KNOCK-OUT [Part 2]

CHAPTER VI

The sight steadied him: if there was going to be a gladiatorial exhibition, the audience should have their money’s worth. And it would not be his fault if the result proved different to what they expected. The door was still opening, but as yet he could not see who was outside. And it struck him that his present position was strategically unsound. In an instant he was across the court and standing by the door, so that when it was fully open it would be between him and whoever was coming in. At any rate they would start fair.

A board close to him creaked slightly, and he saw the shadow of a head just beyond the edge of the door which was now at right angles to the back wall. And at that moment came Demonico’s voice from the gallery.

“Well, Mr Atkinson Drummond, let’s see if you prefer this to the dog.”

So he did know: that point was settled anyway.

“I’m sure I shall, you bald-headed old swine,” said Drummond cheerfully, at the same time dodging back a couple of yards.

It was a sound move: thinking he had located Drummond the maker of the shadow was round the door like a flash. And for a second Drummond stared at his adversary aghast. He was a gigantic individual with the coarsened, vicious features of a lowdown professional pug. But it was not at his face Drummond was looking, nor at the great torso and shoulders; it was at his hands. Encasing each of them was a canvas glove from which steel spikes stuck out front and back. The spikes were about an inch long and sharp-pointed, and after that one momentary pause Drummond moved, and moved quickly. The best method of dealing with this gentleman would have to be thought out, and until he had made up his mind anything in the nature of close quarters must be avoided.

The man had slammed the door, and with an ugly leer on his face he made a dash at Drummond, who quietly dodged. His brain was working at top pressure sizing up the situation. This must be the method by which Gulliver’s throat had been torn out after he was dead, and he had no intention of letting the brute experiment on a living specimen. But he was under no delusions: once get to close grips and he was done for. The man was, if anything, longer in the reach than he: the instant those diabolical gloves were round his throat it was the finish.

Outfighting, too, was out of the question: one back-hander to his head that got home would lay him out. And still he dodged easily and methodically, keeping in the centre of the court, while Demonico’s sneering remarks from the gallery kept up a running accompaniment. A gladiatorial exhibition it was, with a woman as a spectator! And as the amazing unreality of it struck him one of the gloves whistled past his face, missing him by the fraction of an inch.

He pulled himself together as Demonico laughed: that would not do. The devil of it was that the man, in spite of his low type, was almost, if not quite, as fit as he was, and the thing could not go on indefinitely. Besides, all his opponent had to do if he wanted a rest was to go and stand by the door for as long as he pleased.

The door! Was there a chance of opening it and getting out? It meant putting himself in a hopelessly unfavourable position for at least a second while he tried it to see if it was bolted. And once again a glove flashed past his face, grazing his cheek and drawing blood.

The blow roused him to fury, but it was the cool collected rage of the born fighter. He did nothing rash, which would have been playing straight into the other man’s hands, but it made up his mind for him. He would take the offensive. And the first idea that came to him was the ordinary Rugby tackle. He knew he could bring the other down that way, but what then? Unless the man happened to be stunned by the fall, it would mean close fighting on the ground, which was every bit as dangerous as if they were standing.

And then suddenly his eyes fell on a small dark object against the wall—the tin of petrol. He had forgotten about it, and it dawned on him that there lay the germ of a plan. Still feinting and dodging he thought it out, and at last he got it cut and dried. A risk—but something had got to be done.

Little by little he began to breathe faster, and he saw a look of triumph gleam on the other’s face.

“Getting tired, Pansy face,” grunted the other. “Best give it up and come and take your medicine.”

He did not answer: his knees seemed to sag a little; but every step took him nearer the door.

“He’s going to try and bolt,” yelled Demonico, and the man grinned sardonically. But no trace of expression showed on Drummond’s face, though it was exactly what he wanted them to believe.

Out of the corner of his eye he was measuring his exact position: it was going to be a question of the fraction of a second. He was gasping now, and after each move he swayed a little.

At last he got to the spot he intended—half-way between the door and the tin and about a yard from the wall. And then he feinted in earnest. He made as if to spring for the door, and in the same movement went the other way. Completely deceived, the man, thinking he had him, sprang too. And Drummond had the tin by the handle, while the other, half off his balance, fell against the door. Came a grunt of rage: the tin was whirled round Drummond’s head, as if it was a feather, catching his opponent fair and square on the nape of the neck. And without a sound the man crashed like a log to the floor and lay still.

Drummond seized him by the legs and swung him clear of the door: to get at Demonico was his only thought. But that gentleman had waited not on the order of his going: by half a second he had managed to get the bolt shot home on the other side of the door. And Drummond cursed savagely, but only for a moment. For though this method of finishing him off had failed, he was still a sitting target to anyone in the gallery.

Taking the unconscious man again by the feet he dragged him into one of the far corners of the court. He took off the spiked gloves and flung them away. Then if necessary he could lift the man up and hold him in front of his own body as a shield. It would be a tiring proceeding, but there was no other possible method that he could see of getting any cover, and even that would be totally inadequate if they sent an armed man into the court itself.

He stood listening intently: it was inconceivable that Demonico would allow him to get away with it. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of anyone. And then suddenly from far away in the distance he heard the faint sound of shouting. He took a few steps forward: the noise was increasing. And to his amazement he recognised Peter’s voice, bellowing “Hugh” at the top of his lungs.

“Peter,” he roared, “I’m in the squash court.”

“Coming, old boy. Where’s the blinking door?”

He was just outside and Drummond heaved a sigh of relief: the last half-hour had been a bit of a strain.

“The only way in is through the house,” he shouted, “unless you break the window in the gallery.”

“Right,” came the answer. “With you in a moment.”

Drummond heard voices outside, some of which he recognised: Algy Longworth’s inane drawl; Ted Jerningham; Toby Sinclair. Peter had arrived with the old bunch, but why he had so providentially done so was beyond him. And where were all Demonico’s men?

“Get on my shoulders, you blithering ass,” came Peter’s voice. “And don’t put your dirty foot in my mouth.”

“All right; all right,” bleated Algy. “But I’m not a ruddy Blondin.”

There was a crash of breaking glass, and Algy’s voice again. “I’ve been and gone and cut my new suiting. Hugh, old boy, be of good heart; little Algy is coming.”

“Hurry up, you ghastly mess,” shouted Drummond.

“Where’s the door?” cried Algy, scrambling into the gallery.

“Where it usually is in a squash court,” said Drummond resignedly. “You don’t imagine it’s in the roof, do you? By Jove! Algy,” he added a moment later as Algy came into the court, “I never thought I should be glad to see you, but I am. What on earth gave you the brain-wave to come?”

“Peter will tell you,” answered the other. “What’s that in the corner?”

“Little Willie,” said Drummond grimly. “And I think he’s going to die. Anyway, we’ll lock him in, so that he can do it in peace. Now we’ve got to move.”

He bolted the door, and raced up the stairs to the gallery, followed by Longworth.

“Explanations can wait, chaps,” he cried, as he landed on the ground outside, “though I’m damned glad to see you all. Follow me: we’re going through this house with a fine-tooth comb.”

He led the way round to the front door, with the others after him. And the first thing that struck him was that there was no car in the drive. So two members of his late audience had gone: what about Demonico?

The front door was bolted, but half a brick through a nearby window served equally well. And then in a body they poured into the house. The first room Drummond made for was Demonico’s: it was empty. And it was then that Darrell spoke.

“Three of them—two men and a woman—bolted in a car just after we started to raise Cain,” he remarked.

“Hell!” said Drummond. Clearly Demonico had got away too. But where were all the others? Room after room they went into: the house was empty. And at last they held a council of war in the hall.

“Got clear away—the whole bunch,” muttered Drummond, “though the only three who matter are the ones in the car. The others have probably scattered in the grounds. My God!” he cried suddenly, “where’s Standish? I’d forgotten about him.”

“He’s not in the house, anyway,” said Darrell.

“Come on, boys,” said Drummond, “though I’m afraid it’s a forlorn hope. If he was all right he’d have joined us.”

He made for the spot where he had left Standish: there was no one there. But the trampled-down bushes showed that a desperate struggle had taken place.

“They got him,” cried Drummond savagely, “but what the devil have they done with him? Standish,” he shouted, again and again, but there was no answer; and at last he gave it up.

“May Heaven help Mr Demonico when I get my hands on him,” he said grimly. “All one can hope for is that the old lad’s not dead. I heard him shout once, but I was in the house and couldn’t get to him.”

A sudden idea struck him.

“What sort of a car had they got?”

“Some sort of big American,” said Jerningham. “And they were going all out down the drive.”

“Any hope of catching ’em? They’re bound to be making for London.”

“Doubt it,” said Darrell. “But we might have a chance, if we take your bus.”

“It’s down the road,” cried Drummond. “Come on; let’s hog it for home and Mother.”

But the start was too great: no trace of the car they were after was seen. And as they drove into London Drummond slowed down.

“Tell me, Peter,” he said, “what in the name of fortune brought you and all those warriors on the scene so providentially?”

“You’ll see when you get to your house, old boy,” answered Darrell, “provided she is still there.”

Drummond whistled.

“She! We have a fairy in the place, then.”

“And some fairy. I’ll leave her to tell you the tale herself. But I’ll explain the rest. About half an hour after I got your message from Epsom, your bloke Denny rang me up to say that a bird was on your doorstep asking for you urgently. So, knowing that you weren’t available, I thought the best thing to do was to toddle round and interview her myself. She told me a long yarn, when she’d made certain that I was to be trusted, lots of which I couldn’t make head or tail of. It mostly concerned Corinne Moxton, the film woman.”

“Go on,” said Drummond.

“I didn’t know you even knew her,” continued Darrell, “and I told this girl so. Her name, by the way, is Frensham—Daphne Frensham. However, she was very insistent about it all, and when she began talking about the Old Hall I thought it was time to sit up and take notice. So I roped in the lads and came down.”

“Good for you, Peter. And I don’t mind telling you, old lad, there is every indication of rare and refreshing times ahead. You told this wench to stop on at my place, did you?”

“That’s the notion. As a matter of fact she seemed frightened to death. But she’ll put you wise herself, and it’s better for you to hear it first hand.”

Drummond pulled up outside his front door, and told his chauffeur to take the car to the garage.

“Who have we got behind?” he demanded. “Great heavens! it’s Algy. Life today has been one thing after another. However, since he’s here I suppose he’d better come in.”

“And this from the man whose miserable life I have just saved.” Longworth got out of the car with dignity. “But I have no objection to sinking a pint.”

Drummond produced his latch-key, but before he could use it the door was opened by his man.

“All well, Denny?”

“Yes, sir. The young lady seems quite comfortable.”

“Good: lead me to her.”

“There is one thing, sir. About half an hour ago a telephone message came through for you from someone who would not give his name. The message was this. OK Cuckoo.”

Drummond stared at him for a moment in bewilderment: then light dawned on him.

“By Jove! Peter,” he cried, rubbing his hands together, “that must be Standish. Can’t be anybody else. I told him at Epsom that I’d arranged to use the word ‘Cuckoo’ with you as a proof that any message was genuine, and no one else but him could possibly know. Was it a trunk call, Denny?”

“I couldn’t say, sir,” said his servant. “The gentleman just asked who I was, gave that message, and then rang off.”

“Splendid,” said Drummond. “We’ll larn these birds a thing or two before we’re through with them. Nov then—where is the lady?”

“In the study, sir. I have given her some sandwiches.” Drummond flung open the door. Seated in an armchair by the fire, fast asleep, was an extremely pretty girl. Her cheeks were flushed, and a mop of dark curls ran riot above a small, perfect face. She had taken off her hat which lay on the floor, and two silk-shod legs were tucked away underneath her in that mysterious attitude beloved of the female sex. The noise awoke her, and when she saw a complete stranger, for a moment fear shone in her eyes. Then Darrell appeared, and with a little exclamation of embarrassment she sat up.

“Just like me,” cried Drummond contritely, “to make a fool noise and wake you.”

“I had no business to fall asleep,” she said. “Is it all right, Mr Darrell?”

“This is Captain Drummond,” said Darrell with a smile. “Miss Frensham, Hugh. And the half-wit with the eyeglass is Algy Longworth.”

“Oh! I’m so glad,” she cried. “When Mr Darrell told me that you’d actually gone to the Old Hall I was afraid it would be too late.”

For a moment or two Drummond looked at her keenly. Most certainly, if appearances were anything to go by, this girl was all right. But he was moving in deep waters, and he was far too old a soldier to take any chances.

“From the little that Peter has told me, Miss Frensham,” he said quietly, “I gather you know Corinne Moxton.”

“Why not tell him everything just as you told me,” suggested Darrell.

“It’s all so muddled and confusing, Captain Drummond,” she cried. “I hardly know where to begin. Sometimes I feel the whole thing is some ghastly nightmare. You see, when Miss Moxton advertised for a secretary-companion I applied for the post, and much to my surprise I got it. I was overjoyed: I’ve always admired her on the films, and I thought it was going to be the greatest fun. The salary was very good, and it looked the most wonderful opportunity. I even wondered if, through her influence, I might perhaps get a job on the films.”

“Take it easy, Miss Frensham,” said Drummond gently. “We’ve got plenty of time: the night is yet young.”

“It’s four o’clock,” she said with a shaky little laugh. “Well, my first shock came when Miss Samuelson—she was my predecessor—came back to the flat one day. She had forgotten something when she packed and had returned to get it. Miss Moxton was out, and Miss Samuelson and I had a talk. I thought she was looking at me rather queerly, and at last I asked her if anything was the matter.

“‘You’ll soon find out what’s the matter,’ she said. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t done so already.’

“‘What do you mean?’ I cried in amazement.

“‘What do you think of my late and your present employer?’ she said.

“‘I’ve only been here a few days,’ I reminded her, ‘and I really don’t know. She seems very nice so far.’

“‘Nice,’ cried Miss Samuelson. ‘Nice. My dear! there is no fiend in hell who is quite so fiendish as that she-devil in some of her moods.’

“At the time I didn’t believe her. As you know, Captain Drummond, jobs are not easy to come by, and I thought she was jealous of me having taken hers. But a few days later I had reason to change my mind. I was sitting doing some work for her when there suddenly came a yelp of pain from the room next door, followed by a pitiful sort of moaning. Now, she has two dogs: one is a Pekingese, and the other is a dreadful little beast of a type I loathe. I rushed in to find out what had happened: evidently one of them had hurt itself somehow.

“I found Miss Moxton sitting in a chair by the window with the Pekingese on her lap. The sun was shining into the room, and from under the bed there came a little whimpering noise.

“‘I thought I heard one of the dogs crying out,’ I said.

“And as I spoke I glanced at her face. Captain Drummond, I find it almost impossible to describe to you what her expression was like. Moreover, I watched it change: watched the mask that conceals her real nature replace the truth. And what was the truth? It was something so horrible, so diabolical that I almost cried out. It was a mixture of gloating joy and vindictive cruelty: it was dreadful, terrible, utterly evil. But when she spoke her voice was quite normal.

“‘Poor little Toto,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking what I was doing, and quite accidentally I burnt him with this.’

“And I saw that she was holding one of those big magnifying glasses in her hand.”

Daphne Frensham paused for a moment, but none of the three men spoke.

“I pulled the poor little brute out from under the bed,” she continued, “and there, on his head, was a nasty burn.

“‘I’ll put some butter on it,’ I said, and took the dog out of the room.

“Now all this may sound very trivial to you, but the thing I am getting at is this. I am as certain as I can be about anything that it was not an accident at all. You know how difficult it is to focus the heat spot from one of those glasses accurately, and that even when it is in the right place it takes some little time before a bit of paper catches fire. And this was quite a deep burn. I am convinced that she held that dog in some way and deliberately burned it in order to gratify some beastly side of her nature. I am convinced that she has in her some abnormal streak which can only be satisfied by the infliction of cruelty to something or someone. I do hope I’m not boring you,” said the girl anxiously.

“I have seldom been so interested in my life, Miss Frensham,” said Drummond quietly. “Please go on.”

“Well, that happened about a month ago,” she continued. “I tried to get it out of my mind, and persuade myself I’d been mistaken. And I’d almost succeeded when another incident happened. I was in her room one morning before she got up, and she was going through her letters. Suddenly we heard a commotion in the street, and I looked out of the window. There had been an accident: some man working on the house opposite had slipped and fallen on the pavement. The poor fellow was writhing with pain, and there was blood all over the place. It was a sickening sight, and instinctively I called out—’Don’t look: don’t look.’

“In a flash she was out of bed with her nose glued to the window. And there she remained watching greedily till an ambulance arrived and took the injured man away. And it wasn’t just morbid curiosity: it was something more fundamental. She enjoyed every moment of it: it satisfied that vile side of her nature. Can you believe it possible, Captain Drummond, that there are people like that?”

“Quite easily,” said Drummond gravely. “I don’t profess to be up in such matters, but I gather it is a well-known fact that cases of a similar description are by no means rare. If a person is abnormal anything may happen: it’s only when it gets too bad or is dangerous to others that they push the bloke off to an asylum.”

“And you don’t think I’m exaggerating?”

“Far from it,” Drummond assured her. “In fact, things are becoming considerably clearer.”

“You see,” she went on without asking him what he meant, “what I want to do is to try to show you Corinne Moxton as she really is and not as her public believe her to be. Otherwise you would think I was mad when you hear what comes next.”

“Fire right ahead,” cried Drummond cheerfully. “Your sanity is above suspicion.”

“You met her yesterday afternoon, didn’t you.”

It was not a question but a statement, and Drummond nodded.

“I did.”

“And Sir Richard Pendleton was with her.”

“He was,” said Drummond.

“And further, you were mixed up in the Sanderson murder.”

“As a spectator only, I assure you.”

His voice was lazy, but now his eyes were fixed like gimlets on the girl.

“Yesterday evening,” she continued, “she came back with Sir Richard to her flat after the cocktail party you met her at. There is a small sort of closet place that leads out of her drawing-room, and I’d fallen asleep. It’s becoming a habit with me, I’m afraid,” she added with a smile. “Anyway, they didn’t know I was there, and the first remark I heard as I woke up so dumbfounded me that my legs literally seemed incapable of movement. Corinne Moxton was speaking.

“‘You bore me, Richard,’ she said. ‘He was the first man I’ve ever seen murdered, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. And anyway, that’s all over. What you’ve got to concentrate your young life on is that big boy Drummond. I’m just crazy to see that guy up against it.’”

“Mother-love sure oozes from her,” said Drummond with a grin. “And what did our Richard answer to that?”

“‘I’ll fix that for you,’ he said, ‘but for God’s sake, Corinne, be careful. Sanderson had to go, but don’t forget bumping off isn’t as easy in this country as it is in yours. And his death is going to raise hell all round.’

“‘Cut it out,’ she cried contemptuously. ‘His house is burned down: what shadow of evidence have they got? No, Richard, your life’s work is Drummond. I’m not interested in the rest of your schemes, but that great stiff has me tickled to death. He’s got to be put on the spot, and I’ve got to see it done.’

“‘He’ll give us a run for our money, I assure you,’ answered Pendleton. ‘I felt his muscles last night. He’s not as dangerous as that man Standish, but they’ll both have to go. And if you like we’ll go down to the Old Hall tonight and fix things up. Then I’ll have to leave you to get him there.’

“‘Trust me,’ she said. Now you get along, and come back later. We’ll see about Sussex then.’

“And with that he left, and I sat on trying to think things out. I felt completely stunned. That she was cruel and had a horrible nature I already knew, but not in my wildest dreams had it occurred to me that she was as vile as that. And Sir Richard Pendleton! I hated him from the first moment I saw him, but that he, with his reputation, should be like it too simply knocked me flat. Of course, I’d read all about the murder of Mr Sanderson, and to find suddenly that my own employer was implicated in it was almost incredible. But there was no getting away from the evidence of my own ears, and I had to decide what I was going to do.

“One thing was clear: I should only be signing my own death-warrant if either of them had an inkling that I had overheard their conversation. So I waited till she was in her bath: then I crept along the passage and banged the front door as if I had just come in. She called out to me and I answered: all was well and good so far. But what to do next: that was the point.

