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Title: Bulldog Drummond at Bay
Author: Sapper [McNeile, Herman Cyril] (1888-1937)
Date of first publication: 1935
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Hodder and Stoughton, January 1935
   (first edition)
Date first posted: 26 November 2009
Date last updated: 26 November 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #422

This ebook was produced by: Al Haines




BULLDOG DRUMMOND

AT BAY


BY

SAPPER





HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LONDON ---- MCMXXXV




_The characters in this book are entirely imaginary,
  and have no relation to any living person_



_First printed, January, 1935_



_Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton Limited,
  by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham_




  BOOKS BY

  "SAPPER"

  Bull-Dog Drummond
  The Black Gang
  The Third Round
  The Final Count
  Temple Tower
  The Female of the Species
  The Return of Bull-Dog Drummond
  Bull-Dog Drummond at Bay
  Knock-Out
  Ronald Standish
  When Carruthers Laughed
  The Island of Terror
  Tiny Cartaret
  The Finger of Fate
  The Saving Clause
  Jim Maitland
  The Dinner Club
  The Man in Ratcatcher
  Out of the Blue
  Word of Honour
  John Walters
  Shorty Bill
  Jim Brent


  HODDER AND STOUGHTON LTD., LONDON




CHAPTER I

The mist was low-lying.  Above it the tops of the telegraph poles stuck
out into the starlit night, marking the line of the road which wound
over the desolate fen country.  A few isolated houses stood like
scattered islands in a sea of white cloud--houses in which the lights
had long been extinguished, for it was nearing midnight, and the marsh
folk do not sit up late.

One house only proved the exception.  In size and shape it was just as
the others--a typical fenman's cottage.  But from one side of it a
diffused white glow shone faintly towards the line of telegraph posts.
Above the mist the top room showed black and clear-cut.  No light came
from that window: the illumination came from the sitting-room below.

In it was seated a very large young man.  Between his knees he held a
gun, whilst on the table in front of him lay the usual cleaning
materials, flanked on the left by a large hunk of bread and cheese, and
on the right by a tankard of ale.  Behind him, on the hearth-rug, a
spaniel lay curled up asleep.  In front of him, and close to the door
which communicated with the kitchen, a bulldog in a basket snored
majestically: also in front of him, and close to the door which led
into the diminutive hall, a wire-haired terrier hunted ecstatically in
his dreams.

The blind was up: the window, regardless of the mist which drifted
sluggishly in, was open top and bottom.  On the table a lamp was
burning, and by its light the contents of the room stood revealed.  And
when those contents were compared with the living occupant the result
was somewhat incongruous.

Over the mantelpiece hung several illuminated texts.  They were of a
depressing character, which a tasteful colour scheme of yellow beads
round red letters was powerless to mitigate.  Even a wedding group of
the early 'sixties, which filled the place of honour in the centre,
seemed unable to give that snap to the wall which the proud owner had
doubtless intended.  And the rest of the room was in keeping.  A
horsehair sofa covered with a red counterpane in which were sewn large,
round pieces of coloured glass, adorned one wall: a table, complete
with cloth to match the counterpane, and a stuffed weasel under a glass
dome, adorned another.  And in the window, on a small three-legged
stool, reposed a Bible of colossal dimensions.

To the expert the solution was obvious on the spot.  This was the
parlour; that mysterious, unused room which is found in every similar
house; that room, which, when the door is suddenly opened on the unwary
visitor, exudes a strange and musty smell strongly reminiscent of a not
too recent death behind the wainscot: that room which is utterly wasted
on the altar of lower class respectability.

On the night when the mist was drifting just ceiling high the room was
proving false to its traditions.  Gone was the stale smell of ancient
bones: even "Prepare to meet thy God" hung at a more rakish angle.  The
first was due to the open window: the second to the fact that a
disreputable cap was slung on one end of the text.  But the effect was
all to the good.  And since the large young man who at the moment was
engaged in filling his pipe was presumably responsible for both acts of
vandalism, it might be well to turn from the room to its occupant.

His clothes were quite incredibly ancient.  Grey flannel trousers: a
sweater that had once been white, and an old shooting-coat padded with
leather over the shoulders comprised the outer layer.  Underneath, grey
socks and brown brogues, with a shirt that was open at the neck
completed the picture, whilst a collar, made of the same material as
the shirt, had been flung carelessly into the coal-scuttle with a tie
inside it.

After a while he rose and stretched himself, and it was not until he
stood up that it was possible to realise how very large he was.  He
stood at least six feet in height, and being broad in proportion he
seemed almost to fill the room.  Only the spaniel noticed his movement
and opened one liquid brown eye--an eye which followed him as he
sauntered over to the window and peered out.  Then he returned to the
table and, picking up his empty tankard, he made his way past the
snorer to the kitchen.  A final pint was indicated before turning in.

It was while he was drawing it that the terrier gave a sudden, sharp,
staccato bark, and the large young man returned to the parlour to find
that the kennels were awake.  The spaniel was sitting up contemplating
the window; the bulldog, though still breathing hard, had emerged from
his basket, whilst the terrier was following up his one bark with a
steady stream of bad language under his breath.

"What is it, fellers?" said the large young man genially.  "Does some
varlet approach our domain?"

Holding his beer in his hand he again went to the window.

"Shut up, Jock, you ass!" he cried.  "How can I hear anything if you're
making that damn fool noise?"

The terrier made a valiant effort which was partially successful; and
then the strain proved too great.  And this time his master heard it
too.  From somewhere, not very far away, there came a muffled shout,
and Jock proclaimed the fact in no uncertain voice--no just reason, he
reflected, for being temporarily winded with a shooting-boot.

The large young man stood motionless, listening intently.  The sound
was not repeated, but it seemed to him that it had not been so much a
cry for help as a call from one man to another indicating that he had
found something.  But who could be looking for anything at midnight in
the fens, with a ground mist lying thick?

The shout had come, so far as he could judge, from the road which
passed his own front gate ten yards away.  And he was on the point of
strolling down the little garden path to investigate further, when a
development occurred which was so completely unexpected that for a few
moments he could only stare foolishly round the room; whilst even Jock,
by this time recovered, forgot to bark.  There came a crash of breaking
glass, followed by a further crash of still more breaking glass, and
the stuffed weasel subsided with a thud on to the carpet.

The large young man had been getting his cap when it happened,
otherwise the stone which he now perceived was the cause of the outrage
would have spared the weasel and taken him in the pit of the stomach.
For the first crash of breaking glass had been the window, which,
having been open top and bottom, now had both upper and lower panes
smashed.  Thence the missile, missing the lamp by a few inches, had
smitten the glass dome of the weasel hip and thigh, and ricochetting
off the wall had finished up by the bulldog's basket.

"Hi!" shouted the large young man, when he had recovered himself, "what
the devil do you think you're doing?"

His momentary amazement had given way to anger: someone had
deliberately thrown a stone through the window from the road, and it
did not strike him as being in the slightest degree funny.  Some tramp
presumably, or a belated drunk: in any case, whoever it turned out to
be, he was going to be thanked in suitable terms in the near future.
Indubitably the large young man was not amused.

"Heel!  The lot of you."

He strode down the garden path, and flinging open the little gate
stepped into the road.

"Where's the lousy swine who bunged that brick through my window?" he
called out.

There was no answer, and for a moment or two he stood undecided, with
the dogs at his heels.  He could hear no sound save the cry of a
distant night bird, and gradually the difficulty of the position came
home to him.  The mist, if anything, was thicker; he could see the
light from the room he had just left like a dull yellow square in the
surrounding whiteness.  But the trouble was he had no means of telling
which way the stone-thrower had gone after he had done the deed.  The
fog had swallowed him up completely.

Again he listened intently, and, as he stood there motionless,
subconsciously he became aware of the strange silence of the three
dogs.  He glanced down at them: in the dim light he could see their
heads close together over something in the road.  He spoke to them and
they looked up at him.  Between them, in the dust, was a dark patch.

The large young man lit a match and bent down to examine it.  And after
a while he gave a low whistle.  For the patch was still wet, and it was
red--that unmistakable red which can only be one thing.  It was blood,
and why should a tramp or a belated drunk be bleeding?

He straightened up and lit a cigarette: the mystery was becoming
stranger and stranger.  That the blood was recent was obvious,
otherwise it would have dried in the dust.  And it therefore seemed
fairly conclusive to him that it had come from the man who had thrown
the stone.  But why should an injured man, who was so badly hurt that
he was bleeding, do what he had done?  Why hadn't he come up to the
cottage and asked for help?

Suddenly Jock began to growl under his breath, though his master could
hear nothing suspicious.  Until, a few moments later, he heard very
faintly in the distance the unmistakable hum of an engine.  A motor-car
was coming along the road, and the driver had evidently got into a low
gear.

The large young man hesitated; then, with a quick order to his dogs, he
stepped back on to the garden path, and, closing the gate, he stood
leaning over it.  He felt instinctively that this car, nosing its way
through the fog, was connected in some way with the unknown
stone-thrower who had come out of the night and disappeared into it
again, leaving only the ominous red patch to mark his passing.

Gradually the noise of the car grew louder, until with unexpected
suddenness two headlights loomed up out of the mist.  They came abreast
the gate, and then they halted; the driver had stopped the car.  Voices
sounded over the noise of the engine; then one of the doors opened and
shut, and footsteps approached the gate.

The man who had got out had his hand actually on the latch, when the
glow of a cigarette within a few inches of his face caused him to start
violently.

"Good evening," said the large young man pleasantly.  "Can I be of any
assistance?"

He drew hard at his cigarette, and in the glow he got a quick glimpse
of the new-comer.  The man wore no hat, and his hair was cropped short,
whilst his features had that square cut, Teutonic look which branded
him at once as a German, even without the muttered "Gott in Himmel"
that he ejaculated under his breath at the shock of finding the gate
occupied.

"Have you seen a man?" he began, when once again a door in the car
opened and shut, and further footsteps approached the gate.  But this
time the visitor carried an electric torch which he flashed on to the
large young man's face.  From there it travelled downwards, pausing for
a moment on oil-stained hands, and finishing up with the incredibly
dirty trousers.

"Have you been here long, my man?" said the new arrival curtly, and in
the darkness the large young man smiled.  Evidently by his clothes he
had been judged.

"Nigh on thirty year coom next cherry-picking," he answered, hoping
fervently that his attempt at dialect would pass muster.  What dialect
it was supposed to be he had no idea, but to his profound relief it
seemed to go down.

"I don't mean that," snapped the other.  "Have you been standing by
this gate for long?"

He turned and gave a rapid order to the German beside him, who
disappeared back into the car, and the engine stopped.

"Maybe five minutes--maybe more," said the large young man.  "Why do
'ee ask?"

"Have you seen a man come along the road?"

"Old Gaffer Sheepshank, he coom along round about seven.  He wor drunk."

The other swore under his breath.

"Just recently, I mean.  Within the last few minutes."

"Noa.  I ain't seen no one.  What sort of a man do 'ee mean?"

But a sudden exclamation from the road interrupted their conversation.

"Emil," called out a harsh voice, "come here at once!  Bring your
torch."

The large young man thoughtfully ground out with his heel the cigarette
he was smoking, and wondered what was going to happen next.  For the
gentleman who had called for Emil was now examining with keen interest
the patch of blood that had happened to show up clearly in the
headlights of the car.  And then, after a few moments' earnest
conversation, Emil returned to the gate.

"Now, look here, my man," he said quietly, "I take it this is your
cottage."

"'Tis my fayther's."

"Is your father here?"

"Not to-night.  He be in Norwich."

"So you're all alone in the house?"

"That's right, mister."

"Are you quite sure?"  A sinister note had crept into the speaker's
voice.

"Course I'm sure.  Do 'ee think I'm daft?"

The torch flashed on again, and by its light the large young man saw
that he was covered by a revolver.

"Get indoors," snapped the other.  "And get a move on, I'm in a hurry.
Now," he continued, when they were both standing in the parlour, "what
have you done with the man who came along this road a few minutes ago?"

"I tell 'ee I ain't seen no man," was the stubborn answer.  "And I
reckons you'd better put that there toy away or it might go off.  A
pretty thing this--in a man's own house."

The large young man sat down in an arm-chair by the hearth-rug
ostensibly to pat the spaniel, but in reality to smuggle his Free
Forester tie from the coal-scuttle into his trousers pocket.  This man
Emil defeated him.  His English was perfect, without the suspicion of
an accent: to look at he might have been an Englishman.  And yet there
was something intangible about him that placed him as a foreigner.  His
clothes were faultless--perhaps a shade too faultless for the country.
And on one finger of his left hand he wore a ring with a peculiar blue
stone in it.

The tie smuggled successfully into his pocket the young man rose, the
picture of aggrieved, bucolic indignation.

"Look 'ee 'ere, mister," he said angrily, "I'm tired of thy fooling.
Search the house if it gives thee any satisfaction, and then get thee
gone.  I'm fair sick of the sight of thy ugly fiz, and if I knew who it
was I'd have the law on 'ee to-morrow."

But the man called Emil took no notice.  His revolver had dropped to
his side: his gaze was riveted on the broken window.

"When did that happen?" he said slowly.

"What the 'ell's that to do with thee?"

"Silence, you fool!"

His glance wandered to the broken cover of the stuffed weasel, and
finally rested on the stone itself, which he bent down and picked up.
Then, balancing it in his hand, he fixed the large young man with a
pair of dark, penetrating eyes.

"When did this happen?" he repeated softly.

"What's that to do with thee?"

"Who threw this stone through the window?"

"Danged if I knows, mister."

"How long ago did it happen?"

For the fraction of a second the young man hesitated: then he made up
his mind he would tell the truth.  It seemed to him that by doing so he
stood a better chance of getting some light thrown on a mystery that
was growing more incomprehensible every minute.

"Nigh about ten minutes," he said.  "T'wor that that took me down to
gate."

"So."  The other's eyes bored into him.  "So.  And you did not see the
man who threw the stone?"

"Noa."

"Did he call out to you?  Speak to you?"

"Noa."

"What did you do after it happened?"

"Got cap and went to gate with pups."

"And you saw no sign of him?"

"Noa."

The man called Emil crossed to the window and shouted, and his
companion who had discovered the blood in the road joined him at once.
They stood conversing in low voices in a tongue which the large young
man recognised as German.  One or two stray phrases came to his ear:
"_dummer bauer_" (imbecile peasant) ... "_zeit vergendung_" (waste of
time); remarks which he had no difficulty in interpreting.  Up to date,
at any rate, it was clear that he had bluffed them into thinking he was
a local product.  But what infuriated him was that he was still as far
off as ever from discovering what all the excitement was about.  And
then suddenly he caught another sentence: "_sich versicheren_" (better
make sure).

Better make sure.  Sure of what?  He was not left long in doubt.  The
second man vaulted through the open window and vanished upstairs.  His
steps could be heard going into each room above: then he came down
again and went into the kitchen.

"_Nichts_" (nothing), he said, reappearing.  "Search him," ordered his
leader, and the large young man recoiled a pace.

"'Ere--wot do 'ee think 'ee be a'doing of?" he cried, only to find the
revolver pointing unwaveringly at his heart.

"Put your hands above your head!"

The order was curt, and, after a pause, the large young man obeyed.
Not that there was anything incriminating in his pockets, except that
confounded Free Forester tie, and his pulse beat a trifle faster when
he saw it extracted and thrown on the table.  Worse still, it fell in
such a position that the name of the shop where it had been bought lay
uppermost for all to see, and Norfolk yokels rarely buy their neckwear
from Mr. Black, of Jermyn Street.  But his luck held; neither man paid
any attention to it whatever.  Evidently they were looking for
something else, and the question which began to hammer at his brain,
even before he was allowed to put his hands down, was--what?  Assuming
that he was a labourer, as they undoubtedly did, what under the sun
could they expect to find in his pockets which could possibly prove of
the slightest interest to them?

At last the searcher was satisfied, and once again the two men held an
earnest conversation.  But this time their voices were so low that the
listener could hear nothing.  Evidently the man who had searched him
was urging Emil to do something, and Emit was doubtful.  At length,
however, he seemed convinced, and having nodded his head two or three
times, his companion returned to the car and re-started the engine,
leaving Emil and the large young man alone.

"Can you keep your mouth shut, my man?"

The rustle of notes came pleasantly to the ear.

"If so be, mister, that folks make it worth my while."

"A lunatic has escaped from a private asylum," said Emil, "and he is
the poor fellow who threw the stone through your window.  We are trying
to find him, but we do not wish it talked about.  Here are two pounds
which will pay for mending the glass."

He placed the notes on the table, and the large young man eyed them
greedily.

"In a day or two," continued the other, "I shall be returning this way,
and I shall make a point of calling in at the pub.  And if I find that
no one knows anything about this there will be three more to mend the
cover of the stuffed animal.  But if I find that people do know, why
then--God help you!"

He said the last three words very softly, and the large young man
stared at him thoughtfully.  For the moment he had forgotten his role
of bucolic yokel; he was only conscious that opposite him was standing
a very dangerous customer.  And as his eyes fell on that tell-tale tie
lying on the table he became conscious also of a profound feeling of
relief that his _vis--vis'_ cricketing education had been neglected.

"You understand what I say?"

"Aye, mister.  I'll say nowt."

With a nod the man called Emil left the room and strode down the garden
path.  And it was not until the sound of the engine was getting faint
in the distance that the large young man stretched himself and lit
another cigarette.

"What the devil does it all mean, Jerry?" he said, apostrophising the
bulldog.  "Why does Mr. Emil tell me such a fatuous lie, even if he
does think I'm a half-wit?  Why do people throw bricks through the
window, and leave pools of blood in the road?  Presumably there is some
reason, but for the life of me I can't see what it is at the moment."

He glanced at his watch: it was nearly one o'clock, and he gave a
prodigious yawn.

"To-morrow we will battle with the enigma," he announced.  "To-morrow
father will bring the grey matter to bear on what is at present
shrouded in impenetrable gloom.  To-night--bed."

And even as he spoke, sharp and clear through the stillness there came
the sound of one solitary shot.

The dogs stirred; the large young man stiffened abruptly.  The noise
had come from the direction in which the car had gone, and he waited
tensely.  Silence: the sound was not repeated.  But there had been no
mistaking what it was.  Someone had fired a revolver.

"Stay where you are, boys!"

The front door banged behind him, and the dogs, after one wistful look,
relapsed once more into slumber, as their master, running with the easy
stride of a born athlete, followed the car.  The mist was still heavy,
but as he got farther from the cottage, clear pockets began to appear
from time to time.  And it was as he was passing through one of these,
that he heard in front of him the thrumming of an engine.  He had
caught up with the car.

He halted abruptly; then, getting on to the grass verge, he crept
forward cautiously.  The noise of the engine grew louder; he could hear
voices ahead.  And then suddenly, looming out of the fog which had
again closed down on the road, he saw the red tail light of the car.

Inch by inch he moved towards it, fearful that at any moment a sudden
eddy of breeze might clear the mist away and show him up.  But he need
not have worried: he had arrived at the end of the entertainment.  He
was still two or three yards from the back of the car when the driver
let in his gear, the red light disappeared into the fog, and half a
minute later all was silent again.

The large young man stepped out into the road and moved a few paces
forward.  What had they found in that particular spot to fire at?  Was
it the man they were looking for--the man who had presumably thrown the
stone through the window?  And even as he asked himself the question
there came the ominous answer.  No small patch this time, but a great
dark pool stained the road at his feet.  Blood again, and he grunted
savagely.

"The poor devil must have damned near bled to death," he muttered under
his breath.

With the help of a box of matches he searched the surrounding ground,
but he could find nothing.  At one point the grass seemed a little
beaten down, but whether that had been done by the man in the car or by
somebody else earlier in the day it was impossible to tell.  And at
last he gave it up and started back to the cottage.

He walked slowly, his hands in his pockets.  Try as he would, he could
get no possible solution that fitted.  There always seemed to be
something that refused to come into line.  If, as appeared obvious, a
wounded man was being pursued by the occupants of the car--a wounded
man, moreover, who was capable of throwing a stone with considerable
force, and after doing so of walking or crawling over a quarter of a
mile--why had he not come to the cottage?  Answer--because he guessed
the cottage would be searched.  Then why throw the stone?  What good
could it possibly do?

He opened the gate and turned up the path, vainly racking his brains
for a solution.  The dogs stirred lazily, and for a while he stood in
the door staring round the room.  And then his eyes narrowed.  The
things on the table had been moved.  The oil bottle and rag were not in
the same position; the gun itself was not where he had left it.

Quietly he walked across, and sitting down in the chair he opened the
drawer of the table.  And there he found proof positive; some papers
which had been in front were now pushed to one side.  Someone had been
in the room in the last quarter of an hour.  The two notes still
remained on the cloth: it was clearly not the work of a tramp or a
passing thief.  So there was no doubt left in his mind as to whom it
was the work of.  Somebody had been left behind when the car drove away
with instructions to watch the cottage, and he had seized the
opportunity of the owner's absence to search it.  The point was whether
he was still there.

The large young man's eyes strayed towards the kitchen door: it was as
he had left it.  Unlikely, he reflected, that the man would be in the
house, but he decided to make sure.  He sauntered across and flung the
door open; the room beyond was empty.  Presumably therefore, if his
visitor was there at all he was outside, hiding somewhere in the little
garden.

There the dogs would come in.  Only too well did their master know the
unfailing courtesy with which they all three welcomed strangers inside
the house: in all probability they had sat round the man as he searched
hoping for biscuits.  Outside it would be a very different matter.

"Jock!  Jerry!"

He opened the front door, the terrier and the bulldog beside him.

"See him off!  Good dogs!  See him off!"

And then things happened quickly.  Like a streak of lightning the
terrier shot across a flower bed, barking furiously; his grunting
companion at his heels.  Came a commotion in some shrubs, and a yell of
terror followed by ominous tearing sounds.  Then footsteps going at
speed up the road, urged on evidently by Jock.

Not so Jerry.  Not for him such violent exercise at these ungodly
hours: besides, his part of the performance was over.  Snorting
dispassionately, he waddled into sight, and deposited at his master's
feet the spoils of war.  Then he returned to his basket, whilst the
large young man examined the catch.

"First blood to us, Jerry," he remarked approvingly.  "The seat of his
pants, or I'm a Dutchman.  That'll larn the blighter.  For all that, I
wish to Heaven I could think why we are thus honoured."

He gave another vast yawn, and went over to the window; whatever the
solution of the mystery might prove to be, there was nothing more to be
done that night.  The cottage did not boast of a telephone, and the
nearest police station was five miles away.  And since his car was
being repaired in Sheringham, and would not be back till the following
morning, there was no possible method of getting there except by
walking, the mere thought of which caused him to break into a cold
sweat.

Jock had returned, and his master pulled down the lower sash of the
window.  Broken glass fell on the floor, though most of it still
remained between the two panes--large, jagged pieces, wickedly
dangerous for dog's paws.  So he raised the top sash carefully, and
even as he put out one hand to catch the rest, he saw it.  In between
the fragments lay a piece of crumpled paper.

For a moment or two its significance did not strike him, and he carried
the handful of glass over to the table.  Then he extracted the paper
and looked at it.  In the centre was a frayed hole, and there were two
or three crimson smears near it.  But it was the scrawled words that
riveted his attention.


  _Mary Jane.  Urgent.  G G Pont.  A5._


He had the greatest difficulty in making out the words, which had been
written with a blunt pencil.  And when he had deciphered them, they did
not seem to convey much.  But, as he began to reason things out, the
piece of paper conveyed a great deal.  Things, at last, were becoming
clearer, and with increased lucidity came increased caution.  The mist
had lifted; the road was deserted, but the large young man went to the
window and pulled down the blind.  So this piece of paper was what his
visitors had been looking for.  The writer must have wrapped it round
the stone, and thrown it through the window.  And the glass cutting it,
had left the stone free to go on, whilst the wrapping had remained
between the two panes--the one place where no one had thought of
searching.

Thoughtfully he folded the paper up and put it in his pocket.  And had
the man called Emil seen Hugh Drummond's expression as he blew out the
lamp, it might have caused him food for thought.




CHAPTER II

It has been stated somewhere that men can be divided into two
classes--those who can and those who can not stop a dog fight.  With
equal justification the classification might be, those who look for
trouble and those who do not.  So that it was a trifle unfortunate for
the nocturnal motorists that by no possible stretch of imagination
could the recipient of the brick be placed in the second category.

Hugh Drummond had come to his old nurse's cottage, during her temporary
absence, for a few days duck-shooting, but with the arrival of that
cryptic message out of the fog all ideas of that innocent pastime had
at once left his head.  And when he awoke the next morning to find the
sun pouring through the window of his bedroom he was still of the same
way of thinking.

That he ought, as a right-minded citizen, to take the message and story
to the police was obvious.  The trouble was that he did not feel in the
least degree like doing so.  A hard-worked body of men: it struck him
that it would be a crime to overburden them still more.  Besides, he
felt that the reception of his story by the local constable would
probably leave much to be desired.  But for the broken windows of the
parlour he himself could almost have believed the whole thing to have
been a nightmare.  What then was the reaction of the village guardian
of the peace going to be?

A cheerful rat-tat on the door announced the arrival of the post and
Drummond put his head out of the window.

"Morning, Joe.  Anything for me?"

"No, sir," said the postman.  "Two for Mrs. Eskdale.  Be she coming
back this morning?"

"She is, Joe."

The postman's glance strayed to the parlour window.

"Good Lord, sir! what have 'ee been doing here?"

"Got angry with it and bit it, Joe," answered the other with a grin.
"Chuck the letters through the bottom hole into the parlour."

The postman did as he was asked, still clearly intrigued beyond measure
at the broken glass.

"It was all right yesterday evening, sir," he remarked.

"Indigestion in the middle of the night, Joe: eating glass is the best
thing in the world for it."

"Strikes me a motor-car had indigestion up the road there, too: I never
did see such a pool of oil.  Ten times the size of that there one
outside your gate."

"What's that, Joe?"

Hugh Drummond, who had slipped on a shirt and a pair of flannel
trousers, appeared at the door.

"Oil outside the gate?  Let's go and have a look at it."

The dew was still heavy on the grass as the two men strolled down the
path, with the dogs behind them.

"B'ain't nothing to pool up further," repeated the postman.  "There it
be."

"So I see," said the other thoughtfully.  "Yes--that's oil right
enough."

"Darned near skidded in other patch, I did."  The postman prepared to
mount his bicycle.  "Dratted stinking machines, I calls 'em.  Well,
good morning, sir."

"Morning, Joe."

For a moment or two it was on the tip of his tongue to ask this
reservoir of local gossip if any strangers had been seen in the
neighbourhood, but he refrained.  If they had, he reflected, Joe would
have passed it on by now; and if they had not it would only whet still
more that worthy's insatiable curiosity, already strained to bursting
point by the broken window.

He watched the postman cycle away; then he again looked at the pool of
oil.  Nothing very interesting about it, except one thing.  It exactly
covered and obliterated the pool of blood which had been there a few
hours previously.

"Interesting," he muttered to himself.  "Very interesting.  One wonders
excessively."

He whistled the dogs to follow him and started up the road.  He did not
wonder at all: he knew what he was going to find, but it was better to
make certain.  And sure enough he had only gone a bare quarter of a
mile when he saw a large dark patch in the dust in front of him.  There
was no mistake about it: beside it was the beaten-down bit of the
verge.  This was the place where he had overtaken the car.

For a while he stood there smoking thoughtfully.  This oil had not been
put down at the time--that he was prepared to swear.  Therefore someone
had been sent back during the night to do it.  A clumsy way of covering
their tracks: oil does not generally flow from a motor-car quite so
prolifically.  Besides, this was new oil, and not old stuff from the
sump.  At the same time it was difficult to see what better method
could have been thought of on the spur of the moment.  And one thing it
proved conclusively: Mr. Emil and Co. were desperately anxious to blush
unseen.

He strolled back to the cottage, where a loud hissing noise in the
kitchen announced that the kettle was boiling, and made himself some
tea.  As a cook he did not excel, but having raided the local hen he
was proceeding to boil the fruit of her labours, when a knock on the
front door and a chorus from the dogs proclaimed a visitor.

"Come in," shouted Drummond.  "I shan't be long."

"Will the bulldog bite?" asked a very delightful feminine voice.

The chef paused in his work.  Who the deuce could this be?

"Jerry--come here, you blighter!" he cried as he went to the front
door.  "How dare you..."

He paused again.  Confronting him was a charming-looking girl of about
twenty-five.  What she was dressed in his masculine eye somewhat
naturally failed to notice, except that it seemed the goods.  Also it
most certainly was not the raiment one would expect to see at that hour
of the morning in the middle of the fen country.

"Forgive me," he murmured, "I was expecting a dear old lady whose
dimensions are somewhat similar to those of a steam-roller, and your
sudden appearance rather shook me.  Won't you come in?"

The girl stared at him in silence for a moment or two, and it seemed to
him that a look of surprise flashed across her face.

"My car has broken down," she said at length.  "It is just a few yards
up the road.  I wondered if you had a telephone here, so that I could
ring up a garage."

"I'm afraid that's beyond me," he confessed.  "The telephone is a _rara
avis_ in these parts.  But perhaps I might be able to help, and if I
can't my own car is being brought here shortly by a bloke from a
garage.  He'll do the necessary if it defeats me.  Let's go and have a
look."

"So you have a car, have you?" she said.  "I should have thought that
was even more of a _rara avis_ round here than a telephone."

They were strolling along the road towards a small two-seater, which,
with its back towards them, was standing motionless a couple of hundred
yards away.

"Amongst the inhabitants, you're right," he agreed.  "I am only a
visitor."

"Are you in that little cottage all by yourself?"

"Until Nanny comes back," he said with a grin.  "She is the
steam-roller I told you I was expecting."

She stared at him with a slightly puzzled frown.

"I don't quite understand," she said.  "Where do you live usually?"

"In London--where, I trust, I shall have the pleasure of renewing your
acquaintance."

"But why on earth do you come to a place like this?"

"For excitement," he told her, "when London gets too dull.  One would
never find anyone like you on the doorstep along with the morning milk
in the old metropolis."

But her frown was still there, though she smiled faintly.

"You're rather an extraordinary individual," she remarked.  "Have you
been here long?"

"Two days," he answered.  "Now let's have a look at the bus."

He opened the bonnet, and even as he did so he heard a little gasp.  He
glanced up: the girl, with her eyes closed, was holding on to the door.

"What is it?" he cried.  "Aren't you feeling well?"

"Would you get me some water?" she muttered.  "My head is all swimming."

"Of course I will.  I won't be a second.  Get into the car and sit
down."

He raced back towards the cottage and got a glass of cold water.  Pray
Allah she was not going to throw a faint, he reflected.  Hugh
Drummond's ideas of first aid were most sketchy.  But when he got back
to the car she seemed to have partially recovered, though she sipped
the water gratefully.

"Sorry to be so silly," she said apologetically, "but I have not had
any breakfast."

"My dear soul," he cried, "that must be remedied at once.  If you can
bear a boiled egg, or, better still, can do something in the bacon
line, we will do the trick at my cottage."

"I ought to be getting on," she answered doubtfully.

"That's out of the question until you've had some food.  Breakfast
first; then we'll tackle the car."

She allowed herself to be persuaded, and they walked back to the
cottage together.

"Where are you off to that makes a start at such an ungodly hour
necessary?" he asked.

"To a house not far from Cambridge," she answered.  "My uncle's place.
And he wanted me there early to get some wretched tennis tournament
fixed up for this afternoon.  Good heavens!  What have you been doing
to the windows?  I didn't notice them before."

"A merry Norfolk pastime," he said with a smile.  "Some blighter wished
it on me last night."

"What _do_ you mean?" she cried.

"A fact," he assured her.  "Someone threw a brick through the window
and nearly hit little Willie in the tummy."

"What on earth did he do that for?"

"The ways of drunks are passing strange," he answered.  "But I don't
know what the proud owner will say when she sees it."

It was the story he had decided to tell Mrs. Eskdale, and since the two
women were likely to overlap it saved bother to spin the same yarn to
both.

"Are you expecting her back soon?"

"At any moment.  And then, providing we've got your car right, I'm off
to London."

"Country getting too exciting?"

"That's the idea."

He poured out the tea and went into the kitchen to get the eggs.

"Put some milk in mine, like an angel," he called out.  "And two--lumps
of sugar."

For the fraction of a second he had paused as he spoke; for the
fraction of a second he had stood motionless, his eyes glued to the
mirror which hung above the little range.  For in it he had seen the
reflection of the girl seated at the table.  And she was putting
something into his tea which most certainly was not milk.

He forced himself to continue speaking mechanically, but his brain was
racing overtime.  He knew his eyes had not deceived him, and the shock
was a considerable one.  It was such a complete surprise.  That the
girl was anything but what she seemed on the surface had never entered
his mind for an instant.  But now as he went on talking he was trying
to adjust himself to this new development.

If--and there was no doubt about it--she had put dope in his tea she
must be mixed up with the bunch of last night.  And at once the reason
for the look of surprise on her face when she first saw him was clear.
She had been expecting a man of the labourer type, and instead she had
met him.

The point to be decided, however, was what to do next.  He was
convinced that she had not the slightest suspicion that he had seen
her, and the essential thing was that she should continue in the same
state of ignorance.  At the same time the little matter of the tea had
to be settled.  And so, being a direct person, he disposed of it at
once.  He tackled the loaf and the knife slipped.  Thence his elbow
took the cup: his trousers took the tea, and the thing was done save
for some mild and suitable blasphemy.

"I am a clumsy devil," he cried.  "And, ye gods! that tea is hot.  Will
you excuse me while I go and remove these garments?"

"Of course," she said.  "You poor man!  How it must have hurt."

She was all anxious commiseration: not by the flicker of an eyelid did
she show any annoyance at the failure of her scheme.  And as he changed
he wondered what her next move was going to be.  Sleep dope--at least
he hoped it had been no worse than that; she was such an astoundingly
attractive filly.  Just something to drug him while she once more
searched the house for that paper.  It surely must be important--that
message that had been wrapped round the stone--for them to take all
this trouble to find it.  And they could not be looking for anything
else.

They were thorough, too, sending this girl as a follow up; they left
nothing to chance.  So thorough, in fact, that he removed the paper
which he had placed for safety in the lining of his hat, and having
finally and definitely committed it to memory, he put a match to one
corner and watched it flare away to ashes.  Not that he saw any
possibility of her getting hold of it, but young women who were
prepared to dope drink on sight, so to speak, wanted watching.  And
once again he wondered what to expect next.

The noise of the gate closing made him look out of the window: the girl
was strolling up the road towards her car.  And for a while he watched
her through narrowed eyes.  She walked with a graceful swing which met
with his entire approval, and the more he thought of the thing, the
harder did he find it to reconcile her appearance with what had taken
place downstairs.  In fact, he tried to persuade himself that the
mirror was distorted and that he had made a mistake.  Unfortunately the
mirror was not distorted, and he knew he had not done anything of the
sort, but it was a valiant and praiseworthy attempt.

The sound of wheels greeted him as he went downstairs; Mrs. Eskdale was
descending from the local carrier's cart.

"Master Hugh," she cried as she saw his clothes, "you're not going
away?"

"Afraid I am, my pet," he answered, "but perhaps it will only be for
to-day.  Anyway, I'm leaving the dogs with you."

She waddled up the path, to pause aghast at the sight of the parlour
window.

"An accident, Nannie," he continued, with his arm round her waist,
"caused by a passing drunk last night, from whom I removed two
perfectly good Bradburys to repair the damage.  And this is a
delightful lady whose car has broken down, and who has been having
breakfast with me."

The girl had joined them, and the old nurse looked at her suspiciously.
Delightful ladies in the proximity of her Master Hugh did not fit into
her scheme of things.  But the girl smiled so charmingly that she
partly relented.

"It was such a mercy that it happened here: I don't know what I'd have
done without that cup of tea.  And what a sweet cottage you've got."

Mrs. Eskdale relented still more: a sure way to her good graces was
through her garden or her house.  And when, an hour later, Drummond's
car drew up outside she had quite taken the unexpected visitor to her
heart.  Moreover, the hour had mostly been spent in the cottage.  As
Drummond unblushingly admitted, his knowledge of a car's anatomy was
confined to adding petrol periodically and oil when he remembered, and
a very brief survey of the derelict was enough to convince him that the
matter was far beyond his attainments.

But not beyond those of the mechanic from Sheringham.  Briefly,
Drummond explained to him what had happened as they walked up the road,
and he grunted dispassionately.

"Suddenly conked out, did she?  Looks as though she's run out of
petrol."

But on that point Drummond was firm; he, personally, with an air of
great impressiveness, had performed evolutions and had looked in the
tank.  Shortage there, at any rate, was not the cause of the disaster.

"Well--we'll see," said the mechanic, removing his coat and bending
over the engine.  And it was not until half an hour later that the
mechanic, with a grunt of astonishment, proceeded to scratch his head
and gaze at something in his hand.

"You say, sir," he said at length, "that she was going all right and
then she suddenly stopped?"

"That's what the lady told me," said Drummond.

"Most extraordinary thing I've ever known," remarked the man.

"Can't you find out why she stopped?"

"I know now why she stopped, sir," said the mechanic.  "But what I
can't make out is how under the sun she ever went.  Look here,
sir--this thing in my hand is the top of the distributor, the thing
what's used in the electric circuit."

"I'll take your word for it," remarked Drummond courteously.

"Well, sir, in a motor-car everything depends on the contact points
being clean and dry; otherwise you don't get any connection.  Now, if
you look at these you'll see they're swimming in oil.  The whole thing
is swimming in oil.  And what I can't understand is how the oil ever
got here."

"Something must have leaked somewhere."  said Drummond vaguely.

"You couldn't have a sudden leak here, sir; there's no oil pipe
anywhere near it.  Besides, there's no trace of a leak.  Now, from what
the lady says, the car was going all right to start with.  Well, if she
was firing properly this oil couldn't have been here.  Stands to
reason.  Then she stops firing because this oil is here.  Stands to
reason again.  But what don't stand to reason is how the oil got here.
It couldn't have come of itself."

And with that illuminating phrase light dawned on Drummond.  If the oil
could not have come there by itself, someone must have put it there.
That sudden faint became clearer.  And as he watched the girl playing
with the dogs outside the cottage a slight smile twitched round his
lips.

"How long will it take you to put it right?" he demanded.

"Not very long, sir.  I'll just have to take this to pieces and
thoroughly clean it and dry it."

Drummond glanced down the road: the girl was coming towards them.

"Put it back," he said quietly, "and follow my lead.  I'll make it
worth your while.  You haven't been able to find out what's the matter.
Well, this is a black business," he cried as the girl joined them.  "Up
to date the expert has failed."

"What am I going to do?" she said disconsolately.  "Poor old uncle!
He'll get every handicap wrong, bless his heart."

"Not on your life," laughed Drummond.  "What's the matter with my bus?
I can easily drop you at your uncle's house on my way to London."

The girl looked at him doubtfully, whilst the mechanic hurriedly
concealed a grin.  So that was how the land lay.

"I couldn't think of troubling you," she said.  "It's miles out of your
way."

"It's nothing of the sort," he answered.  "In any case, the day is yet
young.  We will leave this warrior here to delve still deeper into the
villainies of your machine, and we will push off."

"Well, if you're quite sure it's not a frightful bother," she said
gratefully.  "It's most awfully good of you."

"Say no more."  Drummond waved a vast hand.  "The matter is settled
save for one trifling detail.  Where is he to take the car when he's
got it to go?  To your uncle's house?"

She hesitated for a moment.

"Let me think," she said.  "I think it would be better if he left it in
Cambridge.  Do you know Cannaby's garage?"

"I don't, miss, but I can find it."

"You see," she explained to Drummond, "my uncle has only just gone
there, and it's difficult to describe where his house is.  So leave it
at Cannaby's garage," she told the mechanic, "and I will ring them up
and tell them to pay you whatever it comes to."

He touched his cap.

"All right, miss.  I'll leave her there."

He watched the two of them as they strolled back to the cottage, and
the grin was no longer hidden.  The exact refinements of the case were
beyond his ken, but the main basic idea was obvious.  And it struck him
that the large bloke was no bad judge either, an opinion he had no
desire to retract when Drummond returned alone and gave him a
ten-shilling note.  To bring the car along in an hour or so, and keep
his mouth shut at Cannaby's garage were his instructions and easy to
understand.  What was a little harder to follow was the meaning of the
cryptic telegram he had in his pocket.  His orders were to send it if
the writer had not arrived at the garage by midday.


_Darrell.  Senior Sports Club, London.  Spider, Parlour.  Cambridge.
Hugh._


It did not seem to make sense to him.  It was not a racing code, so far
as he could make out; it had but little to do with love.  In fact it
defeated him.  And not the least perplexing part of the matter was that
there seemed to be no reason to prevent the bloke sending it himself.




CHAPTER III

That he was deliberately walking into the parlour and playing the part
of the fly did not trouble Hugh Drummond in the slightest.  Too often
in the past had he done the same thing for it to worry him.  And even
when the girl asked him to stop in a village so that she could
ostensibly  telephone her uncle to say that she would be late, but in
reality to warn in about his arrival, he rather welcomed the
opportunity for getting things straightened out in his mind.

Her name he had discovered was Venables; and the more he had talked to
her the more he had wondered at her being mixed up with his visitors of
the previous evening.  So much so that he had once again begun to
wonder if his eyes had deceived him over the tea-cup incident.  Against
that however, he had to put the matter of the car.  If what the
mechanic had said was correct, she must have deliberately put the oil
in herself.  She had done it the first instant she could after finding
out that his over-night guests had made a mistake in putting him down
as a local product.  And as one who was used to acting on the spur of
the moment himself he could only admire her technique.

Without doubt had he tried the self-starter when he first got to the
car the engine would have gone perfectly; believing that she had to
deal with a labourer who knew nothing about motors she would not have
troubled to put the machine out of commission.  And then quite
unexpectedly she found out her error, and rectified it in a way that
showed she was no inexpert driver.  But with what object?  Answer
obvious.  So that she could dope his tea and again search the house for
the message.  There she had backed a loser, and had taken it without
turning a hair.

He lit a cigarette as he sat idly at the wheel; the telephone call was
a lengthy one.  What had been her next move?  He recalled her growing
anxiety over her uncle's tennis party; her apparent impatience to get
started.  She had naturally not suggested it, but was she hoping all
along that he would take her in his own car?  If so it must have seemed
to her that he had played right into her hands.

Again, however, came the question: with what object?  Why did she want
him to meet her uncle?  And this time the answer was not so obvious.
The idea that it was anything to do with getting her there quickly
because of a tennis party he dismissed as absurd.  If it was only that,
she, having done the damage to her own car herself, could very easily
and oh! so cleverly have discovered it herself.  Why then did she want
him to go to her uncle's house at Cambridge?  Could it be possible that
certain arrangements were even now being made to greet him in a
suitable fashion?  Could it be possible that such an unladylike thing
as a rough house was looming in the offing?

Drummond grinned happily to himself; life seemed astoundingly good.
True, at the moment, the warfare was blind, but he held one very
valuable card.  He was convinced that the girl had no inkling that he
had got her taped.  That she suspected him was obvious; the mere fact
that he had acted the part of a yokel the previous night, and had lied
about the broken window, was sufficient to blot his copy-book.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting all this time," said the girl
when she at length appeared.  "But my poor old uncle seems terribly
worried."

"That's not so good," answered Drummond.  "What's the trouble?  Has the
vicar's wife ratted from the tennis party?"

But she remained dead serious.

"Captain Drummond," she said, "I hate to bother you.  But would you be
an absolute dear and take me to Norwich?"

"Of course," cried Drummond.  "Take you anywhere you like, bless your
heart.  And it's very little out of our way.  Or do you want me to
leave you there?"

"No, no; I've just got to find out something.  It won't take me a
moment."

"The day is yet young," said Drummond cheerfully.  "Take as many
moments as you like."

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw that she was in
no mood for conversation.  She was staring in front of her, and her
fingers were drumming a tattoo on the arm rest.

"It's damnable," she burst out once.  "Utterly damnable."

"I'm sure it is," he remarked soothingly.  "What's the trouble?"

But she shook her head.

"The family skeleton," she said bitterly.  "And it's driving my uncle
into his grave."

And not another word was spoken until they reached Norwich.

"Will you wait for me here," she said as the car drew up under the
shadow of the cathedral.  "I'll be as quick as I possibly can."

"Here you will find me," Drummond assured her, and watched her till she
was out of sight.  The idea of following her had crossed his mind, only
to be dismissed at once.  What significance, if any, was to be attached
to this unexpected change of route, at the moment was beyond him.  But
one thing was certain.  If he was still to retain his one trump he must
do nothing to make her think he suspected her.  And to follow her in
the broad light of day, when she clearly did not want his company,
would be such an outrageous piece of bad taste that it would give him
away immediately.  So there was nothing for it but to possess his soul
in patience until she returned, and then await further developments.

It was twenty minutes before he saw her coming towards him, and it was
obvious her mission had not been a success.  Without a word she got
into the car, and he started up the engine.

"Cambridge?" he asked.  "Or is there anything else you have to do here?"

"No, thank you," she said.  "I've found out what I wanted to know."

"I fear the result is not very satisfactory," said Drummond.

