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Title: The Black Gang
Author: Sapper [McNeile, Herman Cyril] (1888-1937)
Date of first publication: 1922
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1952
   ["Bull-dog Drummond, his four rounds with Carl Peterson":
   omnibus, first published in 1929, containing the first
   four novels in the series, of which The Black Gang is
   the second.]
Date first posted: 20 November 2015
Date last updated: 20 November 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1284

This ebook was produced by Al Haines and Mark Akrigg


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

The quotation in Chapter 16 (Come, workers, sing a rebel song...)
is from A Rebel Song, by James Connolly (1868-1916).

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






  THE BLACK GANG

  by Cyril McNeile ("Sapper")




CONTENTS

  1. In which things happen near Barking Creek
  2. In which Scotland Yard sits up and takes notice
  3. In which Hugh Drummond composes a letter
  4. In which Count Zadowa gets a shock
  5. In which Charles Latter, M.P., goes mad
  6. In which an effusion is sent to the newspapers
  7. In which a bomb bursts at unpleasantly close quarters
  8. In which the bag of nuts is found by accident
  9. In which there is a stormy supper party at the Ritz
  10. In which Hugh Drummond makes a discovery
  11. In which Hugh Drummond and the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor
        take lunch together
  12. In which Count Zadowa is introduced to "Alice in Wonderland"
  13. In which Hugh Drummond and the Reverend Theodosius have a
        little chat
  14. In which a Rolls-Royce runs amok
  15. In which Hugh Drummond arrives at Maybrick Hall
  16. In which things happen at Maybrick Hall
  17. In which a murderer is murdered at Maybrick Hall
  18. In which the Home Secretary is taught the Fox-trot




1

  In which things happen
  near Barking Creek

The wind howled dismally round a house standing by itself almost on the
shores of Barking Creek.  It was the grey dusk of an early autumn day,
and the occasional harsh cry of a sea-gull rising discordantly above
the wind alone broke the silence of the flat, desolate waste.

The house seemed deserted.  Every window was shuttered; the garden was
uncared for and a mass of weeds; the gate leading on to the road,
apparently feeling the need of a deficient top hinge, propped itself
drunkenly on what had once been a flower-bed.  A few gloomy trees
swaying dismally in the wind surrounded the house and completed the
picture--one that would have caused even the least imaginative of men
to draw his coat a little tighter round him, and feel thankful that it
was not his fate to live in such a place.

But then few people ever came near enough to the house to realize its
sinister appearance.  The road--it was little better than a cart
track--which passed the gate, was out of the beaten way; only an
occasional fisherman or farm labourer ever used it, and that generally
by day when things assumed their proper proportion, and it was merely
an empty house gradually falling to pieces through lack of attention.
At night they avoided it if possible; folks did say that twelve years
ago some prying explorer had found the bones of a skeleton lying on the
floor in one of the upstairs rooms with a mildewed rope fixed to one of
the beams in the ceiling.  And then it had been empty for twenty years.

Even now when the wind lay in the east or north-east and the tide was
setting in, there were those who said that you could see a light
shining through the cracks in the shutters in that room upstairs, and
that, should a man climb up and look in, he'd see no skeleton, but a
body with purple face and staring eyes swinging gently to and fro, and
tied by the neck to a beam with a rope which showed no trace of mildew.
Ridiculous, of course; but then so many of these local superstitions
are.  Useful, too, in some cases; they afford a privacy from the prying
attention of local gossips far more cheaply and effectively than high
walls and bolts and bars.

So, at any rate, one of the two men who were walking briskly along the
rough track seemed to think.

"Admirable," he remarked, as he paused for a moment at the entrance of
the weed-grown drive.  "Quite admirable, my friend.  A house situated
as this one is, is an acquisition, and when it is haunted in addition
it becomes a godsend."

He spoke English perfectly with a slight foreign accent, and his
companion nodded abruptly.

"From what I heard about it, I thought it would do," he answered.
"Personally I think it's a damnable spot, but since you were so set
against coming to London, I had to find somewhere in this
neighbourhood."

The two men started to walk slowly up the drive.  Branches dripping
with moisture brushed across their faces, and involuntarily they both
turned up the collars of their coats.

"I will explain my reasons in due course," said the first speaker
shortly.  "You may take it from me that they were good.  What's that?"

He swung round with a little gasp, clutching his companion's arm.

"Nothing," cried the other irritably.  For a moment or two they stood
still, peering into the dark undergrowth.  "What did you think it was?"

"I thought I heard a bush creaking as if--as if someone was moving," he
said, relaxing his grip.  "It must have been the wind, I suppose."

He still peered fearfully into the gloomy garden, until the other man
dragged him roughly towards the house.

"Of course it was the wind," he muttered angrily.  "For heaven's sake,
Zaboleff, don't get the jumps.  If you will insist on coming to an
infernal place like this to transact a little perfectly normal business
you must expect a few strange noises and sounds.  Let's get indoors;
the others should be here by now.  It oughtn't to take more than an
hour, and you can be on board again long before dawn."

The man who had been addressed as Zaboleff ceased looking over his
shoulder, and followed the other through a broken-down lattice-gate to
the rear of the house.  They paused in front of the back door, and on
it the leader knocked three times in a peculiar way.  It was obviously
a pre-arranged signal, for almost at once stealthy steps could be heard
coming along the passage inside.  The door was cautiously pulled back a
few inches, and a man peered out, only to throw it open wide with a
faint sigh of relief.

"It's you, Mr. Waldock, is it?" he muttered.  "Glad you've got 'ere at
last.  This place is fair giving us all the 'ump."

"Evening, Jim."  He stepped inside, followed by Zaboleff, and the door
closed behind them.  "Our friend's boat was a little late.  Is everyone
here?"

"Yep," answered the other.  "All the six of us.  And I reckons we'd
like to get it over as soon as possible.  Has he"--his voice sank to a
hoarse undertone--"has he brought the money?"

"You'll all hear in good time," said Waldock curtly.  "Which is the
room?"

"'Ere it is, guv'nor."  Jim flung open a door.  "And you'll 'ave to sit
on the floor, as the chairs ain't safe."

Two candles guttered on a square table in the centre of the room,
showing up the faces of the five men who sat on the floor, leaning
against the walls.  Three of them were nondescript specimens of
humanity of the type that may be seen by the thousand hurrying into the
City by the early business trains.  They were representative of the
poorer type of clerk--the type which Woodbines its fingers to a
brilliant orange; the type that screams insults at a football referee
on Saturday afternoon.  And yet to the close observer something more
might be read on their faces: a greedy, hungry look, a shifty,
untrustworthy look--the look of those who are jealous of everyone
better placed than themselves, but who are incapable of trying to
better their own position except by the relative method of dragging
back their more fortunate acquaintances; the look of little men
dissatisfied not so much with their own littleness as with the bigness
of other people.  A nasty-faced trio with that smattering of education
which is the truly dangerous thing; and--three of Mr. Waldock's clerks.

The two others were Jews; a little flashily dressed, distinctly
addicted to cheap jewellery.  They were sitting apart from the other
three, talking in low tones, but as the door opened, their conversation
ceased abruptly and they looked up at the new-comers with the keen,
searching look of their race.  Waldock they hardly glanced at; it was
the stranger Zaboleff who riveted their attention.  They took in every
detail of the shrewd, foreign face--the olive skin, the dark, piercing
eyes, the fine-pointed beard; they measured him up as a boxer measures
up his opponent, or a business man takes stock of the second party in a
deal; then once again they conversed together in low tones which were
barely above a whisper.

It was Jim who broke the silence--Flash Jim, to give him the full name
to which he answered in the haunts he frequented.

"Wot abaht getting on with it, guv'nor?" he remarked with an attempt at
a genial smile.  "This 'ere 'ouse ain't wot I'd choose for a blooming
'oneymoon."

With an abrupt gesture Waldock silenced him and advanced to the table.

"This is Mr. Zaboleff, gentlemen," he said quietly.  "We are a little
late, I am afraid, but it was unavoidable.  He will explain to you now
the reason why you were asked to come here, and not meet at our usual
rendezvous in Soho."

He stepped back a couple of paces and Zaboleff took his place.  For a
moment or two he glanced round at the faces turned expectantly towards
him; then resting his two hands on the table in front of him, he leaned
forward towards them.

"Gentlemen," he began, and the foreign accent seemed a little more
pronounced, "I have asked you to come here to-night through my good
friend, Mr. Waldock, because it has come to our ears--no matter
how--that London is no longer a safe meeting-place.  Two or three
things have occurred lately the significance of which it is impossible
to disregard."

"Wot sort of things?" interrupted Flash Jim harshly.

"I was about to tell you," remarked the speaker suavely, and Flash Jim
subsided, abashed.  "Our chief, with whom I spent last evening, is
seriously concerned about these things."

"You spent last night with the chief?" said Waldock, and his voice held
a tremour of excitement, while the others leaned forward eagerly.  "Is
he, then, in Holland?"

"He was at six o'clock yesterday evening," answered Zaboleff with a
faint smile.  "To-day--now--I know no more than you where he is."

"Who is he--this man we're always hearing about and never seeing?"
demanded one of the three clerks aggressively.

"He is--the Chief," replied the other, while his eyes seemed to bore
into the speaker's brain.  "Just that--and no more.  And that is quite
enough for you."  His glance travelled round the room, and his audience
relaxed.  "By the way, is not that a chink in the shutter there?"

"All the safer," grunted Flash Jim.  "Anyone passing will think the
ghost is walking."

"Nevertheless, kindly cover it up," ordered Zaboleff, and one of the
Jews rose and wedged his pocket-handkerchief into the crack.  There was
silence in the room while he did so, a silence broken only by the
mournful hooting of an owl outside.

"Owls is the only things wot comes to this damned museum," said Flash
Jim morosely.  "Owls and blinking fools like us."

"Stow it, Jim," snarled Waldock furiously.  "Anyone would think you
wanted a nurse."

"Gentlemen--please."  Zaboleff held up a protesting hand.  "We do not
want to prolong matters, but one or two explanations are necessary.  To
return, then, to these things that have happened recently, and which
necessitated a fresh rendezvous for this evening--one which our friend
Mr. Waldock so obligingly found.  Three messengers sent over during the
last three weeks bearing instructions and--what is more
important--money, have disappeared."

"Disappeared?" echoed Waldock stupidly.

"Absolutely and completely.  Money and all.  Two more have been
abominably illtreated and had their money taken from them, but for some
reason they were allowed to go free themselves.  It is from them that
we have obtained our information."

"Blimey!" muttered Flash Jim; "is it the police?"

"It is not the police, which is what makes it so much more serious,"
answered Zaboleff quietly, and Flash Jim breathed a sigh of relief.
"It is easy to keep within the law, but if our information is correct
we are up against a body of men who are not within the law themselves.
A body of men who are absolutely unscrupulous and utterly ruthless; a
body of men who appear to know our secret plans as well as we do
ourselves.  And the difficulty of it is, gentlemen, that though,
legally speaking, on account of the absurd legislation in this country
we may keep within the law ourselves, we are hardly in a position to
appeal to the police for protection.  Our activities, though allowed
officially, are hardly such as would appeal even to the English
authorities.  And on this occasion particularly that is the case.  You
may remember that the part I played in stirring up bloodshed at
Cowdenheath a few months ago, under the name of MacTavish, caused me to
be deported.  So though our cause is legal--my presence in this country
is not.  Which was why to-night it was particularly essential that we
should not be disturbed.  Not only are we all up against this unknown
gang of men, but I, in addition, am up against the police."

"Have you any information with regard to this gang?"  It was the Jew
who had closed the chink in the shutters speaking for the first time.

"None of any use--save that they are masked in black, and cloaked in
long black cloaks."  He paused a moment as if to collect his thoughts.
"They are all armed, and Petrovitch--he was one of the men allowed to
escape--was very insistent on one point.  It concerned the leader of
the gang, whom he affirmed was a man of the most gigantic physical
strength; a giant powerful as two ordinary strong men.  He said, ...
Ach!  Mein Gott----!"

His voice rose to a scream as he cowered back, while the others, with
terror on their faces, rose hurriedly from their seats on the floor and
huddled together in the corners of the room.

In the doorway stood a huge man covered from head to foot in black.  In
each hand he held a revolver, with which he covered the eight occupants
during the second or two which it took for half a dozen similarly
disguised men to file past him, and take up their positions round the
walls.  And Waldock, a little more educated than the remainder of his
friends, found himself thinking of old tales of the Spanish Inquisition
and the Doges of Venice even as he huddled a little nearer to the table.

"Stand by the table, all of you."

It was the man at the door who spoke in a curiously deep voice, and
like sheep they obeyed him--all save Flash Jim.  For that worthy, crook
though he was, was not without physical courage.  The police he knew
better than to play the fool with, but these were not the police.

"Wot the----" he snarled, and got no further.

Something hit him behind the head, a thousand stars danced before his
eyes, and with a strangled grunt he crashed forward on his face.

For a moment or two there was silence, and then once again the man at
the door spoke.

"Arrange the specimens in a row."

In a second the seven remaining men were marshalled in a line, while
behind them stood six motionless black figures.  And then the big man
walked slowly down in front of them, peering into each man's face.  He
spoke no word until he reached the end of the line, and then, his
inspection concluded, he stepped back and leaned against the wall
facing them.

"A nauseating collection," he remarked thoughtfully.  "A loathsome
brood.  What are the three undersized and shivering insects on the
right?"

"Those are three of my clerks," said Waldock with an assumption of
angry bravado.  "And I would like to know----"

"In good time you will," answered the deep voice.  "Three of your
clerks, are they; imbued with your rotten ideas, I suppose, and
yearning to follow in father's footsteps?  Have we anything particular
against them?"

There was no answer from the masked men, and the leader made a sign.
Instantly the three terrified clerks were seized from behind and
brought up to him, where they stood trembling and shaking in every limb.

"Listen to me, you three little worms."  With an effort they pulled
themselves together; a ray of hope was dawning in their minds--perhaps
they were going to be let off easy.  "My friends and I do not like you
or your type.  You meet in secret places and in your slimy minds you
concoct foul schemes which, incredible though it may seem, have so far
had more than a fair measure of success in this country.  But your main
idea is not the schemes, but the money you are paid to carry them out.
This is your first and last warning.  Another time you will be treated
differently.  Get out of here.  And see you don't stop."

The door closed behind them and two of the masked men; there was the
sound as of a boot being used with skill and strength, and cries of
pain; then the door reopened and the masked men returned.

"They are gone," announced one of them.  "We helped them on their way."

"Good," said the leader.  "Let us continue the inspection.  What are
these two Hebrews?"

A man from behind stepped forward and examined them slowly; then he
came up to the leader and whispered in his ear.

"Is that so?"  A new and terrible note had crept into the deep voice.
"My friends and I do not like your trade, you swine.  It is well that
we have come provided with the necessary implement for such a case.
Fetch the cat."

In silence one of the men left the room, and as his full meaning came
home to the two Jews they flung themselves grovelling on the floor,
screaming for mercy.

"Gag them."

The order came out sharp and clear, and in an instant the two writhing
men were seized and gagged.  Only their rolling eyes and trembling
hands showed the terror they felt as they dragged themselves on their
knees towards the impassive leader.

"The cat for cases of this sort is used legally," he remarked.  "We
merely anticipate the law."

With a fresh outburst of moans the two Jews watched the door open and
the inexorable black figure come in, holding in his hand a short stick
from which nine lashes hung down.

"Heavens!" gasped Waldock, starting forward.  "What are you going to
do?"

"Flog them to within an inch of their lives," said the deep voice.  "It
is the punishment for their method of livelihood.  Five and six--take
charge.  After you have finished remove them in Number 3 car, and drop
them in London."

Struggling impotently, the Jews were led away, and the leader passed on
to the remaining two men.

"So, Zaboleff, you came after all.  Unwise, surely, in view of the
police?"

"Who are you?" muttered Zaboleff, his lips trembling.

"A specimen hunter," said the other suavely.  "I am making a collection
of people like you.  The police of our country are unduly kind to your
breed, although they would not have been kind to you to-night,
Zaboleff, unless I had intervened.  But I couldn't let them have you;
you're such a very choice specimen.  I don't think somehow that you've
worked this little flying visit of yours very well.  Of course I knew
about it, but I must confess I was surprised when I found that the
police did too."

"What do you mean?" demanded the other hoarsely.

"I mean that when we arrived here we found to our surprise that the
police had forestalled us.  Popular house, this, to-night."

"The police!" muttered Waldock dazedly.

"Even so--led by no less a personage than Inspector McIver.  They had
completely surrounded the house, and necessitated a slight change in my
plans."

"Where are they now?" cried Waldock.

"Ah!  Where indeed?  Let us trust at any rate in comfort."

"By heaven!" said Zaboleff, taking a step forward.  "As I asked you
before--who are you?"

"And as I told you before, Zaboleff, a collector of specimens.  Some I
keep; some I let go--as you have already seen."

"And what are you going to do with me?"

"Keep you.  Up to date you are the cream of my collection."

"Are you working with the police?" said the other dazedly.

"Until to-night we have not clashed.  Even to-night, well, I think we
are working towards the same end.  And do you know what that end is,
Zaboleff?"  The deep voice grew a little sterner.  "It is the utter,
final overthrow of you and all that you stand for.  To achieve that
object we shall show no mercy.  Even as you are working in the dark--so
are we.  Already you are frightened; already we have proved that you
fear the unknown more than you fear the police; already the first few
tricks are ours.  But you still hold the ace, Zaboleff--or shall we say
the King of Trumps?  And when we catch him you will cease to be the
cream of my collection.  This leader of yours--it was what Petrovitch
told him, I suppose, that made him send you over."

"I refuse to say," said the other.

"You needn't; it is obvious.  And now that you are caught--he will come
himself.  Perhaps not at once--but he will come.  And then....  But we
waste time.  The money, Zaboleff."

"I have no money," he snarled.

"You lie, Zaboleff.  You lie clumsily.  You have quite a lot of money
brought over for Waldock so that he might carry on the good work after
you had sailed!  to-morrow.  Quick, please; time passes."

With a curse Zaboleff produced a small canvas bag and held it out.  The
other took it and glanced inside.

"I see," he said gravely.  "Pearls and precious stones.  Belonging
once, I suppose, to a murdered gentlewoman whose only crime was that
she, through no action of her own, was born in a different sphere to
you.  And, you reptile"--his voice rose a little--"you would do that
here."

Zaboleff shrank back, and the other laughed contemptuously.

"Search him--and Waldock too."

Two men stepped forward quickly.

"Nothing more," they said after a while.  "Except this piece of paper."

There was a sudden movement on Zaboleff's part--instantly suppressed,
but not quite soon enough.

"Injudicious," said the leader quietly.  "Memory is better.  An
address, I see--No. 5, Green Street, Hoxton.  A salubrious
neighbourhood, with which I am but indifferently acquainted.  Ah!  I
see my violent friend has recovered."  He glanced at Flash Jim, who was
sitting up dazedly, rubbing the back of his head.  "Number 4, the
usual."

There was a slight struggle, and Flash Jim lay back peacefully
unconscious, while a faint smell of chloroform filled the room.

"And now I think we will go.  A most successful evening."

"What are you going to do with me, you scoundrel?" spluttered Waldock.
"I warn you that I have influential friends, who--who will ask
questions in--in Parliament if you do anything to me; who will go to
Scotland Yard."

"I can assure you, Mr. Waldock, that I will make it my personal
business to see that their natural curiosity is gratified," answered
the leader suavely.  "But for the present I fear the three filthy rags
you edit will have to be content with the office boy as their guiding
light.  And I venture to think they will not suffer."

He made a sudden sign, and before they realized what was happening the
two men were caught from behind and gagged.  The next instant they were
rushed through the door, followed by Flash Jim.  For a moment or two
the eyes of the leader wandered round the now empty room taking in
every detail: then he stepped forward and blew out the two candles.
The door closed gently behind him, and a couple of minutes later two
cars stole quietly away from the broken-down gate along the cart track.
It was just midnight; behind them the gloomy house stood up gaunt and
forbidding against the darkness of the night sky.  And it was not until
the leading car turned carefully into the main road that anyone spoke.

"Deuced awkward, the police being there."

The big man who was driving grunted thoughtfully.

"Perhaps," he returned.  "Perhaps not.  Anyway, the more the merrier.
Flash Jim all right?"

"Sleeping like a child," answered the other, peering into the body of
the car.

For about ten miles they drove on in silence: then at a main
cross-roads the car pulled up and the big man got out.  The second car
was just behind, and for a few moments there was a whispered
conversation between him and the other driver.  He glanced at Zaboleff
and Waldock, who appeared to be peacefully sleeping on the back seat,
and smiled grimly.

"Good night, old man.  Report as usual."

"Right," answered the driver.  "So long."

The second car swung right-handed and started northwards, while the
leader stood watching the vanishing tail lamp.  Then he returned to his
own seat, and soon the first beginnings of outer London were reached.
And it was as they reached Whitechapel that the leader spoke again with
a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

"We're worrying 'em; we're worrying 'em badly.  Otherwise they'd never
have sent Zaboleff.  He was too big a man to risk, considering the
police."

"It's the police that I _am_ considering," said his companion.

The big man laughed.

"Leave that to me, old man; leave that entirely to me."




2

  In which Scotland Yard
  sits up and takes notice

Sir Bryan Johnstone leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling
with a frown.  His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets; his
long legs were stretched out to their full extent under the big
roll-top desk in front of him.  From the next room came the monotonous
tapping of a typewriter, and after a while Sir Bryan closed his eyes.

Through the open window there came the murmur of the London
traffic--that soothing sound so conducive to sleep in those who have
lunched well.  But that did not apply to the man lying back in his
chair.  Sir Bryan's lunch was always a frugal meal, and it was no
desire for sleep that made the Director of Criminal Investigation close
his eyes.  He was puzzled, and the report lying on the desk in front of
him was the reason.

For perhaps ten minutes he remained motionless, then he leaned forward
and touched an electric bell.  Instantly the typewriter ceased, and a
girl secretary came quickly into the room.

"Miss Forbes," said Sir Bryan, "I wish you would find out if Chief
Inspector McIver is in the building.  If so I would like to see him at
once; if not, see that he gets the message as soon as he comes in."

The door closed behind the girl, and after a moment or two the man rose
from his desk and began to pace up and down the room with long, even
strides.  Every now and then he would stop and stare at some print on
the wall, but it was the blank stare of a man whose mind is engrossed
in other matters.

And once while he stood looking out of the window, he voiced his
thoughts, unconscious that he spoke aloud.

"Dash it, McIver's not fanciful.  He's the least fanciful man we've
got.  And yet..."

His eyes came round to the desk once more, the desk on which the report
was lying.  It was Inspector McIver's report--hence his instructions to
the secretary.  It was the report on a very strange matter which had
taken place the previous night, and after a while Sir Bryan picked up
the typed sheets and glanced through them again.  And he was still
standing by the desk, idly turning over the pages when the secretary
came into the room.

"Chief Inspector McIver is here, Sir Bryan," she announced.

"Tell him to come in, Miss Forbes."

Certainly the Inspector justified his Chief's spoken thought--a less
fanciful looking man it would have been hard to imagine.  A
square-jawed, rugged Scotchman, he looked the type to whom Holy Writ
was Holy Writ only in so far as it could be proved.  He was short and
thick-set, and his physical strength was proverbial.  But a pair of
kindly twinkling eyes belied the gruff voice.  In fact, the gruff voice
was a pose specially put on which deceived no one; his children all
imitated it to his huge content, though he endeavoured to look
ferocious when they did so.  In short, McIver, though shrewd and
relentless when on duty, was the kindest-hearted of men.  But he was
most certainly not fanciful.

"What the dickens is all this about, McIver," said Sir Bryan with a
smile, when the door had shut behind the secretary.

"I wish I knew myself, sir," returned the other seriously.  "I've never
been so completely defeated in my life."

Sir Bryan waved him to a chair and sat down at the desk.

"I've read your report," he said, still smiling, "and frankly, McIver,
if it had been anyone but you, I should have been annoyed.  But I know
you far too well for that.  Look here"--he pushed a box of cigarettes
across the table--"take a cigarette and your time and let's hear about
it."

McIver lit a cigarette and seemed to be marshalling his thoughts.  He
was a man who liked to tell his story in his own way, and his chief
waited patiently till he was ready.  He knew that when his subordinate
did start he would get a clear, concise account of what had taken
place, with everything irrelevant ruthlessly cut out.  And if there was
one thing that roused Sir Bryan to thoughts of murder and violence, it
was a rambling, incoherent statement from one of his men.

"Well, sir," began McIver at length, "this is briefly what took place.
At ten o'clock last night as we had arranged, we completely surrounded
the suspected house on the outskirts of Barking.  I had had a couple of
good men on duty there lying concealed the whole day, and when I
arrived at about nine-thirty with Sergeant Andrews and half-a-dozen
others, they reported to me that at least eight men were inside, and
that Zaboleff was one of them.  He had been shadowed the whole way down
from Limehouse with another man, and both the watchers were positive
that he had not left the house.  So I posted my men and crept forward
to investigate myself.  There was a little chink in the wooden shutters
of one of the downstairs rooms through which the light was streaming.
I took a glimpse through, and found that everything was just as had
been reported to me.  There were eight of them there, and an
unpleasant-looking bunch they were, too.  Zaboleff I saw at the head of
the table, and standing next to him was that man Waldock who runs two
or three of the worst of the Red papers.  There was also Flash Jim, and
I began to wish I'd brought a few more men."

McIver smiled ruefully.  "It was about the last coherent wish I
remember.  And," he went on seriously, "what I'm going to tell you now,
sir, may seem extraordinary and what one would expect in detective
fiction, but as sure as I am sitting in this chair, it is what actually
took place.  Somewhere from close to, there came the sound of an owl
hooting.  At the same moment I distinctly heard the noise of what
seemed like a scuffle, and a stifled curse.  And then--and this is what
beats me, sir," McIver pounded a huge fist into an equally huge palm,
"I was picked up from behind as if I was a baby.  Yes, sir, a baby."

Involuntarily Sir Bryan smiled.

"You make a good substantial infant, McIver."

"Exactly, sir," grunted the Inspector.  "If a man had suggested such a
thing to me yesterday I'd have laughed in his face.  But the fact
remains that I was picked up just like a child in arms, and doped, sir,
doped.  Me--at my time of life.  They chloroformed me, and that was the
last I saw of Zaboleff or the rest of the gang."

"Yes, but it's the rest of the report that beats me," said his chief
thoughtfully.

"So it does me, sir," agreed McIver.  "When I came to myself early this
morning I didn't realize where I was.  Of course my mind at once went
back to the preceding night, and what with feeling sick as the result
of the chloroform, and sicker at having been fooled, I wasn't too
pleased with myself.  And then I rubbed my eyes and pinched myself, and
for a moment or two I honestly thought I'd gone off my head.  There was
I sitting on my own front door step, with a cushion all nicely arranged
for my head and every single man I'd taken down with me asleep on the
pavement outside.  I tell you, sir, I looked at those eight fellows all
ranged in a row for about five minutes before my brain began to act.  I
was simply stupefied.  And then I began to feel angry.  To be knocked
on the head by a crew like Flash Jim might happen to anybody.  But to
be treated like naughty children and sent home to bed was a bit too
much.  Dammit, I thought, while they were about it, why didn't they
tuck me up with my wife."

Once again Sir Bryan smiled, but the other was too engrossed to notice.

"It was then I saw the note," continued McIver.  He fumbled in his
pocket, and his chief stretched out his hand to see the original.  He
already knew the contents almost by heart, and the actual note itself
threw no additional light on the matter.  It was typewritten, and the
paper was such as can be bought by the ream at any cheap stationer's.

"To think of an old bird like you, Mac," it ran, "going and showing
yourself up in a chink of light.  You must tell Mrs. Mac to get some
more cushions.  There were only enough in the parlour for you and
Andrews.  I have taken Zaboleff and Waldock, and I dropped Flash Jim in
Piccadilly Circus.  I flogged two of the others whose method of
livelihood failed to appeal to me; the remaining small fry I turned
loose.  Cheer oh! old son.  The fellow in St. James's makes wonderful
pick-me-ups for the morning after.  Hope I didn't hurt you."

Idly Sir Bryan studied the note, holding it up to the light to see if
there was any watermark on the paper which might help.  Then he studied
the typed words, and finally with a slight shrug of his shoulders he
laid it on the desk in front of him.

"An ordinary Remington, I should think.  And as there are several
thousands in use it doesn't help much.  What about Flash Jim?"

McIver shook his head.

"The first thing I did, sir, was to run him to ground.  And I put it
across him good and strong.  He admitted everything: admitted he was
down there, but over the rest of the show he swore by everything that
he knew no more than I did.  All he could say was that suddenly the
room seemed full of men.  And the men were all masked.  Then he got a
clip over the back of the head, and he remembers nothing more till the
policeman on duty at Piccadilly Circus woke him with his boot just
before dawn this morning."

"Which fact, of course, you have verified," said Sir Bryan.

"At once, sir," answered the other.  "For once in his life Flash Jim
appears to be speaking the truth.  Which puts a funny complexion on
matters, sir, if he is speaking the truth."

The Inspector leaned forward and stared at his chief.

"You've heard the rumours, sir," he went on after a moment, "the same
as I have."

"Perhaps," said Sir Bryan quietly.  "But go on, McIver.  I'd like to
hear what's on your mind."

"It's the Black Gang, sir," said the Inspector, leaning forward
impressively.

"There have been rumours going round, rumours which our men have heard
here and there for the past two months.  I've heard 'em myself; and
once or twice I've wondered.  Now I'm sure--especially after what Flash
Jim said.  That gang is no rumour, it's solid fact."

"Have you any information as to what their activities have been,
assuming for a moment it is the truth?" asked Sir Bryan.

"None for certain, sir; until this moment I wasn't certain of its
existence.  But now--looking back--there have been quite a number of
sudden disappearances.  We haven't troubled officially, we haven't been
asked to.  Hardly likely when one realizes who the people are who have
disappeared."

"All conjecture, McIver," said Sir Bryan.  "They may be lying doggo, or
they'll turn up elsewhere."

"They may be, sir," answered McIver doggedly.  "But take the complete
disappearance of Granger a fortnight ago.  He's one of the worst of the
Red men, and we know he hasn't left the country.  Where is he?  His
wife, I happen to know, is crazy with anxiety, so it don't look like a
put-up job.  Take that extraordinary case of the Pole who was found
lashed to the railings in Whitehall with one half of his beard and hair
shaved off and the motto 'Portrait of a Bolshevist' painted on his
forehead.  Well, I don't need to tell you, sir, that that particular
Pole, Strambowski, was undoubtedly a messenger between--well, we know
who between and what the message was.  And then take last night."

"Well, what about last night?"

"For the first time this gang has come into direct contact with us."

"Always assuming the fact of its existence."

"Exactly, sir," answered McIver.  "Well, they've got Zaboleff and
they've got Waldock, and they laid eight of us out to cool.  I guess
they're not to be sneezed at."

With a thoughtful look on his face Sir Bryan rose and strolled over to
the window.  Though not prepared to go quite as far as McIver, there
were certainly some peculiar elements in the situation--elements which
he, as head of a big public department, could not officially allow for
an instant, however much it might amuse him as a private individual.

"We must find Zaboleff and Waldock," he said curtly, without turning
round.  "Waldock, at any rate, has friends who will make a noise unless
he's forthcoming.  And..."

But his further remarks were interrupted by the entrance of his
secretary with a note.

"For the Inspector, Sir Bryan," she said, and McIver after a glance at
his chief, opened the envelope.  For a while he studied the letter in
silence, then with an enigmatic smile he rose and handed it to the man
by the window.

"No answer, thank you, Miss Forbes," he said, and when they were once
more alone, he began rubbing his hands together softly--a sure sign of
being excited.  "Curtis and Samuel Bauer, both flogged nearly to death
and found in a slum off Whitechapel.  The note said two of 'em had been
flogged."

"So," said Sir Bryan quietly.  "These two were at Barking last night?"

"They were, sir," answered the Inspector.

"And their line?" queried the Chief.

"White slave traffic of the worst type," said McIver.  "They generally
drug the girls with cocaine or some dope first.  What do you say to my
theory now, sir?"

"It's another point in its favour, McIver," conceded Sir Bryan
cautiously: "but it still wants a lot more proof.  And, anyway, whether
you're right or not, we can't allow it to continue.  We shall be having
questions asked in Parliament."

McIver nodded portentously.  "If I can't lay my hands on a man who can
lift me up like a baby and dope me, may I never have another case.
Like a baby, sir.  Me----"

He opened his hands out helplessly, and this time Sir Bryan laughed
outright, only to turn with a quick frown as the door leading to the
secretary's office was flung open to admit a man.  He caught a vague
glimpse of the scandalized Miss Forbes hovering like a canary eating
bird-seed in the background: then he turned to the new-comer.

"Confound it, Hugh," he cried.  "I'm busy."

Hugh Drummond grinned all over his face, and lifting a hand like a leg
of mutton he smote Sir Bryan in the back, to the outraged amazement of
Inspector McIver.

"You priceless old bean," boomed Hugh affably.  "I gathered from the
female bird punching the what-not outside that the great brain was
heaving, but, my dear old lad, I have come to report a crime.  A crime
which I positively saw committed with my own eyes: an outrage: a blot
upon this fair land of ours."

He sank heavily into a chair and selected a cigarette.  He was a vast
individual with one of those phenomenally ugly faces which is rendered
utterly pleasant by the extraordinary charm of its owner's expression.
No human being had ever been known to be angry with Hugh for long.  He
was either moved to laughter by the perennial twinkle in the big man's
blue eyes, or he was stunned by a playful blow on the chest from a fist
which rivalled a steam hammer.  Of brain he apparently possessed a
minimum: of muscle he possessed about five ordinary men's share.

And yet unlike so many powerful men his quickness on his feet was
astounding--as many a good heavyweight boxer had found to his cost.  In
the days of his youth Hugh Drummond--known more familiarly to his
intimates as Bulldog--had been able to do the hundred in a shade over
ten seconds.  And though the mere thought of such a performance now
would have caused him to break out into a cold sweat, he was still
quite capable of a turn of speed which many a lighter-built man would
have envied.

Between him and Sir Bryan Johnstone existed one of those friendships
which are founded on totally dissimilar tastes.  He had been Bryan
Johnstone's fag at school, and for some inscrutable reason the quiet
scholarship of the elder boy had appealed to the kid of fourteen who
was even then a mass of brawn.  And when one day Johnstone, going about
his lawful occasions as a prefect, discovered young Drummond reducing a
boy two years older than himself to a fair semblance of a jelly, the
appeal was reciprocated.

"He called you a scut," said Drummond a little breathlessly when his
lord and master mildly inquired the reason of the disturbance.  "So I
scutted him."

It was only too true, and with a faint smile Johnstone watched the
"scutted" one depart with undignified rapidity.  Then he looked at his
fag.

"Thank you, Drummond," he remarked awkwardly.

"Rot.  That's all right," returned the other, blushing uncomfortably.

And that was all.  But it started then, and it never died, though their
ways lay many poles apart.  To Johnstone a well-deserved knighthood and
a high position in the land: to Drummond as much money as he wanted and
a life of sport.

"Has someone stolen the goldfish?" queried Sir Bryan with mild sarcasm.

"Great Scott!  I hope not," cried Hugh in alarm.  "Phyllis gave me
complete instructions about the brutes before she toddled off.  I make
a noise like an ant's egg, and drop them in the sink every morning, No,
old lad of the village, it is something of vast import: a stain upon
the escutcheon of your force.  Last night--let us whisper it in Gath--I
dined and further supped not wisely but too well.  In fact I deeply
regret to admit that I became a trifle blotto--not to say tanked.  Of
course it wouldn't have happened if Phyllis had been propping up the
jolly old home, don't you know: but she's away in the country with the
nightingales and slugs and things.  Well, as I say, in the young hours
of the morning, I thought I'd totter along home.  I'd been with some
birds--male birds, Tumkins"--he stared sternly at Sir Bryan, while
McIver stiffened into rigid horror at such an incredible
nickname--"male birds, playing push halfpenny or some such game of
skill or chance.  And when I left it was about two a.m.  Well, I
wandered along through Leicester Square, and stopped just outside
Scott's to let one of those watering carts water my head for me.
Deuced considerate driver he was too: stopped his horse for a couple of
minutes and let one jet play on me uninterruptedly.  Well, as I say,
while I was lying in the road, steaming at the brow, a motor car went
past, and it stopped in Piccadilly Circus."

McIver's air of irritation vanished suddenly, and a quick glance passed
between him and Sir Bryan.

"Nothing much you observe in that, Tumkins," he burbled on, quite
unconscious of the sudden attention of his hearers.  "But wait, old
lad--I haven't got to the motto yet.  From this car there stepped large
numbers of men: at least, so it seemed to me, and you must remember I'd
recently had a shampoo.  And just as I got abreast of them they lifted
out another warrior, who appeared to me to be unconscious.  At first I
thought there were two, until I focussed the old optics and found I'd
been squinting.  They put him on the pavement and got back into the car
again just as I tottered alongside.

"'What ho! souls,' I murmured, 'what is this and that, so to speak?'

"'Binged, old bean, badly binged,' said the driver of the car.  'We're
leaving him there to cool.'

"And with that the car drove off.  There was I, Tumkins, in a partially
binged condition alone in Piccadilly Circus with a bird in a completely
binged condition.

"'How now,' I said to myself.  'Shall I go and induce yon water
merchant to return'--as a matter of fact I was beginning to feel I
could do with another whack myself--'or shall I leave you here--as your
pals observed--to cool?'

"I bent over him as I pondered this knotty point, and as I did so,
Tumkins, I became aware of a strange smell."

Hugh paused dramatically and selected another cigarette, while Sir
Bryan flashed a quick glance of warning at McIver, who was obviously
bursting with suppressed excitement.

"A peculiar and sickly odour, Tumkins," resumed the speaker with
maddening deliberation.  "A strange and elusive perfume.  For a long
time it eluded me--that smell: I just couldn't place it.  And then
suddenly I got it: right in the middle, old boy--plumb in the centre of
the windpipe.  It was chloroform: the bird wasn't drunk--he was doped."

Completely exhausted Hugh lay back in his chair, and once again Sir
Bryan flashed a warning glance at his exasperated subordinate.

"Would you be able to recognize any of the men in the car if you saw
them again?" he asked quietly.

"I should know the driver," answered Hugh after profound thought.  "And
the bird beside him.  But not the others."

"Did you take the number of the car?" snapped McIver.

"My dear old man," murmured Hugh in a pained voice, "who on earth ever
does take the number of a car?  Except your warriors, who always get it
wrong.  Besides, as I tell you, I was partially up the pole."

"What did you do then?" asked Sir Bryan.

"Well, I brought the brain to bear," answered Hugh, "and decided there
was nothing to do.  He was doped, and I was bottled--so by a unanimous
casting vote of one--I toddled off home.  But Tumkins, while I was
feeding the goldfish this morning--or rather after lunch--conscience
was gnawing at my vitals.  And after profound meditation, and
consulting with my fellow Denny, I decided that the call of duty was
clear.  I came to you, Tumkins, as a child flies to its mother.  Who
better, I thought, than old Tum-tum to listen to my maidenly secrets?
And so..."

"One moment, Hugh," Sir Bryan held up his hand.  "Do you mind if I
speak to Inspector McIver for a moment?"

"Anything you like, old lad," murmured Drummond.  "But be merciful.
Remember my innocent wife in the country."

And silence settled on the room, broken only by the low-voiced
conversation between McIver and his chief in the window.  By their
gestures it seemed as if Sir Bryan was suggesting something to his
subordinate to which that worthy officer was a little loath to agree.
And after a while a strangled snore from the chair announced that
Drummond was ceasing to take an intelligent interest in things mundane.

"He's an extraordinary fellow, McIver," said Sir Bryan, glancing at the
sleeper with a smile.  "I've known him ever since we were boys at
school.  And he's not quite such a fool as he makes himself out.  You
remember that extraordinary case over the man Peterson a year or so
ago.  Well, it was he who did the whole thing.  His complete disability
to be cunning utterly defeated that master-crook, who was always
looking for subtlety that wasn't there.  And of course his strength is
absolutely phenomenal."

"I know, sir," said McIver doubtfully, "but would he consent to take on
such a job--and do exactly as he was told?"

They were both looking out of the window, while in the room behind them
the heavy breathing of the sleeper rose and fell monotonously.  And
when the whole audience is asleep it ceases to be necessary to talk in
undertones.  Which was why Sir Bryan and the Inspector during the next
ten minutes discussed certain matters of import which they would not
have discussed through megaphones at the Savoy.  They concerned Hugh
and other things, and the other things particularly were of interest.
And they continued discussing these other things until, with a dreadful
noise like a racing motor back-firing, the sleeper sat up in his chair
and stretched himself.

"Tumkins," he cried.  "I have committed sacrilege.  I have slept in the
Holy of Holies.  Have you decided on my fate?  Am I to be shot at dawn?"

Sir Bryan left the window and sat down at his desk.  For a moment or
two he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his left hand, as if trying to
make up his mind: then he lay back in his chair and stared at his
erstwhile fag.

"Would you like to do a job of work, old man?"

Hugh started as if he had been stung by a wasp, and Sir Bryan smiled.

"Not real work," he said reassuringly.  "But by mere luck last night
you saw something which Inspector McIver would have given a good deal
to see.  Or to be more accurate, you saw some men whom McIver
particularly wants to meet."

"Those blokes in the car, you mean," cried Hugh brightly.

"Those blokes in the car," agreed the other.  "Incidentally, I may say
there was a good deal more in that little episode than you think: and
after consultation with McIver I have decided to tell you a certain
amount about it, because you can help us, Hugh.  You see, you're one up
on McIver: you have at any rate seen those men and he hasn't.
Moreover, you say you could recognize two of them again."

"Good heavens!  Tumkins," murmured Hugh aghast, "don't say you want me
to tramp the streets of London looking for them."

Sir Bryan smiled.

"We'll spare you that," he answered.  "But I'd like you to pay
attention to what I'm going to tell you."

Hugh's face assumed the look of intense pain always indicative of
thought in its owner.

"Carry on, old bird," he remarked.  "I'll try and last the course."

"Last night," began Sir Bryan quietly, "a very peculiar thing happened
to McIver.  I won't worry you with the full details, and it will be
enough if I just give you a bare outline of what occurred.  He and some
of his men in the normal course of duty surrounded a certain house in
which were some people we wanted to lay our hands on.  To be more
accurate there was one man there whom we wanted.  He'd been shadowed
ever since he'd landed in England that morning, shadowed the whole way
from the docks to the house.  And sure enough when McIver and his men
surrounded the house, there was our friend and all his pals in one of
the downstairs rooms.  It was then that this peculiar thing happened.
I gather from McIver that he heard the noise of an owl hooting, also a
faint scuffle and a curse.  And after that he heard nothing more.  He
was chloroformed from behind, and went straight out of the picture."

"Great Scott!" murmured Hugh, staring incredulously at McIver.  "What
an amazing thing!"

"And this is where you come in, Hugh," continued Sir Bryan.

"Me!"  Hugh sat up abruptly.  "Why me?"

"One of the men inside the room was an interesting fellow known as
Flash Jim.  He is a burglar of no mean repute, though he is quite ready
to tackle any sort of job which carries money with it.  And when
McIver, having recovered himself this morning, ran Flash Jim to ground
in one of his haunts, he was quite under the impression that the men
who had doped him and the other officers were pals of Flash Jim.  But
after he'd talked to him he changed his mind.  All Flash Jim could tell
him was that on the previous night he and some friends had been
discussing business at this house.  He didn't attempt to deny that.  He
went on to say that suddenly the room had been filled with a number of
masked men, and that he'd had a clip over the back of the head which
knocked him out.  After that presumably he was given a whiff of
chloroform to keep him quiet, and the next thing he remembers is being
kicked into activity by the policeman at--" Sir Bryan paused a moment
to emphasize the point--"at Piccadilly Circus."

"Good Lord!" said Hugh dazedly.  "Then that bird I saw last night
sleeping it off on the pavement was Flash Jim."

"Precisely," answered Sir Bryan.  "But what is far more to the point,
old man, is that the two birds you think you would be able to recognize
and who were in the car, are two of the masked men who first of all
laid out McIver and subsequently surrounded Flash Jim and his pals
inside."

"But what did they want to do that for?" asked Hugh in bewilderment.

"That is just what we want to find out," replied Sir Bryan.  "As far as
we can see at the moment they are not criminals in the accepted sense
of the word.  They flogged two of the men who were there last night,
and there are no two men in England who more richly deserved it.  They
kidnapped two others, one of whom was the man we particularly wanted.
Then to wind up, they planted Flash Jim as I've told you, let the
others go, and brought McIver and all his men back to McIver's house,
where they left them to cool on the pavement."

For a moment there was silence, and then Hugh began to shake with
laughter.

"But how perfectly priceless!" he spluttered when he was able to speak
once more.  "Old Algy will burst a blood-vessel when I tell him: you
know, Algy, Tumkins, don't you--that bird with the eyeglass, and the
funny-looking face?"

