CHALLENGE [Part 2]

IX. — BIRCHINGTON TOWERS

“Stop snoring, George, and listen to me.”

With a slight start Sir George Castledon sat up in his chair.

“Was I snoring, my love?”

“Should I have said so, if you were not? It was that second glass of port after lunch.”

Resignedly Sir George watched the wife of his bosom lower her ample form into a chair facing him. The room was warm; he yearned for peace. But one glance at his wife’s face had shattered that hope. A domestic storm was brewing.

“Are you aware that Molly is now playing golf with that young man?”

“What young man, my dear?” he said feebly.

Lady Castledon regarded him stonily through her lorgnettes and Sir George wilted. Small wonder; there was a story current in London that on one occasion her Ladyship had inadvertently entered a field tenanted by a bull. A few moments later it was tenanted by her; the bull had left, snorting with terror.

“Don’t be more of a fool than God made you, George; you annoy me. What do you propose to do about it?”

“Do about it, my dear?”

The worthy baronet scratched his head.

“Don’t keep on repeating what I say, George. Even if you are completely fuddled with alcohol you can surely grasp the fact that Molly is playing golf with that imbecile Algy what’s-his-name, and that Mr. Burton is all by himself.”

“What’s that? I’d better go and talk to him, my love.”

He half rose from his chair.

“Sit down, George. Do you imagine he wishes to listen to your half-witted utterances? You must talk to him.”

“But, damn it, Jane, that’s what I suggested a moment ago, and you jumped down my throat.”

“Not Burton. I mean that idiot with an eyeglass.”

“What on earth am I to say to him? There’s no harm in them playing golf if they want to.”

“George. I shall shake you in a minute. Who said there was any harm in it? But this afternoon was a heaven-sent opportunity for Mr. Burton to propose to Molly. If you’d had the gumption of an owl you would have taken that Longworth thing for a good brisk walk.”

“My God!” Sir George shuddered violently.

“It would have been extremely good for your liver, and it would have got him out of the way. However, that can’t be helped now; you must concentrate on after tea. The other guests do not arrive till about six, which should leave plenty of time. So as soon as tea is over you will suggest a game of billiards to Mr. Longworth. He won’t like to refuse a man of your age. And when you’ve got him in the billiard-room you will keep him there. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my love. Supposing Molly comes too.”

“Leave that to me, George.”

Lady Castledon rose to her feet.

“Leave that to me. Molly will not come to the billiard-room.”

She swept out and Sir George sighed, a thing he had done frequently of late. Ever since that cursed dance Jane had had only one idea in her head. And the trouble was he did not like Charles Burton. The man seemed a gentleman and all that sort of thing, and he was certainly wealthy, but he did not like him. No definite reason; nothing particular on which he could put a finger; he just couldn’t cotton to the blighter. As he had wittily said to old Lord Crumpleigh; “It’s not the clothes that make the man, Bill; it’s what’s inside ’em.”

A quick remark that; sized up the situation admirably. And he wasn’t going to have Molly married to a shop in Savile Row, whatever Jane might say. True he had not actually put his foot down up to date, but on one point he was determined. There was to be no coercion. If Molly wanted to marry Burton she could, but he wouldn’t have any pressure brought to bear on her.

He rose and walked over to the window. The floods were out, and below him there stretched a huge expanse of water from which trees rose like scattered islands. Away in the distance lay the South Downs, with Chanctonbury Ring showing clear in the setting sun. A glorious view, unequalled in that part of Sussex, and he was on the point of stepping out on to the lawn when two men came round a corner of the house in earnest conversation. So earnest was it that they did not see him until they were close to, and when they did so the conversation ceased abruptly.

“Good afternoon,” remarked Sir George affably.

“Goot afternoon,” answered one of them, speaking with a pronounced foreign accent.

“Lovely view,” continued Sir George, wondering who they were. For neither of them wore a hat, and they both gave the impression of having just come out of the house for a stroll. Possibly some of the party who had arrived early. And if they were typical of the remainder of the guests it looked as if it was going to be a jolly week-end. For with a surly grunt from the man who had first spoken, the two of them resumed their walk and disappeared.

Sir George raised his eyebrows; then, lighting a cigarette, he stepped through the window. There was a faint and rather pleasant nip in the air, and he decided to have a stroll round the grounds. Doubtless, Jane would be entertaining their host, so that he was not wanted.

He left the drive that ran down to the main road on his right, and walked towards a summer-house about a hundred yards away. His path was bordered on each side with rhododendron bushes, which in the spring would be a blaze of colour Just now, however, they seemed dank and gloomy, and the summer-house itself was even worse. Thick cobwebs covered the windows, and when he tried the door he found it was locked. Dimly inside he could see a pile of deck-chairs, but it surprised him that a man of Burton’s money who must keep two or three gardeners, should allow such obvious neglect and untidiness on his property.

Turning round he studied the house. It was bigger than he had thought, with an unsuspected wing at the back which gave it a T-shaped effect. Thirty bedrooms at least, reflected Sir George, and wondered what the deuce Burton wanted a house of that size for. “Wouldn’t have the damn place as a gift myself,” he muttered, and even as he spoke he saw his host coming towards him.

“Inspecting the property, Burton,” he said as the other approached. “Biggish place you’ve got here.”

“Too big sometimes, Sir George, and at others not big enough. I often have parties here when my accommodation is taxed to the uttermost.”

“Just met two of your guests a few minutes ago. Foreigners of sorts.”

Charles Burton laughed.

“Not guests,” he remarked. “They were two of my secretaries. I have so many connections in my business that I have to keep a foreign staff as well as an English one.”

“Really! Which reminds me, you know, though it is an extraordinary thing to say, I’m dashed if I know what your business is.”

The two men were strolling back towards the house, and for the fraction of a second a smile twitched round Burton’s lips.

“Quite a number of people have asked me the same question, Sir George, but I can assure you there is no mystery about it. I am the English representative of a financial group—or house if you prefer the word—that has ramifications all over the world. There is practically nothing that we do not deal in; from real estate to raw materials; from armaments to agricultural machinery. And because our tentacles are so far-flung we have information at our disposal which no one firm in any country could hope to possesss. And correct information is essential if you wish to make money.”

“Very true,” agreed Sir George. “I wish my damned broker would give it to me a bit more often.”

Once again a smile flickered round Burton’s mouth.

“You must let me give you a tip or two. And I hope that perhaps in the not too distant future I may be in a position where it will not only be a pleasure to do so, but even a right.”

“Eh! What’s that?”

The baronet stared at him.

“I have been talking to Lady Castledon,” said Burton, “and I am glad to say that she has been good enough to approve of my suggestion. It concerns your charming daughter. Now I am fully aware that according to standards today, I am being old-fashioned; parents seem to be the last people who are consulted. I do not agree with that at all. And so I would like to know if I have your consent to approaching Molly and asking her to become my wife.”

“God bless my soul,” cried the baronet. “Most unexpected, my dear Burton; most unexpected.” Must keep up the pretence of surprise anyway…And really it was decent of the man to have come to him and Jane first…”Little Molly…She’s very young, you know; only just out…Not like these modern girls…Still, if her mother approves, and Molly herself is agreeable, I am quite prepared to give my consent.”

“Thank you, Sir George. I am very sensible of the honour you have paid me.”

“Not at all, not at all. Well, I must go and talk to Jane about it.”

Charles Burton watched his retreating figure with an inscrutable look in his eyes. Now that the die was cast, now that he had put himself in such a position that he must ask Molly Castledon to marry him, he wondered if he had been a fool. What on earth did he want to tie himself up with a girl for? There were hundreds of other women to be had for the asking—or paying.

The trouble was that for the first time one particular woman was seriously interfering with his life. Ever since he had first met Molly Castledon she had intruded on his thoughts in a way he found most disquieting. It was strange, for he had met many prettier girls. Nevertheless, the fact remained that, try as he would, he could not get her out of his mind. He wanted her as he had never wanted anyone before. And being no fool he realised that in her case his intentions, on the surface, at any rate, would have to be strictly honourable. Afterwards…Well, it would all depend on how long it lasted.

That Molly herself would refuse never entered his head. Women did not refuse Charles Burton. Still it had been as well to pull out the dope with the old people; better to have everybody happy and satisfied. And there was no doubt that the horse-faced mother would prove a valuable ally, in case the girl did not jump to it at once.

The sight of a car coming up the drive brought a faint frown to his forehead; Algy Longworth and Molly were returning from golf. Now the reason he had asked that brainless idiot down for the week-end had certainly not been that he should take Molly off to the links. In fact when he had realised after luncheon that they had gone, he had felt definitely annoyed. Charles Burton disliked his arrangements being interfered with. However as he walked towards the car his face expressed only benign satisfaction at two of his guests having enjoyed themselves.

“Don’t leave me, Algy,” muttered the girl. “Stick closer than a clam. The blighter looks as if he was going to say his piece at any moment.”

“Trust Algy. But you’ll have to go through it some time, my pet.”

“Had a good game?” said Charles Burton affably as he came up.

“Tophole, my dear old host,” answered Algy. “And if I’d sunk my sixth putt on the last green I’d have beaten her. Pretty hot—what!”

“I wonder if you would care to see round the garden,” remarked Burton turning to the girl. “Or are you too tired?”

For a moment she hesitated, then she handed her clubs to Algy. She had promised to go through with it, so it might as well be now.

“I should like to, Mr. Burton,” she said. “Take those in for me, Algy.”

“Right, my angel. I feel honoured at the commission.”

He turned towards the house, as the other two strolled off, and not for the first time he felt misgivings over the whole thing. True it was only pretence on her part, but if Burton was the swine that recent events made him appear to be, even pretence was over the odds. In fact, if it had been anyone except Drummond who had suggested it, he would have turned it down flat.

He entered the hall to perceive too late that it was largely occupied by Lady Castledon.

“And where is Molly, Mr. Bugworth?” she boomed as soon as she saw him.

“Treading a measure midst the anemones with our host, Lady Castlegong,” he burbled genially. “Good game this. What’s your next fancy in nomenclature?”

He sauntered over to a side table and helped himself to a whisky and soda.

“What about a spot of Auntie’s ruin for you? It clarifies the brain, and prevents the nose turning blue.”

“I do not drink at this hour of the afternoon, young man.”

“Don’t you? You look as if you did. Or when I say that what I really intend to convey is that you don’t look as if you didn’t, if you take my meaning.”

He came back to the fire with his glass in his hand.

“Nice wench—your daughter,” he continued. “Definitely a nifty bit. I suggested the old wedding bells to her this afternoon, but as it made her miss her drive I didn’t pursue the subject.”

From the chair there arose sounds as of a cow elephant, suffering from asthma.

“Am I to understand”—words came at last—”that you have proposed to Molly?

“Such is my recollection. It must have been her, because the only other woman I met had a purple face and muscles like walnuts. She was murdering her caddie in a bunker when I last saw her.”

“Will you kindly cease talking for one moment and listen to me. Here and now I wish you clearly to understand that neither Sir George nor I would ever give our consent to Molly marrying a…a specimen like you. I believe you have a certain amount of money, but from what little I have heard about you, you represent a type of modern young man for whose continued existence I can see no possible object.” She glared at him. “What are you waggling your finger for?”

“I was just trying to get the tempo and the first note of the seven-fold Amen,” explained Algy. “No, it eludes me. But how right you are—how very right. There is just one academic point, however, on which I would like to join issue with you. Do we exist? Or is it just the figment of a disordered stomach? If you carefully study the works of Einstein and P. G. Wodehouse you will have to agree, that amongst the master brains there is considerable doubt on the subject. Are you really you, or are you a sweet ethereal wraith, wrapped round a central electron?”

Lady Castledon rose to her feet.

“If you were my son, Mr. Longworth, and a little younger you would soon find out if I was an ethereal wraith wrapped round an electron or not. Don’t forget what I said about Molly. Ah! Mr. Burton, I hear you have been showing my little girl round the garden.”

Charles Burton and Molly had just come in by the front door, and Algy stole a glance at his face. But he gathered nothing from it; as always, it was like a mask.

“Yes, we’ve been having a stroll round,” he said.

“Begonias on the up grade?” asked Algy hopefully as Molly joined him by the fire.

“Move over in the bed, Algy,” she remarked. “You take up too much room.”

“Molly!” Lady Castledon gave a gasp of horror, “What was that you said?”

“Well he does, mother. Why men should always consider that they have a prescriptive right to the centre of the fireplace, is one of those things that defeats me. Algy darling, I need alcohol. What’s on that tray?”

Charles Burton had gone upstairs and Algy looked at her with a grin.

“Have you something to confess to your mamma, my precious?”

“Shut up. And get me a drink. What’s in that bottle?”

“Sloe gin.”

“That’ll do. And I want a lot.”

“Molly dear,” said her mother, “am I to understand that—”

“You are, darling; you are. Thanks, Algy.”

“Oh! my dear, I’m so glad. And your father will be delighted.”

“Good Heavens! I haven’t accepted the man, if that’s what you mean. But I haven’t actually refused him. What are you pinching my leg for, Algy?”

“Only, my love, that I am sure it will merely be a question of time before you make him the happiest man alive.”

His back was towards Lady Castledon, and he frowned horribly at Molly.

“We will resume our talk later, Molly,” said her mother acidly, “when this impossible young man is not present.”

She swept out of the hall, and Algy gave a sigh of relief.

“Sorry, my dear, if I nipped the old suspender,” he said, “but you must remember one thing. On the face of it this has got to be a genuine affair. Your mother has got to believe that you really are thinking the matter over, if she’s going to pull her weight properly. For, if that fellow Burton gets an inkling that this is a put up job, we’re absolutely in the consommé.”

“All right, Algy; I’ll remember. But I draw the line at him kissing me.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. If I was you, I’d just say with simple maidenly sincerity that you’ll let him know when you’ve made up your mind.”

“I can’t make out why, if he’s what you say he is, he wants to marry me,” said the girl thoughtfully.

“Well, old dear, I’ve seen people with worse dials than yours, you know. What I can’t make out is why the devil he’s asked me down here this week-end.”

“No; I don’t see that either. Get me some more sloe gin, like a dear.”

“I say, Molly,” remarked Algy, returning with the glass, “as chap to chap, do you like your mother?”

“One gets used to her in time. Why?”

“Because I don’t. I think she’s dreadful.”

“I know. So do a lot of people.”

“I thought she was going to burst on me while you were doing the herbaceous border act with Charles. I told her I’d proposed to you on the links.”

“Yes; that would cause an eruption. But why did you tell her that? I mean, you didn’t, did you?”

“Nothing to speak of. Though every movement of my driver must have revealed my hopeless passion. You see we weren’t getting on very well, and she’d just called me Bugworth. So I thought I’d give her a jolt in the corsets.”

The girl began to laugh.

“You are a prize buffoon, Algy. But, tell me, while we’ve got the chance, what’s the next move? I’ve done what Captain Drummond wanted, so far as Mr. Burton is concerned, but what now?”

“His idea is, dear, that you may be able to find out something If you don’t, you don’t; it can’t be helped. But there’s a chance. And I’ve never known Hugh Drummond so serious as he is over this affair. Hullo! here’s another arrival.”

From outside came the sound of wheels on the drive, and simultaneously Charles Burton came running down the stairs. And as the front door opened he reached it.

“Welcome, my dear fellow,” he said. “I hope you had no trouble in finding the way.”

He came in with another man, who was wearing an astrakhan coat.

“Let me introduce you to Miss Castledon,” he continued, “and Mr. Longworth…Mr. Menalin.”

The newcomer bowed without speaking, and allowed the butler, who had just appeared, to divest him of his coat. Then he turned to Burton.

“Would it be convenient,” he asked, “for us to have a little chat as soon as possible? A matter of business.” He bowed again to Molly Castledon.

“At once, if you like,” said Burton. “Let us go to my study.”

They crossed the hall and disappeared, and the girl looked at Algy.

“Who’s that?” she said.

“According to Hugh,” answered Algy gravely, “the big noise who is at the bottom of the whole thing. I’d give a lot to be in the study at the moment.”

The girl glanced at him curiously.

“You’re a funny mixture, Algy,” she said. “You’re looking quite the strong, silent man.”

“Good Lord!” he laughed. “Not as bad as that surely.”

“Tell me more about Hugh Drummond,” she said after a pause. “He sounds rather a pet.”

“He’s a topper,” answered Algy simply. “You’d love him.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Great big chap. Ugly as be damned, and frightfully powerful. He and I and one or two others have always hunted together, but it’s Hugh who gives the orders.”

“But what makes him suspect this Burton man?”

“I can’t tell you more than I have told you already, my angel, because I’m not allowed to. But you can take it from me that Charles is a nasty bit of work.”

“I hate the man; he’s so dreadfully in love with himself. But I should never have thought he was a criminal.”

“Nor did anybody else until quite recently. Which is why he’s so dangerous.”

“And you’ve got no idea what he’s trying to do?”

“Not the slightest, dear. Nor has Hugh. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Does he know that Captain Drummond is in England?”

“Good Lord, no! And he mustn’t, either. What is it, Molly?”

She had suddenly gripped his arm.

“That window beside the front door, Algy. A man had his face pressed against it.”

He rose and crossed the hall; then, opening the door, he peered out into the darkness. There was no one to be seen, and after a while he came back to the fire.

“Probably a gardener,” he said reassuringly. “Or one of those funny-looking birds I’ve seen creeping about the place.”

“I’ve seen some too,” she answered. “I wonder who they are.”

“Ask me another, my pet. Since they didn’t come in to lunch, I suppose they’re servants of sorts.”

Molly Castledon got up.

“I don’t like this house,” she said. “It’s very comfortable, but there’s something about it that gives me the shivers.”

“You aren’t leaving little Algy, are you?”

“I am, my sweet. I’m going to have a bath.”

He watched her as she went up the stairs; then, with a slight frown, he helped himself to another whisky and soda. For the first time in his life he found himself at variance with Hugh Drummond. He did not like the part the girl was playing. True, Hugh would never have suggested it without good reason, and so far as he could see, Molly was incurring no risk. At the same time it went against the grain.

After a while he lit a cigarette, and his thoughts turned to the other subject that worried him. Why had Charles Burton asked him down? The invitation had come quite unexpectedly the morning after he had seen Drummond; and had it not been for the fact that he had persuaded Molly, much against her will, to accept the preceding day, he would have refused. And now that he had arrived, he was even more surprised.

He had expected a large party, similar to the one he had been to before. But, so far as he could make out, save for this man Menalin, the Castledons and he were the only guests. And since Burton was not a man who did anything without a reason, he asked himself what that reason could be. That his host had conceived a sudden and violent friendship for him he dismissed as improbable, to put it mildly.

The sound of voices interrupted his train of thought; Burton and Menalin were returning to the hall. And immediately Algy’s face became vacant.

“All alone, Longworth,” cried his host as he entered.

“Deserted, dear old host, by men, women and children,” he said mournfully. “Come and chat to me on this and that.”

“I tried to get that pal of yours down for the weekend,” continued Burton, splashing some soda into a glass. “Captain Drummond. I looked him up in the book, and dropped him a line, but I’ve had no reply.”

“You wouldn’t. The old scout is in France. At least, he was the last time I heard from him.”

“Really! When did he go?”

“About a week ago.”

“I want to get in touch with him rather badly,” said Burton. “You haven’t by any chance got his address?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t. I tore up his letter. But in any event it wouldn’t have been much use even if I’d kept it. He was just passing through, if you take my meaning, from hither to thither.”

“Did he happen to mention when he was returning to England?”

“No. But he’s an uncommunicative old bean, you know. Just said he couldn’t shoot last Wednesday.”

“I see. Well, I’d be very much obliged, Longworth, if you’d ask him to ring me up when he does come back.”

“Certainly. I’ll let him know the instant he returns. How goes the Golden Boot? I haven’t seen you there lately.”

“I was in a couple of nights ago. You use it a good deal, don’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve masticated quite a number of kippers there. God bless!” He finished his drink. “I’m for a spot of hot water.”

He lounged up the stairs and Burton looked at Menalin with a faint smile.

“That, I think, settles the matter,” he remarked as Algy disappeared. “The two are great friends, which is really why I asked that idiot down here. He, if anybody, would know Drummond’s whereabouts. So I think we can assume that the gentleman is still in France. The point is—how much does he know or guess?

“Exactly,” said Menalin, lighting a cigarette. “How much does he know or guess? One of my principal reasons for coming here was to discuss that very matter.”

“So I gathered from your letter. And as I said a moment or two ago my sole reason for asking Longworth here was to try and get in touch with Drummond.”

“The manoeuvre does not seem to have been very successful. However, for the moment we will let that pass. How much does he know? It is a matter to which I have given a good deal of thought, and at present I do not think we need worry. All that he can know is what Madame Pélain told him.”

“Which may have been a lot,” said Burton uneasily.

“I don’t think so,” answered Menalin. “Had she told him anything of real value it would have been contained in the letter which Standish wrote to Talbot from Cannes. Since, however, you have observed nothing suspicious since the receipt of that letter, we can assume, I think, that it did not contain any such information.”

“It would have been well if you could have got that letter.”

“Had it been possible we would have. But Standish registered it himself at the main post office.”

“And where is he now?”

“He was caught as I informed you at Evian, and taken back to Cannes. And when the police had finished with him I intervened. You need not trouble about Standish: he is safely under lock and key.”

“I’d far sooner he was dead.”

“Possibly. But we do not all of us possess your method, my dear Burton, of causing—er—natural death. And murder always excites the police.”

“You got Gasdon in Paris?”

“He was picked up as he came in by the Porte d’Italie driving Drummond’s car. He is still in hospital with a bad knife-wound.”

“So only Drummond remains.”

“As you say—only Drummond remains. And that, Burton, is a state of affairs that has got to be rectified as soon as possible. That man is dangerous.”

“But if he knows nothing…”

“I said that I don’t think he knows anything of importance at present. But if I’m any judge of human nature, that will merely spur him on to greater activity. Drummond, my friend, must go.”

“Once I can lay my hands on him he will trouble us no more.”

“Ah I—once you can. He has, I take it, no reason to suspect you?”

“None whatever. No one has. It was a nuisance that I had to give my name going up in the boat-train, but it couldn’t be avoided.”

“And how goes this new venture of yours—the night club?”

“Hardly a venture, Menalin. The Golden Boot is a blind. The fact that it’s a paying blind is all to the good, but I should keep it going even if it wasn’t. Like the parties I throw; and this house. Also, in a different way, like my marriage to that girl you met. They all help to keep my real activities out of the limelight.”

“I see the idea. Dorina told me that for an English night club yours was much better than the usual abomination.”

“I think she enjoyed herself. Funnily enough that was the last time I saw Drummond.”

Menalin stared at him.

“What’s that you say? Was Drummond at the Golden Boot the night you took Dorina there?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“And he saw her?”

“Of course he did. Why shouldn’t he?”

“Because she was with me in the bar of the Negresco on the occasion that I saw him.”

“But why the devil,” said Burton, “did Donna go into the bar if Drummond was there?”

“Because she didn’t know him from Adam. How could she? He was never introduced to her at the Golden Boot. He was merely one man in a crowded night club. What was there to make her notice him? You never drew her attention to him.”

“That’s true. I didn’t know anything about him then.”

Burton began to pace up and down the hall.

“Perhaps he didn’t recognise her,” he said at length.

“Not recognise Dorina! Don’t be a damned fool. No one could fail to recognise her. It didn’t matter if Madame Pélain realised that Dorina was the woman who had been at Chez Paquay that day, so long as she was only seen with me. But that Drummond should have seen her with you, is awkward.”

“Was the Pélain woman with Drummond at the time?”

“No.”

“Then it is possible that Drummond does not know that Dorina was at Chez Paquay. You see what I’m getting at. Dorina as a link between you and me I don’t mind; Dorina as a link between Latimer and me would be infernally dangerous.”

Menalin shrugged his shoulders.

“I fear it is a possibility that you’ve got to consider,” he remarked shortly.

The two men stared at one another.

“Moreover,” continued Menalin, “should it prove to be so, your pleasant conceit that you resemble Caesar’s wife rather goes by the board. You’d better get Drummond, Burton, dead or alive. And now I think I shall follow that young man’s example and go and have a bath.”

“I will show you your room,” said his host, leading the way up the stairs.

And once again, pressed against the window beside the front door, there appeared for a second the face of a man.

