The Canon’s pale face, no longer a benign mask, but displaying unconcealed the evil in his soul, leered down into C.B.’s. His thick lower lip jutted out aggressively and from between his blackened teeth he spat the words: ‘You fool! You miserable fool! You would have done better to walk naked into a den of lions than to come here. That you managed to deceive me for an hour shows that you know enough to have some idea of the risk you ran. How could you hope to pit yourself against me—an Ipsissimus? In a day or less it was certain that I should have found you out and caught up with you.’
C.B.’s sight, hearing and the faculties of his mind remained unimpaired, but all his limbs had become limp and useless. Concentrating his will, he strove desperately to struggle to his feet. The attempt was futile and resulted only in a slight stiffening of his spine. He could do no more than wriggle feebly where he sat, and by the greatest effort raise one hand a few inches. While he squirmed there helplessly, the Canon went on: ‘When I left you just now it was because an authentic messenger sent by de Grasse had just arrived from France. From my description of you he identified you at once as Mrs Fountain’s friend who arrived from London yesterday. I know you now, Colonel Verney, for what you are. And you may be sure that I do not mean to allow you to carry away with you the secrets you have learned tonight.’
‘You damn well let me go or … or it’ll be the worse for you,’ muttered C.B. thickly.
‘There is no way in which you can harm me.’
‘Not at the moment, perhaps. But … my friends know that I came here. If … if I don’t rejoin them they will soon be asking you some … very awkward questions.’
‘They will ask none that I shall not be able to answer to their satisfaction. I have already decided how to deal with this situation, and what I shall tell them. You called here at a quarter-past nine and left again at about eleven o’clock. In view of the wildness of the weather we decided that you should take the short-cut through my garden to the village. My servant will say that he let you out of the back door and described the way you should go. At the bottom of the orchard there is a little gate. Beyond it lies the railway line. The last train from London passes at about eleven-five. Tomorrow morning, when your dead body—’
‘My body!’ gasped C.B. ‘You can’t mean—’
‘To murder you?’ the Canon finished for him. ‘Yes: why not? But no one will suspect me of having done so. As I was about to say—when your mangled body is found it will be assumed that you tripped in the dark, fell, and stunned yourself when crossing the rails.’
C.B.’s mind was still perfectly clear; but he was having great difficulty in keeping his chin from falling forward on his chest, and his tongue felt swollen and clumsy. He had not often been really frightened in his life, but he was frightened now. Jerking back his head, he forced out the words: ‘You’re mad! You can’t do this!’
‘Oh, but I can!’ The Canon’s voice had become cruelly bantering. ‘It is only a little after half-past ten, so there is ample time to put you on the line before the train passes. Even should someone enquire for you during the next half-hour, if they are told that you have already left I do not believe for an instant that they would risk breaking in without some concrete reason for supposing that harm has befallen you. To do so would ruin your own success, had you managed to carry through your imposture; so before taking any action they would certainly go back to the inn to make quite sure you had not returned there. You are as much my creature now as any of the homunculi, and there is no power in the world that can prevent my doing what I like with you.’
‘Perhaps. All the same … if you do as you say you … you’ll swing for it.’
Copely-Syle shook his silvery head and smiled. ‘Wishful thinking, my poor friend; wishful thinking. There will not be one scrap of evidence against me. Your death will so clearly be an unfortunate accident. “How sad,” people who know you will say. “Colonel Verney was really no age, and such a nice man.” Naturally, although you were a stranger to me, as you met your death soon after leaving my house I shall send a wreath. Have you any preference in flowers? Since it was poking your nose into other people’s business while in the South of France that has brought you to this sorry pass, I think carnations and mimosa would be rather suitable.’
‘You … you’ll swing, I tell you!’ C.B. croaked. ‘The people who knew I was coming here knew my suspicions about you. If I’m found dead they’ll pull this place to pieces. They’ll find what I found. Once they’ve nailed your motive for getting rid of me, the rope will be as good as round your neck.’
His face suddenly distorted with rage, the Canon took a step forward and began to strike C.B. again and again in the face with his small flabby hands.
‘Swine! Swine! Swine!’ he cried. ‘So owing to you there is now a risk that my sanctum here may be desecrated! That clods incapable of apprehending the significance of the most elementary mystery may break in; may destroy my priceless possessions; may ruin the work of a lifetime. But no! Once you, who have some understanding of these things, are out of the way, I can deal with them.’