Inspector McIver frowned heavily.  All along he had doubted the wisdom
of telling Drummond anything: now he felt that his misgivings were
confirmed.  What on earth was the good of expecting such an obvious ass
to be of the smallest assistance?  And now this raucous hilarity struck
him as being positively indecent.  But the Chief had insisted: the
responsibility was his.  One thing was certain, reflected McIver
grimly.  Algy, whoever he was, would not be the only one to whom the
privilege of bursting a blood-vessel would be accorded.  And before
very long it would be all round London--probably in the papers.  And
McIver particularly did not want that to happen.  However, the next
instant Sir Bryan soothed some of his worst fears.

"Under no circumstances, Hugh," he remarked gravely, "is Algy to be
given a chance of bursting any blood-vessel.  You understand what I
mean.  What I have said to you this afternoon is for you alone--and no
one else.  We know it: Flash Jim and Co. know it."

"And the jolly old masked sportsmen know it," said Hugh.

"Quite," remarked Sir Bryan.  "And that's a deuced sight too many
already.  We don't want any more."

"As far as I am concerned, my brave Tumkins," cried the other, "the
list is closed.  Positively not another participator in the stable
secret.  But I still don't see where I leap in and join the fray."

"This way, old boy," said Sir Bryan.  "McIver is a very strong man, and
yet he was picked up last night as he himself says as if he was a baby,
by one of these masked men who, judging from a note he wrote, is
presumably the leader of the gang.  And so we deduce that this leader
is something exceptional in the way of strength."

"By Gad! that's quick, Tumkins," said Hugh admiringly.  "But then you
always did have the devil of a brain."

"Now you are something very exceptional in that line, Hugh," continued
the other.

"Oh!  I can push a fellah's face if it's got spots and things," said
Hugh deprecatingly.

"And what I want to know is this.  If we give you warning would you
care to go with McIver the next time he has any job on, where he thinks
it is likely this gang may turn up?  We have a pretty shrewd idea as to
the type of thing they specialize in."

Hugh passed his hand dazedly over his forehead.

"Sort of mother's help you mean," and McIver frowned horribly.  "While
the bird biffs McIver, I biff the bird.  Is that the notion?"

"That is the notion," agreed Sir Bryan.  "Of course you'll have to do
exactly what McIver tells you, and the whole thing is most unusual.
But in view of the special features of the case....  What is it, Miss
Forbes?"  He glanced up at his secretary, who was standing in the
doorway, with a slight frown.

"He insists on seeing you at once, Sir Bryan."

She came forward with a card, which Sir Bryan took.

"Charles Latter."  The frown deepened.  "What the deuce does he want?"

The answer was supplied by the gentleman himself, who appeared at that
moment in the doorway.  He was evidently in a state of great agitation
and Sir Bryan rose.

"I am engaged at the moment, Mr. Latter," he said coldly.

"My business won't take you a minute, Sir Bryan," he cried.  "But what
I want to know is this.  Is this country civilized or is it not?  Look
at what I received by the afternoon post."

He handed a sheet of paper to the other, who glanced at it casually.
Then suddenly the casual look vanished, and Sir Bryan sat down at his
desk, his eyes grim and stern.

"By the afternoon post, you say."

"Yes.  And there have been too many disappearances lately!"

"How did you know that?" snapped the chief, staring at him.

For a moment Latter hesitated and changed colour.

"Oh! everyone knows it," he answered, trying to speak casually.

"Everyone does not know it," remarked Sir Bryan quietly.  "However, you
did quite right to come to me.  What are your plans during the next few
days?"

"I am going out of London to-morrow to stay with Lady Manton near
Sheffield," answered Latter.  "A semi-political house party.  Good
heavens!  What's that?"

With a snort Hugh sat up blinking.

"So sorry, old lad," he burbled.  "I snored: know I did.  Late hours
are the devil, aren't they?"

He heaved himself out of his chair, and grinned pleasantly at Latter,
who frowned disapprovingly.

"I don't go in for them myself.  Well, Sir Bryan."

"This matter shall be attended to, Mr. Latter.  I will see to it.  Good
afternoon.  I will keep this note."

"And who was that little funny-face?" said Hugh as the door closed
behind Mr. Latter.

"Member of Parliament for a north country constituency," answered Sir
Bryan, still staring at the piece of paper in his hand.  "Lives above
his income.  Keenly ambitious.  But I thought he was all right."

The other two stared at him in surprise.

"What do you mean, sir?" asked McIver at length.

"Our unknown friends do not think so, Mac," answered the chief, handing
his subordinate the note left by Latter.  "They are beginning to
interest me, these gentlemen."

"You need a rest, Charles Latter," read McIver slowly.  "We have
established a home for people like you where several of your friends
await you.  In a few days you will join them."

"There are two things which strike one, McIver," remarked Sir Bryan,
thoughtfully lighting a cigarette.  "First and most important: that
message and the one you found this morning were written on the same
typewriter--the letter 'e' is distorted in each case.  And, secondly,
Mr. Charles Latter appears to have inside information concerning the
recent activities of our masked friends which it is difficult to see
how he came by.  Unless"--he paused and stared out of the window with a
frown--"unless they are far more conversant with his visiting list than
I am."

McIver's great jaw stuck out as if made of granite.

"It proves my theory, sir," he grunted, "but if those jokers try that
game on with Mr. Latter they won't catch me a second time."

A terrific blow on the back made him gasp and splutter.

"There speaks my hero-boy," cried Hugh.  "Together we will outwit the
knaves.  I will write and cancel a visit: glad of the chance.  Old
Julia Manton--face like a horse: house at Sheffield: roped me in,
Tumkins--positively stunned me with her verbosity.  Ghastly house--but
reeks of boodle."

Sir Bryan looked at him surprised.

"Do you mean to say you are going to Lady Manton's?"

"I was.  But not now.  I will stick closer than a brother to Mr.
McIver."

"I think not, old man.  You go.  If you'd been awake you'd have heard
Latter say that he was going there too.  You can be of use sooner than
I thought."

"Latter going to old Julia?"  Hugh stared at him amazed.  "My dear old
Tum-tum, what a perfectly amazing coincidence."




3

  In which Hugh Drummond
  composes a letter

Hugh Drummond strolled slowly along Whitehall in the direction of
Trafalgar Square.  His face wore its habitual look of vacuous good
humour, and at intervals he hummed a little tune under his breath.  It
was outside the Carlton that he paused as a car drew up by his side,
and a man and a girl got out.

"Algy, my dear old boy," he murmured, taking off his hat, "are we in
health to-day?"

"Passable, old son," returned Algy Longworth, adjusting his quite
unnecessary eyeglass.  "The oysters wilted a bit this morning, but I'm
trying again to-night.  By the way, do you know Miss Farreydale?"

Hugh bowed.

"You know the risk you run, I suppose, going with about him?"

The girl laughed.  "He seems harmless," she answered lightly.

"That's his guile.  After the second cup of tea he's a perfect devil.
By the same token, Algy, I am hibernating awhile in the country.  Going
to dear old Julia Manton's for a few days.  Up Sheffield way."

Miss Farreydale looked at him with a puzzled frown.

"Do you mean Lady Manton--Sir John's wife?"

"That's the old dear," returned Hugh.  "Know her?"

"Fairly well.  But her name isn't Julia.  And she won't love you if you
call her old."

"Good heavens!  Isn't it?  And won't she?  I must be mixing her up with
someone else."

"Dorothy Manton is a well-preserved woman of--shall we
say--thirty-five?  She was a grocer's daughter: she is now a snob of
the worst type.  I hope you'll enjoy yourself."

"Your affection for her stuns me," murmured Hugh.  "I appear to be in
for a cheerful time."

"When do you go, Hugh?" asked Algy.

"To-morrow, old man.  But I'm keeping you from your tea.  Keep the
table between you after the second cup, Miss Farreydale."

He lifted his hat and walked on up the Haymarket, only to turn back
suddenly.

"'Daisy,' you said, didn't you?"

"No.  Dorothy," laughed the girl.  "Come on, Algy, I want my tea."

She passed into the Carlton, and for a moment the two men were together
on the pavement.

"Lucky she knows the Manton woman," murmured Hugh.

"Don't you?" gasped Algy.

"Not from Eve, old son.  Don't fix up anything in the near future.  We
shall be busy.  I've joined the police and shall require help."

With a cheery nod he strolled off, and after a moment's hesitation Algy
Longworth followed the girl into the Carlton.

"Mad, isn't he--your friend?" she remarked as he came up.

"Absolutely," he answered.  "Let's masticate an clair."!

A quarter of an hour later Hugh let himself into his house in Brook
Street.  On the hall table were three telegrams which he opened and
read.  Then, having torn them into tiny fragments, he went on into his
study and rang the bell.

"Beer, Denny," he remarked, as his servant came in.  "Beer in a mug.  I
am prostrate.  And then bring me one of those confounded books which
people have their names put in followed by the usual lies."

"'Who's Who,' sir," said Denny,

"You've got it," said his master.  "Though who is who these days,
Denny, is a very dark matter.  I am rapidly losing my faith in my
brother man--rapidly.  And then after that we have to write a letter to
Julia--no, Dorothy Manton--erstwhile grocer's daughter, with whom I
propose to dally for a few days."

"I don't seem to know the name, sir."

"Nor did I, Denny, until about an hour ago.  But I have it on reliable
authority that she exists."

"But how, sir..." began the bewildered Denny.

"At the moment the way is dark," admitted Drummond.  "The fog of war
enwraps me.  Beer, fool, beer."

Accustomed to the little vagaries of his master, Denny left the room to
return shortly with a large jug of beer which he placed on a small
table beside Drummond's chair.  Then he waited motionless behind his
chair with a pencil and writing-block in his hand.

"A snob, Denny; a snob," said Drummond at length, putting down his
empty glass.  "How does one best penetrate into the life and home of a
female snob whom one does not even know by sight?  Let us reason from
first principles.  What have we in our repertoire that would fling wide
the portals of her house, revealing to our awestruck gaze all the
footmen ranged in a row?"  He rose suddenly.  "I've got it, Denny; at
least some of it.  We have old Turniptop.  Is he not a cousin of mine?"

"You mean Lord Staveley, sir," said Denny diffidently.

"Of course I do, you ass.  Who else?"  Clasping his replenished glass
of beer, Hugh strode up and down the room.  "Somehow or other we must
drag him in."

"He's in Central Africa, sir," reminded Denny cautiously.

"What the devil does that matter?  Julia--I mean Dorothy--won't know.
Probably never heard of the poor old thing.  Write, fool; take your pen
and write quickly.

"'Dear Lady Manton,

"'I hope you have not forgotten the pleasant few days we spent together
at Wiltshire Towers this spring.'"

"But you didn't go to the Duke's this spring, sir," gasped Denny.

"I know that, you ass--but no more did she.  To be exact, the place was
being done up, only she won't know.  Go on, I'm going to overflow
again."

"'I certainly have not forgotten the kind invitation you gave to my
cousin Staveley and myself to come and stop with you.  He, at the
moment, is killing beasts in Africa: whereas I am condemned to this
unpleasant country.  To-morrow I have to go to Sheffield, ...'"

He paused.  "Why, Denny--why do I have to go to Sheffield?  Why in
heaven's name does any one ever go to Sheffield?"

"They make knives there, sir."

"Do they?  But you needn't go there to buy them.  And anyway, I don't
want knives."

"You might just say on business, sir," remarked his servant.

"Gad! you're a genius, Denny.  Put that in.  'Sheffield on business,
and I wondered if I might take you at your word and come to...'
Where's the bally woman live?  Look it up in 'Who's Who.'"

"Drayton House, sir," announced Denny.

"'To Drayton House for a day or two.  Yours very sincerely.'

"That'll do the trick, Denny.  Give it to me, and I'll write it out."

"A piece of the best paper with the crest and telephone number embossed
in blue, and the victory is ours."

"Aren't you giving her rather short notice, sir," said Denny doubtfully.

Drummond laid down his pen and stared at him sadly.

"Sometimes, Denny, I despair of you," he answered.  "Even after four
years of communion with me there are moments when you relapse into your
pristine brain wallow.  If I gave her any longer it is just
conceivable--though, I admit, not likely--that I might get my answer
from her stating that she was completely unaware of my existence, and
that she'd sent my letter to the police.  And where should we be then,
my faithful varlet?  As it is, I shall arrive at Drayton House just
after the letter, discover with horror that I have made a mistake, and
be gracefully forgiven by my charming hostess as befits a man with such
exalted friends.  Now run away and get me a taxi."

"Will you be in to dinner, sir?"

"Perhaps--perhaps not.  In case I'm not, I shall go up to Sheffield in
the Rolls to-morrow.  See that everything is packed."

"Will you want me to come with you, sir?"

"No, Denny--not this time.  I have a sort of premonition that I'm going
to enjoy myself at Drayton House, and you're too young for that sort of
thing."

With a resigned look on his face, Denny left the room, closing the door
gently behind him.  But Drummond, left to himself, did not at once
continue his letter to Lady Manton.  With his pen held loosely in his
hand he sat at his desk staring thoughtfully at the wall opposite.
Gone completely was his customary inane look of good humour: in its
place was an expression of quiet, almost grim, determination.  He had
the air of a man faced with big decisions, and to whom, moreover, such
an experience was no novelty.  For some five minutes he sat there
motionless; then with a short laugh he came out of his reverie.

"We're getting near the motto, my son," he muttered--"deuced near.  If
we don't draw the badger in a few weeks, I'll eat my hat."

With another laugh he turned once more to his half-finished letter.
And a minute or two later, having stamped and addressed the envelope,
he slipped it into his pocket and rose.  He crossed the room and
unlocked a small safe which stood in the corner.  From it he took a
small automatic revolver which he dropped into his coat pocket, also a
tiny bundle of what looked like fine black silk.  Then, having relocked
the safe he picked up his hat and stick and went into the hall.

"Denny," he called, pausing by the front door.

"Sir," answered that worthy, appearing from the back premises.

"If Mr. Darrell or any of them ring up I shall be tearing a devilled
bone to-night at the Savoy grill at eleven o'clock."




4

  In which Count Zadowa
  gets a shock

Number 5, Green Street, Hoxton, was not a prepossessing abode.  A
notice on one of the dingy downstair windows announced that Mr. William
Atkinson was prepared to advance money on suitable security: a visit
during business hours revealed that this was no more than the truth,
even if the appearance of Mr. Atkinson's minion caused the prospective
borrower to wonder how he had acquired such an aggressively English
name.

The second and third floors were apparently occupied by his staff,
which seemed unduly large considering the locality and quality of his
business.  Hoxton is hardly in that part of London where large sums of
money might be expected to change hands, and yet there was no doubt
that Mr. William Atkinson's staff was both large and busy.  So busy
indeed were his clerks that frequently ten and eleven o'clock at night
found them still working hard, though the actual business of the day
downstairs concluded at six o'clock--eight Saturdays.

It was just before closing time on the day after the strange affair
down at Barking that a large, unkempt-looking individual presented
himself at Mr. Atkinson's office.  His most pressing need would have
seemed to the casual observer to be soap and water, but his appearance
apparently excited no surprise in the assistant downstairs.  Possibly
Hoxton is tolerant of such trifles.

The clerk--a pale, anmic-looking man with an unhealthy skin and a hook
nose--rose wearily from his rest.

"What do you want?" he demanded morosely.

"Wot d'yer think!" retorted the other.  "Cat's meat?"

The clerk recoiled, and the blood mounted angrily to his sallow face.

"Don't you use that tone with me, my man," he said angrily.  "I'd have
you to know that this is my office."

"Yus," answered the other.  "Same as it's your nose sitting there like
a lump o' putty stuck on to a suet pudding.  And if I 'ave any o' your
lip, I'll pull it off--see.  Throw it outside, I will, and you after
it--you parboiled lump of bad tripe.  Nah then--business."  With a blow
that shook the office he thumped the desk with a huge fist.  "I ain't
got no time to waste--even if you 'ave.  'Ow much?"

He threw a pair of thick hob-nailed boots on to the counter, and stood
glaring at the other.

"Two bob," said the clerk indifferently, throwing down a coin and
picking up the boots.

"Two bob!" cried the other wrathfully.  "Two bob, you miserable
Sheenie."  For a moment or two he spluttered inarticulately as if
speech was beyond him; then his huge hand shot out and gripped the
clerk by the collar.  "Think again, Archibald," he continued quietly,
"think again and think better."

But the assistant, as might be expected in one of his calling, was
prepared for emergencies of this sort.  Very gently his right hand slid
along the counter towards a concealed electric bell which communicated
with the staff upstairs.  It fulfilled several purposes, that bell: it
acted as a call for help or as a warning, and according to the number
of times it was pressed, the urgency of the matter could be interpreted
by those who heard it.  Just now the clerk decided that two rings would
meet the case: he disliked the appearance of the large and angry man in
whose grip he felt absolutely powerless, and he felt he would like
help--very urgently.  And so it was perhaps a little unfortunate for
him that he should have allowed an ugly little smirk to adorn his lips
a second or two before his hand found the bell.  The man facing him
across the counter saw that smirk and lost his temper in earnest.  With
a grunt of rage he hit the other square between the eyes, and the clerk
collapsed in a huddled heap behind the counter with the bell still
unrung.

For a few moments the big man stood motionless, listening intently.
From upstairs came the faint tapping of a typewriter; from outside the
usual street noises of London came softly through the two closed doors.
Then, with an agility remarkable in one so big, he vaulted the counter
and inspected the recumbent assistant with a professional eye.  A faint
grin spread over his face as he noted that gentleman's condition, but
after that he wasted no time.  So quickly and methodically in fact did
he set about things, that it seemed as if the whole performance must
have been cut and dried beforehand, even to the temporary disposition
of the clerk.  In half a minute he was bound and gagged and deposited
under the counter.  Beside him the big man placed the pair of boots,
attached to which was a piece of paper which he took from his pocket.
On it was scrawled in an illiterate hand:

"Have took a fare price for the boots, yer swine."  Then quite
deliberately the big man forced the till and removed some money, after
which he once more examined the unconscious man under the counter.

"Without a hitch," he muttered.  "Absolutely according to Cocker.  Now,
old lad of the village, we come to the second item on the programme.
That must be the door I want."

He opened it cautiously, and the subdued hum of voices from above came
a little louder, to his ears.  Then like a shadow he vanished into the
semi-darkness of the house upstairs.

      *      *      *      *      *

It was undoubtedly a house of surprises, was Number 5, Green Street.  A
stranger passing through the dingy office on the ground floor where Mr.
Atkinson's assistant was wont to sit at the receipt of custom, and then
ascending the stairs to the first storey would have found it hard to
believe that he was in the same house.  But then, strangers were not
encouraged to do anything of the sort.

There was a door at the top of the flight of stairs, and it was at this
door that the metamorphosis took place.  On one side of it the stairs
ran carpetless and none too clean to the ground floor, on the other
side the picture changed.  A wide passage with rooms leading out of it
from either side confronted the explorer--a passage which was
efficiently illuminated with electric lights hung from the ceiling, and
the floor of which was covered with a good plain carpet.  Along the
walls ran rows of book-shelves stretching, save for the gaps at the
doors, as far as a partition which closed the further end of the
passage.  In this partition was another door, and beyond this second
door the passage continued to a window tightly shuttered and bolted.
From this continuation only one room led off--a room which would have
made the explorer rub his eyes in surprise.  It was richly--almost
luxuriously furnished.  In the centre stood a big roll-top writing
desk, while scattered about were several arm-chairs upholstered in
green leather.  A long table almost filled one side of the room; a
table covered with every imaginable newspaper.  A huge safe flush with
the wall occupied the other side, while the window, like the one
outside, was almost hermetically sealed.  There was a fireplace in the
corner, but there was no sign of any fire having been lit, or of any
preparations for lighting one.  Two electric heaters attached by long
lengths of flex to plugs in the wall comprised the heating
arrangements, while a big central light and half-a-dozen movable ones
illuminated every corner of the room.

In blissful ignorance of the sad plight of the clerk below, two men
were sitting in this room, deep in conversation.  In a chair drawn up
close to the desk was no less a person than Charles Latter, M.P., and
it was he who was doing most of the talking.  But it was the other man
who riveted attention: the man who presumably was Mr. Atkinson himself.
He was seated in a swivel chair which he had slewed round so as to face
the speaker, and it was his appearance which caught the eye and then
held it fascinated.

At first he seemed to be afflicted with an almost phenomenal stoop, and
it was only when one got nearer that the reason was clear.  The man was
a hunchback, and the effect it gave was that of a huge bird of prey.
Unlike most hunchbacks, his legs were of normal length, and as he sat
motionless in his chair, a hand on each knee, staring with unwinking
eyes at his talkative companion, there was something menacing and
implacable in his appearance.  His hair was grey; his features stern
and hard; while his mouth reminded one of a steel trap.  But it was his
eyes that dominated everything--grey-blue and piercing, they seemed
able to probe one's innermost soul.  A man to whom it would be unwise
to lie--a man utterly unscrupulous in himself, who would yet punish
double dealing in those who worked for him with merciless severity.  A
dangerous man.

"So you went to the police, Mr. Latter," he remarked suavely.  "And
what had our friend Sir Bryan Johnstone to say on the matter?"

"At first, Count, he didn't say much.  In fact he really said very
little all through.  But once he looked at the note his whole manner
changed.  I could see that instantly.  There was something about the
note which interested him...."

"Let me see it," said the Count, holding out his hand.

"I left it with Sir Bryan," answered the other.  "He asked me to let
him keep it.  And he promised that I should be all right."

The Count's lips curled.

"It would take more than Sir Bryan Johnstone's promise, Mr. Latter, to
ensure your safety.  Do you know whom that note was from?"

"I thought, Count," said the other a little tremulously--"I thought it
might be from this mysterious Black Gang that one has heard rumours
about."

"It was," replied the Count tersely.

"Heavens!" stammered Latter.  "Then it's true; they exist."

"In the last month," answered the hunchback, staring fixedly at his
frightened companion, "nearly twenty of our most useful men have
disappeared.  They have simply vanished into thin air.  I know, no
matter how, that it is not the police: the police are as mystified as
we are.  But the police, Mr. Latter, whatever views they may take
officially, are in all probability unofficially very glad of our
friends' disappearance.  At any rate until last night."

"What do you mean?" asked the other.

"Last night the police were baulked of their prey, and McIver doesn't
like being baulked.  You know Zaboleff was sent over?"

"Yes, of course.  That is one of the reasons I came round to-night.
Have you seen him?"

"I have not," answered the Count grimly.  "The police found out he was
coming."

Mr. Latter's face blanched: the thought of Zaboleff in custody didn't
appeal to him.  It may be mentioned that his feelings were purely
selfish--Zaboleff knew too much.

But the Count was speaking again.  A faint sneer was on his face; he
had read the other's mind like an open book.

"And so," he continued, "did the Black Gang.  They removed Zaboleff and
our friend Waldock from under the very noses of the police, and, like
the twenty others, they have disappeared.

"My God!"  There was no doubt now about Mr. Latter's state of mind.
"And now they've threatened me."

"And now they've threatened you," agreed the Count.  "And you, I am
glad to say, have done exactly what I should have told you to do, had I
seen you sooner.  You have gone to the police."

"But--but," stammered Latter, "the police were no good to Zaboleff last
night."

"And it is quite possible," returned the other calmly, "that they will
be equally futile in your case.  Candidly, Mr. Latter, I am completely
indifferent on the subject of your future.  You have served our
purpose, and all that matters is that you happen to be the bone over
which the dogs are going to fight.  Until last night the dogs hadn't
met--officially; and in the rencontre last night, the police dog,
unless I'm greatly mistaken, was caught by surprise.  McIver doesn't
let that happen twice.  In your case he'll be ready.  With luck this
cursed Black Gang, who are infinitely more nuisance to me than the
police have been or ever will be, will get bitten badly."

Mr. Latter was breathing heavily.

"But what do you want me to do, Count?"

"Nothing at all, except what you were going to do normally," answered
the other.  He glanced at a notebook on his desk.  "You were going to
Lady Manton's near Sheffield, I see.  Don't alter your plans--go.  In
all probability it will take place at her house."  He glanced
contemptuously at the other's somewhat green face, and his manner
changed abruptly.  "You understand, Mr. Latter," his voice was deadly
smooth and quiet, "you understand, don't you, what I say?  You will go
to Lady Manton's house as arranged, and you will carry on exactly as if
you had never received this note.  Because, if you don't, if you
attempt any tricks with me, whatever the Black Gang may do or may not
do to you--however much the police may protect you or may not protect
you--you will have us to reckon with.  And you know what that means."

"Supposing the gang gets me and foils the police," muttered Latter
through dry lips.  "What then?"

"I shall deal with them personally.  They annoy me."

There was something so supremely confident in the tone of the Count's
voice, that the other man looked at him quickly.

"But have you any idea who they are?" he asked eagerly.

"None--at present.  Their leader is clever--but so am I.  They have
deliberately elected to fight me, and now I have had enough.  It will
save trouble if the police catch them for me: but if not..."

The Count shrugged his shoulders, and with a gesture of his hand
dismissed the matter.  Then he picked up a piece of paper from the desk
and glanced at it.

"I will now give you your orders for Sheffield," he continued.  "It has
been reported to me that in Sir John Manton's works there is a red-hot
madman named Delmorlick.  He has a good job himself, but he spends most
of his spare time inciting the unemployed--of which I am glad to say
there are large numbers in the town--to absurd deeds of violence.  He
is a very valuable man to us, and appears to be one of those
extraordinary beings who really believe in the doctrines of Communism.
He can lash a mob, they tell me, into an absolute frenzy with his
tongue.  I want you to seek him out, and give him fifty pounds to carry
on with.  Tell him, of course, that it comes from the Great Master in
Russia, and spur him on to renewed activity.

"You will also employ him, and two or three others whom you must leave
him to choose, to carry out a little scheme of which you will find full
details in this letter."  He handed an envelope to Latter, who took it
with a trembling hand.  "You personally will make arrangements about
the necessary explosives.  I calculate that, if successful, it should
throw at least three thousand more men out of work.  Moreover, Mr.
Latter, if it is successful your fee will be a thousand pounds."

"A thousand!" muttered Latter.  "Is there much danger?"

The count smiled contemptuously.  "Not if you do your work properly.
Hullo!  What's up?"

From a little electric bell at his elbow came four shrill rings,
repeated again and again.

The count rose, and with systematic thoroughness swept every piece of
paper off the desk into his pocket.  Then he shut down the top and
locked it, while the bell, a little muffled, still rang inside.

"What's the fool doing?" he cried angrily, stepping over to the big
safe let into the wall, while Latter, his face white and terrified,
followed at his side.  And then abruptly the bell stopped.

Very deliberately the count pressed two concealed knobs, so sunk into
the wall as to be invisible to a stranger, and the door of the safe
swung open.  And only then was it obvious that the safe was not a safe,
but a second exit leading to a flight of stairs.  For a moment or two
he stood motionless, listening intently, while Latter fidgeted at his
side.  One hand was on a master switch which controlled all the lights,
the other on a knob inside the second passage which, when turned, would
close the great steel door noiselessly behind them.

He was frowning angrily, but gradually the frown was replaced by a look
of puzzled surprise.  Four rings from the shop below was the recognized
signal for urgent danger, and everybody's plan of action was cut and
dried for such an emergency.  In the other rooms every book and paper
in the slightest degree incriminating were hurled pell-mell into secret
recesses in the floor which had been specially constructed under every
table.  In their place appeared books carefully and very skilfully
faked, purporting to record the business transactions of Mr. William
Atkinson.  And in the event of surprise being expressed at the size of
Mr. Atkinson's business considering the sort of office he possessed
below, and the type of his clientele, it would soon be seen that Hoxton
was but one of several irons which that versatile gentleman had in the
fire.  There were indisputable proofs in indisputable ledgers that Mr.
Atkinson had organized similar enterprises in several of the big towns
of England and Scotland, to say nothing of a large West End branch run
under the name of Lewer Brothers.  And surely he had the perfect right,
if he so wished, to establish his central office in Hoxton ... Or
Timbuctoo ... What the devil did it matter to anyone except himself?

In the big room at the end the procedure was even simpler.  The Count
merely passed through the safe door and vanished through his private
bolt-hole, leaving everything in darkness.  And should inconvenient
visitors ask inconvenient questions--well, it was Mr. Atkinson's
private office, and a very nice office too, though at the moment he was
away.

Thus the procedure--simple and sound; but on this occasion something
seemed to have gone wrong.  Instead of the industrious silence of
clerks working overtime on affairs of financial import in Edinburgh and
Manchester, a perfect babel of voices became audible in the passage.
And then there came an agitated knocking on the door.

"Who is it?" cried the Count sharply.  It may be mentioned that even
the most influential members of his staff knew better than to come into
the room without previously obtaining permission.

"It's me, sir--Cohen," came an agitated voice from outside.

For a moment the Count paused: then with a turn of the knob he closed
the safe door silently.  With an imperious hand he waved Latter to a
chair, and resumed his former position at the desk.

"Come in," he snapped.

It was a strange and unwholesome object that obeyed the order, and the
Count sat back in his chair.

"What the devil have you been doing?"

A pair of rich blue-black eyes, and a nose from which traces of blood
still trickled had not improved the general appearance of the assistant
downstairs.  In one hand he carried a pair of hobnail boots, in the
other a piece of paper, and he brandished them alternately while a
flood of incoherent frenzy burst from his lips.

For a minute or two the Count listened, until his first look of
surprise gave way to one of black anger.

"Am I to understand, you wretched little worm," he snarled, "that you
gave the urgency danger signal, not once but half a dozen times merely
because a man hit you over the nose?"

"But he knocked me silly, sir," quavered the other.  "And when I came
to, and saw the boots lying beside me and the till opened, I kind of
lost my head.  I didn't know what had happened, sir--and I thought I'd
better ring the bell--in case of trouble."

He retreated a step or two towards the door, terrified out of his wits
by the look of diabolical fury in the hunchback's eyes.  Three or four
clerks, who had been surreptitiously peeping through the open door,
melted rapidly away, while from his chair Mr. Latter watched the scene
fascinated.  He was reminded of a bird and a snake, and suddenly he
gave a little shudder as he realized that his own position was in
reality much the same as that of the unfortunate Cohen.

And then just as the tension was becoming unbearable there came the
interruption.  Outside in the passage, clear and distinct, there
sounded twice the hoot of an owl.  To Mr. Latter it meant nothing; to
the frightened little Jew it meant nothing; but on the Count the effect
was electrical.  With a quickness incredible in one so deformed he was
at the door, and into the passage, hurling Cohen out of his way into a
corner.  His powerful fists were clenched by his side: the veins in his
neck were standing out like whipcord.  But to Mr. Latter's surprise he
made no movement, and rising from his chair he too peered round the
door along the passage, only to stagger back after a second or two with
a feeling of sick fear in his soul, and a sudden dryness in the throat.
For twenty yards away, framed in the doorway at the head of the stairs
leading down to the office below, he had seen a huge, motionless
figure.  For a perceptible time he had stared at it, and it had seemed
to stare at him.  Then the door had shut, and on the other side a key
had turned.  And the figure had been draped from head to foot in
black....




5

  In which Charles Latter,
  M.P., goes mad

Drummond arrived at Drayton House just as the house party was sitting
down to tea in the hall.  A rapid survey of the guests as the footman
helped him out of his coat convinced him that, with the exception of
Latter, he didn't know a soul: a second glance indicated that he could
contemplate the fact with equanimity.  They were a stodgy-looking
crowd, and after a brief look he turned his attention to his hostess.

"Where is Lady Manton?" he asked the footman.

"Pouring out tea, sir," returned the man, surprised.

"Great Scott!" said Drummond, aghast.  "I've come to the wrong house."

"The wrong house, sir?" echoed the footman, and the sound of their
voices made Lady Manton look up.

In an instant that astute woman spotted what had happened.  The writer
of the strange letter she had received at lunch-time had arrived, and
had realized his mistake.  Moreover, this was the moment for which she
had been waiting ever since, and now to add joy to joy it had occurred
when her whole party was assembled to hear every word of her
conversation with Drummond.  With suitable gratitude she realized that
such opportunities are rare.

With a charming smile she advanced towards him, as he stood hesitating
by the door.

"Mr. Drummond?" she inquired.

"Yes," he murmured, with a puzzled frown.  "But--but I seem to have
made some absurd mistake."

She laughed and drew him into the hall.

"A perfectly natural one, I assure you," she replied, speaking so that
her guests could hear.  "It must have been my sister-in-law that you
met at Wiltshire Towers.  My husband was not very fit at the time and
so I had to refuse the Duchess's invitation."  She was handing him a
cup of tea as she spoke.  "But, of course, I know your cousin, Lord
Staveley, well.  So we really know one another after all, don't we?"

"Charming of you to put it that way, Lady Manton," answered Drummond,
with his infectious grin.  "At the same time I feel a bit of an
interloper--what!  Sort of case of fools toddling in where angels fear
to tread."

"A somewhat infelicitous quotation," remarked an unctuous-looking man
with side whiskers, deprecatingly.

"Catches you too, does it, old bird?" boomed Hugh, putting down his
empty cup.

"It was the second part of your quotation that I was alluding to,"
returned the other acidly, when Lady Manton intervened.

"Of course, Mr. Drummond, my husband and I insist on your remaining
with us until you have completed your business in Sheffield."

"Extraordinarily kind of you both, Lady Manton," answered Hugh.

"How long do you think you will be?"

"Three or four days.  Perhaps a little more."  As he spoke he looked
quite casually at Latter.  For some minutes that worthy pillar of
Parliament had been staring at him with a puzzled frown: now he gave a
slight start as recognition came to him.  This was the enormous
individual who had snored in Sir Bryan Johnstone's office the previous
afternoon.  Evidently somebody connected with the police, reflected Mr.
Latter, and glancing at Drummond's vast size he began to feel more
reassured than he had for some time.  A comforting sort of individual
to have about the premises in the event of a brawl: good man--Sir
Bryan.  This man looked large enough to cope even with that monstrous
black apparition, the thought of which still brought a shudder to his
spine.

Drummond was still looking at him, but there was no trace of
recognition in his eyes.  Evidently they were to meet as strangers
before the house-party: quite right, too, when some of the guests
themselves might even be members of this vile gang.

"It depends on circumstances outside my control," Drummond was saying.
"But if you can do with me for a few days..."

"As long as you like, Mr. Drummond," answered Lady Manton.  "And now
let me introduce you to my guests."

      *      *      *      *      *

It was not until just before dinner that Mr. Latter had an opportunity
of a few private words with Drummond.  They met in the hall, and for a
moment no one else was within earshot.

"You were in Sir Bryan Johnstone's office yesterday," said the M.P.
hoarsely.  "Are you connected with the police?"

"Intimately," answered Hugh.  "Even now, Mr. Latter, you are completely
surrounded by devoted men who are watching and guarding you."

A gratified smile spread over the other's face, though Drummond's
remained absolutely expressionless.

"And how did you get here, Mr. Drummond?"

"By car," returned Hugh gravely.

"I mean into the house party," said Mr. Latter stiffly.

"Ah!"  Hugh looked mysterious.  "That is between you and me, Mr.
Latter."

"Quite: quite.  I am discretion itself."

"Until two hours ago I thought I was the biggest liar in the world: now
I know I'm not.  Our hostess has me beat to a frazzle."

"What on earth are you talking about?" cried Latter, amazed.

"There are wheels within wheels, Mr. Latter," continued Hugh still more
mysteriously.  "A network of intrigue surrounds us.  But do not be
afraid.  My orders are never to leave your side."

"Good God, Mr. Drummond, do you mean to say...?"

"I mean to say nothing.  Only this one thing I will mention."  He laid
an impressive hand on Latter's arm.  "Be very careful what you say to
that man with the mutton-chop whiskers and the face like a sheep."

And the startled M.P. was too occupied staring suspiciously at the
worthy Sheffield magnate and pillar of Nonconformity who had just
descended the stairs with his hostess to notice a sudden peculiar
shaking in Drummond's shoulders as he turned away.

      *      *      *      *      *

Mr. Charles Latter was not a pleasant specimen of humanity even at the
best of times, and that evening he was not at his best.  He was
frightened to the core of his rotten little soul, and when a
constitutional coward is frightened the result is not pretty.  His
conversational efforts at dinner would have shamed a boy of ten, and
though he made one or two feeble efforts to pull himself together, it
was no good.  Try as he would his mind kept reverting to his own
position.  Over and over again he went on weighing up the points of the
case until his brain was whirling.  He tried to make out a mental
balance sheet where the stock was represented by his own personal
safety, but there was always that one unknown factor which he came up
against--the real power of this mysterious gang.

Coming up in the train he had decided to curtail his visit as much as
possible.  He would carry through what he had been told to do, and
then, having pocketed his thousand, he would leave the country for a
few months.  By that time the police should have settled matters.  And
he had been very lucky.  It had proved easy to find the man Delmorlick,
and once he had been found, the other more serious matter had proved
easy too.  Delmorlick had arranged everything, and had brought three
other men to meet him in a private room at one of the smaller hotels.

Like all the Count's schemes, every detail was perfect, and once or
twice exclamations of amazement interrupted him as he read on.  Every
possible eventuality was legislated for, and by the time he had
finished reading Delmorlick's eyes were glowing with the enthusiasm of
a fanatic.

"Magnificent," he had cried, rising and going to the window.  "Another
nail in the coffin of Capital.  And, by heaven! a big one."

He had stood there, his head covered with a shock of untidy hair,
staring with sombre eyes at the street below.  And beside him had stood
one of the other men.  After a while Latter joined them, and he too,
for a moment, had looked down into the street where little knots of men
lounged round doorways with their hands in their pockets, and the
apathy of despair on their faces.  A few women here and there mingled
with them, but there was no laughing or jesting--only the sullenness of
lost hope.  The hope that had once been theirs of work and plenty was
dead; there was nothing for them to do--they were just units in the
vast army of unemployed.  Occasionally a man better dressed and more
prosperous than the others would detach himself from one group and go
to another, where he would hold forth long and earnestly.  And his
listeners would nod their heads vigorously or laugh sheepishly as he
passed on.

For a few moments Delmorlick had watched in silence.  Then with a grave
earnestness in his voice he had turned to Latter.

"We shall win, Mr. Latter, I tell you.  That," with a lean forefinger
he pointed to the man outside, "is going on all over England, Scotland,
and Ireland.  And the fools in London prate of economic laws and
inflated currencies.  What does an abstract cause matter to those men;
they want food."

He had glanced at Delmorlick, to find the eyes of the other man fixed
on him gravely.  He had hardly noticed it at the time--he had been too
anxious to get away; now, as he sat at dinner, he found strangely
enough that it was the other man's face which seemed to have made the
biggest impression on his mind.  A new arrival in the place, so
Delmorlick had told him--but red-hot for the cause of freedom and
anarchy.

He made some vague remark to his neighbour and once more relapsed into
moody silence.  So far, so good; his job was done--he could leave
to-morrow.  He would have left that afternoon but for the fact that he
had sent his baggage up to Drayton House, and it would have looked
strange.  But he had already arranged for a wire to be sent to him from
London the following morning, and for the night--well, there were
Drummond and the police.  Decidedly, on points he appeared to be in a
winning position--quite a comfortable position.  And yet--that unknown
factor....  Still, there was always Drummond; the only trouble was that
he couldn't quite place him.  What on earth had he meant before dinner?
He glanced across the table at him now: he was eating salted almonds
and making love to his hostess.

"A fool," reflected Mr. Latter, "but a powerful fool.  If it was
necessary, he'd swallow anything I told him."

And so, towards the end of dinner, aided possibly by his host's very
excellent vintage port, Mr. Charles Latter had more or less soothed his
fears.  Surely he was safe in the house, and nothing would induce him
to leave it until he went to the station next morning.  No thought of
the abominable crime he had planned only that afternoon disturbed his
equanimity; as has been said, he was not a pleasant specimen of
humanity.

Charles Latter was unmoral rather than immoral: he was a constitutional
coward with a strong liking for underhand intrigue, and he was utterly
and entirely selfish.  In his way he was ambitious: he wanted power,
but, though in many respects he was distinctly able, he lacked that
essential factor--the ability to work for it.  He hated work: he wanted
easy results.  And to obtain lasting results is not easy, as Mr. Latter
gradually discovered.  A capability for making flashy speeches covered
with a veneer of cleverness is an undoubted asset, but it is an asset
the value of which has been gauged to a nicety by the men who count.
And so as time went on, and the epoch-making day when he had been
returned to Parliament faded into the past, Mr. Latter realized himself
for what he was--a thing of no account.  And the realization was as
gall and wormwood to his soul.  It is a realization which comes to many
men, and it takes them different ways.  Some become resigned--some make
new and even more futile efforts: some see the humour of it, and some
don't.  Mr. Latter didn't: he became spiteful.  And a spiteful coward
is a nasty thing.

It was just about that time that he met Count Zadowa.  It was at dinner
at a friend's house, and after the ladies had left he found himself
sitting next to the hunchback with the strange, piercing eyes.  He
wasn't conscious of having said very much: he would have been amazed
had he been told that within ten minutes this charming foreigner had
read his unpleasant little mind like a book, and had reached a certain
and quite definite decision.  In fact, looking back on the past few
months, Mr. Latter was at a loss to account as to how things had
reached their present pass.  Had he been told when he stood for
Parliament, flaunting all the old hackneyed formul, that within two
years he would be secretly engaged in red-hot Communist work, he would
have laughed the idea to scorn.  Anarchy, too: a nasty word, but the
only one that fitted the bomb outrage in Manchester, which he had
himself organized.  Sometimes in the night, he used to wake and lie
sweating as he thought of that episode....

And gradually it had become worse and worse.  Little by little the
charming Count Zadowa, realizing that Mr. Latter possessed just those
gifts which he could utilize to advantage, had ceased to be charming.
There were many advantages in having a Member of Parliament as chief
liaison officer.

There had been that first small slip when he signed a receipt for money
paid him to address a revolutionary meeting in South Wales during the
coal strike.  And the receipt specified the service rendered.  An
unpleasant document in view of the fact that his principal supporters
in his constituency were coal-owners.  And after that the descent had
been rapid.

Not that even now Mr. Latter felt any twinges of conscience: all he
felt was occasional twinges of fear that he might be found out.  He was
running with the hare and hunting with the hounds with a vengeance, and
at times his cowardly little soul grew sick within him.  And then, like
a dreaded bolt from the blue, had come the letter of warning from the
Black Gang.

Anyway, he reflected, as he turned out his light after getting into bed
that night, the police knew nothing of his double life.  They were all
round him, and there was this big fool in the house....  For a moment
his heart stopped beating: was it his imagination or was that the
figure of a man standing at the foot of the bed?

The sweat poured off his forehead as he tried to speak: then he sat up
in bed, plucking with trembling hands at the collar of his pyjamas.
Still the shape stood motionless: he could swear there was something
there now--he could see it outlined against the dim light of the
window.  He reached out fearfully for the switch: fumbled a little, and
then with a click the light went on.  His sudden scream of fear died
half-strangled in his throat: a livid anger took the place of terror.
Leaning over the foot of the bed and regarding him with solicitous
interest, lounged Hugh Drummond.

"All tucked up and comfy, old bean," cried Drummond cheerfully.  "Bed
socks full of feet and all that sort of thing?"

"How dare you," spluttered Latter, "how dare you come into my room like
this...."

"Tush, tush," murmured Drummond, "don't forget my orders, old Latter,
my lad.  To watch over you as a crooning mother crooneth over the last
batch of twins.  By the way, my boy, you skimped your teeth pretty
badly to-night.  You'll have to do better to-morrow.  Most of your
molars must be sitting up and begging for Kolynos if that's your normal
effort."

"Do you mean to tell me that you were in here while I was undressing,"
said Latter angrily.  "You exceed your instructions, sir: and I shall
report your unwarrantable impertinence to Sir Bryan Johnstone when I
return to London."

"Exactly, Mr. Latter.  But when will you return to London?"  Drummond
regarded him dispassionately.  "To put some, if not all, of the cards
on the table, the anonymous letter of warning which you received was
not quite so anonymous as you would have liked.  In other words, you
know exactly whom it came from."

"I don't," replied the other.  "I know that it came from an abominable
gang who have been committing a series of outrages lately.  And that is
why I applied for police protection."

"Quite so, Mr. Latter.  And as--er--Fate would have it, I am here to
help carry out that rle."

"What did you mean when you gave me that warning before dinner?  That
man is one of the leading citizens of Sheffield."

"That was just a little jest, Mr. Latter, to amuse you during the
evening.  The danger does not lie there."

"Where does it lie?"

"Probably where you least expect it," returned Drummond with an
enigmatic smile.

"I shall be going to-morrow," said Latter with attempted nonchalance.
"Until then I rely on you."

"Precisely," murmured Drummond.  "So you have completed your business
here quicker than you anticipated."

"Yes.  To be exact, this afternoon before you arrived."

"And was that the business which brought you to Sheffield?"