X. — LIMERICK BY ALGY

It cannot be said that the evening was a success. Some ten people from the neighbourhood came in for dinner, but though Charles Burton’s chef was as famous as his cellar, conversation flagged. And the fault lay in the host himself.

This sudden disclosure on the part of Menalin had upset him more than he cared to admit It had transported him from a mood of absolute confidence and security into one of doubt and uneasiness. He had returned to the subject in Menalin’s room, and though the Russian had told him that he was almost sure Madame Pélain had not seen Dorina in the Negresco there was an element of uncertainty about the matter which worried him.

At the time he had been doubtful as to the wisdom of taking such a singularly striking woman to the Golden Boot. But she was a lady who possessed a very decided will of her own, and when she expressed a wish to go there he had agreed. And the fact that Drummond should have selected that particular night to go there himself, was one of those chances which no one could legislate for.

Then a further disquieting thought occurred to his mind—one, which oddly enough had not struck him before. Was it chance that had taken Drummond that night? The interview with Talbot must have taken place before he arrived at the Golden Boot. Was it possible that some deeper motive had caused his presence at the night club? If so, it meant that Talbot had suspected him then.

He ran over the chain of events from Latimer’s arrival in Paris to his death on board. From the moment he had left the Gare de Lyon he had never been out of observation. He had put through a call to London, but it had been so short that it was out of the question that anything really incriminating could have been mentioned. And that was confirmed by the fact that nothing had subsequently happened. For although there was no mention of him by name on the papers in Latimer’s possession there was a very vital clue to his present activities. And had that come out Charles Burton would have known about it at once; the police would have been buzzing like a hive of bees.

The same thing applied to the letter which, so Menalin told him, Standish had written to Talbot from Cannes. Though it was most improbable that a man like Latimer could have passed on valuable information to a woman he had only known a fortnight, it was possible. In which case Madame Pélain would have passed it on to Standish, and it would have been in the letter—a letter which, though Talbot himself never received it, must have been opened by somebody else. In short, he was convinced that the contents of the papers had not been passed on; Latimer’s death had ensured that.

Once more his thoughts reverted to Drummond’s presence at the Golden Boot. And with growing irritation he realised all that it might entail if Drummond with the help of Madame Pélain, had realised that the woman of Chez Paquay was the woman who had been with him that night. True, there could be no question of proof; Latimer had died of natural causes. They could exhume him till they were black in the face; they would find no trace of anything. But they might suspect, and he did not want suspicion. No one desired to blush unseen for the next few weeks more fervently than did Charles Burton.

An abstemious man as a rule, tonight he was drinking more than usual. And after a while the champagne began to take effect. He was worrying unnecessarily; what could Drummond do anyway? The instant he showed up in England he was a doomed man; if he was still in France the police were bound to get him sooner or later and then Menalin would do the rest.

A sudden sentence caught his ear; they were discussing the murder of Colonel Talbot.

“A dastardly outrage,” cried a retired general. “I’ve known Harry Talbot since we were subalterns together. Member of my club. And that he should have been murdered in cold blood in broad daylight in the middle of the Park reveals a scandalous state of affairs. You might expect it with gangsters in America, but that it should happen in London is simply unbelievable.”

For the fraction of a second he caught Menalin’s eye; that, too, had been a well-planned bit of work. And even if he had not been fortified by his own excellent champagne, he knew that no shadow of suspicion could attach to him over that. The orders had passed through too many channels for him ever to be traced.

And it had been necessary—or, at any rate, expedient. Talbot had been far too clever and able a man to leave alive. But for Latimer he might have risked it; as things stood, it had been impossible. And so…

“I beg your pardon.”

He suddenly became aware that his prospective father-in-law was in vocal labour.

“What do you think of the state of affairs, Burton? You’re one of these international financial fellahs. Any chance of another war?”

“Perhaps my friend, Mr. Menalin, is better informed than I am, Sir George,” he murmured.

With an effort the worthy baronet shifted his focus. “Of course, of course,” he grunted. “Well, sir—what do you think?”

“It is an interesting field of thought,” answered Menalin. “So much depends on the chef.”

“The chef!” spluttered Sir George. “’Fraid I don’t quite get you.”

“Liver, my dear sir; liver. Have you never realised the appalling danger of a dictator with too much bile?”

“Deuced good. ’Pon my soul—that’s deuced clever. Must get that off at the club.”

“Where the members will be greatly edified, no doubt,” said Menalin with a smile. “Seriously though, has it never occurred to you, that the ordinary factors which used to govern international relations are quite dead today? War used to creak into being; next time it will flash. Hence the danger of a bad egg at a crucial moment. And now most moments are crucial.”

“Horrible,” shuddered Algy. “You make me go all goosey. Me for the bottom of a disused well.”

“It would be hard to think of a more suitable place for you, Mr. Longworth,” remarked Lady Castledon acidly.

“Anyway, mother,” cried Molly Castledon, “he got a bar to his Military Cross. Don’t look sheeplike, Algy; I know you did. What did you get it for?”

“Saving the rum at divisional headquarters, darling. But joking apart, Mr. Menalin, do you really think we’re going to get all hot and bothered again?”

“I am not a prophet, Mr. Longworth. All I say is that when supreme power over a nation is vested in one man the situation is dangerous. And you must admit that your country has not gone out of its way to ease it. Actuated doubtless by the highest motives you have, as your first contribution, successfully turned an old friend into a bitter enemy without achieving the slightest result…”

“A moral one surely,” remarked the vicar.

“Assuredly,” agreed Menalin with a smile. “But hardly in the way you think. Had you closed the Suez Canal you would, at any rate, have done something, even if it was only to start a European war. But doing what you did do in the sacred name of justice produced, if I may say so, one of the most Gilbertian situations of recent centuries. That is why I said that the moral result was hardly what you intended. The benefit was entirely to Italy.”

“Don’t hold with sanctions,” grunted the general. “Damn foolishness. For all that I don’t quite follow you, Mr.—er—Mr. Menalin.”

“And yet, General, it is very simple. At the beginning the Abyssinian war was intensely unpopular in Italy, except among a minority of hot-headed boys. And then the League applied sanctions. Immediately the war became a crusade—not against the Abyssinians, but against what the Italians considered injustice. The entire country closed up; every dissentient voice was stilled. A united nation with a common ideal came into being as a result of your action. And the fact that it was the unfortunate Ethiopians who were left to carry the baby was, of course, nobody’s business.”

“Rather a novel way of looking at it,” remarked Sir George,

“My dear sir, I should have thought it was obvious. True, I know Italy better, perhaps, than most of you here, but even without that knowledge it is difficult to see how anyone could have expected a different result. You may take it from me that the powers that be in that country mention you with gratitude in their prayers every night. To keep up appearances they have to pretend you are the villain in the piece, and the hoi polloi believe it. But in reality you have saved them at what one must admit was a trifling cost. You only ruined two or three of your own fishing centres, and caused a coal mine or two in Wales to close down. In fact, I don’t suppose helping Italy to win the war has cost you more than six or seven millions.”

“Do you suggest that we should have stood aside and done nothing?” demanded the vicar.

“I fear, sir,” said Menalin, “that I am a practical man. Until this world becomes Utopia, judgment goes by results. And when I see a policy pursued, from no matter what exalted motives, that produces the result your policy did I can only sit back and thank Heaven that the balance sheets of my companies are compiled by business men. Would you excuse me, Burton?”

A footman was standing beside him with a telegram on a salver.

“The worst of being one of those unfortunate individuals—business men,” he murmured to the woman on his right as he opened the envelope. And as he read the contents two pairs of eyes were unobtrusively fastened on him. One pair belonged to his host; the other to a guest who wore an eyeglass. And it seemed to Algy that for the fraction of a second, Menalin’s face registered uneasiness. However, as he thrust the wire in his pocket and turned to his neighbour his expression was as impassive as ever.

To Algy the entire party was becoming like a dream. Numbed by the two women he was sitting between, and who mercifully were discussing county affairs with their other partners, he felt a curious sense of detachment. Here, seated round Burton’s table, was gathered a group of people who, save for a difference in clothes, might have been sitting there fifty years ago. To them England was England—a thing as constant as the sun itself. That anything serious could really happen to their country literally never entered their heads. Other nations might bicker and fight, have revolutions, don different-coloured shirts—but not England. The whole thing was rather vulgar and ridiculous.

And since Algy was born and bred in the same caste himself he understood their point of view. Understood, too, the veiled hostility engendered in all of them by Menalin’s remarks. For whatever criticisms they might feel disposed to make on their country’s actions themselves, it was a totally different matter for a foreigner. Any disparagement from an outsider was sufficient to unite the most rabid enemies against the common foe.

He stole a glance at Menalin, who was apparently engrossed in conversation with the general’s wife. Was it possible that behind that inscrutable mask some amazing plot was being hatched that threatened the very foundations of their life, so far as the rest of the party was concerned? It seemed fantastic, and yet Hugh Drummond was not in the habit of making fantastic statements.

“Sweet, sir?”

He looked up; a footman was offering him a dish—a footman who stared him straight in the face and then gave the barest perceptible wink.

“Your napkin is on the floor, sir,” murmured the man and passed on.

It was a prophecy, if not a fact. A moment later it was on the floor, covering a twisted scrap of paper; two moments later the napkin was restored to its proper position and the floor was bare.

Not in vain had been Drummond’s teaching; Algy’s face, as he unrolled the message under cover of the table, was more asinine than usual. But no one had noticed anything; conversation was still general.

He straightened out the note, and glancing down he recognised the writing with a sudden thrill.

“Mention island of Varda. Get reactions B. and M.—HUD.”

So ran the note; concise and to the point. But, Algy reflected, as he put it in his pocket, not the easiest order ever. A: he had never heard of the darned place. B: suddenly to interject a remark about Varda in the middle of a description of last Tuesday’s hunt might cause aspersions to be cast on his sanity. However, it had to be done, and that was that. So Algy came out of his stupor, and gave his celebrated imitation of a horse neighing.

In his usual haunts it was a certain winner; on this occasion the effect was electrical. A dead silence settled on the room and everyone stared at him.

“Molly, my angel,” he burbled, “I’ve got it.”

“Got what, you fathead?”

“The last line of that limerick, darling. The one we were trying before dinner. Not your sort, Lady Castledon. This one is quite proper. And one gets a guinea for the best effort. Hence my recent silence; my brain had been in action.”

He beamed genially on the company.

“There was a young lady called Mahda

Who had hidden her stays in the lahda

When asked to explain

She said it might rain—

“Now here’s my effort:

“I’m going back to the island of Vahda.

“Pretty hot that—what? I suppose,” he added anxiously, “there is an island called Vahda.”

“Have you been drinking too much, Mr. Longworth?” remarked Lady Castledon ominously.

“Of course. I always do. But I haven’t reached the Plimsoll line yet. You know—half-way up the tonsils. Well, people, what do you think of it?”

He gazed round hopefully.

“No bon! No guinea! Tum-tum-ti-ti-tum-ti-ti-tum-tum. I think it’s dashed good myself. Witty; cryptic; neat. What say you, old host?”

“I had no idea you were so accomplished, Mr. Longworth,” said Burton suavely. “I should think it will certainly win the prize.”

“There you are, Molly, my dear,” remarked Algy complacently. “You can put your shirt on little Algy every time.”

“And in what paper is that interesting competition?” asked Burton.

“Not one that you’re ever likely to see, Charles,” said Molly calmly. “A fashion paper, my poor dear, which gives you patterns for garments no nice girl ever mentions. Personally, Algy, I think it’s a rotten line.”

“Take it or leave it, my child,” said Algy airily. “Possibly it wants a bit of polishing, but the basic idea is good. Don’t you agree?”

He turned to his dinner partner who was regarding him dispassionately through lorgnettes.

“Are you by any chance mental?” she asked with interest.

“Only at high tide; then I bark like a dog. My grandmother was the same, only she carried it further and bit people in the leg, until she had finally to go about on a lead, poor old soul.”

“It seems a great pity that you don’t follow your grandmother’s example,” she remarked acidly.

With relief he contemplated a bony shoulder blade; evidently the only reaction felt by the guests was that he was half-witted. But what about Menalin and his host? Had he been too damned stupid?

That he had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations was beside the point. The reaction of the two men had stuck out a yard, though it had passed in a flash. Menalin had stiffened like a pointer marking a bird, only to relax instantly; Burton had given an unmistakable start. So he had carried out Drummond’s order all right. But did they suspect him?

Another thing; where was Drummond? Presumably somewhere in the neighbourhood since he had got a note through to the footman. And who was the footman?

Algy glanced at him; he had never seen the man before in his life. But that he was in the show on their side was obvious. And presumably it would have to be through him that he’d get the answer back to Drummond. Which might be difficult unless he was the footman who was valeting him.

His clothes had been laid out that evening when he went up to dress, so he didn’t know who was looking after him. And he would not know, in all probability until the following morning when he was called.

Came a sudden pushing back of chairs and the ladies rose to leave the room. For a second he caught Molly’s eye; what a girl! How marvellously she had played up, with her yarn about a fashion paper! And then the door closed and the men were left alone.

It came as no surprise to him when Menalin rose and, coming round the table, took the next chair.

“Do you often indulge in these poetical flights, Mr. Longworth?” he asked with a smile.

“Rather,” cried Algy. “Must do something, don’t you know, to keep the old grey matter up to scratch.”

He was conscious that the other man was watching him like a lynx, but in his own particular line Algy was unbeatable. No man living could look such a completely congenital idiot at will.

“Quite,” murmured Menalin. “A very praiseworthy idea. But tell me, Mr. Longworth—I ask out of idle curiosity—why did you select the letter V? You might have had Garda, or Sarda, or Tarda, which would all have rhymed equally brilliantly. Why Varda?”

“’Pon my soul,” cried Algy. “I never thought of that.”

He gazed at Menalin with rising excitement.

“I believe Garda is better. Much better. You see, you get a play on the words. By Jove! you’re a genius—a blinking marvel. In the second line there’s that snappy bit about her stays in the lahda. You remember that!”

“Yes, thank you,” said Menalin.

“Well now, that’s where your notion hits the roof. Garda sounds very like garta. So you’ve got stays and garter. Gad! I must remember that. If that doesn’t knock ’em for the count, nothing will. I say,” he asked anxiously, “you haven’t any objection to my using your idea, have you?”

“Not the smallest,” Menalin assured him.

“Well, I call it deuced sporting of you,” said Algy with feeling. “I don’t mind telling you that there are mighty few fellahs who wouldn’t insist on fifty-fifty. But I tell you what I will do though. I mean fair play’s a jewel and all that sort of bilge. Now have you heard the story of the charwoman who had tripe for dinner I say, don’t go, old friend. That story is an absolute wow.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Longworth,” said Menalin grimly. “At the moment I fear it might prove too much for me.”

“Well, well,” murmured Algy resignedly, as he watched Menalin take a vacant chair by his host, “this doesn’t seem to be Algy’s night out.”

“What did you say?” grunted the man on his other side.

“An airy nothing,” answered Algy, “tossed into the port-laden atmosphere. I say, what do you think would happen if we started to flick bread pellets at the General?”

“Bread pellets at the General! Good Gad I sir—are you mad? Are you aware that his coverts march with mine.”

With an effort Algy controlled his face; he was beginning to enjoy himself.

“Where to?” he asked.

“How d’you mean—where to?”

“Where do they march to? And do they have a band?”

His neighbour swallowed twice.

“Coverts, sir, are woods. And the phrase ‘march’ means that his land adjoins mine.”

“Oh! I see,” said Algy. “My father has a wood on his land…Near Wigan…”

“Indeed! Does he preserve? Birds, I mean—not jam.”

“Rather…I shot some starlings there the other day…And a fox…We’ve got its tail hanging up in the downstairs lavatory.”

For a space there was silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing Then:

“You shot a fox! Tail! By God sir, where were you dragged up?”

“It was a lady fox, too,” said Algy hopefully.

“Lady fox! Lady fox! By Heavens, sir, you ought to be in prison.”

“What’s the matter, John?” called out the General. “You seem excited.”

“Excited, Henry—excited! So would you be. Are you aware that this—this gentleman has just told me that he shot a vixen—I beg his pardon, a lady fox—the other day and that her tail—her tail, mark you—is hanging in the downstairs lavatory.”

The General took it in slowly.

“Deuced bad form, my dear John,” he remarked at length, “deuced bad. But these boys know no better. Gad, young man, it’s a good thing for you that you weren’t in Poona in ’eighty-three. Or was it ’eighty-four? Old Shirty Ramsbotham would have put the wind up you. Damn’ good fellow—Shirty,” he added reminiscently. “Used to eat wineglasses after mess.”

“Why?” asked Algy brightly.

“Why!” The General glared at him. “Confound you, sir; what d’you mean—why? Just to show you that he could, of course…Why!”

He subsided into a heavy rumble of disgust, and Algy viewed him with alarm.

“Have I said the wrong thing?” he murmured to his neighbour.

“Have you ever said the right?” answered that worthy witheringly, and at that moment Burton rose.

“Shall we join the ladies?” he remarked to the room at large. “Hope you found the port to your liking, General.”

“Very good, Burton. Excellent. Wish I could say the same of your guests,” he added darkly.

The disgruntled warrior hoisted himself to his feet, and moved towards the door.

“We’ll have our coffee and brandy in the hall,” continued Burton.

It was at that moment that Algy caught the footman’s eye. He had suddenly appeared, and was standing in such a position that Algy would have to pass close to him. And as he got abreast of him, having lagged a little behind the others, he heard a whisper; “Your room; ten-thirty.”

Algy glanced at the clock; just a quarter-past ten. Presumably the zoo would break up about eleven; until then would it be safe to talk to Molly? Must keep up the fiction about the limerick, of course, but they’d better not seem too matey…Just in case…

She was sitting by herself near the fireplace and he strolled over to her.

“Grand idea, my pet, about the limerick,” he announced. “Straight from the horse’s mouth. Not Varda, but Garda.”

He was conscious that Burton was watching them.

“Mr. Menalin’s own,” he continued. “You see the great notion. Garda—garter. Pretty hot—what?”

“You complete idiot,” she laughed. And then without altering her voice: “What on earth is the game? Careful, Algy.”

“Send it up tomorrow,” he said. “Right-ho, my dear. Don’t worry.”

“What would be a good thing to do?” remarked Burton as he joined them. “Invent more limericks? It seems to be Longworth’s strong point.”

A burst of laughter came from the other side of the hall, and the words “lady fox” and “tail” floated across.

“You’re entertaining a real sportsman unawares, Burton,” said Algy’s dinner neighbour coming over. “He tells us he’s just shot a lady fox in his father’s wood and hung the tail in the—er—hung it downstairs.”

For a moment there was silence, while Burton stared at Algy through narrowed eyes.

“Really,” he remarked softly. “Now I wonder why you said that, Longworth.”

Inwardly Algy was cursing; he had been a fool to go so far. Actually he had completely forgotten that Burton hunted in the shires himself. But his face remained its usual vacant self.

“Bit of a leg-pull, old host,” he burbled genially. “Wanted to see if anyone would have apoplexy. And this sportsman damn near did.”

“What do you mean?” The harbinger of bon mots had got even redder in the face.

“Merely, my dear Livermore,” said Burton quietly, “that it seems a peculiar pastime for a man who hunts with the Pytchley.”

He turned away, leaving Mr. Livermore gasping like a fish.

“Deuced good!” he said at length. “You had me that time, Mr.—er—Mr.—”

“Longworth,” remarked Algy politely. “Algernon to my friends.”

He took out his cigarette case from which he had taken the precaution to remove the cigarettes.

“Dash!” he murmured. “Must go up to my room. No, thank you, Mr. Livermore; I only smoke my own poison.”

He crossed the hall, and began to mount the stairs. Burton and Menalin were both engaged in conversation with different people, and there was no one in sight as he opened the door of his room. The footman was laying out his pyjamas.

“Who are you?” said Algy quickly.

“Talbot. It was my father they murdered. I got special leave and shaved my moustache.”

Algy whistled.

“How the devil did you get in here?”

“Drummond fixed it. By God! that man would fix anything. Burton was advertising for another footman, and Drummond arranged it somehow.”

“Where is the old scout?”

“Don’t know. But he’s somewhere about. Saw him this evening. Listen for you mustn’t be too long. First, I was to tell you that Standish has escaped.”

Once again Algy whistled.

“I wonder if that’s the wire Menalin got at dinner. It shook him—that message.”

“It may have been. Second, this Varda business. Incidentally I darned near dropped the whole outfit with laughing over that limerick. What’s your report?

“They both definitely reacted,” said Algy.

“I agree. Quite definitely.”

“Where is the blasted place? I’ve never even heard of it.”

“No more have I. For that matter no more had Drummond when he gave me that note to give you. But you’re to insert an advertisement in the Morning Post as to the reaction.”

“Can’t get it in till Tuesday’s issue,” said Algy. “However, that’s O.K.”

“Third. You’re to go to the Golden Boot on Monday night, and see one Alice Blackton.”

“Right. Anything more—for I must go downstairs again?”

“No—that’s the lot.”

“And you don’t know where Hugh is? Drummond, I mean.”

Talbot shook his head.

“My hat What a man!” he cried.

“You’re telling me,” said Algy. “By the way what’s your name here?”

“Simpson. Henry Simpson.”

“Are you looking after me?”

“Yes.”

“A new job for you, Henry,” grinned Algy. “And I don’t mind warning you, old lad, that you won’t get fat on your tip.”

He crammed some cigarettes into his case and sauntered out of the room. The passage was still deserted; no one appeared to have moved in the hall. In fact his absence seemed to have passed unnoticed. And a few minutes later, to his intense relief, signs of a general departure began to manifest themselves.

“Don’t overdo the village idiot stuff,” came a low voice in his ear. “I don’t think dear Charles is amused.”

Molly Castledon drifted on past him, but he had got her warning. And she was right; he knew that. Neither Burton nor Menalin were gentlemen with whom to run unnecessary risks. And he had no desire to share Latimer’s and Talbot’s fate.

Not that anything was likely to happen to him in that house; Burton would hardly dare to do anything actually on his own property. But the week-end would not last for ever, and after that it would be a very different matter.

The last guests had gone as he crossed to the drinks table and helped himself to a whisky and soda. Molly had disappeared, and so had Burton. Menalin had been buttonholed by Sir George, and was regarding him with intense disfavour. So that an imperative summons from an armchair near the fire came as no surprise.

“Mr. Longworth,” boomed Lady Castledon, “come here. I wish to speak to you. I have noticed,” continued the voice as he approached the presence, “with great disapproval, your habit of addressing my daughter by such titles as ‘darling’ and ‘angel.’ In public too. Tonight, for instance, at dinner, when you produced that idiotic and vulgar limerick—was a case in point. Kindly understand that it must cease at once.”

“It will break her virginal heart,” said Algy sorrowfully. “So is it fair? Is it just? Has she done anything to deserve such cruel punishment? I beg—nay, I implore you—as her mother, not to let the poor child think that she has incurred my displeasure. If she puts her head in a gas oven it will be your fault.”

Lady Castledon rose majestically.

“George,” she remarked, “I am going to bed. I will leave you to deal with this case of arrested mental development.”

“Certainly, my love, certainly.”

“And remember what I said, Mr. Longworth. Good night, Mr. Menalin.”

The Russian bowed, and at that moment Molly came in from the billiard-room. Her face was slightly flushed and there was an ominous glint in her eyes.

“Going to bed, mother? I think I’ll come too. Night-night, Algy.”

“Too-te-loo, scab face. Mind you wash under the ears.”

“What did you call me?” demanded the girl, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

“Mother’s orders, my pet. She doesn’t like me calling you ‘darling.’”

He was looking at her closely; something had evidently upset her.

“Now pop up and lower your Glaxo like a good girl,” he continued. “And then Algy will come and kiss you good night.”

And even as he spoke there came from some way off, though perfectly clear and distinct, a sudden cry of “Help.”

CHAPTER XI

THE SLEEPWALKER

For a moment there was silence. Lady Castledon had disappeared, and Molly, one hand on the banisters, stood staring at Algy.

“What was that?” cried Sir George. “Sounded like someone shouting.”

“It did,” agreed Menalin. “I wonder where our host is.”

Not a muscle in his face had moved; hearing calls for help might have been part of his daily routine.