Calming down with the same suddenness as he had flown into a passion, he added, ‘This is England. No one will dare force their way into the house without a search warrant. If I held you prisoner they might apply for one. But your body is certain to be found soon after it is light; so there will be nothing for which to search here. You did not know about my homunculi before I told you of them; so your friends cannot suspect the work upon which I am engaged. They can know nothing more than that I planned to have Ellen kidnapped. I shall find no difficulty in fooling anyone who may call here to make enquiries.’
‘That will not save you!’
‘Yes it will. You are my only danger. Once you are silenced for good I shall have nothing to fear.’
‘You are wrong.’ C.B.’s voice came hoarsely. It was still an effort to speak, but he knew that he was fighting for his life. ‘I shall still be a danger to you when I am dead. However cleverly you may lie to my friends, they will still be suspicious at my sudden death. They will insist on a post-mortem. My body will be found full of this infernal poison. They’ll get you on that.’
The Canon laughed again, his good humour quite restored. ‘No, no! As with most drugs that paralyse the body while leaving the brain unimpaired, its effects are only temporary. They soon wear off. To keep you as helpless as you are at present I shall have to give you another dose before we carry you out, and yet a third when we leave you on the line. By the time your body is found all traces of the drug will have disappeared.’
This piece of information brought C.B. a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it was no more than the effect of suggestion, but he had the impression that his feet were not quite so dead to all sensation as they had been when he had first endeavoured to struggle up from the chair. If he could keep Copely-Syle talking for a while there now seemed a chance that he might recover the use of his limbs at least enough for one violent movement. The Canon obviously lacked both muscle and stamina. If suddenly sprung upon by a much weightier man, it was certain that he would go down under the impact. Once down and grasped by hands that would be growing stronger every moment, it would be long odds against his being able to free himself. C.B.’s fears eased a little. He knew that he was very far from being out of the wood, yet all the same he began to savour the thought of getting his long fingers round that plump neck.
His hopes were short-lived. Almost as though the Canon had read his victim’s thoughts, he said, ‘With such a big man as yourself, Colonel Verney, the effects of the drug may be of unusually short duration, and such a hearty specimen of British manhood can hardly be expected to accept calmly the fact that death is waiting for him at the bottom of the garden. There is too much at stake for me to take any chances. Just in case you should recover sufficiently to show a belated resistance to my will, it would be best if I put any temptation to do so beyond your powers.’
As he spoke he went over to the cabinet from which he had taken the bottle containing the drugged wine. From a drawer in the lower part of it he got out a ball of string and a pair of scissors. With deft movements he cut off several pieces of string, each about a yard in length, and proceeded first to lash C.B.’s wrists to the arms of the chair, then his ankles to its front legs. C.B. was still too weak to put up anything but a feeble opposition, and, once the job was done, even had he been in possession of his full strength, he could not have moved without dragging the heavy chair with him like a snail’s shell on his back, much less broken free from it.
Again C.B. felt fear closing down like a black cloud on his mind. Yet still a lingering hope sustained him. If his death was to be made to appear an accident, it was clear that they could not leave him bound hand and foot when they laid him on the railway line. Neither would they dare gag him. Although he could speak only with some difficulty, he might be able to cry out loud enough to attract the attention of a passer-by. At such an hour and in such weather that hope was an incredibly slender one. But there was another one slightly more substantial. They could not remain with him until the train was actually in sight, from fear of being seen in its headlamps. He would have at least a few minutes unbound and alone. As the effects of the drug wore off so quickly, he might regain just enough strength to squirm clear of the rails.
The thought had hardly come to him when it was shattered by another. Copely-Syle would not be such a fool as to give him that last chance, and risk finding himself facing a judge on a charge of attempted murder. He or the Egyptian would knock their victim on the head before they left him. To do so would not add in the least to any chance of his death being traced to them, as his fractured skull would be assumed to be one of the injuries received when the engine made mincemeat of him.
Once more it seemed as if the Canon read his thoughts; but he had other views for ensuring against any last-minute escape, for he said smoothly, ‘No doubt you are hoping that when we leave you on the line you will manage to wriggle off it. Do not deceive yourself. I shall take precautions against that. As you are aware, homunculi must be fed on human blood. Fortunately the modern practice of people giving their blood to hospitals saves me considerable trouble in obtaining supplies. For a sufficient recompense a man in London finds no difficulty in arranging for several bottles to be stolen from the hospitals for me every week; but your visit provides me with an opportunity to save a little money.’