"Principally.  Though I really don't understand this catechism, Mr.
Drummond.  And now I wish to go to sleep...."

"I'm afraid you can't, Mr. Latter.  Not quite yet."  For a moment or
two Charles Latter stared at the imperturbable face at the foot of his
bed: it seemed to him that a strange tension was creeping into the
conversation--a something he could not place which made him vaguely
alarmed.

"Do you think this mysterious Black Gang would approve of your business
this afternoon?" asked Drummond quietly.

Mr. Latter started violently.

"How should I know of what the scoundrels would approve?" he cried
angrily.  "And anyway, they can know nothing about it."

"You feel quite confident in Mr. Delmorlick's discretion with regard to
the friends he selects?"

And now a pulse was beginning to hammer in Mr. Latter's throat, and his
voice when he spoke was thick and unnatural.

"How do you know anything about Delmorlick?"

Drummond smiled.  "May I reply by asking a similar question, Mr.
Latter?  How do you?"

"I met him this afternoon on political business," stammered the other,
staring fascinated at the man opposite, from whose face all trace of
buffoonery seemed to have vanished, to be replaced by a grim sternness
the more terrifying because it was so utterly unexpected.  And he had
thought Drummond a fool....

"Would it be indiscreet to inquire the nature of the business?"

"Yes," muttered Latter.  "It was private."

"That I can quite imagine," returned Drummond grimly.  "But since
you're so reticent I will tell you.  This afternoon you made
arrangements, perfect in every detail, to blow up the main power
station of the Greystone works."  The man in the bed started violently.
"The result of that would have been to throw some three thousand men
out of work for at least a couple of months."

"It's a lie," said Latter thickly.

"Your object in so doing was obvious," continued Drummond.  "Money.  I
don't know how much, and I didn't know who from--until last night."
And now Latter was swallowing hard, and clutching the bedclothes with
hands that shook like leaves.

"You saw me last night, Mr. Latter, didn't you?  And I found out your
headquarters...."

"In God's name--who are you?"  His voice rose almost to a scream.
"Aren't you the police?"

"No--I am not."  He was coming nearer, and Latter cowered back,
mouthing.  "I am not the police, you wretched thing: I am the leader of
the Black Gang."

Latter felt the other's huge hands on him, and struggled like a puny
child, whimpering, half sobbing.  He writhed and squirmed as a gag was
forced into his mouth: then he felt a rope cut his wrists as they were
lashed behind his back.  And all the while the other went on speaking
in a calm, leisurely voice.

"The leader of the Black Gang, Mr. Latter: the gang that came into
existence to exterminate things like you.  Ever since the war you
poisonous reptiles have been at work stirring up internal trouble in
this country.  Not one in ten of you believe what you preach: your
driving force is money and your own advancement.  And as for your
miserable dupes--those priceless fellows who follow you blindly
because--God help them, they're hungry and their wives are hungry--what
do you care for them, Mr. Latter?  You just laugh in your sleeve and
pocket the cash."

With a heave he jerked the other on to the floor, and proceeded to lash
him to the foot of the bed.

"I have had my eye on you, Mr. Latter, since the Manchester effort when
ten men were killed, and you were the murderer.  But other and more
important matters have occupied my time.  You see, my information is
very good--better than Delmorlick's selection of friends.  The new
devoted adherent to your cause this afternoon happens to be an intimate
personal friend of mine."

He was busying himself with something that he had taken from his
pocket--a thick, square slab with a hole in the centre.

"I admit that your going to the police with my note surprised me.  And
it really was extraordinarily lucky that I happened to be in the office
at the time.  But it necessitated a slight change of plan on my part.
If dear old McIver and his minions are outside the house, it's much
simpler for me to be in.  And now, Mr. Latter--to come to business."

He stood in front of the bound man, whose eyes were rolling horribly.

"We believe in making the punishment fit the crime.  This afternoon you
planned to destroy the livelihood of several thousand men with
explosive, simply that you might make money.  Here," he held up the
square slab, "is a pound of the actual gun-cotton, which was removed
from Delmorlick himself before he started on a journey to join my other
specimens.  I propose to place this slab under you, Mr. Latter, and to
light this piece of fuse which is attached to it.  The fuse will take
about three minutes to burn.  During that three minutes if you can get
free, so much the better for you; if not--well, it would be a pity not
to have any explosion at all in Sheffield, wouldn't it?"

For a moment or two Drummond watched the struggling, terrified man, and
his eyes were hard and merciless.  Then he went to the door, and Latter
heard it opened and shut, and moaned horribly.  His impotent struggles
increased: out of the corner of his eye he could see the fire burning
nearer and nearer.  And then all of a sudden something seemed to snap
in his brain....

Four minutes later Drummond came out from the screen behind which he
had been standing.  He picked up the burnt-out fuse and the block of
wood to which it had been attached.  Then he undid the ropes that bound
the other man, removed the gag and put him back into bed.  And after a
while he nodded thoughtfully.

"Poetic justice," he murmured.  "And it saves a lot of trouble."

Then, after one searching look round the room, he turned out the light
and stepped quietly into the passage.

      *      *      *      *      *

"An extraordinary thing, McIver," said Sir Bryan Johnstone, late on the
afternoon of the following day.  "You say that when you saw Mr. Latter
this morning he was mad."

"Mad as a hatter, sir," answered McIver, turning for confirmation to
Drummond, who was sprawling in a chair.

"Absolutely up the pole, Tum-tum," agreed Drummond.

"Gibbered like a fool," said McIver, "and struggled wildly whenever he
got near the foot of the bed.  Seemed terrified of it, somehow.  Did
you notice that, Mr. Drummond?"

"My dear old lad, it was only ten o'clock, and I was barely conscious,"
yawned that worthy, lighting a cigarette.

"Well, anyway, you had no trouble with the gang, McIver," said his
chief.

"None, sir," agreed the Inspector.  "I thought they wouldn't try it on
with me twice.  I heard some fool story just before I caught the train,
about one of the night watchmen at a big works who swears he saw a sort
of court-martial--he was an old soldier--being held on three men by a
lot of black-masked figures.  But a lot of these people have got this
yarn on the brain, Sir Bryan.  It's spread a good deal further than I
thought."

Sir Bryan nodded thoughtfully.

"I must say I'd like to know what sent Charles Latter mad!"

Drummond sat up lazily.

"Good heavens!  Tumkins, don't you know?  The house-party, old son--the
house-party; they had to be seen to be believed."




6

  In which an effusion
  is sent to the newspapers

Take a garrulous night-watchman and an enterprising journalist; mix
them together over one, or even two glasses of beer, and a hard-worked
editor feels safe for a column every time.  And since the
night-watchman at Greystone's Steel Works was very garrulous, and the
journalist was young and ambitious, the result produced several columns
of the sort of stuff that everybody likes to read, and pretends he
doesn't.

Mr. Day was the night-watchman's name, and Mr. Day was prepared to tell
his story at a pint a time to anyone who cared to listen.  It differed
in detail, the difference depending entirely on the number of payments
received during the day, but the essential part remained the same.  And
it was that essential part that was first published in one of the local
Sheffield papers, and from there found its way into the London press.

Mr. Day, it appeared, had, according to his usual custom, been making
his hourly tour of the works.  It was about midnight, or perhaps a
little after, that he thought he heard the sound of voices coming from
the central power station.  As he approached it had seemed to him that
it was more lit up than it had been on his previous round, when only
one electric light had been burning.  He was on the point of opening
the door to go in and investigate, when he heard at least half a dozen
voices speaking angrily, and one in particular had stood out above the
others.  It was loud and convulsed with passion, and on hearing it Mr.
Day, remembering his wife and four children, had paused.

"You damned traitor, as sure as there's a God above, I'll kill you for
this some day."

Such were the words which it appeared had given Mr. Day cause for
reflection.  At any time, and in any place, they would be apt to stand
out from the ordinary level of bright chat; but as Mr. Day remarked
succinctly, "they fair gave me the creeps, coming out o' that there
place, which was hempty, mind you, not 'alf an hour before."

And there are few, I think, who can blame him for his decision not to
open the door, but to substitute for such a course a strategic move to
a flank.  There was an outside flight of steps leading to a door which
opened on to the upstairs platform where stood the indicator board.
And half-way up that flight of stairs was a window--a window through
which Mr. Day was peering a few seconds afterwards.

It was at this point in the narrative that Mr. Day was wont to pause,
while his listeners drew closer.  Standing between the four huge
dynamos which supplied the whole of the power necessary for the works
were ten or a dozen men.  Three of them had their hands lashed behind
their backs, and these were the only three whose faces he could see.
The others--and here came a still more impressive pause--were
completely covered in black from head to foot.  Black masks--black
cloaks, the only difference between them being in height.  He couldn't
hear what was being said: ever since the Boer War Mr. Day had been a
little hard of hearing.  But what it reminded him of was a drum-head
court-martial.  The three men whose hands were lashed behind them were
the prisoners; the men in black, standing motionless round them, their
judges.  He heard vaguely the sound of a voice which went on speaking
for some time.  And since the three bound men seemed to be staring at
one of the masked figures, he concluded that that must be the speaker.
Then he saw the masked men surround the other three closely, and when
they stood back again Mr. Day noticed that the prisoners had been
gagged as well as bound.  It was at this moment, apparently, that a
hazy idea of going for the police penetrated his brain for the first
time, but it was too late.  Powerless in the hands of their captors,
the three men were forced to the door, and shortly afterwards Mr. Day
affirmed that he heard the sound of a car driving off.  But he was
unable to swear to it; he was still flattening a fascinated nose
against the window; for two of the masked men had remained behind, and
Mr. Day wasn't going to miss anything.

These two gathered together into bundles a lot of things that looked
like wooden slabs--also some stuff that looked like black cord.  Then
they walked carefully round the whole power station, as if to make sure
that nothing had been left behind.  Apparently satisfied with their
inspection, they went to the door, carrying the bundles they had
collected.  They turned out all the lights except the one which had
originally been burning, took one final look round to make certain that
everything was as it should be, and then they, too, vanished into the
night, leaving Mr. Day to scratch his head and wonder if he had been
dreaming.

In fact, but for one indisputable certainty, it is very doubtful
whether Mr. Day's story would have been received with the respect which
it undoubtedly deserved.  When he first recounted it there were
scoffers of the most incredulous type; scoffers who cast the most
libellous reflections on the manner in which Mr. Day had spent the
evening before going on duty, and it was not until the fact became
established two or three days later that three men who should have come
to work the next morning at their different jobs not only failed to
appear, but had completely disappeared, leaving no trace behind them,
that the scoffers became silent.  Moreover, the enterprising journalist
came on the scene, and Mr. Day became famous, and Mr. Day developed an
infinite capacity for beer.  Was not he, wildly improbable though his
story might be, the only person who could throw any light at all on the
mysterious disappearance of three workmen from Sheffield?  Certainly
the journalist considered he was, and proceeded to write a column of
the most convincing journalese to proclaim his belief to the world at
large, and Sheffield in particular.

Thus was the ball started.  And no sooner had it commenced to move,
than it received astonishing impetus from all sorts of unexpected
directions.  The journalist, in his search for copy to keep his infant
alive, discovered to his astonishment that he had unearthed a
full-grown child.  The activities of the Black Gang were not such a
profound mystery as he had at first thought.  And though he failed to
get the slightest clue as to the identity of the men composing it, he
was soon absolutely convinced of the truth of Mr. Day's story.  But
there he stuck; the whole matter became one of conjecture in his mind.
That there was a Black Gang, he was certain; but why or wherefore was
beyond him.

Men he encountered in odd places were noncommittal.  Some obviously
knew nothing about it; others shrugged their shoulders and looked wise.

There was one group of youngish men he approached on the matter.  They
were standing at the corner of the long street which led from
Greystone's works, muttering together, and their conversation ceased
abruptly as he sauntered up.

"Journalist, are you?" said one.  "Want to know about this 'ere Black
Gang?  Well, look 'ere, mister, I'll tell you one thing.  See them
furnaces over there?"

He pointed to the ruddy, orange light of Greystone's huge furnaces,
glowing fiercely against the evening sky.

"Well, if me and my mates ever catch the leader of that there gang, or
anybody wot's connected with it, they goes in them furnaces alive."

"Shut up, yer blasted fool!" cried one of the others.

"Think I'm afraid of that bunch!" snarled the first speaker.  "A bunch
wot's frightened to show their faces..."

But the journalist had passed on.

"Don't you pay no attention to them young fools, mate," said an
elderly, quiet-looking man, who was standing smoking in a doorway a few
yards on.  "They talks too much and they does too little."

"I was asking them about this so-called Black Gang," said the searcher
after news.

"Ah!"  The elderly man spat thoughtfully.  "Don't profess to know
nothing about them myself; but if wot I've 'eard is true, we could do
with a few more like 'em."

And once more the journalist passed on.

The police refused point-blank to make any communications on the matter
at all.  They had heard Mr. Day's story, and while not disposed to
dismiss it entirely, they would not say that they were prepared to
accept it completely; and since it was a jolly day outside, and they
were rather busy, the door was along the passage to the left.

Such were the ingredients, then, with which one, and sometimes two
columns daily were made up for the edification of the inhabitants of
Sheffield.  Brief notices appeared in one or two of the London dailies,
coupled with the announcement that Mr. Charles Latter had suffered a
nervous breakdown, and that this well-known M.P. had gone to a
nursing-home for some weeks.  But beyond that the matter was too local
to be of importance, until a sudden dramatic development revived the
flagging interest in Sheffield, and brought the matter into the
national limelight.

It was nothing more or less than an announcement purporting to come
from the leader of the Black Gang himself, and sent to the editor of
the Sheffield paper.  It occupied a prominent position in the centre
page, and was introduced to the public in the following words:

"The following communication has been received by the editor.  The
original, which he has handed over to the proper authorities, was
typewritten; the postmark was a London one.  The editor offers no
comment on the genuineness of the document, beyond stating that it is
printed exactly as it was received."

The document ran as follows:


"In view of the conflicting rumours started by the story of Mr. Day,
the night-watchman at Greystone's works, it may be of interest to the
public to know that his story is true in every detail.  The three men
whom he saw bound were engaged at the instigation of others in an
attempt to wreck the main power station, thereby largely increasing
unemployment in Sheffield, and fomenting more unrest.  The driving
force behind this, as behind other similar activities, is
international.  The source of it all lies in other countries; the
object is the complete ruin of the great sober majority of workers in
England by a loud-voiced, money-seeking minority which is composed of
unscrupulous scoundrels and fanatical madmen.  For these apostles of
anarchy a home has been prepared, where the doctrines of Communism are
strictly enforced.  The three men who have disappeared from Sheffield
have gone to that home, but there is still plenty of room for others.
Mr. Charles Latter has gone mad, otherwise he would have accompanied
them.  The more intelligent the man, the more vile the scoundrel.
Charles Latter was intelligent.  There are others more intelligent than
he.  It is expressly for their benefit that the Black Gang came into
being.  (Signed) THE LEADER OF THE GANG."


The reception of this remarkable document was mixed.  On the strength
of the first sentence Mr. Day's price rose to two pints; but it was the
rest of the communication which aroused public interest.  For the first
time some tangible reason had been advanced to account for the presence
of the three bound men and their masked captors in the power-station at
Greystones.  Inquiries revealed the fact that all three of them were
men educated above the average, and of very advanced Socialistic views.
And to that extent the document seemed credible.  But it was the
concluding sentences that baffled the public.

True, Mr. Charles Latter, M.P., had been staying on the night in
question at Lady Manton's house a few miles out of the town.  Equally
true he had had a nervous breakdown which necessitated his removal to a
nursing-home in London.  But what connection there could possibly be
between him and the three men it was difficult to see.  It was most
positively asserted that the well-known Member of Parliament had not
left Drayton House during the night on which the affair took place; and
yet, if credence was to be attached to the document, there was an
intimate connection between him and the affair at the steel works.
Callers at the nursing-home came away none the wiser; his doctor had
positively forbidden a soul to be admitted save his brother, who came
away frowning after the first visit, and returned no more.  For Charles
Latter not only had not recognized him, but had shrunk away, babbling
nonsense, while continually his eyes had sought the foot of the bed
with a look of dreadful terror in them.

And so speculation continued.  No further communication emanated from
the mysterious Black Gang.  Mr. Latter was insane; the three men had
disappeared, and Mr. Day, even at two pints, could say no more than he
had said already.  There were people who dismissed the entire thing as
an impudent and impertinent hoax, and stated that the editor of the
Sheffield paper should be prosecuted for libel.  It was obvious, they
explained, what had occurred.  Some irresponsible practical joker had,
for reasons of his own, connected together the two acts, whose only
real connection was that they had occurred about the same time, and had
maliciously sent the letter to the paper.

But there were others who were not so sure--people who nodded wisely at
one another from the corners of trains, and claimed inside knowledge of
strange happenings unknown to the mere public.  They affirmed darkly
that there was more in it than met the eye, and relapsed into
confidential mutterings.

And then, when nothing further happened, the matter died out of the
papers, and speculation ceased amongst the public.  The general
impression left behind favoured a hoax; and at that it was allowed to
remain until the events occurred which were to prove that it was a very
grim reality.

      *      *      *      *      *

But whatever the general public may have thought about the matter,
there were two people in London who viewed the sudden newspaper
notoriety with rage and anger.  And it is, perhaps, needless to say
that neither of them concurred in the impression that it was a hoax;
only too well did they know that it was nothing of the kind.

The first of these was Count Zadowa, alias Mr. William Atkinson.  He
had duly received from Latter a telegram in code stating that
everything was well--a telegram despatched from Sheffield after the
meeting with Delmorlick in the afternoon.  And from that moment he had
heard nothing.  The early editions of the evening papers on the
following day had contained no reference to any explosion at Sheffield;
the later ones had announced Mr. Latter's nervous breakdown.  And the
Count, reading between the lines, had wondered, though at that time he
was far from guessing the real truth.  Then had come strange
rumours--rumours which resulted in the summoning post-haste from
Sheffield of a man who was alluded to in the archives at 5, Green
Street, as John Smith, commission agent.  And, though he may have fully
deserved the description of commission agent, a glance at his face gave
one to wonder at his right to the name of John Smith.

"Tell me exactly what has happened," said the Count, quietly, pointing
to a chair in his inner office.  "Up to date I have only heard rumours."

And John Smith, with the accent of a Polish Jew, told.  Mr. Latter had
called on him, early in the afternoon, and, in accordance with his
instructions, he had arranged a meeting between Mr. Latter and
Delmorlick at an hotel.  Delmorlick had taken three other men with him,
and he presumed everything had been arranged at that meeting.  No; he
had not been present himself.  For two of Delmorlick's companions he
could vouch; in fact--and then, for the first time, Count Zadowa heard
the story so ably spread abroad by Mr. Day.  For it was those two men
and Delmorlick who had disappeared.

"Then it was the fourth man who gave it away," snapped the Count.  "Who
was he?"

"He called himself Jackson," faltered the other.  "But I haven't seen
him since."

Thoughtfully the Count beat a tattoo with his fingers on the desk in
front of him; no one looking at him would have guessed for an instant
the rage that was seething in his brain.  For the first time he
realized fully that, perfect though his own organization might be, he
had come up against one that was still better.

"And what about this nervous breakdown of Mr. Latter's?" he demanded at
length.

But on that subject John Smith knew nothing.  He had no ideas on the
subject, and, after a few searching questions, he found himself curtly
dismissed, leaving the Count to ponder over the knotty point as to the
connection between Latter's breakdown and the affair at the power
station.  And he was still pondering over it three days later when the
bombshell exploded in the form of the document to the Press.  That the
concluding sentences were evidently directed against him did not worry
him nearly as much as the publicity afforded to activities in which
secrecy was essential.  And what worried him even more was the fact
that others on the Continent--men whose names were never mentioned, but
who regarded him almost as he regarded Latter--would see the English
papers, and would form their own conclusions.  Already some peremptory
letters had reached him, stating that the activities of the Black Gang
must cease--how, it was immaterial.  And he had replied stating that he
had the thing well in hand.  On top of which had come this damnable
document, which was published in practically every paper in the
country, and had produced a sort of silly-season discussion from
"Retired Colonel" and "Maiden Lady."  Of no importance to him that
"Common Sense" decreed that it was a stupid hoax: he knew it was not.
And so did those others, as he very soon found out.  Two days after the
appearance of the document, he received a letter which bore the
postmark of Amsterdam.  It stated merely: "I am coming," and was signed
X.  And had anyone been present when Count Zadowa opened that letter in
his private office, he would have seen an unexpected sight.  He would
have seen him tear the letter into a thousand pieces, and then wipe his
forehead with a hand that trembled a little.  For Count Zadowa, who
terrified most men, was frightened himself.

The second person who viewed this sudden notoriety with dislike was
Inspector McIver.  And in his case, too, the reason was largely
personal.  He was caught on the horns of a dilemma, as Sir Bryan
Johnstone, who was not too pleased with the turn of events, pointed out
to him a little caustically.  Either the entire thing was a hoax, in
which case, why had McIver himself taken such elaborate precautions to
prevent anything happening? or it was not a hoax, in which case McIver
had been made a complete fool of.

"I'll stake my reputation on the fact that no one got into or left the
house that night, Sir Bryan," he reiterated again and again.  "That the
Black Gang was at work in the town, I admit; but I do not believe that
Mr. Latter's condition is anything more than a strange coincidence."

It was an interview that he had with Mr. Latter's brother, that caused
him to go round to Drummond's house in Brook Street.  Much as he
disliked having to do so he felt he must leave no stone unturned if he
was to get to the bottom of the affair, and Mr. Latter's brother had
said one or two things which he thought might be worth following up.
If only Hugh Drummond wasn't such a confounded fool, he reflected
savagely, as he turned into Bond Street, it would have been possible to
get some sane information.  But that was his chief's fault; he entirely
washed his hands of the responsibility of roping in such a vast idiot.
And it was at that stage in his meditations that a Rolls-Royce drew
silently up beside him, and the cheerful voice of the subject of his
thoughts hailed him delightedly.

"The very man, and the very spot!"

McIver turned round and nodded briefly.

"Morning, Captain Drummond!  I was just going round to your house to
see you."

"But, my dear old top," cried Hugh, "don't you see where you are?  The
portals of the Regency positively beckon us.  Behind those portals, a
cocktail apiece, and you shall tell me all your troubles."

He gently propelled the inspector through the doors of the celebrated
club, still babbling cheerfully.

"After profound experience, old lad," he remarked, coming to anchor by
the bar, "I have come to the conclusion that there is only one thing in
this world better than having a cocktail at twelve o'clock."

"What's that?" said McIver perfunctorily.

"Having two," answered Drummond triumphantly.

The inspector smiled wanly.  After his profound experience he had come
to the conclusion that there could exist no bigger ass in the world
than Drummond, but he followed a trade where at times it is necessary
to suffer fools gladly.  And this was one of them.

"Is there any place where we could have a little private talk, Captain
Drummond?" he asked, as the other pushed a Martini towards him.

"What about that corner over there?" said Drummond, after glancing
round the room.

"Excellent!" agreed the inspector, and, picking up his cocktail, he
crossed over to it and sat down.  It took his host nearly five minutes
to do the same short journey, and McIver chafed irritably at the delay.
He was a busy man, and it seemed to him that Drummond knew everyone in
the room.  Moreover, he insisted on talking to them at length.  And
once again a feeling of anger against his chief filled his mind.  What
had Drummond except his great strength to distinguish him from this
futile crowd of cocktail-drinking men?  All of them built on the same
pattern; all of them fashioned along the same lines.  Talking a strange
jargon of their own--idle, perfectly groomed, bored.  As far as they
were concerned, he was non-existent save as the man who was with
Drummond.  He smiled a little grimly; he, who did more man's work in a
week than the whole lot of them put together got through in a year.  A
strange caste, he reflected, as he sipped his drink; a caste which does
not aim at, because it essentially is, good form; a caste which knows
only one fetish--the absolute repression of all visible emotion; a
caste which incidentally pulled considerably more than its own weight
in the war.  McIver gave them credit for that.

"Sorry to be so long."  Drummond lowered himself into a chair.  "The
place is always crowded at this hour.  Now, what's the little worry?"

"It's about the affair up at Sheffield," said the inspector.  "I
suppose you've seen this communication in the papers, purporting to
come from the leader of the Black Gang."

"Rather, old lad," answered Drummond.  "Waded through it over the eggs
the other morning.  Pretty useful effort, I thought."

"The public at large regard it as a hoax," continued McIver.  "Now, I
know it isn't!  The typewriter used in the original document is the
same as was used in their previous communications."

"By Jove, that's quick!" said Drummond admiringly.  "Deuced quick."

McIver frowned.

"Now please concentrate, Captain Drummond.  The concluding sentence of
the letter would lead one to suppose that there was some connection
between the activities of this gang and Mr. Charles Latter's present
condition.  I, personally, don't believe it.  I think it was mere
coincidence.  But whichever way it is, I would give a great deal to
know what sent him mad."

"Is he absolutely up the pole?" demanded Drummond.

"Absolutely!  His brother has seen him, and after he had seen him he
came to me.  He tells me that the one marked symptom is an
overmastering terror of something which he seems to see at the foot of
the bed.  He follows this thing round with his eyes--I suppose he
thinks it's coming towards him--and then he screams.  His brother
believes that someone or something must have been in his room that
night--a something so terrifying that it sent him mad.  To my mind, of
course, the idea is wildly improbable, but strange things do occur."

"Undoubtedly!" agreed Drummond.

"Now you were in the house," went on the inspector; "you even examined
his room, as you told Sir Bryan.  Now, did you examine it closely?"

"Even to looking under the bed," answered Drummond brightly.

"And there was nothing there?  No place where anybody or anything could
hide?"

"Not a vestige of a spot.  In fact, my dear old police hound,"
continued Drummond, draining his glass, "if the genial brother is
correct in his supposition the only conclusion we can come to is that I
sent him mad myself."

McIver frowned again.

"I wish you'd be serious, Captain Drummond.  There are other things in
life beside cocktails and--this."  He waved an expressive hand round
the room.  "The matter is an important one.  You can give me no further
information?  You heard no sounds during the night?"

"Only the sheep-faced man snoring," answered Drummond, with a grin.
And then, of a sudden, he became serious, and leaning across the table,
he stared fixedly at the inspector.

"I think we must conclude, McIver, that the madness of Mr. Latter is
due to the ghosts of the past, and perhaps the spectres of the present.
A punishment, McIver, for things done which it is not good to do--a
punishment which came to him in the night.  That's when the ghosts are
abroad."  He noted McIver's astonished face and gradually his own
relaxed into a smile.  "Pretty good, that--wasn't it, after only one
cocktail.  You ought to hear me after my third."

"Thanks very much, Captain Drummond," laughed the inspector, "but that
was quite good enough for me.  We don't deal in ghosts in my service."

"Well, I've done my best," sighed Drummond, waving languidly at a
waiter to repeat the dose.  "It's either that or me.  I know my face is
pretty bad, but----"

"I don't think we need worry about either alternative," said McIver,
rising.

"Right oh, old lad," answered Drummond.  "You know best.  You'll have
another?"

"No more, thanks.  I have to work sometimes."

The inspector picked up his hat and stick, and Drummond strolled across
the room with him.

"Give my love to Tum-tum."

"Sir Bryan is not at the office to-day, Captain Drummond," answered
McIver coldly.  "Good-morning."

With a faint smile Drummond watched the square, sturdy figure swing
through the doors into Bond Street, then he turned and thoughtfully
made his way back to the table.

"Make it seven, instead of two," he told the waiter, who was hovering
round.

And had McIver returned at that moment he would have seen six of these
imperturbable, bored men rise unobtrusively from different parts of the
room, and saunter idly across to the corner where he had recently been
sitting.  It would probably not have struck him as an unusual
sight--Drummond and six of his pals having a second drink; in fact, it
would have struck him as being very usual.  He was an unimaginative man
was the inspector.

"Well," said Peter Darrell, lighting a cigarette.  "And what had he got
to say?"

"Nothing of interest," answered Drummond.  "I told him the truth, and
he wouldn't believe me.  Algy back yet?"

"This morning," said Ted Jerningham.  "He's coming round here.  Had a
bit of trouble, I gather.  And, talk of the devil--here he is."

Algy Longworth, his right arm in a sling, was threading his way towards
them.

"What's happened, Algy?" said Hugh as he came up.

"That firebrand Delmorlick stuck a knife into me," grinned Algy.  "We
put him on a rope and dropped him overboard, and towed him for three
hundred yards.  Cooled his ardour.  I think he'll live all right."

"And how are all the specimens?"

"Prime, old son--prime!  If we leave 'em long enough, they'll all have
murdered one another."

Drummond put down his empty glass with a laugh.

"The first British Soviet.  Long life to 'em!  Incidentally, ten
o'clock to-night.  Usual rendezvous.  In view of your arm,
Algy--transfer your instructions to Ted.  You've got 'em?"

"In my pocket here.  But, Hugh, I can easily----"

"Transfer to Ted, please.  No argument!  We've got a nice little
job--possibly some sport.  Read 'em, Ted--and business as usual.  So
long, boys!  Phyllis and I are lunching with some awe-inspiring
relatives."

The group broke up as casually as it had formed, only Ted Jerningham
remaining behind.  And he was reading what looked like an ordinary
letter.  He read it through carefully six or seven times; then he
placed it in the fire, watching it until it was reduced to ashes.  A
few minutes later he was sitting down to lunch with his father, Sir
Patrick Jerningham, Bart., at the latter's club in Pall Mall.  And it
is possible that that worthy and conscientious gentleman would not have
eaten such a hearty meal had he known that his only son was detailed
for a job that very night which, in the event of failure, would mean
either prison or a knife in the back--probably the latter.




7

  In which a bomb bursts
  at unpleasantly close
  quarters

It was perhaps because the thought of failure never entered Hugh
Drummond's head that such a considerable measure of success had been
possible up to date--that, and the absolute, unquestioning obedience
which he demanded of his pals, and which they accorded him willingly.
As they knew, he laid no claims to brilliance; but as they also knew,
he hid a very shrewd commonsense beneath his frivolous manner.  And
having once accepted the sound military truism that one indifferent
general is better than two good ones, they accepted his leadership with
unswerving loyalty.  What was going to be the end of their self-imposed
fight against the pests of society did not worry them greatly; all that
mattered was that there should be a certain amount of sport in the
collection of the specimens.  Granted the promise of that, they
willingly sacrificed any engagements and carried out Hugh's orders to
the letter.  Up to date, however, the campaign, though far from being
dull, had not produced any really big results.  A number of sprats and
a few moderate-sized fish had duly been caught in the landing-net, and
been sent to the private pool to meditate at leisure.  But nothing
really large had come their way.  Zaboleff was a good haul, and the
madness of Mr. Latter was all for the national welfare.  But the Black
Gang, which aimed merely at the repression of terrorism by terrorism,
had found it too easy.  The nauseating cowardice of the majority of
their opponents was becoming monotonous, their strong aversion to soap
and water, insanitary.  They wanted big game--not the rats that emerged
from the sewers.

Even Drummond had begun to feel that patriotism might be carried too
far, until the moment when the address in Hoxton had fallen into his
hands.  Then, with the optimism that lives eternal in the hunter's
breast, fresh hope had arisen in his mind.  It had been held in
abeyance temporarily owing to the little affair at Sheffield.  Yet now
that that was over he had determined on a bigger game.  If it
failed--if they drew blank--he had almost decided to chuck the thing up
altogether.  Phyllis, he knew, would be overjoyed if he did.

"Just this one final coup, old girl," he said, as they sat waiting in
the Carlton for the awe-inspiring relatives.  "I've got it cut and
dried, and it comes off to-night.  If it's a dud, we'll dissolve
ourselves--at any rate, for the present.  If only----"

He sighed, and his wife looked at him reproachfully.

"I know you want another fight with Peterson, you old goat," she
remarked.  "But you'll never see him again, or that horrible girl."

"Don't you think I shall, Phyl?"  He stared despondently at his shoes.
"I can't help feeling myself that somewhere or other behind all this
that cheery bird is lurking.  My dear, it would be too ghastly if I
never saw him again."

"The next time you see him, Hugh," she answered quietly, "he won't take
any chances with you."

"But, my angel child," he boomed cheerfully.  "I don't want him to.
Not on your life!  Nor shall I.  Good Lord!  Here they are.  Uncle
Timothy looks more like a mangel-wurzel than ever."

And so at nine-thirty that evening, a party of five men sat waiting in
a small sitting-room, of a house situated in a remote corner of South
Kensington.  Some easels stood round the walls covered with
half-finished sketches, as befitted a room belonging to a budding
artist such as Toby Sinclair Not that he was an artist or even a
budding one, but he felt that a man must have some excuse for living in
South Kensington.  And so he had bought the sketches and put them round
the room, principally to deceive the landlady.  The fact that he was
never there except at strange hours merely confirmed that excellent
woman's opinion that all artists were dissolute rascals.  But he paid
his rent regularly, and times were hard, especially in South
Kensington.  Had the worthy soul known that her second best
sitting-room was the rendezvous of this Black Gang whose letter to the
paper she and her husband had discussed over the matutinal kipper, it
is doubtful if she would have been so complacent.  But she didn't know,
and continued her weekly dusting of the sketches with characteristic
zeal.

"Ted should be here soon," said Drummond, glancing at his watch.  "I
hope he's got the bird all right."

"You didn't get into the inner room, did you.  Hugh?" said Peter
Darrell.

"No.  But I saw enough to know that it's beyond our form, old lad.
We've got to have a skilled cracksman to deal with one of the
doors--and almost certainly anything important will be in a safe
inside."

"Just run over the orders again."  Toby Sinclair came back from drawing
the blinds even more closely together.

"Perfectly simple," said Hugh.  "Ted and I and Ginger Martin--if he's
got him--will go straight into the house through the front door.  I
know the geography of the place all right, and I've already laid out
the caretaker clerk fellow once.  Then we must trust to luck.  There
shouldn't be anybody there except the little blighter of a clerk.  The
rest of you will hang about outside in case of any trouble.  Don't
bunch together, keep on the move; but keep the doors in sight.  When
you see us come out again, make your own way home.  Can't give you any
more detailed instructions because I don't know what may turn up.  I
shall rig myself out here, after Ted arrives.  You had better go to
your own rooms and do it, but wait first to make sure that he's roped
in Ginger Martin."

He glanced up as the door opened and Jerry Seymour--sometime of the
R.F.C.--put his head into the room.

"Ted's here, and he's got the bird all right.  Unpleasant-looking bloke
with a flattened face."

"Right."  Drummond rose, and crossed to a cupboard.  "Clear off, you
fellows.  Zero--twelve midnight."

From the cupboard he pulled a long black cloak and mask, which he
proceeded to put on, while the others disappeared with the exception of
Jerry Seymour, who came into the room.  He was dressed in livery like a
chauffeur, and he had, in fact, been driving the car in which Ted had
brought Ginger Martin.

"Any trouble?" asked Drummond.

"No.  Once he was certain Ted was nothing to do with the police he came
like a bird," said Jerry.  "The fifty quid did it."  Then he grinned.
"You know, Ted's a marvel.  I'll defy anybody to recognize him."

Drummond nodded, and sat down at the table facing the door.

"Tell Ted to bring him up.  And I don't want him to see you, Jerry, so
keep out of the light."

Undoubtedly Jerry Seymour was right with regard to Jerningham's
make-up.  As he and Martin came into the room, it was only the sudden
start and cry on the part of the crook that made Drummond certain as to
which was which.

"Blimey!" muttered the man, shrinking back as he saw the huge figure in
black confronting him.  "Wot's the game, guv'nor?"

"There's no game, Martin," said Drummond reassuringly.  "You've been
told what you're wanted for, haven't you?  A little professional
assistance to-night, for which you will be paid fifty pounds, is all we
ask of you."

But Ginger Martin still seemed far from easy in his mind.  Like most of
the underworld he had heard strange stories of the Black Gang long
before they had attained the notoriety of print.  Many of them were
exaggerated, doubtless, but the general impression left in his mind was
one of fear.  The police were always with him: the police he
understood.  But this strange gang was beyond his comprehension, and
that in itself was sufficient to frighten him.

"You're one of this 'ere Black Gang," he said sullenly, glancing at the
door in front of which Jerningham was standing.  Should he chance it
and make a dash to get away?  Fifty pounds are fifty pounds, but----
He gave a little shiver as his eyes came round again to the motionless
figure on the other side of the table.

"Quite correct, Martin," said the same reassuring voice.  "And it's
only because I don't want you to recognize me that I'm dressed up like
this.  We don't mean you any harm."  The voice paused for a moment, and
then went on again.  "You understand that, Martin.  We don't mean you
any harm, unless"--and once again there came a pause--"unless you try
any monkey tricks.  You are to do exactly as I tell you, without
question and at once.  If you do you will receive fifty pounds.  If you
don't--well, Martin, I have ways of dealing with people who don't do
what I tell them."

There was a silence while Ginger Martin fidgeted about, looking like a
trapped animal.  How he wished now that he'd had nothing to do with the
thing at all.  But it was too late to bother about that; here he was,
utterly ignorant of his whereabouts--trapped.

"What do you want me to do, guv'nor?" he said at last.

"Open a safe amongst other things," answered Drummond.  "Have you
brought your tools and things?"

"Yus--I've brought the outfit," muttered the other.  "Where is the
safe?  'Ere?"

"No, Martin, not here.  Some distance away in fact.  We shall start in
about an hour.  Until then you will stop in this room.  You can have a
whisky-and-soda, and my friend here will stay with you.  He has a gun,
Martin, so remember what I said.  No monkey tricks."

With fascinated eyes the crook watched the speaker rise and cross to an
inner door.  Standing, he seemed more huge than ever, and Martin gave a
sigh of relief as the door closed behind him.

"I reckon 'e wouldn't win a prize as a blinking dwarf," he remarked
hoarsely to Jerningham.  "I say, mister, wot abaht that there
whisky-and-soda?"

      *      *      *      *      *

The entrance to Number 5, Green Street, proved easier than Drummond had
expected--so easy as to be almost suspicious.  No lights shone in the
windows above: the house seemed completely deserted.  Moreover, the
door into the street was unbolted, and without a moment's hesitation
Drummond opened it and stepped inside, followed by Martin and Ted
Jerningham.  The long black cloak had been discarded; only the black
mask concealed his face, as the three men stood inside the door,
listening intently.  Not a sound was audible, and after a moment or two
Drummond felt his way cautiously through the downstairs office towards
the flight of stairs that led to the rooms above.  And it was just as
his foot was on the first stair that a sudden noise behind him made him
draw back sharply into the darkness behind the counter, with a warning
whisper to the other two to follow his example.

The front door had opened again; someone else had come in.  They could
see nothing, and the only sound seemed to be the slightly quickened
breathing of Ted Jerningham, whose nerve was not quite as good as the
others at affairs of this sort.  Then came the sound of bolts being
shot home, and footsteps coming into the office.

With a whispered "Stay there," Drummond glided across towards the door
like a shadow, moving with uncanny silence for such a big man.  And a
moment or two afterwards someone came into the office.  Jerningham,
crouching against the crook behind the counter, could see the outline
of a figure framed in the faint light that filtered in from a street
lamp through the fanlight over the door.  Then there was a click, and
the electric light was switched on.

For a second the new-comer failed to see them; then, with a sudden gasp
he stiffened, and stood staring at them rigidly.  It was Cohen, the
unpleasant little clerk, returning from an evening out, which accounted
for the front door having been unbolted.  And undoubtedly his luck was
out.  Because, having seen the two of them there behind the counter, he
somewhat naturally failed to look for anybody else.  It would not have
made any great difference if he had, but the expression on his face as
he felt two enormous hands close gently but firmly round his throat
from behind caused even the phlegmatic Ginger to chuckle grimly.

"Out with the light," snapped Drummond, "then help me lash him up and
gag him."

It was done quickly and deftly, and for the second time in a week the
wretched Cohen was laid under his own counter to cool.  It had been
carried out as noiselessly as possible, but it was five minutes before
Drummond again led the way cautiously up the stairs.  And during that
five minutes the three men listened with every sense alert, striving to
differentiate between the ordinary street noises and anything unusual
in the house above them.  But not even Drummond's ears, trained as they
had been for many nights in No Man's Land, could detect anything.  All
seemed as quiet as the grave.

"It probably is empty except for that little rat," he whispered to
Jerningham.  "But we'll take no chances."

In single file they crept up the stairs, Drummond leading.  The door at
the top was ajar, and for a while they stood in the carpeted passage
above listening again.

"Along this passage are the clerks' offices," he explained in a low
voice to the other two.  "At the far end is another door which we shall
probably find locked.  Beyond that is the inner office, which we want."

"Well, let's get on wiv it, guv'nor," muttered Ginger Martin hoarsely.
"There's no good in 'anging abaht."

Drummond switched on his electric torch, and flashed it cautiously
round.  Doors leading off the passage were open in most cases, and all
the rooms were empty; it was obvious that none of the staff were about.
And yet he felt an indefinable sense of danger, which he tried in vain
to shake off.  Somehow or other, he felt certain that they were not
alone--that there were other people in the house, besides the trussed
up clerk below.  But Ginger Martin had no such presentiments, and was
rapidly becoming impatient.  To open the door at the end of the
passage, if it should prove to be locked, was such child's play as to
be absolutely contemptible.  He wanted to get on with the safe, which
might take time, instead of fooling round in a passage listening for
mice.

At last Drummond moved slowly forward with the other two just behind
him.  Whatever he may have thought he had every intention of going
through with the job, and delay in such cases only tends to turn vague
fears into certain realities.  Gently he tried the door at the end of
the passage; as he had anticipated it was locked.

"'Old the light, guv'nor, so that it shines on the blinkin' key-'ole!"
said Ginger Martin impatiently.  "I'll get this open as easy as kiss
yer 'and."

Without a sound, the cracksman set to work; his coarse features
outlined in the circle of the torch, his ill-kept fingers handling his
instruments as deftly as any surgeon.  A little oil here and there; a
steady pressure with a short pointed steel tool; a faint click.

"There you are, guv'nor," he muttered, straightening up.  "Easy as kiss
yer 'and.  And if yer waits till I find me glove I'll open it for yer;
but Ginger Martin's finger-prints are too well known to run any risks."

Still no sound came from anywhere, though the click as the lock shot
back had seemed horribly loud in the silence.  And then, just as Martin
cautiously turned the handle and pushed open the door, Drummond
stiffened suddenly and switched off his torch.  He could have sworn
that he heard the sound of voices close by.

Only for a second--they were instantly silenced; but just for that
fraction of time as the door opened he felt certain he had heard men
speaking.

"Wot's the matter?" he heard Martin's hoarse whisper come out of the
darkness.

"Did you hear voices?" he breathed in reply.  "I thought I did as you
opened the door."

Once again the three men stood motionless, listening intently, but the
sound was not repeated.  Absolute silence reigned, broken only by the
noise of their own breathing.  And at last, after what seemed an
interminable pause, Drummond switched on his torch again.  The passage
was empty; the door of the inner office was just in front of them.
Almost he was persuaded that he must have made a mistake--that it had
been his imagination.  He peered through the keyhole: the room was in
darkness.  He turned the handle cautiously; the door gave to him; and
still with his torch held well in front of him, he stepped into the
room, turning the light into every corner.  Not a trace of anyone; the
inner office was absolutely empty.  He flashed the light all round the
walls, as far as he could see there was no other door--not even a
window.  Consequently the only way out was by the door through which
they had just entered, which was obviously impossible for anyone to
have done without his knowledge.

"It is all right!" he muttered, turning round to the other two.  "Must
have been my mistake.  Let's get on with it."

"There's a mighty strong smell of cigar smoke," said Jerningham
dubiously.

"No ventilation, old man," returned Drummond.  "Hangs about for hours.
No other door, no window.  Now then, Ginger, let's tackle the big desk
first.  It looks pretty easy, even to me."

As he spoke he moved into the centre of the room, his torch lighting up
the big roll-top desk.

"Right-ho, guv'nor.  Keep the beam on the keyhole----"

The crook bent over his task, only to straighten up suddenly as all the
lights went on.

"Yer damned fool!" he snarled.  "Switch 'em off!  It ain't safe."

"I didn't put 'em on!" snapped Drummond.

"Nor I," said Jerningham.

For a moment or two no one spoke; then Ginger Martin made a wild dive
for the door.  But the door which had opened so easily a few moments
before now refused to budge, though he tugged at it, cursing horribly.
And after a while he gave it up, and turned on Drummond like a wild
beast.

"You've trapped me, yer ---- swine.  I'll get even with you over this
if I swing for it!"

But Drummond, to whom the presence of actual danger was as meat and
drink, took not the slightest notice.  His brain, ice-cold and clear,
was moving rapidly.  It had not been a mistake, he had heard
voices--voices which came from that very room in which they now were.
Men had been there--men who had got out by some other way.  And Ginger
Martin was trapped--all of them.  More out of thoughtlessness than
anything else, he brushed the swearing crook aside with the back of his
hand--much as one brushes away a troublesome fly.  And Martin, feeling
as if he'd been kicked in the mouth by a horse, ceased to swear....

