THE THIRD ROUND [Part 2]

CHAPTER VII

In Which Drummond Takes a Telephone Call and Regrets It

Half an hour later Algy and he walked through the unpretentious door that led to the office of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate, to be greeted with a shout of joy from Toby Sinclair emerging from an inner room.

“You have come to ask me to consume nourishment at your expense,” he cried. “I know it. I accept. I will also dine this evening.”

“Dry up, Toby,” grunted Hugh. “Is your boss in?”

“Sir Raymond? Yes—why?”

“I want to see him,” said Hugh quietly.

“My dear old man, I’m sorry, but it’s quite out of the question,” answered Toby. “There’s a meeting of the whole syndicate on at the present moment upstairs, and…”

“I want to see Sir Raymond Blantyre,” interrupted Hugh. “And, Toby, I’m going to see Sir Raymond Blantyre. And if his darned syndicate is there, I’ll see his syndicate as well.”

“But, Hugh, old man,” spluttered Toby, “be reasonable. It’s an important business meeting, and…”

Hugh laid his hands on Toby’s shoulders and grinned.

“Toby, don’t waste time. Trot along upstairs—bow nicely, and say ‘Captain Drummond craves audience’. And when he asks what for, just say, ‘In connection with an explosion which took place at Hampstead.’ And of a sudden it seemed as if a strange tension had come into Toby Sinclair’s room. For Toby was one of those who had hunted with Hugh in days gone by, and he recognised the look in the big man’s eyes. Something was up—something serious, that he knew at once. And certain nebulous, half-formed suspicions which he had vigorously suppressed in his own mind stirred into being.

“What is it, old man?” he asked quietly.

“I’ll know better after the interview, Toby,” answered the other. “But one thing I will tell you now. It’s either nothing at all, or else your boss is one of the most blackguardly villains alive in London today. Now go up and tell him.”

And without another word Toby Sinclair went. Probably not for another living man would he have interrupted the meeting upstairs. But the habits of other days held; when Hugh Drummond gave an order, it was carried out.

A minute later he was down again. “Sir Raymond will see you at once, Hugh,” and for Toby Sinclair his expression was thoughtful. For the sudden silence that had settled on the room of directors as he gave the message had not escaped his attention. And the air of carefully suppressed nervous expectancy on the part of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate did not escape Drummond’s attention either as he entered, followed by Algy Longworth.

“Captain Drummond?” Sir Raymond Blantyre rose, and indicated a chair with his hand. “Ah! and Mr Longworth surely. Please sit down. I think I saw you in the distance at the funeral today. Now, Captain Drummond, perhaps you will tell us what you want as quickly as possible, as we are in the middle of a rather important meeting.”

“I will try to be as short as possible, Sir Raymond,” said Drummond quietly. “It concerns, as you have probably guessed, the sad death of Professor Goodman, in which I, personally, am very interested. You see, the Professor lunched with me at my club on the day of his death.”

“Indeed,” murmured Sir Raymond politely.

“Yes—I met him in St James’s Square, where he’d been followed.”

“Followed,” said one of the directors. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say. He was being followed. He was also in a very excited condition owing to the fact that he had just received a letter threatening his life, unless he consented to accept two hundred and fifty thousand pounds as the price for suppressing his discovery for manufacturing diamonds cheaply. But you know all this part, don’t you?”

“I know nothing whatever about a threatening letter,” said Sir Raymond. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Of his process, of course, I know. I think Mr Longworth was present at the dinner on the night I examined the ornament Miss Goodman was wearing. And believing then that the process was indeed capable of producing genuine diamonds, I did offer Professor Goodman a quarter of a million pounds to suppress it.”

“Believing then?” said Drummond, staring at him.

“Yes; for a time I and my colleagues here did really believe that the discovery had been made,” answered Sir Raymond easily. “And I will go as far as to say that even as it stands the process—now so unfortunately lost to science—produced most marvellous imitations. In fact—he gave a deprecatory laugh—” it produced such marvellous imitations that it deceived us. But they will not stand the test of time. In some samples he made for us at a demonstration minute flaws are already beginning to show themselves—flaws which only the expert would notice, but they’re there.”

“I see,” murmured Drummond quietly, and Sir Raymond shifted a little in his chair. Ridiculous though it was, this vast young man facing him had a peculiarly direct stare which he found almost disconcerting.

“I see,” repeated Drummond. “So the system was a dud.”

“Precisely, Captain Drummond. The system was of no use. A gigantic advance, you will understand, on anything that has ever been done before in that line—but still, of no use. And if one may extract some little ray of comfort from the appalling tragedy which caused Professor Goodman’s death, it surely is that he was at any rate spared from the laughter of the scientific world whose good opinion he valued so greatly.”

Sir Raymond leaned back in his chair, and a murmur of sympathetic approval for words well and truly uttered passed round the room. And feeling considerably more sure of himself, it dawned on the mind of the chairman that up to date he had done most of the talking, and that so far his visitor’s principal contribution had been confined to monosyllables. Who was he, anyway, this Captain Drummond? Some friend of the idiotic youth with the eyeglass, presumably. He began to wonder why he had ever consented to see him…

“However, Captain Drummond,” he continued with a trace of asperity, “you doubtless came round to speak to me about something. And since we are rather busy this evening…”

He broke off and waited. “I did wish to speak to you,” said Drummond, carefully selecting a cigarette. “But since the process is no good, I don’t think it matters very much.”

“It is certainly no good,” answered Sir Raymond.

“So I’m afraid old Scheidstrun will only be wasting his time.”

For a moment it almost seemed as if the clock had stopped, so intense was the sudden silence.

“I don’t quite understand what you mean,” said Sir Raymond, in a voice which, strive as he would, he could not make quite steady.

“No?” murmured Drummond placidly. “You didn’t know of Professor Goodman’s last instructions? However, since the whole thing is a dud, I won’t worry you.”

“What do you know of Scheidstrun?” asked Sir Raymond.

“Just a funny old Boche. He came to see me yesterday afternoon with the Professor’s last will, so to speak. And then I interviewed him this morning in the office of the excellent Mr Tootem, and pulled his nose—poor old dear!”

“Professor Scheidstrun came to see you?” cried Sir Raymond, standing up suddenly. “What for?”

“Why, to get the notes of the diamond process, which the Professor gave me at lunch on the day of his death.”

Drummond thoughtfully lit his cigarette, apparently oblivious of the fact that every man in the room was glaring at him speechlessly.

“But since it’s a dud—I’m afraid he’ll waste his time.”

“But the notes were destroyed.” Every vestige of control had left Sir Raymond’s voice; his agitation was obvious.

“How do you know?” snapped Drummond, and the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate found himself staring almost fascinated at a pair of eyes from which every trace of laziness had vanished.

“He always carried them with him,” he stammered. “And I—er—assumed…”

“Then you assumed wrong. Professor Goodman handed me those notes at lunch the day he died.”

“Where are they now?” It was Mr Leibhaus who asked the question in his guttural voice.

“Since they are of no use, what does it matter?” answered Drummond indifferently.

“Gentlemen!” Sir Raymond’s peremptory voice checked the sudden buzz of conversation. “Captain Drummond,” he remarked, “I must confess that what you have told me this afternoon has given me a slight shock. As I say, I had assumed that the notes of the process had perished with the Professor. You now tell us that he handed them to you. Well, I make no bones about it that though—from a purely scientific point of view the process fails—yet—er—from a business point of view it is not one that any of us would care to have noised abroad. You will understand that if diamonds can be made cheaply which except to the eye of the most practical expert are real, it will—er—not be a good thing for those who are interested in the diamond market. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“I tell you what I can’t understand, Sir Raymond,” said Drummond quietly. “And that is that you’re a damned bad poker player. If flaws—as you say—have appeared in the diamonds manufactured by this process, you and your pals here would not now be giving the finest example of a vertical typhoon that I’ve ever seen.”

Sir Raymond subsided in his chair a little foolishly; he felt at a complete loss as to where he stood with this astonishing young man. And it was left to Mr Leibhaus to make the next move.

“Let us leave that point for the moment,” he remarked. “Where are these notes now?”

“I’ve already told you,” replied Drummond casually. “The worthy Scheidstrun has them. And in accordance with Professor Goodman’s written instructions he proposes to give the secret to the world of science at an early date. In fact he is going back to Germany tomorrow to do so.”

“But the thing is impossible,” cried Sir Raymond, recovering his speech. “You mean to say that Professor Goodman left written instructions that the notes of his process were to be handed over to—to Scheidstrun?”

“I do,” returned Drummond. “And if you want confirmation, you can ring up Mr Tootem of Austin Friars—Professor Goodman’s lawyer. He saw the letter, and it was in his office the notes were handed over.”

“You will excuse me, Captain Drummond, if I confer for a few moments with my friends,” said Sir Raymond, rising.

The directors of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate withdrew to the farther end of the long room, leaving Drummond still sitting at the table. And to that gentleman’s shrewd eye it was soon apparent that his chance arrow had hit the mark, though exactly what mark it was, was still beyond him. But the agitation displayed by the group of men in the window was too obvious to miss, and had he known all the facts he would have found it hardly surprising.

The directors were faced unexpectedly with as thorny a problem as could well be devised.

Believing as they had that the notes had been destroyed—had not Mr Edward Blackton assured them of that fact?—they had unanimously decided to adopt the role that the process had proved useless, thereby removing any possible suspicion that might attach itself to them. And now they found that not only had the notes not been destroyed, but that they were in the possession of Blackton himself. And it needed but little imagination to realise that dangerous though the knowledge of the process had been in the hands of Professor Goodman, it was twenty times more so in the hands of Blackton if he meant to double-cross them.

That was the point: did he? Or had he discovered somehow or other that Drummond held the notes and taken these steps in order to get them?

And the second little matter which had to be solved was how much this man Drummond knew. If he knew nothing at all, why had he bothered to come round and see them? It was out of the question, surely, that he could have any inkling of the real truth concerning the bogus Professor Scheidstrun. Had not the impersonation deceived even London scientists who knew the real man at the funeral that afternoon?

For a while the directors conferred together in whispers; then Sir Raymond advanced towards the table. The first thing was to get rid of Drummond.

“I am sure we are all very much obliged to you, Captain Drummond, for taking so much trouble and coming round to see us, but I don’t think there is anything more you can do. Should an opportunity arise I will take steps to let Professor Scheidstrun know what we think—” He held out a cordial hand to terminate the interview.

But it takes two people to terminate an interview, and Drummond had no intention of being the second. He realised that he was on delicate ground and that it behoved him to walk warily. But his conviction that something was wrong somewhere was stronger than ever, and he was determined to try to get to the bottom of it.

“It might perhaps be as well, Sir Raymond,” he remarked, “to go round and tell him now. I know where he is stopping.” Was it his imagination, or did the men in the window look at one another uneasily? “As I told you, I pulled the poor old bean’s nose this morning, and it seems a good way of making amends.”

Sir Raymond stared at him. “May I ask you why you pulled his nose?” And Drummond decided on a bold move.

“Because, Sir Raymond, I came to the conclusion that Professor Scheidstrun was not Professor Scheidstrun, but somebody else.” There was no mistaking the air of tension now. “I may say that I was mistaken.”

“Who did you think he was?” Sir Raymond gave a forced laugh.

“A gentleman of international reputation,” said Drummond quietly, “who masquerades under a variety of names. I knew him first as Carl Peterson, but he answers to a lot of titles. The Comte de Guy is one of them.”

And now the atmosphere was electric, a fact which did not escape Drummond. His eyes had narrowed; he was sitting very still. In the language of the old nursery game, he was getting warm.

“But I conclusively proved, gentlemen,” he continued, “that the man to whom I handed those notes this morning was not the Comte de Guy. The Comte, gentlemen, has arms as big as mine. His physical strength is very great. This man had arms like walking sticks, and he couldn’t have strangled a mouse.”

One by one the men at the window had returned to their seats, and now they sat in perfect silence staring at Drummond. What on earth was this new complication, or was this man deliberately deceiving them?

“Do you know the Comte de Guy well?” said Sir Raymond after a pause.

“Very well,” remarked Drummond. “Do you?”

“I have heard of him,” answered the other.

“Then, as you probably know, his power of disguising himself is so miraculous as to be uncanny. He has one little mannerism, however, which he sometimes shows in moments of excitement whatever his disguise. And it has enabled me to spot him on one or two occasions. When therefore I saw that little trick of his in the lawyer’s office this morning, I jumped to the conclusion that my old friend was on the war-path again. So I leaped upon him and the subsequent scene was dreadful. It was not my old friend at all, but a complete stranger with a vast wife who nearly felled me with a blow on the ear.”

He selected another cigarette with care.

“However,” he continued casually, “It’s a very good thing for you that the process is a dud. Because I am sure nothing would induce him to disregard Professor Goodman’s wishes on the subject if it hadn’t been.”

“You say you know where he is stopping?” said Sir Raymond.

“I do,” answered Drummond.

“Then I think perhaps that it would be a good thing to do as you suggest, and go round and see him now.”

He had been thinking rapidly while Drummond was speaking, and one or two points were clear. In some miraculous way this young man had blundered on to the truth. That the man Drummond had met in the lawyer’s office that morning was any other than Blackton he did not for a moment believe. But Blackton had bluffed him somehow, and for the time had thrown him off the scent. The one vital thing was to prevent him getting on to it again. And since there was no way of telling what Drummond would find when he went round to the house, it was imperative that he should be there himself. For if there was one person whom Sir Raymond did not expect to meet there, it was Professor Scheidstrun. And in that event he must be on hand to see what happened. “Shall we go at once? My car is here.”

“By all means,” said Drummond. “And if there’s room we might take Algy as well. He gets into mischief if he’s left lying about.”

On one point at any rate Sir Raymond’s expectations were not realised. Professor Scheidstrun was at the house right enough; in fact he and his wife had just finished their tea. And neither the worthy Teuton nor his spouse evinced the slightest pleasure on seeing their visitors. With the termination of the funeral they had believed their troubles to be over, and now this extremely powerful and objectionable young man had come to worry them again, to say nothing of his friend who had spoken to the Professor at the funeral. And what did Sir Raymond Blantyre want? Scheidstrun had been coached carefully as to whom and what Sir Raymond was, but what on earth had he come round about? Especially with Drummond?

It was the latter who stated the reason of their visit. “I’ve come about those notes, Professor,” he remarked cheerfully. “You know—the ones that caused that slight breeze in old Tootem’s office this morning.”

“So,” grunted the Professor, blinking uneasily behind his spectacles. It struck him that the ground was getting dangerous.

“I feel,” went on Drummond affably, “that after our unfortunate little contretemps I ought to try to make some amends. And as I know you’re a busy man I shouldn’t like you to waste your time needlessly. Now, you propose, don’t you, to carry on with Professor Goodman’s process, and demonstrate it to the world at large?”

“That is so,” said the German. Out of the corner of his eye Drummond looked at Sir Raymond, but the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate was staring impassively out of the window.

“Well, I’m sorry to say the process is a dud; a failure; no bally earthly. You get me, I trust.”

“A failure. Ach! is dot so?” rumbled Scheidstrun, who was by this time completely out of his depth.

“And that being the case, Professor,” murmured Sir Raymond, “it would be better to destroy the notes at once, don’t you think? I was under the impression”—he added pointedly—”that they had already been destroyed in the accident.”

Strangely enough, the presence of Drummond gave him a feeling of confidence with Mr Edward Blackton which he had never experienced before. And this was a golden opportunity for securing the destruction of those accursed papers, and thus preventing any possibility of his being double-crossed.

“Shall we therefore destroy them at once?” he repeated quietly.

The German fidgeted in his chair. Willingly would he have destroyed them on the spot if they had still been in his possession. Anything to be rid of his visitors. He glanced from one to the other of them. Drummond was apparently staring at the flies on the ceiling; Sir Raymond was staring at him, and his stare was full of some hidden meaning. But since it was manifestly impossible for him to do as Sir Raymond suggested, the only thing to do was to temporise.

“I fear that to destroy them I cannot,” he murmured. “At least not yet. My duty to my dear friend…”

“Duty be damned!” snarled Sir Raymond, forgetting Drummond’s presence in his rage. This swine was trying to double-cross him after all. “You’ll destroy those notes here and now, or…” With a great effort he pulled himself together.

“Or what?” asked Drummond mildly. “You seem strangely determined, Sir Raymond, that Professor Scheidstrun shouldn’t waste his time. Deuced praiseworthy, I call it, on your part.… Interests of science and all that.…” Sir Raymond smothered a curse, and glared still more furiously at the German. And suddenly Drummond rose to his feet, and strolled over to the open window.

“Well, I don’t think there’s much good our waiting here,” he remarked in a bored voice. “If he wants to fool round with the process, he must. Coming, Sir Raymond?”

“In a moment or two, Captain Drummond. Don’t you wait.”

“Right. Come on, Algy. Apologies again about the nose, Professor. So long.”

He opened the door, and paused outside for Algy to join him. And every trace of boredom had vanished from his face. “Go downstairs noisily,” he whispered. “Make a remark as if I was with you. Go out and slam the front door. Then hang about and wait for me.”

“Right,” answered the either. “But what are you going to do?”