“My first thought was the police, but I sort of funked it. I don’t know anything about Scotland Yard, and I thought that if I went up to a policeman in the street and told him what I’d heard he’d think I was mad. And it was then that I had the idea of coming to see you, Captain Drummond. Your full name was in the papers, and I got your address from the telephone book. But I had to wait till Corinne Moxton had gone out.

“Sir Richard came back about an hour later to take her out to dinner, and from their remarks in the hall I gathered she had decided to go down to Sussex afterwards. So the instant they left I flew round here, never dreaming that I shouldn’t find you. And then your servant rang up Mr Darrell.”

“I got the message, Hugh, about five minutes after yours,” said Darrell. “And when I heard what Miss Frensham had to say, I roped in the warriors and followed you.”

“For which relief much thanks to all concerned,” said Drummond. “Well, Miss Frensham, I’m most extraordinarily grateful to you. You completely saved the situation as far as I am concerned.”

“But what do you make of it all, Captain Drummond?” she cried. “I mean, you don’t seem as surprised as I thought you would be.”

“Because, bless you, you haven’t told me much that I didn’t know already,” he said with a grin. “What you say about the fair Corinne’s character is most interesting: it explains a lot. Also you have confirmed the fact that it was they who were at the Old Hall tonight, and further, that they had no idea when they started that they would find me there. And it is interesting to know that she was actually in the room when they did in poor old Sanderson.”

“But what are you going to do about it?” she cried. “We can’t let the vile beast go free.”

“She won’t,” Drummond assured her. “Life is going to be full of thrills for little Corinne before she’s much older. But things are a bit deeper than even you think, Miss Frensham, and it isn’t going to help matters-if we rush our fences. Now in the course of your wanderings with your fair employer have you ever met a man with a head as bald as a billiard ball called Demonico?”

The girl shook her head.

“Never,” she said decidedly.

“Because he is the bird who up till this evening presided at the Old Hall and who, unless I am much mistaken, is the principal noise on the other side. You’ve never heard her mention him?”

“No,” she answered. “That conversation I overheard tonight is the only time I’ve ever even guessed that anything like this was happening.”

“Well, chaps, we’re up against something pretty big, and something that, at the moment, is mighty hard to get to the bottom of.”

Briefly he recounted what had taken place at the Old Hall.

“Now, in view of what Miss Frensham has told us,” he continued, “it seems pretty clear that the performance in the squash court was staged on the spur of the moment to please dear Corinne. And I’m sure I hope it did. But as she herself admitted, when she was talking to Pendleton, she’s not interested in the rest of his schemes. I am, and so is Standish, far more interested than in that damned wench, much as she loves me. The whole of this elaborate organisation which killed Sanderson, burned his house down, and whose headquarters are, or at any rate were, at the Old Hall has not been got together for the sole object of letting Corinne see me killed. And so, people, it behoves us to take stock of our surroundings and see where we stand. Algy, you flat-footed son of Belial, take a piece of paper and stand by to make notes.”

Algy Longworth roused himself from a slight doze and obeyed resignedly.

“Now,” went on Drummond, “let’s take points in our favour. First—Standish has got away with it: that message to Denny must mean that. We don’t know where he is, but neither do the opponents. Second—we know about the fair Corinne’s little peculiarities, but do she and the boy friend know that we know? I am inclined to think not, even after the episode of the squash court. Neither of them spoke—only Demonico did that. Their faces were in deep shadow: except that I could just make out that one of them was a woman I saw nothing at all.”

He paused, struck by a sudden thought.

“By the way, Miss Frensham, won’t Corinne smell a rat when she finds that you’re not in the flat?”

“Oh no,” said the girl. “I don’t sleep there.”

“That’s good,” said Drummond. “Very well then—point two: we know and they don’t know we know. Point three: two celebrated financiers, Julian Legrange, a Frenchman, and Jim Daly, an Irish-American, are mixed up in the business, of whom the latter is known to be hostile to England. Any more points in our favour?”

“One, old boy,” said Darrell. “Tonight’s performance will have definitely put the Old Hall out of commission as far as they are concerned. That earth has been stopped all right.”

Drummond nodded.

“That’s so, Peter. Though, ’pon my soul, I don’t know if that is in our favour or not. There are advantages in knowing where you can find your fox. Mark that as neutral, Algy, you chump. Now then—points against. One: they have at their disposal a mysterious weapon of the nature of which we have, at the moment, absolutely no idea save that it is some form of gun. Two: they evidently have plenty of money and a large and well-disciplined organisation. Three: orders are sent to members of that organisation by means of a cipher in the agony column of the newspapers, and we don’t know the key to the cipher.”

“Cipher,” interrupted Daphne Frensham. “In the agony column? Wait a moment, Captain Drummond. About a week ago Pendleton was in the flat, and he had The Times on his knee. He was writing on a piece of paper as he studied it, and I thought he was doing a crossword or something. I noticed he was frowning as if he couldn’t get it right, and then he suddenly said—’Damn! I thought it was Tuesday,’ tore up the paper, and began all over again quite happily. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but now you’ve said that about the cipher I’m sure he was decoding a message.”

“Nothing is ridiculous in this show, believe me, Miss Frensham,” said Drummond quietly. “Peter, I wonder if we’ve advanced a step farther. I wonder if that’s why we couldn’t read that message in yesterday’s paper.”

“Don’t quite follow, Hugh.”

“He said—’Damn! I thought it was Tuesday.’ From what Miss Frensham says he was frowning when he thought it was Tuesday, but as soon as he realised it wasn’t, all was sunshine again. So I wonder if they have a different cipher for different days.”

“There’s a distinct air of possibility about that,” said Darrell, “though I don’t see that it’s going to help us much. The messages are so short that unless one has the key it’s hopeless to solve ’em. And if you’re right we shall want seven different keys.”

“Still, it’s a point to bear in mind. Standish might make something out of it even if we can’t. Because if we could read their orders we’ve got ’em cold. However, there’s no use building on it. Well, chaps, any more points strike you?”

“Only one,” said the girl, “and that’s a small one. What excuse am Ito make for leaving her?”

“But, my angel woman,” cried Drummond, aghast, “you aren’t going to leave her. It would be fatal. You’ll be invaluable to us where you are: simply invaluable. Right in the heart of the enemy’s camp. You mustn’t go: you really mustn’t.”

“But she’s practically a murderess, Captain Drummond.” Drummond waved a vast hand soothingly.

“I know; I know,” he said. “Her habits place her lower in the scheme of things than a carnivorous slug. Nevertheless, you must suffer in the good cause, Miss Frensham. It’s not pleasant, I know, to take someone’s money and spy on them at the same time, but when that someone is a woman like Corinne Moxton it puts a different complexion on things. Of course, I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought you were going to be in the slightest danger, but so far as I can see there can’t be a breath of suspicion against you. And if you go on absolutely normally there never will be.”

“All right,” said the girl a shade doubtfully. “But what is it particularly that you want me to do?”

“Keep your eyes skinned,” said Drummond promptly, “especially on Pendleton. You see, he fills a dual role. Not only is he running round with Corinne, but he’s one of the big men in the other show. And early knowledge of his intentions should prove amazingly useful. Also see if by chance you can find out anything about this man Demonico. I can tell you nothing except that he is completely bald, and has a revolting-looking pair of hands with fingers like talons and highly polished nails. Tonight he was wearing dark glasses, but that may have been as a disguise. If Peter is right, and we’ve put the Old Hall out of commission for them, he will probably make his headquarters in London. And, of course, it would be of immense value to know where they are.”

Daphne Frensham got up.

“Very well, Captain Drummond,” she said, “I’ll do it. But if I’m to turn up on time tomorrow I’ll have to be getting along now or I shall get no sleep at all.”

“Look here, Miss Frensham,” said Drummond, “do you mind if I make a suggestion? I am not going to the window to see, but I’m quite certain that if I did I should perceive the same bloke lurking outside who was there when I came back. Now Denny can easily rouse his wife, and I’m sure she can rig you out for the night. Then tomorrow I will smuggle you out of the house at the back by an exit which even the wariest of watchers would miss. You see, I don’t want to run the smallest chance of your being followed to your own place and then from there to Miss Moxton’s flat. If that happened the whole show would be given away.”

“But won’t it be an awful bother?” she said.

“Good Lord! no. Denny is quite used to little trifles of that sort.”

He rang the bell, and after a few moments his servant appeared.

“There you are, Miss Frensham,” he said after he had given the necessary instructions. “Mrs Denny will fit you up with all you want. Good night, and tell her what time you want calling.

“A good girl that,” he continued as the door closed behind her. “By Jove! you chaps, this is a funny show. I didn’t enlarge too much on it in front of her, but there’s no doubt we’re dealing with something we’ve never struck before in the shape of Corinne Moxton. She’s like one of those cases one reads about in abstruse medical treatises. Abnormal, and it takes ’em all ways. With her the obsession is to see ghastly sights. It’s the only way she can get any excitement. Think of a woman watching that blighter with spikes on his hands trying to tear my throat out, as her evening’s entertainment.”

“The amazing thing to me is that the men should have stood for it,” said Darrell. “They wanted you out of it, Hugh: why did they run such a risk?”

“The lady decided that she wanted her spot of fun,” said Drummond. “In addition to that, they probably thought I hadn’t a hope, and to be quite candid, but for that tin of petrol, I hadn’t. Sooner or later we’d have had to come to close quarters, and then that blighter must have got me. And even after I’d laid him out, if you and Algy and the rest of the bunch hadn’t turned up when you did I’d have been for the long drop. I was a sitting target for anyone with a gun in the gallery.”

“It was the only possible thing to do, old boy, after hearing what that girl had to say,” said Darrell. “Wake up, Algy, you hog, and finish your beer: it’s time we pushed off. By the way, Hugh, I suppose you’ll tell the police about the Old Hall?”

“I shall. And about Demonico. But I shan’t mention Pendleton and Corinne. That card we’ll keep up our sleeves. Night, night, chaps, and many thanks for rolling up.”

He waited till the front door slammed behind them: then he went to the window and looked out cautiously. So far as he could see the street was deserted save for the two men who had just gone, but he stood watching for a considerable time to make sure. Then he returned and flung another log on the fire.

It was a peculiarity of Drummond that he wanted far less sleep than an ordinary individual, and at the moment he felt singularly wide awake. So, lighting a cigarette, he threw himself into an easy-chair, and picked up Algy Longworth’s scribbled notes. They represented the situation as he saw it, but there was one characteristic omission which, being entirely personal, he had not mentioned. It was his own position in the matter.

In the course of his life he had made many mistakes, but under-estimating his adversary had never been one of them. And Drummond was under no delusions in this case. Whatever might have been his position relative to Standish at the time of the conversation overheard by Daphne Frensham, the events of the night had altered things considerably. He was now more of a menace to the other side, because he had seen Demonico and Standish had not. In any event, Standish for the time being had disappeared and was therefore safe, whilst Drummond had returned to his usual haunts in London.

He was so accustomed to taking his life in his hands that the thought did not worry him unduly. At the same time he had a rooted objection to being scuppered without getting a run for his money. And therein lay the danger. Given a large, well-disciplined, and absolutely unscrupulous gang it was not difficult to dispose of a man in. London with complete safety. And as he saw it, getting him out of the way was so vital to them that they would not even worry about the complete safety. It was essential to Demonico that he should be silenced, and silenced before the inquest.

He grinned faintly, and lit another cigarette: this was like old times. And then the grin faded: there was one big difference that he had forgotten. If Standish was right there was more in this show than in those previous ones: there was a definite threat to the country. As against that Standish was free, and if anything happened to him Standish could carry on. But for all that nothing was going to happen to him if he could possibly avoid it.

The trouble was that he was moving in the dark: he did not know from what direction danger was going to come. It would not be from Demonico himself, or even from Pendleton: some underling would be deputed for the job. And that underling would know Drummond whilst Drummond would not know the underling. Dare he therefore run the risk of being killed before passing on his information to Scotland Yard? What about ringing them up now and asking them to send round one of their big men? If he said it was concerned with the Sanderson affair someone would be bound to come. And his finger was actually on the dial when a sudden sound behind him made him swing round.

Standing between the curtains was a man. He was tall and clean-shaven, and he was apparently unarmed, for both his hands were thrust in his trouser pockets.

“Good evening, Captain Drummond,” he said quietly. “May I have a short talk with you?”

“How the devil did you get in?” demanded Drummond, staring at him.

“Through the open window,” answered the other with a faint smile. “I thought it would attract less attention than ringing the bell and disturbing the house.”

“You seem,” said Drummond, “a moderately cool customer. What do you want to talk to me about?”

“The Sanderson affair, of course. Do you mind if I sit down?” In silence Drummond pointed to a chair.

“If you’ve got anything of interest to say,” he remarked curtly, “I am prepared to listen. Otherwise you’ll leave by the way you entered, and the first thing that hits the pavement will be your ear.”

“I think you will find it quite interesting,” said the stranger, “I have come to tell you the name of the man who killed him.”

CHAPTER VII

Drummond eyed him dispassionately. The man appeared to be a gentleman, and seemed perfectly at ease. He had crossed his legs, and was calmly leaning back in his chair as if his unusual mode of entry and his last remark were the most ordinary things in the world.

“That,” agreed Drummond, “will undoubtedly prove interesting. But may I first ask why it is I who am thus honoured and not the police, and secondly, why you should choose this ungodly hour?”

“Certainly,” said the other. “My reason for not going to the police is a very simple one. The police have no idea that I am in England at present, and to be quite candid, I prefer that state of affairs to continue. I have come to you because your name was in all the papers, and there is only one Captain Drummond in the telephone book, whereas there are several Standishes. Lastly, the ungodly hour is due to causes beyond my control. I couldn’t come before, and it would have been dangerous for you if I had postponed my visit a moment longer than necessary.”

“Dangerous for me!” echoed Drummond. “Why?”

“Because,” said his visitor gravely, “a rat surrounded by terriers is a far healthier insurance proposition than you are unless you vanish and stay put. In fact, it was to make you realise that, almost as much as to tell you the other thing, that decided me to come and see you.”

“Deuced kind of you,” remarked Drummond. “And your simile is most edifying. You propose, I take it, to blow the gaff, an operation not unattended with danger to yourself. Why this touching solicitude for my safety?”

“Because there has been quite enough murder done,” said the other. “I came into this show, for reasons into which we need not enter, but I did not bargain for wholesale killing. And you’re the next on the list after tonight’s effort down in Sussex.”

“I confess,” murmured Drummond, “that some such idea has already occurred to me. But before we go any farther, since we are having this heart-to-heart talk, what is this show into which you came?”

“All in due course,” said the visitor, “though I will be as brief as I can. I’ve got to be away from here before it is light to ensure my own safety. Now, in the first place are you aware that the members of this gang communicate with one another by cipher?”

“I am,” answered Drummond. “Do you know the key?”

“Of course I do,” said the other, rising and going over to the desk. “If I may take a piece of paper I’ll put you wise. Come over here, Captain Drummond, and you shall see for yourself. It’s simple, but at the same time unless you know the trick it is well-nigh impossible to discover it.”

He drew a fountain-pen from his pocket.

“Is that the Sporting Life over there? That will do: thank you.”

He opened the paper out on the desk.

“Now take any pencil or pen,” he continued, “provided the pencil has a sharp point. The first thing you have to do is to look along it, as I’m doing now, selecting the left-hand column of the centre page. Now use this pen of mine—I’ll hold it for you—and look. Get your eye quite close to it.”

And then occurred an amazing interruption, which left even Drummond gaping stupidly. He was just bending down to focus his eye to the pen, when the pen disappeared and his visitor, cursing dreadfully, leaped to his feet, wringing a hand from which blood was spouting freely.

“What the devil is it?” cried Drummond. “What’s happened to your hand?”

But the other, like a man bereft of his senses, was staring at the pen lying on the carpet.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “I don’t understand.” And at that moment there came from the pavement outside the sound of a laugh.

Drummond swung round and dashed to the window: a man was running up the street.

“Hi! you,” he shouted, but the man took no notice and vanished round a corner.

“So,” he said, coming back into the room, “it would seem that your visit here has been found out. And it strikes me, my friend, that you now join me in the rat and terrier parallel. Somebody got you through the open window.”

The other did not answer: he was watching Drummond with terror in his eyes.

“Pull yourself together, man,” went on Drummond contemptuously. “You’ve only been plugged through the hand. I’ll get something to bind it up with: you’re ruining my carpet. Stop over in that corner: you’re quite safe. I’ll have a look out of one of the other rooms and see if anyone else is there.”

He crossed the hall, and going into the dining-room peered cautiously out of the window: the street was empty. Then, still marvelling at the extraordinary incident, he went upstairs for iodine and some clean handkerchiefs. Presumably the man had been followed, and had been shot as a traitor with one of the silent guns such as Standish and he had captured the previous afternoon. Luckily for him the firer had not killed him, but had only given him a very painful wound in the hand. It undoubtedly showed, however, that things wanted watching: there was a rapidity of action about the other side which was distinctly disconcerting.

“Here we are,” he said, opening the study door, only once again to stand staring foolishly. For the room was empty: his visitor had gone.

“Well, I’m blowed,” muttered Drummond to himself. “Have I dreamed the bally thing? Why’s the blighter hopped it?”

But the question remained unanswered. A trail of blood leading to the window showed that he had left by the same way that he had come, but except for that no trace remained of his mysterious visitor. Even the pen with which he had been demonstrating the cipher had disappeared.

Drummond closed the window thoughtfully: the whole thing was beyond him. What on earth could have induced the man, knowing there was danger outside, to go and run his head into it deliberately? Had his terror temporarily unhinged his brain? Nothing else could account for such an act of suicidal folly. Just as things were becoming interesting, too.

However, it could not be helped. The man had gone, all his secrets untold: there seemed to be nothing for it now but to follow everyone else’s example and go to bed. And his hand was actually on the switch of the light when the telephone bell began to ring. He picked up the receiver: was it his late visitor calling him up to explain his sudden departure? It was not: to his surprise he heard Standish’s voice at the other end of the wire.

“Cuckoo,” it came, “just to dispel any doubts. Standish speaking. I want you to obey me implicitly. Leave the house as soon as you can, and it is absolutely essential that you should shake off any watcher who may be there. You must not be followed. Make arrangements to remain away for at least a week, probably more. Get your servant to tell Darrell what has happened, in case we want to get in touch with him, so that he will be on the look-out. Got me so far?”

“I have,” said Drummond.

“When you leave,” continued Standish, “make your way to the Marble Arch, and walk along Oxford Street on the south side. It will be light by then, and you will see a stationary car facing west. Number ZZ 234: make, Bugatti; I’ll be waiting for you inside. And, for God’s sake, old boy, watch your step.”

He rang off, and Drummond replaced the receiver. This was action such as he liked, but what was he to do about Daphne Frensham? She complicated matters to a certain extent, but the complication had to be faced, and faced quickly. He switched off the light: he would have to speak to her.

He went rapidly to Denny’s quarters and beat him up.

“Denny,” he said, “get your wife out of bed, and ask her to go and wake Miss Frensham. I don’t want lights going on all over the house, so she’d better take a candle. She is to tell Miss Frensham that I want a few words with her. I’ll be in my dressing-room. Tell your wife and then come upstairs to me.

“Now,” he continued, when Denny rejoined him, “pay attention. I am disappearing for at least a week. Either get Mr Darrell round here and tell him, or go and see him yourself. Do not write it, or speak over the telephone to him. Do you follow?”

“Yes, sir. Any address, sir?”

“I can’t tell you, for I don’t know. Ah! there she is.”

A knock had come on the door and Drummond opened it. Daphne Frensham was standing there with Mrs Denny behind her.

“A thousand apologies, my dear,” said Drummond, “for pulling you out of bed like this, but further developments have taken place. I’ve got to leave here, and so you will have to do your get-away on your own this morning. Now it has suddenly dawned on me that it is Sunday: things have moved so hectically these last few hours that I’d forgotten the fact. I suppose you don’t go to Miss Moxton on the Sabbath, do you?”