His meaning was clear enough, and a shudder ran through C.B. at the thought that his blood was to be used to sustain the life of those foul creatures in the jars.
‘A pint is the usual quantity given by blood donors,’ the Canon went on thoughtfully, ‘but that hardly affects them; so I shall take from you at least a quart. Such a drain on your vitality will more than double the effect of the drug; so for a quarter of an hour or more you will be too weak to lift a finger. And to render you incapable of all movement for ten minutes will be ample for our purpose.’
C.B.’s strength was now fast returning to him. He could move his toes, clench his fingers, and flex the muscles of his arms and legs. Temporarily giving way to the fear that was upon him, he began to shout curses at the Canon and strive violently to free himself. His struggles were in vain; the string cut into his wrists and ankles, but his efforts failed even to loosen it materially.
With a contemptuous smile, the Canon watched his abortive squirming for a few moments; then he said, ‘Directly I learned that you were an impostor I hurried back here, in case you took it into your head to harm the homunculi during my absence; so I have yet to hear the full report of de Grasse’s messenger. It would be a great mistake to put you on the line unnecessarily early, in case someone stumbled on you. I am, therefore, about to fill in ten minutes by listening to what else the messenger has to say, and putting in a personal call to de Grasse for midnight, so that I may give him fresh instructions. When I return I shall give you your second dose of the drink you found so palatable. They say that when near death one recalls one’s childhood. My having to hold your nose while you take your medicine should help you to remember similar episodes when in your nursery. We shall then perform the little operation by which you will donate your blood to such an admirable cause. That should take us up to about five minutes to eleven. In the meantime my man, Achmet, will have brought the wheelbarrow round from the gardener’s shed. The margin of ten minutes I have left should be just right for me to give you your final dose, and have you transported to the scene of your execution.’
Turning on his heel he walked sedately the length of the crypt with his hands clasped behind his back. As he switched out all the lights except two and left it, locking the door after him, C.B. watched him go with a feeling of sick despair. There seemed such an air of terrible finality about the Satanist’s present calmness. That he was apt to fly into rages was evident from the intense anger he had shown at the suggestion that his sanctuary might be invaded; but there was something infinitely more menacing in his general behaviour since he had discovered that C.B. was an impostor. Swiftly, yet carefully, he had made his arrangements to commit a cold-blooded murder, and had discussed it in detail with such unruffled composure that it looked as if nothing short of a miracle could prevent his going through with it.
A cold perspiration broke out on C.B.’s forehead as he thought how slender were the chances of such a miracle occurring. He had already dismissed the idea that he might be rescued by John as in the highest degree unlikely. He had told John that if he was not out of the house by midnight he was to telephone the police and come in to find him. But by midnight, if the train was punctual, he would have been dead for fifty-five minutes; and John would certainly not attempt to force his way in more than an hour before the time he had been given. For all he knew, matters were going excellently and, as the Canon was certain to recognise him as Ellen’s friend, his premature entry, seeking C.B., might have thrown a spanner in the works at their most promising point. Besides, there was no earthly reason why he should ignore his instructions and risk upsetting everything.
On such a short distance the best to be hoped for from that was that it would reduce the total time from forty-five to thirty-five minutes. Therefore, at the earliest reasonable moment that John could be expected to begin reconnoitring the house for the easiest place to break into it, the London train would be thundering over C.B.’s body; and even that was on the assumption that he had seen de Grasse’s messenger, recognised him, and decided to take prompt action.
It was no good. He was caught without hope of rescue. His number was up, and he must face it. He had barely a quarter of an hour of life left.
Of himself lying helpless in the dark night across the railway line, and feeling it vibrate as the train hurtled towards him.
He began to pray, but the picture would not go. It became a series of pictures. Himself, half-comatose, being wheeled through the garden, his long legs dangling from the barrow. The Canon and the Egyptian arranging his limp body on the line. The train roaring down upon him at sixty miles an hour. His mangled corpse, the head severed from the body, still lying there at dawn. Its discovery by plate-layers on their way to work.