It was uncanny--devilish.  The room empty, save for them, suddenly
flooded with light.  But by whom?  Drummond felt they were being
watched.  But by whom?  And then suddenly he heard Ted Jerningham's
voice, low and tense.

"There's a man watching us, Hugh.  I can see his eyes.  In that big
safe door."

Like a flash, Drummond swung round, and looked at the safe.  Ted was
right; he could see the eyes himself, and they were fixed on him with
an expression of malignant fury through a kind of opening that looked
like the slit in a letter box.  For a moment or two they remained
there, staring at him, then they disappeared, and the opening through
which he had seen them disappeared also, and seemed to become part of
the door.  And it was just as he was moving towards this mysterious
safe to examine it closer that with a sudden clang, another opening
appeared--one much larger than the first.  He stopped involuntarily as
something was thrown through into the room--something which hissed and
spluttered.

For a moment he gazed at it uncomprehendingly as it lay on the floor;
then he gave a sudden, tense order.

"On your faces--for your lives!"  His voice cut through the room like a
knife.  "Behind the desk, you fools!  It's a bomb!"




8

  In which the bag of
  nuts is found by
  accident

It was the desk that saved Drummond, and with him Ted Jerningham.  Flat
on their faces, their arms covering their heads, they lay on the floor
waiting, as in days gone by they had waited for the bursting of a
too-near crump.  They heard Ginger Martin, as he blundered round the
room, and then--suddenly it came.

There was a deafening roar, and a sheet of flame which seemed to fill
the room.  Great lumps of the ceiling rained down and the big roll top
desk, cracked in pieces and splintered into matchwood, fell over on top
of them.  But it had done its work: it had borne the full force of the
explosion in their direction.  As a desk its day was past; it had
become a series of holes roughly held together by fragments of wood.

So much Drummond could see by the aid of his torch.  With the explosion
all the lights had gone out, and for a while he lay pressed against Ted
Jerningham trying to recover his wits.  His head was singing like a
bursting kettle: his back felt as if it was broken where a vast lump of
ceiling had hit him.  But after moving his legs cautiously and then his
arms, he decided that he was still alive.  And having arrived at that
momentous conclusion the necessity for prompt action became evident.  A
bomb bursting in London is not exactly a private affair.

"Are you all right, Ted?" he muttered hoarsely, his mouth full of
plaster and dust.

"I think so, old man," answered Jerningham, and Drummond heaved a sigh
of relief.  "I got a whack on the back of the head from something."

Drummond scrambled to his feet, and switched on his torch.  The
wreckage was complete, but it was for the third member of the party
that he was looking.  And after a moment or two he found him, and
cursed with a vigorous fury that boded ill for the person who had
thrown the bomb, if he ever met him.

For Ginger Martin, being either too frightened or too ignorant, had not
done as he was told.  There had been no desk between him and the bomb
when it burst, and what was left of him adorned a corner.  There was
nothing to be done: the unfortunate crook would never again burgle a
safe.  And the only comfort to Drummond was that death must have been
absolutely instantaneous.

"Poor devil," he muttered.  "Someone is going to pay for this."

And then he felt Ted Jerningham clutching his arm.

"It's blown a hole in the wall, man.  Look."

It was true: he could see the light of a street lamp shining through a
great jagged hole.

"Some bomb," he muttered.  "Let's clear."

He gave a final flash of his torch round the floor, as they moved
towards the shattered wall, and then suddenly stopped.

"What's that?"

Right in the centre of the beam, lying in the middle of the floor, was
a small chamois leather bag.  It seemed unhurt, and, without thinking,
Hugh picked it up and put it in his pocket.  Then switching off the
torch, they both clambered through the hole, dropped on to a lean-to
roof, and reached the ground.

They were at the back of the house in some deserted mews, and rapidity
of movement was clearly indicated.  Already a crowd was hurrying to the
scene of the explosion, and slipping quietly out of the dark alley,
they joined in themselves.

"Go home, Ted," said Drummond.  "I must get the others."

"Right, old man."  He made no demur, but just vanished quietly, while
his leader slouched on towards the front door of number 5, Green
Street.  The police were already beating on it, while a large knot of
interested spectators giving gratuitous advice stood around them.  And
in the crowd Drummond could see six of his gang: six anxious men who
had determined--police or no police--to get upstairs and see what had
happened.  In one and all their minds was a sickening fear, that the
man they followed had at last bitten off more than he could chew--that
they'd find him blown to pieces in the mysterious room upstairs.

And then, quite clear and distinct above the excited comments of the
crowd, came the hooting of an owl.  A strange sound to hear in a London
street, but no one paid any attention.  Other more engrossing matters
were on hand, more engrossing, that is, to all except the six men who
instantaneously swung half round as they heard it.  For just a second
they had a glimpse of a huge figure standing in the light of a
lamp-post on the other side of the street--then it disappeared; and
with astonishing celerity they followed its example.  Whoever had been
hurt it was not Drummond; and that, at the moment, was all they were
concerned with.

By devious routes they left the scene of the explosion--each with the
same goal in his mind.  The owl had only hooted once, which meant that
they were to reassemble as soon as possible; the second call, which
meant disperse, had not been given.  And so within an hour six young
men, shorn of all disguise and clad in immaculate evening clothes, were
admitted to Drummond's house in Brook Street by a somewhat sleepy Denny.

They found Hugh arrayed in a gorgeous dressing-gown with a large
tankard of beer beside him, and his wife sitting on the arm of his
chair.

"Beer, souls," he grunted.  "In the corner, as usual."

"What happened, old lad?" asked Peter Darrell.

"I got handed the frozen mitten.  I asked for bread, and they put
across a half-brick.  To be absolutely accurate we got into the room
all right, and having got in we found we couldn't get out.  Then
someone switched on the light, and bunged a bomb at us through a hole
in the door.  Quite O.K., old girl"--he put a reassuring arm round
Phyllis's waist--"I think we'd be still there if they hadn't."

"Is Ted all right?" asked Toby Sinclair.

"Yes.  Ted's all right.  Got a young load of bricks in his back when
the ceiling came down--but he's all right.  It's the other poor
devil--Ginger Martin."  His face was grim and stern, and the others
waited in silence for him to continue.

"There was a big desk in the room, and the bomb fell on one side of it.
Ted and I gave our well-known impersonation of an earthworm on the
other, which saved us.  Unfortunately, Ginger Martin, elected to run
round in small circles and curse.  And he will curse no more."

"Dead?"  Peter Darrell's voice was low.

"Very," answered Drummond quietly.  "In fact, he's now giving his
well-known impersonation of a wallpaper.  The poor blighter was blown
to pieces.  If he'd done what I'd told him he wouldn't have been, but
that's beside the point.  He was working for me, and he was killed
while he was doing so.  And I don't like that happening."

"Oh! my dear," said Phyllis.  "I do wish you'd give it up.  You've
escaped this time, but sooner or later they'll get you.  It isn't worth
it."

Drummond shook his head, and again encircled his wife's waist with his
arm.

"You wouldn't like me to let that poor devil's death go unavenged,
would you?"  He looked up at her, and she shrugged her shoulders
resignedly.  A year of marriage with this vast husband of hers had
convinced her of the futility of arguing with him once his mind was
made up.  "Not that the country will be appreciably worse off for his
departure, but that's not the point.  He was doing a job for me when it
happened, and I don't stand for that at all."

"What do you propose to do?" demanded Jerry Seymour, thoughtfully
refilling his glass.

"Well, there, old son, at the moment you have me beat," conceded Hugh.
"I sort of figured it out this way.  Whoever the bird is who bunged
that bomb, he recognised me as being the leader of our little bunch.  I
mean it was me he was staring at through the door with eyes bubbling
over with tenderness and love.  It was me that bally bomb was intended
for--not Ginger Martin, though he was actually doing the work.  And if
this cove is prepared to wreck his own office just to get me out of the
way--I guess I must be somewhat unpopular."

"The reasoning seems extraordinarily profound," murmured Peter.

"Now the great point is--does he know who I am?" continued Hugh.  "Is
the little treasure now saying to himself, what time he lowers the
evening cup of bread-and-milk, 'That has settled the hash of one Hugh
Drummond,' or is he merely saying, 'I have nastily disintegrated the
leader of the Black Gang'?"

"But what's it matter anyway?" demanded Toby.  "He hasn't disintegrated
you, and he's smashed up his own office--so I fail to see where he wins
the grand piano."

"That, old Toby, is where you show yourself incapable of grasping the
finer points of the situation."  Hugh thoughtfully lit a cigarette.
"Our great difficulty, before Zaboleff was kind enough to present us
with the address of their headquarters, was to get in touch with the
man at the top.  And now the headquarters are no more.  No man can work
in an office with periodical boulders falling on his head from the
roof, and a large hole in the wall just behind him.  I mean there's no
privacy about it.  And so--unless he knows me--he won't be able to
carry on the good work when he finds that neither of my boots has
reached the top of St. Paul's.  We shall be parted again--which is
dreadful to think of.  There's no cheery little meeting ground where we
can foregather for the matutinal Martini or even Manhattan.  Why, we
might even pass one another in the street as complete strangers."

"I get you," said Peter.  "And you don't know him."

"Not well enough to call him Bertie.  There's a humpbacked blighter up
there who calls himself a count, and on whom I focused the old optic
for about two seconds the other evening.  But whether he's the humorist
who bunged the bomb or not is a different matter."  He glanced up as
the door opened.  "What is it, Denny?"

"I found this bag, sir, in the pocket of the coat you were wearing
to-night."

His servant came into the room carrying the chamois leather bag, which
he handed to Drummond.

"Will you be wanting anything more to-night, sir?"

"No, thank you, Denny.  You toddle off to bye-bye.  And give Mrs. Denny
a chaste salute from Mr. Darrell."

"Very good, sir!"

The door closed behind him, and Hugh stared thoughtfully at the bag in
his hand.

"I'd forgotten about this.  Saw it lying on the floor, just before we
hopped it.  Hullo! it's sealed."

"For goodness' sake be careful, boy!" cried Phyllis.  "It may be
another bomb."

Hugh laughed and ripped open the bag; then his eyes slowly widened in
amazement as he saw the contents.

"Great Scott!" he cried.  "What the devil have we got here?"

He emptied the bag out on to the table, and for a moment or two the
others stared silently at half a dozen objects that flashed and
glittered with a thousand fires.  Five of them were white; but the
sixth--appreciably larger than the others, and they were the size of
walnuts--was a wonderful rose pink.

"What on earth are they?  Lumps of glass?"

With a hand that shook a little, Toby Sinclair picked one of them up
and examined it.

"No, you fellows," he muttered, "they're diamonds!"

"Rot!" cried Hugh incredulously.

"They're diamonds," repeated Toby.  "I happen to know something about
precious stones.  These are diamonds."

"But they must be worth a lot," said Phyllis, picking up the pink one.

"Worth a lot," said Toby dazedly.  "Worth a lot!  Why, Mrs. Hugh, they
are literally worth untold gold in the right market.  They are
absolutely priceless.  I've never even thought of such stones.  That
one that you're holding in your hand would be worth over a quarter of a
million pounds, if you could get the right buyer."

For a moment no one spoke; then Hugh laughed cheerily.

"Bang goes next month's dress allowance, old thing!"  He swept them all
into the bag, and stood up.  "I'm laying even money that the
bomb-thrower is coughing some and then again over his bread-and-milk.
This bag must have been in the desk."  His shoulders began to shake.
"How frightfully funny!"




9

  In which there is a
  stormy supper party
  at the Ritz

It was just about the time that Ginger Martin's wife became, all
unconsciously, a widow, that the sitting-room bell of a certain private
suite in the Ritz was rung.  The occupants of the room were two in
number--a man and a woman--and they had arrived only that morning from
the Continent.  The man, whose signature in the register announced him
to be the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor--looked a splendid specimen of
the right sort of clergyman.  Tall, broad-shouldered, with a pair of
shrewd, kindly eyes and a great mass of snow-white hair, he was the
type of man who attracted attention wherever he went, and in whatever
society he found himself.  A faint twang in his speech betrayed his
nationality, and, indeed, he made no secret of it.  He was an American
born and bred, who had been seeing first hand for himself some of the
dreadful horrors of the famine which was ravaging Central Europe.

And with him had gone his daughter Janet--that faithful, constant
companion of his, who since her mother's death had never left him.  She
was a good-looking girl, too--though perhaps unkind people might have
said girlhood's happy days had receded somewhat into the past.  Thirty,
perhaps--even thirty-five--though her father always alluded to her as
"My little girl."

There was something very sweet and touching about their relationship;
his pride in her and her simple, loving admiration for Dad.  Only that
evening before dinner they had got into conversation in the lounge with
a party of American globe-trotters, who had unanimously voted them
quite charming.

"I feel," had said the Reverend Theodosius, "that it is almost wicked
our staying in such an hotel as this, after the dreadful things we've
seen.  How my little girl stood it all I don't know."  He took his
daughter's hand and patted it lovingly.

"I guess," said Janet with her faint, sweet smile, "I guess the Dad
deserves it.  Why he nearly worked himself ill doing relief work and
things out there in Vienna and places."

"Is there any lack of funds, Mr. Longmoor?" asked one lady.  "One feels
one ought to do something to help."

The Reverend Theodosius gave her one of his rare sweet smiles.

"There was when I left," he murmured.  "You'd never believe how money
goes out there, and really the poor children have very little to show
for it."

"Too bad--too bad."  A square-jawed man who was a member of the party
beckoned to a passing waiter.  "Say, Mr. Longmoor, will you drink a
cocktail with me?  And your daughter, too?"

"It is very good of you, sir," answered the clergyman, with a courteous
bow.  "My little girl has never even tasted one and I think perhaps she
had better not.  What do you think, my child?"

"I'd love to try, Daddy, dear," she said coaxingly.  "Do you think I
might?  Or would it make my head go funny?"

They all laughed.

"That settles it, Miss Longmoor," cried the man.  "I've ordered one for
you, and if you don't drink it your father will have to drink two."

Undoubtedly a charming couple had been the verdict of these chance
acquaintances--so simple, so fresh, so unassuming in these days of
complexity and double-dealing.  The only pity of it was, as the
square-jawed man remarked to his wife at dinner, that the very quality
of child-like simplicity which made them so charming was the one which
laid them open to the most bare-faced swindling if they ever came up
against blackguards.

After dinner they had all drunk coffee together, and then, because his
little Janet was tired, the Reverend Theodosius and his daughter had
retired after accepting an invitation to dinner the next day.

"Who are they?" asked Janet, as they entered their sitting room.

"That square-jawed man is John Pendel," answered her father,
thoughtfully lighting a cigar.  "Worth about three million.  He's good
for dining with, though I'm not over here on any side-shows."

And then for two hours until he got up and rang the bell, the Reverend
Theodosius remained engrossed in work; while his little Janet, lying on
the sofa, displayed considerably more leg than one would have expected
a vicar's daughter even to possess.  And occasional gurgles of laughter
seemed to prove that Guy de Maupassant appeals to a more catholic
audience than he would have suspected.

She was knitting decorously when the waiter came in, and her father
ordered a little supper to be sent up.

"Some chicken, please, and a little foie gras.  I am expecting a friend
very soon--so lay for three.  Some champagne--yes.  Perrier Jouet '04
will do.  I'm afraid I don't know much about wine.  And a little Vichy
water for my daughter."

The waiter withdrew, and the Reverend Theodosius chuckled.

"There's a very good bath you can empty it down, my dear," he said.
"But I don't think my little Janet should drink champagne so late.  It
might make her head go funny."

She smiled and then grew serious.

"What time do you expect Zadowa?"

"He should have been here by now.  I don't know why he's late."

"Did you see him this afternoon?"

"No.  I was down at the office, but only for a short while."

The sound of voices outside the door caused Janet to resume her
knitting, and the next moment Count Zadowa was announced.  For an
appreciable time after the waiter had withdrawn he stood staring at
them: then a smile crossed his face.

"Magnificent," he murmured.  "Superb.  Madame, I felicitate you.  Well
though I know your powers, this time you have excelled yourself."

"Cut that out, and get to business," returned little Janet shortly,
"I'm tired."

"But should we be interrupted," remarked the Reverend Theodosius, "we
have just returned from an extensive tour in the famine-stricken area
round Vienna."

The Count bowed and smiled again.

"_C'est entendu_," he said quietly.  "And now we will certainly get to
business.  For I have the most wonderful news for you, _mes amis_."

A warning gesture from the girl announced the arrival of supper, and
for a while the conversation turned on the rival merits of different
types of soup kitchen.  And it was not until the outer door finally
closed behind the waiter, that the Reverend Theodosius bit the end off
another cigar and stared at his visitor with eyes from which every
trace of kindliness had vanished.

"It's about time you did have some good news, Zadowa," he snapped.
"Anything more damned disgraceful than the way you've let this
so-called Black Gang, do you in, I've never heard of."

But the other merely smiled quietly.

"I admit it," he murmured.  "Up to date they have scored a faint
measure of success--exaggerated, my friends, greatly exaggerated by the
papers.  To-night came the reckoning, which incidentally is the reason
why I am a little late.  To-night"--he leaned forward
impressively--"the leader of the gang himself honoured me with a visit.
And the leader will lead no more."

"You killed him," said the girl, helping herself to champagne.

"I did," answered the Count.  "And without the leader I think we can
ignore the gang."

"That's all right as far as it goes," said the Reverend Theodosius in a
slightly mollified tone.  "But have you covered all your traces?  In
this country the police get peevish over murder."

The Count gave a self-satisfied smile.

"Not only that," he remarked, "but I have made it appear as if he had
killed himself.  Listen, my friends, and I will give you a brief
statement of the events of the past few days.  It was the day before
the affair at Sheffield which caused such a commotion in the papers
that I suddenly found out that the leader of this gang had discovered
my headquarters in Hoxton.  I was actually talking to that wretched man
Latter in my office at the time, when I heard outside the call of an
owl.  Now from information I had received, that was the rallying call
of their gang, and I dashed into the passage.  Sure enough, standing by
the door at the end was a huge man covered from head to foot in black.
Whether it was bravado that made him give the cry, or whether it was a
ruse to enable him to see me, is immaterial now.  As I say--he is dead.
But--and this is the point--it made me decide that the office there,
convenient though it was, would have to be given up.  There were far
too many incriminating documents to allow me to run the risk of a
police raid; and since I frankly admit now that I was not at all sure
what were the relations between this gang and the police, I decided to
move my headquarters."

Count Zadowa helped himself to a sandwich before continuing, with a
pleasant feeling that the motionless attention of the Reverend
Theodosius was a compliment to his powers as a raconteur.  And as the
hunchback reflected complacently, there was no falling off in this
story--no anti-climax.

"To-night," he continued, sipping his glass, "I was completing the
final sorting out of my papers with my secretary, when the electric
warning disc on my desk glowed red.  Now the office was empty, and the
red light meant that someone had opened the door outside.  I heard
nothing, which only made it all the more suspicious.  So between us we
gathered up every important paper, switched off all lights, and went
out through the secret door.  Then we waited."

He turned to the clergyman, still motionless save for a ceaseless
tapping of his left knee with his hand.

"As you know, monsieur," he proceeded, "there is an opening in that
door through which one can see into the room.  And through that opening
I watched developments.  After a while a torch was switched on at the
further door, and I heard voices.  And then the man holding the torch
came cautiously in.  He was turning it into every corner, but finally
he focused it on the desk.  I heard him speak to one of his companions,
who came into the beam of light and, started to pick the lock.  And it
was then that I switched on every light, and closed the other door
electrically.  They were caught--caught like rats in a trap."

The hunchback paused dramatically, and drained his champagne.  If he
was expecting any laudatory remarks on the part of his audience he was
disappointed.  But the Reverend Theodosius and his little Janet might
have been carved out of marble, save for that ceaseless tapping by the
man of his left knee.  In fact, had Count Zadowa been less pleased with
himself and less sure of the effect he was about to cause he might have
had a premonition of coming danger.  There was something almost
terrifying in the big clergyman's immobility.

"Like rats in a trap," repeated the hunchback gloatingly.  "Two men I
didn't know, and--well, you know who the other was.  True he had his
mask on by way of disguise, but I recognized him at once.  That huge
figure couldn't be mistaken--it was the leader of the Black Gang
himself."

"And what did you do, Zadowa?"

The Reverend Theodosius's voice was very soft.

"How did you dispose of one or all those men so that no suspicion is
likely to rest on you?"

The hunchback rubbed his hands together gleefully.

"By an act which, I think you will agree, is very nearly worthy of
yourself, _monsieur_.  To shoot was impossible--because I am not
sufficiently expert with a revolver to be sure of killing them.
No--nothing so ordinary as that.  They saw me watching them: 'I can see
his eyes, Hugh,' said one of them to the leader, and I remember
suddenly that in the passage not far from where I stood were half a
dozen bombs----  What is it, _monsieur_?"

He paused in alarm at the look on the clergyman's face as he slowly
rose.

"Bombs!" he snarled.  "Bombs!  Tell me what you did, you dreg!"

"Why," stammered the frightened hunchback "I threw one into the room.
I no longer wanted it as an office, and ... Ah, heaven, don't murder
me! ... What have I done?"

His words died away in a dreadful gurgle, as the clergyman, his face
diabolical with fury, sprang on him and gripped him by the throat.  He
shook the hunchback as a terrier shakes a rat, cursing horribly under
his breath--and for a moment or two it seemed as if the other's fear
was justified.  There was murder in the big man's face, until the touch
of the girl's hand on his arm steadied him and brought him to his
senses.  With a last spasm of fury he hurled the wretched Zadowa into a
corner, and left him lying there; then his iron self-control came back
to him.

"Get up," he ordered tensely, "and answer some questions."

Trembling all over, the hunchback staggered to his feet and came into
the centre of the room.

"_Monsieur_," he whined, "I do not understand.  What have I done?"

"You don't need to understand!" snarled the clergyman.  "Tell me
exactly what happened when the bomb burst."

"It killed the three men, _monsieur_," stammered the other.

"Curse the three men!"  He lifted his clenched fist, and Zadowa shrank
back.  "What happened to the room?"

"It was wrecked utterly.  A great hole was blown in the wall."

"And what happened to the desk?"

"I don't know exactly, _monsieur_," stammered the other.  "I didn't go
back to see.  But it must have been blown to matchwood.  Only as there
was nothing inside of importance it makes no odds."

"Did you look in the secret drawer at the back of the centre opening?
You didn't know there was one, did you?  Only I knew of its existence,
and short of taking the desk to pieces no one would be able to find it.
And you took the desk to pieces, Zadowa, didn't you?  You blew it to
pieces, Zadowa, didn't you?  Just to kill the leader of this trumpery
gang, Zadowa, you cursed fool!"

Step by step, the hunchback was retreating before the other, terror
convulsing his face, until the wall brought him to an abrupt stop.

"You blew the desk to pieces, Zadowa," continued the Reverend
Theodosius, standing in front of him, "a desk that contained the six
most perfect diamonds in the world, Zadowa.  With your wretched bomb,
you worm, you destroyed a fortune.  What have you got to say?"

"I didn't know, _monsieur_," cringed the other.  "How could I know?
When were they put there?"

"I put them there this afternoon for safety.  Not in my wildest
imagination did I dream that you would start throwing bombs about the
place."

"Perhaps they are not destroyed," stammered the hunchback hopefully.

"In which case they are now in the hands of the police.  You have one
chance, Zadowa, and only one.  It is that those diamonds are in the
hands of the police.  If they are and you can get them--I will say no
more."

"But if they have been destroyed, _monsieur_?" muttered the other.

"Then, Zadowa, I am afraid you will share their fate."

Almost indifferently the clergyman turned back into the room, taking no
notice whatever of the wretched man who followed him on his knees
begging for mercy.  And then after a while the hunchback pulled himself
together and stood up.

"It was a mistake, _monsieur_," he said quietly, "which I deeply
regret.  It was, however, you must admit, hardly my fault.  I will do
my best."

"Let us hope, then, for your sake, Zadowa, that your best will be
successful.  Now go."

He pointed to the door, and without another word the hunchback went.

"I am glad you were here to-night, my dear," remarked the Reverend
Theodosius.  "I don't often lose my temper, but I very nearly killed
that man this evening."  The girl rose and came over to where he was
standing.

"I don't understand, _mon chre_," she said quietly.  "What diamonds
are these you talk of?"

The man gave a short, hard laugh.

"I didn't tell you," he answered.  "There was no object in your knowing
for a time.  I know your weakness where jewels are concerned too well,
my dear; I got them the night before last in Amsterdam.  Do you
remember that Russian--Stanovitch?  That wasn't his real name.  He was
the eldest son of the Grand Duke Georgius, and he had just arrived from
Russia."

"The man who took that overdose of his sleeping-draught?" whispered the
girl barely above her breath.

The Reverend Theodosius smiled grimly.

"So they decided," he remarked.  "He confided in me the night before he
came to his sad end what he had been doing in Russia.  His father had
hidden the family heirlooms from the Bolshevists, and our young friend
went over to retrieve them.  Most ingenious--the way he got them out of
Russia.  Such a pity he had a lapse with his sleep dope."

And now the Reverend Theodosius was snarling like a mad dog.

"By heavens, girl--do you wonder that I nearly killed that fool Zadowa?
The _coup_ of a lifetime--safely brought off.  Not a trace of suspicion
on me--not a trace.  I know I said I wasn't over here on sideshows, but
I couldn't have been expected to let such a chance slip by.  And then,
after having got them safely into this country to lose them like that.
Why, do you know that one of them was the rose diamond of the Russian
Crown jewels?"

The girl's eyes glistened, then she shrugged her shoulders.

"They would have been unsaleable, _mon ami_," she said quietly.

"Don't you believe it," snapped the other.  "There are markets for
anything in this world, if one takes the trouble to look for them."

He was pacing up and down the room, and for a while she stood watching
him in silence.

"I'm glad I didn't know about them till now," she said at length.  "I
might not have stopped you killing him, if I had.  And it would have
been rather awkward."

He gave a short laugh, and threw the end of his cigar into the grate.

"No good crying over spilt milk, my dear.  Let's go to bed."

But little Janet still stood by the table watching him thoughtfully.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I was thinking about a rather peculiar coincidence," she answered
quietly.  "You were too worried over the diamonds to notice it--but it
struck me instantly.  The leader of this gang--this huge man whom
Zadowa killed to-night.  Did you notice what his Christian name was?"

The Reverend Theodosius shook his head.

"It was Hugh--Zadowa heard one of the others call him by name.  Hugh,
_mon ami_; Hugh--and a huge man.  A coincidence, I think."

The man gave a short laugh.

"A very long one, my dear.  Too long to bother about."

"It would be a pity if he was dead," she went on thoughtfully.  "I
would have liked to see my Hugh Drummond again."

"If he has been killed, if your supposition is correct," returned the
man, "it will do something towards reconciling me to the loss of the
diamonds.  But I don't think it's likely.  And incidentally he is the
only side-show I am going to allow myself during this trip."

Little Janet laughed softly.

"I wonder," she said, "I wonder.  Let us, as you say, go to bed."




10

  In which Hugh Drummond
  makes a discovery

The prospect in front of Count Zadowa, _alias_ Mr. Atkinson, was not a
very alluring one, and the more he thought about it the less he liked
it.  Either the diamonds were blown to dust, or they were in the hands
of the authorities.  In the first event he had the Reverend Theodosius
to reckon with; in the second the police.  And for preference the
police won in a canter.

He was under no delusions was the hunchback.  This mysterious man who
signed all his communications by the enigmatic letter X, and whose real
appearance was known probably only to the girl who was his constant
companion, so wonderful and varied were his disguises, was not a person
whom it paid to have any delusions about.  He paid magnificently, even
lavishly, for work well done: for failure he took no excuse.  Even long
association did not mitigate the offence.  With a shudder Count Zadowa
remembered the fate of certain men he had known in the past, men who
had been employed, even as he was now employed, on one of the
innumerable schemes of their chief.  No project, from the restoration
of a monarchy to the downfall of a business combine, was too great for
the man who now called himself the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor.  All
that mattered was that there should be money in it.  Why he should be
interesting himself in the spread of Communism in England it was not
for Count Zadowa to inquire, even though he was the head of that
particular activity.  Presumably he was being paid for it by others; it
was no business of Count Zadowa's.

And as he undressed that night in the quiet hotel in Bloomsbury, where
he lived, the hunchback cursed bitterly under his breath.  It was such
a cruel stroke of luck.  How much he had dreaded that first interview
with his chief he had hardly admitted even to himself.  And then had
come the heaven-sent opportunity of killing the leader of the Black
Gang in perfect safety; of making it appear that the three men inside
the room, and who had no business to be inside the room, had blown
themselves up by mistake.  How was he to know about the diamonds: how
could he possibly be expected to know?  And once again he cursed, while
the sweat glistened on his forehead as he realized his predicament.

He had already decided that his only method lay in going down to the
office next morning as usual.  He would find it, of course, in the
possession of the police, and would be told what had happened.  And
then he would have to trust to luck to discover what he could.
Perhaps--and at the thought of it he almost started to dress
again--perhaps the desk was not utterly ruined.  Perhaps the diamonds
were there, even now, in the secret drawer.  And then he realised that
if he went to his office at two o'clock in the morning, it must look
suspicious.  No; waiting was the only possibility, and Count Zadowa
waited.  He even went so far as to get into bed, but Count Zadowa did
not sleep.

Punctually at half-past nine the next morning he arrived at 5, Green
Street.  As he had expected, a constable was standing at the door.

"Who are you, sir?"  The policeman was barring his entrance.

"My name is Atkinson," said the Count, with well-feigned surprise.
"May I ask what you're doing here?"

"Haven't you heard, sir?" said the constable.  "There was a bomb
outrage here last night.  In your office upstairs."

"A bomb outrage?"  Mr. Atkinson gazed at the constable in amazement,
and a loafer standing by began to laugh.

"Not 'arf, guv'nor," he remarked cheerfully.  "The 'ole ruddy place is
gone to blazes."

"You dry up," admonished the policeman.  "Move along, can't you?"

"Orl rite, orl rite," grumbled the other, shambling off.  "Not allowed
to live soon, we won't be."

"You'd better go up, sir," continued the constable.  "The Inspector is
upstairs."

Mr. Atkinson needed no second invitation.  Taking no notice of the
half-dozen clerks who had gathered in a little group discussing the
affair, he passed along the passage into his own room.  And the scene
that met his eyes reflected credit on the manufacturer of the bomb.
Viewed by the light of day which came streaming in through the great
hole in the wall the ruin was complete.  In the centre--and it was
there Mr. Atkinson's eyes strayed continuously even while he was
acknowledging the greetings of the Inspector--stood the remnants of the
desk.  And as he looked at it any faint hope he may have cherished
vanished completely.  It was literally split to pieces in every
direction; there was not left a hiding-place for a pea, much less a bag
of diamonds.

"Not much in the office, sir, which was lucky for you."

The Inspector was speaking and Mr. Atkinson pulled himself together.
He had a part to play, and whatever happened no suspicions must be
aroused.

"I feel quite staggered, Inspector."  His glance travelled to a
sinister-looking heap in the corner--a heap roughly covered with an old
rug.  The wall above it was stained a dull red, and from under the rug
stretched out two long streams of the same colour--streams which were
not yet dry.

"What on earth has happened?"

"There seems very little doubt about that, sir," remarked the
Inspector.  "I have reconstructed the whole thing with the help of your
clerk here, Mr. Cohen.  It appears that last night about twelve o'clock
three men entered your office downstairs.  They bound and gagged
Cohen--and then they came on up here.  Evidently their idea was
burglary.  What happened, then, of course, it is hard to say exactly.
Presumably they started using explosive to force your safe, and
explosive is funny stuff even for the expert."

The Inspector waved a hand at the heap in the corner.

"And he--poor devil, was quite an expert in his way.  One of the three
men, Mr. Atkinson--or what's left of him, Ginger Martin--an old friend
of mine."

For a moment Mr. Atkinson's heart stood still.  One of the three men!
Then, where in Heaven's name, were the other two?

"One of the three, Inspector," he said at length, steadying himself.
"But what happened to the others?"

"That is the amazing thing, sir," answered the Inspector.  "I can but
think that though three men entered the office downstairs, only Martin
can have been in here at the time of the explosion."  He pulled back
the blood-stained rug, and with a shudder Mr. Atkinson contemplated
what was underneath.  He recognized the face; sure enough it was the
man who had run round the room when he found himself trapped.  But
there was no trace of anyone else.  The mangled remnants had formed one
man and one man only.  Then what, he reflected again,--what had become
of the other two?  He knew they had been in there at the time of the
explosion, and as he vaguely listened to the Inspector's voice his mind
was busy with this new development.

They had been in there--the leader of the Black Gang and one of his
pals.  There was no trace of them now.  Wherefore, somehow, by some
miraculous means they must have escaped, and the soul of Count Zadowa
grew sick within him.  Not only had the whole thing been useless and
unnecessary; not only had he incurred the wrath of his own leader, and
unwelcome attention from the police, but, in addition, this mysterious
being whom he had thought to kill was not dead but very much alive.  He
had two people up against him now, and he wasn't quite sure which of
the two he feared most.

Suddenly he became aware that the Inspector was asking him a question.

"Why, yes," he said, pulling himself together, "that is so.  I was
leaving this office here, and had removed almost everything of value.
Only some diamonds were left, Inspector--and they were in that desk.  I
have somewhat extensive dealings in precious stones.  Was there any
trace of them found?"

The Inspector laughed grimly.

"You see the room for yourself, sir.  But that perhaps supplies us with
the motive for the crime.  I am afraid your diamonds are either blown
to pieces, or in the hands of the other two men, whom I have every hope
of laying my hands on shortly.  There is no trace of them here."

In the hands of the other two men!  The idea was a new one, which had
not yet come into his calculations, so convinced had he been that all
three men were dead.  And suddenly he felt a sort of blinding certainty
that the Inspector--though in ignorance of the real facts of the
case--was right in his surmise.  Diamonds are not blown to pieces by an
explosion; scattered they might be--disintegrated, no.  He felt he must
get away to consider this new development.  Where did he stand if the
diamonds were indeed in the possession of the Black Gang?  Would it
help him or would it not, with regard to that implacable man at the
Ritz?

He crossed over to the jagged hole in the wall and looked out.

"This has rather upset me, Inspector," he said, after a while.  "The
South Surrey Hotel in Bloomsbury will always find me."

"Right, sir!"  The Inspector made a note, and then leaned out through
the hole with a frown.  "Get out of this, you there!  Go on, or I'll
have you locked up as a vagrant!"

"Orl rite, orl rite!  Can't a bloke 'ave a bit o' fun when 'e ain't
doing no 'arm?"

The loafer, who had been ignominiously moved on from the front door,
scrambled down from the lean-to roof behind, and slouched away,
muttering darkly.  And he was still muttering to himself as he opened
the door of a taxi a few minutes later, into which Mr. Atkinson
hurriedly stepped.  For a moment or two he stood on the pavement until
it had disappeared from view; then his prowling propensities seemed to
disappear as if by magic.  Still with the same shambling gait, but
apparently now with some definite object in his mind, he disappeared
down a side street, finally coming to a halt before a public
telephone-box.  He gave one rapid look round, then he stepped inside.

"Mayfair 1234."  He waited beating a tattoo with his pennies on the
box.  Things had gone well that morning--very well.

"Hullo, is that you, Hugh?  Yes, Peter speaking.  The man Atkinson is
the hunchback.  Stopping South Surrey Hotel, Bloomsbury.  He's just got
into a taxi and gone off to the Ritz.  He seemed peeved to me....  Yes,
he inquired lovingly about the whatnots....  What's that?  You'll
toddle round to the Ritz yourself.  Right ho!  I'll come, too.
Cocktail time.  Give you full details then."

The loafer stepped out of the box and shut the door.  Then, still
sucking a filthy clay pipe, he shambled off in the direction of the
nearest Tube station.  A slight change of attire before lining up at
the Ritz seemed indicated.

And it would, indeed, have been a shrewd observer who would have
identified the immaculately-dressed young gentleman who strolled into
the Ritz shortly before twelve o'clock with the dissolute-looking
object who had so aroused the wrath of the police a few hours
previously in Hoxton.  The first person he saw sprawling contentedly in
an easy chair was Hugh Drummond, who waved his stick in greeting.

"Draw up Peter, old lad," he boomed, "and put your nose inside a wet."

Peter Darrell took the next chair, and his eyes glanced quickly round
the lounge.

"Have you seen him, Hugh?" he said, lowering his voice.  "I don't see
anything answering to the bird growing about the place here."

"No," answered Hugh.  "But from discreet inquiries made from old
pimply-face yonder I find that he arrived here about ten o'clock.  He
was at once shown up to the rooms of a gent calling himself the
Reverend Theodosius Longmoor, where, as far as I can make out, he has
remained ever since.  Anyway, I haven't seen him trotting up and down
the hall, calling to his young; nor have either of the beadles at the
door reported his departure.  So here I remain like a bird in the
wilderness until the blighter and his padre pal break covert.  I want
to see the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor, Peter."

A ball of wool rolled to his feet, and Hugh stooped to pick it up.  The
owner was a girl sitting close by, busily engaged in knitting some
obscure garment, and Hugh handed her the wool with a bow.

"Thank you so much!" she said, with a pleasant smile.  "I'm afraid I'm
always dropping my wool all over the place."

"Don't mention it," remarked Hugh politely.  "Deuced agile little
thing--a ball of wool.  Spend my life picking up my wife's.  Everybody
seems to be knitting these jumper effects now."

"Oh, this isn't a jumper," answered the girl a little sadly.  "I've no
time for such frivolities as that.  You see, I've just come back from
the famine stricken parts of Austria---and not only are the poor things
hungry, but they can't get proper clothes.  So just a few of us are
knitting things for them--stock sizes, you know--big, medium, and
small."

"How fearfully jolly of you!" said Hugh admiringly.  "Dashed sporting
thing to do.  Awful affair, though, when the small size shrinks in the
wash.  The proud proprietor will burst out in all directions.  Most
disconcerting for all concerned."

The girl blushed faintly and Hugh subsided abashed in his chair.

"I must tell my wife about it," he murmured in confusion.  "She's
coming here to lunch, and she ought to turn 'em out like bullets from a
machine gun--what?"

The girl smiled faintly as she rose.

"It would be very good of her if she would help," she remarked gently,
and then, with a slight bow, she walked away in the direction of the
lift.

"You know, old son," remarked Hugh, as he watched her disappearing,
"it's an amazing affair when you really come to think of it.  There's
that girl with a face far superior to a patched boot and positively
oozing virtue from every pore.  And yet, would you leave your happy
home for her?  Look at her skirts--five inches too long; and yet she'd
make a man an excellent wife.  A heart of gold probably, hidden beneath
innumerable strata of multi-coloured wools."

Completely exhausted he drained his cocktail, and leaned back in his
chair, while Peter digested the profound utterance in silence.  A
slight feeling of lassitude was beginning to weigh on him owing to the
atrocious hour at which he had been compelled to rise, and he felt
quite unable to contribute any suitable addition to the conversation.
Not that it was required: the ferocious frown on Drummond's face
indicated that he was in the throes of thought and might be expected to
give tongue in the near future.

"I ought to have a bit of paper to write it all down on, Peter," he
remarked at length.  "I was getting it fairly clear when that sweet
maiden put me completely in the soup again.  In fact, I was just going
to run over the whole affair with you when I had to start chasing wool
all over London.  Where are we, Peter?  That is the question.  Point
one: we have the diamonds--more by luck than good management.  Point
two: the hunchback gentleman who has a sufficiently strong constitution
to live at the South Surrey Hotel in Bloomsbury has not got the
diamonds.  Point three: he, at the present moment is closeted with the
Reverend Theodosius Longmoor upstairs.  Point four: we are about to
consume another cocktail downstairs.  Well--bearing that little lot in
mind, what happens when we all meet?"

"Yes, what!" said Peter, coming out of a short sleep.

"A policy of masterly inactivity seems indicated," continued Hugh
thoughtfully.  "We may even have to see them eat.  But I can't
buttonhole Snooks, or whatever the blighter's name is, and ask him if
he bunged a bomb at me last night, can I?  It would be so deuced
awkward if he hadn't.  As I said before, a brief survey of the
devil-dodger's face might help.  And, on the other hand, it might not.
In fact, it is all very obscure, Peter--very obscure."

A slight snore was his only answer, and Hugh continued to ponder on the
obscurity of the situation in silence.  That several rays of light
might have been thrown on it by a conversation then proceeding upstairs
was of no help to him: nor could he have been expected to know that the
fog of war was about to lift in a most unpleasantly drastic manner.

"Coincidence?  Bosh!" the girl with the heart of gold was remarking at
that very moment.  "It's a certainty.  Whether he's got the diamonds or
not I can't say, but your big friend of last night, Zadowa, is sitting
downstairs now drinking a cocktail in the lounge.

"And your big friend of last night is a gentleman with whom he and
I"--she smiled thoughtfully at the Reverend Theodosius--"have a little
account to settle."

"My account is not a little one," said the hunchback viciously.

"Amazing though it is, it certainly looks as if you were right, my
dear," answered her father thoughtfully.

"Of course I'm right!" cried the girl.  "Why, the darned thing is
sticking out and barking at you.  A big man, Christian name Hugh, was
in Zadowa's office last night.  Hugh Drummond is downstairs at the
moment, having actually tracked Zadowa here.  Of course, they're the
same; an infant in arms could see it."

"Granted you're right," said the Reverend Theodosius, "I confess at the
moment that I am a little doubtful as to how to turn the fact to our
advantage.  The fact is an interesting one, my dear, more than
interesting; but it don't seem to me to come within the range of
practical politics just at present."

"I wonder," said the girl.  "His wife is coming here to lunch.  You
remember her--that silly little fool Phyllis Benton?  And they live in
Brook Street.  It might be worth trying.  If by any chance he has got
the diamonds--well, she'll be very useful.  And if he hasn't," she
shrugged her shoulders, "we can easily return her if we don't want her."

The Reverend Theodosius smiled.  Long-winded explanations between the
two of them were seldom necessary.  Then he looked at his watch.

"Short notice," he remarked; "but we'll try.  No harm done if we fail."

He stepped over to the telephone, and put through a call.  And having
given two or three curt orders he came slowly back into the room.

"Chances of success very small, I'm afraid; but as you say, my dear,
worth trying.  And now I think I'll renew my acquaintance with
Drummond.  It would be wiser if you had lunch sent up here, Janet; just
for the time our friend had better not connect us together in any way.
And as for you, Zadowa"--his tone became curt--"you can go.  Let us
hope for your sake that Drummond has really got them."

"There's only one point," put in the girl; "his departure will be
reported at once to Drummond.  He's tipped both the men at the doors."

"Then in that case you'd better stop here," said the Reverend
Theodosius.  "I shall probably come up to lunch, but I might have it in
the restaurant.  I might"--he paused by the door--"I might even have it
with Drummond and his friend."

With a short chuckle he left the room, and a minute or two later a
benevolent clergyman, reading the _Church Times_, was sitting in the
lounge just opposite Hugh and Peter.  Through half-closed eyes Hugh
took stock of him, wondering casually if this was the Reverend
Theodosius Longmoor.  If so, assuredly nothing more benevolent in the
line of sky-pilots could well be imagined.  And when a few minutes
later the clergyman took a cigarette out of his case, and then
commenced to fumble in his pockets for matches which he had evidently
forgotten, Hugh rose and offered him one.

"Allow me, sir," he murmured, holding it out.

"I thank you, sir," said the clergyman, with a charming smile.  "I'm so
terribly forgetful over matches.  As a matter of fact I don't generally
smoke before lunch, but I've had such a distressing morning that I felt
I must have a cigarette just to soothe my nerves."

"By Jove! that's bad," remarked Hugh.  "Bath water cold, and all that?"

"Nothing so trivial, I fear," said the other.  "No; a poor man who has
been with me since ten has just suffered the most terrible blow.  I
could hardly have believed it possible here in London, but the whole of
his business premises were wrecked by a bomb last night."

"You don't say so," murmured Hugh, sinking into a chair, and at the
table opposite Peter Darrell opened one eye.

"All his papers--everything--gone.  And it has hit me, too.  Quite a
respectable little sum of money--over a hundred pounds, gathered
together for the restoration of the old oak chancel in my church--blown
to pieces by this unknown miscreant.  It's hard, sir, it's hard.  But
this poor fellow's loss is greater than mine, so I must not complain.
To the best of my poor ability I have been helping him to bear his
misfortune with fortitude and strength."

The clergyman took off his spectacles and wiped them, and Drummond
stole a lightning glance at Darrell.  The faintest shrug of his
shoulders indicated that the latter had heard, and was as much in the
dark as Hugh.  That this was the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor was now
obvious, but what a charming, courteous old gentleman!  It seemed
impossible to associate guilt with such a delightful person, and, if
so, they had made a bad mistake.  It was not the hunchback who had
thrown the bomb; they were up another blind alley.

For a while Hugh chatted with him about the outrage, then he glanced at
his watch.