“Listen to their conversation, old man. I have an idea it may be interesting.” Without a sound he opened the door of the next room and went in. It was a bedroom and it was empty, and Drummond heaved a sigh of relief. The window, he knew, would be open—he had seen that as he looked out in the other room. Moreover, the square was a quiet one; he could hear easily what was being said next door by leaning out.

And for the next five minutes he leaned out, and he heard. And so engrossed was he in what he heard that he quite failed to notice a dark-skinned, sturdy man who paused abruptly on the pavement a few houses away, and disappeared as suddenly as he had come. So engrossed was he in what he heard that he even failed to hear a faint click from the door behind him a few moments later.

All he noticed was that the voices in the next room suddenly ceased, but he had heard quite enough. There was not one Scheidstrun, but two Scheidstruns, and he had assaulted the wrong one.

Of Mr Edward Blackton he had never heard; but there was only one man living who could have suggested that unmistakable trick with his hand—the man he knew as Carl Peterson. Somehow or other he had found out this mannerism of his and had used it deliberately to bluff Drummond, even as he had deliberately double-crossed the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. It was just the sort of thing that would appeal to his sense of humour.

So be it: they would crack a jest together over it later. At the moment he wanted a word or two with Sir Raymond Blantyre. He crossed to the door and tried to open it. But the door was locked, and the key was on the outside.

For a moment or two he stood staring at it. His mind was still busy with the staggering conversation he had been listening to, which had almost, if not quite, explained everything. Facts, disconnected before, now joined themselves together in a more or less logical sequence. Sir Raymond Blantyre’s visit to Montreux to enlist the aid of this Mr Edward Blackton; the arrival in England of the spurious Professor Scheidstrun; the accident at Hampstead—all this part was clear now. And with regard to that accident, Drummond’s face was grim. Cold-blooded murder it must have been, in spite of all Sir Raymond’s guarded utterances on the subject.

For it had taken that gentleman ten minutes before he finally realised that the Scheidstrun he was talking to was the genuine article, and during that ten minutes he had spoken with some freedom. And then when he had finally realised it, and grasped the fact that he and his syndicate had been double-crossed, his rage had been terrible. Moreover, he had then said things which made matters even clearer to the man who was listening in the next room.

Out of his own mouth he stood condemned as the instigator of an abominable crime.

But Sir Raymond could wait; there would be plenty of time later to deal with that gentleman and his syndicate. The man who called himself Edward Blackton was the immediate necessity, and Drummond had no illusions now as to his identity. It was Carl Peterson again, and with the faintest flicker of a smile he acknowledged the touch of genius that had caused him to pass on his little mannerism to the genuine Scheidstrun. It had had exactly the intended effect: certainty that they had again met in the lawyer’s office, followed immediately by a crushing proof to the contrary—a proof so overwhelming that but for vague suspicion engendered by the Professor’s non-recognition of Algy at the funeral he would have let the whole thing drop.

It was just like Peterson to bluff to the limit of his hand; moreover, it would have appealed to his sense of humour. And the point which was not clear to either Sir Raymond or the German was very clear to him. To them it had seemed an unnecessary complication to bring over the genuine Scheidstrun—but there Drummond could supply the missing link. And that link was his previous acquaintance with the arch-criminal. The combination of shrewd insight and consummate nerve which deliberately banked on that previous acquaintance and turned it to gain was Peterson all over—or rather Blackton, to give him his present name. Moreover, the advantage of having the genuine article at the funeral where he was bound to run into many friends and acquaintances was obvious.

Most assuredly the touch of the master-hand was in evidence again, but where was the hand itself? It was that question which Sir Raymond, almost inarticulate with rage, had asked again and again; and it was the answer to that question which Professor Scheidstrun would not or could not give. Listening intently Drummond had inclined to the latter alternative, though not being able to see the speaker’s face, he had had to rely on inflection of voice. But it had seemed to him as if he was speaking the truth when he absolutely denied any knowledge whatever of Blackton’s whereabouts. An old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers—that was all he could say. But where he was, or what he was doing, he knew no more than Sir Raymond. He had left that morning with the notes in his possession, and that was all he could tell his infuriated questioner.

And then a sudden silence had fallen while Drummond still craned out of the window listening—a silence which endured so long that finally he stepped back into the room, only to discover that he was locked in. For a moment or two, as has been said, he stood staring at the door; then with a grunt he charged it with his shoulders. But the door was strong, and it took him three minutes before, with a final splintering crash, the door burst open, almost throwing him on his face. For a while he stood listening: the house was silent. And since in ordinary respectable houses the bursting open of a door is not greeted with absolute silence, Drummond’s hand went automatically to his hip-pocket. Past association with Peterson accounted for the involuntary movement, but much water had flowed under the bridge since those happy days, and with a sigh he realised that he was unarmed. With his back to the wall he took careful stock of his surroundings. Every nerve was alert for possible eventualities; his arms, hanging a little forward, were tingling at the prospect of action.

Still there was no sound. The passage was deserted; all the doors were shut. And yet keys do not turn by themselves. Someone had locked him in: the question was, who had done it? And where was he? Or could it be a she? Could it be that monumental woman who had assaulted him only that morning? He turned a little pale at the thought; but with the knowledge that he now possessed of her husband’s complicity in the affair he felt he could meet her on rather more level terms. And there was comfort in the knowledge that everyone in the house was so confoundedly crooked. The likelihood of their sending for the police to eject him from the premises was, to put it mildly, remote.

Silently as a cat, he took a quick step along the passage and flung open the door of the room in which he had left Sir Raymond Blantyre and the German. It was empty; there was no sign of either man. He crossed to one of the heavy curtains which was drawn back in the window behind the desk, and hit it a heavy blow with his fist. But the folds went back unresistingly; there was no one hiding behind it. And then swiftly and methodically he went from room to room, moving with that strange, silent tread which was one of his most marked peculiarities. No one ever heard Drummond coming; in the darkness no one ever saw him, if he didn’t wish him to. The first thing he knew of his presence was a pair of great hands which seemed to materialise out of the night, forcing his head backwards and farther back. And sometimes that was the last thing he knew as well.…

But there was no darkness in the house as he searched it from top to bottom—only silence. Once he thought he heard the sound of a step above him as he stood downstairs in the dining-room, but it was not repeated, and he decided it was only imagination—a board creaking, perhaps. He went into the kitchen and the scullery; the fire was lit in the range, but of cook or servant there was no sign.

And finally, he returned thoughtfully to the hall. There was no doubt about it, the house was empty save for himself. Sir Raymond and the German had gone during the period that he was locked in the room upstairs. And during that period the other occupants of the house, if any, had gone also.

He carefully selected a cigarette and lit it. The situation required reviewing. Item one. Sir Raymond Blantyre was a consummate swine who had, by the grace of Allah, been stung on the raw by a hornet. Moreover, before Drummond had finished with him the hornets would have swarmed. But he could wait.

Item two. The genuine Professor Scheidstrun appeared to be a harmless old poop, who was more sinned against than sinning. And he certainly could wait.

Item three. The other Professor Scheidstrun—alias Blackton, alias Peterson, present address unknown—had got away with the goods. He was in full and firm possession of the momentous secret, which Blantyre had paid him half a million to destroy. And involuntarily Drummond smiled. How like him! How completely Peterson to the life! And then the smile faded. To get it, he had murdered a harmless old man in cold blood.

Item four. He himself was in undisputed possession of an empty house in which Peterson had been only that morning.

Could he turn item four to advantage in solving the address question in item three? Everything else was subservient to that essential fact: where was Peterson now? And from his knowledge of the gentleman it was unlikely that he had left directions for forwarding letters pasted conspicuously on the wall. He was one of those shy flowers that prefer to blush unseen. At the same time it was possible that an exhaustive search of the desk upstairs might reveal some clue. And if it didn’t, presumably the bird who had locked him in would return in due course to find out how he was getting on. Everything therefore pointed to a policy of masterly inactivity in the hopes that something or somebody would turn up.

He slowly ascended the stairs, and again entered the room where the interview had taken place. Time was of no particular object, and for a while he stood by the door turning over the problem in his mind. Then suddenly his eyes became alert: there was a door let into the wall which, by some strange oversight, he had not seen before. And in a flash he remembered the step which he thought he had heard while he was below. Was there someone in that room? and if so, who? Could it be possible—and a glow of wild excitement began to tingle in his veins at the mere thought—could it be possible that the solution of the problem lay close at hand? That here, practically in the same room with him, was Peterson himself?

With one bound he was across the room, and the door was open.

One glance was sufficient to dash the dawning hope to the ground: the room was empty, like all the rest had been. But though it was empty it was not devoid of interest, and a faint smile came on Drummond’s face as he surveyed the contents. Wigs, clothes, mirrors filled the place to overflowing, though there was no trace of untidiness. And he realised that he was in the inner sanctum where Peterson carried out his marvellous changes of appearance. And with a sudden grim amusement he recognised on a chair the identical egg-stained coat that the spurious Professor Scheidstrun had worn on his visit to him the preceding afternoon. In fact he was so interested in that and other things that he failed to notice a rather curious phenomenon in the room behind him. The heavy curtain which he had hit with his fist moved slightly as if blown by the wind. And there was no wind.

With genuine interest he examined the exhibits—as he called them in his own mind. It was the first time he had ever penetrated into one of Peterson’s holy of holies, and though the proprietor was not there himself to act as showman, he was quite able to appreciate the museum without the services of a guide. The wigs—each one on its own head-rest—particularly appealed to him. In fact he went so far as to try some of them on. And after a time a feeling of genuine admiration for the wonderful thoroughness of the man filled his mind. Murderer, thief, forger, and blackguard generally—but what a brain! After all, he fought a lone hand, deliberately pitting himself against the whole of the organised resources of the world.

With only the girl to help him he had fought mankind, and up to date he had won through. For both their previous battles had been drawn, and now that the third round was under way—or soon would be—he saluted his adversary in spirit as a foeman worthy of his steel. It was a good thing, after all, that he had not brought in the police. Peterson fought alone: so would he: as it had been in the past, so let it be this time. Their own particular pals on each side could join in the battle if and when occasion arose; but the principal combat must be between Peterson and him—no mercy given, no mercy asked. And this time he had a presentiment that it would be a fight to a finish. It required no stretch of imagination on his part to realise the enormous plum which the criminal had got hold of; it required no stretch of imagination to realise that he would fight as he had never fought before to retain it.

And once again there came up the unanswered question—where was he? It was even impossible to say if he was still in England.

Another thing occurred to Drummond also, as he strolled back into the other room and sat down at the desk. On this occasion the dice would be loaded more heavily in Peterson’s favour than before.

In the past the only method by which he had ever recognised him was by his strange but unmistakable little mannerism when excited—the mannerism which was innate and had persisted through all his disguises. And now he had discovered what it was; had actually told another man to employ the very trick to fool Drummond. And if he had discovered it, he would take very good care not to use it himself. He would keep his hand in his pocket or something of that sort.

Drummond lay back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, with his head almost touching the heavy curtains behind him. Life undoubtedly was good; but for the murder of Professor Goodman it would have been very good—very good indeed. And at that moment the telephone on the desk in front of him began to ring.

With a jerk Drummond sat up and looked at it—his mind recalled to the circumstances of the moment. Should he let it go on ringing till the operator gave up in despair, or should he take the call? One thing was obvious on the face of it: the call could not be for him. But that was no conclusive reason why he shouldn’t take it. Monotonously, insistently, the instrument went on sounding in the silent room, and at last Drummond leaned forward and took the receiver from the hook. And as he did so the curtain behind him stirred again and then was still. But whereas before it had hung in even, regular folds, now it did not. Outlined against it was the figure of a man—a man who inch by inch was pulling the curtain back, a man who held in his right hand a short, villainous-looking iron bar. And as Drummond leaned forward to be ready to speak into the mouthpiece, Freyder’s hard eyes concentrated on the nape of his neck. He was an expert with a life-preserver…

Julius Freyder had been anticipating that telephone call, which was why he had concealed himself behind the curtain. From the room which Drummond had overlooked until the end he had watched him strike that curtain with his fist, and had gambled on his not doing so again. Rarely had he received such a shock as when, rounding the corner of the street below, he had seen Drummond of all men leaning out of the window. For it showed conclusively that this accursed bête noire was on their heels again, though how he had managed to get there was a mystery. And when on entering the house he had heard, even before he mounted the stairs, the furious utterances of Sir Raymond Blantyre and had realised that Drummond must have heard them too, the need for instant action was obvious.

Julius Freyder was no fool, or he would not have occupied the position he did. And not only was he no fool, but he was also an extremely powerful and dangerous man. It was the work of a second to lock Drummond in, and rush the two excited gentlemen and everyone else in the house through a bolt-hole at the back into some old mews and thus away. But he had no delusions as to the efficacy of a mere bolt against Drummond, and the door was already beginning to crack and splinter as he hid himself amongst the clothes in the inner sanctum. What to do: that was the question.

Powerful though he was, he would no more have dreamed of tackling Drummond single-handed than he would have thought of challenging the entire London police force. He would have lasted five seconds with luck. At the same time it was manifestly impossible to leave him in the house alone. Apart from the telephone call which he expected from the Chief at any moment, there might be incriminating documents in the desk. But it was the call that worried him most. Once Drummond got that, even if he didn’t recognise the voice at the other end, he would be sure to ask exchange where it came from. And from that, to going down to the New Forest to investigate for himself, probably supported by a bunch of his damned friends, would only be a question of hours.

Which was the very last thing to be desired. Just as speed had been the essence of the game before, now it was secrecy. At all costs Drummond must be prevented from finding out the whereabouts of Mr William Robinson.

Perhaps he’d go—leave the house when he found it empty. But no such luck, and Freyder, ensconced behind the curtain, cursed savagely under his breath, as Drummond sat down not two feet from him. Once he was sorely tempted to use his life-preserver then and there, but caution prevailed. Perhaps the call would be delayed; perhaps he would get tired of waiting and go. That was all Freyder wanted—to get him out of the house. A stunned or wounded man at that stage of the proceedings would complicate matters terribly, and when that man was Drummond it could only be done as a last resource. But if it was done it would have to be done properly—no bungling, no faltering.

And then came the ring. Freyder gripped his life-preserver a little tighter and waited. He heard the click of the receiver being taken off the hook; he heard Drummond’s preliminary “Hullo”.

And the next moment he struck. It was an easy mark, and, as has been said, he was an expert. With a little sighing grunt Drummond pitched forward and lay motionless, and Freyder picked up the receiver. From it came the Chief’s voice vibrant with suspicion.

“What’s happened? What was that I heard?”

“It’s Freyder speaking, Chief. Drummond is here.”

“What?” It was almost a shout from the other end of the wire.

“He is asleep.” There was a peculiar inflection in Freyder’s voice, and he smiled grimly as he heard the long-drawn sigh of relief. “But I don’t think it would be wise in his present condition of health to leave him here.”

“What does he know?”

“That it is impossible to say at present. But Sir Raymond Blantyre has found out a lot.”

The voice at the other end cursed thoughtfully. “I must have at least twenty-four hours, Freyder; if possible more. I’d like three days, but two might do.” There was a pause. “Will our friend sleep for long?”

“Quite a time, I think,” said Freyder. “But I think he should be under supervision when he wakes. He might have concussion or be suffering from loss of memory.”

“Ah!”

Again came that long-drawn sigh of relief. “Then a sea voyage, Freyder, is clearly indicated. We will have two invalids instead of one. So bring our young friend here tonight.”

With a faint smile Freyder replaced the receiver on its hook and bent over the unconscious figure of Drummond as it sprawled over the desk.

“I trust you’ll enjoy the trip, you young devil,” he snarled.

CHAPTER VIII

In Which Drummond Plays a Little Game of Trains

The blow that Drummond had received would have broken the neck of any ordinary man. But not being an ordinary man he was only badly stunned. And he was still unconscious when he was carried out of a motor-car at Mr William Robinson’s house in the New Forest. That his arrival was regarded as an important affair was evident from the fact that his host came himself to the front door to greet him. But from that moment it is to be feared that Mr Robinson’s knowledge of those excellent books on etiquette which deal with the whole duty of a host towards those who honour his roof with their presence went under a slight eclipse. Regrettable to state, he did not escort his guest personally to the old oak bedroom complete with lavender-scented sheets; in fact, he even forgot himself so far as to leave him lying in the hall with his head in the coal-scuttle. But it is pleasant to state that not for long was he so remiss. At a sign from him two men picked up Drummond and carried him into his own private room, where they dropped him on the floor.

“I will make arrangements for the night later,” he remarked. “Just at present I would like to look at him from time to time, so leave him here.”

The two men went out, leaving Freyder alone with his Chief.

And though he had much to tell him of importance, for a while Freyder said nothing. For there was an expression of such incredible ferocity on the benign countenance of Mr Robinson as he stared at the motionless body on the floor that Freyder realised his presence was forgotten. For perhaps two minutes Mr Robinson’s eyes never left Drummond’s face; then he turned to his subordinate.

“I don’t think I should ever have forgiven you, my dear Freyder,” he said softly, “if you’d had the misfortunate to kill him. That supreme joy must be mine and mine alone.”

With almost an effort he obliterated Drummond from his mind, and sat down at his desk.

“Business first; pleasure afterwards. Things have evidently been happening in London. Tell me everything.”