“We must renew our discussion tomorrow, Sir George,” he continued, lighting a cigarette.

“Yes; but oughtn’t we to do something about that shout?” said the baronet uneasily.

“I feel sure that Burton…Ah! here he is. What’s the trouble, Charles? We heard a cry a few moments ago.”

“Please don’t be alarmed,” said Burton. “No damage done. One of the men who looks after the electric-light plant got his hand jammed. But no bones broken, I’m glad to say.”

“That’s good,” cried Sir George. “Well, I think I’m going to bed. Good night, my dear fellow; good Right. Are you coming, Molly?”

He went up the stairs with his daughter, whilst Algy crossed to the drinks and helped himself to another whisky. That Burton was lying he felt convinced; you don’t get your hand jammed in an engine and have no damage done. So who was it who had shouted, and why?

“Do you hit the old golf ball, Mr. Menalin?” he asked casually, as he resumed his position by the fire.

“I fear I do not,” said the Russian.

“A pity. Darned good links those, Burton. Absolutely first-class. We might have a round tomorrow if you feel like it.”

“I’m afraid I shall be too busy, Longworth. But doubtless you’ll be able to fix up a game.”

“I’ll have a dip at it,” he answered. “Perhaps Molly would care for a return.”

The two men were standing, one on each side of him, and in spite of himself he found that his pulse was going a little quicker. Not that they could do anything to him—such an idea was absurd. But with his knowledge of what Drummond had told him, he rather wished they were not quite so adjacent.

“Longworth,” said Burton abruptly, “both Mr. Menalin and I are a little worried over what I am sure is a small thing. That limerick of yours. Now what was it that made you think of the island of Varda?”

Algy stared at him blankly.

“It rhymed, old host; that’s all. And now we’re not using it; it’s Garda, thanks to Mr. Menalin. But anyway, why should you be worried? I mean, is there anything particularly fruity over the island of Varda, wherever it is?”

“Only this. Very few people know of its existence, and we discovered it quite by accident when cruising in Mr. Menalin’s yacht. We were immediately struck by its immense possibilities as a health resort—it’s a second Madeira. And amongst some other activities we are floating a company for its development. Which brings me to the point. As you will naturally understand, the fewer people who know about it, with matters in their present stage, the better. And what we feared was that you might have heard the scheme being discussed owing to some leakage, and that that had put the name into your head.”

“Good Lord, no!” cried Algy. “Never heard of the bally place in my life. Rest easy in your beds, my jolly old financial magnates. Your secret is locked in my bosom. All I ask is that the bridal suite should be reserved for me when you open.”

He yawned cavernously, and put down his glass.

“Well—I’m for bed. And tomorrow, refreshed and invigorated by a night of dreamless sleep, we will all dance a merry roundelay in the garden before breakfast.”

He strolled up the stairs and paused at the top.

“I must warn you of one thing, chaps; I sing in my bath.”

He disappeared, and the two men stared at one another.

“I suppose,” said Menalin thoughtfully, “that he really is not quite all there. Though why,” he continued irritably, “you should have asked any of these unbelievable individuals at all passes my comprehension. The girl’s the only possible one and it struck me that you weren’t getting on quite as well as might be expected in that quarter.”

Burton flushed at the sneer, but said nothing.

“What actually was that shout?” continued Menalin.

“He’d slipped his gag somehow and got in one cry before they stopped him.”

“I see. Well, my friend, this is disquieting news about Standish.”

“It doesn’t reflect too well on your staff work out there,” said Burton, getting some of his own back. “Have you heard how it happened?”

“Only the bare detail that he has escaped. Do not worry; he will not get far. And even if he does he knows nothing. I am much more concerned about Drummond. I have heard something new, Burton, which I have had no chance to pass on to you as yet. Tosco was in my room before dinner and told me.”

“I didn’t even know he’d arrived,” said Burton. “What is this news?”

“It concerns the murder of Maier in Territet,” went on Menalin. “Apparently Tosco managed to get into communication with our agents who, as you know, were arrested. And from them he got a description of the two men who were in the house when they returned. It appears that they were both English, and that one of them was a big, strong man who was remarkably ugly. It was he who knocked out Number ten as if he’d been pole-axed.”

“You mean it might have been Drummond.”

“Exactly. We know that Standish was making for the Lake of Geneva; isn’t it more than likely that Drummond did the same? And that Drummond got into Switzerland whilst Standish didn’t?”

Burton nodded thoughtfully.

“In which case any chance of catching Drummond in France may be eliminated. He would naturally return to England via Germany and Holland.”

“That is so,” agreed Burton.

“Moreover, he will have brought with him Maier’s model, which as you know was missing.”

“Why should he?” demanded Burton. “For that matter why should he go to Maier’s house at all?”

“On the face of it—quite true. And I don’t say for a moment that it was Drummond. But if it was the affair is disquieting. Not so much that Maier is dead, and the model missing, but because it reveals a knowledge of certain parts of our organisation which I had not suspected the other side possessed. Who put them on to Maier in the first place?”

“Do you think that little rat of a barber overheard anything and passed it on to Talbot?”

“Possibly. I cannot say. But the bald fact remains, Burton, that if it was Drummond, it shows there is a leakage somewhere. Fortunately that leakage can only be on the fringe of our scheme, but one never knows when one thing may not lead to another. And whatever you may say about the English, you cannot deny that their Special Service men are second to none, and that once they’ve got on to a thing they never let go.”

He lit a cigarette.

“I suppose it is necessary to remove our friend below?” he asked.

“Absolutely. He has suddenly developed scruples, and he knows too much. God! I wish I’d got Drummond down there as well.”

Menalin laughed shortly.

“Well—you haven’t. And from what little I’ve seen of the gentleman, I don’t think you’re likely to. Shall we adjourn? There is a lot to be discussed, and I am anxious to see this method of yours in action.”

They crossed the hall towards Burton’s study, and Algy who had been lying with his ear glued to the banisters on the first floor landing, rose and dusted his trousers. Except for an acute attack of cramp he had gained nothing. One or two odd words here and there were all that he had heard, and they had been of no help.

The house was very silent as he walked to his room. From the further end of the corridor a faint roaring noise proclaimed that Sir George had given up the labours of the day; a suddenly extinguished light under the door of the adjacent room indicated that his wife was about to imitate him.

A fire was burning brightly in the grate, and throwing himself into an easy chair he lit a cigarette. He had half hoped to find some message from Talbot concerning the shout, but there was no sign of one. And the possibility that it was Talbot himself who had called out, struck him for the first time.

He rose and began to pace up and down the floor. That something was going on he knew; how to find out what it was—that was the point. And it was no question of fear or danger that deterred him, but just ordinary horse-sense.

In the first place, save for the hall and the sitting-rooms, he did not know the geography of the house. It would, therefore, if he had a look round, be a blind search. And was the bare chance of discovering something worth the risk of being discovered himself? For if that happened, no amount of pretended buffoonery could possibly save him. He would stand self-convicted as a spy, and, apart from anything they might do to him, his value to the side would become nil on the spot.

He drew back the curtain and looked out. It was an overcast, rather unpleasant night, and very dark. From a room at one end of the annexe, light was filtering through a blind, and it seemed to him that he could Catch the faint murmur of voices. The room was on the same floor as his own; if only he could see inside. But it was impossible, and once more he started pacing restlessly up and down.

After a while he got undressed, but he knew that sleep would be out of the question. So, putting on a dressing-gown, he again flung himself into a chair, and picked up a book. But he could not concentrate. Round and round in his mind went the ceaseless questions. Where was the island of Varda? What was really happening there, for he no more believed Burton’s explanation about that, than he believed his story about the electric-light plant? Where was Drummond? Was he outside there in the darkness prowling round the house?

Suddenly he put down his book and leaned forward, listening intently. And this time there was no mistake; a board had creaked in the passage outside. Like a flash Algy was across the room and had switched off the light. Then, crouching behind the bed, he waited tensely.

Came another creak—this time just outside the door, and the handle was gently tried. The flames were throwing dancing shadows, as with every muscle taut he watched the door slowly open. Watched and waited, only to relax suddenly with a gasp.

With her eyes open and staring and her hands groping in front of her, Molly Castledon closed the door and came on into the room, She moved with a strange impression of sureness—slowly, but unfalteringly, and Algy watched her with some dismay. By now he realised what had happened; she was walking in her sleep. And his only coherent prayer was that her gorgon of a mother would not follow her. He felt that explanation would be difficult…

But what on earth was he to do? Dimly he remembered that the one thing you must not do is to wake a sleep-walker. He had an idea that one took them by the hand and led them gently back to their own room. And one slight difficulty was that he had no idea which was her room. The prospect of a hand-in-hand search for it, and encountering mother minus hair and teeth in the process, made him break out in a cold sweat. Especially as, somewhat naturally, Molly had omitted to put on a wrap and was clad only in pyjamas.

Algy drew a deep breath; something had to be done quickly as, to make matters worse, she was now preparing to get into bed. Wild thoughts of singing “You can’t do that there ’ere” he dismissed as impracticable, and then the tension broke.

“Are you never going to speak, fathead?” demanded the girl.

“What the…Why the—” spluttered Algy. “I thought you were walking in your sleep.”

“Bright boy,” she said sitting on the edge of the bed. “That’s what I meant you to think. I used to when I was a kid, and I was afraid I might have forgotten how. Did I do it well?”

“My angel woman—magnificently,” he remarked. “But what on earth is the notion?”

“Give me a cigarette,” she said.

“But, Molly,” he cried, “you can’t stop here. What on earth are people going to say if you’re found out?”

“Who’s going to find out? Father had too much port, and mother’s taken her usual sleep dope.”

“Thank God for that,” breathed Algy fervently.

“And if it eases your mind I’m not going to stop here. You’re coming to my room when I’ve finished this cigarette. Algy, that little performance was a dress rehearsal.”

“Go on, dear heart,” he said resignedly. “I suppose I’ll get this right sometime.”

“Did you notice I was a little annoyed when I came in from the billiard-room?”

“It did not escape Algy’s attention.”

“I don’t know if the gentleman had been liquoring up, but the result left much to be desired.”

“I guessed it was that.”

“Much,” she repeated. “His ideas of fun and laughter and mine do not coincide. And when I told you I’d play I did not bargain for that.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” said Algy quietly. “Very sorry indeed. And I know that Hugh will be too.”

“Don’t you worry about that; this child can look after herself. But, Algy I want to get a bit of my own back. Hence the sleep walking.”

“I’m afraid I’m a bit dense, my love, but…” Algy looked frankly bewildered.

“Come over here.”

She took him by the arm and drew him to the window.

“You see that room with the light on. I can see it much better from mine than you can from here. There’s something going on in it. And I’m going to find out what that something is.”

“But how the devil do you propose to do it?”

“If I can sleep walk into this room, I can sleep walk into that.”

For a moment or two he stared at her speechlessly.

“My dear girl,” he gasped at length, “don’t be such an ass. It’s out of the question. I absolutely forbid you to do anything of the sort. You’re to go straight back to bed.”

She blew out a cloud of smoke.

“Algy, my pet, you’re rather angelic when you do the cave man stuff. Now listen to me, big boy. First of all what was all that Varda business about?”

“Hugh got a note to me through one of the footmen. Incidentally he’s not a footman at all, but the son of Colonel Talbot who was murdered the other day. And in the note I was told to get Burton’s and Menalin’s reaction to the island of Varda.”

She began to laugh.

“And was that the best you could do, my poor lamb? However, we’ll let that pass, and go on. Do you believe what our charming host said about that man who screamed?”

“No,” admitted Algy. “I don’t.”

“Good. Two points. A third you’ve just told me yourself; this show is sufficiently big not only for a man to come masquerading as a footman, but for me to have been given the job I’ve got. O.K. up to date?”

“You little devil,” grinned Algy. “You’re not going to get me that way.”

“Shut up,” said the girl. “So much for that side of the situation; now for the other. I never liked Charles, but you can take it from me that, compared to my feelings for him now, those of yester year were like a crooning mother’s. So you see that everything adds up; no subtraction anywhere.”

“But Molly, my dear,” he said, “it’s not safe. There are probably a lot of men there.”

“What if there are? They won’t eat me.”

“And the chances are very small that you’ll find out anything if you do.”

“The chances are non-existent that I’ll find out anything if I don’t.”

“Besides—your rig.”

“What’s the matter with it? I’m decent, ain’t I?”

“Of course you are, my dear,” he said feebly. “Perfectly adorable, but…”

She rose and pitched her cigarette into the fire.

“Algy dear,” she said quietly. “My mind is absolutely made up. There’s no good pretending that if you thought you had half a chance of getting into that room successfully yourself you wouldn’t take it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Of course I’m right. Well you haven’t half a chance—not the hundredth part of a chance. They’re more than a bit suspicious of you already. So the only hope is me. I may find out nothing; the door may be locked; they may be holding a Bible meeting. But I’m going to have a look see.”

“You are a fizzer, Molly,” he cried. “But it’s all wrong, you know. And if anything happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Don’t be an ass. What can happen to me? Now come along to my room, and we’ll have a preliminary investigation. Then once I’m away you must come back here, and wait for me.”

“I’ll wait in your room.”

“Don’t be silly. When Charles leads me back by the hand it’ll look grand, won’t it, if the first person he sees is you. Come on.”

Side by side they crept along the passage till they came to her door. And it was as they got to it that Algy suddenly stiffened; from close by he had heard a faint sound of movement. His grip on her arm tightened, and she paused pressing close to him in the darkness.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“There’s someone here,” he breathed. “Go into your room; shut and lock the door. I’ll come in later—if it’s safe.”

He crouched back against the wall as she opened the door. And in the faint light that filtered out from the fire he saw for a second the outline of a man not a yard away. And seeing—sprang.

Came a grunt and a stifled curse as he closed, and the next moment he was fighting in earnest. And then more light; Molly had reopened her door.

“Good God!” muttered Algy, letting go. His opponent was Talbot.

“What’s the game?” he demanded suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

Talbot raised his eyebrows, and Algy frowned. It had just struck him that, on the face of it, the same question applied to him even more forcibly. Then he realised Molly was still standing in the open doorway.

“Molly,” he said, “this is the footman I told you about. Captain Talbot; Miss Castledon.”

She gave an amused little laugh.

“How d’you do,” she remarked, holding out her hand. “Don’t look so embarrassed, you poor man. I can assure you that Algy’s intentions are strictly honourable. Come in; we can’t all stand about in the passage.”

“You see,” explained Talbot, when the door was shut, “Drummond didn’t know that Longworth was going to be here when he first sent me. And so, amongst other things one of the jobs he gave me was to look after you, Miss Castledon. He told me what you were doing—leading Burton up the garden path and so forth—and—er—I—er—happened to be passing the billiard-room tonight when you were in there. So I thought—er—er—”

“Exactly,” said Molly quietly. “You thought he might endeavour to follow up the good work.”

“Something of the sort,” he admitted.

“Thank you very much, Captain Talbot. It was sweet of you. So far I am glad to say I have been spared that. This is something quite different. Explain to him, Algy.”

Talbot listened with a look of admiration growing on his face.

“But it’s super,” he cried, enthusiastically.

“Simply super. I congratulate you, Miss Castledon.”

“Rot,” said Algy. “She oughtn’t to do it.”

“But she’s going to, my pet,” answered Molly.

“And I shall be on hand,” said Talbot.

Algy stared at him.

“That makes it better,” he said thoughtfully. “Much better.”

“But how can you be?” cried Molly. “You can’t be sleep-walking too.”

“Not exactly,” laughed Talbot. “But I am a footman. I can be in parts of the house, quite safely, where Longworth couldn’t possibly be without raising suspicion.”

“Have you got any idea how many there are in this party?” asked Algy.

“There’s a permanent staff here of six men,” said Talbot. “They’ve got a dining-room of their own, and four of ’em are foreigners.”

“What do they do?”

“Secretarial work apparently. But it’s really only guess-work on my part, because they’ve got a special staff who look after them.”

“And was it one of them who screamed?” asked the girl.

“I don’t know,” answered Talbot. “I heard it, of course, but there’s one thing you soon discover in this house. Curiosity is not encouraged.”

“Burton said it was someone getting tied up in the the electric-light plant,” remarked Algy.

“That I can assure you it wasn’t,” said Talbot. “The engine is a hundred yards away in the wood. No; that scream came from the house.”

“Come on, Captain Talbot,” cried Molly. “If we stop here talking all night, their meeting will be over.”

“Dash it, Molly,” said Algy. “I don’t like it.”

“Dry up,” she laughed. “Now what are you going to do?” She turned to the soldier.

“Go with you and show you the room. Then lurk round a corner out of sight, but within hearing. And if anything happens, just give a call and I’ll be with you.”

“And you, Algy?”

“I’ll watch from here for a bit, but I’ll be away before there’s any chance of your coming back. It’s all wrong this, but good luck, bless you.”

The door closed behind her and Talbot, and Algy crossed to the window. The girl had been right; he could see straight into the room opposite. But the blind was pulled down, so that the fact did not avail much. And then to his amaze and delight a thing happened which he would not have dared to hope for. With a click the blind flew up, and there was Menalin leaning out of the window.

Algy crouched down still lower, though he knew he could not be seen. What an unprecedented stroke of luck! Every detail of the room was plainly visible. Facing him, and sitting at one end of a table was Burton, and the six men mentioned by Talbot were flanking him, three on either side. Nearest to him was a pushed back chair, evidently the one which Menalin had just vacated.

At the moment Burton was doing the talking, though it was impossible to hear anything he said. Occasionally one of the others would make a note, or consult a paper, whilst Menalin, his back to the room, stood quietly smoking. It might, reflected Algy, have been the most ordinary common or garden business meeting, with the chairman addressing his board of directors.

Suddenly Algy grew tense; the moment had come. Menalin had swung round; the other men had all risen and were staring open-mouthed at some obviously amazing spectacle. And then Molly herself came into view. Heavens! but she was superb. Even at that distance he could see the outstretched hands, sense those wide-open staring eyes as she moved across the room.

She came to a chair, and began slowly to feel her way round the table. And it was then that Burton seemed to come out of his stupor. He lifted one hand in an imperative signal for silence, and moved swiftly towards the girl. For a moment Algy’s heart stood still. What was he going to do? And with unspeakable relief he saw that all was well; Burton had been taken in even as he had.

Very gently he took the girl’s hand, and began to lead her towards the door. Which, reflected Algy, was his cue not to linger on the order of his going. Five seconds later he was back in his own room, marvelling at the pluck which had carried a girl of her age through such an ordeal. Whether she had found out anything or not was beside the point; nothing could detract from the merit of the performance. In fact he was still taking off his hat to it when Talbot shook him into consciousness next morning at eight o’clock.

“Wouldn’t have believed it possible that I could have slept,” Algy announced. “God! man—she was immense. Did you see it?”

Talbot shook his head.

“But I followed back to her room at a discreet distance to make sure Burton didn’t try any funny stuff.”

“He didn’t, did he?”

“No. I’ll give the swine credit for that. I wonder whether she’s got on to anything.”

“We’ll find out this morning. Jove! that girl can act.”

Algy lit a cigarette.

“All the six worthies you told us about, and the great Menalin himself, gaping at her like a group of dead codfish.”

“I wish I’d seen it,” said Talbot.

“The incredible bit of luck was that just before the performance started Menalin went and loosed up the blind. So that I saw the whole outfit from A to Z. Look here, old lad, we’ll have to keep up the fiction. D’you mind turning me on a bath?”

Talbot grinned.

“As your lordship wishes. Shall I carry in the ducal loofah?”

“Go to hell,” said Algy amiably. “You’re a foul valet, and if the water isn’t the right temperature I shall report you to that pompous-stomached butler.”

The male members of the party were already down when he arrived for breakfast an hour later.

“Good morrow, my dear old proprietor and fellow guests,” he burbled, wandering over to the hot plate on a tour of inspection. “What is the popular line in nourishment?”

“Eggs in silence,” said Burton. “You’ll find papers on the sideboard.”

“Eggs in silence!” Algy guffawed. “By Jove I That’s good; I must remember that one.”

He glanced sideways as the door opened and Molly came in.

“Good morning, Miss Castledon.” He bowed deeply and realised that not for nothing did she pass her hand wearily over her forehead, and give him the barest suspicion of a wink. “We are in great heart, are we?”

“Please don’t get up.” She turned to the others who had risen. “Not very great, Algy.”

“My angel—you shake me to the core. What ails thee?”

“I had the most extraordinary vivid dream last night,” she said.

“Really.” Burton looked at her solicitously. “Nothing to do with the dinner, I hope.”

“It was about you,” she went on. “And Mr. Menalin. You were in a room which had a big table in it, and there were six other men with you. There were chairs round the table, and a lot of papers scattered on it. And you were all standing up and looking at me. I know it all sounds very stupid and ordinary, but it was so vivid that it might have been real.”

“Not at all stupid, Miss Castledon,” said Menalin. “In fact very interesting. And I’ll tell you why in a minute. Was that all you saw in the room?”

“No. There was a man asleep on the sofa.”

“Very interesting,” repeated Menalin. “Isn’t it, Charles?”

Burton nodded and the girl looked in bewilderment from one to the other.

“What do you mean?” she said at length.

“Because it wasn’t a dream, Miss Castledon,” answered Menalin. “Tell me, do you often walk in your sleep?”

“No. I don’t, do I, Daddy?”

“What’s this? What’s this?” Sir George came out from behind his paper with a start. “Walk in your sleep! You haven’t since you were a child.”

“She did last night, Sir George,” said Burton. “We were having a business conference which lasted rather late, and suddenly the door opened and your daughter came in. I’d never seen a case of sleepwalking before; in fact none of us had. But she went quite peacefully back to her room and never woke at all.”

“God bless my soul!” cried the startled baronet. “You don’t say so. She used to do it when she was small, but she hasn’t for years.”

“And why I said it was interesting,” remarked Menalin, “was that Burton and I had a little argument as to how much anyone in that condition really sees. From what Miss Castledon tells us, everything is imprinted on the brain, just like a camera exposure.”

“You mean to say that it really was you I saw last night?” cried Molly.

“Undoubtedly,” said Menalin. “And our host. And the six other men. And the man asleep on the sofa.”

“Then that probably accounts for my feeling so tired this morning,” she said. “You poor people! I’m sorry I was such a nuisance.”

“A very charming one, at any rate,” laughed Menalin. “I wish we could always have such delightful interruptions to prosaic business meetings.”

“Do you feel up to golf, old thing?” asked Algy.

“Rather. Of course I do. Ring up for caddies. You see, Algy,” she said half an hour later as they swung out of the drive in his car, “I thought it was safer to take the bull by the horns. Telling the whole thing like that, and looking a bit washed-out ought to dispel any possible suspicion. And in view of everything, it’s advisable.”

“My dear!” he cried enthusiastically, “you were superb. I watched the whole thing through the window.” He glanced at her as he spoke. “What’s the matter, kid? In view of everything…Is there…”

She was staring straight in front of her.

“There was one moment, Algy, when I nearly gave the whole show away.”

“Was there? When?”

“The man who was asleep on the sofa…”

“What about him?”

“He wasn’t asleep. He was dead.”

CHAPTER XII

CADDIE MOST FOUL

Algy pulled into the side of the road and stopped the car.

“What is that you said?” he asked very quietly.

“I said that the man lying on the sofa was not asleep. He was dead.”

“Look here, dear,” he continued. “I don’t want you to think I’m being stupid or unbelieving. But this is serious. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Have you ever seen a dead man?”

“No. Not till last night.”

“And you’re quite certain he wasn’t asleep?”

“A man breathes when he’s asleep, doesn’t he, Algy? He doesn’t lie motionless with his mouth open, and his eyes wide and staring…Oh! God, I nearly screamed.”

“May He be praised that you didn’t,” said Algy gravely. “You wouldn’t have been here now if you had, Molly; nor would Talbot, nor would I.”

He lit a cigarette and leaned forward over the steering-wheel.

“What did they kill for, Algy?” she cried.

“Ask me another,” he said. “Same as you can over everything connected with this show. He was probably the poor blighter we heard shout for help earlier on.”

All around them stretched the floods, the water lapping idly against the sides of the road.

“You do believe me, don’t you?” she cried.

“Yes, my dear, I do—in view of what we know of these gentlemen. The point is—what to do?”