"Nearly time for lunch, I think," said the clergyman.  "Perhaps you
would give a lonely old man the pleasure of your company."

"Very nice of you, but I'm expecting my wife," said Hugh.  "She said
she'd be here at one, and now it's a quarter past.  Perhaps you'll
lunch with us?"

"Charmed," said the clergyman, taking a note which a page-boy was
handing to him on a tray.  "Charmed."  He glanced through the note, and
placed it in his pocket.  "The ladies, bless them! so often keep us
waiting."

"I'll just go and ring up," said Drummond.  "She may have changed her
mind."

"Another prerogative of their sex," beamed his companion, as Drummond
left him.  He polished his spectacles and once more resumed his perusal
of the _Church Times_, bowing in old-world fashion to two or three
acquaintances who passed.  And more and more was Peter Darrell becoming
convinced that a big mistake had been made somewhere, when Hugh
returned looking a little worried.

"Can't make it out, Peter," he said anxiously.  "Just got through to
Denny, and Phyllis left half an hour ago to come here."

"Probably doing a bit of shopping, old man," answered Peter
reassuringly.  "I say, Hugh, we've bloomered over this show."

Hugh glanced across the table where the clergyman was sitting, and
suddenly Peter found his arm gripped with a force that made him cry
out.  He glanced at Hugh, and that worthy was staring at the clergyman
with a look of speechless amazement on his face.  Then he swung round,
and his eyes were blazing.

"Peter!" he said tersely.  "Look at him.  The one trick that gives him
away every time!  Bloomered, have we?  Great heavens above, man, it's
Carl Peterson!"

A little dazedly Darrell glanced at the clergyman.  He was still
reading the _Church Times_, but with his left hand he was drumming a
ceaseless tattoo on his knee.




11

  In which Hugh Drummond and
  the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor
  take lunch together

"Rot, Hugh!"  Peter turned a little irritably from his covert
inspection of the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor.  "You've got Peterson
on the brain.  Why, that old bird is no more like him than my boot."

"Nevertheless, it's Peterson," answered Drummond doggedly.  "Don't look
at him, Peter; don't let him think we're talking about him on any
account.  I admit he bears not the slightest resemblance to our one and
only Carl, but he's no more unlike him than the Comte de Guy was that
time in Paris.  It's just that one little trick he can never shake
off--that tapping with his left hand on his knee--that made me spot
him."

"Well, granted you're right," conceded Darrell grudgingly, "what do we
do now, sergeant-major?"

Drummond lit a cigarette thoughtfully before he replied.  Half-hidden
by a large luncheon party which was just preparing to move into the
restaurant, he stole another look at the object of their remarks.  With
an expression of intense benevolence the Reverend Theodosius was
chatting with an elderly lady, and on Drummond's face, as he turned
back was a faint grin of admiration.  Truly in the matter of disguises
the man was a living marvel.

"I don't know, Peter," he answered after a while.  "I've got to think
this out.  It's been so sudden that it's got me guessing.  I know it's
what we've been hoping for; it's what we wrote that letter to the paper
for--to draw the badger.  And by the Lord! we've drawn him, and the
badger is Peterson.  But somehow or other I didn't expect to find him
disguised as a Mormon missionary residing at the Ritz."

"You're perfectly certain, Hugh?" said Peter, who was still far from
convinced.

"Absolutely, old man," answered Drummond gravely.  "The clergyman over
there is Carl Peterson, late of the Elms, Godalming.  And the game has
begun again."

Darrell gave a short laugh as he noted the gleam in his leader's eyes.

"I'm thinking," he remarked soberly, "that this time the game is going
to make us go all out."

"So much the better," grinned Hugh.  "We'll add him to our collection,
Peter, and then we'll present the whole damned bunch to the Zoo.  And,
in the meantime, he shall lunch with us when Phyllis arrives and
prattle on theology to an appreciative audience.  Incidentally it will
appeal to his sense of humour; there's no difficulty about recognizing
us."

"Yes," agreed Peter, "we start one up there.  He doesn't know that
we've spotted him.  I wonder where the diamonds come in, Hugh?"

"Darned intimately, from what I know of the gentleman.  But that's only
one of several little points that require clearing up.  And in the next
few days, Peter, my boy--we will clear them up."

"Or be cleared up ourselves," laughed Darrell.  "Look out, he's coming
over."

They turned as the clergyman crossed the lounge towards them.

"Jolly old tum-tum beginning to shout for nourishment," said Hugh with
an affable smile as he joined them.  "My wife should be here at any
moment now, Mr.--er----"

"Longmoor is my name," said the clergyman, beaming on them.  "It is
very charming of you to take such compassion on a lonely old man."

"Staying here all by yourself?" asked Drummond politely.

"No; my daughter is with me.  The dear child has been my constant
companion ever since my beloved wife's death some years ago."

He polished his glasses, which had become a little misty, and Drummond
made noises indicative of sympathy.

"You wouldn't believe the comfort she has been to me.  In these days,
when it seems to me that the modern girl thinks of nothing but dancing
and frivolity, it is indeed a blessing to find one who, while
preserving her winsome sense of humour, devotes her life to the things
that really matter.  In our recent tour in Austria--I beg your pardon,
you said----"

"Nothing," answered Drummond quietly.  "You have been to Austria, you
say?"

"Yes; we have just returned from a visit to the famine-stricken area,"
replied the clergyman.  "Most interesting--but most terribly sad.  You
know--I don't think I caught your name."

"Drummond, Captain Drummond," answered Hugh mechanically.  "And this is
Mr. Darrell.  I think I have had the pleasure of making your daughter's
acquaintance already.  She was manufacturing woollen garments for the
Austrians down here, and I retrieved an elusive ball of wool for her."

"That is just my daughter all over, Captain Drummond," beamed the
Reverend Theodosius.  "Never wasting her time, always doing something
for the good of humanity."

But at the moment it is to be regretted that Hugh was not worrying his
head over the good of humanity.  Inconceivable though it was, judged on
the mere matter of appearance, that the Reverend Theodosius was Carl
Peterson, it was still more inconceivable that the wool knitter with
the heart of gold could be Irma.  Of course Peterson might have changed
his daughter--but if he hadn't, what then?  What had he said to Peter
Darrell when the girl, recognizing him all the time, was sitting in the
next chair?  How much had she overheard?  And suddenly Hugh began to
feel that he was floundering in deep waters.  How many cards did the
other side hold?  And, what was even more important, how many of his
own cards had they placed correctly?  And glancing up he found the
reverend gentleman's blue eyes fixed on him and glinting with a certain
quizzical humour.  Assuredly, reflected Drummond, it was up to him to
find out, and that as soon as possible, exactly how matters stood.  The
trouble was how to set about it.  To greet the Reverend Theodosius as a
long-lost friend and ask him whether the disguise was donned to amuse
the children would certainly precipitate affairs, but it would also
throw one of his best cards on the table.  And Carl Peterson was not a
gentleman with whom it was advisable to weaken one's hand
unnecessarily.  So it all boiled down to a policy of waiting for the
other side to play first, which, in view of the fact that he was
getting distinctly peckish, seemed to Hugh to be an eminently sound
decision.

He glanced at his watch and turned to Darrell.

"Confound the girl, Peter!  She's nearly forty minutes late."

"Picked up a pal, old boy," answered that worthy.  "Picked up a pal and
they're masticating a Bath bun somewhere.  Why not leave a message at
the door, and let's get on with it?  I'm darned hungry."

The Reverend Theodosius beamed from behind his spectacles.

"'Tis ever the same," he murmured gently.  "But it is the prerogative
of their sex."

"Well, let's toddle in and take nourishment," said Hugh, taking hold of
the clergyman's arm with his hand and pushing him towards the
restaurant.  "Jove!  Mr. Longmoor--you've got some pretty useful biceps
on you."

The other smiled as if pleased with the compliment.

"Nothing to you, Captain Drummond, to judge by your size, but I think I
may say I'm a match for most men.  My ministry has led me into some
very rough corners, and I have often found that where gentle persuasion
fails, force will succeed."

"Quite so," murmured Drummond, gazing at the menu.  "Nothing like a
good one straight on the point of the jaw for producing a devout manner
of living in the recipient.  Often found that out myself.  By the way,
what about the daughter?  Isn't she going to honour us?"

"Not to-day," answered the Reverend Theodosius.  "She is lunching
upstairs with the poor fellow I told you about, whose office was
wrecked last night.  He is sadly in need of comfort."

"I'll bet he is," agreed Hugh.  "But if he put on one of those jolly
little things she's knitting and trotted up and down Piccadilly he'd
soon get all the money back for your chancel steps.  The man I'm sorry
for is the poor devil who was found adhering to the wall."

The Reverend Theodosius glanced at him thoughtfully, and Drummond
realized he had made a slip.

"You seem to know quite a lot about it, Captain Drummond," murmured the
other, dissecting a sardine.

"It's in the early editions of the evening papers," returned Hugh
calmly.  "Pictures and everything.  The only thing they've left out is
that reference to your little lump of dough."

"In such a dreadful thing as this, a trifle like that might well be
overlooked," said the Reverend Theodosius.  "But I understand from my
poor friend upstairs that the police are satisfied that three
scoundrels were involved in the crime.  And two of them have escaped."

"Dirty dogs," said Hugh, frowning.  "Now if all three had been found
adhering to the furniture it might have reconciled you to the loss of
those hundred acid drops."

"In fact," continued the clergyman, helping himself to some fish, "the
whole thing is very mysterious.  However, the police have every hope of
laying their hands on the two others very shortly."

"They're always optimistic, aren't they?" returned Hugh.  "Pity no one
saw these blighters running round and throwing bombs about the house."

"That is just the fortunate thing, Captain Drummond," said the other
mildly.  "Far be it from me to desire vengeance on any man, but in this
case I feel it is deserved.  The unfortunate clerk downstairs who was
brutally assaulted by them has confided to his employer that he
believes he knows who one of the other two was.  A huge man, Captain
Drummond, of enormous strength: a man--well, really, do you know?--a
man I should imagine just like you, and a man, who, popular rumour has
it, is the head of a mysterious body calling itself the Black Gang.  So
that should prove a valuable clue for the police when they hear of it."

Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Drummond's face change as he listened
with polite attention to the clergyman's remarks.  But now once again
his brain was moving quickly as he took in this new development.  One
card, at any rate, was down on the table: his identity as leader of the
Black Gang was known to Peterson.  It was the girl who had found him
out: that was obvious.  The point was how did it affect matters.

"An elusive person, I believe," he remarked quietly.  "We've heard
quite a lot of him in the papers recently.  In fact, I was actually in
Sir Bryan Johnstone's office when a gentleman of the name of Charles
Latter came and demanded protection from the Black Gang."

For a moment a gleam of amazement shone in the other's eye.

"You surprise me," he murmured.  "I trust it was afforded him."

Hugh waved a vast hand.

"Do you doubt it, Mr. Longmoor?  I personally accompanied him to a
house-party to ensure his safety.  But as I told old Tum-tum
afterwards--that's Sir Bryan Johnstone, you know, a great pal of
mine--nothing that I could do could avert the catastrophe.  I prattled
to him gently, but it was no good.  He went mad, Mr. Longmoor--quite,
quite mad.  The boredom of that house-party unhinged his brain.  Have
another chop?"

"How very extraordinary!" remarked the clergyman.  "And what did your
friend--er--Tum-tum say when he heard of the results of your
supervision?"

"Well, quite unofficially, Mr. Longmoor, I think he was rather pleased.
Latter was an unpleasant man, engaged in unpleasant work, and he does
less harm when insane.  A merciful thing, wasn't it, that we found such
a suitable gathering of guests at our disposal?"

"And yet," pursued the Reverend Theodosius, "it struck me from an
English paper I happened to pick up in Paris a little while ago, that
the leader of this obscure gang claimed in some way to be responsible
for the condition of Mr. Latter.  He issued a ridiculous sort of
manifesto to the Press, didn't he?"

"I believe he did," answered Drummond, draining his glass.  "An
effusion which ended with a threat to the people at the back of men
like Latter.  As if it would have any effect!  Scum like that, Mr.
Longmoor, remain hidden.  They blush unseen.  I do wish you'd have
another chop."

"Thank you--no."  The Reverend Theodosius waved away the waiter and
leaned back in his chair.  "Doubtless you are right, Captain Drummond,
in championing this person; but if what this wretched, ill-treated
clerk says is correct, I am afraid I can look on him as nothing less
than a common thief.  Of course, he may have made a mistake, but he
seems very positive that one of the miscreants last night was the
leader of the Black Gang himself."

"I see," said Drummond, with the air of a man on whom a great truth had
dawned.  "That hundred thick 'uns still rankling in the grey matter
what time the vestry collapses."

"Hardly that," returned the clergyman severely.  "My friend, whose
office was wrecked, was amongst other things a dealer in precious
stones.  Last night in his desk were six magnificent
diamonds--entrusted to him for sale by a--well, I will be discreet--by
a well-known Russian nobleman.  This morning he finds them
gone--vanished--his room wrecked.  Why, my heart bleeds for him."

"I'll bet it does," answered Drummond sympathetically.  "Darned
careless, isn't it, the way some of these people drop bombs about the
place?  Still, if your pal circulates an exact description of the
diamonds to the police, he'll probably get 'em back in time.  I
suppose," he added by way of an afterthought, "I suppose he can go to
the police about it?"

"I don't quite understand you, Captain Drummond."  The Reverend
Theodosius stared at his host in surprise.

"One never knows, these days, does one?" said Hugh mildly.  "Dreadful
thing to get a nice little bunch of diamonds shot at one's head, and
then find you've got stolen property.  It puts the next fellow who
pinches them rather on velvet.  A cup of coffee, won't you?"

"Fortunately nothing of that sort exists in this case.  Yes, thank you,
I would like some coffee."

"Good," said Hugh, giving the order to the waiter.  "So that all you've
got to do--or rather your pal--is to tell the police that the office
was blown up by the leader of the Black Gang, and that the diamonds
were pinched by the leader of the Black Gang, and that you would like
his head on a silver salver by Wednesday week.  It seems too easy to
me.  Cigarette?  Turkish this side--gaspers the other."

"Thank you."  The Reverend Theodosius helped himself from the case Hugh
was holding out.  "It certainly does seem easy, the way you put it."

"The only small trifle which seems to jut out from an otherwise
clear-cut horizon is too ridiculous to worry about."

"And that is?"

"Why--who is the leader of the Black Gang?  It would be a dreadful
affair if they brought the wrong bird's head on a charger.  No
diamonds; no Bradburys; no nothing."

"I don't anticipate that it should be hard to discover that, Captain
Drummond," said the clergyman mildly.  "Surely with your marvellous
police system----"

"And yet, Mr. Longmoor," said Hugh gravely, "even though lately I have
been reinforcing that system--literally helping them myself--they are
still completely in the dark as to his identity."

"Incredible," cried the other.  "Still we can only hope for the best.
By the way, I'm afraid your wife has finally deserted you for lunch."
He pushed back his chair.  "I shall hope to have the pleasure of making
her acquaintance some other day.  And now if you will excuse me, I must
run away.  My correspondence at the moment with regard to the relief
funds for destitute Austrians is very voluminous.  A thousand thanks
for a most enjoyable meal."

He bowed with a courteous smile, and threaded his way through the
crowded restaurant towards the door.  And it was not until he had
finally disappeared from sight that Hugh turned to Peter Darrell with a
thoughtful expression on his face.

"Deuced interesting position of affairs, Peter," he remarked, lighting
another cigarette.  "He knows I'm the leader of our bunch, and doesn't
know I know it; I know he's Peterson, and he doesn't know I know it; I
wonder how long it will be before the gloves come off."

"Supposing he keeps out of it himself, and gives you away to the
police," said Peter.  "It'll be rather awkward, old son."

"Supposing he does, it would be," grinned Hugh.  "I'd love to see
Tum-tum's face.  But, my dear old Peter, hasn't your vast brain grasped
the one essential fact, that that is precisely what he can't do until
he's certain I haven't got the diamonds?  Apart altogether from a
variety of very awkward disclosures about Number 5, Green Street--he,
or his hunchback friend, would have to explain how they gained
possession in the first place of those stones.  I made discreet
inquiries this morning, Peter, and that rose-pink diamond was one of
the Russian Crown jewels.  Awkward--very."

He smiled and ordered two brandies.

"Very, very awkward, Peter--but with distinct elements of humour.  And
I'm inclined to think the time is approaching when the seconds get out
of the ring."




12

  In which Count Zadowa
  is introduced to "Alice
  in Wonderland"

A quarter of an hour later the two young men stepped into Piccadilly.
Evidently Phyllis was not proposing to turn up, and nothing was to be
gained by remaining.  The next move lay with the other side, and until
it was played it was merely a question of marking time.  At the
entrance to the Ritz they separated, Peter turning eastwards to keep
some mysterious date with a female minor star of theatrical London,
while Hugh strolled along Berkeley Street towards his house.  At times
a faint smile crossed his face at the thought of Peterson devoting his
young brain to the matter of starving Austrians, but for the most part
a portentous frown indicated thought.  For the life of him he couldn't
see what was going to happen next.  It appeared to him that the air
wanted clearing; that in military parlance the situation was involved.
And it was just as he was standing in Berkeley Square waving his stick
vaguely as a material aid to thought, that he felt a touch on his arm.

"Excuse me, sir," said a voice at his elbow, "but I would like a few
words with you."

He looked down, and his eyes narrowed suddenly.  Standing beside him
was the hunchback, Mr. Atkinson, and for a moment Hugh regarded him in
silence.  Then, dismissing a strong inclination to throw this
unexpected apparition under a passing furniture van, he raised his
eyebrows slightly and removed his cigar from his mouth.  Evidently the
next move had begun, and he felt curious as to what form it would take.

"My powers as a conversationalist are well known," he remarked,
"amongst a large and varied circle.  I was not, however, aware that you
belonged to it.  In other words, sir, who the deuce are you and what
the dickens do you want to talk to me about?"

"Something which concerns us both very intimately," returned the other.
"And with regard to the first part of your question--do you think it
necessary to keep up the pretence, especially as there are no witnesses
present?  I suggest, however, that as our conversation may be a trifle
prolonged, and this spot is somewhat draughty, we should adjourn to
your house; Brook Street, I believe, is where you live, Captain
Drummond."

Hugh removed his cigar, and stared at the hunchback thoughtfully.

"I haven't the slightest wish to have a prolonged conversation with you
in any place, draughty or otherwise," he remarked at length.  "However,
if you are prepared to run the risk of being slung out of the window if
you bore me, I'll give you ten minutes."

He turned on his heel and strolled slowly on towards his house, while
the hunchback, shooting venomous glances at him from time to time,
walked by his side in silence.  And it was not until some five minutes
later when they were both in Drummond's study that any further remark
was made.

It was Hugh who spoke, standing with his back to the fireplace, and
looking down on the misshapen little man who sat in an arm-chair facing
the light.  An unpleasant customer, he reflected, now that he saw him
close to for the first time: a dangerous, vindictive little devil--but
able, distinctly able.  Just such a type as Peterson would choose for a
tool.

"What is it you wish to say to me?" he said curtly.

"A few things, Captain Drummond," returned the other, "that may help to
clear the air.  In the first place may I say how pleased I am to make
your acquaintance in the flesh, so to speak?  I have long wanted a
little talk with the leader of the Black Gang."

"I trust," murmured Hugh solicitously, "that the sun hasn't proved too
much for you."

"Shall we drop this beating about the bush?" snapped the other.

"I shall drop you down the stairs if you talk to me like that, you
damned little microbe," said Hugh coldly, and the other got to his feet
with a snarl.  His eyes, glaring like those of an angry cat, were fixed
on Drummond, who suddenly put out a vast hand to screen the lower part
of the hunchback's face.  With a cry of fear he recoiled, and Hugh
smiled grimly.  So it had been Mr. Atkinson himself who had flung the
bomb the night before: the eyes that had glared at him through the
crack in the door were unmistakably the same as those he had just
looked into over his own hand.  With the rest of the face blotted out
to prevent distraction there could be no doubt about it, and he was
still smiling grimly as he lowered his hand.

"So you think I'm the leader of the Black Gang, do you?" he remarked.
"I don't know that I'm very interested in your thoughts."

"I don't think: I know," said the hunchback viciously.  "I found it out
to-day."

"Indeed," murmured Hugh politely.  "Would it be indiscreet to ask how
you found out this interesting fact?"

"Do you deny it?" demanded the other furiously.

"My dear little man," said Hugh, "if you said I was the Pope I wouldn't
deny it.  All I ask is that now you've afflicted me with your presence
you should amuse me.  What are your grounds for this somewhat startling
statement?"

"My grounds are these," said the hunchback, recovering his
self-control: "last night my office in Hoxton was wrecked by a bomb."

"Good Lord!" interrupted Hugh mildly, "it must be old Theodosius
Longmoor and his hundred quid.  I thought he looked at me suspiciously
during lunch."

"It was wrecked by a bomb, Captain Drummond," continued the other, not
heeding the interruption.  "That bomb also killed a man."

"It did," agreed Hugh grimly.

"One of the three men who broke in.  The other two escaped--how I don't
know.  But one of them was recognized by the clerk downstairs."

"I gathered that was the story," said Hugh.

"He was recognized as the leader of the Black Gang," continued the
hunchback.  "And that was all until to-day.  Just the leader of the
Black Gang--an unknown person.  But to-day--at the Ritz, Captain
Drummond--my clerk, who had brought me a message, recognized him again,
without his disguise.  No longer an unknown man, you understand--but
you."

Drummond smiled, and selected a cigarette from his case.

"Very pretty," he answered, "but a trifle crude.  As I understand you,
I gather that your shrewd and intelligent clerk states that the leader
of the Black Gang broke into your office last night in order to indulge
in the doubtful pastime of throwing bombs about the premises.  He
further states that I am the humorist in question.  Allowing for the
moment that your clerk is sane, what do you propose to do about it?"

"In certain eventualities, Captain Drummond, I propose to send an
anonymous letter to Scotland Yard.  Surprised though they would be to
get it, it might help them to clear up the mystery of Mr. Latter's
insanity.  It may prove rather unpleasant for you, of course, but that
can't be helped."

"It's kind of you to give me a loophole of escape," said Drummond
pleasantly.  "What are the eventualities to which you allude?"

"The non-return to me of a little bag containing diamonds," remarked
the hunchback quietly.  "They were in the desk which was wrecked by the
bomb."

"Dear, dear," said Hugh.  "Am I supposed to have them in my possession?"

"I can only hope most sincerely for your sake that you have," returned
the other.  "Otherwise I'm afraid that letter will go to the police."

For a while Drummond smoked in silence: then, with a lazy smile on his
face, he sat down in an armchair facing the hunchback.

"Most interesting," he drawled.  "Most interesting and entertaining.
I'm not very quick, Mr.----, I've forgotten under what name you inflict
yourself on a long-suffering world, but I shall call you Snooks--I'm
not, as I say, very quick, Snooks, but as far as my brain can grapple
with the problem it stands thus.  If I give you back a packet of
diamonds which I may, or may not, possess, you will refrain from
informing the police that I am the leader of the Black Gang.  If, on
the contrary, I do not give them back to you, you will send them that
interesting piece of information by means of an anonymous letter."  The
smile grew even lazier.  "Well, you damned little excrescence, I call
your bluff.  Get on with it."

With a snarl of rage the hunchback snatched up his hat and rose to his
feet.

"You call it bluff, do you?"--and his voice was shaking with fury.
"Very good, you fool--I accept.  And you'll be sorry when you see my
cards."

"Sit down, Snooks: I haven't finished with you yet."  There was still
the same maddening smile on Drummond's face, which disappeared suddenly
as the hunchback moved towards the door.  In two strides Hugh had him
by the collar, and with a force that made his teeth rattle Mr. Atkinson
found himself back in his chair.

"I said sit down, Snooks," said Drummond pleasantly.  "Don't let me
have to speak to you again, or I might hurt you.  There are one or two
things I have to say to you before depriving myself of the pleasure of
your company.  By the post following the one which carries your
interesting disclosure will go another letter addressed to Sir Bryan
Johnstone himself.  I shall be in the office when he opens it--and we
shall both be roaring with laughter over the extraordinary delusion
that I--quite the biggest fool of his acquaintance--could possibly be
the leader of the Black Gang.  And, as if to prove the utter absurdity
of the suggestion, this second letter will be from the leader of the
Black Gang himself.  In it he will state that he was present at 5,
Green Street, Hoxton, last night, in an endeavour to obtain possession
of the anarchist and Bolshevist literature stored there.  That he took
with him a professional burglar to assist him in opening the safe and
other things which might be there, and that while engaged in this
eminently virtuous proceeding he found that he was trapped in the room
by some mechanical device.  And then, Snooks, will come a very
interesting disclosure.  He will state how suddenly he saw through a
crack in the door a pair of eyes looking at him.  And their
colour--see, what is the colour of your eyes, Snooks?--grey-blue, very
noticeable.  Much the same as old Longmoor's--though his are a little
bluer.  And then the owner of the eyes, Snooks, was so inconsiderate as
to throw a bomb in the room; a bomb which killed one of the men, and
wrecked the desk.  So that the owner of the eyes, Snooks, grey-blue
eyes just like yours, is a murderer--a common murderer.  And we hang
men in England for murder."  He paused and stared at the hunchback.
"This is a jolly game, isn't it?"

"And you really imagine," said the hunchback contemptuously, "that even
your police would believe such a story that a man would wreck his own
office, when on your own showing he had the men trapped inside it."

"Probably not," said Drummond affably.  "Any more than that they would
believe that I was the leader of the Black Gang.  So since they're such
a wretched crowd of unbelievers I don't think it's much good playing
that game, Snooks.  Waste of time, isn't it?  So I vote we play another
one, all on our own--a little game of make-believe---like we used to
play in the nursery."

"I haven't an idea what you're talking about, Captain Drummond," said
the hunchback, shifting uneasily in his chair.  For all trace of
affability had vanished from the face of the man opposite him, to be
replaced by an expression which made Mr. Atkinson pass his tongue once
or twice over lips that had suddenly gone dry.

"Haven't you, you rat?" said Drummond quietly.  "Then I'll tell you.
Just for the next five minutes we're going to pretend that these two
astonishing statements which the police--stupid fellows--won't believe
are true.  We're going to pretend--only pretend, mind you, Snooks--that
I am the leader of the Black Gang; and we're going to pretend that you
are the man who flung the bomb last night.  Just for five minutes only,
then we go back to reality and unbelieving policemen."

And if during the following five minutes strange sounds were heard by
Denny in the room below, he was far too accustomed to the sounds of
breaking furniture to worry.  It wasn't until the hunchback pulled a
knife that Drummond warmed to his work, but from that moment he lost
his temper.  And because the hunchback was a hunchback--though endowed
withal by Nature with singular strength--it jarred on Drummond to fight
him as if he had been a normal man.  So he flogged him with a
rhinoceros-hide whip till his arm ached, and then he flung him into a
chair, gasping, cursing, and scarcely human.

"You shouldn't be so realistic in your stories, Snooks," he remarked
affably, though his eyes were still merciless as he looked at the
writhing figure.  "And I feel quite sure that that is what the leader
of the Black Gang would have done if he had met the peculiar humorist
who threw that bomb last night.  Bad habit--throwing bombs."

With a final curse the hunchback staggered to his feet, and his face
was diabolical in its fury.

"You shall pay for that, Captain Drummond, stroke by stroke, and lash
by lash," he said in a shaking voice.

Drummond laughed shortly.

"All the same old patter," he remarked.  "Tell old Longmoor with my
love----"  He paused and grinned.  "No, on second thoughts I think I'll
tell his reverence myself--at the appointed time."

"What will you tell him?" sneered the hunchback.

"Why, that his church isn't the only place where dry-rot has set in.
It's prevalent amongst his pals as well.  Must you go?  Straight down
the stairs, and the card tray in the hall is only electro-plate--so you
might leave it."

With a great effort Mr. Atkinson pulled himself together.  His
shoulders were still aching abominably from the hiding Drummond had
given him, but his loss of self-control had been due more to mental
than to physical causes.  Immensely powerful though Drummond was, his
clothes had largely broken the force of the blows for the hunchback.
And now as he stood by the door the uppermost thought in his mind was
that he had failed utterly and completely in the main object of the
interview.  He had come, if possible, to get the diamonds, and failing
that, to find out for certain whether Drummond had them in his
possession or not.  And the net result had been a flogging and nothing
more.  Too late he realized that in dealing with men of the type of
Hugh Drummond anything in the nature of a threat is the surest
guarantee of a thick ear obtainable: but then Mr. Atkinson was not used
to dealing with men of that type.  And the uppermost thought in his
mind at the moment was not how he could best revenge himself on this
vast brute who had flogged him, but what he was going to say to the
Reverend Theodosius Longmoor when he got back to the Ritz.  The
question of revenge could wait till later.

"Can we come to an understanding, Captain Drummond?" he remarked
quietly.  "I can assure you, of course, that you have made a terrible
mistake in thinking that it was I who threw that bomb at you last
night."

"At me?"  Drummond laughed shortly.  "Who said you'd thrown it at me?
That wasn't the game at all, Snooks.  You threw it at the leader of the
Black Gang."

"Can't we put our cards on the table?" returned the other with studied
moderation.  "I know that you are that leader, you know it--though it
is possible that no one else would believe it.  I was wrong to threaten
you--I should have known better; I apologize.  But if I may say so I
have had my punishment.  Now as man to man--can we come to terms?"

"I am waiting," said Hugh briefly.  "Kindly be as concise as possible."

"Those diamonds, Captain Drummond.  Rightly or wrongly I feel tolerably
certain that you either have them in your possession, or that you know
where they are.  Now those diamonds were not mine--did you speak?  No.
Well--to resume.  The diamonds were not mine; they had been deposited
in the desk in my office unknown to me.  Then this fool--whom you
foolishly think was myself--threw the bomb into the office to kill you.
I admit it; he told me all about it.  He did not kill you, for which
fact, if I may say so, I am very glad.  You're a sportsman, and you've
fought like a sportsman--but our fight, Captain Drummond, has been over
other matters.  The diamonds are a side-show and hardly concern you and
me.  I'll be frank with you; they are the sole wealth saved by a
Russian nobleman from the Bolshevist outrages.  He deposited them in my
office during my absence, with the idea of my selling them for him--and
now he and his family must starve.  And so what I propose is----"

"I don't think I want to hear your proposal, Snooks," said Drummond
kindly.  "Doubtless I look a fool; doubtless I am a fool, but I like to
think that I'm not a congenital idiot.  I'm glad you have discovered
that it's not much use threatening me; but to tell you the strict
truth, I prefer threats to nauseating hypocrisy.  So much so in fact
that the thought of that starving nobleman impels me to take more
exercise.  Ever read _Alice in Wonderland_, Snooks?  A charming book--a
masterpiece of English literature.  And there is one singularly
touching, not to say fruity, bit which concerns Father William--and a
genteel young man."

With a look of complete bewilderment on his face Mr. Atkinson felt
himself propelled through the door, until he came to a halt at the top
of the stairs.

"It's a little poem, Snooks, and some day I will recite it to you.
Just now I can only remember the one beautiful line which has suggested
my new form of exercise."

Mr. Atkinson became aware of a boot in the lower portion of his back,
and then the stairs seemed to rise up and hit him.  He finally came to
rest in the hall against an old oak chest of the pointed-corner type,
and for a moment or two he lay there dazed.  Then he scrambled to his
feet to find three young men, who had emerged from a lower room during
his flight, gazing at him impassively: while standing at the top of the
stairs down which he had just descended, and outlined against a window,
was the huge, motionless figure of Drummond.  Half cursing, half
sobbing, he staggered to the front door and opened it.  Once more he
looked back--not one of the four men had moved.  They were just staring
at him in absolute silence, and, with a sudden feeling of pure terror,
Count Zadowa, _alias_ Mr. Atkinson, shut the door behind him and
staggered into the sunlit street.




13

  In which Hugh Drummond and
  the Reverend Theodosius have a
  little chat

"Come up, boys," laughed Hugh.  "The fog of war is lifting slowly."

He led the way back into the study, and the other three followed him.

"That object, Ted, you will be pleased to hear, is the humorist who
threw the bomb at us last night."

"The devil it was," cried Jerningham.  "I hope you gave him something
for me.  Incidentally, how did he run you to earth here?"

"Things have moved within the last two or three hours," answered
Drummond slowly.  "Who do you think is stopping at the Ritz at the
present moment?  Who do you think lunched with Peter and me to-day?
Why--Peterson, my buckos--no more and no less."

"Rot!" said Toby Sinclair incredulously.

"No more and no less.  Peterson himself--disguised as a clergyman
called Longmoor.  And with him is dear Irma encased in woollen
garments.  And it was Irma who spotted the whole thing.  I never
recognized her, and she was sitting next to Peter and me in the lounge
when we were discussing things.  Of course, they're mixed up with that
swab I've just kicked down the stairs--in fact we've bolted the fox.
The nuisance of it is that by putting two and two together they've
spotted me as the leader of our bunch.  How I don't quite know, but
they indubitably have.  They also think I've got those diamonds: hence
the visit of the hunchback, who did not know they were in the desk when
he bunged the bomb.  In fact, things are becoming clearer all the way
round."

"I'm glad you think so," remarked Algy.  "I'm dashed if I see it."

Drummond thoughtfully filled himself a glass of beer from the cask in
the corner.

"Clearer, Algy--though not yet fully luminous with the light of day.
Between Peterson and those diamonds there is, or was, a close and
tender connection.  I'll eat my hat on that.  Between Peterson and the
hunchback there is also a close connection--though I have my doubts if
it's tender.  And then there's me tripping lightly like the good
fairy....  Hullo!  What's this?"

He had opened his desk as he spoke, and was now staring fixedly at the
lock.

"It's been forced," he said grimly.  "Forced since this morning.
They've been over this desk while I've been out.  Push the bell, Ted."

They waited in silence till Denny appeared in answer to the ring.

"Someone has been in this room, Denny," said Drummond.  "Someone has
forced this desk since half-past eleven this morning."

"There's been no one in the house, sir," answered Denny, "except the
man who came about the electric light."

"Electric grandmother," snapped his master.  "You paralytic idiot, why
did you leave him alone?"

"Well, sir, Mrs. Drummond was in the house at the time--and the
servants were all round the place."  Denny looked and felt aggrieved,
and after a while Drummond smiled.

"What sort of man was it, you old fathead?"

"A very respectable sort of man," returned Denny with dignity.  "I
remarked to Mrs. Denny how respectable he was, sir.  Why, he actually
went some distance down the street to call a taxi for Mrs. Drummond to
go to the Ritz...."

His words died away, as he stared in amazement at the expression on his
master's face.

"What the devil is it, Hugh?" cried Ted Jerningham.

"He called a taxi, you say?" muttered Drummond.  "The man who came here
called a taxi?"

"Yes, sir," answered Denny.  "He was leaving the house at the same
time, and as there was none in sight he said he'd send one along at
once."

"And Mrs. Drummond went in the taxi he sent?"

"Certainly, sir," said Denny in surprise.  "To the Ritz, to join you.
I gave the order myself to the driver."

The veins were standing out on Drummond's forehead, and for a moment it
seemed as if he was going to hit his servant.  Then with an effort he
controlled himself, and sank back in his chair with a groan.

"It's all right, Denny," he said hoarsely.  "It's not your fault: you
couldn't have known.  But--what a fool I've been!  All this time
wasted, when I might have been doing something."

"But what on earth's happened?" cried Algy.

"She never turned up at the Ritz, Algy: Phyllis never turned up for
lunch.  At first I thought she was late, and we waited.  Then I thought
she'd run into some pal and had gone to feed somewhere else.  And then,
what with talking to Peterson, and later that hunchback, I forget all
about her."

"But, good heavens, Hugh, what do you mean?" said Ted.  "You don't
think that----"

"Of course I think it.  I know it.  They've got her: they've kidnapped
her.  Right under my nose."  He rose and began to pace up and down the
room with long, uneven strides, while the others watched him anxiously.

"That dammed girl heard me say that she was coming to lunch, and just
after that she went upstairs.  And Peterson, being Peterson, took a
chance--and he's pulled it off."

"Ring up Scotland Yard, man," cried Toby Sinclair.

"What the devil am I to tell them?  They'd think I was off my head.
And I've got no proof that Peterson is at the bottom of it.  I haven't
even got any proof that would convince them that Longmoor is Peterson."

Algy Longworth stood up, serious for once in a way.

"There's no time now to beat about the bush, Hugh.  If they've got
Phyllis there's only one possible thing that you can do.  Go straight
to Bryan Johnstone and put all your cards on the table.  Tell him the
whole thing from A to Z--conceal nothing.  And then leave the matter in
his hands.  He won't let you down."

For a moment or two Hugh faced them undecided.  The sudden danger to
Phyllis seemed to have robbed him temporarily of his power of
initiative; for the time he had ceased to be the leader.

"Algy's right," said Jerningham quietly.  "It doesn't matter a damn
what happens to us, you've got to think about Phyllis.  We'll get it in
the neck--but there was always that risk."

"I believe you're right," muttered Hugh, looking round for his hat.
"My brain's all buzzing, I can't think----"

And at that moment the telephone bell rang on his desk.

"Answer it, Ted," said Hugh.

Jerningham picked up the receiver.

"Yes--this is Captain Drummond's house.  No--it's not him speaking.
Yes--I'll give him any message you like.  Who are you?  Who?  Mr.
Longmoor at the Ritz.  I see.  Yes--he told me you had lunched with him
to-day.  Oh! yes, certainly."

For a while Ted Jerningham stood holding the receiver to his ear, and
only the thin, metallic voice of the speaker at the other end broke the
silence of the room.  It went on, maddeningly indistinct to the three
men crowding round the instrument, broken only by an occasional
monosyllable from Jerningham.  Then with a final--"I will certainly
tell him," Ted laid down the instrument.

"What did he say, Ted?" demanded Hugh agitatedly.

"He sent a message to you, old man.  It was approximately to this
effect--that he was feeling very uneasy because your wife had not
turned up at lunch, and that he hoped there had been no accident.  He
further went on to say that since he had parted from you a most
peculiar piece of information had come to his knowledge, which,
incredible though it might appear seemed to bear on her failure to turn
up at the Ritz.  He most earnestly begged that you should go round and
see him at once--because if his information was correct any delay might
prove most dangerous for her.  And lastly, on no account were you to go
to the police until you had seen him."

For a while there was silence in the room.  Drummond, frowning heavily,
was staring out of the window; the others, not knowing what to say,
were waiting for him to speak.  And after a while he swung round, and
they saw that the air of indecision had gone.

"That simplifies matters considerably," he said quietly.  "It reduces
it to the old odds of Peterson and me."

"But you'll go to the police, old man," cried Algy.  "You won't pay any
attention to that message.  He'll never know that you haven't come
straight to him."

Drummond laughed shortly.

"Have you forgotten the rules so much, Algy, that you think that?  Look
out of the window, man, only don't be seen.  There's a fellow watching
the house now--I couldn't go a yard without Peterson knowing.  Moreover
I'm open to a small bet that he knew I was in the house when he was
talking to Ted.  Good heavens!  No.  Peterson is not the sort of man to
play those monkey-tricks with.  He's got Phyllis, the whole thing is
his show.  And if I went to the police, long before they could bring it
home to him, or get her back--she'd be--why"--and once again the veins
stood out on his forehead--"Lord knows what the swine wouldn't have
done to her.  It's just a barter at the present moment--the diamonds
against her.  And there's to be no haggling.  They win the first
round--but there are a few more on the horizon."

"What are you going to do?" said Ted.

"Exactly what he suggests," answered Hugh.  "Go round and see him at
the Ritz--now, at once.  I shan't take the diamonds with me, but there
will be no worry over the exchange as far as I'm concerned.  It's just
like his dirty method of fighting to go for a girl," he finished
savagely.

"You don't think they've hurt Mrs. Drummond, sir," said Denny anxiously.

"If they have, they'll find the remains of an elderly parson in
Piccadilly," returned Hugh, as he slipped a small revolver into his
pocket.  "But I don't think so.  Carl is far too wise to do anything so
stupid as that.  He's tried with the hunchback and failed, now he's
trying this.  And he wins."

He crossed to the door and opened it.

"In case I don't come back by six, the diamonds are in my sponge bag in
the bathroom--and go straight to Scotland Yard.  Tell Tum-tum the whole
yarn."

With a brief nod he was gone, and a moment later he was in the street.
It was almost deserted, and he waited on the pavement for the loitering
gentleman who came obsequiously forward.

"Taxi, sir?"

A convenient one--an almost too convenient one--came to a standstill
beside them, and Hugh noticed a quick look flash between the driver and
the other man.  Then he took stock of the taxi, and behold it was not
quite as other taxis.  And in his mind arose an unholy desire.  As has
been said, the street was nearly deserted, and it was destined to
become even more deserted.  There was a crash of breaking glass and the
loiterer disappeared through one window of the machine.

Hugh stared at the astounded driver.

"If you say one word, you appalling warthog," he remarked gently, "I'll
throw you through the other."

It was a happy omen, and he felt better as he walked towards the Ritz.
Simple and direct--that was the game.  No more tortuous intrigues for
him; hit first and apologize afterwards.  And he was still in the same
mood when he was shown into the sitting-room where the Reverend
Theodosius Longmoor was busily working on Austrian famine accounts.  He
rose as Hugh entered, and his daughter, still knitting busily, gave him
a charming girlish smile.

"Ah! my dear young friend," began Mr. Longmoor, "I see you've had my
message."

"Yes," answered Hugh affably, "I was standing next door to the fellow
you were talking to.  But before we come to business, so to speak--I
must really ask you not to send Snooks round again.  I don't like him.
Why, my dear Carl, I preferred our late lamented Henry Lakington."

There was a moment of dead silence, during which the Reverend
Theodosius stared at him speechlessly and the busy knitter ceased to
knit.  The shock was so complete and sudden that even Carl Peterson
seemed at a loss, and Drummond laughed gently as he took a chair.

"I'm tired of this dressing-up business, Carl," he remarked in the same
affable voice.  "And it's so stupid to go on pretending when everybody
knows.  So I thought we might as well have all the cards on the table.
Makes the game much easier."

He selected a cigarette with care, and offered his case to the girl.

"My most hearty congratulations, mademoiselle," he continued.  "I may
say that it was not you I recognized, but your dear--it is father
still, isn't it?  And now that we've all met again you must tell me
some time how you got away last year."

But by this time the clergyman had found his voice.

"Are you mad, sir?" he spluttered.  "Are you insane?  How dare you come
into this room and insult my daughter and myself?  I shall ring the
bell, sir, and have you removed."

He strode across the room, and Drummond watched him calmly.

"I've just called one bluff this afternoon, Carl," he said lazily.
"Now I'll call another.  Go on, push the bell.  Send for the police and
say I've insulted you.  Go and see dear old Tum-tum yourself: he'll be
most awfully braced at meeting you."

The other's hand fell slowly to his side, and he looked at his daughter
with a resigned expression in his face.

"Really, my dear, I think that the heat--or perhaps----"  He paused
expressively, and Drummond laughed.

"You were always a good actor, Carl, but is it worth while?  There are
no witnesses here, and I'm rather pressed for time.  There's no good
pretending that it's the heat or that I'm tight, because I'm the only
member of the audience, and you can't deceive me, you really can't.
Through a series of accidents you have become aware of the fact that I
am the leader of the Black Gang.  You can go and tell the police if you
like--in fact, that horrible little man who came round to see me
threatened to do so.  But if you do, I shall tell them who you are, and
I shall also inform them of the secret history of the bomb.  So that,
though it will be awkward for me, Carl, it will be far more awkward for
you and Mademoiselle Irma; and it will be positively unhealthy for
Snooks.  You take me so far, don't you?  Up to date I have been dealing
in certainties; now we come to contingencies.  It strikes me that there
are two doubtful points, old friend of my youth--just two.  And those
two points are the whereabouts respectively of my wife and your
diamonds.  Now, Carl, do we talk business or not?"

"My dear young man," said the other resignedly, "I intended to talk
business with you when you arrived if you had given me a chance.  But
as you've done nothing but talk the most unmitigated drivel since
you've come into the room I haven't had a chance.  You appear obsessed
with the absurd delusion that I am some person called Carl, and----
But where are you going?"

Drummond paused at the door.

"I am going straight to Scotland Yard.  I shall there tell Sir Bryan
Johnstone the whole story from A to Z, at the same time handing him a
little bag containing diamonds which has recently come into my
possession."

"You admit you've got them," snapped the other, letting the mask drop
for a moment.

"That's better, Carl--much better."  Drummond came back into the room.
"I admit I've got them--but they're in a place where you can never find
them, and they will remain there until six o'clock to-night, when they
go straight to Scotland Yard--unless, Carl--unless my wife is returned
to me absolutely unscathed and unhurt before that hour.  It is five
o'clock now."

"And if she is returned--what then?"

"You shall have the diamonds."

For a space the two men stared at one another in silence, and it was
the girl who finally spoke.