It was then an idea came to him. He could not save himself, but he could revenge himself on the Canon. Into his mind there came the vaguely-remembered story of a British sergeant who had been taken prisoner by the Japanese and mercilessly tortured by one of their camp guards. It was to the effect that the soldier, having had his tongue cut out, had, with extraordinary fortitude, carved the name of his torturer with a penknife in the flesh of his own stomach; and he had survived long enough for that to lead to the execution of the swinish Japanese.
C.B. was in no position to emulate this act, even had he had the time and courage to do so; but by dragging at his wrists and ankles with all his might he could cause the string that bound them to cut so deeply into his flesh that the marks would remain visible long after he was dead. Next day, when his body was found, it would be obvious that his hands and feet had been tightly bound, and that would immediately suggest that he had been the victim of foul play. No accusation that John could bring would lead to a prosecution, unless some direct evidence of assault could be brought to support it, but with such evidence Copely-Syle’s carefully-built-up picture of an accident would be blown sky-high, and he would find himself facing a charge of murder.
Gritting his teeth, C.B. set about screwing his wrists back and forth and jerking up his knees with all his force, so that the tight string cut into his ankles. The pain made him wince, but he kept at it till he had drawn blood at both his wrists, then he allowed himself a breather.
As he sat, slumped now in the chair, panting heavily, another thought came to him. For a second he hardly dare consider it as a real possibility; then he saw that it was perfectly logical. With the wounds he had inflicted on himself he might yet save his life. When Copely-Syle returned he would show them to him, then dare him to stage his ‘accident’. The Canon was no fool; and even by the aid of magic it was hardly thinkable that in the few minutes, which were all that would be at his disposal, he would be able to cause bleeding wounds to disappear so that they left no trace. He would know that to carry through his plan would now bring him into acute danger. He might be a criminal lunatic, but he was not mad in that way. He would either devise some other plan for killing and disposing of his victim or, if he could, would perform an involved magical ceremony to heal the wounds, before having him taken out and put on the line to be run over by a night goods train. Whichever course he took it meant a postponement of the execution. And even half an hour might now bring John, and after him the police, upon the scene.
It was at that moment, tense with excitement at this new-found hope, that C.B. suddenly realised that something was happening at the far end of the crypt.
Screwing round his head he stared towards the furnace, from which a hissing noise emitted. The only lights the Canon had left on were near the altar, so since he had gone from the crypt the whole of its bottom end had been plunged in deep shadow. The bed of the furnace, under its big scalloped canopy, now looked like a black cavern; yet it seemed to C.B. that wisps of steam were rising from it. There came a heavy thud, then something began to writhe upon the furnace bed among the greyish swirls of steam.
C.B. drew a sharp breath. His heart began to hammer violently. He was seized by a new fear, and one totally different from that which had afflicted him since he had drunk the poison from the chalice. That had been straight physical fear at the realisation that he was in acute danger and within twenty minutes, or less, might find himself face to face with a most painful death. This was a terror of the spirit.
The walls of this ancient stone chamber had witnessed many fearsome rites. Only God and the Devil could know to what abominations Copely-Syle had resorted in order to give his homunculi life. That life at present was only fish-like, and they were powerless to leave their glass prisons. But the whole place reeked of Evil. For his hellish acts of creation the Canon would have had to compel the aid of those strange potent Spirits that govern the behaviour of Earth, Air, Fire and Water. He would also have had to call up those brutish groping foeti from the Pit; things that lived upon a lower plane, yet were always seeking means to enter this one and, given propitious circumstances, could not only appear to human eyes, but also take hideous solid form. It was even possible that to complete his devilish work he had had to invoke some chill intelligence of the Outer Circle: an entity beside which even the terror inspired by the loathsome horrors of the Pit would pale; for such Sataii could drive men mad or strike them dead, as had proved the case with Crowley and McAleister.
Fearful of what he might see, C.B. peered with straining eyes into the shadows. Within a few seconds of his having heard the second stirrings, he knew that his senses had not deceived him. The bed of the furnace was no longer flat. It seemed to have arched itself up into a hump. Among the smoke and steam some fearsome thing was materialising from it. Swiftly the hump rose, a whitish blob appeared in its middle and it assumed an irregular outline. C.B. distinctly heard the coke crunch under it. Next moment it heaved itself outward from the furnace bed and landed with a thud upon the floor.
