"I don't like it," muttered Slingsby uneasily.

"What I don't like," cried Hardcastle, "is losing the dough. All this damned business for nothing. You must have been crazy, you two. Suffering Pete! what's that?"

From the hall had come a bellow of rage, and the next instant Penton burst into the room. He was almost inarticulate, and the veins were standing out on his forehead as he made for Hardcastle.

"You blasted crook," he said thickly, "what's your game?"

The other stared at him in amazement. "What are you getting at?" he cried.

"Come and look in the hall."

The three of them crowded through the door.

Lying on the floor was the bound-and-gagged body of a man. But it was not Sir Edward Greatorex: it was the understudy Travers.

For a while Hardcastle stared at him foolishly. "What under the sun does it mean?" he muttered. "Where's Sir Edward?"

"Where indeed?" came an amiable voice from the front door, and they all swung round. Drummond, with a cheerful grin on his face, was standing there, with Darrell and Jerningham behind him.

"Strong liquor at this hour!" he said reprovingly. "Terrible, polluting the dawn like this. And have we had a nice run from London?"

"Get out, damn you!" snarled Hardcastle, "or I'll have you gaoled for trespassing."

"The English law of trespass is a very intricate one, my dear sir," answered Drummond. "Dear me," he continued commiseratingly, "I fear your neck is hurting you. Try some arnica. No? Well, it's your neck. However, to return to what you were discussing when I arrived—where is Sir Edward?"

The three men stared at him, with dawning fear in their eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about." said Hardcastle at length.

"You pain me, Tom: positively pain me. Here am I taking a walk in the coolth of the morning, and your conversation descends to that level. But tell me—why is this poor fellow on the floor all bound up? More film work? Ah, good morning, Comtessa. We're having an awfully jolly little party."

With a wrap over her pyjamas, the Comtessa was coming down the stairs. She gave a start of surprise as she saw Travers on the floor: then, with an air of calmness that did her credit, she turned to Hardcastle:

"What's it all mean, Tom?"

"It means, Comtessa," said Drummond quietly, "that the game is up. Sir Edward Greatorex arrived in London early yesterday afternoon—a fact which may help Mr. Penton and Mr. Slingsby to understand the failure of their financial operations."

"Have we got you to thank for this?" said Hardcastle thickly.

"You have, Tom," answered Drummond affably. "I owed you something for that little episode at the studio, didn't I? And as far as I am concerned my debt is paid. But I fear you will not find the same happy state of affairs with regard to Sir Edward, who is just about as wild as I have ever seen a man in my life. Still, I believe our prisons are very comfortable, even if the diet is a little monotonous. Well, I will say au revoir: we shall doubtless meet again at the trial. And, by the way, if you should find a large black cloak, smelling strongly of that stinking bog, lying about anywhere, you may keep it: it has served its purpose. I think we may say that the second ghost was quite as successful as the first."

Chapter XI

"So they've got the lot except Irma. I never thought they'd catch her."

Hugh Drummond threw down the evening paper and lit a cigarette. It was after dinner the same day, and they were all in the smoking-room at Merridale Hall, with Mr. Joseph Hetterbury an interested listener.

"'Pon my soul," he continued, "if it hadn't been for that brutal murder of young Marton I wish they'd got away with it: it was a deuced clever idea—carrying out a real crime under the cover of the same crime on the film."

"I'm still very much in the dark," said Hetterbury.

Drummond grinned. "So was I for a long while, though I ought to have tumbled to it when I spotted Marion's extraordinary resemblance to Sir Edward, and that young blighter Travers as well. Were they going to take all that trouble merely to provide an understudy for a film, especially before they knew whether Sir Edward could act or not? Now you know the plot of the film roughly, and, from what you've told me, Hardcastle gave you some more details. A millionaire is kidnapped, and while he is held prisoner on board a yacht his enemies so manipulate the markets by means of information purporting to come from him that they make a pot of money. Thus the film, and thus what they proposed to do in real life, with only one difference—the yacht.

"In a film it was easy to have all the yacht's crew villains as Hardcastle said: in real life it was impossible. Something else would have to be thought of. And don't forget that the film was going to be taken quite genuinely: the camera-men, the producer, were all absolutely honest. So the problem they had to face was how to make Sir Edward a prisoner under the very noses of a bunch of people who were not in the plot, and then hide him in a place where no one would dream of looking for him.

"The second part was easy: Glensham House, with its secret passages, was an ideal spot, especially as everyone believed he was at sea. It was getting him there that was the difficulty. And then they saw how it could be done, with Marton's help.

"There was a scene in the film where Sir Edward had to drink a glass of what was supposed to be drugged sherry. Then he was bound and gagged and bunged into the cupboard with the idea of later on being abducted in the lorry. And since there might be a little rough-house about it, it was decided that the understudy should do the second part. And everybody at the time, myself included, believed that he had done the second part.

"And then that night I got you out of bed, Algy, it dawned on me—the whole rich plot. It WAS drugged sherry that Sir Edward drank. He WAS unconscious when he was bound and gagged and bunged into the cupboard, behind which our one and only Irma, screened by a partition, erected on a thoroughly flimsy excuse, was waiting to see that nothing went amiss. But what could go amiss? Had he shouted—cried 'I'm drugged'—applause would have greeted his fine piece of acting."

"By Gosh! Hugh—now I come to think of it—he did shout," cried Algy.

"Let's go on. Two hours elapse, during which the still-unconscious Sir Edward is guarded in the office. Then the final abduction scene is played. It is dark, and Marton, talking to two of the gang, stands in the shadow, while Sir Edward is replaced in the cupboard. Naturally everyone thought it was the other way round, and that Marton was bound in the cupboard while Sir Edward looked on. It was all over in a flash: Sir Edward was rushed into the lorry by two innocent actors who thought they were carrying Marton—there was a handkerchief over most of his face—and the lorry went off in the darkness pursued by the camera and the arcs. In the meantime Marton had left for London in his car, which halted a little way from the studio. The ticklish bit was now coming. Marton must show himself again as Marton, or the whole thing would be given away. So he removes his beard, comes back as himself, and is seen by everyone. Then once more he returns to the car, resumes his role of Sir Edward, and is driven to the Ritz Carlton with Gardini in attendance.

"Feeling a little chilly, he is muffled up, and so passes the commissionaire at the door easily. He spends the night in Sir Edward's suite, and leaves the next morning for a yachting cruise, where more of the film is going to be taken. He is still muffled up, and again completely deceives the man at the door. And now comes the subtle part. The secretary goes straight to Plymouth and boards the yacht. Marton, on the other hand, goes round the corner, boards his small two-seater, removes his beard, and arrives in due course at the studio as himself.

"That was their scheme, and then at the last moment Marton jibbed. Perhaps he lost his nerve—that we shall never know. And even though they thought they'd got him completely under their thumb by getting him into such debt that he stole five thousand pounds—a theft which I believe made his old father, who found it out, kill himself—he proved intractable. And so they did him in, and managed to get Travers as the substitute instead.

"Then came their doubts about me. All the way through, the one thing they had not been sure about was how much Marton told me that afternoon he was here. And so they decided to make sure I was out of the way when the actual abduction took place. If you remember, Algy, I said to you at the time that I wondered why they had selected that night instead of the next.

"It all fitted in, you see, as one looked back on it: I was convinced that Penton driving the lorry in the film had brought Sir Edward straight to Glensham House. The world thought he was on board the yacht: the yachts crew knew nothing about it all, since the paragraph in the papers saying he was there had appeared after the yacht had sailed. But I had no proof: I had to find out for certain.

"So I toddled round to Dick Newall, and through him got in touch with Glensham, who luckily was in London. And he put me wise as to the secret passages, one of which fortunately led to an underground vault outside. I got in through that, and there, sure enough, I found my bird, in a pitiful condition.

"However, I cheered him up, warned him not to say a word, and then I ran Travers to ground. And with that young man I had a merry half-hour. He tried to bluster at first, and pitched me some cock-and-bull yarn about the whole thing being a joke. But I soon put the fear of God into him, and told him what he had to do. He had impersonated Sir Edward once, and he was damned well going to do it again.

"Then I got Sir Edward out of it the night before last, warned him still not to say a word until he'd queered their pitch over their next deal, and left Travers in his place. I knew they'd got to move quickly, for the yacht would have to put back to refuel, when the thing must come out. Of course I knew Travers wouldn't pass a close inspection, but it was dark down there, and he managed it for a day. Moreover, I was on hand as the ghost to prevent anyone lingering there, while Joseph kindly held the fort above, and incidentally found out some useful information.

"We were only just in time," Drummond continued thoughtfully. "Hardcastle was a bit oiled last night, but he was speaking the truth all right when he thought Sir Edward was his audience. Without the slightest doubt, they intended to kill him, and as far as one can see they'd have got away with it. Lapse of memory, nervous breakdown, and another convenient accident in Grimstone Mire."

The door opened, and the butler entered with the evening mail. And a few moments later a bellow of laughter from Drummond shook the house.

"Listen to this, chaps," he said weakly.

"DEAR CAPTAIN DRUMMOND,

"I feel sure you would like to have your chauffeur's insolent behaviour brought to your notice. We stopped on the way up to London for an early lunch, and to my pained amazement I found on receiving the bill that an item of eightpence for beer was included. I at once demanded an explanation, and on discovering that your man had drunk it, I struck it out and told the waiter to obtain the money from him. It is a matter of principle with me never to pay for alcohol consumed by servants.

"On explaining this to your chauffeur, instead of his realising the high moral point at issue, he stared at me very rudely. Then he turned away and made an incomprehensible remark about a perishing, flat-footed, knock-kneed, yellow beaver.

"What he meant I have no idea: surely beavers are not yellow? And a flat-footed, knock-kneed one must in any event perish. It was his manner I took exception to—his tone of voice. You would do well to take him to task for it.

"Yours very truly,

"EDWARD GREATOREX."

"That's torn it," sobbed Drummond. "What is it, Jennings?"

"Your letter, sir," said the butler, "was not stamped. The postman is demanding threepence."

THE END

Bulldog Drummond at Bay

First Published 1935

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER I

The mist was low-lying. Above it the tops of the telegraph poles stuck out into the starlit night, marking the line of the road which wound over the desolate fen country. A few isolated houses stood like scattered islands in a sea of white cloud-houses in which the lights had long been extinguished, for it was nearing midnight, and the marsh folk do not sit up late.

One house only proved the exception. In size and shape it was just as the others—a typical fenman's cottage. But from one side of it a diffused white glow shone faintly towards the line of telegraph posts. Above the mist the top room showed black and clear-cut. No light came from that window: the illumination came from the sitting-room below.

In it was seated a very large young man. Between his knees he held a gun, whilst on the table in front of him lay the usual cleaning materials, flanked on the left by a large hunk of bread and cheese, and on the right by a tankard of ale. Behind him, on the hearth-rug, a spaniel lay curled up asleep. In front of him, and close to the door which communicated with the kitchen, a bulldog in a basket snored majestically: also in front of him, and close to the door which led into the diminutive hall, a wire-haired terrier hunted ecstatically in his dreams.

The blind was up: the window, regardless of the mist which drifted sluggishly in, was open top and bottom. On the table a lamp was burning, and by its light the contents of the room stood revealed. And when those contents were compared with the living occupant the result was somewhat incongruous.

Over the mantelpiece hung several illuminated texts. They were of a depressing character, which a tasteful colour scheme of yellow beads round red letters was powerless to mitigate. Even a wedding group of the early 'sixties, which filled the place of honour in the centre, seemed unable to give that snap to the wall which the proud owner had doubtless intended. And the rest of the room was in keeping. A horsehair sofa covered with a red counterpane in which were sewn large, round pieces of coloured glass, adorned one wall: a table, complete with cloth to match the counterpane, and a stuffed weasel under a glass dome, adorned another. And in the window, on a small three-legged stool, reposed a Bible of colossal dimensions.

To the expert the solution was obvious on the spot. This was the parlour; that mysterious, unused room which is found in every similar house; that room, which, when the door is suddenly opened on the unwary visitor, exudes a strange and musty smell strongly reminiscent of a not too recent death behind the wainscot: that room which is utterly wasted on the altar of lower class respectability.

On the night when the mist was drifting just ceiling high the room was proving false to its traditions. Gone was the stale smell of ancient bones: even "Prepare to meet thy God" hung at a more rakish angle. The first was due to the open window: the second to the fact that a disreputable cap was slung on one end of the text. But the effect was all to the good. And since the large young man who at the moment was engaged in filling his pipe was presumably responsible for both acts of vandalism, it might be well to turn from the room to its occupant.

His clothes were quite incredibly ancient. Grey flannel trousers: a sweater that had once been white, and an old shooting-coat padded with leather over the shoulders comprised the outer layer. Underneath, grey socks and brown brogues, with a shirt that was open at the neck completed the picture, whilst a collar, made of the same material as the shirt, had been flung carelessly into the coal-scuttle with a tie inside it.

After a while he rose and stretched himself, and it was not until he stood up that it was possible to realise how very large he was. He stood at least six feet in height, and being broad in proportion he seemed almost to fill the room. Only the spaniel noticed his movement and opened one liquid brown eye—an eye which followed him as he sauntered over to the window and peered out. Then he returned to the table and, picking up his empty tankard, he made his way past the snorer to the kitchen. A final pint was indicated before turning in.

It was while he was drawing it that the terrier gave a sudden, sharp, staccato bark, and the large young man returned to the parlour to find that the kennels were awake. The spaniel was sitting up contemplating the window; the bulldog, though still breathing hard, had emerged from his basket, whilst the terrier was following up his one bark with a steady stream of bad language under his breath.

"What is it, fellers?" said the large young man genially. "Does some varlet approach our domain?"

Holding his beer in his hand he again went to the window.

"Shut up, Jock, you ass!" he cried. "How can I hear anything if you're making that damn fool noise?"

The terrier made a valiant effort which was partially successful; and then the strain proved too great. And this time his master heard it too. From somewhere, not very far away, there came a muffled shout, and Jock proclaimed the fact in no uncertain voice—no just reason, he reflected, for being temporarily winded with a shooting-boot.

The large young man stood motionless, listening intently. The sound was not repeated, but it seemed to him that it had not been so much a cry for help as a call from one man to another indicating that he had found something. But who could be looking for anything at midnight in the fens, with a ground mist lying thick?

The shout had come, so far as he could judge, from the road which passed his own front gate ten yards away. And he was on the point of strolling down the little garden path to investigate further, when a development occurred which was so completely unexpected that for a few moments he could only stare foolishly round the room; whilst even Jock, by this time recovered, forgot to bark. There came a crash of breaking glass, followed by a further crash of still more breaking glass, and the stuffed weasel subsided with a thud on to the carpet.

The large young man had been getting his cap when it happened, otherwise the stone which he now perceived was the cause of the outrage would have spared the weasel and taken him in the pit of the stomach. For the first crash of breaking glass had been the window, which, having been open top and bottom, now had both upper and lower panes smashed. Thence the missile, missing the lamp by a few inches, had smitten the glass dome of the weasel hip and thigh, and ricochetting off the wall had finished up by the bulldog's basket.

"Hi!" shouted the large young man, when he had recovered himself, "what the devil do you think you're doing?"

His momentary amazement had given way to anger: someone had deliberately thrown a stone through the window from the road, and it did not strike him as being in the slightest degree funny. Some tramp presumably, or a belated drunk: in any case, whoever it turned out to be, he was going to be thanked in suitable terms in the near future. Indubitably the large young man was not amused.

"Heel! The lot of you."

He strode down the garden path, and flinging open the little gate stepped into the road.

"Where's the lousy swine who bunged that brick through my window?" he called out.

There was no answer, and for a moment or two he stood undecided, with the dogs at his heels. He could hear no sound save the cry of a distant night bird, and gradually the difficulty of the position came home to him. The mist, if anything, was thicker; he could see the light from the room he had just left like a dull yellow square in the surrounding whiteness. But the trouble was he had no means of telling which way the stone-thrower had gone after he had done the deed. The fog had swallowed him up completely.

Again he listened intently, and, as he stood there motionless, subconsciously he became aware of the strange silence of the three dogs. He glanced down at them: in the dim light he could see their heads close together over something in the road. He spoke to them and they looked up at him. Between them, in the dust, was a dark patch.

The large young man lit a match and bent down to examine it. And after a while he gave a low whistle. For the patch was still wet, and it was red—that unmistakable red which can only be one thing. It was blood, and why should a tramp or a belated drunk be bleeding?

He straightened up and lit a cigarette: the mystery was becoming stranger and stranger. That the blood was recent was obvious, otherwise it would have dried in the dust. And it therefore seemed fairly conclusive to him that it had come from the man who had thrown the stone. But why should an injured man, who was so badly hurt that he was bleeding, do what he had done? Why hadn't he come up to the cottage and asked for help?

Suddenly Jock began to growl under his breath, though his master could hear nothing suspicious. Until, a few moments later, he heard very faintly in the distance the unmistakable hum of an engine. A motor-car was coming along the road, and the driver had evidently got into a low gear.

The large young man hesitated; then, with a quick order to his dogs, he stepped back on to the garden path, and, closing the gate, he stood leaning over it. He felt instinctively that this car, nosing its way through the fog, was connected in some way with the unknown stone-thrower who had come out of the night and disappeared into it again, leaving only the ominous red patch to mark his passing.

Gradually the noise of the car grew louder, until with unexpected suddenness two headlights loomed up out of the mist. They came abreast the gate, and then they halted; the driver had stopped the car. Voices sounded over the noise of the engine; then one of the doors opened and shut, and footsteps approached the gate.

The man who had got out had his hand actually on the latch, when the glow of a cigarette within a few inches of his face caused him to start violently.

"Good evening," said the large young man pleasantly. "Can I be of any assistance?"

He drew hard at his cigarette, and in the glow he got a quick glimpse of the new-comer. The man wore no hat, and his hair was cropped short, whilst his features had that square cut, Teutonic look which branded him at once as a German, even without the muttered "Gott in Himmel" that he ejaculated under his breath at the shock of finding the gate occupied.

"Have you seen a man?" he began, when once again a door in the car opened and shut, and further footsteps approached the gate. But this time the visitor carried an electric torch which he flashed on to the large young man's face. From there it travelled downwards, pausing for a moment on oil-stained hands, and finishing up with the incredibly dirty trousers.

"Have you been here long, my man?" said the new arrival curtly, and in the darkness the large young man smiled. Evidently by his clothes he had been judged.

"Nigh on thirty year coom next cherry-picking," he answered, hoping fervently that his attempt at dialect would pass muster. What dialect it was supposed to be he had no idea, but to his profound relief it seemed to go down.

"I don't mean that," snapped the other. "Have you been standing by this gate for long?"

He turned and gave a rapid order to the German beside him, who disappeared back into the car, and the engine stopped.

"Maybe five minutes—maybe more," said the large young man. "Why do 'ee ask?"

"Have you seen a man come along the road?"

"Old Gaffer Sheepshank, he coom along round about seven. He wor drunk."

The other swore under his breath.

"Just recently, I mean. Within the last few minutes."

"Noa. I ain't seen no one. What sort of a man do 'ee mean?"

But a sudden exclamation from the road interrupted their conversation.

"Emil," called out a harsh voice, "come here at once! Bring your torch."

The large young man thoughtfully ground out with his heel the cigarette he was smoking, and wondered what was going to happen next. For the gentleman who had called for Emil was now examining with keen interest the patch of blood that had happened to show up clearly in the headlights of the car. And then, after a few moments' earnest conversation, Emil returned to the gate.

"Now, look here, my man," he said quietly, "I take it this is your cottage."

"'Tis my fayther's."

"Is your father here?"

"Not to-night. He be in Norwich."

"So you're all alone in the house?"

"That's right, mister."

"Are you quite sure?" A sinister note had crept into the speaker's voice.

"Course I'm sure. Do 'ee think I'm daft?"

The torch flashed on again, and by its light the large young man saw that he was covered by a revolver.

"Get indoors," snapped the other. "And get a move on, I'm in a hurry. Now," he continued, when they were both standing in the parlour, "what have you done with the man who came along this road a few minutes ago?"

"I tell 'ee I ain't seen no man," was the stubborn answer. "And I reckons you'd better put that there toy away or it might go off. A pretty thing this—in a man's own house."

The large young man sat down in an arm-chair by the hearth-rug ostensibly to pat the spaniel, but in reality to smuggle his Free Forester tie from the coal-scuttle into his trousers pocket. This man Emil defeated him. His English was perfect, without the suspicion of an accent: to look at he might have been an Englishman. And yet there was something intangible about him that placed him as a foreigner. His clothes were faultless—perhaps a shade too faultless for the country. And on one finger of his left hand he wore a ring with a peculiar blue stone in it.

The tie smuggled successfully into his pocket the young man rose, the picture of aggrieved, bucolic indignation.

"Look 'ee 'ere, mister," he said angrily, "I'm tired of thy fooling. Search the house if it gives thee any satisfaction, and then get thee gone. I'm fair sick of the sight of thy ugly fiz, and if I knew who it was I'd have the law on 'ee to-morrow."

But the man called Emil took no notice. His revolver had dropped to his side: his gaze was riveted on the broken window.

"When did that happen?" he said slowly.

"What the 'ell's that to do with thee?"

"Silence, you fool!"

His glance wandered to the broken cover of the stuffed weasel, and finally rested on the stone itself, which he bent down and picked up. Then, balancing it in his hand, he fixed the large young man with a pair of dark, penetrating eyes.

"When did this happen?" he repeated softly.

"What's that to do with thee?"

"Who threw this stone through the window?"

"Danged if I knows, mister."

"How long ago did it happen?"

For the fraction of a second the young man hesitated: then he made up his mind he would tell the truth. It seemed to him that by doing so he stood a better chance of getting some light thrown on a mystery that was growing more incomprehensible every minute.

"Nigh about ten minutes," he said. "T'wor that that took me down to gate."

"So." The other's eyes bored into him. "So. And you did not see the man who threw the stone?"

"Noa."

"Did he call out to you? Speak to you?"

"Noa."

"What did you do after it happened?"

"Got cap and went to gate with pups."

"And you saw no sign of him?"

"Noa."

The man called Emil crossed to the window and shouted, and his companion who had discovered the blood in the road joined him at once. They stood conversing in low voices in a tongue which the large young man recognised as German. One or two stray phrases came to his ear: "dummer bauer" (imbecile peasant) ... "zeit vergendung" (waste of time); remarks which he had no difficulty in interpreting. Up to date, at any rate, it was clear that he had bluffed them into thinking he was a local product. But what infuriated him was that he was still as far off as ever from discovering what all the excitement was about. And then suddenly he caught another sentence: "sich versicheren" (better make sure).

Better make sure. Sure of what? He was not left long in doubt. The second man vaulted through the open window and vanished upstairs. His steps could be heard going into each room above: then he came down again and went into the kitchen.

"Nichts" (nothing), he said, reappearing. "Search him," ordered his leader, and the large young man recoiled a pace.

"'Ere—wot do 'ee think 'ee be a'doing of?" he cried, only to find the revolver pointing unwaveringly at his heart.

"Put your hands above your head!"

The order was curt, and, after a pause, the large young man obeyed. Not that there was anything incriminating in his pockets, except that confounded Free Forester tie, and his pulse beat a trifle faster when he saw it extracted and thrown on the table. Worse still, it fell in such a position that the name of the shop where it had been bought lay uppermost for all to see, and Norfolk yokels rarely buy their neckwear from Mr. Black, of Jermyn Street. But his luck held; neither man paid any attention to it whatever. Evidently they were looking for something else, and the question which began to hammer at his brain, even before he was allowed to put his hands down, was—what? Assuming that he was a labourer, as they undoubtedly did, what under the sun could they expect to find in his pockets which could possibly prove of the slightest interest to them?

At last the searcher was satisfied, and once again the two men held an earnest conversation. But this time their voices were so low that the listener could hear nothing. Evidently the man who had searched him was urging Emil to do something, and Emil was doubtful. At length, however, he seemed convinced, and having nodded his head two or three times, his companion returned to the car and re-started the engine, leaving Emil and the large young man alone.

"Can you keep your mouth shut, my man?"

The rustle of notes came pleasantly to the ear.

"If so be, mister, that folks make it worth my while."

"A lunatic has escaped from a private asylum," said Emil, "and he is the poor fellow who threw the stone through your window. We are trying to find him, but we do not wish it talked about. Here are two pounds which will pay for mending the glass."

He placed the notes on the table, and the large young man eyed them greedily.

"In a day or two," continued the other, "I shall be returning this way, and I shall make a point of calling in at the pub. And if I find that no one knows anything about this there will be three more to mend the cover of the stuffed animal. But if I find that people do know, why then—God help you!"

He said the last three words very softly, and the large young man stared at him thoughtfully. For the moment he had forgotten his role of bucolic yokel; he was only conscious that opposite him was standing a very dangerous customer. And as his eyes fell on that tell-tale tie lying on the table he became conscious also of a profound feeling of relief that his vis-à-vis' cricketing education had been neglected.

"You understand what I say?"

"Aye, mister. I'll say nowt."

With a nod the man called Emil left the room and strode down the garden path. And it was not until the sound of the engine was getting faint in the distance that the large young man stretched himself and lit another cigarette.

"What the devil does it all mean, Jerry?" he said, apostrophising the bulldog. "Why does Mr. Emil tell me such a fatuous lie, even if he does think I'm a half-wit? Why do people throw bricks through the window, and leave pools of blood in the road? Presumably there is some reason, but for the life of me I can't see what it is at the moment."

He glanced at his watch: it was nearly one o'clock, and he gave a prodigious yawn.

"To-morrow we will battle with the enigma," he announced. "To-morrow father will bring the grey matter to bear on what is at present shrouded in impenetrable gloom. To-night—bed."

And even as he spoke, sharp and clear through the stillness there came the sound of one solitary shot.

The dogs stirred; the large young man stiffened abruptly. The noise had come from the direction in which the car had gone, and he waited tensely. Silence: the sound was not repeated. But there had been no mistaking what it was. Someone had fired a revolver.

"Stay where you are, boys!"

The front door banged behind him, and the dogs, after one wistful look, relapsed once more into slumber, as their master, running with the easy stride of a born athlete, followed the car. The mist was still heavy, but as he got farther from the cottage, clear pockets began to appear from time to time. And it was as he was passing through one of these, that he heard in front of him the thrumming of an engine. He had caught up with the car.

He halted abruptly; then, getting on to the grass verge, he crept forward cautiously. The noise of the engine grew louder; he could hear voices ahead. And then suddenly, looming out of the fog which had again closed down on the road, he saw the red tail light of the car.

Inch by inch he moved towards it, fearful that at any moment a sudden eddy of breeze might clear the mist away and show him up. But he need not have worried: he had arrived at the end of the entertainment. He was still two or three yards from the back of the car when the driver let in his gear, the red light disappeared into the fog, and half a minute later all was silent again.

The large young man stepped out into the road and moved a few paces forward. What had they found in that particular spot to fire at? Was it the man they were looking for—the man who had presumably thrown the stone through the window? And even as he asked himself the question there came the ominous answer. No small patch this time, but a great dark pool stained the road at his feet. Blood again, and he grunted savagely.

"The poor devil must have damned near bled to death," he muttered under his breath.

With the help of a box of matches he searched the surrounding ground, but he could find nothing. At one point the grass seemed a little beaten down, but whether that had been done by the man in the car or by somebody else earlier in the day it was impossible to tell. And at last he gave it up and started back to the cottage.

He walked slowly, his hands in his pockets. Try as he would, he could get no possible solution that fitted. There always seemed to be something that refused to come into line. If, as appeared obvious, a wounded man was being pursued by the occupants of the car—a wounded man, moreover, who was capable of throwing a stone with considerable force, and after doing so of walking or crawling over a quarter of a mile—why had he not come to the cottage? Answer—because he guessed the cottage would be searched. Then why throw the stone? What good could it possibly do?

He opened the gate and turned up the path, vainly racking his brains for a solution. The dogs stirred lazily, and for a while he stood in the door staring round the room. And then his eyes narrowed. The things on the table had been moved. The oil bottle and rag were not in the same position; the gun itself was not where he had left it.

Quietly he walked across, and sitting down in the chair he opened the drawer of the table. And there he found proof positive; some papers which had been in front were now pushed to one side. Someone had been in the room in the last quarter of an hour. The two notes still remained on the cloth: it was clearly not the work of a tramp or a passing thief. So there was no doubt left in his mind as to whom it was the work of. Somebody had been left behind when the car drove away with instructions to watch the cottage, and he had seized the opportunity of the owner's absence to search it. The point was whether he was still there.

The large young man's eyes strayed towards the kitchen door: it was as he had left it. Unlikely, he reflected, that the man would be in the house, but he decided to make sure. He sauntered across and flung the door open; the room beyond was empty. Presumably therefore, if his visitor was there at all he was outside, hiding somewhere in the little garden.

There the dogs would come in. Only too well did their master know the unfailing courtesy with which they all three welcomed strangers inside the house: in all probability they had sat round the man as he searched hoping for biscuits. Outside it would be a very different matter.

"Jock! Jerry!"

He opened the front door, the terrier and the bulldog beside him.

"See him off! Good dogs! See him off!"

And then things happened quickly. Like a streak of lightning the terrier shot across a flower bed, barking furiously; his grunting companion at his heels. Came a commotion in some shrubs, and a yell of terror followed by ominous tearing sounds. Then footsteps going at speed up the road, urged on evidently by Jock.

Not so Jerry. Not for him such violent exercise at these ungodly hours: besides, his part of the performance was over. Snorting dispassionately, he waddled into sight, and deposited at his master's feet the spoils of war. Then he returned to his basket, whilst the large young man examined the catch.

"First blood to us, Jerry," he remarked approvingly. "The seat of his pants, or I'm a Dutchman. That'll larn the blighter. For all that, I wish to Heaven I could think why we are thus honoured."

He gave another vast yawn, and went over to the window; whatever the solution of the mystery might prove to be, there was nothing more to be done that night. The cottage did not boast of a telephone, and the nearest police station was five miles away. And since his car was being repaired in Sheringham, and would not be back till the following morning, there was no possible method of getting there except by walking, the mere thought of which caused him to break into a cold sweat.

Jock had returned, and his master pulled down the lower sash of the window. Broken glass fell on the floor, though most of it still remained between the two panes—large, jagged pieces, wickedly dangerous for dog's paws. So he raised the top sash carefully, and even as he put out one hand to catch the rest, he saw it. In between the fragments lay a piece of crumpled paper.

For a moment or two its significance did not strike him, and he carried the handful of glass over to the table. Then he extracted the paper and looked at it. In the centre was a frayed hole, and there were two or three crimson smears near it. But it was the scrawled words that riveted his attention.

Mary Jane. Urgent. G G Pont. A5.

He had the greatest difficulty in making out the words, which had been written with a blunt pencil. And when he had deciphered them, they did not seem to convey much. But, as he began to reason things out, the piece of paper conveyed a great deal. Things, at last, were becoming clearer, and with increased lucidity came increased caution. The mist had lifted; the road was deserted, but the large young man went to the window and pulled down the blind. So this piece of paper was what his visitors had been looking for. The writer must have wrapped it round the stone, and thrown it through the window. And the glass cutting it, had left the stone free to go on, whilst the wrapping had remained between the two panes—the one place where no one had thought of searching.

Thoughtfully he folded the paper up and put it in his pocket. And had the man called Emil seen Hugh Drummond's expression as he blew out the lamp, it might have caused him food for thought.

CHAPTER II

It has been stated somewhere that men can be divided into two classes—those who can and those who can not stop a dog fight. With equal justification the classification might be, those who look for trouble and those who do not. So that it was a trifle unfortunate for the nocturnal motorists that by no possible stretch of imagination could the recipient of the brick be placed in the second category.

Hugh Drummond had come to his old nurse's cottage, during her temporary absence, for a few days duck-shooting, but with the arrival of that cryptic message out of the fog all ideas of that innocent pastime had at once left his head. And when he awoke the next morning to find the sun pouring through the window of his bedroom he was still of the same way of thinking.

That he ought, as a right-minded citizen, to take the message and story to the police was obvious. The trouble was that he did not feel in the least degree like doing so. A hard-worked body of men: it struck him that it would be a crime to overburden them still more. Besides, he felt that the reception of his story by the local constable would probably leave much to be desired. But for the broken windows of the parlour he himself could almost have believed the whole thing to have been a nightmare. What then was the reaction of the village guardian of the peace going to be?

A cheerful rat-tat on the door announced the arrival of the post and Drummond put his head out of the window.

"Morning, Joe. Anything for me?"

"No, sir," said the postman. "Two for Mrs. Eskdale. Be she coming back this morning?"

"She is, Joe."

The postman's glance strayed to the parlour window.

"Good Lord, sir! what have 'ee been doing here?"

"Got angry with it and bit it, Joe," answered the other with a grin. "Chuck the letters through the bottom hole into the parlour."

The postman did as he was asked, still clearly intrigued beyond measure at the broken glass.

"It was all right yesterday evening, sir," he remarked.

"Indigestion in the middle of the night, Joe: eating glass is the best thing in the world for it."

"Strikes me a motor-car had indigestion up the road there, too: I never did see such a pool of oil. Ten times the size of that there one outside your gate."

"What's that, Joe?"

Hugh Drummond, who had slipped on a shirt and a pair of flannel trousers, appeared at the door.

"Oil outside the gate? Let's go and have a look at it."

The dew was still heavy on the grass as the two men strolled down the path, with the dogs behind them.

"B'ain't nothing to pool up further," repeated the postman. "There it be."

"So I see," said the other thoughtfully. "Yes—that's oil right enough."

"Darned near skidded in other patch, I did." The postman prepared to mount his bicycle. "Dratted stinking machines, I calls 'em. Well, good morning, sir."

"Morning, Joe."

For a moment or two it was on the tip of his tongue to ask this reservoir of local gossip if any strangers had been seen in the neighbourhood, but he refrained. If they had, he reflected, Joe would have passed it on by now; and if they had not it would only whet still more that worthy's insatiable curiosity, already strained to bursting point by the broken window.

He watched the postman cycle away; then he again looked at the pool of oil. Nothing very interesting about it, except one thing. It exactly covered and obliterated the pool of blood which had been there a few hours previously.

"Interesting," he muttered to himself. "Very interesting. One wonders excessively."

He whistled the dogs to follow him and started up the road. He did not wonder at all: he knew what he was going to find, but it was better to make certain. And sure enough he had only gone a bare quarter of a mile when he saw a large dark patch in the dust in front of him. There was no mistake about it: beside it was the beaten-down bit of the verge. This was the place where he had overtaken the car.

For a while he stood there smoking thoughtfully. This oil had not been put down at the time—that he was prepared to swear. Therefore someone had been sent back during the night to do it. A clumsy way of covering their tracks: oil does not generally flow from a motor-car quite so prolifically. Besides, this was new oil, and not old stuff from the sump. At the same time it was difficult to see what better method could have been thought of on the spur of the moment. And one thing it proved conclusively: Mr. Emil and Co. were desperately anxious to blush unseen.

He strolled back to the cottage, where a loud hissing noise in the kitchen announced that the kettle was boiling, and made himself some tea. As a cook he did not excel, but having raided the local hen he was proceeding to boil the fruit of her labours, when a knock on the front door and a chorus from the dogs proclaimed a visitor.

"Come in," shouted Drummond. "I shan't be long."

"Will the bulldog bite?" asked a very delightful feminine voice.

The chef paused in his work. Who the deuce could this be?

"Jerry—come here, you blighter!" he cried as he went to the front door. "How dare you..."

He paused again. Confronting him was a charming-looking girl of about twenty-five. What she was dressed in his masculine eye somewhat naturally failed to notice, except that it seemed the goods. Also it most certainly was not the raiment one would expect to see at that hour of the morning in the middle of the fen country.

"Forgive me," he murmured, "I was expecting a dear old lady whose dimensions are somewhat similar to those of a steam-roller, and your sudden appearance rather shook me. Won't you come in?"

The girl stared at him in silence for a moment or two, and it seemed to him that a look of surprise flashed across her face.

"My car has broken down," she said at length. "It is just a few yards up the road. I wondered if you had a telephone here, so that I could ring up a garage."

"I'm afraid that's beyond me," he confessed. "The telephone is a rara avis in these parts. But perhaps I might be able to help, and if I can't my own car is being brought here shortly by a bloke from a garage. He'll do the necessary if it defeats me. Let's go and have a look."

"So you have a car, have you?" she said. "I should have thought that was even more of a rara avis round here than a telephone."

They were strolling along the road towards a small two-seater, which, with its back towards them, was standing motionless a couple of hundred yards away.

"Amongst the inhabitants, you're right," he agreed. "I am only a visitor."

"Are you in that little cottage all by yourself?"

"Until Nanny comes back," he said with a grin. "She is the steam-roller I told you I was expecting."

She stared at him with a slightly puzzled frown.

"I don't quite understand," she said. "Where do you live usually?"

"In London—where, I trust, I shall have the pleasure of renewing your acquaintance."

"But why on earth do you come to a place like this?"

"For excitement," he told her, "when London gets too dull. One would never find anyone like you on the doorstep along with the morning milk in the old metropolis."

But her frown was still there, though she smiled faintly.

"You're rather an extraordinary individual," she remarked. "Have you been here long?"

"Two days," he answered. "Now let's have a look at the bus."

He opened the bonnet, and even as he did so he heard a little gasp. He glanced up: the girl, with her eyes closed, was holding on to the door.

"What is it?" he cried. "Aren't you feeling well?"

"Would you get me some water?" she muttered. "My head is all swimming."

"Of course I will. I won't be a second. Get into the car and sit down."

He raced back towards the cottage and got a glass of cold water. Pray Allah she was not going to throw a faint, he reflected. Hugh Drummond's ideas of first aid were most sketchy. But when he got back to the car she seemed to have partially recovered, though she sipped the water gratefully.

"Sorry to be so silly," she said apologetically, "but I have not had any breakfast."

"My dear soul," he cried, "that must be remedied at once. If you can bear a boiled egg, or, better still, can do something in the bacon line, we will do the trick at my cottage."

"I ought to be getting on," she answered doubtfully.

"That's out of the question until you've had some food. Breakfast first; then we'll tackle the car."

She allowed herself to be persuaded, and they walked back to the cottage together.

"Where are you off to that makes a start at such an ungodly hour necessary?" he asked.

"To a house not far from Cambridge," she answered. "My uncle's place. And he wanted me there early to get some wretched tennis tournament fixed up for this afternoon. Good heavens! What have you been doing to the windows? I didn't notice them before."

"A merry Norfolk pastime," he said with a smile. "Some blighter wished it on me last night."

"What do you mean?" she cried.

"A fact," he assured her. "Someone threw a brick through the window and nearly hit little Willie in the tummy."

"What on earth did he do that for?"

"The ways of drunks are passing strange," he answered. "But I don't know what the proud owner will say when she sees it."

It was the story he had decided to tell Mrs. Eskdale, and since the two women were likely to overlap it saved bother to spin the same yarn to both.

"Are you expecting her back soon?"

"At any moment. And then, providing we've got your car right, I'm off to London."

"Country getting too exciting?"

"That's the idea."

He poured out the tea and went into the kitchen to get the eggs.

"Put some milk in mine, like an angel," he called out. "And two—lumps of sugar."

For the fraction of a second he had paused as he spoke; for the fraction of a second he had stood motionless, his eyes glued to the mirror which hung above the little range. For in it he had seen the reflection of the girl seated at the table. And she was putting something into his tea which most certainly was not milk.

He forced himself to continue speaking mechanically, but his brain was racing overtime. He knew his eyes had not deceived him, and the shock was a considerable one. It was such a complete surprise. That the girl was anything but what she seemed on the surface had never entered his mind for an instant. But now as he went on talking he was trying to adjust himself to this new development.

If—and there was no doubt about it—she had put dope in his tea she must be mixed up with the bunch of last night. And at once the reason for the look of surprise on her face when she first saw him was clear. She had been expecting a man of the labourer type, and instead she had met him.

The point to be decided, however, was what to do next. He was convinced that she had not the slightest suspicion that he had seen her, and the essential thing was that she should continue in the same state of ignorance. At the same time the little matter of the tea had to be settled. And so, being a direct person, he disposed of it at once. He tackled the loaf and the knife slipped. Thence his elbow took the cup: his trousers took the tea, and the thing was done save for some mild and suitable blasphemy.

"I am a clumsy devil," he cried. "And, ye gods! that tea is hot. Will you excuse me while I go and remove these garments?"

"Of course," she said. "You poor man! How it must have hurt."

She was all anxious commiseration: not by the flicker of an eyelid did she show any annoyance at the failure of her scheme. And as he changed he wondered what her next move was going to be. Sleep dope—at least he hoped it had been no worse than that; she was such an astoundingly attractive filly. Just something to drug him while she once more searched the house for that paper. It surely must be important—that message that had been wrapped round the stone—for them to take all this trouble to find it. And they could not be looking for anything else.

They were thorough, too, sending this girl as a follow up; they left nothing to chance. So thorough, in fact, that he removed the paper which he had placed for safety in the lining of his hat, and having finally and definitely committed it to memory, he put a match to one corner and watched it flare away to ashes. Not that he saw any possibility of her getting hold of it, but young women who were prepared to dope drink on sight, so to speak, wanted watching. And once again he wondered what to expect next.

The noise of the gate closing made him look out of the window: the girl was strolling up the road towards her car. And for a while he watched her through narrowed eyes. She walked with a graceful swing which met with his entire approval, and the more he thought of the thing, the harder did he find it to reconcile her appearance with what had taken place downstairs. In fact, he tried to persuade himself that the mirror was distorted and that he had made a mistake. Unfortunately the mirror was not distorted, and he knew he had not done anything of the sort, but it was a valiant and praiseworthy attempt.

The sound of wheels greeted him as he went downstairs; Mrs. Eskdale was descending from the local carrier's cart.

"Master Hugh," she cried as she saw his clothes, "you're not going away?"

"Afraid I am, my pet," he answered, "but perhaps it will only be for to-day. Anyway, I'm leaving the dogs with you."

She waddled up the path, to pause aghast at the sight of the parlour window.

"An accident, Nannie," he continued, with his arm round her waist, "caused by a passing drunk last night, from whom I removed two perfectly good Bradburys to repair the damage. And this is a delightful lady whose car has broken down, and who has been having breakfast with me."

The girl had joined them, and the old nurse looked at her suspiciously. Delightful ladies in the proximity of her Master Hugh did not fit into her scheme of things. But the girl smiled so charmingly that she partly relented.

"It was such a mercy that it happened here: I don't know what I'd have done without that cup of tea. And what a sweet cottage you've got."

Mrs. Eskdale relented still more: a sure way to her good graces was through her garden or her house. And when, an hour later, Drummond's car drew up outside she had quite taken the unexpected visitor to her heart. Moreover, the hour had mostly been spent in the cottage. As Drummond unblushingly admitted, his knowledge of a car's anatomy was confined to adding petrol periodically and oil when he remembered, and a very brief survey of the derelict was enough to convince him that the matter was far beyond his attainments.

But not beyond those of the mechanic from Sheringham. Briefly, Drummond explained to him what had happened as they walked up the road, and he grunted dispassionately.