"What proof have we that you'll keep your word?"

"Common sense," said Hugh quietly.  "My wife is somewhat more valuable
to me than a bagful of diamonds.  In addition, you know me well enough
to know that I do not break my word.  Anyway, those are my terms--take
them or leave them.  But I warn you that should anything happen to
her--nothing will prevent me going straight to the police.  No
consideration of unpleasant results for me will count even for half a
second.  Well, do you accept?"

"There is just one point, Captain Drummond," remarked the clergyman
mildly.  "Supposing that I am able to persuade certain people
to--er--expedite the return of Mrs. Drummond in exchange for that
little bag, where do you and I stand after the bargain is transacted.
Do you still intend to tell the police of your extraordinary delusions
with regard to me?"

"Not unless they should happen to become acquainted with the ridiculous
hallucination that I am the leader of the Black Gang," answered
Drummond.  "That was for your ears alone, my little one, and as you
knew it already you won't get fat on it, will you?  No, my
intentions--since we are having a heart-to-heart talk--are as follows.
Once the exchange is effected we will start quite fair and square--just
like last time, Carl.  It doesn't pay you to go to the police: it
doesn't pay me, so we'll have a single on our own.  I am frightfully
anxious to add you to my collection of specimens, and I can't believe
you are burning with zeal to go.  But we'll see, Carl, we'll see.
Only--no more monkey-tricks with my wife.  Don't let there be any
misunderstanding on that point."

The clergyman smiled benevolently.

"How aptly you put things!" he murmured.  "I accept your terms, and I
shall look forward afterwards to the single on our own that you speak
about.  And now--as to details.  You must bear in mind that just as
Mrs. Drummond is more valuable to you than diamonds, she is also
somewhat larger.  In other words, it will be obvious at once whether
those whom I represent have kept their side of the bargain by producing
your wife.  It will not be obvious whether you have kept yours.  The
diamonds may or may not be in your pocket, and once you have your wife
in your arms again the incentive to return the diamonds would be
diminished.  So I suggest, Captain Drummond, that you should bring the
diamonds to me--here in this room, before six o'clock as a proof of
good faith.  You may keep them in your possession; all that I require
is to see them.  I will then engage on my side to produce Mrs. Drummond
within a quarter of an hour."

For a moment Drummond hesitated, fearing a trick.  And yet it was a
perfectly reasonable request, as he admitted to himself.  From their
point of view it was quite true that they could have no proof that he
would keep his word, and once Phyllis was in the room there would be
nothing to prevent the two of them quietly walking out through the door
and telling the Reverend Theodosius to go to hell.

"Nothing can very well happen at the Ritz, can it?" continued the
clergyman suavely.  "And you see I am even trusting you to the extent
that I do not actually ask you to hand over the diamonds until your
wife comes.  I have no guarantee that even then you will not get up and
leave the room with them still in your possession.  You are too big and
strong a man, Captain Drummond, to allow of any
horseplay--especially--er--in a clergyman's suite of rooms."

Drummond laughed.  "Cut it out, Carl!" he exclaimed.  "Cut it out, for
heaven's sake!  All right.  I agree.  I'll go round and get the stones
now."

He rose and went to the door.

"But don't forget, Carl--if there are any monkey-tricks, heaven help
you."

The door closed behind him, and with a snarl the clergyman spun round
on the girl.

"How the devil has he spotted us?"  His face was convulsed with rage.
"He's the biggest fool in the world, and yet he spots me every time.
However, there's no time to worry about that now; we must think."

He took one turn up and down the room, then he nodded his head as if he
had come to a satisfactory decision.  And when he spoke to the girl,
who sat waiting expectingly on the sofa, he might have been the head of
a big business firm giving orders to his managers for the day.

"Ring up headquarters of A branch," he said quietly.  "Tell them to
send round Number 13 to this room at once.  He must be here within a
quarter of an hour."

"Number 13," repeated the girl, making a note.  "That's the man who is
such a wonderful mimic, isn't it?  Well?"

"Number 10 and the Italian are to come with him, and they are to wait
below for further orders."

"That all?"  She rose to her feet as the Reverend Theodosius crossed
rapidly to the door which led to the bathroom.  "What about that silly
little fool--his wife?"

For a moment the man paused, genuine amazement on his face.

"My dear girl, you don't really imagine I ever intended to produce her,
do you?  And any lingering doubt I might have had on the matter
disappeared the moment I found Drummond knew us.  There's going to be
no mistake this time over that young gentleman, believe me."

With a slight laugh he disappeared into the bathroom, and as little
Janet put through her call a tinkling of bottles seemed to show that
the Reverend Theodosius was not wasting time.




14

  In which a Rolls-Royce
  runs amok

Some ten minutes later he emerged from the bathroom carefully carrying
a saucer in his hand.  The girl's announcement that Number 13 had
started at once had been received with a satisfied grunt, but he had
spoken no word.  And the girl, glancing through the door, saw him with
his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, carefully mixing two
liquids together and stirring the result gently with a glass rod.  He
was completely absorbed in his task, and with a faint smile on her face
she went back to the sofa and waited.  She knew too well the futility
of speaking to him on such occasions.  Even when he came in, carrying
the result of his labours with a pair of india-rubber gloves on his
hands, she made no remark, but waited for him to relieve her curiosity.

He placed the mixture on the table and glanced round the room.  Then he
pulled up one of the ordinary stuff arm-chairs to the table and removed
the linen head-rest, which he carefully soaked with the contents of the
saucer, dabbing the liquid on with a sponge, so as not to crumple the
linen in any way.  He used up all the liquid, and then, still with the
same meticulous care, he replaced the head-rest on the chair, and stood
back and surveyed his handiwork.

"Look all right?" he asked briefly.

"Quite," answered the girl.  "What's the game?"

"Drummond has got to sit in that chair," he returned, removing the
saucer and the sponge to the bathroom, and carefully peeling off his
gloves.  "He's got to sit in that chair, my dear, and afterwards that
linen affair has got to be burnt.  And whatever happens"--he paused for
a moment in front of her--"don't you touch it."

Quietly and methodically, he continued his preparations, as if the most
usual occurrence in the world was in progress.  He picked up two other
chairs, and carried them through into the bedroom; then he returned and
placed an open dispatch-case with a sheaf of loose papers on another
one.

"That more or less limits the seating accommodation," he remarked,
glancing round the room.  "Now if you, _cara mia_, will spread some of
your atrocious woollen garments on the sofa beside you, I think we can
guarantee the desired result."

But apparently his preparations were not over yet.  He crossed to the
sideboard and extracted a new and undecanted bottle of whisky.  From
this he withdrew about a dessertspoonful of the spirit, and replaced it
with the contents of a small phial which he took out of his waistcoat
pocket.  Then he forced back the cork until it was right home, and with
the greatest care replaced the cap of tinfoil round the top of the
bottle.  And the girl, coming over to where he was working, saw that
the bottle was again as new.

"What a consummate artist you are, _chri_!" she said, laying a hand on
his shoulder.

The Reverend Theodosius smiled and passed his arm round her waist.

"One of the earliest essentials of our--er--occupation, my little one,
is to learn how to insert dope into an apparently untouched bottle."

"But do you think you will get him to drink even out of a new bottle?"

"I hope so.  I shall drink myself.  But even if he doesn't, the
preparation on the chair is the essential thing.  Once his neck touches
that----"

With an expressive wave of his hand he vanished once more into the
bathroom, returning with his coat.

"Don't you remember that Italian toxicologist--Fransioli?" he remarked.
"We met him in Naples three years ago, and he obligingly told me that
he had in his possession the secret of one of the real Borgia poisons.
I remember I had a most interesting discussion with him on the subject.
The internal application is harmless; the external application is what
matters.  That acts alone, but if the victim can be induced to take it
internally as well it acts very much better."

"Fransioli?"  She frowned thoughtfully.  "Wasn't that the name of the
man who had the fatal accident on Vesuvius?"

"That's the fellow," answered the Reverend Theodosius, arranging a
siphon and some glasses on a tray.  "He persuaded me to ascend it with
him, and on the way up he was foolish enough to tell me that the
bottles containing this poison had been stolen from his laboratory.  I
don't know whether he suspected me or not--I was an Austrian Baron at
the time, if I remember aright--but when he proceeded to peer over the
edge of the crater at a most dangerous point I thought it better to
take no risks.  So--er--the accident occurred.  And I gathered he was
really a great loss to science."

He glanced at his watch, and the girl laughed delightedly.

"It will be interesting to see if his claims for it are true," he
continued thoughtfully.  "I have only used it once, but on that
occasion I inadvertently put too much into the wine, and the patient
died.  But with the right quantities it produces--so he stated, and I
saw him experiment on a dog--a type of partial paralysis, not only of
the body, but of the mind.  You can see, you can hear, but you can't
speak and you can't move.  What ultimately happens with a human being I
don't know, but the dog recovered."

A quick double knock came at the door, and with one final glance round
the room the Reverend Theodosius crossed to his desk and sat down.

"Come in," he called, and a small dapper-looking man entered.

"Number 13, sir," said the new-comer briefly, and the other nodded.

"I am expecting a man here shortly, 13," remarked the clergyman, "whose
voice I shall want you to imitate over the telephone."

"Only over the telephone, sir?"

"Only over the telephone.  You will not be able to be in this room, but
there is a bathroom adjoining in which you can hear every word that is
spoken."  The other nodded as if satisfied.  "For how long will you
require to hear him talk?"

"Five or ten minutes, sir, will be ample."

"Good.  You shall have that.  There's the bathroom.  Go in, and don't
make a sound."

"Very good, sir."

"And wait.  Have Giuseppi and Number 10 come yet?"

"They left headquarters, sir, just after I did.  They should be here by
now."

The man disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and
once again the Reverend Theodosius glanced at his watch.

"Our young friend should be here shortly," he murmured.  "And then the
single which he seems so anxious to play can begin in earnest."

The benign expression which he had adopted as part of his role
disappeared for an instant to be replaced by a look of cold fury.

"The single will begin in earnest," he repeated softly, "and it's the
last one he will ever play."

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

"He has certainly asked for it," she remarked, "but it strikes me that
you had better be careful.  You may bet on one thing--that he hasn't
kept his knowledge about you and me to himself.  Half those young
idiots that run about behind him know everything by this time, and if
they go to Scotland Yard it will be very unpleasant for us, _mon
chri_.  And that they certainly will do if anything should happen to
dear Hugh."

The clergyman smiled resignedly.

"After all these years, you think it necessary to say that to me!  My
dear, you pain me--you positively wound me to the quick.  I will
guarantee that all Drummond's friends sleep soundly in their beds
to-night, harbouring none but the sweetest thoughts of the kindly and
much-maligned old clergyman at the Ritz."

"And what of Drummond himself?" continued the girl.

"It may be to-night, or it may be to-morrow.  But accidents happen at
all times--and one is going to happen to him."  He smiled sweetly, and
lit a cigar.  "A nasty, sticky accident which will deprive us of his
presence.  I haven't worried over the details yet--but doubtless the
inspiration will come.  And here, if I mistake not, is our hero
himself."

The door swung open and Drummond entered.

"Well, Carl, old lad," he remarked breezily, "here I am on the stroke
of time with the bag of nuts all complete."

"Excellent," murmured the clergyman waving a benevolent hand towards
the only free chair.  "But if you must call me by my Christian name,
why not make it Theo?"

Drummond grinned delightedly.

"As you wish, my little one.  Theo it shall be in future, and Janet."
He bowed to the girl as he sat down.  "There's just one little point I
want to mention, Theo, before we come to the laughter and games.  Peter
Darrell, whom you may remember of old, and who lunched with us to-day,
is sitting on the telephone in my house.  And eight o'clock is the time
limit.  Should his childish fears for my safety and my wife's not be
assuaged by that hour, he will feel compelled to interrupt Tum-tum at
his dinner.  I trust I make myself perfectly clear."

"You are the soul of lucidity," beamed the clergyman.

"Good!  Then first of all, there are the diamonds.  No, don't come too
near, please; you can count them quite easily from where you are."  He
tumbled them out of the bag, and they lay on the table like great pools
of liquid light.  The girl's breath came quickly as she saw them, and
Drummond turned on her with a smile.

"To one given up to good works and knitting, Janet, doubtless, such
things do not appeal.  Tell me, Theo," he remarked as he swept them
back into the bag--"who was the idiot who put them in Snooks' desk?
Don't answer if you'd rather not give away your maidenly secrets; but
it was a pretty full-sized bloomer on his part, wasn't it--pooping off
the old bomb?"

He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment a gleam shone in the
other's eyes, for the nape of Drummond's neck came exactly against the
centre of the impregnated linen cover.

"Doubtless, Captain Drummond, doubtless," he murmured politely.  "But
if you will persist in talking in riddles, don't you think we might
choose a different subject until Mrs. Drummond arrives."

"Anything you like, Theo," said Drummond.  "I'm perfectly happy talking
about you.  How the devil do you do it?"  He sat up and stared at the
other man with genuine wonder on his face.  "Eyes
different--nose--voice--figure--everything different.  You're a
marvel--but for that one small failing of yours."

"You interest me profoundly," said the clergyman.  "What is this one
small failing that makes you think I am other than what I profess to
be?"

Drummond laughed genially.

"Good heavens, don't you know what it is?  Hasn't Janet told you?  It's
that dainty little trick of yours of tickling the left ear with the
right big toe that marks you every time.  No man can do that, Theo, and
blush unseen."

He leaned back again in his chair, and passed his hand over his
forehead.

"By Jove, it's pretty hot in here, isn't it?"

"It is close everywhere to-day," answered the other easily, though his
eyes behind the spectacles were fixed intently on Drummond.  "Would you
care for a drink?"

Drummond smiled; the sudden fit of muzziness seemed to have passed as
quickly as it had come.

"Thank you--no," he answered politely.  "In your last incarnation,
Theo, you may remember that I did not drink with you.  There is an
element of doubt about your liquor which renders it a dangerous
proceeding."

"As you will," said the clergyman indifferently, at the same time
placing the bottle of whisky and the glasses on the table.  "If you
imagine that I am capable of interfering with an unopened bottle of
Johnny Walker, obtained from the cellars of the Ritz, it would be well
not to join me."  He was carefully removing the tin foil as he spoke,
and once again the strange muzzy feeling crept over Drummond.  He felt
as if things had suddenly become unreal--as if he was dreaming.  His
vision seemed blurred, and then for a second time it passed away,
leaving only a strange mental confusion.  What was he doing in this
room?  Who was this benevolent old clergyman drawing the cork out of a
bottle of whisky?

With an effort he pulled himself together.  It must be the heat or
something, he reflected, and he must keep his brain clear.  Perhaps a
whisky-and-soda would help.  After all, there could be no danger in
drinking from a bottle which he had seen opened under his very eyes.

"Do you know, Theo," he remarked, "I think I will change my mind and
have a whisky-and-soda."

His voice sounded strange to his ears; and he wondered if the others
noticed anything.  But apparently not; the clergyman merely nodded
briefly, and remarked, "say when."

"When," said Drummond, with a foolish sort of laugh.  It was a most
extraordinary thing, but he couldn't focus his eyes; there were two
glasses on the table and two clergymen splashing in soda from two
siphons.  Surely he wasn't going to faint; bad thing to faint when he
was alone with Peterson.

He took a gulp at his drink and suddenly began to talk--foolishly and
idiotically.

"Nice room, Carl, old lad....  Never expected meet you again: certainly
not in nice room....  Wrote letter paper after poor old Latter went
mad.  Drew you--drew badger.  Send badger mad too."

His voice trailed away, and he sat there blinking stupidly.  Everything
was confused, and his tongue seemed weighted with lead.  He reached out
again for his glass--or tried to--and his arm refused to move.  And
suddenly out of the jumble of thoughts in his brain there emerged the
one damning certainty that somehow or other he had been trapped and
drugged.  He gave a hoarse, inarticulate cry, and struggled to rise to
his feet, but it was useless; his legs and arms felt as if they were
bound to the chair by iron bands.  And in the mist that swam before his
eyes he saw the mocking faces of the clergyman and his daughter.

"It seems to have acted most excellently," remarked the Reverend
Theodosius, and Drummond found he could hear quite normally; also his
sight was improving; things in the room seemed steadier.  And his mind
was becoming less confused--he could think again.  But to move or to
speak was utterly impossible; all he could do was to sit and watch and
rage inwardly at having been such a fool as to trust Peterson.

But that gentleman appeared in no hurry.  He was writing with a gold
pencil on a letter pad, and every now and then he paused and smiled
thoughtfully.  At length he seemed satisfied, and crossed to the
bathroom door.

"We are ready now," Drummond heard him say, and he wondered what was
going to happen next.  To turn his head was impossible; his range of
vision was limited by the amount he could turn his eyes.  And then, to
his amazement, he heard his own voice speaking from somewhere behind
him--not, perhaps, quite so deep, but an extraordinarily good imitation
which would have deceived nine people out of ten when they could not
see the speaker.  And then he heard Peterson's voice again mentioning
the telephone, and he realized what they were going to do.

"I want you," Peterson was saying, "to send this message that I have
written down to that number--using this gentleman's voice."

They came into his line of vision, and the new arrival stared at him
curiously.  But he asked no questions--merely took the paper and read
it through carefully.  Then he stepped over to the telephone, and took
off the receiver.  And, helplessly impotent, Drummond sat in his chair
and heard the following message spoken in his own voice:

"Is that you, Peter, old bird?  I've made the most unholy bloomer.
This old bloke Theodosius isn't Carl at all.  He's a perfectly
respectable pillar of the Church."

And then apparently Darrell said something, and Peterson, who was
listening through the second ear-piece, whispered urgently to the man.

"Phyllis," he went on--"she's as right as rain!  The whole thing is a
boss shot of the first order...."

Drummond made another stupendous effort to rise, and for a moment
everything went blank.  Dimly he heard his own voice still talking into
the instrument but he only caught a word here and there, and then it
ceased, and he realized that the man had left the room.  It was
Peterson's voice close by him that cleared his brain again.

"I trust you approve of the way our single has started, Captain
Drummond," he remarked pleasantly.  "Your friend Peter, I am glad to
say, is more than satisfied, and has announced his intention of dining
with some female charmer.  Also he quite understands why your wife has
gone into the country--you heard that bit I hope, about her sick
cousin?--and he realizes that you are joining her."

And suddenly the pleasant voice ceased, and the clergyman continued in
a tone of cold, malignant fury.

"You rat!  You damned interfering young swine!  Now that you're
helpless I don't mind admitting that I am the man you knew as Carl
Peterson, but I'm not going to make the mistake he made a second time.
I under-estimated you, Captain Drummond.  I left things to that fool
Lakington.  I treated you as a blundering young ass, and I realized too
late that you weren't such a fool as you looked.  This time I am paying
you the compliment of treating you as a dangerous enemy, and a clever
man.  I trust you are flattered."

He turned as the door opened, and the man who had telephoned came in
with two others.  One was a great, powerful-looking man who might have
been a prize-fighter; the other was a lean, swarthy-skinned foreigner,
and both of them looked unpleasant customers.  And Hugh wondered what
was going to happen next, while his eyes rolled wildly from side to
side as if in search of some way of escape.  It was like some ghastly
nightmare when one is powerless to move before some dreadful figment of
the brain, only to be saved at the last moment by waking up.  Only in
Hugh's case he was awake already, and the dream was reality.

He saw the men leave the room, and then Peterson came over to him
again.  First he took the little bag of diamonds out of his pocket, and
it struck Hugh that though he had seen the other's hand go into his
pocket, he had felt nothing.  He watched Peterson and the girl as they
examined the stones; he watched Peterson as he locked them up in a
steel despatch-case.  And then Peterson disappeared out of his range of
vision.  He was conscious that he was near him--just behind him--and
the horror of the nightmare increased.  It had been better when they
were talking; at least then he could see them.  But now, with both of
them out of sight--hovering round the back of his chair, perhaps--and
without a sound in the room save the faint hum of the traffic outside,
the strain was getting unbearable.

And then another thought came to add to his misery.  If they killed
him--and they intended to, he was certain--what would happen to
Phyllis?  They'd got her too, somewhere; what were they going to do to
her?  Again he made a superhuman effort to rise; again he failed so
much as to move his finger.  And for a while he raved and blasphemed
mentally.

It was hopeless, utterly hopeless; he was caught like a rat in a trap.

And then he began to think coherently again.  After all, they couldn't
kill him here in the Ritz.  You can't have dead men lying about in your
room in an hotel.  And they would have to move him some time; they
couldn't leave him sitting there.  How were they going to get him out?
He couldn't walk, and to carry him out as he was would be impossible.
Too many of the staff below knew him by sight.

Suddenly Peterson came into view again.  He was in his shirt sleeves
and was smoking a cigar, and Hugh watched him sorting out papers.  He
seemed engrossed in the matter, and paid no more attention to the
hapless figure at the table than he did to the fly on the window.  At
length he completed his task, and having closed the dispatch-case with
a snap, he rose and stood facing Hugh.

"Enjoying yourself?" he remarked.  "Wondering what is going to happen?
Wondering where dear Phyllis is?"

He gave a short laugh.

"Excellent drug that, isn't it?  The first man I tried it on died--so
you're lucky.  You never felt me put a pin in the back of your arm, did
you?"

He laughed again; in fact, the Reverend Theodosius seemed in an
excellent temper.

"Well, my friend, you really asked for it this time, and I'm afraid
you're going to get it.  I cannot have someone continually worrying me
like this, so I'm going to kill you, as I always intended to some day.
It's a pity, and in many ways I regret it, but you must admit yourself
that you really leave me no alternative.  It will appear to be
accidental, so you need entertain no bitter sorrow that I shall suffer
in any way.  And it will take place very soon--so soon, in fact, that I
doubt if you will recover from the effects of the drug.  I wouldn't
guarantee it: you might.  As I say, you are only the second person on
whom I have tried it.  And with regard to your wife--our little
Phyllis--it may interest you to know that I have not yet made up my
mind.  I may find it necessary for her to share in your accident--or
even to have one all on her own: I may not."

The raving fury in Drummond's mind as his tormentor talked on showed
clearly in his eyes, and Peterson laughed.

"Our friend is getting quite agitated, my dear," he remarked, and the
girl came into sight.  She was smoking a cigarette, and for a while
they stared at their helpless victim much as if he was a specimen in a
museum.

"You're an awful idiot, my Hugh, aren't you?" she said at length.  "And
you have given us such a lot of trouble.  But I shall quite miss you,
and all our happy little times together."

She laughed gently, and glanced at the clock.

"They ought to be here fairly soon," she remarked.  "Hadn't we better
get him out of sight?"

Peterson nodded, and between them they pushed Drummond into the
bathroom.

"You see, my friend," remarked Peterson affably, "it is necessary to
get you out of the hotel without arousing suspicion.  A simple little
matter, but it is often the case that one trips up more over simple
matters than over complicated ones."

He was carefully inserting a pin into his victim's leg as he spoke, and
watching intently for any sign of feeling.

"Why, I remember once," he continued conversationally, "that I was so
incredibly foolish as to replace the cork in a bottle of prussic acid
after I had--er--compelled a gentleman to drink the contents.  He was
in bed at the time, and everything pointed to suicide, except that
confounded cork.  I mean, would any man, after he's drunk sufficient
prussic acid to poison a regiment, go and cork up the empty bottle?  It
only shows how careful one must be over these little matters."

The girl put her head round the door.

"They're here," she remarked abruptly, and Peterson went into the other
room, half closing the door.  And Drummond, writhing impotently, heard
the well-modulated voice of the Reverend Theodosius.

"Ah, my dear friend, my very dear old friend!  What joy it is to see
you again.  I am greatly obliged to you for escorting this gentleman up
personally."

"Not at all, sir, not at all!  Would you care for dinner to be served
up here?"

Someone to do with the hotel, thought Drummond, and he made one final
despairing effort to move.  He felt it was his last chance, and it
failed--as the others had done before.  And it seemed to him that the
mental groan he gave must have been audible, so utterly beyond hope did
he feel.  But it wasn't; no sound came from the bathroom to the ears of
the courteous sub-manager.

"I will ring later if I require it," Peterson was saying in his gentle,
kindly voice.  "My friend, you understand, is still on a very strict
diet, and he comes to me more for spiritual comfort than for bodily.
But I will ring should I find he would like to stay."

"Very good, sir."

And Drummond heard the door close, and knew that his last hope had gone.

Then he heard Peterson's voice again, sharp and incisive.

"Lock the door.  You two--get Drummond.  He's in the bathroom."

The two men he had previously seen entered, and carried him back into
the sitting-room, where the whole scheme was obvious at a glance.  Just
getting out of an ordinary invalid's chair was a big man of more or
less the same build as himself.  A thick silk muffler partially
disguised his face; a soft hat was pulled well down over his eyes, and
Drummond realized that the gentleman who had been wheeled in for
spiritual comfort would not be wheeled out.

The two men pulled him out of his chair, and then, forgetting his
condition, they let him go, and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes on
the floor, his legs and arms sprawling in grotesque attitudes.

They picked him up again, and not without difficulty they got him into
the other man's overcoat; and finally they deposited him in the
invalid's chair, and tucked him up with the rug.

"We will give it half an hour," remarked Peterson, who had been
watching the operation.  "By that time our friend will have had
sufficient spiritual solace; and until then you two can wait outside.
I will give you your full instructions later."

"Will you want me any more, sir?"  The man whose place Drummond had
taken was speaking.

"No," said Peterson curtly.  "Get out as unostentatiously as you can.
Go down by the stairs and not by the lift."

With a nod, he dismissed them all, and once again Drummond was alone
with his two chief enemies.

"Simple, isn't it, my friend?" remarked Peterson.  "An invalid arrives,
and an invalid will shortly go.  And once you've passed the hotel doors
you will cease to be an invalid.  You will become again that well-known
young man about town--Captain Hugh Drummond--driving out of London in
his car--a very nice Rolls, that new one of yours--bought, I think,
since we last met.  Your chauffeur would have been most uneasy when he
missed it but for the note you've left him, saying you'll be away for
three days."  Peterson laughed gently as he stared at his victim.

"You must forgive me if I seem to gloat a little, won't you?" he
continued.  "I've got such a large score to settle with you, and I very
much fear I shan't be in at the death.  I have an engagement to dine
with an American millionaire, whose wife is touched to the heart over
the sufferings of the starving poor in Austria.  And when the wives of
millionaires are touched to the heart, my experience is that the
husbands are generally touched to the pocket."

He laughed again even more gently and leaned across the table towards
the man who sat motionless in the chair.  He seemed to be striving to
see some sign of fear in Drummond's eyes, some appeal for mercy.  But
if there was any expression at all it was only a faint mocking boredom,
such as Drummond had been wont to infuriate him with during their first
encounter a year before.  Then he had expressed it in words and
actions; now only his eyes were left to him, but it was there all the
same.  And after a while Peterson snarled at him viciously.

"No, I shan't be in at the death, Drummond, but I will explain to you
the exact programme.  You will be driven out of London in your own car,
but when the final accident occurs you will be alone.  It is a most
excellent place for an accident, Drummond--most excellent.  One or two
have already taken place there, and the bodies are generally recovered
some two or three days later--more or less unrecognizable.  Then when
the news comes out in the evening papers to-morrow I shall be able to
tell the police the whole sad story.  How you took compassion on an old
clergyman and asked him to lunch, and then went out of London after
your charming young wife--only to meet with this dreadful end.  I think
I'll even offer to take part in the funeral service.  And yet--no, that
is a pleasure I shall have to deny myself.  Having done what I came
over to do, Drummond, rather more expeditiously than I thought likely,
I shall return to my starving children in Vienna.  And, do you know
what I came over to do, Drummond?  I came over to smash the Black
Gang--and I came over to kill you--though the latter could have waited."

Peterson's eyes were hard and merciless, but the expression of faint
boredom still lingered in Drummond's.  Only too well did he realize now
that he had played straight into his enemy's hands, but he was a
gambler through and through, and not by the quiver of an eyelid did he
show what he felt.  Right from the very start the dice had been loaded
in Peterson's favour owing to that one astounding piece of luck in
getting hold of Phyllis.  It hadn't even been a fight--it had been a
walk-over.  And the cruel part of it was that it was not through any
mistake of Drummond's.  It was a fluke pure and simple--an astounding
fluke--a fluke which had come off better than many a
carefully-thought-out scheme.  If it hadn't been for that he would
never have come to Peterson's sitting-room at all; he would never have
been doped; he wouldn't have been sitting helpless as a log while
Peterson put down his cards one after the other in cold triumph.

"Yes, it could have waited, Captain Drummond--that second object of
mine.  I assure you that it was a great surprise to me when I realized
who the leader of the Black Gang was--a great surprise and a great
pleasure.  To kill two birds so to speak, with one stone, saves
trouble; to accomplish two objects in one accident is much more
artistic.  So the Black Gang loses its leader, the leader loses his
life, and I regain my diamonds.  Eminently satisfactory, my friend,
eminently.  And when your dear wife returns from the country--if she
does, well, Captain Drummond, it will be a very astute member of
Scotland Yard who will associate her little adventure with that
benevolent old clergyman, the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor, who
recently spent two or three days at the Ritz.  Especially in view of
your kindly telephone message to Mr.--what's his name?--Mr. Peter
Darrell."

He glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.

"I fear that that is all the spiritual consolation that I can give you
this evening, my dear fellow," he remarked benignly.  "You will
understand, I'm sure, that there are many calls on my time.  Janet, my
love"--he raised his voice--"our young friend is leaving us now.  I
feel sure you'd like to say good-bye to him."

She came into the room, walking a little slowly and for a while she
stared in silence at Hugh.  And it seemed to him that in her eyes there
was a gleam of genuine pity.  Once again he made a frantic effort to
speak--to beg, beseech, and implore them not to hurt Phyllis--but it
was useless.  And then he saw her turn to Peterson.

"I suppose," she said regretfully, "that it is absolutely necessary."

"Absolutely," he answered curtly.  "He knows too much, and he worries
us too much."

She shrugged her shoulders and came over to Drummond.

"Well, good-bye, _mon ami_," she remarked gently.  "I really am sorry
that I shan't see you again.  You are one of the few people that make
this atrocious country bearable."

She patted him on his cheek, and again the feeling that he was dreaming
came over Drummond.  It couldn't be real--this monstrous nightmare.  He
would wake up in a minute and find Denny standing beside him, and he
registered a vow that he would go to an indigestion specialist.  And
then he realized that the two men had come back into the room, and that
it wasn't a dream, but hard, sober fact.  The Italian was putting a hat
on his head and wrapping the scarf round his neck while Peterson gave a
series of curt instructions to the other man.  And then he was being
wheeled along the passage towards the lift, while the Reverend
Theodosius Longmoor walked solicitously beside him, murmuring
affectionately in his ear.

"Good-bye, my dear friend--good-bye," he remarked, after the chair had
been wheeled into the lift.  "It was good of you to come.  Be careful,
liftman, won't you?"

He waved a kindly hand, and the last vision Drummond had of him before
the doors closed was of a benevolent old clergyman beaming at him
solicitously from behind a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.

And now came his only chance.  Surely there would be someone who would
recognize him below; surely the hall porter, who in the past had
received many a tip from him, must realize who he was in spite of the
hat pulled down over his eyes.  But even that hope failed.  The elderly
party in the invalid's chair who had come half an hour ago was now
going, and there was no reason why the hall porter should suspect
anything.  He gave the two men a hand lifting the chair into a big and
very roomy limousine car which Drummond knew was certainly not his, and
the next instant they were off.

He could see nothing--the hat was too far over his eyes.  For a time he
tried to follow where they were going by noting the turns, but he soon
gave that up as hopeless.  And then, after driving for about half an
hour, the car stopped and the two men got out, leaving him alone.  He
could hear a lot of talking going on, but he didn't try to listen.  He
was resigned by this time--utterly indifferent; his only feeling was a
mild curiosity as to what was going to happen next.

The voices came nearer, and he found himself being lifted out of the
car.  In doing so his hat was pulled back a little so that he could
see, and the first thing he noticed was his own new Rolls-Royce.  They
couldn't have brought it to the Ritz, he reflected, where it might have
been recognized--and an unwilling admiration for the master brain that
had thought out every detail, and the wonderful organization that
allowed of them being carried out, took hold of his mind.

The men wheeled him alongside his own car; then they lifted him out of
his chair and deposited him on the back seat.  Then the Italian and the
other man who had been at the Ritz sat down one on each side of him,
while a third man took the wheel.

"Look slippy, Bill," said the big man beside him.  "A boat will be
coming through about half-past nine."

A boat!  What was that about a boat?  Were they going to send him out
to sea, then, and let him drown?  If so, what was the object of getting
his own car?  The hat slipped forward again, but he guessed by some of
the flaring lights he could dimly see that they were going through
slums.  Going eastward Essex way, or perhaps the south side of the
river towards Woolwich.  But after a time he gave it up; it was no good
wondering--he'd know for certain soon enough.  And now the speed was
increasing as they left London behind them.  The headlights were on,
and Hugh judged that they were going about thirty-five miles an hour.
And he also guessed that it was about forty-five minutes before they
pulled up, and the engine and lights were switched off.  The men beside
him got out, and he promptly rolled over into a corner, where they left
him lying.

"This is the place to wait," he heard the Italian say.  "You go on,
Franz, to the corner, and when it's ready flash your torch.  You'll
have to stand on the running-board, Bill, and steer till he's round the
corner into the straight.  Then jump off--no one will see you behind
the headlights.  I'm going back to Maybrick Tower."

And then he heard a sentence which drove him impotent with fury, and
again set him struggling madly to move.

"The girl's there.  We'll get orders about her in the morning."

There was silence for a while; then he heard Bill's voice.

"Let's get on with it.  There's Franz signalling.  We'll have to prop
him up on the steering wheel somehow."

They pulled Drummond out of the back of the car, and put him in the
driver's seat.

"Doesn't matter if he does fall over at the last moment.  It will look
as if he'd fainted, and make the accident more probable," said the
Italian, and Bill grunted.

"Seems a crime," he muttered, "to smash up this peach of a car."  He
started the engine, and switched on the headlights; then he slipped her
straight into third speed and started.  He was on the running board
beside the wheel, steering with one hand and holding on to Drummond
with the other.  And as they rounded the corner he straightened the car
up and opened the throttle.  Then he jumped off, and Drummond realized
the game at last.

A river was in front--a river spanned by a bridge which swung open to
let boats go through.  And it was open now.  He had a dim vision of a
man waving wildly; he heard the crash as the car took the guarding
gate, and then he saw the bonnet dip suddenly; there was a rending,
scraping noise underneath him as the framework hit the edge; an
appalling splash--and silence.




15

  In which Hugh
  Drummond arrives at
  Maybrick Hall

Two things saved Drummond from what was practically certain death--the
heavy coat he was wearing, and the fact that he rolled sideways clear
of the steering wheel as soon as the man let go of him with his hand.
Had he remained behind the wheel he must infallibly have gone to the
bottom with the car, and at that point where the river narrowed to come
through the piers of the bridge the water was over twenty feet deep.
He had sufficient presence of mind to take a deep breath as the car
shot downwards; then he felt the water close over his head.  And if
before his struggles to move had been fierce--now that the end seemed
at hand they became desperate.  The desire to get clear--to give one
kick with his legs and come to the surface roused him to one superhuman
effort.  He felt as if the huge heave he gave with his legs against the
floor-boards must send him flying to the top; afterwards he realized
that this vast effort had been purely mental--the actual physical
result had been practically negligible.  But not quite, it had done
something, and the coat did the rest.

With that one last supreme throw for life his mind had overcome the
effects of the poison to the extent of forcing his legs to give one
spasmodic little kick.  He floated clear of the car, and slowly--how
slowly only his bursting lungs could testify--the big coat brought him
to the surface.  For a moment or two he could do nothing save draw in
deep gulps of air; then he realized that the danger was not yet past.
For he couldn't shout, he could do nothing save float and drift, and
the current had carried him clear of the bridge out of sight of those
on top.  And his mind was quite clear enough to realize that the coat
which had saved him, once it became sodden would just as surely drown
him.

He could see men with lanterns on the bridge; he could hear them
shouting and talking.  And then he saw a boat come back from the ship
that had passed through just before he went over the edge in his car.
Surely they'd pull down-stream to look for him, he thought in an agony
of futile anger; surely they couldn't be such fools as to go on pulling
about just by the bridge when it was obvious he wasn't there.  But
since they thought that he was at the bottom in his car, and
blasphemous language was already being wafted at them by the skipper of
the vessel for the useless delay, with a sinking heart Drummond saw the
boat turn round and disappear up-stream into the darkness.  Men with
lanterns still stood on the bridge, but he was far beyond the range of
their lights, and he was drifting further every minute.  It was just a
question of time now--and it couldn't be very long either.  He could
see that his legs had gone down well below the surface, and only the
air that still remained in the buttoned-up part of his overcoat kept
his head out and his shoulders near the top.  And when that was
gone--the end.  He had done all he could; there was nothing for it now
but to wait for the inevitable finish.  And though he had been credibly
informed that under such circumstances the whole of a man's life passes
in rapid review before him, his sole and only thought was an intense
desire to get his hands on Peterson again.

For a while he pictured the scene with a wealth of pleasant detail,
until a sudden change in his immediate surroundings began to take
place.  At first he could not realize what had happened; then little by
little it began to dawn on him what had occurred.  Up to date the water
in which he floated had seemed motionless to him; he had been drifting
in it at exactly the same velocity as the current.  And now, suddenly,
he saw that the water was going past him.  For a moment or two he
failed to understand the significance of the fact; then wild hope
surged up in his mind.  For a time he stared fixedly at the bridge, and
the hope became a certainty.  He was not drifting any further from it;
he was stationary; he was aground.  He could feel nothing; he could see
nothing--but the one stupendous fact remained that he was aground.
Life took on another lease--anything might happen now.  If only he
could remain there till the morning they would see him from the bridge,
and there seemed no reason why he shouldn't.  The water still flowed
sluggishly past him, broken with the faintest ripple close to his head.
So he reasoned that it must be very shallow where he was, and being an
incurable optimist, he resumed, with even fuller details, the next
meeting with Peterson.

But not for long.  Starting from his waist and spreading downwards to
his feet and outwards through his shoulders to his hands there slowly
began to creep the most agonising cramp.  The torture was
indescribable, and the sweat dripped off his forehead into his eyes.
And gradually it dawned on him that the effects of the poison were
wearing off.  Sensation was returning to his limbs; even through his
agony he could feel that he was resting against something under the
water.  Then he heard a strange noise, and realized that it was he
himself groaning with the pain.  The use of his voice had come back.
He spoke a sentence aloud, and made certain.

And then Drummond deliberately decided on doing one of those things
which Peterson had always failed to legislate for in the past.
Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have shouted themselves hoarse
under such circumstances; not so Drummond.  Had he done so a message
would have reached Peterson in just so long as it took a trunk call to
get through; the man called Franz was still assiduously helping the
gate-keeper on the bridge.  And the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor and
his little Janet would have vanished into the night, leaving no traces
behind them.

Which all flashed through Drummond's mind, as the cramp took and racked
him, and the impulse to shout grew stronger and stronger.  Twice he
opened his mouth to hail the men he could see not three hundred yards
away--to give a cry that would bring a boat post-haste to his rescue;
twice he stopped himself with the shout unuttered.  A more powerful
force was at work within him than mere pain--a cold, bitter resolve to
get even with Carl Peterson.  And it required no great effort of brain
to see that that would be more easily done if Peterson believed he had
succeeded.  Moreover if he shouted there would be questions asked.  The
police would inevitably come into the matter, demanding to know why he
adopted such peculiar forms of amusement as going into twenty feet of
water in a perfectly good motor-car.  And all that would mean delay,
which was the last thing he wanted.  He felt tolerably certain, that,
for all his apparent confidence, Peterson was not going to stop one
minute longer in the country than was absolutely necessary.

So he stayed where he was, in silence--and gradually the cramp passed
away.  He could turn his head now.  and with eyes that had grown
accustomed to the darkness he saw what had happened.  On each side of
him the river flowed past smoothly, and he realized that by a wonderful
stroke of luck he had struck a small shoal.  Had he missed it--had he
floated by on either side--well, Peterson's plan would have succeeded.

"Following the extraordinary motor accident reported in our previous
issue, we are now informed that the body of the unfortunate driver has
been discovered some three miles from the scene of the tragedy.  He was
drowned, and had evidently been dead some hours."

Drummond smiled grimly to himself as he imagined the paragraphs in the
papers.  His nerves were far too hardened to let his narrow escape
worry him for an instant, and he felt an unholy satisfaction in
thinking of Peterson searching the early specials and the late extras
for that little item of news.

"I'd hate you to be disappointed, my friend," he muttered to himself,
"but you'll have to be content with the coat and hat.  The body has
doubtless drifted further on and will be recovered later."

He took off his hat, and let it drift away; he unbuttoned his overcoat
and sent it after the hat.  Then letting himself down into the deep
water, he swam noiselessly towards the bank.

A little to his surprise he found that his legs and arms felt perfectly
normal--a trifle stiff perhaps, but beyond that the effects of the
poison seemed to have worn off completely.  Beyond being very wet he
appeared to have suffered no evil results at all, and after he'd done
"knees up" on the bank for five minutes to restore his circulation he
sat down to consider his plan of action.

First, Phyllis at Maybrick Hall.  He must get at her somehow, and, even
if he couldn't get her away, he must let her know that she would be all
right.  After that things must look after themselves; everything would
depend on circumstances.  Always provided that those circumstances led
to the one great goal--Peterson.  Once Phyllis was safe, everything was
subservient to that.

A church clock near by began to toll the hour and Drummond counted the
strokes.  Eleven o'clock--not two hours since he had gone over the
bridge--and it felt like six.  So much the better; it gave him so many
more hours of darkness, and he wanted darkness for his explorations at
Maybrick Hall.  And it suddenly dawned on him that he hadn't the
faintest idea where the house was.

It might have deterred some men; it merely made Drummond laugh.  If he
didn't know, he'd find out--even if it became necessary to pull someone
out of bed and ask.  The first thing to do was to get back to the spot
where the car had halted, and to do that he must go across country.
Activity was diminishing on the bridge, but he could still see lanterns
dancing about, and the sudden appearance of a very wet man might lead
to awkward questions.  So he struck off in the direction he judged to
be right--moving with that strange, cat-like silence which was a
never-ceasing source of wonderment even to those who knew him best.

No man ever heard Drummond coming, and very few ever saw him until it
was too late, if he didn't intend that they should.  And now, in
utterly unknown country, with he knew not how many undesirable
gentlemen about, he was taking no risks.  Mercifully for him it was a
dark night--just such a night in fact as he would have chosen, and as
he passed like a huge shadow from tree to tree, only to vanish silently
behind a hedge, and reappear two hundred yards further on, he began to
feel that life was good.  The joy of action was in his veins; he was
going to get his hands on somebody soon, preferably the Italian or the
man who called himself Franz.  For Bill he had a sneaking regard; Bill
at any rate could appreciate a good car when he saw one.  The only
trouble was that he was unarmed, and an unarmed man can't afford to
stop and admire the view in a mix up.  Not that the point deterred him
for a moment, it only made him doubly cautious.  He must see without
being seen; he must act without being heard.  Afterwards would be a
different matter.

Suddenly he stiffened and crouched motionless behind a bush.  He had
heard voices and the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel.

"No good waiting any more," said a man whom he recognized as Franz.
"He's dead for a certainty, and they can't pull him out till to-morrow.
Couldn't have gone better.  He swayed right over just as the car took
the gates, and the bridge-keeper saw it.  Think he fainted----"

Their voices died away in the distance, and Drummond came out from
behind the bush.  He stepped forward cautiously and found himself
confronted with a high wire fence.  Through it he could see a road
along which the two men must have been walking.  And then through a gap
in the trees he saw a light in the window of a house.  So his first
difficulty was solved.  The man called Franz and his companion could
have but one destination in all probability--Maybrick Hall.  And that
must be the house he could see through the trees, while the road on the
other side of the fence was the drive leading up to it.

He gave them half a minute or so; then he climbed through the fence.
It was a fence with horizontal strands of thick wire, about a foot
apart, and the top strand was two feet above Drummond's head.  An
expensive fence, he reflected; an unusual fence to put round any
property of such a sort.  An admirable fence for cattle in a corral
because of its strength, but for a house and grounds--peculiar, to say
the least.  It was not a thing of beauty; it afforded no concealment,
and it was perfectly simple to climb through.  And because Drummond had
been trained in the school which notices details, even apparently
trivial ones, he stood for a moment or two staring at the fence, after
he had clambered through.  It was the expense of the thing more than
anything else that puzzled him.  It was new--that was obvious, and
after a while, he proceeded to walk along it for a short way.  And
another peculiar thing struck him when he came to the first upright.
It was an iron T-shaped post, and each strand of wire passed through a
hole in the bottom part of the T.  A perfectly simple and sound
arrangement, and, but for one little point, just the type of upright
one would have expected to find in such a fence.  Round every hole was
a small white collar, through which each strand of wire passed, so that
the wires rested on the collars, and not on the holes of the iron
upright.  Truly a most remarkable fence, he reflected again--in fact, a
thoroughly eccentric fence.  But he got no further than that in his
thoughts; the knowledge which would have supplied him with the one clue
necessary to account for that fence's eccentricity of appearance was
not his.  The facts he could notice; the reason for the facts was
beyond him.  And after a further examination he shrugged his shoulders
and gave it up.  There were bigger things ahead of him than a mere
question of fencing, and, keeping in the shadow of the shrubs which
fringed each side of the drive, he crept silently towards the house.