"Satisfactory," she cried.  "I don't know how I shall break it to my
uncle."

"Look here, Miss Venables," said Drummond quietly.  "I don't want to
barge in, or anything of that sort, but can I be of any assistance?  I
mean, it's clear that something is up."

For a while she did not answer; then suddenly she seemed to make up her
mind.

"Captain Drummond, have you ever heard of _Der Schlssel Verein_?"

"The--whatever you said.  Afraid I haven't.  What does it mean when
it's at home?"

"Actually it means the Key Club."

"I'm still afraid I haven't," said Drummond.  "It sounds pretty
harmless."

She gave a short laugh.

"You may take it from me that the name is the only thing about it that
is harmless.  The Key Club is the most dangerous secret society in
Europe to-day."

Drummond negotiated a cow with care.

"The devil they are," he remarked.  "I thought secret societies had
gone out of fashion some time ago."

"Then you thought wrong," cried the girl bitterly.

"Well, well--one lives and learns.  Anyway, what do these birds mean in
your young life?"

"Nothing in mine actually," she answered, "but a lot in my uncle's."

"Is your uncle a foreigner?"

"Good heavens! no.  He's as English as you or I."

Drummond was thinking hard, though his face expressed polite interest.
And suddenly it dawned on him that if he still wanted to hold that
trump card of his he must, after such an opening, allude to his
visitors of the previous night.  To keep silent would be tantamount to
admitting that he did not trust her.

"Funny you should talk about foreigners," he said casually.  "I had a
visit from two of them last night.  Germans."

"_You_ had," she cried, and Drummond gave her full marks for
registering amazement.  "What on earth did they want with you?"

"'Pon my soul, Miss Venables, I don't know.  They talked a great deal
out of their turn, and a gentleman called Emil..."

"Emil," she gasped.  "Was he wearing a ring with a blue stone in it?"

"That's the cove.  Do you know him?"

"Captain Drummond, he's one of the big men in the Key Club."

"Is he now?  He was throwing his weight about all right last night.
Took me for a farm labourer, and I did not disillusionise him.  He
arrived shortly after that drunk I told you about had bunged the brick
through the window.  It seemed to interest him quite a lot--that brick."

"But I don't understand," she cried.  "Why did you let him think you
were a farm labourer?"

"Saved bother," answered Drummond casually.  "He seemed set on it."

"I can't get this straight at all," she said.  "Why should he worry
about a brick?"

"Extraordinary what some people's hobbies are," he remarked.  "He
seemed all hot and bothered about it.  Waved a gun in the atmosphere,
and frothed at the mouth.  Of course it may have been a pool of blood
in the road outside that caused the apoplexy."

"A pool of blood!" she echoed.  "But was somebody hurt?"

"Presumably.  Blood doesn't grow on its own.  Though, of course, it may
have been some animal."

"Didn't you do anything to find out?" she cried.

"My dear Miss Venables, the mist was so dense you could hardly see your
hand in front of your face.  Besides, Mr. Emil was occupying my
attention.  He seemed to think I'd got a man concealed about the
cottage."

"You mean he was chasing someone?"

"That is undoubtedly the impression he gave me."

"I see," said the girl after a long pause.  "Only too clearly,
unfortunately."

"I'm delighted to hear it," remarked Drummond.  "For I most certainly
don't.  And if you can explain I shall be very grateful."

"Do you know who it was I went to see in Norwich?" she said, after
another long pause.

"Haven't an earthly, bless you.  How should I?"

"The man whose blood was on the road.  The man they were chasing."

"And did you see him?"

"No.  His landlady told me that two foreigners called for him late last
night, and that he went away with them.  They'd found him, and then I
suppose he somehow escaped from them in the mist.  And it was then they
came to you.  Oh! it will break Uncle John's heart."

Drummond stared at her.

"What's Uncle John got to do with it?"

"It was his son; my first cousin Harold."

Drummond whistled thoughtfully.

"Was it, by Jove!  And why, if it isn't a rude question, should Mr.
Emil and Co. be chasing your first cousin Harold?"

"Captain Drummond," she said suddenly.  "I'm going to trust you.
Whether I'm doing right or not, I don't know, but the whole thing has
got on my nerves.  And now that this has happened, and you have been
mixed up in it in such an extraordinary way, I feel I just can't stand
it any more.  Three years ago Harold went to Germany..."

"Just a moment, Miss Venables.  What sort of a bloke is Harold?"

"A nice boy, but weak.  His mother died when he was born, and Uncle
John, though I'm devoted to him, has brought him up very badly.  He's
spoiled him abominably all his life, with the inevitable result that
Harold is a waster.  Well, as I say, he went to Germany three years
ago--his one great gift is that he speaks languages perfectly--and
there, in some extraordinary way, he got mixed up with that devil Emil
and the Key Club.  In fact he became a member of the society himself."

"Did he?  Seems strange that an Englishman was allowed to join a German
secret society."

"So he ought to have realised," she admitted.  "But he didn't; until it
was too late.  He looked on the whole thing as a sort of joke, till one
fine day he discovered his mistake.  You'll understand, Captain
Drummond, that neither my uncle nor I knew about it at the time; we
only found it out quite recently.  And though we noticed he was looking
haggard and worried, he wouldn't tell us what was the matter.  And then
one day I got it out of him.  They were bringing pressure on him to
supply them with confidential information."

"Hold hard a minute," cried Drummond.  "What confidential information
could your cousin have access to which would be of any value to them?"

"I'm sorry, Captain Drummond; I'm telling it badly.  I forgot to say
that Harold is in the Foreign Office, and so he frequently has the
opportunity of seeing important documents."

"I get you," said Drummond.  "Please go on."

"A fortnight ago it came to a head.  I was with my uncle at the time,
and Harold suddenly arrived one evening in a pitiable condition.  And
to make matters worse he'd been drinking, which, to do him justice, is
not a vice of his.  For a time he was quite incoherent, but at last we
got some sort of sense out of him.  It was terrible, Captain Drummond;
terrible.  Apparently these devils, who had hitherto contented
themselves with threatening him by letter from Germany, had arrived in
this country, and were bringing pressure to bear on him in person.
There was some document or other they wanted a copy of, and unless he
got it for them he knew what the result would be."

"Why didn't he go to the police?"

"Just what my uncle said to him.  And then we heard the ghastly truth;
he didn't dare to.  He had already sent these men certain information
which he had no business to, though he swore on his Bible oath that it
was of no real importance.  For all that the mere fact that he'd sent
anything at all was enough to brand him for life.  And these brutes
knew it, and were bringing the screw to bear, over something that
really was vital--something that it really was traitorous to give away.

"He was at his wits' end, Captain Drummond.  If he didn't tell them it
meant death; if he did he felt he would never hold up his head again.
And so he had taken the only course open to him.  Somehow or other he
had managed to get three weeks leave, and he'd bolted from London.  But
now arose the difficulty.  He couldn't stop in my uncle's house,
because they could easily track him there.  So he had to go into
hiding.  And we decided on the rooms in Norwich where I went to-day."

"But how did you know this had happened last night, Miss Venables?"
asked Drummond.

"My uncle told me over the telephone," she said.  "You see this tennis
party has been fixed for weeks, and both my uncle and I agreed it would
be unwise to postpone it.  I've been staying with some friends for a
few days, and it was when I rang him up to explain why I was late that
he told me he had 'phoned Harold last night and again this morning, and
that the only reply he could get was from the landlady to say that
Harold's bed had not been slept in.  The rest you know.  Somehow or
other they got on his tracks, and now..."

She was rolling her handkerchief into a ball in her hands.

"Poor old Uncle John!  He idolised Harold."

"I'm very sorry for both of you," said Drummond gravely.  "In fact it's
the devil and all of a business."

"I suppose I oughtn't to have told you, but somehow or other you look
the sort of man one can rely on."

"Deuced kind of you to say so, my dear," cried Drummond genially.  "But
the thing that is worrying my grey matter is why your cousin should
have bunged a rock through the window."

"I've been thinking of that, Captain Drummond," she said thoughtfully.
"Do you think it possible that he wrapped a piece of paper round it:
some message or other, which he hoped you would get?"

"Good Lord!" cried Drummond, "that's a darned brainy idea.  Now you
mention it, that's probably why our old friend Emil was so interested
in the contents of my pockets.  And to think I never thought of that!"

He stole a glance at her: her forehead was puckered in thought.  And
once again he gave her full marks for her acting.  How much of the
Harold sobstuff yarn was true he had no idea: but he had to admit that
it was a very plausible tale, very plausibly told.  Further, that _if_
he had not seen what he had seen in the mirror; and _if_ the mechanic
had not made his illuminating remark about the oil, he would probably
have believed it.  And if he had believed it, there would have been no
reason against passing the message on to her.

He was growing more and more intrigued over the whole affair, and
increasingly anxious to meet Uncle John.  The girl by his side was
obviously English: would her relative prove the same?  Was he even her
uncle at all?  And what terms was she really on with the man called
Emil?  In fact only one certainty seemed to him to stand out in the
confusion.  They had correctly surmised what the stone had been used
for, but after that they were floundering in the dark.  Had he received
the message, or had he not?  And to find that out they were obviously
prepared to go to considerable lengths.

He pulled himself together: the girl was speaking again.

"What's that?" he cried.  "See any sign of a piece of paper?  Not a
trace.  There was certainly nothing wrapped round the stone when it
came into the room, so if there was anything there to start with it
must have fallen off earlier.  In which case it might be somewhere in
the garden, unless it has blown away.  Pity you didn't have your brain
storm earlier, Miss Venables: we could have had a look.  For if it
comes under Mrs. Eskdale's eagle eye it will instantly cease to exist.
But in any event I don't see really that it could prove of much value.
What could your cousin have written which would help matters?  You've
got to remember that so far as he knew the house was occupied by a
labourer."

"He might have found out where they were taking him to, Captain
Drummond, and flung the name as a despairing SOS through the first
lighted window he saw."

Drummond gazed at her in admiration.

"'Pon my soul, Miss Venables," he boomed enthusiastically, "it's a
pleasure to work with you.  Now I should never have thought of that.
SOS, by Jove!  That's the stuff to give the troops."

"If we're going to save him," she went on, "it's vital we should know
where they've taken him to as soon as possible.  And I know my uncle
won't want to call in the police."

"What about sending a wire to Mrs. Eskdale telling her to give the
dustbin a once over?" said Drummond helpfully.  "The old dear will
think I've gone bughouse, but what matter."

"It can't do any harm, can it?" cried the girl.  "A very good idea,
Captain Drummond."

"Splendid.  We'll stop at the first post office we come to.
Incidentally, I suppose she'd better send the answer to your uncle's
house.  What address shall I give her?"

"Hartley Court is the name of the house.  Just Hartley Court,
Cambridge, is enough."

"And your uncle's name?"

"Meredith: he is my mother's brother."

"Right," cried Drummond.  "It shall be attended to.  She's a sensible
old dame, and if she finds the paper and there's anything on it we
shall know.  Is that a post office ahead?  It is.  I won't be long."

He pulled up beside the kerb, and leaving the girl sitting in the car
he went inside.  A faint smile was twitching round his lips, and he
stood for a few moments tapping his teeth with the pencil.  Then he
suddenly gave a little chuckle and seizing a form he began to write
quickly.  It was a long message, and when it was completed he re-read
it carefully.  It was perfectly clear: Mrs. Eskdale could make no
mistake.  He tore it off the block, removing at the same time the two
next forms which he rolled into a ball and threw into the paper basket.

"If by any chance," he said to the man behind the counter, "any
inquiries are made later in the day about this wire by anyone--it
doesn't matter who it is--you'll be careful to say nothing, won't you?"

"Trust me, sir," said the operator.  "The contents of that there
telegram is a secret.  Not even the King of England has the right to
ask to see it."

"Quite, quite," cried Drummond soothingly.  "But it might be put in
such a way that it would seem to you that you were doing no harm.  But
when I tell you there's a big bet at stake you'll understand."

"Think no more about it, sir.  I knows my duty, and I does it."

"The deed is done," said Drummond as he got back into the car.  "I've
asked the old girl to look in the garden for a piece of paper with
writing on it, and if she finds anything to wire the contents to your
uncle.  It should be through in a couple of hours: there's a post
office not far from her cottage."

"Thank you so much," she cried.  "It's a shame to give you all this
trouble."

"Devil a bit, bless you.  But we'd better get a move on, or your uncle
will pair off the wrong people."

"He's cancelled the party, so that doesn't matter," she said, "He told
me so on the telephone: he felt too worried over Harold, so he's put
them off.  For all that I would like to hurry: you see, he doesn't know
what we know."

"Of course not," agreed Drummond.  "I'll stamp on the juice.  I make it
that we've got about twenty more miles to go to Cambridge itself."

"The house is about three miles this side," she said: a spot where even
at that moment an earnest council of war was in progress.

In an upstairs room stood a grey-haired man of about fifty-five: facing
him across the table was the German called Emil.  And he had only just
arrived.

"I don't understand," he was saying harshly.  "You say that this farm
labourer is motoring Doris here."

"Farm labourer," sneered the other.  "Do farm labourers have Rolls
Royce coups?  He fooled you to the top of his bent, Emil.  He's a man
called Captain Drummond."

"So," said the German softly.  "What was he doing then in that cottage
all by himself?"

"He goes there for duck shooting.  But a far more important point is
why he pretended to be a labourer.  That's what I can't make out.  What
was his object?"

The German lit a short and dangerous looking cigar.

"What was his object?" repeated the grey-haired man.  "It looks to me
definitely as if our friend knew where he was going."

"In that fog?"  The German shook his head.  "Not possible, Meredith.
Besides, he was more dead than alive even then."

"Then it is a very strange coincidence," cried Meredith.  "There _must_
have been a message round that stone in view of who it was who threw
it.  He would never have done such a senseless thing as to smash a
window for fun."

"Well, I couldn't find it, and from what you say Doris has not
succeeded either.  And don't forget, Meredith, that all that matters is
that no one should find it.  Provided it's lost, we're safe."

"But is it lost?  So long as I thought this man was a labourer I didn't
mind.  Now a totally different complexion is put on things."

The German shrugged his shoulders.

"We went through his house with a fine tooth comb," he said.

"What's the good of that?" cried Meredith impatiently.  "A message can
easily be committed to memory."

"Now look here, Meredith," said the German quietly, "you'd better pull
yourself together.  If what you're getting at is correct, and this man
Drummond is one of them, why didn't our friend here go up to the
cottage?  Or why didn't he call out for help?  It's folly to suppose
that he'd have adopted the method he did, if he knew who was inside the
room.  No, no, my dear fellow: you're alarming yourself unnecessarily.
Knowing that he'd only got a short time he took a chance with the first
house where he saw the owner was still awake.  It might have been a
genuine labourer: it might have been Jones or Smith, but it happened to
be this fellow Drummond.  Why he should have pretended to be a farm
hand I can't say: possibly my gun frightened him and he thought it was
safer."

"Perhaps you're right," said Meredith hopefully.  "At any rate we can
only wait till we see Doris."

"Which reminds me, Meredith," remarked the German.  "There's a question
I've long been wanting to ask you.  What are we going to do with that
young woman when we've finished?"

"The same as with the others, I suppose."

"And you think she'll stand for it?  I wonder.  I have sometimes
thought of late that she has become unduly inquisitive."

He stared at the ash on his cigar.

"Increasingly desirous, shall we say," continued the German, "of
finding out what only the Inner Council know.  Particularly with regard
to the whereabouts of our--how shall I put it--our head-quarters."

"Feminine curiosity," said Meredith.  "Perfectly natural."

"It is now my turn to say perhaps you're right," said the German.
"Anyway, here comes the car.  Her wisdom in bringing him here is
doubtful, but since she has, I, naturally, must not be seen."

"He is certainly no chicken," remarked Meredith, staring through the
curtains.

"He is one of the largest individuals I've ever seen in my life," said
the German.  "Let us hope his brain is not equivalent to his brawn."

They watched the car drive up to the door and the girl get out.  And a
few moments later she entered the room.

"Well?" cried both men.

"He's got no message," she said quietly.  "Of that I'm certain.  But
how on earth did you come to make such an idiotic mistake, Herr Veight?
I very nearly gave the whole show away this morning when I saw him.
And I had to change my entire plan of campaign on the spot."

"Was it wise to bring him here?" said Meredith.

"I had to.  First I tried to dope his tea: that failed.  Then I had
another look in the garden whilst he and the mechanic were tinkering
with the car up the road.  But the old woman who owns the cottage was
with me and I had to be careful.  I could see nothing, and so to make
perfectly certain I had to concoct a scheme.  Now listen, Mr. Meredith,
because you'll have to go down and see him.  You're my uncle, and it's
your son Harold in the Foreign Office who has been abducted by the
German gang of _Der Schlssel Verein_."

"Great heavens!" cried Emil, "you haven't told him that, have you?"

"Of course I have.  What you don't seem to be able to get into your
thick head," said the girl angrily, "is that this man is not a farm
labourer.  He's a gentleman even if he is a fool.  And do you suppose
he's going to keep quiet over last night unless something is done about
it?  The only possible way of keeping his mouth shut is to enlist his
sympathy.  And that's what I've done: and this is how I did it."

"Upon my soul, my dear, I don't think you could have done better on the
spur of the moment," said Meredith when she had finished.  "I'll keep
the good work going."

"If there is no answer to his wire we can assume that whatever message
there was is definitely lost.  If there is an answer, well----"

She paused significantly.

"Captain Drummond is certainly entitled to a drink," murmured Meredith,
and Emil smiled.  "And the nature of the drink will depend on the
nature of the message."

"Exactly," said the girl.  "And now come on.  He'll think it strange if
we keep him waiting too long.  Don't forget you're the broken-hearted
father.  Incidentally, how much longer have we got to wait?"

"Three days: four.  Certainly a week should do it.  He's nearly
cracked, so I was told this morning."

"Then for a week at least this man Drummond has got to keep his mouth
shut."

"Wouldn't it be far better----" began Meredith tentatively.

"No," she said emphatically.  "Only as a last resort.  He can be traced
here through Cannaby's garage.  Let's go down, dear Uncle John."

They found Drummond apparently dozing over the wheel.

"My dear Captain Drummond," said Meredith courteously, "I cannot thank
you sufficiently for all you have done for my little Doris."

"Not at all," cried Drummond, getting out of the car and shaking him
warmly by the hand.  "A pleasure, sir: a pleasure."

"I hear she has told you the whole terrible story."

"About your poor son, George..."

"Harold, Captain Drummond," said the girl with a smile.

"Of course.  Stupid of me: I've got a shocking memory for names.  Yes,
Mr. Meredith, your niece has told me, and I can only hope my wire may
result in something helpful.  Though I confess I am not optimistic.
There was a bit of a breeze this morning, and any loose piece of paper
would, I fear, have been blown away."

"Still it is a hope which I cling to.  I am an elderly man, Captain
Drummond, and this affair has shaken me dreadfully: you can understand
a father's feelings under the circumstances."

"Only too easily," said Drummond sympathetically.

"And I was wondering if I might trespass even further on your kindness.
Are you in a very great hurry to go?"

"My time is yours, Mr. Meredith.  I must be up in London for dinner,
but until then I am at your disposal."

"Not so long as that, I assure you," said Meredith with a deprecating
smile.  "But if you would not mind waiting till the answer to your
telegram comes, it would indeed be a relief to us."

"Delighted," cried Drummond.  "It should not be long now."

"I gather that my niece has explained to you our difficulty with regard
to the police, though I cannot believe that Harold has given away
anything of importance.  But even so I would like to keep them out of
it.  And if, as my niece thinks--and I am inclined to agree with
her--the dear boy knew where those devils were taking him to and
managed to scribble it down, I would so like your advice and help."

"It's yours for the asking," said Drummond heartily.  "And of one thing
I can assure you.  If there is the smallest fragment of paper in her
spotless garden, Mrs. Eskdale will find it."

He glanced out of the window.

"Great Scott!  That's pretty quick.  Here's a telegraph boy on a
bicycle coming up the drive.  The old lady hasn't wasted any time."

"Get it, my dear," cried Meredith.  "And see what it is.  Captain
Drummond," he continued, as she left the room, "I'm so nervous I don't
know what to do."

"Bite on the old bullet, Mr. Meredith," said Drummond soothingly.  "We
shall know soon.  Here comes your niece now."

The girl came in reading the telegram with a puzzled look on her face.

"Well, my dear: well?" cried Meredith.

"It's from Mrs. Eskdale all right," she said.  "But it does not seem to
make sense."

And for the fraction of a second Drummond's jaw tightened.

"'Found paper in garden,'" read the girl, "'on it written S B Z ...'
Just a jumble of letters.  They don't make sense.  About ten of them.
Then signed 'Eskdale.'"

Drummond's jaw relaxed, and suddenly the girl gave an excited cry.

"Uncle John!  I've got it.  It's Harold's code--the code he and I used
to use when we were children.  We wrote letters to one another in it.
I've got it upstairs somewhere."

She darted out of the room, and Drummond lit a cigarette.  Also he
glanced at Meredith, and having done so suppressed a smile.  For
Meredith's face was a study, and continued as such till the sound of
rapid footsteps announced his niece's return.

"I've got it," she cried, waving the form triumphantly.  "It _is_ the
name of a place.  How clever of him!  Don't you see, Uncle John?
Harold saw the light in the window and assumed the owner or whoever was
there would take the message to the police.  Then it would have come
out in the papers, and though no one else would have spotted it, we
should."

"And what is the name of the place, Miss Venables?" asked Drummond with
interest.

"Kessingland," she said.  "I know I've heard of a place of that name."

"There is a place called Kessingland a few miles from Lowestoft on the
coast," said Drummond thoughtfully.  "So you think that wire means that
your cousin has been taken there?"

"What else can it mean, Captain Drummond?  There are probably isolated
bungalows there and he has been hidden in one of them."

"My poor boy," said Meredith, passing his hand across his forehead.
"What shall we do?"

"Look here," said Drummond after a pause, "can I be of any assistance?
True, I don't know your son, but I fear we must assume he's been badly
hurt.  Now would you like me to go to Kessingland and make a few
careful inquiries?  I will be most discreet, but it's probably not a
very big place and the tradesmen or somebody will be sure to know if
any foreigners have turned up there."

"But, Captain Drummond, we couldn't think of bothering you.  Could we,
Uncle John?"

"Of course not.  Besides, my dear fellow, you've got to go to London.
And it may take days."

"What matter, Mr. Meredith?  My dinner party in London can easily be
put off.  And I feel that in a case like this one should sacrifice
everything to help.  It may, as you say, take two or three
days--perhaps more; but that is a trifle compared to your son's safety.
I will start at once."

He waved aside their half-hearted protests, and rose to his feet.

"I will keep you posted of anything I find out," he continued.  "And
all we can hope is that I shall not be too late."

"I wish I could come with you, Captain Drummond," said Meredith, "but I
fear my health is hardly equal to the strain."

"I wouldn't hear of it, Mr. Meredith," cried Drummond.  "Your place is
here--with your niece.  I hope that very soon I shall have good news to
report."

He pressed the girl's hand gently, and her eyes fell before his.

"May I do so in person?" he murmured.

"Of course," she answered.  "My uncle and I will be delighted to see
you at any time."

"Good-bye, sir."  He turned to Meredith.  "And don't despair."

They accompanied him to his car, and as he let in his clutch the girl
leaned over the side.

"At any time," she whispered.  "I think it is too sweet of you to do
this for two complete strangers."

"Strangers?" he said reproachfully.  "That's unkind of you, Doris."

They watched the car till it turned into the main road; then Meredith
turned to the girl.

"What the deuce," he spluttered, "is the game?  What is this bunk about
a code?"

"Don't you realise what this message is?" said the girl quietly as the
German joined them.  "'Found paper in garden.  On it written
SBZALFTRPTE.  Eskdale.'  Don't you realise it _is_ a code message right
enough?"

"But what?...  Why?..." cried Meredith, completely bewildered.  "Why
Kessingland?"

"Oh! you're dense; you're dense.  What did I tell Drummond on the way
here?  That if there was a message it would be the place they were
taking Harold to.  So any town with eleven letters would do, and
Kessingland happens to be not too near and not too far.  It will keep
him quiet hunting round the sand dunes, whereas if I'd said nothing he
would almost certainly have taken this up to London.  Or else had it
repeated from the old woman."

"Gad!  Emil, the girl is quick on the uptake," said Meredith.

"Extremely," remarked the German, studying the telegram.  "I wonder
what this really does stand for."

"Not a doubt about it in my mind," said the girl.  "It's the address of
your head-quarters."

For a moment or two the German stared at her; then he smiled.

"Well, my dear," he remarked suavely, "if that is so, you've certainly
done no harm in sending that bovine individual to Kessingland."

And with the utmost deliberation he tore up the telegram and put the
pieces in his pocket.




CHAPTER IV

It was at precisely twelve o'clock that Peter Darrell entered the
lounge of the Royal Hotel, and perceived Drummond with his legs
stretched out in front of him, and his face buried in a tankard of ale.
Periodically during the last half-hour the large form of the drinker
had been shaken with gusts of internal mirth, to the evident alarm of
an old lady opposite who was knitting some incomprehensible garment.
And now, realising that a second was approaching, she rose hurriedly
and bolted to cover in the drawing-room.

"Come hither, my Peter," boomed Drummond.  "Things is 'appening."

"So I gathered, confound you," cried Darrell.  "I was lunching with the
Marriot filly.  Why the dickens aren't you killing ducks?"

"Draw up, Peter, my boy, and put your nose inside a pint.  This is my
third, and my confidence in myself is even now not restored.  There was
a time," he continued sadly, "when I regarded myself as a pretty ready
liar--somewhere round about scratch.  This morning, Peter, I have been
holding converse with a plus two performer."

"Do you mean to say you've brought me down here to tell me that?  Who
is this bloke?"

"It's a lady, Peter, a beautiful, charming girl with an uncle.  And the
dear child yearned greatly for a message to be sent her by telegram: a
message doubtless of hope and comfort to cheer her maiden heart.  But
you look bewildered, Peter: let us begin at the beginning."

He hitched his chair closer to Darrell's, and lit a cigarette.  The
lounge was empty save for the hall porter, and he so far came out of
his habitual coma as to wonder once or twice what the big man in the
corner was talking so earnestly about to the owner of the racing car
outside.  For it was twenty minutes later that the owner of the car
spoke for the first time.

"But, damn it, Hugh," he said, "I don't understand about this second
message.  The one they were after, you found in the window.  That's
clear.  What is this other one that Mrs. Eskdale found?"

Drummond grinned.

"Peter," he remarked, "I have exercised a little story-teller's licence
on you.  Mrs. Eskdale never found a message.  When I told you I wired
Mrs. Eskdale to send a message I did not add that I told her what
message to send.  And for a time I wondered what message I should tell
her to send.  It had to be something mysterious, and yet something that
looked genuine.  Suddenly--out of the blue, as a gift from the
gods--came the idea.  A newspaper was lying in the next compartment and
I happened to glance at it.  And my prepaid wire ran as follows:

_Wire Meredith Hartley Court Cambridge following message Stop found
paper in garden on it written SBZALFTRPTE Eskdale._"

"But what is SBZ and all the rest of it?"

"Coldspur's cipher nap tip for Lingfield in the _Daily Leader_," said
Drummond quietly.

Darrell stared at him open-mouthed.

"Then how the deuce has she made Kessingland out of it?" he spluttered.

Once again Drummond grinned.

"Because, old lad, Miss Doris Venables, as I said at the beginning, is
definitely rated at plus two and she plays quicker than George Duncan.
I take off my hat to that wench."

"More beer," said Darrell decidedly.  "This is too obscure for me.  I
still don't see her object."

"Simple, Peter.  To get rid of me.  I'm becoming a nuisance: in fact, I
always have been a nuisance since I appeared in the picture.  But it
was quick of her--damned quick.  Think it over, old boy: look at the
matter from her point of view.  Every single move that the other side
has made since Emil and his boy friend paid me their visit last night
has been directed to one end--to get the message that was wrapped round
the brick.  And though I may not be quite up to her form I flatter
myself that I'm sufficiently near it to play level.  Obviously she
believes that I've swallowed her precious Harold lock, stock and
barrel.  And to tell you the truth, Peter, until the Kessingland
episode I wasn't at all certain that Harold was a myth.  Now it's plain
that he is."

"I don't exactly see that, old boy."

Don't be dense, Peter.  That's Coldspur's cipher: by no hook or crook
can you make Kessingland out of it.  There ain't such a horse.
Therefore all the talk about her code with Harold was a lie.  Now she
thinks that she's got the genuine message that they've been hunting
for, and so the one urgent thing for them to do was to get shot of me.
Mark her guile.  She believes that I think she's got a message from
Harold.  So she looks up a town with eleven letters in it, and if I
hadn't suggested going there you can bet your bottom dollar she'd have
made the suggestion for me.  She took care, you see--in the most
natural way, I admit--not to let me see the wire.  Otherwise I might
have wondered why Z and A both stood for S.  But as it is she thinks
I'm taped for Kessingland, and God forbid she should think otherwise!"

"How are you going to work it?" demanded Darrell.

"After we've had lunch, Peter, we are going to Kessingland.  There,
with our well-known charm, we will get hold of someone of comparative
intelligence to whom we will give stamped telegrams--three or four
should be enough.  We will concoct them later.  The first, which can be
sent to the lady this evening, will merely announce my arrival.
To-morrow, in the morning, a hint that I am on the track of foreigners;
in the evening, still on the track.  The next day, that the trail has
died, but still trying, etc., and so forth.  I might even go so far as
to write a letter to be posted late to-morrow evening, which should
convince her that little Willie is still safely buried in that
delectable spot.  Then, Peter, having done this, we shall return here."

"And what then?"

"A closer inspection of Hartley Court by night seems to me to be
indicated."

Drummond beckoned a waiter and ordered two Martinis.

"I can't help feeling, Peter," he continued, "that there are things
afoot here which are bigger than ordinary common or garden crime."

"Do you mean political?"

"That's the notion.  I'm inclined to believe that there's something in
that Key Club business."

"Mightn't be a bad idea to rope in Ronald Standish," said Darrell
thoughtfully.

"Not at all bad," agreed Drummond.  "He'd know, if anybody did.  Go and
ring him up, Peter.  Tell him that aught is amiss here in the
children's kindergarten, and will he kindly report his vile dog's body
as soon as possible."

Darrell crossed to the telephone box and Drummond lit a cigarette.
Definitely a good idea: if his surmise was right, if by a strange freak
of fate he had blundered into deep waters, there was no one who would
pull his weight better than Ronald Standish.  He knew all the hush-hush
men intimately, and what was more, they trusted him implicitly.  For
the more Drummond thought things over, the more did he feel convinced
that this was going to prove a hush-hush job.

"He'll be down in time for dinner this evening," said Darrell,
rejoining him.

"Splendid," cried Drummond.  "Let's go and have a spot of food, Peter,
and then push off.  The sooner we lay the Kessingland trail the better."

And at that delectable East Coast watering-place luck proved to be
right in.  One of the first people they saw was a man they both knew,
who was staying there for a few days, and who readily agreed to send
the wires for them.

"For Heaven's sake, get 'em in the right order, old boy," said
Drummond, "and don't send 'em all off at once or we are undone.  And
now, Peter--to horse.  I propose to go back via Nannie's cottage to
warn in the dear old thing that I shan't be back for a few days.  It's
very little out of our way, and she'll worry herself sick if I don't
turn up.

"Still there, you see, Peter," he cried as they approached the cottage
some half-hour later.  "There's the trampled-down bit of verge; there's
the pool of oil.  It's dusty now, but you can see the outline clear
enough."

"The poor devil must have bled some," said Darrell.

"You're right," remarked Drummond gravely.  "Gad!  Peter, I wish I
could get to the bottom of this show."

He drew up outside the cottage.

"Shan't be a moment," he cried.  "The old darling will probably want us
to stop to tea, but I'll tell her we can't.  Nannie," he shouted,
opening the gate, "where are you?"

There was no answer, and he walked up the path.  His terrier and
spaniel came bounding to meet him, and he stopped to pat them.

"Where," he demanded, "is that lazy devil Jerry?"

And then, on the threshold of the door, he paused, and stood very still.

"Peter," he called softly, "come here."

Darrell joined him: the reason for Jerry's laziness was clear.  For the
bulldog was lying motionless on the carpet, and it was obvious at a
glance that he had been shot through the head.

"By God! old Jerry," muttered Drummond in a voice that shook a little,
"somebody is going to pay to the uttermost farthing for this.  How did
it happen, boy; how did it happen?"

His eyes were roving round the room, and suddenly he gave an
exclamation and stepped to the table.  Then he bent down and picked up
a pair of leather gloves which were lying near.

"Look at these, Peter," he cried.  "See that brown and white stitching
effect?  Can't mistake it.  These are the gloves Doris Venables was
wearing this morning when I motored her to Cambridge."

"Are you sure, Hugh?"

"Of course I'm sure.  Or they're an identical pair, and that is too
amazing a coincidence to swallow.  What the devil has happened?"

"She must have been back here."

"But why, Peter?  What did she want to come back for?"

"Perhaps to make certain the wire was genuine," suggested Darrell.

"But why shoot Jerry?" cried Drummond.  "Why, in the name of all that
is miraculous, shoot the old chap?  He made great friends with her this
morning."

Darrell made no answer: he was standing by the door listening intently.

"There's someone asleep upstairs, Hugh.  I can hear breathing."

Drummond joined him at the door; there was no doubt about it.  Somebody
was almost snoring in the room above, and they were up the stairs in a
flash.  And there an even more amazing spectacle met their eyes.

Lying on the bed fully dressed and completely unconscious was the ample
form of Mrs. Eskdale.  Her face was flushed, and every now and then a
strangled snort convulsed her.

"If I didn't know her better, Peter," said Drummond after a while, "I'd
say she was blind drunk.  But the old dear never touches a drop of
anything except an occasional glass of some hell brew of her own.
Elderberry wine, or something."

"She's either drunk or drugged, Hugh," said Darrell decidedly.
"There's not the smallest doubt of that."

They bent over her, but there was no suspicion of alcohol about her
breath.

"That settles it, Peter," said Drummond.  "She's been doped."

He shook her gently by the shoulder, and then not so gently, but it
produced no result.

"It may be hours before she awakes," he continued with a frown.  "This
is the devil and all, Peter; I don't like to leave the old lady."

"It's not that that is worrying me so much," said Darrell.  "I'm trying
to reconstruct the crime as they say.  How did she get here?  No girl
could possibly have carried or dragged an unconscious woman of her
weight up those steep stairs."

"Therefore," remarked Drummond, "if the girl was alone Mrs. Eskdale
must have been up here when she was given the dope.  No; hold hard a
minute.  Let's suppose she was giving the girl a cup of tea, and that
little Doris pulled the same stuff on her as she tried to do on me this
morning.  Then the old dear began to feel queer, but still managed to
get up here under her own steam.  How's that?"

Darrell nodded.

"It fits.  But what about Jerry?  If all that happened was that Mrs.
Eskdale came upstairs more or less normally, why should he get excited?
And surely no one would shoot a dog just for the fun of the thing."

"You think the girl was not alone."

"I don't know what to think, Hugh; the whole thing is baffling.  But
the only solution that seems to fit Jerry having been killed and Mrs.
Eskdale being up here is that some sort of a rough house took place
below.  What it was about the Lord only knows."

"She's loyal to the core, is that old dear.  It's just possible they
wanted to see the message itself, and she wouldn't show it to them.
And it would have been a bit difficult seeing that she hadn't got one
to show."

He broke off abruptly, staring out of the window with narrowed eyes.

"Do you see that clump of bushes, Peter, one finger left of that
stunted alder?" he said softly.  "There's something just moved in them."

Darrell picked up the target a hundred and fifty yards away on the
other side of the road.

"I'll take your word for it, old boy," he answered.  "Your sight is so
damned uncanny....  No, by Jove! you're right.  I saw it myself."

"It's a man; I can see his face, just to the right of the middle."

Drummond rubbed his hands gently together.

"Stay here, Peter; I'm going to stalk that gentleman.  And in this flat
country it'll mean a big _dtour_ starting from the back of the
cottage.  But if I can manage to get under cover of that hedge running
by the alder, I'm home.  Show yourself every now and then at the
window."

And then followed for Peter Darrell an interval of pure joy.  An ardent
stalker himself, it was an education to watch Drummond at work.
Conditions naturally were different, but the principles were the same,
and as an object lesson in how to make cover where none existed it
could not have been beaten.  He had forgotten Mrs. Eskdale, who still
snored placidly on her bed; his whole attention was riveted on a
blurred white face peering out of the undergrowth, and the slinking
figure away to the right.

At last Drummond reached the hedge which was his first objective and
scrambled through it.  Then out of sight of his quarry he straightened
up and started to run.  Nearer and nearer he got, and now he was moving
cautiously.  Ten yards; five yards, and then in a flash it was over.
Came a sudden spring; a shrill squeal of fear and the next moment
Drummond emerged into the open field with his prisoner.  And his
prisoner's gun.

Darrell met them at the gate, and studied the captive with interest.
And somewhat to his surprise he saw that he was of a very different
type to what he had anticipated.  The man was well dressed, and on the
surface at any rate appeared to be a gentleman.  He was dark and clean
shaven, and his nationality was not obvious.  But his English when he
spoke was perfect.

"May I ask," he remarked icily, "the reason for this incredible
outrage?"

"Get inside," said Drummond curtly.  "A pretty weapon this, Peter;
compressed air.  And you will kindly remember, my friend, that any
attempt on your part to escape would cause it to be used on your right
knee.  And that's a painful wound."

"I shall have the law on you for this," said the man in a voice that
shook with rage.

"By all means," cried Drummond affably.  "But just at the moment my
friend and I are the law."

The man went slowly up the path, and as he came to the door he paused
for a second.  The sound of Mrs. Eskdale's snores still came
rhythmically from above, and Darrell watching his face saw a faint look
of relief flash for a moment across it.  Then it became as mask-like as
ever.

"Now, sir," he remarked, "once more I insist on an explanation."

"Are you the man who did that?" said Drummond quietly, pointing to the
dead bulldog.

"I am not," answered the man.  "This is the first time I have been in
this cottage."

And Jock, his teeth bared, snarled in a corner.

"You lie," said Drummond softly.  "You lie, damn you, and there's the
proof."  He pointed to the terrier.  "However for the moment we will
leave that.  Why were you lying up in those bushes watching this house?"

The man lit a cigarette.

"I'll buy it," he remarked with a yawn.

"I wonder," said Drummond pleasantly, "if you have ever read a book
called 'Stalky and Co.'?"

The man stared at him in blank surprise.

"I ask for this reason," continued Drummond.  "In that immortal classic
there is a story which tells of the way Stalky and two low companions
of his dealt with a pair of bullies at their school.  And it is most
efficacious."

Once again the man yawned.

"I suppose your remarks have some point," he said languidly.  "But if
so I fear it has eluded me."

"Then I will endeavour to make it plainer," said Drummond.  "They dealt
with these bullies in their own coin.  They bullied them even worse
than the bullies had done to their victims.  And the result was an
unqualified success."

His eyes were boring into the man opposite.

"Am I getting clearer?" he continued.  "At the present moment my friend
and I represent Stalky and Co.; you represent the bullies.  People who
shoot my dogs, and drug harmless old ladies may be justly regarded as
bullies.  And since you've taken the gloves off I propose to do the
same.  Ah! would you, you swine."

His arm shot out as the man's hand came out of his pocket, and a knife
clattered on to the floor.

"Peter, get me that rubber strap out of the car.  And the rope."

"What are you going to do?" muttered the man, writhing helplessly in
Drummond's grip.

"You will see in due course," said Drummond.  "It is not a treatment I
would recommend for the sick and ailing, but that doesn't apply to
strong and hearty men like you who lie about on wet grass and go big
game shooting.  Who knows--you might even beat the record."

"The record," stammered the man.  "What record?"

"Twenty minutes," explained Drummond, "is the longest time known up to
date that the patient undergoing this treatment has lasted without
praying for death.  Got 'em, Peter?  Good.  Here's a good stout chair;
let's lash him to that."

The man let out a wild shout, and began to struggle desperately, but in
the hands of two past masters of the art of rough housing he was like a
child.  In half a minute he was trussed up like a fowl, and two
scientifically arranged handkerchiefs almost prevented his breathing.

"Now," said Drummond, balancing a piece of rubber belting about
eighteen inches long in his hand, "before we begin I wish everything to
be quite clear.  What my friend and I are doing now is quite illegal.
But as I told you before for the time being we have taken the law into
our own hands.  How long we continue to keep it there depends entirely
on you.  When you have had enough, and decide to tell us exactly what
happened this afternoon in this room, just nod your head."

The man's eyes, sullen and vindictive, were fixed on Drummond, who had
raised the strap shoulder high.

"The essence of this means of persuasion," explained Drummond, "is not
to hit too hard, and at the same time to leave no part of the area
selected untouched.  In your case I propose to take the right leg from
the knee up.  So, and so, and so."

Steadily, almost gently the belting rose and fell travelling from the
knee up to the thigh and then back again.

"It's been used in the third degree frequently," went on Drummond
conversationally.  "Also in other cases where confession is good for
the soul.  The only time I have actually seen it employed myself was in
Australia in a mining camp.  One of the miners had committed the
unforgivable sin of stealing another miner's gold.  And he'd hidden it.
So in order to find out where, they tried this method.  It succeeded,
and then there was no reason to delay shooting him any longer."

The sweat was beginning to pour down the man's face.

"It's generally about the tenth journey," continued Drummond, "that you
think your leg is going to burst.  About the fifteenth you wish it
would, and near the twentieth you're sure it has.  We've just got to
six now, so there's still plenty of time to go.  And I should like
confirmation of those figures."

But the man had had enough; his head was nodding furiously.  And at a
sign from Drummond, Darrell removed the handkerchiefs.

"So you have decided to speak," said Drummond.  "Good.  But let me warn
you of one thing.  If I detect you in a lie I'll continue this
treatment up to thirty."

"What is it you want to know?" said the man sullenly.

"What took place here this afternoon.  Why has Miss Venables been here?
Who drugged Mrs. Eskdale?  Who shot my bulldog?"

"I can't answer the first one, and that's straight.  A girl was here,
and her name may have been Venables, but why she was here I don't know.
Two of us got orders..."

"Who from?" snapped Drummond.

The man hesitated, and Drummond half raised the strap.

"Look here, if I tell you all I know will you promise to let me go?"

"I won't promise, but I will give it my favourable consideration," said
Drummond.  "I should hate to see more of you than I need.  Now, who
gave you your orders?"

"I don't know his name; none of us do," said the man.  "I've never even
seen him."

"How do you get your orders?"

"Either by telephone, or in a typewritten letter.  This time it was by
telephone."

"Go on," said Drummond curtly.  "What were your orders?"

"To go to a certain hotel near Cambridge and await further
instructions."

"What happened then?"

"We were joined by a man I'd never seen before, and we got into his car
and came here.  The girl's car was standing outside the door, and the
man led the way into this room, where she was talking to the old woman
upstairs.  She turned as white as a sheet when she saw him, and clung
to the other woman who tried to protect her.  It was then the bulldog
turned nasty and the man shot him with that rifle.  The girl tried to
run away, but the man caught her by the gate and brought her back.
Then while we held her he gave her an injection with a hypodermic
syringe in her arm.  And the old woman, too.  In a few seconds they
were both unconscious, and we carried one to the car and the other
upstairs."

"What a pretty party," said Drummond quietly.  "Go on."

"That's about all," said the man.  "My friend drove the girl's car
away; the man took her at the back of his own.  And I was told to lie
up in those bushes and watch the cottage."

"With that gun?" remarked Drummond dryly.

"That had been forgotten, so I took it with me."

Drummond lit a cigarette and turned to Darrell.

"What do you make of it, Peter?  Do you think this mess is speaking the
truth?"

"His story fits, old boy," said Darrell.  "But what I would like to
know is this.  Do you usually go round acting blind on the instructions
of a man you've never seen before, when they entail drugging women and
trifles of that sort?"

"My orders were to obey him," answered the man.

"You mean the orders you received over the telephone from your other
boy friend," said Drummond.  "I should like to hear a little more about
him.  You said none of you knew his name.  Am I to understand that
there are many bits of work like you about the place?"

"There are several."

"My God! you shake me to the marrow.  Is it a sort of secret society?"

"We do what we are told," said the man.

"Charming; charming," remarked Drummond.  "You aren't by any chance
members of the Key Club, are you?"

The man stared at him blankly.

"I don't know what you are talking about," he said.

"That's either very good acting, Peter, or it's the truth.  And so
either the Key Club is a further invention of this lovely lady, or we
have two societies.  Aren't we lucky chaps?  To return, however, to
your own private one, my friend.  The motives that actuate it are, I
take it, entirely criminal."

For the first time a very faint smile flickered round the man's lips.

"They would hardly stand an appeal to the House of Lords," he said.

"Excellent.  And do you receive adequate remuneration from this man
you've never seen and who presumably is your Lord High Mukkaduk?"

"We don't do it for love," remarked the other.

"You surprise me," said Drummond.  "Now there's another question.
Could you describe the man in whose car you came here, and who drugged
the two women?"

"Medium height; dark eyes; rather saturnine face."