There came the faint swish of a bicycle approaching from behind, and a man rode slowly past them.

“Get on, Algy, you fool,” said a well-known voice. “You’re in sight of the house. Go to the golf club. Play a round. Look out for me there.”

As silently as he had come the cyclist departed, without even having turned his head. And as they overtook him again half a minute later, a typical caddie was still bicycling stoically along the road towards the links.

“Who was that?” gasped the girl.

“Hugh Drummond,” said Algy shortly. “I would make an idiot mistake like that.”

“But I don’t see what was wrong,” she cried.

“Darling,” he said, “you don’t see what was wrong, because you don’t know what we’re up against. Why should we stop and talk in the middle of a ruddy lake, unless we had something very important to discuss, especially as ostensibly we’re on our way to play golf? We’re fighting a gang of utterly unscrupulous men, and once let them think that we’re in collusion, it’s all U P.”

“So that was the mysterious Captain Drummond,” she said after a pause. “I want to meet him.”

“You evidently will—this morning. But don’t forget that so far as you are concerned he’s just an unknown man of the caddie type. This is a game of no mistakes, Molly, in spite of the fact that I’ve just made a crasher.”

There were some twenty cars parked when they arrived, and Algy, taking out the two bags, walked over to the pro’s shop.

“Bit short this morning, sir, I’m afraid,” remarked that worthy. “There’s a match on. I can manage one caddie for the lady, but…”

“Excellent,” said Algy casually. “If anyone else turns up send him out to me.”

A bit of luck, he reflected as he strolled over to the club house…Left Hugh to do as he liked…

His eyes narrowed; coming up the road was a car he knew well—Charles Burton’s. And the owner was inside.

“Changed your mind?” he called out as the car stopped. “Come and play a three ball.”

“No, thank you,” answered Burton. “I’ve only come up to see the secretary, and get my clubs.”

Algy wandered into the bar looking thoughtful. On the face of it Burton might have telephoned the secretary and asked Algy to bring back his clubs. So was that the real reason that had brought his host here, or was it to make sure the golf was genuine? And at that moment he noticed the group by the bar; Peter Darrell, Ted Jerningham, Toby Sinclair—the whole of Drummond’s gang. Moreover, everyone of them glanced at him as if he was a stranger…The game was beginning in earnest. He ordered a pint of beer, and stood leaning up against the bar and almost touching Peter Darrell.

“Quid corners, boys?” Peter was saying.

“Goes with me,” answered Jerningham.

“By the way, steward,” went on Peter, “is there any good hotel near-by where we could put up for the night?”

“Yes, sir. Two or three. I can give you the names if you like.”

Algy strolled over to the window; certainly the game was beginning. And as he looked out, he saw Drummond standing by the caddie master’s but shouldering his bag of clubs.

“Steward,” he called out, “would you telephone through to the professional and ask him to give my caddie a couple of Bromfolds. Hud something or other is his name.”

“Very good, sir.”

The steward turned away, and for an instant the eyes of all of them met. Then Algy put down his tankard and went out into the hall to find Charles Burton talking to Molly.

“Come on, you boozing hound,” she cried. “I don’t believe you’ve even got a ball down.”

“I hope you have a good game,” said Burton politely.

“Sorry you won’t make a three ball, old host.” The door had flung open behind him and the others were coming out of the bar. “Come on, Molly. I’ve got a caddie after all.”

“Algy,” she said as they walked to the tee, “wasn’t that Ted Jerningham I saw in the hall?”

“It was,” he answered.

“Why did he look straight at me and cut me dead?”

“Because I got in ‘old host’ just in time,” grinned Algy. “You wouldn’t have thought, would you, that I’d known the whole crowd for fifteen years?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Drummond, dear. They’re all his gang—same as I am. And you’re our latest and most priceless addition. So for today you don’t know Ted, and he doesn’t know you. See?”

“You know,” she said happily, “I’m beginning to like this. What are they doing down here?”

“Stopping for the night for one thing. But I’ll know more by the end of the round. Good-bye, darling. I think you’ve hooked into Kent.”

“A grand girl, Algy,” said Drummond, as Molly and her caddie disappeared. “That show of hers last night was magnificent—simply magnificent.”

“You saw it, did you?”

“I was up in a tree. Did she find out anything?” He fumbled suddenly with the bag. “Bit to the right of the ’ole, sir. Gaw blimey—wot a putt!”

“Not up to your usual form, that one, Longworth?”

From nowhere, apparently, Charles Burton had unexpectedly materialised.

“D’you mind if I stroll round with you for a bit?”

“An honour, dear old boy, an honour. I admit that putt was not struck with my usual fluent form, but the round is yet young.”

“I had an idea,” remarked Burton a little later, “that you knew Peter Darrell.”

“Peter Darrell!” Algy frowned thoughtfully. “What do I want here, caddie?”

“Yer driver,” answered that worthy contemptuously. “It’s more’n a ’undred yards. ’Ere—try a number five. The young laidy’s dead. Caw!” He viewed the shot dispassionately. “Wot you wants is a ’ockey stick. Now, Mr. Darrell, sir—wot this gentleman was talking abaht—he can play. Caddied for ’im, I did, sir, last Hamateur up at Prestwick. ’E ain’t down ’ere today, is he, sir?”

“Are you speaking to me, my man?” said Burton. But Algy’s caddie was not listening; he was staring at a four ball coming up the last fairway.

“That’s ’im,” he announced triumphantly. “That tall gent in the levver jacket. Know ’im anywhere I would, though I’ve only met ’im once or twice.”

“When you’ve quite finished your interesting reminiscences,” said Burton coldly, “would it be too much to hope that you could keep your mouth shut for a minute or two?”

“Sure I begs yer pardon, sir.”

“As I was saying, Longworth, I thought you knew Darrell.”

“Like our loquacious friend here, I have met him once or twice,” said Algy as if searching in his memory. “That’s the crowd who were in the bar, isn’t it? I thought I recognised one of them…Of course it was Darrell, now I come to think of it…Silly of me…We sort of stared at one another…Can I go yet, caddie?”

“Yus. But you’d better not. Yer might ’it it this time.”

The four ball had reached their tee and sat down on a bench.

“Remember me, Mr. Darrell, sir?” Algy’s caddie touched his cap. “Caddied for you, I did, sir, last summer at Prestwick. ’Udson’s my name.”

“Of course, Hudson. I remember you perfectly. How’s the world treating you?”

“So-so, sir. Been ’aving a spot of trouble with me kidneys, but not too bad.”

“Sorry about that.” Darrell got up as Algy approached him.

“Stupid of me not to recognise you in the bar, Darrell,” said Algy. “I forgot where we met, but…”

“So do I. And d’you know I’m ashamed to confess it, but I’ve completely forgotten your name.”

“Longworth. We must have a spot afterwards. Can’t I go now, Hudson?”

“Well, yer ain’t Bobby Jones, are yer? Nor Cyril Tolley. If yer keeps yer ’ead dahn for once yer might clear the rough. Cripes! That one’s killed a rabbit orl right.”

Muttering darkly he plunged into the heather brandishing a niblick.

“’Ere we are,” he announced morosely. “Can’t even see the perishing ball, though it don’t make no odds seeing as ’ow yer never looks at it.”

“For God’s sake shut up, you awful mess,” muttered Algy in a shaking voice. “If I begin to laugh we’re ungummed!”

“I didn’t realise Burton would be coming up to the club,” said Drummond. “Look out—here he is. Well aht, sir; good one, that was.”

“Well, Longworth,” said Burton with a laugh, “if you aren’t stunned by your caddie’s verbosity, I’ll expect you both at lunch.”

“Going back?” cried Algy. “Right ho! old host. We’ll masticate the rissoles later.”

“By God! that bloke wants watching,” said Drummond as Burton disappeared over the rise in the direction of the club house. Then he looked across at Molly Castledon, who was searching for her ball in the rough on the left. “Tell me, Algy, did she find out anything last night?”

“You know she was pretending to sleep-walk?”

“Yes. Talbot told me that this morning. But what did she hear—or see?”

“A man lying dead on the sofa,” said Algy quietly.

“What!”

Drummond for one second halted dead in his tracks. Then, true to his role, he ambled forward again.

“Is she certain?”

“Absolutely. We were discussing it when you rode past us this morning.”

“So they’ve got him, have they?” muttered Drummond.

“Do you know who he was?” asked Algy.

They were converging on the green, and the girl came towards them.

“How many have you played, Algy?” she called out.

“Three, my love,” he answered.

“Pretty foul player, aren’t you? D’you see the man,” she continued as she joined them, “standing by the tree at the next tee?”

“I do,” said Algy, missing his putt by a yard.

“He was in the room last night. One of the six. Have I got this for it?”

“You have, darling. Well holed: in all the way. You heard that, Hugh?”

“I did. Gad! that girl’s a fizzer.”

He said no more until they had topped the hill in front of the seventh tee. Behind them the watcher at the sixth green seemed to be growing a little bored, and was showing signs of following them. And then the crest of the bunker hid him from sight.

“Listen, Algy,” said Drummond quietly, “obviously this isn’t safe. How much they suspect, I don’t know—but they suspect something. Luckily—here comes the rain. Quit your game at the next green, and go back to the club house.

“This afternoon you have got to go to London. I will arrange for a telephone call to come through to you.”

“Don’t forget,” put in Algy, “that there are extensions all over the place, and it’s more than likely to be tapped.”

“Right,” said Drummond. “Molly Castledon will remain here; she’ll be perfectly safe, especially with Talbot in the house. Arrived in London you will ring up Alice Blackton and arrange to meet somewhere. That’s instead of Monday night. You’ll have to watch it; she will almost certainly be followed. And that you’ve got to dodge. You will then bring her down here.”

“Here?” cried Algy.

“Yes: here. Go back to the Black Horse at Storrington and await further orders. Here’s a brassie, and, for Heaven’s sake, hit it. I’ve got a lot to say yet, and this is our last chance.

“Now,” he continued, when Algy had despatched the ball towards the green, “the situation is this. As Talbot told you, Ronald Standish has escaped. Incidentally you needn’t worry about the Morning Post; Talbot told me their reaction to the word Varda. It was Ronald who cabled me about it; he too is in ignorance of where it is. And that is what we have got to find out; so far as I can see, it is not mentioned in any atlas. Which is where Alice Blackton comes in.”

“Does she know where it is?” asked Algy.

“No. But she knows a man who probably does. The trouble is that, unless I’m much mistaken, that’s the man Miss Castledon saw lying dead last night.”

Algy whistled.

“The devil it is,” he muttered.

“I don’t know him by sight,” continued Drummond, “so it’s useless for me to work on my own. Alice is the only person who does, so she’s got to do the identification.”

“But where?”

“Unless I’m much mistaken,” said Drummond quietly, “he was killed even as Latimer was killed. Earlier in the evening, from my point of vantage, I caught a glimpse of Burton with a hypodermic syringe in his hand. Now the body was not moved last night, and they won’t dare to do so today. So he’ll be deposited somewhere tonight. Almost certainly not in the grounds—that would be too close home; but they’ll dump him on the Downs. That’s where the boys come in; lucky I got ’em down. Tell Peter he’ll get his orders in due course, and that it’s an all-night job tonight for everybody.”

“What’s the great point over the identification?” asked Algy.

“If it’s Alice Blackton’s man they’ve killed, we’re no further on than we were before over locating this island. But if it isn’t, we needn’t worry.”

“I get you. Hugh, are you any nearer what’s going on?”

“A few months ago France wasn’t far off a revolution,” said Drummond grimly. “Nor was Belgium. Let’s leave it at that. Stopping, sir?” he continued in a louder voice. “It is coming dahn a bit.”

Molly Castledon took her cue instantly.

“Not much fun, is it, Algy?” she remarked. “Let’s go back to the club house.”

“Right, old dear.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the watcher approaching.

“Dry the clubs, caddie,” he continued, “and put ’em in my car, please.”

“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.”

His hand closed round his fee, and for the fraction of a second his lips twitched.

“A bit of my own back,” said Algy happily to Molly as they started to walk back. “I gave him a farthing and a trouser button.”

“What’s it all about, Algy?” she asked eagerly. Briefly he told her, and she began to frown mutinously.

“But I wanted to be in it,” she said. “It’s not fair of Captain Drummond.”

“Darling,” he assured her, “you shall be later. Tonight you can’t do any good, and if you were found to be missing from the house, the whole outfit goes west. Don’t forget that Hugh has had very little time; all these orders have had to be worked out since I told him that man was dead. He’s simply raving over what you did.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll forgive him this time. Let’s have a drink.”

“It will be interesting to see what our friend the watcher does,” he murmured, as they sat down in the lounge. “Here he comes.”

With his coat collar turned up, for the rain was now coming down in earnest, the man came in through the swing doors and went into the cloakroom.

“I wonder what the deuce he thinks he’s going to find out,” said Algy. “Burton I can understand; obviously he suspected Peter and me. But this bloke defeats me.”

“Just watching, I should think,” said the girl, “to see if there’s any reaction between you and the others when you might think it was safe.”

“There’s no doubt,” remarked Algy thoughtfully, “that Hugh is right. We’re suspect. But I must say it amused me today—the old boy caddying right, under that swab Burton’s nose. Now what do you suggest we should do, my pet? Here comes Peter and Co., and I’ve got to get a message through to him. But after that?”

“Let’s go back as late as possible,” she said. “I dread the thought of that house without you there to support me.”

“Pretty foul, I agree,” said Algy. “Still, you can always plead a head and get to bed early tonight…And lock your door, my dear; don’t forget.”

The lounge was filling as more people came in out of the rain. The watcher, engrossed in a paper, was sitting inconspicuously in a corner; Peter Darrell, passing on his way to the bar, had been formally introduced to Molly Castledon. And in the process thereof had been given Drummond’s message…But since it had been contained in a story of apparently sultry hue, which had given rise to much ribald merriment, the watcher was blissfully ignorant of it. In fact he was blissfully ignorant of anything, save that he had spent a wasted morning, when at a quarter to one Molly and Algy rose to go back to Birchington Towers.

The rain had ceased, and Algy proceeded to offend God and man by singing as they drove along.

“Feed me with ortolans; nurture me with the wines of Cathay,” he declaimed. “You know, darling,” he continued, relapsing into speech, “the more I think of it, the more unutterably foul do I regard that limerick last night.”

“That’s something, anyway,” she agreed kindly.

“Nevertheless it succeeded in its object. The name Varda stabbed ’em both in the stomach.”

“And you think this girl, Alice Blackton, will know where it is?”

“Such seems to be Hugh’s idea.”

“And if she does, or can find out?”

“Presumably we go there, and the fun really begins.” She lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

“Do you always follow Hugh Drummond blind?” she asked.

“Always. The only time that I’ve ever faintly jibbed was over his suggestion that you should dally with Burton. However, up to date, there’s no harm done.”

“I’m not going on with it much more, my lad.”

Algy turned in at the drive.

“My angel child,” he said quietly, “don’t worry. If I’m any judge of matters you won’t need to. It won’t be long now before things come to a head. We’re on the warpath properly.”

“Who is telephoning you from Town?”

“Haven’t an earthly. Hugh is fixing it.”

It proved to be Algy’s Uncle William who was leaving for Egypt next day. A faint click as he picked up the receiver when the message came through after lunch, assured him that another person had done likewise, elsewhere in the house, but Uncle William was foolproof. His seat was reserved; his cabin was booked; and it was essential he should see Algy before he went. There was some business connected with the estate which he wanted cleared up at once. So he would await Algy at his club, and if he wished would give him dinner that night.

“That’s torn it,” said Algy, re-entering the hall. “Little Algy must leave you for the metropolis. Uncle William has escaped from the home we keep him in and would fain see his nephew before leaving for Egypt. So if you will excuse me, old host, I will see about getting my things packed.”

Talbot answered his bell, and there was a faint grin on his face.

“The secretary was listening in to your London call,” he remarked. “Was it O.K.?”

“Quite,” said Algy. “Dear Uncle William was word perfect. Have you seen Drummond?”

“Yes. For a minute before lunch on the road.”

“You know about the dead man?”

Talbot nodded.

“Do I take off my hat to that girl? I’m asking you.”

“Look after her, old boy,” said Algy.

“Leave me to it,” answered Talbot. “I only wish I could talk to her openly.”

Then his face set grimly.

“By God Longworth—I’m just waiting for the moment when I can get my own back on these swine. My dear old guv’nor—who’d never harmed a child…”

“Trust Hugh Drummond, old boy,” said Algy. “It’ll come sooner than you think. Put the bags in my car, will you! And I may be seeing you tonight…”

It certainly seemed as if Uncle William had pulled it off. Burton was politely disappointed at his having to go; Menalin did not even appear on the scene. Even Lady Castledon, overjoyed at the prospect of Algy’s departure, so far forgot herself as to ask him to call in London.

But for all that Algy was taking no risks. It was a Sunday and traffic was heavy on the main Bognor road, even though it was late in the year. An easy day, in fact, to follow a car, however fast it was, since high speed was out of the question.

So he swung into a network of lanes, when he had gone a few miles, and slowed up his pace. And a few minutes convinced him that he was safe; no one was on his heels. He pulled up and lit a cigarette; a plan of campaign was necessary.

To begin with, his own flat and club would almost certainly be under supervision. To go to London at all, therefore, seemed foolish. The point was whether Alice Blackton could smuggle herself out of town without being spotted. And the only way of finding that out was to get through to her on the telephone.

He drove on, keeping well clear of the London road, until he came at length to a village which a notice-board proclaimed was Rodsworth. It appeared to be wrapped in slumber, though one dilapidated Ford stood outside the Chequers Inn. It would serve, he decided, as well as any other, and backing his car into the so-called garage, he entered the hotel and booked a room, to the evident amazement of the landlord. Then he put through a telephone call to Alice.

By an amazing stroke of luck he caught her just as she was going out; in fact, he gathered the boy friend was even then blaspheming in the hall at the delay.

“He must blaspheme, dear,” said Algy firmly. “Has he a motor-car? He has. Outside the door at the moment? Good. Now listen, Alice. Is your place being watched? Not that you know of. Not good enough, my dear. We can’t run any risks. Tell your pal that he’s got to cancel any plans he may have made for this afternoon. He is to start off in any direction he may think fit—preferably as if he was going to John o’ Groat’s—and then after devious detours he is to arrive with you at the Chequers Inn, situated in the fascinating old world village of Rodsworth in Sussex. Got that? Good. You must make absolutely certain you’re not followed…No. I don’t want to be more explicit over the phone…What time? Any time before it’s dark. Good-bye, my angel.”

He replaced the receiver, and crossed to the window. The village street was still deserted, which confirmed his own safety. Would Alice and her escort be equally fortunate?

Slowly the hours dragged by. A watery sun had come out, throwing fitful shadows on the stuffed horsehair furniture of the parlour. Over the mantelpiece his host, encased in his wedding glory of frock coat and bowler complete gazed at him sheepishly from the wall; whilst flanked on each side of him, two masterpieces depicted shoals of fat and very naked babies floating hopefully in space.

It was six o’clock when he awoke, cramped in every limb, from a painful doze. A car was thrumming softly outside the window, and in the gathering darkness he could just see Alice and a man getting out.

“Great,” he cried, meeting them at the door. “Sure you’ve not been followed?”

“Certain,” said Alice. “This is Jimmy Parker…Algy Longworth…”

The two men shook hands.

“Run her into the garage, Parker,” said Algy. “Then we’ll have a drink.”

“What’s the great idea, Algy?” demanded the girl, as Parker rejoined them. “Jimmy’s been breathing blood all the way here.”

“Sorry about that,” said Algy with a grin, “but it was unavoidable. You’re for a job of work tonight, Alice.”

“What d’you mean?” she asked.

“And incidentally so are you, Parker,” he added. “What is it, chaps? Two pints and a gin and french, please. Now,” he continued as the landlord left the room, “is this bloke reliable, Alice?”

“Quite,” she said. “He’s an N.0.”

“Grand. Couldn’t be better. Have you told him anything, my dear?”

“Vaguely. I guessed it was to do with the Drummond show.”

“Right. Well, please keep that to yourself, Parker. It’s a case of murder, Alice, and you’ve got to identify the victim.”

“What’s that?” cried Parker sharply. “Why should she?”

“Dry up, Jimmy,” said the girl. “Tell me, Algy.” They listened in silence while Algy told them briefly what had occurred, and when he’d finished Alice Blackton sat twisting her pocket handkerchief in her fingers.

“I wonder if it’s Mrs. Cartwright’s husband,” she said in a low voice, and Algy looked at her quickly.

“Who’s he?” he cried.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said. “What does Captain Drummond want me to do?”

“Come with me to the Black Horse at Storrington to start with,” answered Algy. “We’ll get further orders there.”

“And what about Jimmy?”

“I want him, if he will, to do a much more uninteresting job,” said Algy, “but a very important one. It’s my own idea, I admit, because no one knew he was coming into the picture till this afternoon. Now it will be of the greatest advantage if the other side think I’m safely in my flat tonight. So if you will, Parker, what I’d like you to do is this.

“Drive my car back to London, leaving yours here for me. At about ten or so go round to my flat—I’ll give you the address—and leave the car outside the door, where in due course its number will be noted by the gentleman on guard. Then go straight indoors—here is the latchkey—keeping your coat collar turned up and your face away from the light. Once inside you will encounter a large and forbidding-looking man called Marsh. To him you will hand a letter I will give you, which will say that you are stopping the night in the flat, and that he is to put the car away in the garage. After that my cellar is yours, but don’t go near enough to the window to be recognised.”

“Well, I’m damned,” remarked the Navy. “It sounds a perfectly riotous evening. Is this what I came up from Pompey for?”

“Anyway, old man,” laughed Algy, “it’s better than hiding in a gorse bush on the Downs, which looks like being our portion.”

“Can’t I come too?” pleaded the sailor.

“No, Jimmy,” said the girl firmly. “Algy is right. You’ve got to do as he says.”

“It’s big stuff, Parker,” put in Algy quietly. “You can take that from me.”

“Orl right,” said Parker resignedly. “I’ll play. What’s your bus?”

“A Lagonda. She can move.”

“And what will you do with mine tomorrow?”

“Leave her in St. James’s Square at eleven o’clock.”

“O.K.,” said the sailor. “Gawd ’elp all poor blokes at sea. What ho! without, mine host. Send in thy tire-maidens bearing foaming goblets. The poor, bloody Navy is in the chair.”

CHAPTER XIII

BURGLARS IN BATTERSEA

“And now, bless you, I’m just waiting to hear how you’ve come into it again.”

Algy drew up his chair to the fire and lit a cigarette. Dinner at the Black Horse was over, and the sitting-room was empty. Outside, the West Sussex darts championship was in full swing; a low hum of conversation, punctuated by an occasional jovial laugh, provided the unbeatable setting of the old English coaching inn.

He had arrived there with Alice Blackton an hour before, having first seen Jimmy Parker safely on the road to London from Rodsworth. As yet no orders had arrived from Drummond, but the night was still young. And until these came there was nothing more to be done.

“There’s not much to tell, Algy,” said the girl. “But for what there is, here goes. Last Wednesday night just before I was starting off for the Golden Boot, I happened to go into my landlady’s room. She’s an awfully nice woman is Mrs. Turnbull, and I often go and have a talk with her. On this occasion there was another woman with her, and a glance at her face showed that she’d been crying.

“Of course I felt a bit embarrassed, and was on the point of going out again when Mrs. Turnbull suddenly turned to me.

“‘What’s the name of the man who owns the Golden Boot, dearie?’ she asked.

“‘Burton,’ I said. ‘Charles Burton. Why?’

“She looked at the other woman triumphantly.

“‘What did I tell you?’ she cried. ‘I was sure I knew the name. This is Mrs. Cartwright, dear. Sit down and have a cup of tea.’

“Well, Mrs. Cartwright was an elderly body who looked rather like a prosperous cook, and, under ordinary circumstances, I should have made some excuse. But the instant I heard dear Charles’ name, I determined to hear more. So I sat down.

“‘A devil he is—that Burton,’ sniffed Mrs. Cartwright. ‘You be careful of him, my dear.’

“‘What’s he done to you, Mrs. Cartwright?’ I asked.