It was a low rambling type of building covered as far as he could see
with ivy and creepers.  There were only two stories, and Hugh nodded
his satisfaction.  It made things simpler when outside work was more
than likely.  For a long time he stood in the shadow of a big
rhododendron bush, carefully surveying every possible line of approach
and flight, and it was while he was balancing up chances that he
gradually became aware of a peculiar noise proceeding from the house.
It sounded like the very faint hum of an aeroplane in the far distance,
except that every two or three seconds there came a slight thud.  It
was quite regular, and during the four or five minutes whilst he stood
there listening there was no variation in the monotonous rhythm.  Thud,
thud, thud--faint, but very distinct; and all the time the gentle
whirring of some smooth-running, powerful engine.

The house was in darkness save for one room on the ground floor, from
which the light was streaming.  It was empty, and appeared to be an
ordinary sitting-room.  And, as a last resort, Hugh decided he would go
in that way, if outside methods failed.  But to start with he had no
intention of entering the house; it struck him that the odds against
him were unnecessarily large.

He retreated still further into the shadow, and then quite clear and
distinct the hoot of an owl was heard in the silent garden.  He knew
that Phyllis would recognize the call if she heard it; he knew that she
would give him some sign if she could.  And so he stood and waited,
eagerly watching the house for any sign of movement.  But none came,
and after a pause of half a minute he hooted again.  Of course it was
possible that she was in a room facing the other way, and he had
already planned his line of advance round to the back of the house.
And then, just as he was preparing to skirt round and investigate he
saw the curtains of one of the upper rooms shake and open slightly.
Very faintly he repeated the call, and to his joy he saw a head poked
through between them.  But he was taking no chances, and it was
impossible to tell to whom the head belonged.  It might be Phyllis, and
on the other hand it might not.  So once again he repeated the call,
barely above his breath, and then he waited for some answer.

It came almost at once; his own name called very gently, and he
hesitated no more.  He was across the lawn in a flash and standing
under her window, and once again he heard her voice tense with anxiety.

"Is that you, Hugh?"

"Yes, darling, it's me right enough," he whispered back.  "But there's
no time to talk now.  I want you to jump on to the flower-bed.  It's
soft landing, and it won't hurt you."

"But I can't, old man," she said, with a little catch in her breath.
"They've got me lashed up with a steel chain."

"They've got you lashed up with a steel chain," repeated Hugh stupidly.
"The devil they have; the devil they have!"

And his voice was shaking a little with cold, concentrated fury.

"All right, kid," he went on after a moment "if you can't come to me I
must come to you.  We'll soon deal with that chain."

He glanced into the room underneath hers and saw that it looked like a
drawing-room.  The windows seemed easy to force if necessary, but he
decided first of all to try the ivy outside.  But it was useless for a
man of his weight.  Just at the bottom it supported him, but as soon as
he started to climb it gave way at once.  Twice he got up about six
feet, twice he fell back again as the ivy broke away from the wall.
And after the second attempt he looked up at the anxious face of his
wife above.

"No go, darling," he muttered.  "And I'm afraid of making too much
noise.  I'm going to try and force this window."

By a stroke of luck they had not taken his clasp-knife, and by a still
greater stroke of luck he found that the catch on the window had been
broken, and that it proved even easier to open than he had thought.  He
stepped back and looked up.

"I'm coming in, kid," he whispered.  "Do you know where the stairs are?"

"Just about the middle of the house, old man.  And listen.  I can't
quite reach the door to open it, but I've got my parasol and I can tap
on it so that you'll know which it is."

"Right," he answered.  "Keep your tail up."

The next moment he had vanished into the drawing-room.  And now he
noticed that that strange noise which he had heard while standing on
the lawn was much louder.  As he cautiously opened the door and peered
into the passage the very faint hum became a steady drone, while with
each successive thud the floorboards shook a little.

The passage was in darkness, though light was shining from under some
of the doors.  And as he crept along in search of the stairs he heard
voices proceeding from one of the rooms he passed.  Evidently a fairly
populous household, it struck him, as he tested the bottom stair with
his weight to see if it creaked.  But the staircase was old and solid,
and the stair carpet was thick, and at the moment Hugh was not disposed
to linger.  Afterwards the house seemed to promise a fairly fruitful
field for investigation; at present Phyllis was all that mattered.  So
he vanished upwards with the uncanny certainty of all his movements at
night, and a moment later he was standing on the landing above.

It was a long, straight corridor, a replica of the one below, and he
turned in the direction in which he knew her room must lie.  And he had
only taken a couple of steps when he stopped abruptly, peering ahead
with eyes that strove to pierce the darkness.  For it seemed to him
that there was something in the passage--something darker than its
surroundings.  He pressed against the wall absolutely motionless, and
as he stood there with every sense alert, and his arms hanging loosely
forward ready for any emergency, he heard a tapping on one of the doors
just ahead of him.  It was Phyllis signalling with her parasol as she
had said, and he took a step forward.  And at that moment something
sprang out of the darkness, and he found himself fighting for his life.

For a second or two he was at a disadvantage, so completely had he been
taken by surprise; then the old habits returned.  And not a moment too
soon; he was up against an antagonist who was worthy of him.  Two hands
like iron hooks were round his neck, and the man who gets that grip
first wins more often than not.  His own hands shot out into the
darkness, and then for the first time in his life he felt a stab of
fear.  For he couldn't reach the other man: long though his arms were,
the other man's were far longer, and as his hands went along them he
could feel the muscles standing out like steel bars.  He made one
supreme effort to force through to his opponent's throat and it failed;
with his superior reach he could keep his distance.  Already Drummond's
head was beginning to feel like bursting with the awful pressure round
his throat, and he knew he must do something at once or lose.  And just
in time he remembered his clasp-knife.  It went against his grain to
use it; never before had he fought an unarmed man with a weapon--and as
far as he could tell this man was unarmed.  But it had to be done and
done quickly.

With all his force he stabbed sideways at the man's left arm.  He heard
a snarl of pain, and the grip of one of the hands round his throat
relaxed.  And now the one urgent thing was to prevent him shouting for
help.  Like a flash Drummond was on him, one hand on his mouth and the
other gripping his throat with the grip he had learned from Osaki the
Jap in days gone by, and had never forgotten.  And because he was
fighting to kill now he wasted no time.  The grip tightened; there was
a dreadful worrying noise as the man bit into his thumb--then it was
over.  The man slipped downwards on to the floor, and Drummond stood
drawing in great mouthfuls of air.

But he knew there was no time to lose.  Though they had fought in
silence, and he could still hear the monotonous thud and the beat of
the engine, at any moment someone might come upstairs.  And to be found
with a dead man at one's feet in a strange house is not the best way of
securing a hospitable welcome.  What to do with the body--that was the
first insistent point.  There was no time for intricate schemes; it was
a question of taking risks and chancing it.  So for a moment or two he
listened at the door of the room opposite that on which he had heard
Phyllis tapping, and from which the man had sprung at him--then he
gently opened it.  It was a bedroom and empty, and without further
hesitation he dragged his late opponent in, and left him lying on the
floor.  By the dim light from the uncurtained window he could see that
the man was almost deformed, so enormous was the length of his arms.
They must have been six inches longer than those of an average man, and
were almost as powerful as his own.  And as he saw the snarling,
ferocious face upturned to his, he uttered a little prayer of
thanksgiving for the presence of his clasp-knife.  It had been
altogether too near a thing for his liking.

He closed the door and stepped across the passage, and the next moment
Phyllis was in his arms.

"I thought you were never coming, old man," she whispered.  "I was
afraid the brutes had caught you."

"I had a slight difference of opinion with a warrior outside your
door," said Hugh, grinning.  "Quite like old times."

"But, my dear," she said, with sudden anxiety in her voice, "you're
sopping wet."

"Much water has flowed under the bridge, my angel child, since I last
saw you, and I've flowed with it."  He kissed her on the right side of
her mouth, then on the left for symmetry, and finally in the middle for
luck.  Then he grew serious.  "No time for hot air now, old thing;
let's have a look at this jolly old chain effect of yours.  Once we're
out of here, you shall tell me everything and I'll eat several pounds
of mud for having been such an unmitigated idiot as to let these swine
get hold of you."

He was examining the steel chain as he spoke, and gradually his face
grew grave.  He didn't seem to have gained much after all by breaking
in; Phyllis was just as much a prisoner as ever.  The chain, which was
about six feet long, was fastened at one end to a big staple in the
wall and at the other end to a bracelet which encircled his wife's
right wrist.  And the bracelet could only be opened with a key.  Any
idea of breaking the chain or pulling out the staple was so
preposterous as not to be worth even a moment's thought; so everything
depended on the bracelet.  And when he came to examine it more
carefully he found that it had a Yale lock.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, and she watched him anxiously.

"Can't you get it undone, boy?" she whispered.

"Not if I stopped here till next Christmas, darling," he answered
heavily.

"Well, get out of the window and go for the police," she implored.

"My dear," he said, still more heavily, "I had, as I told you, a little
difference of opinion with the gentleman outside the door--and he's
very dead."  She caught her breath sharply.  "A nasty man with long
arms who attacked me.  It might be all right, of course--but I somehow
feel that this matter is beyond the local constable, even if I could
find him.  You see, I don't even know where we are."  He checked the
exclamation of surprise that rose to her lips.  "I'll explain after,
darling; let's think of this now.  If only I could get the key; if only
I knew where it was, even."

"A foreigner came in about an hour ago," answered his wife.  "He had it
then.  And he said he'd come again to-night."

"He did, did he?" said Hugh slowly.  "I wonder if it's my friend the
Italian.  Anyway, kid, it's the only chance.  Did he come alone last
time?"

"Yes: I don't think there was anyone with him.  I'm sure there wasn't."

"Then we must chance it," said Hugh.  "Say something; get him into the
room and then leave him to me.  And if for any reason he doesn't come
I'll have to leave you here and raise the gang."

"Wouldn't it be safer, boy, to do that now?" she said imploringly.
"Suppose anything happened to you."

"Anything further that happens to me to-night, old thing," he remarked
grimly, "will be as flat as a squashed pancake compared to what's
happened already."

And then because she saw his mind was made up, and she knew the
futility of arguing under those conditions, she sat on the bed beside
him to wait.  For a while they sat in silence listening to the
monotonous thudding noise which went ceaselessly on; then because he
wanted to distract her mind he made her tell him what had happened to
her.  And in disjointed whispers, with his arm round her waist, she
pieced together the gaps in the story.  How the man had come about the
electric light, and then had offered to fetch her a taxi, he knew
already from Denny.  She had got in, never suspecting anything, and
told him to drive to the Ritz--and almost at once she had begun to feel
faint.  Still she suspected nothing, until she tried to open one of the
windows.  But it wouldn't open, and the last thing she remembered
before she actually fainted was tapping on the glass to try to draw the
driver's attention.  Then when she came to, she found to her horror
that she was not alone.  A man was in the car with her, and they were
out of London in the country.  Both windows were wide open, and she
asked him furiously what he was doing in her car.  He smiled, and
remarked that so far he was not aware he had sold it, but he was always
open to an offer.  And it was then that she realized for the first time
exactly what had happened.

The man told her quite frankly that she hadn't fainted at all, but had
been rendered unconscious by a discharge of gas down the speaking-tube;
that acting under orders he was taking her to a house in the country
where she would have to remain for how long he was unable to say, and
further if she made a sound or gave any trouble he would gag her on the
spot.

Hugh's arm tightened round her waist, and he cursed fluently under his
breath.

"And what happened when you got here, darling?" he asked as she paused.

"They brought me straight up here, and tied me up," she answered.
"They haven't hurt me--and they've given me food, but I've been
terrified--simply terrified--as to what they were going to do next."
She clung to him, and he kissed her reassuringly.  "There's a man below
with red hair and a straggling beard, who came and stared at me in the
most horrible way.  He was in his shirt sleeves and his arms were all
covered with chemical stains."

"Did he touch you?" asked Hugh grimly.

"No--he just looked horrible," she said, with a shudder.  "And then he
repeated the other man's threat--the one who had been in the car--that
if I shouted or made any fuss he'd lash me up and gag me.  He spoke in
a sort of broken English--and his voice never seemed to rise above a
whisper."

She was trembling now, and Hugh made a mental note of another gentleman
on whom he proposed to lay hands in the near future.  Red hair and a
straggling beard should not prove hard to recognize.

He glanced at the watch on Phyllis's wrist, and saw that it was very
nearly one o'clock.  The noise of the engine was still going
monotonously on; except for that the house seemed absolutely silent.
And he began to wonder how long it would be wise to continue the vigil.
Supposing no one did come; supposing somebody came who hadn't got the
key; supposing two or three of them came at the same time.  Would it be
better, even now, to drop through the window--and try to find a
telephone or the police?  If only he knew where he was; it might take
him hours to find either at that time of night.  And his whole being
revolted at the idea of leaving Phyllis absolutely defenceless in such
a house.

He rose and paced softly up and down the room trying to think what was
the best thing to do.  It was a maddening circle whichever way he
looked at it, and his fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to make
up his mind.  To go or to wait; to go at once or to stop in the hope
that one man would come up and have the key on him.  Common sense
suggested the first course; something far more powerful than common
sense prompted the other.  He could not and would not leave Phyllis
alone, and so he decided on a compromise.  If when daylight came no one
had been up to the room, he would go; but he would wait until then.
She'd feel safer once the night was over, and in the dawn he would be
able to find his way outside more easily.

And he was just going to tell Phyllis what he had decided, when he
heard a sound that killed the words on his lips.  A door had opened
below, and men's voices came floating up the stairs.

"Lie down, darling," he breathed in her ear, "and pretend to be asleep."

Without a word she did as he told her, while Hugh tiptoed over towards
the door.  There were steps coming up the stairs, and he flattened
himself against the wall--waiting.  The period of indecision was
passed; unless he was very much mistaken the time of action had
arrived.  How it would pan out--whether luck would be in, or whether
luck would fail was on the lap of the gods.  All he could do was to hit
hard and if necessary hit often, and a tingle of pure joy spread over
him.  Even Phyllis was almost forgotten at the moment; he had room in
his mind for one thought only--the man whose steps he could hear coming
along the passage.

There was only one of them, he noted with a sigh of relief--but for all
that silence would be essential.  It would take time to find the key;
it would take even longer to get Phyllis free and out of the house.  So
there must be no risk of an alarm whatever happened.

The steps paused outside the door, and he heard a muttered ejaculation
in Italian.  It was his own particular friend of the motor right
enough, and he grinned gently to himself.  Apparently he was concerned
over something, and it suddenly dawned on Drummond that it was the
absence from duty of the long-armed bird that was causing the surprise.
In the excitement of the moment he had forgotten all about him, and for
one awful second his heart stood still.  Suppose the Italian discovered
the body before he entered the room, then the game was up with a
vengeance.  Once the alarm was given he'd have to run the gauntlet of
the whole crowd over ground he didn't know.

But his fears were groundless; the non-discovery of the watcher by the
door took the Italian the other way.  His first thought was to make
sure that the girl was safe, and he flung open the door and came in.
He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he saw her lying on the bed; then
like a spitting cat he swung round as he felt Drummond's hand on his
shoulder.

"_ pericoloso spargersi_," muttered Hugh pleasantly, recalling the
only Italian words he knew.

"_Dio mio!_" stammered the other, with trembling lips.  Like most
southerners he was superstitious, and to be told it was dangerous to
lean out of the window by a man whom he knew to be drowned was too much
for him.  It was a ghost; it could be nothing else, and his knees
suddenly felt strangely weak.

"You didn't know I was a linguist, did you?" continued Hugh, still more
pleasantly; and with every ounce of weight in his body behind the blow,
he hit the Italian on the point of the jaw.  Without a sound the man
crumpled up and pitched on his face.

And now there was not a moment to be lost.  At any moment one of his
pals might come upstairs, and everything depended on speed and finding
the key.  Hugh shut the door and locked it; then feverishly he started
to search through the Italian's pockets.  Everything up to date had
panned out so wonderfully that he refused to believe that luck was
going to fail him now, and sure enough he discovered the bunch in one
of the unconscious man's waistcoat pockets.  There were four of them,
and the second he tried was the right one.  Phyllis was free, and he
heard her give a little sob of pure excitement.

"You perfectly wonderful boy!" she whispered, and Hugh grinned.

"We'll hurl floral decorations afterwards, my angel," he remarked.
"Just at the moment it seems a pity not to replace you with someone."

He heaved the Italian on the bed, and snapped the steel bracelet on to
his arm.  Then he slipped the keys into his own pocket, and crossed to
the window.  The engine was still humming gently; the thudding noise
was still going on; nothing seemed in any way different.  No light came
from the room below them, everything had worked better than he had
dared to hope.  He had only to lower Phyllis out of the window, and let
her drop on to the flower-bed and then follow himself.  After that it
was easy.

"Come along, darling," he said urgently.  "I'm going to lower you out
first--then I'll follow.  And once we're down, you've got to trice up
your skirts and run like a stag across the lawn till we're under cover
of those bushes.  We aren't quite out of the wood yet."

They were not indeed.  It was just as Phyllis let go, and he saw her
pick herself up and dart across the lawn, that he heard a terrific
uproar in the house below, and several men came pounding up the stairs.
There were excited voices in the passage outside, and for a moment he
hesitated, wondering what on earth had caused the sudden alarm.  Then
realizing that this was no time for guessing acrostics, he vaulted over
the window-sill himself, and lowered himself to the full extent of his
arms.  Then he, too, let go and dropped on the flower bed below.  And
it was as he was picking himself up, preparatory to following
Phyllis--whom he could see faintly across the lawn waiting for him,
that he heard someone in the house shout an order in a hoarse voice.

"Switch on the power at once, you damned fool; switch it on at once!"




16

  In which things happen
  at Maybrick Hall

Had the Italian come up five minutes sooner--a minute even--all would
have been well.  As it was, at the very moment when Drummond's crashing
blow took him on the point of the jaw with mathematical precision,
another mathematical law began to operate elsewhere--the law of
gravity.  Something fell from a ceiling on to a table in the room below
that ceiling, even as in days gone by an apple descended into the eye
of the discoverer of that law.

The two men seated in the room below the ceiling in question failed to
notice it at first.  They were not interested in mathematics but they
were interested in their conversation.  One was the red-haired man of
whom Phyllis had spoken; the other was a nondescript type of individual
who looked like an ordinary middle-class professional man.

"Our organization has, of course, grown immensely," he was saying.
"Our Socialist Sunday Schools, as you may know, were started
twenty-five years ago.  A very small beginning, my friend, but the
result now would stagger you.  And wishy-washy stuff was taught to
start with too; now I think even you would be satisfied."

Something splashed on the table beside him, but he took no notice.

"Blasphemy, of course--or rather what the bourgeois call blasphemy--is
instilled at once.  We teach them to fear no God; we drive into them
each week that the so-called God is merely a weapon of the capitalist
class to keep them quiet, and that if it had not that effect they would
see what a machine-gun could do.  And, Yulowski, it is having its
effect.

"Get at the children has always been my motto--for they are the next
generation.  They can be moulded like plastic clay; their parents, so
often, are set in a groove.  We preach class hatred--and nothing but
class hatred.  We give them songs to sing--songs with a real catchy
tune.  There's one very good one in which the chorus goes:

  "'Come, workers, sing a rebel song, a song of love and hate,
  Of love unto the lowly and of hatred to the great.'"

He paused to let the full effect of the sublime stanza sink in, and
again something splashed on to the table.

Yulowski nodded his head indifferently.

"I admit its value, my friend," he remarked in a curious husky whisper.
"And in your country I suppose you must go slowly.  I fear my
inclinations lead towards something more rapid and--er--drastic.
Sooner or later the bourgeois must be exterminated all the world over.
On that we are agreed.  Why not make it sooner as we did in Russia?
The best treatment for any of the capitalist class is a bayonet in the
stomach and a rifle butt on the head."

He smiled reminiscently, a thin, cruel smile, and once again there came
an unheeded splash.

"I have heard it said," remarked the other man, with the faintest
hesitation, "that you yourself were responsible in Russia for a good
many of them."

The smile grew more pronounced and cruel.

"It was I, my friend, who battered out the brains of two members of the
Arch Tyrant's family.  Yes, I--I who sit here."  His voice rose to a
sort of throaty shout and his eyes gleamed.  "You can guess who I mean,
can't you?"

"Two girls," muttered the other, recoiling a little in spite of himself.

"Two----"  The foul epithet went unuttered; Yulowski was staring
fascinated at the table.  "Holy Mother! what's that?"

His companion swung round, and every vestige of colour left his face.
On the table was a big red pool, and even as he watched it there came
another splash and a big drop fell into it.

"Blood!" he stammered, and his lips were shaking.  "It's blood."  And
then he heard the Russian's voice, low and tense.

"Look at the ceiling, man; look at the ceiling."

He stared upwards and gave a little cry of horror.  Slowly spreading
over the white plaster was a great crimson stain, whilst from a crack
in the middle the steady drip fell on to the table.

It was Yulowski who recovered himself first; he was more used to such
sights than his companion.

"There's been murder done," he shouted hoarsely, and dashed out of the
room.  Doors were flung open, and half a dozen men rushed up the stairs
after him.  There was no doubt which the room was, and headed by
Yulowski they crowded in--only to stop and stare at what lay on the
floor.

"It's the Greek," muttered one of them.  "He was guarding the girl.
And someone has severed the main artery in his arm."

With one accord they dashed across the passage to the room where
Phyllis had been.  In a second the door was broken in, and they saw the
unconscious Italian lying on the bed.

"The Black Gang," muttered someone fearfully, and Yulowski cursed him
for a cowardly swine.  And it was his hoarse voice that Drummond heard
shouting for the power to be switched on, as he turned and darted
across the lawn.

Completely ignorant of what had taken place, he was just as ignorant of
what was meant by switching on the power.  His one thought now was to
get away with Phyllis.  A start meant everything, and at the best he
couldn't hope for a long one.  With his arm through hers he urged her
forward, while behind him he heard a confused shouting which gradually
died away under the peremptory orders of someone who seemed to be in
command.  And almost subconsciously he noticed that the thudding noise
had ceased; only the faint humming of the engine broke the silence.

Suddenly in front of him he saw the fence which had caused him to
wonder earlier in the evening.  It was just the same in this part as it
had been in the other, but he wasn't concerned with speculations about
it now.  The only thing he was thankful for was that it was easy to get
through.

He was not five feet from it, when it happened--the amazing and at the
moment inexplicable thing.  For months after he used to wake in the
night and lie sweating with horror at the nearness of the escape.  For
it would have been Phyllis who would have gone through first; it would
have been Phyllis, who--But it did happen--just in time.

He saw a dark shape dart across the open towards the fence, an animal
carrying something in its mouth.  It reached the fence, and the next
instant it bounded an incredible height in the air, only to fall
backwards on to the ground and lie motionless almost at Drummond's
feet.  It was so utterly unexpected that he paused instinctively and
stared at it.  It was a fox, and the fowl it had been carrying lay a
yard away.  It lay there rigid and motionless, and completely
bewildered he bent and touched it, only to draw back his hand as if
he'd been stung.  A sharp stabbing pain shot up his arm, as if he'd had
an electric shock--and suddenly he understood, and with a cry of fear
he dragged Phyllis back just in time.

The brain moves rapidly at times; the inherent connection of things
takes place in a flash.  And the words he had used to the Italian, _
pericoloso sporgersi_, took him back to Switzerland, where the phrase
is written on every railway carriage.  And in Switzerland, you may see
those heavy steel pylons with curved, pointed hooks to prevent people
climbing up, and red bands painted with the words _Danger de mort_.
Live wires there are at the top, carried on insulators--even as the
fence wires were carried through insulators in the uprights.

_Danger de mort_.  And the fox had been electrocuted.  That was what
the man had meant by shouting for the power to be switched on.  And as
he stood there still clutching Phyllis's arm, and shaken for the moment
out of his usual calm, there came from the direction of the house, the
deep-throated baying of a big hound.

"What is it, Hugh?" said Phyllis in an agonized whisper.

With terrified eyes she was staring at the body of the fox, stiff and
rigid in death, and with its jaws parted in a hideous snarl.  And again
there came from the direction of the house a deep-throated bay.

Then suddenly she realized that her husband was speaking--quietly,
insistently.  Only too well did he know the danger: only too well did
he know that never before in his life had the situation been so tight.
But no sign of it showed on his face: not a trace of indecision
appeared in his voice.  The position was desperate, the remedy must be
desperate, too.

"We can't climb through the fence, dear," he was saying calmly.  "You
see they've switched an electric current through the wires, and if you
touch one you'll be electrocuted.  Also they seem to have turned an
unpleasant little animal into the garden, so we can't stay here.  At
least--you can't.  So I'm going to throw you over the top."

In an agony of fear she clung to him for a moment: then as she saw his
quiet, set face she pulled herself together and smiled.  There was no
time for argument now: there was no time for anything except instant
action.  And being a thoroughbred, she was not going to hinder him by
any weakness on her part.  Of fear for herself she felt no trace: her
faith and trust in her husband was absolute.  And so she stood there
silently waiting while he measured height and distance with his eye.

Of his ability to get her over he felt no doubt: but when a mistake
means death to the woman he loves a man does not take risks.

"Come, dear," he said after a moment's pause.  "Put your knees close up
to your chin, and try and keep like a ball until you feel yourself
falling."

She doubled herself up and he picked her up.  One hand held both her
feet--the other gripped the waistband at the back of her skirt.  Once
he lifted her above his head to the full extent of his arms to free his
muscles: then he took a little run and threw her up and forward with
all his strength.  And she cleared the top strand by two feet.

She landed unhurt in some bushes, and when she had scrambled to her
feet she realized he was speaking again--imperatively, urgently.

"Get the gang, darling: somehow or other get the gang.  I'll try and
get you a good start.  But--hurry."

The next instant he had disappeared into the undergrowth, and only just
in time.  A huge hound running mute had dashed into the clearing where
a second or two before they had been standing, and was cautiously
approaching the dead fox.  She stared at it fascinated, and then with a
little cry of terror she pulled herself together and ran.  She had
forgotten the fence that was between them: for the moment she had
forgotten everything except this huge brute that looked the size of a
calf.  And the hound, seeing the flutter of her dress, forgot things
too.  A dead fox could wait, a living human was better fun by far.  He
bounded forward: gave one agonized roar as he hit the fence, and
turning a complete somersault lay still.  And as Phyllis stumbled
blindly on, she suddenly heard Hugh's cheerful voice from the darkness
behind her, apparently addressing the world at large.

"Roll up! roll up! roll up! one fox: one Pomeranian: one fowl.  No
charge for admittance.  Visitors are requested not to touch the
exhibits."

And then the loud and clear hoot of an owl thrice repeated.  It was a
message for her, she knew--not a senseless piece of bravado: a message
to tell her that he was all right.  But the call at the end was the
urgent call of the gang, and though he was safe at the moment she knew
there was no time to be lost.  And, with a little prayer that she would
choose the right direction, she broke into the steady run of the girl
who beagles when she goes beagling, and doesn't sit on the top of a
hill and watch.  Hugh had never let her down yet: it was her turn now.

To what extent it was her turn, perhaps it was as well that she did not
realize.  Even Drummond, hidden in the undergrowth just by the clearing
where lay the body of the hound, was ignorant of the nature of the odds
against him.  He had not the slightest idea how many men there were in
the house--and while it remained dark he didn't much care.  In the dark
he felt confident of dealing with any number, or at any rate of eluding
them.  It was the thing of all others that his soul loved--that grim
fighting at night, when a man looks like the trunk of a tree, and the
trunk of a tree looks like a man.  It was in that that he was
unequalled--superb: and the inmates of Maybrick Hall would have been
well advised to have stayed their hands till the light came.  Then the
position, in military parlance, could have been taken without loss.  An
unarmed man is helpless when he can be seen.

But since the inmates were ignorant of what they were up against, they
somewhat foolishly decided on instant action.  They came streaming
across in a body in the track of the dead hound, and by so doing they
played straight into the hands of the man who crouched in the shadows
close by them.  He listened for one moment to the babel of tongues of
every nationality, and decided that a little more English might adjust
the average.  So without a sound he faded away from his hiding-place,
and emerged from the undergrowth ten yards nearer the house.  Then with
his collar turned up, and his shoulders hunched together, he joined the
group.  And a man-eating tiger in their midst would have been a safer
addition to their party.

Certain it is that the next quarter of an hour proved a period of such
terror for the inmates of Maybrick Hall that at the end of that time
they reassembled at the house and flatly refused to budge, despite the
threats and curses of the red-headed Russian.  For Drummond had heard
the original orders--to form a line of beaters and shoot on sight--and
had smiled gently to himself in the darkness.  There is always an
element of humour in stalking the stalkers, and when the line formed up
at intervals of two or three yards the quarry was behind it.  Moreover
the quarry was angry, with the cold, steady rage of a powerful man who
realizes exactly what he is up against.  Shoot on sight was the order,
and Drummond accepted the terms.

Slowly the line of shadowy men moved forward through the undergrowth,
and creeping behind them came the man they were out to kill.  And
gradually he edged nearer and nearer to the wire fence, until he was
following the outside man of the line.  He saw him pause for a moment
peering round a bush, with his revolver ready in his hand.  And then
the terror started.  The beater next to the victim had a fleeting
vision of a huge black object springing through the darkness: a
muttered curse and a gurgle--and a dreadful strangled scream.  And the
outside beater was no more.  He had been hurled against the live-wire
fence as if he was a child---and the exhibits had been increased by one.

With a hoarse cry of fear the man who had been next him turned and ran
towards the house, only to find himself seized from behind with a grip
of iron.  It was Franz, and as he stared into the face of the man whom
he knew to be drowned he gave a squawk like a trapped rabbit.  But
there was nothing ghostly about the hands round his neck, and as he
felt himself being rushed towards the fence of death he began to
struggle furiously.  But Drummond was mad at the moment, and though
Franz was a powerful man he might have saved himself the trouble.  A
terrific blow hit him on the face, and with a grunt he fell back
against the fence.  The exhibits were increased by two, and through the
darkness rang a cheerful laugh, followed by the hooting of an owl.

And now the line was broken, and men were crashing about in all
directions shouting hoarsely.  Experts of the Red Terror they might
be--butcherers of women and children whose sole fault lay in the fact
that they washed: that night they found themselves up against a terror
far worse than even their victims had ever experienced.  For they, poor
wretches, knew what was coming: the men who ran shouting through the
undergrowth did not.  Here, there, and everywhere they heard the
hooting of an owl: they formed into bunches of twos and threes for
protection, they blazed away with compressed-air revolvers at harmless
rhododendron bushes, and sometimes at their own pals.  And every now
and then a great black figure would leap silently out of the darkness
on to some straggler: there would be a bellow of fear and pain followed
by an ominous silence, which was broken a second or two later by the
hooting of an owl twenty yards away.

Occasionally they saw him--a dim, fleeting shadow, and once four of
them fired at him simultaneously.  But luck was with him, and though
two holes were drilled in his coat Drummond was not hit himself.  His
quiet laugh came suddenly from behind them, and even as they swung
round cursing, one of them collapsed choking with a bullet through his
chest.  It was the first time he had used his first victim's revolver,
but the target was too tempting to be let off.  And at last they could
stand it no longer.  They had no idea how many men they were up
against, and a complete panic set in.  With one accord they rushed for
the house, and a mocking peal of laughter followed them as they ran.
For Drummond had gambled on that, and he had won.  In the position of
knowing that every man was his enemy, he had been at an advantage over
the others, who were never sure who was a friend.  For a while he
listened to the flood of lurid blasphemy which came from the open
windows of the room into which they had crowded: then he dodged along
the bushes and looked in.  For a moment he was sorely tempted to fire:
in fact he went so far as to draw a bead on the red-headed Russian, who
was gesticulating furiously.  Then his hand dropped to his side:
shooting into the brown was not his idea of the game.  And at the same
moment, the lights were switched off in the room: it had evidently
struck someone inside that the position was a trifle insecure.  The
talking ceased abruptly, and with a faint grin on his face Drummond
swung round and vanished into the deepest part of the undergrowth.  It
was necessary to do some thinking.

He had got the start he wanted for Phyllis, which was all to the good,
but he was as far as ever himself from getting out.  There was still
the fence to be negotiated if he was to escape, and common sense told
him that there wasn't the remotest chance of the current having been
switched off.  And incidentally, it didn't much matter whether it had
been or not, since the only way of finding out for certain was to touch
one of the wires--a thing he had not the faintest intention of doing.
He could still hear the steady thrumming of the engine, and so the
fence was out of the question.

Delving into memories of the past, when he had sat at the feet of the
stinks master at his school, he tried to remember some of the gems of
wisdom, anent electricity, which had fallen from his lips.  But since
his sole occupation during such lectures had been the surreptitious
manufacture of sulphuretted hydrogen from a retort concealed below his
desk, he finally gave up the attempt in despair.  One thing was
certain: the fence must be continuous.  From knowledge gained from the
sparking plugs of his car, he knew that a break in the circuit was
fatal.  Therefore there could be no break in the fence which encircled
the house.  And if that was so--how about the drive?  How did the drive
pass through the fence?  There must be a break there, or something
capable of forming a break.  A motor-car will not go over an eight-foot
fence, and he had seen the wheel tracks of a car quite clearly on the
drive earlier in the evening.

Yes--he would try the gate.  It was imperative to get away, and that as
soon as possible.  When dawn came, and the first faint streaks were
already beginning to show in the east, he realized that he would be at
a hopeless disadvantage.  Moreover the absolute silence which now
reigned after the turmoil and shouting of the last few minutes struck
him as ominous.  And Drummond was far too clever a man to under-rate
his opponents.  The panic had been but a temporary affair; and the
panic was now over.

He began to thread his way swiftly and silently in the direction of the
drive.  Not for a second did he relax his caution, though he felt
tolerably certain that all his opponents were still inside the house.
Only too well did he know that the greatest danger often lies when
things seems safest.  But he reached the edge of the drive without
incident, and started to skirt along it away from the house.  At last
he saw the gate, and turned deeper into the undergrowth.  He wanted to
examine it at leisure, before making up his mind as to what he would
do.  As far as he could see from the outline he could make out against
the road, it was an ordinary heavy wooden gate, such as may be seen
frequently at the entrance to small country houses.

A tiny lodge lay on one side: the usual uncared for undergrowth on the
other.  He could see the wire fence coming to the gatepost on each
side; he could see that the strands were bunched together at the gate
as telegraph wires are bunched when they pass underneath a bridge on a
railway line.  And it was while he was cogitating on the matter that he
saw a man approaching from the other side.  He came up to the gate,
climbed over it with the utmost nonchalance, and turned into the little
lodge.  And Hugh noticed that as he climbed he was careful to avoid the
second horizontal from the ground.  At last it seemed to him that
everything was clear.  Contact was made through the latch; the current
passed along the wires which were laid on the top of the second
horizontal from the ground, and thence to the continuation of the fence
on the other side.  Anyway, whatever the electrical device, if this man
could climb the gate in safety--so could he.  There was a risk--a grave
risk.  It meant going out into the open; it meant exposing himself for
a considerable period.  But every moment he delayed the light grew
better, and the risk became worse.  And it was either that or waiting
in the garden till daylight made his escape impossible.  And still he
hung back.

Men who knew Hugh Drummond well often said that he had a strange sixth
sense which enabled him to anticipate danger, when to others with him
everything seemed perfectly safe.  Well-nigh fantastic stories were
told of him by men who had accompanied him on those unofficial patrols
he had carried out in No Man's Land whenever his battalion was in the
line, and frequently when it wasn't.  And as he stood there motionless
as a statue, with only the ceaseless movement of his eyes to show his
strained attention, that sixth sense of his warned him, and continued
warning him insistently.  There was danger: he felt it, he knew
it--though where it lay he couldn't tell.

And then suddenly he again saw a man approaching from the other side--a
man who climbed the gate with the utmost nonchalance and turned into
the little lodge.  He too carefully avoided the second horizontal from
the ground, but Drummond was not paying any attention to the gate now.
Once again his sixth sense had saved him, for it was the same man who
had climbed over the first time.  And why should a man adopt such a
peculiar form of amusement, unless he was deliberately acting as a
decoy?  He had disappeared into the lodge, only to leave it again by a
back entrance--and in an instant the whole thing was clear.  They had
gambled on his going to the gate: they had gambled on his having a dart
for it when he saw the gate was safe to climb.  And he smiled grimly
when he realized how nearly they had won their bet.

Suddenly his eyes riveted themselves on the little hedge in front of
the lodge.  Something had stirred there: a twig had snapped.  And the
smile grew more grim as he stared at the shadow.  Up to date it was the
gate that had occupied his attention--now he saw that the hedge was
alive with men.  And after a while he began to shake gently with
laughter.  The idea of the perspiring sportsman trotting in and out of
the back door, to show off his particular line in gates, while a grim
bunch of bandits lay on their stomachs in the dew, hoping for the best,
appealed to his sense of humour.  For the moment the fact that he was
now hopelessly trapped did not trouble him: his whole soul went out to
the painstaking gate-hopper.  If only he would do it again--that was
his one prayer.  And sure enough about five minutes later he hove in
sight again, stepping merrily and brightly along the road.

His nonchalance was superb: he even hummed gently to show his complete
disdain for gates in general and this one in particular.  And then
Drummond plugged him through the leg.  He felt that it would have been
a crime to end the career of such a bright disposition: so he plugged
him through the fleshy part of the leg.  And the man's howl of pain and
Drummond's raucous bellow of laughter broke the silence simultaneously.

Not the least merry interlude, he reflected, in an evening devoted to
fun and games, as he took cover rapidly behind a big tree.  For bullets
were whistling through the undergrowth in all directions, as the men
who had been lying under cover of the hedge rose and let fly.  And then
quite abruptly the shooting died away, and Drummond became aware that a
car was approaching.  The headlights were throwing fantastic shadows
through the bushes, and outlined against the glare he could see the
figures of his opponents.  Now was his chance, and with the quickness
of the born soldier he acted on it.  If the car was to come in they
must open the gate; and since nothing blinds anyone so completely as
the dazzle of strong headlights, he might be able to slip out unseen,
just after the car had passed through.  He skirted rapidly to one side
out of the direct beam: then he made his way towards the lodge, keeping
well out on the flank.  And from a concealed position under cover of
the little house he awaited developments.

The man he had shot through the leg was unceremoniously bundled on to
the grass beside the drive, whilst another man climbed the gate and
went up to the car, which had come to a standstill ten yards or so
away.  Drummond heard the sound of a window being lowered, and an
excited conversation; then the man who had approached the car stepped
back again into the glare of the headlights.

"Open the gate," he said curtly, and there was a sardonic grin on his
face.

And now Drummond was waiting tensely.  If he was to bring it off it
would be a matter of seconds and half-seconds.  Little by little he
edged nearer to the drive, as a man with what appeared to be a huge
glove on his hand approached the gate.  There was a bright flash as he
pressed down the catch and the circuit was broken, and at the same
moment the headlights on the car went out, while an inside light was
switched on.

And Drummond stopped dead--frozen in his tracks.  The car was moving
forward slowly, and he could see the people inside clearly.  One was
Count Zadowa--_alias_ Mr. Atkinson; one was the Reverend Theodosius
Longmoor.  But the other--and it was the third person on whom his eyes
were fixed with a hopeless feeling of impotent rage--the other was
Phyllis herself.  The two men were holding her in front of them, so
that to fire was an impossibility, and Peterson was smiling out of the
window with the utmost benevolence.  Then they were past him, and he
watched the red tail-lamp disappearing up the drive, while the gate was
shut behind them.  Another flashing spark stabbed the darkness: the
circuit was complete again.  And with a feeling of sick, helpless fury,
Drummond realized that it had all been useless.  He was exactly where
he had been half an hour before, with the vital difference that the
events of the last half-hour could not be repeated.  He was caught: it
was the finish.  Somehow or other the poor girl must have blundered
right into the car, and probably asked the occupants for help.  She
wouldn't have known who they were; she'd just stopped the car on spec,
and ... He shook his fists impotently, and at that moment he heard a
loud, powerful voice which he recognized at once speaking from the
direction of the house.

"Unless Captain Drummond comes into the house within five minutes, I
shall personally kill Mrs. Drummond."

And the voice was the voice of Carl Peterson.




17

  In which a murderer is
  murdered at Maybrick Hall

"You appear to have a wonderful faculty for remaining alive, my young
friend," remarked Peterson two minutes later, gazing benevolently at
Drummond over his clerical collar.

"Principally, Theo, my pet, because you've got such a wonderful faculty
for making bloomers," answered Drummond affably.

No trace of the impotent rage he had given way to in the garden showed
in his face as he spoke; and yet, in all conscience, the situation was
desperate enough.  He was unarmed--his revolver had been removed from
him as he entered the house--and behind his chair stood two men, each
with the muzzle of a gun an inch off his neck.  In another corner sat
Phyllis, and behind her stood an armed man also.  Every now and then
his eyes stole round to her, and once he smiled reassuringly--an
assurance he was far from feeling.  But principally his eyes were fixed
on the three men who were sitting at the table opposite him.  In the
centre was Carl Peterson, smoking the inevitable cigar; and, one on
each side of him, sat Count Zadowa and the red-headed Russian Yulowski.

"You can't imagine the pleasant surprise it gave me," Peterson
continued gently, "when your charming wife hailed my car.  So
unexpected: so delightful.  And when I realized that you were running
about in our grounds here instead of being drowned as that fool No. 10
told me over the telephone....  By the way, where is No. 10."

He turned snarling on the Russian, but it was one of the men behind
Drummond's chair who answered.

"He's dead.  This guy threw him on the live wires."

"Is that little Franz?" murmured Hugh Drummond, lighting a cigarette.
"Yes--I regret to state that he and I had words, and my impression is
that he has passed away.  Do you mind standing a little further away?"
he continued, addressing the men behind him.  "You're tickling the back
of my neck, and it makes me go all goosey."

"Do you mean to say," said the Russian in his harsh voice, "that it was
you and only you outside there?"

"You have guessed it, Adolph," answered Drummond, speaking
mechanically.  It had seemed to him, suddenly, that, unseen by the
others, Phyllis was trying to convey some message.  "Alone I did it, to
say nothing of that squib-faced bird upstairs with the long arms.  In
fact, without wishing to exaggerate, I think the total bag is
five--with dear old _pericoloso spargersi_ as an 'also ran.'"

What was she trying to make him understand.

And then suddenly she began to laugh hysterically, and he half rose
from his seat, only to sit down again abruptly as he felt the cold ring
of a revolver pressed into the nape of his neck.

"Three and two make five," said Phyllis, half laughing and half crying,
"and one makes six.  I worked it out to-night, and it all came right."

She went on aimlessly for a while in the same strain, till the Russian
swung round on her with a snarl, and told her to shut her mouth.  He
was talking in low tones to Peterson, and, with one searching look at
Hugh, she relapsed into silence.  There was no hysteria in that look,
and his heart began to pound suddenly in his excitement.  For 3256
Mayfair was the number of Peter Darrell's telephone, and she could only
mean one thing--that she had got through to Peter before she stopped
the car.  And if that was so there was still hope, if only he could
gain time.  Time was the essential factor: time he must have somehow.
And how was he to get it?  Not by the quiver of an eyelid did the
expression on his face change: he still smoked placidly on, looking
with resigned boredom at the three men who were now conferring
earnestly together.  But his mind was racing madly, as he turned things
over this way and that.  Time: he must gain time.

If his supposition was right, Carl Peterson was in ignorance of the
fact that a message had been got through.  And in that lay the only
chance.  Just as in Bridge there comes a time when to win the game one
must place a certain card with one of the opponents and play
accordingly--so that card must be placed in Peterson's hand.  If the
placing has been done correctly you take your only chance of winning:
if the placing is wrong you lose anyway.  And so, starting with that as
a foundation, he tried to work out the play of the hand.  Peter Darrell
knew, and Peterson was in ignorance of the fact.

First--how long did he want?  Two hours at least: three if possible.
To round up all the gang and get cars in the middle of the night would
take time--two hours at the very least.  Secondly--and there was the
crux--how was he going to get such a respite?  For this time he could
not hope for another mistake.  It was the end, and he knew it.

No trace of mercy showed in the faces of the three men opposite him.
He caught occasional remarks, and after a while he realized what the
matter under discussion was.  Evidently the red-headed Russian was in
favour of killing him violently, and at once--and it was Count Zadowa
who was advocating caution, while Peterson sat between them listening
impassively, with his, eyes fixed on Drummond.