“No,” said the girl. “I don’t.”

“Splendid: that makes it easy. In the first place you can have your sleep out. Then I want Mrs Denny to rig you up in some togs which will make you look as if you were the housemaid going for her day out. Can you do that, Mrs Denny?”

“Yes, sir; I can manage that.”

“Your own clothes,” continued Drummond, “can be done up in a parcel and posted to you on Monday by Denny. But you must appear to be one of the maidservants when you leave this house: that is essential. Another point arises. You are almost certain to be accosted by a man when you start off: at least, I shall be very much surprised if you are not. Do not be angry with him, or give him a clip on the jaw. Far from it: encourage him. And when he, as he will do, leads the conversation round to me, let him understand that, so far as you know, I have left suddenly for the Continent. Then shake him off—if he thinks you’re one of the servants, he won’t follow you—and make your way back to your own flat by a round-about route. Is that all clear?”

“Quite. But where are you going?”

“I don’t know myself,” said Drummond with a smile. “Now there’s one thing more. If you find out anything in the course of the next week pass it on to Peter Darrell. Good night, bless you: sleep well. Things are moving.”

He watched her cross the passage and go back to her own rooms; then he turned once more to Denny.

“Don’t forget that: I’ve gone to Paris, except to Mr Darrell. Give me my razor and toothbrush, and I must be off.”

Drummond took his revolver from the drawer and loaded it: then he changed rapidly into a rougher suit.

“And don’t forget another thing, Denny. No telephone message purporting to come from me will be genuine unless you hear the word—Cuckoo.”

He slipped the gun into his pocket and crammed a cap on his head.

“I’m going out the back way: lock up after me.”

The passage led into some mews, and for a time Drummond stood in the shadow, reconnoitring. It was just dawn, and in the cold, grey light the place seemed deserted. After a while, skirting along under cover of the wall, he reached the street. Still he saw no one, and at length he decided that everything was all right. He turned and started briskly for the Marble Arch.

The morning was chilly, and he turned up the collar of his coat. So far as he could see he had made the arrangements foolproof at his end. Provided that Daphne Frensham played up and acted her part well, she was safe. No one would worry over a maid on her Sunday out. Peter was fixed; Denny was fixed; everything, in fact, was all right except for that confounded interruption which had cost him the key to the cipher.

He swung into Oxford Street: a hundred yards ahead of him he saw the car. And immediately afterwards Standish got out of it and beckoned to him to hurry.

“I think it’s OK,” he said as Drummond came up, “but I shan’t feel safe until we’re well out of Town. Keep an eye skinned behind to make sure we’re not followed.”

They drove all out till they reached the Great West By-pass, and then Drummond gave the all clear: there was no sign of anything in sight.

“Where are we bound for?” he enquired.

“There is a pub I know in the New Forest,” said Standish, “where the cooking is excellent and the port passing fair. Also it’s not too far from London.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Drummond. “Well, well, old lad, I’m deuced relieved to see you. I was afraid they’d got you at the Old Hall.”

“They darned nearly did,” remarked Standish. “But nothing like as near as you ran it.”

“What do you know about that?” said Drummond in some surprise. “You couldn’t see what happened in the squash court.”

“I’m not alluding to what happened in the squash court,” answered Standish, “though I’d like to hear about that later. I’m alluding to what happened in your study not an hour ago. Sorry I couldn’t stop when you shouted after me.”

“What the blazes are you talking about?” cried Drummond, staring at him in amazement.

“Only that in another half-second Number Four would have got you just as he got Sanderson. By Gad! old boy, it was a close thing.”

“But,” Drummond positively stuttered, “was it you who shot him through the hand just as he was going to give me the key to the cipher?”

“Cipher my foot,” said Standish with a short laugh. “I don’t blame you a bit, Drummond: that’s the way he must have caught Sanderson. Some clever conjurer’s patter to get you to put your eye to the end of that so-called fountain-pen, which is really one of the most diabolical weapons that has ever been constructed. The ink on Sanderson’s desk ought to have put me wise to it, because I’ve heard of this contrivance before. It’s an American invention, and is, when you boil down to it, extremely simple. It looks exactly like a fountain-pen: it has a nib, and it can be written with. But instead of the ink reservoir there is a hollow steel tube covered at one end by a thin plug to make it appear solid. At the other end is a tiny cartridge and bullet, and the bullet is fired by operating the lever which in a genuine pen one uses for filling purposes. It is, in short, a tiny gun, but amply powerful enough to penetrate through a soft thing like an eye into the brain.”

“My sainted aunt!” said Drummond slowly. “It would seem then, old boy, that I have to thank you for my jolly old wellbeing and all that sort of tripe.”

“You have to thank the fact that I happened to be carrying that spring gun, and remembered about the pen just in time. Didn’t you see how amazed he looked after I’d hit him, when he saw that the pen was still intact? The first thought that had naturally come into his head was that something had gone wrong with the mechanism of his beastly contraption, and that it had burst in his hand. Then he saw it hadn’t, heard me laugh, and knew he’d been shot from outside.”

“Great Scott!” cried Drummond, “that explains what was puzzling me. I thought he’d been hit by one of his own gang, and I couldn’t understand why, that being the case, I found he’d bolted when I came down with handkerchiefs and iodine. Of course, he knew the shot had not been fired by his own people. But tell me, old boy, why didn’t you shout out to me? I’d have nobbled the swine.”

“I’ll tell you frankly,” said Standish gravely. “I was frightened.”

“Frightened!” echoed Drummond. “What of?”

“Our not being able to disappear and hide. I’ll go into that more fully later, but that was the reason. I dared not plug him through the head and kill him, though he richly deserved it, and with that weapon in his hand nothing would have been said if I had. But it would have entailed our remaining in London, and getting in touch with the police. The same objection applied if I called out to you, and we’d held him prisoner. Again, the police would have had to be called in, and we should have been detained in Town. And I didn’t dare risk it. We’ll get the swine later, but at present there are far more important things to tackle, and you and I have got to tackle ’em. And to do so successfully we’ve got to lie hidden for a time. For I tell you, Drummond, speaking with all seriousness, our lives at the present moment are not worth the snap of a finger. We have butted into an enormous coup. What that coup is I don’t know, but we’ve got to find out. And it’s coming off within the next week, so we haven’t too much time.”

“How do you know that?” demanded Drummond.

“From the scraps of conversation I overheard from my captors, while waiting my turn in the squash court,” said Standish with a grin. “After you’d gone into the house I remained where you left me for a considerable time, until I began to get really uneasy. So I decided to go and investigate, and as luck would have it I ran full tilt into a whole bunch of them. It was hopeless from the word ‘go,’ but I gave a shout so as to let you know.”

“I heard you,” said Drummond, “but I was locked in and could do nothing.”

“There was nothing to be done in any case, old boy: there must have been at least twenty of ’em. They trussed me up and gagged me, and chucked me into an outhouse, where three or four of them mounted guard. And it was from remarks they made that I gathered they none of them expected to be in England more than another ten days, which shows that the coup, whatever it is, is coming shortly. From their accents and conversation generally I put them down as American and Irish gunmen, and quite obviously they were a bunch of toughs who would stick at nothing. Every now and then a new one would drift in: your late visitor—Number Four—came in two or three times.

“About twenty minutes after they’d got me something occurred which evidently surprised them. Did any woman appear on the scene?”

“Corinne Moxton and dear Richard,” said Drummond.

“I wondered if it was her. In any case her arrival caused a change of plan as far as you were concerned.”

“Bless her kindly heart,” said Drummond grimly.

“Something spicy was to be staged for her, apparently in the squash court. And what was more, as they were at pains to inform me, when you were disposed of I was to be the next item on the programme. What happened to you in there?”

Briefly Drummond told him and Standish whistled.

“A merry little piece of work—our Corinne,” he exclaimed as Drummond finished. “What an extraordinary kink for a woman to have. However, the rest you know. I heard Peter and the boys arrive, and for a time there was some deliberation as to whether they should have a pitched battle or not. But orders must have come through from the boss, because the whole lot just vanished. Whether they scattered and lay doggo in the grounds, or what they did, I don’t know: I was having a whole-time job trying to get free. Then I heard you shouting my name, so I knew that you had survived the entertainment in the squash court. But I was still gagged and couldn’t answer. And then when at last I did get free you had all gone. Providentially, however, I found that a car had been overlooked by the opponents in their hurried departure, and getting into it I trod on the gas, stopping only to retrieve the gun which I had left in the bushes. Then I came round to see you and fortunately arrived in the nick of time. But what has been puzzling me is what was the reason of Peter’s opportune arrival?”

“That had me guessing too,” said Drummond, and then he told Standish of Daphne Frensham.

“Are you sure she is to be trusted?” remarked Standish when he finished.

“As sure as one can be over anything in a show of this sort,” answered Drummond. “And the fact remains that but for her getting into touch with Peter neither you nor I would be sitting in this car at the present moment.”

“That’s true,” agreed Standish.

“There’s another thing too,” went on Drummond. “She doesn’t know where I’m going to: I didn’t know myself when I left. But she’s all right, old boy: I’m certain of it. And she should prove an invaluable ally sitting, as she will be, right in the heart of the enemies’ country.”

“This man Demonico—you say he was bald.”

“As a billiard ball. With repulsive hands manicured like a woman’s.”

“I’m trying to tape him,” said Standish thoughtfully. “I’ve got a fairly extensive acquaintance with international crooks, but he seems a new one on me.”

“A dangerous customer, if I’m any judge,” remarked Drummond.

“My dear fellow, they’re a dangerous gang. I think you’re perfectly right about Corinne Moxton: she’s in it simply to gratify her sadistic tendencies, and is, in reality, the least dangerous, even if the most unpleasant, of the whole bunch. Pendleton is on a different footing. He—if what Miss Frensham told you is correct—is obviously mixed up in their bigger schemes. In fact, that was clear when they drugged me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t second-in-command, with this man Demonico the boss. But what is agitating my grey matter at the moment is what sort of a coup they can be proposing to pull off that necessitates keeping a young army of low-class riff-raff about the place. If one could only get a line on the type of thing they’ve got in view. It can’t be high-class burglary: all those men are capable of is smash-and-grab or a hold-up in a shop. If it’s political, as poor old Sanderson said, what do they want ’em all for? They’re not the slightest use for any delicate work.”

“I suppose it couldn’t be a question of abducting someone: kidnapping him, and holding him prisoner,” said Drummond thoughtfully.

“That’s certainly a possibility. There are quite a number of people who would like to see the Prime Minister out of the way, and Legrange and Daly are two of them. At the same time, even if they were planning such a fantastic scheme as kidnapping Dermot, what can they want that number of men for? There’s another thing too that I gathered from their remarks: a lot of them have only just arrived in the country. Recently arrived: leaving in a week. It all points, old boy, to some very big coup for which these ruffians have been specially brought over. And the devil of it is I can’t even begin to imagine what it can be.”

“We’ve got to solve that cipher somehow,” said Drummond. “By the way, did I tell you that Daphne Frensham has a hunch that it may be something to do with the day of the week. Apparently Pendleton… Great Scott!”

He broke off suddenly, and Standish glanced at him. “What’s stung you?” he asked.

“Do you remember,” answered Drummond slowly, “that bit of paper we found in Sanderson’s desk? Wait a minute: I’m trying to get it exactly. ‘Day of the week backwards. If two, omit first.’ That was it, wasn’t it?”

“As near as makes no odds,” agreed Standish. “What about it?”

“Only that that also points to the key being dependent on the day of the week. Pendleton’s annoyance when he found he’d been trying to solve a Wednesday message under the impression it was Tuesday: the fact that we made complete gibberish of yesterday’s message, which was Saturday, simply and solely because we were using letters obtained from Friday’s code; and last but not least, that apparently nonsensical sentence in Sanderson’s desk—surely those three things taken together make it almost a certainty.”

“I believe you’re right, old boy,” said Standish thoughtfully. “It undoubtedly supplies a meaning to what you say was a nonsensical sentence. At the same time I don’t know that it puts us much forrader.”

“I know,” said Drummond gloomily. “That’s what Peter said. Still, it’s something to be on the right lines: it might help you. Personally I’m hopeless. The simplest crossword sends me into a muck sweat, and a child can outwit me with the most footling riddle. But a brainy feller like you ought to be able to cough up something.”

“I’ll have a shot,” said Standish, “but I won’t promise anything. And if I can’t make it out I know a bloke in London who probably can. The devil of it is, you see, that the messages will almost certainly be short ones. Further, since the majority of the members of the gang have only recently arrived, not many are likely to have been sent. And so, even if we got a lot of back papers, you would be lucky if you found more than two Tuesday codes, or two Fridays. Which is awkward. For though it is quite true that any cipher invented by man can be solved by man, it is essential to have a lot of it to work on. And that is just what we shan’t get. Still—we can but have a dip at it.”

They drove in silence for some miles. A watery sun that gave no heat gleamed fitfully through the flying clouds, and a strong desire for breakfast grew in both men.

“Eggs and bacon, laddie,” said Drummond cheerfully. “Lots of coffee, and then little Willie proposes to hit the hay.”

“Only about another twenty miles,” cried Standish. “And I can do with a bit of shut-eye myself. Do you think you killed that blighter in the squash court?”

Drummond grinned happily.

“I’m afraid I did,” he said, “because I should very much like to have had a further chat with him. I wonder whose great brain thought of those spikes. Demonico’s presumably. By the way, did you hear any gup about Gulliver? Why did they do him in?”

Standish shook his head.

“No: I didn’t hear his name mentioned. Talking out of his turn, I suppose, or a small token of their respect and esteem for letting me get away.”

“There’s another point that arises,” said Drummond after a while. “What about this inquest tomorrow? We are two of the principal witnesses.”

“Leave that to me, old boy. I’ll fix it with McIver and Co.: the police can be very discreet when they want to. Tomorrow’s affair will be merely a matter of form, and then an adjournment for a week. I shall tell ’em about the Old Hall, of course, and your pal Demonico.”

“What about that swab Pendleton and Corinne?”

“I think it’s best to put all the cards on the table: they can be trusted not to act precipitately. We must do it, old boy: it would be unpardonable if these swine pulled their game off because we said nothing about them.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Drummond, “I was on the point of ringing them up myself just as Number Four arrived.”

“I shall tell McIver that you and I are going to lie doggo for a while. And I’ll tell him why. He’s a sensible chap, and if I give him the situation from our point of view he’ll see it at once.”

“It goes against the grain running away from that bunch of toughs,” said Drummond gloomily.

“I agree: it does. But it would go a darned sight more against the grain to get plugged from behind by some unknown man. And that, old lad, would have been our portion for a certainty if we’d stopped on in London.”

“I suppose you’re right,” agreed Drummond, as Standish swung the car off the road up to the entrance of an hotel. “Anyway, let’s hope the staff is up: my stomach is flapping against my backbone. What’s this pub? The Falconbridge Arms. Seems good to me.”

* * * *

And it is not too much to say that the sum of ten thousand pounds would willingly have been paid by the occupants of a room in Sir Richard Pendleton’s Harley Street residence for the information contained in Drummond’s last few sentences. It was the doctor’s consulting room, and Sir Richard himself was seated at his desk. Opposite him Number Four, his hand bound up, sprawled sullenly in a chair: whilst, huddled over the fire, crouched a figure whose completely bald head proclaimed him as Demonico. And the prevalent atmosphere was one of tension.

“It’s no good putting that stuff over on me.” Number Four was speaking. “I tell you I had that sucker as stone cold as I had Sanderson. He was just putting his eye to it when that pal of his got me through the window.”

“You’ve said all that before,” snarled Demonico. “The plain fact remains that you bungled the thing hopelessly.”

“I bungled, did I?” answered the other, white with anger. “What about you down at the Old Hall? That was a pretty piece of work, wasn’t it? A howling success, I should say. You had ’em both for the asking, and then you let ’em get away, just because you wanted to put up a peep-show for that blasted woman.”

Pendleton’s fist crashed on the desk.

“If you make another remark like that,” he said thickly, “I’ll smash your face in.”

“Will you indeed, Sir Richard Sawbones?” snarled Number Four. “I agree it’s about all you are capable of—hitting a man with one arm. I tell you—I’m fed up with this. Who has done all the dangerous work up to date? I have. And what have you done, you damned pill pusher? Gone messing round the place to little parties and things with that tow-haired…”

“Stop!”

Demonico’s imperious command rang out, and the two furious men pulled themselves together.

“This is no time for childish squabbles,” he went on sternly. “The stakes are altogether too great. We must co-operate—not fight.”

“Sorry, Doctor,” said Number Four sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Pendleton accepted the apology with a curt nod.

“Now,” continued Demonico, “let’s get back to the beginning. Who is this man Standish that Sanderson should have telephoned to him particularly?”

“I can tell you that,” said Pendleton, “for I’ve been making enquiries. He was a friend of Sanderson’s, and is apparently a sort of amateur dabbler in crime with very distinct detective ability.”

“That’s right,” said Number Four. “That’s what Sanderson said. Miss Moxton and I had been codding him up about the cipher—the same as I did Drummond, and he suddenly decided to ring up Standish. And I couldn’t miss the opportunity. His head was steady: he suspected nothing when I pretended to fill the pen.”

“So much for him,” continued Demonico. “Now what about Drummond?”

“As far as I can make out he’s a friend of Standish,” said Pendleton. “He and the other two were playing bridge when Sanderson telephoned. But to my mind Drummond is the most dangerous of the lot. He’s immensely powerful, as we have found out to our cost, and he knows you.”

“He won’t the next time we meet,” said Demonico quietly. “That is, if there is a next time. The point is not, however, whether he knows me, but whether he knows anything of our plans.”

“He knows we use a cipher, boss,” remarked Number Four, “but he doesn’t know what it is.”

“It might be advisable to change it,” said Pendleton uneasily.

“Impossible, so late as this,” answered Demonico decisively. “It would result in hopeless confusion. Besides, no one can solve it without the key.”

“What’s got me stung,” said Number Four, “is that whoever it was who shot me—and I can’t think who it can have been except Standish—must have known about the pen. If he didn’t, why did he aim for my hand?”

“That weapon has served its purpose,” said Demonico, “though I admit it’s very disconcerting. It shows knowledge on their part which is not reassuring. You think it was Standish?”

“Who else could it have been? Darrell and that guy with an eyeglass were both shadowed to their flats: Leyton hasn’t left his rooms at all: it can’t have been the police. So it must have been Standish.”

“Then one wonders excessively why, having incapacitated you, they didn’t make you a prisoner.”

“Exactly, boss. I haven’t stopped wondering about that since it happened. They had me cold, and with the pen found on me I should have been taped direct for Sanderson.”

Demonico rose and began pacing up and down the room, whilst the others watched him anxiously. That he was worried was clear, though his voice when he spoke was quite calm. “You say that Standish has not returned to his rooms?”

“Not when the last report came in an hour ago,” said Pendleton, and at that moment the telephone rang on his desk.

He picked up the receiver.

“Yes. Sir Richard Pendleton speaking.”

The others waited in silence: the message was obviously surprising the listener. At length he replaced the instrument. “An unexpected development,” he said. “Drummond left early this morning for Paris.”

“Who was that speaking?” asked Demonico.

“Spackman. Apparently he picked up one of the maids who was having her day out and she told him.”

“What can have caused that?” said Demonico thoughtfully.

“Possibly he found that things were getting too warm,” remarked Pendleton. “So he came to the conclusion that discretion was the better part of valour.”

Demonico shook his head decidedly.

“That is not my valuation of Captain Drummond at all,” he said. “In fact, I should not be at all surprised if it isn’t true. He may have said he was going to Paris for the benefit of his household staff and possible callers, whereas in reality he has done nothing of the sort. In any event, for the time we must regard both him and Standish as lost and make our plans accordingly. To start with, neither of them has an inkling that you are involved, Pendleton?”