“‘It’s her ’usband,’ explained Mrs. Turnbull, ‘two h’s in succession generally defeat her, poor dear. Tell Miss Blackton, Amelia.’

“So Amelia, bless her heart, gave tongue. I won’t attempt to give it verbatim, but what it boiled down to was this. Her husband, Samuel Cartwright, was a working watch and clock maker, living down Battersea way. And some months ago he’d begun to dabble in politics in a mild way. At first she’d been rather pleased; it kept him quiet, and got him out of the house. But after a while she began to notice a change in him. He became morose and secretive, and what upset her most of all was that he began to ask some funny sort of men to their house—men she didn’t like at all. And when she reasoned with him about it he used to fly into a passion.

“Another thing, too, that worried her was this. In their little backyard he had a shed where he did a lot of his work. In the past the door had always been open, and she had never thought twice about walking in if she wanted to ask him anything. And then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, he had begun to keep the door locked.

“That there was something on his mind, was obvious, but try as she would she couldn’t find out what it was. His appetite fell away. He began to sleep badly and, in short, the man was clearly ill. But any suggestion of a doctor was met with a flat refusal.

“‘Not that a doctor would have done any good,’ as she admitted. ‘Sam’s trouble was in his mind.’

“And then, a few days before I met her, matters had come to a head. Sam had announced his intention of going down to the country for the night—alone. Well, I gathered from Mrs. Sam that such a proceeding was almost as amazing as the descent of Nelson into Trafalgar Square. He loathed and detested the country; even on Bank Holidays Epping Forest was the farthest he would ever go. And here he was proposing to venture forth alone into places full of uncharted terrors. Moreover—and this is what upset her most—she was convinced he didn’t want to go. He was going because he had to.

“So the old girl decided to get at the bottom of matters once for all. She couldn’t follow him herself, since he’d have recognised her—but she got hold of a young nephew whom Sam didn’t know. And, having pointed Sam out to the boy, she gave him some money and told him off to do the job.

“The boy was a cockney and quick on the uptake, and had no difficulty over following his uncle. And, my dear Watson, you will have no difficulty in guessing where Sam went to—Charles Burton’s house near Pulborough.

“By this time I was beginning to look at my watch, for the old girl had taken about half an hour to get that lot off her chest. But it was important to hear everything, so I stayed on. And it appeared that far from his visit to the country having done Sam any good, it had made him much worse. The very night he came back he started shouting, ‘I won’t; I won’t,’ in his sleep, and woke up bathed in perspiration.

“So the next day she really got down to it with him. And this time, apparently, he proved a bit more amenable, and she did get something out of him It appeared that, without intending to, he had got mixed up in some secret society, and they were compelling him to do something he didn’t want to do. That he hadn’t known when he joined them what they really were, and that now it was too late to draw back. But what the something was he wouldn’t tell her.”

Alice Blackton lit another cigarette.

“Now that was last Friday week—five days before I met Mrs. Cartwright. And it struck me, of course, that it was vital to let Captain Drummond know at once. I’d had a line from him, saying where I could get hold of him—Mr. Hudson, c/o G.P.O., Petworth—and I was just wondering whether to write him before going to the Golden Boot, when the door opened and in walked Sam himself. He’d come to fetch his wife, and I took stock of him.

“Algy, if ever a man was frightened unto death, he was that man. He must have lost stones in weight, if his clothes were any criterion; they hung on him like sacks. His hands were shaking, and he reeked of whisky. So, after a moment or two, I got up and left, and that was that up till last Wednesday night.”

“You got it all through to Hugh?” asked Algy.

“Next day.”

“And has anything else happened?”

“One thing. On Friday—that’s the day before yesterday—Mrs. Turnbull came into my sitting-room about lunch time.

“‘You remember Mrs. Cartwright, miss,’ she said.

“‘Of course,’ I cried. ‘What about her?’

“‘Samuel’s going down to the country again tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And Amelia is fair worried to death.’

“Tomorrow,” remarked Algy thoughtfully. “That is—yesterday. And last night a man was killed. Things become clearer, my dear.”

“Can it be him, Algy?” she cried.

“Anything can be anything with this crowd,” he answered. “But it’s now obvious why Hugh wanted you. You’re the only player on our side who can identify the poor devil.”

He rose and strolled over to the window.

“Thank the Lord, it isn’t raining,” he said. “The stars are out, and with luck it will keep fine. Hullo! what do you want?”

A young farm-hand was standing by the door, fingering his cap.

“Mr. Longworth?” he said.

Algy nodded.

“Bloke called ’Udson told me to give you this. Said as ’ow you’d give me ’alf-a-dollar if I did.”

Algy held out his hand for the note, with the coin in view.

“Here you are, my lad,” he said. “Thank you. And shut the door when you go out.”

He came back to the fire, slitting open the envelope. “Orders, my dear—at last.”

He grinned faintly as he looked at them.

“Got a warm coat, my love? You’ll need one.”

“What does he say?”

“‘Be at the cross-roads quarter of a mile north of main entrance to Birchington Towers by eleven p.m. Remain in car, which hide in entrance to quarry. No lights. If nothing happened by three, return London. HUD.’

“There you are, my dear. Terse and to the point. And it looks like four hours of fun and laughter for the chaps.”

“You know where it is?” she asked.

“I know the quarry,” said Algy, once again crossing over to the window. “It’s not going to be too bad; you can do a bit of shut-eye under the rug.”

And as it turned out the night proved almost muggy. Punctually at eleven Algy backed the car into the narrow track that led to the sand quarry, taking it far enough in not to be visible in the lights of any passing car. Away to the right, on the high ground, lay Birchington Towers, almost invisible in the trees. Only a faint general light gave its position, and after a time that was extinguished.

Occasionally a car roared past on the main road homeward bound, but they grew fewer and fewer, and when midnight chimed out across the low ground from a neighbouring church, the whole countryside seemed asleep.

Interminably the time dragged by. Alice Blackton, tucked up in the back of the car, was dozing, but Algy afraid of doing likewise, kept on sentry go between the car and the road. And he was just wondering if he dared risk a cigarette under cover of some bushes, when he heard, in the distance, the sound of a car coming from the direction of the Downs. It came nearer; then abruptly the engine stopped.

He waited; peering along the road. Once he thought he heard footsteps, but it might have been imagination. And it came as a shock, when, from close beside him, he suddenly heard a low voice.

“That you, Algy?”

It was Hugh Drummond; small wonder he’d heard no sound.

“Here I am,” he answered.

“Got the girl?”

“She’s in the back of the car. I’ll wake her.”

But she was already with them, and Drummond shook hands.

“Good for you, Alice,” he said. “Leave your car here, and we’ll get into Peter’s, which is down the road.”

“What’s happened, Hugh?” asked Algy.

“As I thought, they moved the body tonight. I had Peter and Toby watching one drive, and Ted the other. They brought him out in a large car, and they’ve dumped him in some wooded ground on top of Bury Hill. Then the car went on towards London. Peter knows the exact spot where they left the road. And that is our destination now. Sorry I’ve got to ask you to do it, Alice, but you’re the only one of us who can. Ahoy, Peter…”

A car, standing in the road, loomed out of the darkness.

“You don’t know Miss Blackton, do you…Mr. Darrell…Let’s get to it…”

“Where’s Toby?” asked Algy.

“On guard by the wood,” said Drummond.

They settled into the car, and Peter drove off. It was just a quarter to one and they did not meet a soul in the four-mile run; the only sound they heard was a dog barking furiously in a farm they passed. And at the top of Bury Hill they stopped.

To their right stretched the open Downs, and it was from here that after a moment or two Toby Sinclair materialised.

“O.K., Toby?” cried Drummond.

“O.K. Shall I lead the way?”

He plunged into the trees, and Drummond took Alice Blackton by the arm.

“Careful, my dear,” he said. “We don’t want you spraining your ankle.”

It was not far to go; the body had been dumped about thirty yards from the road, in an open grass clearing. Actually it was hidden from the road itself, though anyone going a few feet into the trees would see it.

“Clever,” said Drummond quietly. “They don’t mind it being found; that’s why they haven’t concealed it. He died naturally just like Jimmy Latimer, and a man who dies naturally don’t hide himself He was hiking…You see his boots are dirty, and his clothes sodden with rain—though there hasn’t been any since this morning…Probably put the poor devil in a bath before they started…Well, Alice?”

He switched his torch on the dead man’s face, and the girl shuddered.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s Samuel Cartwright, all right…”

“I’d have betted on it,” remarked Drummond. “Well, there’s no more to be done here, so we may as well go home.”

“But aren’t you going to do anything about it?” she cried.

“What can we do, my dear?” said Drummond. “Nothing can bring him back to life. And the instant the matter is mentioned to the police, we’ve got to come into it. Which is the thing of all others I want to avoid.”

“Have you been through his pockets, Hugh?” asked Algy.

“With a vacuum cleaner. And found nothing. Come on, chaps. You can drop me, Peter, at the quarry…”

“And what are we to do tomorrow?” asked Darrell.

“Play a round in the morning, and come up to London in the afternoon. There’s nothing more to be done down here.”

“What are you going to do yourself?”

“Go up tonight with Algy…Hell!” he muttered. “To think that poor blighter knew what I’d give my eyes to know…”

He relapsed into silence till the car drew up at the entrance to the quarry.

“Night-night, boys,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.”

He watched Darrell’s tail lamp disappear; then he walked towards Algy’s car.

“Hullo!” he cried. “What’s this bus? Good for you,” he continued, after Algy’s explanation. “We’ll go to Heppel Street and our Mrs. Penny for what’s left of the night.”

And they were running into London before he spoke again.

“Do you know Mrs. Cartwright’s address, Alice?”

“No. But I can easily get it from Mrs. Turnbull.”

“I’m thinking of that shed,” said Drummond. “That shed in the backyard. I’d like to see inside that shed very much.”

“Well, as I say, I can get the address quite easily.”

“I wish you would. But you mustn’t say that Cartwright’s dead. That’s a thing you know nothing about. It’s our best chance, Algy,” he continued thoughtfully. “That poor devil knew enough for them to kill him. Has he left any record behind?”

“The only way to find out is to go see,” said Algy.

“Exactly. But how to do it is the point. Once Mrs. Cartwright realises her husband is dead she’s going up in steam. In addition the police will be buzzing round like a swarm of bees. Burglary, old boy, is the only hope. I’ll think it over and let you know later. But the first and main thing is the address.”

And that, as Alice had prophesied, presented no difficulty. It transpired next day over the telephone to Mrs. Turnbull, that Mrs. Cartwright lived in a street off the Albert Bridge Road, and, moreover, that she would be at home that night. Further, that she was worried to death over Sam’s continued absence.

“It’s going to be a little awkward for Burton,” said Algy, “if she goes to the police. She’ll tell ’em he was going to Birchington Towers, and, when his body is ultimately discovered on Bury Hill, what does Charles say?”

“That he never arrived,” answered Drummond promptly. “That he knows nothing about the man at all. That from enquiries he has made a man with some fancied grievance asked for an interview last week, but was turned away, and on identification of the body by one of his servants it transpires that it is the same individual. No, Algy—they won’t catch Charles that way. You see there will be no trace of murder on Samuel…And if the widow mentions his nervous state, the answer is that obviously it was some strange case of hallucination. What could Charles Burton have to do with a clockmaker in the Albert Bridge Road?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Algy. “So what do we do about it?”

“Will you still help us, Alice?” asked Drummond. “Of course,” she answered.

“Your job this evening is to keep Mrs. Cartwright occupied whilst I explore that shed. If necessary take that female of yours—Mrs. Turnbull—with you; in fact it will seem more natural if you do. Algy will come with me, and will be on hand in case you should want him.”

“What time shall I go there?”

“I suggest nine o’clock. And keep the lady occupied for an hour.”

“That won’t be difficult,” said the girl.

“Your excuse for going, naturally, is her husband. You can invent some stuff about Burton to keep her interested, but don’t, under any circumstances, let her come into the shed…”

“Right,” she nodded. “I’ll do just what you say.”

“Grand girl! Jane!” he shouted, and Mrs. Penny waddled in. “I’ll want some lunch today, my pet,” he announced. “And Mr. Longworth and I will be sleeping here tonight.”

“That’ll be all right, Mr. Hugh…And the young lady?”

“I think you’d better lunch here too, Alice, and not go back to your rooms till later.”

“Just as you like,” she said. “I could do with some more sleep.”

“Algy, you take the car to St. James’s Square—and then come back here. We’ve got to alter your appearance before tonight.”

“What are you going to do, old boy?” asked Algy.

“A little spot of exploration,” said Drummond with a grin. “My knowledge of the Albert Bridge Road is not all it might be. But I shan’t go till after lunch.”

It was six o’clock when he returned in excellent spirits.

“Luck is in,” he announced. “I do not think our burglarious adventure is going to be very difficult.”

At seven o’clock Alice Blackton left; at eight, two typical dockyard natives slouched out of Number 10, Heppel Street, and were soon lost in the busy traffic of Tottenham Court Road.

“There is a pub of reasonable excellence, Algy,” said the larger of the two, “not far from our destination, where we might while away a few fleeting seconds. And then—what luck? I wonder…”

It was just after nine that they swung out of the saloon bar and slouched along the street towards the Cartwrights’ house. A few scattered groups were congregated under the lamp posts, but the night was raw and most of the inhabitants were indoors. The houses were small, but the street was in no sense a slum. Shops alternated with private dwellings, and suddenly Algy saw on the other side of the road the notice—“S. CARTWRIGHT, WORKING CLOCKMAKER.”

Drummond led him on about fifty yards; then he abruptly crossed over, and retraced his footsteps slowly. A wireless was blaring forth from an open window as they passed, but no pedestrians seemed near at hand. And with a quick movement Drummond turned into a narrow path along a fence that terminated in a wooden door.

“The back entrance,” he whispered.

Cautiously he pushed the door open and in a second they were both through with it closed behind them.

“The yard,” he muttered. “And there’s the shed in front of us.”

From above their heads light was filtering out from a curtained window, and they could hear the sound of women’s voices. Evidently Alice and Mrs. Turnbull had arrived and were holding the fort.

Like a shadow Drummond moved over to the shed, and for the fraction of a second a pin-point of light shone on the lock. Then it was extinguished, and he jumbled in his pocket. Came one short sharp crack, which sounded like a pistol shot to Algy, and the door flew open.

They paused motionless; had it been heard? But no sign came from the neighbouring houses, and the faint drone of voices from Mrs. Cartwright’s room was still audible. From his pocket Drummond took two pieces of felt and pinned them over the cobwebby windows. Then he closed the door and made Algy stand with his back against the crack.

“We must chance the rest,” he said, switching on his torch, and letting the beam play around.

It was a small shed, not much larger than a bathing-hut. The whole of one side was occupied by a bench, on which was fitted the ordinary implements of the owner’s trade. A large open box containing drills and other tools stood in one corner, and two upturned packing-cases apparently constituted the seating accommodation. Of papers there was no sign.

The walls were bare of shelves or cupboards; there was no drawer in the bench. And with a muttered curse Drummond was on the point of giving it up, when he gave a sudden exclamation. A board under his foot had moved. He turned his torch on to it; it was loose. And even as he did so there came the sound of a door closing gently, somewhere close by…

He switched off his torch and straightened up. He could hear Algy’s breathing; otherwise everything was silent. And suddenly it struck him that the voices from the house had ceased.

He moved over to Algy, and pulled him back against the bench.

“Did you hear that?” he breathed.

“Yes,” came the answer. “Back door, I think.”

“Take the torch. Switch on if I tell you.”

They waited tensely; outside a twig snapped. And then came the sound of fingers fumbling at the door, followed by a stifled exclamation of surprise. The newcomer had evidently discovered the broken lock.

For a moment or two he hesitated; then very cautiously the door was pushed open inch by inch, and framed in the faint light they could see the outline of a crouching man. At length he was in, with the door closed behind him.

As it happened he missed them both as he moved forward. Then he knelt down and they could hear him fumbling on the floor. He was breathing heavily, and muttering imprecations to himself. And at last he struck a match.

His back was towards them, and beyond him they could see a dark cavity in the floor. The board Drummond had trodden on had been removed, and from the hole underneath the man was pulling out some documents. He did not trouble to examine them, but just laid them beside the opening. Then, having satisfied himself that he had the lot, he replaced the board and stood up.

Which so far as he was concerned constituted the end of a perfect day. He felt two vice-like hands grip his neck; was aware dimly through the roaring in his ears that a torch was flashing on his face—and then blackness. And he was quite unconscious when he was deposited in a corner.

“Saves bother,” said Drummond, cramming the papers in his pocket. “He won’t come to for half an hour.”

He was crossing the yard as he spoke and suddenly he paused.

“They’ve stopped talking, Algy,” he whispered, “which is unlike women. We’d better go and see.”

The back door was open, and they crept into the passage. In front of them light was shining out from a half-shut door, and they stopped outside it; stopped to see reflected in a mirror a woman sitting in a chair, whose terrified eyes met theirs from above the gag in her mouth.

“Just in time,” muttered Drummond as he entered.

A man, who had been leaning out of the window, swung round and stared at them, his jaw dropping as he did so. And then, he too was spared any further worry for a space. Drummond was not wasting time though this one struggled more than his friend outside.

“Undo the women, Algy,” he said, as he dropped his limp opponent on the floor.

They were all three there, tightly bound and gagged. “They came in suddenly on us,” said Alice Blackton as she stood up. “Have you got the other?

“Yes,” answered Drummond. “I don’t know who you ladies are,” he continued, staring straight at her, “but if I was you I’d go home before the police come.”

The emphasis was clear and she nodded.

“And if your name comes out you must disappear for a time.”

Again she nodded, and then smiled faintly at the outburst in the corner. For it was going to be even money whether Mrs. Cartwright or Mrs. Turnbull had hysterics first.

“Come back with us, lovey,” sobbed Mrs. Turnbull, “and we’ll telephone the police from my house.”

“I couldn’t stop here,” sniffed Mrs. Cartwright. “In my own parlour too.”

“Excellent,” whispered Drummond to the girl. “Get ’em back. And postpone telephoning as long as you can. If possible I don’t want these men caught. And, of course, you don’t know us…”

He beckoned to Algy and they faded silently away.

“Much better if they are not caught,” he repeated as they walked along the street. “For if they are, Burton will know they’ve failed; but if they’re not, they’ll pretend they’ve succeeded and destroyed the papers.”

“Where to now?” asked Algy.

“Back to Heppel Street to examine our catch,” said Drummond, hailing a taxi. “Jove! Algy, what we’d have done without those two girls in this show don’t bear thinking about.”

They were met at the door by Mrs. Penny.

“That gentleman that lunched with you the other day, dearie,” she said, “rang up half an hour ago.”

“Ginger Lawson,” said Drummond to Algy. “What did he want, Jane?”

“To see you, Master Hugh. I said you were out and he’s coming round at eleven.”

“Ten-thirty now. All right, Jane. Show him in when he comes. Now, Algy, let’s get to it.”

He drew up a chair to the table, and from his pocket he pulled out the bundle of papers. There were five in all, and picking up the first he opened it.

It was a blue print such as is common in engineering plans. But this one seemed to consist entirely of wheels and springs. There was one central diagram, and a series of smaller ones which seemed to represent parts of the main design enlarged. Drummond stared at it; then he suddenly rose and pressed the bell.

“Jane,” he said, “do we patronise Petworth’s Fruit Salad?”

“I’ve got a tin in the house now, dearie.”

“Then bring it here, like an angel,” he cried. “Don’t open it.”

Somewhat mystified, the old dame retired and brought the tin.

“All right, Jane, leave it here. As I thought, Algy,” he said when she had gone, “it’s the exact size of the central diagram. This is the print of the mechanism we got from Maier’s house in Switzerland—or at any rate, something of the same type.”

“On which, presumably, Cartwright was working,” remarked Algy.

“Precisely. But since we’ve got the actual machine itself, the print doesn’t seem of much importance, except that it brings the actual doings to England. Let’s go on.”

The second and third were in the nature of lists of stores. They were compiled in pencil with numerous erasion and alterations. 250 No. 1 wheels had been altered to 320; 150 D. springs had been half rubbed out and the number 200 substituted; 1,000 nuts various were a few of many similar items.

“It fits in so far, Algy,” said Drummond, lighting a cigarette. “Even to my limited brain it is obvious that there are not 150 D. springs, whatever a D. spring may be, in that one machine. Therefore Cartwright was employed in making a number of them. And I think we can take as a working theory that Mr. Maier of Veytaux was the original pebble on the beach. He it was who designed the first mechanism—the one that he kept, and which for some reason or other was stolen from him the night he was murdered, and which we’ve now got. Why they murdered him, we don’t know—since he must have been in their confidence to start with. Perhaps he started opening his mouth too wide; perhaps he threatened them. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. Maier produced the original, a blue print of which was sent to Cartwright to copy. How’s that?”

“Sounds perfectly feasible to me,” answered Algy.

“So let us to Number 4,” said Drummond. “By Jove! Algy,” he cried excitedly. “Look. One of the very papers Jimmy Latimer got hold of.”

He spread it out and they both pored over it. It was an outline map of England and Scotland, with dots sprinkled all over it. No names were printed at all, but it was easy to see that the dots represented towns. And as Madame Pélain had said, they were far more numerous in the Midlands and north than in the south.

Against some of them numbers in red were written. And the area so filled in on the map before them comprised Bristol and the South of Wales, and a few isolated ones in Somerset, Devon and Cornwall. Further, in the margin, was a total which read 320.

“And we have 320 No. 1 wheels,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “Listen, Algy. In the map Madame Pélain saw, these numbers were entered everywhere—not only in one district. What do you make of that?”

“That the district marked here was Cartwright’s? remarked Algy promptly.

“Exactly,” agreed Drummond. “In which case, he was only one of several employed on the same game—all working on identical blue prints. Very possibly each of them was given a district far removed from where he lives, to prevent any personal feeling coming into the matter, and the finished map is never seen by the underlings.”

Algy nodded.

“It all sounds perfectly feasible to me,” he said.

“At any rate, there’s nothing wildly fantastic so far,” remarked Drummond, picking up the last paper. “What’s this?” he said, staring at it. “Helverton; where or what the deuce is Helverton?”

There came the sound of voices in the hall.

“Come in, Ginger,” he called out. “You arrive in the nick of time. Where, or what, or why is Helverton?”

Ginger Lawson stood in the doorway eyeing him queerly.

“Strange you should ask that,” he said at length. “Helverton is a village in Cornwall, near which there have been strange doings of late. So strange that it’s filtered through to the Yard.”

It was Drummond’s turn to stare.

“What sort of doings?”

“They say that a headland not far from the village is haunted, and undoubtedly a man who went out to investigate was found dead.”

“How did he die?”

Ginger Lawson closed the door.

“He was washed ashore four days later. The body was beginning to decompose, and the natural assumption was that he had been drowned. But when they came to examine him more closely, they came to the amazing conclusion that he had been burned, if not to death, at any rate very near it.”

CHAPTER XIV

THE TRAIL NARROWS

He came on into the room.

“And how, might I ask, did you come to hear of Helverton?”

In silence Drummond pushed the documents over to him, and Lawson studied them.

“Where did these come from?” he said at length.

“A gentleman who was murdered the night before last by Burton,” answered Drummond. “His body, which may or may not have been discovered by now, is in a wood on the top of Bury Hill in Sussex. Unfortunately his death, as in Jimmy’s case, will, apparently, have been due to natural causes.”

“Who was the man?” asked Ginger.

“Samuel Cartwright—if that conveys anything to you. A working clock-maker, old boy “—and Drummond put a significant finger on the blue print. “We’re getting warm, Ginger,” he continued. “Unless I’m much mistaken, that print represents Maier’s model. And that district”—he pointed to the map—”is Cartwright’s district. Now we happen to know that Cartwright joined some so-called political society a few months ago. We also know that recently he has been an extremely worried and nervy man. And now he’s dead. What do you make of it?”

“That he showed signs of splitting and had to be put out of the way,” said Lawson.

“Exactly. Now take that figure 320. My idea is that he had to make 320 similar machines to the one we took from Maier’s house. Other people in other districts had to make their quotas also, so that the total would be sufficient to account for the whole map. And then these various contributions have been or will be collected at one central depot.”

“And after that?”

“I wonder if it would be possible,” said Drummond thoughtfully, “to find out if any large order from a new customer has been given recently for Petworth’s Fancy Quality Fruit Salad?”