"A description which might fit my visitor of last night, Peter.  On the
other hand it fits numbers of other men.  Well--the mystery increases.
If it was him it goes to confirm his story to me in the car.  However
we'll go into that later.  The first thing to decide is what to do with
this blighter."

"For God's sake, gentlemen, don't give me up to the police," cried the
man earnestly.  "I swear that what I've told you is the truth so far as
I know it, and you half promised you'd let me go if I spoke."

"And yet the police would be highly edified," said Drummond.  "A young
army of people like you all doing what you're told.  And they would let
you off nice and light if you turned King's Evidence."

"It isn't what the police would do," answered the man.  "If it came out
that I'd told even you what I have my life wouldn't be worth a moment's
purchase.  But that damned strap would make a deaf mute speak."

"It is certainly an aid to conversation," agreed Drummond cheerfully.
"Well--I'll think about it.  You can stop here till I'm sure Mrs
Eskdale is comfortable, and then we will decide on your immediate
future  Peter, come upstairs with me."

"Well," he said as they entered the room where the old lady still
snored peacefully, "what are we going to do with him?  My own reaction
to the swab is that he has been speaking the truth."

"Same here, Hugh.  I don't think anyone could have invented that story
on the spur of the moment.  It accounts for everything that was
puzzling me before."

"Except the girl's object in coming over," objected Drummond.  "You say
to confirm the telegram.  But what could have made her suspect it in
the first instance?"

"We can't positively settle that till Mrs. Eskdale wakes up," said
Darrell.  "And it looks to me as if that wasn't going to be for some
time."

"Which raises another small point.  What are we going to do with her,
poor old dear?"

"Nothing we can do, except cover her up with an eiderdown and leave her
to sleep it off.  Write her a note, Hugh, saying we'll be along
to-morrow morning, and that until then you don't want her to say
anything to anybody."

"Her pulse is normal," said Drummond.  "I think she'll be all right
here."

"My dear old lad," cried Darrell, "we can't cart an unconscious woman
of her bulk round the country.  If you warn in one of her neighbours to
come and look after her there's not a single one of her pals who won't
believe she's not dead drunk.  And she'd hate that.  Honestly I think
she's perfectly safe here.  She can't be of the smallest importance to
the bunch we're up against."

Drummond pulled out his pocket book and began to scribble a note while
Darrell strolled to the window and looked out.

"Hullo!" he cried softly.  "It would seem that the tall gentleman is in
a hurry.  And he hardly looks like a local resident."

Drummond joined him, and together they watched a man in a dark suit
striding rapidly along the road away from the cottage.  He was fully a
hundred yards off, but even at that distance his great height was
noticeable.  Then he disappeared round a corner and the sound of a
self-starter came faintly to their ears.

"More motor-cars," said Drummond, pinning the note to the pillow.
"They'll have to have an A.A. man here soon to regulate the traffic.
Well, Peter--let's get on with it.  We'll allow this bloke to come with
us, and we'll drop him somewhere.  After all, he's only one of the
small fry, and I did more or less promise we'd let him go."

"What about the dogs?"

"Leave them here.  And incidentally that swab below can damn well dig
poor old Jerry's grave.  Go and find a shovel, Peter, and then set him
free, while I tuck up Nannie."

And he was just wrapping the eiderdown round her when a wild shout came
from Darrell.

"Hugh!  For God's sake, come here."

Drummond dashed downstairs and into the parlour.  Lolling forward in
the chair, and only kept in position by the rope which bound him, was
the man.  And a dagger had been driven up to the hilt in his heart.




CHAPTER V

For a while they stood there too stunned to speak.  The thing was so
utterly unexpected.  Not a sound had they heard upstairs, and yet
during the ten minutes they had been out of the room this unknown man
had been murdered.

"Must have been that tall man we saw striding up the road," said
Darrell at length.

"Whoever it was he must have struck from behind," remarked Drummond.
"This fellow would have shouted if he'd seen him."

He went into the kitchen and looked round.  The back door was open; and
on the stone floor were marks of earth.

"He must have come over the fields and stood here," continued Drummond.

"Where he heard every word that was said," remarked Darrell.

"Which confirms the story.  There would have been no object in
murdering that man if he had been lying.  At the same time, Peter,
there are one or two rather rum points about this.  The mischief was
already done: the beans were already spilt.  That poor devil could do
no more harm, and he certainly wasn't going to the police himself.  Why
then do the one thing which under normal circumstances is going to get
the whole yarn to the police through us quicker than anything else?"

"Vengeance," suggested Dan-ell.  "The murderer saw his chance and took
it."

"Perhaps," said Drummond.  "But vengeance loses much of its force if
the victim doesn't know it is coming.  And I refuse to believe that any
man would sit in a chair and let another man stab him without raising
Cain."

"Condign punishment then."

"Which could be meted out at any time.  Why run the appalling risk of
murdering this man knowing that we were upstairs?  Knowing that he
might not kill instantaneously, and that there might have been a cry
which would have brought us down?  Why take such a chance, unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless," said Drummond slowly, "the murderer _wants_ us to go to the
police."

Darrell stared at him.

"Wants us to," he echoed.  "Why the devil should he want us to?"

"To force our hands: to find out exactly what we know.  It sounds far
fetched, I know, but if you look into it it's not quite so fanciful as
it appears at first sight.  Supposing this afternoon, either here or at
the post office down the road they got hold of the actual wire I sent
Mrs. Eskdale.  The instant they read it they realised that I'd been
fooling them, didn't they?"

"That's so," agreed Darrell.

"Step two.  If I fooled 'em there, the strong probability is that I
fooled 'em before.  In other words I had received the original message.
Now if we go to the police about this I shall have to tell them the
whole story, which includes the contents of that original message.  And
how long do you think it will be in a place like this with local
constables and hordes of journalists before that message is public
property?"

"That's the last thing they're likely to want," objected Darrell.

"Is it?  That's just where you may be wrong, Peter.  Having failed to
get what they really wanted--namely the message to themselves
alone--isn't it possible that the next best thing is to share it?  Even
if they can't prevent A5's message reaching the people it is intended
for, at any rate they will be wise as to what it is."

"You think they'd murder a man for that?" said Darrell doubtfully.

"If they thought the contents of the message were sufficiently
important--yes.  And judging from their whole line of action they _do_
think that."

"There's something in it," said Darrell.  "But what are we going to do,
old boy?  We must report this, or we'll get into the most frightful
row."

"Admittedly, Peter, we must report his death.  But is there any
necessity to report anything else--anything else, that is to say, that
is true?  We arrived here to find Mrs. Eskdale unconscious, the bulldog
dead--this man murdered.  The other side will know that is a lie, but
they will think we are telling it because our own actions when we bound
him would hardly bear cross examination.  In other words that we are
frightened of mentioning that part.  Further, because Joe the postman
will certainly do it if I don't, we must account for the hole in the
window.  And, by Gad!  Peter, if Coldspur's tip for Lingfield has gone
wallop, we'll give the blighters another one to bite on.  There's big
stuff on here, old boy, and we've got to take a chance.  We'll tell the
truth in London, but if we tell it down here we're going to be detained
and the Lord knows what.  And what we want to do is to fade away as
unostentatiously as possible.  But if we're going to have a shot at
fooling these swine again we must do the obvious thing first, and
report to the local police."

"What about Mrs. Eskdale?" remarked Darrell.

"She complicates matters a bit, poor old darling.  For now that this
has happened we certainly can't leave her here.  Tell you what, Peter:
we'll have to get her up to my house in Town.  And you must take her
and the two dogs.  We'll wedge her up with cushions in the front of the
car, and you can drop me at Belmoreton down the road where the nearest
police station is.  I'll tell 'em the tale: you go on to London and
leave her in charge of Denny.  Then come back to the Royal at
Cambridge."

Luckily the road was deserted as they carried her down the path, and
with great difficulty got her into the car.  And having removed the
note from the pillow, and taken one final look round, they left the
cottage with its grim contents.

"You'll have the devil of a job to prevent her rolling off the seat,
Peter," said Drummond, as he got out in Belmoreton.  "But if she does
she's on the floor for keeps, so do your best."

He stood watching the car till it was out of sight: then he accosted a
passer-by.

"Police station," said the man.  "Down the street and first on the
right."

He found it without difficulty, and with growing amazement the sergeant
in charge listened to his story.  Two constables drifted in and stood
gaping: a dog fight outside went the full number of rounds unchecked.

"So there you are, my brave fellow," cried Drummond in conclusion.
"Murder and sudden death are loose upon your smiling country-side."

"It's the most amazing story I've ever heard," remarked the sergeant,
scratching his head.  "Have you your car here, sir?"

"I have not," said Drummond.  "My friend has taken Mrs. Eskdale up to
London in it.  So you'll have to raise another."

The sergeant gave an order to one of the constables, who left the
police station; and returned five minutes later in a taxi.  In some
inexplicable way the news that something was afoot had filtered round,
and a small crowd of listeners had collected in the street outside.
And the instant Drummond appeared a young man, with eagerness shining
all over his face, detached himself from the others and approached him
tendering a card.

  +-----------------+
  |                 |
  |  JOHN SEYMOUR.  |
  |  Eastern News.  |
  |                 |
  +-----------------+

"I'm a reporter, sir," he whispered excitedly.  "Just started.  Is
there anything big on, sir?  It will mean a lot to me if I can get in
first."

Drummond regarded him thoughtfully:  a pleasant-faced lad quivering
with keenness.

"There is something very big on, Mr. Seymour," he said with a smile.
"But as the matter is now in the sergeant's hands I'm afraid you must
ask him."

The boy's face fell.

"Can't you give me a hint, sir?" he pleaded.

"Didn't I see you standing by that perfectly good Norton over there?"
said Drummond.

"That's mine, sir," cried Seymour.

"There is your hint," said Drummond.  "My knowledge of motor bicycles
is not profound, but I would hazard a guess that you might be able to
keep pace with this antiquated box on wheels that we are going to go
in.  Now, sergeant," he added, as that worthy appeared.  "Are you
ready?  Because I want to get on as soon as I can."

It took them about twenty minutes to reach the cottage, and only once
during the whole drive did Drummond catch a glimpse of the Norton.  A
point which pleased him: evidently John Seymour was not unintelligent.
And the possibilities of having a tame journalist in his bag had struck
him immediately.

The cottage was just as he had left it, and he led the way up the path
followed by the sergeant and a constable.  Then, having flung open the
door he stood stock still.  There lay Jerry as before, but of the man
who had been stabbed there was no trace.  The chair was empty: the man
had gone.  So had the gun and Doris Venables' gloves.

It was the sergeant who broke the silence.

"Not much sign of the corpse, sir," he remarked a little sarcastically.

"Very little," agreed Drummond, still looking about the room.

"And you left the body lashed up in that chair?"

"I did," said Drummond.

"I suppose you felt the dead man's pulse?" asked the sergeant mildly.

Drummond stared at him: so that was his reaction.

"I did not," he said.  "It hardly seemed necessary when he had a dagger
sticking into his heart.  My dear sergeant, do you really imagine that
I've invented this story?"

The sergeant lifted his eyebrows.

"No, sir--not entirely.  What I do think is that the man was alive all
the time and fooled you."

"In what way was that possible?" demanded Drummond.

"Well, sir," said the other kindly, "I can think of one way at once.
Suppose he was just an ordinary sneak thief who came along to see what
he could steal.  You wouldn't believe, sir, the amount of money some of
these cottage folk keep hidden in their stocking.  While he's drugging
the old lady, the bulldog goes for him: so he shoots it.  Then as he's
searching the house he sees you and your friend arrive, and realises
he's caught.  So he lashes himself up as well as he can, and sticks the
dagger sideways through his clothes so that it looks as if he was
stabbed."

"A damned ingenious fellow,"  remarked Drummond enthusiastically.
"Though I should have thought it would have been simple to do a guy
through the back door."

Drummond was thinking hard.  Not having done so already, it was
impossible to tell the sergeant the whole truth, which, of course, put
the worthy officer's theory out of court.

"The only other theory is that he was murdered, as you say, and that
the murderer has since returned and removed the body," continued the
sergeant.  "My objection to that is--why not have removed it in the
first instance?  Why leave it here at all?"

"Possibly," suggested Drummond mildly, "he had nothing to remove it in."

The sergeant continued to expound, but Drummond hardly listened.  How
did this new development affect the situation?  He _knew_ what had
happened: he _knew_ the man had been murdered.  But was it worth while
endeavouring to convince the sergeant?  Or did it suit his book better
to let that officer continue to think that he had made a mistake?  And
the more he thought about it, the more did he incline to the latter
course.  It would save bother and prevent any possibility of his being
requested to remain at hand in case of further developments.

A shadow fell across the floor: John Seymour was standing by the open
window.

"Here's something for your paper, young man," cried the sergeant
cheerily.  "Who killed the bulldog and why?  Well, Captain Drummond, I
can assure you I will not let the matter drop.  And should we by any
chance catch anyone answering to your description of the man we'll get
in touch with you for identification purposes.  Can I give you a lift
anywhere?"

But an idea had been forming in Drummond's mind, and he turned to the
reporter.

"Have you got a carrier on your machine?"

"I have, sir."

"Then I wonder if you would give me a lift later?  I want to bury poor
old Jerry."

"Of course; only too delighted," cried Seymour.

"And possibly," added Drummond, "I might be able to supply you with a
paragraph for your paper.  All about those holes in the window and
trifles of that sort."

"Funny you should say that," said the constable, speaking for the first
time.  "Other people seem interested in them 'oles."

"What do you mean?" asked Drummond.

"When I was getting the car, sir," explained the man, "bloke came up to
me in the garage who seemed to know all about you.  Leastwise, he knew
you'd been here last night, and that a stone had been thrown through
your window.  'Funny thing to do,' says he.  'Must have had a message
wrapped round it.'  'Maybe it did, and maybe it didn't,' I answers.
'Anyway, I reckons it ain't no business of yours.'"

"Did he say any more?" demanded the sergeant.

"He asked me point blank if there was a message," said the constable,
"so I told him to go to hell."

"Excellent advice," remarked Drummond.  "Well, sergeant, I'm sorry I
haven't been able to supply you with a corpse.  I'll try and do better
next time.  And if you get hold of the blighter I'll come along and
give him a thick ear."

"Now, young feller," he said to Seymour when the two policemen had
gone, "you and I have got to do a job of work."

"What's that you were saying about a corpse, sir?" cried the reporter,
open-eyed.

Drummond laughed.

"Bad break on my part, wasn't it?  If you advertise that you've got a
corpse about the house it's always advisable to produce it when called
on.  But before we go any farther we'll bury this poor old chap.  There
are a couple of shovels outside."

It took them half an hour, during which time Seymour earned several
medals for suppressing his curiosity.  But when the ground was finally
smoothed over he could contain himself no longer.

"There must be a story here, sir," he cried.  "Couldn't you let me have
it?"

"Have some beer," said Drummond.  "You don't drink!  Excellent.  Nor do
I when there is none.  Now, Seymour, I've been thinking things over
while we buried Jerry, and I've come to the conclusion that you may be
of considerable use to me.  Not only that: you may be of considerable
use to yourself.  In other words, if you follow my instructions
implicitly I may be able to put you in the way of a thundering big
scoop."

The youngster's eyes gleamed.

"Unless I'm much mistaken, Seymour, there are some very big doings
afoot," continued Drummond; "doings which by an extraordinary freak of
fate started last night when a stone came through the window out of the
fog.  A message was wrapped round the stone--a message which certain
people in this neighbourhood are very anxious to get hold of, as you
may have gathered from what the constable said.  That message has been
destroyed, but I have it memorised in my brain.  To keep them quiet,
however, this morning I decided to fool them.  So by methods which I
won't go into now I got another message through to them--a false
message, which I hoped they would think was the real one.  Well,
whatever they may have thought of it at the time, subsequent events
have left no doubt in my mind that they know the second message was a
fake.  And so I propose to plant them with a third.  Which is where you
come in, for you are going to do the planting."

The reporter leaned forward eagerly.

"Now you've got to get one thing into your head; you will be dealing
with some very clever and dangerous men--men whom it is extremely
difficult to bluff.  So the thing must be done in the most natural way
possible.  And this is the way I suggest.  Can you get a small
paragraph into your paper to-night?"

"If it's worth it, sir--of course."

"You must see that the sub-editor does think it's worth it.  Head it:
'Extraordinary Story of Fen Cottage.  Message from the Night.'  And
then--darn it, I can't do journalese.  What I want you to imply is that
this message came, and that you know the contents, but that you're not
allowed to divulge them as yet."

"I get you, sir," cried Seymour, scribbling rapidly in a notebook.
"How does this sound?"

"'From our special correspondent.  Belmoreton.'

"Your headings are good--then...

"'I have just heard a most mysterious story from Captain Drummond of
London, who has been staying in a small cottage near here...'

"Why were you staying here, sir?"

"Duck shooting," said Drummond briefly.

"'For the duck shooting.  The night before last, during a period of
dense fog, a large stone was flung through his window, with a piece of
paper wrapped round it.  On the paper was written a message.  The fog
was so thick that Captain Drummond was unable to find the man who did
it.  At first he thought it must be a practical joke, but yesterday
afternoon, on returning to the cottage, he found his favourite bulldog
shot dead on the floor.  He at once got into touch with the police, who
are investigating the matter.  At present I am not at liberty to
disclose the nature of the message.'

"How's that, sir?"

"Excellent," said Drummond.  "Now we come to the next and more
important point.  And here I've got to rely entirely on you.  Within an
hour of that appearing--or I'll eat my hat--you will be got into touch
with by ingratiating gentlemen who will treat you as their long-lost
brother.  And then, young feller, it's up to you.  You've got to
divulge the contents of that message, so that they really believe
you're speaking the truth.  Register outraged indignation to start with
at the bare thought of passing it on; then weaken gradually and sting
'em for a pony at least.  And, above all, don't let 'em think I told
you: pretend you heard it from the police.  Get me?"

"You bet I do," cried Seymour.  "And what is the message?"

"'Rosemary.  BJCDOR,'" said Drummond.  "That will do as well as
anything."

"And what was the real one?"

"That, perchance, in due course you shall know.  But not at present.
It isn't that I don't trust you, Seymour, but in a case of this sort
the fewer people there are in the secret the better."

"And where am I to get in touch with you again?"

"The Senior Sports Club, St. James's Square, will always find me," said
Drummond.  "Drop me a line there if anything happens.  And now get me
to Norwich as quick as you can.  I'll hire a car there to take me to
Cambridge."

"Aren't you going back to London, sir?"

"Not till to-morrow.  So if anything happens before lunch, get on to
the telephone to me at the Royal.  Or, better still, come over on your
bike and see me personally."

He took a last look round the room; then, having closed the front door,
he walked down to the gate.  The road was apparently deserted, but for
a long time he stood under cover of the bushes, peering up and down it,
while Seymour stared at him in surprise.

"Never forget, young feller," said Drummond, "that there are games in
this world where one mistake is one too many.  And this particular game
comes into the category.  We go to the right, don't we, to get to
Norwich?  But before we finally decide we'll just try a little
experiment.  If we get the gate open, can you start the bike on the
path here?"

"I can," said Seymour.

"I have a hunch," continued Drummond, "that in a moment or two we are
going to have some fun.  Hold the gate, and I'll get the bike in."

He was out in the road, and back with the bike in something under a
couple of seconds, and Seymour gazed at him open-mouthed.  For Drummond
was smiling grimly, and in his eyes was a queer look of excitement.

"As I thought, Seymour.  Was it my sudden appearance that frightened
those birds in that small tree down the road there, or was it someone
who moved on the ground underneath them?  Moved when he saw me.  Now,
look here, my lad, are you game to take a risk?"

"Of course I am.  But what sort of risk?"

"The risk of being shot.  Because, unless I am much mistaken, you will
shortly have what is generally alluded to in all romantic literature as
your baptism of fire."

"I'm on, sir.  What am I to do?"

"Stout feller.  Start your engine, and when I'm up behind you, go out
through the gate and turn _left_.  Then swerve.  Keep on swerving from
one side of the road to the other till we are round the bend.  Then go
all out.  Ready?  Let her rip!"

The bicycle shot into the road, with the two men up on it.

"Swerve!" shouted Drummond as something spat through the air close to
their heads.  "And again."

Phit!  Phit!  Two more bullets pinged past them, and then they were
round the bend.

"Now all out," said Drummond quietly.  "Well done, boy, well done.
There aren't many fellows of your age who can say they've been under
fire."

"But this is grand," cried the youngster as the bike touched sixty
miles an hour.  "What next?"

"See that barn in front of us?  Turn in there.  We'll wait and see."

The Norton slowed down, shot through an open gate and into an empty
barn.

"Quick!" cried Drummond.  "Out of sight, and stop the engine."

And the instant he had done so they both heard away in the distance the
roar of a racing engine.  It was rapidly coming nearer, and through a
chink in the wall they both peered out.  Rocking from side to side like
a thing possessed, a long, low, black car hurtled past the barn.  The
driver was crouching over the wheel, and the man behind him seemed to
be urging him on to even greater speed.

"Just as well we pulled in," said Drummond calmly.  "They've got the
legs of us.  Now back the way we've come, and stamp on her again,
Seymour."

And twenty minutes later Drummond found himself in Norwich for the
second time that day.

"Cheery little bunch, aren't they?" he said with a grin.  "It's lucky
for us I had that hunch at the cottage.  Otherwise I'm afraid there
would have been a little advertisement in the paper: For Sale.  1933
Norton.  Property of the late Mr. John Seymour."

"How dared they do it, sir?  It would have been murder on the high
road."

Drummond laughed.

"You'll see quite a lot of that before you've finished this trip," he
answered.  "But don't forget: no mention of what's happened in the
paper."

When suddenly Seymour gripped his arm.

"Look, sir, look!" he stuttered; "there's the car itself!"

Drummond glanced across the square: there was no mistaking that long
black body.  The two occupants were just getting out, and he noted that
the one who had sat beside the driver was immensely tall, even as the
man Peter and he had watched striding away from the cottage had been.
And at that moment an impulse that could not be resisted overcame him.
Straight across the square toward them he sauntered, and they met in
the middle.  And meeting, stopped dead in their tracks while a man may
count thirty.  Then Drummond spoke.

"You exceedingly damnable swine," he drawled.  "Unless you'd proved it
to me I wouldn't have believed it possible that anyone could be such an
incredibly lousy shot.  Do you want a stationary hayrick at five yards?"

Not a muscle moved in the tall man's face; for all the effect it
produced the remark might never have been made.  He just stared fixedly
at Drummond with a thoughtful look in his eyes, whilst past them
drifted the sleepy afternoon traffic.  Then, still in absolute silence,
he signed to his companion and the two of them continued on their way.

Drummond watched them till they were out of sight, then he lit a
cigarette.  And being perfectly fair with himself he had to admit that
that round was the tall man's.  Though absolutely without nerves
himself, there was something far more ominous in that complete silence
than in any threats he might have used.  And since he never made the
fatal error of underrating an opponent, it was in a somewhat
contemplative mood that he rejoined Seymour.

"What did he say, sir?" cried the youngster eagerly.

"He didn't," said Drummond shortly.  "I rather wish he had.  And you
can take it from me, young feller, that it's going to be a case of
watching your step from now on.  There's a phrase about sticking at
nothing, which is generally more metaphorical than literal.  In his
case it isn't."

His eyes strayed across the square to the big black car, and he grinned
faintly.

"Why not?" he murmured.  "Why indeed not?  I must now get a taxi--or
its equivalent.  Follow me in a few minutes towards Cambridge.  But
wait a bit and see if anything happens."

With fascinated eyes the young reporter followed Drummond as he
leisurely crossed the square.  Saw him approach the black car and
glance round.  Heard the sudden roar of the engine instantly throttled
down.  And then, to his unspeakable and unholy joy, watched it
disappear round the corner.

"Golly! what a nerve!" he muttered ecstatically to himself.  "What
gorgeous brass!  And here, as I live, is the ruddy shover."

The man crossed the square to where he had left the car, and then
stared about him bewildered.  Until what had happened dawned on him,
and he retraced his steps at a run.  The tall man had just appeared and
the two met not twenty yards from where he was standing.  Cautiously he
edged closer, only to halt abruptly at the sight of the tall man's
face.  For it was set like a frozen mask, but through that mask there
gleamed such concentrated rage that it was as if the devil himself
stood there.  Then the look vanished, but the youngster was still
standing motionless five minutes after the two men had disappeared.  It
seemed to him that he had seen the naked essence of evil.

After a while he pulled himself together and started his engine.  He
knew the road to Cambridge by heart, and his brain was full of other
things as he rode along.  What an amazing adventure he had blundered
into!  Sheer luck, too, that he had happened to be in Belmoreton that
afternoon.  What a glorious scoop it was going to be!  And he had just
visualised himself choosing which offer from countless London editors
he would graciously accept when he saw Drummond standing in the road
ahead, and pulled up.

"Had they found out when you left?" asked Drummond.

"They had.  And I've never seen such rage incarnate on a man's face."

"I don't expect he was pleased," said Drummond happily.  "And he'll be
even less so when he finds the car."

"Where is it, sir?"

"Just in there.  On top of a nice little disused chalk pit.  When we've
finished it will be at the bottom.  Ever seen such a car go over a
cliff, Seymour?  You haven't?  Nor have I.  I think it ought to be
great fun."

"Won't there be an awful stink about it?"

"I think not," answered Drummond.  "You see, as I view the matter, Mr.
Longshanks is hardly in a position to raise even the smallest aroma,
let alone a stink.  And so we are quite safe in making his shoot this
afternoon as expensive as we can.  I admit that it rather goes to my
heart to smash up such a perfectly glorious bus, but in this weary
world one can't have everything."

He switched on the engine as he spoke.

"I'll keep the clutch out with my hand," he continued, "and you get in
and put her in bottom.  Then pop out and we'll let her go."

The car was standing two yards from the top of the quarry, with a few
small bushes between it and the edge.  It shot forward, seemed to hang
in space for one dizzy instant, and then with a dreadful rending noise
it crashed downwards out of sight.  Came a last coughing grunt from the
engine, then silence.

"That will give some of your fraternity a chance to do a bit of
Sherlock Holmes work," said Drummond as they walked back.  "Though it
may be some days before it is discovered; you can't see it from the
road as you go past."

"Shall I take you to Cambridge now?" said Seymour.

"You shall not," remarked Drummond with a grin.  "Your girl friends
must be a deuced sight more adequately protected than I am if they can
stand that carrier of yours.  I've still got partial paralysis of the
spine.  Run me to Thetford and I'll get a car there."

And it was just on eight o'clock when Drummond, with the pleasurable
feeling of something accomplished, something done, paid off his driver
and once again entered the hospitable doors of the Royal to find Peter
Darrell and Ronald Standish waiting for him.

"Splendid, old boy," he cried to the latter.  "Delighted you could
come."

"I brought him along," said Darrell.  "I've already told him the main
points."

"He has indeed," remarked Standish gravely.  "You've bought it this
time, Hugh, with a vengeance."

"Do you know anything about these blokes?" asked Drummond eagerly.

"Enough to assure you that your chances--and Peter's, too--of
celebrating your next birthday were a hundred per cent. better this
time yesterday than they are at the present moment."

"Don't 'e talk lovely, Peter?" laughed Drummond.  "As a matter of
fact," he continued seriously, "I realised we were up against a pretty
tough lot.  You remember that good-looking, tall man we saw in the road
walking away from the cottage?"

"The fellow who stabbed our bird?"

"That's the gentleman.  He's let drive at me three times already with,
I should imagine, the actual gun we got hold of.  Listen, boys--for I'm
telling you."

"Mad," grinned Standish when he had finished.  "Mad as a ruddy hatter."

"Can you place him, Ronald?"

"Not at present.  Six feet six, you say?"

"At least.  And with a pretty powerful punch I guess if he knows how to
put 'em up."

"And you pinched his car and dropped it over a precipice.  Gorgeous.
Maybe a trifle crude, but nevertheless definitely creditable."

"But look here, Ronald, if you don't know the bird, why so morose over
Peter's and my next birthday cake?"

"Because I do know the Key Club," said Standish quietly.  "Or, at any
rate, of them."

"Splendid," said Drummond.  "Let us gargle together, and then you have
our ear."




CHAPTER VI

Ronald Standish glanced round the lounge, then he led the way into a
small alcove.

"Not," as he explained, "that I think anyone here is likely to be
interested in our conversation, but I want to keep you two fellows out
of sight as much as possible.  I don't matter--yet; but you are known.

"The Key Club started a few years after the War in Central Europe.  The
members used to wear a tiny key as a badge in the lapels of their
coats, which was supposed to signify the unlocking of the door leading
to a more satisfactory world.  Things were in a shocking state,
especially in Germany and Russia, and quite a number of similar
societies sprang up, flourished for a time, and then they died
painlessly of their own utter futility.  For some reason or other,
however, the Key Club survived.  Branches began to appear in France,
and finally in England, and it became, in fact, an international
organisation.  Members were pledged amongst other things to abolish
war, and so long as it remained at that nobody cared.  They talked the
hell of a lot and there it ended.

"And then about four years ago there occurred a very startling
development.  At the time I was on a special job which entailed me
being for the greater part of the day at the War Office.  And one
morning a peculiar-looking bird rolled up and asked to see someone to
whom he could impart information.  He hadn't any appointment; he didn't
seem to know anyone by name, and so one of the messengers decided to
send him to me.  He got through on the 'phone and I told him to send
the man up.  All sorts of crazy blokes come along with useless schemes,
and I was prepared for him to be one of them.  And when I saw that
little key in his buttonhole I was certain of it.  To my amazement,
however, he produced from his pocket the formula of a new high
explosive which he told me had just been perfected by the French.  Now,
we happened to know that the French had been experimenting on those
lines, and therefore the information, if true, was of value.  But
since, so far as I was concerned, it might have been the formula for a
new baby food, I passed the word along for an expert to come and vet
it.  And his report was that, though he could not possibly say what
value there was in it without practical experiment, it undoubtedly was
an explosive of sorts.

"'How did you get this?' I asked my visitor.

"'That," he answered, 'is nothing to do with you.  There it is, and
good day to you.'

"I stared at him open-mouthed.

"'But look here,' I cried, 'don't you want any payment for it?  We
shall have to make a few inquiries first, of course.'

Make any inquiries you like,' he said.  'The thing is yours.'

"And he stalked out of the office, leaving the chemical wallah and me
gaping at one another.  Birds with worthless stuff to sell I had met,
but a man with valuable information to give was a bit of an eye-opener.
And when we discovered that it undoubtedly was the genuine formula of
this explosive our amazement increased.  The man had vanished, and I'd
been too thunderstruck at the time to have him followed.  I'd got his
card but there was no address on it, and at that the matter rested for
a few weeks, when the next extraordinary development took place.

"Through devious channels we discovered that Germany, Italy, Japan,
America--in fact every Power that counted--had been presented with the
same formula, free, gratis and for nothing.  Which, as you can imagine,
caused a positive riot of joy amongst the French military authorities.

"However, that was their funeral; what was intriguing us was the reason
for such an apparently pointless thing.  That the secret must have been
obtained by bribing some Frenchman was obvious, but why _give_ it away?
More than that, why give it to everybody?  And at last we were forced
to the conclusion that the motive underlying it was a sort of perverted
idealism.  These people realised it was impossible to stop research
work: that first one country and then another would be bound to get
hold of something which would place that country temporarily at an
advantage.  Their notion, therefore, was that if they could find out
what that something was each time and pass it on to everybody else, the
temporary advantage would be gone and we'd all start level again.
Crazy--if you like--and yet there, staring us in the face, was the
actual proof of the pudding.  The composition of the new French high
explosive was public property.

"Now, all this is, of course, stale news.  But I think it's rather
important that you should get hold of things from the beginning.  And
so we've got to the point where the members of this club ceased being a
harmless hot-air factory and began to act.  Still more or less
harmless, it is true: since everybody was put wise, nobody gained.  But
a new agency had definitely arisen, though no action could be taken
against it: it had done nothing wrong or criminal.  So the powers that
be held a watching brief and waited.

"For two years nothing more happened.  Reports came in from time to
time showing that the members were still holding meetings, but at that
it remained.  And then one day--I don't know if you remember the case
in the papers--a man was found dead in his bunk in the Harwich-Hook of
Holland boat.  At the first glance it looked as if death was due to
natural causes, but when the steward turned him over he saw to his
horror that a dagger had been driven up to the hilt in his heart.  It
was a tiny weapon, but quite large enough to kill him."

"Are we getting a line here, I wonder?" said Drummond thoughtfully.
"It was quite a small one this afternoon."

"Quite possibly," said Standish.  "To resume, however.  The strange
thing about the man on board was that there was literally nothing by
which to identify him.  There were no letters in his pockets; his
passport had disappeared.  His clothes and underwear were not marked,
and beyond the fact that his overcoat and hat had both been bought at
Harrods there was no indication whatever as to who he was, or even as
to his nationality.  He looked English, but that was about all that
could be said for it.

"Naturally there was the devil of a commotion when the boat reached
Harwich.  The murderer was on board, but it was manifestly impossible
to detain over three hundred people.  And so, after the police had
taken every passenger's name and address, the boat train proceeded to
London, and the stewards and everyone else on board were put through
the hoop.

"The results were meagre.  The cabin steward stated that the man spoke
English, but was not prepared to say whether he was an Englishman or
not.  He also stated that he was carrying with him an attach case.  Of
this he was positive; he had seen it lying on the bunk whilst the man
had been out of the cabin just after leaving the Hook.  To the best of
his belief the man had turned in about half an hour after they sailed,
but he couldn't swear to it.  And more than that he couldn't say.

"The bar-room attendant was the next man to be questioned.  He said
that the man had ordered a whisky and soda and some ham sandwiches
before the boat started, and that he had remained in the bar for about
twenty minutes.  He had not actually seen anyone speak to him, but that
did not of necessity mean that no one had, as several men had been in
the bar at the time and he was busy serving them.  He, too, was not
prepared to say if the man was English, though he rather thought it.

"And then a rather significant fact came to light.  About a quarter of
an hour after they had sailed, and so presumably after he'd finished
his sandwiches, the man had gone to the lavatory to wash his hands.
The boy in charge was certain of that fact because he had stood beside
him holding a towel in readiness.  And while he was standing there, and
the man was leaning forward over the basin, the boy noticed that a
small key was fixed to the back of the lapel of his coat.  That key was
not found on the dead man.

"At the time the local police attached no importance to it: they had
never heard of the Key Club.  And it wasn't until the information
reached head-quarters that its significance was realised.  The boy was
questioned over again and stuck to it, and since it wasn't the sort of
thing anyone would be likely to invent it was accepted as a fact.  The
man had been a member of the Key Club.

"The point, however, that occupied us was whether there was any special
significance in this; did it give a clue to the motive for the murder?
Robbery was ruled out--the man's money was intact.  If it was revenge,
or if a woman was at the bottom of it, would the murderer have bothered
to remove the key?  But if there was a connection between the crime and
the badge it was obvious that he would take it off.  It was by the
merest chance that the key had been seen at all; and but for the boy in
the lavatory no one could have known anything about it.  Had the dead
man, therefore, been guilty of treachery or something of that sort, for
which death was the penalty?  The trouble was that from what we knew of
the Club up to date, it was not an institution that patronised murder.
It was almost as baffling as if it had been the Salvation Army involved.

"In due course the man was buried, still without any clue to his
identity.  And since the affair had considerable publicity in the
English Press, it seemed probable that the man was not an Englishman.
A full description of him had been given, and it was almost incredible
that he should have no kith or kin.  And then one day about a week
after came the next development.  An extraordinary letter was received
at Scotland Yard, which the authorities at first believed to be a hoax."

Standish took out his pocket-book.

"I made a copy of it at the time, and after I'd seen Peter this
afternoon I looked it out.  Here it is."

He passed a sheet of paper over to Drummond.


_With reference to the recent murder in the Harwich boat, why was Mario
Guiseppi stabbed at the corner of the Strada Marino in Genoa two days
before it happened?  What was in the lost attach case?  The Key Club
still maintains its ideals, but there is treachery at the top._


"There was no signature," continued Standish, "and the postmark was
Kensington.  The handwriting was an educated one; the paper was the
ordinary stuff you can buy anywhere in a penny packet.  So the police,
not thinking anything would come of it, got into touch with Genoa, and
somewhat to their surprise found that a man named Mario Guiseppi had
been stabbed at the corner of the Strada Marino two days before the
murder in the boat.  And further inquiries elicited the very important
fact that Guiseppi was a skilled draughtsman in the employ of the
Italian Navy who had been working on some extremely confidential
drawings with regard to their latest submarine.

"Things were moving, though they were still pretty dark.  Had the man
who was murdered in the boat brought copies of these plans from
Guiseppi, and the transaction been discovered?  Had Guiseppi been
killed as a punishment for being a traitor to Italy, and the man in the
boat been murdered in order to get the tracings back?  It seemed
possible, and the list of passengers was scrutinised.  There was no
Italian in it, though that, of course, didn't prove anything.

"So the Yard advertised and broadcasted for the anonymous writer of the
letter.  They were discreet in what they said, though naturally it was
necessary to be explicit enough for the man to know whom the
advertisement was intended for.  And that, I fear, is what did it.  The
morning after the broadcast a man was found with his neck broken, lying
in some bushes in the small garden of a house in Kensington.  It
transpired that he occupied the fourth story of the house, which was
let as rooms, and that the preceding night he had had visitors who had
stayed late.  So much the lodger underneath him could say, as the
visitors were still talking when he had gone to bed.

"The extraordinary thing was that no one seemed to have seen these
visitors.  The landlady had not, but she had been occupied in the
basement.  And, since no one could get in without a latch-key, it
seemed clear that the dead man, whose name was Johnstone, had brought
them in himself.  Apparently he was a quiet sort of bloke, who went out
very little, and his main hobby was reading.  And at first the sergeant
who was called thought it might have been an accident, until an
examination of certain marks near the window convinced him that there
had been a struggle.  The lodger below had heard nothing, but he was a
sound sleeper and his bedroom was at the back.  At any rate, the
sergeant 'phoned the Yard, and Inspector McIver went down.  And the
first thing he noticed was that a specimen of the dead man's
handwriting on his desk corresponded with the writing in the letter.

"Now they thought they really had something to follow up, but once
again they were disappointed.  The only relatives they could run to
earth were two elderly female cousins who lived down in the West
Country and hadn't seen the dead man for ten years, and an uncle who
lived up North and hadn't seen him for fifteen.  Nor did he seem to
possess any friends; at least nobody volunteered to come forward.
There was nothing to help them in his correspondence, and the discovery
of the familiar small key in a drawer only confirmed what they already
knew from his letter.

"In fact--an _impasse_, and the Yard authorities were annoyed.  They
dislike unsolved murders, and here were two in the course of a few
days.  That there was a connecting link between them and the death of
the Italian in Genoa was obvious: that that link was the selling of
secret information with regard to the new submarine was likely.  But
beyond that stood a blank wall, from which there emerged during the
next few weeks only one further bit of evidence.  It transpired that
Guiseppi had been seen during the week before his death in the company
of two men both of whom had a key suspended to their watch-chains.
This information came from the proprietor of the small restaurant where
the draughtsman used to have his lunch, but he could give no
description of them that would not have fitted a hundred middle-class
Italians.

"And so for the time the matter rested.  The official theory was that
Guiseppi had sold information to the Key Club; had been discovered and
murdered.  That the emissary of the Key Club had in his turn been
murdered in order to obtain that information.  And that finally the man
Johnstone had been done to death too, to prevent him passing on what he
knew to the police.  But as to whether the same criminal or bunch of
criminals were responsible for all three, or what had happened to the
tracings there was no means of telling.  Certainly no offer was made of
them to the British Government as had been the case before with the
French high explosive.

"Six months elapsed before anything more was heard.  And then a very
remarkable fact came to our knowledge, which though it bore out in part
the police theory, also put the activities of the Key Club in a
somewhat different light.  You may remember that the time before they
had _given_ the secret to _all_ countries; this time they had sold it
to one.  Through devious channels we found that the French had bought
for a large sum of money the actual submarine details on which Guiseppi
had been working at the time of his death.  Abstract idealism had been
replaced by concrete realism."

"There was damned little idealism about my bloke this afternoon," said
Drummond with a grin.

"Just so," continued Standish.  "I'm getting to that now.  When this
last bit of information came to light we began making some pretty
searching inquiries.  It was all done on the quiet, naturally: there
was nothing criminal to take hold of.  And after a while, by piecing
together little bits from here and little bits from there, a much more
sinister aspect began to emerge; an aspect which bore out the letter
written by Johnstone.  He had called it treachery at the top; we called
it by another name.  For, in short, the Key Club had become a criminal
organisation, which was all the more dangerous in view of the fact that
ninety-nine per cent. of the members were totally unaware of any
change.  They were being exploited by a small nucleus of international
crooks--crooks who did not stop at murder.

"At first sight it seemed surprising; at second the only surprising
thing about it was that we hadn't thought of it before.  Here was a
society capable of getting at times highly confidential information.
And this society was insane enough to be inspired by ideals.  Why, some
of the big men must almost have fainted with horror at the thought of
what they were missing!  This milch cow already to hand, and nobody
doing anything about it.  The situation had to be remedied, and it was
at the trifling cost of three men's lives.

"When exactly the criminal element got in we couldn't find out, and it
was immaterial.  Obviously some time after the episode of the French
high explosive, and before the Guiseppi affair.  How many were actually
posing as members of the Key Club we didn't know--we don't know now.
One man in the inner councils would be enough to pass on information to
his pals outside.  But what we could do was to throw more light on the
Harwich boat murder, or at any rate the reasons for it.

"The man had been killed by some member of the nucleus who knew what he
was carrying in the attach case.  At the time of his death he was
undoubtedly on his way to the English Admiralty, from where the same
procedure would have been followed as before with the explosive.
Johnstone had been thrown from his window because by some means he had
found out more than it was advisable for a mere member of the rank and
file to know.  And Guiseppi had been stabbed--this was only surmise on
our part, but it fitted in--he had been stabbed to prevent any
possibility of his again passing on the information to some other
absurd idealist of the Key Club.  In fact the cat had pulled a very
plump chestnut out of the fire for the monkey to sell to France."

"How long ago was all this?" asked Drummond.

"About eighteen months.  Since then, as far as I know, they have done
nothing.  Now it looks as if they were on the warpath again."

"Any idea what they can be after?"

"Not an earthly.  I chucked the job I was on over a year ago.  But I
know all the boys who are still at it, and if--which is very
unlikely--they are wise to anything, we may be able to help each other
mutually."

"Why unlikely?" queried Darrell.

"If they're still hunting the same line of country, if as they did in
the case of Guiseppi they've bribed one of our people to give away some
secret, we shan't know anything about it till it's sold to a foreign
Power."

"Guiseppi was killed," said Drummond thoughtfully.  "Do you know if
anyone who would have been in a position to pass on information of
value has gone west?  There can't be a frightful number of 'em."

"Not that I know of," answered Standish.  "But that can easily be found
out.  In fact I'll do so now."

He rose and went to the telephone, to return a few minutes later.

"Definitely no one," he said.  "The Yard people were a bit curious as
to why I asked, but I rode 'em off.  I want to be on rather firmer
ground before bringing them in."

"Do you think the brick bunger is the Guiseppi of the piece?"

"It's possible.  Though it makes it difficult to follow.  They got him
back: that you saw with your own eyes.  So what more did they want?"

"The message he threw through the window."

"True, old boy.  But why, _if_ he's the Guiseppi this time, should he
throw a message through the window?  If he was the traitor, already
badly wounded, and trying to get away with his life, why bung a cryptic
and incomprehensible message into a cottage?  Surely on seeing the
light his first instinct would have been to come to the occupants for
sanctuary."

"But that's what defeats me whoever the bird was," cried Drummond.  "In
any event why didn't he come inside?"

Standish lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

"The point has been puzzling me ever since I first heard it from
Peter," he said.  "And I can think of only one solution.  We must
assume that the man was sane: the message, though we can't understand
it at present, was not gibberish.  This man, then, by some means which
we don't know escaped from Emil and Co., and was wounded in doing so.
He knew they were utterly unscrupulous and would stick at nothing.  And
so he reasoned as follows: 'If I go into that cottage and am found
there they will think nothing of killing the occupants of the cottage
in order to prevent the smallest chance of those occupants passing on
the information which they will assume I have told them.  And there
goes my last hope of getting that information through.  I will
therefore throw a message in and go on myself in the hope that it will
be found by the occupant and not by Emil and his friends.'  Which
incidentally is just what happened."

Drummond nodded.

"That's so.  Through a sheer fluke."

Standish shrugged his shoulders.

"One has always got to take a chance," he remarked.  "It came off, and
that's all that matters.  And it's not he who worries me most: it's the
girl.  I can't place her.  She tries to dope your tea; she makes every
endeavour she can to get hold of the message.  O.K. so far.  Nothing
inconsistent up to date.  On the way back she tells you about the Key
Club."

"Reviling the institution good and hearty," put in Drummond.

"That may or may not mean anything: the point is that she brought up
the subject.  Why?  She could have put up her little fairy tale about
Harold without mentioning the Key Club at all.  And if she is on their
side..."

He relapsed into silence and the other two stared at him.

"Surely she must be," cried Drummond.