“So far as I know it’s impossible that they should,” said the doctor. “They were both unconscious when I saw them in Standish’s rooms. And yet I must confess that the tone of the few remarks Drummond made to me at a cocktail party where we met yesterday gave me to think a bit.”

Demonico shrugged his shoulders.

“We must chance it. Now that the Old Hall is useless, I shall have to stay in London. It won’t be for long: I had absolute confirmation last night that it will be Tuesday week. Your yacht will be ready by then?”

“She’s ready now,” answered the doctor. “Who did you get your confirmation from?”

“One of the chief cashiers,” said Demonico, “whom I’ve bought.”

“A difficult thing to do,” said Pendleton dubiously. Demonico laughed cynically.

“Not if you’re prepared to pay big enough,” he said. “How can he be so certain?” persisted Pendleton.

“He knows the liner that the stuff is consigned to,” answered Demonico. “But if by chance there should be a change he will let me know at once. I had two other interesting visitors yesterday evening,” he continued. “Legrange and Daly.”

“Good Lord! they know nothing about it, do they?”

“No; though Daly wouldn’t mind if he did. I’ve met some Irish-Americans who are rabid against England, but he wins in a canter. However, don’t alarm yourself—they know nothing about our little coup. But they do know a lot about the financial condition of this country, and I was amazed at what they told me. If you want to pick up a packet for the asking—sell sterling short.”

Pendleton stared at him.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because England has either got to go bankrupt or get off the gold standard. That’s what they tell me and they should know.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Pendleton. “As bad as that, is it? But why the deuce did they bother to tell you?”

Demonico gave a thin smile.

“It is not the first time I have had dealings with those two gentlemen,” he said. “We understand each other—admirably. And our schemes are going to help things a lot. However, to return to more pressing matters—Drummond and Standish have got to be found, and when they are found there must be no further mistake. The more I think of it, the less likely does it strike me that Drummond has gone to Paris. What possible reason could he have for suddenly going there on a Sunday morning? He is therefore either still in his house, in which case he must have a peculiar sort of staff if he can get a maid to say he’s left for Paris; or, and this is far more probable, he has left Town and is hiding somewhere.”

“In that case it’s going to be a pretty impossible proposition to find him,” said Pendleton. “In any event, he will have passed on to the police by now all that he knows.”

“But what does he know? He knows that he was drugged with Standish the night before last by the people who were concerned in Sanderson’s death. All the world will know that after the inquest tomorrow. He knows me as I am now, but not as I shall be in half an hour’s time. He knows about the Old Hall: that is now empty. He knows that he fought for his life in the squash court, but since he didn’t kill his assailant and only stunned him, there will be no evidence to produce there. My dear Pendleton, Sanderson’s very necessary death has turned this case into a cause célèbre already: anything further that Drummond or Standish may say matters but little. Because they do not know what we are here for: they do not know where I am, nor, now that the men are scattered, where any of them are. And, last but not least, they do not know, nor will they ever know, the solution of our cipher. Furthermore, our arrangements are cut and dried, and we are only going to be in the country for a few more days. That is the position as I see it, though I frankly admit that I should feel happier if they were both out of the way. And, when they are found, they must be put out of the way, as I said before. Men who can call on a gang of friends to follow up their movements, as those two apparently can, are far more to be feared than the police.”

“I wish I felt as confident about it as you do,” said Pendleton uneasily.

“Not losing your nerve, are you?” remarked Demonico with a slight sneer. “What is worrying you?”

“The conversation I had with Drummond at that party,” said the other. “I can’t get out of my mind the feeling that he had his suspicions about me.”

“Nonsense,” cried Demonico. “How could he have? He could not possibly have seen you in the squash court, and anyway, that was after your party. And when you saw him in Standish’s rooms he was drugged and unconscious. As a medical man you could be certain of that.”

“He was drugged all right,” agreed Pendleton. “For all that I don’t feel sure.”

“Another thing,” put in Demonico. “If he’d had any suspicions of you, is it not more than likely he would have said something when he was in the squash court? He must have known that two men and a woman were looking on, and one of those men he knew was me, because I spoke to him. Surely, if he suspected you, he would have called out.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Pendleton. “Anyway, we will proceed on the assumption that he doesn’t. And if he doesn’t, Standish doesn’t either.”

“There is still another point which to my mind conclusively proves it,” went on Demonico. “If your surmise that he suspected you at the time of this cocktail party is correct, those suspicions must have been aroused before the party took place. So that even if he said nothing to you in the squash court he would surely have said something then.”

“Unless he’s playing a very deep game,” said Pendleton.

“Good God! man,” cried Demonico contemptuously, “what’s happened to you? If I’m not worrying, why should you? You might just see that the way is clear for me to get upstairs without any of your servants seeing me: I want to make a few radical alterations in my appearance. Then I, too, shall follow Drummond’s example, and—go to Paris.”

“All clear,” said Pendleton, returning from the door, and Demonico, after one swift glance round the hall, went rapidly upstairs.

“I didn’t quite get what he meant by selling sterling short,” said Number Four as the door closed behind him.

“That’s easy,” said Pendleton briefly. “If this country got into serious difficulties, and couldn’t pay her way, the value of the pound is going to fall abroad. Say it goes down to fifteen shillings. So that if I sell a pound now I get twenty shillings for it, but when I have to deliver it on settling day I only have to pay fifteen shillings. Clear gain of five shillings per pound, and you can work out what that comes to on a hundred thousand.”

“But supposing it doesn’t go down?”

“Doesn’t matter: I can’t lose anything except brokerage. It can’t go up above twenty shillings: I can’t have to pay more for it than I sell out at. Jove! it’s interesting. I knew things weren’t too good: I didn’t know they were as rocky as they evidently are. For Legrange doesn’t make many mistakes. And if he hasn’t made one this time, there are going to be a good many fortunes waiting to be picked up.”

He sat down at his desk, and began glancing through some papers, whilst the other watched him curiously.

“You’re an extraordinary bloke, Doctor,” said Number Four after a long silence. “You draw a fat income chopping up people’s insides: you can live in peace and quiet and the odour of sanctity, and yet you mix yourself up in these sorts of games. Why the devil do you do it?”

“Love of excitement,” answered Pendleton at once. “It takes us all in one way or another. To see a horse-race leaves me cold, and I wouldn’t cross the road to watch a game of football. But this—this is life. I wouldn’t miss next Tuesday or the rehearsal this week for any sum of money you could give me. Hullo! madam, what on earth are you doing here?”

The door had opened, and an elderly woman had entered. Her hair under a fashionable hat was grey: her clothes, to Pendleton’s discriminating eye, were exactly right in a woman of her age. And for a space she surveyed him through lorgnettes, while he continued to stand by his desk feeling increasingly surprised at this unexpected intrusion.

“Sir Richard Pendleton?” she asked, her survey concluded. Her voice was musical and cultured, and the doctor bowed.

“That is my name,” he said. “You wish to consult me?”

“Only to the extent, my dear Pendleton, of asking you to place the trousers I have left upstairs, along with the other male garments, in some safe hiding-place.”

The voice was still that of a woman, and for a moment or two Pendleton stared at her blankly. Then the truth dawned on him, and he sat down limply.

“Well, I’m damned,” he cried. “Demonico, I congratulate you. It is the most marvellous disguise I’ve ever seen. No one—no one—would ever recognise you. It is magnificent.”

Demonico smiled slightly.

“Nor even Drummond.”

CHAPTER VIII

To Daphne Frensham the whole thing seemed like a nightmare. As Drummond had predicted, she had been accosted on leaving his house, and she had carried out his instructions to the letter. A natural actress, she had had no difficulty in playing the part of a parlourmaid out for the day, and she was convinced that she had completely deceived the man. Moreover, she knew that she had not been followed: the bus going west that she had boarded in Piccadilly had been empty save for herself, and when two hours later she had let herself into her tiny flat the street outside was deserted.

She found her employer in a trying mood when she arrived at her usual time on Monday morning. And there was no doubt that had her devoted following of film fans seen the beautiful Miss Moxton that day they would have received a severe shock. A programme that includes one successful and one unsuccessful murder on two consecutive evenings is not conducive to mental calm, and her features indicated as much.

But it was not the past that chiefly worried Corinne Moxton: it was the immediate future. She lunched with Sir Richard the previous day, and his misgivings had communicated themselves to her. How much did Drummond know? No good to argue that he could know nothing—no good to argue that unless he had positive proof he could say nothing: people with guilty consciences want something more substantial than that. How much did he know, and what was he going to say at the inquest?

Like Demonico she was convinced that he had not gone to Paris. There seemed to her to be no conceivable reason why he should leave the country early on a Sunday morning to go to France. And if that was so, the very fact that he had put up a blind made him the more dangerous. Why should he have bothered to do so?

Corinne Moxton was true to type in that she was utterly and absolutely selfish. So long as no shadow of suspicion rested on her the others might go to the devil. Even for Sir Richard she cared not one whit, except for the fact that if he was dragged in she might be involved also. And although she had not actually heard the conversation between him and Drummond at the cocktail party, it had left a bad impression on his mind.

“Your letters, Miss Moxton.”

Daphne Frensham brought them to the side of the bed. “What are they?” she cried irritably.

“The usual autograph ones,” said the secretary, resisting a strong impulse to add that her employer had better write “Murderess” after her signature. “Two luncheons; a line from the publicity agent, and a request that you will say you use Doctor Speedworthy’s Purple Ointment for removing blackheads in return for half a dozen tubes of it.”

She held the letters out, and the film star snatched them from her hand. What did Drummond know? What was he going to say at the inquest? Damn him. Damn that fool Pendleton. Damn that miserable bungler Number Four for having failed to kill him.

“Say—how do you hold inquests in this one-horse place?”

Daphne Frensham’s face registered just the right amount of surprise at such an apparently unusual question: so that was the lie of the land, was it?

“I’m afraid I don’t really know, Miss Moxton,” she said. “I’ve never attended one. I believe they have a man called a coroner, and a jury, and then they find a verdict. Why do you ask?”

“Can the public get in?”

“I believe so. I think the proceedings are always open.”

“Find out where they’re going to sit around on that guy who was killed on Friday night, and his house burned down.”

“You mean Mr Sanderson?”

For the life of her Daphne Frensham could not keep a slight tremor out of her voice: there in the bed in front of her was, if not the actual perpetrator of the crime, the woman who had stood by while it was done. And now she was calmly asking about the inquest: proposing to attend it.

“For the land’s sake don’t stand there gaping, Miss Frensham. Of course I mean Sanderson.”

The secretary left the room, and with a vicious movement Corinne Moxton flung the letters on to the floor. Then she sprang out of bed. What did that big guy Drummond know? What was he going to say?

“It is being held in the hall attached to the mortuary in Hampstead,” said Daphne Frensham, returning. “At eleven-thirty.”

Corinne Moxton glanced at the clock: ten-thirty now. Then she looked at her complexion in the glass: at least three-quarters of an hour’s hard work was necessary there. So it could not be done.

“All right,” she snapped. “Pick up the mail, and answer as usual.”

It was better so, she reflected, snatching a pot of face cream from the dressing-table. It would have looked very curious for Corinne Moxton, the famous film star, to attend an inquest. Almost as if she was interested in it—in the dead man. And suddenly a look of gloating ecstasy came into her eyes: Number Four had not bungled that time. She saw again that deadly pen that was not a pen; she heard again that quick hiss, saw Sanderson crumple in his chair, his head crash forward—dead. If only they could have got him before he had rung up: it was that that had caused the trouble. But he was too wily. Number Four had no chance; she admitted that. And one thing at any rate was certain: Sanderson had said nothing incriminating over the telephone.

Her thoughts automatically turned to Standish: where did he come in? She had never seen him: he meant nothing to her, but it was him that Sanderson had rung up. A sort of detective, so Sir Richard said; moreover, the man who had shot Number Four. But he could know no more than Drummond, and once again her mind went back to that large individual. What was he going to say at the inquest?

She finished dressing, and went into the sitting-room, where Daphne Frensham was awaiting her with the answers to her letters. Twenty-past eleven: the thing was just going to begin.

“Sign them for me,” she said. “I can’t be bothered.”

“But I can’t sign the ones asking for your autograph,” protested the other.

“Then throw them in the fire,” screamed Corinne Moxton.

What a maddening girl! Couldn’t the fool understand that her nerves were all on edge? That she did not want to be worried signing trashy letters to idiots. And then she pulled herself together; Daphne Frensham was looking at her in a very strange way. She must be careful: never do to let her secretary suspect anything. Not that she would, of course: the only person who knew she had been present when Sanderson was murdered was Number Four, and his mouth was effectively shut. And Sir Richard, but he did not count.

“I guess my nerves are a bit on the jag this morning, Miss Frensham,” she forced herself to say. “Give me the letters and I’ll do them now.”

She scrawled her signature at the foot of each, not even bothering to read them through. The clock showed eleven-thirty: the inquest was starting.

“I shan’t want you any more today, Miss Frensham,” she said. “You can have it to yourself.”

“Thank you,” said the other. “But I’ve got two or three hours’ work filing your press cuttings which I’d like to do before I go.”

Corinne Moxton, as she watched Daphne Frensham methodically gathering the letters together, checked a strong desire to tell her to clear out of the flat: she must be careful. Damn the fool woman: could the idiot not understand that she wanted to be alone—that unless she could know something definite soon she would scream? At last the secretary left the room, and Corinne Moxton began pacing up and down.

A quarter to twelve: it had begun. At that very moment the words might have been spoken which would end her career, would brand her in the eyes of the world, would… Great God! she had not thought of that.

“Miss Frensham,” she called loudly. “Miss Frensham.” The secretary appeared.

“Say, Miss Frensham,” she cried, “what would happen in this country if—if, well, if say someone was murdered by someone and someone else was present at the time?”

Daphne Frensham’s face was quite expressionless.

“I suppose you mean, what would happen to the someone else,” she said with maddening deliberation, and Corinne Moxton felt she could hit her. Was the girl completely daft this morning? What else could she have meant? And what was that the fool was saying? The someone else would be hanged!

“Even if she had nothing to do with it?” cried the film star shrilly.

“She!” Daphne Frensham raised her eyebrows. “Your someone else is a woman, is it? It makes no difference, Miss Moxton: women are hanged in England just the same as men. And, you see,” she continued, “she must have had something to do with it, otherwise she’d have told the police at once, wouldn’t she?”

Corinne Moxton bit her lip, and her nails cut into the palms of her hand. She must be careful what she said: there was no doubt whatever that her secretary was now looking at her most strangely.

“Thank you, Miss Frensham,” she said. “The point comes up in a new film I’m thinking of. Don’t let me keep you any more.”

Hanged! Great heavens, what a fool she had been to go! Why had not that miserable cur Pendleton told her that she would be hanged? It was not possible; it was not justice: she could not be hanged. She had not done it: you cannot hang a person merely for watching someone being killed.

A frenzy of panic seized her, and rushing into her bedroom she began hurling things into her dressing-case. She must get away: leave the country while there was still time. Hanged! Taken out in the early morning with a rope round one’s neck and hanged.

“Are you going away, Miss Moxton?”

Daphne Frensham was standing in the door and with a superhuman effort Corinne Moxton pulled herself together. If only some occult force had struck her secretary dead on the spot she would have danced with joy on the body. But it did not: she continued standing by the door, watching her employer out of a pair of wondering blue eyes.

“I thought you said you were filing press cuttings, Miss Frensham,” she cried furiously. “It seems to me, I guess, you’re spending most of the morning fooling around the passages.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Moxton,” said Daphne Frensham sweetly. “The filing is not urgent, and I thought perhaps I could help you pack. Does that come into the film, too?”

She left the room, leaving Corinne Moxton motionless. What did the girl mean? Did she suspect? Impossible: utterly impossible. No one could suspect—yet. No one could know anything about it at all. Unless… God! unless Drummond had said something at the inquest. But what could he have said—be saying now?

A quarter-past twelve: was it over? Anyway, it was too late now to bolt: the police watched the boats, she had been told, in cases like that. Hanged! Hanged! Like that film of Mata Hari in which she had played a small part before she became a star. Only Mata Hari was shot. With snow on the ground.

She bit her thumb to prevent herself shrieking. She had seen a play once—a Grand Guignol play—”Eight O’clock.” The last half-hour of a man’s life before he was hanged. He had prayed with the chaplain: the sole of one of his boots had had a patch in it—she remembered noticing that as he knelt by the bed. And then suddenly the whole cell had been full of people, and a thin-lipped man in a sort of uniform had come swiftly up to the murderer, and pinioned his arms, and half pushed, half carried him up some stairs behind the cell. Screaming; screaming. And then a dull thud, and silence.

Hanged! That had been acting: in her case it would not be. It would be reality. She would be awakened in the morning, if she had ever gone to sleep. And men would come in and drag her out, and there would be that dull thud, and—silence. But she would not be there to realise there was silence. She would be dead.

The front-door bell rang shrilly. And when a few moments later Sir Richard Pendleton entered he was met by Daphne Frensham.

“I don’t think, Sir Richard,” she said, “that Miss Moxton is very well this morning. She has just fainted.”

“Fainted,” he cried. “I’ll go to her at once. When did it happen?”

“Just after the bell rang,” she said, and as he hurried into the bedroom a little smile twitched round her lips. “I don’t think she was expecting you.”

And if there was a slight emphasis on the last word, Sir Richard did not notice it: was not the lovely Corinne Moxton unconscious on the bed and in need of professional attention?

“My dear,” he said solicitously when she opened her eyes, “what made you do that?”

For a while she stared at him blankly: then she sat up and clutched his wrist.

“Has he said anything?” she cried.

Sir Richard frowned, putting a warning finger to his lips, and Corinne Moxton saw that her secretary was just behind him.

“That will do, thank you, Miss Frensham,” she said. “Sorry to have given you the trouble: I suddenly felt queer. Now I want to talk to Sir Richard.”

She waited till the door had shut; then she turned on him feverishly.

“Well,” she cried, “what has happened?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said the doctor gravely.

“Drummond hasn’t split?”

“Drummond wasn’t there.”

“Is the inquest over?”

Sir Richard nodded.

“Yes. A purely formal affair with a formal verdict. And I don’t like it.”

But Corinne Moxton was paying no attention. The inquest was over and Drummond had said nothing. All her fears were groundless, and she jumped up gaily.

“And to think that I’ve been worrying myself sick,” she cried, “wondering if he was going to say something about you and me. That’s what made me faint: when the bell rang I thought it was the police.”

“Don’t talk too loud, Corinne,” he said. “That girl of yours is in the next room. No; he said nothing, for the very good reason that he wasn’t there. Nor was Standish. And what I am wondering is, why they neither of them were there. I don’t like it, my dear: I don’t like it at all.”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“What’s stung you now?” she cried. “You surely didn’t want him to say anything.”

“Not about you and me naturally,” he answered. “But I can’t understand why no mention has been made of other things connected with the case. And I can’t understand why two of the principal witnesses have not been called. It looks very suspicious to me.”

But Corinne Moxton was in no mood for gloom: the reaction after her previous fears was too wonderful.

“Gee, Richard, your face would turn the butter rancid. Go and shake a cocktail, and then take me out to lunch.”

He went into the next room obediently, but he was still looking worried when she joined him.

“Number Nine was present,” he said, closing the door. “I’ve just seen him. And what you don’t seem to grasp, my dear, is that a formal verdict such as the coroner instructed the jury to bring in is only possible at the instigation of the police. It means they’ve got something up their sleeves.”

“As long as they haven’t got me,” she cried. “I guess they can keep what they like there.”

“It’s not quite so easy as that, Corinne,” he remarked, handing her a drink. “Why has no mention been made of the Old Hall? Why has nothing been said about the drugging of Standish and Drummond? They are lying low at the moment, and I should feel a great deal happier if we had a few more of their cards on the table. The fact that no mention was made of those things rather discounts the value to us that no mention was made of you and me.”

She put down her glass.

“You mean,” she said slowly, “that they still may know we were involved.”

“Precisely,” he answered. “If some of those points had been alluded to, and nothing had been said about us, I should feel absolutely safe. As it is I don’t.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

Her voice was shrill: all the old terrors were returning.