“It could probably be done,” answered Lawson.

“And where it’s been despatched to…Ginger,” he continued gravely. “I’m no ruddy engineer. But what would be the result if you took a dynamo or a fly-wheel, rotating at speed, and exploded a bomb on one of its bearings?”

“Hell let loose backwards, I should say. The whole thing would fly to pieces and smash up the entire shooting-box.”

“Just what I thought,” said Drummond. “We’ve got to find where that central depot is.”

“What price this place—Helverton?” remarked Algy. “Why such a remote spot?” objected Lawson.

“Ask me another,” said Drummond. “But it’s a strange coincidence—this paper, and what you’ve just told us about the man being burned.”

“Didn’t you find out anything about the island of Varda?”

“Algy, with great brilliance, took that on. Both Burton and Menalin reacted to it.”

“So Ronald is on the track,” said Lawson.

“What news of him? I’ve heard nothing except that he’s escaped.”

“That’s the main reason that I came round to see you,” answered Lawson. “Somehow or other he got away from the place where Menalin was holding him as a prisoner, and swam out to a private yacht. He must have heard Varda mentioned in the house before he escaped, I suppose. Anyway he got a wire through to me from the yacht, whose owner he must have bluffed into keeping him. And he’s on his way home now…”

“What about Gasdon?”

“He was knifed in Paris as he drove in. He was taken to hospital, but I gather it’s not serious.” Drummond shook both his fists in the air.

“By God! Ginger—what a day of reckoning there’s going to be. And it’s not going to be put off long, either. In fact, I seem to feel that the overture is playing for the last act…”

With eyes half closed he stared across the smoke-filled room.

“Do you remember what I told you once, that strange vision of a fleeting second that I had in the Golden Boot? It’s coming; I know it. And it will be battle, murder and sudden death before we get through to the end…”

“What about bringing in the police now?”

“We can’t, Ginger—yet…We don’t know. It’s all guess work. We’ve got to find out first. Otherwise we’ll merely put them on their guard.”

“And how do you propose to do so?”

“Go to Helverton. I’ll take Algy and Peter with me. This can’t be coincidence.”

“I wish to Heaven I could come with you,” said Lawson.

“I know you do, old man but you can’t. If Ronald arrives, or Gasdon, tell them where I am. I’ll keep in touch with you. I’ll send you a wire every day, signed H U D with just the day of the week on it. If you don’t get it you’ll know something has happened, and you can get gay.”

Ginger Lawson nodded, and rose.

“Trust me, Hugh. How shall I get at you if I want to?”

“Where is this place, Helverton?”

“On the coast—not far from Bodmin.”

“Then send anything you want to Hudson at the post office, Bodmin, Night-night, old boy…We shall start tomorrow.”

He came back into the room after he had locked the front door.

“It’s big stuff this time, Algy,” he said quietly. “Very big. I think we’re going to get our money’s worth. Ring Peter up at his pub tomorrow morning, and tell him to motor straight to Exeter. Chuck over that A.A. book…Here’s a one star pub. He is to go to the Lowestoft and wait for us there. I’ll bring a a gun for him and a disguise.”

And when Algy went to bed five minutes later, Drummond was still sitting hunched in his chair staring at the embers of the dying fire. Strange—this premonition of his, for he was one of the least fanciful men in the world. But try as he would he could not shake it off. And the thought that worried him was whether he was justified in what he had said to Ginger Lawson about the police…Was he justified in trying to tackle the show on his own?

That he was itching to get at it was neither here nor there. But supposing they got him and Peter and Algy—what then? There might be delay—fatal delay. On the other hand, if the police started making enquiries Menalin and Burton might close the whole thing down for a time, and come back with it again later under more favourable conditions.

He lit a cigarette and poured out some more beer. Balancing the two alternatives he felt he was right. The delay would not be great if he had bad luck; just one day when Ginger got no wire. And, in any event, he felt certain that there was one big point he would be able to clear up. Was this village of Helverton a spot of importance, or not?

At the bottom of his mind he felt it must be. That Cartwright—a confirmed Cockney should have troubled to write down the name of an obscure Cornish village without some good reason, seemed very improbable. And, even if he had, why put the paper with documents connected with the other affair? This mystery, too, of the burned man…

“Helverton has it,” he muttered to himself. “All Lombard Street to a china orange on it…Go to bed, my boy, go to bed.”

It was Algy who woke him the next morning at nine o’clock.

“I’ve just got through to Peter,” he said. “He lost three quid to Ted yesterday, and is blaspheming with rage at not getting it back this morning. He’s going straight to Exeter.”

“Well done, Algy. So we shan’t want another car there. Go and look up the trains, while I dress.”

“There’s a ten-thirty-five from Paddington,” sang out Algy from the hall.

“Couldn’t be better,” answered Drummond. “We will honour it with our presence.”

Gone completely were the doubts of last night; life was just a hundred percent.

“Money, fool,” he roared. “Have we any? If not, go out and cash your maintenance order.”

“Is forty quid enough to keep you in beer?”

“No. Tell Jane I’ll be down in ten minutes. And, Algy, look in the papers and see if they’ve found the body on Bury Hill.”

Came a pause and then Algy’s voice:

“Don’t see any sign of it. But there’s a paragraph here about last night.”

He came upstairs with the paper in his hand.

“‘A strange outrage occurred last night at the house of Mrs. Samuel Cartwright, who lives near the Royal Albert road. She was entertaining two friends after supper when the house was entered by two men, who bound and gagged all three of them. One of the men remained on guard, whilst the other went into the yard at the back.

“‘Shortly afterwards two other men appeared…”

“Damn!” said Drummond. “I’d hoped we might have been left out of it. Go on.”

“‘…appeared, who overpowered the man on guard and stunned him. Then having set free the three ladies these men disappeared. Mrs. Cartwright, who was overcome with the shock, accompanied her friends to their house, from where she rang up the police, who at once went to the scene of the outrage. Unfortunately they were too late; the house was empty, the miscreants had fled.

“‘The motive of the crime is obscure. The door of a shed in the yard, which is used by Mr. Cartwright, a clock-maker, and at present away from home, had been forced. But since nothing had apparently been taken from it, or from the house, the whole matter is difficult to understand.

“‘Unfortunately, the descriptions of the men, as given by Mrs. Cartwright, are so vague as to be almost valueless. The most she can say is that the second pair, who liberated her and her friends, looked like dockyard hands.’”

“Good up to a point,” said Drummond, brushing his hair. “There’s no mention of Alice. But I wonder if the old girl said anything about Burton. And the police have suppressed it. For if so, Master Charles won’t feel so good, when Cartwright’s body is found and identified.”

“He can still bluff it,” remarked Algy.

“Oh, yes! he can still bluff it,” agreed Drummond. “But I’ve got a sort of idea that our Charles is not quite as happy as he was. After you went up for your bath on Saturday night, he and Menalin were having a little heart to heart chat in the hall…”

“Was it you,” interrupted Algy, “that Molly saw looking through the window by the front door?”

“Who the hell did you think it was? An anthroppoidal ape? As I say, they were having a little chat. I couldn’t, of course, hear what they said, but it struck me that Burton was a bit worried.”

“He was damned silent during the early part of dinner,” said Algy.

“So Talbot told me. By the same token,” he added with a grin, “it strikes me that Captain Talbot would not be averse to a spot of walking out with little Molly Castledon. I definitely caught the love-light in his eyes when discussing her. And before breakfast, too, which takes a lot of getting round.”

“How on earth did you manage to get him there?”

“A sheer lucky break. A pal of Denny’s was engaged, so I wangled the change. You see, Algy, I didn’t know you were going there for the week-end…Let us to our eggs.”

“I’m still in the dark as to why he asked me.”

“To pump you about me, of course. And, my dear old lad, you did magnificently. Talbot swears that he distinctly heard Burton tell Menalin that you were a cross between a Mongolian idiot and that monkey at the zoo with the purple bottom. Jane darling—don’t listen. Algy would like a tumbler of your red currant wine—hot.”

“You’re very rude about my red currant wine, Master Hugh,” said Jane indignantly.

“Jealousy, my sweet; jealousy.” He peered suspiciously at his plate. “A little on this egg might be a good thing; I think the hen gave up half way through.”

She snatched up the dish.

“That there Johnson at the corner,” she cried as she sniffed it, “swore they were new laid. Leave it to me, dearie.”

“I will, Jane, if you will substitute one of this year’s vintage. Your baby boy needs building up.”

He picked up one of the papers and opened it.

“Hullo! Algy,” he said quietly. “Here’s a little item of possible interest. All in the Court Circular column too.

“‘Mr. and Mrs. Serge Menalin have left the Ritz-Carlton for a few days’ tour in the West Country. No letters will be forwarded.’

“Now isn’t that strange, boy?” He stared at Algy thoughtfully. “That means they went yesterday. And it means another thing as well. Up till then they had no reason to be secret over their movements. Until yesterday everything in their garden was lovely. Which is all to the good…Long may it continue.”

“They’ll smell a rat over the account of the Cartwright affair,” said Algy.

“Perhaps; perhaps not. I think that if we were in the position of the two blokes we laid out, we should pretend that we were the dockyard hands who had done the laying. There would be no one to call us liars, and we could pretend we’d succeeded.”

He glanced at his watch.

“Come along, Algy; time we pushed off. I’ve got everything in the suitcase.”

“What are we going to be?” demanded Algy.

“Hikers, old boy. Scout masters in shorts, covered with badges. You’ll probably have to make a fire by rubbing sticks together. And then we shall eat poisoned berries and die, and the robins will cover us with leaves. Bye-bye, Jane; don’t take in any male lodgers while I’m away.”

They arrived at Exeter to the minute, and sought out the Lowestoft. It was a small hotel in a back street, but clean and comfortable, and they found Peter in a front room building up nature with something in a glass. And having ordered likewise, and closed the door, Drummond produced a half-inch ordnance map of Cornwall and spread it on a table.

“Just as well to get the lie of the country before we start. As the crow flies this place Helverton is about fifteen miles from Bodmin, so that, judging by the way the road twists, it’s about twenty miles by car. To the east and west of it the ground rises steeply, so that it really lies in a gap in the cliffs.”

“And a bit back from the sea,” said Darrell. “Presumably it’s a little fishing village.”

“In which case the arrival of three strangers will go the rounds,” remarked Drummond.

“We might pretend to be journalists,” suggested Algy.

“Probably lousy with them already over the burned man episode,” said Drummond. “However, we’ll see. Anyway, there’s the rough lay-out. Obviously the coast is rocky and deserted, except for Helverton itself. Let’s get changed here, and leave the suitcases with mine host. Then we’ll motor to Bodmin, leave the car, and get off the mark.”

Dusk was falling when they arrived at Cornwall’s county town, and parked the car in a garage.

“Walking tour?” said the proprietor, scratching his head. “Well, for them as likes it, it may be all right. But it ain’t my idea of fun. Which way be you going?”

“Thought of starting off from Helverton,” answered Drummond.

“You be on it too, are you?” laughed the other. “The drowned man that was burned! Rot—sez I. Haunted, indeed. Them villagers would imagine anything…”

“I’m afraid we haven’t heard anything about it,” said Drummond.

“Well—you will, if you goes there. Won’t they, George?”

A shock-headed individual emerged from the back of a carrier’s van.

“What do’ee say?” he asked.

“These gents are going to Helverton. I was telling ’em about the ghost.”

The van driver spat thoughtfully.

“’Tis more in it, sur, than that,” he said. “Be you gentlemen new to these ’ere parts?”

“We are,” said Drummond. “We’re on a walking tour.”

“Well, sur—if you takes my advice you’ll walk elsewhere…”

He retired inside his van again and the owner of the garage smiled at Drummond.

“Just like the rest of ’em,” he said confidentially. “As a matter of fact he’s going to Helverton tonight. He’s the local carrier.”

“The devil he is,” remarked Drummond. “I wonder if he’d give us a lift.”

“Sure,” cried the other. “George—you’ll give these gents a lift, won’t you?”

Once more the head emerged.

“Aye—if they’re wanting to come. I’m starting now…”

“Then we’ll leave the car here,” said Drummond, “and call for it in a few days.”

“Very good, sir. It’ll be quite safe with me.”

The ancient Ford van wheezed into life, and the three men clambered inside. A number of motley parcels comprised the load; two big packing-cases on the floor afforded some sort of seat. But springs were non-existent, and by the time they had crashed and rattled through the night for about a quarter of an hour they were all partially winded.

It was a slow journey. Every mile or so they stopped, and the driver appeared and searched for a parcel. This was duly handed to someone in the darkness; a book was signed, and the health of everybody’s relations was discussed at length. But after they had been going for an hour only the two packing-cases remained.

Suddenly the van halted, and Drummond peered through a tear in the cover. They seemed to be in the middle of a large open moor; no house or cottage was in sight.

“’Ave to wait ’ere, gennelmen, for them cases to be picked up. Sends a van ’e does for ’em.”

“How far are we from Helverton?” asked Drummond.

“Two miles, sur…”

“And who is this who is sending a van?” continued Drummond thoughtfully.

“Mr. Stangerton, sur…The artist…’Im who ’as the ’ouse called Hooting Carn…Where the terror is…”

“What terror?”

“The ghost, sur…”

“I see,” said Drummond. “You say you have to wait here for the cases to be picked up. Have you delivered many before?”

“A tidy few, sur.”

“Get out of the van,” muttered Drummond to Peter and Algy. “Listen, George; do you want to earn a pound?”

“Sure I do, sur.”

“Then don’t mention the fact that you’ve given us three a lift to whoever comes for the packing-cases.”

“They be a-coming now, sur. I see the lights.”

In front, a dim grey streak, stretched the road to Helverton; away up to the left, coming down from the high ground, were the headlights of a car. And as they got out they realised they had stopped at a fork in the road.

They slipped into a ditch as the car reached the spot and proceeded to turn. Then two men who had come in it, assisted by George, lifted each case in turn out of the van and put them in a trailer that was attached. A book was signed, cartage was paid, and in a minute the car was on its way back up the hill.

“Pretty heavy—those cases, George?” said Drummond casually.

“Aye, sur. A tidy weight.”

“And you say you’ve delivered a good many of ’em?”

“Them two makes eight, sur.”

“Do you know where they come from?”

“Different parts, sur. I picks ’em up at the station. Them two came from Leeds.”

“I see. Stangerton, you say, is the name of the gentleman?”

“Ess, sur; that’s right.”

“And what’s this terror you talk about, George?”

“’Tis an old fable, sur. My father heard it, and his father afore him. ’Tis the ghost, they do say, of a Spaniard. Hundreds o’ years ago a big Spanish ship was in danger of driving ashore here in a gale. And the captain ’e sold ’isself to old Nick if so be his ship was saved. A wicked man he was, and when the officers and crew, who were praying to the Holy Virgin, heard what he had done, they threw him overboard. And just as soon as he was in the sea the wind shifted and blew them off the lee shore into safety. But the captain he was drowned, and his body was washed ashore on the little island…And because he had sold ’isself to the devil he can’t rest in his grave, and his ghost is sometimes seen flitting round Hooting Carn, and sometimes on the island itself…And them as sees it had best mind out—for it means death…”

“That’s very interesting, George,” said Drummond. “And has it been seen much lately?”

“That be the funny thing, sur,” answered the driver. “Just a legend it was till a few months ago; I can’t rightly recollect anybody who had actually seed it. All the chaps used to talk about it at times, but it was alms somebody else who had told ’em they’d seed it. And then lots of ’em started to see it.”

“Very strange,” agreed Drummond quietly. “And what was it they saw?”

“A yellow figure, sur, that seemed to glide over the ground—and then suddenly disappeared. Afeard they were—until young Jan Penderby said he weren’t. Ghost or no ghost he was going to lay it. And ’tis him who is dead. Aye, sur—dead…Drowned they say, but it’s burned he was—just as you’d expect. For isn’t it the devil himself that Captain Varda sold his soul to?”

“Captain—who?” Try as he would to speak calmly, Drummond’s voice shook.

“Varda, sur. Don Miguel Varda—his name is on the grave at Hooting Carn. The grave from which he walks and into which he disappears.”

“This island you mentioned,” said Drummond. “What is it called?”

“Varda, sur…After the Spaniard…Not that it’s really an island; ’tis just a big rugged rock that sticks out of the sea eighty yards from the cliffs. And sometimes, as I was telling ’ee, the ghost can be seen flitting over the top of it for ’twas there he was beaten to death by the waves.”

The van pulled up outside the Jolly Fisherman.

“Here we be, sur…You’ll be hearing all about Jan Penderby from the lads inside…” He pocketed his pound note. “Thank ’ee kindly, sur…I’m out here every day, if so be there be anything you’re wanting.”

The street was long and straggling. Lights filtered out from the cottage windows, and in the distance they could hear the lazy roar of breakers on the rock. Most of the male population of Helverton seemed to be assembled in the bar as they entered, and a sudden silence fell at the appearance of three strangers.

“What about a pint, George?” cried Drummond cheerfully; and the arrival of the carrier broke the awkward pause. As their link with the outside world, who daily brought them spicy tit-bits of gossip from Bodmin, he occupied an unassailable position in the community. And the sight of him drinking with the new arrivals was a sufficient introduction.

A little man with a straggling grey beard appeared to have the ear of the meeting. Even the landlord, after drawing the beer, returned to his position at the other end of the bar, and resumed his air of interested attention.

“’Ess, sur,” cried the speaker, banging his tankard on the table. “I seed ’un orl rit. I went out night arter young Jan were washed ashore. It were dark, an’ I told meself I were a fool to go poking me ’ead in at all. Still I kept on. And I’d just got to that li’l’ rise afore you comes to Hooting Carn, when I looks to me left. An’ there I seed ’un. There ’ee were as ’igh as a ’ouse, an’ gleamin’ all over ’ee were—from ’ead to foot. For a bit I couldn’t move—struck frozen I were, and then ’ee started to walk towards me. I gave one yell an’ turned on me ’eels an’ I never stopped running till I got back—an’ that’s all of two mile.”

“Tall as a ’ouse, Mr. Dogerty?” said someone doubtfully.

“Tall as a ’ouse,” repeated greybeard firmly, “an’ gleaming all over. I tell ’ee it’s the devil ’isself that got young Jan.”

“You be new to these parts, sur?” said the landlord, coming back to Drummond.

“We are,” answered Drummond. “George has been telling us about your excitement here.”

“Bad affair it was, sur…Very bad…Young Jan Penderby was as nice a boy as you could meet.”

“They say he was burned,” remarked Drummond.

“Well, sur—I did see the corpse. An’ there sure was something mighty odd about it…I’ve seen drowned men before, but never a one like Jan. All yaller ’e was, as if ’e’d been scorched with fire.”

“Have you seen the ghost yourself, landlord?”

“I have not, sur. An’ I don’t want to neither. Be you gentlemen on a walking tour?”

“That’s the idea,” said Drummond. “Hope it keeps fine.”

“The weather will be all right. But if you takes my advice you’ll not walk past Hooting Carn save by daylight…”

“Belongs to a Mr. Stangerton, doesn’t it?”

“That’s so, sur. Rented it, he did, about a year ago…Been empty some time afore that.”

“And what does he say about the ghost?”

“Bless you, sur—we don’t never see him. Keeps ’isself in ’is ’ouse, he does; never goes out at all, so far as I knows.”

“This little island Varda,” continued Drummond, “that George was telling us about. Does anyone live on it?”

“Bless you, no, sur. Only the seagulls. Rises well nigh sheer out of the sea. They do say as ’ow in the old days it was used by smugglers. But them be old tales.”

“It’s not marked on any map, is it?”

The landlord laughed.

“Marked on a map? No, sur. ’Tis only a small rock. And the name is just a local one—given after the Spaniard who was drowned there.”

He turned away to supply another customer, and Drummond looked at the other two.

“Can you beat it for luck?” he muttered. “I just want to ask him one or two more questions, and then we might have a pow-wow. Do you happen to know, landlord,” he continued, “if this Mr. Stangerton is married?”

“Never heard as how he was, sur. But that’s not saying he ain’t.”

“An artist, so George was saying. Is it a big house?”

“Middlin’, sur. About a hundred yards from the top of the cliff.”

“Does he keep a large staff?”

“Can’t say as I rightly knows, sur. As I was telling you, he keeps ’isself to ’isself.”

“One would have thought that tradesmen delivering goods would have known,” said Drummond casually.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sur. He gets all his stuff from Bodmin. Sends in for it, he does.”

“Quite a mystery man,” laughed Drummond.

“And when did the ghost first begin to show itself?”

“Nigh on two months ago, sur. Regular walk it used to be for couples courting. But now not one of ’em would go near it…”

“Don’t blame ’em,” agreed Drummond. “Could you let me have some bread and cheese, and another pint all round. Over in that alcove would do nicely.”

“Certainly, sur…Will you be wanting rooms for tonight?”

“Yes, please,” said Drummond. “Well, boys,” he went on as they sat down in their corner, “as I said before, can you beat it for luck?”

“What do you make of this ghost business?” remarked Darrell.

“Ghost my foot,” cried Drummond. “You heard what the landlord said. All the necking pairs in Cornwall were using it as a lovers’ lane. Which did not suit this man Stangerton. So, having heard about the legend, he produced the ghost.”

“And this fellow who was killed?”

“Happened to find out too much,” said Drummond quietly. “That’s how I read it. What was in those packing-cases, chaps? They seemed damned heavy.”

“Some of Mr. Sam Cartwright’s little machines,” hazarded Algy.

“That’s what I think, old boy. And there have been six before those two. But it isn’t that,” he continued after a pause, “that is making me scratch my head. You heard what mine host said about this little island. He said it rises wellnigh sheer out of the sea. But, according to our friend George, the ghost has been seen flitting over the top of it. How did it get there?”

“Boat and rope ladder.”

“Which presupposes someone on the top of the island beforehand, to let down the ladder. Further, even to a superstitious crowd like these people, the spectacle of a ghost laboriously climbing up the side of a cliff would shatter ’em a bit. No—I’m wondering…”

“We’ll buy it.”

“You heard what the landlord said about smugglers in the old days. Is it possible that there is a connection between that island and the mainland—under the sea? And that that is what Jan Penderby found?”

“I like it,” said Algy. “Definitely—I like it. Starting from the house, or something of that sort?”

Drummond nodded.

“You’ve got it,” he said. “Though probably not from the house itself, as I don’t see how a local man could have got inside. But he found it, and being a courageous lad he followed it up. And that was his death-warrant.”

“What puzzles me,” remarked Darrell, “is this burning business. Why go out of your way to draw attention to the thing? Why not knock him on the head and throw him in the sea? Then it’s plain drowning.”

“I agree,” said Drummond. “That’s been worrying me. And from what we know up to date, there’s no answer…”

“If you’re right about the passage,” reverted Algy, “how are we going to find the entrance?”

“How did Jan Penderby?”

“Stumbled on it by chance.”

“At night! Again—I wonder. I think he happened to see the ghost go to ground. Is there any reason why we shouldn’t do likewise?”

Peter Darrell began to rub his hands together ecstatically.

“Good boy,” he cried. “Very good boy…Go right up to the top of the class. Teacher is pleased with you. So your suggestion is…?”

“Same as yours.”

“Tonight?”

“As ever is,” said Drummond. “Let’s have some more ale.”

CHAPTER XV

THE GHOST WALKS

The weather was warm and almost muggy when they started. The last visitor had left the bar; the landlord of the Jolly Fisherman was preparing to shut up for the night. It was useless to try to conceal their intentions from him, even had they wanted to, and he regarded them with a pleasingly benign toleration.

“Well, gents,” he said, “everyone to their own way of thinking. Give me my bed. I’ll leave the door open, and the candles on the table.”

At first the rise was almost imperceptible; then it grew steeper. And a quarter of an hour after they had left the inn they reached the top of the cliff. Behind them lay the village, though no light could be seen from far below came the monotonous beat of the sea on the rocks.

The going was smooth and springy, and they swung forward in silence. From the map they knew that Hooting Carn lay just on two miles from Helverton, but they were still some way short of that distance when they saw in front of them a solitary light. It was shining through trees and lay in a hollow.

“The house, presumably,” remarked Drummond. “I think a little closer—” He paused suddenly. “What’s that noise?”