"Suddenly conked out, did she? Looks as though she's run out of petrol."

But on that point Drummond was firm; he, personally, with an air of great impressiveness, had performed evolutions and had looked in the tank. Shortage there, at any rate, was not the cause of the disaster.

"Well—we'll see," said the mechanic, removing his coat and bending over the engine. And it was not until half an hour later that the mechanic, with a grunt of astonishment, proceeded to scratch his head and gaze at something in his hand.

"You say, sir," he said at length, "that she was going all right and then she suddenly stopped?"

"That's what the lady told me," said Drummond.

"Most extraordinary thing I've ever known," remarked the man.

"Can't you find out why she stopped?"

"I know now why she stopped, sir," said the mechanic. "But what I can't make out is how under the sun she ever went. Look here, sir—this thing in my hand is the top of the distributor, the thing what's used in the electric circuit."

"I'll take your word for it," remarked Drummond courteously.

"Well, sir, in a motor-car everything depends on the contact points being clean and dry; otherwise you don't get any connection. Now, if you look at these you'll see they're swimming in oil. The whole thing is swimming in oil. And what I can't understand is how the oil ever got here."

"Something must have leaked somewhere." said Drummond vaguely.

"You couldn't have a sudden leak here, sir; there's no oil pipe anywhere near it. Besides, there's no trace of a leak. Now, from what the lady says, the car was going all right to start with. Well, if she was firing properly this oil couldn't have been here. Stands to reason. Then she stops firing because this oil is here. Stands to reason again. But what don't stand to reason is how the oil got here. It couldn't have come of itself."

And with that illuminating phrase light dawned on Drummond. If the oil could not have come there by itself, someone must have put it there. That sudden faint became clearer. And as he watched the girl playing with the dogs outside the cottage a slight smile twitched round his lips.

"How long will it take you to put it right?" he demanded.

"Not very long, sir. I'll just have to take this to pieces and thoroughly clean it and dry it."

Drummond glanced down the road: the girl was coming towards them.

"Put it back," he said quietly, "and follow my lead. I'll make it worth your while. You haven't been able to find out what's the matter. Well, this is a black business," he cried as the girl joined them. "Up to date the expert has failed."

"What am I going to do?" she said disconsolately. "Poor old uncle! He'll get every handicap wrong, bless his heart."

"Not on your life," laughed Drummond. "What's the matter with my bus? I can easily drop you at your uncle's house on my way to London."

The girl looked at him doubtfully, whilst the mechanic hurriedly concealed a grin. So that was how the land lay.

"I couldn't think of troubling you," she said. "It's miles out of your way."

"It's nothing of the sort," he answered. "In any case, the day is yet young. We will leave this warrior here to delve still deeper into the villainies of your machine, and we will push off."

"Well, if you're quite sure it's not a frightful bother," she said gratefully. "It's most awfully good of you."

"Say no more." Drummond waved a vast hand. "The matter is settled save for one trifling detail. Where is he to take the car when he's got it to go? To your uncle's house?"

She hesitated for a moment.

"Let me think," she said. "I think it would be better if he left it in Cambridge. Do you know Cannaby's garage?"

"I don't, miss, but I can find it."

"You see," she explained to Drummond, "my uncle has only just gone there, and it's difficult to describe where his house is. So leave it at Cannaby's garage," she told the mechanic, "and I will ring them up and tell them to pay you whatever it comes to."

He touched his cap.

"All right, miss. I'll leave her there."

He watched the two of them as they strolled back to the cottage, and the grin was no longer hidden. The exact refinements of the case were beyond his ken, but the main basic idea was obvious. And it struck him that the large bloke was no bad judge either, an opinion he had no desire to retract when Drummond returned alone and gave him a ten-shilling note. To bring the car along in an hour or so, and keep his mouth shut at Cannaby's garage were his instructions and easy to understand. What was a little harder to follow was the meaning of the cryptic telegram he had in his pocket. His orders were to send it if the writer had not arrived at the garage by midday.

Darrell. Senior Sports Club, London. Spider, Parlour. Cambridge. Hugh.

It did not seem to make sense to him. It was not a racing code, so far as he could make out; it had but little to do with love. In fact it defeated him. And not the least perplexing part of the matter was that there seemed to be no reason to prevent the bloke sending it himself.

CHAPTER III

That he was deliberately walking into the parlour and playing the part of the fly did not trouble Hugh Drummond in the slightest. Too often in the past had he done the same thing for it to worry him. And even when the girl asked him to stop in a village so that she could ostensibly telephone her uncle to say that she would be late, but in reality to warn in about his arrival, he rather welcomed the opportunity for getting things straightened out in his mind.

Her name he had discovered was Venables; and the more he had talked to her the more he had wondered at her being mixed up with his visitors of the previous evening. So much so that he had once again begun to wonder if his eyes had deceived him over the tea-cup incident. Against that however, he had to put the matter of the car. If what the mechanic had said was correct, she must have deliberately put the oil in herself. She had done it the first instant she could after finding out that his over-night guests had made a mistake in putting him down as a local product. And as one who was used to acting on the spur of the moment himself he could only admire her technique.

Without doubt had he tried the self-starter when he first got to the car the engine would have gone perfectly; believing that she had to deal with a labourer who knew nothing about motors she would not have troubled to put the machine out of commission. And then quite unexpectedly she found out her error, and rectified it in a way that showed she was no inexpert driver. But with what object? Answer obvious. So that she could dope his tea and again search the house for the message. There she had backed a loser, and had taken it without turning a hair.

He lit a cigarette as he sat idly at the wheel; the telephone call was a lengthy one. What had been her next move? He recalled her growing anxiety over her uncle's tennis party; her apparent impatience to get started. She had naturally not suggested it, but was she hoping all along that he would take her in his own car? If so it must have seemed to her that he had played right into her hands.

Again, however, came the question: with what object? Why did she want him to meet her uncle? And this time the answer was not so obvious. The idea that it was anything to do with getting her there quickly because of a tennis party he dismissed as absurd. If it was only that, she, having done the damage to her own car herself, could very easily and oh! so cleverly have discovered it herself. Why then did she want him to go to her uncle's house at Cambridge? Could it be possible that certain arrangements were even now being made to greet him in a suitable fashion? Could it be possible that such an unladylike thing as a rough house was looming in the offing?

Drummond grinned happily to himself; life seemed astoundingly good. True, at the moment, the warfare was blind, but he held one very valuable card. He was convinced that the girl had no inkling that he had got her taped. That she suspected him was obvious; the mere fact that he had acted the part of a yokel the previous night, and had lied about the broken window, was sufficient to blot his copy-book.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting all this time," said the girl when she at length appeared. "But my poor old uncle seems terribly worried."

"That's not so good," answered Drummond. "What's the trouble? Has the vicar's wife ratted from the tennis party?"

But she remained dead serious.

"Captain Drummond," she said, "I hate to bother you. But would you be an absolute dear and take me to Norwich?"

"Of course," cried Drummond. "Take you anywhere you like, bless your heart. And it's very little out of our way. Or do you want me to leave you there?"

"No, no; I've just got to find out something. It won't take me a moment."

"The day is yet young," said Drummond cheerfully. "Take as many moments as you like."

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw that she was in no mood for conversation. She was staring in front of her, and her fingers were drumming a tattoo on the arm rest.

"It's damnable," she burst out once. "Utterly damnable."

"I'm sure it is," he remarked soothingly. "What's the trouble?"

But she shook her head.

"The family skeleton," she said bitterly. "And it's driving my uncle into his grave."

And not another word was spoken until they reached Norwich.

"Will you wait for me here," she said as the car drew up under the shadow of the cathedral. "I'll be as quick as I possibly can."

"Here you will find me," Drummond assured her, and watched her till she was out of sight. The idea of following her had crossed his mind, only to be dismissed at once. What significance, if any, was to be attached to this unexpected change of route, at the moment was beyond him. But one thing was certain. If he was still to retain his one trump he must do nothing to make her think he suspected her. And to follow her in the broad light of day, when she clearly did not want his company, would be such an outrageous piece of bad taste that it would give him away immediately. So there was nothing for it but to possess his soul in patience until she returned, and then await further developments.

It was twenty minutes before he saw her coming towards him, and it was obvious her mission had not been a success. Without a word she got into the car, and he started up the engine.

"Cambridge?" he asked. "Or is there anything else you have to do here?"

"No, thank you," she said. "I've found out what I wanted to know."

"I fear the result is not very satisfactory," said Drummond.

"Satisfactory," she cried. "I don't know how I shall break it to my uncle."

"Look here, Miss Venables," said Drummond quietly. "I don't want to barge in, or anything of that sort, but can I be of any assistance? I mean, it's clear that something is up."

For a while she did not answer; then suddenly she seemed to make up her mind.

"Captain Drummond, have you ever heard of Der Schlüssel Verein?"

"The—whatever you said. Afraid I haven't. What does it mean when it's at home?"

"Actually it means the Key Club."

"I'm still afraid I haven't," said Drummond. "It sounds pretty harmless."

She gave a short laugh.

"You may take it from me that the name is the only thing about it that is harmless. The Key Club is the most dangerous secret society in Europe to-day."

Drummond negotiated a cow with care.

"The devil they are," he remarked. "I thought secret societies had gone out of fashion some time ago."

"Then you thought wrong," cried the girl bitterly.

"Well, well—one lives and learns. Anyway, what do these birds mean in your young life?"

"Nothing in mine actually," she answered, "but a lot in my uncle's."

"Is your uncle a foreigner?"

"Good heavens! no. He's as English as you or I."

Drummond was thinking hard, though his face expressed polite interest. And suddenly it dawned on him that if he still wanted to hold that trump card of his he must, after such an opening, allude to his visitors of the previous night. To keep silent would be tantamount to admitting that he did not trust her.

"Funny you should talk about foreigners," he said casually. "I had a visit from two of them last night. Germans."

"You had," she cried, and Drummond gave her full marks for registering amazement. "What on earth did they want with you?"

"'Pon my soul, Miss Venables, I don't know. They talked a great deal out of their turn, and a gentleman called Emil..."

"Emil," she gasped. "Was he wearing a ring with a blue stone in it?"

"That's the cove. Do you know him?"

"Captain Drummond, he's one of the big men in the Key Club."

"Is he now? He was throwing his weight about all right last night. Took me for a farm labourer, and I did not disillusionise him. He arrived shortly after that drunk I told you about had bunged the brick through the window. It seemed to interest him quite a lot—that brick."

"But I don't understand," she cried. "Why did you let him think you were a farm labourer?"

"Saved bother," answered Drummond casually. "He seemed set on it."

"I can't get this straight at all," she said. "Why should he worry about a brick?"

"Extraordinary what some people's hobbies are," he remarked. "He seemed all hot and bothered about it. Waved a gun in the atmosphere, and frothed at the mouth. Of course it may have been a pool of blood in the road outside that caused the apoplexy."

"A pool of blood!" she echoed. "But was somebody hurt?"

"Presumably. Blood doesn't grow on its own. Though, of course, it may have been some animal."

"Didn't you do anything to find out?" she cried.

"My dear Miss Venables, the mist was so dense you could hardly see your hand in front of your face. Besides, Mr. Emil was occupying my attention. He seemed to think I'd got a man concealed about the cottage."

"You mean he was chasing someone?"

"That is undoubtedly the impression he gave me."

"I see," said the girl after a long pause. "Only too clearly, unfortunately."

"I'm delighted to hear it," remarked Drummond. "For I most certainly don't. And if you can explain I shall be very grateful."

"Do you know who it was I went to see in Norwich?" she said, after another long pause.

"Haven't an earthly, bless you. How should I?"

"The man whose blood was on the road. The man they were chasing."

"And did you see him?"

"No. His landlady told me that two foreigners called for him late last night, and that he went away with them. They'd found him, and then I suppose he somehow escaped from them in the mist. And it was then they came to you. Oh! it will break Uncle John's heart."

Drummond stared at her.

"What's Uncle John got to do with it?"

"It was his son; my first cousin Harold."

Drummond whistled thoughtfully.

"Was it, by Jove! And why, if it isn't a rude question, should Mr. Emil and Co. be chasing your first cousin Harold?"

"Captain Drummond," she said suddenly. "I'm going to trust you. Whether I'm doing right or not, I don't know, but the whole thing has got on my nerves. And now that this has happened, and you have been mixed up in it in such an extraordinary way, I feel I just can't stand it any more. Three years ago Harold went to Germany..."

"Just a moment, Miss Venables. What sort of a bloke is Harold?"

"A nice boy, but weak. His mother died when he was born, and Uncle John, though I'm devoted to him, has brought him up very badly. He's spoiled him abominably all his life, with the inevitable result that Harold is a waster. Well, as I say, he went to Germany three years ago—his one great gift is that he speaks languages perfectly—and there, in some extraordinary way, he got mixed up with that devil Emil and the Key Club. In fact he became a member of the society himself."

"Did he? Seems strange that an Englishman was allowed to join a German secret society."

"So he ought to have realised," she admitted. "But he didn't; until it was too late. He looked on the whole thing as a sort of joke, till one fine day he discovered his mistake. You'll understand, Captain Drummond, that neither my uncle nor I knew about it at the time; we only found it out quite recently. And though we noticed he was looking haggard and worried, he wouldn't tell us what was the matter. And then one day I got it out of him. They were bringing pressure on him to supply them with confidential information."

"Hold hard a minute," cried Drummond. "What confidential information could your cousin have access to which would be of any value to them?"

"I'm sorry, Captain Drummond; I'm telling it badly. I forgot to say that Harold is in the Foreign Office, and so he frequently has the opportunity of seeing important documents."

"I get you," said Drummond. "Please go on."

"A fortnight ago it came to a head. I was with my uncle at the time, and Harold suddenly arrived one evening in a pitiable condition. And to make matters worse he'd been drinking, which, to do him justice, is not a vice of his. For a time he was quite incoherent, but at last we got some sort of sense out of him. It was terrible, Captain Drummond; terrible. Apparently these devils, who had hitherto contented themselves with threatening him by letter from Germany, had arrived in this country, and were bringing pressure to bear on him in person. There was some document or other they wanted a copy of, and unless he got it for them he knew what the result would be."

"Why didn't he go to the police?"

"Just what my uncle said to him. And then we heard the ghastly truth; he didn't dare to. He had already sent these men certain information which he had no business to, though he swore on his Bible oath that it was of no real importance. For all that the mere fact that he'd sent anything at all was enough to brand him for life. And these brutes knew it, and were bringing the screw to bear, over something that really was vital—something that it really was traitorous to give away.

"He was at his wits' end, Captain Drummond. If he didn't tell them it meant death; if he did he felt he would never hold up his head again. And so he had taken the only course open to him. Somehow or other he had managed to get three weeks leave, and he'd bolted from London. But now arose the difficulty. He couldn't stop in my uncle's house, because they could easily track him there. So he had to go into hiding. And we decided on the rooms in Norwich where I went to-day."

"But how did you know this had happened last night, Miss Venables?" asked Drummond.

"My uncle told me over the telephone," she said. "You see this tennis party has been fixed for weeks, and both my uncle and I agreed it would be unwise to postpone it. I've been staying with some friends for a few days, and it was when I rang him up to explain why I was late that he told me he had 'phoned Harold last night and again this morning, and that the only reply he could get was from the landlady to say that Harold's bed had not been slept in. The rest you know. Somehow or other they got on his tracks, and now..."

She was rolling her handkerchief into a ball in her hands.

"Poor old Uncle John! He idolised Harold."

"I'm very sorry for both of you," said Drummond gravely. "In fact it's the devil and all of a business."

"I suppose I oughtn't to have told you, but somehow or other you look the sort of man one can rely on."

"Deuced kind of you to say so, my dear," cried Drummond genially. "But the thing that is worrying my grey matter is why your cousin should have bunged a rock through the window."

"I've been thinking of that, Captain Drummond," she said thoughtfully. "Do you think it possible that he wrapped a piece of paper round it: some message or other, which he hoped you would get?"

"Good Lord!" cried Drummond, "that's a darned brainy idea. Now you mention it, that's probably why our old friend Emil was so interested in the contents of my pockets. And to think I never thought of that!"

He stole a glance at her: her forehead was puckered in thought. And once again he gave her full marks for her acting. How much of the Harold sobstuff yarn was true he had no idea: but he had to admit that it was a very plausible tale, very plausibly told. Further, that if he had not seen what he had seen in the mirror; and if the mechanic had not made his illuminating remark about the oil, he would probably have believed it. And if he had believed it, there would have been no reason against passing the message on to her.

He was growing more and more intrigued over the whole affair, and increasingly anxious to meet Uncle John. The girl by his side was obviously English: would her relative prove the same? Was he even her uncle at all? And what terms was she really on with the man called Emil? In fact only one certainty seemed to him to stand out in the confusion. They had correctly surmised what the stone had been used for, but after that they were floundering in the dark. Had he received the message, or had he not? And to find that out they were obviously prepared to go to considerable lengths.

He pulled himself together: the girl was speaking again.

"What's that?" he cried. "See any sign of a piece of paper? Not a trace. There was certainly nothing wrapped round the stone when it came into the room, so if there was anything there to start with it must have fallen off earlier. In which case it might be somewhere in the garden, unless it has blown away. Pity you didn't have your brain storm earlier, Miss Venables: we could have had a look. For if it comes under Mrs. Eskdale's eagle eye it will instantly cease to exist. But in any event I don't see really that it could prove of much value. What could your cousin have written which would help matters? You've got to remember that so far as he knew the house was occupied by a labourer."

"He might have found out where they were taking him to, Captain Drummond, and flung the name as a despairing SOS through the first lighted window he saw."

Drummond gazed at her in admiration.

"'Pon my soul, Miss Venables," he boomed enthusiastically, "it's a pleasure to work with you. Now I should never have thought of that. SOS, by Jove! That's the stuff to give the troops."

"If we're going to save him," she went on, "it's vital we should know where they've taken him to as soon as possible. And I know my uncle won't want to call in the police."

"What about sending a wire to Mrs. Eskdale telling her to give the dustbin a once over?" said Drummond helpfully. "The old dear will think I've gone bughouse, but what matter."

"It can't do any harm, can it?" cried the girl. "A very good idea, Captain Drummond."

"Splendid. We'll stop at the first post office we come to. Incidentally, I suppose she'd better send the answer to your uncle's house. What address shall I give her?"

"Hartley Court is the name of the house. Just Hartley Court, Cambridge, is enough."

"And your uncle's name?"

"Meredith: he is my mother's brother."

"Right," cried Drummond. "It shall be attended to. She's a sensible old dame, and if she finds the paper and there's anything on it we shall know. Is that a post office ahead? It is. I won't be long."

He pulled up beside the kerb, and leaving the girl sitting in the car he went inside. A faint smile was twitching round his lips, and he stood for a few moments tapping his teeth with the pencil. Then he suddenly gave a little chuckle and seizing a form he began to write quickly. It was a long message, and when it was completed he re-read it carefully. It was perfectly clear: Mrs. Eskdale could make no mistake. He tore it off the block, removing at the same time the two next forms which he rolled into a ball and threw into the paper basket.

"If by any chance," he said to the man behind the counter, "any inquiries are made later in the day about this wire by anyone—it doesn't matter who it is—you'll be careful to say nothing, won't you?"

"Trust me, sir," said the operator. "The contents of that there telegram is a secret. Not even the King of England has the right to ask to see it."

"Quite, quite," cried Drummond soothingly. "But it might be put in such a way that it would seem to you that you were doing no harm. But when I tell you there's a big bet at stake you'll understand."

"Think no more about it, sir. I knows my duty, and I does it."

"The deed is done," said Drummond as he got back into the car. "I've asked the old girl to look in the garden for a piece of paper with writing on it, and if she finds anything to wire the contents to your uncle. It should be through in a couple of hours: there's a post office not far from her cottage."

"Thank you so much," she cried. "It's a shame to give you all this trouble."

"Devil a bit, bless you. But we'd better get a move on, or your uncle will pair off the wrong people."

"He's cancelled the party, so that doesn't matter," she said, "He told me so on the telephone: he felt too worried over Harold, so he's put them off. For all that I would like to hurry: you see, he doesn't know what we know."

"Of course not," agreed Drummond. "I'll stamp on the juice. I make it that we've got about twenty more miles to go to Cambridge itself."

"The house is about three miles this side," she said: a spot where even at that moment an earnest council of war was in progress.

In an upstairs room stood a grey-haired man of about fifty-five: facing him across the table was the German called Emil. And he had only just arrived.

"I don't understand," he was saying harshly. "You say that this farm labourer is motoring Doris here."

"Farm labourer," sneered the other. "Do farm labourers have Rolls Royce coupés? He fooled you to the top of his bent, Emil. He's a man called Captain Drummond."

"So," said the German softly. "What was he doing then in that cottage all by himself?"

"He goes there for duck shooting. But a far more important point is why he pretended to be a labourer. That's what I can't make out. What was his object?"

The German lit a short and dangerous looking cigar.

"What was his object?" repeated the grey-haired man. "It looks to me definitely as if our friend knew where he was going."

"In that fog?" The German shook his head. "Not possible, Meredith. Besides, he was more dead than alive even then."

"Then it is a very strange coincidence," cried Meredith. "There must have been a message round that stone in view of who it was who threw it. He would never have done such a senseless thing as to smash a window for fun."

"Well, I couldn't find it, and from what you say Doris has not succeeded either. And don't forget, Meredith, that all that matters is that no one should find it. Provided it's lost, we're safe."

"But is it lost? So long as I thought this man was a labourer I didn't mind. Now a totally different complexion is put on things."

The German shrugged his shoulders.

"We went through his house with a fine tooth comb," he said.

"What's the good of that?" cried Meredith impatiently. "A message can easily be committed to memory."

"Now look here, Meredith," said the German quietly, "you'd better pull yourself together. If what you're getting at is correct, and this man Drummond is one of them, why didn't our friend here go up to the cottage? Or why didn't he call out for help? It's folly to suppose that he'd have adopted the method he did, if he knew who was inside the room. No, no, my dear fellow: you're alarming yourself unnecessarily. Knowing that he'd only got a short time he took a chance with the first house where he saw the owner was still awake. It might have been a genuine labourer: it might have been Jones or Smith, but it happened to be this fellow Drummond. Why he should have pretended to be a farm hand I can't say: possibly my gun frightened him and he thought it was safer."

"Perhaps you're right," said Meredith hopefully. "At any rate we can only wait till we see Doris."

"Which reminds me, Meredith," remarked the German. "There's a question I've long been wanting to ask you. What are we going to do with that young woman when we've finished?"

"The same as with the others, I suppose."

"And you think she'll stand for it? I wonder. I have sometimes thought of late that she has become unduly inquisitive."

He stared at the ash on his cigar.

"Increasingly desirous, shall we say," continued the German, "of finding out what only the Inner Council know. Particularly with regard to the whereabouts of our—how shall I put it—our head-quarters."

"Feminine curiosity," said Meredith. "Perfectly natural."

"It is now my turn to say perhaps you're right," said the German. "Anyway, here comes the car. Her wisdom in bringing him here is doubtful, but since she has, I, naturally, must not be seen."

"He is certainly no chicken," remarked Meredith, staring through the curtains.

"He is one of the largest individuals I've ever seen in my life," said the German. "Let us hope his brain is not equivalent to his brawn."

They watched the car drive up to the door and the girl get out. And a few moments later she entered the room.

"Well?" cried both men.

"He's got no message," she said quietly. "Of that I'm certain. But how on earth did you come to make such an idiotic mistake, Herr Veight? I very nearly gave the whole show away this morning when I saw him. And I had to change my entire plan of campaign on the spot."

"Was it wise to bring him here?" said Meredith.

"I had to. First I tried to dope his tea: that failed. Then I had another look in the garden whilst he and the mechanic were tinkering with the car up the road. But the old woman who owns the cottage was with me and I had to be careful. I could see nothing, and so to make perfectly certain I had to concoct a scheme. Now listen, Mr. Meredith, because you'll have to go down and see him. You're my uncle, and it's your son Harold in the Foreign Office who has been abducted by the German gang of Der Schlüssel Verein."

"Great heavens!" cried Emil, "you haven't told him that, have you?"

"Of course I have. What you don't seem to be able to get into your thick head," said the girl angrily, "is that this man is not a farm labourer. He's a gentleman even if he is a fool. And do you suppose he's going to keep quiet over last night unless something is done about it? The only possible way of keeping his mouth shut is to enlist his sympathy. And that's what I've done: and this is how I did it."

"Upon my soul, my dear, I don't think you could have done better on the spur of the moment," said Meredith when she had finished. "I'll keep the good work going."

"If there is no answer to his wire we can assume that whatever message there was is definitely lost. If there is an answer, well——"

She paused significantly.

"Captain Drummond is certainly entitled to a drink," murmured Meredith, and Emil smiled. "And the nature of the drink will depend on the nature of the message."

"Exactly," said the girl. "And now come on. He'll think it strange if we keep him waiting too long. Don't forget you're the broken-hearted father. Incidentally, how much longer have we got to wait?"

"Three days: four. Certainly a week should do it. He's nearly cracked, so I was told this morning."

"Then for a week at least this man Drummond has got to keep his mouth shut."

"Wouldn't it be far better——" began Meredith tentatively.

"No," she said emphatically. "Only as a last resort. He can be traced here through Cannaby's garage. Let's go down, dear Uncle John."

They found Drummond apparently dozing over the wheel.

"My dear Captain Drummond," said Meredith courteously, "I cannot thank you sufficiently for all you have done for my little Doris."

"Not at all," cried Drummond, getting out of the car and shaking him warmly by the hand. "A pleasure, sir: a pleasure."

"I hear she has told you the whole terrible story."

"About your poor son, George..."

"Harold, Captain Drummond," said the girl with a smile.

"Of course. Stupid of me: I've got a shocking memory for names. Yes, Mr. Meredith, your niece has told me, and I can only hope my wire may result in something helpful. Though I confess I am not optimistic. There was a bit of a breeze this morning, and any loose piece of paper would, I fear, have been blown away."

"Still it is a hope which I cling to. I am an elderly man, Captain Drummond, and this affair has shaken me dreadfully: you can understand a father's feelings under the circumstances."

"Only too easily," said Drummond sympathetically.

"And I was wondering if I might trespass even further on your kindness. Are you in a very great hurry to go?"

"My time is yours, Mr. Meredith. I must be up in London for dinner, but until then I am at your disposal."

"Not so long as that, I assure you," said Meredith with a deprecating smile. "But if you would not mind waiting till the answer to your telegram comes, it would indeed be a relief to us."

"Delighted," cried Drummond. "It should not be long now."

"I gather that my niece has explained to you our difficulty with regard to the police, though I cannot believe that Harold has given away anything of importance. But even so I would like to keep them out of it. And if, as my niece thinks—and I am inclined to agree with her—the dear boy knew where those devils were taking him to and managed to scribble it down, I would so like your advice and help."

"It's yours for the asking," said Drummond heartily. "And of one thing I can assure you. If there is the smallest fragment of paper in her spotless garden, Mrs. Eskdale will find it."

He glanced out of the window.

"Great Scott! That's pretty quick. Here's a telegraph boy on a bicycle coming up the drive. The old lady hasn't wasted any time."

"Get it, my dear," cried Meredith. "And see what it is. Captain Drummond," he continued, as she left the room, "I'm so nervous I don't know what to do."

"Bite on the old bullet, Mr. Meredith," said Drummond soothingly. "We shall know soon. Here comes your niece now."

The girl came in reading the telegram with a puzzled look on her face.

"Well, my dear: well?" cried Meredith.

"It's from Mrs. Eskdale all right," she said. "But it does not seem to make sense."

And for the fraction of a second Drummond's jaw tightened.

"'Found paper in garden,'" read the girl, "'on it written S B Z ...' Just a jumble of letters. They don't make sense. About ten of them. Then signed 'Eskdale.'"

Drummond's jaw relaxed, and suddenly the girl gave an excited cry.

"Uncle John! I've got it. It's Harold's code—the code he and I used to use when we were children. We wrote letters to one another in it. I've got it upstairs somewhere."

She darted out of the room, and Drummond lit a cigarette. Also he glanced at Meredith, and having done so suppressed a smile. For Meredith's face was a study, and continued as such till the sound of rapid footsteps announced his niece's return.

"I've got it," she cried, waving the form triumphantly. "It is the name of a place. How clever of him! Don't you see, Uncle John? Harold saw the light in the window and assumed the owner or whoever was there would take the message to the police. Then it would have come out in the papers, and though no one else would have spotted it, we should."

"And what is the name of the place, Miss Venables?" asked Drummond with interest.

"Kessingland," she said. "I know I've heard of a place of that name."

"There is a place called Kessingland a few miles from Lowestoft on the coast," said Drummond thoughtfully. "So you think that wire means that your cousin has been taken there?"

"What else can it mean, Captain Drummond? There are probably isolated bungalows there and he has been hidden in one of them."

"My poor boy," said Meredith, passing his hand across his forehead. "What shall we do?"

"Look here," said Drummond after a pause, "can I be of any assistance? True, I don't know your son, but I fear we must assume he's been badly hurt. Now would you like me to go to Kessingland and make a few careful inquiries? I will be most discreet, but it's probably not a very big place and the tradesmen or somebody will be sure to know if any foreigners have turned up there."

"But, Captain Drummond, we couldn't think of bothering you. Could we, Uncle John?"

"Of course not. Besides, my dear fellow, you've got to go to London. And it may take days."

"What matter, Mr. Meredith? My dinner party in London can easily be put off. And I feel that in a case like this one should sacrifice everything to help. It may, as you say, take two or three days—perhaps more; but that is a trifle compared to your son's safety. I will start at once."

He waved aside their half-hearted protests, and rose to his feet.

"I will keep you posted of anything I find out," he continued. "And all we can hope is that I shall not be too late."

"I wish I could come with you, Captain Drummond," said Meredith, "but I fear my health is hardly equal to the strain."

"I wouldn't hear of it, Mr. Meredith," cried Drummond. "Your place is here—with your niece. I hope that very soon I shall have good news to report."

He pressed the girl's hand gently, and her eyes fell before his.

"May I do so in person?" he murmured.

"Of course," she answered. "My uncle and I will be delighted to see you at any time."

"Good-bye, sir." He turned to Meredith. "And don't despair."

They accompanied him to his car, and as he let in his clutch the girl leaned over the side.

"At any time," she whispered. "I think it is too sweet of you to do this for two complete strangers."

"Strangers?" he said reproachfully. "That's unkind of you, Doris."

They watched the car till it turned into the main road; then Meredith turned to the girl.

"What the deuce," he spluttered, "is the game? What is this bunk about a code?"

"Don't you realise what this message is?" said the girl quietly as the German joined them. "'Found paper in garden. On it written SBZALFTRPTE. Eskdale.' Don't you realise it is a code message right enough?"

"But what?... Why?..." cried Meredith, completely bewildered. "Why Kessingland?"

"Oh! you're dense; you're dense. What did I tell Drummond on the way here? That if there was a message it would be the place they were taking Harold to. So any town with eleven letters would do, and Kessingland happens to be not too near and not too far. It will keep him quiet hunting round the sand dunes, whereas if I'd said nothing he would almost certainly have taken this up to London. Or else had it repeated from the old woman."

"Gad! Emil, the girl is quick on the uptake," said Meredith.

"Extremely," remarked the German, studying the telegram. "I wonder what this really does stand for."

"Not a doubt about it in my mind," said the girl. "It's the address of your head-quarters."

For a moment or two the German stared at her; then he smiled.

"Well, my dear," he remarked suavely, "if that is so, you've certainly done no harm in sending that bovine individual to Kessingland."

And with the utmost deliberation he tore up the telegram and put the pieces in his pocket.

CHAPTER IV

It was at precisely twelve o'clock that Peter Darrell entered the lounge of the Royal Hotel, and perceived Drummond with his legs stretched out in front of him, and his face buried in a tankard of ale. Periodically during the last half-hour the large form of the drinker had been shaken with gusts of internal mirth, to the evident alarm of an old lady opposite who was knitting some incomprehensible garment. And now, realising that a second was approaching, she rose hurriedly and bolted to cover in the drawing-room.

"Come hither, my Peter," boomed Drummond. "Things is 'appening."

"So I gathered, confound you," cried Darrell. "I was lunching with the Marriot filly. Why the dickens aren't you killing ducks?"

"Draw up, Peter, my boy, and put your nose inside a pint. This is my third, and my confidence in myself is even now not restored. There was a time," he continued sadly, "when I regarded myself as a pretty ready liar—somewhere round about scratch. This morning, Peter, I have been holding converse with a plus two performer."

"Do you mean to say you've brought me down here to tell me that? Who is this bloke?"

"It's a lady, Peter, a beautiful, charming girl with an uncle. And the dear child yearned greatly for a message to be sent her by telegram: a message doubtless of hope and comfort to cheer her maiden heart. But you look bewildered, Peter: let us begin at the beginning."

He hitched his chair closer to Darrell's, and lit a cigarette. The lounge was empty save for the hall porter, and he so far came out of his habitual coma as to wonder once or twice what the big man in the corner was talking so earnestly about to the owner of the racing car outside. For it was twenty minutes later that the owner of the car spoke for the first time.

"But, damn it, Hugh," he said, "I don't understand about this second message. The one they were after, you found in the window. That's clear. What is this other one that Mrs. Eskdale found?"

Drummond grinned.

"Peter," he remarked, "I have exercised a little story-teller's licence on you. Mrs. Eskdale never found a message. When I told you I wired Mrs. Eskdale to send a message I did not add that I told her what message to send. And for a time I wondered what message I should tell her to send. It had to be something mysterious, and yet something that looked genuine. Suddenly—out of the blue, as a gift from the gods—came the idea. A newspaper was lying in the next compartment and I happened to glance at it. And my prepaid wire ran as follows:

Wire Meredith Hartley Court Cambridge following message Stop found paper in garden on it written SBZALFTRPTE Eskdale."

"But what is SBZ and all the rest of it?"

"Coldspur's cipher nap tip for Lingfield in the Daily Leader," said Drummond quietly.

Darrell stared at him open-mouthed.

"Then how the deuce has she made Kessingland out of it?" he spluttered.

Once again Drummond grinned.

"Because, old lad, Miss Doris Venables, as I said at the beginning, is definitely rated at plus two and she plays quicker than George Duncan. I take off my hat to that wench."

"More beer," said Darrell decidedly. "This is too obscure for me. I still don't see her object."

"Simple, Peter. To get rid of me. I'm becoming a nuisance: in fact, I always have been a nuisance since I appeared in the picture. But it was quick of her—damned quick. Think it over, old boy: look at the matter from her point of view. Every single move that the other side has made since Emil and his boy friend paid me their visit last night has been directed to one end—to get the message that was wrapped round the brick. And though I may not be quite up to her form I flatter myself that I'm sufficiently near it to play level. Obviously she believes that I've swallowed her precious Harold lock, stock and barrel. And to tell you the truth, Peter, until the Kessingland episode I wasn't at all certain that Harold was a myth. Now it's plain that he is."

"I don't exactly see that, old boy."

"Don't be dense, Peter. That's Coldspur's cipher: by no hook or crook can you make Kessingland out of it. There ain't such a horse. Therefore all the talk about her code with Harold was a lie. Now she thinks that she's got the genuine message that they've been hunting for, and so the one urgent thing for them to do was to get shot of me. Mark her guile. She believes that I think she's got a message from Harold. So she looks up a town with eleven letters in it, and if I hadn't suggested going there you can bet your bottom dollar she'd have made the suggestion for me. She took care, you see—in the most natural way, I admit—not to let me see the wire. Otherwise I might have wondered why Z and A both stood for S. But as it is she thinks I'm taped for Kessingland, and God forbid she should think otherwise!"

"How are you going to work it?" demanded Darrell.

"After we've had lunch, Peter, we are going to Kessingland. There, with our well-known charm, we will get hold of someone of comparative intelligence to whom we will give stamped telegrams—three or four should be enough. We will concoct them later. The first, which can be sent to the lady this evening, will merely announce my arrival. To-morrow, in the morning, a hint that I am on the track of foreigners; in the evening, still on the track. The next day, that the trail has died, but still trying, etc., and so forth. I might even go so far as to write a letter to be posted late to-morrow evening, which should convince her that little Willie is still safely buried in that delectable spot. Then, Peter, having done this, we shall return here."

"And what then?"

"A closer inspection of Hartley Court by night seems to me to be indicated."

Drummond beckoned a waiter and ordered two Martinis.

"I can't help feeling, Peter," he continued, "that there are things afoot here which are bigger than ordinary common or garden crime."

"Do you mean political?"

"That's the notion. I'm inclined to believe that there's something in that Key Club business."

"Mightn't be a bad idea to rope in Ronald Standish," said Darrell thoughtfully.

"Not at all bad," agreed Drummond. "He'd know, if anybody did. Go and ring him up, Peter. Tell him that aught is amiss here in the children's kindergarten, and will he kindly report his vile dog's body as soon as possible."

Darrell crossed to the telephone box and Drummond lit a cigarette. Definitely a good idea: if his surmise was right, if by a strange freak of fate he had blundered into deep waters, there was no one who would pull his weight better than Ronald Standish. He knew all the hush-hush men intimately, and what was more, they trusted him implicitly. For the more Drummond thought things over, the more did he feel convinced that this was going to prove a hush-hush job.

"He'll be down in time for dinner this evening," said Darrell, rejoining him.

"Splendid," cried Drummond. "Let's go and have a spot of food, Peter, and then push off. The sooner we lay the Kessingland trail the better."

And at that delectable East Coast watering-place luck proved to be right in. One of the first people they saw was a man they both knew, who was staying there for a few days, and who readily agreed to send the wires for them.

"For Heaven's sake, get 'em in the right order, old boy," said Drummond, "and don't send 'em all off at once or we are undone. And now, Peter—to horse. I propose to go back via Nannie's cottage to warn in the dear old thing that I shan't be back for a few days. It's very little out of our way, and she'll worry herself sick if I don't turn up.

"Still there, you see, Peter," he cried as they approached the cottage some half-hour later. "There's the trampled-down bit of verge; there's the pool of oil. It's dusty now, but you can see the outline clear enough."

"The poor devil must have bled some," said Darrell.

"You're right," remarked Drummond gravely. "Gad! Peter, I wish I could get to the bottom of this show."

He drew up outside the cottage.

"Shan't be a moment," he cried. "The old darling will probably want us to stop to tea, but I'll tell her we can't. Nannie," he shouted, opening the gate, "where are you?"

There was no answer, and he walked up the path. His terrier and spaniel came bounding to meet him, and he stopped to pat them.

"Where," he demanded, "is that lazy devil Jerry?"

And then, on the threshold of the door, he paused, and stood very still.

"Peter," he called softly, "come here."

Darrell joined him: the reason for Jerry's laziness was clear. For the bulldog was lying motionless on the carpet, and it was obvious at a glance that he had been shot through the head.

"By God! old Jerry," muttered Drummond in a voice that shook a little, "somebody is going to pay to the uttermost farthing for this. How did it happen, boy; how did it happen?"

His eyes were roving round the room, and suddenly he gave an exclamation and stepped to the table. Then he bent down and picked up a pair of leather gloves which were lying near.

"Look at these, Peter," he cried. "See that brown and white stitching effect? Can't mistake it. These are the gloves Doris Venables was wearing this morning when I motored her to Cambridge."

"Are you sure, Hugh?"

"Of course I'm sure. Or they're an identical pair, and that is too amazing a coincidence to swallow. What the devil has happened?"

"She must have been back here."

"But why, Peter? What did she want to come back for?"

"Perhaps to make certain the wire was genuine," suggested Darrell.

"But why shoot Jerry?" cried Drummond. "Why, in the name of all that is miraculous, shoot the old chap? He made great friends with her this morning."

Darrell made no answer: he was standing by the door listening intently.

"There's someone asleep upstairs, Hugh. I can hear breathing."

Drummond joined him at the door; there was no doubt about it. Somebody was almost snoring in the room above, and they were up the stairs in a flash. And there an even more amazing spectacle met their eyes.

Lying on the bed fully dressed and completely unconscious was the ample form of Mrs. Eskdale. Her face was flushed, and every now and then a strangled snort convulsed her.

"If I didn't know her better, Peter," said Drummond after a while, "I'd say she was blind drunk. But the old dear never touches a drop of anything except an occasional glass of some hell brew of her own. Elderberry wine, or something."

"She's either drunk or drugged, Hugh," said Darrell decidedly. "There's not the smallest doubt of that."

They bent over her, but there was no suspicion of alcohol about her breath.

"That settles it, Peter," said Drummond. "She's been doped."

He shook her gently by the shoulder, and then not so gently, but it produced no result.

"It may be hours before she awakes," he continued with a frown. "This is the devil and all, Peter; I don't like to leave the old lady."

"It's not that that is worrying me so much," said Darrell. "I'm trying to reconstruct the crime as they say. How did she get here? No girl could possibly have carried or dragged an unconscious woman of her weight up those steep stairs."

"Therefore," remarked Drummond, "if the girl was alone Mrs. Eskdale must have been up here when she was given the dope. No; hold hard a minute. Let's suppose she was giving the girl a cup of tea, and that little Doris pulled the same stuff on her as she tried to do on me this morning. Then the old dear began to feel queer, but still managed to get up here under her own steam. How's that?"

Darrell nodded.

"It fits. But what about Jerry? If all that happened was that Mrs. Eskdale came upstairs more or less normally, why should he get excited? And surely no one would shoot a dog just for the fun of the thing."

"You think the girl was not alone."

"I don't know what to think, Hugh; the whole thing is baffling. But the only solution that seems to fit Jerry having been killed and Mrs. Eskdale being up here is that some sort of a rough house took place below. What it was about the Lord only knows."

"She's loyal to the core, is that old dear. It's just possible they wanted to see the message itself, and she wouldn't show it to them. And it would have been a bit difficult seeing that she hadn't got one to show."

He broke off abruptly, staring out of the window with narrowed eyes.

"Do you see that clump of bushes, Peter, one finger left of that stunted alder?" he said softly. "There's something just moved in them."

Darrell picked up the target a hundred and fifty yards away on the other side of the road.

"I'll take your word for it, old boy," he answered. "Your sight is so damned uncanny.... No, by Jove! you're right. I saw it myself."

"It's a man; I can see his face, just to the right of the middle."

Drummond rubbed his hands gently together.

"Stay here, Peter; I'm going to stalk that gentleman. And in this flat country it'll mean a big détour starting from the back of the cottage. But if I can manage to get under cover of that hedge running by the alder, I'm home. Show yourself every now and then at the window."

And then followed for Peter Darrell an interval of pure joy. An ardent stalker himself, it was an education to watch Drummond at work. Conditions naturally were different, but the principles were the same, and as an object lesson in how to make cover where none existed it could not have been beaten. He had forgotten Mrs. Eskdale, who still snored placidly on her bed; his whole attention was riveted on a blurred white face peering out of the undergrowth, and the slinking figure away to the right.

At last Drummond reached the hedge which was his first objective and scrambled through it. Then out of sight of his quarry he straightened up and started to run. Nearer and nearer he got, and now he was moving cautiously. Ten yards; five yards, and then in a flash it was over. Came a sudden spring; a shrill squeal of fear and the next moment Drummond emerged into the open field with his prisoner. And his prisoner's gun.