“There is nothing to do about it,” he said. “All we can do is to hope for the best. It may be all my imagination: Drummond probably suspects nothing at all. But”—he shrugged his shoulders—”I wish I could be certain. Anyway,” he continued reassuringly, “I don’t think it possible that anyone can have an inkling of the fact that you were present when Sanderson was killed.”

Her spirits revived: that was really all that mattered.

“It was very unwise of you to go, as I’ve told you before,” he went on, “and had I had the slightest idea that you proposed to I should have forbidden it. But it’s done and there is no more to be said about it. What we’ve got to do now is to concentrate on the future.”

He paused and stood listening: then stepping swiftly across the room he flung open the door, almost colliding as he did so with Daphne Frensham, who was just outside.

“Good gracious, Sir Richard,” she said calmly, “how you startled me. There’s one letter I forgot to give you, Miss Moxton: will you sign it now?”

Sir Richard watched her closely as she crossed the room. Had she been listening outside? If so, it was a superb piece of acting. Not by the quiver of an eyelid had she given herself away.

He waited until she had again left the room: then he swung round to Corinne Moxton.

“Is that secretary of yours all right?” he said in a low voice. “I could have sworn I heard a sound outside just before I opened the door.”

“I guess I was a little indiscreet this morning,” she answered, quite humbly for her. “I kind of got nervous, Richard: I kept on thinking over what you said yesterday about Drummond. And I suddenly began to wonder what would happen to me if they did find out I was there when Sanderson was killed.”

“My God! Corinne, you didn’t say anything about it to her?” he cried, aghast.

“No, honey, no. I just put a sort of hypothetical case.”

“Well, if you take my advice, you won’t put any more. We’ve bitten off quite enough already, without adding anything else. And we don’t want that young woman butting into things. Now—I’ve got an appointment which I can’t get out of, but I’ll meet you at the Ritz for lunch at one-thirty. And don’t forget: no more hypothetical cases.”

Corinne Moxton watched him go: then she mixed herself another cocktail. She had been indiscreet: she knew it. Especially that insane moment of panic when she had started to pack her dressing-case. Just blind, unreasoning fear had driven her, and now she cursed herself for a fool. But if only they could know for certain.

Suddenly an idea struck her. It could do no harm, and it might settle matters once and for all. She picked up the telephone book and looked up Drummond’s number. She would ring up the house, and ask him round for a drink that night. If Paris was a blind; if he was either stopping quietly in his own house or was somewhere in England, she might be able to get at him.

A man’s voice answered—Captain Drummond’s butler.

“I am sorry, madam, but Captain Drummond is in Paris; I cannot say where. I do not know when he is returning. Can I give him any message from madam? To have a drink with you some evening after he returns. Very good, madam.”

She replaced the receiver: whether it was the truth or not, the story was evidently being stuck to. And after a while, when a third cocktail had followed in the wake of its predecessors, life began to look a little better. It must have been Sir Richard’s imagination over his talk with Drummond: she was perfectly safe. And even if the doctor was suspected, there was no reason why she should be. Just because she had been about with him a good deal since she had been in London was no justification for the police to get at her. They might question her, but she was quite capable of dealing with questions. In fact, if she handled the thing properly it might prove a good advertisement.

One thing, however, would be a good thing to do: get rid of Daphne Frensham. The girl must have suspected something that morning, even if she was not wise to the truth. And it would be as well to get her out of the flat before the night. The rehearsal did not matter, so if she gave her secretary a week’s notice it would just be right: she would be leaving on the Monday and it was booked for Tuesday. And it would seem more natural than giving her the sack on the spot.

“Say, Miss Frensham,” she said, stopping on the way to her bedroom, “I guess it’s customary in this country to give notice, the same as in mine. Wal, I’m quitting early next week, and going to Berlin. So I shan’t be requiring you after Monday next. I hope that is convenient to you.”

“Quite, thank you, Miss Moxton,” said Daphne Frensham. “It will give you time to look around for another situation, and of course I’ll give you a first-class reference.”

She went on into her room: that was all right. The girl had taken it quite normally and evinced no surprise, and as she repassed the room on her way to the front door she saw her with her head bent low over the table absorbed in her work.

Daphne Frensham waited until she heard the front door close; then pushing back her chair she lit a cigarette. She was frowning a little; being given the sack was not going to help matters. Had she played her part badly that morning: was that the reason? She did not see how else she could have played it. To have remained quite unsurprised at such an exhibition of nerves would in itself have been suspicious. Or was the woman really going to Berlin?

After a while she went into the other room and rang up Peter Darrell.

“Would you like to give me a spot of lunch today?” she asked. “You bet I would,” he said. “Where and when would suit?”

“As soon as you like,” she answered. “And somewhere quiet.”

They fixed on a small place off Wardour Street, and a quarter of an hour later she found him there waiting for her.

“I’ve been followed,” he said, as they shook hands, “but that is nothing new during the past few days. My attendant is that nasty-looking mess eating spaghetti in the corner. Well—what news?”

“I’ve been sacked,” she answered as they took a table as far removed from the follower as possible. “Given a week’s notice this morning.”

“The devil you have,” he remarked, staring at her. “However, I don’t think it matters: a week will be enough. I’ve been in communication with Hugh Drummond and a fellow called Standish this morning early, and they think that whatever is going to happen is coming shortly. But why did you get the boot?”

She told him briefly what had happened and he listened in silence.

“The nuisance is,” she concluded, “that I’ve so far found out nothing new, and what is worse, that man Pendleton now suspects me. I only just straightened up in time when he flung the door open.”

“Probably it’s that that got you the bullet,” said Darrell thoughtfully. “For Heaven’s sake be careful, my dear: this isn’t a bunch to play any monkey tricks with.”

“Where is Captain Drummond?” she asked.

“Falconbridge Arms in the New Forest,” he answered in a low voice. “They are battling with that cipher, and also lying low for a few days. You see, Bill Leyton and I don’t count: we’re only the small fry. It’s those two the other crowd want.”

“What happened at the inquest?” she asked.

“The whole thing was over in about ten minutes,” he said. “Bill and I said our little piece, and the coroner literally shut us up if there was any question of us talking out of our turn. The whole thing was run by the police.”

“That’s what is making Sir Richard uneasy,” she remarked. “I could just hear enough to realise that this morning.”

“By the way,” he said suddenly, “there’s no danger, is there, of any of their underlings recognising you?”

She shook her head.

“None of them have ever been near the flat,” she told him. “Sir Richard would, of course, but no one else.”

“And he doesn’t know me,” said Darrell, relieved. “And since there is only one of them here, and he’s my portion, you can get back all right. But don’t forget Drummond’s address in case you want him urgently. His telephone number is Brockenhurst 028. But be careful where you phone him from.”

“How long is he going to stay there?”

Darrell grinned.

“From what I know of him not long,” he said. “Vegetating in the country is not his line at all. And it’s only Ronald Standish who has persuaded him to do it.”

“He struck me as being a very determined individual,” she remarked.

Darrell laughed.

“He is, as several people in the past have found to their cost. And he is one of the few beings I have ever met who does not know what the word fear means. That is why Standish must have brought some heavy guns to bear to get him to go and hide, because when all is said and done that is what they are doing.”

“That reminds me,” she said suddenly. “I’d quite forgotten. That woman rang him up this morning.”

“What’s that?” he cried. “But she doesn’t know where he is.”

“His London house,” she explained. “And it must have been that dear old thing Denny who answered.”

“He won’t give anything away,” said Darrell, relieved. “He doesn’t even know where Hugh is himself.”

“She was evidently asking him to come round and have a cocktail,” she continued. “I heard her say, ‘Give him my message when he returns.’”

“Rather amusing that,” said Darrell. “I wonder what she proposes to do with him when she gets him there—ask the dear doctor to poison him?”

“She’d love that,” remarked the girl. “It would be a new sensation for her.”

“She must be a unique case,” said Darrell thoughtfully, holding out his cigarette-case. “Think of having her lying about the house permanently.”

“My temporary experience is quite enough, thank you,” she answered. “She’s inconceivably and utterly vile, and I simply hugged myself this morning when I realised that she was in a complete panic.”

“She must have been to faint,” he said.

“She thought she was going to be arrested, of course,” went on Daphne Frensham. “And since I’d pitched it in good and hearty about the hanging part of the business she simply blew up.

“I hope to Heaven they don’t think you know,” he said anxiously.

“No need to worry about that,” she answered decidedly.

“They think that quite naturally I am curious over her strange behaviour this morning. I was worried myself to start with, but now I’ve thought it over I’m sure that’s how it stands. You see, to anyone who didn’t know the truth she would have seemed like a mad-woman.”

“You know,” said Darrell earnestly, “we’re being most indiscreet.”

“How do you mean?” she asked, surprised.

“Well, I can see the follower,” he explained, “and he’s finished his second plate of spaghetti. Which shows that we’ve been here some time. Now, don’t you realise that he must be wondering what we’re talking about.”

“He can’t hear what we’ve said.”

“True, most adorable of your sex. But he can see our faces. And I ask you—what have our faces registered? Earnestness: grim resolve. Hence our indiscretion. We have made him curious. Why should any man register grim resolve who is lunching with you?”

Her lips began to twitch.

“What are we going to do about it?” she said.

“Well, I have a suggestion to make,” he answered gravely. “Supposing—you will, of course, realise that it is only made to deceive our spaghetti eater—supposing you moved your left knee a little nearer my right knee, they would certainly connect. And he would see the deed, and would think that our conversation, which had evidently been concerned with love, was beginning to reach a successful conclusion.”

She pressed out her cigarette.

“Conclusion?” she murmured.

“Good God! no,” he cried, aghast. “Merely the opening gambit for the next half-hour. The conclusion I alluded to was that of the grim-resolve period.”

“And what do our expressions register during the knee-touching spasm?”

“That, Daphne, I leave entirely to you. But don’t forget, we’ve got to allay spaghetti’s doubts.”

He grinned suddenly.

“You’re the most adorable girl,” he went on, “and you must never forget one thing, for I never can.” His voice had grown serious again. “You saved the life of the man who is my greatest friend—Hugh Drummond.”

“Rot,” she answered with a smile. “You saved him, Peter. And if you really think we ought to put spaghetti out of his misery, we’d better get on with it, because I must be off soon.”

“But you said you’d got a day off,” he protested.

“I’m not going to take it,” she said. “I might find out something. And after next Monday I shan’t be so busy.”

“You topper,” cried Peter. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing much,” she answered. “But you’re a very conscientious actor, aren’t you?”

“Spaghetti has an eye like a lynx, darling,” he said happily. “He’d know at once if we were faking things.”

“And is ‘darling’ included in your part?”

“You bet it is. Spaghetti is a lip reader. But if you prefer sweetheart I have no objection.”

“It strikes me, Mr Darrell, that you’re a pretty rapid mover.”

“Only in times of stress like this,” he assured her. “At others I’m a lay preacher.”

With which monstrous reflection on a worthy body of citizens Peter Darrell proceeded to concentrate on the matter in hand to such purpose that closing hours for drink passed unnoticed—a state of affairs that speaks for itself.

“I think we ought to meet every day, don’t you?” he said as they finally rose from their table. “Just to report progress, you know. Anyway, give me your private address, so that if I feel nervous I can come round and hold your hand.”

He scribbled it down in his note-book, and put her into a taxi.

“I’ll tell him to drive to Selfridges,” he whispered through the window. “You can put him wise when you’ve started. So long, you angel.”

He watched her drive away: then with a courteous smile he turned to the consumer of the spaghetti, who had just emerged from the restaurant.

“Now, sir,” he remarked, “I am completely at your service. Let us talk of this and that for a while, and then with your kindly permission I propose to go to my club. You prefer not to? Well, well; as you please. In that case, I will leave you. I shall be dressing for dinner about seven-thirty.”

And it was at that hour precisely that the telephone rang in his flat, and he heard Daphne Frensham at the other end. “Darling,” he said. “This is too wonderful.”

“Listen, Peter,” came her voice a little urgently. “There have been developments this afternoon. I must see you at once. Where can we meet?”

He thought for a moment or two.

“Look here, dear,” he said quietly, “the last thing we want to do is to give away where you live. On the other hand, they all know where I live. If I come round and see you I shall be followed: do you mind coming here to my flat?”

“Of course not, my dear,” she answered. “I’ll come at once.”

He put down the receiver thoughtfully: developments, were there? And then for a while he forgot such minor matters in the very much more important question of Daphne Frensham. What an absolute fizzer she was, and where would they all have been without her? But when she arrived a quarter of an hour later he saw at once by her face that something serious had happened.

“Peter, dear,” she said without any preamble, “I’m desperately afraid that I’ve given away Captain Drummond’s address.”

He whistled under his breath.

“That’s a pity,” he said. “How did it happen, darling?”

He pulled off her cloak and pulled a chair up to the fire.

“I’d better start at the beginning,” she said. “When I got back this afternoon the flat was empty, so I went on with the job of filing her rotten press cuttings to fill in the time till they returned. They didn’t get back till nearly five, and they went straight into the drawing-room and shut the door. I’d heard their voices in the hall, and it was pretty obvious that that beast Pendleton was feeling amorous. And as the last thing I wanted to listen to was the pig making love, I stayed on where I was.

“Suddenly I heard the telephone go, and I crept along the passage. He was answering it, and of course I had no idea what was being said at the other end. Then I heard him say—’I get you. Ardington: tonight—four o’clock.’ That was all I got; in fact, that was all he said, but its effect was remarkable on her.

“She jumped to her feet the instant he’d rung off, and rushed to him.

“‘Tonight,’ she cried, and there was a sort of ecstasy in her voice. ‘Say, Richard, that’s too marvellous.’

“‘Earlier than I expected,’ he said. ‘It was to have been next Thursday. Is that damned secretary of yours still in the flat?’

“That was my cue, and I was safely back in my own room before he opened the door. Two collisions in the same day would have been asking for trouble.

“‘You really are a model secretary,’ he said in that foul, sneering voice of his. ‘I thought Miss Moxton had given you the afternoon off.’

“‘I’m badly in arrears with this work, Sir Richard,’ I answered, wielding a pretty scissor. ‘And I prefer to get up to date, thank you.’

“He went back to the other room, and I heard the murmur of their voices. It wasn’t safe to do the keyhole act again, so I controlled my curiosity and went on pasting the wretched notices in a book. What on earth did it mean? I’d never heard of Ardington: I didn’t even know if it was the name of a man or a place. What could there be to make that woman get in a flat spin about?

“Then she came along the passage to talk to me, and I took one look at her face. You know I told you, Peter, about the time she saw that street accident, and the episode of the dog. Well, the same expression was in her eyes as she stood by the table, though her voice was under perfect control.

“‘Thank you, Miss Frensham,’ she said, ‘it’s good of you to finish them up. But I guess I’d sooner you didn’t come till after lunch tomorrow: I feel like a long morning in. So stay on now, and take your time off tomorrow instead.’

“‘Certainly, Miss Moxton,’ I answered, and she went back to Pendleton. Again I didn’t dare to try to listen, and there I sat fuming, unable to hear a word of what they were saying. At last the door opened, and they came out, on their way to a cocktail party.

“‘We’d better go, or we’ll be late,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I told Parker to wait.’

“‘But you won’t take him tonight,’ she cried.

“‘Good God! no,’ he answered. ‘I’ll drive myself.’

“Then the front door shut, and they were gone, leaving me more puzzled than ever. Parker is Sir Richard’s chauffeur, and if there is one thing the doctor loathes doing it is driving his car. So why should he be so emphatic in saying that he was going to do so himself tonight? Evidently something is going to happen which Parker mustn’t see. Don’t you think so, Peter?”

“Sounds like it, my dear, I must say,” said Darrell. “But how did you give Hugh away?”

“I’m coming to that,” she continued. “I went on racking my brains as to what it could mean, and after a while I rang you up. There was no reply, and I didn’t know what your club was. And so, like an idiot, I put through a call to Captain Drummond. The flat was empty, and I knew they wouldn’t be returning for an hour at least. I got through to the Falconbridge Arms after a bit of delay, and asked for him. And as I was waiting while they went to see if he was in I happened to look round: standing in the doorway was a woman.

“For a moment or two I stared at her in complete bewilderment: I couldn’t imagine where she had sprung from. She was middle-aged, with grey hair and very well dressed, and I was on the point of asking her who she was and what she wanted when Captain Drummond came to the telephone.

“I should think he must have thought me an absolute idiot.

“‘Is that you, Mr Johnson?’ I said, taking the first name I could think of.

“‘Hullo! Miss Frensham,’ he answered, ‘I recognise your voice. What’s the great idea?’

“‘Sorry,’ I cried. ‘Wrong number,’ and rang off.

“‘How annoying it is when that happens, isn’t it?’ said the woman, coming into the room.

“‘May I ask you who you are and how you got in?’ I cried.

“‘You must be dear Corinne’s secretary, I suppose,’ she said, without answering my question. ‘She told me you were very charming.’”

“First good point I’ve heard about Corinne,” said Darrell with a grin.

“Shut up, Peter: this is serious. We went on talking for a while, and at last I discovered that she was a Mrs Merridick, who had known the Moxton woman for years, and had a key to the flat. Which in itself struck me as being very extraordinary. If she was such an intimate friend as all that, why had she never used the key before? To my certain knowledge it was the first time she had been in the flat, at any rate during the day, since I’d been in the job.

“However, I am bound to admit that she was very nice: asked me about my prospects, where I lived…”

“Which I hope you did not tell her,” interrupted Darrell anxiously.

“Of course not, bless you: I just said with my mother. But to cut it short, Peter, I didn’t hear her open the front door, and so I don’t know when she came in. And so I can’t be sure how long she had been standing there. Did she hear me ask for Captain Drummond, and did she hear me mention the Falconbridge Arms? Not a muscle in her face moved when I said Mr Johnson, but that means nothing.”

“It does not,” agreed Darrell. “And there is no doubt whatever that Hugh must be warned at once. I’ll get through to him now.”

“Wait a minute, Peter: we must try and think what this Ardington business means. At first, as I told you, I couldn’t make out if it was a man or a place or what it was. Now if it’s a man why four o’clock? And why shouldn’t Parker drive? Of course, Sir Richard may not want to keep him up so long, but I’ve never known him show any consideration before.”

“Is there a place called Ardington?” asked Darrell.

“Yes, there is. I looked it up in the AA book. It’s a tiny village with two hundred and fifty inhabitants somewhere up in the Midlands, and it’s one hundred and thirty-three miles from London.”

“Old Cow Hotel; 13 brms.; unlic.; I know the sort of notice,” said Darrell with a grin. “But, my dear,” he went on seriously, “what under the sun can be taking ’em to a spot like that at the ungodly hour of four in the morning?”

“Ask me another, Peter: I can’t tell you.”

“You’re sure you got the name right?”

“Absolutely positive.”

Darrell shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I’m beat. But the first thing to do is to ring up Hugh and put him wise to the possibility of his hiding-place having been discovered. Then we’ll think about this Ardington business later.”

He was walking towards the telephone when she put a hand on his arm.

“Peter,” she said, “I’ve got a hunch. Don’t phone: let’s go down ourselves.”

“That’s an idea, by Jove!” he cried. “I’ll guarantee to get away from any car spaghetti can get hold of.”

“Doesn’t matter if you can’t. I’m certain in my own mind that Mrs Merridick heard, so their address is known. I’ve tried to kid myself that she didn’t, but in my heart of hearts I know she did. Let’s go down and tell them: you can’t make it clear over the telephone. Let’s start at once.”

He grinned at her.

“Right, angel; we will. I’ll ring up my garage and tell ’em to have the bus ready in ten minutes. Then we’ll step on the juice.”

CHAPTER IX

They arrived at Falconbridge at ten-thirty, and stopped in the village to ask the way to the hotel.

“First on the left, sir,” said the local constable, “but if you and the lady are looking for rooms I doubt if you’ll get them there tonight. There’s been a terrible accident not half an hour ago.”