They listened intently, but the other two could hear nothing.

“I can,” said Drummond, lying down on the ground and pressing his ear to the grass. “Why, it’s unmistakable.”

They followed his example, and then it was obvious, too, to them. Very faint, but perfectly distinct, there came to their ears a gentle, rhythmic thump—thump—thump. Almost could they feel a faint tremor in the ground.

“An engine of sorts,” said Algy.

“Exactly,” remarked Drummond. “But what sort? And where? No electric-light machine ever made that noise. It might be a pump for water, but it seems a rum time to have one going. However, let’s investigate further.”

They walked on, their footsteps making no sound on the soft turf. Dimly they could see the outline of the house, against the ground that rose again on the other side of it. And at last they got near enough to see into the room from which the light was shining.

A man was seated at a table smoking. In front of him were a batch of papers and a ledger which he consulted from time to time, and in which he made periodical entries. He was not a prepossessing-looking individual, and evidently the thought of water with his whisky was not one that appealed to him. His features were red and coarse, but the breadth of his shoulders denoted strength.

“Is that our artist?” whispered Drummond.

“I should think his sole claim to painting ability,” answered Darrell, “would be covered by disinfecting the chicken run.”

After a few moments the door opened, and another man entered. He was obviously an underling as he did not venture to sit down, but stood waiting for orders. And, having received them, he left as abruptly as he had come. Twice more the performance was repeated; then the leader lit a cigarette and rose to his feet.

He was a bigger man than he had seemed when sitting down, and for a while he stood looking out into the night. Then, pitching away his cigarette he closed the window and switched off the light. And a moment or two later a gleam from an upstair room proclaimed that he had gone to bed.

“Evidently he doesn’t mind being seen,” said Drummond quietly. “Though when all is said and done the whole proceeding was perfectly harmless. Let’s explore a bit more.”

Cautiously they circled round the house, keeping some fifty yards away from it, but there was nothing to be seen. There were lights in a few of the top rooms, but one by one these went out. And at length the place was in darkness.

“What do we do now?” asked Algy.

“Sit down and wait,” said Drummond. “It’s only just eleven. The trouble is we mustn’t smoke. Incidentally that engine is still going strong.”

“I wonder where the deuce it is,” remarked Darrell. “It’s not loud enough to be coming from the house.”

“It sounds to me,” said Drummond with his ear again pressed to the ground, “as if it was underneath us somewhere. My God I look there.”

Motionless they sat staring at the house. Out to sea a syren blared mournfully; near-by a fitful eddy of wind stirred the trees. But the three silent watchers had only eyes and ears for one thing.

Behind a clump of bushes near the house a light was gradually beginning to materialise. It rolled and swirled, shapeless to start with, until it seemed to take the form of a gigantic man. And then, abruptly, with a curious gliding movement, it passed from behind the screen of undergrowth out into the open.

Fascinated, they watched it as it passed over the ground. Its height was fantastic—twice that of an ordinary man, and as it moved it seemed to be dripping fire. It went away from them, up the rise they had come down, then, making a detour, it circled round towards them.

“No wonder the locals were frightened,” muttered Drummond. “It’s a fearsome-looking object.”

It passed about twenty yards away from them, and at that range, they could see how the effect had been produced. The luminosity was obviously caused by a preparation of phosphorus; the great height by some form of superstructure carried on the shoulders. But it was in the apparent movement of gliding that the cleverness lay. For the ghost’s legs were covered with a voluminous skirt reaching almost to the ground, which effectually prevented the actual feet being seen.

It drifted on aimlessly first in one direction, then in another until, at length, it halted. But only for a second; even as they watched it, it sank into the ground and disappeared.

“Quick,” said Drummond. “Now’s our chance.”

They walked towards the spot from which a faint glow still emanated. Then, as if a light had been turned out, all was dark again.

They groped forward cautiously, and suddenly Drummond paused. Just in front of them, from what seemed to be a crack in the ground, there still filtered a chink of light. And then that, too, went out; everything was dark.

“Run to earth,” said Drummond quietly. “What the deuce have we here? It feels like a stone. Form a scrum, boys, between me and the house; I’m going to chance the torch for a second.”

It flashed out; at their feet was a mildewed, moss covered stone slab. But three words cut in it were sufficient to show what it was:

“DON MIGUEL VARDA.”

“The Spaniard’s tomb,” breathed Drummond. “Well, I’m damned I It bears out what George said. The grave from which he walks and into which he disappears. And Jan Penderby found it.”

He was staring out to sea as he spoke.

“Give it a minute or two, yet chaps, and we’ll see if I was right. I was; by God I I was.”

Floating, apparently in space, over the sea was the gliding yellow figure. Twice, three times it went backwards and forwards some three or four hundred yards away; then, even as it had done on the mainland, it sank down and disappeared.

“Yes; I was right,” repeated Drummond. “That was the ghost doing its piece on the island of Varda. Which means that if the ghost can get there, we can.”

“Is it likely to come back this way?” said Darrell thoughtfully. “Because, if so, we’d better allow a few minutes. We don’t particularly want to meet it in a narrow passage.”

“Agreed,” said Drummond, who was fumbling with the tombstone. “Got it,” he muttered suddenly. “The whole thing slides back.”

They retreated a little distance and sat down to wait. And it was not for long. Barely five minutes had elapsed before there came a faint rumble from in front of them, and a dark figure emerged from the ground. The ghost minus its make up had returned. Came another rumble; a faint clank as of a metal bar being shot into position—and silence. The ghost had departed to bed.

They gave it another quarter of an hour before they again approached the grave. And then one gleam from the torch was sufficient to show the cause of the clank. A steel bar had been shot home which bolted the stone slab in position. It was not locked in any way; evidently Mr. Stangerton relied on superstition to prevent any undue curiosity about the tomb. And it was a simple matter to slide the bar from its sockets and lay it on the grass. Then very cautiously they pulled back the slab.

Below them yawned a black hole, and one after another they lowered themselves down into it. And then, having pulled back the stone into its normal position, Drummond switched on his torch.

They were standing in a small vault like cave. In places the walls had been shored up with baulks of timber, and the work was obviously recent. A ladder, which they had not seen led to the stone above them; in front was a black opening that looked like the entrance to a mine shaft. From it, descending sharply, ran a tunnel. And in this, too, the walls were supported in various places with new timbering.

The going, though steep, was good. The roof was high enough to allow them to walk without stooping, but caution was necessary. And every few yards Drummond stopped, torch switched off, to listen. But no sound could be heard; the engine they had noticed earlier, had ceased.

It was at the third halt that they struck another gallery coming in from the right—a gallery completely shored with mine cases, which was obviously all new work. And here they paused for a space; there were points of considerable interest to be noted.

First—from its direction it could lead to only one place, the house. Second—the wires. Looped to the roof ran half a dozen—some thick insulated cables, others which might have been telephone connections. And they all stretched away into the darkness in front of them. Moreover at ten yard intervals there now hung electric light bulbs from the top of the tunnel.

“They evidently feel pretty safe here,” whispered Drummond. “Which is not to be wondered at seeing we must be fifty feet underground by now. But there’s no doubt about one thing, boys, this has taken a bit of doing. Even granted the original foundation which they had to work on, a hell of a lot of labour has been put into this show. And what I’m wondering is where all that labour is. Have they got a young army billeted about the place? Or did they chance letting the men who did this job go?”

The angle of descent became steeper after the junction. In places rough steps had been constructed, with lengths of rope attached to the wall as an additional help. And as they descended lower the air grew dank and cold.

At last the shaft flattened out; they were under the bed of the sea. And here the timbering was far more elaborate and powerful, though the roof dripped water in places, and puddles lay on the floor. For about a hundred yards the tunnel continued horizontal; then it began to rise steeply again. And with a feeling of relief the three men ascended into drier air.

Suddenly Drummond switched off his torch; a faint light was beginning to filter down the shaft from an opening in front, which grew stronger as they got higher. They were moving with the utmost caution, their rubber-soled shoes making no sound as they climbed. And at length, inch by inch, Drummond hoisted himself up so that he could see what the shaft led into.

“Great Scott!” he breathed. “Look at that.”

The other two joined him, and side by side they lay staring at the scene in front of them. And assuredly it was an amazing one.

They were looking into a large cave, from the roof of which hung two electric bulbs, throwing an eerie white light into the gloom below. Fantastic shadows lay across the floor, and as their eyes grew accustomed to it they began to see the details of the place more clearly.

Around the walls various types of machines had been erected—lathes and the like, each one of which must have been carried along the passage that lay behind them. In the centre there stood what looked like a crushing machine, with a heavy vertical rod moving in guides—the machine that had probably been making the thumping noise they had heard on the mainland.

Close by it stood a huge pile of tins neatly stacked, and on which they could see the label of Petworth’s Fruit. Packing-cases—some open and some shut littered the floor, and in the far corner was a wooden partition marked “Danger.”

Of human beings there was no sign; evidently work had ceased for the time. And after a moment Drummond rose and crept forward followed by the other two. They skirted round, keeping as much as possible in the shadows, and as they investigated further the whole gigantic scheme became clear. One packing case labelled Leeds—one of the two that had come with George—was open, and contained as they had guessed a number of clockwork machines similar to the one Drummond had found in Switzerland. Another was full of unopened fruit tins all of the same Petworth brand.

The tins stacked in the centre were empty, and a thing like a pig tub close by was full of lemon cling peaches, slices of banana, apricots, and pink cherries; Mr. Petworth’s Fancy Quality Fruit Salad had come to an undignified end. And picking up a few of the tins Drummond noticed that some of them had three little cubes inside, while others were plain.

He walked over to the wooden partition labelled “Danger”; there was a door in it which he tried cautiously. But it was locked, and he made no attempt to force it.

“Presumably the explosive for this jolly little scheme,” he muttered, and even as he spoke the unmistakable sound of a human snore fell on their ears. It came from the other side of the cave, and looking across they saw a blanket hanging in the wall.

Creeping over they listened; from behind the blanket came sounds as of a barrack room at night—heavy breathing and an occasional creak as a sleeper turned over in bed.

“Fitted with dormitory complete,” whispered Drummond. “I wonder how many of the swine there are.”

The other two laid hands on him.

“Come away,” muttered Darrell firmly. “None of your charge of the Light Brigade here. We’ve found out all we want to find out, old lad; let’s hop it.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” agreed Drummond with a grin. “We’ll go.”

With one last look at that converted smuggler’s cave they began the return journey down the shaft. Details might be—were—lacking, but the main outline of the plot was clear. And as Drummond went along, once again did those words of Jimmy Latimer come back to him—”Out-Vernes Jules Verne.”

“Not this time, my friends,” he muttered to himself; “not this time.”

And at that moment all the lights in the tunnel went on.

They halted dead in their tracks; the thing was so utterly unexpected as to stagger them momentarily. They were in the horizontal section under the sea, and no one was in sight. Only the bulbs gleaming dully through the moisture that covered them showed that somewhere someone was awake. But was it in front, or was it behind? Had the lights been switched on from the mainland or from the island?

Drummond produced his wire cutters.

“Better anything than light,” he muttered, as he cut the flex. “They may think a fuse has blown, or that there’s a short.”

They stood motionless—listening. Around them pressed the darkness—so black that it could be felt. And then, step by step, they began to feel their way towards the mainland end of the shaft.

From behind them came suddenly the faint sound of voices, and Drummond swore under his breath. Cutting the wire had put not only the lights in the tunnel out of commission, but also the two that had been on in the cave. And, presumably, somebody who had been awake behind the blanket had given the alarm. Which meant, if the original switch on had come from the house end, they were caught between two fires.

Undeniably the situation was awkward. To use a torch was out of the question; they could only grope blindly on by feel. And the trouble was that if the men from the island did come to investigate there was no reason why they should not use a torch, which meant instant discovery. The shaft ran straight; there was no recess in either wall which would hide one man, much less three.

They were climbing now—scrambling up the steep slope as silently as they could. There was no sign, as yet, of any light ahead, and hope began to rise in their breasts. Once over the steepest section progress would be quicker; if only they could make the grave they were safe. And at last with a sigh of relief Drummond who was leading, topped the rise and felt the ground become flatter under his feet. Just in time; a torch was flashing down below them as the island contingent came into view.

His pace quickened; speed was essential. Half running, half stumbling, their hands outstretched to feel the walls they pushed forward. And at last they reached their goal.

“Heave,” he muttered, “heave like hell. Those blighters will be in the straight soon.”

And they might as well have heaved at solid rock; the tombstone would not budge an inch. Someone had replaced the bar; they were caught like rats in a trap.

“‘Pish!’ said Eric, now thoroughly aroused,” remarked Drummond with a short laugh. “That, chaps, would seem to have torn it. Especially as hounds are in sight.”

It was true. The island party led by two men with torches had come into view. As yet they were too far off for the light to pick them up, but it would only be a question of moments before they were spotted. And then there occurred an unexpected development. The whole pack swung away up the gallery leading to the house.

“Now what the devil is that for?” said Drummond thoughtfully. “Is it a trap, or…”

They were not long in getting the answer. Came a vicious phut, and a bullet buried itself in the ground behind them—followed by another, and yet a third—a third which ended with a different note. Too often in the old days had they heard it in France.

“Sorry, old man,” said Algy with a groan. “They’ve got me through the shoulder.”

“Lie down,” came Drummond’s quiet order. Then he cupped his mouth in his hands. “We surrender.” he called out.

The object of the move up the branch gallery was clear; they could be shot at without being able to answer. A man firing round the fork of the two shafts would be bound to get them in time, and they had nothing to fire back at.

“Hurt, old Algy?” he asked gently.

“Only a Blighty,” answered Algy. “Blast their eyesight.”

There was a silence from the other end; then with a sudden spluttering noise a tiny search-light flared into life. The beam shifted, then focussed and grew steady on the three prone men.

“Stand up,” came a harsh voice. “I am watching you through a periscope.”

They rose to their feet.

“Hold up any revolvers or other weapons you possess. Now put them on the floor beside you.”

The voice waited until the order had been carried out.

“Now come along the shaft until you are within two yards of the search-light. I warn you that you are covered, and that on the slightest sign of your doing anything foolish, you will be killed.”

In silence they did as they were told.

“Bind their wrists behind them,” continued the voice.

Three men stepped forward, each with a length of cord, and though Algy turned white no sound escaped his lips as one of them wrenched his wounded arm back.

“So we scored one bull, did we?” went on the voice. “A foretaste of more to come. We will now show you to your temporary quarters.”

The man behind Drummond gave him a jolt in the back.

“Move,” he grunted.

He jerked Drummond’s arm and pushed him into the gallery leading to the house. At the far end was a square of light, and as he got up to it he saw that the shaft opened into a big cellar. A flight of stone stairs opposite him led up into the house, but the room itself was empty, save for a table and some chairs. The walls were of stone and were also bare, except for a small switchboard flanked with coloured bulbs.

“How are you feeling, Algy?” asked Drummond as the other two were pushed in beside him.

“Fine, to what he will do,” remarked the voice materialising. It was the man who they had seen working in the downstair room earlier in the evening.

The rest of the men came in behind him, and Drummond took stock of them. And with one or two exceptions he was struck by their appearance of respectability. This was no collection of gangsters or toughs; they looked like a bunch of hard-working mechanics. Save for the exceptions, who were the men who had bound them. And they looked what they were—rough stuff who would bump off anyone for a dollar.

“And now,” continued the leader, “may I ask what you were doing down below?”

“By all manner of means,” said Drummond frankly. “We are, as you see, on a hiking tour, and this evening we reached the Jolly Fisherman at Helverton. There we heard stories of a mysterious ghost that had been seen near this house. So we decided to investigate. We saw the ghost; we saw it go to ground in what appeared to be a grave. And having waited a bit we proceeded to explore out of curiosity.”

“Do you usually go on a hiking tour armed with revolvers?” asked the other with a sneer.

“Not usually,” answered Drummond. “But we had them with us, and decided to bring them tonight.”

“Most convincing. And how far did you get in your exploration?”

“Down to the bottom of a tunnel Then it seemed to be getting so wet that we only went a short way along the level…”

“When the lights were switched on?

“Exactly.”

“And you cut the wire?”

“I did.”

“And now supposing you tell me the truth. It will perhaps assist you if I tell you what you did. You continued along the level and climbed the shaft on the other side. There you entered a large cave, which unfortunately for you has its entrance guarded by that burglar proof light ray of which you may have heard, and which rang the alarm in my room. You remained in the cave some ten minutes, and then left. You again sounded the alarm, by which time I had taken the necessary precautions to prevent you escaping. Am I right?”

Drummond shrugged his shoulders; denial was stupid.

“I see that I am. Now then—who are you?”

“My name is Hillman; this is Mr. Singer, and the man you’ve wounded is Morris.”

“Names are notoriously difficult to invent on the spur of the moment, I agree. But if you must go to the car industry why not Mr. Rolls, Mr. Royce, and Mr. Bentley? Still the point is immaterial.”

He lit a cigarette.

“My name is Stangerton,” he continued. “Will you smoke? Unlash them. I think,” he went on as the ropes were cast off, “that you have sufficient sense to realise that any attempt to throw your weight about will merely precipitate your inevitable end.”

“Which is?” asked Drummond politely.

“Very simple. The only difficulty lies in the fact that Mr.—er—Morris has been wounded. Otherwise by now you would all have—ah—fallen over the cliff in your pursuit of that elusive ghost, which the whole village will be sure to know you came to look for. Very dangerous cliffs here.”

“I appreciate your quandary,” said Drummond pleasantly. “Even the most warlike of ghosts is unlikely to plug a man through the arm. So what do we do?”

“The programme still remains the same for you and Mr. Singer. You see the currents in this part of the coast are notoriously treacherous. So if two of the bodies are ultimately washed up that will be sufficient. The third need not be discovered, and won’t be. So Mr. Morris will be buried on the island tomorrow night.”

Drummond blew out a cloud of smoke.

“So you intend to murder us in cold blood,” he remarked.

“I am sorry about it,” said Stangerton quietly, “but I have no alternative. You must put yourselves in my place. You are not fools; you must realise that something is going on here which I require kept secret. How dare I let you go? You are bound to talk of what you have seen. If, on the other hand, I keep you all as prisoners—what then? The villagers will talk. Hooting Carn will become a centre of publicity—the very thing I wish to avoid. And so—though believe me, I have no personal animosity against you—you must be killed…And killed in such a way that the manner of your death will arouse no suspicion. Another cigarette? And then I fear we must get on with it.”

“Thanks,” drawled Drummond.

His hand was as steady as a rock as he helped himself from the tin, though for the life of him he could see no way out. What Stangerton had said was plain, horse-sense; from his point of view there was no other way of looking at it. He could neither afford to let them go nor keep them as prisoners. But one more effort could do no harm.

“Look here, Mr. Stangerton,” he said quietly, “aren’t you being a little drastic? I admit we were trespassing, and that we went where we had no right to go. But surely our curiosity was understandable.”

“Perfectly. But your revolvers were not…In short, Mr. Hillman, I do not believe that you are three genuine hikers.”

“Really! What do you think we are?”

“Journalists.”

Drummond raised his eyebrows.

“Under these circumstances aren’t you afraid that our papers may become inquisitive?”

“I am sure they will. Hence the necessity of your accidental death. I anticipate that quite a number of people will follow you up, but they will discover nothing. For one thing, the ghost has walked for the last time; his utility is exhausted. As a matter of fact it was, I think, a mistake on my part not to have stopped him after that young fisherman’s death…However, that cannot be helped now. Tell me”—he stared suddenly at Drummond—”what was it that brought you here? Was it the fact that the man was burned?”

“That certainly has given rise to comment,” answered Drummond.

“You were a fool, Freystadt, a damned fool,” said Stangerton angrily. “I told you so at the time.”

A heavy-jowled German looked up sullenly.

“It vos a great opportunity the gaz to test,” he muttered. “I did not of other things think.”

“Gas,” remarked Drummond languidly. “Is that what you’re making in the chamber of horrors?”

“Amongst other things, Mr. Hillman; amongst other things.”

Drummond’s brain was racing; this was something new. Gas had so far not entered into their calculations; it was a completely fresh development and one which, at the moment, he could not fit in. And then with a bitter sense of futility came the realisation that it did not much matter whether he could or could not.

“And now I think we must conclude our talk.” Stangerton was speaking again. “I am genuinely sorry that I have to take this course. I bear you no animosity whatever personally; to me you are just three individuals who have found out more than it is good for you to know. And so you must be removed. Bind their arms again.”

It was then that Drummond went berserk. With one glorious upper-cut he broke the jaw of the man behind him and the fight began. Once, twice, and yet again he threw them off him as they waded in, his fists smashing into every face he could see. The table overturned; two chairs were splintered to matchwood. And it was not until one man got him by the ankles that like a falling oak he finally crashed to the ground, with ten of them on top of him. He felt his arms lashed behind his back as he lay there panting. He heard, as balm to his soul, the groans and curses of the men he had hit. Then came a boot in his ribs, and he was hauled to his feet…

He stood there swaying drunkenly, with the blood streaming down his face. On the floor lay Peter unconscious. His guard had hit him on the base of the skull with a piece of gas-piping before he had had time to join in. And Algy, helpless with his shattered shoulder, stood against the wall watching.

“A good one, old Algy,” laughed Drummond. “A good one for the last.”

His eyes roved round the ring of men; paused on Stangerton’s plum-coloured eye; paused on the gas expert pulling out some teeth in a corner. And once again he laughed, a great laugh that rang through the room, and rang and rang again as a challenge to the last grim Visitor he had diced with so often in the past.

“Come on, you spawn,” he roared. “Or are you still afraid?”

“Lay him out, Pete,” snarled Stangerton, to the wielder of the gas-piping. “Lay the devil out and sling ’em both over the cliff.”

Three men sprang on Drummond and held him, and he grinned at Algy.

“So long, old man, so long.”

He braced himself for the blow; then gradually he relaxed. For a sudden silence had fallen on the room; the grip of the men who held him had loosened. And glancing up he saw that a man was standing at the top of the stairs—a man whose face was in the shadow.

“What an appalling noise,” came a quiet voice, and Algy gave a start of surprise. “What on earth is happening, Mr. Stangerton?”

The newcomer came down into the room; it was Menalin.

“Dear me!” he remarked staring at Algy. “If it isn’t our friend Mr. Longworth—the village idiot. And what may I ask are you doing here?”

“Having a look at the bridal suite in the new Madeira,” drawled Algy.

“And you?” Menalin paused in front of Drummond. “Who are you?”

His eyes narrowed; he leaned forward.

“Surely I cannot be mistaken even though I have only seen you once. Remove the beard; remove the blood…It is…Well, Captain Drummond we meet at last.”

“The honour,” remarked Drummond, “is entirely yours.”

“You know these men, sir?” Stangerton had found his voice.

“Not the one on the floor—but the other two.”

“They are journalists who have been spying.”

“Journalists!” Menalin smiled. “Well, it’s as good a profession as any other when pushed to it.”

He lit a cigarette, and stared at Drummond.

“What do you mean, sir?” cried Stangerton.

“They’re no more journalists than you are,” answered Menalin. “They’re in the British Secret Service, and I pay this gentleman, at any rate, the compliment of saying that he’s one of the very few really dangerous men I’ve ever met in my life.”

CHAPTER XVI

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED

An angry murmur ran round the room, and Menalin held up his hand.

“I do not think we want all these people here, Stangerton,” he remarked. “The room is insufferably hot, and Captain Drummond has not improved their appearance.”

With a gesture Stangerton dismissed them, keeping only those who had acted as guards.

“Lash their legs,” ordered Menalin, “and then you three can go also. Remain within call. I fear, Captain Drummond, that you will have to sit on the floor, since you appear to have broken all the chairs except this one.”

“But surely, sir,” said Stangerton nervously, “if these men are in the Secret Service it is all the more important to dispose of them at once.”

“And have every policeman in England on the spot when their bodies are washed ashore? Don’t be a fool, Stangerton. The one place they must not be disposed of is here.”

“But it would appear accidental,” persisted the other.

“What does it signify how it appears?” snapped Menalin. “All that would matter is that they were in this locality—not that they were dead.”

He sat down and lit another cigarette.

“But supposing that it is known that they came here?” cried Stangerton.