Darrell met them at the gate, and studied the captive with interest. And somewhat to his surprise he saw that he was of a very different type to what he had anticipated. The man was well dressed, and on the surface at any rate appeared to be a gentleman. He was dark and clean shaven, and his nationality was not obvious. But his English when he spoke was perfect.

"May I ask," he remarked icily, "the reason for this incredible outrage?"

"Get inside," said Drummond curtly. "A pretty weapon this, Peter; compressed air. And you will kindly remember, my friend, that any attempt on your part to escape would cause it to be used on your right knee. And that's a painful wound."

"I shall have the law on you for this," said the man in a voice that shook with rage.

"By all means," cried Drummond affably. "But just at the moment my friend and I are the law."

The man went slowly up the path, and as he came to the door he paused for a second. The sound of Mrs. Eskdale's snores still came rhythmically from above, and Darrell watching his face saw a faint look of relief flash for a moment across it. Then it became as mask-like as ever.

"Now, sir," he remarked, "once more I insist on an explanation."

"Are you the man who did that?" said Drummond quietly, pointing to the dead bulldog.

"I am not," answered the man. "This is the first time I have been in this cottage."

And Jock, his teeth bared, snarled in a corner.

"You lie," said Drummond softly. "You lie, damn you, and there's the proof." He pointed to the terrier. "However for the moment we will leave that. Why were you lying up in those bushes watching this house?"

The man lit a cigarette.

"I'll buy it," he remarked with a yawn.

"I wonder," said Drummond pleasantly, "if you have ever read a book called 'Stalky and Co.'?"

The man stared at him in blank surprise.

"I ask for this reason," continued Drummond. "In that immortal classic there is a story which tells of the way Stalky and two low companions of his dealt with a pair of bullies at their school. And it is most efficacious."

Once again the man yawned.

"I suppose your remarks have some point," he said languidly. "But if so I fear it has eluded me."

"Then I will endeavour to make it plainer," said Drummond. "They dealt with these bullies in their own coin. They bullied them even worse than the bullies had done to their victims. And the result was an unqualified success."

His eyes were boring into the man opposite.

"Am I getting clearer?" he continued. "At the present moment my friend and I represent Stalky and Co.; you represent the bullies. People who shoot my dogs, and drug harmless old ladies may be justly regarded as bullies. And since you've taken the gloves off I propose to do the same. Ah! would you, you swine."

His arm shot out as the man's hand came out of his pocket, and a knife clattered on to the floor.

"Peter, get me that rubber strap out of the car. And the rope."

"What are you going to do?" muttered the man, writhing helplessly in Drummond's grip.

"You will see in due course," said Drummond. "It is not a treatment I would recommend for the sick and ailing, but that doesn't apply to strong and hearty men like you who lie about on wet grass and go big game shooting. Who knows—you might even beat the record."

"The record," stammered the man. "What record?"

"Twenty minutes," explained Drummond, "is the longest time known up to date that the patient undergoing this treatment has lasted without praying for death. Got 'em, Peter? Good. Here's a good stout chair; let's lash him to that."

The man let out a wild shout, and began to struggle desperately, but in the hands of two past masters of the art of rough housing he was like a child. In half a minute he was trussed up like a fowl, and two scientifically arranged handkerchiefs almost prevented his breathing.

"Now," said Drummond, balancing a piece of rubber belting about eighteen inches long in his hand, "before we begin I wish everything to be quite clear. What my friend and I are doing now is quite illegal. But as I told you before for the time being we have taken the law into our own hands. How long we continue to keep it there depends entirely on you. When you have had enough, and decide to tell us exactly what happened this afternoon in this room, just nod your head."

The man's eyes, sullen and vindictive, were fixed on Drummond, who had raised the strap shoulder high.

"The essence of this means of persuasion," explained Drummond, "is not to hit too hard, and at the same time to leave no part of the area selected untouched. In your case I propose to take the right leg from the knee up. So, and so, and so."

Steadily, almost gently the belting rose and fell travelling from the knee up to the thigh and then back again.

"It's been used in the third degree frequently," went on Drummond conversationally. "Also in other cases where confession is good for the soul. The only time I have actually seen it employed myself was in Australia in a mining camp. One of the miners had committed the unforgivable sin of stealing another miner's gold. And he'd hidden it. So in order to find out where, they tried this method. It succeeded, and then there was no reason to delay shooting him any longer."

The sweat was beginning to pour down the man's face.

"It's generally about the tenth journey," continued Drummond, "that you think your leg is going to burst. About the fifteenth you wish it would, and near the twentieth you're sure it has. We've just got to six now, so there's still plenty of time to go. And I should like confirmation of those figures."

But the man had had enough; his head was nodding furiously. And at a sign from Drummond, Darrell removed the handkerchiefs.

"So you have decided to speak," said Drummond. "Good. But let me warn you of one thing. If I detect you in a lie I'll continue this treatment up to thirty."

"What is it you want to know?" said the man sullenly.

"What took place here this afternoon. Why has Miss Venables been here? Who drugged Mrs. Eskdale? Who shot my bulldog?"

"I can't answer the first one, and that's straight. A girl was here, and her name may have been Venables, but why she was here I don't know. Two of us got orders..."

"Who from?" snapped Drummond.

The man hesitated, and Drummond half raised the strap.

"Look here, if I tell you all I know will you promise to let me go?"

"I won't promise, but I will give it my favourable consideration," said Drummond. "I should hate to see more of you than I need. Now, who gave you your orders?"

"I don't know his name; none of us do," said the man. "I've never even seen him."

"How do you get your orders?"

"Either by telephone, or in a typewritten letter. This time it was by telephone."

"Go on," said Drummond curtly. "What were your orders?"

"To go to a certain hotel near Cambridge and await further instructions."

"What happened then?"

"We were joined by a man I'd never seen before, and we got into his car and came here. The girl's car was standing outside the door, and the man led the way into this room, where she was talking to the old woman upstairs. She turned as white as a sheet when she saw him, and clung to the other woman who tried to protect her. It was then the bulldog turned nasty and the man shot him with that rifle. The girl tried to run away, but the man caught her by the gate and brought her back. Then while we held her he gave her an injection with a hypodermic syringe in her arm. And the old woman, too. In a few seconds they were both unconscious, and we carried one to the car and the other upstairs."

"What a pretty party," said Drummond quietly. "Go on."

"That's about all," said the man. "My friend drove the girl's car away; the man took her at the back of his own. And I was told to lie up in those bushes and watch the cottage."

"With that gun?" remarked Drummond dryly.

"That had been forgotten, so I took it with me."

Drummond lit a cigarette and turned to Darrell.

"What do you make of it, Peter? Do you think this mess is speaking the truth?"

"His story fits, old boy," said Darrell. "But what I would like to know is this. Do you usually go round acting blind on the instructions of a man you've never seen before, when they entail drugging women and trifles of that sort?"

"My orders were to obey him," answered the man.

"You mean the orders you received over the telephone from your other boy friend," said Drummond. "I should like to hear a little more about him. You said none of you knew his name. Am I to understand that there are many bits of work like you about the place?"

"There are several."

"My God! you shake me to the marrow. Is it a sort of secret society?"

"We do what we are told," said the man.

"Charming; charming," remarked Drummond. "You aren't by any chance members of the Key Club, are you?"

The man stared at him blankly.

"I don't know what you are talking about," he said.

"That's either very good acting, Peter, or it's the truth. And so either the Key Club is a further invention of this lovely lady, or we have two societies. Aren't we lucky chaps? To return, however, to your own private one, my friend. The motives that actuate it are, I take it, entirely criminal."

For the first time a very faint smile flickered round the man's lips.

"They would hardly stand an appeal to the House of Lords," he said.

"Excellent. And do you receive adequate remuneration from this man you've never seen and who presumably is your Lord High Mukkaduk?"

"We don't do it for love," remarked the other.

"You surprise me," said Drummond. "Now there's another question. Could you describe the man in whose car you came here, and who drugged the two women?"

"Medium height; dark eyes; rather saturnine face."

"A description which might fit my visitor of last night, Peter. On the other hand it fits numbers of other men. Well—the mystery increases. If it was him it goes to confirm his story to me in the car. However we'll go into that later. The first thing to decide is what to do with this blighter."

"For God's sake, gentlemen, don't give me up to the police," cried the man earnestly. "I swear that what I've told you is the truth so far as I know it, and you half promised you'd let me go if I spoke."

"And yet the police would be highly edified," said Drummond. "A young army of people like you all doing what you're told. And they would let you off nice and light if you turned King's Evidence."

"It isn't what the police would do," answered the man. "If it came out that I'd told even you what I have my life wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase. But that damned strap would make a deaf mute speak."

"It is certainly an aid to conversation," agreed Drummond cheerfully. "Well—I'll think about it. You can stop here till I'm sure Mrs Eskdale is comfortable, and then we will decide on your immediate future Peter, come upstairs with me."

"Well," he said as they entered the room where the old lady still snored peacefully, "what are we going to do with him? My own reaction to the swab is that he has been speaking the truth."

"Same here, Hugh. I don't think anyone could have invented that story on the spur of the moment. It accounts for everything that was puzzling me before."

"Except the girl's object in coming over," objected Drummond. "You say to confirm the telegram. But what could have made her suspect it in the first instance?"

"We can't positively settle that till Mrs. Eskdale wakes up," said Darrell. "And it looks to me as if that wasn't going to be for some time."

"Which raises another small point. What are we going to do with her, poor old dear?"

"Nothing we can do, except cover her up with an eiderdown and leave her to sleep it off. Write her a note, Hugh, saying we'll be along to-morrow morning, and that until then you don't want her to say anything to anybody."

"Her pulse is normal," said Drummond. "I think she'll be all right here."

"My dear old lad," cried Darrell, "we can't cart an unconscious woman of her bulk round the country. If you warn in one of her neighbours to come and look after her there's not a single one of her pals who won't believe she's not dead drunk. And she'd hate that. Honestly I think she's perfectly safe here. She can't be of the smallest importance to the bunch we're up against."

Drummond pulled out his pocket book and began to scribble a note while Darrell strolled to the window and looked out.

"Hullo!" he cried softly. "It would seem that the tall gentleman is in a hurry. And he hardly looks like a local resident."

Drummond joined him, and together they watched a man in a dark suit striding rapidly along the road away from the cottage. He was fully a hundred yards off, but even at that distance his great height was noticeable. Then he disappeared round a corner and the sound of a self-starter came faintly to their ears.

"More motor-cars," said Drummond, pinning the note to the pillow. "They'll have to have an A.A. man here soon to regulate the traffic. Well, Peter—let's get on with it. We'll allow this bloke to come with us, and we'll drop him somewhere. After all, he's only one of the small fry, and I did more or less promise we'd let him go."

"What about the dogs?"

"Leave them here. And incidentally that swab below can damn well dig poor old Jerry's grave. Go and find a shovel, Peter, and then set him free, while I tuck up Nannie."

And he was just wrapping the eiderdown round her when a wild shout came from Darrell.

"Hugh! For God's sake, come here."

Drummond dashed downstairs and into the parlour. Lolling forward in the chair, and only kept in position by the rope which bound him, was the man. And a dagger had been driven up to the hilt in his heart.

CHAPTER V

For a while they stood there too stunned to speak. The thing was so utterly unexpected. Not a sound had they heard upstairs, and yet during the ten minutes they had been out of the room this unknown man had been murdered.

"Must have been that tall man we saw striding up the road," said Darrell at length.

"Whoever it was he must have struck from behind," remarked Drummond. "This fellow would have shouted if he'd seen him."

He went into the kitchen and looked round. The back door was open; and on the stone floor were marks of earth.

"He must have come over the fields and stood here," continued Drummond.

"Where he heard every word that was said," remarked Darrell.

"Which confirms the story. There would have been no object in murdering that man if he had been lying. At the same time, Peter, there are one or two rather rum points about this. The mischief was already done: the beans were already spilt. That poor devil could do no more harm, and he certainly wasn't going to the police himself. Why then do the one thing which under normal circumstances is going to get the whole yarn to the police through us quicker than anything else?"

"Vengeance," suggested Darrell. "The murderer saw his chance and took it."

"Perhaps," said Drummond. "But vengeance loses much of its force if the victim doesn't know it is coming. And I refuse to believe that any man would sit in a chair and let another man stab him without raising Cain."

"Condign punishment then."

"Which could be meted out at any time. Why run the appalling risk of murdering this man knowing that we were upstairs? Knowing that he might not kill instantaneously, and that there might have been a cry which would have brought us down? Why take such a chance, unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless," said Drummond slowly, "the murderer wants us to go to the police."

Darrell stared at him.

"Wants us to," he echoed. "Why the devil should he want us to?"

"To force our hands: to find out exactly what we know. It sounds far fetched, I know, but if you look into it it's not quite so fanciful as it appears at first sight. Supposing this afternoon, either here or at the post office down the road they got hold of the actual wire I sent Mrs. Eskdale. The instant they read it they realised that I'd been fooling them, didn't they?"

"That's so," agreed Darrell.

"Step two. If I fooled 'em there, the strong probability is that I fooled 'em before. In other words I had received the original message. Now if we go to the police about this I shall have to tell them the whole story, which includes the contents of that original message. And how long do you think it will be in a place like this with local constables and hordes of journalists before that message is public property?"

"That's the last thing they're likely to want," objected Darrell.

"Is it? That's just where you may be wrong, Peter. Having failed to get what they really wanted—namely the message to themselves alone—isn't it possible that the next best thing is to share it? Even if they can't prevent A5's message reaching the people it is intended for, at any rate they will be wise as to what it is."

"You think they'd murder a man for that?" said Darrell doubtfully.

"If they thought the contents of the message were sufficiently important—yes. And judging from their whole line of action they do think that."

"There's something in it," said Darrell. "But what are we going to do, old boy? We must report this, or we'll get into the most frightful row."

"Admittedly, Peter, we must report his death. But is there any necessity to report anything else—anything else, that is to say, that is true? We arrived here to find Mrs. Eskdale unconscious, the bulldog dead—this man murdered. The other side will know that is a lie, but they will think we are telling it because our own actions when we bound him would hardly bear cross examination. In other words that we are frightened of mentioning that part. Further, because Joe the postman will certainly do it if I don't, we must account for the hole in the window. And, by Gad! Peter, if Coldspur's tip for Lingfield has gone wallop, we'll give the blighters another one to bite on. There's big stuff on here, old boy, and we've got to take a chance. We'll tell the truth in London, but if we tell it down here we're going to be detained and the Lord knows what. And what we want to do is to fade away as unostentatiously as possible. But if we're going to have a shot at fooling these swine again we must do the obvious thing first, and report to the local police."

"What about Mrs. Eskdale?" remarked Darrell.

"She complicates matters a bit, poor old darling. For now that this has happened we certainly can't leave her here. Tell you what, Peter: we'll have to get her up to my house in Town. And you must take her and the two dogs. We'll wedge her up with cushions in the front of the car, and you can drop me at Belmoreton down the road where the nearest police station is. I'll tell 'em the tale: you go on to London and leave her in charge of Denny. Then come back to the Royal at Cambridge."

Luckily the road was deserted as they carried her down the path, and with great difficulty got her into the car. And having removed the note from the pillow, and taken one final look round, they left the cottage with its grim contents.

"You'll have the devil of a job to prevent her rolling off the seat, Peter," said Drummond, as he got out in Belmoreton. "But if she does she's on the floor for keeps, so do your best."

He stood watching the car till it was out of sight: then he accosted a passer-by.

"Police station," said the man. "Down the street and first on the right."

He found it without difficulty, and with growing amazement the sergeant in charge listened to his story. Two constables drifted in and stood gaping: a dog fight outside went the full number of rounds unchecked.

"So there you are, my brave fellow," cried Drummond in conclusion. "Murder and sudden death are loose upon your smiling country-side."

"It's the most amazing story I've ever heard," remarked the sergeant, scratching his head. "Have you your car here, sir?"

"I have not," said Drummond. "My friend has taken Mrs. Eskdale up to London in it. So you'll have to raise another."

The sergeant gave an order to one of the constables, who left the police station; and returned five minutes later in a taxi. In some inexplicable way the news that something was afoot had filtered round, and a small crowd of listeners had collected in the street outside. And the instant Drummond appeared a young man, with eagerness shining all over his face, detached himself from the others and approached him tendering a card.

JOHN SEYMOUR.

Eastern News.

"I'm a reporter, sir," he whispered excitedly. "Just started. Is there anything big on, sir? It will mean a lot to me if I can get in first."

Drummond regarded him thoughtfully: a pleasant-faced lad quivering with keenness.

"There is something very big on, Mr. Seymour," he said with a smile. "But as the matter is now in the sergeant's hands I'm afraid you must ask him."

The boy's face fell.

"Can't you give me a hint, sir?" he pleaded.

"Didn't I see you standing by that perfectly good Norton over there?" said Drummond.

"That's mine, sir," cried Seymour.

"There is your hint," said Drummond. "My knowledge of motor bicycles is not profound, but I would hazard a guess that you might be able to keep pace with this antiquated box on wheels that we are going to go in. Now, sergeant," he added, as that worthy appeared. "Are you ready? Because I want to get on as soon as I can."

It took them about twenty minutes to reach the cottage, and only once during the whole drive did Drummond catch a glimpse of the Norton. A point which pleased him: evidently John Seymour was not unintelligent. And the possibilities of having a tame journalist in his bag had struck him immediately.

The cottage was just as he had left it, and he led the way up the path followed by the sergeant and a constable. Then, having flung open the door he stood stock still. There lay Jerry as before, but of the man who had been stabbed there was no trace. The chair was empty: the man had gone. So had the gun and Doris Venables' gloves.

It was the sergeant who broke the silence.

"Not much sign of the corpse, sir," he remarked a little sarcastically.

"Very little," agreed Drummond, still looking about the room.

"And you left the body lashed up in that chair?"

"I did," said Drummond.

"I suppose you felt the dead man's pulse?" asked the sergeant mildly.

Drummond stared at him: so that was his reaction.

"I did not," he said. "It hardly seemed necessary when he had a dagger sticking into his heart. My dear sergeant, do you really imagine that I've invented this story?"

The sergeant lifted his eyebrows.

"No, sir—not entirely. What I do think is that the man was alive all the time and fooled you."

"In what way was that possible?" demanded Drummond.

"Well, sir," said the other kindly, "I can think of one way at once. Suppose he was just an ordinary sneak thief who came along to see what he could steal. You wouldn't believe, sir, the amount of money some of these cottage folk keep hidden in their stocking. While he's drugging the old lady, the bulldog goes for him: so he shoots it. Then as he's searching the house he sees you and your friend arrive, and realises he's caught. So he lashes himself up as well as he can, and sticks the dagger sideways through his clothes so that it looks as if he was stabbed."

"A damned ingenious fellow," remarked Drummond enthusiastically. "Though I should have thought it would have been simple to do a guy through the back door."

Drummond was thinking hard. Not having done so already, it was impossible to tell the sergeant the whole truth, which, of course, put the worthy officer's theory out of court.

"The only other theory is that he was murdered, as you say, and that the murderer has since returned and removed the body," continued the sergeant. "My objection to that is—why not have removed it in the first instance? Why leave it here at all?"

"Possibly," suggested Drummond mildly, "he had nothing to remove it in."

The sergeant continued to expound, but Drummond hardly listened. How did this new development affect the situation? He knew what had happened: he knew the man had been murdered. But was it worth while endeavouring to convince the sergeant? Or did it suit his book better to let that officer continue to think that he had made a mistake? And the more he thought about it, the more did he incline to the latter course. It would save bother and prevent any possibility of his being requested to remain at hand in case of further developments.

A shadow fell across the floor: John Seymour was standing by the open window.

"Here's something for your paper, young man," cried the sergeant cheerily. "Who killed the bulldog and why? Well, Captain Drummond, I can assure you I will not let the matter drop. And should we by any chance catch anyone answering to your description of the man we'll get in touch with you for identification purposes. Can I give you a lift anywhere?"

But an idea had been forming in Drummond's mind, and he turned to the reporter.

"Have you got a carrier on your machine?"

"I have, sir."

"Then I wonder if you would give me a lift later? I want to bury poor old Jerry."

"Of course; only too delighted," cried Seymour.

"And possibly," added Drummond, "I might be able to supply you with a paragraph for your paper. All about those holes in the window and trifles of that sort."

"Funny you should say that," said the constable, speaking for the first time. "Other people seem interested in them 'oles."

"What do you mean?" asked Drummond.

"When I was getting the car, sir," explained the man, "bloke came up to me in the garage who seemed to know all about you. Leastwise, he knew you'd been here last night, and that a stone had been thrown through your window. 'Funny thing to do,' says he. 'Must have had a message wrapped round it.' 'Maybe it did, and maybe it didn't,' I answers. 'Anyway, I reckons it ain't no business of yours.'"

"Did he say any more?" demanded the sergeant.

"He asked me point blank if there was a message," said the constable, "so I told him to go to hell."

"Excellent advice," remarked Drummond. "Well, sergeant, I'm sorry I haven't been able to supply you with a corpse. I'll try and do better next time. And if you get hold of the blighter I'll come along and give him a thick ear."

"Now, young feller," he said to Seymour when the two policemen had gone, "you and I have got to do a job of work."

"What's that you were saying about a corpse, sir?" cried the reporter, open-eyed.

Drummond laughed.

"Bad break on my part, wasn't it? If you advertise that you've got a corpse about the house it's always advisable to produce it when called on. But before we go any farther we'll bury this poor old chap. There are a couple of shovels outside."

It took them half an hour, during which time Seymour earned several medals for suppressing his curiosity. But when the ground was finally smoothed over he could contain himself no longer.

"There must be a story here, sir," he cried. "Couldn't you let me have it?"

"Have some beer," said Drummond. "You don't drink! Excellent. Nor do I when there is none. Now, Seymour, I've been thinking things over while we buried Jerry, and I've come to the conclusion that you may be of considerable use to me. Not only that: you may be of considerable use to yourself. In other words, if you follow my instructions implicitly I may be able to put you in the way of a thundering big scoop."

The youngster's eyes gleamed.

"Unless I'm much mistaken, Seymour, there are some very big doings afoot," continued Drummond; "doings which by an extraordinary freak of fate started last night when a stone came through the window out of the fog. A message was wrapped round the stone—a message which certain people in this neighbourhood are very anxious to get hold of, as you may have gathered from what the constable said. That message has been destroyed, but I have it memorised in my brain. To keep them quiet, however, this morning I decided to fool them. So by methods which I won't go into now I got another message through to them—a false message, which I hoped they would think was the real one. Well, whatever they may have thought of it at the time, subsequent events have left no doubt in my mind that they know the second message was a fake. And so I propose to plant them with a third. Which is where you come in, for you are going to do the planting."

The reporter leaned forward eagerly.

"Now you've got to get one thing into your head; you will be dealing with some very clever and dangerous men—men whom it is extremely difficult to bluff. So the thing must be done in the most natural way possible. And this is the way I suggest. Can you get a small paragraph into your paper to-night?"

"If it's worth it, sir—of course."

"You must see that the sub-editor does think it's worth it. Head it: 'Extraordinary Story of Fen Cottage. Message from the Night.' And then—darn it, I can't do journalese. What I want you to imply is that this message came, and that you know the contents, but that you're not allowed to divulge them as yet."

"I get you, sir," cried Seymour, scribbling rapidly in a notebook. "How does this sound?"

"'From our special correspondent. Belmoreton.'

"Your headings are good—then...

"'I have just heard a most mysterious story from Captain Drummond of London, who has been staying in a small cottage near here...'

"Why were you staying here, sir?"

"Duck shooting," said Drummond briefly.

"'For the duck shooting. The night before last, during a period of dense fog, a large stone was flung through his window, with a piece of paper wrapped round it. On the paper was written a message. The fog was so thick that Captain Drummond was unable to find the man who did it. At first he thought it must be a practical joke, but yesterday afternoon, on returning to the cottage, he found his favourite bulldog shot dead on the floor. He at once got into touch with the police, who are investigating the matter. At present I am not at liberty to disclose the nature of the message.'

"How's that, sir?"

"Excellent," said Drummond. "Now we come to the next and more important point. And here I've got to rely entirely on you. Within an hour of that appearing—or I'll eat my hat—you will be got into touch with by ingratiating gentlemen who will treat you as their long-lost brother. And then, young feller, it's up to you. You've got to divulge the contents of that message, so that they really believe you're speaking the truth. Register outraged indignation to start with at the bare thought of passing it on; then weaken gradually and sting 'em for a pony at least. And, above all, don't let 'em think I told you: pretend you heard it from the police. Get me?"

"You bet I do," cried Seymour. "And what is the message?"

"'Rosemary. BJCDOR,'" said Drummond. "That will do as well as anything."

"And what was the real one?"

"That, perchance, in due course you shall know. But not at present. It isn't that I don't trust you, Seymour, but in a case of this sort the fewer people there are in the secret the better."

"And where am I to get in touch with you again?"

"The Senior Sports Club, St. James's Square, will always find me," said Drummond. "Drop me a line there if anything happens. And now get me to Norwich as quick as you can. I'll hire a car there to take me to Cambridge."

"Aren't you going back to London, sir?"

"Not till to-morrow. So if anything happens before lunch, get on to the telephone to me at the Royal. Or, better still, come over on your bike and see me personally."

He took a last look round the room; then, having closed the front door, he walked down to the gate. The road was apparently deserted, but for a long time he stood under cover of the bushes, peering up and down it, while Seymour stared at him in surprise.

"Never forget, young feller," said Drummond, "that there are games in this world where one mistake is one too many. And this particular game comes into the category. We go to the right, don't we, to get to Norwich? But before we finally decide we'll just try a little experiment. If we get the gate open, can you start the bike on the path here?"

"I can," said Seymour.

"I have a hunch," continued Drummond, "that in a moment or two we are going to have some fun. Hold the gate, and I'll get the bike in."

He was out in the road, and back with the bike in something under a couple of seconds, and Seymour gazed at him open-mouthed. For Drummond was smiling grimly, and in his eyes was a queer look of excitement.

"As I thought, Seymour. Was it my sudden appearance that frightened those birds in that small tree down the road there, or was it someone who moved on the ground underneath them? Moved when he saw me. Now, look here, my lad, are you game to take a risk?"

"Of course I am. But what sort of risk?"

"The risk of being shot. Because, unless I am much mistaken, you will shortly have what is generally alluded to in all romantic literature as your baptism of fire."

"I'm on, sir. What am I to do?"

"Stout feller. Start your engine, and when I'm up behind you, go out through the gate and turn left. Then swerve. Keep on swerving from one side of the road to the other till we are round the bend. Then go all out. Ready? Let her rip!"

The bicycle shot into the road, with the two men up on it.

"Swerve!" shouted Drummond as something spat through the air close to their heads. "And again."

Phit! Phit! Two more bullets pinged past them, and then they were round the bend.

"Now all out," said Drummond quietly. "Well done, boy, well done. There aren't many fellows of your age who can say they've been under fire."

"But this is grand," cried the youngster as the bike touched sixty miles an hour. "What next?"

"See that barn in front of us? Turn in there. We'll wait and see."

The Norton slowed down, shot through an open gate and into an empty barn.

"Quick!" cried Drummond. "Out of sight, and stop the engine."

And the instant he had done so they both heard away in the distance the roar of a racing engine. It was rapidly coming nearer, and through a chink in the wall they both peered out. Rocking from side to side like a thing possessed, a long, low, black car hurtled past the barn. The driver was crouching over the wheel, and the man behind him seemed to be urging him on to even greater speed.

"Just as well we pulled in," said Drummond calmly. "They've got the legs of us. Now back the way we've come, and stamp on her again, Seymour."

And twenty minutes later Drummond found himself in Norwich for the second time that day.

"Cheery little bunch, aren't they?" he said with a grin. "It's lucky for us I had that hunch at the cottage. Otherwise I'm afraid there would have been a little advertisement in the paper: For Sale. 1933 Norton. Property of the late Mr. John Seymour."

"How dared they do it, sir? It would have been murder on the high road."

Drummond laughed.

"You'll see quite a lot of that before you've finished this trip," he answered. "But don't forget: no mention of what's happened in the paper."

When suddenly Seymour gripped his arm.

"Look, sir, look!" he stuttered; "there's the car itself!"

Drummond glanced across the square: there was no mistaking that long black body. The two occupants were just getting out, and he noted that the one who had sat beside the driver was immensely tall, even as the man Peter and he had watched striding away from the cottage had been. And at that moment an impulse that could not be resisted overcame him. Straight across the square toward them he sauntered, and they met in the middle. And meeting, stopped dead in their tracks while a man may count thirty. Then Drummond spoke.

"You exceedingly damnable swine," he drawled. "Unless you'd proved it to me I wouldn't have believed it possible that anyone could be such an incredibly lousy shot. Do you want a stationary hayrick at five yards?"

Not a muscle moved in the tall man's face; for all the effect it produced the remark might never have been made. He just stared fixedly at Drummond with a thoughtful look in his eyes, whilst past them drifted the sleepy afternoon traffic. Then, still in absolute silence, he signed to his companion and the two of them continued on their way.

Drummond watched them till they were out of sight, then he lit a cigarette. And being perfectly fair with himself he had to admit that that round was the tall man's. Though absolutely without nerves himself, there was something far more ominous in that complete silence than in any threats he might have used. And since he never made the fatal error of underrating an opponent, it was in a somewhat contemplative mood that he rejoined Seymour.

"What did he say, sir?" cried the youngster eagerly.

"He didn't," said Drummond shortly. "I rather wish he had. And you can take it from me, young feller, that it's going to be a case of watching your step from now on. There's a phrase about sticking at nothing, which is generally more metaphorical than literal. In his case it isn't."

His eyes strayed across the square to the big black car, and he grinned faintly.

"Why not?" he murmured. "Why indeed not? I must now get a taxi—or its equivalent. Follow me in a few minutes towards Cambridge. But wait a bit and see if anything happens."

With fascinated eyes the young reporter followed Drummond as he leisurely crossed the square. Saw him approach the black car and glance round. Heard the sudden roar of the engine instantly throttled down. And then, to his unspeakable and unholy joy, watched it disappear round the corner.

"Golly! what a nerve!" he muttered ecstatically to himself. "What gorgeous brass! And here, as I live, is the ruddy shover."

The man crossed the square to where he had left the car, and then stared about him bewildered. Until what had happened dawned on him, and he retraced his steps at a run. The tall man had just appeared and the two met not twenty yards from where he was standing. Cautiously he edged closer, only to halt abruptly at the sight of the tall man's face. For it was set like a frozen mask, but through that mask there gleamed such concentrated rage that it was as if the devil himself stood there. Then the look vanished, but the youngster was still standing motionless five minutes after the two men had disappeared. It seemed to him that he had seen the naked essence of evil.

After a while he pulled himself together and started his engine. He knew the road to Cambridge by heart, and his brain was full of other things as he rode along. What an amazing adventure he had blundered into! Sheer luck, too, that he had happened to be in Belmoreton that afternoon. What a glorious scoop it was going to be! And he had just visualised himself choosing which offer from countless London editors he would graciously accept when he saw Drummond standing in the road ahead, and pulled up.

"Had they found out when you left?" asked Drummond.

"They had. And I've never seen such rage incarnate on a man's face."

"I don't expect he was pleased," said Drummond happily. "And he'll be even less so when he finds the car."

"Where is it, sir?"

"Just in there. On top of a nice little disused chalk pit. When we've finished it will be at the bottom. Ever seen such a car go over a cliff, Seymour? You haven't? Nor have I. I think it ought to be great fun."

"Won't there be an awful stink about it?"

"I think not," answered Drummond. "You see, as I view the matter, Mr. Longshanks is hardly in a position to raise even the smallest aroma, let alone a stink. And so we are quite safe in making his shoot this afternoon as expensive as we can. I admit that it rather goes to my heart to smash up such a perfectly glorious bus, but in this weary world one can't have everything."

He switched on the engine as he spoke.

"I'll keep the clutch out with my hand," he continued, "and you get in and put her in bottom. Then pop out and we'll let her go."

The car was standing two yards from the top of the quarry, with a few small bushes between it and the edge. It shot forward, seemed to hang in space for one dizzy instant, and then with a dreadful rending noise it crashed downwards out of sight. Came a last coughing grunt from the engine, then silence.

"That will give some of your fraternity a chance to do a bit of Sherlock Holmes work," said Drummond as they walked back. "Though it may be some days before it is discovered; you can't see it from the road as you go past."

"Shall I take you to Cambridge now?" said Seymour.

"You shall not," remarked Drummond with a grin. "Your girl friends must be a deuced sight more adequately protected than I am if they can stand that carrier of yours. I've still got partial paralysis of the spine. Run me to Thetford and I'll get a car there."

And it was just on eight o'clock when Drummond, with the pleasurable feeling of something accomplished, something done, paid off his driver and once again entered the hospitable doors of the Royal to find Peter Darrell and Ronald Standish waiting for him.

"Splendid, old boy," he cried to the latter. "Delighted you could come."

"I brought him along," said Darrell. "I've already told him the main points."

"He has indeed," remarked Standish gravely. "You've bought it this time, Hugh, with a vengeance."

"Do you know anything about these blokes?" asked Drummond eagerly.

"Enough to assure you that your chances—and Peter's, too—of celebrating your next birthday were a hundred per cent. better this time yesterday than they are at the present moment."

"Don't 'e talk lovely, Peter?" laughed Drummond. "As a matter of fact," he continued seriously, "I realised we were up against a pretty tough lot. You remember that good-looking, tall man we saw in the road walking away from the cottage?"

"The fellow who stabbed our bird?"

"That's the gentleman. He's let drive at me three times already with, I should imagine, the actual gun we got hold of. Listen, boys—for I'm telling you."

"Mad," grinned Standish when he had finished. "Mad as a ruddy hatter."

"Can you place him, Ronald?"

"Not at present. Six feet six, you say?"

"At least. And with a pretty powerful punch I guess if he knows how to put 'em up."

"And you pinched his car and dropped it over a precipice. Gorgeous. Maybe a trifle crude, but nevertheless definitely creditable."

"But look here, Ronald, if you don't know the bird, why so morose over Peter's and my next birthday cake?"

"Because I do know the Key Club," said Standish quietly. "Or, at any rate, of them."

"Splendid," said Drummond. "Let us gargle together, and then you have our ear."

CHAPTER VI

Ronald Standish glanced round the lounge, then he led the way into a small alcove.

"Not," as he explained, "that I think anyone here is likely to be interested in our conversation, but I want to keep you two fellows out of sight as much as possible. I don't matter—yet; but you are known.

"The Key Club started a few years after the War in Central Europe. The members used to wear a tiny key as a badge in the lapels of their coats, which was supposed to signify the unlocking of the door leading to a more satisfactory world. Things were in a shocking state, especially in Germany and Russia, and quite a number of similar societies sprang up, flourished for a time, and then they died painlessly of their own utter futility. For some reason or other, however, the Key Club survived. Branches began to appear in France, and finally in England, and it became, in fact, an international organisation. Members were pledged amongst other things to abolish war, and so long as it remained at that nobody cared. They talked the hell of a lot and there it ended.

"And then about four years ago there occurred a very startling development. At the time I was on a special job which entailed me being for the greater part of the day at the War Office. And one morning a peculiar-looking bird rolled up and asked to see someone to whom he could impart information. He hadn't any appointment; he didn't seem to know anyone by name, and so one of the messengers decided to send him to me. He got through on the 'phone and I told him to send the man up. All sorts of crazy blokes come along with useless schemes, and I was prepared for him to be one of them. And when I saw that little key in his buttonhole I was certain of it. To my amazement, however, he produced from his pocket the formula of a new high explosive which he told me had just been perfected by the French. Now, we happened to know that the French had been experimenting on those lines, and therefore the information, if true, was of value. But since, so far as I was concerned, it might have been the formula for a new baby food, I passed the word along for an expert to come and vet it. And his report was that, though he could not possibly say what value there was in it without practical experiment, it undoubtedly was an explosive of sorts.

"'How did you get this?' I asked my visitor.

"'That," he answered, 'is nothing to do with you. There it is, and good day to you.'

"I stared at him open-mouthed.

"'But look here,' I cried, 'don't you want any payment for it? We shall have to make a few inquiries first, of course.'

Make any inquiries you like,' he said. 'The thing is yours.'

"And he stalked out of the office, leaving the chemical wallah and me gaping at one another. Birds with worthless stuff to sell I had met, but a man with valuable information to give was a bit of an eye-opener. And when we discovered that it undoubtedly was the genuine formula of this explosive our amazement increased. The man had vanished, and I'd been too thunderstruck at the time to have him followed. I'd got his card but there was no address on it, and at that the matter rested for a few weeks, when the next extraordinary development took place.

"Through devious channels we discovered that Germany, Italy, Japan, America—in fact every Power that counted—had been presented with the same formula, free, gratis and for nothing. Which, as you can imagine, caused a positive riot of joy amongst the French military authorities.

"However, that was their funeral; what was intriguing us was the reason for such an apparently pointless thing. That the secret must have been obtained by bribing some Frenchman was obvious, but why give it away? More than that, why give it to everybody? And at last we were forced to the conclusion that the motive underlying it was a sort of perverted idealism. These people realised it was impossible to stop research work: that first one country and then another would be bound to get hold of something which would place that country temporarily at an advantage. Their notion, therefore, was that if they could find out what that something was each time and pass it on to everybody else, the temporary advantage would be gone and we'd all start level again. Crazy—if you like—and yet there, staring us in the face, was the actual proof of the pudding. The composition of the new French high explosive was public property.

"Now, all this is, of course, stale news. But I think it's rather important that you should get hold of things from the beginning. And so we've got to the point where the members of this club ceased being a harmless hot-air factory and began to act. Still more or less harmless, it is true: since everybody was put wise, nobody gained. But a new agency had definitely arisen, though no action could be taken against it: it had done nothing wrong or criminal. So the powers that be held a watching brief and waited.

"For two years nothing more happened. Reports came in from time to time showing that the members were still holding meetings, but at that it remained. And then one day—I don't know if you remember the case in the papers—a man was found dead in his bunk in the Harwich-Hook of Holland boat. At the first glance it looked as if death was due to natural causes, but when the steward turned him over he saw to his horror that a dagger had been driven up to the hilt in his heart. It was a tiny weapon, but quite large enough to kill him."

"Are we getting a line here, I wonder?" said Drummond thoughtfully. "It was quite a small one this afternoon."

"Quite possibly," said Standish. "To resume, however. The strange thing about the man on board was that there was literally nothing by which to identify him. There were no letters in his pockets; his passport had disappeared. His clothes and underwear were not marked, and beyond the fact that his overcoat and hat had both been bought at Harrods there was no indication whatever as to who he was, or even as to his nationality. He looked English, but that was about all that could be said for it.

"Naturally there was the devil of a commotion when the boat reached Harwich. The murderer was on board, but it was manifestly impossible to detain over three hundred people. And so, after the police had taken every passenger's name and address, the boat train proceeded to London, and the stewards and everyone else on board were put through the hoop.

"The results were meagre. The cabin steward stated that the man spoke English, but was not prepared to say whether he was an Englishman or not. He also stated that he was carrying with him an attaché case. Of this he was positive; he had seen it lying on the bunk whilst the man had been out of the cabin just after leaving the Hook. To the best of his belief the man had turned in about half an hour after they sailed, but he couldn't swear to it. And more than that he couldn't say.

"The bar-room attendant was the next man to be questioned. He said that the man had ordered a whisky and soda and some ham sandwiches before the boat started, and that he had remained in the bar for about twenty minutes. He had not actually seen anyone speak to him, but that did not of necessity mean that no one had, as several men had been in the bar at the time and he was busy serving them. He, too, was not prepared to say if the man was English, though he rather thought it.

"And then a rather significant fact came to light. About a quarter of an hour after they had sailed, and so presumably after he'd finished his sandwiches, the man had gone to the lavatory to wash his hands. The boy in charge was certain of that fact because he had stood beside him holding a towel in readiness. And while he was standing there, and the man was leaning forward over the basin, the boy noticed that a small key was fixed to the back of the lapel of his coat. That key was not found on the dead man.

"At the time the local police attached no importance to it: they had never heard of the Key Club. And it wasn't until the information reached head-quarters that its significance was realised. The boy was questioned over again and stuck to it, and since it wasn't the sort of thing anyone would be likely to invent it was accepted as a fact. The man had been a member of the Key Club.

"The point, however, that occupied us was whether there was any special significance in this; did it give a clue to the motive for the murder? Robbery was ruled out—the man's money was intact. If it was revenge, or if a woman was at the bottom of it, would the murderer have bothered to remove the key? But if there was a connection between the crime and the badge it was obvious that he would take it off. It was by the merest chance that the key had been seen at all; and but for the boy in the lavatory no one could have known anything about it. Had the dead man, therefore, been guilty of treachery or something of that sort, for which death was the penalty? The trouble was that from what we knew of the Club up to date, it was not an institution that patronised murder. It was almost as baffling as if it had been the Salvation Army involved.

"In due course the man was buried, still without any clue to his identity. And since the affair had considerable publicity in the English Press, it seemed probable that the man was not an Englishman. A full description of him had been given, and it was almost incredible that he should have no kith or kin. And then one day about a week after came the next development. An extraordinary letter was received at Scotland Yard, which the authorities at first believed to be a hoax."

Standish took out his pocket-book.

"I made a copy of it at the time, and after I'd seen Peter this afternoon I looked it out. Here it is."

He passed a sheet of paper over to Drummond.

With reference to the recent murder in the Harwich boat, why was Mario Guiseppi stabbed at the corner of the Strada Marino in Genoa two days before it happened? What was in the lost attaché case? The Key Club still maintains its ideals, but there is treachery at the top.

"There was no signature," continued Standish, "and the postmark was Kensington. The handwriting was an educated one; the paper was the ordinary stuff you can buy anywhere in a penny packet. So the police, not thinking anything would come of it, got into touch with Genoa, and somewhat to their surprise found that a man named Mario Guiseppi had been stabbed at the corner of the Strada Marino two days before the murder in the boat. And further inquiries elicited the very important fact that Guiseppi was a skilled draughtsman in the employ of the Italian Navy who had been working on some extremely confidential drawings with regard to their latest submarine.

"Things were moving, though they were still pretty dark. Had the man who was murdered in the boat brought copies of these plans from Guiseppi, and the transaction been discovered? Had Guiseppi been killed as a punishment for being a traitor to Italy, and the man in the boat been murdered in order to get the tracings back? It seemed possible, and the list of passengers was scrutinised. There was no Italian in it, though that, of course, didn't prove anything.

"So the Yard advertised and broadcasted for the anonymous writer of the letter. They were discreet in what they said, though naturally it was necessary to be explicit enough for the man to know whom the advertisement was intended for. And that, I fear, is what did it. The morning after the broadcast a man was found with his neck broken, lying in some bushes in the small garden of a house in Kensington. It transpired that he occupied the fourth story of the house, which was let as rooms, and that the preceding night he had had visitors who had stayed late. So much the lodger underneath him could say, as the visitors were still talking when he had gone to bed.