“What’s that?” cried Darrell, a sudden fear clutching at his heart.

“Half the hotel blown up,” said the policeman, and paused aggrieved as the car shot away like a mad thing: he was just getting into his stride.

“What’s happened, Peter?” cried the girl in a frightened voice.

“God knows, my dear,” he answered grimly. “But we’ll soon find out. Hotels don’t blow up without some good reason. Great Scott! look there.”

The Falconbridge Arms had just come into sight, and though it was obvious that the policeman had exaggerated, something was clearly amiss. Numbers of men with lanterns were moving about, and by their light it was possible to see a great jagged hole in the wall nearest them.

“Mind out, sir,” came a warning voice. “The whole of the drive is covered with broken glass.”

“Is anybody hurt?” cried Darrell anxiously.

“Two gentlemen, sir, who were in the room where the explosion took place.”

“Are they dead?”

He forced the question out and waited, sick with anxiety, for the reply.

“No, sir, but how they escaped is a miracle. They’re both unconscious.”

“Stay in the car, dear,” said Darrell, “while I go and make some enquiries. There’s been some devilry here.”

He made his way through the gaping crowd of curious villagers to the front entrance of the hotel, where a man, who was obviously the manager, was in close conversation with two policemen.

“Excuse me,” he said, breaking in without apology, “but what are the names of the two injured men?”

“Captain Drummond and Mr Standish,” answered the manager. “Do you know them?”

“Intimately,” answered Darrell. “In fact, it was to see them that I have just motored down from London.”

“Then perhaps you can throw some light on this extraordinary affair,” said the other quickly.

“First I should like to hear exactly what happened.”

“I can only tell you what we all heard. It took place about three-quarters of an hour ago. I was in my office, and several people were sitting in the lounge. Suddenly there was a deafening explosion which shook the entire hotel. It came from the private sitting-room which your two friends had. The hall porter at once dashed in to find the whole place blown to pieces. All the windows had gone, and there was a huge hole in the wall. Mr Standish was lying in a corner quite unconscious: Captain Drummond had been hurled clean through the window and was found on the drive outside. May I ask, sir, if they were experimenting with some new form of explosive?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Darrell. “Where are they now?”

“In their bedrooms. The doctor has seen both of them. Ah! here he is.”

Darrell turned on him eagerly.

“What news of your patients, Doctor?”

“This gentleman is a friend of theirs,” explained the manager.

“They’re both alive,” said the doctor, “though how they escaped being blown to pieces is more than I can tell you. Still more amazing, they don’t seem to have broken anything. Whether they are damaged internally or not I cannot at the moment say. The bigger man of the two, who was found in the drive, is the one who got off lightest. He’s cut his face a bit—probably that hit the gravel first. But I should think that he will recover consciousness before the other.”

“And how long will it be before he does?” asked Darrell. The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

“My dear sir, it is impossible to say. Cases have been known where people have remained unconscious for weeks. But luckily for them they are both of them extremely powerful men with magnificent constitutions, and I hope that that will not be so with them. Has anyone got any idea what caused the explosion?”

“No one,” said the manager. “It must have been some form of bomb, I should think. You’re quite sure, sir”—he turned to Darrell—”that they were not carrying out any experiments?”

“One can never be quite sure of anything,” said Darrell, “but I think it most unlikely. What I would like to know is, whether they had any visitors tonight.”

“I’ll send for the hail porter,” said the manager. “Now, Dean,” he went on, as the man arrived, “did any visitor go into Number Three this evening?”

“Not that I know of, sir,” answered the man. “There ain’t been no one come to the hotel at all except the lady after dinner what took a room.”

“A lady came after dinner, did she?” said Darrell quietly. “What sort of a lady?”

“Middle-aged lady, sir, with grey hair.”

“Is she in the hotel now?”

“I suppose so, sir: she took a room.”

“Presumably after that explosion she wouldn’t have remained in it. Is she in the lounge?”

“What’s the idea, sir?” said the manager.

“Only that I’d rather like to have a look at her,” answered Darrell.

“That’s easy. Let’s go inside. Now, Dean, where is the lady?” The hall porter looked around: then he shook his head. “She’s not in here, sir. Shall I go up to Seventeen and see if she’s there?”

The manager looked questioningly at Darrell, who nodded.

“Make some excuse about hot water,” he said to the hall porter. “Now, sir,” he continued to Darrell, “it’s obvious you know something.”

“Let’s wait until Dean comes back,” said Darrell. “I may be quite wrong.”

A few minutes later the hall porter returned, looking puzzled. “She’s not there, sir. And I’ve made enquiries outside and her car has gone.”

“What name did she register under?” asked Darrell. “We can find that out in the office, sir.”

They crossed the lounge, and turned up the book. “Eve Matthews: London” was the entry, and the reception clerk supplied some further information.

“Lady said she was terrified by the explosion and would not stay. So she paid her bill and cleared out.”

“Well, I may be wrong,” said Darrell, “but I believe that if we could lay our hands on Eve Matthews of London we should catch the perpetrator of this little outrage.”

“But what on earth was the object of it?” cried the manager. “Had she a grudge against them? Was it a love affair?”

“I assure you not that,” said Darrell with a grim smile. “No: the reasons behind it are very simple. Captain Drummond and Mr Standish were mixed up in the Sanderson murder case which you must all have read about. And they are not at all popular with the gang of criminals who killed him. This was an effort to put them out of the way.”

“But we can get hold of this ’ere Mrs Matthews,” put in one of the constables.

“I doubt it very much,” said Darrell quietly. “She will never be seen again, and even if she is, we’ve got no shadow of proof. No one saw her go into the sitting-room, and the fact that she left the hotel after the explosion means nothing. Many ladies on their own would do the same thing. Hullo! my dear.”

“I got tired of sitting in the car, Peter,” said Daphne Frensham as she joined them. “How are they?”

“I’m going up to see them in a moment,” said Darrell. “They’re both unconscious.”

He drew her away, and they sat down in a corner of the lounge.

“I’m afraid your fears were justified, darling,” he said in a low voice. “I haven’t said anything to those warriors, but I’m convinced Mrs Merridick did this. A middle-aged, grey-haired woman calling herself Mrs Matthews arrived here after dinner and left again after the explosion. Said she was too frightened to stay.”

“Peter—I’ll never forgive myself,” she cried miserably. “What induced me to be such an awful fool?”

“My dear, you couldn’t help it. It was just one of those unfortunate accidents that might happen to anyone. And they’re not dead: only knocked out. Hugh is not as bad as Ronald, according to the doctor.”

“Oughtn’t we to tell them about Mrs Merridick?”

“What’s the good, dear? We’ve not got an atom of proof. We’ve got very strong suspicions but no more. And there’s no use getting a couple of village policemen unduly excited when it can’t do any good. Now you sit here while I go up and look at the two invalids.”

He found Drummond tossing and moaning on his bed. His face was bandaged up and so was one hand, whilst every now and then he babbled incoherently. Standish lay quite motionless: only his faint breathing proclaimed that he was alive. And it was while he was with him that the doctor came in to say that the ambulance was at the door.

“They will be far better in hospital,” he said. “In fact, it is essential they should be in a place where they can get skilled nursing.”

“Far better,” agreed Darrell.

From other points of view beside nursing, he reflected. When it was found that they were not dead it was more than likely that another attempt would be made to finish them off. And then an idea struck him.

“Look here, Doctor,” he said, “I’d be very much obliged if you’d do something for me. You said downstairs that you had no idea when they would recover consciousness, didn’t you? Well, I wish you’d pile that on as thick as you can when the reporters begin to get busy. Say that you think it may be a question of weeks. We’re moving in deep waters, and if the bunch who did this show tonight think that even though they’re not dead, they’re safely out of the way for some time, it’ll be healthier for all concerned.”

The doctor nodded.

“Certainly,” he said. “And in doing so I shall not be stretching the truth at all. For it is my candid opinion that it will be a question of weeks, certainly in the case of Mr Standish. Are you going to remain here?”

“For tonight at any rate,” answered Darrell. “And tomorrow morning I’ll come round to the hospital to see how they are.”

He waited till the two men had been placed in the ambulance; then he rejoined Daphne Frensham in the lounge. A reporter who had arrived on the scene made a bee line for him, but Darrell waved him aside curtly.

“Look here, dear,” he said, “we’ve got to think what we’re going to do. If, as I believe, it was the woman who called herself Mrs Merridick who did this, one thing is very clear. You can’t go back to Corinne Moxton, for they now know that you’re in touch with Drummond. Further, you won’t be safe in your own flat, for I assume she knows your address.”

“No she doesn’t, Peter. She’s never asked me and I’ve never told her.”

“Well, that’s one good thing, anyway. We must chance your being safe there. But about tonight. I suggest that we should take rooms here in the hope that Hugh may recover consciousness tomorrow. Then if he doesn’t, you go back to London and lie low, whilst I get Bill Leyton down here to look after Ronald.”

“What are you going to do, Peter?”

“Stay here, darling,” he said promptly. “Or perhaps go to an hotel in Bournemouth. I must be on hand the instant Hugh comes to, because there may be something to be done which he won’t be fit to tackle. And you see, the doctor can’t give me any idea how long he’s likely to remain like this. So I’ll go and book two rooms, and then I vote for a spot of bed. But for Heaven’s sake, my dear, lock your door: with this bunch you never know. I don’t think we’ll have any of ’em down here tonight, but one can’t be sure. Tomorrow, when it’s in all the papers, and they know that Hugh and Ronald aren’t dead, it will be a different matter. And that’s why I think I may go to Bournemouth with Bill Leyton.”

“Peter,” she cried suddenly. “What about Ardington?”

“Good Lord!” he said. “I’d forgotten all about it. Anyway, my dear, it’s too late to get there now. We’ll have to let Ardington take care of itself. Now, you pop off to bed: we’ll see what luck we have tomorrow with old Hugh.”

But they had none, and when they left in the afternoon he was still babbling incoherently.

“It’s hell,” said Darrell gloomily. “Supposing they have found out something, and don’t come round before it is too late. What’s the matter, dear?”

For the girl had suddenly laid a hand on his arm.

“Stop, Peter, and go back to that paper shop.” Her voice was urgent, and he glanced at her curiously. “There was a poster outside, and I’m sure I saw something.”

He backed the car obediently, and then for a while they both sat staring at the placard in silence.

GHASTLY TRAIN ACCIDENT AT ARDINGTON
HUGE DEATH ROLL

“Get a paper, Peter,” she said in a low voice.

He bought two copies of the Evening Mail, and handed her one. And in flaming headlines they read the news.

“APPALLING ACCIDENT TO EXPRESS
TRAIN LEAVES RAILS WHEN TRAVELLING AT SIXTY MILES AN HOUR
HEAVY LOSS OF LIFE

“One of the most dreadful railway accidents of modern times occurred last night near the little village of Ardington, which for sheer majesty of horror as a spectacle can only have been equalled by the tragic loss of the ill-fated R101 when she crashed near Beauvais on her maiden trip to India. And a further parallel between the two disasters is that in both cases only one person appears to have seen it actually happen. I have just left the spectator of last night’s accident, and he is still almost dazed by what he saw. He is Mr Herbert, of Plumtree Farm, where he has lived for the last twenty years.

“‘I had been up all night with a sick cow,’ he told me, ‘and was just leaving her to go back to bed when I heard the express approaching. It was coming through the cutting half a mile away, and I waited to see it pass. After the cutting there is an embankment on a bit of a curve, and the train came roaring round it. And then suddenly it happened. The engine seemed to leap into the air, and rush down the side of the embankment, followed by all the coaches. There was a crash such as I had never heard: everything seemed to pile up in a heap, and then there was silence for a moment or two. But not for long: such a pandemonium of screams and yells broke out as I wouldn’t have believed possible. The lights were still on, though some of the carriages seemed to be telescoped, and I could see the passengers climbing out of windows—those that weren’t dead. It was terrible: I shall never get it out of my head.’

“So much for the only eye-witness’ account: now for some further details. The train was the night express from Scotland to London. It was travelling at full speed, but, according to the guard, John Harrison of Bexley, who is lying seriously injured in a neighbouring cottage, no faster than usual on that stretch of line. They were up to time, in fact a minute ahead of it, so that the accident took place about 4.15 a.m. And then the inexplicable thing occurred. The wheels of the engine left the rails, and the locomotive, owing to the curve, plunged down the embankment at sixty miles an hour, dragging the heavy train behind it. The driver and fireman were both killed, and up to date there is a death roll of thirty-five with seventy-one injured, several of them very seriously. Unfortunately, these figures by no means represent the total loss. A breakdown gang is at work, but several hours must elapse before some of the coaches can be lifted free of others into which they have been telescoped, and it is a regrettable certainty that when this is done many more casualties will be discovered.

“I had a talk with Walter Marton, the attendant in the sleeping-car, who, by some miraculous stroke of luck, escaped with nothing worse than a shaking.

“‘I was sitting in my seat reading,’ he said. ‘She was running as smoothly as usual, when suddenly she gave a terrific lurch, and I got flung into a heap of soiled linen. And the next thing I knew was that the coach was upside down. I climbed out through one of the windows.’

“And that is one of the things which increases the horror of the spectacle: almost the whole of the train is upside down at the foot of the slope. Only the two rear coaches, one of which was the guard’s van, are still standing on their wheels, and in these no one was killed, though several passengers sustained fractures, and the guard himself was hurled from one end of his van to the other.”

LATER.

“The death roll in this ghastly tragedy has now reached forty-nine, and two coaches still remain telescoped. It is feared that the final count will number between sixty and seventy, since no one can possibly be alive in those two carriages. The gruesome task of identifying the victims is being carried out in the little concert hall of Ardington.”

“But, Peter,” said the girl, and her face was as white as a sheet, “it’s unbelievable; it’s inconceivable. How did they know that this was going to happen?”

He stared at her.

“Know it was going to happen,” he repeated foolishly. “They can’t have known an accident was going to happen.”

“But was it an accident, Peter?”

“My God!” he muttered. “My God!” And fell silent, still staring at her dazedly.

“What was the object, Daphne?” he said at length. “What can have been the object? My dear, you must be wrong. It was an accident.”

“So that was why Parker wasn’t to drive,” she went on, as if he had not spoken. “What are we going to do about it, Peter?”

“What can we do about it?” he said heavily, as he got back into the car. “A sentence heard through a keyhole isn’t much to go on. Their answer would be a flat denial that the words were ever spoken, or that they ever went there. And it’s impossible to prove that they did.”

They drove on in silence, each busy with their own thoughts. Unbelievable; inconceivable, as she had said; and yet it was true. Right from the beginning she had mentioned Ardington: it was not as if she had not been sure and had thought of it after seeing the account in the paper. Even the time fitted in. It was true. For some diabolical reason the Scotch express had been wrecked, and Corinne Moxton and Pendleton had known it was going to happen and had been spectators.

“Don’t say anything, Daphne dear,” he said, as they drew up at her flat. “You’ll do no good by speaking too soon. Our only chance is to let them think they’re not suspected. Then we may catch them.”

He went round to his club, and the first thing that caught his eye was a headline in a later edition of the Evening Mail.

“SENSATIONAL DEVELOPMENT IN ARDINGTON DISASTER EVIDENCE OF FARM LABOURER

“A sensational development has taken place in the Ardington disaster, where Colonel Mayhew, of the Home Office, has already opened the preliminary investigation. It appears that Mr Herbert was not the only eye-witness of the accident, but that George Streeter, a farm labourer employed at the neighbouring village of Bilsington, also saw it. He states that he was returning after a late dance to the cottage in which he lives, and was walking along the main Towchester road as the train left the cutting. This would mean that he was about two hundred yards from the actual scene of the disaster. And he affirms most positively that just before the engine left the rails, he saw what he describes as a sort of flash right in front of the wheels. Pressed by Colonel Mayhew to be more explicit, he said that it looked like a big yellow spark, and that it happened when the engine was four or five yards away. He heard nothing, but that is not surprising in view of the noise of the train and the direction of the wind. Too much importance should not be attached to his story, though when I interviewed him he struck me as being a reliable and unimaginative man. At the same time the possibilities that are opened up, should his statement be correct, are so inconceivably monstrous that it would be well to await further evidence before jumping to any conclusion. That anything in the nature of a bomb outrage should happen in this country seems utterly incredible. Unfortunately, the permanent way is so badly ploughed up for nearly a hundred yards that some considerable time must inevitably elapse before the final examination is concluded.”

He laid down the paper: there was the proof. Naturally the reporter sounded a note of warning over believing such an incredible thing, but he did not know all the facts. Nobody did except Daphne and himself. And ceaselessly the question hammered at his brain—what ought he to do? Then another one took its place: what had been the object of such an apparently senseless outrage? Surely there was no man living, not even Pendleton, who would have done such a monstrous thing merely to gratify Corinne Moxton’s craving for cruelty and excitement.

“Hullo! Peter. Seen the latest about the Ardington accident?”

He looked up: Tim Maguire, a Major in the Royal Engineers, was standing by his chair.

“You’re a Sapper, Tim,” he said. “How could a thing like that be done?”

“Easy as falling off a log,” answered Maguire, “if anyone wanted to. You’ve only got to wedge a slab of gun-cotton or any other high explosive up against one of the rails and then fire it by electricity just before the train reaches the spot. By that means you cut the rail. But surely you don’t believe this labourer’s evidence, do you? The thing is preposterous.”

He strolled away: just so—the thing was preposterous. And that is what everyone else would say if he told them what he knew.

After a while he left the club, and getting into a taxi he went round to see Bill Leyton. He had ceased to care by now whether he was followed or not: everything, even the bomb outrage at the Falconbridge Arms, seemed to pale into insignificance beside this crowning infamy.

He found Leyton in, and plunged into the story at once. “What ought one to do: that’s what has got to be decided,” he concluded.

Leyton pushed over the whisky decanter.

“I think what you told Miss Frensham is right, Darrell,” he said. “I don’t see that you can do anything merely on the strength of what she heard through the keyhole. Besides, it’s pretty obvious that even though they were spectators they were not the actual perpetrators of the crime.”

“No; but they probably know who they were.”

“More than likely; but they’re not going to give it away. They will simply say that they haven’t an idea what you are talking about, and that you must be mad. And if you persist, or go to the police, they will run you for libel. You see, all your information is second-hand; that’s the devil of it. We may know that it is true; but so long as Drummond and Standish are unconscious our hands are tied.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Darrell moodily. “Well, are you on for coming down to Bournemouth with me so as to be on the spot the instant we’re wanted?”

“Sure: I’ll throw some kit into a bag now.”

And that night found them installed at an hotel in the pine woods, where the average age of the clientele appeared to be in the early eighties. The period of weary waiting had begun. Three times daily did Darrell ring up the nursing-home for every evening he got through to Daphne to make sure she was still all right. And with incredible slowness the days dragged by, with No Change the invariable bulletin.

The papers had unanimously discounted George Streeter’s statement, and since no confirmatory evidence appeared to be forthcoming from the examination of the debris, the Ardington disaster was universally regarded as simply being the most appalling accident of the century. The death roll had been published, and had reached the ghastly total of eighty-four, with seven more not expected to live.

“And what beats me,” said Darrell, “is that they’re all absolutely unknown people. Hugh, I know, had an idea that there might be some political significance behind these swine’s activities, and it would be within the realms of comprehension if they had wrecked the train to kill one big man, regardless of the others. But there wasn’t a big man on the train: if there had been, and he had escaped, we should have heard all about it. But all these poor devils are just common or garden birds like you and me.”

“I know,” said Leyton. “That point had occurred to me. And there’s another thing too: if it was a terrorist action done by Communists or people of that sort to further their own ends, it fails in its entire object if the public believe it was only an accident. So surely, by some means or other, without giving themselves away, the men who did it would have let it be known that it was deliberate.

“Which brings us back to our old starting-point, that the whole thing seems utterly and absolutely senseless.”

It was Sunday morning, and they were sitting disconsolately in the lounge. Five wasted days, and nothing to show for them. And then, as so often happens, everything changed when they least expected it. A page-boy came up to them with a message that Darrell was wanted on the telephone by the Falconbridge hospital. And a minute later he was back.