Clearly and concisely Freyder told him what had occurred, while Mr Robinson smoked his cigar in silence. Once or twice he frowned slightly, but otherwise he gave no sign of his feelings.

“You have no idea, then, as to how Drummond and Sir Raymond Blantyre found the house?” he asked as Freyder finished.

“Not the slightest, Chief,” he answered. “All I know is that it was Drummond who found it, and not Blantyre. Sir Raymond told me that much as I was rushing him out of the house.”

“Did he make any objections to going?”

“Not the slightest. In fact, when he realised that what he had been saying to Scheidstrun had been overheard by Drummond, his one desire was to get away as fast as he could. He apparently thought Drummond had left the house a quarter of an hour before.”

Mr Robinson shrugged his shoulders.

“The point really is immaterial,” he murmured. “That fool Blantyre dare not speak; Drummond can’t. By the way, what has become of Scheidstrun?”

“I sent him and his wife off this evening,” said Freyder. “The pilot said he could make Brussels tonight, and finish the journey tomorrow.”

“Excellent, Freyder—excellent,” said Mr Robinson. “And the slight inconvenience of Blantyre knowing that I have not destroyed the notes is amply compensated for by the possession of our young friend here.”

“But it will mean altering our plans somewhat,” remarked Freyder doubtfully.

For a while Mr Robinson smoked in silence, gently stroking his mutton-chop whiskers. “Yes.” he remarked at length, “it will. Not the plans so much as the time-table. The advent of Drummond at this stage of the proceedings I must confess I did not contemplate. And since I am under no delusions as to his infinite capacity for making a nuisance of himself, the sooner he is finally disposed of the better.”

Freyder shrugged his shoulders. “Well, Chief,” he said callously, “there he is. And there’s no time like the present.”

Mr Robinson raised a deprecating hand. “How coarse, my dear Freyder!—how almost vulgar! My feelings against this young man are of a purely personal type. And I assure you they would not be gratified in the smallest degree by disposing of him when he was in the condition he is in now. One might just as well assault a carcase in a butcher’s shop. No, no. It will be my earnest endeavour to restore Captain Drummond to perfect health before disposing of him. Or at any rate to such a condition that he realises what is taking place. But from my knowledge of him it is a matter that cannot be postponed indefinitely. As I said before, his capacity for making trouble when confined in any ordinary house is well-nigh unbelievable.”

“Then what do you propose to do, Chief?” asked Freyder.

Given his own way now that Drummond was safely out of London and in their power, he would have finished him off then and there. To his mind Drummond was one of those unpleasant individuals who can be regarded as really safe only when they’re dead. And once granted that he was going to be killed in the near future, Freyder would have wasted no further time about it. But he knew the absolute futility of arguing with his Chief once the latter’s mind was made up, so he resigned himself at once to the inevitable.

“You are certain that you were not followed here?” said Mr Robinson.

“As certain as anyone can ever be,” answered Freyder. “Twice I stopped the car at the end of a long, straight stretch of road and turned into a lane. There was no sign of anyone. I didn’t bother to change the tyres, since most of the road is tar macadam and there’s been no rain. And really there are so many Dunlop Magnums about now, that it’s only a waste of time.”

“And as far as I could make out, the telephone operator had no suspicions,” went on his Chief. “You did it extremely skilfully and silently. So I think, Freyder, we can assume on twenty-four hours for certain before anyone even begins to take any notice. Drummond is a man of peculiar habits, and, somewhat naturally, when I realised he was coming here, I sent a letter in his writing to that inconceivable poop Longworth. A friend of his,” he explained, seeing the look of mystification on the other’s face, “who is engaged to Miss Goodman. It states that he is hot on the trail and the postmark will be Birmingham. So I think we can certainly rely on twenty-four hours, or even forty-eight before his friends begin to move. And that will give me plenty of time to ensure that our friend upstairs has not forgotten his process. Once I am assured of that, and he has written out in a legible hand the ingredients he uses, we will delay no longer. It’s a nuisance, for I detest manual labour and smells in a laboratory. And but for Drummond, as you know, we would have remained on here for six months or so, and let the old fool make the stones himself, before disposing of him finally. But since this slight contretemps has occurred, I shall have, much as I regret it, to dispense with that part of the programme. Once I know for certain that I can do it myself—and I shall devote tomorrow to that exclusively—we will give up this house forthwith and go on board the yacht. A good idea of mine, that yacht, Freyder. There is nothing like dying convincingly to enable one to live in comfort.”

Freyder grinned as he watched Mr Robinson help himself to a mild whisky and soda: undoubtedly the Chief was in an excellent humour.

“We’ve run a pretty big risk this time, my dear fellow,” he went on thoughtfully. “And sometimes it almost staggers me when I think how wonderfully we’ve succeeded. But I am under no delusions as to the abilities of the English police. Once they get on to a thing they never let go—and sooner or later they are bound to get onto this. Probably they will do it through Drummond’s disappearance, and Scheidstrun. Sooner or later they will track our connection with this house, and the good ship Gadfly. And then when they find that Gadfly left England and has never been heard of again, with true British phlegm they will assume that she has sunk with all hands. And Sir Raymond Blantyre will breathe again—unless they’ve put the scoundrel in prison for having suggested such an abominable crime to me; in fact, everyone will breathe again except Drummond and our friend upstairs. Oh! and Mr Lewisham. Did you attend the obsequies on Mr Lewisham, Freyder?”

“I did not,” laughed Freyder; and Mr Robinson, contrary to his usual custom, helped himself to another whisky and soda.

“Yes,” he continued dreamily, “It’s a wonderful end to what I may claim without conceit has been a wonderful career. Henceforward, Freyder, my life will be one of blameless virtue.”

The other shook his head doubtfully. “You’ll find it a bit monotonous, Chief,” he said.

Mr Robinson smiled. “Perhaps so—but I shall give it a trial. And whenever it becomes too monotonous, I shall merely remove more money from the pockets of those two villainous men Blantyre and Leibhaus. It almost makes one despair of human nature when one realises that such cold-blooded scoundrels exist.”

“And Drummond! Have you made up your mind yet as to how you intend to dispose of him?”

“Quite simply,” replied Mr Robinson genially. “I shall merely attach some heavy weights to his feet and drop him overboard. I am not anxious that his body should be recovered, any more than that of our other friend. That part of the affair presents no difficulties.”

His eyes, grown suddenly hard and cruel, fastened on the motionless figure of Drummond, still sprawling on the floor. And suddenly he rose and bent over him with a look of anxiety on his face which changed to relief.

“For a moment I thought he was dead,” he remarked, resuming his seat. “And that would have been a real grief to me. For him to die without knowing would rob this final coup of its crown. It is the one thing needed, Freyder, to make it perfect.”

The other looked at him curiously. “How you must hate him, Chief!”

A strange look came into Mr Robinson’s eyes, and involuntarily Freyder shuddered. Anger, rage, passion, he had seen on many men’s faces, but never before such cold-blooded ferocity as that which showed on the face of the man opposite.

“We all have our weaknesses, Freyder, and I confess that Drummond is mine. And incredible though it may sound to you, if such a thing were possible as for me to have to choose between revenge on him and getting away with Professor Goodman’s secret, I believe I would choose the former.”

For a while he sat silent; then with a short laugh he rose. Mr Robinson was his benevolent self once more.

“Happily the alternative is not likely to arise. We have both, my dear fellow—thanks largely to your quickness and skill. And now I think I will go upstairs and see how our friend is getting on. By this time he should be very nearly ready to show me the result of his afternoon’s labours.”

“And what about Drummond?” said Freyder, eyeing him professionally.

“I don’t think he’s likely to give us any trouble for the present, but it’s just as well to be on the safe side.”

Mr Robinson turned the unconscious man over with his foot.

“Have him carried upstairs,” he ordered, “and put in one of the bedrooms. And tell off someone to look after him.”

He paused by the door as a thought struck him. “And by the way, let me know the instant he recovers consciousness. I’d hate to postpone my first interview with the gentleman for one instant longer than necessary.”

“Well, if I’m any judge of such matters, Chief, you’ll have to postpone it till tomorrow.”

“Then it will be a refreshing interlude in my period of tuition.”

And with a cheerful wave of his hand Mr Robinson made his way up the stairs. It was six hours since Professor Goodman had started, and by now the clinker in the metal retort should be quite cold enough to handle. Just at first the obstinate old fool had given a little trouble; in fact, he had even gone so far as to categorically refuse to carry out the experiment. But not for long—two minutes to be exact. At the end of that period a whimpering and badly hurt old man had started mixing the necessary ingredients under the watchful eye of Mr Robinson himself. And not till they were mixed and the retort placed in the electric furnace did he leave the room.

Twice during the two hours that followed did he come back again, unexpectedly. But the old scientist’s feeble resistance was broken and the visits were unnecessary. Bent almost double he sat in his chair, with the white light from the glowing furnace falling on his face. And he was still in the same position when Mr Robinson opened the door and went in.

The heat in the room was stifling, though the furnace had now been out for two or three hours, and he left the door open. Then without a glance at the huddled figure he strode over to the table, his eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement. For there was the, retort, and after cautiously testing it with his hand to discover the temperature, he picked it up and examined it curiously.

Though he had heard the experiment described in detail by Sir Raymond Blantyre, it was the first time he had actually seen it done. The retort, still warm, was full of an opaque, shaly substance which he realised was the clinker. And inside that, like the stone inside a cherry, was the diamond. For a moment his hands shook uncontrollably; then with feverish excitement he started to chip the clinker away with a small chisel.

It broke up easily, coming off in great flakes. And as he got down deeper and deeper his excitement increased. Amongst his other accomplishments Mr Robinson was no bad judge of diamonds in the rough; in fact, if pushed to it, he could even cut and polish a stone for himself. Not, of course, with the wonderful accuracy of the expert, but sufficient to alter the appearance of any well-known historical diamond should it come into his possession. And in the past, it may be mentioned that many had. But in this case he had no intention of bothering over such trifles. Once satisfied that the diamond was there, and that Professor Goodman had forgotten nothing, he proposed to waste no time over that particular stone.

Certainly he would put it aside for future use—but what was one paltry diamond to him? It was the process he wanted—and the certainty that he could carry out that process himself.

Deeper and deeper went the chisel, and gradually a dreadful suspicion began to grip him. Surely by now he ought to have struck the stone itself? More than half of the clinker had come away, and still there was—no sign of it. Could it be possible that the accursed old fool had made a mistake?

Feverishly he went on chipping, and at length the suspicion became a certainty. There was no diamond in the retort; nothing but valueless grey powder. The experiment had failed.

For a moment or two Mr Robinson stood motionless, staring at the now empty retort. This was the one thing for which he had not legislated. That owing to the unusual conditions, and the strain to which Professor Goodman had been subjected, the stones might prove indifferent, he had been prepared for. But not total failure.

His eyes rested thoughtfully on the huddled figure in the chair, but in them there was no trace of mercy. He cared not one whit for the obvious exhaustion of the weary old man; his sole thought was blind, overmastering rage at this further hitch in his scheme.

Especially now that time had again become a dominant factor.

“This seems an unfortunate little effort on your part, my dear brother,” he remarked softly.

Professor Goodman sat up with a start.

“I beg your pardon,” he mumbled. “I’m afraid I was asleep.”

“Then you would be well advised to wake up.”

He crossed and stood in front of the Professor. “Are you aware that your experiment has failed, and that there is no diamond in that retort?”

The old man sat up blinking. “It is not my fault,” he said querulously. “How can I be expected to carry out a delicate process under such conditions, and after the abominable way I have been treated?”

“May I point out,” pursued Mr Robinson, still in the same soft tone, “that you assured me yourself that the conditions were in every way favourable? Further that you told me yourself, as you put the retort into the furnace, that everything was all right. Since then you have had to do nothing save regulate the heat of the electric furnace.”

He paused, and a new note crept into his voice.

“Can it be, my dear brother, that you were lying to me?”

“It may be that the heat in the furnace was different from the one to which I have been accustomed,” answered the other, scrambling to his feet.

“May I point out that you assured me that the furnace was if anything better than your own? Further, you have a thermometer there by which to regulate the heat. So once again, dear brother, can it be that you were lying to me?” With a snarl he gripped the Professor by the arm, and shook him roughly. “Speak, you miserable old fool—speak. And if you don’t speak the truth, I’ll torture you till you pray for death.”

He let go suddenly, and the Professor collapsed in his chair, only to stand up again and face the other bravely.

“A man can only die once,” he said simply. “And men have been tortured in vain for other things besides religion. To me my science is my religion. I knew you would find no diamond in the retort, and you never will. You may torture me to death, you vile scoundrel—but never, never, never will I tell you my secret.”

Gently, almost caressingly, Mr Robinson stroked his muttonchop whiskers.

“Is that so?” he murmured. “Most interesting, my dear brother—most interesting.”

With a benevolent smile he walked over to the bell and rang it.

“Most interesting,” he continued, returning to the other man, who was watching him with fear in his eyes. “Brave words, in fact—but we will see. I think you remarked before you told me the truth, that it was possibly the fault of the electric furnace. A naughty fib, dear brother—and naughty fibs should always be punished. One presses this switch, I think, to start it. Yes—why, I feel the warmth already. And I see that the maximum temperature registered this evening was 20000 Centigrade. Is that you, Freyder?” he continued without turning his head, as someone entered the room.

“It is, Chief. What’s the trouble?”

“The trouble, Freyder, is that this incredibly stupid old man refuses to carry out his process for me. He has wasted six valuable hours producing a nasty-looking mess of grey powder. He has also wasted a lot of expensive electric current. And we are now going to waste a little more. I can only hope that my experiment will prove more satisfactory than his, though I greatly fear, my dear brother, that you will find it rather more painful.”

“What are you going to do?” Professor Goodman’s voice was shaking, as he looked first at his tormentor, and then at the furnace which was already glowing a dull red.

“I’m going to make quite certain,” remarked Mr Robinson affably, “that these thermometers register correctly. I imagine that there must be a difference in the feeling of metal at 10000 and metal at 20000, though both, I should think, would be most unpleasant. However, my dear Professor, you will know for certain very shortly. I see that it is just about 10000 now. The left arm, I think, Freyder—if you would be so good. And perhaps you had better turn up his sleeve: burning cloth gives such an unpleasant smell.”

A dreadful scream rang through the house, and Professor Goodman fell back in his chair almost fainting.

“Only half a second,” murmured Mr Robinson. “And it will only be half a second at 20000—this time. Then, dear brother, you will again carry out your process. If it succeeds—well and good. If it should fail again—I fear we shall have to make it a full second. And a second is a long time under certain conditions.”

Moaning pitifully, Professor Goodman lay back in his chair with his eyes closed.

“I won’t,” he muttered again and again through clenched teeth, while the heat from the furnace grew greater and greater, and the dull red changed to white.

“Foolish fellow,” sighed Mr Robinson. “However,” he added hopefully, “It’s only half a second this time. And as a special concession I’ll let you off with only 1900°. Now, Freyder—we are quite ready.”

Freyder took a step forward, and at that moment it happened.

He gave one agonised shout of terror, and then scream after scream of agony rang through the house. For it was not Professor Goodman’s arm which touched the white-hot furnace, but Freyder’s face—and to his Chief’s horrified eyes it had seemed as if he had dived straight at it.

“My God!” he muttered foolishly, as Freyder, moaning horribly, dashed from the room. “How did it happen?” The words died away on his lips and he stood staring into the shadows beyond the light thrown by the furnace. Drummond was sitting on the floor grinning vacantly at space.

“Gug, gug, gug,” he burbled foolishly. “Pretty light.” Then, apparently bored with life in general, he returned with interest to his occupation.

“Puff-puff!” he cried happily. “Puff-puff! Naughty man kicked train.”

And the train he was busily pushing along the floor consisted of his own shoes.

Once again Mr Robinson dashed to the bell and pealed it. His momentary shock at Freyder’s ghastly accident had passed; his sole thought was that Drummond was no longer unconscious. And Drummond in full possession of his physical powers was a dangerous person to have about the place, even if his mind was wandering. But was it? That was the point. Or was he shamming?

Such a possibility at once suggested itself to Mr Robinson’s tortuous brain, and he was not a gentleman who took any unnecessary risks.

He had watched Professor Goodman totter from his chair with a look of wild hope in his face as he realised the unexpected presence of a friend; he had watched him sink back into it again with a groan as his cry for help was greeted with a vacuous grin from the man so happily playing on the floor. But still he was not satisfied, and a revolver gleamed ominously in his hand as he watched his enemy.

His mind was made up on one point. Shamming or not shamming—mad or sane—at the slightest hint of trouble on Drummond’s part he would kill him and be done with it. In fact he was sorely tempted to do so at once: it would save a lot of bother in the long run. His finger tightened on the trigger, and he raised his revolver till it was pointing direct at Drummond’s heart.

“I’m going to kill you, Drummond,” he said quietly.

But if he expected to discover anything by such a test he was doomed to disappointment. Still the same vacuous grin, still the same lolling head, and a jumble of incoherent words was all the result; and very slowly he lowered his weapon, as one of his men came rushing into the room, to stop abruptly at the door as his eyes fell on the figure on the floor.

He gave a sigh of relief. “So there you are, my beauty,” he muttered.