"The extraordinary thing was that no one seemed to have seen these visitors. The landlady had not, but she had been occupied in the basement. And, since no one could get in without a latch-key, it seemed clear that the dead man, whose name was Johnstone, had brought them in himself. Apparently he was a quiet sort of bloke, who went out very little, and his main hobby was reading. And at first the sergeant who was called thought it might have been an accident, until an examination of certain marks near the window convinced him that there had been a struggle. The lodger below had heard nothing, but he was a sound sleeper and his bedroom was at the back. At any rate, the sergeant 'phoned the Yard, and Inspector McIver went down. And the first thing he noticed was that a specimen of the dead man's handwriting on his desk corresponded with the writing in the letter.

"Now they thought they really had something to follow up, but once again they were disappointed. The only relatives they could run to earth were two elderly female cousins who lived down in the West Country and hadn't seen the dead man for ten years, and an uncle who lived up North and hadn't seen him for fifteen. Nor did he seem to possess any friends; at least nobody volunteered to come forward. There was nothing to help them in his correspondence, and the discovery of the familiar small key in a drawer only confirmed what they already knew from his letter.

"In fact—an impasse, and the Yard authorities were annoyed. They dislike unsolved murders, and here were two in the course of a few days. That there was a connecting link between them and the death of the Italian in Genoa was obvious: that that link was the selling of secret information with regard to the new submarine was likely. But beyond that stood a blank wall, from which there emerged during the next few weeks only one further bit of evidence. It transpired that Guiseppi had been seen during the week before his death in the company of two men both of whom had a key suspended to their watch-chains. This information came from the proprietor of the small restaurant where the draughtsman used to have his lunch, but he could give no description of them that would not have fitted a hundred middle-class Italians.

"And so for the time the matter rested. The official theory was that Guiseppi had sold information to the Key Club; had been discovered and murdered. That the emissary of the Key Club had in his turn been murdered in order to obtain that information. And that finally the man Johnstone had been done to death too, to prevent him passing on what he knew to the police. But as to whether the same criminal or bunch of criminals were responsible for all three, or what had happened to the tracings there was no means of telling. Certainly no offer was made of them to the British Government as had been the case before with the French high explosive.

"Six months elapsed before anything more was heard. And then a very remarkable fact came to our knowledge, which though it bore out in part the police theory, also put the activities of the Key Club in a somewhat different light. You may remember that the time before they had given the secret to all countries; this time they had sold it to one. Through devious channels we found that the French had bought for a large sum of money the actual submarine details on which Guiseppi had been working at the time of his death. Abstract idealism had been replaced by concrete realism."

"There was damned little idealism about my bloke this afternoon," said Drummond with a grin.

"Just so," continued Standish. "I'm getting to that now. When this last bit of information came to light we began making some pretty searching inquiries. It was all done on the quiet, naturally: there was nothing criminal to take hold of. And after a while, by piecing together little bits from here and little bits from there, a much more sinister aspect began to emerge; an aspect which bore out the letter written by Johnstone. He had called it treachery at the top; we called it by another name. For, in short, the Key Club had become a criminal organisation, which was all the more dangerous in view of the fact that ninety-nine per cent. of the members were totally unaware of any change. They were being exploited by a small nucleus of international crooks—crooks who did not stop at murder.

"At first sight it seemed surprising; at second the only surprising thing about it was that we hadn't thought of it before. Here was a society capable of getting at times highly confidential information. And this society was insane enough to be inspired by ideals. Why, some of the big men must almost have fainted with horror at the thought of what they were missing! This milch cow already to hand, and nobody doing anything about it. The situation had to be remedied, and it was at the trifling cost of three men's lives.

"When exactly the criminal element got in we couldn't find out, and it was immaterial. Obviously some time after the episode of the French high explosive, and before the Guiseppi affair. How many were actually posing as members of the Key Club we didn't know—we don't know now. One man in the inner councils would be enough to pass on information to his pals outside. But what we could do was to throw more light on the Harwich boat murder, or at any rate the reasons for it.

"The man had been killed by some member of the nucleus who knew what he was carrying in the attaché case. At the time of his death he was undoubtedly on his way to the English Admiralty, from where the same procedure would have been followed as before with the explosive. Johnstone had been thrown from his window because by some means he had found out more than it was advisable for a mere member of the rank and file to know. And Guiseppi had been stabbed—this was only surmise on our part, but it fitted in—he had been stabbed to prevent any possibility of his again passing on the information to some other absurd idealist of the Key Club. In fact the cat had pulled a very plump chestnut out of the fire for the monkey to sell to France."

"How long ago was all this?" asked Drummond.

"About eighteen months. Since then, as far as I know, they have done nothing. Now it looks as if they were on the warpath again."

"Any idea what they can be after?"

"Not an earthly. I chucked the job I was on over a year ago. But I know all the boys who are still at it, and if—which is very unlikely—they are wise to anything, we may be able to help each other mutually."

"Why unlikely?" queried Darrell.

"If they're still hunting the same line of country, if as they did in the case of Guiseppi they've bribed one of our people to give away some secret, we shan't know anything about it till it's sold to a foreign Power."

"Guiseppi was killed," said Drummond thoughtfully. "Do you know if anyone who would have been in a position to pass on information of value has gone west? There can't be a frightful number of 'em."

"Not that I know of," answered Standish. "But that can easily be found out. In fact I'll do so now."

He rose and went to the telephone, to return a few minutes later.

"Definitely no one," he said. "The Yard people were a bit curious as to why I asked, but I rode 'em off. I want to be on rather firmer ground before bringing them in."

"Do you think the brick bunger is the Guiseppi of the piece?"

"It's possible. Though it makes it difficult to follow. They got him back: that you saw with your own eyes. So what more did they want?"

"The message he threw through the window."

"True, old boy. But why, if he's the Guiseppi this time, should he throw a message through the window? If he was the traitor, already badly wounded, and trying to get away with his life, why bung a cryptic and incomprehensible message into a cottage? Surely on seeing the light his first instinct would have been to come to the occupants for sanctuary."

"But that's what defeats me whoever the bird was," cried Drummond. "In any event why didn't he come inside?"

Standish lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

"The point has been puzzling me ever since I first heard it from Peter," he said. "And I can think of only one solution. We must assume that the man was sane: the message, though we can't understand it at present, was not gibberish. This man, then, by some means which we don't know escaped from Emil and Co., and was wounded in doing so. He knew they were utterly unscrupulous and would stick at nothing. And so he reasoned as follows: 'If I go into that cottage and am found there they will think nothing of killing the occupants of the cottage in order to prevent the smallest chance of those occupants passing on the information which they will assume I have told them. And there goes my last hope of getting that information through. I will therefore throw a message in and go on myself in the hope that it will be found by the occupant and not by Emil and his friends.' Which incidentally is just what happened."

Drummond nodded.

"That's so. Through a sheer fluke."

Standish shrugged his shoulders.

"One has always got to take a chance," he remarked. "It came off, and that's all that matters. And it's not he who worries me most: it's the girl. I can't place her. She tries to dope your tea; she makes every endeavour she can to get hold of the message. O.K. so far. Nothing inconsistent up to date. On the way back she tells you about the Key Club."

"Reviling the institution good and hearty," put in Drummond.

"That may or may not mean anything: the point is that she brought up the subject. Why? She could have put up her little fairy tale about Harold without mentioning the Key Club at all. And if she is on their side..."

He relapsed into silence and the other two stared at him.

"Surely she must be," cried Drummond.

"Something to it, Hugh," said Darrell. "You know what that bird told us this afternoon: she was drugged as well as Mrs. Eskdale."

"It's this way," said Standish. "Her actions to start with don't tally with her later ones. To begin with she seems to be on the side of this man Emil; subsequently she seems against him."

"Always provided it was Emil who did the drugging," put in Drummond.

And at that moment the hall porter put his head round the corner.

"One of you gentlemen named Captain Drummond?" he asked.

"What do you want, porter?" said Drummond.

"Telephone call from London, sir."

"How the devil does anyone know I'm here?" cried Drummond in surprise.

"May be Denny, Hugh," said Darrell. "I told him to put a call through in case the old lady came round."

Drummond nodded and went off to the box.

"It's a puzzler, Peter," remarked Standish. "Why did that girl go back to the cottage this afternoon?"

"All Hugh and I could arrive at was that she wanted to verify the wire," said Darrell.

"But why? What should have made her suspicious? She must have believed it to be genuine when she got it, or she wouldn't have acted as she did. What made her change her mind? And stranger still. If she was allowed to receive it in the first instance without anyone bothering, why should there be this feverish excitement over her getting it repeated?"

"Ask me another. The whole thing has got me guessing. Where does this tall bloke come in? It must have been him who stabbed that wretched devil. Is he one of this criminal bunch at the top that you were talking about? Because unless that man he killed was the world's best actor I'll swear he'd never even heard of the Key Club."

"It oughtn't to be difficult to get a line on him," said Standish. "What was it, Hugh?"

"Denny right enough," said Drummond, rejoining them. "Nannie has recovered. It was the telegram the girl went back about. I've just been talking to Nannie herself."

"How is the old dear?" asked Darrell.

"She's all right. Still got the twitters a bit. It seems the girl arrived about five minutes before the men did. Nannie was upstairs changing her dress, and the girl waited in the parlour."

"Where presumably she read the wire as you sent it to Mrs. Eskdale," said Standish.

"No," answered Drummond. "I specially asked her that. The old lady had torn it up. All the girl wanted to see was the original message that had come through the window. Which put Nannie, somewhat naturally, in a quandary as she hadn't any message. And then, before the old lady realised what was happening, the man appeared on the scene, and she remembers nothing more."

Standish started to pace up and down with his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

"This beats me," he said. "Why should the girl have wanted to see the original message? If, which is extremely unlikely, she had discovered it was Coldspur's tip she would have realised that you had been fooling her, Hugh, from the word 'go.' What possible object could there be in that case of her going back to the cottage? If, on the other hand, she still believed the wire to be genuine, why bother to confirm it? You think, Peter, to make sure there was no mistake in it. Perhaps you're right. But then—why drug her? It doesn't make sense to me. She was allowed to handle and read the wire in the morning, and she is doped when she tries to see the original in the afternoon. By Jove! chaps, there are some mighty rum points about this show. Is this man Meredith really the girl's uncle? Where does he stand with regard to Emil? Where do both of 'em stand with regard to Hugh's tall friend? Are they two separate gangs, and where does the Key Club come in? Is the girl with one and against the other, or is she against them both? If so, what is her game?"

"There's another thing, too, that I can't understand," said Drummond. "No one is fonder of a thick-ear party than I am, but one doesn't go about slaughtering people unless there's a good reason. Why then is that tall swine so matey? Particularly with me. If they think..."

He broke off abruptly.

"Hullo! young feller, what do you want? Ronald—this is my friend Mr. Seymour of journalistic fame."

The youngster gave a sheepish grin.

"Well, sir," he said, "I remembered what you'd said about passing on that information. So after I'd handed in the stuff to the sub-editor I went into a pub in Belmoreton. And I heard Tom the barman talking about Mrs. Eskdale, and saying what a funny thing it was she'd taken to racing. So I pricked up my ears and asked a few questions. And it turned out that the man in the post office, who always has a bit on every day, had been in there at lunch and had remarked on Mrs. Eskdale having sent a wire containing a racing tip. Joe wouldn't have thought any more about it but for the fact that a stranger in the corner seemed very interested, and asked a lot of questions. The man from the post office got suspicious and shut up, but the stranger went straight away into the telephone box, and put through a long-distance call. At least Joe thought it must have been long-distance owing to the time it took."

"What time was this, Seymour?" said Drummond.

"I suppose about midday, sir, or half-past twelve."

"How do you fit that in, Ronald?"

"What time did the wire arrive at Hartley Court?" asked Standish.

"Just about midday too," said Drummond.

"So that you had left Hartley Court before there was any possibility of this telephone message saying the wire was a fake reaching the other side."

He turned to Seymour.

"Did your friend Tom, the potman, happen to mention any specific question the stranger had put?"

"Apparently he was very anxious to find out whom the wire had been sent to."

"And did the post office man tell him?"

"I couldn't tell you, sir. But I know that he did say it was a Morning Leader tip, and that Coldspur was dead out of form just now."

Standish rubbed his hands together.

"Things became a trifle clearer, Hugh," he said. "They saw at once that the only person who could possibly have inspired the worthy Mrs. Eskdale to send a bogus wire was you yourself. And therefore they realised you had been fooling 'em. Hence the target practice this afternoon. What, however, is not so clear—in fact this information has increased the fog—is their treatment of the girl. It's difficult enough to see why they should have drugged her when they thought it was all genuine. But why they should do so if they knew it was a fake is beyond me. If what Seymour tells us is correct—and from the activity over there this afternoon I'm sure it is—they must have known there was no message at all at the cottage."

"So must the girl," objected Darrell.

"I wonder," said Standish slowly. "I wonder. Supposing she didn't know anything about it: supposing she believed the wire to be genuine. She goes back to the cottage to make sure, and for some reason or other that action arouses their suspicions. Alternatively, suppose they don't want her to find out the message is a dud... I know it's difficult to follow, but when you come across an apparently inexplicable fact, you must be prepared to accept an equally inexplicable solution. If it fits... In short, have we a parallel with the Guiseppi case? Is this girl the counterpart of Johnstone? If so..."

He paused and his face was grave.

"You mean she may be in danger," said Drummond.

"Exactly. And I don't like it. Not one little bit. Men who indulge in gun practice on an open road are not likely to entertain many scruples over a mere girl. Look here, Seymour," he continued, "you'd better get back, and do exactly what Captain Drummond told you. You did excellently in bringing us this information; it's most valuable."

The youngster's face flushed with pleasure and Drummond smiled at him.

"You shall have your scoop, young feller," he said. "Keep your ears open and your mouth shut. A good boy," he went on, as the roar of a motor-bicycle announced his departure. "He may prove useful. What's the next move, sergeant-major? So far as I can see, everything we've done up to date has been a waste of time."

"Let's adjourn to the abode of drink," answered Standish, "where in the intervals of lowering a couple we might hear some local gossip."

The three men crossed the lounge and entered the bar, which was deserted.

"Good evening, bright eyes," said Drummond. "Will you with your own fair hands decant some sherry?"

"Dry or sweet?" asked the barmaid.

"Dry, darling. Tell me, have you ever in the course of your peregrinations round the smiling country-side gone past a house called Hartley Court?"

"Hartley Court," cried the girl, "belongs to Doctor Belfage."

"I had an idea that a man called Meredith was living there at present," said Drummond.

"Very likely. The doctor often lets it to the racing set. Two and six, please! At least, I suppose he didn't ought to be called a doctor no more."

"Dear, dear," cried Drummond. "Has he blotted his copy-book?"

"Not half he hasn't. Got struck off the register about a year ago. Fair scandal there was, I can tell you."

"How very reprehensible," remarked Drummond,

"Nasty little man he was, too," continued the girl. "I wouldn't have had him near me: him and his beastly animals. Had a sort of zoo, he did. Taken 'em with him to his other house."

"And where might that be?" asked Drummond idly.

"Good gracious me," muttered the girl. "Talk of the devil..."

A short, stout man had entered the bar. His face was round and puffy; his appearance oily and smug.

"Good evening, my dear," he said, washing his hands with invisible soap. "I think—yes, I think—a little drop of auntie's ruin with some Angostura bitters in it. Been a lovely day, gentlemen."

"Very," answered Drummond curtly, and glanced at Standish, whose face was expressionless.

In the lapel of Doctor Belfage's coat was a small bronze key.

CHAPTER VII

"Funny, isn't it," remarked the barmaid, "that you should have been saying... Now then, clumsy, look where you're putting your great fat hands."

"A thousand apologies, my dear," cried Standish, picking up the glass he had knocked over. "Let's have the other half. It is strange, sir," he continued affably, "that just before you came in we were remarking on the fact that outside the Navy one so rarely sees the good homely pink gin being drunk. Cocktails, yes: gin and French: sherry."

He rambled on, and the barmaid after one quick look of surprise took her cue.

"And, by the way, sir," Standish was saying, "if it's not an impertinent question on my part, may I ask if that badge you are wearing in your coat has any special significance?"

"It certainly has, sir," answered the other. "It is the badge of a society to which I belong, and a meeting of which I am actually attending to-night."

"Indeed," said Standish politely. "Some local organisation, I suppose?"

"Far from it, I assure you. I don't think I am exaggerating when I say that its ramifications extend all over the world. The Key Club, sir, so called because it symbolises the unlocking of the door into an improved world. Many of the undergraduates here belong to it; there is no entrance fee, and membership is open to all regardless of social position."

"Most interesting," remarked Standish. "Some time I must make further inquiries about it."

"Would you care to come to the meeting this evening—you and your friends?" asked the doctor. "There will be no difficulty about it at all. Strictly speaking each member is allowed only one guest, but I can easily arrange for other people to sponsor two of you."

"That is very good of you," said Standish. "Where is the meeting being held?"

"At a house of mine called Hartley Court. It is at present let, but the tenant is a keen member of the Key Club himself."

He glanced at his watch.

"We shall just be in nice time if we start now," he continued. "The house is about three miles out of Cambridge."

He looked at them inquiringly, and Drummond shook his head.

"I'm afraid I shan't be able to avail myself of your kind offer," he remarked. "I've got to be pushing off for London shortly. But why don't you two fellows go? It ought to be rather interesting."

"Peter can't very well," said Standish. "You've got that bloke coming in at ten, old boy."

"So I have," cried Darrell. "Forgotten all about him till you mentioned it."

"But I'd like to come very much," said Standish, lighting a cigarette. "I suppose it won't be a very late show?"

"About eleven o'clock. And then we have an informal talk, with light refreshments. Well, good night, gentlemen." He bowed to Drummond and Darrell. "I'm sorry you can't come."

The door closed behind him and Standish, and immediately the barmaid became agog with excitement.

"What's the game?" she cried. "What are you boys up to? Be sports and tell. I played up over that pink gin."

"You did indeed, my dear," said Drummond. "And I'd tell you like a shot what we were up to if I knew myself. I mean it, really; I promise you."

"Tell that to the marines," she scoffed. "Why didn't you want that little horror to know you'd been asking me about Hartley Court? Him and his improved world! I nearly gave the show away then by laughing. Look here," she said shrewdly, "is there something crooked on? Are you guys detectives?"

"We are not," laughed Drummond. "But..."

He paused as a page-boy came into the bar with a letter.

"Given me by a gent, sir, what's just left."

Drummond opened it, and found a hastily scrawled note from Standish.

Safer neither of you come: even Peter might be recognised. Don't know if clumsy trap or pure coincidence. Be on hand outside. Keep that barmaid's mouth shut. Am taking Peter's car. R.S.

He read it and handed it to Darrell.

"No, my dear," he said, "we are not detectives. At the same time, you can take it from me that there is a bit more in this than meets the eye. And I want you, please, to promise me something. It's really very important. I want you to promise that you won't say a word about it to a soul. There's a big bet on, and if you keep quiet there's a spot of money in it for me, and a fiver in it for you."

"A fiver! Big boy, for a fiver an oyster would deafen you compared to me. For all that, I wish you'd tell."

"Honest, kid, there's nothing to tell as yet. Thumbs crossed. Later on there may be lots, and you're for the front row of the stalls.... A bit rum, Peter," he went on thoughtfully, "having a debagged doctor in a moral uplift society."

"Probably joined before he got the bird," said Darrell. "May have been useful to him in his practice."

"I've seen other guys wearing that little key," announced the barmaid. "Undergraduates mostly. I thought it was some University club. Pretty pimply-looking lot they were."

"Do you know where that little man lives now?" asked Drummond.

"I don't," said the girl. "He went right away from this part of the country when the trouble took place."

"And one rather wonders, Peter, what brings him back," remarked Drummond. "I can't think that a meeting of his darned club, finishing up with light refreshments at eleven, would prove a sufficient inducement.... Give me some sandwiches, my pet," he continued, as some men came into the bar. "We will get down to 'em in that corner."

"What's the plan of campaign, Hugh?" said Darrell as they sat down.

"We'll have to be guided by events," answered Drummond. "Personally, I don't think Ronald is likely to find anything out that's going to help us. This meeting can't have been arranged to-day, so presumably it's just in the ordinary course of affairs: part of the general smoke screen which covers the doings behind. In which case those attending it will be perfectly harmless."

He glanced at his watch.

"No good our starting for at least another hour," he remarked. "I'm going to have a spot of shut eye. Wake me if I snore."

It was one of Drummond's most remarkable traits—his ability to snatch forty winks almost at will, and in a couple of minutes he was sound asleep. Darrell, on the other hand, had never felt so wide-awake in his life. Vaguely he heard odd remarks from the bunch gathered round the bar, but his brain was busy trying to get some semblance of order into the existing chaos. What Standish had told them certainly threw some light on the matter, but in all conscience light was needed.

That their trip to Kessingland had been a complete waste of time was obvious, but what would have happened if they had not gone back via the cottage? Doing so had only been a last-minute decision and could not have been anticipated by the other side. And yet they had left a man to watch the cottage. Taking no chances evidently.... Even so, to murder him for a trifling indiscretion seemed a bit drastic.

And the attempt on Drummond's life. True, when it was made they knew he had fooled them: true, they suspected even if they did not know that he had been in possession of the genuine message the whole time. But murder seemed out of all proportion when the contents of the message were considered. On the other hand, admittedly they could not know what those contents were.

Mary Jane. Urgent G G Font. A5.

What the devil did it mean? Could it be that Mary Jane was the girl herself—Doris Venables? A nickname or something of that sort. That the message was actually intended for her? In that case she must have known there was something badly wrong, when she got Drummond's faked wire. A point; a definite point.... Did she know? Was she playing some very deep game—deeper by far than the unfortunate Johnstone in the Guiseppi affair? And the more he thought of it, the more did he become convinced that if Miss Doris Venables could be found and made to talk, many things would become clearer.

The bar was getting more empty. Drummond was still asleep, and Darrell himself was beginning to feel drowsy, when, happening to glance at the door, he saw something that instantly made him wideawake. Not that he gave any outward sign of it—Drummond had trained him far too well for that—but every sense was on the alert. Save for a narrow horizontal strip at the top the door consisted of frosted glass. And in the centre of that strip was the face of a man. He was looking straight at their corner, and after a while he turned and spoke to someone who was out of sight. Then he disappeared, and Darrell touched Drummond on the arm.

"Sorry to disturb your slumbers, old boy," he remarked, "but a guy has been peering through the top of the door and giving us the once over. He's gone now, but in case he comes back you'd better have a look at his dial."

"Sure it was us he was interested in?" asked Drummond.

"Absolutely. He was looking straight at us."

They waited a few minutes, but there was no further sign of him. And when at length the bar closed and they went into the lounge they could see no one about the place who looked even remotely interested in their doings.

"You can see that corner perfectly," said Darrell, and then he gave a sudden exclamation. "Come here, Hugh. I'm six foot, and I can only just see over the frosted glass. I saw that bloke's whole face; I saw his chin."

"Our tall friend?" queried Drummond thoughtfully and beckoned to the hall porter. "Has a very tall gentleman been in here recently?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, there has. He went about five minutes ago."

"Do you know his name?" asked Drummond.

"No, sir. I ain't never seen him before."

The page-boy had drawn near and now spoke.

"Asked for you, sir, he did. Captain Drummond. I said as 'ow you were in the bar, and I thought the gentleman had joined you."

Drummond nodded and turned away.

"Seems hard to shake 'em off, Peter," he remarked. "Do we perceive in this the hand of the unfrocked doctor?"

"He didn't know your name," said Darrell.

"No. But with a face like mine I'm not hard to describe. I'm open to a small bet, Peter, that there are other activities on at Hartley Court to-night, besides that fatuous meeting. And it's on account of these that Doctor Belfage has appeared on the scene. It's unfortunate he should have chosen to lower his pink gin at this pub, but it can't be helped. Of course the instant he arrived at the house he was told about us, and realised he'd been talking to the very men who had caused all the commotion. Longshanks was there and came down to make sure."

"I hope old Ronald's all right," said Darrell.

Drummond laughed.

"I don't think we need worry our heads about Ronald," he answered. "His only danger is the possibility that the light refreshments at eleven may prove to be non-alcoholic. No, Peter, it's you and I who have got to watch it just at the moment. And what I'm wondering about is their next move. Officially I'm going to London, and you're seeing a man about a dog here. But do they believe it? If so, are they going to take any steps to alter our plans?... Good Lord! Cabbageface, what on earth are you doing here?"

A tall, somewhat languid man had just entered the hotel, followed by a positive lorry-load of suitcases.

"Hullo, Hugh!" he drawled. "The surprise is mutual. Can one get a drink?"

"If you're staying in the hotel, sir," said the hall porter.

"Clarence," remarked the new-comer, "I fear you will not rise high in your profession. Do you imagine I have taken those bags out of the car merely to put them back again?"

"Peter," said Drummond, "meet Cabbageface, otherwise known as Major Humphrey Gregson. This is Darrell."

The two men shook hands.

"Often seen you playing at Lord's," said Gregson, "in the intervals of my onerous duties at the War House."

"Are you travelling in underclothes or what, old boy?" demanded Drummond, eyeing the pile of suit-cases.

"Not exactly," said the other with a grin. "But honestly, Hugh, what are you fellows doing here?"

"Investigating a spot of bother, Cabbageface," answered Drummond guilelessly.

Gregson looked at him steadily over the rim of his glass.

"Ever the same old Hugh," he remarked quietly. "Can it be possible, I wonder, that this meeting is not quite so fortuitous as it appeared at first sight?"

"Ronald Standish is here," said Drummond, with apparent irrelevance.

"The devil he is! When did he come?"

"This afternoon."

"Is he in the hotel now?"

"No, Cabbageface, he is not," said Drummond deliberately. "He is at the present moment attending a meeting of a society known as the Key Club."

Gregson stared at him blankly.

"Standish at a meeting of the Key Club!" he remarked in amazement. "What in the name of all that's marvellous is he doing that for?"

"He was asked by a nice kind gentleman," said Drummond. "So incidentally were we, but Peter and I wouldn't play. By the way, have you ever heard of a doctor called Belfage?"

"No. Why?"

"Or a man called Meredith?"

Gregson shook his head.

"Or a German named Emil?"

"Emil! Medium height: dark: dangerous-looking customer."

"The description serves."

"That might be Emil Veight," said Gregson half to himself. "Hugh," he continued, "this is the most amazing affair. Quite obviously we are mixed up in the same show. How on earth did you get pushed into it?"

For a few moments Drummond did not reply. Then:

"What's your job at the War House, Humphrey?"

"Intelligence—though you might not think so."

"Hush-hush business you mean."

Gregson nodded.

"You can call it that if you like."

"If you were sending a report, or getting a message through, would you always sign yourself by your own name?"

"I don't know that I'm quite prepared to answer that question, Hugh," said Gregson. "A bit near the confidential, you know. And we must pretend to be hush-hush."

"You wouldn't perhaps sign yourself A2 or A3 or something like that?" pursued Drummond imperturbably.

Gregson stared at him.

"Without committing myself," he said quietly, "let us assume for the moment that I should."

"Good," remarked Drummond. "You asked me how I got pushed into this performance. The reason was that someone who signed himself A5——"

"Ginger Lovelace!" cried Gregson involuntarily,

"Bunged a message through the window of a cottage I was staying in last night," continued Drummond, ignoring the interruption.

"But why did he do that?" cried Gregson, utterly bewildered.

"Because he was wounded unto death," said Drummond gravely, "and Emil and his damned bunch were after him."

"My God!" stammered Gregson. "Ginger wounded! Where is he now?"

"I can't tell you," said Drummond, "for I don't know. Before I could get hold of him he'd vanished into the fog. And then Emil and Co. appeared on the scene."

"What was the message, Hugh?"

Drummond looked round; there was no one near.

"'Mary Jane. Urgent. G G Pont. A5,'" he said in a low voice. "Can you make head or tail of it?"

"'Mary Jane,'" repeated Gregson. "'G G Pont.' What the devil was the old lad talking about?"

"It means nothing in your young life then?" said Drummond.

"Absolutely nix," answered Gregson. "Ginger wounded! Have you been to the police?"

"Yes and no, Humphrey. It's much too long a story to go into now, but rightly or wrongly I decided not to last night. The cottage is not on the telephone: you couldn't see your hand in front of your face: and I had no idea who the bloke was. In fact at the time the whole thing completely defeated me. But to-day's doings have produced one certainty. The gentlemen on the other side are prepared to go literally to any lengths to get hold of the message I've just told you. Now even if that message is beyond you, can't you throw some light on things? Why was Lovelace down here? What's brought you down here?"

Gregson lit a cigarette.

"One at a time. Lovelace has officially been on leave for a matter of two months. And with us, as you may know, that does not mean leave. I'm not clear what he's been on: the Chief is a firm believer in not letting the right hand know what the left is doing. All I can tell you is that he has been in Poland, and until now I thought he was there still. So much for Ginger. Now for my show. I was to come here prepared for any eventuality; hence"—he grinned gently and waved a hand at the suitcases—"a few props in the change-of-appearance line. I was to meet a woman round about ten o'clock, and after I'd heard what she had to say, I was to act entirely on my own initiative. And it being about ten now, the lady may shortly materialise."

"And she may not," said Drummond thoughtfully. "It's beginning to fit a little more, Peter. Have you any idea what sort of a woman she is, Cabbageface?"

"Not the slightest, old boy. No more, I gather, had the Chief. In fact he was even less communicative than usual. But he did mention the Key Club, which proves that we are both chasing the same hare."

"Do you employ any women on your job?" asked Drummond.

"Certainly. But none, so far as I'm aware of, actually in England."

"Your boss would know if this woman you're meeting was one of them?"

"Yes. But that doesn't mean he'd of necessity tell me."

He looked at Drummond keenly.

"From the general tenor of your remarks, Hugh," he said, "you would seem to have encountered a lady during the day's toil. Have you?"

"Yes," answered Drummond. "I'll make it as concise as I can, Cabbageface, because Peter and I have a date."

Gregson listened without comment, and it might have been noticed that the languid expression had completely disappeared.

"Doris Venables," he said, when Drummond had finished. "She is a new one on me, though that means nothing. And you think it may be she who got in touch with the Chief?"

"It looks possible. She is obviously mixed up in this show, and she's the only woman we've butted into up to date."

"In that case," remarked Gregson thoughtfully, "I doubt if I shall have the pleasure of making the lady's acquaintance to-night. They must have found her out."

"Yes," said Drummond gravely. "I'm afraid they have. And if that is so, from what I've seen of 'em I doubt if you'll ever make her acquaintance. Could you possibly get on to the Chief to-night?"

"Possibly: at his private house. I can try."

"I wish you would. It won't take you long to get through at this hour. I'd like to know before we start."

"Where are you going?"

"To the house where the meeting of the Key Club is in progress. Are you coming?"

"I'd like to, but I'll tell you for certain when I've 'phoned the Chief."

"I like it less and less, Peter," said Drummond as Gregson entered the telephone box. "I know she tried the dirty on me this morning, but the more I think of it the more do I believe that Ronald's right. I believe that girl is fighting a lone hand; I believe that even if she's not on our side she's against the others. And they've got her—the swine.... Well, Cabbageface?"

"Got straight through to him," said Gregson, as he joined them. "He does not know anyone called Doris Venables. The woman who rang him up gave no name. But she mentioned the Key Club and Emil Veight: so I was right there. I'm to use my own discretion as to what I do."

"He didn't happen to say what time she rang him up, I suppose?"

"After lunch."

"So if it was little Doris, she must have done it on her way to the cottage. She went there to confirm the wire by seeing the original: she then proposed to pass it on to you to-night and fixed an hour when she knew this meeting was taking place, and she could slip away undetected. Is this bird Emil Veight well known?"

"Only to the select few, old boy. High up in the German Secret Service during the War, and since then a cosmopolitan spy."

"Cosmopolitan!" Drummond raised his eyebrows.

"International, if you prefer it," said Gregson. "If the cash is there he is prepared to work for anybody. A thoroughly dangerous customer, but if any blood-letting has to be done he generally leaves it to other people."

"One other point, Cabbageface," remarked Drummond. "I wonder why she rang you up, and not Scotland Yard. As a rule you blush unseen so far as the outside is concerned."

"Only the lady herself can tell us that," answered Gregson. "And since it is now half-past ten I'm thinking there is not much use waiting for her to do so here. How far is this house you've been talking about?"

"About three miles. Are you coming?"

"You bet your life I am. I'll address the gathering if you like."

"Look here, Humphrey, we'd love to have you, but I don't want you to come under false pretences. Holding His Majesty's commission and all that sort of stuff. It's not the meeting I want to see: it's the other activities—if any. We're going to break into that house, and if we're caught there's going to be trouble."

"My dear Hugh," said Gregson with a faint grin, "if one half of what you have told me is correct, I can't quite see the proud proprietors ringing up the police whatever we do. So let's get on with it."

"Good for you," answered Drummond. "But I thought I'd better warn you."

He crossed the lounge to a map that was hanging on the wall.

"The house is there," he said, "so we'll start in the opposite direction and make a détour. The betting is a fiver to an orange pip that this hotel is being watched, and it may help to put 'em off. Let's go in your car, Humphrey, as it is outside."

The cinemas were emptying as they left the hotel, so that the street was fairly crowded. But they were clear of the town in a few minutes, and Gregson let the car out.

"I'd like to see the type of bird who attends these meetings," said Drummond. "I should think Ronald must be having a gorgeous time. Go left here, Humphrey."

They got into a network of smaller roads as they circled round Cambridge, and it was Darrell who first noticed that they were being followed.

"No one who isn't loopy would come this way for fun," he remarked. "There's been a car about two hundred yards behind us ever since we left."

Drummond looked up from the map he was studying and turned round.

"I saw one of those little wasp effects standing near the entrance to the hotel garage," he said. "If it's the same you'll never get away from it, Cabbageface. I vote we stop and see. We're in plenty of time for the party. Pull up round this corner, old boy, and switch off your lights. Stay in the middle of the road."

Gregson did so, and Drummond was out in a flash and into the ditch followed by the other two. The car behind them was just approaching the bend, and he heard a sudden screech of brakes as the driver realised that the headlights he had been following were no longer there. Then it pulled up with a jerk some ten yards from the deserted car.

"Good evening," said Drummond placidly. "I trust we are in fine fettle."

The two occupants swung round, as a torch shone on them from behind. They could see nobody, only a vague outline leaning over the back of the car. And then suddenly the outline was joined by two more.

"What the devil is the meaning of this?" spluttered the driver.

"Motor bandits, my dear boy," remarked Drummond. "And now tell me all that is in your heart. Why, for instance, have you been following me all over England?"

"You're mad, sir," cried the driver. "Why should I want to follow you?"

"You're very pimply, Narcissus," said Drummond thoughtfully. "And so is your friend. I once cured a man of pimples, but the treatment was too drastic and he died. So if you want to retain your pimples, and I can quite realise you'd be unrecognisable without them, you will answer my question. Why have you been following me?"

"Go to hell," said the youth furiously. "I've taken the number of your car. My friend and I are undergraduates, and you'll hear from the police about this. Do you imagine you've bought the blasted road? Why can't we drive where we like?"

"Not on your bath night, Narcissus. I see you are members of the Key Club."

"What's that to do with you?"

"Strange, isn't it, Peter?" remarked Drummond. "They are certainly a peculiar institution. Unfrocked doctors, and half blues for cat's cradle. Well, my dear boys, you are shortly going to be the victims of an abominable outrage. England will ring with it: questions will be asked in Parliament. But I don't like your lights behind me at all. And as your car is undoubtedly faster than ours there's nothing else for it. Do you mind my extracting you from your seats?"

Two large hands seized the driver and his companion by the coat collar, and drew them out as a cork is drawn from a bottle.

"Have you any rope in your car, Cabbageface?"

"I have," said Gregson in a shaking voice.

"Good. Then we'll just tie these two back to back in the middle of the road, and if anyone comes along they can pretend to be perfect strangers. And if no one comes along, Narcissus, you can hold converse with one another through the small hours on the infinite blessings of peace and disarmament. Also the stupidity of following another car quite so closely in a flat country. No, no: there's no good in struggling. Your state of fitness might just enable you to last for a couple of rounds of spillikins, but you mustn't tax yourselves more until you've had your Ovaltine. Finished, Peter?"

The two youths were almost crying with rage and fury. They were standing back to back each with his right wrist lashed to the other's left, whilst round their waists ran one strand of rope.

"Unspeakable cads," spluttered Narcissus.

"Not at all," said Drummond genially. "Personally, I think we've let you off very lightly. You mustn't go following people round the country. And if I may give you a word of advice it is this. Don't fall down. If you do, not only will the one underneath leave a lot of his face in the road, but you'll find it practically impossible to get up again. Come on, chaps: we mustn't delay any more. Good night, my little ones."

"You'll be getting me cashiered, Hugh," said Gregson, still weak with laughter, as they drove away. "Of all the outrageous assaults I have ever seen perpetrated, that wins in a canter, and the blighters have got my number."

"They won't do anything, old boy," answered Drummond. "They would never hear the last of it if they did. Anyway I'm the culprit. But have you ever seen such a pair of maggots?"

"What do you expect from a bunch of crazy pacifists?" cried Gregson. "The Lord knows—I don't suppose any of us three want another war, but we don't get hysterical about it. And we know what war is; they don't."

"I take it there can be no doubt that this is another Guiseppi affair," said Drummond after a while.

"Not the slightest, I should say, if Veight is mixed up in it."

"Do you know of anything particularly secret which we've got at the moment?"

"There are always a lot of confidential things knocking around," said Gregson. "But I can't say I know of anything that is a super secret. The Chief might. And to-morrow I, at any rate, must get to him as quickly as possible. Jove! if only one could get a word with Ginger... What was he on the track of?"

"One thing is pretty clear, Humphrey. Whatever the game is, it isn't over yet. If they'd already got their information, they wouldn't still be playing round here. No one would run the risks they have run to-day without some very powerful incentive."

"That's true," agreed Gregson. "And that's what I don't quite understand. You either get information or you don't. If you're going to get it, it presupposes that the individual you are getting it from is willing to sell it. In which case why the Wild West show?"

"Supposing the individual wasn't willing to sell it and they want to make him?" suggested Drummond.

"Keeping him a prisoner, you mean. Possibly. But if anyone in a position to sell big stuff had disappeared we should know about it. And, so far as I know, no one has."

"It's a teaser, Cabbageface. Anyway, we may discover more to-night. There is Hartley Court in front of us, and the party is still going on. Let's leave the car here and walk."

CHAPTER VIII

A row of cars drawn up in the drive proclaimed that the meeting was a popular one. The front of the house was in darkness save for the hall, and light on the lawn at the back showed that the Key Club was airing its views on that side of the house. Luckily the undergrowth was dense, and the three men had no difficulty in finding a spot from which they could view the proceedings, which in all conscience were harmless enough.

A large and somewhat pompous-looking individual was holding the floor at the moment. They were too far off to hear what he was saying, but the audience, in which there was quite a sprinkling of women, was obviously becoming restive. And since it was ten minutes past the time for light refreshments the fact was not surprising. At last he sat down and after a little perfunctory applause Meredith got up.

"Evidently the end of a perfect day," whispered Drummond. "That is Uncle John. And the little blighter on Ronald's left is Doctor Belfage, Humphrey."

More hearty applause this time and everybody rose to their feet, extending their hands palm upwards in front of them.

"The Key Club!"

The words came clearly to the listeners through the still air; then there was a general buzz of conversation as the party broke up into little groups.

"Here comes Ronald," said Drummond as Standish appeared at the window. He was talking to Doctor Belfage, and after a while he stepped out on to the lawn, and lit a cigarette. Then he turned round facing the room and they could see a small light moving behind his back. He was signalling with a torch in Morse.

"Short: long," muttered Drummond. "Check me, you fellows. R.U.T.H.E.R.E.H.O.O.T. 'Are you there? hoot.' Go on, Peter: you're better than I am at that game."

The mournful cry of an owl came from Darrell, and at once the signals started again.

W.A.I.T.W.I.L.L.J.O.I.N.U.

"'Wait will join you,'" said Drummond. "And something more. D.A.N.G.E.R."

The signalling stopped, and Standish stepped back into the room. The party was beginning to break up; from the front of the house came the sounds of self-starters.

"Hope he won't be too long," remarked Drummond. "He'll have to park your car somewhere, Peter: he can't leave it in the drive."

"He's saying his last tender farewells now," said Darrell. "Have you blokes noticed that there's not another solitary light in any room in the house? There must be some servants surely."

The last of the guests departed, leaving Doctor Belfage and Meredith alone. That some heated argument was in progress was obvious: the ex-doctor being excited, while Meredith seemed to be trying to pacify him. And then one sentence reached the listeners' ears.

"Madness! Why wasn't I told?"

It was almost a shout, and Meredith laid a soothing hand on the little man's arm.

At last the conversation finished and Meredith came over to the windows and shut them. Then he drew some wooden shutters across, and there came the sound of bolts being pushed home.

"That's torn it," said Drummond. "No getting in by that room."

The light still filtered out through the chinks, and Drummond turned to the other two.

"Wait here," he muttered. "I'm going to do a bit of keyhole peeping. If Ronald comes give a hoot, Peter."

He faded into the darkness like a great cat and a few moments later he was crouching outside the window peering in. Most of the room was outside his range of vision. He could see the table with the drinks and empty glasses, and some of the chairs pushed back in disorder just as their late occupants had left them. And then Doctor Belfage came into view, walking backwards and forwards with a worried look on his face. He was muttering to himself and every now and then he shook his fist in the air angrily. Clearly Meredith had not succeeded in calming him.

Suddenly the little man halted. He swung round facing in what Drummond knew was the direction of the door, and a shadow fell across the floor. Then came a second shadow which materialised a moment later into a dark swarthy man with high cheek-bones and a hooked nose, who might have been a Spaniard. In his hand he held a small package which he gave to the doctor, who put it in his pocket.

"Well, Doctor," came a deep voice, "how do things progress?"

It was the unseen man who was speaking.

"As well as can be expected," answered Belfage. "But I tell you that man is a devil: he has a will of iron."

The dark man smiled evilly.

"Others have had that will before," he said softly. "It is only a matter of time."

"But we have no time," shrilled the doctor. "This man Drummond, of whom I learn for the first time when I arrive here to-night, may know everything. It was the act of a lunatic not to have warned me. My God! I actually asked him to come here."

"And what would it have mattered if he had," rejoined the deep voice. "True, he might have died of boredom had he attended your ridiculous meeting, but that would have saved a lot of bother. Your nerves do not seem to be all they might, my dear Doctor."

"They're shot to hell," cried the other. "I had no idea it would take so long. And now, after what happened last night we may be interrupted at any moment."

"Calm yourself, Doctor. It was, I admit, unfortunate that our good friend Emil allowed that interfering soldier to give him the slip. It was still more unfortunate that he mistook Drummond for a farm labourer. For all that I don't think much damage has been done."

"How can you possibly tell," demanded the doctor. "This man Drummond has deliberately fooled us from what Meredith tells me. And what he's done over one thing, he may very easily do over another."

"He is certainly a nuisance," agreed the unseen man. "But, as I said before, I don't think we need worry overmuch. Had he discovered anything really vital, he would not still have been in Cambridge."