"Something to it, Hugh," said Darrell.  "You know what that bird told
us this afternoon: she was drugged as well as Mrs. Eskdale."

"It's this way," said Standish.  "Her actions to start with don't tally
with her later ones.  To begin with she seems to be on the side of this
man Emil; subsequently she seems against him."

"Always provided it was Emil who did the drugging," put in Drummond.

And at that moment the hall porter put his head round the corner.

"One of you gentlemen named Captain Drummond?" he asked.

"What do you want, porter?" said Drummond.

"Telephone call from London, sir."

"How the devil does anyone know I'm here?" cried Drummond in surprise.

"May be Denny, Hugh," said Darrell.  "I told him to put a call through
in case the old lady came round."

Drummond nodded and went off to the box.

"It's a puzzler, Peter," remarked Standish.  "Why did that girl go back
to the cottage this afternoon?"

"All Hugh and I could arrive at was that she wanted to verify the
wire," said Darrell.

"But why?  What should have made her suspicious?  She must have
believed it to be genuine when she got it, or she wouldn't have acted
as she did.  What made her change her mind?  And stranger still.  If
she was allowed to receive it in the first instance without anyone
bothering, why should there be this feverish excitement over her
getting it repeated?"

"Ask me another.  The whole thing has got me guessing.  Where does this
tall bloke come in?  It must have been him who stabbed that wretched
devil.  Is he one of this criminal bunch at the top that you were
talking about?  Because unless that man he killed was the world's best
actor I'll swear he'd never even heard of the Key Club."

"It oughtn't to be difficult to get a line on him," said Standish.
"What was it, Hugh?"

"Denny right enough," said Drummond, rejoining them.  "Nannie has
recovered.  It was the telegram the girl went back about.  I've just
been talking to Nannie herself."

"How is the old dear?" asked Darrell.

"She's all right.  Still got the twitters a bit.  It seems the girl
arrived about five minutes before the men did.  Nannie was upstairs
changing her dress, and the girl waited in the parlour."

"Where presumably she read the wire as you sent it to Mrs. Eskdale,"
said Standish.

"No," answered Drummond.  "I specially asked her that.  The old lady
had torn it up.  All the girl wanted to see was the original message
that had come through the window.  Which put Nannie, somewhat
naturally, in a quandary as she hadn't any message.  And then, before
the old lady realised what was happening, the man appeared on the
scene, and she remembers nothing more."

Standish started to pace up and down with his hands thrust deep in his
pockets.

"This beats me," he said.  "Why should the girl have wanted to see the
original message?  If, which is extremely unlikely, she had discovered
it was Coldspur's tip she would have realised that you had been fooling
her, Hugh, from the word 'go.'  What possible object could there be in
that case of her going back to the cottage?  If, on the other hand, she
still believed the wire to be genuine, why bother to confirm it?  You
think, Peter, to make sure there was no mistake in it.  Perhaps you're
right.  But then--why drug her?  It doesn't make sense to me.  She was
allowed to handle and read the wire in the morning, and she is doped
when she tries to see the original in the afternoon.  By Jove! chaps,
there are some mighty rum points about this show.  Is this man Meredith
really the girl's uncle?  Where does he stand with regard to Emil?
Where do both of 'em stand with regard to Hugh's tall friend?  Are they
two separate gangs, and where does the Key Club come in?  Is the girl
with one and against the other, or is she against them both?  If so,
what is her game?"

"There's another thing, too, that I can't understand," said Drummond.
"No one is fonder of a thick-ear party than I am, but one doesn't go
about slaughtering people unless there's a good reason.  Why then is
that tall swine so matey?  Particularly with me.  If they think..."

He broke off abruptly.

"Hullo! young feller, what do you want?  Ronald--this is my friend Mr.
Seymour of journalistic fame."

The youngster gave a sheepish grin.

"Well, sir," he said, "I remembered what you'd said about passing on
that information.  So after I'd handed in the stuff to the sub-editor I
went into a pub in Belmoreton.  And I heard Tom the barman talking
about Mrs. Eskdale, and saying what a funny thing it was she'd taken to
racing.  So I pricked up my ears and asked a few questions.  And it
turned out that the man in the post office, who always has a bit on
every day, had been in there at lunch and had remarked on Mrs. Eskdale
having sent a wire containing a racing tip.  Joe wouldn't have thought
any more about it but for the fact that a stranger in the corner seemed
very interested, and asked a lot of questions.  The man from the post
office got suspicious and shut up, but the stranger went straight away
into the telephone box, and put through a long-distance call.  At least
Joe thought it must have been long-distance owing to the time it took."

"What time was this, Seymour?" said Drummond.

"I suppose about midday, sir, or half-past twelve."

"How do you fit that in, Ronald?"

"What time did the wire arrive at Hartley Court?" asked Standish.

"Just about midday too," said Drummond.

"So that you had left Hartley Court before there was any possibility of
this telephone message saying the wire was a fake reaching the other
side."

He turned to Seymour.

"Did your friend Tom, the potman, happen to mention any specific
question the stranger had put?"

"Apparently he was very anxious to find out whom the wire had been sent
to."

"And did the post office man tell him?"

"I couldn't tell you, sir.  But I know that he did say it was a
_Morning Leader_ tip, and that Coldspur was dead out of form just now."

Standish rubbed his hands together.

"Things became a trifle clearer, Hugh," he said.  "They saw at once
that the only person who could possibly have inspired the worthy Mrs.
Eskdale to send a bogus wire was you yourself.  And therefore they
realised you had been fooling 'em.  Hence the target practice this
afternoon.  What, however, is not so clear--in fact this information
has increased the fog--is their treatment of the girl.  It's difficult
enough to see why they should have drugged her when they thought it was
all genuine.  But why they should do so if they knew it was a fake is
beyond me.  If what Seymour tells us is correct--and from the activity
over there this afternoon I'm sure it is--they must have known there
was no message at all at the cottage."

"So must the girl," objected Darrell.

"I wonder," said Standish slowly.  "I wonder.  Supposing she didn't
know anything about it: supposing she believed the wire to be genuine.
She goes back to the cottage to make sure, and for some reason or other
that action arouses their suspicions.  Alternatively, suppose they
don't want her to find out the message is a dud...  I know it's
difficult to follow, but when you come across an apparently
inexplicable fact, you must be prepared to accept an equally
inexplicable solution.  If it fits...  In short, have we a parallel
with the Guiseppi case?  Is this girl the counterpart of Johnstone?  If
so..."

He paused and his face was grave.

"You mean she may be in danger," said Drummond.

"Exactly.  And I don't like it.  Not one little bit.  Men who indulge
in gun practice on an open road are not likely to entertain many
scruples over a mere girl.  Look here, Seymour," he continued, "you'd
better get back, and do exactly what Captain Drummond told you.  You
did excellently in bringing us this information; it's most valuable."

The youngster's face flushed with pleasure and Drummond smiled at him.

"You shall have your scoop, young feller," he said.  "Keep your ears
open and your mouth shut.  A good boy," he went on, as the roar of a
motor-bicycle announced his departure.  "He may prove useful.  What's
the next move, sergeant-major?  So far as I can see, everything we've
done up to date has been a waste of time."

"Let's adjourn to the abode of drink," answered Standish, "where in the
intervals of lowering a couple we might hear some local gossip."

The three men crossed the lounge and entered the bar, which was
deserted.

"Good evening, bright eyes," said Drummond.  "Will you with your own
fair hands decant some sherry?"

"Dry or sweet?" asked the barmaid.

"Dry, darling.  Tell me, have you ever in the course of your
peregrinations round the smiling country-side gone past a house called
Hartley Court?"

"Hartley Court," cried the girl, "belongs to Doctor Belfage."

"I had an idea that a man called Meredith was living there at present,"
said Drummond.

"Very likely.  The doctor often lets it to the racing set.  Two and
six, please!  At least, I suppose he didn't ought to be called a doctor
no more."

"Dear, dear," cried Drummond.  "Has he blotted his copy-book?"

"Not half he hasn't.  Got struck off the register about a year ago.
Fair scandal there was, I can tell you."

"How very reprehensible," remarked Drummond,

"Nasty little man he was, too," continued the girl.  "I wouldn't have
had him near me: him and his beastly animals.  Had a sort of zoo, he
did.  Taken 'em with him to his other house."

"And where might that be?" asked Drummond idly.

"Good gracious me," muttered the girl.  "Talk of the devil..."

A short, stout man had entered the bar.  His face was round and puffy;
his appearance oily and smug.

"Good evening, my dear," he said, washing his hands with invisible
soap.  "I think--yes, I think--a little drop of auntie's ruin with some
Angostura bitters in it.  Been a lovely day, gentlemen."

"Very," answered Drummond curtly, and glanced at Standish, whose face
was expressionless.

In the lapel of Doctor Belfage's coat was a small bronze key.




CHAPTER VII

"Funny, isn't it," remarked the barmaid, "that you should have been
saying...  Now then, clumsy, look where you're putting your great fat
hands."

"A thousand apologies, my dear," cried Standish, picking up the glass
he had knocked over.  "Let's have the other half.  It is strange, sir,"
he continued affably, "that just before you came in we were remarking
on the fact that outside the Navy one so rarely sees the good homely
pink gin being drunk.  Cocktails, yes: gin and French: sherry."

He rambled on, and the barmaid after one quick look of surprise took
her cue.

"And, by the way, sir," Standish was saying, "if it's not an
impertinent question on my part, may I ask if that badge you are
wearing in your coat has any special significance?"

"It certainly has, sir," answered the other.  "It is the badge of a
society to which I belong, and a meeting of which I am actually
attending to-night."

"Indeed," said Standish politely.  "Some local organisation, I suppose?"

"Far from it, I assure you.  I don't think I am exaggerating when I say
that its ramifications extend all over the world.  The Key Club, sir,
so called because it symbolises the unlocking of the door into an
improved world.  Many of the undergraduates here belong to it; there is
no entrance fee, and membership is open to all regardless of social
position."

"Most interesting," remarked Standish.  "Some time I must make further
inquiries about it."

"Would you care to come to the meeting this evening--you and your
friends?" asked the doctor.  "There will be no difficulty about it at
all.  Strictly speaking each member is allowed only one guest, but I
can easily arrange for other people to sponsor two of you."

"That is very good of you," said Standish.  "Where is the meeting being
held?"

"At a house of mine called Hartley Court.  It is at present let, but
the tenant is a keen member of the Key Club himself."

He glanced at his watch.

"We shall just be in nice time if we start now," he continued.  "The
house is about three miles out of Cambridge."

He looked at them inquiringly, and Drummond shook his head.

"I'm afraid I shan't be able to avail myself of your kind offer," he
remarked.  "I've got to be pushing off for London shortly.  But why
don't you two fellows go?  It ought to be rather interesting."

"Peter can't very well," said Standish.  "You've got that bloke coming
in at ten, old boy."

"So I have," cried Darrell.  "Forgotten all about him till you
mentioned it."

"But I'd like to come very much," said Standish, lighting a cigarette.
"I suppose it won't be a very late show?"

"About eleven o'clock.  And then we have an informal talk, with light
refreshments.  Well, good night, gentlemen."  He bowed to Drummond and
Darrell.  "I'm sorry you can't come."

The door closed behind him and Standish, and immediately the barmaid
became agog with excitement.

"What's the game?" she cried.  "What are you boys up to?  Be sports and
tell.  I played up over that pink gin."

"You did indeed, my dear," said Drummond.  "And I'd tell you like a
shot what we were up to if I knew myself.  I mean it, really; I promise
you."

"Tell that to the marines," she scoffed.  "Why didn't you want that
little horror to know you'd been asking me about Hartley Court?  Him
and his improved world!  I nearly gave the show away then by laughing.
Look here," she said shrewdly, "is there something crooked on?  Are you
guys detectives?"

"We are not," laughed Drummond.  "But..."

He paused as a page-boy came into the bar with a letter.

"Given me by a gent, sir, what's just left."

Drummond opened it, and found a hastily scrawled note from Standish.


_Safer neither of you come: even Peter might be recognised.  Don't know
if clumsy trap or pure coincidence.  Be on hand outside.  Keep that
barmaid's mouth shut.  Am taking Peter's car.  R.S._


He read it and handed it to Darrell.

"No, my dear," he said, "we are not detectives.  At the same time, you
can take it from me that there is a bit more in this than meets the
eye.  And I want you, please, to promise me something.  It's really
very important.  I want you to promise that you won't say a word about
it to a soul.  There's a big bet on, and if you keep quiet there's a
spot of money in it for me, and a fiver in it for you."

"A fiver!  Big boy, for a fiver an oyster would deafen you compared to
me.  For all that, I wish you'd tell."

"Honest, kid, there's nothing to tell as yet.  Thumbs crossed.  Later
on there may be lots, and you're for the front row of the stalls....  A
bit rum, Peter," he went on thoughtfully, "having a debagged doctor in
a moral uplift society."

"Probably joined before he got the bird," said Darrell.  "May have been
useful to him in his practice."

"I've seen other guys wearing that little key," announced the barmaid.
"Undergraduates mostly.  I thought it was some University club.  Pretty
pimply-looking lot they were."

"Do you know where that little man lives now?" asked Drummond.

"I don't," said the girl.  "He went right away from this part of the
country when the trouble took place."

"And one rather wonders, Peter, what brings him back," remarked
Drummond.  "I can't think that a meeting of his darned club, finishing
up with light refreshments at eleven, would prove a sufficient
inducement....  Give me some sandwiches, my pet," he continued, as some
men came into the bar.  "We will get down to 'em in that corner."

"What's the plan of campaign, Hugh?" said Darrell as they sat down.

"We'll have to be guided by events," answered Drummond.  "Personally, I
don't think Ronald is likely to find anything out that's going to help
us.  This meeting can't have been arranged to-day, so presumably it's
just in the ordinary course of affairs: part of the general smoke
screen which covers the doings behind.  In which case those attending
it will be perfectly harmless."

He glanced at his watch.

"No good our starting for at least another hour," he remarked.  "I'm
going to have a spot of shut eye.  Wake me if I snore."

It was one of Drummond's most remarkable traits--his ability to snatch
forty winks almost at will, and in a couple of minutes he was sound
asleep.  Darrell, on the other hand, had never felt so wide-awake in
his life.  Vaguely he heard odd remarks from the bunch gathered round
the bar, but his brain was busy trying to get some semblance of order
into the existing chaos.  What Standish had told them certainly threw
some light on the matter, but in all conscience light was needed.

That their trip to Kessingland had been a complete waste of time was
obvious, but what would have happened if they had not gone back via the
cottage?  Doing so had only been a last-minute decision and could not
have been anticipated by the other side.  And yet they had left a man
to watch the cottage.  Taking no chances evidently....  Even so, to
murder him for a trifling indiscretion seemed a bit drastic.

And the attempt on Drummond's life.  True, when it was made they knew
he had fooled them: true, they suspected even if they did not _know_
that he had been in possession of the genuine message the whole time.
But murder seemed out of all proportion when the contents of the
message were considered.  On the other hand, admittedly they could not
know what those contents were.


_Mary Jane.  Urgent G G Font.  A5._


What the devil did it mean?  Could it be that Mary Jane was the girl
herself--Doris Venables?  A nickname or something of that sort.  That
the message was actually intended for her?  In that case she must have
known there was something badly wrong, when she got Drummond's faked
wire.  A point; a definite point....  _Did_ she know?  Was she playing
some very deep game--deeper by far than the unfortunate Johnstone in
the Guiseppi affair?  And the more he thought of it, the more did he
become convinced that if Miss Doris Venables could be found and made to
talk, many things would become clearer.

The bar was getting more empty.  Drummond was still asleep, and Darrell
himself was beginning to feel drowsy, when, happening to glance at the
door, he saw something that instantly made him wideawake.  Not that he
gave any outward sign of it--Drummond had trained him far too well for
that--but every sense was on the alert.  Save for a narrow horizontal
strip at the top the door consisted of frosted glass.  And in the
centre of that strip was the face of a man.  He was looking straight at
their corner, and after a while he turned and spoke to someone who was
out of sight.  Then he disappeared, and Darrell touched Drummond on the
arm.

"Sorry to disturb your slumbers, old boy," he remarked, "but a guy has
been peering through the top of the door and giving us the once over.
He's gone now, but in case he comes back you'd better have a look at
his dial."

"Sure it was us he was interested in?" asked Drummond.

"Absolutely.  He was looking straight at us."

They waited a few minutes, but there was no further sign of him.  And
when at length the bar closed and they went into the lounge they could
see no one about the place who looked even remotely interested in their
doings.

"You can see that corner perfectly," said Darrell, and then he gave a
sudden exclamation.  "Come here, Hugh.  I'm six foot, and I can only
just see over the frosted glass.  I saw that bloke's whole face; I saw
his chin."

"Our tall friend?" queried Drummond thoughtfully and beckoned to the
hall porter.  "Has a very tall gentleman been in here recently?" he
asked.

"Yes, sir, there has.  He went about five minutes ago."

"Do you know his name?" asked Drummond.

"No, sir.  I ain't never seen him before."

The page-boy had drawn near and now spoke.

"Asked for you, sir, he did.  Captain Drummond.  I said as 'ow you were
in the bar, and I thought the gentleman had joined you."

Drummond nodded and turned away.

"Seems hard to shake 'em off, Peter," he remarked.  "Do we perceive in
this the hand of the unfrocked doctor?"

"He didn't know your name," said Darrell.

"No.  But with a face like mine I'm not hard to describe.  I'm open to
a small bet, Peter, that there are other activities on at Hartley Court
to-night, besides that fatuous meeting.  And it's on account of these
that Doctor Belfage has appeared on the scene.  It's unfortunate he
should have chosen to lower his pink gin at this pub, but it can't be
helped.  Of course the instant he arrived at the house he was told
about us, and realised he'd been talking to the very men who had caused
all the commotion.  Longshanks was there and came down to make sure."

"I hope old Ronald's all right," said Darrell.

Drummond laughed.

"I don't think we need worry our heads about Ronald," he answered.
"His only danger is the possibility that the light refreshments at
eleven may prove to be non-alcoholic.  No, Peter, it's you and I who
have got to watch it just at the moment.  And what I'm wondering about
is their next move.  Officially I'm going to London, and you're seeing
a man about a dog here.  But do they believe it?  If so, are they going
to take any steps to alter our plans?...  Good Lord!  Cabbageface, what
on earth are you doing here?"

A tall, somewhat languid man had just entered the hotel, followed by a
positive lorry-load of suitcases.

"Hullo, Hugh!" he drawled.  "The surprise is mutual.  Can one get a
drink?"

"If you're staying in the hotel, sir," said the hall porter.

"Clarence," remarked the new-comer, "I fear you will not rise high in
your profession.  Do you imagine I have taken those bags out of the car
merely to put them back again?"

"Peter," said Drummond, "meet Cabbageface, otherwise known as Major
Humphrey Gregson.  This is Darrell."

The two men shook hands.

"Often seen you playing at Lord's," said Gregson, "in the intervals of
my onerous duties at the War House."

"Are you travelling in underclothes or what, old boy?" demanded
Drummond, eyeing the pile of suit-cases.

"Not exactly," said the other with a grin.  "But honestly, Hugh, what
are you fellows doing here?"

"Investigating a spot of bother, Cabbageface," answered Drummond
guilelessly.

Gregson looked at him steadily over the rim of his glass.

"Ever the same old Hugh," he remarked quietly.  "Can it be possible, I
wonder, that this meeting is not quite so fortuitous as it appeared at
first sight?"

"Ronald Standish is here," said Drummond, with apparent irrelevance.

"The devil he is!  When did he come?"

"This afternoon."

"Is he in the hotel now?"

"No, Cabbageface, he is not," said Drummond deliberately.  "He is at
the present moment attending a meeting of a society known as the Key
Club."

Gregson stared at him blankly.

"Standish at a meeting of the Key Club!" he remarked in amazement.
"What in the name of all that's marvellous is he doing that for?"

"He was asked by a nice kind gentleman," said Drummond.  "So
incidentally were we, but Peter and I wouldn't play.  By the way, have
you ever heard of a doctor called Belfage?"

"No.  Why?"

"Or a man called Meredith?"

Gregson shook his head.

"Or a German named Emil?"

"Emil!  Medium height: dark: dangerous-looking customer."

"The description serves."

"That might be Emil Veight," said Gregson half to himself.  "Hugh," he
continued, "this is the most amazing affair.  Quite obviously we are
mixed up in the same show.  How on earth did you get pushed into it?"

For a few moments Drummond did not reply.  Then:

"What's your job at the War House, Humphrey?"

"Intelligence--though you might not think so."

"Hush-hush business you mean."

Gregson nodded.

"You can call it that if you like."

"If you were sending a report, or getting a message through, would you
always sign yourself by your own name?"

"I don't know that I'm quite prepared to answer that question, Hugh,"
said Gregson.  "A bit near the confidential, you know.  And we must
pretend to be hush-hush."

"You wouldn't perhaps sign yourself A2 or A3 or something like that?"
pursued Drummond imperturbably.

Gregson stared at him.

"Without committing myself," he said quietly, "let us assume for the
moment that I should."

"Good," remarked Drummond.  "You asked me how I got pushed into this
performance.  The reason was that someone who signed himself A5----"

"Ginger Lovelace!" cried Gregson involuntarily,

"Bunged a message through the window of a cottage I was staying in last
night," continued Drummond, ignoring the interruption.

"But why did he do that?" cried Gregson, utterly bewildered.

"Because he was wounded unto death," said Drummond gravely, "and Emil
and his damned bunch were after him."

"My God!" stammered Gregson.  "Ginger wounded!  Where is he now?"

"I can't tell you," said Drummond, "for I don't know.  Before I could
get hold of him he'd vanished into the fog.  And then Emil and Co.
appeared on the scene."

"What was the message, Hugh?"

Drummond looked round; there was no one near.

"'Mary Jane.  Urgent.  G G Pont.  A5,'" he said in a low voice.  "Can
you make head or tail of it?"

"'Mary Jane,'" repeated Gregson.  "'G G Pont.' What the devil was the
old lad talking about?"

"It means nothing in your young life then?" said Drummond.

"Absolutely nix," answered Gregson.  "Ginger wounded!  Have you been to
the police?"

"Yes and no, Humphrey.  It's much too long a story to go into now, but
rightly or wrongly I decided not to last night.  The cottage is not on
the telephone: you couldn't see your hand in front of your face: and I
had no idea who the bloke was.  In fact at the time the whole thing
completely defeated me.  But to-day's doings have produced one
certainty.  The gentlemen on the other side are prepared to go
literally to any lengths to get hold of the message I've just told you.
Now even if that message is beyond you, can't you throw some light on
things?  Why was Lovelace down here?  What's brought you down here?"

Gregson lit a cigarette.

"One at a time.  Lovelace has officially been on leave for a matter of
two months.  And with us, as you may know, that does not mean leave.
I'm not clear what he's been on: the Chief is a firm believer in not
letting the right hand know what the left is doing.  All I can tell you
is that he has been in Poland, and until now I thought he was there
still.  So much for Ginger.  Now for my show.  I was to come here
prepared for any eventuality; hence"--he grinned gently and waved a
hand at the suitcases--"a few props in the change-of-appearance line.
I was to meet a woman round about ten o'clock, and after I'd heard what
she had to say, I was to act entirely on my own initiative.  And it
being about ten now, the lady may shortly materialise."

"And she may not," said Drummond thoughtfully.  "It's beginning to fit
a little more, Peter.  Have you any idea what sort of a woman she is,
Cabbageface?"

"Not the slightest, old boy.  No more, I gather, had the Chief.  In
fact he was even less communicative than usual.  But he did mention the
Key Club, which proves that we are both chasing the same hare."

"Do you employ any women on your job?" asked Drummond.

"Certainly.  But none, so far as I'm aware of, actually in England."

"Your boss would know if this woman you're meeting was one of them?"

"Yes.  But that doesn't mean he'd of necessity tell me."

He looked at Drummond keenly.

"From the general tenor of your remarks, Hugh," he said, "you would
seem to have encountered a lady during the day's toil.  Have you?"

"Yes," answered Drummond.  "I'll make it as concise as I can,
Cabbageface, because Peter and I have a date."

Gregson listened without comment, and it might have been noticed that
the languid expression had completely disappeared.

"Doris Venables," he said, when Drummond had finished.  "She is a new
one on me, though that means nothing.  And you think it may be she who
got in touch with the Chief?"

"It looks possible.  She is obviously mixed up in this show, and she's
the only woman we've butted into up to date."

"In that case," remarked Gregson thoughtfully, "I doubt if I shall have
the pleasure of making the lady's acquaintance to-night.  They must
have found her out."

"Yes," said Drummond gravely.  "I'm afraid they have.  And if that is
so, from what I've seen of 'em I doubt if you'll ever make her
acquaintance.  Could you possibly get on to the Chief to-night?"

"Possibly: at his private house.  I can try."

"I wish you would.  It won't take you long to get through at this hour.
I'd like to know before we start."

"Where are you going?"

"To the house where the meeting of the Key Club is in progress.  Are
you coming?"

"I'd like to, but I'll tell you for certain when I've 'phoned the
Chief."

"I like it less and less, Peter," said Drummond as Gregson entered the
telephone box.  "I know she tried the dirty on me this morning, but the
more I think of it the more do I believe that Ronald's right.  I
believe that girl is fighting a lone hand; I believe that even if she's
not on our side she's against the others.  And they've got her--the
swine....  Well, Cabbageface?"

"Got straight through to him," said Gregson, as he joined them.  "He
does not know anyone called Doris Venables.  The woman who rang him up
gave no name.  But she mentioned the Key Club and Emil Veight: so I was
right there.  I'm to use my own discretion as to what I do."

"He didn't happen to say what time she rang him up, I suppose?"

"After lunch."

"So if it was little Doris, she must have done it on her way to the
cottage.  She went there to confirm the wire by seeing the original:
she then proposed to pass it on to you to-night and fixed an hour when
she knew this meeting was taking place, and she could slip away
undetected.  Is this bird Emil Veight well known?"

"Only to the select few, old boy.  High up in the German Secret Service
during the War, and since then a cosmopolitan spy."

"Cosmopolitan!" Drummond raised his eyebrows.

"International, if you prefer it," said Gregson.  "If the cash is there
he is prepared to work for anybody.  A thoroughly dangerous customer,
but if any blood-letting has to be done he generally leaves it to other
people."

"One other point, Cabbageface," remarked Drummond.  "I wonder why she
rang you up, and not Scotland Yard.  As a rule you blush unseen so far
as the outside is concerned."

"Only the lady herself can tell us that," answered Gregson.  "And since
it is now half-past ten I'm thinking there is not much use waiting for
her to do so here.  How far is this house you've been talking about?"

"About three miles.  Are you coming?"

"You bet your life I am.  I'll address the gathering if you like."

"Look here, Humphrey, we'd love to have you, but I don't want you to
come under false pretences.  Holding His Majesty's commission and all
that sort of stuff.  It's not the meeting I want to see: it's the other
activities--if any.  We're going to break into that house, and if we're
caught there's going to be trouble."

"My dear Hugh," said Gregson with a faint grin, "if one half of what
you have told me is correct, I can't quite see the proud proprietors
ringing up the police whatever we do.  So let's get on with it."

"Good for you," answered Drummond.  "But I thought I'd better warn you."

He crossed the lounge to a map that was hanging on the wall.

"The house is there," he said, "so we'll start in the opposite
direction and make a _dtour_.  The betting is a fiver to an orange pip
that this hotel is being watched, and it may help to put 'em off.
Let's go in your car, Humphrey, as it is outside."

The cinemas were emptying as they left the hotel, so that the street
was fairly crowded.  But they were clear of the town in a few minutes,
and Gregson let the car out.

"I'd like to see the type of bird who attends these meetings," said
Drummond.  "I should think Ronald must be having a gorgeous time.  Go
left here, Humphrey."

They got into a network of smaller roads as they circled round
Cambridge, and it was Darrell who first noticed that they were being
followed.

"No one who isn't loopy would come this way for fun," he remarked.
"There's been a car about two hundred yards behind us ever since we
left."

Drummond looked up from the map he was studying and turned round.

"I saw one of those little wasp effects standing near the entrance to
the hotel garage," he said.  "If it's the same you'll never get away
from it, Cabbageface.  I vote we stop and see.  We're in plenty of time
for the party.  Pull up round this corner, old boy, and switch off your
lights.  Stay in the middle of the road."

Gregson did so, and Drummond was out in a flash and into the ditch
followed by the other two.  The car behind them was just approaching
the bend, and he heard a sudden screech of brakes as the driver
realised that the headlights he had been following were no longer
there.  Then it pulled up with a jerk some ten yards from the deserted
car.

"Good evening," said Drummond placidly.  "I trust we are in fine
fettle."

The two occupants swung round, as a torch shone on them from behind.
They could see nobody, only a vague outline leaning over the back of
the car.  And then suddenly the outline was joined by two more.

"What the devil is the meaning of this?" spluttered the driver.

"Motor bandits, my dear boy," remarked Drummond.  "And now tell me all
that is in your heart.  Why, for instance, have you been following me
all over England?"

"You're mad, sir," cried the driver.  "Why should I want to follow you?"

"You're very pimply, Narcissus," said Drummond thoughtfully.  "And so
is your friend.  I once cured a man of pimples, but the treatment was
too drastic and he died.  So if you want to retain your pimples, and I
can quite realise you'd be unrecognisable without them, you will answer
my question.  Why have you been following me?"

"Go to hell," said the youth furiously.  "I've taken the number of your
car.  My friend and I are undergraduates, and you'll hear from the
police about this.  Do you imagine you've bought the blasted road?  Why
can't we drive where we like?"

"Not on your bath night, Narcissus.  I see you are members of the Key
Club."

"What's that to do with you?"

"Strange, isn't it, Peter?" remarked Drummond.  "They are certainly a
peculiar institution.  Unfrocked doctors, and half blues for cat's
cradle.  Well, my dear boys, you are shortly going to be the victims of
an abominable outrage.  England will ring with it: questions will be
asked in Parliament.  But I don't like your lights behind me at all.
And as your car is undoubtedly faster than ours there's nothing else
for it.  Do you mind my extracting you from your seats?"

Two large hands seized the driver and his companion by the coat collar,
and drew them out as a cork is drawn from a bottle.

"Have you any rope in your car, Cabbageface?"

"I have," said Gregson in a shaking voice.

"Good.  Then we'll just tie these two back to back in the middle of the
road, and if anyone comes along they can pretend to be perfect
strangers.  And if no one comes along, Narcissus, you can hold converse
with one another through the small hours on the infinite blessings of
peace and disarmament.  Also the stupidity of following another car
quite so closely in a flat country.  No, no: there's no good in
struggling.  Your state of fitness might just enable you to last for a
couple of rounds of spillikins, but you mustn't tax yourselves more
until you've had your Ovaltine.  Finished, Peter?"

The two youths were almost crying with rage and fury.  They were
standing back to back each with his right wrist lashed to the other's
left, whilst round their waists ran one strand of rope.

"Unspeakable cads," spluttered Narcissus.

"Not at all," said Drummond genially.  "Personally, I think we've let
you off very lightly.  You mustn't go following people round the
country.  And if I may give you a word of advice it is this.  Don't
fall down.  If you do, not only will the one underneath leave a lot of
his face in the road, but you'll find it practically impossible to get
up again.  Come on, chaps: we mustn't delay any more.  Good night, my
little ones."

"You'll be getting me cashiered, Hugh," said Gregson, still weak with
laughter, as they drove away.  "Of all the outrageous assaults I have
ever seen perpetrated, that wins in a canter, and the blighters have
got my number."

"They won't do anything, old boy," answered Drummond.  "They would
never hear the last of it if they did.  Anyway I'm the culprit.  But
have you ever seen such a pair of maggots?"

"What do you expect from a bunch of crazy pacifists?" cried Gregson.
"The Lord knows--I don't suppose any of us three want another war, but
we don't get hysterical about it.  And we know what war is; they don't."

"I take it there can be no doubt that this is another Guiseppi affair,"
said Drummond after a while.

"Not the slightest, I should say, if Veight is mixed up in it."

"Do you know of anything particularly secret which we've got at the
moment?"

"There are always a lot of confidential things knocking around," said
Gregson.  "But I can't say I know of anything that is a super secret.
The Chief might.  And to-morrow I, at any rate, must get to him as
quickly as possible.  Jove! if only one could get a word with Ginger...
What was he on the track of?"

"One thing is pretty clear, Humphrey.  Whatever the game is, it isn't
over yet.  If they'd already got their information, they wouldn't still
be playing round here.  No one would run the risks they have run to-day
without some very powerful incentive."

"That's true," agreed Gregson.  "And that's what I don't quite
understand.  You either get information or you don't.  If you're going
to get it, it presupposes that the individual you are getting it from
is willing to sell it.  In which case why the Wild West show?"

"Supposing the individual wasn't willing to sell it and they want to
make him?" suggested Drummond.

"Keeping him a prisoner, you mean.  Possibly.  But if anyone in a
position to sell big stuff had disappeared we should know about it.
And, so far as I know, no one has."

"It's a teaser, Cabbageface.  Anyway, we may discover more to-night.
There is Hartley Court in front of us, and the party is still going on.
Let's leave the car here and walk."




CHAPTER VIII

A row of cars drawn up in the drive proclaimed that the meeting was a
popular one.  The front of the house was in darkness save for the hall,
and light on the lawn at the back showed that the Key Club was airing
its views on that side of the house.  Luckily the undergrowth was
dense, and the three men had no difficulty in finding a spot from which
they could view the proceedings, which in all conscience were harmless
enough.

A large and somewhat pompous-looking individual was holding the floor
at the moment.  They were too far off to hear what he was saying, but
the audience, in which there was quite a sprinkling of women, was
obviously becoming restive.  And since it was ten minutes past the time
for light refreshments the fact was not surprising.  At last he sat
down and after a little perfunctory applause Meredith got up.

"Evidently the end of a perfect day," whispered Drummond.  "That is
Uncle John.  And the little blighter on Ronald's left is Doctor
Belfage, Humphrey."

More hearty applause this time and everybody rose to their feet,
extending their hands palm upwards in front of them.

"The Key Club!"

The words came clearly to the listeners through the still air; then
there was a general buzz of conversation as the party broke up into
little groups.

"Here comes Ronald," said Drummond as Standish appeared at the window.
He was talking to Doctor Belfage, and after a while he stepped out on
to the lawn, and lit a cigarette.  Then he turned round facing the room
and they could see a small light moving behind his back.  He was
signalling with a torch in Morse.

"Short: long," muttered Drummond.  "Check me, you fellows.
R.U.T.H.E.R.E.H.O.O.T.  'Are you there? hoot.'  Go on, Peter: you're
better than I am at that game."

The mournful cry of an owl came from Darrell, and at once the signals
started again.

W.A.I.T.W.I.L.L.J.O.I.N.U.

"'Wait will join you,'" said Drummond.  "And something more.
D.A.N.G.E.R."

The signalling stopped, and Standish stepped back into the room.  The
party was beginning to break up; from the front of the house came the
sounds of self-starters.

"Hope he won't be too long," remarked Drummond.  "He'll have to park
your car somewhere, Peter: he can't leave it in the drive."

"He's saying his last tender farewells now," said Darrell.  "Have you
blokes noticed that there's not another solitary light in any room in
the house?  There must be some servants surely."

The last of the guests departed, leaving Doctor Belfage and Meredith
alone.  That some heated argument was in progress was obvious: the
ex-doctor being excited, while Meredith seemed to be trying to pacify
him.  And then one sentence reached the listeners' ears.

"Madness!  Why wasn't I told?"

It was almost a shout, and Meredith laid a soothing hand on the little
man's arm.

At last the conversation finished and Meredith came over to the windows
and shut them.  Then he drew some wooden shutters across, and there
came the sound of bolts being pushed home.

"That's torn it," said Drummond.  "No getting in by that room."

The light still filtered out through the chinks, and Drummond turned to
the other two.

"Wait here," he muttered.  "I'm going to do a bit of keyhole peeping.
If Ronald comes give a hoot, Peter."

He faded into the darkness like a great cat and a few moments later he
was crouching outside the window peering in.  Most of the room was
outside his range of vision.  He could see the table with the drinks
and empty glasses, and some of the chairs pushed back in disorder just
as their late occupants had left them.  And then Doctor Belfage came
into view, walking backwards and forwards with a worried look on his
face.  He was muttering to himself and every now and then he shook his
fist in the air angrily.  Clearly Meredith had not succeeded in calming
him.

Suddenly the little man halted.  He swung round facing in what Drummond
knew was the direction of the door, and a shadow fell across the floor.
Then came a second shadow which materialised a moment later into a dark
swarthy man with high cheek-bones and a hooked nose, who might have
been a Spaniard.  In his hand he held a small package which he gave to
the doctor, who put it in his pocket.

"Well, Doctor," came a deep voice, "how do things progress?"

It was the unseen man who was speaking.

"As well as can be expected," answered Belfage.  "But I tell you that
man is a devil: he has a will of iron."

The dark man smiled evilly.

"Others have had that will before," he said softly.  "It is only a
matter of time."

"But we have no time," shrilled the doctor.  "This man Drummond, of
whom I learn for the first time when I arrive here to-night, may know
everything.  It was the act of a lunatic not to have warned me.  My
God!  I actually asked him to come here."

"And what would it have mattered if he had," rejoined the deep voice.
"True, he might have died of boredom had he attended your ridiculous
meeting, but that would have saved a lot of bother.  Your nerves do not
seem to be all they might, my dear Doctor."

"They're shot to hell," cried the other.  "I had no idea it would take
so long.  And now, after what happened last night we may be interrupted
at any moment."

"Calm yourself, Doctor.  It was, I admit, unfortunate that our good
friend Emil allowed that interfering soldier to give him the slip.  It
was still more unfortunate that he mistook Drummond for a farm
labourer.  For all that I don't think much damage has been done."

"How can you possibly tell," demanded the doctor.  "This man Drummond
has deliberately fooled us from what Meredith tells me.  And what he's
done over one thing, he may very easily do over another."

"He is certainly a nuisance," agreed the unseen man.  "But, as I said
before, I don't think we need worry overmuch.  Had he discovered
anything really vital, he would not still have been in Cambridge."

"That's true," said the doctor.  "I hadn't thought of that.  But I
shall be thankful when this is over."

He lit a cigarette with a hand that shook a little.

"I frankly admit," he continued, "that this latest development has
shaken me badly."

"One can't expect plain sailing all the time," returned the other
contemptuously.

And at that moment there came the hoot of an owl from across the lawn:
Standish had arrived.

"If only we could find out what Drummond knows," said the doctor.

"Maybe we shall shortly," answered the other softly.  "But from what I
overheard this afternoon I don't think he knows much."

The speaker came into sight: it was the tall man, and Drummond studied
him thoughtfully.

"My God!" he heard a whisper from behind him.  "It's Gregoroff."

Drummond turned round: Standish was peering over his shoulder.

"The most cold-blooded murderer unhung," muttered Standish.  "Russian
Secret Service: I ought to have thought of him when you mentioned his
height.  May the Lord help you, Hugh, if he ever gets you at his mercy."

"Tell me the old, old story," whispered Drummond with a grin, as
Gregoroff helped himself to a drink.  "What are we going to do, Ronald?"

"Wait and listen," answered Standish.  "We may learn something."

"No, I don't think he knows much."  Gregoroff was speaking again.  "But
I had to take steps this afternoon to prevent any possibility of his
learning more.  Well, Doctor, there is a good deal to discuss.  Shall
we adjourn?"

The light went out: the door closed, and Drummond straightened up.

"Not going to learn anything more here," he muttered.  "What about
having a council of war?"

They skirted round the lawn, and joined the other two.

"You signalled danger, Ronald," said Drummond.  "What did you find out?"

"It was by way of being a general warning, old boy," answered Standish,
"inspired by the personnel of the household.  The people who attended
the meeting were, as I expected, genuine and harmless.  I've seldom
heard more concentrated bilge talked quite so continuously, but that is
neither here nor there.  Mine host, Mr. Meredith, was the first
gentleman to attract my attention.  The last time I saw him he was
being sentenced to seven of the best at the Old Bailey for forgery,
under the name of Ferguson.  The two men who took our coats and hats
are both old lags, and another swine I saw on the stairs is a white
slave merchant.  And so I thought it wise to let you know, in case you
hadn't realised it already, that the party wasn't entirely hot air and
elderberry wine."

"Did any of these blokes recognise you, Ronald?" said Drummond.

"Not on your life.  I blush unseen, so far as gentlemen of that kidney
are concerned.  Now except possibly for Meredith, those are all small
fry.  But there is also Emil Veight, who I didn't see, and
now--Gregoroff."

"Our tall friend, Peter," explained Drummond.

"Well, as I was saying to you, Hugh," continued Standish, "if anything
more was necessary to prove what we're up against, the presence of that
devil does it.  In fact, I can't imagine how he got into the country.
It's true that so far as I remember he has never done anything criminal
actually in England, but our people know all about him."

"What do you make of the whole thing up to date?" said Darrell.

"Just what I said to you at the hotel.  This is a second Guiseppi case.
But whom they have got hold of: what they have stolen: where the key to
the mystery lies, I know no more than you.  Is it in that house in
front of us, or is it somewhere else?  There are three cars still left
in the drive, which seems to show that others may be leaving besides
that doctor."

And at that moment a woman's scream, instantly stifled, rang out.  It
came from the house and the lour men stiffened.

"That settles it," said Drummond quietly.  "I'm going in.  Are you
fellows on?"

"Sure," answered Standish.  "But we keep together.  The strange thing
is that there's not a single light in any window."

"There may be an inside room," said Drummond.  "Come on.  And keep your
guns handy."

They crossed the lawn, and began skirting round the walls to find a
suitable window to break in at.  But they were saved the trouble: a
small side door was unlocked, and a moment later they were all inside
the house.

Absolute silence reigned, and the darkness was intense as they crept
forward.

"I'm going to switch on a torch," breathed Drummond.  "Stand well away
from me."

The beam shone out and circling round picked up the staircase.  Then
darkness again as they felt their way towards it.  And now a murmur of
voices came from above, and a faint light which grew stronger as they
advanced.  A door was ajar on the first floor: it was through it that
the light was filtering.  Then the voices ceased, and they could hear
the sound of a woman's sobs.

"The penalty," said a harsh voice suddenly, "is death."

It was so unexpected that they halted abruptly; then once again they
tiptoed forward and paused by the room with the light.  The sobs were
coming from inside, and Drummond flung open the door, to stand
motionless on the threshold.  The room was an operating theatre.

The walls were pure white, so designed that no corners existed to catch
dust.  The light was brilliant without being dazzling, and was thrown
from a powerful reflector up on to the ceiling.  Cases of gleaming
instruments stood against the wall, and in the centre was the table and
various basins.

For a while it seemed as if the room was empty, and then as their eyes
grew accustomed to the light they saw a woman lying on the floor on the
far side of the room.  Tears were streaming down her face, but her sobs
had ceased, and she was staring at them in bewilderment.  Young and
dark, she was obviously a foreigner, and after a while she put her
finger to her lips, as the sound of voices came from across the passage.

"Save me," she whispered.  "Save me, for the good God's sake."

"Then get up," muttered Drummond.  "We'll save you, but there is no
need to lie there."

"But I'm bound," she answered.

In two strides Drummond was across the room, and had picked her up.
Her ankles were lashed with rope, but there was no time to free them.
At any moment the owners of the voices might return, and their
situation with a helpless woman on their hands was not too good.

"Hop it, boys," he said tensely.  "We can come back later."

And even as he spoke the door closed with an ominous clang.

For a space they all stood motionless staring at it; then Drummond
deposited the woman on the table and crossed the room.

"Trapped," he said at length.  "By all that's holy!  What complete,
utter, congenital fools we are.  A steel door with a Yale lock."

The woman started to whimper again, and with a short laugh Drummond
returned to her, and taking out his knife he cut her free.

"Well, my dear," he remarked, "that appears to have torn it for the
moment.  This delightful apartment doesn't seem to go in for windows,
and nothing short of a ton of dynamite would break down that door."

"It is terrible," she moaned.  "Terrible.  This is, how you say, ze
doctor's room where he do things to people.  And ze walls, no noise go
through."

"Sound-proof, is it," said Standish curtly.  "Still, there must be some
ventilation somewhere.  By the way, this isn't your pal, is it, Hugh?"

"Great Scott! no," said Drummond.  "What's the trouble, my dear?  Why
had they lashed you up?"

"Because I find out things zey do not want me to know.  Because I say I
will tell ze policemen."

"What sort of things?" cried Drummond eagerly.

"Zey have ze men captured--_prisonniers_.  But what does it mattaire?"
she burst out wildly.  "We are _prisonniers_ ourselves.  And ze big man
he is a devil.  He will kill us all."

Drummond patted her on the shoulder reassuringly, and produced his
revolver.

"We may have something to say about that," he said.  "Now listen,
mam'selle, do you know who these men are who are prisoners?"

"No, m'sieur, _non_.  I do not know.  One, he is old; the other is of
your age.  But I do not know who zey are."

"Do you know where they are?"

"In a big house, m'sieur."  She passed her hand over her forehead.  "A
big house...  M'sieur, I feel so funny."

"So do I, by gad!" cried Gregson.  "I feel as if I was tight."