"Bayonet the pair of them," snarled Yulowski at length, as if tired of
arguing the point.  "I'll do the job if you're too squeamish, and will
bury 'em both with the rest of the bodies in the grounds somewhere.
Who's to know: who's to find out?"

But Count Zadowa shook his head vigorously.

"That's just where you're wrong, my friend.  No one would see you do it
more willingly than I--but you've got to remember the rest of his gang."

His voice died away to a whisper, and Drummond could only catch
disjointed fragments.

"I know the Black Gang," Zadowa was saying.  "You don't.  And they know
me."  Then he heard the word "accident" repeated several times, and at
length Yulowski shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair.

"Have it your own way," he remarked.  "I don't care how they're killed,
as long as they are killed.  If you think it's necessary to pretend
there has been an accident, we'll have an accident.  The only point is
what sort of an accident."

But Count Zadowa had apparently not got as far as that, and relapsed
into silence.  His powers of imagination were not sufficiently great to
supply the necessary details, and it was left to Carl Peterson to
decide matters.

"Nothing is easier," he remarked suavely, and his eyes were still fixed
on Drummond.  "We are discussing, my young friend," he continued,
raising his voice slightly, "the best way of getting rid of you and
your charming wife.  I regret that she must share your fate, but I see
no way out of it.  To keep her permanently about the premises would be
too great an inconvenience; and since we can't let her go without
involving ourselves in unpleasant notoriety, I fear--as I said--that
she must join you.  My friend Yulowski wishes to bayonet you both, and
bury you in the grounds.  He has done a lot of that sort of thing in
his time, and I believe I am right in stating that his hand has not
lost its cunning since leaving Russia.  A little out of practice,
perhaps, but the result is the same.  On the other hand Count Zadowa,
whom you know of old, quite rightly points out that there are the
members of your ridiculous gang, who know about him, and might very
easily find out about me.  And when in a few days your motor-car is
hoisted out of the water, and is traced by the registration number as
being yours, he fears that not only may he find things very awkward,
but that a certain amount of unenviable and undesirable limelight may
be thrown on this part of the country, and incidentally on this house.
You follow our difficulties so far?"

"With the utmost clarity, Theo," answered Drummond pleasantly.

"It's always such a pleasure talking to you," continued Peterson.
"You're so unexpectedly quick on the uptake.  Well then--to proceed.
Though it will not interfere with me personally--as I leave England in
four hours--it will interfere considerably with my plans if the police
come poking their noses into this house.  We like to hide our light
under a bushel, Captain Drummond: we prefer to do our little bit
unnoticed.  So I feel sure that you will be only too ready to help us
in any way you can, and fall in with my suggestion for your decease
with goodwill.  I have a very warm regard for you in so many ways, and
I should hate to think that there was any bad blood between us at the
end."

"Carl--my pet--you'll make me cry in a minute," said Drummond quietly.
To all outward appearances he was in the same mocking vein as his
principal enemy, but a little pulse was beginning to hammer in his
throat, and his mouth felt strangely dry.  He knew he was being played
with as a mouse is played with by a cat, and it was all he could do to
stop himself from demanding outright to know what was coming.  Out of
the corner of his eye he could see Phyllis sitting very white and
still, but he didn't dare to look at her direct for fear he might break
down.  And then, still in the same tone, Peterson went on:

"I knew I could rely on you to meet me.  I shall tell Irma when I see
her, and she will be very touched by your kindness, Drummond--very
touched.  But to come back to the point.  As my friend Zadowa most
justly observed--we want an accident: a real good _bona fide_ accident,
which will relieve the world of your presence and will bring no
scorching glare of publicity upon this house or any of my _confrres_
who remain in England.  You may recall that that was my original idea,
only you seem in the most extraordinary way to have escaped from being
drowned.  Still, as far as it goes, we have a very good foundation to
build on.  Your car--duly perceived by the gentleman of limited
intelligence who works the bridge--went over the edge.  You were duly
perceived in it.  Strangely enough, his eyesight must have been
defective--or else he was so flustered by your amazing action that he
was incapable of noticing everything at such a moment.  Because he
actually failed to see that your charming wife was seated beside you.
In the moment of panic when she realized you had fainted, she leant
forward--doubtless to try and throw out the clutch.  Yes"--his eyes,
cold and expressionless, were turned momentarily on Phyllis--"I think
that is what she must have done.  That accounts for the not very
intelligent gate-opener failing to see her.  But that she was there is
certain.  Because, Captain Drummond, both bodies will be recovered from
the river the day after to-morrow, shall we say? some two or three
miles down-stream."

"Your efforts at drowning have not been vastly successful up to date,
Carl, have they?" said Drummond genially.  "Do I understand that we are
both to be taken out and held under the water, or are you going to use
the bath here?  That is to say"--and he glanced pointedly at
Yulowski--"if such a commodity exists.  Or are you again going to
experiment with that dope of yours?"

"Wrong on all counts," answered Peterson.  "You are far too large and
strong, my dear Drummond, to be drowned by such rudimentary methods.
And it is more than likely that even if we attempted to do it, the fact
that you struggled would be revealed in a post-mortem examination.  And
that would spoil everything, wouldn't it?  No longer would it appear to
be an accident: Count Zadowa's masterly arguments would all have been
wasted.  Why--I might as well agree at once to Yulowski's suggestion of
the bayonet.  Pray give me credit, my dear young friend, for a little
more brains than that."

"I do, Theo: I assure you I do," said Drummond earnestly.  "It's only
my terrible fear that you'll again go and make a hash of it that
inspires my remarks."

"Thank you a thousand times," murmured the clergyman gently.  He was
leaning forward, his elbows on the table--and for the first time
Drummond understood something of the diabolical hatred which Peterson
felt for him.  He had never shown it before: he was far too big a man
ever to betray his feeling unnecessarily.  But now, as he sat facing
him gently rubbing his big white hands together, Drummond understood.

"Thank you a thousand times," he repeated in the same gentle voice.
"And since you are so concerned about the matter, I will tell you my
plan in some detail.  I need hardly say that any suggestions you make
on any points that may strike you will receive my most careful
attention.  When the car crashed into the water it carried you and your
wife with it.  We have got as far as that, haven't we?  As it plunged
downwards you--still unconscious from your dreadful and sudden fainting
fit--were hurled out.  Your wife, in a magnificent endeavour to save
you, rose in her seat and was hurled out too.  I think we can safely
say that, don't you, seeing that the not too intelligent gatekeeper
could not have seen the car as it fell?"

"Go on," said Drummond quietly.

"Interested, I hope," murmured Peterson.  "But don't hesitate to stop
me if anything is at all obscure.  I feel that you have a perfect right
to suggest any small alterations you like.  Well--to proceed.  You were
both hurled out as the car plunged into the water, and somewhat
naturally you were both thrown forward.  Head foremost, you will note,
Drummond, you left the car--and your heads struck the stonework of the
opposite pier with sickening force, just before you reached the water.
In fact, a marked feature of the case, when this dreadful accident is
reported in the papers, will be the force with which you both struck
that pier.  Your two heads were terribly battered.  In fact, I have but
little doubt that the coroner will decide, when your bodies are
recovered some few miles downstream--that you were not in reality
drowned, but that the terrific impact on the stone pier killed you
instantly.  Do you think it's sound up to date?"

"I think it's damned unsound," remarked Drummond languidly.  "If you
propose to take me and endeavour to make my head impinge on a stone
wall, someone is going to get a thick ear.  Besides, the bridge isn't
open, and even your pal, the not too intelligent gate-keeper, might
stick in his toes a bit.  Of course"--he added hopefully--"you might
say you were doing it for the movies.  Tell him you're Charlie Chaplin,
but that you dressed in such a hurry you've forgotten your moustache."

The red-headed Russian was snarling venomously.

"Let me get at him, chief.  He won't try being funny again."

"No.  I shall be too occupied sprinkling myself with insect powder,"
retorted Drummond vulgarly.  "Why, you lousy brute, if you got at me,
as you call it, and there wasn't half a battalion of infantry holding
guns to my head, I'd break your neck with one hand strapped behind my
back."

The Russian half rose to his feet, his teeth bared, and Peterson pulled
him back into his chair.

"You'll get your chance in a moment or two, Yulowski," he remarked
savagely.  Then he turned once more on Drummond, and the genial look
had vanished from his face.  "Doubtless your humour appeals to some
people; it does not to me.  Moreover, I am rather in a hurry.  I do not
propose, Captain Drummond, to take you to the bridge and endeavour to
make your head impinge on a wall, as you call it.  There is another far
simpler method of producing the same result.  The impinging will take
place in this house.  As a soldier you should know the result of a blow
over the head with the butt of a rifle.  And I can assure you that
there will be no bungling this time.  Yulowski is an expert in such
matters, and I shall stay personally to see that it is done.  I think
we can give a very creditable imitation of what would have happened had
my little story been true, and to-morrow night--I see that it is
getting a little too light now for the purpose--your two bodies will be
carried over and dropped in the river.  The length of time you will
both have been dead will be quite correct, within an hour or so--and
everything will be most satisfactory for all concerned."

Drummond passed his tongue over his lips, and despite himself his voice
shook a little.

"Am I to understand," he said after a moment, "that you propose to let
that man butcher us here--in this house--with a rifle?"

"Just so," answered Peterson.  "That is exactly what you are to
understand."

"You are going to let him bash my wife over the head with a rifle butt?"

"I am going to order him to do so," said Peterson mildly.  "And very
shortly at that.  We must not have any mistakes over the length of time
you've both been dead.  I confess it sounds drastic, but I can assure
you it will be quite sudden.  Yulowski, as I told you, is an expert.
He had a lot of experience in Russia."

"You inhuman devil!" muttered Drummond dazedly.  "You can do what you
like to me, but for Heaven's sake let her off."

He was staring fascinated at the Russian, who had risen and crossed to
a cupboard in the wall.  There was something almost maniacal in the
look on his face--the look of a savage, brute beast, confronted with
the prey it desires.

"Impossible, my dear young friend," murmured Peterson regretfully.  "It
affords me no pleasure to have her killed, but I have no alternative.
To see you dead, I would cross two continents," he snarled suddenly,
"but"--and his voice became normal again--"only bitter necessity
compels me to adopt such measures with Phyllis.  You see she knows too
much."  He whispered in Count Zadowa's ear, who rose and left the room,
to return shortly with half a dozen more men.

"Yes, she knows too much, and so I fear I cannot let her off.  She
would be able to tell such a lot of most inconvenient things to the
police.  This house is so admirably adapted for certain of our
activities that it would be a world of pities to draw undesirable
attention to it.  Especially now that Count Zadowa has been compelled
to leave his own office, owing entirely to your reprehensible
curiosity."

But Drummond was paying no attention to him.  His eyes were fixed on
the Russian, who had come back slowly into the centre of the room,
carrying a rifle in his hand.  It was an ordinary Russian service
rifle, and a bayonet was fixed in position.  Yulowski handled it
lovingly, as he stood beside Peterson--and suddenly Count Zadowa turned
white and began to tremble.  To throw a bomb into a room and run for
your life is one thing: to sit at a table in cold blood and witness a
double execution is another.  Even Peterson's iron nerves seemed a
little shaken, and his hand trembled as he removed his cigar.  But
there was no sign of relenting on his face; no sign of faltering in his
voice as he spoke to the men who had just come into the room.

"In the interest of us all," he remarked steadily, "I have decided that
it is necessary to kill both the prisoners."  He made a sign, and
Drummond, sitting almost paralyzed in his chair, found both his arms
gripped, with three men hanging on to each.

"The man," continued Peterson, "has been interfering with our work in
England--the work of the Red International.  He is the leader of the
Black Gang, as you probably know; and as you probably do not know, it
is he and his gang who have been responsible for the mysterious
disappearance of some of our most trusted workers.  Therefore with
regard to him there can be no second thought: he deserves death, and he
must die.  With regard to the woman, the case is a little different.
She has done us no active harm--but she is a member of the bourgeois
class, and she is his wife.  Moreover she knows too much.  And so it
becomes necessary that she should die too.  The reason why I am
adopting this method of putting them both out of the way, is--as I have
already explained to all save you new-comers--that, when the bodies are
discovered, the cause of death will appear to be accidental.  They will
both of them seem to the police to have gone over the edge of the
bridge in the car, and hit their heads on the pier opposite.  And
to-morrow night you will carry the bodies to the river and drop them
in.  And that"--he resumed his cigar--"I think is all."

Yulowski handled his rifle lovingly, and once again his teeth showed in
a wolfish grin.

"Which shall I take first, chief?" he said carelessly.

"The point is immaterial," returned Peterson.  "I think perhaps the
woman."

Drummond tried to speak and failed.  His tongue was clinging to the
roof of his mouth: everything in the room was dancing before his eyes.
Dimly he saw the red-headed brute Yulowski swinging his rifle to test
it: dimly he saw Phyllis sitting bolt upright, with a calm scornful
expression on her face, while two men held her by the arms so that she
could not move.  And suddenly he croaked horribly.

Then he saw Yulowski put down the rifle and listen intently for a
moment.

"What's the matter?" snapped Peterson irritably.

"Do you hear the different note to that dynamo?" said Yulowski.

"What the hell's that got to do with it?" roared Peterson.  "Get on
with it, damn you--and attend to the dynamo afterwards."

Yulowski nodded, and picked up his rifle again.

"The last time," he said, turning on Drummond with a dreadful look of
evil in his face, "that this rifle was used by me was in a cellar in
Russia--on even more exalted people than you.  I brought it specially
with me as a memento, never thinking I should have the pleasure of
using it again."

He swung it over his head, and Drummond shut his eyes--to open them
again a moment later, as the door flung open and a man distraught with
terror dashed in.

"The Black Gang!" he shouted wildly.  "Hundreds of them--all round the
house.  They've cut the wires."

With a fearful curse Peterson leaped to his feet, and the men holding
Drummond, dumbfounded at the sudden turning of the tables, let go of
his arms.  Yulowski stood staring foolishly at the door, and what
happened then was so quick that none of the stupefied onlookers raised
a finger to prevent it.

With the howl of an enraged beast, Drummond hurled himself on the
Russian--blind mad with fury.  And when two seconds later a dozen
black-cowled, black-hooded figures came swarming in through the door,
for one instant they paused in sheer horror.

Pinned to the wall with his own bayonet, which stuck out six inches
beyond his back was a red-headed, red-bearded man gibbering horribly in
a strange language; whilst creeping towards a benevolent-looking
clergyman, who crouched in a corner, was a man they scarce recognized
as their leader, so appalling was the look of malignant fury on his
face.

Carl Peterson was no coward.  In the world in which he moved, there
were many strange stories told of his iron nerve and his complete
disregard of danger.  Moreover Nature had endowed him with physical
strength far above the average.  But now, for perhaps the first time in
his life, he knew the meaning of stark, abject terror.

The sinister men in black--members of that very gang he had come over
to England to destroy--seemed to fill the room.  Silently, as if they
had been drilled to it, they disarmed everyone: then they stood round
the walls--waiting.  No one spoke: only the horrible imprecations of
the dying Russian broke the silence, as he strove feebly to pull out
the rifle and bayonet from his chest, which had fixed him to the wall
as a dead butterfly is fixed in a collection with a pin.

Peterson had a fleeting vision of a girl with white face and wide,
staring eyes beside whom were standing two of the motionless black
figures as guards--the girl whom he had just sentenced to a dreadful
and horrible death, and then his eyes came back again as if fascinated
to the man who was coming towards him.  He tried to shrink back further
into his corner, plucking with nerveless fingers at his clerical
collar--while the sweat poured off his face in a stream.  For there was
no mercy in Hugh Drummond's eyes: no mercy in the great arms that hung
loosely forward.  And Peterson realized he deserved none.

And then it came.  No word was spoken--Drummond was beyond speech.  His
hands shot out and Peterson felt himself drawn relentlessly towards the
man he had planned to kill, not two minutes before.  It was his turn
now to wonder desperately if it was some hideous nightmare, even while
he struggled impotently in his final frenzy with a man whose strength
seemed equal to the strength of ten.  He was choking: the grip on his
throat was not human in its ferocity.  There was a great roaring in his
ears, and suddenly he ceased to struggle.  The glare in Drummond's eyes
hypnotized him, and for the only time in his life he gave up hope.

The room was spinning round: the silent black figures, the dying
Yulowski, the girl--all seemed merged in one vast jumble of colour
growing darker and darker, out of which one thing and one thing only
stood out clear and distinct on his dying consciousness--the blazing
eyes of the man who was throttling him.  And then, as he felt himself
sinking into utter blackness, some dim sense less paralyzed than the
rest seemed to tell him that a change had taken place in the room.
Something new had come into that whirling nightmare that spun round
him: dimly he heard a voice--loud and agonised--a voice he recognized.
It was a woman's voice, and after a while the grip on his throat
relaxed.  He staggered back against the wall gasping and spluttering,
and gradually the room ceased to whirl round--the iron bands ceased to
press upon his heart and lungs.

It was Irma who stood there: Irma whose piteous cry had pierced through
to his brain: Irma who had caused those awful hands to relax their grip
just before it was too late.  Little by little everything steadied
down: he found he could see again--could hear.  He still crouched
shaking against the wall, but he had got a respite anyway--a
breathing-space.  And that was all that mattered for the moment--that
and the fact that the madness was gone from Hugh Drummond's eyes.

The black figures were still standing there motionless round the walls;
the Russian was lolling forward--dead; Phyllis was lying back in her
chair unconscious.  But Peterson had eyes for none of these things:
Count Zadowa shivering in a corner--the huddled group of his own men
standing in the centre of the room he passed by without a glance.  It
was on Drummond his gaze was fixed: Drummond, who stood facing Irma
with an almost dazed expression on his face, whilst she pleaded with
him in an agony of supplication.

"He ordered that man to brain my wife with a rifle butt," said Drummond
hoarsely.  "And yet you ask for mercy."

He passed his hand two or three times over his forehead as Irma once
again broke into wild pleadings; then he turned and stared at Peterson.
She stopped at last, and still he stared at the gasping clergyman as if
making up his mind.  And, in truth, that was precisely what he was
doing.  Like most big men he was slow to anger, but once his temper was
roused it did not cool easily.  And never before in his life had he
been in the grip of such cold, maniacal fury as had held him during the
last few minutes.  Right from the start had Peterson deceived him: from
the very moment when he had entered his sitting-room at the Ritz.  He
had done his best to murder him, and not content with that he had given
orders for Phyllis and him to be butchered in cold blood.  If the Black
Gang had not arrived--had they been half a minute later--it would have
been over.  Phyllis--his Phyllis--would have been killed by that
arch-devil whom he had skewered to the wall with his own rifle.  And as
the thought took hold of him, his great fists clenched once more and
the madness again gleamed in his eyes.  For Peterson was the real
culprit: Peterson was the leader.  To kill the servant and not the
master was unjust.

He swung round on the cowering clergyman and gripped him once again by
the throat, shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat.  He felt the girl
Irma plucking feebly at his arm, but he took no notice.  In his mind
there was room for no thought save the fixed determination to rid the
world for ever of this monstrous blackguard.  And still the motionless
black figures round the wall gave no sign, even when the girl rushed
from one to the other imploring their aid.  They knew their leader, and
though they knew not what had happened to cause his dreadful rage they
trusted him implicitly and utterly.  Whether it was lawful or not was
beside the point: it was just or Hugh Drummond would not have done it.
And so they watched and waited, while Drummond, his face blazing,
forced the clergyman to his knees, and the girl Irma sank half-fainting
by the table.

But once again Fate was to intervene on Peterson's behalf, through the
instrumentality of a woman.  And mercifully for him the intervention
came from the only woman--from the only human being--who could have
influenced Drummond at that moment.  It was Phyllis who opened her eyes
suddenly, and, half-dazed still with the horror of the last few
minutes, gazed round the room.  She saw the huddled group of men in the
centre: she saw the Russian lolling grotesquely forward supported on
his own rifle: she saw the Black Gang silent and motionless like
avenging judges round the walls.  And then she saw her husband bending
Carl Peterson's neck farther and farther back, till at any moment it
seemed as if it must crack.

For a second she stared at Hugh's face, and saw on it a look which she
had never seen before--a look so terrible, that she gave a sharp
convulsive cry.

"Let him go, Hugh: let him go.  Don't do it."

Her voice pierced his brain, though for a moment it made no impression
on the muscles of his arms.  A slightly bewildered look came into his
eyes: he felt as a dog must feel who is called off his lawful prey by
his master.

Let him go--let Carl Peterson go!  That was what Phyllis was asking him
to do--Phyllis who had stood at death's door not five minutes before.
Let him go!  And suddenly the madness faded from his eyes: his hands
relaxed their grip, and Carl Peterson slipped unconscious to the
floor--unconscious but still breathing.  He had let him go, and after a
while he stepped back and glanced slowly round the room.  His eyes
lingered for a moment on the dead Russian, they travelled thoughtfully
on along the line of black figures.  And gradually a smile began to
appear on his face--a smile which broadened into a grin.

"Perfectly sound advice, old thing," he remarked at length.  "Straight
from the stable.  I really believe I'd almost lost my temper."




18

  In which the Home
  Secretary is taught
  the Fox-trot

It was a week later.  In Sir Bryan Johnstone's office two men were
seated, the features of one of whom, at any rate, were well known to
the public.  Sir Bryan encouraged no notoriety: the man in the street
passed him by without recognition every time.  In fact it is doubtful
if many of the general public so much as knew his name.  But with his
companion it was different: as a member of several successive Cabinets,
his face was almost as well known as one or two of the lesser lights in
the film industry.  And it is safe to say that never in the course of a
life devoted to the peculiar vagaries of politics had his face worn
such an expression of complete bewilderment.

"But it's incredible, Johnstone," he remarked for the fiftieth time.
"Simply incredible."

"Nevertheless, Sir John," returned the other, "it is true.  I have
absolute indisputable proof of the whole thing.  And if you may
remember, I have long drawn the Government's attention to the spread of
these activities in England."

"Yes, yes, I know," said Sir John Haverton a little testily, "but you
have never given us chapter and verse like this before."

"To be perfectly frank with you," answered Sir Bryan, "I didn't realize
it fully myself until now.  Had it not been for the Black Gang
stumbling upon this house in Essex--Maybrick Hall--overpowering the
owners and putting me on their track, much of this would never have
come to light."

"But who are the members of this Black Gang?" demanded the Cabinet
Minister.

Sir Bryan Johnstone gave an enigmatic smile.

"At the moment, perhaps," he murmured, "that point had better remain in
abeyance.  I may say that in the whole of my official career I have
never received such a profound surprise as when I found out who the
leader of the gang was.  In due course, Sir John, it may be necessary
to communicate to you his name; but in the meantime I suggest that we
should concentrate on the information he has provided us with, and
treat him as anonymous.  I think you agree that he has deserved well of
his country."

"Damned well," grunted the other, with a smile.  "He can have a seat in
the Cabinet if this is his usual form."

"I hardly think," returned Sir Bryan, smiling even more enigmatically,
"that he would help you very much in your proceedings though he might
enliven them."

But the Cabinet Minister was once more engrossed in the report he was
holding in his hand.

"Incredible," he muttered again.  "Incredible."

"And yet, as I said before--the truth," said the other.  "That there is
an organized and well-financed conspiracy to preach Bolshevism in
England we have known for some time: how well organized it is we did
not realize.  But as you will see from that paper, there is not a
single manufacturing town or city in Great Britain that has not got a
branch of the organization installed, which can if need be draw
plentifully on funds from headquarters.  Where those funds come from is
at the present moment doubtful: in my own mind I have no doubt that
Russia supplies the greater portion.  You have in front of you there,
Sir John"--he spoke with sudden passion--"the definite proofs of a
gigantic attempt at world revolution on the Russian plan.  You have in
front of you there the proofs of the appalling spread of the
Proletarian Sunday Schools, with their abominable propaganda and their
avowed attempt to convert the children who attend them to a creed whose
beginning is destruction and whose end is chaotic anarchy.  You have in
front of you there the definite proofs that 80 per cent. of the men
engaged in this plot are not visionaries, swayed by some grandiloquent
scheme of world reform--are not martyrs sacrificing their lives for
what seems to them the good of the community--but criminals, and in
many cases murderers.  You have there before you the definite proofs
that 80 per cent. of these men think only of one thing--the lining of
their own pockets, and to carry out that object they are prepared to
utterly destroy sound labour in this and every other country.  It's not
as difficult as it looks; it's not such a big proposition as it seems.
Cancer is a small growth compared to the full body of the victim it
kills: the cancer of one man's tongue will kill a crowd of a thousand.
We're a free country, Sir John; but the time is coming when freedom as
we understood it in the past will have to cease.  We can't go on as the
cesspit of Europe, sheltering microbes who infect us as soon as they
are here.  We want disinfecting: we want it badly.  And then we want
sound teaching, with the best representatives of the employers and the
best representatives of the employed as the teachers.  Otherwise you'll
get this."

With his finger he flicked a paper towards the Cabinet Minister.

"'To teach the children the ideal of Revolution--that should be the
primary aim of a Proletarian school.'

"Printed at Maybrick Hall," said Sir Bryan grimly.  "And listen to
this--a couple of the Ten Proletarian Maxims.

"'Thou shalt demand on behalf of your class the COMPLETE SURRENDER of
the CAPITALIST CLASS.'

"And another:

"'Thou shalt teach REVOLUTION, for revolution means the abolition of
the present political state, the end of Capitalism.'"

He gave a short laugh.

"That's what they're teaching the children.  Destruction: destruction:
destruction--and not a syllable devoted to construction.  What are they
going to put in its place?  They don't know--and they don't care--as
long as they get paid for the teaching."

Sir John Haverton nodded thoughtfully.

"I must go into all this in detail," he remarked.  "But in the meantime
you have raised my curiosity most infernally about this Black Gang of
yours.  I seem to remember some extraordinary manifesto in the
paper--something to do with that damned blackguard Latter, wasn't it?"

Sir Bryan leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

"There are one or two gaps I haven't filled in myself at the moment,"
he answered.  "But I can tell you very briefly what led us to our
discoveries at that house in Essex of which I spoke to you--Maybrick
Hall.  About six days ago I received a typewritten communication of a
similar type to one or two which I had seen before.  A certain defect
in the typewriter made it clear that the source was the same, and that
source was the leader of the Black Gang.  Here is the communication."

He opened a drawer in his desk, and passed a sheet of paper across to
the Cabinet Minister.

"If," it ran, "jolly old McIver will take his morning constitutional to
Maybrick Hall in Essex, he will find much to interest him in that
delightful and rural spot.  Many specimens, both dead and alive, will
be found there, all in a splendid state of preservation.  He will also
find a great many interesting devices in the house.  Above all, let him
be careful of an elderly clergyman of beneficent aspect, whose beauty
is only marred by a stiff and somewhat swollen neck, accompanied by a
charming lady who answers to the name of Janet.  They form the peerless
gems of the collection, and were on the point of leaving the country
with the enclosed packet which I removed from them for safe keeping.
My modesty forbids me to tell an unmarried man like you in what portion
of dear Janet's garments this little bag was found, but there's no harm
in your guessing."

"What the devil?" spluttered Sir John.  "Is it a practical joke?"

"Far from it," answered the other.  "Read to the end."

"After McIver has done this little job," Sir John read out, "he might
like a trip to the north.  There was an uninhabited island off the west
coast of Mull, which is uninhabited no longer.  He may have everything
he finds there, with my love.--The Leader of the Black Gang."

Sir John laid down the paper and stared at the Director of Criminal
Investigation.

"Is this the rambling of a partially diseased intellect?" he inquired
with mild sarcasm.

"Nothing of the sort," returned the other shortly.  "McIver and ten
plain-clothes men went immediately to Maybrick Hall.  And they found it
a very peculiar place.  There were some fifteen men there--trussed up
like so many fowls, and alive.  They were laid out in a row in the hall.

"Enthroned in state, in two chairs at the end, and also trussed hand
and foot, were the beneficent clergyman and Miss Janet.  So much for
the living ones, with the exception of an Italian, who was found
peacefully sleeping upstairs, with his right wrist padlocked to the
wall by a long chain.  I've mentioned him last, because he was destined
to play a very important part in the matter."  He frowned suddenly.  "A
very important part, confound him," he repeated.  "However, we will now
pass to the other specimens.  In the grounds were discovered--a dead
fowl, a dead fox, a dead hound the size of a calf--and three dead men."

Sir John ejaculated explosively, sitting up in his chair.

"They had all died from the same cause," continued the other
imperturbably, "electrocution.  But that was nothing compared to what
they found inside.  In an upstair room was a dreadful-looking specimen
more like an ape than a man, whose neck was broken.  In addition, the
main artery of his left arm had been severed with a knife.  And even
that was mild to what they found downstairs.  Supported against the
wall was a red-headed man stone dead.  A bayonet fixed to a rifle had
been driven clean through his chest, and stuck six inches into the wall
behind him.  And on that the body was supported."

"Good heavens!" said Sir John, aghast.  "Who had done it?"

"The leader of the Black Gang had done it all, fighting desperately for
his own life and that of his wife.  One of the men lashed up in the
hall turned King's Evidence and told us everything.  I'm not going to
weary you with the entire story, because you wouldn't believe it.  This
man had heard everything: had been present through it all.  He heard
how this leader--a man of gigantic strength--had thrown his wife over
the high live-wire fence, just as the hound was on top of them, and the
hound dashing after her had electrocuted itself.  He heard how the
girl, rushing blindly through the night in an unknown country, had
stumbled by luck on the local post office, and managed to get a
telephone call through to London, where she found the rest of the gang
assembled and waiting--their suspicions aroused over some message
received that evening from the Ritz.  Then she left the post office and
was wandering aimlessly along the road, when a car pulled up suddenly
in front of her.  Inside was a clergyman accompanied by another
man--neither of whom she recognized.  They offered her a lift, and the
next thing she knew was that she'd been trapped again, and was back at
Maybrick Hall.  So much this man heard: the rest he saw.  The leader of
the Black Gang and his wife were sentenced to death by the
clergyman....  Clergyman!"  Sir Bryan shook his fist in the air.  "I'd
give a year's screw to have laid my hands on that clergyman."

"He escaped?" cried the other.

"All in due course," said Sir Bryan.  "They were sentenced to death by
having their brains bashed out with the butt of a rifle--after which
they were to be thrown in the river.  It was to be made to appear an
accident.  And the man who was to do it was a Russian called
Yulowski--one of the men who butchered the Russian Royal family....  A
devil of the most inhuman description.  He literally had the rifle
raised to kill the girl, when the Black Gang, having cut the wire
fence, arrived in the nick of time.  And it was then that the leader of
that gang, who had thought he was on the point of seeing his wife's
brains dashed out, took advantage of the utter confusion and sprang on
the Russian with a roar of rage.  The man who told us stated that he
had never dreamed such a blow was possible as the rifle thrust which
pierced clean through the Russian.  It split him like a rotten cabbage,
and he died in three minutes."

"But, my dear fellow," spluttered the Cabinet Minister, "you can't
expect me to believe all this.  You're pulling my leg."

"Never further from it in my life, Haverton," said the other.  "I admit
it seems a bit over the odds, but every word I've told you is gospel.
To return to the discoveries.  McIver found that the house was the
headquarters of a vast criminal organization.  There were schemes of
the most fantastic description cut and dried in every detail.  Some of
them were stupid: some were not.  I have them all here.  This one"--he
glanced through some papers on his desk--"concerns the blowing of a
large gap in one of the retaining walls of the big reservoir at
Staines.  This one concerns a perfectly-thought-out plot on your life
when you go to Beauchamp Hall next week.  You were to be found dead in
your railway carriage."

"What!" roared Sir John, springing to his feet.

"It would very likely have failed," said Sir Bryan calmly, "but they
would have tried again.  They don't like you or your views at
all--these gentlemen.  But those are the least important.  From time
immemorial wild, fanatical youths have done similar things: the danger
was far greater and more subtle.  And perhaps the most dangerous
activity of all was what I have spoken about already--Maybrick Hall was
the headquarters of these poisonous Proletarian Sunday Schools.  But in
addition to that there was forgery going on there on a big scale: money
is necessary for their activities.  There were also long lists of their
agents in different parts of the country, and detailed instructions for
fomenting industrial unrest.  But you have it all there--you can read
it at your leisure for yourself.  Particularly I commend to your notice
the series of pamphlets on Ireland, and the methods suggested for
promoting discord between England and France, and England and America."

Sir Bryan lit a cigarette.

"To return to the personal side of it.  McIver, engrossed in his
search, paid very little attention to the row of mummies in the hall.
They certainly seemed extraordinarily safe, and one can hardly blame
him.  But the fact remains that, at some period during the morning, the
Italian, who, if you remember, was padlocked in a bedroom upstairs,
escaped.  How, I can't tell you: he must have had a key in his pocket.
They found the padlock open, and the room empty.  And going downstairs
they found the chairs recently occupied by the clergyman and Miss Janet
empty also.  Moreover from that moment no trace of any of them has been
found.  It is as if the earth had opened and swallowed them.  Which
brings us to the packet enclosed with the letter from the leader of the
Black Gang."

He crossed to a safe and took out the little chamois leather bag of
diamonds.

"Nice stones," he remarked quietly.  "Worth literally a King's ransom.
The pink one is part of the Russian crown jewels: the remainder
belonged to the Grand Duke Georgius, who was murdered by the
Bolshevists.  His son, who had these in his possession, died ten days
ago of an overdose of a sleeping-draught in Amsterdam.  At least that
is what I understood until I received these.  Now I am not so sure.  I
would go further, and say I am quite sure that even if he did die of an
overdose, it was administered by someone else.  And it was administered
by the beneficent clergyman calling himself the Reverend Theodosius
Longmoor--the most amazing international criminal of this or any other
age--the man who, with Miss Janet and the Italian, has vanished into
thin air, right under McIver's nose."

"And you mean to say that this man has been in England and you haven't
laid him by the heels?" said Sir John incredulously.

"Unfortunately that is what I mean," answered the other.  "The police
of four continents know about him, but that's a very different thing
from proof.  This time we had proof--these diamonds: and the man has
vanished--utterly and completely.  He is the master mind who controls
and directs, but very rarely actually does anything himself.  That's
why he's so devilishly difficult to catch.  But we'll do it sooner or
later."

The Cabinet Minister was once more studying the typewritten
communication from the leader of the Black Gang.

"It's the most astounding affair, this, Johnstone," he said at length.
"Most astounding.  And what's all this about the island off the coast
of Mull?"

Sir Bryan laughed.

"Not the least astounding part of the whole show, I assure you.  But
for you to understand it better I must go back two or three months, to
the time when we first became aware of the existence of the Black Gang.
A series of very strange disappearances were taking place: men were
being spirited away, without leaving a trace behind them.  Of course we
knew about it, but in view of the fact that our assistance was never
asked to find them, and still more in view of the fact that in every
case they were people whose room we preferred to their company, we lay
low and said nothing.

"From unofficial inquiries I had carried out we came to the conclusion
that this mysterious Black Gang was a reality, and that, further, it
was intimately connected with these disappearances.  But we also came
to the conclusion that the ideals and objects of this gang were in
every way desirable.  Such a thing, of course, could not be admitted
officially: the abduction of anyone is a criminal offence.  But we came
to the conclusion that the Black Gang was undoubtedly an extremely
powerful and ably led organization whose object was simply and solely
to fight the Red element in England.  The means they adopted were
undoubtedly illegal--but the results were excellent.  Whenever a man
appeared preaching Bolshevism, after a few days he simply disappeared.
In short, a reign of terror was established amongst the terrorists.
And it was to put that right, I have no doubt, that the Reverend
Theodosius Longmoor arrived in this country."

Sir Bryan thoughtfully lit another cigarette.

"To return to the island.  McIver went there, and after some little
difficulty located it, out of the twenty or thirty to which the
description might apply.  He found it far from uninhabited, just as
that letter says.  He found it occupied by some fifty or sixty rabid
anarchists--the gentlemen who had so mysteriously disappeared--who were
presided over by twenty large demobilized soldiers commanded by an
ex-sergeant-major of the Guards.  The sixty frenzied anarchists, he
gathered, were running a state on communist lines, as interpreted by
the ex-sergeant-major.  And the interpretation moved even McIver to
tears of laughter.  It appeared that once every three hours they were
all drawn up in a row, and the sergeant-major, with a voice like a
bull, would bellow:

"'Should the ruling classes have money?'

"Then they answered in unison--'No.'

"'Should anyone have money?'  Again they answered 'No.'

"'Should everyone work for the common good for love?'  'Yes.'

"Whereat he would roar: 'Well, in this 'ere island there ain't no
ruling classes, and there ain't no money, and there's dam' little love,
so go and plant more potatoes, you lop-eared sons of Beelzebub.'

"At which point the parade broke up in disorder."

Sir John was shaking helplessly.

"This is a jest, Johnstone.  You're joking."

"I'm not," answered the other.  "But I think you'll admit that the man
who started the whole show--the leader of the Black Gang--is a
humorist, to put it mildly, who cannot well be spared."

"My dear fellow, as I said before, the Cabinet is the only place for
him.  If only he'd export two or three of my colleagues to this island
and let 'em plant potatoes I'd take off my hat to him.  Tell me--do I
know him?"

Sir Bryan smiled.

"I'm not certain: you may.  But the point, Haverton, is this.  We must
take cognizance of the whole thing, if we acknowledge it at all.
Therefore shall we assume that everything I have been telling you is a
fairy story: that the Black Gang is non-existent--I may say that it
will be shortly--and that what has already appeared in the papers is
just a hoax by some irresponsible person?  Unless we do that there will
be a _cause clbre_ fought out on class prejudice--a most injudicious
thing at the present moment.  I may say that the island is shut down,
and the sixty pioneers have departed to other countries.  Also quite a
number of those agents whose names are on the list you have, have left
our shores during the past few days.  It is merely up to us to see that
they don't come back.  But nothing has come out in the papers: and I
don't want anything to come out either."

He paused suddenly, as a cheerful voice was heard in the office outside.

"Ah! here is one Captain Drummond, whom I asked to come round this
morning," he continued, with a faint smile.  "I wonder if you know him."

"Drummond?" repeated the other.  "Is he a vast fellow with an ugly
face?"

"That's the man," said Sir Bryan.

"I've seen him at his aunt's--old Lady Meltrose.  She says he's the
biggest fool in London."

Sir Bryan's smile grew more pronounced as the door opened and Hugh came
in.

"Morning, Tum-tum," he boomed genially.  "How's the liver and all that?"

"Morning, Hugh.  Do you know Sir John Haverton?"

"Morning, Sir John.  Jolly old Cabinet merry and bright?  Or did you
all go down on Purple Polly at Goodwood yesterday?"

Sir John rose a little grimly.

"We have other things to do besides backing horses, Captain Drummond.
I think we have met at Lady Meltrose's house, haven't we?"

"More than likely," said Hugh affably.  "I don't often dine there: she
ropes in such a ghastly crowd of bores, don't you know."

"I feel sure, Captain Drummond, that you're an admirable judge."  Sir
John turned to Sir Bryan Johnstone and held out his hand.  "Well, I
must be off.  Good-morning, Johnstone--and you've thoroughly roused my
curiosity.  I'd very much like to know who the gentleman is whom we've
been discussing.  And in the meantime I'll look through these papers
and let you know my decision in due course."

He bustled out of the office, and Hugh sank into a chair with a sigh of
relief.

"The old boy's clothes seem full of body this morning, Tum-tum," he
remarked as the door closed.  "Indigestion--or don't the elastic-sided
boots fit?"

"Do you know what we have been discussing, Hugh?" said the other
quietly.

"Not an earthly, old man.  Was it that new one about the girl in the
grocer's shop?"

"We've been discussing the leader of the Black Gang," said Sir Bryan,
with his eyes fixed on the man sprawling in the chair opposite.

Not by the twitch of a muscle did Drummond's face change: he seemed
engrossed in the task of selecting a cigarette.

"You've been in Deauville, haven't you, Hugh--the last few days?"

"Quite right, old man.  All among the fairies."

"You don't know that a burglary has taken place at your house in
London?"

"A burglary!"  Drummond sat up with a jerk.  "Why the deuce hasn't
Denny told me?"

"A very small one," said Sir Bryan, "committed by myself, and perhaps
he doesn't know.  I took--your typewriter."

For a few moments Hugh Drummond stared at him in silence: then his lips
began to twitch.

"I see," he said at length.  "I meant to have that defective 's'
repaired."

"You took me in, old boy," continued Sir Bryan, "utterly and
absolutely.  If it hadn't been for one of the men at Maybrick Hall
turning King's evidence, I don't believe I should have found out now."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked Drummond after a pause.

"Nothing.  I was discussing the matter with Sir John this morning, and
we both agreed that you either deserved penal servitude or a seat in
the Cabinet.  And since neither course commends itself to us, we have
decided to do nothing.  There are reasons, which you will appreciate,
against any publicity at the moment.  But, Hugh, the Black Gang must
cease."

Drummond nodded.

"Carried, _nem. con._, Tum-tum.  It shall automatically dissolve
to-day."

"And further," continued Sir Bryan, "will you relieve my curiosity and
tell me what sent Charles Latter mad?"

"I did," said Drummond grimly, "as I told that ass McIver over a
cocktail at the Regency.  He was plotting to blow up three thousand
men's employment, Tum-tum, with gun-cotton.  It was at his instigation
that four men were killed in Manchester as the result of another
outrage.  So I lashed him to his bed, and underneath him I put what he
thought was a slab of gun-cotton with fuse attached.  It wasn't
gun-cotton: it was wood.  And he went mad."  He paused for a moment,
and then continued.  "Now one for you.  Why did you let Carl Peterson
escape?  I nearly killed him that night, after I'd bayoneted the
Russian."

"How did you know he had escaped?" demanded Sir Bryan.

Hugh felt in his pocket and produced a note.  "Read it," he said,
passing it across the desk.

"It was a pity you forgot that there might be another key to the
padlock, Captain Drummond," it ran.  "And Giuseppi is an old friend of
mine.  I quite enjoyed our single."

Sir Bryan returned the note without a word, and Drummond replaced it in
his pocket.

"That's twice," he said quietly, and suddenly the Director of Criminal
Investigation, than whom no shrewder judge of men lived, saw and
understood the real Drummond below the surface of inanity--the real
Drummond, cool, resourceful, and inflexible of will--the real Drummond
who was capable of organizing and carrying through anything and
everything once he had set his mind to it.

"That's twice," he repeated, still in the same quiet tone.  "Next
time--I win."

"But no more Black Gang, Hugh," said the other warningly.

Drummond waved a huge hand.  "I have spoken, Tum-tum.  A rose by any
other name, perhaps--but no more Black Gang."

He rose and grinned at his friend.

"It's deuced good of you, old man, and all that..."

The eyes of the two men met.

"If it was found out, I should be looking for another job," remarked
Sir Bryan dryly.  "And perhaps I should not get the two thousand pounds
which I understand the widow of the late lamented Ginger Martin has
received anonymously."

"Shut up," said Drummond awkwardly.

"Delighted, old man," returned the other.  "But the police in that
district are demanding a rise of pay.  She has been drunk and
disorderly five times in the last week."

      *      *      *      *      *

To those strong-minded individuals who habitually read the entrancing
chit-chat of Mrs. Tattle in _The Daily Observer_, there appeared the
following morning a delightful description of the last big fancy-dress
ball of the season held at the Albert Hall the preceding night.  Much
of it may be passed over as unworthy of perpetuation, but the
concluding paragraph had its points of interest.

"Half way through the evening," she wrote in her breezy way, "just as I
was consuming an ice in one hand with the Duchess of Sussex, and
nibbling the last of the asparagus in the other with the Princess of
Montevideo, tastefully disguised as an umbrella stand, we were treated
to the thrill of the evening.  It seemed as if suddenly there sprang up
all round the room a mass of mysterious figures clothed from head to
foot in black.  The dear Princess grew quite hysterical, and began to
wonder if it was a 'hold up' as she so graphically described it.  In
fact, for safety, she secreted the glass-headed parasol--the only
remaining heirloom of the Royal House--and which formed a prominent
part of her costume, behind a neighbouring palm.  Whispers of the
mysterious Black Gang were heard on all sides, but we were soon
reassured.  Belovd'st, they all carried champagne bottles!  Wasn't it
too, too thrilling!!  And after a while they all formed up in a row,
and at a word from the leader--a huge man, my dears, puffectly
'uge--they discharged the corks in a volley at one of the boxes, which
sheltered no less than two celebrities--Sir Bryan Johnstone, the chief
of all the policemen, and Sir John Haverton, the Home Secretary.  It is
rumoured that one of the corks became embedded in Sir John's right
eye--but rumour is a lying jade, is not she?  Anyway loud sounds of
revelry and mirth were heard proceeding from the box, and going a
little later to powder my nose I distinctly saw Sir John being taught
the intricacies of the fox-trot by the huge man in the passage.
Presumably the cork had by then been removed from his eye, but one
never knows, does one?  Anything can happen at an Albert Hall ball,
especially at the end of the season."






[End of The Black Gang, by Sapper]