"That's true," said the doctor. "I hadn't thought of that. But I shall be thankful when this is over."

He lit a cigarette with a hand that shook a little.

"I frankly admit," he continued, "that this latest development has shaken me badly."

"One can't expect plain sailing all the time," returned the other contemptuously.

And at that moment there came the hoot of an owl from across the lawn: Standish had arrived.

"If only we could find out what Drummond knows," said the doctor.

"Maybe we shall shortly," answered the other softly. "But from what I overheard this afternoon I don't think he knows much."

The speaker came into sight: it was the tall man, and Drummond studied him thoughtfully.

"My God!" he heard a whisper from behind him. "It's Gregoroff."

Drummond turned round: Standish was peering over his shoulder.

"The most cold-blooded murderer unhung," muttered Standish. "Russian Secret Service: I ought to have thought of him when you mentioned his height. May the Lord help you, Hugh, if he ever gets you at his mercy."

"Tell me the old, old story," whispered Drummond with a grin, as Gregoroff helped himself to a drink. "What are we going to do, Ronald?"

"Wait and listen," answered Standish. "We may learn something."

"No, I don't think he knows much." Gregoroff was speaking again. "But I had to take steps this afternoon to prevent any possibility of his learning more. Well, Doctor, there is a good deal to discuss. Shall we adjourn?"

The light went out: the door closed, and Drummond straightened up.

"Not going to learn anything more here," he muttered. "What about having a council of war?"

They skirted round the lawn, and joined the other two.

"You signalled danger, Ronald," said Drummond. "What did you find out?"

"It was by way of being a general warning, old boy," answered Standish, "inspired by the personnel of the household. The people who attended the meeting were, as I expected, genuine and harmless. I've seldom heard more concentrated bilge talked quite so continuously, but that is neither here nor there. Mine host, Mr. Meredith, was the first gentleman to attract my attention. The last time I saw him he was being sentenced to seven of the best at the Old Bailey for forgery, under the name of Ferguson. The two men who took our coats and hats are both old lags, and another swine I saw on the stairs is a white slave merchant. And so I thought it wise to let you know, in case you hadn't realised it already, that the party wasn't entirely hot air and elderberry wine."

"Did any of these blokes recognise you, Ronald?" said Drummond.

"Not on your life. I blush unseen, so far as gentlemen of that kidney are concerned. Now except possibly for Meredith, those are all small fry. But there is also Emil Veight, who I didn't see, and now—Gregoroff."

"Our tall friend, Peter," explained Drummond.

"Well, as I was saying to you, Hugh," continued Standish, "if anything more was necessary to prove what we're up against, the presence of that devil does it. In fact, I can't imagine how he got into the country. It's true that so far as I remember he has never done anything criminal actually in England, but our people know all about him."

"What do you make of the whole thing up to date?" said Darrell.

"Just what I said to you at the hotel. This is a second Guiseppi case. But whom they have got hold of: what they have stolen: where the key to the mystery lies, I know no more than you. Is it in that house in front of us, or is it somewhere else? There are three cars still left in the drive, which seems to show that others may be leaving besides that doctor."

And at that moment a woman's scream, instantly stifled, rang out. It came from the house and the lour men stiffened.

"That settles it," said Drummond quietly. "I'm going in. Are you fellows on?"

"Sure," answered Standish. "But we keep together. The strange thing is that there's not a single light in any window."

"There may be an inside room," said Drummond. "Come on. And keep your guns handy."

They crossed the lawn, and began skirting round the walls to find a suitable window to break in at. But they were saved the trouble: a small side door was unlocked, and a moment later they were all inside the house.

Absolute silence reigned, and the darkness was intense as they crept forward.

"I'm going to switch on a torch," breathed Drummond. "Stand well away from me."

The beam shone out and circling round picked up the staircase. Then darkness again as they felt their way towards it. And now a murmur of voices came from above, and a faint light which grew stronger as they advanced. A door was ajar on the first floor: it was through it that the light was filtering. Then the voices ceased, and they could hear the sound of a woman's sobs.

"The penalty," said a harsh voice suddenly, "is death."

It was so unexpected that they halted abruptly; then once again they tiptoed forward and paused by the room with the light. The sobs were coming from inside, and Drummond flung open the door, to stand motionless on the threshold. The room was an operating theatre.

The walls were pure white, so designed that no corners existed to catch dust. The light was brilliant without being dazzling, and was thrown from a powerful reflector up on to the ceiling. Cases of gleaming instruments stood against the wall, and in the centre was the table and various basins.

For a while it seemed as if the room was empty, and then as their eyes grew accustomed to the light they saw a woman lying on the floor on the far side of the room. Tears were streaming down her face, but her sobs had ceased, and she was staring at them in bewilderment. Young and dark, she was obviously a foreigner, and after a while she put her finger to her lips, as the sound of voices came from across the passage.

"Save me," she whispered. "Save me, for the good God's sake."

"Then get up," muttered Drummond. "We'll save you, but there is no need to lie there."

"But I'm bound," she answered.

In two strides Drummond was across the room, and had picked her up. Her ankles were lashed with rope, but there was no time to free them. At any moment the owners of the voices might return, and their situation with a helpless woman on their hands was not too good.

"Hop it, boys," he said tensely. "We can come back later."

And even as he spoke the door closed with an ominous clang.

For a space they all stood motionless staring at it; then Drummond deposited the woman on the table and crossed the room.

"Trapped," he said at length. "By all that's holy! What complete, utter, congenital fools we are. A steel door with a Yale lock."

The woman started to whimper again, and with a short laugh Drummond returned to her, and taking out his knife he cut her free.

"Well, my dear," he remarked, "that appears to have torn it for the moment. This delightful apartment doesn't seem to go in for windows, and nothing short of a ton of dynamite would break down that door."

"It is terrible," she moaned. "Terrible. This is, how you say, ze doctor's room where he do things to people. And ze walls, no noise go through."

"Sound-proof, is it," said Standish curtly. "Still, there must be some ventilation somewhere. By the way, this isn't your pal, is it, Hugh?"

"Great Scott! no," said Drummond. "What's the trouble, my dear? Why had they lashed you up?"

"Because I find out things zey do not want me to know. Because I say I will tell ze policemen."

"What sort of things?" cried Drummond eagerly.

"Zey have ze men captured—prisonniers. But what does it mattaire?" she burst out wildly. "We are prisonniers ourselves. And ze big man he is a devil. He will kill us all."

Drummond patted her on the shoulder reassuringly, and produced his revolver.

"We may have something to say about that," he said. "Now listen, mam'selle, do you know who these men are who are prisoners?"

"No, m'sieur, non. I do not know. One, he is old; the other is of your age. But I do not know who zey are."

"Do you know where they are?"

"In a big house, m'sieur." She passed her hand over her forehead. "A big house... M'sieur, I feel so funny."

"So do I, by gad!" cried Gregson. "I feel as if I was tight."

Drummond sat down suddenly in a chair; he was feeling tight, too. He looked at Standish, and two Standishes were swaying by the wall. Came the sound of a fall behind him, and he tried to turn his head. But he could not, and even as he made a last desperate effort the two Standishes collapsed and lay still.

His revolver was still within reach, and he tried to pick it up. But his arm would not move: it felt as if it was bound to his side with iron bands. He tried one leg: the same result. So he gave it up, and just sat there inert and helpless.

He could think, though sluggishly; he could see, though his vision was blurred. And after a while he became aware of a very faint, sweet smell. Gas, he thought hazily; some sort of paralysing gas.

Suddenly he realised that a man was bending over Standish, a man with a hood over his head. He was doing something to Standish's hands and feet, and just then he found he was being attended to also. And the amazing thing was that though he could see his hands being lifted and put together, though he could see rope being lashed round them, he could feel absolutely nothing. It was as if his whole body had gone to sleep.

The men disappeared and Drummond lost count of time. Like a drunken man he stared at Standish lying motionless on the floor, and wondered dully what had happened to the other two. And then, starting in his feet and fingers and spreading gradually up his legs and arms, the most agonising pins and needles set in. It was the return of feeling, but while it lasted he felt as if he was going to burst out of his skin. At length it was over; he found he could turn his head. But he also found that his ankles had been lashed to the legs of the chair, though he had been totally unaware of the fact.

"Are you all right, Hugh?"

Standish was regarding him from the floor.

"I think so," said Drummond. "How are the others?"

"I'm O.K.," came Darrell's voice from behind his chair. "But Gregson's still a bit woozly. The lady appears to have deserted us."

"They carted her out," said Standish, "after they'd lashed me up. Boys, we deserve kicking. We've fallen head foremost into one of the most palpable traps I've ever thought of, and if what that woman said is right and this room is soundproof, so far as I can see we're likely to remain in it."

"Do you think she was a wrong 'un?" said Drummond.

"I'm thinking it doesn't matter much. Right or wrong, she baited the cage all right, and when we suckers were nicely inside they shut the door."

"Where did the damned stuff come from?"

"I don't know. But there's a ventilator high up in the wall behind you, and that's presumably where it's gone. And since the air seems clear now there must be some inlet. The point is, what the devil are we going to do? Can anybody move?"

"I can't for one," said Drummond. "What's the time? How long were we under?"

"Ask me another," answered Standish. "I should say about half an hour. Look out; the door is opening."

"Put them in a row," came a deep voice that Drummond instantly recognised as Gregoroff's. The man who had driven the car the previous afternoon was with him, and the Spaniard, and a moment or two later they were joined by Emil Veight.

"That one," said Gregoroff, pointing to Darrell, "was with Drummond this afternoon at the cottage. Who are these other two?"

"I seem to recognise your face," remarked Veight to Standish. "Who are you?"

"That is a matter of supreme indifference to everyone except myself," said Standish casually.

"Been doing any more shooting, Pansyface?" asked Drummond pleasantly.

For a second Gregoroff's eyes rested on him; then they passed on.

"And that fourth one, who doesn't seem to have quite recovered. He wasn't with them at the hotel. However, it is of no consequence."

His glance came back to Drummond.

"It is strange, is it not, how frequently the simplest traps are the most efficacious," he remarked. "Though I must confess I hardly thought I should bag four of you. By the way, where is the car you stole from me?"

"I swapped it for some peppermint bull's-eyes," answered Drummond with a grin.

The other's face remained as mask-like as ever, and he lit a cigarette with great deliberation.

"You are an extremely foolish man, Captain Drummond," he said. "I suppose you realise that the four of you are completely in our power."

"At the moment it looks like it," yawned Drummond.

"I suppose you further realise that you have been annoying me. And I dislike being annoyed. However, since, owing to your unbelievable stupidity, you have afforded us a very valuable test on a matter we are interested in, we have decided to spare your lives under certain conditions. Last night, when you were in your cottage, a stone was thrown through your window. Wrapped round that stone was a message. What was that message? Your chances of life depend entirely on your giving me the correct answer."

"Is that so?" said Drummond quietly. "Let us get this matter clear. Assuming for the moment that there was a message wrapped round the stone, and that I tell you its contents, am I to understand that you will release us and that we are free to go?"

"My dear Captain Drummond," said Gregoroff with a pitying smile, "you always seem to judge other people's mentality by your own. You must remember that your veracity on the subject of messages is under a definite cloud. No; you will not be free to go. You are far too much of a nuisance when you're at large. And so you will remain here until we have finished what we came over to do in this country. It is for you to decide whether your residence in this charming room is for that period or for—perhaps ever is too strong a word, but shall we say for some months or even years? I trust I make myself quite clear. If you give me the correct message, I will give you my promise to notify the authorities where you are to be found. It may not be for some days, but you are four strong men and a little fasting will do you no harm. In fact, I should think you ought easily to last a fortnight, and I can guarantee to have finished by then. If, on the other hand, you do not give me the correct message, I shall not notify the authorities, with results that may, I fear, prove most unpleasant for you. In fact, as I said, it may be months before you are found. You realise, don't you, that this room is to all intents and purposes sound-proof. You further realise that it is impossible to open that door without the key or suitable tools. And so you see your position."

"You've overlooked one small point," remarked Drummond. "The people at the hotel know we're here."

"Apart from the fact that if that was the truth you certainly wouldn't have mentioned it," said Gregoroff, "do you really think that that affects matters? Of course you've been here, Captain Drummond, and you've left. One of my minions will specially inquire for you at the Royal, and will mention that you left here before midnight. I assure you everything has been thought of."

"And so you propose to stop on in this house while we starve in here," said Drummond.

"Wrong once more," remarked Gregoroff genially. "When we leave you to-night, we lock up the house and go—elsewhere. So you will be all by yourselves."

"Unpleasant for Meredith when we are found."

"Why? Unknown to him, you must have returned to the house, and in the course of your unjustifiable exploration shut yourselves in here by mistake. An accident, a terrible accident and a parallel, my dear fellow, to that delightful old tale which I seem to remember. Wasn't it called the 'Mistletoe Bough'? About a charming girl playing hide-and-seek who popped into a chest, and being unable to open it from the inside, remained there so long that she died on the rest of the party."

"With her feet and hands lashed together!" sneered Drummond.

"Captain Drummond, you positively pain me. Before we desert you we shall unloose one of you, who will then perform the same office for the rest. You will be perfectly free to move about; to shout, if you wish to, as much as you like. In fact, the only point which you have to decide is the duration of your visit. Is it to be for a few days only, in which case the ill-effects will not be lasting; or do you propose to be foolish?"

Drummond stared at him thoughtfully; the situation was only too clear. Of the four of them, prisoners in that room, there was only one whose disappearance was likely to cause any comment—Humphrey Gregson. As a serving soldier his absence would be noticed very quickly, but even if it was, what then? He could be traced as far as the Royal; after that the trail vanished. Worse still, if the two undergraduates who had followed them did complain to the police, and gave the number of Gregson's car, the trail was leading directly away from Hartley Court.

"I cannot afford to wait all night, Captain Drummond." Gregoroff was speaking again. "I will give you another two minutes in which to decide. And please be under no delusions. If it was not for the fact that I want to know the contents of that message, I should leave you here to starve like the rats that you are without the smallest compunction. In case, too, that you have hopes in another direction, your two cars will not remain where they are at present."

Still Drummond said nothing: his brain was racing feverishly to try and see some loophole of escape. His eyes sought Standish, who shrugged his shoulders.

"Seems to me they've got two to one the better of us, Hugh," he said.

"An excellent judge of odds," remarked Gregoroff.

"If I do give you the contents of that message," said Drummond, "what guarantee have we got that you'll keep your word?"

"None," answered Gregoroff calmly. "But, then, you're hardly in a position to demand guarantees, are you? You've just got to chance it."

"Very good," said Drummond after a pause. "I will chance it. And I hope for your sake that the contents of the message mean more in your young life than they do in mine. For none of us has been able to make head or tail of it. It runs as follows: 'Rosemary BJCDOR.'"

"Where was the message when I searched you?" demanded Veight.

"Where I found it afterwards: between the two window-sashes."

"And where is it now?"

"In my head; I burnt it."

For a few moments the German and Gregoroff conferred together in low tones; then the Russian swung round on Drummond.

"Rosemary BJCDOR," he repeated. "And you don't know what it means?"

"I do not," said Drummond. "It is presumably a code of some sort."

Again the two whispered together, and Drummond glanced at Standish. And Standish was studying the Spaniard with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"You have no idea who the writer is?" said Gregoroff.

"Not the slightest," answered Drummond.

"Why did you cause that fake message to be sent?"

"My merry disposition," said Drummond calmly. "I don't like you or any of your friends, so I thought I'd have a spot of fun at your expense."

"How many other people know of this message?"

"So far as I know, only the police at Belmoreton. I told them when I reported the death of the wretched bloke who was murdered at the cottage."

Gregoroff turned to the chauffeur.

"Verify that to-morrow," he said curtly. "And now, Captain Drummond, one or two more questions. What do you know of the girl Doris Venables?"

"Nothing at all, except that she's no beginner at telling the tale."

"I have no doubt in my own mind, Paul," remarked the German, "that her story was the truth. What is of more interest is that I have at last remembered who that man is."

He pointed to Standish.

"You were in the British War Office on the Intelligence side. Your name is Standish. How did you get mixed up in this?"

"That again is a matter of supreme indifference to everyone except me," answered Standish.

Emil Veight whispered to the Russian, who gave a low whistle of surprise.

"That puts a different complexion on matters," he remarked. "I thought we were only dealing with meddling fools. Are you still at the War Office, Mr. Standish?"

"I am not."

"But you were there a year ago. Things become clearer. So your attendance at that meeting to-night, even if not professional, was at any rate inspired by inside knowledge."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," said Standish. "I attended the meeting of the Key Club at the invitation of Doctor Belfage."

"And then remained in the garden spying with your three friends. What did you hear at the meeting that caused you to do that?"

"Nothing," remarked Standish. "We heard a woman scream."

"Twenty minutes after the meeting was over," said the Russian harshly. "You lie, damn you! That scream was the bait to catch you, if you were there. And I knew you were there. Why? I'll tell you. Because you wanted to find out things that don't concern you."

"My dear Hugh," drawled Standish, "the man is a veritable genius. How does he think of it?"

"I don't know, old lad," answered Drummond. "Must have some asset, I suppose, to make up for his ghastly shooting."

Gregoroff stared at him in silence. And the utter lack of concern in Drummond's face seemed suddenly to madden the Russian.

"You damned Englishman," he said at length. "And you really imagined you could come blundering in on my plans with impunity! Well, you've learned your lesson." He turned to the Spaniard. "Cortez, pick up that revolver and search them all for guns."

He waited whilst his order was carried out; then he threw back his head and laughed.

"You fools," he cried. "You unutterable fools! And did you really imagine you were going to get away? Here you are, and here you remain till you die. You won't be able to expedite matters by shooting yourselves; you'll just die the slow, agonising death of starvation. Don't sneer at me, damn you."

With all his strength he struck Drummond in the mouth.

"You'll die," he shouted. "And my only regret is that I shall not be here to see it."

The man was beside himself with rage. A strange red light was glowing in his eyes, and his teeth were bared in a snarl.

"And now I am going. I shall leave the light on, so that you may watch one another growing weaker and weaker. Untie that one."

He pointed to Gregson, and the Spaniard cut the ropes that bound him.

"How long to Horsebridge?" he asked Veight.

"Two hours," answered the German.

"Good-bye and good luck." Gregoroff from the door bowed ironically. "I fear I've spoilt your beauty somewhat, Captain Drummond, but it will be all the same in a fortnight or so. And I owed you one for stealing my car. Not quite so chatty as usual? Well, well—it's quite understandable."

And with one final mocking laugh the door clanged to behind them.

"One man and one man only has done that to me before." Drummond broke the long silence. "And later I killed him. You'd better unlash us, Cabbageface."

"I'm glad you didn't give him the real message, Hugh," said Darrell.

"I thought you blokes wouldn't mind, and I was certain the swine would have crossed us, anyway."

Drummond rose and stretched himself.

"Is there any way out, chaps?"

"If this room is to all intents sound-proof," answered Darrell quietly, "and it must be, or he wouldn't have left us here—none, so far as I can see. It will be days before anyone starts looking for us at all, and then they won't dream of trying an empty house. What do you say, Ronald?"

"That I ought to be dropped into boiling oil," answered Standish. "That my brain would shame a louse. Who is A5, Humphrey?"

"Ginger Lovelace. What's stung you, Ronald?"

"That Spaniard wasn't a Spaniard, but a Mexican," was his unexpected answer.

The other three stared at him in amazement.

"What the devil has that got to do with it?" cried Drummond.

"Only that I've solved the real message," cried Standish savagely.

He got up and shook his fists in the air.

"Solved it," he muttered. "And we're helpless. Absolutely helpless."

CHAPTER IX

"I trust that everything is to monsieur's satisfaction?"

The head waiter bowed obsequiously as an underling replaced the gold-foil bottle in the ice bucket. The silver gleamed in the shaded light; a big jar of caviare shone like black velvet in the centre of the table. From outside came the dull roar of the Strand by night; save for that, no sound disturbed the occupant of the suite in the Ritz-Carlton.

"Thank you, Henri. All is excellent as usual. Let my friend be shown up the instant he arrives."

"I will see to it personally, m'sieur."

With another low bow befitting a man whose wealth was reputed to be fabulous, and who, unlike some others of the millionaire variety, dispensed largesse freely, Henri marshalled his attendants and left the room, leaving the diner alone.

For a while he ate with the quiet deliberation of a man used to feeding by himself—sparingly and yet with the appreciation of the true epicure. Every now and then his eyes rested on the ormolu clock which occupied the centre of the mantel-piece. They were strange eyes—almost repellent. Very light blue in colour, they protruded slightly, giving the impression of a fish. But what was most noticeable about them was their unwavering stare: they never seemed to blink. Hypnotic, frightening, eyes to which it would take a bold man to lie; eyes which made women turn away with a shudder; eyes which had done more than anything else to make Ivor Kalinsky one of the most powerful forces in Europe.

He finished the caviare, and pouring himself out another glass of champagne, he lit a cigarette. He smoked as he had eaten, slowly and with deliberation, using an amber holder. And after a time he rose and began to pace slowly up and down the room. The clanging bell of a passing fire-engine grew to a crescendo and died away in the distance, but he scarcely heard it: his mind was engrossed in other matters, for Ivor Kalinsky was confronted with the biggest problem of his career. On which side should he tip the balance—for or against another European war?

To the countless thousands hurrying through the streets of London to their favourite cinema it would have seemed fantastic that such a thing could be possible. Had they been asked to swallow such a situation even in their most hectic melodrama, they would have poured scorn upon the mentality of the producer of the film. Governments and politicians made wars—not one lone individual pacing to and fro in a dim-lit sitting-room. Who wanted a war, anyway? Hadn't the last one been bad enough?

For or against! For or against! Ceaselessly his brain was working, weighing factor against factor, as coldly and analytically as a chemist conducting an experiment. To the moral side of the issue he gave no thought; it simply did not enter into his calculations. To him the matter was a game of chess, and it was imperative that he should not make a false move.

He drew back the curtains and stared out over the city. As always, his room was high up: he preferred it because of the increased airiness. Below him lay the river, grey and sombre, with the reflection of countless lights gleaming from the Surrey side. A tug went past drawing some barges down to the Pool, and he watched it till it was hidden by Waterloo Bridge. For or against! That would not be the only bridge that would have to be reconstructed if the answer was "For."

In the distance signs shone and glittered—red and white and blue. One showed a glass of port being filled and emptied; another extolled a boot polish. Red and white and blue: was it symbolical? And in imagination Ivor Kalinsky saw another scene. The lights were extinguished, save for beams piercing the sky like pencils from different directions. The noise of the traffic was stilled; another sound had taken its place, and that came from overhead. It was the roar of countless aeroplanes, punctuated every few seconds by the crash of bursting bombs. And in the streets mobs of screaming men and women rushed frenziedly about, trampling, fighting, mad with terror. The tube stations were full—too full; already people were being suffocated to death. And on the platforms below those in front were being pushed on to the lines unable to withstand the pressure of those behind.

Still the bombs came in ever-increasing numbers. Great blinding flashes stabbed the night as houses crashed in ruins, and then, utterly inadequate, came the staccato crack of bursting shrapnel. The anti-aircraft guns at work, manned by the few volunteers who had reached them in time. And suddenly, like a flaming meteor, one stricken aeroplane shot downwards through the night. A pitiful, ragged cheer, and then it crashed, and the bombs it still carried burst in a roar so titanic that the aftermath was silence. The droning above died away; the raiders had departed, the shambles were left. And war had not yet been declared; only a state of tension existed.

A knock came at the door, and Ivor Kalinsky turned round, letting the curtains swing to behind him.

"Come," he called, and the head waiter entered.

"Sir James Portrush," he announced, and a portly man of about fifty came in. He was dressed in the conventional morning coat, and he carried his top-hat and a dispatch-case.

"Ah! my dear Mr. Kalinsky," he cried, coming forward with outstretched hand. "I am delighted to welcome you once more to our shores. You had a good crossing, I trust."

"One or two air pockets, Sir James," said the financier. "Otherwise quite comfortable. You will have a glass of wine with me?"

Sir James held up a protesting hand.

"Thank you; I never touch it. My digestion, you know. I have to be careful—very careful."

"A cup of coffee, then?"

"Again no. Just a little weak whisky and water before I go to bed is all I allow myself."

"Quite a Spartan diet, Sir James," said Kalinsky with a smile. "That will do, thank you, Henri, and see that we are not disturbed under any pretext whatever."

"Very good, m'sieur. I will give the necessary instructions."

The door closed; the two men were alone. And for a space Kalinsky watched his visitor as he settled down. The top-hat was placed carefully on a chair, the dispatch-case on the table. Then, with trousers slightly hitched up and plump legs crossed, Sir James Portrush beamed on his host from his chair. And restraining with an effort a strong desire to say, "Now we're all ready for a nice cup of tea and a good gossip," Kalinsky sat down too.

"I am very glad indeed, Mr. Kalinsky," began Sir James urbanely, "to have this opportunity of a chat with you so soon after your arrival. Indeed, the Prime Minister himself would have liked to be present, but an extremely important measure dealing with the totalisator at greyhound racing tracks is occupying all his time at the moment. You cannot perhaps realise the great volume of public opinion in this country that is opposed to betting in any form, and it is very essential to effect some suitable compromise that will prove acceptable to all schools of thought."

The faintest perceptible smile twitched round his listener's lips, but Sir James was busy opening his dispatch-case and it escaped his attention.

"At the same time, my dear sir," he continued, "you must not imagine for one moment that our entire attention is centred on these pressing domestic problems to the exclusion of other matters. And we should indeed be foolish if we were to blind our eyes to the fact that the temper of Europe at the present moment leaves much to be desired: much—ah—to be desired. You agree with me, Mr. Kalinsky?"

"I do, Sir James."

"Good. And though we have, of course, our recognised channels of information, and are closely in touch with the whole situation, it struck me that a little private and confidential chat with you might help matters considerably."

"You flatter me, Sir James."

"Not at all, not at all. Your interests are world-wide: you have a finger on every important pulse. Now, in brief, what is your view of the situation? I need hardly say that any remarks you may care to make will be for the ears of my colleagues and myself alone."

"Since you have done me the honour of asking me my opinion, Sir James, I presume you want a candid answer."

"Naturally, naturally."

"You do not, for instance, want me to prophesy smooth things, so that, with an easy conscience, you can return to your legislation for totalisators on greyhound tracks."

Sir James ignored the veiled sarcasm, though it did not escape him.

"I am sure that anything you may care to say, Mr. Kalinsky," he remarked with quiet dignity, "will be of great value."

"I doubt it," said the financier quietly, "because the gist of what I have to say may be summed up in one question. Why have you gone out of your way to make another European war inevitable?"

Sir James sat up with a jerk.

"Inevitable!" he stuttered. "Inevitable! My dear sir, we have led the way in every disarmament conference that has been held."

"Which would have been quite admirable if any other country had followed you. Unfortunately they haven't. They—forgive my saying so, Sir James—have merely laughed."

"What else could we have done? It was essential to follow the trend of public opinion in this country."

"Follow! Surely a novel method of regarding your stewardship."

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Kalinsky. It is essential that leaders should sense the temper of those they are called upon to govern. And I say frankly that this country would not stand for another war."

"I can quite believe you. Which is why, as I said to start with, it makes it even more unfortunate that they have brought it on themselves. Sir James, let us be perfectly frank. You, to day, are in the invidious position of a small boy telling two bigger ones not to fight. And the result in that case is that he gets kicked in the seat of his pants by both."

Ivor Kalinsky lit another cigarette, whilst Sir James fidgeted in his chair.

"Unpleasant," continued the financier, "but you asked for the truth. Governments to-day can be divided into three categories: dictators, knaves and fools. You have no dictator in England, and... Well, what would be the result, Sir James, if I offered you half a million down, here and now, if you would pursue some line of action dictated by me?"

"I should be shocked and horrified, sir."

"Precisely. But there are many other countries where a man in your position would be shocked and horrified if that offer was not made. And so we are only left with the third category."

Sir James flushed angrily.

"You speak bluntly, Mr. Kalinsky."

"In God's name, why not?" cried the other, thumping the table. "If you'd thought bluntly these last few years this situation would never have arisen. England would still have been the deciding factor in Europe. As it is, you are negligible. And your funny little men who preach pacifism, though they have never heard a shot fired in anger in their lives, flatter themselves that they deserve well of their country. No one wants war, Sir James, but the only way to prevent it is to take the line you have not taken. To stop two strong men fighting you must at least be as strong yourself."

"Come, come, Mr. Kalinsky, there is such a thing as an alliance."

"Who would deny it? Let us, however, look on your value as an ally. Your army is negligible, and there will be no time in the next war to expand it as you did in the last. Your navy is still a magnificent striking force, but, to be perfectly frank, what is it going to strike against? A few sea forts; another fleet? Who cares? The results in the big scheme of things would be negligible. And as a means of defence, out of date. Command of the seas is still important, but command of the air is infinitely more so. And there you simply fade right out of the picture. Just before you arrived, Sir James, I was standing in the window looking out over this great city of yours, and in my imagination I heard the drone of an attacking air fleet. I saw the holocaust below. It was no trumpery raid such as you experienced in the last war, and by which, so it would seem to the onlooker, you still set your standard. They were up there by their hundreds and the raid itself was the actual declaration of war."

"Really, Mr. Kalinsky, it sounds like an extract from the alarmist press. I can hardly believe that you are serious."

"My dear Sir James, your countrymen never have believed that anything was serious until it actually happened. But in the past you have had time to repair your mistake, and somehow or other to muddle through. In the future you won't have that time."

"There certainly wouldn't be much time if what you have described took place," agreed Sir James tolerantly. "And should any nation be so inconceivably barbaric, I don't see how we could prevent them."

"By one method and one method only: fear of reprisals. And that presupposes existing strength in the air as great if not greater than they possess themselves. Which is what you have not got."

"But what good would such a senseless act do, my dear fellow? If London was flattened out no other nation would be a penny the better off. Surely the utter futility of war as a road to material gain was amply proved by the last one."

"And you think that lesson has been learned? I envy you your complacency, Sir James. Further, if that is your considered opinion, why did you come here to-night? Our discussion is purely academic."

"Touché, Mr. Kalinsky, touché. I admit that I fear the lesson has not been learned; and I also admit that we have cut down our fighting forces to the nearest minimum. But the country simply would not stand any large increase in the estimates."

The millionaire shrugged his shoulders.

"That, of course, is entirely your affair, Sir James, and one on which it would be presumption on my part to express an opinion. If you are right there is no more to be said."

"But surely you agree with me that another war on a large scale would be an irreparable disaster to the world?"

"Possibly; possibly not. Who can tell? Just as there was no criterion to judge by before the last war, so there is none to-day. For the next war, Sir James, will be as different from 1914 as 1914 was from your war in South Africa. But in any event, whether it proves an irreparable disaster or not has got no bearing whatever on its coming."

"You seem to have definitely made up your mind that sooner or later it is unavoidable."

For a while the millionaire did not reply; then he nodded.

"Yes, I think I may safely say that my mind is made up. Sooner or later war is inevitable. And the whole point, Sir James, is whether it is to be sooner or later."

Sir James lay back in his chair with a worried look on his face.

"I must confess, Mr. Kalinsky," he said at length, "that such a very definite opinion coming from a man in your position is most disquieting. But surely you and the other big financial interests are against such a catastrophe."

"Certainly. But we are not all-powerful. Whether we like it or whether we don't, we can't stop it. The irresistible urge is there. At the moment it is under control, but believe me that control is very precarious. One spark, and the whole of Europe will be a roaring bonfire. And all that we can do is to try and control the direction of the flames."

"Grave words, Mr. Kalinsky."

"The situation is grave, Sir James. And England's unpreparedness makes it all the graver."

For a while there was silence in the room, then Sir James rose to his feet.

"I must thank you, Mr. Kalinsky," he said quietly, "for the frank way in which you have spoken. Needless to say I shall put your opinions before my colleagues. And I can only utter a pious hope that you may be wrong. Is there no limit to human madness?"

"If there is I fear I have not plumbed it," answered the millionaire. "Good night, Sir James; I hope to see you again before I leave England."

The door closed behind his visitor, and Ivor Kalinsky sank back in his chair. From many points of view the conversation had been a valuable one: it had enabled him to crystallise his own thoughts, though it had still not solved his problem. He had said nothing that he did not believe to be the truth; and if he had not said everything that he might have, that was nothing to do with Sir James. One spark would be enough: it was no business of the Englishman if his was the hand that kindled it.

He got up and once again began to pace restlessly up and down the room. Was the time ripe? A hundred different factors had to be weighed in the balance; a hundred conflicting interests taken into consideration—interests which overlapped and interlaced in a way that made their mutual reactions wellnigh incalculable.

There came another knock on the door, and his second visitor was ushered in. It would have been hard to imagine a greater contrast to the one who had just left. The new-comer wore a heavy fur coat, though the evening was warm. A silk scarf was wrapped round his neck; an opera hat was on his head. His face was swarthy; his dark eyes gleamed with vitality. And his hooked nose proclaimed his race.

"Some more wine," said Kalinsky as the other flung his coat in a chair, revealing immaculate evening clothes.

"I see you're a pillar of society, Morgenstein," he continued with a faint smile.

"I've just come from Covent Garden," said the other. "Carmenita was in perfect voice, and I waited to hear the Swan Song."

Again the smile flickered round Kalinsky's lips.

"I, too, have been listening to a Swan Song," he remarked. "Sung by the excellent Sir James Portrush."

The Jew eyed him keenly, and then murmured some banality as the waiter returned with the champagne.

"Was he in good voice also?" he asked when they were once more alone.

"He croaked a little towards the end, when he left me to continue vital legislation on greyhounds."

Kalinsky lifted his glass.

"Well, Morgenstein, and what conclusion have you come to?"

"I have not as yet come to any. It is a grave issue, Kalinsky."

"That was the croak in Sir James's Swan Song. He admits, quite frankly, that this country is not prepared for war. Of course that fact is well known to both of us. At the same time it is illuminating when a man in his position says so openly."

The Jew lit a cigar before replying.

"Are they contemplating taking any steps to remedy the state of affairs?"

Kalinsky shrugged his shoulders.

"How can you ever tell with these people? I drew him a picture of the air raid of the future carried out before war was declared. He merely smiled. And yet the man is uneasy."

"Are you prepared to put your cards on the table, Kalinsky, and give me your views of the situation?"

"I certainly am. And I can express it in a nutshell. Unless England increases her fighting forces, war is absolutely inevitable. Nothing can stop it. The point, therefore, that we have to decide is whether we precipitate the crisis now, or whether we wait. If we wait, it is possible that this country may again become the dominating factor in the situation. If we act now, Europe as we know it ceases to exist. Which suits our book best?"

"Absurd though it may sound, I am still frightened of England," said Morgenstein. "She has such an astounding way of pulling her weight at the last moment."

"I think it is far from absurd. More, I may be illogical, but I agree with you. And I can assure you that that very point has weighed largely in my calculations. Could I but find some method of weakening her still more, or alternatively of strengthening others whom we need not name, so that the disparity of power was greater, I would not hesitate for one moment."

"You mean you would favour immediate action."

"Precisely. Would that suit you?"

"It would. But is there any possibility of such a thing occurring?"

"That I shall know more about a little later in the evening. Have you to return to your guests, or would you care to remain and hear for yourself?"

"I will certainly remain. You are expecting some fresh information?"

"I am. What its value will prove to be I cannot say: my correspondent was guarded in his letter. But hitherto I have found him a most reliable man. Emil Veight is his name."

"I cannot recall it," said Morgenstein. "A good man, is he?"

"First class."

Kalinsky smoked in silence for a time; then he changed the conversation abruptly.

"Have you ever come across a peculiar institution known as the Key Club?"

"I have heard of them," said Morgenstein, looking slightly surprised. "Are they to be taken seriously?"

"They take themselves very seriously indeed. Their principal aim is world peace, and the brotherhood of man. And though their aims may be idealistic, their methods are severely practical. They consist, in short, of buying confidential information on armaments from whoever they can bribe and then publishing it broadcast so that all the world shall know. And if you think into the matter it is quite an efficacious way of preserving equality between nations."

"You amaze me, Kalinsky. Have they done it often?"

"On two or three occasions to my certain knowledge quite successfully. And it was in connection with them that I first met Veight. On that occasion, I fear, they were not quite so successful, though they were very useful to me. An Italian, whose name I forget, sold to one of their agents the plans of a new submarine, and Veight, by some means, heard of it. He acted with commendable promptitude. The Italian and the agent, who was returning to England with the plans, were both murdered, and Veight brought the tracings to me on the chance of my buying. I did, and they came in very useful."

"Really! Most interesting. But what exactly has your story got to do with the present situation?"

"That we shall know in a few minutes: Veight said he would be here at half-past ten. And since he mentioned the Key Club in his letter, I can only conclude that something of the same sort has happened."

"He is a reliable man?"

"When it pays him to be. As it does with me. And of one thing I am sure. He would not waste my time or his own unless he thought it worth while. Whether what he has to tell us is sufficiently worth while is for us to decide."

The sound of voices came from the lobby outside and Kalinsky glanced up.

"The man himself, I think. Good evening, Herr Veight," he said affably as the door opened. "You are punctuality itself. You know Herr Morgenstein?"

"By sight and name only," said Veight with a bow, coming into the room. "I trust you are well, m'sieur."

"Quite, thank you. Waiter—bring another bottle of wine. Now, Herr Veight," he continued, as the man left the room, "I gather from your letter that you have something of interest to report. You can speak quite freely in front of Herr Morgenstein."

Once again Veight bowed; then he sat down and lit a cigarette.

"Am I right in supposing, gentlemen," he said, "that the state of tension in Europe is acute?"

"Let us proceed on that assumption," remarked Kalinsky.

"Am I further right in supposing," continued Veight, "that confidential information on military matters would be particularly valuable to-day?"

"That would be for us to decide," said Kalinsky curtly.

"Normally, m'sieur, I would agree. In this case, however, I must have something a little more definite. Naturally I am not asking you to pledge yourselves blindly in any way. But if I guarantee to deliver to you within forty-eight hours, or at the utmost seventy-two, the most closely guarded military secrets in England, what will it be worth to me? Let me make myself quite clear. You remember, m'sieur, the Guiseppi affair?"

"Guiseppi! That was the name, Morgenstein. Yes, Veight, I do. I was discussing it before you came to-night."

"Good. Well, each of these secrets, gentlemen, is as valuable as those submarine plans."

The two financiers looked at one another.

"If that is the case," said Kalinsky after a pause, "I think we would be prepared to guarantee you twenty-five thousand pounds."

Veight shook his head.

"Not enough, gentlemen," he said decisively. "I have to split with a man who has been working with me. The risks we have already run are enormous, and the greatest are still to come. Will you make it twenty-five thousand each?"

Again Kalinsky glanced at Morgenstein, who gave a barely perceptible nod.

"All right, Veight," said Kalinsky. "Fifty thousand in all. But we must be the judges."

"Of that I have no fear," said Veight quietly. "You will be satisfied with your bargain."

He paused as the waiter re-entered the room, and there was silence till he had finally withdrawn.

"No fear at all, gentlemen," repeated Veight. "Does Herr Morgenstein know anything about the Key Club, m'sieur?"

"I told him a certain amount when discussing your letter," said Kalinsky.

"Then I will not waste time in explaining that part of it to him. Because, I fear, gentlemen, a certain amount of explanation is necessary over what has happened already. I will make it as short as I possibly can, but it is essential that you should understand the situation.

"The story starts in Warsaw, two months ago, with a man named Gregoroff—Paul Gregoroff—as the chief character. The business which had taken him there was completed, and as he was sitting in the lounge of his hotel after dinner, listening to the band, he became aware of two men who were talking English at the next table. One was clearly an Englishman, the other was a Pole, and both of them were wearing the badge of the Key Club. At first he paid but little attention. Their voices were low; their general appearance was consistent with the fatuous imbecility which one expects in members of that ridiculous organisation. And then one word caught his ear very clearly. That word was 'Gas.'

"He endeavoured to listen more closely, but as luck would have it the band was making such an infernal din that it was quite impossible for him to hear what they were saying. But bearing in mind the recent activities of their society, he deemed it advisable to make some further inquiries. So he squared the police to have the Englishman arrested later on some trumped-up charge connected with his passport, but to treat him with the utmost consideration. Then, wearing a key himself, he went round to the police station.

"The young man was, of course, overjoyed to meet a fellow-member; and when that fellow-member procured his release on the spot, accompanied by voluble expressions of regret from the police, his gratitude knew no bounds. In fact within half an hour Gregoroff was in possession of the whole story.

"It transpired that this youth was by way of being a chemist. And he had been acting as assistant to a man in England who for some months past had been working on a new form of gas. At first Gregoroff was not greatly interested: new gases come and go, each one bringing its own antidote. But when he began to realise the properties of this particular gas, matters assumed a different aspect.

"It seemed, then, that this young fellow had been experimented on himself, not once but many times, by the man he had been assisting. The gas was colourless, odourless, and a fraction lighter than air. It was also harmless—after its effects had worn off. But it was the effect that was interesting: complete paralysis of the limbs, absolute inability to move or speak, though hazily conscious of what was going on around, and finally loss of all feeling. According to the amount administered the duration of this condition lasted. The dose could be graded so as to produce effect for ten minutes or half an hour. But, and this was the vital fact, you were in the grip of the gas before you realised you were. And then it was too late to save yourself.

"I will not insult your intelligence, m'sieur," continued Veight after a pause, "by stressing the marvellous possibilities which opened out in front of Gregoroff if what this man told him was true. Moreover, since it was unlikely that he would have come all the way to Poland merely to tell a stupid lie, Gregoroff decided to proceed on the assumption that he was speaking the truth. And so, still keeping up the role of an enthusiastic member of the Key Club, whose aim was universal peace, he proceeded to pump him dry.

"He discovered that the inventor of this gas was a man called Waldron. He was a Territorial officer in the English Royal Engineers, and in addition to being a chemist he was also a very keen soldier. It was clear, of course, that the military value of this gas was great. It could be used alone, or mixed with something else, and in either case its presence would not be detected until too late. And Waldron, being a patriotic Englishman, proposed to place his discovery so soon as it was perfected at the disposal of the British military authorities—an idea abhorrent to his assistant, though that was a fact of which Waldron was naturally unaware.

"He blathered on about ideals—their common ideals, since he assumed Gregoroff thought as he did. And Gregoroff let him talk, though he hardly heard what he said. Because, M'sieur Kalinsky"—the speaker leaned forward in his chair—"his mind was busy with the potentialities of this gas apart from its military value. If it was all that this boy claimed for it: if it could be manufactured without too elaborate a plant: if—well, there were many ifs, but the germ of a stupendous idea was there. Imagine the position if one was able to render a man powerless in a room in an hotel without using force, and without the slightest risk of detection from outside. No other gas would do it: it would be smelt in the passage. The same objection applied to an anaesthetic such as ether. Here, then, was the possibility of the ideal weapon. Do I interest you?"

"Go on," said Kalinsky quietly.