Now it was hidden from C.B. by the tables. His spine seemed to be dissolving into water. Shrinking back, he grasped the arms of the chair, while cold sweat broke out anew on his face. For an instant an intense bitterness surged through his mind at the thought that he should have devised a means of saving himself from the Canon, only to fall a victim to one of the Satanic forces that he had made his familiars. He could hear the monster scrabbling on the ground. Dreading intensely what he would see when it emerged from behind the tables, he closed his eyes and began to pray. Urgently, frantically, he called upon the God of Mercy, Peace and Love to help him in his dire extremity.
There came the sound of swift movement across the stone flags of the crypt; then, as a lump rose in his throat that almost choked him, his prayer was answered. Loud, clear, unmistakable, John’s voice was calling him by name; and, an instant later, a human hand grasped his shoulder.
As C.B. opened his eyes, John’s words came tumbling out. ‘Thank God I’ve found you. Upson and that pilot drove up about twenty minutes ago and I snuck over to eavesdrop. I caught the old boy’s voice saying that you were waiting for him in the chapel, and that he was just about to pull a fast one on you. I lost ten minutes trying to find a way in here but the chimney is a good three feet square inside.
‘Well done! Well done!’ breathed C.B. ‘If you hadn’t found me the odds are I’d have been dead before morning. But we haven’t a moment to lose. That fiend may be back here any second. Look! There’s a sword on the altar. Use it to cut me free.’
Obediently John snatched up the sword but as he clasped it he cast a scared glance over his shoulder, and muttered, ‘This place gives me cold shivers down my spine. What’s been going on here?’
‘Never mind that now,’ C.B. said impatiently. ‘For God’s sake cut these strings.’
The blade of the sacrificial sword was sharp as a razor. Once John set to work the strings parted under it with as little resistance as though they were threads of cotton. Yet even for so short a time C.B. could not keep his eyes on the strokes that were liberating him. A new fear impelled him to keep darting swift glances from side to side into the shadows behind the two rows of pillars. The possibility of the Canon surprising them before they could get away had now taken second place in his mind. It seemed as if some malignant unseen force, already in the crypt, was stirring into evil life with intent to prevent their leaving it.
As the last string snapped C.B. jerked himself to his feet, and John, his thin face now chalk-white, gasped: ‘Come on! For Christ’s sake let’s get out of here!’
Side by side, they began to run down the crypt. But their feet felt as though they were weighted with lead. The strength seemed to be ebbing from their limbs as though they had received many wounds and their life-blood was draining away with every step they took. Halfway along the tables they faltered into a walk. The air ahead of them no longer had the feeling of air. It had become intensely cold and was as though they were endeavouring to force their way through water.
In a half-strangled voice, C.B. began to recite the Lord’s Prayer aloud. ‘Our Father which art in Heaven …’
Almost instantly the pressure eased and they found themselves able to stagger forward to the furnace. When jumping from it John had pulled his mackintosh after him. Sooty and scorched, it lay on the ground nearby. As he snatched it up, C.B., still praying aloud, looked hastily round for something else to throw on the bed of coke that would protect their feet from burning. His glance lit on the robes used by the Canon when he officiated as a minister of the Black priesthood. They were of heavy scarlet satin embroidered in black with magical insignia, and hung upon a stand on the far side of the door. While John sprayed the top layer of coke with water, C.B. fetched the vestments and flung them on to the hissing furnace bed; then he cried: ‘Go on, up you go!’
John hesitated a moment, glancing at C.B.’s bleeding wrists; but the older man pushed him forward, so he scrambled up into the steam-filled cavity. His head and shoulders disappeared into the wide funnel made by the chimney, and he quickly began to feel about for hand-holds inside it. Within a few seconds his searching fingers found the iron rungs that had been used by sweeps’ urchins in times gone by. As he began to haul himself up, C.B. followed. Two minutes later, grimy with soot and half choked by coke fumes, they stood side by side on the roof of the chapel.
Yet so powerful was the evil radiating from the gateway to Hell below them that they did not feel safe from pursuit. Scarcely heeding the danger of slipping on the wet roof, or tripping in the darkness, they scrambled down its slope to the nearest gutter, hung by it for a moment, then dropped the eight feet to the ground. Picking themselves up from the soaking grass, by a common impulse they ran round the side of the house, across the garden to the road, and down it for nearly a quarter of a mile before the fresh night air and the rain in their faces restored their sense of security sufficiently for them to pull up.