“Was it you who was told off to look after Captain Drummond?” said Mr Robinson softly.

The man looked at the speaker with fear in his eyes.

“I put him on the bed, Chief,” he said sullenly, “and he was unconscious. And I hadn’t had any supper, so…”

“You went downstairs to get some,” Mr Robinson concluded his sentence for him. “You went downstairs, you miserable fool, leaving him alone.”

His eyes bored into the man’s brain, and he shrank back against the wall. “I will deal with you later,” continued Mr Robinson, “and until then you will continue to look after him. If nothing further of this sort happens, it is possible that I may overlook your fault—so you had better see to it.”

“I’ll swear it won’t happen again, Chief,” said the man eagerly. “It was only because I thought the young swine was stunned…”

With a gesture Mr Robinson cut him short. “You’re not paid to think, you’re paid to do what you’re told,” he remarked coldly. “Go, now, and get one of the others. And bring some rope when you return.”

The man departed with alacrity, and once more Mr Robinson fell to staring at the man sitting on the floor. To Professor Goodman he paid not the slightest attention; all his thoughts were concentrated on Drummond. Was he shamming, or was he not? Had Freyder’s blow on the head deprived him of his reason—or was it a wonderful piece of acting? And finally he decided on yet another test.

Still watching Drummond narrowly, he walked over to the door and affected to give an order to someone in the passage outside. “Bring the girl Phyllis in here.”

Now surely there would be some tell-tale start if he was shamming—some little movement that would give him away. But there was nothing—absolutely nothing—to show that Drummond had even heard. He was engrossed in some intricate shunting operations with his shoes, and after a time Mr Robinson came back into the room. Almost, if not quite, his mind was made up—Drummond was insane. Only temporarily possibly—but insane.

The blow on the back of his head had caused something in his brain to snap, and the man he hated most on earth was just a babbling lunatic. Almost, if not quite, he was sure of it; for certain proof he would have to wait until he could examine him—and especially his eyes—more closely. And Mr Robinson had no intention of examining Drummond, sane or insane, closely until Drummond’s arms were very securely lashed together.

“You’d better be very careful of him,” he remarked as the two men came in with rope. “I am almost certain that He’s got very bad concussion, but if you handle him roughly he may get angry. I shall be covering him the whole time with a revolver, but I want you to lash his wrists behind his back.”

They approached him cautiously, and Drummond smiled at them vacantly.

“All right, old chap,” murmured the first man ingratiatingly. “Pretty train you’ve got there… Won’t you shake hands?”

“Gumph,” remarked Drummond brightly, busily pushing his shoe.

“Get hold of his other hand,” said the first man tersely to his companion. “Then we’ll get them both behind his back, and I’ll slip a running noose over them.”

Which was excellent in theory, but poor in execution. A loud crack was heard and the two men staggered back holding their heads, which had impinged with violence.

“Gumph,” again remarked Drummond. “Puff-puff-puff.”

“Damn the swine!” snarled the man who had originally been told off to look after him, and Mr Robinson smiled gently. It was very obvious that, whatever his mental condition might be, Drummond’s physical strength was unimpaired.

“I think, Chief,” said the second man, “that we should do it better if we lashed his wrists in front of him to start with. It’s being man-handled that he doesn’t take to, and we might be able to slip the noose over his wrists without his realising what the game is.”

“Do it how you like,” snapped Mr Robinson, “but do it quickly.” Which again proved excellent in theory, but poor in execution.

For it soon transpired that Drummond was far too happy playing trains on the floor to realise the desirability of having his hands lashed together. In fact the proceeding appeared to annoy him considerably. And it was not until another man had been summoned and Mr Robinson himself had joined in the fray that they finally got the noose over his wrists and drew it tight. And in the course of doing so two of the men had crashed heavily into the furnace, which, though cooling, was still unpleasantly hot.

But at last it was done, and four panting men stood round in a ring regarding him triumphantly as he rolled on the floor. And then after a while he lay still, with a foolish grin on his face.

“Gug-gug,” he burbled. “Where’s my train?”

“I’ll gug-gug him,” snarled one of the men, kicking him heavily in the ribs. “The young devil’s a homicidal maniac.”

“Stop that!” said Mr Robinson savagely. “All accounts with this young man are settled by me. Now stand by in case he struggles. I’m going to examine his eyes.”

They approached him cautiously, but for the moment the trouble seemed over. Like so many madmen, and people temporarily insane, his frenzied struggles of the last ten minutes had completely exhausted Drummond. And even when Mr Robinson raised his eyelids and stared into his eyes he made no attempt to move, but just lay there smiling stupidly. For a long while Mr Robinson examined him, and then with a nod of satisfaction he rose to his feet.

“Take him to his room, and see that he doesn’t escape again. He’s mad, but for how long he’ll remain so I can’t tell. If you see the faintest sign of his recovering his reason, come and tell me at once.”

He watched them pick up Drummond and carry him out. They took him into the next room and threw him on the bed, and Mr Robinson followed, For a moment or two he moved restlessly on the pillows—then he gave a strangled grunt and a snore.

“He’s asleep, Chief,” said one of the men, bending over him.

“Good,” answered Mr Robinson. “Let us trust he remains so for some time.”

Then with a look of cold determination on his face he returned to the room where Professor Goodman still sat huddled in his chair.

CHAPTER IX

In Which Professor Goodman Has a Trying Time

“And now, dear brother;” he remarked; gently closing the door, “we will resume our little discussion where we left off. I was, if you remember just about to ask you to sample the temperature of the furnace at 2000° when the interruption occurred. Is it necessary that I should repeat that request, or was your experience at the lower temperature sufficient for you?” Professor Goodman raised his haggard face and stared at his tormentor.

“What have you done to that poor young man, you devil?”

Mr Robinson smiled and stroked his whiskers. “Well, really,” he answered mildly, “I think the boot is on the other leg. The question is more what has he done to my unfortunate staff? Poor Mr Freyder I feel almost certain must be in great pain with his face, judging by the noise he made, and two of my other servants have very nasty burns.”

“I know all that,” said the other. “But what has sent him insane?”

Mr Robinson smiled even more gently. “As a scientist, dear brother, you should know the tiny dividing line between sanity and madness. One little link wrong in that marvellous mechanism of the brain, and the greatest thinker becomes but a babbling fool. Not that his best friends could ever have called poor Drummond a great thinker, but—” he paused to emphasise his words “—but, dear brother, he serves as a very good example of what might happen to one who is a great thinker.”

Professor Goodman shivered; there had been no need to emphasise the meaning underlying the words.

“You see,” continued Mr Robinson, “Drummond very foolishly and very unfortunately for himself has again crossed my path. This time, as a matter of fact, it was by pure accident. Had you not lunched with him on the day of your death and given him the notes of your process, you may take it from me that this little interlude would never have occurred. But you did—and, well, you see what has happened to Drummond. The silly young fellow is quite mad.”

“You have done something to him to make him so,” said the other dully.

“Of course,” agreed Mr Robinson. “Or to be strictly accurate, Freyder has.”

And suddenly Professor Goodman rose to his feet with a pitiful little cry. “Oh! my God! I don’t understand. I think I’m going mad myself.”

For a moment or two Mr Robinson looked at him narrowly. If such an appalling eventuality as that happened, the whole of his scheme would be frustrated. True, it was a common figure of speech, but Professor Goodman was a frail old man, accustomed to a sedentary life. And during the past two or three days his life had been far from sedentary. Supposing under the strain the old man’s reason did snap.… Mr Robinson drew a deep breath: the mere thought of such a thing was too impossible to contemplate.

But it had to be contemplated, and it had to be taken into account in his immediate course of action. Whatever happened, Professor Goodman’s intellect must be preserved at all costs. Even a nervous breakdown would constitute a well-nigh insuperable obstacle to his plans. And in spite of the seriousness of the position, Mr Robinson could hardly help smiling at the irony of the thing.

Here was he with the greatest prize of his career waiting to be picked up—almost, but not quite, within his grasp. All the difficult practical details, all that part of his scheme concerned solely with organisation, had gone without a hitch. And now he was confronted by something far smaller in comparison, and yet almost as important as all the rest put together—the state of the mind of an elderly scientist. It was a problem in psychology which in the whole of his career he had never had to face under exactly similar conditions.

There had been occasions when men’s reasons had snapped under the somewhat drastic treatment with which Mr Robinson was wont to enforce his wishes. But on all those occasions a remarkable aptitude with the pen had enabled him to dispense with the formality of their signature. This time, however, his wonderful gifts as a forger were wasted. Knowledge of ancient cuneiform writing might have been of some use in enabling him to decipher the notes, he reflected grimly—but as it was they were hopelessly and utterly unintelligible. Only Professor Goodman could do it, and that was the problem which had just come home to him more acutely than ever. What was the best line to adopt with the old man? How far would it be safe to go in a policy of threats and force? Or would apparent kindness do the trick better and quicker?

Especially quicker—that was the important thing. It was a ticklish point to decide; but it was essential that it should be decided, and at once.

He glanced at the haggard, staring eyes of the man confronting him; he noted the twitching hands and he made up his mind. After all, it was easy to go from kindness to threats, whereas the converse was difficult. And though he had reluctantly to admit to himself that burning a man’s arm on red-hot metal can hardly be regarded as the act of a personal friend, there was no good worrying about it. It had been done, and could not be undone. All that he could do now was to try to efface the recollection of it as far as possible.

“Sit down, Professor,” he said gently. “I feel that I owe you some explanation.” With a groan the other sank back into his chair. “Will you have a cigar?” went on Mr Robinson easily, holding out his case. “You don’t smoke? You should. Most soothing to the nerves. In the first place I must apologise for not having made things clearer to you before, but this slight contretemps with Drummond has kept me rather fully occupied. Now I want you to recall to your mind the interviews that you had with Sir Raymond Blantyre.”

“I recall them perfectly,” answered the Professor, and Mr Robinson noted with quiet satisfaction that he seemed to be less agitated.

“He offered you, did he not? a large sum of money for the suppression of your secret, which you refused—and very rightly refused. But, my dear Professor, do you really imagine for a moment that an unscrupulous blackguard of his type was going to lie down and accept your refusal? If you chose to refuse the money, so much the better for him; but whether you refused or accepted, he intended to suppress you. And but for me—” he paused impressively “—he would have done.”

Professor Goodman passed a bewildered hand across his forehead.

“But for me,” repeated Mr Robinson, “you would now be dead—foully murdered. You have never in your life—and I trust you never will again—been in such deadly peril as you were in a few days ago. Indeed, if it were known now that you were alive, I fear that even I would be powerless to save you.” He drew carefully at his cigar; then he leaned forward and touched the Professor on the knee. “Have you ever heard of a man called Peterson?”

“Never,” returned the other.

“No—probably not. You and he hardly move in the same circles. Peterson, of course, is only one of the many names by which that arch-devil is known. He is a King of Criminals—a man without mercy—a black-hearted villain.” Mr Robinson’s voice shook with the intensity of his emotion. “And to that man Sir Raymond Blantyre went with a certain proposal. Do you know what that proposal was? It concerned you and your death. You were to be murdered before you gave your secret to the world.”

“The villain!” cried Professor Goodman, in a shaking voice. “To think that I’ve had him to dinner, and that his wife is a friend of ours.”

Mr Robinson smiled pityingly. “My dear Professor,” he said, “I’m afraid that your life has been lived far apart from the realities of the world. Do you really suppose that such a trifle as that would have weighed for one instant with Sir Raymond Blantyre? However, I will get on with my explanation. It matters not how I discovered these things: I will merely say that for twenty years now I have dogged this man Peterson as his shadow. He did me the greatest wrong one man can do another: I won’t say any more.”

Mr Robinson choked slightly.

“I have dogged him, Professor,” he went on after a while, “as I say, for twenty years, hoping—always hoping—that the time would come for my revenge. I have lived for nothing else; I have thought of nothing else. But one thing I was determined on—that my revenge when it did come should be a worthy one. A dozen times could I have given him away to the police, but I stayed my hand. When it came, I wanted the thing to be more personal. And at last the opportunity did come. It came with you.”

“With me?” echoed Professor Goodman. “How can I have had anything to do with your revenge on this man?”

“That is what I am just going to explain to you,” continued Mr Robinson. “In this man Peterson, Sir Raymond Blantyre had encountered a blackguard far more subtle than himself. Peterson was perfectly prepared to murder you—but he had no intention of murdering the secret of your process. That he proposed to keep for himself—so that he could continue blackmailing Sir Raymond. You see the manner of blackguard he is. It was a scheme after his own heart, and I made up my mind to strike at last. Apart from frustrating the monstrous crime of murdering you, I should achieve an artistic revenge.”

He again pulled thoughtfully at his cigar. “Now pay close attention. Professor Scheidstrun the German scientist made an appointment to see you, didn’t he?”

“He was, with me when I was chloroformed,” cried the other.

Mr Robinson smiled. “No, he wasn’t. A man you thought was Scheidstrun was with you.”

“But—good heavens!” gasped the Professor. “I met him in the hall. I was late, I remember…”

“And, as you say, you met him in the hall talking to your maidservant.”

“But how on earth did you know that?”

“Because the man you met in the hall was not Scheidstrun—but me.” He laughed genially at the amazement on the other’s face. “It’s a shame to keep you mystified any further; I will explain everything. It was Peterson who made the original appointment with you, writing in Scheidstrun’s hand. What he intended to do I know not; how he intended to murder you I am not prepared to say. But the instant I discovered about it, I realised that there was not a moment to be lost. So I took the liberty, my dear Professor, of posing over the telephone as your secretary. I rang up Peterson, and speaking in an assumed voice I postponed his appointment with you until the following day. And then I took his place. I may say that I am not unskilled in the art of disguise, and I knew I could make myself up to resemble Scheidstrun quite sufficiently well to deceive you.”

“But why on earth didn’t you tell me at the time?” said Professor Goodman, peering at the speaker suspiciously.

Once again the other laughed. “My dear fellow, surely Mrs Goodman must, during the course of your married life, have let you into the secret of one of your characteristics. Or has she been too tactful? You are, as I think you must admit yourself, a little obstinate, aren’t you?” He dropped his tone of light banter, and became serious. “I don’t think—in fact, I know you don’t realise the deadly peril you were in. Even had I succeeded in convincing you on the matter, and you had agreed to come away and hide yourself, you would not have consented to the destruction of your laboratory. And that was essential. As long as Peterson thought you were alive he would have found you wherever you had hidden yourself. It was therefore of vital importance that he should think you dead—as he does now. Big issues, my dear Professor, require big treatments.”

Mr Robinson, having delivered himself of this profound utterance, leaned back in his chair and gazed at his listener. Bland assurance radiated from his mutton-chop whiskers, but his mind was busy. How was the old fool taking it? He still had his trump card to play, but he wanted that to win the game without possibility of failure. And as his mental metaphors grew a little mixed, he realised that it must fall on carefully prepared soil.

Professor Goodman stirred uneasily in his chair.

“I really can hardly believe all this,” he said at length. “Why is all this deception necessary? Why have I to pose as your brother? And why, above all, have you tortured me?”

“Let me answer your last point first if I can,” said Mr Robinson. “And yet I can’t. Even if I can persuade you to forgive me, I never shall be able to forgive myself. Sudden anger, Professor, makes men do strange things—dreadful things. And I was furious with rage when I found that you had deliberately failed in the experiment. I realise now that I should have explained everything to you to start with. But I suppose my hatred of Peterson and my wish for revenge blinded me to other things. Everything, as I have told you, is subservient to that in my mind. Bringing you here, making you pose as my brother—what was all that done for except to throw that devil off the scent should he by any chance suspect? And at present he does not. He believes that the secret for which he would have given untold gold has perished with you. He is angry, naturally, at what he considers a buffet of fate, but that is no use to me as a revenge. He must know that it was not fate—but I who wrecked his scheme. He must know that not only has he lost the secret for ever—but that I have got it. There will be my revenge for which I have waited twenty years.”

His eyes glistened, and he shook his fists in the air. “And then and not till then will it be safe for you to go back and join your wife.”

Professor Goodman leapt from his chair.

“You mean that?” he cried. “You will let me go?”

Mr Robinson gazed at him in pained surprise; then he bowed his head. “I deserve it,” he said in a low voice. “I deserve your bad opinion of me, firstly for not having told you, but especially for my vile and inexcusable loss of temper. But surely you can never have believed I was going to keep you here for good. Why—” he gave a little pained laugh “—it’s almost as if you thought I was a murderer. Foolish I may have been, obsessed with one idea, but I never thought that you would think quite as badly of me as that. After all, believe me or not as you like, I saved your life.”

He rose from his chair and paced thoughtfully up and down the room. “No, no, my dear fellow, please reassure yourself on that point. The very instant it is safe for you to do so, you shall return to your wife.”

“But when will it be safe?” cried the Professor excitedly.

“When Peterson knows that your secret is in my possession, and that therefore murdering you will avail him nothing,” answered Mr Robinson calmly.

“But how do I know you will keep your word?”