"So Gregoroff started on the practical details, and the more he heard the better it sounded. It was cheap to make, and was easily compressible in steel cylinders. These could be of any size desired, from the massive ones suitable for work in war to smaller cylinders which could be moved by hand. Moreover, the respirator was not at all complicated, and could be carried unnoticed in a man's pocket till it was required. In fact, there was only one hitch. This miserable youth did not know the formula. A great deal of the process he was conversant with, but there were one or two points of which he was ignorant. They were known to Waldron and Waldron only. A definite set-back, as you will agree, but it had to be faced. Because by now Gregoroff was fully determined to go on with the matter.

"The first problem was the young man himself. He was, so he told Gregoroff, in accordance with their custom, and acting on the orders of one of the leaders of England, paving the way for the secret of this gas to become world-wide. He was arranging for a Key Club representative from every country to come to England in a month or so, by which time he would have the full details at his finger-tips, and he would then pass the information on to them. Fortunately he had started in the east and was working west through Europe, so he'd been caught in good time. He had given Gregoroff Waldron's address in England, and therefore there seemed no possible object in his continued existence. And so he—er—fell in front of an express train and passed out of the picture."

A faint smile flickered round Kalinsky's lips.

"This Gregoroff of whom you speak: whom is he acting for?"

"Himself, m'sieur," answered Veight promptly.

"And is he the man you mentioned at the beginning, with whom you have to split?"

"He is," said Veight, and paused, listening intently. Then like a flash he crossed the room and flung open the door.

"What are you doing here?" he snarled.

"Tidying up, sare," came the aggrieved voice of a waiter.

"Then get out, damn you. This place is quite tidy already. My apologies, gentlemen," he said, coming back into the room, "but in my work one develops a sort of sixth sense. And tidying up can cover a multitude of keyholes."

CHAPTER X

"Such was the situation," continued Veight as he resumed his seat, "when Gregoroff got into touch with me. He did that for two reasons. First it struck him that it would probably not be a one-man job; and secondly because I have worked in England and knew the ropes far better than he did. And the instant I heard what he had to tell me I threw over everything else on the spot.

"The problem that confronted us was obvious; the solution was not. This man Waldron was a bachelor, living in a small house on the outskirts of Surbiton. He had one old woman servant who did all the work of the house. Further—and this was important—he was of independent means, and did no work beyond his chemical research. If, therefore, it became necessary to abduct him, there would be no office from which he would be missed and which would start a hue and cry. And it seemed to us, when we discussed the matter in Amsterdam, that in all probability abduction would be necessary.

"Our reasoning was as follows. Here was a presumably patriotic Englishman, since he was serving in their Territorial army, and a man of sufficient wealth to do no work. It was therefore very improbable that we should be able to bribe him, especially as he would realise that we were both foreigners. Moreover, if we attempted to and failed, it would at once put him on his guard. And so we decided that our only chance was this. Study the house, study his ways, and at a suitable moment visit him with the definite intention of knocking him on the head and removing him to some safe place where suasion, moral and otherwise, could be brought to bear on him. Which necessitated our finding a suitable pied à terre. An hotel or lodgings were obviously out of the question: it had to be a private house.

"And there I came in. During the course of that little job I did for you, m'sieur, I had come across a certain Doctor Belfage. He was an unpleasant little specimen, but he was a prominent member of the Key Club. And since then I had heard that he had got into trouble and had had his name removed from the medical register. But what was important from our point of view was that he had a house near Cambridge which was most eminently suitable for our purpose. It contained a central room which was practically sound-proof, which the doctor used as a laboratory, and which would form an admirable prison for this man Waldron should he prove obdurate. That settled, we crossed to England by a route not usually taken by passengers, and successfully eluded the authorities. Gregoroff, in particular, might have had considerable difficulty in landing.

"The first thing to do was to get in touch with Belfage, and I travelled up to Cambridge while Gregoroff lay low in London. And there we got our first setback: the doctor had let his house and was living elsewhere. But though I didn't say anything at the time, I wondered very much who and what this man Meredith, who had taken the house, might be. I was tolerably convinced, shall we put it, that he had never been a candidate for Holy orders. However, he gave me the doctor's address, and I left him.

"The doctor, I am afraid," continued Veight, "was not overjoyed at seeing me. But on my reminding him of a certain incident in his past he decided it would be better to overcome his reluctance and give me some of his valuable time. And so we adjourned to his study.

"'Still a member of the Key Club,' I remarked on seeing the badge in his coat. 'I hear you've had a little trouble with the medical authorities, Doctor.'

"'Purely professional,' he assured me. 'What can I do for you, Herr Veight?'

"'I wanted the temporary loan of your other house, Doctor,' I said. 'Who is that man Meredith who has it?'

"A glance at his face told me that I had taped Meredith correctly, and we both fenced for a while. Then I took the bull by the horns and told him what I wanted.

"Gentlemen, I don't think I have ever seen a man look so completely dumbfounded. He positively goggled at me.

"'Waldron!' he stuttered. 'Waldron! What do you know about Waldron?'

"'Evidently just what you do,' I said. 'I want the secret of that gas, and I'm going to have the secret of that gas. Do we work together or do we not? Waldron has got to be made to speak. Are you going to help me, or do I work on my own?'

"'What do you propose to do?' he asked at length.

"'That, at present, is nothing to do with you,' I answered. 'But this much I will tell you. I know his address in Surbiton, and he is going to be put through the hoop.'

"'You propose to abduct him?' he said.

"'Put it that way if you like,' I remarked.

"'Then there's mighty little good your going to Surbiton,' said the doctor.

"'Why not?' I cried.

"'Because you won't find him there. He's been abducted already.'

"'Well, m'sieur, it was my turn to do a bit of goggling now; it was the last remark I'd expected. Somebody had got in in front of us. Who was it? I dismissed the possibility of his lying; the matter was so very simple to verify. So I let him talk, and it soon became obvious he wanted to get rid of me.'

"'I fear, therefore, there is no good your wasting your time, Herr Veight,' was the line he took up.

"'Don't worry about my time, Doctor,' I said. 'I'll look after that end of the business myself. Am I to understand that this man Waldron is being held a prisoner by the Key Club?'

"It took some time for him to answer; in fact, gentlemen, everything to start with had to be dragged out of him with a corkscrew. But after a while he admitted that that was the case. Waldron had been a captive for more than ten days.

"'In order to make him reveal the formula of his gas, or to prevent him making any more?' I asked.

"'In order to get the formula,' said the doctor. 'There is one step in the process known only to him.'

"'And when you have the formula, what is your next move?' I remarked

"He hesitated and stammered, and finally stated that the next move would be what the rules of the Key Club ordered. The secret would be passed on to everyone interested.

"Well, m'sieur, I knew that was their rule, but I also knew my doctor. He had pocketed a wad over the Guiseppi affair, and I couldn't see him in the role of an altruist. So I tackled him fair and square.

"'Are you a liar or are you a fool?' I asked. 'For you must be one or the other.'

"He wasn't offended. As you must have guessed by now, he's a pretty poor specimen. So when he found I wasn't going to be bluffed he came out with the whole thing. And a very pretty little business it was.

"By some ruse or other Waldron had been decoyed to the house where he was now held prisoner. This house belonged to a man called Hoskins who, the doctor informed me, was a genuine Key Club idealist, and a man whom no one would suspect for an instant of anything crooked. A telegram had been sent to the servant saying that he would be away for a few weeks, and during that period the secret was to be extracted. Then Waldron would be free to go.

"What was going to happen to Mr. Hoskins when Waldron went to the police about it was entirely Hoskins's affair. And according to the doctor, Hoskins was such a complete fanatic that he wouldn't mind.

"'And where, my dear Doctor,' I remarked at this juncture, 'do you come in? You most certainly are not a complete fanatic, and I can't see you going to prison for the doubtful pleasure of passing the secret of this gas on to the nations at large. Can it be possible that you are hoping somehow or other to get away with the formula yourself and pass it on to one nation?'

"And it was obvious that that was exactly what he had been hoping to do. He hadn't made any definite plan, but that was what the little rat had in his mind.

"'Excellent,' I said. 'We now know where we stand. And since this thing is much too big for you to handle on your own, think how lucky you are that you now have me to help you. Is Waldron at that house of yours near Cambridge?'

"No, he was not. He was at a house called Horsebridge, belonging to Hoskins.

"'What,' I demanded, 'is the exact place in the jigsaw filled by the Cambridge house?'

"It was to act as an alternative prison in case Waldron was traced at Horsebridge.

"Who was Meredith?

"Meredith was a gentleman with a pretty taste in handwriting, who would come in useful if any letters had to be written purporting to come from Waldron.

"Did Hoskins know that he was consorting with a forger, amongst other people? Hoskins believed Meredith to be truly repentant, and anxious to do his bit in the great cause. 'But where and how,' I persisted, 'do you propose to double-cross Hoskins? If Waldron is persuaded to tell his secret there is only one possible method of doing so. You've got to murder him.'

"No; a thousand times—no. Nothing of the sort. He was quite pained at the mere thought.

"'Then what is your idea?' I cried furiously. 'You're not a half-wit. Unless you murder Hoskins, how can you prevent him passing on this formula?'

"He looked everywhere except at me, until I could have struck the little devil. And finally I issued an ultimatum. I told him that unless he was absolutely frank with me, I would send an anonymous communication to Scotland Yard giving the whole thing away. It was bluff, of course; if the miserable worm had called it I hadn't a leg to stand on. But he didn't.

"I wonder, m'sieur, if I might have a glass of that excellent wine. Much talking is making me dry. And I am now coming to the bonne bouche. Thank you a thousand times."

Veight drained his glass, and replaced it on the table.

"The bonne bouche, gentlemen. Doctor Belfage was far from being a half-wit. I told you, did I not, that I had two military secrets to sell you. You have heard the first; I am now coming to the second. Have you ever heard of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane?"

"No," said Kalinsky. "I have not."

"Nor had I until that day. And very few people have heard of it at all. Working in an almost inaccessible part of the Highlands is a young Scotch engineer. He is apparently a genius on aeronautical construction, and he has been experimenting on a machine of his own which is as much in advance of any existing aeroplane as the present-day car is in advance of the previous type. His staff consists of two or three fitters and one trusted mechanic. It is a private enterprise without Government support, so there are no troops or anything of that sort guarding the place. And it was on this spot in Scotland that the doctor really had his eye fixed.

"The information came from one of the fitters, who was a humble member of the Key Club. And if one-half of what this man reported was true, the performance of the machine was simply incredible. I am no expert in flying, but even I was impressed by what I heard. A few final details still remained to be perfected; then the plans of the machine would be complete. And the doctor was waiting till that was done before striking.

"'Does Hoskins know of this?' I asked him.

"He did not.

"'What, then,' I said to Belfage, 'is your plan?'

"It was a simple one. When Waldron had been abducted one small cylinder of his gas, and only one, had been found in his laboratory. And this had been removed, and was in the house at the moment. The doctor's idea was to wait till the plans of the aeroplane were finished, and then go to Scotland with the cylinder. The fitter would introduce it into Graham Caldwell's office, and while the inventor and his mechanic were powerless, Belfage would steal the plans. He would then offer them to the highest bidder. If in addition to that he could get away with the secret of the gas as well, so much the better. But it was clear that he attached far greater value to the former."

"One moment," said Kalinsky. "Did this man Hoskins not realise that this cylinder was in existence? Because if he did, since publicity was all he desired, all he had to do was to have the gas analysed by an expert, and publish the result."

"Exactly, m'sieur. That point occurred to me. And that is why Doctor Belfage had not mentioned the cylinder at all. He had realised how valuable it would be to him with Graham Caldwell, and so, fearing Hoskins would do just what you said, he had lain low about it."

"So, Herr Veight," said Morgenstein, "if I understand you aright, the situation when you first came into the matter some——"

"Four weeks ago."

"Some four weeks ago, was as follows. Waldron was a prisoner in Hoskins's house at Horsebridge, where efforts were being made to compel him to reveal the secret of this gas. Unknown to Hoskins this doctor had the secret in his possession."

"He had the cylinder, Herr Morgenstein, but he did not know what the contents were."

"Quite; quite. He had the cylinder, but he could not find out what the contents were without wasting them. And once they were wasted they could no longer be used against Graham Caldwell."

"Exactly," said Veight.

"Since, however, the final plans of the aeroplane were not yet finished, Doctor Belfage in conjunction presumably with that other man you mentioned——"

"Meredith."

"Meredith was playing a waiting game, until the time was ripe to strike. They would then get the plans of the aeroplane which Hoskins knew nothing about; and, if they could—though that was a secondary matter—get the secret of the gas to themselves."

"Exactly," repeated Veight. "You have given the situation in a nutshell."

"And what, might I ask, Herr Veight, was your reaction to this little scheme?"

"In the words of the homely English idiom, Herr Morgenstein, it struck me that it was money for jam. In fact, beyond playing a waiting game there was nothing for Gregoroff and me to do. That the worthy doctor's ideas on who lived and died might have to be changed a little, was neither here nor there. Also it was advisable for him not to know that he was going to get very little out of it himself: it might have damped his ardour. He could not, of course, give either Gregoroff or me away to the police, without giving himself away at the same time. And so I suggested that he should introduce us to the imbecile Hoskins as two fanatical members of the Key Club from abroad, and that we should take up our residence either at Horsebridge or his house near Cambridge.

"It was to Horsebridge that we finally went. And a few words about the house itself would not be out of place. Originally it must have been the fortified keep of some medieval baron. Made of thick stone, it was completely surrounded by water, and the only means of communication with the shore was by way of a drawbridge. The old dungeons still existed, dank and mildewed, though they were shut off from the rest of the house, which was warm and modernised. And in these dungeons Mr. Hoskins, the idealist, had confined Waldron.

"Well, gentlemen, it takes a good deal to surprise me, but I must confess that that man Hoskins had me guessing. We all know that a fanatic in any shape or form is capable of refinements of cruelty which would make a savage blush. One has only got to remember the crimes that have been committed in the name of religion. But Mr. Hoskins won in a canter.

"In appearance he looks a most saintly creature. His hair is white; his features are ascetic. He walks with a slight stoop, and wears pince-nez. In short, he looks like the conventional ideal of a country clergyman.

"He welcomed us effusively; his gullibility was almost incredible. Everything that Belfage told him about us he swallowed; we were brothers with him in the great faith.

"'Stay as long as you like,' he said. 'This creature Waldron is stubborn; he refuses to speak. In fact I sometimes think that it may be necessary to kill him. Better, far better, that one man should die, rather than thousands be murdered by his infamous discovery. I have tried to make him see reason; I have explained to him our ideals. But he is stiff-necked; he persists in harping on the fact that he is an Englishman, and that his vile gas is for England's use and hers only. He even has the audacity to call me a traitor. But I do not fear the ultimate result; there is no man yet who has ever survived the ordeal. The drug is infallible.'

"'What are you doing, Mr. Hoskins?' I asked, and even as I spoke a swarthy black-haired man entered the room.

"'Tell them, Cortez,' said Hoskins. 'They are of our order. Tell them of the drug that breaks the strongest nerve.'

"The new-comer stared at us suspiciously; there was nothing gullible about him. Then he whispered something in the old man's ear, who shook his head vehemently.

"'No; no,' he cried. 'They are of our order. Tell them.'

"The man called Cortez shrugged his shoulders.

"'Marijuana,' he said in a surly tone. 'A Mexican drug.'

"And Gregoroff whistled under his breath."

Veight paused and lit a cigarette.

"Gentlemen," he continued, "it was a new one on me, but not on Gregoroff. Known to drug addicts as Mary Jane, its effects are literally terrible. As a general rule it is made into cigarettes, but it can also be administered subcutaneously. And after a while it reduces a man to such a pitiful condition of nerves that he ceases to be a man. He becomes a gibbering wreck, scared out of his life by the slightest trifle. His brain refuses to act; terror of he knows not what holds him in its grip, until in the end he puts a bullet through his brain or else ends up in a lunatic asylum. And this was the drug that the saintly Mr. Hoskins was administering daily to Waldron.

"It was in every way an ideal prison. Hoskins was respected and liked in the neighbourhood; save for this one strange streak he was a charming old gentleman. And so he was the last man who would incur suspicion should a hue and cry be raised for Waldron. At the same time every precaution was taken to prevent discovery. The drawbridge was raised every night at sunset, and not lowered till the following morning; the tradesmen left their goods in the courtyard in front of the house. And so far as we could tell, nobody had an inkling of what was occurring. Waldron's relatives, if he had any, were evidently not worrying; the faked telegram had kept the servants quiet. Which left Gregoroff and I plenty of time to arrange our plans.

"One thing we soon found out: the Mexican, Cortez, had to be reckoned with. He was under no delusions concerning us, and he told us so quite candidly. A nuisance, but one that could not be helped, and he is one person who will have to be squared when the time comes. But he did not affect our scheme, which, in brief, was the same as the doctor's. With one or two small additions—additions we did not pass on to Belfage.

"We proposed to allow him to get the Graham Caldwell plans when the time was ripe, by using his cylinder of gas. We intended to accompany him, and if by any unfortunate chance a fire should take place while the men were powerless in the office, and after the plans had been removed, it would doubtless be attributed to natural causes. In fact we proposed that two fires should take place, the other being the hangar containing the machine itself."

"Good," said Kalinsky softly. "Very good. And the worthy doctor?"

Veight smiled faintly.

"Would not, I think, be missed. They are dangerous roads, m'sieur, and lonely roads in that part of Scotland. No, I think the doctor would not be missed. Then having got the plans, we proposed to return to Horsebridge—you remember, do you not, that Hoskins knows nothing about the aeroplane—and obtain the secret of the gas if we had not done so already. Such, briefly, was our intention."

"You speak in the past, Veight," said Kalinsky. "Is it not your intention now?"

For a moment or two Veight hesitated. Up till now he knew he had held his listeners; it was vital that he should continue to do so.

"M'sieur—I am going to be perfectly frank with you," he remarked. "Four days ago a most annoying thing happened. You have, of course, appreciated the essential importance of keeping Waldron's presence in Horsebridge a secret. Judge then of our dismay when Gregoroff while walking in the courtyard one evening suddenly recognised a man who was fiddling about with the mechanism of the drawbridge as a British Secret Service man, whom he had last seen in Warsaw. He acted at once. He is a man of immense physical strength, and the road outside was deserted. So he hit the so-called workman over the back of the head with a stick he was carrying; stunned him and dragged him into the house. Then we held a council of war.

"What had happened was unfortunately only too obvious. This man, whose name is Lovelace and who is an officer in the English Army, must have spotted Gregoroff in Warsaw at the time when he was finding out about the gas. Suspecting something, he had followed Gregoroff to England, and by some means or other had got on his track again. It seemed to us that Lovelace must have lost him to start with, otherwise we should have had the police on our heels before. In fact we hoped, and as things have since turned out hoped rightly, that we had got him in time. Nothing had so far been passed on. But we were confronted with the situation of having a British Secret Service man a prisoner in the house. Waldron was on the verge of cracking; and we had received information from Scotland that another three days would see the plans completed. And then this had come out of the blue.

"The first thing to decide was what to do with Lovelace. To kill him was far too dangerous; besides, Hoskins wouldn't hear of it. Moreover, there was no place to keep him prisoner, except the dungeon where Waldron was, which again did not suit us. And so we decided to take him to the doctor's other house, and put him in the central room there.

"We waited till it was dark; then, having given him something to keep him quiet, I started off by car with a fellow-countryman of mine and another man as guards. And on the way we ran into dense fog.

"Well, gentlemen, I will not weary you with a long story. Suffice it to say that Lovelace, having partially recovered from the drug, managed to give us the slip while we were creeping along through the mist. I had one shot and wounded him, but before we finally caught him again he had succeeded in throwing a stone with a message wrapped round it through the lighted window of a cottage. And that is what has caused the bother. For the message was found by the owner of the cottage, a man of the name of Drummond, who proceeded to make an unmitigated nuisance of himself."

"What was the message?" demanded Kalinsky.

"Gibberish; complete gibberish," said Veight. "In fact I would not have bored you with all this, seeing that everything is quite satisfactorily settled now, but for one thing. Drummond, as I say, became most troublesome, and collected three other men round him. They knew nothing, but they were becoming very inquisitive. And so it was necessary to take steps to stop them. They were all armed; they were all tough customers. However, by means of a simple ruse they were all four inveigled into the central room in the doctor's house. And there we had to waste Waldron's gas on them."

"Why?" said Morgenstein.

Veight smiled grimly.

"Because, gentlemen, from my knowledge of human nature, Drummond is a man I would prefer not to talk to if he has the full use of his limbs and a gun in his pocket. To a lesser degree the same applies to the other three."

"Did the gas work?" asked Kalinsky.

"Marvellously; marvellously. It is all Waldron claims for it. But—there is no more. That is the point."

"My dear Veight," remarked Kalinsky curtly, "that is not our affair. Why do you worry us with these details?"

"Because, m'sieur," said Veight quietly, "I take it that the plans of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane will be more valuable to you if England is not in a position to have them redrawn."

"Well?" snapped Kalinsky.

"While we still had the gas it would have been possible to ensure that result, and make it appear an accident. Now that is out of the question. It can only be murder plain and unadorned."

Kalinsky shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not increasing my offer," he said.

"And I am not asking you to, m'sieur," answered Veight. "But I am asking for a certain amount on account. I have a very wholesome regard for the English police, and I have no wish whatever to give their hangman a job. I must have money to make my plans, and ensure a safe get-away."

"You say this message was gibberish," said Kalinsky. "What do you mean by that? Why should anyone take the trouble to send a meaningless message?"

"It may have been a code, m'sieur. At any rate we could make nothing of it."

"Perhaps not. But what about this man Drummond? He may have solved the code."

Veight smiled grimly.

"It doesn't matter much if he has. He and his friends have been prisoners for three days in the room I told you of. The house is shut up and empty; the room is sound-proof. I fear they may be getting a little hungry, but that can't be helped."

"And where is this secret service man you wounded?"

"At Horsebridge. He is unconscious, and so can be safely left in one of the ordinary bedrooms. I can assure you, gentlemen," continued Veight, "that everything is exactly as it was before this regrettable contretemps occurred, save that we no longer have the gas to help us. It is therefore for you to decide. Do you wish there to be no chance of the plans being duplicated?"

At a sign from Kalinsky, Morgenstein rose, and the two financiers withdrew to the window, where they conferred in low tones. And Veight watched them anxiously, though his face was expressionless. What were they going to say?

He had told them the exact position of affairs quite truthfully. But he knew—none better—that men of their type did not advance money on mere promises. And yet it was essential that he should have some, if he and Gregoroff were going to escape from the country.

He lit a cigarette to soothe himself: the last three days had been trying ones. Present always had been the fear that Drummond and his friends had found out about Horsebridge, and had handed the information on before they were made prisoners. Then as the time passed and the police still left them alone, that fear had gradually died. But the atmosphere remained.

Doctor Belfage had completely lost his nerve: the Drummond episode had finished him. Only a ceaseless application to the bottle had kept him going, and even then it had been unsafe to leave him alone for fear that he might give everything away in a sudden access of terror. And Cortez had been a trouble. And Meredith. In fact the whole gang gathered together at Horsebridge had been suffering from suspicionitis. Nobody trusted anybody else; the only point on which they all combined was in continuing to fool Hoskins. After that the trouble started.

Meredith, in particular, had been showing his teeth. From the first he had resented the appearance of two foreigners, though until the affaire Drummond he had not shown it openly. But since then he had taken no pains to conceal his belief that Gregoroff and Veight himself were playing a double game. Which, in view of the fact that it was perfectly true, had not helped matters.

The girl, too, Doris Venables, had proved a complication. Even now he did not know where she came in; it had been necessary to keep her permanently under the influence of drugs in her room in Horsebridge to prevent any chance of her screaming. And it had all increased the nervous tension. Only Hoskins himself seemed impervious to it: he was too occupied torturing Waldron to bother about anything else.

He came out of his reverie; Kalinsky was speaking.

"I will tell you what we have decided, Veight. You will appreciate that we have no means whatever of testing what you have told us. We have to rely entirely on your word. At the same time, neither Herr Morgenstein nor I think it likely that you would be so very foolish as to waste our time with a tissue of falsehoods. So we will assume that everything is as you have said."

Veight bowed; this sounded a promising beginning.

"That being the case," continued Kalinsky, "the whole problem boils down to whether or not you can deliver the goods, and further if the goods, when delivered, are what you claim for them. Will five thousand pounds be enough for your immediate needs?"

"Ample, m'sieur," said Veight.

"Good; you shall have it. And that we will regard as over and above the rest of the money, and not as a payment on account."

"You are generous, gentlemen. I thank you."

"On receipt by us of the tracings of the aeroplane and the formula of the gas you will receive ten thousand pounds out of the fifty we have agreed on. When we have satisfied ourselves that they are of real value you will receive a further fifteen, making twenty-five thousand in all. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, m'sieur," said Veight slowly.

"The remaining twenty-five thousand, Veight," continued Kalinsky, "will not be handed over until we have indisputable proof that we and we alone hold those two secrets. There may be duplicate plans of the aeroplane already in existence; the formula of the gas may be known to someone else. If so, the removal of the people concerned will not avail much—but that is your affair. If, on the contrary, no duplicates already exist, then the removal of the people concerned will solve the question. That again is your affair. So my offer can be summed up in short. Five thousand for current expenses; ten for the delivery of the goods; fifteen when the goods are proved satisfactory, and a final twenty-five when it is proved we have a monopoly. Do you agree?"

"There is one point that occurs to me, m'sieur. Supposing we have a partial success. Supposing, for instance, the plans of the aeroplane become your monopoly, but the formula of the gas is known elsewhere. What then?"

"You would receive half. In the case you have mentioned, instead of receiving the final twenty-five thousand you would receive twelve and a half."

Veight rose to his feet.

"Gentlemen, I accept. In a case of this sort we have to trust one another. You are trusting me to the extent of fifteen thousand pounds; I am trusting you for the remaining forty, or whatever may be due. You will be here, m'sieur, for some days?"

"In all probability. If not, you know the permanent address in Paris that always finds me."

"Then I will bid you good night, gentlemen. You will hear from me in the course of four days at the outside."

With a bow he left the room and walked along the corridor towards the lift. Taking everything into account, he felt well satisfied with his evening's work, and his brain was already busy as to the best means of still further lining his own pocket. He shrewdly guessed that the two men he had just left were planning war at an early date, and inside information of that sort could be profitably used.

For a few moments he stood outside the swing doors watching young London arrive to revel. Mere girls and boys—happy and care-free, with healthy appetites and tireless legs. What would they be thinking in a few months' time?

"Ein wunderschöner Abend, Herr Veight," came a voice from behind him.

He swung round as if he had been shot. Who had spoken to him about the evening? But all he saw was a superb being in a gorgeous uniform, surrounded by bevies of lovely girls and their attendant swains.

"A taxi, sir?" said the superb being politely.

"No," snarled Veight. And then, obeying a sudden impulse, he added: "Did you hear anyone speak to me in German?"

The superb being raised his eyebrows.

"German, sir? Really. Most peculiar, sir."

With another snarl Emil Veight turned on his heel and strode into the Strand. For though the words were German, the accent had been English.

CHAPTER XI

He hailed a taxi and gave the name of his hotel. But, try as he would, he could not get the incident out of his head. Emil Veight was the last person in the world to court publicity, and at the moment he was particularly anxious to blush unseen. But the fact remained that someone had recognised him as he left the Ritz-Carlton. Whom could it have been?

The police he dismissed as unlikely: no one in the group had looked in the slightest degree like a plain-clothes man. A secret service agent was a more probable solution: he was pretty well known amongst that fraternity. And, if so, it would require no great astuteness on the speaker's part to connect his visit with Kalinsky.

He frowned; the whole thing was annoying, coming as it had on top of his very successful interview with the two financiers. He felt justifiably aggrieved about it. And then an idea struck him, and he peered cautiously through the little window at the back of the taxi.

His hotel was a quiet one north of the Park, and the street behind him was deserted. It was an ideal spot from which to see if he was being followed, and he signalled to his driver to stop. But though he waited a full minute no one came in sight, and at length he told the man to drive on. Whoever it was who had spoken to him was evidently no longer interested. And he began to wonder if he had not unduly exaggerated the significance of the incident.

A fast open car was drawn up outside the hotel, and Veight glanced at it in some surprise. From what he had seen of his fellow-guests a hearse would have seemed a more suitable vehicle, but the mystery was solved as he entered the lounge. Seated in an arm-chair was the gigantic figure of Paul Gregoroff. And it was obvious at once that the Russian had something important to say.

"Have you got a sitting-room," he asked, "where we shan't be disturbed?"

"It's perfectly safe here," answered Veight. "No one sits up in this place after ten. What's brought you up to London?"

"Have you seen the evening papers?" cried Gregoroff.

"I have not."

"Then read that."

The Russian pointed to a paragraph and Veight ran his eyes down it. Then with a whistle of surprise he read it more closely.

COUNTRY HOUSE GUTTED BY FIRE

SCARCITY OF WATER HINDERS FIREMEN

From our Special Correspondent. Cambridge.

"Yet another country house must be added to the list of those that have recently been destroyed by fire. Hartley Court, a largish residence standing in its own grounds, about three miles from Cambridge, was completely gutted in the early hours of this morning. Two fire brigades which were soon on the spot found their efforts hindered by the lack of water due to the recent drought.

"The reason of the outbreak is obscure, as the house had been empty for some days. And this fact also permitted the flames to get such a hold before they were seen from a cottage on the other side of the road that, even had the water supply been adequate, but little could have been done. There seems no doubt that defective electric wiring, resulting in a short circuit, must have been the cause of the trouble.

"Some excitement was occasioned by the discovery of human bones in the ruins. But it transpired that the owner, Doctor Belfage, had some complete skeletons in his laboratory which he used for lecturing purposes."

Veight put the paper down on the table and lit a cigarette.

"How does this affect us?" he remarked thoughtfully.

"Up to date it hasn't," said Gregoroff; "but that's not saying that it won't. Everything depends on how long the yarn about the skeletons holds good."

"Belfage put that up, did he?"

"On my instigation. The instant I heard about the fire I realised this complication would occur, and it is quite natural for a doctor to have some in his house."

"Why shouldn't it continue to hold good?"

"However fierce the fire, and I gather it was an absolute inferno, there are bound to be some traces left besides the actual skeletons. At least I should imagine so."

"Trapped as they were in that room, it seems possible to me that the process would be pretty thorough. However, that is beside the point. Let us assume that you are right. What then?"

"To start with, Meredith will undoubtedly split on us if he finds himself in any trouble. Up to date he has kept out of the way, and Belfage has done the talking. But once the insurance people come on the scene Meredith will have to appear."

"Even if he does, what is he going to say? Unless he is completely insane he must stick to our original story and profess entire ignorance of anybody having been left in the house. Burglars who inadvertently shut themselves into that room would be a plausible theory."

"Supposing something is found which identifies the bodies, such as a cigarette case?"

"Once again—entire ignorance. The house was shut up after the meeting of the Key Club—the tradesmen can confirm that—and he has absolutely no idea what has happened since. And there's one thing you can be sure of. Any story they may have written down on paper will have been destroyed."

"There's something in what you say," said Gregoroff slowly. "At the same time, I wish it had happened after we were clear away. If Meredith can queer our pitch he will."

"On that point I certainly agree with you," said Veight. "He and that damned little quitter of a doctor have got to be watched. To say nothing of Cortez. And it's on that very matter that you and I have got to come to a decision. I've seen Kalinsky; Morgenstein was with him."

"Satisfactory?"

"Very. Five thousand for current expenses; fifty when they handle the goods, provided——"

"Provided what?" said Gregoroff softly as the eyes of the two men met.

"There is no chance of anyone else handling them."

"Just as we thought," remarked Gregoroff. "Damn Drummond and his friends! That gas would have been invaluable."

"There's no good worrying about that now," said Veight. "What we have got to decide on is a plan of campaign, and it's not going to be too easy."

He pulled up a chair closer to Gregoroff and lowered his voice, though the lounge was quite deserted.

"Let us first of all eliminate the impossible. What I would have liked to have done would have been for you and me to have gone on our own to Scotland after the aeroplane plans. But there is no object in discussing that. If we attempted it Meredith would communicate anonymously with the police. And I know Scotland—particularly the Highlands. I did some work there in 1914. Those cursed Scotchmen can spot a foreigner a mile off, and they don't like us. It is equally impossible for us to let them go on their own. They would either bungle the whole thing and put the inventor on his guard, or else they would disappear with the plans. So we've got to go together. Do you agree?"

"I do," said Gregoroff.

"Let us go a bit farther. Meredith is only after the tracings; we, on the other hand, want rather more than that. And the point we have to decide is the best method of getting rid of Graham Caldwell and his assistants without being suspected ourselves."

"Meredith and the doctor may have to go too," put in Gregoroff.

"They may, and nothing would please me more than if they did. But we've got to think of ourselves, my friend. You can't get away with things in this country as easily as on the Continent. And what I am wondering is this: Would it be possible to dispose of Graham Caldwell and his man in such a way that Meredith and the rest of his precious brood get run for murder?"

The Russian stared at him.

"That's a grand idea if it can be worked," he said at length. "But can it?"

"I believe it can," answered Veight. "Always provided one thing—that we get the two of them to Horsebridge."

"I don't quite follow you," said Gregoroff.

"While we had the gas, as I explained to Kalinsky, their death up in Scotland could be attributed to accident. As you know, our plan was based on that. Now it can't be; at least it wouldn't be safe to rely on it. Now we are agreed that they have to be killed, and we are agreed that it is necessary for us to go there ourselves. Now you, my dear Gregoroff, are not exactly an inconspicuous member of the society, and I have already mentioned that I know something about the inhabitants of the district. And since it would be out of the question for us to avoid being seen, the result is obvious. With one accord they would connect you, and through you, me, with any murder, however skilfully it was done. The very loneliness of the place doubles the difficulties. Within five minutes of the thing being discovered every policeman in Scotland would be on the look-out for us. Which would prove singularly awkward when the plans of the machine were found in our possession."

"Very true," admitted Gregoroff.

"I have therefore come to the definite conclusion that by far our best chance of success—I go further, our only chance of success—lies in getting these two men to Horsebridge."

"And how the devil do you propose to do that, seeing that it is the one thing Belfage and Meredith don't want? Their whole idea is to keep that fool Hoskins from knowing anything about the aeroplane."

"They must be made to want it," said Veight calmly. "And it can be done by pointing out to them the vital importance of keeping the airman's mouth shut while negotiations for selling the plans are in progress. What does it matter if Hoskins does know? I admit that before we used the gas we were not going to tell him. But now that is all changed. And, as I say, what does it matter if he does know? The only plans will be in our possession. Let the old man think what he likes. We can pretend to have copies made for distribution to every government. That will keep him quiet. To Meredith we can pretend that we are only waiting for Waldron to speak, when both secrets can be sold to the highest bidder."

"And then? What then?"

Veight leaned even closer to the Russian.

"Have you ever heard of adrenalin?"

Gregoroff shook his head.

"Adrenalin," continued Veight, "is used for asthma. I know, because I suffer from it at times myself, and I always carry a supply with me. And it has one very strange property. Though quite harmless when taken in the proper way, it causes death if it is injected into a vein. Now it will be necessary to keep the two airmen under the influence of drugs to prevent them raising a disturbance, which will be Belfage's job as usual. And my suggestion is quite simple. When we have got what we want we will kill both of them and Waldron by giving them an injection of adrenalin. The fact that the doctor is more or less permanently drunk is all to the good. He will think he has killed them by giving them an overdose of morphia. And then, my dear Gregoroff, we will fade rapidly out of the picture, leaving the dear doctor and the rest of the crowd to explain away three dead men as best they may."

"But it is a marvellous scheme!" cried the Russian with genuine admiration. "It is sheer genius."

"I flatter myself," said Veight complacently, "that it has a certain merit. Small unforeseen details are, of course, bound to crop up, but we must deal with them as they arise. In the main, however, I think the scheme is workable."

"Eminently so," said Gregoroff. "I congratulate you most heartily. There is, however, one point that occurs to me. How do you propose to get Graham Caldwell and his mechanic to Horsebridge? They will have to be drugged, and the sight of two unconscious men in a motor-car travelling through the country will be apt to cause some comment."

Veight rubbed his hands together.

"Once again, my friend, I think I have solved your difficulty. The English, as you know, are a peculiar race, and at this time of year many of them are in the habit of attaching to the backs of their cars a strange-looking contraption on two wheels called a caravan. In this they tour the country, eating tinned foods and living in the height of discomfort. But what could be better suited to our purpose? In the first place it supplies a raison d'être for our going to the Highlands at all. We are tourists—sight-seeing. In the second place, it supplies an admirable hiding-place for our prisoners. There are two bunks, and curtains which can be drawn, so that one can drive with absolute safety through the largest towns, with both of them inside."

"Upon my word, Veight, it is a pleasure to work with you," cried Gregoroff. "So far as I can see, the scheme is as nearly fool-proof as it is possible to make it."

"Two heads are better than one," said Veight. "If you can see any flaws, mention them."

"How do we do our final get-away?"

"Private machine and fly," answered Veight without hesitation. "There's an aerodrome not twenty miles from Horsebridge. We'll deliver the stuff to Kalinsky in Paris."

"I suppose there is no chance of him double-crossing us?"

Veight shrugged his shoulders.

"All I can say is that I don't think so. He's too big a man to make it worth his while. I certainly have never heard of him letting an agent down."

He got up, rubbing his hands together.

"Don't fear: he will pay up if we give him the goods. And unless something entirely unforeseen occurs we can't fail. Drummond and his damned friends are dead; Lovelace is helpless, and the Venables girl..." He paused. "That young woman is a bit of an enigma. I can't make out where she fits in."

Gregoroff laughed coarsely.

"Not for want of trying, from what I've seen of you," he remarked. "And as for that fool Meredith, he eats out of her hand."

Veight looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"Don't fall into that error, Gregoroff. I have never been in the habit of letting a woman interfere with business. And I repeat, I can't make out where she comes in. Ostensibly she is an enthusiastic member of the Key Club. But what is she really? Was it, as Meredith maintains, just feminine curiosity that sent her back to that cottage? Or is she in their secret service?"

"In either event it doesn't seem to me to matter much," said the Russian. "She's safely under the influence of dope and will remain in that condition until we are clear of the country. And after that it doesn't matter a kopeck who or what she is. What is far more to the point is what happened at your interview this evening. I must be going soon, and so far you've only given me the barest details."

For a few moments Veight was silent; then, sinking his voice, he uttered one word—"War."

"Did they say so definitely?" cried the other eagerly.

"My dear Gregoroff," said Veight, "the Kalinskys and Morgensteins of this world very rarely say things definitely. But I waited a little before actually entering their room, and I heard one or two of their remarks. And even had I not done so the thing is obvious. We both know quite enough to realise how matters stand in Europe to-day. And the only doubtful point was what Kalinsky was going to do about it. To-night's interview has answered that question. He means war, and I believe he means it soon. And that is where you and I can considerably increase that fifty thousand pounds. We may only be small men financially, but when a small man has certain inside information he can soon become big."

The Russian nodded.

"That is true," he said.

"Kalinsky is not buying our stuff to frame it. Kalinsky isn't insisting on having the monopoly of it for nothing. Kalinsky is playing deep, and it is up to us to play his tune. And there's one place I shall not be visiting when the music starts—London. There won't be any preliminary orchestra this time. No question of ultimatums expiring in twenty-four hours."

"Which is what these fool English can't believe," remarked Gregoroff.

"My friend, they are incredible. With London a mass of smoking ruins, they would send an indignant note, saying, 'Play the game, you cads: we weren't ready.'"

Gregoroff laughed.

"At the same time," continued Veight, "since we are playing for big stakes ourselves, I would like to be sure that the counters are full value. I don't think there can be a possibility of error, but all the same, I would like to see that aeroplane in action. Even if it is not all that has been claimed for it, and all that I told Kalinsky it was, we can still sell the plans to him. But in the jargon of the people who race over here, we shall know the true form of the horse. And that will help us in making our bet."

"I gather they try it out every day," said the Russian.

"Exactly. And I suggest we see it on its trial flights, before we finally destroy it. With my caravan idea it should be easy. We can take our hotel with us to within a couple of miles of the place."

"It's a beautiful idea—that caravan. But you realise Meredith, and probably Cortez as well, will insist on coming with us."

"Of course. Let 'em. I allowed for that. They can do the dirty work," he added with an evil laugh. "If you and I, Gregoroff, are not capable of dealing with those two miserable specimens we'll give up the game for good."

He glanced at his watch.

"I think I'll come back with you to-night to Horsebridge. Not expecting you, I had intended to sleep here and go up to-morrow, but there's nothing to keep me."

"Where are you going to get this caravan?" asked Gregoroff, as Veight rang the bell.

"You can get them all over the place. I'll hire one locally. Let me have my bill," he continued, as a bleary-eyed youth appeared round the corner.

"Bill! You can't 'ave no bill. H'everybody 'as gone to bed."

"Then somebody has to get up, or I shall go without paying it."

"Ho! you would, would yer? Can't go without paying yer bill. Send for the perlice, I will, if yer tries them gaimes wiv me."

Veight turned to the Russian.

"In some ways I would like to be in London on the date we have been discussing," he remarked softly. "You'll send for the police, will you?" he continued to the night porter. "Now I've been here one night. I am still alive because I have eaten no food here. I will therefore pay you for two nights, as it is so late. How much will that be, schweinhund?"

"'Oo are yer calling naimes? Mine's 'Orace."

He hiccoughed loudly.

"Pardon! 'Ad tripe for me supper. Comes back on one like, don't it? Two quid, yer said. Right oh! Suppose it'll be orl right."

He pocketed the notes and shuffled off into a noisome recess under the stairs, from which there emerged a series of devastating explosions, showing that the tripe was still active.

"'Ere's yer receipt," he said, appearing once more. "Shall I get yer bag?"

"No," said Veight. "All you can do is to get out of sight and hearing. I won't be a moment, Gregoroff: I've a few things to put in. I'll join you in the car."

He went upstairs, and the Russian, lighting a cigarette, went down the steps into the street. It was past two o'clock, and not a soul was in sight. An occasional car flashed past the end of the street along the Bayswater Road, and in a neighbouring basement an amatory cat made music. There was no moon, but in a couple of hours it would be dawn, and it would take him just about that time to reach Horsebridge.

He got into the car and started the engine. It was a fast machine, though a good deal slower than the one stolen by Drummond, and as he thought of that episode he cursed under his breath. Even the fact that he had struck the damned Englishman in the face, and that the swine had since died in agony, was not enough. He would have liked to have murdered him personally.

Unlike Emil Veight, who only killed as an absolutely last resource, Paul Gregoroff gloried in it. Beneath a very thin veneer the man was a merciless savage. Human life meant less than nothing to him. Willingly would he have done in the four men in Hartley Court with his own hands, had he not been dissuaded by the others. In fact his readiness to kill was a constant source of anxiety to those with whom he worked. He never seemed to realise that what might be done with impunity in Russia was a very different matter in Western Europe.

With an effort he dismissed Drummond from his mind, and concentrated on the work ahead. He felt a genuine admiration for Veight's scheme, which he readily acknowledged as a masterpiece. Try as he would he could see no flaw in it. There were difficulties which he could see, and unforeseen ones which would almost certainly arise. But in the main the conception was magnificent. Particularly the idea of the caravan. It tickled his sense of humour to think that they would be able to stop and ask a policeman which way to take the two men they were going to murder. And the adrenalin. Very, very good.