In their terror they had passed the car; but now they walked back to it, got in and bound up C.B.’s wrists as well as they could with their handkerchiefs. Then they lit cigarettes. After a few puffs they began to feel more like themselves, and C.B. gave John an outline of the hour and a quarter he had spent with the Canon. At the description of the homunculi John was nearly sick, but his nausea turned to fury when he learnt of the fate planned for Christina, and on hearing of the cold-blooded murder which would at that moment have been taking place had he not got C.B. away, he wanted to drive off at once to fetch the police.
C.B. laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Easy, partner! It’s not quite so simple as all that. You could give evidence that you found me tied to a chair; but that’s no proof of intended murder. The old warlock, his Gippy servant and the airman would probably all swear themselves blind that they had caught me breaking into the house; and it is a fact that you broke in later. If they took the line that we had gone to the police first with a cooked-up story, because we feared being caught and charged tomorrow, it would be only our word against theirs.’
‘Yours would be taken. Your people in London would vouch for you.’
‘Oh yes. A telephone call to the Department would bring someone down tomorrow to identify me and give me a good character. In fact had you fetched the police before coming in to get me, that’s what I should have had to do. It would have been worth it, even as an alternative to remaining locked up in a cellar indefinitely, which was the worst I feared when I went in. All the same, I’m extremely glad that you managed to get me out without calling in the minions of the law.’
‘From what you tell me, if I’d spent half an hour collecting them before going in your goose would have been cooked by the time we got there.’
‘Yes. That’s one reason; and I can never thank you enough, John, for the guts you displayed in coming in on your own when you did. Another reason is that, even when acting officially, I am no more entitled to break into people’s houses without a warrant than any other citizen so if Copely-Syle had charged me with breaking and entering that would have put me in quite a nasty spot.’
‘I see. All the same I think it’s monstrous that this criminal lunatic should be allowed to get away with attempted murder and all the other devilry he is up to.’
‘We won’t let him. But we’ve got to play our cards carefully if we are to lay him by the heels without burning our own fingers. We’ve got to get some solid evidence against him before we can make our next move.’
‘What about the homunculi? Surely his having those filthy creatures in the house is against the law?’
‘I rather doubt it. Besides, we have not an atom of proof that he intends to harm anyone or is, in fact, engaged in anything which could not be defended as a scientific experiment. All the same, I wish we had remained there long enough to smash the jars and kill the horrible things inside them.’
John shivered. ‘I don’t think I could have done it. I mean, stay on there for a moment longer than I positively had to. I wasn’t frightened about going in—at least no more than I would have been when breaking into any other place where I might have got a sock on the jaw—but once inside I felt as if I was being watched by invisible eyes all the time. It was as though there was something indescribably evil in the shadows behind me: something that had the power to rend and destroy, and that at any second might leap out on to the back of my neck. Then, just before you began to pray, I felt as if I was being suffocated; and I began to fear that I’d never get out at all.’
C.B. nodded. ‘I felt the same. The explanation is that the place has become the haunt of some very nasty elementals. As the Canon’s familiars they would naturally try, in their blind, fumbling way, to prevent our escape. Perhaps if we had lingered they might have materialised. Anyhow, I had the feeling that they might, and I was scared stiff. My one thought was to get away while the going was good, and I wasn’t capable of thinking of anything else till we were well down the road.’
Stubbing out his cigarette, John put his foot on the self-starter. As it ceased to whirr and the engine began to fire, he said, ‘Since we’ve had the luck to get out all right, I’m glad we went in. It enabled you to find out a tremendous lot, and at least we know what we are up against now. I wish we could have made a job of it tonight, and called in the police to haul him off to jail; but since you’ve ruled that out, the sooner we can grab a hot toddy, and go to bed, the better.’
‘Not so fast, laddie,’ C.B. replied, as the car gathered speed. ‘I’ll gladly dig the barman out to fix us hot toddies, whatever time we get back to Colchester, but I’ve no intention of returning yet. First, I mean to try to pick up a little evidence against his Satanic Reverence.’
Slowing down the car, John turned and stared at him. ‘You … you don’t mean that you’re going back into that hellish place?’
‘No. I’m not poking my head into that hornets’ nest again till the hornets have had a chance to settle down. But we are up to our necks in this thing now, and we’ve got no time to lose. I hate to think what my Chief will have to say should matters go wrong, and you had better keep out of it; but I really do mean to risk finding myself in the dock this time. I intend to break, enter and, I hope, burgle private premises without the least excuse to justify my act if I am caught.’