“You don’t,” said the other frankly. “You’ve got to trust me. At the same time I beg of you to use your common sense. Of what possible advantage is it to me to keep you here? I shall have to trust you to take no steps to incriminate me, and that I am fully prepared to do. My quarrel is not with you, Professor; nor is it with that young man Drummond. But quite by accident he got between me and my life’s object—and he had to be removed. So is it fair to Mrs Goodman to keep her in this dreadful sorrow for one moment longer than is necessary? The very instant you have given me your secret, and your word of honour that you will say nothing to the police, you have my word of honour that you are free to go.”

“But what do you propose to do with my secret when you’ve got it?” asked the Professor. He was watching his captor with troubled eyes, wondering what to believe.

“Do with it?” cried the other exultantly. “I propose to seek out Peterson and let him know that I have got what he has missed. And if you but knew the man, you would realise that no more wonderful revenge could be thought of.”

“Yes, yes—I see all that,” said the Professor irritably. “But in the event of my giving the secret to the world—what then?”

Mr Robinson curbed a rising desire to throttle the old man in the chair. Never had his self-control been so severely tried as it was now; precious moments were flying when everyone was of value. But true to his new policy he kept every hint of irritation out of his voice as he answered. “I shall have to have your promise also on that point, Professor. For one year you will have to keep your discovery to yourself. That will be sufficient for my revenge.”

He realised that had he made no proviso of that sort it would have been enough to raise the other’s suspicions, for Professor Goodman was no fool. He also realised that if he made the period too long the other’s inherent pig-headedness might tempt him to refuse. So he compromised on a year, and to his intense relief it looked as if the old man was inclined to consider it favourably. He still sat motionless, but his brow was wrinkled in thought, and he drummed incessantly with his fingers on the arms of his chair.

“One year,” he said at length. “For I warn you, sir, that all the Petersons in the world will not prevent me publishing my discovery then.”

“One year will be sufficient,” said Mr Robinson quietly.

“And will you on your side,” continued the Professor, “promise not to publish it before that date?”

Mr Robinson concealed a smile. “I undoubtedly will promise that,” he answered.

“And the instant you possess the secret I may go to my wife?”

Mr Robinson’s pulse was beating a little quicker than normal. Could it be that he had succeeded in bluffing him? “As soon as Peterson knows that the secret of the process is mine—and that will be very soon—you may go. Before that it would not be safe.”

“And if I refuse?”

For a moment or two Mr Robinson did not reply; he seemed to be weighing his words with care. “Need we discuss that, Professor?” he said at length. “I have already told you the main—almost the sole—object of my life: revenge on this man Peterson. Rightly or wrongly, I have decided that this is my opportunity for obtaining it. I have gone to an immensity of trouble and risk to achieve my object, and though, as I said, I have no quarrel with you, yet, Professor, you are an essential part of my scheme. Without you I must fail; I make no bones about it. And I do not want to fail. So should you still refuse, your wife will go on thinking herself a widow until you change your mind. It rests with you and you alone.”

His eyes, shrewd and penetrating, searched the old man’s face. Had he said enough, or had he said too much? Like an open book he read the other’s mind: saw doubt, indecision, despair, succeed one another in rapid succession. And then suddenly he almost stopped breathing. For the Professor had risen to his feet, and Mr Robinson knew that one way or the other he had come to a decision.

“Very well, sir,” said the old man wearily. “I give in. It seems that the only way of setting my poor wife’s mind at rest as soon as possible is for me to trust you. I will tell you my process.”

Mr Robinson drew in his breath in a little whistling hiss, but his voice was quite steady as he answered.

“You have decided very wisely,” he remarked. “And since there is no time like the present, I think we will have a bottle of champagne and some sandwiches to fortify us, and then get on with the experiment at once.”

“As you will,” said the Professor. “And then perhaps tomorrow you will let me go.”

Mr Robinson glanced at his watch.

“Today, Professor,” he remarked jovially. “It is past midnight. And I can promise you that should your experiment succeed, you will leave this house today.” He watched the champagne bring back some colour to the other’s cheeks, and then he produced his notebook.

“To save time,” he said, “I propose to write down the name of each salt as you take it, and the amount you use. Does it make any difference in what order the salts are mixed?”

“None whatever,” answered the Professor. “Provided they are all mixed properly. No chemical reaction takes place until the heat is applied.”

“And to make it perfectly certain, you had better give me the formula for each salt at the same time,” continued Mr Robinson.

At first the old man’s fingers trembled so much that he could hardly use the balance, but Mr Robinson betrayed no impatience.

And after a while the enthusiasm of the scientist supplanted everything else, and the Professor became absorbed in his task. Entry after entry was made in Mr Robinson’s neat handwriting, and gradually the look of triumph deepened in his eyes. Success had come at last.

Of pity for the poor old man opposite he felt no trace; pity was a word unknown in his vocabulary. And so for an hour in the silent house the murderer and his victim worked on steadily, until, at length, the last salt was mixed, the last entry made. The secret was in Mr Robinson’s possession. Not for another four hours would he be absolutely certain; the test of the electric furnace would furnish the only conclusive proof. But short of that he felt as sure as a man may feel that there had been no mistake this time, and his eyes were gleaming as he rose from the table.

“Excellent, my dear Professor,” he murmured. “You have been lucidity itself. Now all that remains is to start up our current and await results.”

“The results will be there,” answered the other. “That I know.”

He opened the furnace door and placed the retort inside; then, switching on the current, he sank wearily into his chair. “You don’t think it will be long, do you, before you can convince this man Peterson?” he said with apathetic sort of eagerness.

“I can assure you that it won’t be,” returned the other, with an enigmatic smile. “I keep in very close touch with him.”

“Because I would be prepared to run any risk in order to let my dear wife know that I am alive as soon as possible.”

Mr Robinson nodded sympathetically. “Of course you would, my dear fellow. I quite understand that. But I feel that I must safeguard you even against your own inclinations. The instant, however, that I consider it safe, you shall go back.”

“Can’t I even write to her?” queried the other.

Mr Robinson affected to consider the point; then regretfully he shook his head.

“No—not even that,” he answered. “I know this man Peterson too well. In fact, Professor, I am not even going to allow you to return to your wife from this house. It is better and safer for you that you should remain in ignorance of where you have been, and so I propose to take you for a short sea-voyage in my yacht and land you on another part of the coast. From the boat you will be able to radio to your wife, so that her mind will be set at rest: And then when you finally rejoin her, I would suggest your pleading sudden loss of memory to account for your mysterious disappearance.”

“But what on earth am I to say about the man who was buried?” And suddenly the full realisation of all that the question implied came home to him and he stood up. “Who was that man?”

“An uninteresting fellow,” remarked Mr Robinson genially.

“But if you were the man I thought was Scheidstrun, you must—you must have murdered him.” The old man’s voice rose almost to a scream. “My God! I’d forgotten all about that.”

He shrank back staring at Mr Robinson, who was watching him narrowly.

“My dear Professor,” he said coldly, “pray do not excite yourself unnecessarily. I have often thought that a society of murderers run on sound conservative lines would prove an admirable institution. After all, it is the majority who should be considered, and there are so many people who are better out of the way. However, to set your mind at rest,” he continued, “it may interest you to know that the foot which was buried in your boot did not belong to a living man. There are methods of obtaining these things, as you are doubtless aware, for experimental purposes, if you possess a degree.”

There was no object, he reflected, in unnecessarily alarming the old man; it saves bother to get an animal to walk to the slaughterhouse rather than having to drag it there. And he was likely to have all the dragging he wanted with Drummond, even though he was insane.

Professor Goodman, only half satisfied, sank back in his chair.

Already the sweat was running down both their faces from the heat of the furnace, but Mr Robinson had no intention of leaving the room. He was taking no chances this time; not until the current was turned off and the furnace was cool enough to handle did he propose to go and rest. Then, once he was satisfied that the retort did contain diamonds, he would have some badly needed sleep in preparation for the work next night.

The yacht Gadfly was lying in Southampton Water, and he had decided to go on board in the late afternoon. His two invalids would be carried on stretchers; an ambulance was even now in readiness below to take them to the coast. They would both be unconscious—a matter which presented but little difficulty to Mr Robinson. And the Professor would never regain consciousness.

He had served his purpose, and all that mattered as far as he was concerned was to dispose of him as expeditiously as possible. With Drummond things were a little different. In spite of what he had said to Freyder downstairs, the scheme was too big to run any unnecessary risks, and though it went against his grain to kill him in his present condition, he quite saw that he might have to.

Drummond might remain in his present condition for months, and it was manifestly impossible to wait for that length of time to obtain his revenge. It might be, of course, that when he woke up he would have recovered his reason, and, if so… Mr Robinson’s eyes gleamed at the thought. In anticipation he lived through the minute when he would watch Drummond, bound and weighted, slip off the deck into the sea.

Then with an effort he came back to the present. Was there anything left undone in his plans which would cause a check? Point by point he ran over them, and point by point he found them good.

Their strength lay in their simplicity, and he could see nothing which was likely to go wrong before he was on board the Gadfly.

Up to date no mention of Mr Lewisham’s sudden disappearance had found its way into the papers; presumably, whatever Mrs Lewisham might think of the matter, she had not consulted the police. Similarly with regard to Drummond. No questions were likely to be asked in his case until long after he was safely out of the country. And after that, as he had said to Freyder, nothing mattered.

The S.Y. Gadfly would founder with all hands somewhere off the coast of Africa, but not too far from the shore to prevent Freyder and himself reaching it. That the crew, drugged and helpless, would go down in her he did not propose to tell them when he went on board. After all, there were not many of them, and it would be a pity to spoil their last voyage.

The heat from the furnace was growing almost insupportable, and he glanced at his watch. There was another hour to go, and with a sigh of impatience he sat back in his chair. Opposite him Professor Goodman was nodding in a kind of heavy doze, though every now and then he sat up with a jerk and stared about him with frightened eyes. He was muttering to himself, and once he sprang out of his chair with a stifled scream, only to sink back again as he saw the motionless figure opposite.

“I was dreaming,” he muttered foolishly. “I thought I saw a man standing by the door.”

Mr Robinson swung round and peered into the passage; there was no one there. Absolute silence still reigned in the house. And then suddenly he rose and went to the door: it seemed to him as if something had stirred outside. But the passage was empty, and he resumed his seat. He felt angry with himself because his own nerves were not quite under their usual iron control. After all, what could possibly happen? It must be the strain of the last few days, he decided.

Slowly the minutes ticked on, and had anyone been there to see, it must have seemed like some ceremony of black magic. The furnace glowing white hot, and in the circle of light thrown by it two elderly men sitting in chairs—one gently stroking his muttonchop whiskers, the other muttering restlessly to himself. And then outside the ring of light—darkness. Every now and then a sizzling hiss came from inside the furnace, as the chemical process advanced another stage towards completion—that completion which meant all power to one of the two who watched and waited, and death to the other. The sweat dripped down their faces; breathing was hard in the dried-up air. But to Mr Robinson nothing mattered: such things were trifles. Whatever might be the material discomfort, it was the crowning moment of his life—the moment when the greatest coup of his career had come to a successful conclusion.

And suddenly he shut his watch with a snap.

“Two hours,” he cried, and strive as he would he could not keep the exultation out of his voice. “The time is up.”

With a start Professor Goodman scrambled to his feet, and mumbling foolishly he switched off the current. It was over; he had given away his secret. And all he wanted to do now was to get home as soon as possible. Two hours more to let it cool.…

He paused, motionless, his lips twitching. Great heavens! what was that in the door—that great dark shape. It was moving, and he screamed. It was coming into the circle of light, and as he screamed again, Mr Robinson leapt to his feet.

Once more the thing moved, and now the light from the furnace shone on it. It was Drummond, his arms still lashed in front of him.

His face was covered with blood, but his eyes were fixed on Professor Goodman. And they were the eyes of a homicidal maniac.

For a moment or two Mr Robinson stood motionless, staring at him. Drummond’s appearance was so utterly unexpected and terrifying that his brain refused to work, and before he realised what had happened, Drummond sprang. But not at him. It was Professor Goodman who had evidently incurred the madman’s wrath, and the reason was soon obvious. Insane though he was, the one dominant idea of his life was still a ruling factor in his actions, though now it was uncontrolled by any reason. And that idea was Peterson.

Why he should imagine that Professor Goodman was Peterson it was impossible to say, but he undoubtedly did. Again and again he grunted the name as he shook the unfortunate scientist backwards and forwards, and for a while Mr Robinson wondered cynically whether he should let him go on in his delusion and await results.

He was almost certain to kill the old man, which might save trouble. At the same time there was still the possibility of some mistake in the process which rendered it inadvisable to dispense with him for good quite yet.

An uproar in the passage outside took him to the door. Two of the three men who had been told off to guard Drummond were running towards him, and he cursed them savagely.

“Pull him off,” he roared. “He’ll murder the old man.”

They hurled themselves on Drummond, who had forced the Professor to his knees. And this time, strangely enough, he gave no trouble. He looked at them with a vacant stare, and then grinned placidly. “Chief!” cried one of the men, “He’s murdered Simpson. He’s lying there with his neck broken.”

Mr Robinson darted from the room, to return almost at once. It was only too true. The third man was lying across the bed dead.

“Where were you two imbeciles?” he snarled savagely.

“We were taking it in turns, boss,” said the one who had spoken, sullenly. “The swine was asleep and his arms were bound.…”

He turned vindictively on Drummond, who grinned vacantly again.

“So you left him alone with only one of you,” Mr Robinson remarked coldly. “You fools!—you triple-distilled damned fools. And then I suppose he woke and Simpson went to tuck him up. And Drummond just took him by the throat, and killed him, as he’d kill you or anyone else he got his hands on—bound or not.”

“Gug-gug,” said Drummond, sitting down and beaming at them. “That man in there hit me in the face, when I took his throat in my hands.”

And suddenly the madness returned to his eyes, and his huge hands strained and wrestled with the rope that bound them. He grunted and cursed, and the two men instinctively backed away.

Only Mr Robinson remained where he was, and the light from the still glowing furnace glinted on the revolver which he held in his hand. This was no time for half-measures; there was no telling what this powerful madman might do next. If necessary, though he did not want to have to do it, he would shoot him where he sat. But the spasm passed, and, he lowered his revolver.

“Just so,” he remarked. “You might as well hit a steam-roller as hit Drummond, once he’s got hold. And judging by his face, Simpson must have hit him hard and often before he died. Take him away; lash him up; and unless you want to join that fool Simpson, don’t take it in turns to guard him—and don’t get within range of his hands.”

The two men closed in warily on their prisoner, but he gave no further bother. Babbling happily he walked between them out of the room, and Mr Robinson suddenly remembered the unfortunate Professor.

“A powerful and dangerous young man,” he remarked suavely. “I trust he hasn’t hurt you, my dear Professor.”

“No,” said the other dazedly; “he hasn’t hurt me.”

“An extraordinary delusion of his,” pursued Mr Robinson. “Fancy thinking that you, of all people, were that villain Peterson.”

“Most extraordinary!” muttered the Professor.

“And it’s really quite amazing that he should have allowed himself to be separated from you so easily. His friends, I believe, call him Bulldog, and he has many of the attributes of that noble animal.”

He peered at the Professor’s throat. “Why, he’s hardly marked you. You can count yourself very lucky, believe me. Even when sane he’s a terror—but in his present condition… However, such a regrettable contretemps will not occur again, I trust.” He glanced at the furnace. “Another hour, I suppose, before it will be cool enough to see the result of our experiment?”

“Another hour,” agreed the Professor mechanically.

And during that hour the two men sat in silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts, and it would be hard to say which would have received the greater shock had he been able to read the other’s mind.

For Mr Robinson was thinking, amongst other things, of the approaching death of the Professor, which would scarcely have been comforting to the principal actor in the performance. And Professor Goodman—who might have been expected to be thinking of nothing but his approaching reunion with his wife—had, sad to relate, completely forgotten the lady’s existence. His mind was engrossed with something quite different. For when a man who is undoubtedly mad—so mad, in fact, that in a fit of homicidal mania he has just throttled a man—gets you by the throat, you expect to experience a certain discomfort. But you do not expect to be pushed backwards and forwards as a child is pushed when you play with it—without discomfort or hurt. And above all you do not expect that madman to mutter urgently in your ear, “For God’s sake—don’t give your secret away. Delay him—at all costs. You’re in the most deadly peril. Burn the house down. Do anything.”

Unless, of course, the madman was not mad.

CHAPTER X

In Which Drummond Goes on Board the S.Y. Gadfly

But however chaotic Professor Goodman’s thoughts, they were like a placid pool compared to Drummond’s. He had first recovered consciousness as he lay on the floor in the room below, and with that instinctive caution which was second nature to him, he had remained motionless. Two men were talking, and the sound of his own name instinctively put him on his guard. At first he listened vaguely—his head was still aching infernally—while he tried to piece together in his mind what had happened. He remembered taking the receiver off the telephone in the deserted house; he remembered a stunning blow on the back of the head; and after that he remembered nothing more. And since he realised that he was now lying on the floor, it was obvious that an overwhelming desire for his comfort was not a matter of great importance with the floor’s owner. The first point, therefore, to be decided was the identity of that gentleman…

On that score he was not left long in doubt, and it needed all his marvellous self-control to go on lying doggo when he realised who it was. It was Peterson—and as he listened to the thoughtful arrangements for his future it was evident that Peterson’s feelings for him were still not characterised by warm regard. He heard the other man pleasantly suggest finishing him off then and there; he heard Peterson’s refusal and the reasons for it. And though his head was still swimming, and thinking was difficult, his subconscious mind dictated the obvious course. As long as he remained unconscious, Peterson’s insensate hatred for him would keep him safe. So far, so good—but it wasn’t very far. However, they couldn’t sit there talking the whole night, and once they left him alone, or even with some man to guard him, he had ample faith in his ability to get away. And once out of the house he and Peterson would be on level terms again.