"My dear Veight," he said as the German flung his bag in the car and sat down beside him, "once again I congratulate you. I have been thinking it over while I waited for you, and I cannot see any possibility of failure."

"Nor can I," said Veight. "But I'm glad you confirm my opinion. Yes, Gregoroff, my friend, I think we shall be able to retire in the near future. How long will it take us to get there?"

"Two hours. One must admit one point in favour of this country: its roads are wonderful."

Save for an occasional lorry there was no traffic at all. Villages loomed up in the glare of the headlights and fell away behind them as the car ate up the miles. And gradually over the flat country towards the east the dawn began to break.

There was a coolness in the air. Here and there little patches of ground mist lay in the fields, and the smell of damp earth came faintly to their nostrils. And suddenly Veight spoke.

"I remember it like this away back behind the line during the last war."

Gregoroff glanced at him quickly, but did not speak.

"Strange, isn't it," he continued, "that we two are helping to start another. Don't think I'm becoming sentimental," he added with a laugh, "but at moments like this one cannot help marvelling at the congenital idiocy of mankind."

"All the better for us," said Gregoroff cynically.

"Agreed. But one can wonder at a state of affairs even while one profits by it."

"You'll be talking about the happy hours you spent at your mother's knee soon," sneered Gregoroff, and Veight frowned. Unscrupulous blackguard though he was, there was a streak of the genuine artist in him, which at times recoiled with disgust from the crude inhumanity of the Russian. But he said no more and they drove on in silence.

At length, just as they reached the last village before their destination, the sun rose. The actual house was about a mile farther on, and soon it came in sight, standing in its sheet of reed-fringed water. And with it Veight's mood vanished: he was once more the man of action.

"Let's get it clear now, Gregoroff," he said. "We want a few hours' sleep; then we must get down to things. The sooner we get up north the better, so we'll have a conference with Meredith as early as possible. He or Belfage will have to make arrangements for the caravan, and it will be best not to bring it to the house. We don't want old Hoskins to know a minute before it is necessary. In fact he needn't know until we actually come back with the two men. I will fix up the aeroplane for us; if I can't do it in any other way I'll buy one and hire a pilot. I shall say that it is wanted for an important business deal, and that it must be ready to start at a moment's notice."

"We, of course, say nothing about Kalinsky," said Gregoroff, as he backed the car into the garage.

"Good God! no. Are you mad? We hint at a possible buyer, to whom we will go accompanied by Meredith. And it is vital they should know nothing about the aeroplane."

Gregoroff produced a latch-key as they walked over the drawbridge.

"I follow," he said. "I wonder if that damned man Waldron has cracked yet."

He opened the door, and they stepped into the hall. In front of them the staircase led up to a mullioned window through which the sunlight was streaming. In the room to their right the remains of a meal littered the table, and Gregoroff entering poured himself out a whisky and soda.

The house was in complete silence as Veight went up the stairs and he paused by the window to look out. The whole expanse of the mere lay in front of him, and for a while he stood there staring idly across the water. The morning was still: in the undergrowth that stretched down to the edge not a leaf stirred. And he was on the point of going on up to his bedroom when he stiffened. The top of one of the bushes fringing the water had shaken.

"Gregoroff," he called softly. "Gregoroff—come here."

The Russian joined him.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

"Watch the bank just beyond the water-logged boat," said Veight, and even as he spoke the bush shook again.

"There's somebody hiding there," he continued softly.

"It might be an animal," said Gregoroff, but Veight shook his head.

"The undergrowth is far too dense for a sheep or a cow," he said. "And only a big animal would make that bush shake. It is a human being. We must go and investigate."

Silently they let themselves out of the front door and crossed the drawbridge. Then they followed the narrow path that skirted the pool. They were screened from view, but progress was slow. In places the path petered out completely and they had to force their way through brambles, but at length Veight, who was leading, held up his hand. They were just abreast of the boat.

They paused, listening intently, but save for the bird chorus they could hear nothing. Then very cautiously, a step at a time, they pushed forward. Suddenly, with an agitated squawk, a moorhen scuttered across the water, and Veight cursed under his breath. Then all its friends followed suit, and the possibility of surprise was gone.

"Come on," said Veight. "Damn those birds."

He pushed forward rapidly, regardless now of noise, with the Russian just behind him.

"Here's the spot," he cried. "It was just beside that coloured shrub. This is the actual bush that was shaking. And," he muttered, gripping Gregoroff's arm, "animals don't eat sandwiches."

On the ground at their feet were the remains of a meal, and they both bent down to examine them. Some ham and bread; the core of an apple; a piece of paper and some string.

"The devil take it," said Veight softly. "That apple core hasn't turned brown yet, so whoever it is he's only just gone."

Once again they stood and listened, and this time in the far distance they heard the noise of someone crashing through the undergrowth; then silence.

"Who the devil can it have been?" said Veight. "Tramps don't eat that sort of sandwich, and a tramp wouldn't have bolted. What's the matter?"

"Look at the house, man; look at the house," Gregoroff was breathing in his ear.

Through an opening in the bushes Veight looked. Leaning out of a top window, staring over the water in their direction, was Doris Venables.

"The girl, by God!" Veight muttered. "This must be dealt with at once."

CHAPTER XII

To all appearances she was fast asleep when they entered the room. The door had been locked as usual with the key on the outside; the window was wide open.

"There's no good shamming, young woman," said Gregoroff harshly. "We know you're not asleep."

There was no answer; only the deep-measured breathing of someone under the influence of drugs.

"If you go on pretending," said Veight, bending over her, "I'll rip the bedclothes off. I thought that would do the trick," he added with a short laugh, as she made an involuntary movement.

"Now, Miss Doris Venables, are you going to be sensible or shall we have to take drastic measures?"

"How dare you come into my room!" she cried furiously. "Go at once."

"Shall we cut out the innocent-virgin stuff?" said Veight calmly. "We are in your room and we intend to stay here until you've answered a few questions, and answered them to our satisfaction."

He bent over and stared into her eyes.

"There's no dope in her at all," he remarked to Gregoroff. "Go and get that miserable bungler Belfage, and bring him here."

"It might be as well, Veight, to question her first. We can get hold of him afterwards."

"All right," agreed the German. "Now, my girl, are you going to stop in bed, or would you prefer to put on a dressing-gown and get up?"

"I'll get up if you'll leave the room."

"We will avert our gaze, Miss Venables," said Veight ironically. "Is this what you want?"

He picked up a wrap lying on a chair, and tossed it on to the bed.

"Now hurry, please; we have no time to waste."

He turned his back, and a moment or two later she spoke.

"What are these questions you want to ask me?"

"Good," said Veight. "I am glad you are going to see reason. And really—I must compliment you on your appearance. A most enchanting picture."

"Will you kindly ask your questions and go?" she remarked icily. "I find your presence in my room quite insufferable."

"Then the sooner you answer, and the more truthful those answers are, the quicker you will be rid of us. What were you doing at the window a few minutes ago?"

"Looking out. I woke up, and seeing it was a lovely morning I got out of bed."

"Who was the man you were looking for?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," she said. "I didn't expect to see any man. Why should I? I don't even know where I am."

"I'm afraid, Miss Venables, our visit is going to be a long one. If you remember, I laid stress on your answers being truthful. You are not being truthful. Who was the man who was hiding in the undergrowth on the other side of the lake?"

"I tell you I didn't even know there was a man there, much less who he was."

"I fear, Gregoroff, that we shall have to adopt other measures with this young lady; measures, my dear, that you will not appreciate. For the moment, however, we will let that question drop, and turn to another. Ever since I have had the pleasure of knowing you, you have posed as an ardent member of the Key Club. Why?"

"Because I am one."

Veight raised protesting hands.

"You really must not go on in this stupid way. You are no more a member of that fatuous institution than I am. What I want to know is why you pretend to be."

"I tell you I am one," she cried. "You can believe it or not as you like."

"I suppose you'll ask me next to believe that you are a friend of Meredith's—a man with a criminal record, who has served a sentence for forgery."

She gave a slight start.

"I didn't know that," she said.

"You do now. Why did you go back to Captain Drummond's cottage that afternoon?"

"To make sure the message telegraphed by Mrs. Eskdale was correct."

"And why did you want to make sure of that? I am waiting for an answer, Miss Venables," he added after a pause.

"I thought she might have made a mistake."

"Really! And if she had—what then? You, with a quickness for which I congratulate you, got rid of that man Drummond on the pretext that the message was a cipher giving the name of the place where your mythical cousin Harold had been taken to. You also, and on one of the few times in our acquaintance, quite truthfully told me that you thought it was the address of our head-quarters in code. Why did you want that address? Whom did you wish to trace there?"

"I tell you, I——"

"Finding things a little difficult to answer, are we? Should I be very wide of the mark, Miss Venables, if I suggested to you that in the hurry of the moment you had not taken a copy of that wire, and that when I tore it up you couldn't remember the contents? And that that was why you went back to the cottage? Thank you, you needn't answer. I see I am right."

For a while he stared at her thoughtfully.

"I must confess you arouse my curiosity, young woman," he said at length. "Are you in the service of the British Government?"

"I am not," she answered promptly.

"Then if that is the truth you are playing a lone hand. Once again I ask you, why?"

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

"I have already told you, Herr Veight, that you are quite wrong. I really cannot go on repeating myself; it's too boring."

"So," said Veight softly, and at that moment Doctor Belfage entered the room, bringing with him a strong odour of spirits. He had pulled on a dirty dressing-gown over his pyjamas, and a two days' growth of stubble adorned his chin.

"Thought I heard voices," he muttered foolishly.

"You drunken swine," snarled Veight. "You were told to keep this girl under the influence of morphia, weren't you? Well, look at her."

"Gave her a shot last night," stammered the doctor.

"Shot be damned!" cried Veight furiously. "You were too full of whisky to know what you were doing. And what's the result? We found her trying to signal to somebody outside. And that's your doing, you miserable fool."

"Signalling? My God! Whom to?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out. And that's what I'm going to find out. Now look here, my girl, I've had enough of this fooling. You were anxious to find out where our head-quarters were. Well, you have. They are here. And now you are going to sample what goes on in them. Up to date we haven't worried about you; you have been kept quiet. Now, entirely owing to that wretched bungler, we have got to worry about you."

The girl rose to her feet, and faced him fearlessly.

"How long have I been here, you brute?"

"Three or four days," answered Veight. "A nice rest cure."

"And what are you going to do with me?"

"Apply a little suasion. Show you some of the sights of the house. Unless you tell us who that was outside."

"I tell you I don't know," she cried. "And if I did I wouldn't tell you. Don't touch me." Her voice rose. "Don't dare to put your beastly hands on me." She backed to the window. "I swear I'll jump out if you do."

And even as she spoke a sudden change came over her face, and she gave a little choking cry.

"Tommy. Tommy darling. What have they done to you?"

Standing in the doorway was a man with a chalk-white face. A dirty bandage was round his head, and he was swaying dangerously on his feet.

"Doris," he whispered. "I thought I heard your voice, dearest."

Heedless of the other three she went to him and flung her arms round his neck.

"You devils!" she cried fiercely, as she led him towards the bed. "Sit down, darling. You oughtn't to have got up."

"Things become a little clearer," said Veight with interest. "I see you know Captain Lovelace, shall we say—fairly intimately."

"I'm engaged to him," cried the girl defiantly.

"Most romantic." The German lit a cigarette. "At last we are beginning to understand things a little better. So it was to help him that you pretended to belong to the Key Club."

"It was," said the soldier weakly. "And if you've got a spark of decency or manhood left in you, you'll let her go."

"Much more clearly," continued Veight. "That's why you wanted the message: you guessed he'd be here. It proves one thing, however, Gregoroff. You got Lovelace in time; he has passed on nothing. Tell me," he turned to the soldier, "as a mere matter of interest, what you meant by that strange message you threw through the window of the cottage. 'Rosemary BJCDOR.' It doesn't make sense to me, though of course it's a code."

Ginger Lovelace stared at him.

"Rosemary," he muttered. "I don't understand. I..." And suddenly he grew silent, and passed his hand over his forehead. "I can't remember... It's all a sort of dream..."

"Poor darling," said the girl, putting her arm round his shoulders.

"It doesn't matter," said Veight. "I only asked out of curiosity."

"Let him go back to bed," she cried.

"All in good time, Miss Venables," remarked Veight. "It wasn't I who asked him to get up, you must remember. And there are one or two things to be decided first."

"Have you still got that poor devil downstairs?" said Lovelace.

"We have. He is proving a little stubborn. But it won't be much longer now. And the quicker it is the better for you."

"What do you mean?"

"My dear Lovelace, I have no personal animosity to you. I can honestly say that I am delighted to see you are well enough to get up, and I hope that you and this charming lady will enjoy many years of happiness together. But when you insisted on butting into our plans you left us no alternative but to keep you quiet. And had you not tried to get away in the fog your head would not be so painful now."

"Cut out all that bunk," said the soldier. "What are you going to do with us?"

"Again render you harmless until we have done what we came to do, and then you will both be free to do whatever you like."

"More dope?"

"More dope."

"Can't you let Miss Venables go?"

"Really, Lovelace, you pain me. Let the girl who is engaged to you go! No, no, my dear fellow. You will both remain here as the guests of the estimable Mr. Hoskins for a few more days, and then let the marriage bells ring out."

"What the devil is all this about?"

Meredith had entered the room unperceived.

"Ask that damned doctor," said Gregoroff savagely. "Let's get on with it, Veight. I'm sick of this. Fetch a syringe, Belfage."

"I don't understand," cried Meredith as the doctor shuffled out of the room.

"That swine is so sodden with drink that he doesn't know if he's coming or going," said Veight. "He forgot to give the girl an injection last night, and we found her looking out of the window. Now then, Belfage, stick it into his arm."

With shaking fingers the doctor inserted the needle, and a few moments later Lovelace fell back on the bed unconscious, while the girl watched them with eyes like those of a tigress.

"You brutes!" she kept on muttering. "You brutes!"

"Quite so, my dear," said Veight calmly. "It may interest you to know, Meredith, that these two are engaged to be married, which accounts for much that was obscure. However, we needn't go into that now. As I told you, we found her looking out of the window, and there was a man hiding in the undergrowth on the other side of the lake."

"What's that?" Meredith gave a violent start.

"Miss Venables's explanation up to date has not, I regret to say, entirely satisfied me. And so I propose to see if we can't get another. I think that the spectacle of our friend downstairs might open her mouth."

"You say there was a man watching the house?" said Meredith uneasily.

"There was a man hidden in the bushes," answered Veight, "who bolted when he heard us coming, and presumably he wasn't bird's-nesting."

"My God!" muttered Meredith. "Whom can it have been?"

"That is what I should like to find out. Come along, young woman, and you shall see the effects of another drug we keep in the medicine cupboard—one that is specially suitable for people who won't talk."

"Where are you taking me to?" she cried, shrinking back.

"Down below. You were so very anxious to find out where this house was that you must really see all over it now you are here. Hurry up," he added curtly, "you've wasted too much of my time already."

He took her roughly by the arm and forced her towards the door.

"You'll find it rather damp and a little gloomy; but don't be afraid—we shall be with you."

He half dragged, half carried her across the hall to a heavy door studded with nails which was fastened with two bolts.

"The old dungeons, my dear. Perhaps you have heard of Bonivard in Chillon Castle. We have a modern edition for you here."

He drew back the bolts, and the girl gave a little cry as he opened the door. Stone stairs led down into the darkness, and a wave of dank, mildewed air came up from below and hit her in the face.

"After you," said Veight with elaborate politeness, and slowly, a step at a time, she went down. Water dripped on her head from the ceiling; the walls were wringing wet when her hands touched them. At first she could see nothing; but at length the place began to take outline in the dim light that filtered through a tiny window high up. A big buttress stuck out from the wall on one side, and from behind it came a rustling of straw as if an animal was moving about.

Suddenly she screamed; something had run over her bare foot.

"Only a rat, Miss Venables," said Veight. "There are several, and they are big ones. Who was it who was hiding in the bushes?"

"I tell you I don't know," she cried wildly. "O God, what's that?"

A strange moaning noise was coming from the other side of the buttress, and Veight led her forward.

"Our Bonivard," he murmured.

Lying on the ground was a man who gave a cry of fear when he saw them. She could just see his face, his twitching lips, his terrified eyes, and his hands plucking aimlessly at the air. And then a chain rattled; he was tied up to a ring in the wall.

"The gentleman after whom you used to ask so glibly," said Veight. "When would he give way? Do you remember?"

"What have you done to him?" she asked through dry lips.

"They're murdering me," came a choking voice. "I'm going mad."

"No, no, my dear Waldron. Not murder. The very instant you decide to speak, all this will stop."

"You inhuman devil," cried the girl, and Veight laughed.

"The funny thing, Miss Venables, is that it isn't me at all. The saintly owner of the house is responsible for this. And he, I assure you, is an Englishman."

"That drug; what is that ghastly drug?" moaned the prisoner.

"Haven't they told you?" asked Veight. "It is not a nice one, Waldron, and its result in time will be to send you mad. It is, Miss Venables, a Mexican drug called Marijuana. You see before you the result. It instils such fear into the mind of the taker that he ceases to be a man. He is mad with terror over nothing at all; his brain refuses to function; his will power goes. And finally he finishes up in a suicide's grave or a lunatic asylum."

His eyes were boring into her.

"Mr. Waldron would like a companion here: another soldier. Who was it who was hiding in the bushes?"

"I tell you I don't know," she cried. "I swear I don't."

"Still obstinate. I think I had better send for Captain Lovelace."

"No, no," she moaned. "I beg of you don't. I'm telling you the truth, Herr Veight."

"What is all this?" A deep voice came from behind her. "What are you doing here?"

"You have not yet been introduced to your host, have you, Miss Venables?" said Veight. "This is Mr. Hoskins, who is responsible for this."

"You vile brute," said the girl. "Why are you torturing him?"

"You to say that!" Hoskins's voice shook with rage. "You who belong to our order! Are you not aware that this vile man you see before you has invented a new and deadly form of gas for use in war. Until he tells me his formula he remains where he is."

He turned on Waldron.

"Speak, you wretch, speak. What is your gas? Tell me, that all the world may know."

And somewhere, someone laughed. It came from above their heads, and Veight swung round tensely.

"Who was that?" he muttered. "Who was that who laughed?"

"Aye! Who was that who laughed?" cried Hoskins. "There are men, Herr Veight, in this very house who mock at our ideals; who would, if they could, use this man's foul secret for their own ends. I have heard them talking, but they do not know me. Now, you devil man, will you speak? Or shall I send for another injection?"

"Send and be damned," said Waldron weakly. "You wretched traitor to your country."

"Country! What is country? It is country that produces war. Go, Veight, and get the doctor. Tell him this man will still not speak."

"All right." Veight's voice came from the direction of the staircase. "Keep the girl there till I come back."

Sick and faint with horror of the thing, she was leaning against the buttress. In front of her the wild-eyed old owner of the house was muttering to himself fanatically; a few feet away Waldron stirred restlessly on his straw. And at that moment a hand touched her shoulder. A scream stillborn died on her lips, for a voice was whispering in her ear out of the darkness behind her.

"A friend, Doris. Tell Waldron to pretend to give the formula away, and gain time."

Then silence, and her brain working overtime. Who was it who had spoken, and how came he there? What she had said to Veight was the literal truth with regard to the man outside. She had awakened in a strange room with the light pouring in at the window, and had naturally gone to look out; no one could have been more genuinely surprised than she had been at his accusation. But now she knew there were men on the watch; knew that someone had actually got into the house—someone who knew her name.

She pulled herself together: she must act, and act quickly. At any moment Veight might return: somehow she must get the message through to Waldron before then. And suddenly she saw the way. With a little cry she tottered forward and collapsed on the straw as if half fainting. Would the old man suspect?

Close beside her Waldron tossed and turned, but her eyes were fixed on Hoskins. And to her unspeakable relief he seemed quite oblivious of her at all. He was still pacing up and down talking under his breath, and after a while he walked half-way across the room towards the stairs as if impatient at the delay. She seized the opportunity.

"Listen," she whispered urgently. "Can you understand me, Mr. Waldron?"

His movements ceased; he lay very still.

"Who are you?" he muttered.

"A friend," she said in a low voice. "Help is coming. Pretend to give away your secret. Do you understand? Pretend. Say you will. Gain time."

He made no answer; all she could see was the faint outline of his white, twitching face close to her. And then came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and she rose quickly to her feet again. Had she succeeded? Had she got the message through into that drug-bemused brain?

Fearfully she peered over her shoulder into the blackness. Of the man who had spoken to her she could see no sign, but she knew he must be there, hiding somewhere.

"I can't go on any more."

Came Waldron's voice, weak and quavering, and a thrill of triumph ran through her. He had understood: he was going to do as she had told him.

"That accursed drug is torture; it's sending me mad."

He babbled on incoherently for a little while, while Veight and Belfage stood beside Hoskins watching him. And then Gregoroff joined them.

"Are you going to tell us your secret?" said Veight quietly.

"Secret! The secret of my gas. God! I must have sleep. My brain is going."

Again he rambled on, and Veight said something in a low tone to Gregoroff, whilst the girl watched breathlessly.

"Listen, Waldron," said Veight, stepping forward on to the straw, "you shall have all the sleep you want once you have told us your formula."

"I can't think," muttered the other. "I tell you, I can't think. I must have sleep before I can remember it."

Once more Veight and Gregoroff whispered together, and it was Hoskins who spoke next.

"If we let you sleep will you tell us afterwards?"

"Yes. I will tell you afterwards. But now I must sleep. It is days since I have slept." His voice rose to a scream. "Keep the rats away. For God's sake—keep them away! And the horror in the corner. It is waking up."

Doris Venables felt her scalp beginning to tingle: something big was stirring on the far side of the dungeon.

"I am sorry you don't like the doctor's pets," said Veight. "That is only a baboon, but he can be very nasty if he slips his collar. Speak now. You can remember, Waldron."

But the only answer was a vague babbling, from which the one word sleep continually emerged.

"It is better perhaps to let him sleep," came the soft voice of Cortez who had joined the group. "Marijuana acts this way sometimes. But if when he wakes he does not then speak, he shall sleep for good. How say you, Señor Hoskins?"

"I will speak when I wake," said Waldron brokenly. "Only take me from this awful place."

"Give him a shot, Doctor," cried Veight. "We must chance it. And now, young woman, we must decide about you."

The girl shrank back. Subconsciously she watched Belfage bending over the man on the ground with a hypodermic syringe in his hand; hazily she wondered if the unknown man would again come to her out of the darkness. And then suddenly she realised that something had happened to distract their attention from her.

Meredith had appeared, and he was talking excitedly to Veight and Gregoroff. His voice was low, and she could not hear what he said, but it was evidently news of importance.

"Good." She heard Veight's curt voice. "We will see this man at once. There is no time to be lost. Belfage—attend to the girl. And if you mess things up again, I'll smash you into pulp, you drunken brute."

She saw the doctor lurching towards her, and gave a little cry of terror. Surely the unknown would help her; surely... A hand was clapped over her mouth; she felt the prick of a needle in her arm.

"Carry her upstairs, Gregoroff. We must get down to this at once."

She felt herself being picked up by the huge Russian; realised she was passing through the hall where a strange man was standing. Then wave after wave of sleep and oblivion.

"She'll do," said Veight, who had followed her upstairs. "Now mind you don't say the wrong thing, Gregoroff."

The two men went down into the hall, where Meredith was talking to the stranger, while Hoskins with a puzzled look on his face stood by listening.

"It is ferry important that you should come as soon as may be convenient," the stranger was saying in the soft voice of the Highlander. "The plans are finished, but for how long Mr. Graham iss intending to remain I cannot tell you."

"What plans?" cried Hoskins. "I don't understand."

"The plans of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane," explained the stranger in some surprise. "Surely you haf heard of it."

"It's this way, Mr. Hoskins," put in Veight. "We had been intending to keep this as a surprise for you, but this man—by the way, what's your name?"

"MacDonald. Angus MacDonald."

"But now that MacDonald has come——"

"You will pardon me—Mr. MacDonald," said the Highlander.

Veight bowed ironically.

"Now that Mister MacDonald has come we can keep it as a surprise no longer. Up in the heart of the Highlands, Mr. Hoskins, a man named Graham Caldwell has been experimenting with an aeroplane of his own invention. It is now perfected, and as an instrument of war it constitutes the most deadly advance in flying the world has yet seen."

"That iss so," agreed the Highlander.

"It was our intention to give you the plans of this machine as an unexpected present." He winked surreptitiously at Meredith. "Now, I fear, they will be like the birthday present of more mature years that one chooses for oneself."

"How are you going to get them?" asked Hoskins.

"That will be ferry simple," said MacDonald. "My cousin, who iss a member of the Key Club, will be there on the spot to help you."

"What is the name of your cousin?" asked Meredith.

"The ferry same as myself."

"But the man we have been corresponding with is called MacPherson."

"Mister MacPherson is there as well. He too iss a cousin."

"So there are two members of the Key Club there," said Veight.

"That iss so."

"And what are you going to do?"

"I am continuing my journey to London, where I am a student in the University. I haf been on my holiday in the Highlands."

"How did you know of this house?" cried Meredith suspiciously.

"My cousins told me. I do not know how they knew. And now if you will allow me I will be getting along. I am not a member of the Key Club myself, but I am in sympathy with its wonderful ideals. I wish you all success, gentlemen; it iss a ferry great honour to haf been even such a humble help in such a worthy cause."

He bowed, and a few moments later the roar of a motor bicycle outside announced his departure.

"How the devil did they know of this house?" repeated Meredith. "That sot Belfage, I suppose."

"Don't let's worry our heads over that," cried Veight. "Once those plans are in the hands of the British Government we're done. That is to say, Mr. Hoskins," he corrected himself hastily, "it is going to be very much harder to get hold of them. So there's not a moment to be lost."

"You are right," cried Hoskins. "What is your idea?"

"I suggest that Meredith, Gregoroff and I——"

"Cortez is coming too," remarked Meredith quietly, his eyes fixed on Veight.

"As you please," said Veight. "I suggest then that the four of us should go at once by car to the north of Scotland and obtain the plans by force if necessary. You and Belfage, Mr. Hoskins, will remain here and obtain from Waldron his secret when he wakes."

"Good," said Hoskins. "I agree. I will go and talk to the doctor now."

"And what do you really propose, Mr. Veight?" sneered Meredith as the old man went upstairs.

"Just what I said—with one exception. Those plans are going to be of twice the value to us if we can keep Graham Caldwell's mouth shut while we sell them."

"How do you suggest doing that?" said Meredith softly.

"By bringing him and his mechanic here."

"Here!"

"Yes—here. Doped, in a caravan."

Meredith stared at him, and then whistled under his breath.

"By God! that's an idea," he said. "In a caravan."

"When we've got 'em here we can foist off any yarn on the old fool. He'll look after them, leaving us free to sell in the best market. We'll stop in York or some big place on the way through and hire the machine."

"I'm on," cried Meredith. "And I'll vouch for Cortez. When do we start?"

"At once," said Veight.

"I'll get him. But don't forget one thing, Veight: no funny stuff."

"How the hell can there be any funny stuff, you damned fool? We're all in it together, aren't we? I'm not asking you to walk, am I? You're yellow, Meredith: plain yellow. Go and get Cortez. If we drive in turn we should be there by dark to-night even with the caravan. We'll have to fix the aeroplane for ourselves when we come back," he said to Gregoroff, as Meredith disappeared scowling. "And if ever I get that scum where he ought to be," he added softly, "may the Lord have mercy on his soul."

CHAPTER XIII

For mile after mile the road stretches like a white ribbon over the high ground that lies between Lairg and Altnaharra. It is a narrow road with passing places every few hundred yards, and save for the inn at Crask no house exists. Occasionally a fisherman going north to Tongue passes in his car and is gone; once a day the mail van performs its allotted task.

On each side of the road the ground is flat and green. Tiny streams intersect it, making big patches of bog. But parts of it are hard and even: suitable for the landing of an aeroplane. And it was on such a spot that there stood two buildings and a tent. The buildings were obviously improvised. One was a small tin shanty and it was erected close to the tent. The other was much larger and had been placed some two hundred yards away. Beside the tent a dilapidated motorcar was standing, and a rough track leading to the road a quarter of a mile away showed how it had got there. On the front seat an Aberdeen drowsed peacefully, save for a periodical search for an elusive flea. But except for the dog there was no sign of life in the little encampment.

In the short northern night though it was well after ten it was still light enough to read. But the man who lay motionless on the small hill that rose half-way between the tent and the road was otherwise occupied. His eye was glued to a telescope, and the telescope was focused on the place, five miles away, where the road going south to Lairg dipped over the horizon and disappeared.

After a while he shifted his position to ease his stiffness, and glancing round he frowned. Black clouds were gathering over Ben Kilbreck, and rain would not improve his vigil. Not only would it increase his discomfort, but it would decrease the visibility during the half-hour of light that still remained.

For two hours nothing had passed. Save for the harsh call of a grouse, and the faint murmur of the coffee-brown stream that gurgled softly over the stones by the bridge under the road, no sound had broken the stillness. But the man, being a Highlander born and bred, was used to such conditions. He was in his element, though it would have made a townsman fidget.

Suddenly he gave a little grunt of satisfaction: coming over the rise was a motor-car towing a caravan. His watch was over, and shutting the telescope with a snap he rose to his feet. Then, with a final glance at the tent and huts, he walked slowly down to the bridge on the road.

It would be at least ten minutes before the car could get there, and he lit a cigarette, his features showing clearly in the light of the match. And to a student of physiognomy his face was an interesting one. His eyes were very blue, with the network of tiny wrinkles round them which mark an open-air life. But their expression betokened the thinker, and the firm mouth and chin denoted the man of purpose as well. No dreamer, this, even if he was an idealist.

At last the lights of the car—for by now darkness had fallen—breasted the rise a few hundred yards away, and throwing away his cigarette the man stepped into the road. It was possible, though not likely, that this was not the car he was waiting for, but that risk had to be taken. It proved groundless. With a grinding of brakes the machine pulled up and a voice hailed him.

"Is that you, MacPherson?"

"Aye," he answered laconically. "'Tis himself."

"Your proof?"

MacPherson fingered the lapel of his coat.

"The badge of the Key Club," he said. "Any further proof you may be needing you'll find in the camp. And who may you be?" he continued as the man who had accosted him came into the light. "Are you Doctor Belfage? I was told he was a little man."

"My name is Meredith," said the other, "and I and my friends are acting for Doctor Belfage, who is ill. We are all enthusiasts for the cause. By the way, MacPherson, how was it your cousin found us at Horsebridge?"

"Because I told him. Your doctor who is sick said you were there. Come, let's be getting on with it. And I'll thank you to give me a lift as far south as Inverness."

He led the way along the path, and a muttered colloquy took place behind him.

"That will be all right," said Meredith at length. "We will take you to Inverness. Have you the two men safe?"

"You'll be seeing for yourself in a minute," answered MacPherson.

"Because," continued Meredith softly, "you had better remember we are all armed. In case, you know, Mr. MacPherson; just in case."

"Is that so?" said MacPherson quietly. "The grouse are good this year, but it is not yet the twelfth."

"What the devil is the man talking about?" came a harsh voice. "And why is he dressed like a damned woman?"

"Shut up, Gregoroff, you fool," snapped Veight. "Haven't you ever seen a kilt before?"

"Probably not," said MacPherson affably. "Being true to our principles, he naturally did not wait to see them during the last war."

From behind came a chuckle, and Gregoroff snarled angrily.

"If you laugh at me, you filthy little Dago, I'll bash your head in."

"I did not laugh," said Cortez venomously. "Keep your hands from me," he screamed, "or I knife you!"

"I didn't touch you, you rat."

"Then who did? Something—it brush my face."

"It would seem, Mr. Meredith, that your friends do not like the spirits of the moor," remarked MacPherson gravely. "Perhaps they are right. Strange things happen in my country. Maybe you will hear the death dirge if you are lucky—or unlucky."

"For God's sake let's hurry," said Meredith uneasily. "This place gets on my nerves."

"It is because you are not used to it," answered MacPherson. "But reassure yourself. We shall not be long now. The hut is just in front of us. If you will wait a moment I will light the lamp."

He opened the door and struck a match, while the four men crowded in after him.

"There is the inventor, Mr. Graham Caldwell, and that is his mechanic."

Seated on opposite sides of the table and breathing stertorously were the two men. Their heads were sunk on their arms; between them stood an empty whisky bottle.

"I put a little something in their whisky," explained MacPherson calmly.

"Good!" cried Meredith. "Where are the plans?"

"In yonder cupboard," said MacPherson.

"And they are complete?"

"They were finished yesterday."

"You are certain there are no others in existence?" cried Veight, putting the tracings on the table in front of him.

"Absolutely certain," answered MacPherson. "I myself have drawn the greater part."

The four men looked at him.

"Could you redraw them?" asked Gregoroff.

"From memory? No, I could not. But why should I be wanting to? You have them, and shortly the whole world will have them."

He spoke indifferently, leaning against the window.

"Excuse me, Veight," said Meredith suddenly. "Not all of them in your pocket, if you don't mind. I will take half."

"Don't be such a suspicious fool," cried Veight angrily. "Anyone would think I was trying to double-cross you."

"Exactly what I do think," answered Meredith calmly. "Hand 'em over."

"Just so," said Cortez. "We will have half."

For a few moments there was a tense silence which was broken at last by the Scotchman.

"Are you not then all together in this?" he asked mildly. "What does it matter who has the plans?"

"Of course, of course," said Meredith hurriedly. "Just a little personal matter, Mr. MacPherson. Mr. Veight is wanting all the credit himself at head-quarters—aren't you, Veight?"

"Here are two sheets," remarked the German, pushing them over the table. "And what the devil is the matter with you?" he continued to MacPherson.

For the Highlander, his hand outstretched, was pointing through the window.

"Look!" he whispered. "Look! The dancing light. The light of death!"

Flickering up and down, moving first this way and then that, was a faint blue-white light.

"It's only a marsh flame," cried Gregoroff harshly, but he crossed himself.

"There is no marsh there," said MacPherson sombrely. "It is the light of death. Soon you will hear the dirge."

"Don't talk rot," shouted Veight. "Are we children, to be frightened with such tales?"

The Scotchman turned and stared at him: stared at him till the German shifted uneasily on his feet.

"You poor ignorant man," said MacPherson slowly. "Do not mock at the Powers on the other side, or maybe," his voice rose, "they will strike you down. Do ye not ken that this moor is peopled with the dead—the dead who are earth-bound? Listen." He held up his hand for silence. "What did I tell you?"

From far away, clear through the still night air, came a faint wailing noise. It rose and fell, sometimes dying away to nothing, then increasing in volume, but always the same wailing dirge.

"Bagpipes," muttered Meredith through dry lips.

"Aye—the pipes. But played by no human piper. It's the dead playing their own lament. Never have I heard it so clearly."

"Dead men or no dead men," said Veight angrily, "we're not going till we've done what we came for. The machine must be burned. Where is it?"

"Over yonder," said MacPherson. "The petrol is ready."

"Then lead the way. That foul noise has stopped; let's be quick before it starts again."

"You will not hear it again to-night," said MacPherson. "They never play twice. Follow me."

They trooped out after him, leaving the two unconscious men still snoring at the table.

"What a hell spot of a place," muttered Gregoroff, stumbling over the uneven ground. "How far is it to the shed?"

"Two hundred yards," answered MacPherson from in front, and even as he spoke a bellow of fear came from the Russian.

"God Almighty!" he yelled. "What was that? Something cold and clammy hit my face."

He thrashed his arms round his head like a madman, uttering the foulest imprecations.

"Blaspheme not," came the quiet voice of the Scotchman, "or maybe they that hear will take you at your word. Here is the shed; the aeroplane is inside."

A door creaked in the darkness, and then by the light of a match they could see the vague outline of the machine inside.

"The tins of petrol are against the wall," said MacPherson. "Pour two or three over the wings and fuselage. Tip the remainder on the floor, and let this invention of the devil be destroyed by the fire that purifieth."

"I would have liked to have seen it in action," said Veight, "but unfortunately that is impossible. The inventor is satisfied, is he?"

"More than satisfied," answered MacPherson. "There is no existing aeroplane that comes within thirty per cent. of it for all-round performance."

The reek of petrol filled the air as they emptied the spirit over the machine, and a few minutes later the shed was a raging furnace.

"So may all such abominations perish," said MacPherson gravely as they watched the flames roaring up in the darkness. Fantastic shadows danced over the moor, and a heavy cloud of smoke drifted sluggishly away. But at length it was over; the blaze died down, and only a few smouldering embers remained of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane.

"Excellent!" cried Veight. "You have deserved well of the cause, Mr. MacPherson, and we will see that your name is brought before headquarters."

They were walking back to the hut, where they could see the inventor and his mechanic still sprawling over the table. But even with the light from the window the darkness seemed the more intense after the fierce bonfire they had witnessed. And so, when there came from behind them a thud, followed by a bellow of pain and a hideous gurgling noise, they peered backward, unable to see what was happening.

"Murder!" The word was a gurgle. "He murder me."

"You little devil, Cortez!" Gregoroff's voice was animal in its fury. "Ah-h-h! You'd knife me, would you?"

"Stop it, you two," shouted Veight furiously.

"I tell you he's smashed my face in," roared the Russian, "and now he's stabbed me."

"I did not touch your face," screamed Cortez. "I touch you not at all."

"For men of peace," murmured MacPherson, "you would seem a little excitable. And indeed it appears that Mr. Gregoroff has not only a knife in his arm, but that he has lost much of his beauty."

He had produced an electric torch, which he flashed upon the Russian. And in all conscience Paul Gregoroff was a parlous object. His nose was smashed and blood was streaming down his face. A knife still quivered in the upper part of his arm, and his teeth were bared like those of a snarling dog. He had let go of the Mexican, who, crouching vindictively, was watching him.

"Who did hit me?" mouthed the Russian.

"Not me," snarled Cortez. "I knife you, yes, because you throttle me. I never touch your dam' face."

"Somebody has," said MacPherson profoundly. "That could not occur on its own. Maybe it was one of the more dangerous earth-bound spirits that haunt the moor as I have told you. It would be safer to come to the hut, I think."

"To hell with you and your earth-bound spirits," roared the Russian, who was beside himself with pain and rage. "If it wasn't Cortez, it must have been you, Meredith."

"I was nowhere near you," cried that gentleman hurriedly. "Let's get inside the hut, away from the damned moor."

"Sensibly spoken, Mr. Meredith," said MacPherson. "For though Mr. Gregoroff's face is doubtless very painful, it is fortunate for him that he is still alive. It is certain that there is present an influence that does not like him: next time it may be his neck and not his nose that is broken."

He entered the hut and the others followed.

"Do you really mean to say," stammered the Russian, "that ... that it was a ghost?"

The deep-seated superstition of the Slav was asserting itself, and MacPherson shrugged his shoulders.

"You may call it a ghost if you wish," he said. "I would prefer to say that it was one of the elemental forces that are abroad upon the moor this night. You have seen the light; you have heard the pipes: and you have escaped with your life. As I said, you are lucky.... What will you be doing with the two yonder?"

"Well, Mr. MacPherson," said Veight, "our idea was to take them south with us. We feel it will be safer to have them under restraint while the actual plans are being prepared for the various governments. That is the reason for the caravan."

"A grand idea," remarked MacPherson. "They should travel comfortably inside it. So if you would care to lift them into the car outside, I will drive them to the road."

"How will you explain their absence?" said Meredith suddenly.

"There is no one to explain it to," answered MacPherson. "But should any questions be asked I shall say they have gone south to the English and more than that I do not know. Dear me! and what is that?"

A sharp yell of pain had come from outside the hut, and Veight entered, wringing his hand.

"Something has bitten me," he cried angrily. "Something in your car."

"There, now! I'd forgotten her. It's the wee Aberdeen bitch. She does not take kindly to strangers. Winkie! Come here, lassie."

The little dog came trotting in, to receive a vicious kick from the infuriated German. And the next moment Veight was lying in the corner nursing his jaw, with a blazing-eyed man in a kilt standing over him whom he almost failed to recognise as the mild-mannered MacPherson.

"How dared ye kick my dog?" The voice was soft and incredibly menacing. "How dared ye?"

Veight scrambled to his feet, but a second look at the Scotchman's face was enough.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Lost my temper, I'm afraid."

"Then be careful you don't lose it again," continued the soft voice. "Or maybe I might lose mine."

For a space the two men stared at one another; then the German turned away, and MacPherson, picking up his dog, made much of her. But though he said no more there was tension in the air. Four to one, and armed at that, but no one suggested that the Scotchman should help to lift the two bodies into the car.

Gregoroff had roughly bandaged his arm—the wound was only a flesh one—but his face was still an appalling sight. And just before they started MacPherson turned to him.

"You'll find water in the basin," he said. "I'd use it if I were you. And then we'll be moving."

"What about your car?" asked Meredith.

"It can bide here," answered MacPherson shortly. "I'll be out by the mail from Lairg to-morrow."

He turned out the light, and they jolted over the track to the road. And once again MacPherson was a spectator as they turned the caravan and put the unconscious men inside, where they were joined by Meredith and the Russian, who heaved a sigh of relief as the door shut behind him.

"Will you sit in front with me, Mr. MacPherson?" said Veight as he took the wheel.

"I will not," answered MacPherson promptly. "There are some people I prefer to be behind, and yon little Dago with the knife is one of them. Come, girl."

The Aberdeen jumped in beside him, and they started off. A few spots of rain began to fall, but it was only a passing shower and they did not stop to put up the hood. But as a drive it was not a chatty one, and it was not until the car stopped on the bridge at Inverness and MacPherson got out that Veight spoke again.

"What was it really that hit Gregoroff?" he said.

The Scotchman looked at him with an expressionless face.

"Something verra hard, mon," he remarked, relapsing into a pronounced accent. "If it were not impossible I would say a croquet mallet. But I have never heard that the elementals play the game. Well, I will say good night, Mr. Veight. You have the plans; you have the inventor and his mechanic, and your friend's nose should have recovered in a year or so. Heel, Winkie."

He strode away along the deserted road by the river, and after watching him for a while Veight let in his clutch and once more headed south. Perfectly correct: they had the plans and the men, there was no doubt on that score. But for all that a vague feeling of disquietude possessed him.

True the Scotch are a peculiar race, and a Scotchman who was also a member of the Key Club could not be expected to be anything but most eccentric. But the episode which stood out most in his mind, apart from the pain he still felt in his jaw, was the kicking of the dog. In an instant a man who up till then had seemed an inoffensive lunatic had become a dominant personality.

That the aggravation had been great he admitted. Not that he cared the snap of a finger about dogs himself, but other people did. And if MacPherson had merely shown anger or resentment he would not have been in the least surprised. But MacPherson had done far more than that: he had cowed Veight, which was an extremely novel experience for the German. And the question he was asking himself as they drove up the long hill out of Inverness was, which was the real MacPherson?