Drummond sat down suddenly in a chair; he was feeling tight, too.  He
looked at Standish, and two Standishes were swaying by the wall.  Came
the sound of a fall behind him, and he tried to turn his head.  But he
could not, and even as he made a last desperate effort the two
Standishes collapsed and lay still.

His revolver was still within reach, and he tried to pick it up.  But
his arm would not move: it felt as if it was bound to his side with
iron bands.  He tried one leg: the same result.  So he gave it up, and
just sat there inert and helpless.

He could think, though sluggishly; he could see, though his vision was
blurred.  And after a while he became aware of a very faint, sweet
smell.  Gas, he thought hazily; some sort of paralysing gas.

Suddenly he realised that a man was bending over Standish, a man with a
hood over his head.  He was doing something to Standish's hands and
feet, and just then he found he was being attended to also.  And the
amazing thing was that though he could see his hands being lifted and
put together, though he could see rope being lashed round them, he
could feel absolutely nothing.  It was as if his whole body had gone to
sleep.

The men disappeared and Drummond lost count of time.  Like a drunken
man he stared at Standish lying motionless on the floor, and wondered
dully what had happened to the other two.  And then, starting in his
feet and fingers and spreading gradually up his legs and arms, the most
agonising pins and needles set in.  It was the return of feeling, but
while it lasted he felt as if he was going to burst out of his skin.
At length it was over; he found he could turn his head.  But he also
found that his ankles had been lashed to the legs of the chair, though
he had been totally unaware of the fact.

"Are you all right, Hugh?"

Standish was regarding him from the floor.

"I think so," said Drummond.  "How are the others?"

"I'm O.K.," came Darrell's voice from behind his chair.  "But Gregson's
still a bit woozly.  The lady appears to have deserted us."

"They carted her out," said Standish, "after they'd lashed me up.
Boys, we deserve kicking.  We've fallen head foremost into one of the
most palpable traps I've ever thought of, and if what that woman said
is right and this room is soundproof, so far as I can see we're likely
to remain in it."

"Do you think she was a wrong 'un?" said Drummond.

"I'm thinking it doesn't matter much.  Right or wrong, she baited the
cage all right, and when we suckers were nicely inside they shut the
door."

"Where did the damned stuff come from?"

"I don't know.  But there's a ventilator high up in the wall behind
you, and that's presumably where it's gone.  And since the air seems
clear now there must be some inlet.  The point is, what the devil are
we going to do?  Can anybody move?"

"I can't for one," said Drummond.  "What's the time?  How long were we
under?"

"Ask me another," answered Standish.  "I should say about half an hour.
Look out; the door is opening."

"Put them in a row," came a deep voice that Drummond instantly
recognised as Gregoroff's.  The man who had driven the car the previous
afternoon was with him, and the Spaniard, and a moment or two later
they were joined by Emil Veight.

"That one," said Gregoroff, pointing to Darrell, "was with Drummond
this afternoon at the cottage.  Who are these other two?"

"I seem to recognise your face," remarked Veight to Standish.  "Who are
you?"

"That is a matter of supreme indifference to everyone except myself,"
said Standish casually.

"Been doing any more shooting, Pansyface?" asked Drummond pleasantly.

For a second Gregoroff's eyes rested on him; then they passed on.

"And that fourth one, who doesn't seem to have quite recovered.  He
wasn't with them at the hotel.  However, it is of no consequence."

His glance came back to Drummond.

"It is strange, is it not, how frequently the simplest traps are the
most efficacious," he remarked.  "Though I must confess I hardly
thought I should bag four of you.  By the way, where is the car you
stole from me?"

"I swapped it for some peppermint bull's-eyes," answered Drummond with
a grin.

The other's face remained as mask-like as ever, and he lit a cigarette
with great deliberation.

"You are an extremely foolish man, Captain Drummond," he said.  "I
suppose you realise that the four of you are completely in our power."

"At the moment it looks like it," yawned Drummond.

"I suppose you further realise that you have been annoying me.  And I
dislike being annoyed.  However, since, owing to your unbelievable
stupidity, you have afforded us a very valuable test on a matter we are
interested in, we have decided to spare your lives under certain
conditions.  Last night, when you were in your cottage, a stone was
thrown through your window.  Wrapped round that stone was a message.
What was that message?  Your chances of life depend entirely on your
giving me the correct answer."

"Is that so?" said Drummond quietly.  "Let us get this matter clear.
Assuming for the moment that there was a message wrapped round the
stone, and that I tell you its contents, am I to understand that you
will release us and that we are free to go?"

"My dear Captain Drummond," said Gregoroff with a pitying smile, "you
always seem to judge other people's mentality by your own.  You must
remember that your veracity on the subject of messages is under a
definite cloud.  No; you will not be free to go.  You are far too much
of a nuisance when you're at large.  And so you will remain here until
we have finished what we came over to do in this country.  It is for
you to decide whether your residence in this charming room is for that
period or for--perhaps ever is too strong a word, but shall we say for
some months or even years?  I trust I make myself quite clear.  If you
give me the correct message, I will give you my promise to notify the
authorities where you are to be found.  It may not be for some days,
but you are four strong men and a little fasting will do you no harm.
In fact, I should think you ought easily to last a fortnight, and I can
guarantee to have finished by then.  If, on the other hand, you do not
give me the correct message, I shall not notify the authorities, with
results that may, I fear, prove most unpleasant for you.  In fact, as I
said, it may be months before you are found.  You realise, don't you,
that this room is to all intents and purposes sound-proof.  You further
realise that it is impossible to open that door without the key or
suitable tools.  And so you see your position."

"You've overlooked one small point," remarked Drummond.  "The people at
the hotel know we're here."

"Apart from the fact that if that was the truth you certainly wouldn't
have mentioned it," said Gregoroff, "do you really think that that
affects matters?  Of course you've been here, Captain Drummond, and
you've left.  One of my minions will specially inquire for you at the
Royal, and will mention that you left here before midnight.  I assure
you everything has been thought of."

"And so you propose to stop on in this house while we starve in here,"
said Drummond.

"Wrong once more," remarked Gregoroff genially.  "When we leave you
to-night, we lock up the house and go--elsewhere.  So you will be all
by yourselves."

"Unpleasant for Meredith when we are found."

"Why?  Unknown to him, you must have returned to the house, and in the
course of your unjustifiable exploration shut yourselves in here by
mistake.  An accident, a terrible accident and a parallel, my dear
fellow, to that delightful old tale which I seem to remember.  Wasn't
it called the 'Mistletoe Bough'?  About a charming girl playing
hide-and-seek who popped into a chest, and being unable to open it from
the inside, remained there so long that she died on the rest of the
party."

"With her feet and hands lashed together!" sneered Drummond.

"Captain Drummond, you positively pain me.  Before we desert you we
shall unloose one of you, who will then perform the same office for the
rest.  You will be perfectly free to move about; to shout, if you wish
to, as much as you like.  In fact, the only point which you have to
decide is the duration of your visit.  Is it to be for a few days only,
in which case the ill-effects will not be lasting; or do you propose to
be foolish?"

Drummond stared at him thoughtfully; the situation was only too clear.
Of the four of them, prisoners in that room, there was only one whose
disappearance was likely to cause any comment--Humphrey Gregson.  As a
serving soldier his absence would be noticed very quickly, but even if
it was, what then?  He could be traced as far as the Royal; after that
the trail vanished.  Worse still, if the two undergraduates who had
followed them did complain to the police, and gave the number of
Gregson's car, the trail was leading directly away from Hartley Court.

"I cannot afford to wait all night, Captain Drummond."  Gregoroff was
speaking again.  "I will give you another two minutes in which to
decide.  And please be under no delusions.  If it was not for the fact
that I want to know the contents of that message, I should leave you
here to starve like the rats that you are without the smallest
compunction.  In case, too, that you have hopes in another direction,
your two cars will not remain where they are at present."

Still Drummond said nothing: his brain was racing feverishly to try and
see some loophole of escape.  His eyes sought Standish, who shrugged
his shoulders.

"Seems to me they've got two to one the better of us, Hugh," he said.

"An excellent judge of odds," remarked Gregoroff.

"If I do give you the contents of that message," said Drummond, "what
guarantee have we got that you'll keep your word?"

"None," answered Gregoroff calmly.  "But, then, you're hardly in a
position to demand guarantees, are you?  You've just got to chance it."

"Very good," said Drummond after a pause.  "I will chance it.  And I
hope for your sake that the contents of the message mean more in your
young life than they do in mine.  For none of us has been able to make
head or tail of it.  It runs as follows: 'Rosemary BJCDOR.'"

"Where was the message when I searched you?" demanded Veight.

"Where I found it afterwards: between the two window-sashes."

"And where is it now?"

"In my head; I burnt it."

For a few moments the German and Gregoroff conferred together in low
tones; then the Russian swung round on Drummond.

"Rosemary BJCDOR," he repeated.  "And you don't know what it means?"

"I do not," said Drummond.  "It is presumably a code of some sort."

Again the two whispered together, and Drummond glanced at Standish.
And Standish was studying the Spaniard with a thoughtful look in his
eyes.

"You have no idea who the writer is?" said Gregoroff.

"Not the slightest," answered Drummond.

"Why did you cause that fake message to be sent?"

"My merry disposition," said Drummond calmly.  "I don't like you or any
of your friends, so I thought I'd have a spot of fun at your expense."

"How many other people know of this message?"

"So far as I know, only the police at Belmoreton.  I told them when I
reported the death of the wretched bloke who was murdered at the
cottage."

Gregoroff turned to the chauffeur.

"Verify that to-morrow," he said curtly.  "And now, Captain Drummond,
one or two more questions.  What do you know of the girl Doris
Venables?"

"Nothing at all, except that she's no beginner at telling the tale."

"I have no doubt in my own mind, Paul," remarked the German, "that her
story was the truth.  What is of more interest is that I have at last
remembered who that man is."

He pointed to Standish.

"You were in the British War Office on the Intelligence side.  Your
name is Standish.  How did you get mixed up in this?"

"That again is a matter of supreme indifference to everyone except me,"
answered Standish.

Emil Veight whispered to the Russian, who gave a low whistle of
surprise.

"That puts a different complexion on matters," he remarked.  "I thought
we were only dealing with meddling fools.  Are you still at the War
Office, Mr. Standish?"

"I am not."

"But you were there a year ago.  Things become clearer.  So your
attendance at that meeting to-night, even if not professional, was at
any rate inspired by inside knowledge."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," said Standish.
"I attended the meeting of the Key Club at the invitation of Doctor
Belfage."

"And then remained in the garden spying with your three friends.  What
did you hear at the meeting that caused you to do that?"

"Nothing," remarked Standish.  "We heard a woman scream."

"Twenty minutes after the meeting was over," said the Russian harshly.
"You lie, damn you!  That scream was the bait to catch you, if you were
there.  And I knew you were there.  Why?  I'll tell you.  Because you
wanted to find out things that don't concern you."

"My dear Hugh," drawled Standish, "the man is a veritable genius.  How
does he think of it?"

"I don't know, old lad," answered Drummond.  "Must have some asset, I
suppose, to make up for his ghastly shooting."

Gregoroff stared at him in silence.  And the utter lack of concern in
Drummond's face seemed suddenly to madden the Russian.

"You damned Englishman," he said at length.  "And you really imagined
you could come blundering in on my plans with impunity!  Well, you've
learned your lesson."  He turned to the Spaniard.  "Cortez, pick up
that revolver and search them all for guns."

He waited whilst his order was carried out; then he threw back his head
and laughed.

"You fools," he cried.  "You unutterable fools!  And did you really
imagine you were going to get away?  Here you are, and here you remain
till you die.  You won't be able to expedite matters by shooting
yourselves; you'll just die the slow, agonising death of starvation.
Don't sneer at me, damn you."

With all his strength he struck Drummond in the mouth.

"You'll die," he shouted.  "And my only regret is that I shall not be
here to see it."

The man was beside himself with rage.  A strange red light was glowing
in his eyes, and his teeth were bared in a snarl.

"And now I am going.  I shall leave the light on, so that you may watch
one another growing weaker and weaker.  Untie that one."

He pointed to Gregson, and the Spaniard cut the ropes that bound him.

"How long to Horsebridge?" he asked Veight.

"Two hours," answered the German.

"Good-bye and good luck."  Gregoroff from the door bowed ironically.
"I fear I've spoilt your beauty somewhat, Captain Drummond, but it will
be all the same in a fortnight or so.  And I owed you one for stealing
my car.  Not quite so chatty as usual?  Well, well--it's quite
understandable."

And with one final mocking laugh the door clanged to behind them.

"One man and one man only has done that to me before."  Drummond broke
the long silence.  "And later I killed him.  You'd better unlash us,
Cabbageface."

"I'm glad you didn't give him the real message, Hugh," said Darrell.

"I thought you blokes wouldn't mind, and I was certain the swine would
have crossed us, anyway."

Drummond rose and stretched himself.

"Is there any way out, chaps?"

"If this room is to all intents sound-proof," answered Darrell quietly,
"and it must be, or he wouldn't have left us here--none, so far as I
can see.  It will be days before anyone starts looking for us at all,
and then they won't dream of trying an empty house.  What do you say,
Ronald?"

"That I ought to be dropped into boiling oil," answered Standish.
"That my brain would shame a louse.  Who is A5, Humphrey?"

"Ginger Lovelace.  What's stung you, Ronald?"

"That Spaniard wasn't a Spaniard, but a Mexican," was his unexpected
answer.

The other three stared at him in amazement.

"What the devil has that got to do with it?" cried Drummond.

"Only that I've solved the real message," cried Standish savagely.

He got up and shook his fists in the air.

"Solved it," he muttered.  "And we're helpless.  Absolutely helpless."




CHAPTER IX

"I trust that everything is to monsieur's satisfaction?"

The head waiter bowed obsequiously as an underling replaced the
gold-foil bottle in the ice bucket.  The silver gleamed in the shaded
light; a big jar of caviare shone like black velvet in the centre of
the table.  From outside came the dull roar of the Strand by night;
save for that, no sound disturbed the occupant of the suite in the
Ritz-Carlton.

"Thank you, Henri.  All is excellent as usual.  Let my friend be shown
up the instant he arrives."

"I will see to it personally, m'sieur."

With another low bow befitting a man whose wealth was reputed to be
fabulous, and who, unlike some others of the millionaire variety,
dispensed largesse freely, Henri marshalled his attendants and left the
room, leaving the diner alone.

For a while he ate with the quiet deliberation of a man used to feeding
by himself--sparingly and yet with the appreciation of the true
epicure.  Every now and then his eyes rested on the ormolu clock which
occupied the centre of the mantel-piece.  They were strange
eyes--almost repellent.  Very light blue in colour, they protruded
slightly, giving the impression of a fish.  But what was most
noticeable about them was their unwavering stare: they never seemed to
blink.  Hypnotic, frightening, eyes to which it would take a bold man
to lie; eyes which made women turn away with a shudder; eyes which had
done more than anything else to make Ivor Kalinsky one of the most
powerful forces in Europe.

He finished the caviare, and pouring himself out another glass of
champagne, he lit a cigarette.  He smoked as he had eaten, slowly and
with deliberation, using an amber holder.  And after a time he rose and
began to pace slowly up and down the room.  The clanging bell of a
passing fire-engine grew to a crescendo and died away in the distance,
but he scarcely heard it: his mind was engrossed in other matters, for
Ivor Kalinsky was confronted with the biggest problem of his career.
On which side should he tip the balance--for or against another
European war?

To the countless thousands hurrying through the streets of London to
their favourite cinema it would have seemed fantastic that such a thing
could be possible.  Had they been asked to swallow such a situation
even in their most hectic melodrama, they would have poured scorn upon
the mentality of the producer of the film.  Governments and politicians
made wars--not one lone individual pacing to and fro in a dim-lit
sitting-room.  Who wanted a war, anyway?  Hadn't the last one been bad
enough?

For or against!  For or against!  Ceaselessly his brain was working,
weighing factor against factor, as coldly and analytically as a chemist
conducting an experiment.  To the moral side of the issue he gave no
thought; it simply did not enter into his calculations.  To him the
matter was a game of chess, and it was imperative that he should not
make a false move.

He drew back the curtains and stared out over the city.  As always, his
room was high up: he preferred it because of the increased airiness.
Below him lay the river, grey and sombre, with the reflection of
countless lights gleaming from the Surrey side.  A tug went past
drawing some barges down to the Pool, and he watched it till it was
hidden by Waterloo Bridge.  For or against!  That would not be the only
bridge that would have to be reconstructed if the answer was "For."

In the distance signs shone and glittered--red and white and blue.  One
showed a glass of port being filled and emptied; another extolled a
boot polish.  Red and white and blue: was it symbolical?  And in
imagination Ivor Kalinsky saw another scene.  The lights were
extinguished, save for beams piercing the sky like pencils from
different directions.  The noise of the traffic was stilled; another
sound had taken its place, and that came from overhead.  It was the
roar of countless aeroplanes, punctuated every few seconds by the crash
of bursting bombs.  And in the streets mobs of screaming men and women
rushed frenziedly about, trampling, fighting, mad with terror.  The
tube stations were full--too full; already people were being suffocated
to death.  And on the platforms below those in front were being pushed
on to the lines unable to withstand the pressure of those behind.

Still the bombs came in ever-increasing numbers.  Great blinding
flashes stabbed the night as houses crashed in ruins, and then, utterly
inadequate, came the staccato crack of bursting shrapnel.  The
anti-aircraft guns at work, manned by the few volunteers who had
reached them in time.  And suddenly, like a flaming meteor, one
stricken aeroplane shot downwards through the night.  A pitiful, ragged
cheer, and then it crashed, and the bombs it still carried burst in a
roar so titanic that the aftermath was silence.  The droning above died
away; the raiders had departed, the shambles were left.  And war had
not yet been declared; only a state of tension existed.

A knock came at the door, and Ivor Kalinsky turned round, letting the
curtains swing to behind him.

"Come," he called, and the head waiter entered.

"Sir James Portrush," he announced, and a portly man of about fifty
came in.  He was dressed in the conventional morning coat, and he
carried his top-hat and a dispatch-case.

"Ah! my dear Mr. Kalinsky," he cried, coming forward with outstretched
hand.  "I am delighted to welcome you once more to our shores.  You had
a good crossing, I trust."

"One or two air pockets, Sir James," said the financier.  "Otherwise
quite comfortable.  You will have a glass of wine with me?"

Sir James held up a protesting hand.

"Thank you; I never touch it.  My digestion, you know.  I have to be
careful--very careful."

"A cup of coffee, then?"

"Again no.  Just a little weak whisky and water before I go to bed is
all I allow myself."

"Quite a Spartan diet, Sir James," said Kalinsky with a smile.  "That
will do, thank you, Henri, and see that we are not disturbed under any
pretext whatever."

"Very good, m'sieur.  I will give the necessary instructions."

The door closed; the two men were alone.  And for a space Kalinsky
watched his visitor as he settled down.  The top-hat was placed
carefully on a chair, the dispatch-case on the table.  Then, with
trousers slightly hitched up and plump legs crossed, Sir James Portrush
beamed on his host from his chair.  And restraining with an effort a
strong desire to say, "Now we're all ready for a nice cup of tea and a
good gossip," Kalinsky sat down too.

"I am very glad indeed, Mr. Kalinsky," began Sir James urbanely, "to
have this opportunity of a chat with you so soon after your arrival.
Indeed, the Prime Minister himself would have liked to be present, but
an extremely important measure dealing with the totalisator at
greyhound racing tracks is occupying all his time at the moment.  You
cannot perhaps realise the great volume of public opinion in this
country that is opposed to betting in any form, and it is very
essential to effect some suitable compromise that will prove acceptable
to all schools of thought."

The faintest perceptible smile twitched round his listener's lips, but
Sir James was busy opening his dispatch-case and it escaped his
attention.

"At the same time, my dear sir," he continued, "you must not imagine
for one moment that our entire attention is centred on these pressing
domestic problems to the exclusion of other matters.  And we should
indeed be foolish if we were to blind our eyes to the fact that the
temper of Europe at the present moment leaves much to be desired:
much--ah--to be desired.  You agree with me, Mr. Kalinsky?"

"I do, Sir James."

"Good.  And though we have, of course, our recognised channels of
information, and are closely in touch with the whole situation, it
struck me that a little private and confidential chat with you might
help matters considerably."

"You flatter me, Sir James."

"Not at all, not at all.  Your interests are world-wide: you have a
finger on every important pulse.  Now, in brief, what is your view of
the situation?  I need hardly say that any remarks you may care to make
will be for the ears of my colleagues and myself alone."

"Since you have done me the honour of asking me my opinion, Sir James,
I presume you want a candid answer."

"Naturally, naturally."

"You do not, for instance, want me to prophesy smooth things, so that,
with an easy conscience, you can return to your legislation for
totalisators on greyhound tracks."

Sir James ignored the veiled sarcasm, though it did not escape him.

"I am sure that anything you may care to say, Mr. Kalinsky," he
remarked with quiet dignity, "will be of great value."

"I doubt it," said the financier quietly, "because the gist of what I
have to say may be summed up in one question.  Why have you gone out of
your way to make another European war inevitable?"

Sir James sat up with a jerk.

"Inevitable!" he stuttered.  "Inevitable!  My dear sir, we have led the
way in every disarmament conference that has been held."

"Which would have been quite admirable if any other country had
followed you.  Unfortunately they haven't.  They--forgive my saying so,
Sir James--have merely laughed."

"What else could we have done?  It was essential to follow the trend of
public opinion in this country."

"Follow!  Surely a novel method of regarding your stewardship."

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Kalinsky.  It is essential that leaders
should sense the temper of those they are called upon to govern.  And I
say frankly that this country would not stand for another war."

"I can quite believe you.  Which is why, as I said to start with, it
makes it even more unfortunate that they have brought it on themselves.
Sir James, let us be perfectly frank.  You, to day, are in the
invidious position of a small boy telling two bigger ones not to fight.
And the result in that case is that he gets kicked in the seat of his
pants by both."

Ivor Kalinsky lit another cigarette, whilst Sir James fidgeted in his
chair.

"Unpleasant," continued the financier, "but you asked for the truth.
Governments to-day can be divided into three categories: dictators,
knaves and fools.  You have no dictator in England, and...  Well, what
would be the result, Sir James, if I offered you half a million down,
here and now, if you would pursue some line of action dictated by me?"

"I should be shocked and horrified, sir."

"Precisely.  But there are many other countries where a man in your
position would be shocked and horrified if that offer was not made.
And so we are only left with the third category."

Sir James flushed angrily.

"You speak bluntly, Mr. Kalinsky."

"In God's name, why not?" cried the other, thumping the table.  "If
you'd thought bluntly these last few years this situation would never
have arisen.  England would still have been the deciding factor in
Europe.  As it is, you are negligible.  And your funny little men who
preach pacifism, though they have never heard a shot fired in anger in
their lives, flatter themselves that they deserve well of their
country.  No one wants war, Sir James, but the only way to prevent it
is to take the line you have not taken.  To stop two strong men
fighting you must at least be as strong yourself."

"Come, come, Mr. Kalinsky, there is such a thing as an alliance."

"Who would deny it?  Let us, however, look on your value as an ally.
Your army is negligible, and there will be no time in the next war to
expand it as you did in the last.  Your navy is still a magnificent
striking force, but, to be perfectly frank, what is it going to strike
against?  A few sea forts; another fleet?  Who cares?  The results in
the big scheme of things would be negligible.  And as a means of
defence, out of date.  Command of the seas is still important, but
command of the air is infinitely more so.  And there you simply fade
right out of the picture.  Just before you arrived, Sir James, I was
standing in the window looking out over this great city of yours, and
in my imagination I heard the drone of an attacking air fleet.  I saw
the holocaust below.  It was no trumpery raid such as you experienced
in the last war, and by which, so it would seem to the onlooker, you
still set your standard.  They were up there by their hundreds and the
raid itself was the actual declaration of war."

"Really, Mr. Kalinsky, it sounds like an extract from the alarmist
press.  I can hardly believe that you are serious."

"My dear Sir James, your countrymen never have believed that anything
was serious until it actually happened.  But in the past you have had
time to repair your mistake, and somehow or other to muddle through.
In the future you won't have that time."

"There certainly wouldn't be much time if what you have described took
place," agreed Sir James tolerantly.  "And should any nation be so
inconceivably barbaric, I don't see how we could prevent them."

"By one method and one method only: fear of reprisals.  And that
presupposes _existing_ strength in the air as great if not greater than
they possess themselves.  Which is what you have not got."

"But what good would such a senseless act do, my dear fellow?  If
London was flattened out no other nation would be a penny the better
off.  Surely the utter futility of war as a road to material gain was
amply proved by the last one."

"And you think that lesson has been learned?  I envy you your
complacency, Sir James.  Further, if that is your considered opinion,
why did you come here to-night?  Our discussion is purely academic."

"_Touch_, Mr. Kalinsky, _touch_.  I admit that I fear the lesson has
not been learned; and I also admit that we have cut down our fighting
forces to the nearest minimum.  But the country simply would not stand
any large increase in the estimates."

The millionaire shrugged his shoulders.

"That, of course, is entirely your affair, Sir James, and one on which
it would be presumption on my part to express an opinion.  If you are
right there is no more to be said."

"But surely you agree with me that another war on a large scale would
be an irreparable disaster to the world?"

"Possibly; possibly not.  Who can tell?  Just as there was no criterion
to judge by before the last war, so there is none to-day.  For the next
war, Sir James, will be as different from 1914 as 1914 was from your
war in South Africa.  But in any event, whether it proves an
irreparable disaster or not has got no bearing whatever on its coming."

"You seem to have definitely made up your mind that sooner or later it
is unavoidable."

For a while the millionaire did not reply; then he nodded.

"Yes, I think I may safely say that my mind is made up.  Sooner or
later war is inevitable.  And the whole point, Sir James, is whether it
is to be sooner or later."

Sir James lay back in his chair with a worried look on his face.

"I must confess, Mr. Kalinsky," he said at length, "that such a very
definite opinion coming from a man in your position is most
disquieting.  But surely you and the other big financial interests are
against such a catastrophe."

"Certainly.  But we are not all-powerful.  Whether we like it or
whether we don't, we can't stop it.  The irresistible urge is there.
At the moment it is under control, but believe me that control is very
precarious.  One spark, and the whole of Europe will be a roaring
bonfire.  And all that we can do is to try and control the direction of
the flames."

"Grave words, Mr. Kalinsky."

"The situation is grave, Sir James.  And England's unpreparedness makes
it all the graver."

For a while there was silence in the room, then Sir James rose to his
feet.

"I must thank you, Mr. Kalinsky," he said quietly, "for the frank way
in which you have spoken.  Needless to say I shall put your opinions
before my colleagues.  And I can only utter a pious hope that you may
be wrong.  Is there no limit to human madness?"

"If there is I fear I have not plumbed it," answered the millionaire.
"Good night, Sir James; I hope to see you again before I leave England."

The door closed behind his visitor, and Ivor Kalinsky sank back in his
chair.  From many points of view the conversation had been a valuable
one: it had enabled him to crystallise his own thoughts, though it had
still not solved his problem.  He had said nothing that he did not
believe to be the truth; and if he had not said everything that he
might have, that was nothing to do with Sir James.  One spark would be
enough: it was no business of the Englishman if his was the hand that
kindled it.

He got up and once again began to pace restlessly up and down the room.
Was the time ripe?  A hundred different factors had to be weighed in
the balance; a hundred conflicting interests taken into
consideration--interests which overlapped and interlaced in a way that
made their mutual reactions wellnigh incalculable.

There came another knock on the door, and his second visitor was
ushered in.  It would have been hard to imagine a greater contrast to
the one who had just left.  The new-comer wore a heavy fur coat, though
the evening was warm.  A silk scarf was wrapped round his neck; an
opera hat was on his head.  His face was swarthy; his dark eyes gleamed
with vitality.  And his hooked nose proclaimed his race.

"Some more wine," said Kalinsky as the other flung his coat in a chair,
revealing immaculate evening clothes.

"I see you're a pillar of society, Morgenstein," he continued with a
faint smile.

"I've just come from Covent Garden," said the other.  "Carmenita was in
perfect voice, and I waited to hear the Swan Song."

Again the smile flickered round Kalinsky's lips.

"I, too, have been listening to a Swan Song," he remarked.  "Sung by
the excellent Sir James Portrush."

The Jew eyed him keenly, and then murmured some banality as the waiter
returned with the champagne.

"Was he in good voice also?" he asked when they were once more alone.

"He croaked a little towards the end, when he left me to continue vital
legislation on greyhounds."

Kalinsky lifted his glass.

"Well, Morgenstein, and what conclusion have you come to?"

"I have not as yet come to any.  It is a grave issue, Kalinsky."

"That was the croak in Sir James's Swan Song.  He admits, quite
frankly, that this country is not prepared for war.  Of course that
fact is well known to both of us.  At the same time it is illuminating
when a man in his position says so openly."

The Jew lit a cigar before replying.

"Are they contemplating taking any steps to remedy the state of
affairs?"

Kalinsky shrugged his shoulders.

"How can you ever tell with these people?  I drew him a picture of the
air raid of the future carried out before war was declared.  He merely
smiled.  And yet the man is uneasy."

"Are you prepared to put your cards on the table, Kalinsky, and give me
your views of the situation?"

"I certainly am.  And I can express it in a nutshell.  Unless England
increases her fighting forces, war is absolutely inevitable.  Nothing
can stop it.  The point, therefore, that we have to decide is whether
we precipitate the crisis now, or whether we wait.  If we wait, it is
possible that this country may again become the dominating factor in
the situation.  If we act now, Europe as we know it ceases to exist.
Which suits our book best?"

"Absurd though it may sound, I am still frightened of England," said
Morgenstein.  "She has such an astounding way of pulling her weight at
the last moment."

"I think it is far from absurd.  More, I may be illogical, but I agree
with you.  And I can assure you that that very point has weighed
largely in my calculations.  Could I but find some method of weakening
her still more, or alternatively of strengthening others whom we need
not name, so that the disparity of power was greater, I would not
hesitate for one moment."

"You mean you would favour immediate action."

"Precisely.  Would that suit you?"

"It would.  But is there any possibility of such a thing occurring?"

"That I shall know more about a little later in the evening.  Have you
to return to your guests, or would you care to remain and hear for
yourself?"

"I will certainly remain.  You are expecting some fresh information?"

"I am.  What its value will prove to be I cannot say: my correspondent
was guarded in his letter.  But hitherto I have found him a most
reliable man.  Emil Veight is his name."

"I cannot recall it," said Morgenstein.  "A good man, is he?"

"First class."

Kalinsky smoked in silence for a time; then he changed the conversation
abruptly.

"Have you ever come across a peculiar institution known as the Key
Club?"

"I have heard of them," said Morgenstein, looking slightly surprised.
"Are they to be taken seriously?"

"They take themselves very seriously indeed.  Their principal aim is
world peace, and the brotherhood of man.  And though their aims may be
idealistic, their methods are severely practical.  They consist, in
short, of buying confidential information on armaments from whoever
they can bribe and then publishing it broadcast so that all the world
shall know.  And if you think into the matter it is quite an
efficacious way of preserving equality between nations."

"You amaze me, Kalinsky.  Have they done it often?"

"On two or three occasions to my certain knowledge quite successfully.
And it was in connection with them that I first met Veight.  On that
occasion, I fear, they were not quite so successful, though they were
very useful to me.  An Italian, whose name I forget, sold to one of
their agents the plans of a new submarine, and Veight, by some means,
heard of it.  He acted with commendable promptitude.  The Italian and
the agent, who was returning to England with the plans, were both
murdered, and Veight brought the tracings to me on the chance of my
buying.  I did, and they came in very useful."

"Really!  Most interesting.  But what exactly has your story got to do
with the present situation?"

"That we shall know in a few minutes: Veight said he would be here at
half-past ten.  And since he mentioned the Key Club in his letter, I
can only conclude that something of the same sort has happened."

"He is a reliable man?"

"When it pays him to be.  As it does with me.  And of one thing I am
sure.  He would not waste my time or his own unless he thought it worth
while.  Whether what he has to tell us is sufficiently worth while is
for us to decide."

The sound of voices came from the lobby outside and Kalinsky glanced up.

"The man himself, I think.  Good evening, Herr Veight," he said affably
as the door opened.  "You are punctuality itself.  You know Herr
Morgenstein?"

"By sight and name only," said Veight with a bow, coming into the room.
"I trust you are well, m'sieur."

"Quite, thank you.  Waiter--bring another bottle of wine.  Now, Herr
Veight," he continued, as the man left the room, "I gather from your
letter that you have something of interest to report.  You can speak
quite freely in front of Herr Morgenstein."

Once again Veight bowed; then he sat down and lit a cigarette.

"Am I right in supposing, gentlemen," he said, "that the state of
tension in Europe is acute?"

"Let us proceed on that assumption," remarked Kalinsky.

"Am I further right in supposing," continued Veight, "that confidential
information on military matters would be particularly valuable to-day?"

"That would be for us to decide," said Kalinsky curtly.

"Normally, m'sieur, I would agree.  In this case, however, I must have
something a little more definite.  Naturally I am not asking you to
pledge yourselves blindly in any way.  But if I guarantee to deliver to
you within forty-eight hours, or at the utmost seventy-two, the most
closely guarded military secrets in England, what will it be worth to
me?  Let me make myself quite clear.  You remember, m'sieur, the
Guiseppi affair?"

"Guiseppi!  That was the name, Morgenstein.  Yes, Veight, I do.  I was
discussing it before you came to-night."

"Good.  Well, each of these secrets, gentlemen, is as valuable as those
submarine plans."

The two financiers looked at one another.

"If that is the case," said Kalinsky after a pause, "I think we would
be prepared to guarantee you twenty-five thousand pounds."

Veight shook his head.

"Not enough, gentlemen," he said decisively.  "I have to split with a
man who has been working with me.  The risks we have already run are
enormous, and the greatest are still to come.  Will you make it
twenty-five thousand each?"

Again Kalinsky glanced at Morgenstein, who gave a barely perceptible
nod.

"All right, Veight," said Kalinsky.  "Fifty thousand in all.  But we
must be the judges."

"Of that I have no fear," said Veight quietly.  "You will be satisfied
with your bargain."

He paused as the waiter re-entered the room, and there was silence till
he had finally withdrawn.

"No fear at all, gentlemen," repeated Veight.  "Does Herr Morgenstein
know anything about the Key Club, m'sieur?"

"I told him a certain amount when discussing your letter," said
Kalinsky.

"Then I will not waste time in explaining that part of it to him.
Because, I fear, gentlemen, a certain amount of explanation is
necessary over what has happened already.  I will make it as short as I
possibly can, but it is essential that you should understand the
situation.

"The story starts in Warsaw, two months ago, with a man named
Gregoroff--Paul Gregoroff--as the chief character.  The business which
had taken him there was completed, and as he was sitting in the lounge
of his hotel after dinner, listening to the band, he became aware of
two men who were talking English at the next table.  One was clearly an
Englishman, the other was a Pole, and both of them were wearing the
badge of the Key Club.  At first he paid but little attention.  Their
voices were low; their general appearance was consistent with the
fatuous imbecility which one expects in members of that ridiculous
organisation.  And then one word caught his ear very clearly.  That
word was 'Gas.'

"He endeavoured to listen more closely, but as luck would have it the
band was making such an infernal din that it was quite impossible for
him to hear what they were saying.  But bearing in mind the recent
activities of their society, he deemed it advisable to make some
further inquiries.  So he squared the police to have the Englishman
arrested later on some trumped-up charge connected with his passport,
but to treat him with the utmost consideration.  Then, wearing a key
himself, he went round to the police station.

"The young man was, of course, overjoyed to meet a fellow-member; and
when that fellow-member procured his release on the spot, accompanied
by voluble expressions of regret from the police, his gratitude knew no
bounds.  In fact within half an hour Gregoroff was in possession of the
whole story.

"It transpired that this youth was by way of being a chemist.  And he
had been acting as assistant to a man in England who for some months
past had been working on a new form of gas.  At first Gregoroff was not
greatly interested: new gases come and go, each one bringing its own
antidote.  But when he began to realise the properties of this
particular gas, matters assumed a different aspect.

"It seemed, then, that this young fellow had been experimented on
himself, not once but many times, by the man he had been assisting.
The gas was colourless, odourless, and a fraction lighter than air.  It
was also harmless--after its effects had worn off.  But it was the
effect that was interesting:  complete paralysis of the limbs, absolute
inability to move or speak, though hazily conscious of what was going
on around, and finally loss of all feeling.  According to the amount
administered the duration of this condition lasted.  The dose could be
graded so as to produce effect for ten minutes or half an hour.  But,
and this was the vital fact, you were in the grip of the gas before you
realised you were.  And then it was too late to save yourself.

"I will not insult your intelligence, m'sieur," continued Veight after
a pause, "by stressing the marvellous possibilities which opened out in
front of Gregoroff if what this man told him was true.  Moreover, since
it was unlikely that he would have come all the way to Poland merely to
tell a stupid lie, Gregoroff decided to proceed on the assumption that
he was speaking the truth.  And so, still keeping up the role of an
enthusiastic member of the Key Club, whose aim was universal peace, he
proceeded to pump him dry.

"He discovered that the inventor of this gas was a man called Waldron.
He was a Territorial officer in the English Royal Engineers, and in
addition to being a chemist he was also a very keen soldier.  It was
clear, of course, that the military value of this gas was great.  It
could be used alone, or mixed with something else, and in either case
its presence would not be detected until too late.  And Waldron, being
a patriotic Englishman, proposed to place his discovery so soon as it
was perfected at the disposal of the British military authorities--an
idea abhorrent to his assistant, though that was a fact of which
Waldron was naturally unaware.

"He blathered on about ideals--their common ideals, since he assumed
Gregoroff thought as he did.  And Gregoroff let him talk, though he
hardly heard what he said.  Because, M'sieur Kalinsky"--the speaker
leaned forward in his chair--"his mind was busy with the potentialities
of this gas apart from its military value.  If it was all that this boy
claimed for it: if it could be manufactured without too elaborate a
plant: if--well, there were many ifs, but the germ of a stupendous idea
was there.  Imagine the position if one was able to render a man
powerless in a room in an hotel without using force, and without the
slightest risk of detection from outside.  No other gas would do it: it
would be smelt in the passage.  The same objection applied to an
anaesthetic such as ether.  Here, then, was the possibility of the
ideal weapon.  Do I interest you?"

"Go on," said Kalinsky quietly.

"So Gregoroff started on the practical details, and the more he heard
the better it sounded.  It was cheap to make, and was easily
compressible in steel cylinders.  These could be of any size desired,
from the massive ones suitable for work in war to smaller cylinders
which could be moved by hand.  Moreover, the respirator was not at all
complicated, and could be carried unnoticed in a man's pocket till it
was required.  In fact, there was only one hitch.  This miserable youth
did not know the formula.  A great deal of the process he was
conversant with, but there were one or two points of which he was
ignorant.  They were known to Waldron _and Waldron only_.  A definite
set-back, as you will agree, but it had to be faced.  Because by now
Gregoroff was fully determined to go on with the matter.

"The first problem was the young man himself.  He was, so he told
Gregoroff, in accordance with their custom, and acting on the orders of
one of the leaders of England, paving the way for the secret of this
gas to become world-wide.  He was arranging for a Key Club
representative from every country to come to England in a month or so,
by which time he would have the full details at his finger-tips, and he
would then pass the information on to them.  Fortunately he had started
in the east and was working west through Europe, so he'd been caught in
good time.  He had given Gregoroff Waldron's address in England, and
therefore there seemed no possible object in his continued existence.
And so he--er--fell in front of an express train and passed out of the
picture."

A faint smile flickered round Kalinsky's lips.

"This Gregoroff of whom you speak: whom is he acting for?"

"Himself, m'sieur," answered Veight promptly.

"And is he the man you mentioned at the beginning, with whom you have
to split?"

"He is," said Veight, and paused, listening intently.  Then like a
flash he crossed the room and flung open the door.

"What are you doing here?" he snarled.

"Tidying up, sare," came the aggrieved voice of a waiter.

"Then get out, damn you.  This place is quite tidy already.  My
apologies, gentlemen," he said, coming back into the room, "but in my
work one develops a sort of sixth sense.  And tidying up can cover a
multitude of keyholes."




CHAPTER X

"Such was the situation," continued Veight as he resumed his seat,
"when Gregoroff got into touch with me.  He did that for two reasons.
First it struck him that it would probably not be a one-man job; and
secondly because I have worked in England and knew the ropes far better
than he did.  And the instant I heard what he had to tell me I threw
over everything else on the spot.

"The problem that confronted us was obvious; the solution was not.
This man Waldron was a bachelor, living in a small house on the
outskirts of Surbiton.  He had one old woman servant who did all the
work of the house.  Further--and this was important--he was of
independent means, and did no work beyond his chemical research.  If,
therefore, it became necessary to abduct him, there would be no office
from which he would be missed and which would start a hue and cry.  And
it seemed to us, when we discussed the matter in Amsterdam, that in all
probability abduction would be necessary.

"Our reasoning was as follows.  Here was a presumably patriotic
Englishman, since he was serving in their Territorial army, and a man
of sufficient wealth to do no work.  It was therefore very improbable
that we should be able to bribe him, especially as he would realise
that we were both foreigners.  Moreover, if we attempted to and failed,
it would at once put him on his guard.  And so we decided that our only
chance was this.  Study the house, study his ways, and at a suitable
moment visit him with the definite intention of knocking him on the
head and removing him to some safe place where suasion, moral and
otherwise, could be brought to bear on him.  Which necessitated our
finding a suitable _pied  terre_.  An hotel or lodgings were obviously
out of the question: it had to be a private house.

"And there I came in.  During the course of that little job I did for
you, m'sieur, I had come across a certain Doctor Belfage.  He was an
unpleasant little specimen, but he was a prominent member of the Key
Club.  And since then I had heard that he had got into trouble and had
had his name removed from the medical register.  But what was important
from our point of view was that he had a house near Cambridge which was
most eminently suitable for our purpose.  It contained a central room
which was practically sound-proof, which the doctor used as a
laboratory, and which would form an admirable prison for this man
Waldron should he prove obdurate.  That settled, we crossed to England
by a route not usually taken by passengers, and successfully eluded the
authorities.  Gregoroff, in particular, might have had considerable
difficulty in landing.

"The first thing to do was to get in touch with Belfage, and I
travelled up to Cambridge while Gregoroff lay low in London.  And there
we got our first setback: the doctor had let his house and was living
elsewhere.  But though I didn't say anything at the time, I wondered
very much who and what this man Meredith, who had taken the house,
might be.  I was tolerably convinced, shall we put it, that he had
never been a candidate for Holy orders.  However, he gave me the
doctor's address, and I left him.

"The doctor, I am afraid," continued Veight, "was not overjoyed at
seeing me.  But on my reminding him of a certain incident in his past
he decided it would be better to overcome his reluctance and give me
some of his valuable time.  And so we adjourned to his study.

"'Still a member of the Key Club,' I remarked on seeing the badge in
his coat.  'I hear you've had a little trouble with the medical
authorities, Doctor.'

"'Purely professional,' he assured me.  'What can I do for you, Herr
Veight?'

"'I wanted the temporary loan of your other house, Doctor,' I said.
'Who is that man Meredith who has it?'

"A glance at his face told me that I had taped Meredith correctly, and
we both fenced for a while.  Then I took the bull by the horns and told
him what I wanted.

"Gentlemen, I don't think I have ever seen a man look so completely
dumbfounded.  He positively goggled at me.

"'Waldron!' he stuttered.  'Waldron!  What do you know about Waldron?'

"'Evidently just what you do,' I said.  'I want the secret of that gas,
and I'm going to have the secret of that gas.  Do we work together or
do we not?  Waldron has got to be made to speak.  Are you going to help
me, or do I work on my own?'

"'What do you propose to do?' he asked at length.

"'That, at present, is nothing to do with you,' I answered.  'But this
much I will tell you.  I know his address in Surbiton, and he is going
to be put through the hoop.'

"'You propose to abduct him?' he said.

"'Put it that way if you like,' I remarked.

"'Then there's mighty little good your going to Surbiton,' said the
doctor.

"'Why not?' I cried.

"'Because you won't find him there.  He's been abducted already.'

"'Well, m'sieur, it was my turn to do a bit of goggling now; it was the
last remark I'd expected.  Somebody had got in in front of us.  Who was
it?  I dismissed the possibility of his lying; the matter was so very
simple to verify.  So I let him talk, and it soon became obvious he
wanted to get rid of me.'

"'I fear, therefore, there is no good your wasting your time, Herr
Veight,' was the line he took up.

"'Don't worry about my time, Doctor,' I said.  'I'll look after that
end of the business myself.  Am I to understand that this man Waldron
is being held a prisoner by the Key Club?'

"It took some time for him to answer; in fact, gentlemen, everything to
start with had to be dragged out of him with a corkscrew.  But after a
while he admitted that that was the case.  Waldron had been a captive
for more than ten days.

"'In order to make him reveal the formula of his gas, or to prevent him
making any more?' I asked.

"'In order to get the formula,' said the doctor.  'There is one step in
the process known only to him.'

"'And when you have the formula, what is your next move?' I remarked

"He hesitated and stammered, and finally stated that the next move
would be what the rules of the Key Club ordered.  The secret would be
passed on to everyone interested.