“Hugh’s conscious,” he said briefly. “Let’s get a move on.” They were met by the doctor.

“Captain Drummond came to about an hour ago,” he said, “and is seemingly none the worse for it. But go easy with him.”

They found Drummond sitting up in bed. He looked pale and drawn, but he grinned cheerfully when he saw them.

“Hullo! chaps,” he said, “that was a close shave.”

“How are you feeling, old boy?” cried Darrell.

“Damned sore,” said Drummond. “And it hurts like hell to laugh. I gather my jaw took the drive first. But I’m still absolutely in the dark as to what happened. All I know is that I was standing by the open window, and there was suddenly a terrific explosion behind me. After that little Willie passed out.”

“There’s a lot to tell you, Hugh, but before I begin I’ve got one question to ask. Did a grey-haired, middle-aged woman come into the sitting-room any time during the evening?”

Drummond frowned thoughtfully.

“Now you come to mention it, Peter, one did. Came in, sat down, and when we mildly pointed out it was a private room she apologised profusely and withdrew. Why do you ask?”

“She’s the girl friend who did it,” said Darrell. “She must have left a bomb behind her. Don’t look so surprised, old man: lots of funny things have taken place since we last met. Do you feel fit to listen?”

“Fire ahead, boy. I’m fine.”

He listened in silence whilst Darrell told him everything that had happened: then without a word he got out of bed and rang the bell. He was still shaky on his legs, but on his face was the look of grim determination that Darrell knew well of old.

“Sister darling,” he said as the nurse came in, “would you bring your baby boy his trousers, please?”

“But you aren’t going to get up,” she cried aghast.

“Not only that, my poppet, but I’m going to London. And I feel I shall attract less attention if I’m wearing my trousers.”

“But it is madness, Captain Drummond,” she said. “I’m sure the doctor will never allow it.”

Drummond smiled cheerfully as she left the room.

“Is it wise, old lad?” said Darrell anxiously. “I don’t quite see what you are going to do when you get there.”

“I am going to have a heart-to-heart talk with Sir Richard Pendleton,” answered Drummond quietly. “And what I’ve got to say to him will give that gentleman to think pretty furiously.”

“What’s this I hear, Captain Drummond? You say you’re going to London?”

The doctor had come bustling in.

“That’s correct, Doc.,” said Drummond. “In a nice fast motor-car. Now, it’s no good saying I mustn’t, my dear fellow, because I’m going—with or without trousers. There are times—and this is one of them—when trifling considerations of health simply do not come into the picture. By the way, how is my fellow sufferer?”

“Just the same,” answered the doctor. “Well, I suppose I can’t keep you here by force, so you’d better get his clothes, Nurse.”

“Haven’t got such a thing as a spot of ale about the premises, have you?” said Drummond hopefully, and the doctor laughed.

“You’re a hopeless case,” he cried. “I’ll see whether there is any.”

“If only that damn bomb had gone off five minutes later,” said Drummond, as the doctor left the room. “You realise Standish had solved the cipher.”

“The devil he had,” said Darrell. “That should help.”

“Unfortunately it doesn’t. He was just going to explain it to me, when up she went. And so until he comes to we’re no better off than we were before. Thank you, light of my eye.”

“You idiot,” laughed the nurse, putting his clothes on the bed. “And matron is sending up some beer in a minute.”

“What a woman,” said Drummond. “I like it by the quart. Yes,” he continued as she left the room, “he’d just said to me ‘I’ve got it’ when that blasted bomb burst.”

“There haven’t been any more messages so far as I know,” said Darrell. “None at any rate that have appeared in the papers.”

“By the way, Peter, are they watching this hospital?”

“I don’t know,” said Darrell, “this is the first time we’ve actually been over here: we’ve rung up every day.”

“The betting is five to one on,” remarked Drummond thoughtfully. “Sister, dear,” he said, as she returned with the beer, “is there a way out by the back?”

“There is. Why?”

“Because, darling, I want to use it. I feel tolerably certain that these kindly people in London who take such an interest in my welfare have got someone watching this place.”

“Funny you should say that. A strange man has been loitering about these last few days. Look—there he is now.”

“Don’t go to the window, my dear,” said Drummond quickly. “Where is he? I see. Peter, do you spot him? When you and Leyton go, make sure he hears you discuss my condition in voices choked with tears. And, Sister, you pass it around the staff that I had a brief moment of consciousness, and have now become completely gaga again. I want that bird to think I’m still here. Then I’ll join you, Peter, somewhere down the road.”

“We’ll just have to pop over to Bournemouth and pay the bill,” said Darrell.

“I think I’ll stop on there,” said Leyton. “Ronald may come to just as unexpectedly as Drummond did, in which case I’d like to be close at hand.”

“Not a bad notion,” remarked Drummond. “And if he does, get in touch with us at once. Now then—are we ready? If so, let’s get a move on.”

They went downstairs, and ten minutes later Drummond joined them in the car out of sight of the hospital.

“I don’t think he suspected anything,” said Darrell. “We left him still standing about the place.”

“Good!” cried Drummond. “Because I have an idea that the sweet Corinne is more likely to be at home if she doesn’t know I’m coming.”

“I should think that the chances are that she may be genuinely out on a Sunday,” said Leyton.

“Then I’ll wait till she’s genuinely in,” said Drummond quietly. “And that lantern-jawed swine of a saw-bones.”

Leaving Leyton in Bournemouth, and stopping on the way for lunch, they reached London at four o’clock, and Drummond went straight to his house.

“I’d like you to come with me, Peter,” he said, “but I shouldn’t think there is much good arriving before about six.”

And it was then that Denny gave him Corinne Moxton’s message.

“I heard about that and forgot to tell you,” said Darrell.

“Shall we ring her up or not?” remarked Drummond thoughtfully. “Taking everything into account, I think it would be better if we arrived unexpectedly.”

“Are you all right again, sir?” asked Denny anxiously.

“Fit as an army mule, old soldier,” said Drummond. “I only feel as if I’d been trodden all over by an elephant. Now, Peter—a slight change of apparel, and then we must decide on what line we are going to take at the interview. Also, I suggest that anything we want we have before we go. She’d probably adore to see someone die of a poisoned drink.”

At six o’clock they left: point-blank accusation was to be the order of the evening. Only two things had they decided to leave out. The first was any mention of Daphne Frensham, which ruled out the Ardington disaster; the other was the fact that Standish had solved the cipher.

“He may come to soon, Peter,” said Drummond, “and if so, we don’t want him to have another one to solve. And now is luck going to be in?”

It was: they found Corinne Moxton and Sir Richard Pendleton in the drawing-room. And the doctor’s violent start and the sudden blanching of the woman’s cheeks under the rouge did not escape Drummond’s notice. But it was only instantaneous: whatever else she might be she was an actress.

“Why, Captain Drummond,” she said, rising and coming towards him with hand outstretched, “this is bully. I’d heard you’d had an accident.”

“You heard perfectly correctly, madam,” answered Drummond, folding his arms. “And it is about that accident and one or two other things that Mr Darrell and I have come to talk to you. Moreover, it is very fortunate that Penholder, or whatever his name is, is here. Saves the necessity of sending for him.”

“What the devil do you mean, sir?” cried the doctor angrily. “You know perfectly well that my name is not Penholder. Are you trying to be gratuitously offensive?”

“Is it possible to be offensive to carrion like you?” asked Drummond languidly. “Great pity I didn’t throttle you that night, Penwiper. If I’d known who you were, and one or two other things which I subsequently discovered about your character, I should have done.”

Sir Richard lit a cigarette with ostentatious deliberation.

“I saw in the papers, Captain Drummond,” he said, “that you had recently been blown up, and sustained concussion. I can only come to the charitable conclusion that you are still suffering from it.”

“That you would take that line was fairly obvious from the word ‘go,’” said Drummond. “The spot of bother as far as you are concerned, however, is that I was not suffering from concussion on the night Sanderson was murdered by that engaging individual with the fountain-pen, so ably assisted by Miss Moxton’s admiring plaudits.”

But this time she was ready, and her laughter was admirably natural.

“My dear man,” she cried merrily, “you must have been worse than was reported in the papers. Richard, ain’t he cute?”

“Cute or not cute: sane or not sane,” said Pendleton furiously, “his statement is absolutely monstrous.”

“Oh! yeah,” Drummond drawled. “Pity I drank beer that night in Standish’s room, isn’t it? You hadn’t doped the beer.” For a moment or two there was dead silence.

“I fear you’re a bit of an ass, Penworthy,” Drummond continued. “How anybody in their senses can employ you as a surgeon, Heaven alone knows. Incidentally, I don’t think many people will by the time I’ve done with you. And your market value, madam, isn’t going to soar through the roof.”

“Say, Richard, isn’t there some law in this country to prevent this man insulting me?”

Her voice was shrill with anger.

“None; until he does it outside these four walls. Then he’ll soon find out one or two truths. I suppose, Captain Drummond, that even you are capable of realising the disgraceful cowardice of coming to a lady’s flat and then advancing these preposterous threats. Why, if you are suffering from these delusions, have you not been to the police?”

“I have,” said Drummond calmly. “So put that in the old meerschaum and set fire to it, Penturtle.”

“And they, I imagine, treated your demented ravings with the contempt they deserve,” said the doctor, but to Drummond’s keen ear there was fear in his voice.

“But I wasn’t demented,” explained Drummond cheerfully. “Scotland Yard has known all about you two for a week.”

Corinne Moxton caught her breath with a sharp hiss.

“I don’t believe you,” said Pendleton contemptuously. “If you had really gone with these incredible stories to the police, Miss Moxton and I would have heard from them by now.”

“Not of necessity,” remarked Drummond. “Rightly or wrongly, Standish and I came to the conclusion that you and Miss Moxton were very small beer. In fact, except for your repulsive habits, you cut no ice at all. The man we want to lay our hands on is that strange individual with a head like a pumpkin, who apparently answers to the name of Demonico, and who I last had the pleasure of meeting at the squash-court entertainment. By the way, I hope you enjoyed it: you had excellent seats.”

Pendleton turned to Corinne Moxton.

“It’s all right, my dear,” he said reassuringly. “I have met cases like this before, though this is a very remarkable one. I don’t know what hospital he has been in, but the doctor in charge deserves the gravest censure for allowing him out so soon. And I warn you seriously, Mr Darrell I believe your name is, that unless you take the greatest care of him his reason may be irreparably impaired. As you see for yourself, the poor fellow is talking gibberish.”

“My fee is three guineas,” remarked Drummond. “Stick to a light diet of porterhouse steak and onions, and don’t trip over the mat as you go. No, Pendleton, it won’t do: I’m as sane as you are, and you know it.”

“May I have a word with you in private, Mr Darrell?” said Sir Richard, ignoring Drummond completely.

“You may not,” said Darrell decidedly.

“Then I must say it in front of him. The symptoms are clearly defined, but if proper care is taken of him there is no reason why in a month, or perhaps less, he should not make a complete recovery, and these delusions, which are the direct outcome of his concussion, will disappear like the morning mist. But I again emphasise—proper care. You must get him home, keep him very quiet, and get his doctor to see him. And for everybody’s sake, in view of the bent his particular delusions have taken, it would be as well if he saw as few people as possible.”

“Peter, hasn’t he got a charming bedside manner?” said Drummond admiringly. “A voice at once soothing and firm. Well, Pendleton, as I said before, I thought it probable you would take up this line: when one comes to think of it, it would be impossible for you to take up any other. And yet I am quite prepared to admit that, as far as other people are concerned, it’s a very good one. To them it would seem more likely that I was suffering from delusions than that a celebrated surgeon and a well-known film star are a pair of devils incarnate. But I warn you that you are in very dangerous waters, because, as I have already told you, there can be no question of my having had the jimjams at the time when the police were notified that you were in Standish’s room on the night of Sanderson’s murder. I was not drugged, though you thought I was, and I saw you there.”

“And you expect the police to believe such a preposterous statement on your uncorroborated word? I’d never heard of Standish in my life till I saw his name mentioned with yours in connection with the bomb outrage. And I haven’t an idea where his rooms are. If you thought you saw me there it was a case of mistaken identity.”

“This is beginning to bore me,” said Drummond. “So I will deliver my ultimatum, Pendleton, and then go. I have the best of reasons for knowing that some big crime is planned early this coming week. What it is I don’t know. But unless the police are informed anonymously as to what it is going to be, in time for them to prevent it, my depositions to them with regard to you will stand. And since they connect you intimately with the gang who murdered Sanderson they will not do you much good. If, however, the police are informed, it is conceivable that I might come to the conclusion that it was a case of mistaken identity. So choose, you damned swine—choose. Come on, Peter.”

The front door closed behind them, and then the tension broke.

“Richard,” screamed Corinne Moxton, “ring up Scotland Yard now and tell them. It’s our only hope.”

“Hush, my dear, hush: I must think.” His face was grey: his hands were shaking. “God! how did they find out?”

“Find out what?”

Mrs Merridick was standing by the door.

“Drummond has been here, and he knows all about us,” said Pendleton. “He wasn’t drugged at all that night, and he saw me.”

“My dear Sir Richard, for a doctor that seems singularly stupid of you. What do you propose to do about it? Did I hear Corinne say something about ringing up Scotland Yard?”

She bit her lip, as Pendleton flashed her a warning glance.

“No, no,” she cried. “Of course not.”

“Let us all have a drink and consider the matter carefully,” said Mrs Merridick, going to the sideboard, and picking up the cocktail shaker. “You say that Drummond knows all about us. I don’t think he can know much about me.”

“Perhaps not,” said Pendleton. “But there are other people besides you in the world. And he knows that something is going to happen early this week.”

“Something. So he doesn’t know what that something is?”

“No; he doesn’t know that.”

“Then am I right in supposing that the object of his visit here was to try to threaten you into telling him what it was?”

“More or less.”

“Naturally you didn’t.”

“Of course not,” said Pendleton. “How could you imagine such a thing for an instant?”

A faint smile twitched round Mrs Merridick’s mouth; then she turned round with three drinks on a tray.

“Then I don’t think we need worry,” she remarked. “Let us drink a toast to the successful issue of our plans.”

They all drained their glasses, and Mrs Merridick lit a cigarette. And then, quite suddenly it happened. Sir Richard, his face convulsed with agony, clutched at his side.

“You devil,” he croaked. “You’ve poisoned us.”

On the floor writhed Corinne Moxton, and Mrs Merridick watched them in silence.

“I have,” she said at length. “Your intentions with regard to Scotland Yard did not appeal to me.”

A few moments later, without a backward glance at the two motionless figures, she left the room. And it was only when her hand was on the latch of the front door that she remembered something and went back. Into her bag she placed her own glass: to stage what would inevitably be taken for a suicide pact three glasses would be a mistake. Then once again the door closed behind her, and Mrs Merridick went downstairs to her waiting car.

CHAPTER X

With a frown Hugh Drummond lit a cigarette: then he picked up his morning paper from the floor where he had thrown it. Not that they really deserved any other fate: it was the complete unexpectedness of the thing that had upset him for the moment.

TRAGEDY IN WEST-END FLAT
DEATH OF WELL-KNOWN SURGEON AND FILM STAR

“A shocking tragedy occurred last night at Number 4A Barton Mews, the charming residence of the beautiful film star Corinne Moxton. The discovery was made by her chauffeur, who had been ordered to call for her at seven o’clock. When he had waited till eight he began to fear that something was amiss, since he could see the light shining from her sitting-room. At nine o’clock he decided to summon a policeman, and between them they forced the front door. To their horror they discovered the actress lying dead on the floor, and by her side was the body of a man, also dead. This man the chauffeur at once recognised as Sir Richard Pendleton, the celebrated Harley Street surgeon. Their faces were convulsed with agony, showing that they had died in great pain.

“A doctor was at once summoned, who gave it as his opinion that they had been dead between two and three hours. It appears that two empty glasses were on the table; also a cocktail shaker half-filled with liquid. The contents were immediately analysed, and were found to contain a high percentage of a very rare and deadly poison, barely known outside the medical profession. The inquest will be held today.”

Drummond put the paper down: so they had taken that way out. And he was just finishing his coffee when the door opened and Peter Darrell came in.

“Morning, Hugh. I didn’t think they’d do that, did you?”

“I didn’t, Peter. Certainly not her. He must have gone away and got this poison, and then put it in the drink.”

“Well, old boy, I don’t think you need feel any guilt on the matter,” said Darrell.

“I don’t. If ever a couple richly deserved to die, they did. But it’s a bit of a shock all the same.”

“Have you seen the other thing in the paper?”

“No. Anything interesting?”

Darrell turned to the front page, and pointed half-way down the agony column.

AOYSLKEJSSCQOOIEHORJKQSC
AHOSDCVKQSCXJEJOLISTORNY
XDKYDCQOYQATSKJOXYDCSH
XEJBKMMVOXIKTSC.

“A long one,” said Drummond. “Hell! if only Standish was conscious!”

“You can make nothing out of it?” asked Darrell.

“Not a letter, old boy. He hadn’t time even to give me a hint. And you know what a hopeless fool I am at anything like that.”

“We might be able to find someone in London who could do it,” said Darrell. “If Ronald could solve the bally thing, there must be someone else who can.”

“We’ll have a dart at it,” agreed Drummond. “But who the deuce does one go to? Is there a cipher department at Scotland Yard?”

“Must be, I should think. Let’s go and find out. The sooner we give it in the better.”

But the expert they eventually ran to ground held out but little hope. Having at last persuaded him that it was not a betting code, but something really serious, he consented to do his best if he had time. And at that they had to leave it, returning to their club to kick their heels and get through time as best they could.

The late evening papers contained the result of the inquest. Evidence was given to show that the two deceased persons had been on unusually friendly terms, and that Sir Richard Pendleton had frequently visited her in her flat, and not leaving till the early hours of the morning. Further, the chauffeur stated that on the very night of the tragedy his orders had been to take them both out to dinner at a house not far from Henley.

“It is almost certain,” said the Coroner in his summing-up, “that the poison must have been obtained by Sir Richard, as a drug of such a rare kind would be hardly procurable by a woman. It is therefore clear that it was he who was primarily responsible for the tragedy. Indeed, we have no evidence before us to show whether the deceased woman knew that the drug had been added to the cocktail ingredients, a point the jury must bear in mind when arriving at their verdict.”

Which when given and reduced to plain English was to the effect that Sir Richard Pendleton had committed suicide while temporarily insane; and that Corinne Moxton had either done the same or been murdered by him. But the motives for such an amazing crime were naturally a profound mystery.

“And will doubtless always remain so,” said Drummond. “What about ringing up this wench of yours, Peter, and getting her round for a bite of food? She’ll be interested to know the truth.”

And though it was not the truth, she was: profoundly interested.

“I’ve been puzzling my brains the whole day, Captain Drummond,” she said, “as to what could have made them do it. And even now it is almost incredible, because from what you say you promised them they would get off if they told the police.”

“Incredible or not, they did it, and I don’t think I shall lose an hour’s sleep over the fact. Two nasty pieces of work. Well, I’ll join you after dinner. Peter’s expression indicates either indigestion or suppressed love, and I can’t run any risks after that recent round of mine with a bomb.”

He left them in the ladies’ side of the club and went into the smoking-room. The conversation was confined almost exclusively to the Pendleton affair, and as he listened to all sorts of fantastic theories being advanced he smiled cynically to himself. And then he suddenly heard a phrase which caught his attention.

“Undoubtedly Pendleton was one of the syndicate.”

Hervey, a stockbroker whom he knew slightly, was talking to two or three other men, and Drummond joined the group. “And it’s a damned dangerous syndicate too,” Hervey continued, “as far as this country is concerned. They’ve been selling sterling short by the million abroad this last week.”

“Do you know who the others are?” asked. Drummond. “Hullo! old boy,” said Hervey. “I heard you’d been blown to bits in the New Forest. Are you all right again?”

“Quite,” said Drummond. “Feel a bit stiff still, but otherwise no harm done. But this syndicate Pendleton was in—was it a big one?”