Once again he turned his attention to the conversation. Yacht—what was this about a yacht? With every sense alert he strove to make his throbbing brain take in what they were saying. And gradually as he listened the main outline of the whole diabolical scheme grew clear in all its magnificent simplicity. But who on earth was the man upstairs to whom Peterson kept alluding?

Whoever he was, he was presumably completely unconscious of the fate in store for him. And it struck Drummond that he was going to complicate matters. It would mean intense rapidity of action on his part once he was out of the house if he was going to save the poor devil’s life.

For one brief instant, as Peterson bent over him, he had a wild thought of bringing matters to a head then and there. To get his hands on the swine once more was an almost overmastering temptation, but he resisted it successfully. It would mean a fight and an unholy fight at that, and Drummond realised that conditions were all against him. His head, for one thing—and total ignorance of the house. And then, to his relief, Peterson sat down again. No—there was nothing for it but to go on shamming and take his chance later.

Up to date he had not dared to open his eyes for even the fraction of a second, so he had no idea in what guise Peterson was at present masquerading. Nor had he a notion as to what the second man looked like. All he knew about that sportsman was that he was the dealer of the blow that had stunned him. And Drummond had a rooted dislike for men who stunned him. His name he gathered was Freyder, so he added Mr Freyder to his mental black-list.

At last, to his relief, the conversation had ended, and he heard the orders given about his disposal for the night. Inert and sagging, he had allowed himself to be carried upstairs, and thrown on the bed. And then in very truth nature had asserted herself. He ceased to sham and fell asleep. For how long he remained asleep he had no idea, but he awoke to find himself alone in the room. The door was open, and from outside there came the sound of voices. It seemed to him that it was now or never, and the next instant he was off the bed. He slipped off his shoes and stole into the passage.

The voices were coming from the next room, and the door of that was also open. He recognised Peterson and the man called Freyder, and without further delay he turned and went in the opposite direction, only to stop short in his tracks as a terrible scream rang out. It came from the room where Peterson was.

Like a shadow he stole back and looked in, and the sight he saw almost made him wonder if he wasn’t delirious. For there, moaning pitifully in a chair, was Professor Goodman. That was the staggering fact which drummed in his brain—Professor Goodman was not dead, but alive. But—what to do: that was the point. They were going to torture the poor old man again, and he already heard steps in the hall.

And like a flash there came the only possible solution. Downstairs they had mentioned concussion: so be it—he would be concussed. It was the only hope, and the ease with which Freyder’s face made contact with the electric furnace was a happy augury.

But he was under no delusions. From being a helpless log, he had suddenly become an obstreperous madman. It was going to make things considerably more difficult. And one thing it had definitely done—it had lessened any chance he had of escaping from the house. They would be certain to tie him up. Still, now that he had discovered the amazing fact about Professor Goodman, it would have been impossible for him to leave the house in any case, unless he could take the old man with him.

With his hands lashed together on the bed, and this time feigning sleep, he tried to see the way out. Three men were in the room with him now, and for a time he was inclined to curse himself for a fool. Better almost to have let the old man be burnt again—and got away himself for help. But no man—certainly not Drummond—could have allowed such a thing to take place if it was in his power to prevent it. Besides, Freyder’s face was an immense compensation.

Why were they torturing him? There could only be one reason—to compel him to do something which he didn’t wish to. And what could that be except reveal to Peterson the secret of the process?

The more he thought about it, the clearer it became. Once Peterson was in possession of the secret, any further necessity for keeping Goodman alive would have departed. Obviously he had deceived Peterson once—but would he have the pluck to do it again? That he was an obstinate old man at times, Drummond knew—but torture has a way of overcoming obstinacy. Especially Peterson’s brand of torture.

For all that, however, torture would be better than death, and to give Peterson the secret would be signing his death-warrant. For hours he lay there trying to see a ray of light. That Peterson would try to restore him to sanity before killing him he knew, but, at the same time, it was not safe to bank on it absolutely. That Peterson would kill Goodman at the first moment possible he also knew.

And that was the fact which tied his hands so completely.

If only he could get at Goodman—if only he could warn him not to give away his secret, whatever happened—there was hope. The Professor’s life was safe till then; they might hurt him—but his life was safe. And if only he could get away, he might pull it off even now. The process, he knew, took six hours; if the Professor had the nerve to bluff Peterson twice more—twelve hours, say fourteen.…

A lot could be done in fourteen hours.

And suddenly he lay very still—two of the men were leaving the room. Was this his chance? He stirred uneasily on the bed, as a sick man does who is asleep. Then he rolled over on his back breathing stertorously. It was all perfectly natural, and roused no suspicions in the mind of the remaining man. But it brought Drummond’s hands into the position in which he wanted them.

Contemptuously the man came over and stared at him as he lay.

It was a foolish thing to do, and it was still more foolish to lean down a little to see the patient better. For the next moment a pair of hands with fingers like steel hooks had fastened on his throat, and the sleeper was asleep no more. Gasping and choking, he beat impotently at the big man’s face, striking it again and again, but he might as well have hit the wall for all the good he did. And gradually his struggles grew fainter and fainter till they ceased altogether.

Thus had Drummond got his message through to Professor Goodman. On the spur of the moment it had occurred to him that by pretending to believe he was Peterson not only would it increase his chances of speaking to the Professor, but it would also tend to strengthen the belief that he was insane. An unexpected and additional help towards that end had been his appearance, though that he couldn’t be expected to know. And now as once again he lay on the bed—bound this time hand and foot—he wondered desperately if he had succeeded.

Professor Goodman had got his whispered message—that he knew. But had he been in time? In addition, so far as he could tell, he had, up to the present, successfully bluffed Peterson and everyone else in the house as to his mental condition. But could he keep it up? And, anyway, trussed up as he now was, and as common sense told him he would continue to be until he was taken on board the yacht, what good would it do even if he could? It might save his life for the time being, but it wouldn’t help his ultimate hopes of getting away. Nor the Professor’s. Once they were on board he had to admit to himself that their chance of coming out alive was small.

Anything can happen on a boat where the whole crew are unscrupulous.

And even if the possibility arose of his getting away by going overboard and swimming, it was out of the question for the Professor. The chances were that the old man couldn’t swim a stroke, and Drummond, powerful though he was in the water, was not such a fool as to imagine that he could support a non-swimmer for possibly several hours. Besides, it was not a matter of great difficulty to lower a boat, and an oar is a nasty thing to be hit on the head with, when swimming. No, the only hope seemed to be that Professor Goodman should hold out, and that by some fluke he should get away. Or send a message. But whom to?—and how? He didn’t even know where he was.

And at that very moment the principal part of that forlorn hope was being dashed to the ground in the next room. Once again the benevolent Mr Robinson was chiselling out the clinker from the metal retort, while the Professor watched him wearily from his chair. There was no mistake this time; Drummond’s warning had come too late. And with a cry of triumph Mr Robinson felt his chisel hit something hard: the diamond was there. He dug on feverishly, and the next minute a big uncut diamond—dirty still with the fragments of clinker adhering to it—lay in his hand. He gazed at it triumphantly, and for a moment or two felt almost unable to speak. Success at last: assured and beyond doubt. In his notebook was the process; there was no need for further delay.

And then he realised that Professor Goodman was saying something. “I have shown you as I promised.” His voice seemed very weary. “That is the method, of making the ordinary white diamond. Tomorrow, after I have rested for a while, I will show you how to make one that is rose-pink.”

Mr Robinson hesitated. “Is there much difference in the system?” he remarked thoughtfully.

The Professor’s voice shook a little—but then it was hardly to be wondered at. He had had a trying evening. “It will mean obtaining a somewhat rare strontium salt,” he answered. “Also it has to be added to the other salts in minute doses from time to time to ensure perfect mixing. The heat also has to be regulated a little differently.”

His eyes searched the other’s face anxiously. Delay him—at all costs. Drummond’s urgent words still rang in his ears, and this seemed the only chance of doing so. The main secret he had already given away; there was nothing he could do or say to alter that. Only with Drummond’s warning had he realised finally that he had been fooled; that in all probability the promise of rejoining his wife had been a lie from beginning to end. And the realisation had roused every atom of fight he had in him.

He was a shrewd old man for all his absentmindedness, and during the hour he had sat there while the furnace cooled his mind had been busy. How Drummond had got there he didn’t know, but in Drummond lay his only hope. And if Drummond said delay, he would do his best to carry out instructions. Moreover, Drummond had said something else too, and he was a chemist.

“Where can you obtain this strontium salt?” asked Mr Robinson at length.

“From any big chemist in London,” replied the other.

Mr Robinson fingered the diamond in his hand. It would mean additional delay, but did that matter very much? Now that he was in possession of the secret he had half decided to get away early in the morning. The yacht was ready; he could step on board when he liked. But there were undoubted advantages in being able to make rose-pink diamonds as well as the ordinary brand, and it struck him that, after all, he might just as well adhere to his original plan. Drummond was safe; there was nothing to fear from the old fool in the chair. So why not?

“Give me the name of the salt and it shall be sent for tomorrow,” he remarked.

“If you’re sending,” said the Professor mildly, “you might get some other salts too. By my process I can make them blue, green, black, or yellow, as well as red. Each requires a separate salt, though the process is basically the same.”

Once again Mr Robinson frowned thoughtfully, and once again he decided—why not? Blue diamonds were immensely valuable, and he might as well have the process complete.

“Make a list of everything you want,” he snapped, “and I will get the whole lot tomorrow. And now, after you’ve done that, go to bed.”

He watched the old man go shambling along the passage to his room; then, slipping the diamond into his pocket, he went in to have a look at Drummond. He was apparently asleep, and for a while Mr Robinson stood beside him with a look of malignant satisfaction on his face. That his revenge on the man lying bound and helpless on the bed added to the risk of his plans, he knew; but no power on earth would have made him forgo it. In the eyes of the world Professor Goodman was already dead; in his case he would merely be confirming an already established fact. But with Drummond it was different. There would be a hue and cry: there was bound to be. But what did it matter? Was he not going to die himself—officially? And dead men are uninteresting people to pursue.

“Don’t relax your guard for an instant,” he said to the two men. “We shall be leaving here tomorrow afternoon.”

He left the room and went down to his own particular sanctum.

He had made up his mind as to what he would do, and it seemed to solve all the difficulties in the most satisfactory way. These special salts should be sent direct to the yacht and Professor Goodman should initiate him into their mysteries on board. He would have the electric furnace taken from the house, and the experiments could be carried out just as easily at sea. And when finally he felt confident of making all the various colours, and not till then, he would drop the old fool overboard. Drummond also; the extra few days would increase the chance of his becoming sane again.

He suddenly bethought him of Freyder, and went into his room. His face, even his eyes, were completely hidden by bandages, and Mr Robinson expressed his sympathy. In fact after Freyder had exhausted his vocabulary on the subject of Drummond, Mr Robinson even went so far as to promise his subordinate a special private chance of getting some of his own back.

“You may do anything you like to him, my dear fellow,” he said soothingly, “save actually kill him. I shall watch it all with the greatest pleasure. I only reserve to myself the actual coup de grace.” He closed the door and, returning to his study, took the diamond out of his pocket. The tools at his disposal were not very delicate, but he determined, even at the risk of damaging the diamond, to work with them. He wanted to make assurance doubly sure, and it was not until the first faint streaks of dawn were coming through the window that he rose from his work with a sigh of satisfaction.

On the table in front of him lay diamonds to the value of some six or seven thousand pounds; there had been no mistake this time. And with a sigh of satisfaction he placed them in his safe.

He felt suddenly tired, and glancing at his watch he found that it was already half-past three. A little rest was essential, and Mr Robinson went upstairs. He stopped by the Professor’s room and looked in: the old man was fast asleep in bed. Then he went to see Drummond once more, and found him muttering uneasily under the watchful eyes of his two guards. Everything was correct and in order, and with another sigh of satisfaction he retired to his room for a little well-earned repose.

It was one of his assets that he could do with a very small amount of sleep, and eight o’clock the following morning found him up and about again. His first care were his two prisoners, and to his surprise he found the Professor already up and pottering about in the room where he had been working the night before. He seemed in the best of spirits, and for a moment or two Mr Robinson eyed him suspiciously. He quite failed to see what the old man had to be pleased about.

“One day nearer rejoining my dear wife,” he remarked as he saw the other standing in the doorway. “You can’t think how excited I feel about it.”

“Not being married myself,” agreed Mr Robinson pleasantly, “I admit that I cannot enter into your joy. You’re up early this morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep after six,” explained the Professor. “And so I decided to rise.”

Mr Robinson grunted. “Your breakfast will be brought to you shortly,” he remarked. “I would advise you to eat a good one, as we shall be starting shortly afterwards.”

“Starting?” stammered the Professor. “But I thought you wished me to show you how to make blue diamonds. And the other colours too.”

“I do,” answered the other. “But you will show me, Professor, on board my yacht. I trust that you are a good sailor, though at this time of year the sea should be calm.”

Professor Goodman stood by the electric furnace plucking nervously at his collar. It seemed as if the news of this early departure had given him a bit of a shock.

“I see,” he said at length. “I did not understand that we were starting so soon.”

“You have no objections, I hope,” murmured Mr Robinson politely. “The sooner we start, the sooner will come that delirious moment when you once more clasp Mrs Goodman in your arms. And now I will leave you, if you will excuse me. I have one or two things to attend to—amongst them our obstreperous young friend of last night.”

He strolled along the passage into the room where Drummond was. And though he realised that the idea was absurd, he felt a little throb of relief when he saw him still lying bound on the bed.

Ridiculous, of course, that he should find anything else, and yet Drummond, in the past, had extricated himself from such seemingly impossible situations that the sight of him bound and helpless was reassuring. Drummond smiled at him vacantly, and with a shrug of his shoulders he turned to the two men.

“Has he given any trouble?” he asked.

“Not a bit, guv’nor,” answered one of them. “He’s as barmy as he can be. Grins and smiles all over his face, except when that old bloke next door comes near him.”

Mr Robinson stared at the speaker.

“What do you mean?” he said. “Has the old man been in here this morning?”

“He came in about half an hour ago,” answered the other. “Said he wanted to see how the poor fellow was getting on. And as soon as Drummond saw him he started snarling and cursing and trying to get at him. I tell you we had the devil’s own job with him—and then after a while he lay quiet again. Thinks he’s some bloke of the name of Peterson.”

“How long was the old man here?” said Mr Robinson abruptly.

“About half a minute. Then we turned him out.”

“Under no circumstances is he to be allowed in here again.”

Mr Robinson again bent over Drummond and stared into his eyes. But no sign of reason showed on his face: the half-open mouth still grinned its vacant grin. And after a while Mr Robinson straightened up again. He had allowed himself to be alarmed unnecessarily: Drummond was still off his head.

“We are leaving at once after breakfast,” he remarked. “He is to be put in the ambulance as he is. And if he makes any noise—gag him.”

“Very good, guv’nor. Is he to have anything to eat?”

“No—let the swine starve.”

Mr Robinson left the room without a backward glance, and the sudden desperate glint in Drummond’s eyes passed unnoticed. For now indeed things did look utterly hopeless. The Professor’s plan passed to him on a piece of paper and which he had conveyed to his mouth and swallowed as soon as read, even if it was a plan of despair, had in it the germ of success. It was nothing more nor less than to set fire to the house with chemicals that would burn furiously, and trust to something happening in the confusion. At any rate it might have brought in outside people—the police, the fire brigade. And Peterson could hardly have left him bound upstairs with the house on fire. Not from any kindly motives—but expediency would have prevented it. Only the chemicals had to come from London, and if they were starting at once after breakfast it was obvious that the stuff couldn’t arrive in time.

The dear old Professor he took his hat off to. Tortured and abominably treated, he had kept his head and his nerve in the most wonderful way. For a man of his age and sedentary method of life not to have broken down completely under the strain was nothing short of marvellous. And not only had he not broken down, but he’d thought out a scheme and got it to Drummond wrapped round a Gillette razor-blade. It had taken a bit of doing to get the blade into his waistcoat pocket, and had his arms been bound to his body he couldn’t have done it. But fortunately only his wrists were lashed together, and he had managed it. And now it all seemed wasted.

He debated in his mind whether he would try to cut the ropes, and chance everything in one wild fight at once. But the two men eating their breakfast near the foot of his bed were burly brutes.

And even if by twisting himself up he had been able to cut the cord round his legs without their noticing he would be at a terrible disadvantage, cramped after his confinement as he was. Besides, there was the Professor. Nothing now would have induced him to leave the old man. Whatever happened, he must stay beside him in the hopes of being able to help him. Because one thing was clear.

Even if he personally escaped, unless he could get help before the yacht started—the Professor was doomed. The yacht was going down with all hands: there lay the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.