Of only academic interest, perhaps, but Veight was a keen psychologist. Men and their minds were supremely important factors in his profession, and he disliked being unable to classify one. And what was it really that had hit Gregoroff?

He believed the little rat beside him, for the very good reason that he would never have been such a fool as to attack a man twice his size except with a knife. It certainly had not been MacPherson: he had been with him well in front. Equally certain it was not an elemental spirit, though—and this was the point—it was possible that MacPherson really believed it was. Highlanders, he knew, were fey: it was quite conceivable that he genuinely thought the whole thing was supernatural. Ridiculous, of course, to a man like Veight: the light was obviously a will-of-the-wisp, the wailing noise some bird.

It left, therefore, only Meredith. What would have been more easy than for him to arm himself with some heavy piece of wood when they were burning the aeroplane, and attempt to kill, or at any rate stun the Russian in the darkness? It might have been done almost noiselessly, in which case he would have been up against Cortez and Meredith by himself, without realising the fact.

A glint came into his eyes: the more he thought of it the more probable did this solution seem. And after a while he glanced sideways at his companion, whose head was nodding. Both sides could play at that game, and with infinite care he put his left hand over the back of the seat and felt for the jack which he knew was lying on the floor. He found it, and put it between his legs. If the thing was going to be done it would have to be done at once.

Dawn was breaking, and again he glanced at Cortez, who was lolling against the side of the car fast asleep. Then he lifted the jack, and brought it down on the base of his skull. The Mexican lurched forward and was still.

Veight still drove on, but fear was clutching him. He had not intended to kill the man; had he hit him too hard? He felt for his heart: there was no sign of movement. And Veight's own began to go in sickening thumps. Cortez was dead: he had murdered him.

Behind him the caravan bumped along, and instinctively he looked at his petrol gauge. It was only a quarter full, and he could not fill up with a dead man beside him. Why had he hit him so hard? He had only meant to stun him, and then do the same to Meredith. After which he intended to leave them both hidden somewhere off the road. But he had killed him.

Veight thought furiously; the one essential thing was not to lose his head. And gradually he grew calmer. A plan was beginning to materialise in his mind.

It would require nerve, but he realised all too clearly that this was no time for half-measures. He had not the faintest wish to be hanged by the neck till he was dead, and that was the finish that stared him inexorably in the face unless he could dispose of the body in such a way as to divert suspicion from himself. And to do that it would not be sufficient merely to hide it: sooner or later someone would be bound to find it. After which identification, and with MacPherson in the neighbourhood the certainty of his being implicated.

The same consideration precluded any possibility of pretending to stage a motor accident. Apart from the fact that a car does not hit a man on the head, his connection with Cortez would be bound to come out. And why should someone who started as a passenger in a car be knocked down by it?

No: there was only one thing to be done. And having made up his mind Veight felt all his customary coolness returning. It was an unfortunate complication, but it was not the first time he had been in a tight corner and got away with it.

The first essential was a suitable place, and here fortune was with him. The road was running through a fair-sized wood, and as far as he could see there was no house within sight. So he stopped the car and putting on a glove he took the revolver out of the dead man's pocket. Then he picked up the jack and went to the door of the caravan.

"Puncture," he said briefly, keeping the revolver out of sight. "Give me a hand, Meredith; here's the jack."

Blinking his eyes sleepily, Meredith took it, and as he did so Veight shot him from point-blank range through the heart.

"What the devil are you doing?" stammered Gregoroff. "Are you mad?"

Veight looked up and down the road: no sign of anyone. Inside the caravan the two drugged men still slumbered peacefully.

"Listen, Gregoroff," he said quietly. "I've had an accident. I meant to knock Cortez on the head and stun him. Unfortunately I hit him too hard and killed him. You've got to help me stage this show, or we're for it."

"You mean you are, you damned fool," answered the Russian.

"You seem to forget the man you killed in Drummond's cottage, my friend. Be quick; there's no time to lose. Get hold of his shoulders, and we'll cart him into the wood. His hand has tightened on the jack, which is what I hoped for, and he's hardly bled at all."

Between them they lifted the dead man out of the caravan, and carried him into the undergrowth for a distance of about thirty yards. Then they laid him down where he was screened from anyone passing by.

"Now, Cortez," cried Veight, and they made the second journey. "We'll leave the two bodies together, and with luck they won't be found for days. But if by chance they are found sooner, and we are implicated, our story is this. We all stopped here and those two began quarrelling. We got bored and left them, and know nothing of the affair at all."

"Pretty thin," said Gregoroff, watching Veight lay the revolver in the Mexican's hand.

"We shan't be in England when they're found," cried Veight. "And with that jack clutched in Meredith's hand it isn't by any means so thin as you think."

"What induced you to hit Cortez?" cried the Russian curiously.

"Because the more I think of it the more do I become convinced that it was Meredith who hit you, and that if he'd laid you out he and Cortez would then have gone for me," said Veight, taking a final look at the bodies. "That seems all right to me," he continued. "The two things took place practically simultaneously. Meredith hit Cortez from behind; Cortez spun round and shot him as he died. No finger-prints on the gun except any that Cortez may have left there himself. In fact, my dear Paul—well staged. Now all we want are the plans from Meredith's pocket, and we will resume our journey."

He stooped over and extracted the papers, and the two walked back to the road.

"I think," he went on, "that you had better still continue in the caravan. Your face is definitely noticeable. Put another quarter grain of morphia under both our passengers' tongues. We don't want any chance of them coming to and shouting."

Suddenly he glanced up, listening: in the distance could be heard the drone of an aeroplane. It grew rapidly louder, and, flying low over the trees, a scarlet monoplane came into sight. It roared overhead, and as it passed above them they saw a man leaning out and looking down. Then it was gone and the noise of the engine died away in the south.

"An early flyer," said Gregoroff uneasily. "And he's seen us."

"What does that matter?" cried Veight irritably. "Your nerves seem pretty rocky this morning, Gregoroff. There's nothing unusual, is there, about a caravan on a road? And it is ten to one he'll never give it a second thought, even when the bodies are found. Get inside; the sooner we're back at Horsebridge the better."

CHAPTER XIV

During the long drive south Veight reviewed the situation from every angle, for, though he had denied it to Gregoroff, he realised that the whole thing was pretty thin. True it was the best that could have been done under the circumstances, but he saw only too clearly the dangers of the position if the bodies were found before he was out of the country.

Meredith was known to the police, and through him the line would lead direct to Belfage. And with the ex-doctor in his present condition of nerves that might mean anything. He would certainly blurt out that Veight had been up to Scotland with the caravan, and that would mean a searching interrogation by the police.

Why had Meredith gone into the wood with a jack in his hand? Why, if he and Cortez had quarrelled, had they not done so by the roadside? What had they quarrelled about? And finally, what had been the object of the whole journey? Why go up to the Highlands and return the next day?

To the first three questions the answer was simple: since the tragedy had taken place after the car had gone, he could plead complete ignorance. Why had the car gone on, leaving two of its occupants stranded by the roadside? That was a bit of a poser. Because he, the driver, was the only one in the car. The others had all been in the caravan, and he had driven off believing they were inside again. When later he found they were not, he had gone too far to turn back, and assumed they would come on by train. That held water, and Gregoroff would come in there. He had thought they were in the car, and so he had said nothing.

So far, so good; it was to the last question that, try as he would, he could not evolve a satisfactory answer. To pretend that an ex-convict, a dope peddler and two men like Gregoroff and himself had gone to Scotland in a caravan for fun or to see the view was too farcical for words. In addition to that there was MacPherson to take into account. The fact that his own part in the performance was not at all creditable might not be enough to prevent him speaking if he found out whom the dead men were—which he certainly would, since their names were bound to appear in the papers. That risk, however, being outside Veight's control, would have to be ignored. But what was he personally to say to account for the trip? And the more he thought it over, the more did he come to the conclusion that a half-truth was the only possible solution. They had heard of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane, and they had gone up to see it. Unfortunately they found the inventor had left for England; and even more unfortunately the machine had accidentally caught fire while they were there.

Yes, reflected Veight, that was the only solution, if he was interrogated. If! The whole crux lay in that word. With any luck, as he had said to Gregoroff, the bodies would not be found for at any rate two or three days. And by that time he would be well away, even if it entailed forfeiting the secret of the gas.

Like most men who live by their wits, Veight was an optimist, and as the day wore on his spirits rose. Possibly the Cortez episode was the best thing that could have happened. He had realised all along that fooling them at the last moment was going to prove difficult, and now all need for that had disappeared. Belfage and old Hoskins would be child's play, but Meredith had had a nasty suspicious mind. And so, by the time he turned the car in over the drawbridge, Emil Veight's equanimity was fully restored. His story was cut and dried; Gregoroff was word perfect, and he felt that the first instalment of Kalinsky's money was already as good as in his pocket.

There was no one in the hall when he and Gregoroff carried the airman and his mechanic in, and the house seemed very silent. But as they laid them down on the floor Hoskins appeared from his study brandishing a paper.

"It is you, is it?" he said. "I thought it might be Belfage. The formula, my friends: the formula of that devil Waldron's gas."

"Excellent," cried Veight. "And here are Graham Caldwell and his mechanic, to say nothing of the plans of the machine."

"A great day, gentlemen: a triumph for the club. But tell me—where are Meredith and Cortez?"

Veight laughed.

"A most absurd thing has happened, Mr. Hoskins. We all got out this morning just after it was light, and when we drove off again we left them behind by mistake. I thought they were in the caravan with Gregoroff, and he thought they were in the car with me. They will doubtless come along by train."

"Dear me!" said Hoskins, "how very unfortunate. But what have you been doing to your face, Mr. Gregoroff?"

"I fell down on the moor up there and hit it on a rock," answered the Russian.

"Quite a chapter of accidents," cried the old man. "I wish the doctor would return. I want him to see this formula, so as to be quite sure there is no mistake. Then by to-night's post, my dear friends, it shall go to every government."

"Just so," said Veight quietly, and his eyes met Gregoroff's. "Just so, Mr. Hoskins. Where is the doctor?"

"He went over to his own house after lunch. Something to do with the insurance people and Hartley Court. But he should be back at any moment now."

"Might I see the formula?" asked Veight casually.

"Of course. Here it is. Waldron only recovered sufficiently a short time ago to write it. And even then I had to threaten him with more of the drug. Do you know anything of chemistry?"

"I fear not," said Veight, glancing at the formula he held in his hand. "Have you taken any copies of it yet, Mr. Hoskins?"

"No; I was waiting for the doctor to make certain that devil has not deceived me."

"He is still below in the dungeon?"

"Yes. And he remains there till the letters are dispatched."

"And Captain Lovelace and Miss Venables?"

"Upstairs in their rooms."

Once again Veight glanced at Gregoroff, who gave the faintest of nods. And the next moment they closed in on the old man, who gave one frightened little squeal like a snared rabbit and then subsided limply, and his eyes roved from one to the other in terrified bewilderment as they forced him into a chair.

"What are you doing to me?" he wailed.

"Now listen, Mr. Hoskins," said Veight quietly. "And pay very close attention to what I am going to say. We shall not do you any harm provided you do not give us any trouble. But knowing your strange outlook on life we shall have to take certain precautions. Gregoroff and I want this formula, which you have been kind enough to give us, and so we propose to keep it."

"But aren't you going to send it to all the governments?" cried Hoskins incredulously.

Veight roared with laughter.

"We are not, my dear sir. Ah! would you, you old devil?"

For with a furious shout of rage Hoskins had sprung out of the chair and had hurled himself at the German. His eyes blazed with fanatical fury; his hands clawed at Veight's pocket, and his frenzied shrieks of "Traitor!" rang through the house. And it was not until Gregoroff joined in, and hit the old man on the point of the jaw, that he finally sank back in the chair mouthing incoherently.

"You mustn't do that sort of thing, Mr. Hoskins," said Veight quietly, "or you may get hurt."

"You devil! You devil!" muttered the other. "Are you going to sell that formula to one of the Powers?"

"Such, roughly, is our intention, my dear sir," said Veight with an amused smile. "You don't really imagine, do you, that we should have wasted our time in this depressing hole for nothing?"

"Never, while I live," cried the old man. "I will get the police... I will tell them..."

"I rather feared that you might try something of that description," said Veight calmly. "But I confess I did not imagine you would be quite so uncontrolled. So we shall have to take steps accordingly. You're a stupid old gentleman, you know; very stupid. Where shall we put him, Paul?"

"Down in the dungeon with Waldron," said the Russian. "And we'll have to gag him."

"What about the other two?"

"Put 'em down there too. I want to discuss that part of the show with you."

"All right," said Veight briefly. "I think I know what you're going to say, but we'll talk it over."

They deftly bound and gagged the old man in the chair where he sat, then they lifted him up and carried him down the stone steps to the dungeon below.

"Someone to keep you company, Waldron," said Veight amiably. "He tells me that you have at last seen reason."

The engineer officer glared at them in amazement.

"What have you got the old swine tied up for?" he asked at length. His voice was still weak, but the cessation of the diabolical drug was already beginning to have its effect.

"A little difference of opinion, my dear fellow," answered Veight. "We have slightly divergent views on what to do with your formula. By the way," he continued, taking the paper from his pocket, "I most earnestly hope for your own sake that you haven't been trying any funny stuff. This is the correct formula?"

"Go and try it for yourself," said Waldron indifferently. "Are you going to set me free?"

"All in good time," cried Veight. "You look so attractive where you are. But I think I can promise you that in the course of a few days, at any rate, your troubles will be over."

"But that devil Hoskins swore he'd let me go at once," shouted the soldier angrily.

"Quite, quite," said Veight. "But, as you can see for yourself, our friend and host is no longer in charge of the situation."

"Where are the rest of your foul brood?"

"Getting along nicely, thank you. And now, Waldron, I have something to say to you. I am going to have this formula of yours examined by a qualified chemist. If he tells me that it is what you say it is—well and good. You will be free to go, and you can have a grand time getting your own back on that damned old bore over there. But if I find you've been playing the fool, you'll pray for marijuana once again instead of what I'll give you."

Waldron yawned.

"I wish you'd go and play elsewhere," he said. "I'm infernally sleepy."

"So," continued Veight, "I would strongly advise you, if you have been so stupid as to write this down incorrectly, to rectify it now."

"Do go away," said Waldron irritably. "I've told you to try it for yourself. I can't say more than that."

Veight turned away, and beckoning to Gregoroff, they went back to the hall.

"We'll have to chance it," he remarked. "It might take days to have this thing properly tried out."

"Precisely," said the Russian. "And we aren't going to wait for days. Nor hours. We're going to clear at once. Leave those two where they are for the time and come in here. I want a drink. But we've got to get this straight."

"You mean you want to quit without..."

The German paused significantly.

"I do," said Gregoroff doggedly. "I know what we arranged, and I was prepared to risk it if Waldron was still sticking out. But now that you've got the gas and the aeroplane plans, I tell you it's madness to stay one moment longer than is necessary."

"But it means dropping twenty-five thousand pounds," cried Veight. "You're a fool, Gregoroff."

"I'm a damned wise man. It's you who were the blasted fool—killing Cortez. Look here, Veight, there's no good our quarrelling. What's done is done, and you know that the only reason why I regret the death of those two rats is that it's made it dangerous for us."

"Dangerous," sneered Veight. "Since when has our trade been anything but dangerous? If you think I'm going to lose twenty-five thousand pounds you're damn well mistaken. The instant Belfage..."

"Belfage!" shouted Gregoroff. "The drunken little sweep! We'll probably never see him again."

"The instant Belfage," continued Veight imperturbably, "has given those three adrenalin we go, and not before. There's a machine waiting for us; we've got nothing to do except motor to the aerodrome and get in."

"And how long do you suggest we should wait for Belfage?" demanded Gregoroff.

"You heard what Hoskins said; he'll be back at any moment. Then we'll make him drunk, which won't be difficult, and voilà tout."

"It's risky," grumbled the Russian. "But I suppose we'll have to chance it."

"It's worth while chancing something for twenty-five thousand apiece," remarked Veight calmly.

"That's true," admitted Gregoroff grudgingly. "But I confess I'd feel a great deal easier in my mind if you hadn't hit Cortez quite so hard."

He was staring out of the window, and his eyes narrowed suddenly.

"Who the devil is this crossing the drawbridge?" he cried.

Veight joined him, and gave a prolonged whistle of astonishment.

"It's Kalinsky himself. Now, what in the name of all that is marvellous has brought him down? You stay here; I'll deal with him."

He hurried into the hall, and got to the front door just as the limousine pulled up outside.

"This is a most unexpected pleasure, m'sieur," he said.

"Unexpected!" snapped the financier, who was obviously not in the best of tempers. "What do you mean by unexpected? After the urgent message you sent me I had no alternative but to come, though it was exceedingly inconvenient."

He entered the house and Veight closed the door in a complete daze.

"Urgent message, m'sieur? I haven't sent you any urgent message."

"Then who was that stammering fool who forced himself on me this morning in my hotel? Belfage he called himself; the doctor you told me about. Said he came from you, and that it was of vital importance I should come here this afternoon."

Veight gave a sigh of relief. The thing was now comprehensible, though why Belfage should have done it was beyond him. And then came a sudden stabbing doubt. How did Belfage know anything about Kalinsky?

"Confound it, Veight, have you lost the use of your tongue?" Kalinsky's angry voice broke in on his thoughts. "Twice have I asked you who these two men are lying about in the hall."

"I beg your pardon, m'sieur." With an effort he pulled himself together. Whatever had caused Belfage's action, it could wait. At the moment the vital thing was not to let Kalinsky even have an inkling that anything could be amiss.

"To tell you the truth," he continued, "I have had so little sleep during the past forty-eight hours that I hardly know what I'm doing. Those two men are Graham Caldwell and his mechanic."

"What's the matter with them?"

"Doped with morphia. We brought them down from Scotland in that caravan you saw outside."

"And the plans of the machine?"

"Here in my pocket."

He handed them to the millionaire, who glanced at them and then threw them on the table.

"They convey nothing to me," he said. "You are sure those are the correct ones?"

"Absolutely certain, m'sieur. They were in the safe in Caldwell's office, and the man who had actually done some of the drawing himself gave them to me."

"Did you see the machine?"

"It was dark when we arrived, m'sieur," explained Veight, "and so it was impossible to inspect it closely. We burned it."

"Then you didn't see it in flight?"

"No, we did not. But the member of the Key Club whom you may remember I told you about, and who was responsible for our information in the first place, confirmed the fact that its performance is simply amazing."

The financier lit a cigarette.

"Well, Veight," he said more cordially, "so far you seem to have done well. I may say that I myself through a roundabout source heard only yesterday that this machine is a marvel. I also heard that, so far as my informant knew, no plans, save these, were in existence. And so I say again that I consider you one to be congratulated."

"Thank you, m'sieur." Veight bowed. "Things have gone very well. Because I have here the other thing I promised you—the formula of the gas."

With a triumphant flourish he produced the paper from his pocket.

"This again conveys nothing to me," said Kalinsky. "Have you any proof that it is correct?"

"Frankly, m'sieur—I have no proof. I am not a chemist myself. But the English officer Waldron is below in the dungeon, and he realises that if it is not correct it will be even more unpleasant for him in the future than it has been in the past. You would perhaps like to see for yourself?"

"Later—possibly. At present I am rather more interested in the future of the two gentlemen I see upon the floor."

"That, m'sieur, you may safely leave in my hands," said Veight. "And I think it would be better for you not to know any more about it. I have thought out a scheme, which I flatter myself is not lacking in ingenuity, and which is certain to result in Belfage being hanged for the murder of these two and Waldron below."

"And what are your immediate plans?"

"To leave England at the first possible opportunity," answered Veight. "After which I shall report to you in Paris for the balance due."

"You shall have it," said Kalinsky.

He took out a bulky pocket-book, and Veight's eyes glistened.

"You have done well, Herr Veight," he continued. "And though for the life of me I can't see quite what was the need for dragging me down here, I am glad I came and saw with my own eyes. Here are ten thousand in notes as we arranged, and the balance of forty will be handed to you in Paris when—er—the remaining conditions have been complied with."

Veight took the notes and bowed.

"Thank you, m'sieur. I can assure you they will be."

Now that the first instalment was actually in his pocket he was itching for Kalinsky to go. Unfortunately, however, the financier showed no signs of so doing; he was inspecting his surroundings with obvious interest.

"Extraordinary," he said at length. "Most interesting. By the way, where is the madman you told me about who owns this house?"

"Keeping Waldron company in the dungeon," answered Veight. "He became quite annoyed when he realised the formula for the gas was not going to be used as he intended."

"Of course; I remember. These strange people send things to everybody, don't they? I should very much like to see the dungeon, Veight."

Concealing his impatience with an effort, the German led the way.

"Be careful of the steps, m'sieur. They are rather dark."

"Good gracious me!" said Kalinsky, staring about him. "It is unbelievable. And is this the wicked old man who tortured the gallant young inventor?"

Veight swore under his breath; the great man had evidently quite recovered his temper and was pleased to be facetious. Pray Heaven he would be quick about it.

"That is the gentleman," he answered, forcing a laugh.

"Well, well," said Kalinsky genially, "it takes all sorts to make a world, doesn't it? But what a bloodthirsty old ruffian you must be!"

He lit another cigarette and turned away.

"Well—I think that is quite enough, Veight. I do not find the atmosphere of this apartment very much to my liking. I think I will now return to London."

Veight heaved a sigh of relief; then grew suddenly tense as he heard the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall above.

"Veight!" came a hoarse shout. "Veight—where are you?"

The German stood very still: it was Belfage's voice.

"I'm below in the dungeon," he answered. "What do you want?"

"Who is that?" cried Kalinsky quickly.

"Doctor Belfage, m'sieur," said Veight, as the doctor, white and sweating, clattered down the stairs, to pause for a moment as he saw Kalinsky.

"Belfage?" snapped the millionaire. "That is not the man I saw this morning. What the devil is the meaning of all this?"

Icy fear was clutching at Veight's heart. He knew now that something had gone wrong, but he forced himself to speak calmly.

"It is quite all right, m'sieur," he said. "Some small misunderstanding."

Already his quick brain was working: at any rate he had ten thousand in his pocket. And then he realised Belfage was pouring out some confused jumble of words.

"Skeletons!" roared Kalinsky, now beside himself with rage. "What in God's name is this madman talking about?"

"Pull yourself together, you drunken swine," snarled Veight, shaking Belfage like a rat. "What's the matter with you?"

"The skeletons, Veight. The skeletons at Hartley Court. Two of them were females."

The German's hands dropped to his sides.

"Females!" he muttered foolishly. "Females! What do you mean, females?"

And from behind him Waldron began to laugh. And the laughter grew till it swelled to a mighty chorus. From all round him, from above him were unseen people laughing—just laughing.

"Ein wünderschoner Abend, Herr Veight."

"Pardon! 'Ad tripe for me supper. Comes back on one like, don't it."

God above! The bleary-eyed youth at his hotel in London. And still that laughter went on rising and falling, until, as if it was a drill, it stopped abruptly. And the silence was more terrifying than the noise.

He could hear the heavy thumping of his heart; dazedly, sickly, he realised that everything had miscarried. But how? How? Beside him Kalinsky, now thoroughly frightened, was clutching his arm convulsively; Belfage in a state of collapse had sunk down on the steps. And then came a well-remembered voice from above.

"So we meet again, Herr Veight. Kindly come up into the hall."

Like a man in a dream the German obeyed Drummond's order. All power of connected thought had temporarily left him: the sudden shattering of all his plans had numbed his brain. He realised subconsciously that the hall was full of men. He saw Standish, and Darrell, and Gregson and a dozen others he did not know; he saw Lovelace and Doris Venables standing at the foot of the stairs; he saw as a man sees the background of a picture in relation to the central figure. And that central figure was the man standing opposite him on whose face was no trace of mercy.

Suddenly Kalinsky gave a cry, and pointed to one of the group.

"There's the man who came to me this morning and said he was Belfage."

No one answered; no one spoke, and then Veight heard a voice. It was his own.

"How ... did ... you ... escape?"

He was still staring, hypnotised, at Drummond.

"The court will now commence," was the only answer. "Bring forward the other prisoner."

He pointed to Gregoroff, whose nerve had completely gone.

"You fool!" he screamed at Veight. "I told you we should have got away at once."

"You've never had a chance, Gregoroff," said Drummond. "For the past three days you have never been out of our sight."

"How ... did ... you ... escape?"

Once more Veight's parched lips mouthed the sentence.

"Sufficient for you, Veight, that we did."

"A truce to this play-acting," snarled Kalinsky, who had recovered himself. "Do you know who I am, sir?"

"I have that misfortune," said Drummond dispassionately. "And anything that you may care to say in mitigation of your conduct will be carefully considered."

"Mitigation! Conduct!" shouted the millionaire. "This, sir, is an outrage."

"It is," agreed Drummond pleasantly. "And a far worse one will shortly be perpetrated upon you. But before that takes place we will converse awhile, Kalinsky."

White with passion, the millionaire strode to the front door. It was locked and the key was not there.

"Open this door, sir." He was stammering with rage. "Open this door at once. I insist."

"Mr. Kalinsky insists. What an epoch-making moment! Ten thousand pounds is the sum, I think, you have just paid Veight for the documents in your pocket."

Very slowly the millionaire came back: the seriousness of the situation had come home to him. This ring of silent men meant business, and Kalinsky's soul grew sick within him. But his voice was steady when he spoke.

"Who are you, may I ask?"

"That is quite immaterial," said Drummond. "Shall we say that, at the moment, I represent justice? Perhaps a little rough and ready; nevertheless justice. What are the documents for which you have just paid Veight ten thousand pounds?"

"That is my concern," answered Kalinsky.

"Assuredly. Give me those notes, Veight."

Completely cowed, the German handed them over.

"Ten thousand pounds!" Drummond balanced the packet in his hand. "A lot of money, Kalinsky: they must be very valuable."

"They are worth it to me," said the millionaire in an off-hand tone.

And once again a chorus of laughter rose, fell and died away.

"I am delighted to hear it," said Drummond gravely. "True we all have different standards of value; but it is most impressive to realise yours. Have you by any chance made Mr. Graham Caldwell's acquaintance?"

Instinctively Kalinsky looked at the two men who still sprawled unconscious on the floor.

"No, no; the real Graham Caldwell," continued Drummond. "Those two were wished on Veight in Scotland. They belong, I believe, to the local branch of the Key Club. Here he is."

A freckle-faced young man with a cheerful grin stepped forward.

"What are the plans Mr. Kalinsky has got?" asked Drummond.

"Bits of a Puss Moth and an old Bristol fighter," said Caldwell. "But even then there's a lot missing. A wheelbarrow would fly better."

"I wonder," remarked Drummond pensively, "if any government really wants a flying wheelbarrow. You can but try, Kalinsky. And you've always got the gas, haven't you? I hope that's all right for him, Waldron."

"Grand," said the sapper. "I wrote it down in a hurry, but the final process should undoubtedly produce a form of cheese mould."

"Think of it, Kalinsky," cried Drummond enthusiastically. "A wheelbarrow with wings, and a spot of gorgonzola. They'll put up a statue to you."

Kalinsky turned on Veight in a cold fury.

"So you've double-crossed me, you rat. Hand me back that money."

"You forget he hasn't got it," said Drummond, still balancing the notes in his hand. "And it is really we who have done the crossing—not Veight. So we shall be pleased to keep these for our trouble."

"I see," said Kalinsky with a sneer. "Plain theft."

"Oh, no! A little present from Veight. And so that there shall be no misunderstanding, Kalinsky, an anonymous present of ten thousand pounds will be made to-morrow to the disabled soldiers and sailors fund."

His eyes bored into the millionaire.

"You may, if you like, make trouble. I don't somehow think you will. If your part in this affair comes out, your name will stink in the nostrils of the world. And there is a certain poetic justice, isn't there, in this money going to men who fought, in view of what it was really intended for? War: another war. More millions in your pocket; more millions mutilated or in their graves."

"I don't know what you're talking about," muttered Kalinsky.

"Tidying up, sare," quoted Drummond. "Having found out Veight was coming to see you, I came first. And as Henri is an old friend of mine, I had no difficulty in persuading him to let me act as floor waiter. He thought I was doing it for a bet."

"Confound your impertinence," snarled Kalinsky. "My part in the whole affair was perfectly legitimate. I promised this damned fool Veight money for certain things. What I proposed to do with them is entirely my own affair. He has failed to get them, and that is the end of the matter so far as I am concerned."

"That, I fear, is where we must agree to differ," said Drummond gravely. "I heard most of your conversation with Sir James Portrush; I heard your delightful bargain with Veight. And neither I nor my friends think you at all funny. In fact we think you a profound bore, Kalinsky, a very tedious person. Which must be rectified. If you can't make people laugh by fair means, you shall make them laugh by foul. Bring that rope, Peter."

"What are you going to do with me?" cried the now terrified millionaire.

"You'll see," said Drummond as Darrell and Standish passed the rope under Kalinsky's arms. "And I would advise you to keep your mouth shut for the next few minutes. In with him, boys."

Gibbering with fright, Kalinsky disappeared through the window, and a loud splash proclaimed his destination. Three times was he hauled up; three times was he dropped back. Then he reappeared, and again the chorus of laughter was heard.

Dripping wet, with duckweed in his hair, the millionaire stood there emitting a powerful odour of stagnant slime, and almost crying with rage and mortification.

"Very funny; very funny indeed," cried Drummond approvingly. "I told you you could make people laugh if you tried. But it would be selfish on our part to keep you all to ourselves. Good-bye, Kalinsky; they'll be tickled to death at the Ritz-Carlton. Run him out, Peter; the swine is an outrage and an offence against God and man. Here's the key."

The front door closed behind him, and silence settled on the room, which was broken at length by Drummond.

"And that brings us to the lesser fry," he said quietly. "Veight; Gregoroff; even the egregious Doctor Belfage I see. But where are Meredith and Cortez? The party does not seem to be complete. And you were all so matey in Scotland, weren't you?"

"I believe you're the devil himself," muttered the German sullenly. "Were you up there too?"

"Of course. As I told your Russian friend, you haven't been out of my sight. By the way, Gregoroff, have you met any more elementals with croquet mallets?"

"It was you, was it?"

"It was. A ripe and fruity blow, I flatter myself. But, I think, if anything, it has improved your appearance."

"How the devil did you get out of that room?" said Gregoroff with a scowl.

"I don't think you have actually met Mr. Seymour, have you? You did your best to shoot him on his motor-bicycle, but that hardly constitutes a formal introduction. A rising journalist, Gregoroff, and a lad of sunny disposition as you can see. Moreover, it is entirely due to him that you are in your present unsatisfactory position."

The Russian's scowl deepened as he looked at the young reporter.

"With becoming modesty he maintains that it was a sheer fluke. I, on the other hand, consider it was an extremely quick piece of work for which he deserves the greatest credit. I had arranged to meet him the day after you so kindly locked us up, and somewhat naturally I failed to keep my appointment. He waited and waited, and under the inspiration of a ginger ale he fell into conversation with that lovely girl who dispenses gin in the bar. They talked of this and that, and after a while she mentioned the jolly little party overnight when we had met Doctor Belfage. She also mentioned Hartley Court. So Seymour decided it could do no harm to call there. I trust I interest you."

"Go on," muttered Gregoroff.

"Naturally he found the house empty. But the sight of an unlatched window downstairs was too much for him and he entered. It was all very still and silent, but as he stood on the kitchen stairs wondering whether to explore there came from close by his head a little click. He looked up: it was the electric-light meter, and subconsciously he noted the reading. Then he went all over the house and found nothing. It took some time, and at last he decided to go. And then occurred, Gregoroff, one of those little things which sometimes alter the fate of nations. As he passed the meter he happened to glance at it again: the reading was different. Somewhere in the house current was being consumed. Where?"

"You cursed fool, Gregoroff!" cried Veight. "It was you who insisted on leaving the light on."

"Come, come," said Drummond. "Mutual, I think. But with unerring accuracy, Veight, you have spotted what you gave away. To make certain, Seymour continued to watch the meter until it changed, again; then, being a determined young man, he once more went over the house. And this time, by taking a few rough measurements, he realised there was an inner room, the existence of which he had not suspected before. The rest was easy. He tapped: he heard a faint answer. And four hours later a nice gentleman with a blowpipe affair had cut through the door. That is how we got out, Gregoroff, and had you and Veight met us then we should assuredly have killed you both. We were not amused."

Drummond lit a cigarette.

"But saner counsels prevailed. Mr. Standish had already solved the real message which was flung through my window by Captain Lovelace. But you haven't seen that one, have you? How stupid of me. There have been so many flying round, haven't there? It was in code too—'Mary Jane. Urgent. G G Font.'"

Sullenly the two foreigners stared at him.

"In code," Drummond continued quietly, "to minimise the chance, if you found it, of your moving poor Waldron elsewhere. Mary Jane, with Cortez introducing the Mexican atmosphere, gave us Marijuana: G G—Horse: Pont—bridge, in French. Not a very clever code, as I am sure Captain Lovelace would be the first to admit, but men who are half murdered, Veight, are not very clever."

"He shouldn't have tried to escape," muttered the German.

"Shouldn't have tried to escape, you rat!" roared Drummond. "A British officer from a damned foreign spy! Don't scowl at me, blast you, or I'll give you a taste of Gregoroff's medicine. To resume, however," he continued. "Fearing you might return to Hartley Court and find the birds had flown, we decided to burn the house down. It was a pity that two of the skeletons we obtained with great difficulty were those of the fair sex, but they served their purpose."

"What purpose?" said Veight angrily. "Why didn't you strike then instead of waiting?"

"For two good reasons," answered Drummond. "First and foremost in order to touch that blackguard Kalinsky for ten thousand pounds. Secondly—but I presume you have never read the immortal 'Stalky'—we wanted to jape with you. And you can't imagine the amount of fun you've given us."

"And what do you propose to do with us now?" asked the German. "Put us in the lake too?"

"No, Veight: you have a more important role to play which you will discover in due course. Doctor Belfage as well, and the incredible old gentleman downstairs. I would have liked Meredith and Cortez.... By the way, have you any idea where they are?"

"I have not, and for a very good reason," said Veight quietly. With the realisation that the situation was desperate, his self-control had come back. "Since you appear to know everything, it is quite refreshing to find that you do not. Just after it was light this morning we all got out to stretch our legs, and when we started off again I thought they were in the caravan, and Gregoroff thought they were in the car. So between us we left them behind."

"What an annoying contretemps!" cried Drummond. "If only I'd known that, it would have quite allayed my childish fears. But when I saw you and Gregoroff emerging from that wood this morning——"

"You saw us!" Veight almost screamed.

"I was in the scarlet monoplane," explained Drummond patiently. "The Graham Caldwell machine. You didn't burn it, you know: when we gathered your intentions an ancient glider was put inside the shed. To resume, however. When I saw you coming out of the wood, and there was no sign of the other two, I was filled with unworthy suspicions. So we landed a little later, and I communicated those suspicions to the police."

Veight swallowed twice, and his knuckles gleamed white on the back of the chair he was gripping.

"What a waste of time!" He forced himself to speak calmly. "They should be here at any moment now."

"I fear not," said Drummond sadly. "Veight, you must prepare yourself for a shock. The dead bodies of your poor friends were found in the wood."

The German had again recovered his self-control: his start of amazement was admirable.

"Gott in Himmel!" he cried. "Dead! But how?"

"Clutched in Meredith's hand was a motor jack; in that of Cortez a revolver. Meredith was shot through the heart; Cortez had his skull broken."

"They were quarrelling when we all got out of the car, Gregoroff, if you remember," said Veight thoughtfully.

"That is so," assented the Russian.

"And did you leave them there quarrelling: one armed with a jack and the other with a gun?" asked Drummond politely.

"I have already told you," said Veight, "that it was quite by accident they were left behind at all."

"Of course! Of course! How stupid of me. What were they quarrelling about, I wonder? The plans of the wheelbarrow; or can it have been the flying cheese? Or perhaps," he added hopefully, "it was just naughty temper at being left to walk. Anyway, that is your next role—the two principal witnesses at the inquest on Meredith and Cortez."

The German's jaw tightened but he said nothing.

"I don't understand," stammered Veight, after a pause. "If he shot Meredith..."

"Precisely," remarked Drummond. "If! You see, the revolver was in his right hand: the fingerprints are those of his left. Playtime is over," continued Drummond. "Serious business begins. And when through the medium of a nice double murder the public are put wise to your recent activities, even they may begin to realise that this country is living in a fool's paradise over armaments."

The telephone bell started to ring, and he picked up the receiver. And as he listened a look of amazement appeared on his face. At length the metallic voice ceased, and Drummond very slowly replaced the instrument.

"The police, Veight," he said gravely. "They want to know if you and Gregoroff are here. As you heard, I told them you were. They are coming to ask you some questions."

The German moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"You will be interested to hear that they have found Cortez's finger-prints on his revolver," continued Drummond.

"Naturally," said Veight. "You told me he shot Meredith, and that the revolver was found in his hand."

"Yes: lying very loosely. And the police want to know how it got there."

For a space in which a man may count five there was silence, while the German, his face ashen, swayed on his feet. Then with a roar like a beast Gregoroff hurled himself on him.

"Damn you!" he shouted. "What did you want to kill him for?"

"So," said Drummond when they were finally separated, "it would seem that my unworthy suspicions were justified after all. But I think your message to the British public will be even more valuable when it comes from the dock and not from the witness-box."

CHAPTER XV

"The Chief wants to see you, Hugh," said Gregson. "You, too, Ronald, and Seymour as well. Old Portrush is with him cluckling like an agitated hen."

Drummond grinned faintly, and followed the speaker along the passage to a large airy room overlooking Whitehall. Behind a big desk sat a grey-haired man with a pair of keen, penetrating eyes, while beside him Sir James Portrush clutched the inevitable attaché case.

"So you are the sinners who have been corrupting my young gentlemen," said Colonel Talbot genially. "The tale I have listened to from Gregson is just about the most completely immoral recital of utter illegality I have ever heard. In fact at a rough guess I should think you have all laid yourselves open to at least ten years' penal servitude."

"At least," agreed Drummond happily. "But we've had a grand time, Colonel."

"What staggers me," cried Sir James, "are these disclosures about Kalinsky. I can scarcely credit them. Why, only a few nights ago, I was having a long conversation with him on the European situation at the Ritz-Carlton."

"I heard it all," said Drummond, lighting a cigarette.

"You heard it?" spluttered Sir James. "But we were alone."

"I heard it through the keyhole," said Drummond calmly, and Colonel Talbot hurriedly bent down to pick up a paper. "I was the waiter."

"Really, Captain Drummond," cried the minister angrily, "that is quite inexcusable."

"If I hadn't," said Drummond, "Kalinsky would now have the Graham Caldwell plans. And Morgenstein. He was in it too."

"Nevertheless unpardonable," continued Sir James. "To listen to a private conversation! It's ... it's not done."

"It was that night," laughed Drummond. "'Dictators, knaves, or fools'—do you remember?"

Sir James flushed scarlet.

"This is intolerable," he snapped.

"Come, come, Sir James, be reasonable. You must judge every case on its own merits. And in this instance I consider I was justified. I knew Veight was coming to see Kalinsky, which by itself was enough to prove he was a wrong 'un. But if I may be permitted to say so—wrong 'un or not, the advice he gave you was the goods."

"I am infinitely obliged to you for your opinion," remarked Sir James sarcastically.

"And," continued Drummond imperturbably, "it will not be through any fault of mine if that advice is not broadcast to the country when Veight and Gregoroff come up for trial. They'll hang 'em as high as Haman—both of 'em, and that always interests the public."

"Do you mean to tell me"—Sir James appeared to be on the verge of a seizure of sorts—"do you mean to tell me that you have the audacity—the damned audacity—to pass on a private conversation you heard through a keyhole?"

"Most certainly," answered Drummond. "I won't say it was you, but I'm undoubtedly going to tell the public Kalinsky's remarks that night. Wait, Sir James!"

He held up his hand, and after an abortive splutter the minister subsided.

"You did not go through the last war as—er—as a combatant. We did, and we don't want another, any more than some of the pacifist young gentlemen to-day, who have never heard a shot fired in anger. We know the horrors of it first-hand; we are all out to prevent it again if we can. But we maintain that the present policy of cutting down our fighting forces to the extent they have been reduced, is the most certain way of precipitating it. Do you realise that if this young feller here had not got us out of that house, war would have come? I ask you—do you realise that? But for the tick of an electric-light meter war would have come. As you know, they intended to kill Waldron and Graham Caldwell, so that those two secrets would have been Kalinsky's sole property. Do you suppose he was going to use 'em for shaving-paper?"

"Really, Captain Drummond, I am not accustomed to being hectored in this way." Sir James had at last found his voice. "The Government's policy on such matters is—er—a matter for the Government alone."

"Well, at any rate, you know Kalinsky's opinion of that policy. And," Drummond added pleasantly, "though he may be a knave, Sir James, he most certainly is not a fool."

With a snort like an angry bull, Sir James snatched up his hat and rose to his feet.

"You, it seems to me, Captain Drummond, combine both qualities. Good morning, Colonel Talbot; I am already late for a Cabinet meeting."

"Totes on greyhound tracks still worrying the old grey matter?" asked Drummond anxiously. "But they tell me Flying Fish for the third race at the White City to-night is a cinch. Shall I put on a quid for you?"

"I am not interested in dog-racing, thank you."

"Great fun, you know. And you could always earn a spot of honest dough as a tick-tack man. All you've got to do is to wave your arms and legs about and make faces. Just like a Cabinet meeting."

The door shut with a crash, and then Drummond threw up his hands in despair.

"How long, O Lord, how long?" he cried. "It isn't that his opinion differs from mine, but it is that ghastly air of smug self-complacency that gets my goat. What's your opinion, Colonel?"

But that worthy officer was beyond speech. Tears were pouring down his face; his shoulders heaved convulsively.

"Portrush as a tick-tack man!" he gasped at length. "You're a thoroughly reprehensible scoundrel, Drummond," he continued in a shaking voice, "and your proper fate is to be hanged between Veight and Gregoroff. But at any rate you've made me laugh. Now tell me, how many crimes have you committed in the course of the last few days?"

"How many, Ronald?" asked Drummond cheerfully.

"The only one, Chief, is burning down the house," said Standish. "And a few odd trifles against some lower excrescences of the Key Club, which they brought on themselves. But with regard to Hartley Court, I do not think there will be any trouble. Hugh and I will settle matters with Doctor Belfage."

"All right. But I don't want to hear anything about it," laughed the Colonel. "You're a bunch of miscreants, and the whole thing is hopelessly irregular. Get out. And I shall be delighted if you'll all dine with me to-night. Cabbageface knows the house, and the port is passing fair. Incidentally Ginger and that delightful girl are coming. We must drink their health."

"Bye-bye, Hugh, for the moment," said Standish, as they reached the street. "I'm going round to the insurance wallahs now. See you again this evening."

The traffic roared past in a ceaseless stream, and for a space Seymour stood staring at it beside a man grown suddenly silent.

"I can still hardly believe that it has all happened," he said at length.

Drummond turned to him slowly.

"Make England believe that it will happen, unless..."

The sentence uncompleted, he strode off, and Trafalgar Square swallowed him up.

THE END