"Well, m'sieur, I knew that was their rule, but I also knew my doctor.
He had pocketed a wad over the Guiseppi affair, and I couldn't see him
in the role of an altruist.  So I tackled him fair and square.

"'Are you a liar or are you a fool?' I asked.  'For you must be one or
the other.'

"He wasn't offended.  As you must have guessed by now, he's a pretty
poor specimen.  So when he found I wasn't going to be bluffed he came
out with the whole thing.  And a very pretty little business it was.

"By some ruse or other Waldron had been decoyed to the house where he
was now held prisoner.  This house belonged to a man called Hoskins
who, the doctor informed me, was a genuine Key Club idealist, and a man
whom no one would suspect for an instant of anything crooked.  A
telegram had been sent to the servant saying that he would be away for
a few weeks, and during that period the secret was to be extracted.
Then Waldron would be free to go.

"What was going to happen to Mr. Hoskins when Waldron went to the
police about it was entirely Hoskins's affair.  And according to the
doctor, Hoskins was such a complete fanatic that he wouldn't mind.

"'And where, my dear Doctor,' I remarked at this juncture, 'do you come
in?  You most certainly are not a complete fanatic, and I can't see you
going to prison for the doubtful pleasure of passing the secret of this
gas on to the nations at large.  Can it be possible that you are hoping
somehow or other to get away with the formula yourself and pass it on
to _one_ nation?'

"And it was obvious that that was exactly what he had been hoping to
do.  He hadn't made any definite plan, but that was what the little rat
had in his mind.

"'Excellent,' I said.  'We now know where we stand.  And since this
thing is much too big for you to handle on your own, think how lucky
you are that you now have me to help you.  Is Waldron at that house of
yours near Cambridge?'

"No, he was not.  He was at a house called Horsebridge, belonging to
Hoskins.

"'What,' I demanded, 'is the exact place in the jigsaw filled by the
Cambridge house?'

"It was to act as an alternative prison in case Waldron was traced at
Horsebridge.

"Who was Meredith?

"Meredith was a gentleman with a pretty taste in handwriting, who would
come in useful if any letters had to be written purporting to come from
Waldron.

"Did Hoskins know that he was consorting with a forger, amongst other
people?  Hoskins believed Meredith to be truly repentant, and anxious
to do his bit in the great cause.  'But where and how,' I persisted,
'do you propose to double-cross Hoskins?  If Waldron is persuaded to
tell his secret there is only one possible method of doing so.  You've
got to murder him.'

"No; a thousand times--no.  Nothing of the sort.  He was quite pained
at the mere thought.

"'Then what is your idea?' I cried furiously.  'You're not a half-wit.
Unless you murder Hoskins, how can you prevent him passing on this
formula?'

"He looked everywhere except at me, until I could have struck the
little devil.  And finally I issued an ultimatum.  I told him that
unless he was absolutely frank with me, I would send an anonymous
communication to Scotland Yard giving the whole thing away.  It was
bluff, of course; if the miserable worm had called it I hadn't a leg to
stand on.  But he didn't.

"I wonder, m'sieur, if I might have a glass of that excellent wine.
Much talking is making me dry.  And I am now coming to the _bonne
bouche_.  Thank you a thousand times."

Veight drained his glass, and replaced it on the table.

"The _bonne bouche_, gentlemen.  Doctor Belfage was far from being a
half-wit.  I told you, did I not, that I had two military secrets to
sell you.  You have heard the first; I am now coming to the second.
Have you ever heard of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane?"

"No," said Kalinsky.  "I have not."

"Nor had I until that day.  And very few people have heard of it at
all.  Working in an almost inaccessible part of the Highlands is a
young Scotch engineer.  He is apparently a genius on aeronautical
construction, and he has been experimenting on a machine of his own
which is as much in advance of any existing aeroplane as the
present-day car is in advance of the previous type.  His staff consists
of two or three fitters and one trusted mechanic.  It is a private
enterprise without Government support, so there are no troops or
anything of that sort guarding the place.  And it was on this spot in
Scotland that the doctor really had his eye fixed.

"The information came from one of the fitters, who was a humble member
of the Key Club.  And if one-half of what this man reported was true,
the performance of the machine was simply incredible.  I am no expert
in flying, but even I was impressed by what I heard.  A few final
details still remained to be perfected; then the plans of the machine
would be complete.  And the doctor was waiting till that was done
before striking.

"'Does Hoskins know of this?' I asked him.

"He did not.

"'What, then,' I said to Belfage, 'is your plan?'

"It was a simple one.  When Waldron had been abducted one small
cylinder of his gas, and only one, had been found in his laboratory.
And this had been removed, and was in the house at the moment.  The
doctor's idea was to wait till the plans of the aeroplane were
finished, and then go to Scotland with the cylinder.  The fitter would
introduce it into Graham Caldwell's office, and while the inventor and
his mechanic were powerless, Belfage would steal the plans.  He would
then offer them to the highest bidder.  If in addition to that he could
get away with the secret of the gas as well, so much the better.  But
it was clear that he attached far greater value to the former."

"One moment," said Kalinsky.  "Did this man Hoskins not realise that
this cylinder was in existence?  Because if he did, since publicity was
all he desired, all he had to do was to have the gas analysed by an
expert, and publish the result."

"Exactly, m'sieur.  That point occurred to me.  And that is why Doctor
Belfage had not mentioned the cylinder at all.  He had realised how
valuable it would be to him with Graham Caldwell, and so, fearing
Hoskins would do just what you said, he had lain low about it."

"So, Herr Veight," said Morgenstein, "if I understand you aright, the
situation when you first came into the matter some----"

"Four weeks ago."

"Some four weeks ago, was as follows.  Waldron was a prisoner in
Hoskins's house at Horsebridge, where efforts were being made to compel
him to reveal the secret of this gas.  Unknown to Hoskins this doctor
had the secret in his possession."

"He had the cylinder, Herr Morgenstein, but he did not know what the
contents were."

"Quite; quite.  He had the cylinder, but he could not find out what the
contents were without wasting them.  And once they were wasted they
could no longer be used against Graham Caldwell."

"Exactly," said Veight.

"Since, however, the final plans of the aeroplane were not yet
finished, Doctor Belfage in conjunction presumably with that other man
you mentioned----"

"Meredith."

"Meredith was playing a waiting game, until the time was ripe to
strike.  They would then get the plans of the aeroplane which Hoskins
knew nothing about; and, if they could--though that was a secondary
matter--get the secret of the gas to themselves."

"Exactly," repeated Veight.  "You have given the situation in a
nutshell."

"And what, might I ask, Herr Veight, was your reaction to this little
scheme?"

"In the words of the homely English idiom, Herr Morgenstein, it struck
me that it was money for jam.  In fact, beyond playing a waiting game
there was nothing for Gregoroff and me to do.  That the worthy doctor's
ideas on who lived and died might have to be changed a little, was
neither here nor there.  Also it was advisable for him not to know that
he was going to get very little out of it himself: it might have damped
his ardour.  He could not, of course, give either Gregoroff or me away
to the police, without giving himself away at the same time.  And so I
suggested that he should introduce us to the imbecile Hoskins as two
fanatical members of the Key Club from abroad, and that we should take
up our residence either at Horsebridge or his house near Cambridge.

"It was to Horsebridge that we finally went.  And a few words about the
house itself would not be out of place.  Originally it must have been
the fortified keep of some medieval baron.  Made of thick stone, it was
completely surrounded by water, and the only means of communication
with the shore was by way of a drawbridge.  The old dungeons still
existed, dank and mildewed, though they were shut off from the rest of
the house, which was warm and modernised.  And in these dungeons Mr.
Hoskins, the idealist, had confined Waldron.

"Well, gentlemen, it takes a good deal to surprise me, but I must
confess that that man Hoskins had me guessing.  We all know that a
fanatic in any shape or form is capable of refinements of cruelty which
would make a savage blush.  One has only got to remember the crimes
that have been committed in the name of religion.  But Mr. Hoskins won
in a canter.

"In appearance he looks a most saintly creature.  His hair is white;
his features are ascetic.  He walks with a slight stoop, and wears
pince-nez.  In short, he looks like the conventional ideal of a country
clergyman.

"He welcomed us effusively; his gullibility was almost incredible.
Everything that Belfage told him about us he swallowed; we were
brothers with him in the great faith.

"'Stay as long as you like,' he said.  'This creature Waldron is
stubborn; he refuses to speak.  In fact I sometimes think that it may
be necessary to kill him.  Better, far better, that one man should die,
rather than thousands be murdered by his infamous discovery.  I have
tried to make him see reason; I have explained to him our ideals.  But
he is stiff-necked; he persists in harping on the fact that he is an
Englishman, and that his vile gas is for England's use and hers only.
He even has the audacity to call me a traitor.  But I do not fear the
ultimate result; there is no man yet who has ever survived the ordeal.
The drug is infallible.'

"'What are you doing, Mr. Hoskins?' I asked, and even as I spoke a
swarthy black-haired man entered the room.

"'Tell them, Cortez,' said Hoskins.  'They are of our order.  Tell them
of the drug that breaks the strongest nerve.'

"The new-comer stared at us suspiciously; there was nothing gullible
about him.  Then he whispered something in the old man's ear, who shook
his head vehemently.

"'No; no,' he cried.  'They are of our order.  Tell them.'

"The man called Cortez shrugged his shoulders.

"'Marijuana,' he said in a surly tone.  'A Mexican drug.'

"And Gregoroff whistled under his breath."

Veight paused and lit a cigarette.

"Gentlemen," he continued, "it was a new one on me, but not on
Gregoroff.  Known to drug addicts as Mary Jane, its effects are
literally terrible.  As a general rule it is made into cigarettes, but
it can also be administered subcutaneously.  And after a while it
reduces a man to such a pitiful condition of nerves that he ceases to
be a man.  He becomes a gibbering wreck, scared out of his life by the
slightest trifle.  His brain refuses to act; terror of he knows not
what holds him in its grip, until in the end he puts a bullet through
his brain or else ends up in a lunatic asylum.  And this was the drug
that the saintly Mr. Hoskins was administering daily to Waldron.

"It was in every way an ideal prison.  Hoskins was respected and liked
in the neighbourhood; save for this one strange streak he was a
charming old gentleman.  And so he was the last man who would incur
suspicion should a hue and cry be raised for Waldron.  At the same time
every precaution was taken to prevent discovery.  The drawbridge was
raised every night at sunset, and not lowered till the following
morning; the tradesmen left their goods in the courtyard in front of
the house.  And so far as we could tell, nobody had an inkling of what
was occurring.  Waldron's relatives, if he had any, were evidently not
worrying; the faked telegram had kept the servants quiet.  Which left
Gregoroff and I plenty of time to arrange our plans.

"One thing we soon found out: the Mexican, Cortez, had to be reckoned
with.  He was under no delusions concerning us, and he told us so quite
candidly.  A nuisance, but one that could not be helped, and he is one
person who will have to be squared when the time comes.  But he did not
affect our scheme, which, in brief, was the same as the doctor's.  With
one or two small additions--additions we did not pass on to Belfage.

"We proposed to allow him to get the Graham Caldwell plans when the
time was ripe, by using his cylinder of gas.  We intended to accompany
him, and if by any unfortunate chance a fire should take place while
the men were powerless in the office, and after the plans had been
removed, it would doubtless be attributed to natural causes.  In fact
we proposed that two fires should take place, the other being the
hangar containing the machine itself."

"Good," said Kalinsky softly.  "Very good.  And the worthy doctor?"

Veight smiled faintly.

"Would not, I think, be missed.  They are dangerous roads, m'sieur, and
lonely roads in that part of Scotland.  No, I think the doctor would
not be missed.  Then having got the plans, we proposed to return to
Horsebridge--you remember, do you not, that Hoskins knows nothing about
the aeroplane--and obtain the secret of the gas if we had not done so
already.  Such, briefly, was our intention."

"You speak in the past, Veight," said Kalinsky.  "Is it not your
intention now?"

For a moment or two Veight hesitated.  Up till now he knew he had held
his listeners; it was vital that he should continue to do so.

"M'sieur--I am going to be perfectly frank with you," he remarked.
"Four days ago a most annoying thing happened.  You have, of course,
appreciated the essential importance of keeping Waldron's presence in
Horsebridge a secret.  Judge then of our dismay when Gregoroff while
walking in the courtyard one evening suddenly recognised a man who was
fiddling about with the mechanism of the drawbridge as a British Secret
Service man, whom he had last seen in Warsaw.  He acted at once.  He is
a man of immense physical strength, and the road outside was deserted.
So he hit the so-called workman over the back of the head with a stick
he was carrying; stunned him and dragged him into the house.  Then we
held a council of war.

"What had happened was unfortunately only too obvious.  This man, whose
name is Lovelace and who is an officer in the English Army, must have
spotted Gregoroff in Warsaw at the time when he was finding out about
the gas.  Suspecting something, he had followed Gregoroff to England,
and by some means or other had got on his track again.  It seemed to us
that Lovelace must have lost him to start with, otherwise we should
have had the police on our heels before.  In fact we hoped, and as
things have since turned out hoped rightly, that we had got him in
time.  Nothing had so far been passed on.  But we were confronted with
the situation of having a British Secret Service man a prisoner in the
house.  Waldron was on the verge of cracking; and we had received
information from Scotland that another three days would see the plans
completed.  And then this had come out of the blue.

"The first thing to decide was what to do with Lovelace.  To kill him
was far too dangerous; besides, Hoskins wouldn't hear of it.  Moreover,
there was no place to keep him prisoner, except the dungeon where
Waldron was, which again did not suit us.  And so we decided to take
him to the doctor's other house, and put him in the central room there.

"We waited till it was dark; then, having given him something to keep
him quiet, I started off by car with a fellow-countryman of mine and
another man as guards.  And on the way we ran into dense fog.

"Well, gentlemen, I will not weary you with a long story.  Suffice it
to say that Lovelace, having partially recovered from the drug, managed
to give us the slip while we were creeping along through the mist.  I
had one shot and wounded him, but before we finally caught him again he
had succeeded in throwing a stone with a message wrapped round it
through the lighted window of a cottage.  And that is what has caused
the bother.  For the message was found by the owner of the cottage, a
man of the name of Drummond, who proceeded to make an unmitigated
nuisance of himself."

"What was the message?" demanded Kalinsky.

"Gibberish; complete gibberish," said Veight.  "In fact I would not
have bored you with all this, seeing that everything is quite
satisfactorily settled now, but for one thing.  Drummond, as I say,
became most troublesome, and collected three other men round him.  They
knew nothing, but they were becoming very inquisitive.  And so it was
necessary to take steps to stop them.  They were all armed; they were
all tough customers.  However, by means of a simple ruse they were all
four inveigled into the central room in the doctor's house.  And there
we had to waste Waldron's gas on them."

"Why?" said Morgenstein.

Veight smiled grimly.

"Because, gentlemen, from my knowledge of human nature, Drummond is a
man I would prefer not to talk to if he has the full use of his limbs
and a gun in his pocket.  To a lesser degree the same applies to the
other three."

"Did the gas work?" asked Kalinsky.

"Marvellously; marvellously.  It is all Waldron claims for it.
But--there is no more.  That is the point."

"My dear Veight," remarked Kalinsky curtly, "that is not our affair.
Why do you worry us with these details?"

"Because, m'sieur," said Veight quietly, "I take it that the plans of
the Graham Caldwell aeroplane will be more valuable to you if England
is not in a position to have them redrawn."

"Well?" snapped Kalinsky.

"While we still had the gas it would have been possible to ensure that
result, and make it appear an accident.  Now that is out of the
question.  It can only be murder plain and unadorned."

Kalinsky shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not increasing my offer," he said.

"And I am not asking you to, m'sieur," answered Veight.  "But I am
asking for a certain amount on account.  I have a very wholesome regard
for the English police, and I have no wish whatever to give their
hangman a job.  I must have money to make my plans, and ensure a safe
get-away."

"You say this message was gibberish," said Kalinsky.  "What do you mean
by that?  Why should anyone take the trouble to send a meaningless
message?"

"It may have been a code, m'sieur.  At any rate we could make nothing
of it."

"Perhaps not.  But what about this man Drummond?  He may have solved
the code."

Veight smiled grimly.

"It doesn't matter much if he has.  He and his friends have been
prisoners for three days in the room I told you of.  The house is shut
up and empty; the room is sound-proof.  I fear they may be getting a
little hungry, but that can't be helped."

"And where is this secret service man you wounded?"

"At Horsebridge.  He is unconscious, and so can be safely left in one
of the ordinary bedrooms.  I can assure you, gentlemen," continued
Veight, "that everything is exactly as it was before this regrettable
_contretemps_ occurred, save that we no longer have the gas to help us.
It is therefore for you to decide.  Do you wish there to be no chance
of the plans being duplicated?"

At a sign from Kalinsky, Morgenstein rose, and the two financiers
withdrew to the window, where they conferred in low tones.  And Veight
watched them anxiously, though his face was expressionless.  What were
they going to say?

He had told them the exact position of affairs quite truthfully.  But
he knew--none better--that men of their type did not advance money on
mere promises.  And yet it was essential that he should have some, if
he and Gregoroff were going to escape from the country.

He lit a cigarette to soothe himself: the last three days had been
trying ones.  Present always had been the fear that Drummond and his
friends had found out about Horsebridge, and had handed the information
on before they were made prisoners.  Then as the time passed and the
police still left them alone, that fear had gradually died.  But the
atmosphere remained.

Doctor Belfage had completely lost his nerve: the Drummond episode had
finished him.  Only a ceaseless application to the bottle had kept him
going, and even then it had been unsafe to leave him alone for fear
that he might give everything away in a sudden access of terror.  And
Cortez had been a trouble.  And Meredith.  In fact the whole gang
gathered together at Horsebridge had been suffering from suspicionitis.
Nobody trusted anybody else; the only point on which they all combined
was in continuing to fool Hoskins.  After that the trouble started.

Meredith, in particular, had been showing his teeth.  From the first he
had resented the appearance of two foreigners, though until the
_affaire_ Drummond he had not shown it openly.  But since then he had
taken no pains to conceal his belief that Gregoroff and Veight himself
were playing a double game.  Which, in view of the fact that it was
perfectly true, had not helped matters.

The girl, too, Doris Venables, had proved a complication.  Even now he
did not know where she came in; it had been necessary to keep her
permanently under the influence of drugs in her room in Horsebridge to
prevent any chance of her screaming.  And it had all increased the
nervous tension.  Only Hoskins himself seemed impervious to it: he was
too occupied torturing Waldron to bother about anything else.

He came out of his reverie; Kalinsky was speaking.

"I will tell you what we have decided, Veight.  You will appreciate
that we have no means whatever of testing what you have told us.  We
have to rely entirely on your word.  At the same time, neither Herr
Morgenstein nor I think it likely that you would be so very foolish as
to waste our time with a tissue of falsehoods.  So we will assume that
everything is as you have said."

Veight bowed; this sounded a promising beginning.

"That being the case," continued Kalinsky, "the whole problem boils
down to whether or not you can deliver the goods, and further if the
goods, when delivered, are what you claim for them.  Will five thousand
pounds be enough for your immediate needs?"

"Ample, m'sieur," said Veight.

"Good; you shall have it.  And that we will regard as over and above
the rest of the money, and not as a payment on account."

"You are generous, gentlemen.  I thank you."

"On receipt by us of the tracings of the aeroplane and the formula of
the gas you will receive ten thousand pounds out of the fifty we have
agreed on.  When we have satisfied ourselves that they are of real
value you will receive a further fifteen, making twenty-five thousand
in all.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, m'sieur," said Veight slowly.

"The remaining twenty-five thousand, Veight," continued Kalinsky, "will
not be handed over until we have indisputable proof that we and we
alone hold those two secrets.  There may be duplicate plans of the
aeroplane already in existence; the formula of the gas may be known to
someone else.  If so, the removal of the people concerned will not
avail much--but that is your affair.  If, on the contrary, no
duplicates already exist, then the removal of the people concerned will
solve the question.  That again is your affair.  So my offer can be
summed up in short.  Five thousand for current expenses; ten for the
delivery of the goods; fifteen when the goods are proved satisfactory,
and a final twenty-five when it is proved we have a monopoly.  Do you
agree?"

"There is one point that occurs to me, m'sieur.  Supposing we have a
partial success.  Supposing, for instance, the plans of the aeroplane
become your monopoly, but the formula of the gas is known elsewhere.
What then?"

"You would receive half.  In the case you have mentioned, instead of
receiving the final twenty-five thousand you would receive twelve and a
half."

Veight rose to his feet.

"Gentlemen, I accept.  In a case of this sort we have to trust one
another.  You are trusting me to the extent of fifteen thousand pounds;
I am trusting you for the remaining forty, or whatever may be due.  You
will be here, m'sieur, for some days?"

"In all probability.  If not, you know the permanent address in Paris
that always finds me."

"Then I will bid you good night, gentlemen.  You will hear from me in
the course of four days at the outside."

With a bow he left the room and walked along the corridor towards the
lift.  Taking everything into account, he felt well satisfied with his
evening's work, and his brain was already busy as to the best means of
still further lining his own pocket.  He shrewdly guessed that the two
men he had just left were planning war at an early date, and inside
information of that sort could be profitably used.

For a few moments he stood outside the swing doors watching young
London arrive to revel.  Mere girls and boys--happy and care-free, with
healthy appetites and tireless legs.  What would they be thinking in a
few months' time?

"_Ein wunderschner Abend, Herr Veight_," came a voice from behind him.

He swung round as if he had been shot.  Who had spoken to him about the
evening?  But all he saw was a superb being in a gorgeous uniform,
surrounded by bevies of lovely girls and their attendant swains.

"A taxi, sir?" said the superb being politely.

"No," snarled Veight.  And then, obeying a sudden impulse, he added:
"Did you hear anyone speak to me in German?"

The superb being raised his eyebrows.

"German, sir?  Really.  Most peculiar, sir."

With another snarl Emil Veight turned on his heel and strode into the
Strand.  For though the words were German, the accent had been English.




CHAPTER XI

He hailed a taxi and gave the name of his hotel.  But, try as he would,
he could not get the incident out of his head.  Emil Veight was the
last person in the world to court publicity, and at the moment he was
particularly anxious to blush unseen.  But the fact remained that
someone had recognised him as he left the Ritz-Carlton.  Whom could it
have been?

The police he dismissed as unlikely: no one in the group had looked in
the slightest degree like a plain-clothes man.  A secret service agent
was a more probable solution: he was pretty well known amongst that
fraternity.  And, if so, it would require no great astuteness on the
speaker's part to connect his visit with Kalinsky.

He frowned; the whole thing was annoying, coming as it had on top of
his very successful interview with the two financiers.  He felt
justifiably aggrieved about it.  And then an idea struck him, and he
peered cautiously through the little window at the back of the taxi.

His hotel was a quiet one north of the Park, and the street behind him
was deserted.  It was an ideal spot from which to see if he was being
followed, and he signalled to his driver to stop.  But though he waited
a full minute no one came in sight, and at length he told the man to
drive on.  Whoever it was who had spoken to him was evidently no longer
interested.  And he began to wonder if he had not unduly exaggerated
the significance of the incident.

A fast open car was drawn up outside the hotel, and Veight glanced at
it in some surprise.  From what he had seen of his fellow-guests a
hearse would have seemed a more suitable vehicle, but the mystery was
solved as he entered the lounge.  Seated in an arm-chair was the
gigantic figure of Paul Gregoroff.  And it was obvious at once that the
Russian had something important to say.

"Have you got a sitting-room," he asked, "where we shan't be disturbed?"

"It's perfectly safe here," answered Veight.  "No one sits up in this
place after ten.  What's brought you up to London?"

"Have you seen the evening papers?" cried Gregoroff.

"I have not."

"Then read that."

The Russian pointed to a paragraph and Veight ran his eyes down it.
Then with a whistle of surprise he read it more closely.


COUNTRY HOUSE GUTTED BY FIRE

SCARCITY OF WATER HINDERS FIREMEN

From our Special Correspondent.  Cambridge.

"Yet another country house must be added to the list of those that have
recently been destroyed by fire.  Hartley Court, a largish residence
standing in its own grounds, about three miles from Cambridge, was
completely gutted in the early hours of this morning.  Two fire
brigades which were soon on the spot found their efforts hindered by
the lack of water due to the recent drought.

"The reason of the outbreak is obscure, as the house had been empty for
some days.  And this fact also permitted the flames to get such a hold
before they were seen from a cottage on the other side of the road
that, even had the water supply been adequate, but little could have
been done.  There seems no doubt that defective electric wiring,
resulting in a short circuit, must have been the cause of the trouble.

"Some excitement was occasioned by the discovery of human bones in the
ruins.  But it transpired that the owner, Doctor Belfage, had some
complete skeletons in his laboratory which he used for lecturing
purposes."


Veight put the paper down on the table and lit a cigarette.

"How does this affect us?" he remarked thoughtfully.

"Up to date it hasn't," said Gregoroff; "but that's not saying that it
won't.  Everything depends on how long the yarn about the skeletons
holds good."

"Belfage put that up, did he?"

"On my instigation.  The instant I heard about the fire I realised this
complication would occur, and it is quite natural for a doctor to have
some in his house."

"Why shouldn't it continue to hold good?"

"However fierce the fire, and I gather it was an absolute inferno,
there are bound to be some traces left besides the actual skeletons.
At least I should imagine so."

"Trapped as they were in that room, it seems possible to me that the
process would be pretty thorough.  However, that is beside the point.
Let us assume that you are right.  What then?"

"To start with, Meredith will undoubtedly split on us if he finds
himself in any trouble.  Up to date he has kept out of the way, and
Belfage has done the talking.  But once the insurance people come on
the scene Meredith will have to appear."

"Even if he does, what is he going to say?  Unless he is completely
insane he must stick to our original story and profess entire ignorance
of anybody having been left in the house.  Burglars who inadvertently
shut themselves into that room would be a plausible theory."

"Supposing something is found which identifies the bodies, such as a
cigarette case?"

"Once again--entire ignorance.  The house was shut up after the meeting
of the Key Club--the tradesmen can confirm that--and he has absolutely
no idea what has happened since.  And there's one thing you can be sure
of.  Any story they may have written down on paper will have been
destroyed."

"There's something in what you say," said Gregoroff slowly.  "At the
same time, I wish it had happened after we were clear away.  If
Meredith can queer our pitch he will."

"On that point I certainly agree with you," said Veight.  "He and that
damned little quitter of a doctor have got to be watched.  To say
nothing of Cortez.  And it's on that very matter that you and I have
got to come to a decision.  I've seen Kalinsky; Morgenstein was with
him."

"Satisfactory?"

"Very.  Five thousand for current expenses; fifty when they handle the
goods, provided----"

"Provided what?" said Gregoroff softly as the eyes of the two men met.

"There is no chance of anyone else handling them."

"Just as we thought," remarked Gregoroff.  "Damn Drummond and his
friends!  That gas would have been invaluable."

"There's no good worrying about that now," said Veight.  "What we have
got to decide on is a plan of campaign, and it's not going to be too
easy."

He pulled up a chair closer to Gregoroff and lowered his voice, though
the lounge was quite deserted.

"Let us first of all eliminate the impossible.  What I would have liked
to have done would have been for you and me to have gone on our own to
Scotland after the aeroplane plans.  But there is no object in
discussing that.  If we attempted it Meredith would communicate
anonymously with the police.  And I know Scotland--particularly the
Highlands.  I did some work there in 1914.  Those cursed Scotchmen can
spot a foreigner a mile off, and they don't like us.  It is equally
impossible for us to let them go on their own.  They would either
bungle the whole thing and put the inventor on his guard, or else they
would disappear with the plans.  So we've got to go together.  Do you
agree?"

"I do," said Gregoroff.

"Let us go a bit farther.  Meredith is only after the tracings; we, on
the other hand, want rather more than that.  And the point we have to
decide is the best method of getting rid of Graham Caldwell and his
assistants without being suspected ourselves."

"Meredith and the doctor may have to go too," put in Gregoroff.

"They may, and nothing would please me more than if they did.  But
we've got to think of ourselves, my friend.  You can't get away with
things in this country as easily as on the Continent.  And what I am
wondering is this: Would it be possible to dispose of Graham Caldwell
and his man in such a way that Meredith and the rest of his precious
brood get run for murder?"

The Russian stared at him.

"That's a grand idea if it can be worked," he said at length.  "But can
it?"

"I believe it can," answered Veight.  "Always provided one thing--that
we get the two of them to Horsebridge."

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

"While we had the gas, as I explained to Kalinsky, their death up in
Scotland could be attributed to accident.  As you know, our plan was
based on that.  Now it can't be; at least it wouldn't be safe to rely
on it.  Now we are agreed that they have to be killed, and we are
agreed that it is necessary for us to go there ourselves.  Now you, my
dear Gregoroff, are not exactly an inconspicuous member of the society,
and I have already mentioned that I know something about the
inhabitants of the district.  And since it would be out of the question
for us to avoid being seen, the result is obvious.  With one accord
they would connect you, and through you, me, with any murder, however
skilfully it was done.  The very loneliness of the place doubles the
difficulties.  Within five minutes of the thing being discovered every
policeman in Scotland would be on the look-out for us.  Which would
prove singularly awkward when the plans of the machine were found in
our possession."

"Very true," admitted Gregoroff.

"I have therefore come to the definite conclusion that by far our best
chance of success--I go further, our only chance of success--lies in
getting these two men to Horsebridge."

"And how the devil do you propose to do that, seeing that it is the one
thing Belfage and Meredith don't want?  Their whole idea is to keep
that fool Hoskins from knowing anything about the aeroplane."

"They must be made to want it," said Veight calmly.  "And it can be
done by pointing out to them the vital importance of keeping the
airman's mouth shut while negotiations for selling the plans are in
progress.  What does it matter if Hoskins does know?  I admit that
before we used the gas we were not going to tell him.  But now that is
all changed.  And, as I say, what does it matter if he does know?  The
only plans will be in our possession.  Let the old man think what he
likes.  We can pretend to have copies made for distribution to every
government.  That will keep him quiet.  To Meredith we can pretend that
we are only waiting for Waldron to speak, when both secrets can be sold
to the highest bidder."

"And then?  What then?"

Veight leaned even closer to the Russian.

"Have you ever heard of adrenalin?"

Gregoroff shook his head.

"Adrenalin," continued Veight, "is used for asthma.  I know, because I
suffer from it at times myself, and I always carry a supply with me.
And it has one very strange property.  Though quite harmless when taken
in the proper way, it causes death if it is injected into a vein.  Now
it will be necessary to keep the two airmen under the influence of
drugs to prevent them raising a disturbance, which will be Belfage's
job as usual.  And my suggestion is quite simple.  When we have got
what we want we will kill both of them and Waldron by giving them an
injection of adrenalin.  The fact that the doctor is more or less
permanently drunk is all to the good.  He will think he has killed them
by giving them an overdose of morphia.  And then, my dear Gregoroff, we
will fade rapidly out of the picture, leaving the dear doctor and the
rest of the crowd to explain away three dead men as best they may."

"But it is a marvellous scheme!" cried the Russian with genuine
admiration.  "It is sheer genius."

"I flatter myself," said Veight complacently, "that it has a certain
merit.  Small unforeseen details are, of course, bound to crop up, but
we must deal with them as they arise.  In the main, however, I think
the scheme is workable."

"Eminently so," said Gregoroff.  "I congratulate you most heartily.
There is, however, one point that occurs to me.  How do you propose to
get Graham Caldwell and his mechanic to Horsebridge?  They will have to
be drugged, and the sight of two unconscious men in a motor-car
travelling through the country will be apt to cause some comment."

Veight rubbed his hands together.

"Once again, my friend, I think I have solved your difficulty.  The
English, as you know, are a peculiar race, and at this time of year
many of them are in the habit of attaching to the backs of their cars a
strange-looking contraption on two wheels called a caravan.  In this
they tour the country, eating tinned foods and living in the height of
discomfort.  But what could be better suited to our purpose?  In the
first place it supplies a _raison d'tre_ for our going to the
Highlands at all.  We are tourists--sight-seeing.  In the second place,
it supplies an admirable hiding-place for our prisoners.  There are two
bunks, and curtains which can be drawn, so that one can drive with
absolute safety through the largest towns, with both of them inside."

"Upon my word, Veight, it is a pleasure to work with you," cried
Gregoroff.  "So far as I can see, the scheme is as nearly fool-proof as
it is possible to make it."

"Two heads are better than one," said Veight.  "If you can see any
flaws, mention them."

"How do we do our final get-away?"

"Private machine and fly," answered Veight without hesitation.
"There's an aerodrome not twenty miles from Horsebridge.  We'll deliver
the stuff to Kalinsky in Paris."

"I suppose there is no chance of him double-crossing us?"

Veight shrugged his shoulders.

"All I can say is that I don't think so.  He's too big a man to make it
worth his while.  I certainly have never heard of him letting an agent
down."

He got up, rubbing his hands together.

"Don't fear: he will pay up if we give him the goods.  And unless
something entirely unforeseen occurs we can't fail.  Drummond and his
damned friends are dead; Lovelace is helpless, and the Venables
girl..."  He paused.  "That young woman is a bit of an enigma.  I can't
make out where she fits in."

Gregoroff laughed coarsely.

"Not for want of trying, from what I've seen of you," he remarked.
"And as for that fool Meredith, he eats out of her hand."

Veight looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"Don't fall into that error, Gregoroff.  I have never been in the habit
of letting a woman interfere with business.  And I repeat, I can't make
out where she comes in.  Ostensibly she is an enthusiastic member of
the Key Club.  But what is she really?  Was it, as Meredith maintains,
just feminine curiosity that sent her back to that cottage?  Or is she
in their secret service?"

"In either event it doesn't seem to me to matter much," said the
Russian.  "She's safely under the influence of dope and will remain in
that condition until we are clear of the country.  And after that it
doesn't matter a kopeck who or what she is.  What is far more to the
point is what happened at your interview this evening.  I must be going
soon, and so far you've only given me the barest details."

For a few moments Veight was silent; then, sinking his voice, he
uttered one word--"War."

"Did they say so definitely?" cried the other eagerly.

"My dear Gregoroff," said Veight, "the Kalinskys and Morgensteins of
this world very rarely say things definitely.  But I waited a little
before actually entering their room, and I heard one or two of their
remarks.  And even had I not done so the thing is obvious.  We both
know quite enough to realise how matters stand in Europe to-day.  And
the only doubtful point was what Kalinsky was going to do about it.
To-night's interview has answered that question.  He means war, and I
believe he means it soon.  And that is where you and I can considerably
increase that fifty thousand pounds.  We may only be small men
financially, but when a small man has _certain_ inside information he
can soon become big."

The Russian nodded.

"That is true," he said.

"Kalinsky is not buying our stuff to frame it.  Kalinsky isn't
insisting on having the monopoly of it for nothing.  Kalinsky is
playing deep, and it is up to us to play his tune.  And there's one
place I shall not be visiting when the music starts--London.  There
won't be any preliminary orchestra this time.  No question of
ultimatums expiring in twenty-four hours."

"Which is what these fool English can't believe," remarked Gregoroff.

"My friend, they are incredible.  With London a mass of smoking ruins,
they would send an indignant note, saying, 'Play the game, you cads: we
weren't ready.'"

Gregoroff laughed.

"At the same time," continued Veight, "since we are playing for big
stakes ourselves, I would like to be sure that the counters are full
value.  I don't think there can be a possibility of error, but all the
same, I would like to see that aeroplane in action.  Even if it is not
_all_ that has been claimed for it, and all that I told Kalinsky it
was, we can still sell the plans to him.  But in the jargon of the
people who race over here, we shall know the true form of the horse.
And that will help us in making our bet."

"I gather they try it out every day," said the Russian.

"Exactly.  And I suggest we see it on its trial flights, before we
finally destroy it.  With my caravan idea it should be easy.  We can
take our hotel with us to within a couple of miles of the place."

"It's a beautiful idea--that caravan.  But you realise Meredith, and
probably Cortez as well, will insist on coming with us."

"Of course.  Let 'em.  I allowed for that.  They can do the dirty
work," he added with an evil laugh.  "If you and I, Gregoroff, are not
capable of dealing with those two miserable specimens we'll give up the
game for good."

He glanced at his watch.

"I think I'll come back with you to-night to Horsebridge.  Not
expecting you, I had intended to sleep here and go up to-morrow, but
there's nothing to keep me."

"Where are you going to get this caravan?" asked Gregoroff, as Veight
rang the bell.

"You can get them all over the place.  I'll hire one locally.  Let me
have my bill," he continued, as a bleary-eyed youth appeared round the
corner.

"Bill!  You can't 'ave no bill.  H'everybody 'as gone to bed."

"Then somebody has to get up, or I shall go without paying it."

"Ho! you would, would yer?  Can't go without paying yer bill.  Send for
the perlice, I will, if yer tries them gaimes wiv me."

Veight turned to the Russian.

"In some ways I would like to be in London on the date we have been
discussing," he remarked softly.  "You'll send for the police, will
you?" he continued to the night porter.  "Now I've been here one night.
I am still alive because I have eaten no food here.  I will therefore
pay you for two nights, as it is so late.  How much will that be,
_schweinhund_?"

"'Oo are yer calling naimes?  Mine's 'Orace."

He hiccoughed loudly.

"Pardon!  'Ad tripe for me supper.  Comes back on one like, don't it?
Two quid, yer said.  Right oh!  Suppose it'll be orl right."

He pocketed the notes and shuffled off into a noisome recess under the
stairs, from which there emerged a series of devastating explosions,
showing that the tripe was still active.

"'Ere's yer receipt," he said, appearing once more.  "Shall I get yer
bag?"

"No," said Veight.  "All you can do is to get out of sight and hearing.
I won't be a moment, Gregoroff: I've a few things to put in.  I'll join
you in the car."

He went upstairs, and the Russian, lighting a cigarette, went down the
steps into the street.  It was past two o'clock, and not a soul was in
sight.  An occasional car flashed past the end of the street along the
Bayswater Road, and in a neighbouring basement an amatory cat made
music.  There was no moon, but in a couple of hours it would be dawn,
and it would take him just about that time to reach Horsebridge.

He got into the car and started the engine.  It was a fast machine,
though a good deal slower than the one stolen by Drummond, and as he
thought of that episode he cursed under his breath.  Even the fact that
he had struck the damned Englishman in the face, and that the swine had
since died in agony, was not enough.  He would have liked to have
murdered him personally.

Unlike Emil Veight, who only killed as an absolutely last resource,
Paul Gregoroff gloried in it.  Beneath a very thin veneer the man was a
merciless savage.  Human life meant less than nothing to him.
Willingly would he have done in the four men in Hartley Court with his
own hands, had he not been dissuaded by the others.  In fact his
readiness to kill was a constant source of anxiety to those with whom
he worked.  He never seemed to realise that what might be done with
impunity in Russia was a very different matter in Western Europe.

With an effort he dismissed Drummond from his mind, and concentrated on
the work ahead.  He felt a genuine admiration for Veight's scheme,
which he readily acknowledged as a masterpiece.  Try as he would he
could see no flaw in it.  There were difficulties which he could see,
and unforeseen ones which would almost certainly arise.  But in the
main the conception was magnificent.  Particularly the idea of the
caravan.  It tickled his sense of humour to think that they would be
able to stop and ask a policeman which way to take the two men they
were going to murder.  And the adrenalin.  Very, very good.

"My dear Veight," he said as the German flung his bag in the car and
sat down beside him, "once again I congratulate you.  I have been
thinking it over while I waited for you, and I cannot see any
possibility of failure."

"Nor can I," said Veight.  "But I'm glad you confirm my opinion.  Yes,
Gregoroff, my friend, I think we shall be able to retire in the near
future.  How long will it take us to get there?"

"Two hours.  One must admit one point in favour of this country: its
roads are wonderful."

Save for an occasional lorry there was no traffic at all.  Villages
loomed up in the glare of the headlights and fell away behind them as
the car ate up the miles.  And gradually over the flat country towards
the east the dawn began to break.

There was a coolness in the air.  Here and there little patches of
ground mist lay in the fields, and the smell of damp earth came faintly
to their nostrils.  And suddenly Veight spoke.

"I remember it like this away back behind the line during the last war."

Gregoroff glanced at him quickly, but did not speak.

"Strange, isn't it," he continued, "that we two are helping to start
another.  Don't think I'm becoming sentimental," he added with a laugh,
"but at moments like this one cannot help marvelling at the congenital
idiocy of mankind."

"All the better for us," said Gregoroff cynically.

"Agreed.  But one can wonder at a state of affairs even while one
profits by it."

"You'll be talking about the happy hours you spent at your mother's
knee soon," sneered Gregoroff, and Veight frowned.  Unscrupulous
blackguard though he was, there was a streak of the genuine artist in
him, which at times recoiled with disgust from the crude inhumanity of
the Russian.  But he said no more and they drove on in silence.

At length, just as they reached the last village before their
destination, the sun rose.  The actual house was about a mile farther
on, and soon it came in sight, standing in its sheet of reed-fringed
water.  And with it Veight's mood vanished: he was once more the man of
action.

"Let's get it clear now, Gregoroff," he said.  "We want a few hours'
sleep; then we must get down to things.  The sooner we get up north the
better, so we'll have a conference with Meredith as early as possible.
He or Belfage will have to make arrangements for the caravan, and it
will be best not to bring it to the house.  We don't want old Hoskins
to know a minute before it is necessary.  In fact he needn't know until
we actually come back with the two men.  I will fix up the aeroplane
for us; if I can't do it in any other way I'll buy one and hire a
pilot.  I shall say that it is wanted for an important business deal,
and that it must be ready to start at a moment's notice."

"We, of course, say nothing about Kalinsky," said Gregoroff, as he
backed the car into the garage.

"Good God! no.  Are you mad?  We hint at a possible buyer, to whom we
will go accompanied by Meredith.  And it is vital they should know
nothing about the aeroplane."

Gregoroff produced a latch-key as they walked over the drawbridge.

"I follow," he said.  "I wonder if that damned man Waldron has cracked
yet."

He opened the door, and they stepped into the hall.  In front of them
the staircase led up to a mullioned window through which the sunlight
was streaming.  In the room to their right the remains of a meal
littered the table, and Gregoroff entering poured himself out a whisky
and soda.

The house was in complete silence as Veight went up the stairs and he
paused by the window to look out.  The whole expanse of the mere lay in
front of him, and for a while he stood there staring idly across the
water.  The morning was still: in the undergrowth that stretched down
to the edge not a leaf stirred.  And he was on the point of going on up
to his bedroom when he stiffened.  The top of one of the bushes
fringing the water had shaken.

"Gregoroff," he called softly.  "Gregoroff--come here."

The Russian joined him.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

"Watch the bank just beyond the water-logged boat," said Veight, and
even as he spoke the bush shook again.

"There's somebody hiding there," he continued softly.

"It might be an animal," said Gregoroff, but Veight shook his head.

"The undergrowth is far too dense for a sheep or a cow," he said.  "And
only a big animal would make that bush shake.  It is a human being.  We
must go and investigate."

Silently they let themselves out of the front door and crossed the
drawbridge.  Then they followed the narrow path that skirted the pool.
They were screened from view, but progress was slow.  In places the
path petered out completely and they had to force their way through
brambles, but at length Veight, who was leading, held up his hand.
They were just abreast of the boat.

They paused, listening intently, but save for the bird chorus they
could hear nothing.  Then very cautiously, a step at a time, they
pushed forward.  Suddenly, with an agitated squawk, a moorhen scuttered
across the water, and Veight cursed under his breath.  Then all its
friends followed suit, and the possibility of surprise was gone.

"Come on," said Veight.  "Damn those birds."

He pushed forward rapidly, regardless now of noise, with the Russian
just behind him.

"Here's the spot," he cried.  "It was just beside that coloured shrub.
This is the actual bush that was shaking.  And," he muttered, gripping
Gregoroff's arm, "animals don't eat sandwiches."

On the ground at their feet were the remains of a meal, and they both
bent down to examine them.  Some ham and bread; the core of an apple; a
piece of paper and some string.

"The devil take it," said Veight softly.  "That apple core hasn't
turned brown yet, so whoever it is he's only just gone."

Once again they stood and listened, and this time in the far distance
they heard the noise of someone crashing through the undergrowth; then
silence.

"Who the devil can it have been?" said Veight.  "Tramps don't eat that
sort of sandwich, and a tramp wouldn't have bolted.  What's the matter?"

"Look at the house, man; look at the house," Gregoroff was breathing in
his ear.

Through an opening in the bushes Veight looked.  Leaning out of a top
window, staring over the water in their direction, was Doris Venables.

"The girl, by God!" Veight muttered.  "This must be dealt with at once."




CHAPTER XII

To all appearances she was fast asleep when they entered the room.  The
door had been locked as usual with the key on the outside; the window
was wide open.

"There's no good shamming, young woman," said Gregoroff harshly.  "We
know you're not asleep."

There was no answer; only the deep-measured breathing of someone under
the influence of drugs.

"If you go on pretending," said Veight, bending over her, "I'll rip the
bedclothes off.  I thought that would do the trick," he added with a
short laugh, as she made an involuntary movement.

"Now, Miss Doris Venables, are you going to be sensible or shall we
have to take drastic measures?"