And even if he could have prevented the yacht sailing, he knew Peterson quite well enough to realise that he would merely change his plans at the last moment. As he had so often done in the past, he would disappear, with the secret—having first killed Professor Goodman.

No; the only possible chance lay in his going on the yacht himself and trusting to luck to find a way out. Incidentally it was perhaps as well that the only possible chance did lie in that direction, since, as far as Drummond could see, his prospects of not going on board were even remoter than his prospects of getting any breakfast.

A sudden shuffling step in the passage outside brought his two guards to their feet. They dashed to the door just as Professor Goodman appeared, and then they stopped with a laugh. For the old man was swaying backwards and forwards and his eyes were rolling horribly.

“I’ve been drugged,” he muttered, and pitched forward on his face.

Then the men sat down again, leaving him where he lay.

“That’ll keep him quiet,” said one of them. “It was in his tea.”

“If I had my way I’d put a bucket of it into the swab on the bed,” answered the other. “It’s him that wants keeping quiet.”

The first speaker laughed brutally.

“He won’t give much trouble. Once we’ve got him on board, it’ll be just pure joy to watch the fun. Freyder’s like a man that’s sat on a hornet’s nest this morning.”

And at that moment Freyder himself entered the room. His face was still swathed in bandages, and Drummond beamed happily at him. The sight of him provided the one bright spot in an otherwise gloomy horizon, though the horrible blow which he received on the mouth rather obscured the brightness, and gave him a foretaste of what he could expect from the gentleman. But true to his role, Drummond still grinned on, though he turned his head away to hide the smouldering fury in his eyes. In the past he had been fairly successful with Peterson’s lieutenants, and he registered a mental vow that Mr Julius Freyder would not be an exception.

He watched him go from the room kicking the sprawling body of the Professor contemptuously as he passed, and once again he was left to his gloomy thoughts. It was all very well to register vows of vengeance, but to carry them out first of all entailed getting free.

And then a sudden ray of hope dawned in his mind. How were they going to be got on board? Stretchers presumably, and that would be bound to attract attention if the yacht was lying in any harbour.

But was she? She might be lying out to sea somewhere, and send a boat ashore for them in some deserted stretch of coast. That was the devil of it, he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was. He might be in Essex; he might be on the South Coast; he might even be down on the Bristol Channel.

A little wearily he gave it up; after all, what was the good of worrying? He was bound and the Professor was drugged, and as far as he could see any self-respecting life insurance would hesitate at a ninety-five percent premium for either of them. His principal desire at the moment was for breakfast, and as that was evidently not in the programme, all he could do was to inhale the aroma of eggs and bacon, and wonder why he’d been such a damned fool as to take that telephone call.

The tramp of footsteps on the stairs roused him from his lethargy, and he half-turned his head to look at the door. Two men were there with a stretcher, on which they were placing the Professor. Then they disappeared, to return again a few moments later with another, which they put down beside his bed. It was evidently his turn now, but, even bound as he was, they showed no inclination to treat him as unceremoniously as the Professor. His reputation seemed to have got abroad, and, though he smiled at them inanely and burbled foolishly, they invoked the assistance of the other two men, who had just finished their breakfast, before lifting him up and putting him on the stretcher.

In the hall stood Mr Robinson, who again peered at him intently as he passed, and then Drummond found himself hoisted into the back of a car which seemed to be a cross between an ambulance and a caravan. The back consisted of two doors instead of the conventional ambulance curtains, and on each side was a window covered with muslin blind. Two bunks, one on each side, stretched the full length of the car and a central gang-way, which had a little washbasin at the end nearest the engine, separated them.

On one of these bunks lay Professor Goodman, breathing with the heavy, stertorous sounds of the drugged. The men pitched him on to the other, as Mr Robinson, who had followed them out, appeared.

“You have your orders,” he remarked curtly. “If Drummond makes a sound—gag him. I shall be on board myself in about two hours.”

He closed the doors, leaving the two men inside, and the car started. It was impossible to see out of either window owing to the curtains, and the ostentatious production of a revolver by one of the men removed any thought Drummond might have had of trying to use the razor-blade. “Mad or not, take no chances,” was the motto of his two guards, and when on top of everything else, though he hadn’t made a sound, they crammed a handkerchief half-down his throat, he almost laughed.

He judged they had been going for about an hour, when the diminished speed of the car and the increased sounds of traffic indicated a town. It felt as if they were travelling over cobbles, and once they stopped at what was evidently a level crossing, for he heard a train go by. And then came the sound of a steamer’s siren, to be followed by another and yet a third.

A seaport town obviously, he reflected, though that didn’t help much. The only comfort was that a seaport town meant a well-used waterway outside. And if he could get free, if he could go overboard with the Professor, there might be a shade more of a chance of being picked up. Also there would almost certainly be curious loungers about as they were carried on board.

The car had stopped; he could hear the driver talking to someone. Then it ran forward a little and stopped again. And a moment or two later a curious swaying motion almost pitched him off the bunk. Surely they couldn’t be at sea yet. The car dropped suddenly, and with a sick feeling of despair he realised what had happened. The car had been hoisted bodily on board; his faint hope of being able to communicate with some onlooker had gone.

Once again the car became stationary, save for a very faint and almost imperceptible movement. From outside came the sounds of men heaving on ropes, and the car steadied again. They were actually on board, and the car was being made fast.

Still the two men sat there with the doors tight shut, and the windows hermetically sealed by the blinds. They seemed to be waiting for something, and suddenly, with a sigh of relief, one spoke.

“She’s off.” It was true: Drummond could feel the faint throb of the propeller.

“The specimens are aboard,” laughed the other man, “and I guess it will be safe to open the doors in about a quarter of an hour or so, and get a bit of air. This damned thing is like a Turkish bath.”

He rose and peered cautiously through a slit in the curtain, but he made no movement to open the door until the throbbing of the propeller had ceased, and the harsh rattle of a chain showed that they were anchoring. Then and not till then did he open the doors with a sigh of relief.

Cautiously Drummond raised his head, and stared out. Where were they? He had followed every movement in his mind since he had come on board, but he was still as far as ever from knowing where they were. And luckily one glance was enough. It didn’t even need the glimpse he got of a huge Cunarder about a half-mile away: he recognised the shore. They were in Southampton Water, and though the knowledge didn’t seem to help very much, at any rate it was something to have one definite fact to start from.

Southampton Water! He managed to shift the sodden pocket handkerchief into a more comfortable position, and his train of thought grew pessimistic. Why would men invent processes for making diamonds? he reflected morosely. If only the dear old blitherer still peacefully sleeping in the opposite bunk had stuck to albumenised food, he wouldn’t have been lying trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Far from it: he would have been disporting himself on Ted Jerningham’s governor’s yacht at Cowes. Had not Ted expressly invited him—Ted, who had hunted Peterson with him in the past, and asked for nothing better than to hunt him again?

The irony of it! To think that Ted might even see the yacht go by; might remark on the benevolence of the appearance of muttonchop whiskers, if by chance he should be on deck. And he would never know. In all ignorance he would return to one of his habitual spasms of love, which always assailed him when afloat, with anyone who happened to be handy.

It was a distressing thought, and, after a while, he resolutely tried to banish it from his mind. But it refused to be banished.

Absurd, of course, but suppose—just suppose he could communicate with Ted. Things were so desperate that he could not afford to neglect even the wildest chance. Ted’s father’s yacht generally lay, as he knew, not far from the outgoing waterway; he remembered sitting on deck with Phyllis and watching a Union Castle boat go by so close that he could see the passengers’ faces on deck. What if he could shout or something? But Ted might not be on deck.

Eagerly he turned the problem over in his mind, and the more he thought of it the more it seemed to him to be the only possible way out. How to do it, he hadn’t an idea—but at any rate it was something to occupy his thoughts. And when the benevolent face of Mr Robinson appeared at the door some hours later, he was still wrestling with the problem, though the vacant look in his eyes left nothing to be desired.

“Any difficulty getting on board?” asked Mr Robinson.

“None at all, boss,” answered the man who was still on guard. “We gagged the madman to be on the safe side.”

Mr Robinson beamed. “Take the old man below,” he remarked. “He’ll be coming round soon. I will stay with our friend here till you return.”

Thoughtfully he pulled the handkerchief out of Drummond’s mouth and sat down on the opposite bunk. “Still suffering from concussion,” he said gently. “Still, we have plenty of time, Captain Drummond—plenty of time.”

“Gug-gug,” answered Drummond happily.

“Precisely,” murmured the other. “I believe that men frequently say that when they drown. But I promise you we won’t drown you at once. As I say—there is plenty of time.”

CHAPTER XII

In Which Drummond Leaves the S.Y. Gadfly

Still smiling benevolently, Mr Robinson strolled away, and shortly afterwards a series of sharp orders followed by a faint throbbing announced that the voyage of the S.Y. Gadfly had commenced. The Cunarder receded into the distance, and still Drummond lay on the bunk wrestling with the problem of what to do. He judged the time as being about six, so they would pass Ted Jerningham’s yacht in daylight.

Apparently no guard was considered necessary for him now that the yacht was under way; after all, to watch a completely bound madman is a boring and uninteresting pastime. And with a feeling of impotent rage Drummond realised how easy it would be to cut the ropes and go quietly overboard. A swim of a mile or so meant nothing to him. If only it hadn’t been for the Professor!…

No; the last hope—the only hope—lay in Ted Jerningham. Once that failed, it seemed to Drummond that nothing could save them.

And it was perfectly clear that by no possibility could he hope to communicate with Ted from his present position. He must be free to use his limbs. And during the next ten minutes he discovered that the blade of a safety-razor is an unpleasant implement with which to cut half-inch rope, especially when one’s wrists are bound.

But at last it was done, and he was free. No one had interrupted him, though once some footsteps outside had made him sweat with fear. But he was still no nearer to the solution of the problem. At any moment someone might come in and find him, and there would be no mistake about binding him the second time. Moreover, it would prove fairly conclusively that he was not as mad as he pretended.

Quickly he arranged the ropes with the cut ends underneath, so that to a cursory glance they appeared intact. Then he again lay still. That the glance would have to be very cursory for anyone to be deceived he realised, but it was the best he could do. And anyway he was free, even if only for the time. If the worst came to the worst he had no doubt as to his ability to fight his way to the side and go overboard; gun work is impossible in Southampton Water. But unless he did it near another ship, he feared that the delay before he could do anything would be fatal to the Professor. Peterson would take no chances in this case; he would murder the old man out of hand, instead of postponing the event.

And then, suddenly, came the idea—Ted’s motor-boat. How it was going to help he didn’t see; he had no coherent plan. But with a sort of subconscious certainty he felt that in Ted’s motor-boat lay the key to the problem. She was a wonderful machine, capable of doing her forty knots with ease, and she was the darling of Ted’s heart. Her method of progress in the slightest swell resembled a continuous rush down the waterchute at Earl’s Court; and her owner was wont to take whoever occupied his heart for the moment for what he termed “a bit of a breather” on most evenings after dinner.

Ted’s motor-boat was their hope, he decided; but how? How to get at Ted, how to tell him, was the problem. Methodically he thought things out; now that he had something definite in his mind to go on, his brain was cool and collected. And it seemed to him that the only way would be to go overboard as they passed Ted’s yacht, and then follow the Gadfly at once while she was still close to land. There would be men on Ted’s yacht, and they could board the Gadfly and hold her up. That there were difficulties he realised.

It meant leaving the Professor for at least an hour even under the most favourable conditions. Further it would be getting dark when they overtook the Gadfly, and to board a yacht steaming her twelve to fifteen knots is not a simple matter when the crew of the yacht do not desire your presence, and await you with marline-spikes on deck. Besides, the guests on Ted’s yacht might feel that as an evening’s amusement ‘hunt the slipper’ won on points. Still, it seemed the only chance, and he decided on it unless something better turned up. Anyway, it was a plan with a chance of success, which was something.

He glanced through the open door to try to spot his position, and estimated that another half-hour at the rate they were going would just about bring them opposite Ted’s yacht. Still no one came near him, though periodically he could see one of the sailors moving about the deck. As far as he could tell, he had been slung just aft of the funnel, though he dared not raise himself too much for fear of being seen.

The minutes passed, and his hopes began to rise. Could it be that luck was going to be on his side? Could it be that no one would come, and that in the failing light he might be able to slip over the side unperceived? If so, he might gain an invaluable half-hour; more—he might be able to get the motor-boat alongside the Gadfly later without the crew suspecting anything. It seemed too good to be true, and yet a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed, and he was still alone.

He peered out again; they were getting very close. The deck was deserted, and suddenly he felt he could bear the strain no longer.

He rose from the bunk and cautiously peered out of the door. And the sight he saw almost staggered him with his good fortune. If he had been walking about the deck instead of being cooped up under cover he could not have timed it more exactly. Not a hundred yards away to port lay Jerningham’s yacht, with the motor-boat alongside the gangway.

Drummond glanced round; he could see no one. The structure in which he had been hoisted on board effectively screened him from the bridge; the sailors were apparently having their evening meal. And taking a quick breath he prepared to make a sprint for the side when he saw something which completely altered his plans. Leaning over the side of the yacht he was watching were a man and a woman. And the man was Ted Jerningham himself.

Drummond saw him focus a pair of field-glasses and turn them on the Gadfly. And then clear and distinct across the water he heard the amazed shout of “Hugh”. Jerningham had seen him; the supreme chance had come, if only he wasn’t interrupted. And it is safe to say that during the next minute a very astonished girl stood beside a man whom she almost failed to recognise as the Ted Jerningham of normal life.

“A pencil,” he snapped. “Write as I spell out. Get a move on. Look out: He’s beginning. D.A.N.G.E.R. F.O.L.L.O.W. I.N. M.O.T.O.R. B.O.A.T. P.E.T.E.R.S.O.N. U.R.G.E.N.T. That’s all.” She looked up: the huge man on board the passing yacht who had been standing outlined against the sky waving his arms had disappeared.

“What on earth was he doing?” she cried.

“Semaphoring,” answered Jerningham briefly.

“But I don’t understand,” she said.

“Nor do I,” returned her companion. “But that was Hugh Drummond. And what Hugh says goes, if we follow for the whole night. Coming?”

“Rather. Who’s Peterson?”

“A very dear old friend,” said Jerningham with a grim smile. “But how the deuce…” He broke off, and stared after the retreating yacht. “He loves me, because I emptied the entire sauce-boat over his shirt-front one night in Paris, when disguised as a waiter at the Ritz.”

“My dear Ted, are you mad?” laughed the girl, following him down the gangway into the waiting motor-boat.

“Oh! no—just fun and laughter. You wouldn’t believe what a humorist old man Peterson is.”

A terrific explosion rent the air, followed by a cloud of blue smoke, and Jerningham took the tiller.

“Warm enough, Pat?” he asked. “It may be a long show.”

“Quite, thanks,” she answered. “Ted, why do you look so grave?”

“I’m just wondering, my dear, if I ought to take you.” His hand was still on the gangway, and he looked at her irresolutely.

“Why on earth not?”

“Because there may be very grave danger.”

The girl laughed. “Get on with it while the going’s good,” she said. “That yacht will be past the Needles if you delay much longer.”

And so it came about that Drummond, watching feverishly from his bunk in the Gadfly, saw with a sigh of intense relief the motor-boat shoot out across the water. It was nearly a mile astern, but a mile was nothing to a boat of its great speed. Moreover, the distance was lessening, and he breathed a prayer that Ted wouldn’t come too close. With the amount of traffic round and about Cowes at that time of year an odd motor-boat could raise no suspicion, but if he settled down to follow steadily at a hundred yards or so astern he would be bound to draw attention to himself.

He had not dared to send a longer message, and, of necessity, it had left a good deal to Ted’s imagination. But of all the men who had followed him unhesitatingly in the past, Ted Jerningham had been always the quickest on the uptake, and he soon saw that his confidence had not been misplaced. Ted had evidently realised that to follow steadily would arouse suspicion, and was laying his plans accordingly. He overhauled them like an express train, passed forty yards to starboard, circled their bow, and came dashing back. Then away at a tangent for half a mile or so, only to shoot back and stop apparently with engine trouble.

The sea was like a millpond, and as the Gadfly passed the now silent motor-boat the sounds of a gramophone were plainly audible from it. Obviously someone with a racing motor-boat joy-riding with a girl, reflected the skipper as he paced the bridge; and forthwith dismissed the matter from his mind. He had other more important things to think of, and the first was the exact object of this trip. That the benevolent Mr Robinson had hired the Gadfly from its owner to take two invalids to Madeira he knew, but he wasn’t quite satisfied. The method of bringing the invalids on board had seemed so unnecessarily secretive. However, as is the way of men who go down to the sea in ships, his nature was not curious. He was there to carry out orders, and mind his own business—not other people’s. Still, he couldn’t help wondering.

And had he seen the occupation of one of those invalids at the moment he would have wondered still more. For Drummond, having found a cake of soap on the basin beside his bunk, was carefully cutting it into small cubes with the blade of a safety razor.

Though perhaps that is what one would expect from a madman.