“Did you know the man?”

“Slightly,” answered Drummond with a faint smile.

“Never had a vestige of use for him myself, though I believe he was a very fine surgeon. And as far as I know, he was the only Englishman in this crowd. Daly is an Irish-American, Legrange is a Frenchman, and there’s another somewhat mysterious individual in it who no one seems to have ever seen. Calls himself Demonico, and I should imagine he might be a Greek. But whoever he is, he’s in with this bunch, and if they go on as they have been doing and the country’s credit drops they’ll get a packet.”

Drummond strolled away: would it be possible, he wondered, to get at Demonico through Daly or Legrange? He could almost certainly get their addresses from Scotland Yard, and he was just pondering on the advisability of ringing up McIver and putting the matter to him when another man he knew came up and spoke to him. He was an eccentric individual named Jellaby, whose little peculiarity was that he was always in possession of some secret which had just been passed on to him by some highly placed official, and which only he knew. He had always heard it in strict confidence: with equal regularity he ran round the club imparting it to everyone in even stricter confidence. Generally Drummond avoided him like the plague, but on this occasion he was fairly and squarely buttonholed, and escape was impossible.

“Heard a most amazing thing this afternoon, Drummond.” Jellaby’s voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “Straight from the horse’s mouth. For Heaven’s sake don’t pass it on: it’s a profound secret. It’s about the Ardington train disaster.”

Drummond’s half-suppressed yawn ceased abruptly.

“You remember the evidence given by that labourer, George Streeter, to the effect that he had seen a yellow flash in front of the engine wheels?” Jellaby rarely waited for any answer to his questions. “Now I am in a position to tell you definitely—I got it direct from one of Colonel Mayhew’s staff—that that evidence was correct. After exhaustive examination of the torn-up rails, they have discovered one place where the break, according to the experts, must have been caused by an explosive. The disaster therefore was not an accident at all, but a deliberately planned outrage.”

“With what object?” said Drummond.

“The very question I myself at once asked,” said Jellaby, his voice becoming even more confidential. “And the answer was an amazing one. This country, as you know, is going through a very severe financial crisis, and anything which might help to spread the idea abroad that our reputation for law and order no longer held good would tend to increase the gravity of that crisis. If then it was thought that the condition in England had become such that train wrecking was taking place, confidence abroad would be still further reduced, a state of affairs which would be most advantageous to certain speculators.”

“I get you,” said Drummond. “Is this new development going to appear in the newspapers?”

“Not at present, at any rate,” said Jellaby. “Sooner or later I suppose it will have to, but just at the moment it would be playing straight into their hands. Don’t forget—not a word to a soul.”

Drummond smiled faintly as he watched Jellaby stalk his next victim: then he lit a cigarette thoughtfully. Things were becoming clearer: what had seemed to Peter Darrell so amazing because of its senselessness had taken to itself a meaning. He went back to the ladies’ side of the club and found them still over their cocktails.

“I’ve been hearing things, souls,” he said, “things which have thrown considerable light on matters. And I can summarise them for you in a nutshell.”

“So now it is proved that it wasn’t an accident,” said the girl as he finished.

“According to my friend Jellaby it is,” answered Drummond. “It’s almost incredible,” said Darrell.

“Not so incredible, Peter, as it was before. Then, if you like, it was unbelievable that anyone who wasn’t a maniac should have derailed an express for the fun of it. But now we have got a reason.”

“But would a thing like that affect us abroad?” asked the girl. Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

“On matters of international finance I’m an infant,” he said. “But I do know that it’s a very delicately balanced affair, and I suppose as Jellaby said that it isn’t going to help a country if its neighbours come to the conclusion, rightly or wrongly, that it’s got into such a condition of lawlessness that train wrecking is taking place. At any rate it is clear that that is what did happen, and the point now arises as to what we are going to do. Because, as I see things, we, at the present moment, are the only people who are in a position to link things up. Hervey and others in the City know that Demonico’s gang of financiers are selling sterling short, and that it is to their advantage to force down our credit abroad. The Home Office, according to Jellaby, know that the Ardington accident was a case of train wrecking. But literally the only thing that could connect and does connect the two together is that Miss Frensham heard what she did through the keyhole. And now the speaker has killed himself.”

“I think Scotland Yard should be told all we know,” said Darrell decidedly. “I quite see that they can’t act on Daphne’s unsupported statement, and we haven’t a vestige of proof beyond that that Pendleton and that woman ever went near Ardington or knew anything about it. And since they’re both dead we can never find out. But in view of the fact that we know some crime is premeditated early this week, we should be grossly to blame if we didn’t pass on to the police that vital piece of information which, as you say, Hugh, links up the two things.”

“Right,” said Drummond. “I’ll go down myself at once. Wait here till I get back.”

He returned an hour later.

“It’s electrified ’em all right,” he remarked. “As we surmised, they can’t take any action, though Daly and Legrange from now on are marked men. But the trouble is that though they’ve been combing the country since our information of a week ago for Demonico he has completely disappeared. Another thing I gathered was this: they do not think that Legrange, at any rate, would lend himself to such an abominable crime as the Ardington one. Of Daly they’re not quite so sure, but it is Demonico they believe is responsible.”

“So they accepted Daphne’s evidence,” said Darrell.

“Absolutely: they saw the vital importance of the fact that she mentioned Ardington to you and the time, before it happened. By the way, Miss Frensham, they may want to hear it direct from you: if so, they’ll let you know.”

“I can go at any time they want,” said the girl.

“And in the meantime they seem to think there is nothing more to be done. To cross-examine Legrange or Daly would be useless: even with your evidence, my dear, there is nothing to connect either of them with the accident. They were all members of the same syndicate—true—but that’s not an offence. So, for the present, the order of the day is wait and see, and all one can hope is that we shan’t see some other ghastly crime like Ardington. Are you looking for me, boy?”

A page came up to the table.

“Captain Drummond, sir?”

“That’s me,” said Drummond.

“Wanted on the telephone, sir: either you or Mr Darrell. Gentleman name of Mr Leyton.”

Drummond jumped to his feet, his eyes gleaming.

“By Jove! Peter, it might be news of Standish.”

He returned a few minutes later, not quite so jubilant.

“He recovered consciousness for a few moments about an hour ago, and seemed to recognise Leyton. He didn’t say anything, but he gave a faint smile. Leyton spoke to him, but he didn’t answer, though he seemed to try to. And now he’s relapsed again. But apparently the doctor thinks he may come to properly at any time now, and Leyton suggests we should go down there at once in case he does.”

“I’m with you, old boy,” said Darrell.

“Even if he still can’t speak he might be able to decode that message,” cried Drummond. “I think we ought to push off immediately, Peter. Will you be all right, my dear?”

“My good man, you don’t imagine I’m going to be out of this hunt, do you? I’m coming too. I won’t be in the way, I promise.” The two men grinned.

“Emphatically one of us, Peter,” said Drummond. “Come along, bless you.”

Midnight found them at the hospital, where Bill Leyton met them.

“No luck so far,” he said, “though the doctor says that his condition now is more nearly natural sleep than it was. But he holds out no hopes for the near future.”

They waited all that night, taking it in turns to sit by the bedside. They waited all the next day, walking feverishly about the room whilst Standish lay there, his eyes closed, breathing easily and quietly.

“Under no circumstances must any attempt be made to awaken him.”

Those were the doctor’s strict orders, and Drummond, gnawing his fingers, stood by the window watching the daylight gradually fade. In the room Darrell and Leyton were pretending to play piquet, but any devotee of that magnificent game might well have failed to recognise it. And then quite suddenly the girl who was watching Standish spoke.

“Peter, he’s awake.”

In an instant the three men were by the bed. That Standish knew them was obvious: he looked at each of them in turn and grinned feebly.

“How are you feeling, old man?” said Drummond.

But though the sick man’s lips moved no sound came from them.

“Can you hear what we say, Ronald?” asked Leyton.

The other gave a barely perceptible nod.

“Listen, Standish,” said Drummond quietly. “I wouldn’t worry you, old son, but it’s urgent. If I got you a pencil and paper do you think you could decode a message in that cipher?”

Gradually, like a very old man, Standish moved his right arm as if to try it: then he nodded. It took him some time to get the pencil in his hand, but at last he succeeded and with the block in front of him he began to write.

“Here’s the message,” said Drummond, but Standish shook his head, and the three men crowded round him. It was hardly possible to read what he had written, but at last they managed to.

“What is the day of the week?”

“Tuesday,” cried Drummond, and Standish nodded again, and once more began to write. And they saw that with infinite difficulty he was writing out the alphabet.

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

They waited breathlessly: he had begun to write another line of letters underneath it.

YADSEUTBCFGHIJKLMNOPQRVWXZ

“By Jove!” cried Drummond suddenly. “I see. The day of the week backwards comes at the beginning, and if there are two A’s in it like Saturday you leave out the first. Now the message, old man: here it is.”

He put it on the bed beside Standish, who again began to write, putting the correct letter under the code one:

AOYSLKEJ
BSADPOEN

Standish paused, staring at it, and sick with anxiety the others watched him. He had got it wrong somehow: the translation was gibberish.

“My God!” said Drummond heavily, “they must have altered the code.”

And still worse was to come. Suddenly the pencil slipped from Standish’s fingers, and he fell back on the pillow: he was unconscious once more.

For a while no one spoke: to have got so near, and then to fail was a bit of cruel luck.

“The devils must have altered the code,” repeated Drummond. “What an infernal piece of bad joss.”

He picked up the piece of paper and studied it.

“You see, the old lad had got the other one: found it out from that clue we discovered in Sanderson’s desk. What’s stung you, my dear?”

For the girl, her eyes shining with excitement, had gripped his arm.

“Captain Drummond,” she cried, “it’s Tuesday today, but that came out of yesterday’s paper. Let’s try Monday.”

“You fizzer,” shouted Drummond.

Feverishly he seized a pencil and wrote out the new code.

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

YADNOMBCEFGHIJKLPQRSTUVWXZ

“Now then—where’s the message?”

He laid it in front of him and started to translate.

AOYSLKEJSSCQOOIEHORJKQSC

AHOSDCVKQSCXJEJOLISTORNY

XDKYDCQOYQATSKJOXYDCSHX

EJBKMMVOXIKTSC

BEATPOINTTHREEMILESNORTH

BLETCHWORTHYNINEPMTUES

DAYCOACHREARBUTONEYACHT

LYINGOFFWEYMOUTH

“‘Be at point three miles north Bletchworthy nine p.m. Tuesday. Coach rear but one. Yacht lying off Weymouth,’” he read out slowly. “That’s tonight.”

“Coach rear but one,” said Leyton. “Merciful Heavens, you fellows, it can’t be another train outrage, can it?”

“That,” remarked Drummond grimly, “is what we now propose to find out. Come on, both of you, we’ll have to drive like hell. Get hold of Standish’s torch, and his gun. Also that compressed-air rifle. That was a brainstorm of yours, Daphne, but this time, my dear, you cannot come. Sorry, but it’s out of the question.”

“Easy for a moment, old boy,” said Darrell. “We ought to ring up the station-master at Bletchworthy.”

“That’s true,” said Drummond. “But it means delay, Peter. Daphne can do it—can’t you, my dear? Ring up the stationmaster at Bletchworthy and tell him to have the line three miles north of the station patrolled at once. Tell him there is a possibility of an attempt to derail some train—I don’t know which—tonight round about nine o’clock.”

They dashed out of the hospital and fell into the car. And then began a race against time which Bill Leyton, seated in the back, will never forget to his dying day. Drummond drove all out, with Darrell map reading with the help of a torch beside him. It was a cross-country run which hindered them, and once Darrell made a mistake which took them three miles out of their way. But they did it: the clock showed ten minutes to nine as they roared through the tiny village of Bletchworthy.

And now Drummond went cautiously: it was clear from the map that the road and the railway ran close together at the point they were making for.

“Almost certain to have cars in the neighbourhood,” he said, “and we don’t want to be spotted.”

It was a narrow road, and after they had gone about two miles they saw the red lights of the signals gleaming on their right. As at Ardington, the line was on an embankment, and as they drove along a train roared past above them, going towards London.

Suddenly Drummond checked and switched off his headlights: his quick eyes had picked up two cars standing in the shadow of some trees in front of them.

“We’ll stop here,” he said, “and get on to the line. Here’s a Fanny for you, Leyton: use it in preference to a gun.”

And Leyton found a heavy loaded stick pressed into his hand. Then scrambling up the embankment he followed the other two. They paused at the top: two hundred yards away was a signal box. The signalman’s head and shoulders could clearly be seen, and suddenly Drummond started to race towards it. For the door had been opened, and a man with his arm upraised was silhouetted for a moment against the light. The signalman sprang round, even as the arm descended, and they could almost hear the crash as he fell. And a moment later a red light in the distance turned to green.

Drummond stopped, his eyes searching the darkness feverishly. And then to the surprise of the other two he began to run in the opposite direction.

“I see ’em,” he muttered. “Half a dozen at least on the track. Into ’em, boys: shoot, kill, murder ’em.”

He let out a bellow of fury, and Leyton for the first time in his life had a glimpse of Hugh Drummond going berserk. He split one man’s head open like a rotten pumpkin: lifted another with his fist clean over the edge of the embankment, and then waded in on the other four. Revolver shots rang out, and one train wrecker, screaming like a stuck pig, rolled over and over till he reached the ditch below. Then they were alone: the others had bolted. And from far off they heard the rumble of an oncoming train.

Drummond flashed his torch on the line, and a bullet spat past him into the night. Off went his torch: they had seen all they wanted to. Lashed to the inside of the rail was a packet from which protruded two wires stretching right across the permanent way and disappearing into the darkness.

“Cut one of them,” said Drummond between his teeth, and just coming into sight saw the lights of the train.

The wire was insulated and stout, but Drummond that night would have split a steel rope with his hands. And his knife went through the lead as if it had been string. Came a whistle, and rocking and swaying slightly the heavy train roared past them and was gone. And as Bill Leyton watched the red tail-lamp vanish in the distance he found his forehead was wet with sweat.

“A close shave,” said Drummond briefly, and as he spoke they heard the engines of the two cars in the road start up.

“Let ’em go,” he continued. “We’re after bigger game than that scum. Only we must do something first about that signalman, and this little packet of trouble.”

The cars had gone, and he flashed his torch on the bomb, which was lashed to the rail with string.

“Cut it loose, Peter, and we’ll throw it into that pond we passed a short way back. I’m going to the signal box.”

He found the signalman looking dazed and sick, sitting on the floor.

“Well, my lad,” he said, “you got a nasty one, didn’t you? How are you feeling now?”

“What ’appened?” mumbled the man.

“An attempt was made to derail that train that has just gone by,” said Drummond. “And before doing so they knocked you on the head.”

“Derail the Northern Flier,” muttered the signalman foolishly. “Gaw lumme! Wot did they want to do that for?” He scratched his head. “So that’s why Bletchworthy rung up to say as ’ow I was to keep my eyes skinned.”

“Well, are you all right now?” said Drummond. “I can guarantee that the people who did it won’t come back.”

“I’m all right now, sir,” said the man. “My ’ead’s a bit sore—that’s all. I’ll get on the telephone to Bletchworthy and tell ’em what’s took place. Derail the Northern Flier! Well, I’m danged. And she had gold aboard too.”

Drummond paused in the door and stared at him.

“Gold!” he said. “How do you know that?”

“Thought everyone did, sir,” answered the signalman. “Them there repeyrations to America was on her. Bars and bars of gold, they says, with an armed guard. Lumme! I wonder if that was why they wanted to wreck her.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Drummond quietly. “I suppose you don’t happen to know which coach the gold was in.”

“Why—yes, sir. It’s allus the same. The rear coach but one: next the guard’s van.”

A grim smile flickered round Drummond’s lips as he left the box and went back to the car. And it was still there when he answered Darrell’s question—”What now, Hugh?” with the one word “Weymouth.”

“This thing is going to be finished one way or the other, Peter,” he said after they had turned the car. “This globe isn’t big enough for Demonico and me. And he and I will have a final settlement tonight. There’s the pond: bung that damned bomb in.”

The moon had risen, and by its light they watched the infernal contrivance sink: then with their noses turned south they started on the last lap of the hunt. To Leyton it seemed nothing short of madness to seek the man out in his own yacht, surrounded by his own people, but he realised the futility of saying so to Drummond. If Darrell and he did not go, Drummond would go alone, and that was unthinkable. But when four hours later they drove along the deserted front, and saw the yacht riding at anchor a quarter of a mile out, he sincerely wished that the last sentence had not been added to the cipher message.

Moored alongside the jetty was a motorboat, and as the car drove up a man stepped out of the shadow of a shed.

“Are you for the yacht?” he said.

“We are,” answered Drummond.

“Where are the others?”

“They will be some time yet,” said Drummond calmly. “We will go off now. That saves a lot of bother,” he whispered to Darrell as they followed the man down the steps of the boat.

They got in, and then for the first time the man took a good look at them.

“Good God!” he muttered. “Who are you?”

“A point of academic interest, laddie,” said Drummond pleasantly, catching him by the collar. “Cold, I fear, for bathing, especially in these chill northern waters, but you won’t have to swim far.”

He flung him into the sea and turned to Darrell.

“Start her up, Peter, and let’s hope the blighter can swim.”

They shot out from the landing-stage and made for the yacht. Her decks were deserted, but lights were shining in a big saloon aft, towards which they made their way. And reaching the entrance they paused: seated at the table was a middle-aged, grey-haired woman who stared at them with fear in her eyes.

“So, madam,” said Drummond at length, “we meet again. Mrs Matthews, I think, was the name under which you registered at the Falconbridge Arms, and your other alias I understand is Mrs Merridick.”

The woman had recovered herself.

“Presumably you have some idea what you are talking about, sir,” she answered coldly, “but I have none. Nor do I wish to have. What is the meaning of this monstrous piece of impertinence?”

“Shall we cut all that out,” said Drummond languidly. “Let us even pass over your kindly attention to my friend Standish and myself with that bomb. The hour is late, and I am weary. Where is that swine Demonico?”

“This is intolerable,” she cried, rising to her feet. “Demonico! Who on earth is Demonico? I have never heard of the man in my life.”

“You lie, madam,” said Drummond quietly. “You are in with him, as you were with Pendleton and Corinne Moxton. And I intend to pay my score with him tonight. If he isn’t on board now he will be soon. For there are some crimes which are so utterly beyond the pale that they cannot be judged or punished by ordinary standards. And wrecking that train at Ardington was one of them.”

“I can only assume that you are insane,” she remarked. “But whether you are or not I find your presence here insufferable.”

“Fortunately, we were able to frustrate the attempt on the Northern Flier tonight,” continued Drummond, “though that does not mitigate the monstrous criminality which caused that attempt to be made.”

And then he paused suddenly and his eyes dilated.

“My God! Peter,” he shouted, “look at her hands.”

For a moment there was silence: then two shots rang out together, while Darrell and Leyton looked on dazedly. They saw Drummond stagger and then recover himself: they saw Mrs Merridick collapse and pitch forward on her face.

“The hands, Peter,” repeated Drummond. “There couldn’t be two people with those nails and those rings in the world.”

He bent down and seized the dead woman’s hair: then he gave a tug. And as the wig came away a gleaming, hairless head shone white in the electric light.

“Demonico himself,” said Drummond, and suddenly leant against the table.

“What’s up, old man?” cried Darrell anxiously.

“He got me through the shoulder,” answered Drummond with a grin. “But I guess it was cheap at the price.”

* * * *

So ended the hunt, in a manner very different to its conclusion had Ronald Standish not had that brief interlude of consciousness. And possibly the only other point worth recording is Drummond’s remark to him three weeks later as they sat doing a mutual convalescence at Bournemouth.

“This excitement is driving me mad, old boy. Peter is sick with love, and the wench aids and abets him. Bill Leyton has now told me five times how he got a birdie at the fourth. And the hour being what it is, we cannot obtain ale. Let’s hire two bath chairs and have a race.”