"How dare you come into my room!" she cried furiously.  "Go at once."

"Shall we cut out the innocent-virgin stuff?" said Veight calmly.  "We
are in your room and we intend to stay here until you've answered a few
questions, and answered them to our satisfaction."

He bent over and stared into her eyes.

"There's no dope in her at all," he remarked to Gregoroff.  "Go and get
that miserable bungler Belfage, and bring him here."

"It might be as well, Veight, to question her first.  We can get hold
of him afterwards."

"All right," agreed the German.  "Now, my girl, are you going to stop
in bed, or would you prefer to put on a dressing-gown and get up?"

"I'll get up if you'll leave the room."

"We will avert our gaze, Miss Venables," said Veight ironically.  "Is
this what you want?"

He picked up a wrap lying on a chair, and tossed it on to the bed.

"Now hurry, please; we have no time to waste."

He turned his back, and a moment or two later she spoke.

"What are these questions you want to ask me?"

"Good," said Veight.  "I am glad you are going to see reason.  And
really--I must compliment you on your appearance.  A most enchanting
picture."

"Will you kindly ask your questions and go?" she remarked icily.  "I
find your presence in my room quite insufferable."

"Then the sooner you answer, and the more truthful those answers are,
the quicker you will be rid of us.  What were you doing at the window a
few minutes ago?"

"Looking out.  I woke up, and seeing it was a lovely morning I got out
of bed."

"Who was the man you were looking for?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," she said.  "I didn't expect
to see any man.  Why should I?  I don't even know where I am."

"I'm afraid, Miss Venables, our visit is going to be a long one.  If
you remember, I laid stress on your answers being truthful.  You are
not being truthful.  Who was the man who was hiding in the undergrowth
on the other side of the lake?"

"I tell you I didn't even know there was a man there, much less who he
was."

"I fear, Gregoroff, that we shall have to adopt other measures with
this young lady; measures, my dear, that you will not appreciate.  For
the moment, however, we will let that question drop, and turn to
another.  Ever since I have had the pleasure of knowing you, you have
posed as an ardent member of the Key Club.  Why?"

"Because I am one."

Veight raised protesting hands.

"You really must not go on in this stupid way.  You are no more a
member of that fatuous institution than I am.  What I want to know is
why you pretend to be."

"I tell you I am one," she cried.  "You can believe it or not as you
like."

"I suppose you'll ask me next to believe that you are a friend of
Meredith's--a man with a criminal record, who has served a sentence for
forgery."

She gave a slight start.

"I didn't know that," she said.

"You do now.  Why did you go back to Captain Drummond's cottage that
afternoon?"

"To make sure the message telegraphed by Mrs. Eskdale was correct."

"And why did you want to make sure of that?  I am waiting for an
answer, Miss Venables," he added after a pause.

"I thought she might have made a mistake."

"Really!  And if she had--what then?  You, with a quickness for which I
congratulate you, got rid of that man Drummond on the pretext that the
message was a cipher giving the name of the place where your mythical
cousin Harold had been taken to.  You also, and on one of the few times
in our acquaintance, quite truthfully told me that you thought it was
the address of our head-quarters in code.  Why did you want that
address?  Whom did you wish to trace there?"

"I tell you, I----"

"Finding things a little difficult to answer, are we?  Should I be very
wide of the mark, Miss Venables, if I suggested to you that in the
hurry of the moment you had not taken a copy of that wire, and that
when I tore it up you couldn't remember the contents?  And that that
was why you went back to the cottage?  Thank you, you needn't answer.
I see I am right."

For a while he stared at her thoughtfully.

"I must confess you arouse my curiosity, young woman," he said at
length.  "Are you in the service of the British Government?"

"I am not," she answered promptly.

"Then if that is the truth you are playing a lone hand.  Once again I
ask you, why?"

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

"I have already told you, Herr Veight, that you are quite wrong.  I
really cannot go on repeating myself; it's too boring."

"So," said Veight softly, and at that moment Doctor Belfage entered the
room, bringing with him a strong odour of spirits.  He had pulled on a
dirty dressing-gown over his pyjamas, and a two days' growth of stubble
adorned his chin.

"Thought I heard voices," he muttered foolishly.

"You drunken swine," snarled Veight.  "You were told to keep this girl
under the influence of morphia, weren't you?  Well, look at her."

"Gave her a shot last night," stammered the doctor.

"Shot be damned!" cried Veight furiously.  "You were too full of whisky
to know what you were doing.  And what's the result?  We found her
trying to signal to somebody outside.  And that's your doing, you
miserable fool."

"Signalling?  My God!  Whom to?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out.  And that's what I'm going to find
out.  Now look here, my girl, I've had enough of this fooling.  You
were anxious to find out where our head-quarters were.  Well, you have.
They are here.  And now you are going to sample what goes on in them.
Up to date we haven't worried about you; you have been kept quiet.
Now, entirely owing to that wretched bungler, we have got to worry
about you."

The girl rose to her feet, and faced him fearlessly.

"How long have I been here, you brute?"

"Three or four days," answered Veight.  "A nice rest cure."

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

"Apply a little suasion.  Show you some of the sights of the house.
Unless you tell us who that was outside."

"I tell you I don't know," she cried.  "And if I did I wouldn't tell
you.  Don't touch me."  Her voice rose.  "Don't dare to put your
beastly hands on me."  She backed to the window.  "I swear I'll jump
out if you do."

And even as she spoke a sudden change came over her face, and she gave
a little choking cry.

"Tommy.  Tommy darling.  What have they done to you?"

Standing in the doorway was a man with a chalk-white face.  A dirty
bandage was round his head, and he was swaying dangerously on his feet.

"Doris," he whispered.  "I thought I heard your voice, dearest."

Heedless of the other three she went to him and flung her arms round
his neck.

"You devils!" she cried fiercely, as she led him towards the bed.  "Sit
down, darling.  You oughtn't to have got up."

"Things become a little clearer," said Veight with interest.  "I see
you know Captain Lovelace, shall we say--fairly intimately."

"I'm engaged to him," cried the girl defiantly.

"Most romantic."  The German lit a cigarette.  "At last we are
beginning to understand things a little better.  So it was to help him
that you pretended to belong to the Key Club."

"It was," said the soldier weakly.  "And if you've got a spark of
decency or manhood left in you, you'll let her go."

"Much more clearly," continued Veight.  "That's why you wanted the
message: you guessed he'd be here.  It proves one thing, however,
Gregoroff.  You got Lovelace in time; he has passed on nothing.  Tell
me," he turned to the soldier, "as a mere matter of interest, what you
meant by that strange message you threw through the window of the
cottage.  'Rosemary BJCDOR.'  It doesn't make sense to me, though of
course it's a code."

Ginger Lovelace stared at him.

"Rosemary," he muttered.  "I don't understand.  I..."  And suddenly he
grew silent, and passed his hand over his forehead.  "I can't
remember...  It's all a sort of dream..."

"Poor darling," said the girl, putting her arm round his shoulders.

"It doesn't matter," said Veight.  "I only asked out of curiosity."

"Let him go back to bed," she cried.

"All in good time, Miss Venables," remarked Veight.  "It wasn't I who
asked him to get up, you must remember.  And there are one or two
things to be decided first."

"Have you still got that poor devil downstairs?" said Lovelace.

"We have.  He is proving a little stubborn.  But it won't be much
longer now.  And the quicker it is the better for you."

"What do you mean?"

"My dear Lovelace, I have no personal animosity to you.  I can honestly
say that I am delighted to see you are well enough to get up, and I
hope that you and this charming lady will enjoy many years of happiness
together.  But when you insisted on butting into our plans you left us
no alternative but to keep you quiet.  And had you not tried to get
away in the fog your head would not be so painful now."

"Cut out all that bunk," said the soldier.  "What are you going to do
with us?"

"Again render you harmless until we have done what we came to do, and
then you will both be free to do whatever you like."

"More dope?"

"More dope."

"Can't you let Miss Venables go?"

"Really, Lovelace, you pain me.  Let the girl who is engaged to you go!
No, no, my dear fellow.  You will both remain here as the guests of the
estimable Mr. Hoskins for a few more days, and then let the marriage
bells ring out."

"What the devil is all this about?"

Meredith had entered the room unperceived.

"Ask that damned doctor," said Gregoroff savagely.  "Let's get on with
it, Veight.  I'm sick of this.  Fetch a syringe, Belfage."

"I don't understand," cried Meredith as the doctor shuffled out of the
room.

"That swine is so sodden with drink that he doesn't know if he's coming
or going," said Veight.  "He forgot to give the girl an injection last
night, and we found her looking out of the window.  Now then, Belfage,
stick it into his arm."

With shaking fingers the doctor inserted the needle, and a few moments
later Lovelace fell back on the bed unconscious, while the girl watched
them with eyes like those of a tigress.

"You brutes!" she kept on muttering.  "You brutes!"

"Quite so, my dear," said Veight calmly.  "It may interest you to know,
Meredith, that these two are engaged to be married, which accounts for
much that was obscure.  However, we needn't go into that now.  As I
told you, we found her looking out of the window, and there was a man
hiding in the undergrowth on the other side of the lake."

"What's that?"  Meredith gave a violent start.

"Miss Venables's explanation up to date has not, I regret to say,
entirely satisfied me.  And so I propose to see if we can't get
another.  I think that the spectacle of our friend downstairs might
open her mouth."

"You say there was a man watching the house?" said Meredith uneasily.

"There was a man hidden in the bushes," answered Veight, "who bolted
when he heard us coming, and presumably he wasn't bird's-nesting."

"My God!" muttered Meredith.  "Whom can it have been?"

"That is what I should like to find out.  Come along, young woman, and
you shall see the effects of another drug we keep in the medicine
cupboard--one that is specially suitable for people who won't talk."

"Where are you taking me to?" she cried, shrinking back.

"Down below.  You were so very anxious to find out where this house was
that you must really see all over it now you are here.  Hurry up," he
added curtly, "you've wasted too much of my time already."

He took her roughly by the arm and forced her towards the door.

"You'll find it rather damp and a little gloomy; but don't be
afraid--we shall be with you."

He half dragged, half carried her across the hall to a heavy door
studded with nails which was fastened with two bolts.

"The old dungeons, my dear.  Perhaps you have heard of Bonivard in
Chillon Castle.  We have a modern edition for you here."

He drew back the bolts, and the girl gave a little cry as he opened the
door.  Stone stairs led down into the darkness, and a wave of dank,
mildewed air came up from below and hit her in the face.

"After you," said Veight with elaborate politeness, and slowly, a step
at a time, she went down.  Water dripped on her head from the ceiling;
the walls were wringing wet when her hands touched them.  At first she
could see nothing; but at length the place began to take outline in the
dim light that filtered through a tiny window high up.  A big buttress
stuck out from the wall on one side, and from behind it came a rustling
of straw as if an animal was moving about.

Suddenly she screamed; something had run over her bare foot.

"Only a rat, Miss Venables," said Veight.  "There are several, and they
are big ones.  Who was it who was hiding in the bushes?"

"I tell you I don't know," she cried wildly.  "O God, what's that?"

A strange moaning noise was coming from the other side of the buttress,
and Veight led her forward.

"Our Bonivard," he murmured.

Lying on the ground was a man who gave a cry of fear when he saw them.
She could just see his face, his twitching lips, his terrified eyes,
and his hands plucking aimlessly at the air.  And then a chain rattled;
he was tied up to a ring in the wall.

"The gentleman after whom you used to ask so glibly," said Veight.
"When would he give way?  Do you remember?"

"What have you done to him?" she asked through dry lips.

"They're murdering me," came a choking voice.  "I'm going mad."

"No, no, my dear Waldron.  Not murder.  The very instant you decide to
speak, all this will stop."

"You inhuman devil," cried the girl, and Veight laughed.

"The funny thing, Miss Venables, is that it isn't me at all.  The
saintly owner of the house is responsible for this.  And he, I assure
you, is an Englishman."

"That drug; what is that ghastly drug?" moaned the prisoner.

"Haven't they told you?" asked Veight.  "It is not a nice one, Waldron,
and its result in time will be to send you mad.  It is, Miss Venables,
a Mexican drug called Marijuana.  You see before you the result.  It
instils such fear into the mind of the taker that he ceases to be a
man.  He is mad with terror over nothing at all; his brain refuses to
function; his will power goes.  And finally he finishes up in a
suicide's grave or a lunatic asylum."

His eyes were boring into her.

"Mr. Waldron would like a companion here: another soldier.  Who was it
who was hiding in the bushes?"

"I tell you I don't know," she cried.  "I swear I don't."

"Still obstinate.  I think I had better send for Captain Lovelace."

"No, no," she moaned.  "I beg of you don't.  I'm telling you the truth,
Herr Veight."

"What is all this?"  A deep voice came from behind her.  "What are you
doing here?"

"You have not yet been introduced to your host, have you, Miss
Venables?" said Veight.  "This is Mr. Hoskins, who is responsible for
this."

"You vile brute," said the girl.  "Why are you torturing him?"

"You to say that!"  Hoskins's voice shook with rage.  "You who belong
to our order!  Are you not aware that this vile man you see before you
has invented a new and deadly form of gas for use in war.  Until he
tells me his formula he remains where he is."

He turned on Waldron.

"Speak, you wretch, speak.  What is your gas?  Tell me, that all the
world may know."

And somewhere, someone laughed.  It came from above their heads, and
Veight swung round tensely.

"Who was that?" he muttered.  "Who was that who laughed?"

"Aye!  Who was that who laughed?" cried Hoskins.  "There are men, Herr
Veight, in this very house who mock at our ideals; who would, if they
could, use this man's foul secret for their own ends.  I have heard
them talking, but they do not know me.  Now, you devil man, will you
speak?  Or shall I send for another injection?"

"Send and be damned," said Waldron weakly.  "You wretched traitor to
your country."

"Country!  What is country?  It is country that produces war.  Go,
Veight, and get the doctor.  Tell him this man will still not speak."

"All right."  Veight's voice came from the direction of the staircase.
"Keep the girl there till I come back."

Sick and faint with horror of the thing, she was leaning against the
buttress.  In front of her the wild-eyed old owner of the house was
muttering to himself fanatically; a few feet away Waldron stirred
restlessly on his straw.  And at that moment a hand touched her
shoulder.  A scream stillborn died on her lips, for a voice was
whispering in her ear out of the darkness behind her.

"A friend, Doris.  Tell Waldron to _pretend_ to give the formula away,
and gain time."

Then silence, and her brain working overtime.  Who was it who had
spoken, and how came he there?  What she had said to Veight was the
literal truth with regard to the man outside.  She had awakened in a
strange room with the light pouring in at the window, and had naturally
gone to look out; no one could have been more genuinely surprised than
she had been at his accusation.  But now she knew there were men on the
watch; knew that someone had actually got into the house--someone who
knew her name.

She pulled herself together: she must act, and act quickly.  At any
moment Veight might return: somehow she must get the message through to
Waldron before then.  And suddenly she saw the way.  With a little cry
she tottered forward and collapsed on the straw as if half fainting.
Would the old man suspect?

Close beside her Waldron tossed and turned, but her eyes were fixed on
Hoskins.  And to her unspeakable relief he seemed quite oblivious of
her at all.  He was still pacing up and down talking under his breath,
and after a while he walked half-way across the room towards the stairs
as if impatient at the delay.  She seized the opportunity.

"Listen," she whispered urgently.  "Can you understand me, Mr. Waldron?"

His movements ceased; he lay very still.

"Who are you?" he muttered.

"A friend," she said in a low voice.  "Help is coming.  Pretend to give
away your secret.  Do you understand?  _Pretend_.  Say you will.  Gain
time."

He made no answer; all she could see was the faint outline of his
white, twitching face close to her.  And then came the sound of
footsteps on the stairs, and she rose quickly to her feet again.  Had
she succeeded?  Had she got the message through into that drug-bemused
brain?

Fearfully she peered over her shoulder into the blackness.  Of the man
who had spoken to her she could see no sign, but she knew he must be
there, hiding somewhere.

"I can't go on any more."

Came Waldron's voice, weak and quavering, and a thrill of triumph ran
through her.  He had understood: he was going to do as she had told him.

"That accursed drug is torture; it's sending me mad."

He babbled on incoherently for a little while, while Veight and Belfage
stood beside Hoskins watching him.  And then Gregoroff joined them.

"Are you going to tell us your secret?" said Veight quietly.

"Secret!  The secret of my gas.  God!  I must have sleep.  My brain is
going."

Again he rambled on, and Veight said something in a low tone to
Gregoroff, whilst the girl watched breathlessly.

"Listen, Waldron," said Veight, stepping forward on to the straw, "you
shall have all the sleep you want once you have told us your formula."

"I can't think," muttered the other.  "I tell you, I can't think.  I
must have sleep before I can remember it."

Once more Veight and Gregoroff whispered together, and it was Hoskins
who spoke next.

"If we let you sleep will you tell us afterwards?"

"Yes.  I will tell you afterwards.  But now I must sleep.  It is days
since I have slept."  His voice rose to a scream.  "Keep the rats away.
For God's sake--keep them away!  And the horror in the corner.  It is
waking up."

Doris Venables felt her scalp beginning to tingle: something big was
stirring on the far side of the dungeon.

"I am sorry you don't like the doctor's pets," said Veight.  "That is
only a baboon, but he can be very nasty if he slips his collar.  Speak
now.  You can remember, Waldron."

But the only answer was a vague babbling, from which the one word sleep
continually emerged.

"It is better perhaps to let him sleep," came the soft voice of Cortez
who had joined the group.  "Marijuana acts this way sometimes.  But if
when he wakes he does not then speak, he shall sleep for good.  How say
you, Seor Hoskins?"

"I will speak when I wake," said Waldron brokenly.  "Only take me from
this awful place."

"Give him a shot, Doctor," cried Veight.  "We must chance it.  And now,
young woman, we must decide about you."

The girl shrank back.  Subconsciously she watched Belfage bending over
the man on the ground with a hypodermic syringe in his hand; hazily she
wondered if the unknown man would again come to her out of the
darkness.  And then suddenly she realised that something had happened
to distract their attention from her.

Meredith had appeared, and he was talking excitedly to Veight and
Gregoroff.  His voice was low, and she could not hear what he said, but
it was evidently news of importance.

"Good."  She heard Veight's curt voice.  "We will see this man at once.
There is no time to be lost.  Belfage--attend to the girl.  And if you
mess things up again, I'll smash you into pulp, you drunken brute."

She saw the doctor lurching towards her, and gave a little cry of
terror.  Surely the unknown would help her; surely...  A hand was
clapped over her mouth; she felt the prick of a needle in her arm.

"Carry her upstairs, Gregoroff.  We must get down to this at once."

She felt herself being picked up by the huge Russian; realised she was
passing through the hall where a strange man was standing.  Then wave
after wave of sleep and oblivion.

"She'll do," said Veight, who had followed her upstairs.  "Now mind you
don't say the wrong thing, Gregoroff."

The two men went down into the hall, where Meredith was talking to the
stranger, while Hoskins with a puzzled look on his face stood by
listening.

"It is ferry important that you should come as soon as may be
convenient," the stranger was saying in the soft voice of the
Highlander.  "The plans are finished, but for how long Mr. Graham iss
intending to remain I cannot tell you."

"What plans?" cried Hoskins.  "I don't understand."

"The plans of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane," explained the stranger in
some surprise.  "Surely you haf heard of it."

"It's this way, Mr. Hoskins," put in Veight.  "We had been intending to
keep this as a surprise for you, but this man--by the way, what's your
name?"

"MacDonald.  Angus MacDonald."

"But now that MacDonald has come----"

"You will pardon me--Mr. MacDonald," said the Highlander.

Veight bowed ironically.

"Now that _Mister_ MacDonald has come we can keep it as a surprise no
longer.  Up in the heart of the Highlands, Mr. Hoskins, a man named
Graham Caldwell has been experimenting with an aeroplane of his own
invention.  It is now perfected, and as an instrument of war it
constitutes the most deadly advance in flying the world has yet seen."

"That iss so," agreed the Highlander.

"It was our intention to give you the plans of this machine as an
unexpected present."  He winked surreptitiously at Meredith.  "Now, I
fear, they will be like the birthday present of more mature years that
one chooses for oneself."

"How are you going to get them?" asked Hoskins.

"That will be ferry simple," said MacDonald.  "My cousin, who iss a
member of the Key Club, will be there on the spot to help you."

"What is the name of your cousin?" asked Meredith.

"The ferry same as myself."

"But the man we have been corresponding with is called MacPherson."

"Mister MacPherson is there as well.  He too iss a cousin."

"So there are two members of the Key Club there," said Veight.

"That iss so."

"And what are you going to do?"

"I am continuing my journey to London, where I am a student in the
University.  I haf been on my holiday in the Highlands."

"How did you know of this house?" cried Meredith suspiciously.

"My cousins told me.  I do not know how they knew.  And now if you will
allow me I will be getting along.  I am not a member of the Key Club
myself, but I am in sympathy with its wonderful ideals.  I wish you all
success, gentlemen; it iss a ferry great honour to haf been even such a
humble help in such a worthy cause."

He bowed, and a few moments later the roar of a motor bicycle outside
announced his departure.

"How the devil did they know of this house?" repeated Meredith.  "That
sot Belfage, I suppose."

"Don't let's worry our heads over that," cried Veight.  "Once those
plans are in the hands of the British Government we're done.  That is
to say, Mr. Hoskins," he corrected himself hastily, "it is going to be
very much harder to get hold of them.  So there's not a moment to be
lost."

"You are right," cried Hoskins.  "What is your idea?"

"I suggest that Meredith, Gregoroff and I----"

"Cortez is coming too," remarked Meredith quietly, his eyes fixed on
Veight.

"As you please," said Veight.  "I suggest then that the four of us
should go at once by car to the north of Scotland and obtain the plans
by force if necessary.  You and Belfage, Mr. Hoskins, will remain here
and obtain from Waldron his secret when he wakes."

"Good," said Hoskins.  "I agree.  I will go and talk to the doctor now."

"And what do you _really_ propose, Mr. Veight?" sneered Meredith as the
old man went upstairs.

"Just what I said--with one exception.  Those plans are going to be of
twice the value to us if we can keep Graham Caldwell's mouth shut while
we sell them."

"How do you suggest doing that?" said Meredith softly.

"By bringing him and his mechanic here."

"Here!"

"Yes--here.  Doped, in a caravan."

Meredith stared at him, and then whistled under his breath.

"By God! that's an idea," he said.  "In a caravan."

"When we've got 'em here we can foist off any yarn on the old fool.
He'll look after them, leaving us free to sell in the best market.
We'll stop in York or some big place on the way through and hire the
machine."

"I'm on," cried Meredith.  "And I'll vouch for Cortez.  When do we
start?"

"At once," said Veight.

"I'll get him.  But don't forget one thing, Veight: no funny stuff."

"How the hell can there be any funny stuff, you damned fool?  We're all
in it together, aren't we?  I'm not asking you to walk, am I?  You're
yellow, Meredith: plain yellow.  Go and get Cortez.  If we drive in
turn we should be there by dark to-night even with the caravan.  We'll
have to fix the aeroplane for ourselves when we come back," he said to
Gregoroff, as Meredith disappeared scowling.  "And if ever I get that
scum where he ought to be," he added softly, "may the Lord have mercy
on his soul."




CHAPTER XIII

For mile after mile the road stretches like a white ribbon over the
high ground that lies between Lairg and Altnaharra.  It is a narrow
road with passing places every few hundred yards, and save for the inn
at Crask no house exists.  Occasionally a fisherman going north to
Tongue passes in his car and is gone; once a day the mail van performs
its allotted task.

On each side of the road the ground is flat and green.  Tiny streams
intersect it, making big patches of bog.  But parts of it are hard and
even: suitable for the landing of an aeroplane.  And it was on such a
spot that there stood two buildings and a tent.  The buildings were
obviously improvised.  One was a small tin shanty and it was erected
close to the tent.  The other was much larger and had been placed some
two hundred yards away.  Beside the tent a dilapidated motorcar was
standing, and a rough track leading to the road a quarter of a mile
away showed how it had got there.  On the front seat an Aberdeen
drowsed peacefully, save for a periodical search for an elusive flea.
But except for the dog there was no sign of life in the little
encampment.

In the short northern night though it was well after ten it was still
light enough to read.  But the man who lay motionless on the small hill
that rose half-way between the tent and the road was otherwise
occupied.  His eye was glued to a telescope, and the telescope was
focused on the place, five miles away, where the road going south to
Lairg dipped over the horizon and disappeared.

After a while he shifted his position to ease his stiffness, and
glancing round he frowned.  Black clouds were gathering over Ben
Kilbreck, and rain would not improve his vigil.  Not only would it
increase his discomfort, but it would decrease the visibility during
the half-hour of light that still remained.

For two hours nothing had passed.  Save for the harsh call of a grouse,
and the faint murmur of the coffee-brown stream that gurgled softly
over the stones by the bridge under the road, no sound had broken the
stillness.  But the man, being a Highlander born and bred, was used to
such conditions.  He was in his element, though it would have made a
townsman fidget.

Suddenly he gave a little grunt of satisfaction: coming over the rise
was a motor-car towing a caravan.  His watch was over, and shutting the
telescope with a snap he rose to his feet.  Then, with a final glance
at the tent and huts, he walked slowly down to the bridge on the road.

It would be at least ten minutes before the car could get there, and he
lit a cigarette, his features showing clearly in the light of the
match.  And to a student of physiognomy his face was an interesting
one.  His eyes were very blue, with the network of tiny wrinkles round
them which mark an open-air life.  But their expression betokened the
thinker, and the firm mouth and chin denoted the man of purpose as
well.  No dreamer, this, even if he was an idealist.

At last the lights of the car--for by now darkness had fallen--breasted
the rise a few hundred yards away, and throwing away his cigarette the
man stepped into the road.  It was possible, though not likely, that
this was not the car he was waiting for, but that risk had to be taken.
It proved groundless.  With a grinding of brakes the machine pulled up
and a voice hailed him.

"Is that you, MacPherson?"

"Aye," he answered laconically.  "'Tis himself."

"Your proof?"

MacPherson fingered the lapel of his coat.

"The badge of the Key Club," he said.  "Any further proof you may be
needing you'll find in the camp.  And who may you be?" he continued as
the man who had accosted him came into the light.  "Are you Doctor
Belfage?  I was told he was a little man."

"My name is Meredith," said the other, "and I and my friends are acting
for Doctor Belfage, who is ill.  We are all enthusiasts for the cause.
By the way, MacPherson, how was it your cousin found us at Horsebridge?"

"Because I told him.  Your doctor who is sick said you were there.
Come, let's be getting on with it.  And I'll thank you to give me a
lift as far south as Inverness."

He led the way along the path, and a muttered colloquy took place
behind him.

"That will be all right," said Meredith at length.  "We will take you
to Inverness.  Have you the two men safe?"

"You'll be seeing for yourself in a minute," answered MacPherson.

"Because," continued Meredith softly, "you had better remember we are
all armed.  In case, you know, Mr. MacPherson; just in case."

"Is that so?" said MacPherson quietly.  "The grouse are good this year,
but it is not yet the twelfth."

"What the devil is the man talking about?" came a harsh voice.  "And
why is he dressed like a damned woman?"

"Shut up, Gregoroff, you fool," snapped Veight.  "Haven't you ever seen
a kilt before?"

"Probably not," said MacPherson affably.  "Being true to our
principles, he naturally did not wait to see them during the last war."

From behind came a chuckle, and Gregoroff snarled angrily.

"If you laugh at me, you filthy little Dago, I'll bash your head in."

"I did not laugh," said Cortez venomously.  "Keep your hands from me,"
he screamed, "or I knife you!"

"I didn't touch you, you rat."

"Then who did?  Something--it brush my face."

"It would seem, Mr. Meredith, that your friends do not like the spirits
of the moor," remarked MacPherson gravely.  "Perhaps they are right.
Strange things happen in my country.  Maybe you will hear the death
dirge if you are lucky--or unlucky."

"For God's sake let's hurry," said Meredith uneasily.  "This place gets
on my nerves."

"It is because you are not used to it," answered MacPherson.  "But
reassure yourself.  We shall not be long now.  The hut is just in front
of us.  If you will wait a moment I will light the lamp."

He opened the door and struck a match, while the four men crowded in
after him.

"There is the inventor, Mr. Graham Caldwell, and that is his mechanic."

Seated on opposite sides of the table and breathing stertorously were
the two men.  Their heads were sunk on their arms; between them stood
an empty whisky bottle.

"I put a little something in their whisky," explained MacPherson calmly.

"Good!" cried Meredith.  "Where are the plans?"

"In yonder cupboard," said MacPherson.

"And they are complete?"

"They were finished yesterday."

"You are certain there are no others in existence?" cried Veight,
putting the tracings on the table in front of him.

"Absolutely certain," answered MacPherson.  "I myself have drawn the
greater part."

The four men looked at him.

"Could you redraw them?" asked Gregoroff.

"From memory?  No, I could not.  But why should I be wanting to?  You
have them, and shortly the whole world will have them."

He spoke indifferently, leaning against the window.

"Excuse me, Veight," said Meredith suddenly.  "Not all of them in your
pocket, if you don't mind.  I will take half."

"Don't be such a suspicious fool," cried Veight angrily.  "Anyone would
think I was trying to double-cross you."

"Exactly what I do think," answered Meredith calmly.  "Hand 'em over."

"Just so," said Cortez.  "We will have half."

For a few moments there was a tense silence which was broken at last by
the Scotchman.

"Are you not then all together in this?" he asked mildly.  "What does
it matter who has the plans?"

"Of course, of course," said Meredith hurriedly.  "Just a little
personal matter, Mr. MacPherson.  Mr. Veight is wanting all the credit
himself at head-quarters--aren't you, Veight?"

"Here are two sheets," remarked the German, pushing them over the
table.  "And what the devil is the matter with you?" he continued to
MacPherson.

For the Highlander, his hand outstretched, was pointing through the
window.

"Look!" he whispered.  "Look!  The dancing light.  The light of death!"

Flickering up and down, moving first this way and then that, was a
faint blue-white light.

"It's only a marsh flame," cried Gregoroff harshly, but he crossed
himself.

"There is no marsh there," said MacPherson sombrely.  "It is the light
of death.  Soon you will hear the dirge."

"Don't talk rot," shouted Veight.  "Are we children, to be frightened
with such tales?"

The Scotchman turned and stared at him: stared at him till the German
shifted uneasily on his feet.

"You poor ignorant man," said MacPherson slowly.  "Do not mock at the
Powers on the other side, or maybe," his voice rose, "they will strike
you down.  Do ye not ken that this moor is peopled with the dead--the
dead who are earth-bound?  Listen."  He held up his hand for silence.
"What did I tell you?"

From far away, clear through the still night air, came a faint wailing
noise.  It rose and fell, sometimes dying away to nothing, then
increasing in volume, but always the same wailing dirge.

"Bagpipes," muttered Meredith through dry lips.

"Aye--the pipes.  But played by no human piper.  It's the dead playing
their own lament.  Never have I heard it so clearly."

"Dead men or no dead men," said Veight angrily, "we're not going till
we've done what we came for.  The machine must be burned.  Where is it?"

"Over yonder," said MacPherson.  "The petrol is ready."

"Then lead the way.  That foul noise has stopped; let's be quick before
it starts again."

"You will not hear it again to-night," said MacPherson.  "They never
play twice.  Follow me."

They trooped out after him, leaving the two unconscious men still
snoring at the table.

"What a hell spot of a place," muttered Gregoroff, stumbling over the
uneven ground.  "How far is it to the shed?"

"Two hundred yards," answered MacPherson from in front, and even as he
spoke a bellow of fear came from the Russian.

"God Almighty!" he yelled.  "What was that?  Something cold and clammy
hit my face."

He thrashed his arms round his head like a madman, uttering the foulest
imprecations.

"Blaspheme not," came the quiet voice of the Scotchman, "or maybe they
that hear will take you at your word.  Here is the shed; the aeroplane
is inside."

A door creaked in the darkness, and then by the light of a match they
could see the vague outline of the machine inside.

"The tins of petrol are against the wall," said MacPherson.  "Pour two
or three over the wings and fuselage.  Tip the remainder on the floor,
and let this invention of the devil be destroyed by the fire that
purifieth."

"I would have liked to have seen it in action," said Veight, "but
unfortunately that is impossible.  The inventor is satisfied, is he?"

"More than satisfied," answered MacPherson.  "There is no existing
aeroplane that comes within thirty per cent. of it for all-round
performance."

The reek of petrol filled the air as they emptied the spirit over the
machine, and a few minutes later the shed was a raging furnace.

"So may all such abominations perish," said MacPherson gravely as they
watched the flames roaring up in the darkness.  Fantastic shadows
danced over the moor, and a heavy cloud of smoke drifted sluggishly
away.  But at length it was over; the blaze died down, and only a few
smouldering embers remained of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane.

"Excellent!" cried Veight.  "You have deserved well of the cause, Mr.
MacPherson, and we will see that your name is brought before
headquarters."

They were walking back to the hut, where they could see the inventor
and his mechanic still sprawling over the table.  But even with the
light from the window the darkness seemed the more intense after the
fierce bonfire they had witnessed.  And so, when there came from behind
them a thud, followed by a bellow of pain and a hideous gurgling noise,
they peered backward, unable to see what was happening.

"Murder!"  The word was a gurgle.  "He murder me."

"You little devil, Cortez!"  Gregoroff's voice was animal in its fury.
"Ah-h-h!  You'd knife me, would you?"

"Stop it, you two," shouted Veight furiously.

"I tell you he's smashed my face in," roared the Russian, "and now he's
stabbed me."

"I did not touch your face," screamed Cortez.  "I touch you not at all."

"For men of peace," murmured MacPherson, "you would seem a little
excitable.  And indeed it appears that Mr. Gregoroff has not only a
knife in his arm, but that he has lost much of his beauty."

He had produced an electric torch, which he flashed upon the Russian.
And in all conscience Paul Gregoroff was a parlous object.  His nose
was smashed and blood was streaming down his face.  A knife still
quivered in the upper part of his arm, and his teeth were bared like
those of a snarling dog.  He had let go of the Mexican, who, crouching
vindictively, was watching him.

"Who did hit me?" mouthed the Russian.

"Not me," snarled Cortez.  "I knife you, yes, because you throttle me.
I never touch your dam' face."

"Somebody has," said MacPherson profoundly.  "That could not occur on
its own.  Maybe it was one of the more dangerous earth-bound spirits
that haunt the moor as I have told you.  It would be safer to come to
the hut, I think."

"To hell with you and your earth-bound spirits," roared the Russian,
who was beside himself with pain and rage.  "If it wasn't Cortez, it
must have been you, Meredith."

"I was nowhere near you," cried that gentleman hurriedly.  "Let's get
inside the hut, away from the damned moor."

"Sensibly spoken, Mr. Meredith," said MacPherson.  "For though Mr.
Gregoroff's face is doubtless very painful, it is fortunate for him
that he is still alive.  It is certain that there is present an
influence that does not like him: next time it may be his neck and not
his nose that is broken."

He entered the hut and the others followed.

"Do you really mean to say," stammered the Russian, "that ... that it
was a ghost?"

The deep-seated superstition of the Slav was asserting itself, and
MacPherson shrugged his shoulders.

"You may call it a ghost if you wish," he said.  "I would prefer to say
that it was one of the elemental forces that are abroad upon the moor
this night.  You have seen the light; you have heard the pipes: and you
have escaped with your life.  As I said, you are lucky....  What will
you be doing with the two yonder?"

"Well, Mr. MacPherson," said Veight, "our idea was to take them south
with us.  We feel it will be safer to have them under restraint while
the actual plans are being prepared for the various governments.  That
is the reason for the caravan."

"A grand idea," remarked MacPherson.  "They should travel comfortably
inside it.  So if you would care to lift them into the car outside, I
will drive them to the road."

"How will you explain their absence?" said Meredith suddenly.

"There is no one to explain it to," answered MacPherson.  "But should
any questions be asked I shall say they have gone south to the English
and more than that I do not know.  Dear me! and what is that?"

A sharp yell of pain had come from outside the hut, and Veight entered,
wringing his hand.

"Something has bitten me," he cried angrily.  "Something in your car."

"There, now!  I'd forgotten her.  It's the wee Aberdeen bitch.  She
does not take kindly to strangers.  Winkie!  Come here, lassie."

The little dog came trotting in, to receive a vicious kick from the
infuriated German.  And the next moment Veight was lying in the corner
nursing his jaw, with a blazing-eyed man in a kilt standing over him
whom he almost failed to recognise as the mild-mannered MacPherson.

"How dared ye kick my dog?"  The voice was soft and incredibly
menacing.  "How dared ye?"

Veight scrambled to his feet, but a second look at the Scotchman's face
was enough.

"Sorry," he mumbled.  "Lost my temper, I'm afraid."

"Then be careful you don't lose it again," continued the soft voice.
"Or maybe I might lose mine."

For a space the two men stared at one another; then the German turned
away, and MacPherson, picking up his dog, made much of her.  But though
he said no more there was tension in the air.  Four to one, and armed
at that, but no one suggested that the Scotchman should help to lift
the two bodies into the car.

Gregoroff had roughly bandaged his arm--the wound was only a flesh
one--but his face was still an appalling sight.  And just before they
started MacPherson turned to him.

"You'll find water in the basin," he said.  "I'd use it if I were you.
And then we'll be moving."

"What about your car?" asked Meredith.

"It can bide here," answered MacPherson shortly.  "I'll be out by the
mail from Lairg to-morrow."

He turned out the light, and they jolted over the track to the road.
And once again MacPherson was a spectator as they turned the caravan
and put the unconscious men inside, where they were joined by Meredith
and the Russian, who heaved a sigh of relief as the door shut behind
him.

"Will you sit in front with me, Mr. MacPherson?" said Veight as he took
the wheel.

"I will not," answered MacPherson promptly.  "There are some people I
prefer to be behind, and yon little Dago with the knife is one of them.
Come, girl."

The Aberdeen jumped in beside him, and they started off.  A few spots
of rain began to fall, but it was only a passing shower and they did
not stop to put up the hood.  But as a drive it was not a chatty one,
and it was not until the car stopped on the bridge at Inverness and
MacPherson got out that Veight spoke again.

"What was it really that hit Gregoroff?" he said.

The Scotchman looked at him with an expressionless face.

"Something verra hard, mon," he remarked, relapsing into a pronounced
accent.  "If it were not impossible I would say a croquet mallet.  But
I have never heard that the elementals play the game.  Well, I will say
good night, Mr. Veight.  You have the plans; you have the inventor and
his mechanic, and your friend's nose should have recovered in a year or
so.  Heel, Winkie."

He strode away along the deserted road by the river, and after watching
him for a while Veight let in his clutch and once more headed south.
Perfectly correct: they had the plans and the men, there was no doubt
on that score.  But for all that a vague feeling of disquietude
possessed him.

True the Scotch are a peculiar race, and a Scotchman who was also a
member of the Key Club could not be expected to be anything but most
eccentric.  But the episode which stood out most in his mind, apart
from the pain he still felt in his jaw, was the kicking of the dog.  In
an instant a man who up till then had seemed an inoffensive lunatic had
become a dominant personality.

That the aggravation had been great he admitted.  Not that he cared the
snap of a finger about dogs himself, but other people did.  And if
MacPherson had merely shown anger or resentment he would not have been
in the least surprised.  But MacPherson had done far more than that: he
had cowed Veight, which was an extremely novel experience for the
German.  And the question he was asking himself as they drove up the
long hill out of Inverness was, which was the real MacPherson?

Of only academic interest, perhaps, but Veight was a keen psychologist.
Men and their minds were supremely important factors in his profession,
and he disliked being unable to classify one.  And what was it really
that had hit Gregoroff?

He believed the little rat beside him, for the very good reason that he
would never have been such a fool as to attack a man twice his size
except with a knife.  It certainly had not been MacPherson: he had been
with him well in front.  Equally certain it was not an elemental
spirit, though--and this was the point--it was possible that MacPherson
really believed it was.  Highlanders, he knew, were fey: it was quite
conceivable that he genuinely thought the whole thing was supernatural.
Ridiculous, of course, to a man like Veight: the light was obviously a
will-of-the-wisp, the wailing noise some bird.

It left, therefore, only Meredith.  What would have been more easy than
for him to arm himself with some heavy piece of wood when they were
burning the aeroplane, and attempt to kill, or at any rate stun the
Russian in the darkness?  It might have been done almost noiselessly,
in which case he would have been up against Cortez and Meredith by
himself, without realising the fact.

A glint came into his eyes: the more he thought of it the more probable
did this solution seem.  And after a while he glanced sideways at his
companion, whose head was nodding.  Both sides could play at that game,
and with infinite care he put his left hand over the back of the seat
and felt for the jack which he knew was lying on the floor.  He found
it, and put it between his legs.  If the thing was going to be done it
would have to be done at once.

Dawn was breaking, and again he glanced at Cortez, who was lolling
against the side of the car fast asleep.  Then he lifted the jack, and
brought it down on the base of his skull.  The Mexican lurched forward
and was still.

Veight still drove on, but fear was clutching him.  He had not intended
to kill the man; had he hit him too hard?  He felt for his heart: there
was no sign of movement.  And Veight's own began to go in sickening
thumps.  Cortez was dead: he had murdered him.

Behind him the caravan bumped along, and instinctively he looked at his
petrol gauge.  It was only a quarter full, and he could not fill up
with a dead man beside him.  Why had he hit him so hard?  He had only
meant to stun him, and then do the same to Meredith.  After which he
intended to leave them both hidden somewhere off the road.  But he had
killed him.

Veight thought furiously; the one essential thing was not to lose his
head.  And gradually he grew calmer.  A plan was beginning to
materialise in his mind.

It would require nerve, but he realised all too clearly that this was
no time for half-measures.  He had not the faintest wish to be hanged
by the neck till he was dead, and that was the finish that stared him
inexorably in the face unless he could dispose of the body in such a
way as to divert suspicion from himself.  And to do that it would not
be sufficient merely to hide it: sooner or later someone would be bound
to find it.  After which identification, and with MacPherson in the
neighbourhood the certainty of his being implicated.

The same consideration precluded any possibility of pretending to stage
a motor accident.  Apart from the fact that a car does not hit a man on
the head, his connection with Cortez would be bound to come out.  And
why should someone who started as a passenger in a car be knocked down
by it?

No: there was only one thing to be done.  And having made up his mind
Veight felt all his customary coolness returning.  It was an
unfortunate complication, but it was not the first time he had been in
a tight corner and got away with it.

The first essential was a suitable place, and here fortune was with
him.  The road was running through a fair-sized wood, and as far as he
could see there was no house within sight.  So he stopped the car and
putting on a glove he took the revolver out of the dead man's pocket.
Then he picked up the jack and went to the door of the caravan.

"Puncture," he said briefly, keeping the revolver out of sight.  "Give
me a hand, Meredith; here's the jack."

Blinking his eyes sleepily, Meredith took it, and as he did so Veight
shot him from point-blank range through the heart.

"What the devil are you doing?" stammered Gregoroff.  "Are you mad?"

Veight looked up and down the road: no sign of anyone.  Inside the
caravan the two drugged men still slumbered peacefully.

"Listen, Gregoroff," he said quietly.  "I've had an accident.  I meant
to knock Cortez on the head and stun him.  Unfortunately I hit him too
hard and killed him.  You've got to help me stage this show, or we're
for it."

"You mean you are, you damned fool," answered the Russian.

"You seem to forget the man you killed in Drummond's cottage, my
friend.  Be quick; there's no time to lose.  Get hold of his shoulders,
and we'll cart him into the wood.  His hand has tightened on the jack,
which is what I hoped for, and he's hardly bled at all."

Between them they lifted the dead man out of the caravan, and carried
him into the undergrowth for a distance of about thirty yards.  Then
they laid him down where he was screened from anyone passing by.

"Now, Cortez," cried Veight, and they made the second journey.  "We'll
leave the two bodies together, and with luck they won't be found for
days.  But if by chance they are found sooner, and we are implicated,
our story is this.  We all stopped here and those two began
quarrelling.  We got bored and left them, and know nothing of the
affair at all."

"Pretty thin," said Gregoroff, watching Veight lay the revolver in the
Mexican's hand.

"We shan't be in England when they're found," cried Veight.  "And with
that jack clutched in Meredith's hand it isn't by any means so thin as
you think."

"What induced you to hit Cortez?" cried the Russian curiously.

"Because the more I think of it the more do I become convinced that it
was Meredith who hit you, and that if he'd laid you out he and Cortez
would then have gone for me," said Veight, taking a final look at the
bodies.  "That seems all right to me," he continued.  "The two things
took place practically simultaneously.  Meredith hit Cortez from
behind; Cortez spun round and shot him as he died.  No finger-prints on
the gun except any that Cortez may have left there himself.  In fact,
my dear Paul--well staged.  Now all we want are the plans from
Meredith's pocket, and we will resume our journey."

He stooped over and extracted the papers, and the two walked back to
the road.

"I think," he went on, "that you had better still continue in the
caravan.  Your face is definitely noticeable.  Put another quarter
grain of morphia under both our passengers' tongues.  We don't want any
chance of them coming to and shouting."