“The supposition had already occurred to me,” said Menalin calmly. “And if it is correct, nothing that we can do will alter the fact. Our one aim must be to create the impression that, although they came here, they left again, having found nothing of interest. And our only method of doing that is to have their bodies found as soon as possible and as far away as possible. So will you get through to Mr. Burton at once. It will probably take you a considerable time at this hour of the night, but that can’t be helped. And, when you’ve got him, ask him to start at once, bringing his cure for asthma.”

“For what?” cried Stangerton.

“Asthma. He will understand. You might add that a mutual friend has arrived from the Continent who needs it badly. And now,” he continued as Stangerton left the cellar, “I feel that I should enjoy a chat with you, Captain Drummond.”

Drummond looked at him thoughtfully.

“What is the programme?” he asked.

“So far as you are concerned, a perfectly painless death as soon as Burton arrives. One, moreover, which has the advantage of appearing natural. I can assure you that when he first told me that he could do it, I didn’t believe him. I thought it was the figment of a novelist’s imagination. But there is no doubt about it; his claim is justified. It appears that if a large injection of a drug called adrenalin is made into a vein, death occurs in about five minutes. And since the drug is destroyed very quickly by the blood, no trace remains. I was so taken by the idea that I asked a Harley Street man at dinner the other night, and he confirmed it. Apparently, so he told me, pituitrin has the same effect. But, as adrenalin is used for hay fever and asthma, and pituitrin only in childbirth, I suppose Burton, dear fellow, thought the former more suitable.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Burton jabbed a needle into Jimmy Latimer without waking him?” cried Drummond.

“I fear there was a little lying on that occasion, Captain Drummond,” smiled Menalin. “The barman’s assistant had his orders before the boat sailed. Had Latimer not had a drink—well, there were other methods available. But since he did—it was easy.”

“It was doped, you mean.”

“Precisely. Enough to produce a very sound sleep. And a whiff of chloroform did the rest. But that is all vieux jeu. Tell me about yourself. I little thought when I arrived here yesterday that I should have the pleasure of meeting you.”

In spite of himself Drummond smiled; there was no trace of sarcasm in the words.

“Under slightly different conditions, I would have said the same,” he remarked.

“Conditions which no one regrets more than I do,” said Menalin. “But when one enters a game of this sort, one knows the risks.”

“Are you prepared to put your cards on the table?” Drummond looked at him questioningly. “I know something; I may say I know a good deal. But there are still many gaps. And since I am in your power…”

“You would like your curiosity gratified? Certainly, Captain Drummond. I will pay you the compliment of saying you deserve it. And perhaps you, too, will gratify mine over one or two points that are not quite clear to me.

“We must go back nearly two years,” he began, “if we are to get the matter in its true perspective. It was then becoming evident to everyone who knew anything that the situation in Europe could not remain as it was. I am not going to bore you with a dissertation on international politics, but it was obvious that, within the next few years, matters must come to a head. Every big power was arming feverishly, with the exception of England, who seemed fundamentally incapable of appreciating the situation. Strange, too, for she must have known…

“It was at this stage of the proceedings that I was called in and given carte blanche. England—or rather her Empire—was the prize, and the problem that I had to solve was the simplest method of obtaining it. There was no urgency; the time was not then ripe. But, as you can imagine, a matter of such magnitude could not be solved in a few weeks.

“To start with I dismissed at once any idea of a war à outrance like 1914. Not only was it a clumsy proceeding, but because that war had proved almost, if not quite, as damaging to the victors as to the vanquished. Besides, in anything of the nature of drawn-out proceedings, your country has always shown an amazing power of recovery. And so I concentrated on something in the nature of a coup d’état, where a smashing blow could be delivered before the war began. In fact, I still hope that we shall avert war altogether, which will be most satisfactory financially.”

Menalin lit another cigarette.

“I regret I cannot offer you one?” he said, “but, from what I saw of your fighting capabilities, I fear your arms must remain bound. To continue, however; I happened to be staying with a friend of mine in Milan, when an act of sabotage took place in a factory in which he was interested. A discontented workman had managed to get hold of some explosive, and with it had wrecked a large and costly piece of machinery. And though there was nothing novel in that, it gave me the germ of an idea. For the thing that struck me was the very small amount of explosive that was required to do almost irreparable damage, if it was applied at the right spot in the machine.

“As I say—there was the germ; from it grew my present scheme, which you have by now, doubtless, grasped in its main outline. If so much damage could be done in one factory, what would be the result if it occurred simultaneously all over the country?

“There were, of course, difficulties—serious difficulties. The first was to devise some method by which explosive could be delivered to a large number of different places in safety. The second was to get it introduced into the factories without it being spotted. The third was to ensure that it would be fired successfully. And it was at once obvious that something in the nature of a time bomb was the only solution.

“It was the second of these points that decided us in our choice. Any form of tin would have been good enough for one and three, but, in order to comply with two, we decided to use a tin that apparently contained food. No one would then say anything to a man taking it in for his dinner. In addition it gave us a standard size, a point of value which you have also, doubtless, appreciated. We could now decentralise our work. By the way, do you like Burton?”

“I do not,” said Drummond grimly.

“No more do L But he has been very useful to me. I met him first some years ago, and he is efficient. He will do anything for money, and in addition, for some reason, he dislikes this country intensely. And so I installed him in England to do the preliminary spade work at this end. I must say I have no fault to find with the way he has done it.

“It was he who first hit on Maier—the Swiss. Incidentally, was it you that night, Captain Drummond?”

“It was,” said Drummond.

“Dear me! It seems to me that you must know much more than is good for you.”

“I admit,” remarked Drummond calmly, “that up to date you have told me very little that I hadn’t guessed. Why did your men kill Maier?”

“He was foolish enough to try blackmail.”

“I thought it was something like that. However, please go on.”

“Or perhaps you would like to continue for me?”

“If you prefer it,” said Drummond calmly. “The machine made by Maier was some form of time fuse which fits into the top of a Petworth fruit tin. These tins, having been emptied of fruit, are filled with explosive and resealed in that island. In due course they will be despatched all over the country, and at a previously arranged time they will be exploded in different works.”

“Capital,” cried Menalin. “Capital. And perfectly correct. One refinement, however, I would like to point out to you, which was Maier’s pride and joy. According to the distance which the opener travels round the tin depends the time it takes for the bomb to explode.”

“And what of those tins that are not fitted for a fuse?”

“You note everything. In many cases more explosive—ammonal incidentally—than can be contained in one tin, is necessary. So there are some tins full of plain explosive. One of these lashed to a fused tin increases the charge.”

“A pretty plot,” said Drummond slowly. “And you really believe that that will bring this country to her knees?”

“Good God! No!” laughed Menalin. “That is only half the entertainment. The other half I made myself personally responsible for. And upon that side of the scheme I doubt if you are quite so well informed. No mention of it was contained in the papers that blew into Major Latimer’s possession. And that is another thing I have often wondered. How much did he tell that woman, Madame Pélain.”

Drummond smiled.

“We will leave the ladies’ names out of it, Mr. Menalin, if you don’t mind!”

“As you will. Though I can assure you no harm will come to her. I know he got the map of the bomb distribution, and one sheet of the general instructions. To refer, however, to the second half of the programme.

“You, of course, fought in the last war, when doubtless you sampled from time to time the unpleasant effects of gas. Starting in its rudimentary method with chlorine, various products such as phosgene, mustard gas or yperite and others were involved. But the war came to an end before some of the more advanced compounds were used. And it was to them that I naturally turned in my researches.

“There was one invented by an American chemist, to which was given the name of Lewisite. It is a pale yellow liquid, which smells faintly of geraniums, and is made, if it interests you, from acetylene, arsenious oxide, and sulphur chloride. It is extremely poisonous and, under good conditions, sixteen hundredweight of the stuff would be sufficient to give a blanket of lethal gas twenty feet high, over an area of one square mile. Or to take another calculation, a hundred bombers, each carrying five thousand pounds of Lewisite could poison an area of three hundred square miles. No wonder it is generally known as ‘The Dew of Death.’

“Starting with this as a foundation Freystadt, whom you have seen, tells me that he has evolved a formula which is fifty percent more powerful. But, even if he is optimistic, the figures I have given you should be good enough for my purpose—which is the simultaneous knock-out of certain strategical spots, of which, naturally, London is the first. The liquid will be dropped in hundreds of thin containers which will burst on hitting the ground. Then the gas is given off, and, since it is heavier than air, there is no escape in the streets of a city. And, if a few machines are hit, it does not matter in the slightest. The gas will be disseminated just the same when the plane hits the ground. Even in an open district, such as Aldershot, the effect should be considerable, though not so deadly as in a confined space.”

Drummond was gazing at him speechlessly, and Menalin smiled.

“You may think,” he continued, “that I am trying to harrow your imagination; possibly that I am exaggerating. My dear sir—why should I? In a few hours you will be dead, so what could be my object?”

“But what is your object in such a devilish scheme?” shouted Drummond.

“The finish of England as a world power,” said Menalin, and though he spoke calmly his eyes were gleaming. “For centuries you have taken what you want, and done what you want; for centuries you have ridden rough shod over anyone who crossed your path. And now you have been so amazingly foolish as to cut down your fighting forces, when the countries who loathe and detest you have increased theirs. True you are thinking of increasing them again; but, my friend, it is too late. And I can imagine nothing more dreadful and humiliating to an erstwhile great power than the position you have recently found yourselves in. Egged on by wild theorists, both lay and clerical, your government has brandished a stick which, when its bluff was called, turned out to be a paper wand. And the utterly incomprehensible thing, to me, is that you must have known what the result was going to be before you started.”

“Let’s cut that out,” said Drummond harshly. “Who are flying these planes?”

“The…of course.”1

“And are they doing this bomb business also?” continued Drummond.

“Not entirely. One might almost say that that is cosmopolitan, though many of your own countrymen are involved in it. You must surely be aware, Captain Drummond of the immense number of people who in the old days were called Anarchists, and now disguise themselves as Communists or Workers of the World. But a rose by any other name…And when it comes down to brass tacks the main plank of their creed is destruction of the capitalist. You’ll find a cell of them in every big works, and all we have done is to harness their activities to our own ends.

“Naturally,” he went on, “great care has been necessary in dealing with them. Even now the vast majority of them will only receive their orders at the last moment when they are actually issued with the tins. So that, if mistakes have been made, and some of them communicate with the police, it will be too late for the authorities to do anything.”

Drummond sat staring at him dully, and it was Algy who suddenly spoke.

“What do you get out of it, you bloody swine?” he said.

Menalin swung round and stared at him.

“I’d quite forgotten the village idiot,” he remarked. “Though I must really congratulate you on the way you played the role. Tell me—how did you hear of the island of Varda?”

“It gave you a bit of a jolt didn’t it, hog hound? Why—everybody knows of it, you poor fish.”

Drummond gave him a quick glance; Algy was no fool and it was a possible line to take up.

“That,” said Menalin calmly, “is a lie. But evidently somebody does.”

“And so,” continued Algy, “it has really been most entertaining listening to your ridiculous scheme. We realise that you can kill us with some ease, but I don’t think murder will make it any better for you when you’re caught.”

“Please don’t relapse to the idiot level, Mr. Longworth,” begged Menalin. “It hurts me when you do. Can you really imagine that we have not guarded against the possibility of the island being discovered?”

He lit another cigarette, and Drummond made an urgent sign to Algy to signal him out of action. The man’s overweening conceit might make him speak.

“Every good general,” continued Menalin, “has a line of retreat. And this old house with its marvellous facilities for our purpose, was not quite safe enough as it stood. There is, of course, nothing incriminating in this house at all; everything is in the island. But it was obvious that we might come under suspicion, in which case we had to allow for the possibility of the police doing what you gentlemen have done tonight. And so, to obviate that risk, we mined the part of the tunnel that goes under the sea. Fire that mine—and it is fired electrically from here—and a seal of water, eighty yards long, forms between the island and the mainland…”

“Jolly for the birds on the island,” drawled Drummond. “And for all the pretty fruit tins which would seem to lose some of their efficacy.”

“I said a line of retreat, Captain Drummond. There is another exit from the island on the side looking out to sea. Impracticable, it is true, when it is rough, but feasible when calm. It would be a nuisance to have to use it, as it entails boats and a ship, instead of transport by lorry. But it is there just in case of necessity.”

The door flung open and Stangerton returned.

“It’s taken me all this time to get through,” he cried. “However—it’s all right. Mr. Burton is starting at once.”

Menalin glanced at his watch.

“So he should be here about nine tomorrow—or rather this morning. Well,” he continued, getting up and stretching himself. “I think I shall retire to bed again. I have enjoyed our chat immensely, Captain Drummond, and I shall doubtless see you once again. You had better leave a couple of armed men on guard, Stangerton. I have a wholesome respect for these young men.”

He yawned, and went up the steps.

“Good night to you all; good night.”

The door closed behind him and Stangerton went to the entrance of the tunnel.

“Come in here,” he called out, and the men who had lashed them up in the first instance entered. “I leave them in your charge,” he continued. “And don’t let there be any error.”

“Trust us,” said the man with the broken jaw, kicking Drummond in the ribs. “There ain’t going to be no perishing error.”

Stangerton followed Menalin, and silence fell on the room. At the table—their guns in front of them—sat the three guards smoking. Peter still sprawled unconscious on the floor; Drummond and Algy, arms and legs lashed, leaned uncomfortably against the wall. Once in a while came an involuntary grunt of pain from Algy, for his arm was hurting abominably; otherwise there was silence.

Nine o’clock in the morning; could nothing be done before that? Ceaselessly the problem went round and round in Drummond’s brain. He had tried the lashing behind his back, and given it up. An expert in the art himself, he recognised another expert’s handiwork. And even if he did get his arms loose, what was the good? His feet would still be lashed, and he couldn’t undo them unseen.

Nine o’clock! Ginger Lawson would not begin to be uneasy until the whole day had gone by without receiving a wire. Under no circumstances could he be there until the following day. And that would be twenty-four hours too late. By that time they would be dead and their bodies dumped two hundred miles away. If there was only some way of getting the information through. Even a clue…

God! What a scheme! Out-Vernes Jules Verne…And Jimmy Latimer had known nothing about the gas! Moreover—and there lay the appalling side of it—the thing was practicable. A few bombs might go wrong; a few aeroplanes might crash—what did it matter? There would be a trail of death and destruction over England beside which the devastated areas of France in the last war would have appeared as smiling fields. And suddenly he gave a short laugh…

“Glad you find it funny,” sneered one of the men at the table.

“Frightfully,” said Drummond.

He had just visualised the scream of merriment with which the whole story would be greeted at the Golden Boot…Or in his club…

He could hear the remarks.

“My dear fellah—fancy resurrecting that old fable…Why, the damn’ thing came out of the ark with Noah.”

And yet it was practicable; the more he turned the scheme over in his mind the more did he become convinced of that fact. Even if the results were not all that Menalin expected, the material damage inflicted would be enormous, apart altogether from the ghastly loss of life. Even if they were able to fight on, and the blow was not an absolute knock-out, the dice would be hideously loaded against them.

At length he fell into an uneasy doze. He was utterly exhausted; not even his magnificent constitution could last for ever. The fight on top of the doings of the last few days had temporarily finished him. And when he opened his eyes again a dull grey light was filtering through a grimy, cobwebbed window high up in the wall. Day had dawned, and with it full recollection came flooding back.

The three men still sat at the table; the electric bulbs still shone in the smoke-laden air. And in the distance the thump-thump of the machine proclaimed that work on the island had started again.

He looked across at Algy, who was muttering deliriously to himself; he looked at Peter who still lay unconscious on the floor. And for those two things he gave thanks. They, at any rate, would be spared the hours of waiting for the inevitable end.

Footsteps sounded on the floor above; the house was awake. And he wondered apathetically what the time was. How long was there to go? How long before Burton arrived?

Like most people he had often wondered what were the feelings of a man in the condemned cell when he woke on that last fateful morning. And now he was in the same position himself. Fear? No, he was not afraid. His principal emotion was one of rage at his helplessness. If only he could get free, even for one half-minute…And in a fit of almost childish fury he strained at the rope round his arms; strained till the veins stood out on his forehead…

Suddenly the door opened and Stangerton came down the steps.

“All right?” he asked. “Given no trouble?”

“None at all,” said the leader of the guard. “The guy with the wounded arm has gone a bit queer, and the big feller has been asleep.”

“Is the other one dead?”

“No. He’s breathing. But he hasn’t moved since I hit him.”

“Well—it’s over now. Mr. Burton has arrived sooner than I thought he would. Are you ready, Captain Drummond?”

And just for the fraction of a second Hugh Drummond’s mouth went dry.

“Delightful of you to ask me,” he said after a short pause. “I take it that it doesn’t much matter whether I am or not.”

“I’m sorry that it is necessary,” remarked Stangerton quietly. “Unlash his legs.”

So they were going to move him, and for an instant wild hope surged up in his breast. Anyway, it was better than being killed like a trussed pig.

He got stiffly to his feet, and stood swaying slightly. “Up the stairs, please,” said Stangerton. “Two of you come with him.”

He found himself in the hall. At the foot of the stairs Burton was talking earnestly to Menalin, and Stangerton joined them. The matter under discussion was evidently important; the words “urgent” and “vital” caught his ear, as he glanced idly round.

He felt a curious sense of detachment—almost of unreality—now that the end had come. On a table by an open window lay a large hypodermic syringe; beside it stood a blue medicine bottle. And even as he stared at them curiously, it happened. Like lightning a hand shot in from outside holding a similar bottle, which it substituted for the first.

Drummond felt his mouth opening; the thing had been so quick that he could hardly believe his eyes. Who did the hand belong to? The men guarding him had seen nothing; the other three were far too engrossed in their conversation to have noticed. Who did the hand belong to? What did it mean? And the wild hope he had felt in the cellar below came surging back again.

“We must get off at once.” He heard Burton’s voice from across the hall. “Will you tell Dorina? I’ll get this done, and then we’ll have our inspection. Now Captain Drummond, I’m sorry matters should have come to this, but I understand Mr. Menalin has explained the situation to you.”

He picked up the bottle and the syringe.

“I can assure you of one thing; it is perfectly painless. You will just fall asleep. Unlash his wrists and roll up that sleeve.”

His mind a seething medley of conflicting thoughts, Drummond felt the prick of a needle in his arm. And then his brain grew ice-cold. He must act—act for his hope of life.

“You will just fall asleep.”

Burton’s words rang in his ears; so be it—he would. “Lay him on the floor,” came Burton’s order, and the two guards put him down.

Act—act for his life. And for more than his life; for the possibility of defeating them after all. So he stared at Burton with a sneer on his face, then let his eyes close, only to force them open again with a great effort. Closed again; opened. And then at last they did not open…

“Good,” said Burton quietly. “Now the other two.”

“How long before he’s dead?” asked Stangerton.

“It varies. He’s a very powerful man, so that in his case it may be ten minutes. But he’ll never wake again. Have you told Dorina?”

“Yes.” It was Menalin speaking. “She’ll be ready in half an hour. And she doesn’t want to come to the island.”

“Half an hour will just give us comfortable time,” said Burton.

Came the sound of footsteps descending into the cellar, and still Drummond lay motionless, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Of ill effects he felt no trace; whatever it was that was in the second bottle was harmless.

And now there began a period of tension which well nigh drove him crazy. For there had dawned on him a scheme so utterly gorgeous in its simplicity that he could scarcely lie still in his excitement. If only he could do it…

From the cellar came the sound of voices, but he did not know if they were all down there, or whether someone had been left on guard. He dared not open his eyes, though the temptation to do so was almost overwhelming. He must wait…wait…

Suddenly he felt that someone was bending over him, and a voice whispered “Drummond.” He looked up; it was Talbot.

“Got a gun?” he whispered and Talbot shook his head. “Then hide yourself and stand by to help.”

He closed his eyes and listened. No time now to wonder how Talbot had got there; no time for anything but his plan…

The minutes dragged on leaden feet; a clock near by ticked maddeningly. And then came a sentence from the cellar.

“The damned dope doesn’t seem to have had any effect on this crazy guy. Go and see how the big stiff is getting on.”

Drummond smiled inwardly; Algy, being delirious, would naturally have shown no reaction to a harmless injection. Then he braced himself; the moment had come. Steps were ascending the stairs; one of the guards was stooping over him and he had held his breath.

“This one’s a goner,” the man sang out, and the words died away in a strangled scream of terror. For the goner had wrenched the gun from his hand, and had him by the throat in a grip of such ferocity that his eyes were starting from his head. And the next instant he was rushed backwards to the top of the cellar stairs.

The two men below were staring in amazement; amazement which turned to terror as they looked up. “Shoot,” howled one. “He’s got a gun.”

Two shots rang out, and Drummond felt them thud into the back of the man he held. And then two more, and from Drummond’s side there came a quick gasp. For Talbot was standing there, and Talbot was no mean shot himself. And Talbot had seen two faces cease to be faces as a bullet crashed home in each. Drummond had shot to kill…

His grip relaxed on the man he held, who toppled over and fell like a sack to the floor below. And for one moment Drummond stood motionless, his head thrown back. Then he gave a bellow of triumph; he had done it. For the shaft was mined, and in front of him was the switch-board.

It was the third key he pressed that did it. From far off there came a dull rumble that seemed to shake the house, followed by a terrific blast of air that swept from the entrance of the tunnel. Then silence—save for Algy’s delirious muttering…

“Quick,” cried Drummond. “Follow me.”

He raced from the house with Talbot behind him, and made for the edge of the cliff. There—the first time he had seen it from the outside—lay the island of Varda, its red cliffs rising sheer from the water. And half way between it and the mainland there floated a mass of dirt and timber, which still eddied lazily in the oily swell.

“Trapped,” said Drummond quietly. “Like rats. I wonder if they’ll bolt.”

But that they were never destined to see. Suddenly the whole island seemed to split open in front of them. A sheet of flame shot into the sky; rocks, chairs, bedsteads, men and portions of men were hurled upwards and outwards to finish finally in a sea that now boiled angrily as tons of stuff fell into it.

Appalled, yet fascinated they watched, until the last echo had died away; the last traces had vanished beneath the water. From out to sea came the wail of a syren—for the day was misty; above their heads ten thousand gulls screamed discordantly. And over what had once been the Island of Varda there drifted sluggishly a pink cloud…

CHAPTER XVII

A DOUBLE TOAST

And so it ended in failure—that monstrous and diabolical plot. What caused the ammonal in the island cavern to explode must remain for ever uncertain. One man and one man only was saved and his mind was deranged. He was picked up in the sea clinging to a baulk of wood. And sometimes in the night he would wake and shriek—”Don’t shoot. For God’s sake, don’t shoot. You’ll kill us all”—till he lay back exhausted and drenched with sweat.

And it may well be that in that dark cave, the lights extinguished, the tunnel blown in, blind panic reigned. Men fought and screamed; guns were drawn. And some chance bullet found its target in the high explosive. But as I say it will never be known.

Of the woman Dorina, no trace was ever seen again. When Drummond and Talbot returned to the house her car had gone; only the one in which Burton had come from Birchington Towers remained—the one in which Talbot had travelled, hidden in the boot.

For he, in accordance with Drummond’s orders, had been on the watch when the telephone call from Stangerton came through. And he had overheard it. He had seen Burton’s preparations, and had managed to get hold of a similar bottle which he filled with water. Then with a tremendous effort he had squeezed himself into the boot, and thus had he come at the crucial moment to Hooting Carn.

So that there may be some who will say that it is he to whom the principal credit should be given; that save for him Drummond would have died. Others may claim that, save for Ronald Standish’s message about the Island of Varda, the scheme would have succeeded. As for me, I prefer Hugh Drummond’s own opinion.

It was expressed at a dinner party he gave three weeks later—a party I was privileged to attend. Ronald had returned; Humphrey Gasdon had come over from Paris. Ginger Lawson was there, and Talbot; Algy with his arm in a sling—Peter still very shaky. And two others, who sat, one on each side of their host.

The port had gone round, and suddenly Drummond rapped on the table, and stood up.

“Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “there is only one possible toast tonight, and that is a double one. To the girl who walked on the Downs, and to the girl who walked in her sleep.”

1 AUTHOR’S NOTE—In view of the tension that still exists in the European situation today, it has been considered advisable to suppress Menalin’s reply. But it should not be difficult for the reader to fill the gap.