Suddenly he glanced up, listening: in the distance could be heard the
drone of an aeroplane.  It grew rapidly louder, and, flying low over
the trees, a scarlet monoplane came into sight.  It roared overhead,
and as it passed above them they saw a man leaning out and looking
down.  Then it was gone and the noise of the engine died away in the
south.

"An early flyer," said Gregoroff uneasily.  "And he's seen us."

"What does that matter?" cried Veight irritably.  "Your nerves seem
pretty rocky this morning, Gregoroff.  There's nothing unusual, is
there, about a caravan on a road?  And it is ten to one he'll never
give it a second thought, even when the bodies are found.  Get inside;
the sooner we're back at Horsebridge the better."




CHAPTER XIV

During the long drive south Veight reviewed the situation from every
angle, for, though he had denied it to Gregoroff, he realised that the
whole thing was pretty thin.  True it was the best that could have been
done under the circumstances, but he saw only too clearly the dangers
of the position if the bodies were found before he was out of the
country.

Meredith was known to the police, and through him the line would lead
direct to Belfage.  And with the ex-doctor in his present condition of
nerves that might mean anything.  He would certainly blurt out that
Veight had been up to Scotland with the caravan, and that would mean a
searching interrogation by the police.

Why had Meredith gone into the wood with a jack in his hand?  Why, if
he and Cortez had quarrelled, had they not done so by the roadside?
What had they quarrelled about?  And finally, what had been the object
of the whole journey?  Why go up to the Highlands and return the next
day?

To the first three questions the answer was simple: since the tragedy
had taken place after the car had gone, he could plead complete
ignorance.  Why had the car gone on, leaving two of its occupants
stranded by the roadside?  That was a bit of a poser.  Because he, the
driver, was the only one in the car.  The others had all been in the
caravan, and he had driven off believing they were inside again.  When
later he found they were not, he had gone too far to turn back, and
assumed they would come on by train.  That held water, and Gregoroff
would come in there.  He had thought they were in the car, and so he
had said nothing.

So far, so good; it was to the last question that, try as he would, he
could not evolve a satisfactory answer.  To pretend that an ex-convict,
a dope peddler and two men like Gregoroff and himself had gone to
Scotland in a caravan for fun or to see the view was too farcical for
words.  In addition to that there was MacPherson to take into account.
The fact that his own part in the performance was not at all creditable
might not be enough to prevent him speaking if he found out whom the
dead men were--which he certainly would, since their names were bound
to appear in the papers.  That risk, however, being outside Veight's
control, would have to be ignored.  But what was he personally to say
to account for the trip?  And the more he thought it over, the more did
he come to the conclusion that a half-truth was the only possible
solution.  They had heard of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane, and they
had gone up to see it.  Unfortunately they found the inventor had left
for England; and even more unfortunately the machine had accidentally
caught fire while they were there.

Yes, reflected Veight, that was the only solution, _if_ he was
interrogated.  If!  The whole crux lay in that word.  With any luck, as
he had said to Gregoroff, the bodies would not be found for at any rate
two or three days.  And by that time he would be well away, even if it
entailed forfeiting the secret of the gas.

Like most men who live by their wits, Veight was an optimist, and as
the day wore on his spirits rose.  Possibly the Cortez episode was the
best thing that could have happened.  He had realised all along that
fooling them at the last moment was going to prove difficult, and now
all need for that had disappeared.  Belfage and old Hoskins would be
child's play, but Meredith had had a nasty suspicious mind.  And so, by
the time he turned the car in over the drawbridge, Emil Veight's
equanimity was fully restored.  His story was cut and dried; Gregoroff
was word perfect, and he felt that the first instalment of Kalinsky's
money was already as good as in his pocket.

There was no one in the hall when he and Gregoroff carried the airman
and his mechanic in, and the house seemed very silent.  But as they
laid them down on the floor Hoskins appeared from his study brandishing
a paper.

"It is you, is it?" he said.  "I thought it might be Belfage.  The
formula, my friends: the formula of that devil Waldron's gas."

"Excellent," cried Veight.  "And here are Graham Caldwell and his
mechanic, to say nothing of the plans of the machine."

"A great day, gentlemen: a triumph for the club.  But tell me--where
are Meredith and Cortez?"

Veight laughed.

"A most absurd thing has happened, Mr. Hoskins.  We all got out this
morning just after it was light, and when we drove off again we left
them behind by mistake.  I thought they were in the caravan with
Gregoroff, and he thought they were in the car with me.  They will
doubtless come along by train."

"Dear me!" said Hoskins, "how very unfortunate.  But what have you been
doing to your face, Mr. Gregoroff?"

"I fell down on the moor up there and hit it on a rock," answered the
Russian.

"Quite a chapter of accidents," cried the old man.  "I wish the doctor
would return.  I want him to see this formula, so as to be quite sure
there is no mistake.  Then by to-night's post, my dear friends, it
shall go to every government."

"Just so," said Veight quietly, and his eyes met Gregoroff's.  "Just
so, Mr. Hoskins.  Where is the doctor?"

"He went over to his own house after lunch.  Something to do with the
insurance people and Hartley Court.  But he should be back at any
moment now."

"Might I see the formula?" asked Veight casually.

"Of course.  Here it is.  Waldron only recovered sufficiently a short
time ago to write it.  And even then I had to threaten him with more of
the drug.  Do you know anything of chemistry?"

"I fear not," said Veight, glancing at the formula he held in his hand.
"Have you taken any copies of it yet, Mr. Hoskins?"

"No; I was waiting for the doctor to make certain that devil has not
deceived me."

"He is still below in the dungeon?"

"Yes.  And he remains there till the letters are dispatched."

"And Captain Lovelace and Miss Venables?"

"Upstairs in their rooms."

Once again Veight glanced at Gregoroff, who gave the faintest of nods.
And the next moment they closed in on the old man, who gave one
frightened little squeal like a snared rabbit and then subsided limply,
and his eyes roved from one to the other in terrified bewilderment as
they forced him into a chair.

"What are you doing to me?" he wailed.

"Now listen, Mr. Hoskins," said Veight quietly.  "And pay very close
attention to what I am going to say.  We shall not do you any harm
provided you do not give us any trouble.  But knowing your strange
outlook on life we shall have to take certain precautions.  Gregoroff
and I want this formula, which you have been kind enough to give us,
and so we propose to keep it."

"But aren't you going to send it to all the governments?" cried Hoskins
incredulously.

Veight roared with laughter.

"We are not, my dear sir.  Ah! would you, you old devil?"

For with a furious shout of rage Hoskins had sprung out of the chair
and had hurled himself at the German.  His eyes blazed with fanatical
fury; his hands clawed at Veight's pocket, and his frenzied shrieks of
"Traitor!" rang through the house.  And it was not until Gregoroff
joined in, and hit the old man on the point of the jaw, that he finally
sank back in the chair mouthing incoherently.

"You mustn't do that sort of thing, Mr. Hoskins," said Veight quietly,
"or you may get hurt."

"You devil!  You devil!" muttered the other.  "Are you going to sell
that formula to one of the Powers?"

"Such, roughly, is our intention, my dear sir," said Veight with an
amused smile.  "You don't really imagine, do you, that we should have
wasted our time in this depressing hole for nothing?"

"Never, while I live," cried the old man.  "I will get the police...  I
will tell them..."

"I rather feared that you might try something of that description,"
said Veight calmly.  "But I confess I did not imagine you would be
quite so uncontrolled.  So we shall have to take steps accordingly.
You're a stupid old gentleman, you know; very stupid.  Where shall we
put him, Paul?"

"Down in the dungeon with Waldron," said the Russian.  "And we'll have
to gag him."

"What about the other two?"

"Put 'em down there too.  I want to discuss that part of the show with
you."

"All right," said Veight briefly.  "I think I know what you're going to
say, but we'll talk it over."

They deftly bound and gagged the old man in the chair where he sat,
then they lifted him up and carried him down the stone steps to the
dungeon below.

"Someone to keep you company, Waldron," said Veight amiably.  "He tells
me that you have at last seen reason."

The engineer officer glared at them in amazement.

"What have you got the old swine tied up for?" he asked at length.  His
voice was still weak, but the cessation of the diabolical drug was
already beginning to have its effect.

"A little difference of opinion, my dear fellow," answered Veight.  "We
have slightly divergent views on what to do with your formula.  By the
way," he continued, taking the paper from his pocket, "I most earnestly
hope for your own sake that you haven't been trying any funny stuff.
This is the correct formula?"

"Go and try it for yourself," said Waldron indifferently.  "Are you
going to set me free?"

"All in good time," cried Veight.  "You look so attractive where you
are.  But I think I can promise you that in the course of a few days,
at any rate, your troubles will be over."

"But that devil Hoskins swore he'd let me go at once," shouted the
soldier angrily.

"Quite, quite," said Veight.  "But, as you can see for yourself, our
friend and host is no longer in charge of the situation."

"Where are the rest of your foul brood?"

"Getting along nicely, thank you.  And now, Waldron, I have something
to say to you.  I am going to have this formula of yours examined by a
qualified chemist.  If he tells me that it is what you say it is--well
and good.  You will be free to go, and you can have a grand time
getting your own back on that damned old bore over there.  But if I
find you've been playing the fool, you'll pray for marijuana once again
instead of what I'll give you."

Waldron yawned.

"I wish you'd go and play elsewhere," he said.  "I'm infernally sleepy."

"So," continued Veight, "I would strongly advise you, if you have been
so stupid as to write this down incorrectly, to rectify it _now_."

"Do go away," said Waldron irritably.  "I've told you to try if for
yourself.  I can't say more than that."

Veight turned away, and beckoning to Gregoroff, they went back to the
hall.

"We'll have to chance it," he remarked.  "It might take days to have
this thing properly tried out."

"Precisely," said the Russian.  "And we aren't going to wait for days.
Nor hours.  We're going to clear at once.  Leave those two where they
are for the time and come in here.  I want a drink.  But we've got to
get this straight."

"You mean you want to quit without..."

The German paused significantly.

"I do," said Gregoroff doggedly.  "I know what we arranged, and I was
prepared to risk it if Waldron was still sticking out.  But now that
you've got the gas and the aeroplane plans, I tell you it's madness to
stay one moment longer than is necessary."

"But it means dropping twenty-five thousand pounds," cried Veight.
"You're a fool, Gregoroff."

"I'm a damned wise man.  It's you who were the blasted fool--killing
Cortez.  Look here, Veight, there's no good our quarrelling.  What's
done is done, and you know that the only reason why I regret the death
of those two rats is that it's made it dangerous for us."

"Dangerous," sneered Veight.  "Since when has our trade been anything
but dangerous?  If you think I'm going to lose twenty-five thousand
pounds you're damn well mistaken.  The instant Belfage..."

"Belfage!" shouted Gregoroff.  "The drunken little sweep!  We'll
probably never see him again."

"The instant Belfage," continued Veight imperturbably, "has given those
three adrenalin we go, and not before.  There's a machine waiting for
us; we've got nothing to do except motor to the aerodrome and get in."

"And how long do you suggest we should wait for Belfage?" demanded
Gregoroff.

"You heard what Hoskins said; he'll be back at any moment.  Then we'll
make him drunk, which won't be difficult, and _voil tout_."

"It's risky," grumbled the Russian.  "But I suppose we'll have to
chance it."

"It's worth while chancing something for twenty-five thousand apiece,"
remarked Veight calmly.

"That's true," admitted Gregoroff grudgingly.  "But I confess I'd feel
a great deal easier in my mind if you hadn't hit Cortez quite so hard."

He was staring out of the window, and his eyes narrowed suddenly.

"Who the devil is this crossing the drawbridge?" he cried.

Veight joined him, and gave a prolonged whistle of astonishment.

"It's Kalinsky himself.  Now, what in the name of all that is
marvellous has brought him down?  You stay here; I'll deal with him."

He hurried into the hall, and got to the front door just as the
limousine pulled up outside.

"This is a most unexpected pleasure, m'sieur," he said.

"Unexpected!" snapped the financier, who was obviously not in the best
of tempers.  "What do you mean by unexpected?  After the urgent message
you sent me I had no alternative but to come, though it was exceedingly
inconvenient."

He entered the house and Veight closed the door in a complete daze.

"Urgent message, m'sieur?  I haven't sent you any urgent message."

"Then who was that stammering fool who forced himself on me this
morning in my hotel?  Belfage he called himself; the doctor you told me
about.  Said he came from you, and that it was of vital importance I
should come here this afternoon."

Veight gave a sigh of relief.  The thing was now comprehensible, though
why Belfage should have done it was beyond him.  And then came a sudden
stabbing doubt.  How did Belfage know anything about Kalinsky?

"Confound it, Veight, have you lost the use of your tongue?"
Kalinsky's angry voice broke in on his thoughts.  "Twice have I asked
you who these two men are lying about in the hall."

"I beg your pardon, m'sieur."  With an effort he pulled himself
together.  Whatever had caused Belfage's action, it could wait.  At the
moment the vital thing was not to let Kalinsky even have an inkling
that anything could be amiss.

"To tell you the truth," he continued, "I have had so little sleep
during the past forty-eight hours that I hardly know what I'm doing.
Those two men are Graham Caldwell and his mechanic."

"What's the matter with them?"

"Doped with morphia.  We brought them down from Scotland in that
caravan you saw outside."

"And the plans of the machine?"

"Here in my pocket."

He handed them to the millionaire, who glanced at them and then threw
them on the table.

"They convey nothing to me," he said.  "You are sure those are the
correct ones?"

"Absolutely certain, m'sieur.  They were in the safe in Caldwell's
office, and the man who had actually done some of the drawing himself
gave them to me."

"Did you see the machine?"

"It was dark when we arrived, m'sieur," explained Veight, "and so it
was impossible to inspect it closely.  We burned it."

"Then you didn't see it in flight?"

"No, we did not.  But the member of the Key Club whom you may remember
I told you about, and who was responsible for our information in the
first place, confirmed the fact that its performance is simply amazing."

The financier lit a cigarette.

"Well, Veight," he said more cordially, "so far you seem to have done
well.  I may say that I myself through a roundabout source heard only
yesterday that this machine is a marvel.  I also heard that, so far as
my informant knew, no plans, save these, were in existence.  And so I
say again that I consider you one to be congratulated."

"Thank you, m'sieur."  Veight bowed.  "Things have gone very well.
Because I have here the other thing I promised you--the formula of the
gas."

With a triumphant flourish he produced the paper from his pocket.

"This again conveys nothing to me," said Kalinsky.  "Have you any proof
that it is correct?"

"Frankly, m'sieur--I have no _proof_.  I am not a chemist myself.  But
the English officer Waldron is below in the dungeon, and he realises
that if it is not correct it will be even more unpleasant for him in
the future than it has been in the past.  You would perhaps like to see
for yourself?"

"Later--possibly.  At present I am rather more interested in the future
of the two gentlemen I see upon the floor."

"That, m'sieur, you may safely leave in my hands," said Veight.  "And I
think it would be better for you not to know any more about it.  I have
thought out a scheme, which I flatter myself is not lacking in
ingenuity, and which is certain to result in Belfage being hanged for
the murder of these two and Waldron below."

"And what are your immediate plans?"

"To leave England at the first possible opportunity," answered Veight.
"After which I shall report to you in Paris for the balance due."

"You shall have it," said Kalinsky.

He took out a bulky pocket-book, and Veight's eyes glistened.

"You have done well, Herr Veight," he continued.  "And though for the
life of me I can't see quite what was the need for dragging me down
here, I am glad I came and saw with my own eyes.  Here are ten thousand
in notes as we arranged, and the balance of forty will be handed to you
in Paris when--er--the remaining conditions have been complied with."

Veight took the notes and bowed.

"Thank you, m'sieur.  I can assure you they will be."

Now that the first instalment was actually in his pocket he was itching
for Kalinsky to go.  Unfortunately, however, the financier showed no
signs of so doing; he was inspecting his surroundings with obvious
interest.

"Extraordinary," he said at length.  "Most interesting.  By the way,
where is the madman you told me about who owns this house?"

"Keeping Waldron company in the dungeon," answered Veight.  "He became
quite annoyed when he realised the formula for the gas was not going to
be used as he intended."

"Of course; I remember.  These strange people send things to everybody,
don't they?  I should very much like to see the dungeon, Veight."

Concealing his impatience with an effort, the German led the way.

"Be careful of the steps, m'sieur.  They are rather dark."

"Good gracious me!" said Kalinsky, staring about him.  "It is
unbelievable.  And is this the wicked old man who tortured the gallant
young inventor?"

Veight swore under his breath; the great man had evidently quite
recovered his temper and was pleased to be facetious.  Pray Heaven he
would be quick about it.

"That is the gentleman," he answered, forcing a laugh.

"Well, well," said Kalinsky genially, "it takes all sorts to make a
world, doesn't it?  But what a bloodthirsty old ruffian you must be!"

He lit another cigarette and turned away.

"Well--I think that is quite enough, Veight.  I do not find the
atmosphere of this apartment very much to my liking.  I think I will
now return to London."

Veight heaved a sigh of relief; then grew suddenly tense as he heard
the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall above.

"Veight!" came a hoarse shout.  "Veight--where are you?"

The German stood very still: it was Belfage's voice.

"I'm below in the dungeon," he answered.  "What do you want?"

"Who is that?" cried Kalinsky quickly.

"Doctor Belfage, m'sieur," said Veight, as the doctor, white and
sweating, clattered down the stairs, to pause for a moment as he saw
Kalinsky.

"Belfage?" snapped the millionaire.  "That is not the man I saw this
morning.  What the devil is the meaning of all this?"

Icy fear was clutching at Veight's heart.  He knew now that something
had gone wrong, but he forced himself to speak calmly.

"It is quite all right, m'sieur," he said.  "Some small
misunderstanding."

Already his quick brain was working: at any rate he had ten thousand in
his pocket.  And then he realised Belfage was pouring out some confused
jumble of words.

"Skeletons!" roared Kalinsky, now beside himself with rage.  "What in
God's name is this madman talking about?"

"Pull yourself together, you drunken swine," snarled Veight, shaking
Belfage like a rat.  "What's the matter with you?"

"The skeletons, Veight.  The skeletons at Hartley Court.  Two of them
were females."

The German's hands dropped to his sides.

"Females!" he muttered foolishly.  "Females!  What do you mean,
females?"

And from behind him Waldron began to laugh.  And the laughter grew till
it swelled to a mighty chorus.  From all round him, from above him were
unseen people laughing--just laughing.

"_Ein wnderschoner Abend, Herr Veight._"

"Pardon!  'Ad tripe for me supper.  Comes back on one like, don't it."

God above!  The bleary-eyed youth at his hotel in London.  And still
that laughter went on rising and falling, until, as if it was a drill,
it stopped abruptly.  And the silence was more terrifying than the
noise.

He could hear the heavy thumping of his heart; dazedly, sickly, he
realised that everything had miscarried.  But how?  How?  Beside him
Kalinsky, now thoroughly frightened, was clutching his arm
convulsively; Belfage in a state of collapse had sunk down on the
steps.  And then came a well-remembered voice from above.

"So we meet again, Herr Veight.  Kindly come up into the hall."

Like a man in a dream the German obeyed Drummond's order.  All power of
connected thought had temporarily left him: the sudden shattering of
all his plans had numbed his brain.  He realised subconsciously that
the hall was full of men.  He saw Standish, and Darrell, and Gregson
and a dozen others he did not know; he saw Lovelace and Doris Venables
standing at the foot of the stairs; he saw as a man sees the background
of a picture in relation to the central figure.  And that central
figure was the man standing opposite him on whose face was no trace of
mercy.

Suddenly Kalinsky gave a cry, and pointed to one of the group.

"There's the man who came to me this morning and said he was Belfage."

No one answered; no one spoke, and then Veight heard a voice.  It was
his own.

"How ... did ... you ... escape?"

He was still staring, hypnotised, at Drummond.

"The court will now commence," was the only answer.  "Bring forward the
other prisoner."

He pointed to Gregoroff, whose nerve had completely gone.

"You fool!" he screamed at Veight.  "I told you we should have got away
at once."

"You've never had a chance, Gregoroff," said Drummond.  "For the past
three days you have never been out of our sight."

"How ... did ... you ... escape?"

Once more Veight's parched lips mouthed the sentence.

"Sufficient for you, Veight, that we did."

"A truce to this play-acting," snarled Kalinsky, who had recovered
himself.  "Do you know who I am, sir?"

"I have that misfortune," said Drummond dispassionately.  "And anything
that you may care to say in mitigation of your conduct will be
carefully considered."

"Mitigation!  Conduct!" shouted the millionaire.  "This, sir, is an
outrage."

"It is," agreed Drummond pleasantly.  "And a far worse one will shortly
be perpetrated upon you.  But before that takes place we will converse
awhile, Kalinsky."

White with passion, the millionaire strode to the front door.  It was
locked and the key was not there.

"Open this door, sir."  He was stammering with rage.  "Open this door
at once.  I insist."

"Mr. Kalinsky insists.  What an epoch-making moment!  Ten thousand
pounds is the sum, I think, you have just paid Veight for the documents
in your pocket."

Very slowly the millionaire came back: the seriousness of the situation
had come home to him.  This ring of silent men meant business, and
Kalinsky's soul grew sick within him.  But his voice was steady when he
spoke.

"Who are you, may I ask?"

"That is quite immaterial," said Drummond.  "Shall we say that, at the
moment, I represent justice?  Perhaps a little rough and ready;
nevertheless justice.  What are the documents for which you have just
paid Veight ten thousand pounds?"

"That is my concern," answered Kalinsky.

"Assuredly.  Give me those notes, Veight."

Completely cowed, the German handed them over.

"Ten thousand pounds!"  Drummond balanced the packet in his hand.  "A
lot of money, Kalinsky: they must be very valuable."

"They are worth it to me," said the millionaire in an off-hand tone.

And once again a chorus of laughter rose, fell and died away.

"I am delighted to hear it," said Drummond gravely.  "True we all have
different standards of value; but it is most impressive to realise
yours.  Have you by any chance made Mr. Graham Caldwell's acquaintance?"

Instinctively Kalinsky looked at the two men who still sprawled
unconscious on the floor.

"No, no; the _real_ Graham Caldwell," continued Drummond.  "Those two
were wished on Veight in Scotland.  They belong, I believe, to the
local branch of the Key Club.  Here he is."

A freckle-faced young man with a cheerful grin stepped forward.

"What are the plans Mr. Kalinsky has got?" asked Drummond.

"Bits of a Puss Moth and an old Bristol fighter," said Caldwell.  "But
even then there's a lot missing.  A wheelbarrow would fly better."

"I wonder," remarked Drummond pensively, "if any government really
wants a flying wheelbarrow.  You can but try, Kalinsky.  And you've
always got the gas, haven't you?  I hope that's all right for him,
Waldron."

"Grand," said the sapper.  "I wrote it down in a hurry, but the final
process should undoubtedly produce a form of cheese mould."

"Think of it, Kalinsky," cried Drummond enthusiastically.  "A
wheelbarrow with wings, and a spot of gorgonzola.  They'll put up a
statue to you."

Kalinsky turned on Veight in a cold fury.

"So you've double-crossed me, you rat.  Hand me back that money."

"You forget he hasn't got it," said Drummond, still balancing the notes
in his hand.  "And it is really we who have done the crossing--not
Veight.  So we shall be pleased to keep these for our trouble."

"I see," said Kalinsky with a sneer.  "Plain theft."

"Oh, no!  A little present from Veight.  And so that there shall be no
misunderstanding, Kalinsky, an anonymous present of ten thousand pounds
will be made to-morrow to the disabled soldiers and sailors fund."

His eyes bored into the millionaire.

"You may, if you like, make trouble.  I don't somehow think you will.
If your part in this affair comes out, your name will stink in the
nostrils of the world.  And there is a certain poetic justice, isn't
there, in this money going to men who fought, in view of what it was
really intended for?  War: another war.  More millions in your pocket;
more millions mutilated or in their graves."

"I don't know what you're talking about," muttered Kalinsky.

"Tidying up, sare," quoted Drummond.  "Having found out Veight was
coming to see you, I came first.  And as Henri is an old friend of
mine, I had no difficulty in persuading him to let me act as floor
waiter.  He thought I was doing it for a bet."

"Confound your impertinence," snarled Kalinsky.  "My part in the whole
affair was perfectly legitimate.  I promised this damned fool Veight
money for certain things.  What I proposed to do with them is entirely
my own affair.  He has failed to get them, and that is the end of the
matter so far as I am concerned."

"That, I fear, is where we must agree to differ," said Drummond
gravely.  "I heard most of your conversation with Sir James Portrush; I
heard your delightful bargain with Veight.  And neither I nor my
friends think you at all funny.  In fact we think you a profound bore,
Kalinsky, a very tedious person.  Which must be rectified.  If you
can't make people laugh by fair means, you shall make them laugh by
foul.  Bring that rope, Peter."

"What are you going to do with me?" cried the now terrified millionaire.

"You'll see," said Drummond as Darrell and Standish passed the rope
under Kalinsky's arms.  "And I would advise you to keep your mouth shut
for the next few minutes.  In with him, boys."

Gibbering with fright, Kalinsky disappeared through the window, and a
loud splash proclaimed his destination.  Three times was he hauled up;
three times was he dropped back.  Then he reappeared, and again the
chorus of laughter was heard.

Dripping wet, with duckweed in his hair, the millionaire stood there
emitting a powerful odour of stagnant slime, and almost crying with
rage and mortification.

"Very funny; very funny indeed," cried Drummond approvingly.  "I told
you you could make people laugh if you tried.  But it would be selfish
on our part to keep you all to ourselves.  Good-bye, Kalinsky; they'll
be tickled to death at the Ritz-Carlton.  Run him out, Peter; the swine
is an outrage and an offence against God and man.  Here's the key."

The front door closed behind him, and silence settled on the room,
which was broken at length by Drummond.

"And that brings us to the lesser fry," he said quietly.  "Veight;
Gregoroff; even the egregious Doctor Belfage I see.  But where are
Meredith and Cortez?  The party does not seem to be complete.  And you
were all so matey in Scotland, weren't you?"

"I believe you're the devil himself," muttered the German sullenly.
"Were you up there too?"

"Of course.  As I told your Russian friend, you haven't been out of my
sight.  By the way, Gregoroff, have you met any more elementals with
croquet mallets?"

"It was you, was it?"

"It was.  A ripe and fruity blow, I flatter myself.  But, I think, if
anything, it has improved your appearance."

"How the devil did you get out of that room?" said Gregoroff with a
scowl.

"I don't think you have actually met Mr. Seymour, have you?  You did
your best to shoot him on his motor-bicycle, but that hardly
constitutes a formal introduction.  A rising journalist, Gregoroff, and
a lad of sunny disposition as you can see.  Moreover, it is entirely
due to him that you are in your present unsatisfactory position."

The Russian's scowl deepened as he looked at the young reporter.

"With becoming modesty he maintains that it was a sheer fluke.  I, on
the other hand, consider it was an extremely quick piece of work for
which he deserves the greatest credit.  I had arranged to meet him the
day after you so kindly locked us up, and somewhat naturally I failed
to keep my appointment.  He waited and waited, and under the
inspiration of a ginger ale he fell into conversation with that lovely
girl who dispenses gin in the bar.  They talked of this and that, and
after a while she mentioned the jolly little party overnight when we
had met Doctor Belfage.  She also mentioned Hartley Court.  So Seymour
decided it could do no harm to call there.  I trust I interest you."

"Go on," muttered Gregoroff.

"Naturally he found the house empty.  But the sight of an unlatched
window downstairs was too much for him and he entered.  It was all very
still and silent, but as he stood on the kitchen stairs wondering
whether to explore there came from close by his head a little click.
He looked up: it was the electric-light meter, and subconsciously he
noted the reading.  Then he went all over the house and found nothing.
It took some time, and at last he decided to go.  And then occurred,
Gregoroff, one of those little things which sometimes alter the fate of
nations.  As he passed the meter he happened to glance at it again:
_the reading was different_.  Somewhere in the house current was being
consumed.  Where?"

"You cursed fool, Gregoroff!" cried Veight.  "It was you who insisted
on leaving the light on."

"Come, come," said Drummond.  "Mutual, I think.  But with unerring
accuracy, Veight, you have spotted what you gave away.  To make
certain, Seymour continued to watch the meter until it changed, again;
then, being a determined young man, he once more went over the house.
And this time, by taking a few rough measurements, he realised there
was an inner room, the existence of which he had not suspected before.
The rest was easy.  He tapped: he heard a faint answer.  And four hours
later a nice gentleman with a blowpipe affair had cut through the door.
That is how we got out, Gregoroff, and had you and Veight met us then
we should assuredly have killed you both.  We were not amused."

Drummond lit a cigarette.

"But saner counsels prevailed.  Mr. Standish had already solved the
real message which was flung through my window by Captain Lovelace.
But you haven't seen that one, have you?  How stupid of me.  There have
been so many flying round, haven't there?  It was in code too--'Mary
Jane.  Urgent.  G G Font.'"

Sullenly the two foreigners stared at him.

"In code," Drummond continued quietly, "to minimise the chance, if you
found it, of your moving poor Waldron elsewhere.  Mary Jane, with
Cortez introducing the Mexican atmosphere, gave us Marijuana: G
G--Horse: Pont--bridge, in French.  Not a very clever code, as I am
sure Captain Lovelace would be the first to admit, but men who are half
murdered, Veight, are not very clever."

"He shouldn't have tried to escape," muttered the German.

"Shouldn't have tried to escape, you rat!" roared Drummond.  "A British
officer from a damned foreign spy!  Don't scowl at me, blast you, or
I'll give you a taste of Gregoroff's medicine.  To resume, however," he
continued.  "Fearing you might return to Hartley Court and find the
birds had flown, we decided to burn the house down.  It was a pity that
two of the skeletons we obtained with great difficulty were those of
the fair sex, but they served their purpose."

"What purpose?" said Veight angrily.  "Why didn't you strike then
instead of waiting?"

"For two good reasons," answered Drummond.  "First and foremost in
order to touch that blackguard Kalinsky for ten thousand pounds.
Secondly--but I presume you have never read the immortal 'Stalky'--we
wanted to jape with you.  And you can't imagine the amount of fun
you've given us."

"And what do you propose to do with us now?" asked the German.  "Put us
in the lake too?"

"No, Veight: you have a more important role to play which you will
discover in due course.  Doctor Belfage as well, and the incredible old
gentleman downstairs.  I would have liked Meredith and Cortez....  By
the way, have you any idea where they are?"

"I have not, and for a very good reason," said Veight quietly.  With
the realisation that the situation was desperate, his self-control had
come back.  "Since you appear to know everything, it is quite
refreshing to find that you do not.  Just after it was light this
morning we all got out to stretch our legs, and when we started off
again I thought they were in the caravan, and Gregoroff thought they
were in the car.  So between us we left them behind."

"What an annoying _contretemps_!" cried Drummond.  "If only I'd known
that, it would have quite allayed my childish fears.  But when I saw
you and Gregoroff emerging from that wood this morning----"

"You saw us!" Veight almost screamed.

"I was in the scarlet monoplane," explained Drummond patiently.  "The
Graham Caldwell machine.  You didn't burn it, you know: when we
gathered your intentions an ancient glider was put inside the shed.  To
resume, however.  When I saw you coming out of the wood, and there was
no sign of the other two, I was filled with unworthy suspicions.  So we
landed a little later, and I communicated those suspicions to the
police."

Veight swallowed twice, and his knuckles gleamed white on the back of
the chair he was gripping.

"What a waste of time!"  He forced himself to speak calmly.  "They
should be here at any moment now."

"I fear not," said Drummond sadly.  "Veight, you must prepare yourself
for a shock.  The dead bodies of your poor friends were found in the
wood."

The German had again recovered his self-control: his start of amazement
was admirable.

"_Gott in Himmel!_" he cried.  "Dead!  But how?"

"Clutched in Meredith's hand was a motor jack; in that of Cortez a
revolver.  Meredith was shot through the heart; Cortez had his skull
broken."

"They were quarrelling when we all got out of the car, Gregoroff, if
you remember," said Veight thoughtfully.

"That is so," assented the Russian.

"And did you leave them there quarrelling: one armed with a jack and
the other with a gun?" asked Drummond politely.

"I have already told you," said Veight, "that it was quite by accident
they were left behind at all."

"Of course!  Of course!  How stupid of me.  What were they quarrelling
about, I wonder?  The plans of the wheelbarrow; or can it have been the
flying cheese?  Or perhaps," he added hopefully, "it was just naughty
temper at being left to walk.  Anyway, that is your next role--the two
principal witnesses at the inquest on Meredith and Cortez."

The German's jaw tightened but he said nothing.

"I don't understand," stammered Veight, after a pause.  "If he shot
Meredith..."

"Precisely," remarked Drummond.  "If!  You see, the revolver was in his
right hand: the fingerprints are those of his left.  Playtime is over,"
continued Drummond.  "Serious business begins.  And when through the
medium of a nice double murder the public are put wise to your recent
activities, even they may begin to realise that this country is living
in a fool's paradise over armaments."

The telephone bell started to ring, and he picked up the receiver.  And
as he listened a look of amazement appeared on his face.  At length the
metallic voice ceased, and Drummond very slowly replaced the instrument.

"The police, Veight," he said gravely.  "They want to know if you and
Gregoroff are here.  As you heard, I told them you were.  They are
coming to ask you some questions."

The German moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"You will be interested to hear that they have found Cortez's
finger-prints on his revolver," continued Drummond.

"Naturally," said Veight.  "You told me he shot Meredith, and that the
revolver was found in his hand."

"Yes: lying very loosely.  And the police want to know how it got
there."

For a space in which a man may count five there was silence, while the
German, his face ashen, swayed on his feet.  Then with a roar like a
beast Gregoroff hurled himself on him.

"Damn you!" he shouted.  "What did you want to kill him for?"

"So," said Drummond when they were finally separated, "it would seem
that my unworthy suspicions were justified after all.  But I think your
message to the British public will be even more valuable when it comes
from the dock and not from the witness-box."




CHAPTER XV

"The Chief wants to see you, Hugh," said Gregson.  "You, too, Ronald,
and Seymour as well.  Old Portrush is with him cluckling like an
agitated hen."

Drummond grinned faintly, and followed the speaker along the passage to
a large airy room overlooking Whitehall.  Behind a big desk sat a
grey-haired man with a pair of keen, penetrating eyes, while beside him
Sir James Portrush clutched the inevitable attach case.

"So you are the sinners who have been corrupting my young gentlemen,"
said Colonel Talbot genially.  "The tale I have listened to from
Gregson is just about the most completely immoral recital of utter
illegality I have ever heard.  In fact at a rough guess I should think
you have all laid yourselves open to at least ten years' penal
servitude."

"At least," agreed Drummond happily.  "But we've had a grand time,
Colonel."

"What staggers me," cried Sir James, "are these disclosures about
Kalinsky.  I can scarcely credit them.  Why, only a few nights ago, I
was having a long conversation with him on the European situation at
the Ritz-Carlton."

"I heard it all," said Drummond, lighting a cigarette.

"You heard it?" spluttered Sir James.  "But we were alone."

"I heard it through the keyhole," said Drummond calmly, and Colonel
Talbot hurriedly bent down to pick up a paper.  "I was the waiter."

"Really, Captain Drummond," cried the minister angrily, "that is quite
inexcusable."

"If I hadn't," said Drummond, "Kalinsky would now have the Graham
Caldwell plans.  And Morgenstein.  He was in it too."

"Nevertheless unpardonable," continued Sir James.  "To listen to a
private conversation!  It's ... it's not done."

"It was that night," laughed Drummond.  "'Dictators, knaves, or
fools'--do you remember?"

Sir James flushed scarlet.

"This is intolerable," he snapped.

"Come, come, Sir James, be reasonable.  You must judge every case on
its own merits.  And in this instance I consider I was justified.  I
knew Veight was coming to see Kalinsky, which by itself was enough to
prove he was a wrong 'un.  But if I may be permitted to say so--wrong
'un or not, the advice he gave you was the goods."

"I am infinitely obliged to you for your opinion," remarked Sir James
sarcastically.

"And," continued Drummond imperturbably, "it will not be through any
fault of mine if that advice is not broadcast to the country when
Veight and Gregoroff come up for trial.  They'll hang 'em as high as
Haman--both of 'em, and that always interests the public."

"Do you mean to tell me"--Sir James appeared to be on the verge of a
seizure of sorts--"do you mean to tell me that you have the
audacity--the damned audacity--to pass on a private conversation you
heard through a keyhole?"

"Most certainly," answered Drummond.  "I won't say it was you, but I'm
undoubtedly going to tell the public Kalinsky's remarks that night.
Wait, Sir James!"

He held up his hand, and after an abortive splutter the minister
subsided.

"You did not go through the last war as--er--as a combatant.  We did,
and we don't want another, any more than some of the pacifist young
gentlemen to-day, who have never heard a shot fired in anger.  We know
the horrors of it first-hand; we are all out to prevent it again if we
can.  But we maintain that the present policy of cutting down our
fighting forces to the extent they have been reduced, is the most
certain way of precipitating it.  Do you realise that if this young
feller here had not got us out of that house, war _would_ have come?  I
ask you--do you realise that?  But for the tick of an electric-light
meter war would have come.  As you know, they intended to kill Waldron
and Graham Caldwell, so that those two secrets would have been
Kalinsky's sole property.  Do you suppose he was going to use 'em for
shaving-paper?"

"Really, Captain Drummond, I am not accustomed to being hectored in
this way."  Sir James had at last found his voice.  "The Government's
policy on such matters is--er--a matter for the Government alone."

"Well, at any rate, you know Kalinsky's opinion of that policy.  And,"
Drummond added pleasantly, "though he may be a knave, Sir James, he
most certainly is not a fool."

With a snort like an angry bull, Sir James snatched up his hat and rose
to his feet.

"You, it seems to me, Captain Drummond, combine both qualities.  Good
morning, Colonel Talbot; I am already late for a Cabinet meeting."

"Totes on greyhound tracks still worrying the old grey matter?" asked
Drummond anxiously.  "But they tell me Flying Fish for the third race
at the White City to-night is a cinch.  Shall I put on a quid for you?"

"I am not interested in dog-racing, thank you."

"Great fun, you know.  And you could always earn a spot of honest dough
as a tick-tack man.  All you've got to do is to wave your arms and legs
about and make faces.  Just like a Cabinet meeting."

The door shut with a crash, and then Drummond threw up his hands in
despair.

"How long, O Lord, how long?" he cried.  "It isn't that his opinion
differs from mine, but it is that ghastly air of smug self-complacency
that gets my goat.  What's your opinion, Colonel?"

But that worthy officer was beyond speech.  Tears were pouring down his
face; his shoulders heaved convulsively.

"Portrush as a tick-tack man!" he gasped at length.  "You're a
thoroughly reprehensible scoundrel, Drummond," he continued in a
shaking voice, "and your proper fate is to be hanged between Veight and
Gregoroff.  But at any rate you've made me laugh.  Now tell me, how
many crimes have you committed in the course of the last few days?"

"How many, Ronald?" asked Drummond cheerfully.

"The only one, Chief, is burning down the house," said Standish.  "And
a few odd trifles against some lower excrescences of the Key Club,
which they brought on themselves.  But with regard to Hartley Court, I
do not think there will be any trouble.  Hugh and I will settle matters
with Doctor Belfage."

"All right.  But I don't want to hear anything about it," laughed the
Colonel.  "You're a bunch of miscreants, and the whole thing is
hopelessly irregular.  Get out.  And I shall be delighted if you'll all
dine with me to-night.  Cabbageface knows the house, and the port is
passing fair.  Incidentally Ginger and that delightful girl are coming.
We must drink their health."

"Bye-bye, Hugh, for the moment," said Standish, as they reached the
street.  "I'm going round to the insurance wallahs now.  See you again
this evening."

The traffic roared past in a ceaseless stream, and for a space Seymour
stood staring at it beside a man grown suddenly silent.

"I can still hardly believe that it has all happened," he said at
length.

Drummond turned to him slowly.

"Make England believe that it will happen, unless..."

The sentence uncompleted, he strode oft, and Trafalgar Square swallowed
him up.




THE END




WHAT SHALL I READ NEXT?

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HODDER & STOUGHTON

_publish books regularly by these famous authors_

JENNIFER AMES, RUBY M. AYRES, FRANCIS BEEDING, VICTOR BRIDGES, JOHN
BUCHAN, JOANNA CANNAN, LESLIE CHARTERIS, J. J. CONNINGTON, O. DOUGLAS,
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WENTWORTH, VALENTINE WILLIAMS, DORNFORD YATES.  They are continually
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new authors who will soon be favourites.




_If you have not already read every_

BULLDOG DRUMMOND

story you will want to see the following pages, which will give you all
the information you need to know.  You will also find some words of
introduction to the very latest books by such well-known writers of
stirring adventure as--

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM,

The Prince of Storytellers


FRANCIS BEEDING,

The master of international intrigue thrillers


AND

"TAFFRAIL,"

The salt-sea novelist of to-day.




"SAPPER"

_the creator of_

BULLDOG DRUMMOND

"Here they are, the Old Firm, large as life and twice as natural.
Bulldog Drummond & Co."--_Bystander_.

"They are thundering good."--_Birmingham Post_.

"'Where the hero socks the villain's jaw, instead of calling a
policeman, that is anarchy.'  So says Mr. Bernard Shaw; 'and I'm afraid
that if the diagnosis be accurate, Bulldog Drummond is our most
distinguished anarchist.'"--_The Evening Standard_.

"Many happy returns to our old friends."--_Everyman_.

"Sapper and Bulldog Drummond are institutions for which all honest men
give thanks."--_Glasgow Herald_.

"Thank goodness for Sapper."--_Civil and Military Gazette_.




"SAPPER"

_the creator of_

BULLDOG DRUMMOND

Here is a list of the BULLDOG DRUMMOND stories:--

  BULLDOG DRUMMOND
  THE BLACK GANG
  THE THIRD ROUND
  THE FINAL COUNT
  THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES
  THE RETURN OF BULLDOG DRUMMOND
  KNOCK-OUT
  TEMPLE TOWER

Here are the other "SAPPER" stories:--

  WHEN CARRUTHERS LAUGHED
  RONALD STANDISH
  THE DINNER CLUB
  JIM MAITLAND
  OUT OF THE BLUE
  THE SAVING CLAUSE
  WORD OF HONOUR
  THE FINGER OF FATE
  TINY CARTERET
  THE ISLAND OF TERROR

And three Omnibus Volumes:--

  SAPPER'S WAR STORIES
  SAPPER'S FOUR ROUNDS of Bulldog Drummond with Carl Peterson
  SAPPER'S FIFTY-ONE STORIES




E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

_The Prince of Storytellers_

Are you one of those millions of happy citizens who find some of the
most comfortable moments of their lives in front of a cosy fire with an
OPPENHEIM in your hands and strange adventures in your heart?

That man warming himself in front of the huge lounge fire of the Hotel
Magnifique with a cigar between his lips and the fruits of the earth at
his side is just such a man as you perhaps.  He was on the verge of
adventure though he knew it not.  But you know, because it is in the
first chapter of an

OPPENHEIM.


Switch off the wireless and go with him.


_The latest novel is_:--

THE STRANGE BOARDERS OF PALACE CRESCENT,

a most surprising Oppenheim.


_Some recent successes are_:--

  THE BANK MANAGER
  THE GALLOWS OF CHANCE
  MURDER AT MONTE CARLO




FRANCIS BEEDING

_is the best writer of international intrigue adventures now living_.

"_Pretty Sinister!_" as the famous Granby would say.

"Sinister" is hardly strong enough to describe the evil machinations
afoot in the new novel


DEATH IN FOUR LETTERS

There is a fraternity amongst the evil genii of all nations.  And it
takes courage, swift action, a deal of thought and a modicum of good
fortune to save the situation.

Readers of these words probably already know that Francis Beeding has
the reputation of writing the swiftest moving stories ever.  It is well
earned.

Here are the tides of the other books--obtainable in cheap editions:

  THE TWO UNDERTAKERS
  THE FIVE FLAMBOYS
  THE SIX PROUD WALKERS
  PRETTY SINISTER
  THE LEAGUE OF DISCONTENT
  THE FOUR ARMOURERS
  DEATH WALKS IN EASTREPPS
  THE THREE FISHERS
  TAKE IT CROOKED
  MURDER INTENDED




"TAFFRAIL"

_is the great salt-sea novelist_.

A life-time on the sea has given Captain Taprell Dorling, D.S.O.
("Taffrail") the material for his exciting, adventurous novels.  The
salt sea air breathes through them.  The fine descriptions of people,
scenes and incidents reflect his enthusiastic love for all that he
writes about.


THE SECOND OFFICER

is his new novel, just published.  It breaks new ground to the extent
that it tells of the exciting lives of some officers (and one in
particular) in the Modern Merchant Navy, a service to which this
country owes more than it can ever hope to repay.

Here are the titles of the other novels by "Taffrail":

  THE MAN FROM SCAPA FLOW
  SEVENTY NORTH
  PIRATES
  THE LONELY BUNGALOW
  CYPHER K.
  DOVER OSTEND
  MICHAEL BRAY
  SHIPMATES
  KERRELL
  THE SCARLET STRIPE




[End of _Bulldog Drummond at Bay_ by Sapper]