A sudden hoarse scream of fear some five minutes later made the Captain jump to the side of the bridge. Two sailors were rushing along the deck as if pursued by the devil, and he roared an order at them. But they took no notice of him, and dashed below. For a moment the worthy skipper stood there dumbfounded; then, cursing fluently, he dashed after them, only to stop with a strange pricking feeling in his scalp as a huge and ghastly figure confronted him. A great mass of foam was round its mouth, and it was brandishing a marline spike and bellowing. A terrifying spectacle in the half-light of dusk—a spectacle to put the fear of God into any man. And then as suddenly as it appeared it was gone.

Terror is an infectious thing, and the infection spread in the good ship Gadfly. Within two minutes men were running in all directions, shouting that a homicidal maniac was loose on board.

Below an appalling crash of breaking crockery and the sudden appearance on deck of a terrified steward told its own tale. The Captain was powerless; things had gone beyond him. He roared a futile order or two: no one paid the slightest attention to him. And then, quite suddenly, the pandemonium ceased—and men held their breath. How he had got there no one could say—but they all saw him outlined against the darkening sky.

The madman was in the stern, and in his arms he held the body of a man. “At last,” they heard him shout, “at last I’ve got you, Peterson. We die together—you devil.…”

“Stop them,” howled Mr Robinson, who had just dashed on deck, holding a limp right arm; but no man moved. Only a loud splash broke the silence, and the stern was empty.

“Man overboard. Lower a boat. Stop the yacht, you cursed fool,” snarled Mr Robinson to the Captain, and then he rushed to the stern. Dimly in the failing light he thought he could see two heads in the water, but it was a couple of minutes before a boat was lowered, and in that couple of minutes he heard the roar of an engine coming nearer. Then the engine ceased, and he saw the outline of a motor-boat.

“That boat may have picked ’em up, sir,” said the Captain, as Mr Robinson ran down the gangway into the waiting cutter.

“Give way all,” came the second officer’s curt order. “With a will, boys.”

The motor-boat, still motionless, loomed rapidly up, and Mr Robinson stood up.

“Ahoy there! Did you pick up those two men who fell overboard?”

“Two!” Ted Jerningham, a conspicuous figure in white flannels, stood up also. “I heard the most infernal shindy on board your yacht and then a splash. Do you mean to say two men have fallen overboard?” The yacht’s boat was close to, the sailors resting on their oars.

“Yes. Have you seen ’em?” asked the second officer.

“Not a sign. And the water’s like a duckpond too.”

The girl with him shuddered. “How dreadful! You don’t mean the poor fellows are drowned?”

“Afraid it looks like it, miss,” said the officer, staring round the water. “Even in this light we’d see them with the sea as calm as it is.”

Mr Robinson whispered something in his ear, which he seemed to resent.

“Do what you’re told,” snarled his master, and with a shrug he gave an order.

“Give way.”

The oars dipped in the water, and they passed astern of the motor-boat. And had Mr Robinson been watching Ted Jerningham instead of the water he might have seen a sudden strained look appear on that young gentleman’s face, and his hand move instinctively towards the starting-switch. He might even have wondered why the girl, who had seemed so calm and unperturbed in the face of this dreadful tragedy, should suddenly give vent to a loud and hysterical outburst.

“It’s dreadful,” she sobbed—”too dreadful! To think of those two poor men being drowned like that.”

But Mr Robinson was not concerned with the dreadfulness of the situation; all that mattered to him was whether it was true or not. From the moment when Drummond, foaming at the mouth, had dashed into the dining-saloon, Mr Robinson’s brain had been working furiously. An attempt to intercept himself between Drummond and Professor Goodman had resulted in an appalling blow on his arm with a marline spike. And then, accustomed though he was to the rapidity of Drummond’s movements, even he for a few seconds had been nonplussed. There had been something so diabolical about this huge man, bellowing hoarsely, who had, after that first blow, paid no more attention to him, but had hurled himself straight on the dazed Professor. And even when the Professor, squealing like a rabbit, had dashed on deck with Drummond after him, for an appreciable time Mr Robinson had remained staring stupidly at the door. Drummond sane was dangerous; Drummond mad was nerve-shattering. And then he had pulled himself together just in time to dash on deck and see them both go overboard.

Thoughtfully his eyes searched the water again; there was no trace of either man. Of a suspicious nature, he had examined both sides of the motor-boat; moreover, he had seen inside the motorboat.

And now as the girl’s sobs died away he turned to the officer beside him.

“There can be no doubt about it, I fear,” he remarked with a suitable inflection of sorrow in his voice.

“None, sir, I’m afraid. Even if we couldn’t see them, we could hear them. I’m afraid the madman’s done the poor old gentleman in.”

“Sink in a brace of shakes with a holy terror like that ’anging round yer neck,” said one of the sailors, and a mutter of agreement came from the others.

“Yes, I’m afraid there can be no possibility of saving them now.”

Ted Jerningham took out his cigarette-case, only to replace it hurriedly as he remembered the dreadful tragedy they had just witnessed. “Doubtless, however, their bodies will be washed ashore in time.”

“Er—doubtless,” murmured Mr Robinson. That aspect of the case had already struck him, and had not pleased him in the slightest degree. Had he been able to conform with his original plan, neither body would have ever been seen again. However, he had not been able to conform to that plan, so there was no more to be said about it. The main point was that both of them were drowned.

“Doubtless,” he repeated. “Poor fellows!—poor fellows! Two neurasthenic patients of mine, sir.… How sad!—How terribly sad! However, I fear there is no good wasting any more time. I can only thank you for your prompt assistance, and regret that, through no fault of yours, it was not more effective.”

Jerningham bowed. “Don’t mention it, sir—don’t mention it,” he murmured. “But I think, as I can do no more, that I will now get back. The tragedy, as you will understand, has somewhat upset this lady.”

He put his finger on the starting-switch, and the quiet of the night was broken by the roar of the engine. And as the sailors dipped in their oars to row back to the yacht, the motor-boat circled slowly round.

“Good night, sir.” Mr Robinson waved a courteous hand. “And again a thousand thanks.”

“And again don’t mention it,” returned Jerningham, sitting down by the tiller. “You can take your wrap off his hand now, Pat,” he whispered. “They can’t see.”

A vast hand grasping the gunwale was revealed as she did so, and an agonised whisper came from the water.

“Hurry, old man, for the love of Pete. Unless we can hold the old man upside-down soon to drain the water out of him, he’ll drown.”

“Right-oh! Hugh. Can you hold on for a couple of hundred yards? I’ll go slow. But they may have a searchlight on the yacht, and we’re still very close to her.”

“All right, Ted. I leave it to you.”

“I’ll still keep broadside on, old man; though I don’t think he had any suspicions.”

He nosed the motor-boat through the water, and a few moments later the necessity of his precaution was justified. A blinding light flickered across the water, found them, and held steady: it was the Gadfly’s searchlight. Jerningham rose and waved his hand, and after a while the beam passed on searching the sea. One final attempt evidently to try to spot the victims of the tragedy, rewarded by empty water. And at last the light went out; all hope had been abandoned.

“Quick, Hugh,” cried Jerningham. “Get the old boy on board.”

With a heave the almost unconscious form of Professor Goodman was hoisted into the boat, to be followed immediately by Drummond himself.

“Lie down, old man—lie down in case they use that searchlight again.”

The engine roared and spluttered, and two black mountains of water swirled past the bows.

“Forty-five on her head, Hugh,” shouted Ted. “Incidentally, what’s this particular brand of round game?”

“The largest drink in the shortest time, old son,” laughed the other. “And for the Professor—bed, quick.”

He turned to the girl. “My dear soul,” he said, “you were magnificent. If you hadn’t had hysteria when I began to sneeze it was all up.”

“But what could he have done?” cried the girl. “And he looked such a nice old man.”

Drummond laughed grimly. “Did you recognise him, Ted?” Once again he turned to the girl. “If he’d known that we were in the water, that nice old man would have had no more compunction in shooting you and Ted and dropping your bodies overboard than I shall have in drinking that drink. It’s been the biggest coup of his life, Ted—but it’s failed. But, by Jove, old man, it’s been touch and go, believe me.”

The roar of the engine made conversation difficult, but after covering the dripping form of the Professor with a dry rug they fell silent. Astern the lights of the Gadfly were growing fainter and fainter in the distance; ahead lay Cowes and safety. But Drummond’s mind, now that the immediate danger was over, had jumped ahead to the future. To restore the Professor to the bosom of his family was obviously the first thing to be done; but—after that?

The engine ceased abruptly, and he realised they had reached the yacht. Leaning over the side were some of the guests, and as—he and Ted lifted the body of the professor up the gangway a chorus of excited questioning broke out, a chorus which was interrupted by the amazed ejaculation of an elderly man.

“God bless my soul,” he cried incredulously, as the light fell on the Professor’s face, “It’s old Goodman’s double!”

“Not exactly,” answered Drummond. “It’s Professor Goodman himself.”

“Damme, sir,” spluttered the other, “I was at his funeral a week ago. He was blown up in his house in Hampstead doing some fool experiment.”

“So we all thought,” remarked Drummond quietly. “And as it happened we thought wrong. Get him below, Ted—and get him to bed, or we really shall be attending his funeral. He’s swallowed most of the English Channel as it is. Though I can assure you, sir,” he addressed the elderly man again, “that he possesses a vitality which turns Kruschen salts a pale pink. Within the last week he’s been blown up; his remains, consisting of one boot, have been buried; he’s been bounced on a white-hot electric furnace to keep his circulation going; he’s had his breakfast doped; and last, but not least, he’s gone backwards and forwards under Ted’s motorboat.

“And now if someone will lead me to a whisky-and-soda of vast dimensions, I’ll—My God! what’s that?” It was very faint, like the boom of a distant heavy gun, but he happened to be looking towards the Needles. And he had seen a sudden deep orange flash, in the water against the sky—the flash such as in old days an aeroplane bomb had made on bursting. The others swung round and stared seawards, but there was nothing more to be seen.

“It sounded like a shell,” said one of the men. “What did you think it was?” He turned to Drummond, but he had disappeared, only to dash on deck a moment or two later with Ted behind him.

“Every ounce you can get out of her, Ted. Rip her to pieces if necessary—but get there. That infernal devil has blown up the yacht.”

The motor-boat spun round, and like a living beast gathered speed. The bow waves rose higher and higher, till they stood four feet above the gunwales, to fall away astern into a mass of seething white.

“I’ll never forgive myself,” shouted Drummond in Ted’s ear. “I knew he was going to blow her up, but I never thought he’d do it so soon.” Quivering like a thing possessed, the boat rushed towards the scene of the explosion. The speedometer needle touched—went back—touched again—and then remained steady at fifty.

“Go to the bows,” howled Ted. “Wreckage.”

With a nod Drummond scrambled forward, and lying between the two black walls of water, he slowly swung the headlight backwards and forwards over the sea in front. To hit a piece of floating wreckage at the speed they were travelling would have ripped them open from stem to stern. Other craft attracted to the spot loomed up and dropped back as if stationary, and then suddenly Drummond held up his hand. In front was a large dark object with two or three men clinging to it, and as he focused the headlight on them he could see them waving. The roar of the engine died away, and timing it perfectly Jerningham went full speed astern.

The thing in the water was one of the large wooden lockers used for storing life-belts, and they drew alongside just in time. It was waterlogged, and the weight of the men clinging to it was more than it could stand. Even as the last of them stepped into the boat, with a sullen splash the locker turned over and drifted away only just awash.

“Yer’d better mind out,” said one of the men. “There’s a lot of that about.”

“Go slow, Ted,” cried Drummond. Then he turned to the men. “What happened?”

“Strike me pink, governor, I’m damned if I know. We’ve had a wonderful trip, we ’ave—you can take my word. Fust a ruddy madman jumps overboard with another bloke—and they both drowns. Then half an hour later there comes the devil of an explosion from below; the ’ole deck goes sky ’igh, and the skipper he yells, ‘We’re sinking.’ It didn’t require for ’im to say that; we all knew we was. We ’eeled right over, and in ’alf a minute she sank.”

“Anybody else saved?” asked Drummond.

“I dunno, governor,” answered the man. “There wasn’t no women and children on board, so I reckons it was everyone for himself.”

“Any idea what caused the explosion?”

“I ’aven’t, governor—that’s strite. But I knew as no good was a-going to come of this trip, as soon as that there madman went and drowned hisself.”

Drummond stared silently ahead. In the dim light he had no fear of being recognised, even if any of the three men they had saved had seen him. And his mind was busy. He had not the slightest doubt that Peterson had caused the explosion; he had even less doubt that Peterson, at any rate, was not drowned. But why had he taken the appalling risk of doing such a thing in so populous a waterway?

He went back to the stern and sat down beside Ted, who was nosing the boat gently through the water. Masses of debris surrounded them, and it was necessary to move with the utmost caution.

“What made him risk it here, Ted?” he whispered.

“Obvious, old man,” returned the other in a low voice. “He thought your bodies would be washed ashore; he had no means of telling when. He knew they would be identified; he further knew that I would at once say what had happened. From that moment he would be in deadly danger; wireless would put every ship at sea wise. And to do a little stunt of this sort, if he was to escape, it was imperative he should be near land. So, as Peterson would do, he didn’t hesitate for a moment, but put the job through at once.”

Drummond nodded thoughtfully.

“You’re right, Ted—perfectly right.”

“And unless I’m very much surprised, our friend at the present moment is stepping out of his life-belt somewhere on the beach in Colwell Bay. Tomorrow, I should imagine, he will cross to Lymington—and after that you possibly know what his moves will be. I certainly don’t—for I’m completely in the dark over the whole stunt.”

“It’s too long a story to tell you now, old man,” said Drummond. “But one thing I do know. Whoever else may be picked up, our friend will not be amongst the survivors. He’s run unheard-of risks to pull this thing off, including a cold-blooded murder. And now officially he’s going to die himself in order to throw everyone off the scent.” He laughed grimly. “Moreover, he’d have done what he set out to do if you hadn’t been leaning over the side of your governor’s yacht.”

“But what’s the prize this time?”

“Old Goodman’s secret for making artificial diamonds—that was the prize, and Peterson has got it.”

Ted whistled softly. “I heard something about it from Algy,” he remarked. “But it seems to me, Hugh, that if that is the case, he’s won.”

Drummond laughed. “You were a bit surprised, Ted, when I refused to allow you to pull us on board your boat. Of course I knew as well as you did that with your speed we could have got clean away from them. But don’t you see, old man, the folly of doing so? He would have spotted at once that we were not drowned; he would further have spotted that I was not as mad as I made out. Chewing soap is the hell of a game,” he added inconsequently. Then he went on again, emphasising each point on his fingers.

“Get me so far? Once he knew we were alive, it would have necessitated a complete alteration of his plans. He’d probably have put straight into some place on the south coast; gone ashore himself and never returned. And then he’d have disappeared into the blue. Maybe he’d have had another shot at murdering old Goodman; however, that point doesn’t arise. The thing is he’d have disappeared.”

“Which is what he seems to have done now,” remarked Ted.

Again Drummond laughed. “But I think I know where he’ll turn up again. In what form or guise remains to be seen: our one and only Carl is never monotonous, to give him his due. You see, Ted, you don’t seem to realise the intense advantage of being dead. I didn’t till I heard him discussing it one night in his study. And now I’m dead, and the Professor’s dead, and dear Carl is dead. That’s why I bumped the poor old man’s head on the barnacles underneath your boat, as we changed sides. It’s a gorgeous situation.”

“Doubtless, old man,” murmured the other. “Though you must remember it’s all a little dark and confusing to me. And anyway, where do you think he’ll turn up again so that you can recognise him—”

“My dear man, our little Irma, or Janet, or whatever name the sweet thing is masquerading under this time, is a powerful magnet. And I am open to a small bet that at the moment she is taking the air in Switzerland: Montreux to be exact. What more natural, then, that believing himself perfectly safe, our one and only Carl will return to the arms of his lady—if only for a time.”

“And you propose to fly there also?”

“Exactly. I want the notes of that process, and I also want a final reckoning with the gentleman.”

“Final?” said Ted, glancing at Drummond thoughtfully.

“Definitely final,” answered Drummond quietly. “This time our friend has gone too far.”

Jerningham looked at the numerous other boats which, by this time, had arrived at the scene of the disaster. Then he swung his helm hard round.

“That being so,” he remarked, “since our presence is no longer needed here, I suggest that we get a move on. From my knowledge of Montreux, old man, it is getting uncomfortably hot just now. Deauville will be more in Irma’s line. If I were you, I’d get out there, and do it quick. Joking apart, you may be right and, of course, I don’t know all the facts of the case. But from what I’ve guessed, I think friend Peterson will cover all his tracks at the first possible moment.”

“He may,” agreed Drummond. “And yet—believing that the Professor and I are both dead—he may not. You see,” he repeated once again, “he thinks he’s safe. Therein lies the maggot in the Stilton.” With which profound simile he relapsed into silence, only broken as once more the boat drew up alongside the yacht.

“He thinks he’s safe, which is where he goes into the mulligatawny up to his neck. Put these fellows on shore, Ted, give me a change of clothes, and then run me over to Lymington.”

CHAPTER XII

In Which He Samples Mr Blackton’s Napoleon Brandy

That Drummond was no fool his intimate friends knew well. He had a strange faculty for hitting the nail on the head far more often than not. Possibly his peculiarly direct method of argument enabled him to reach more correct conclusions than someone subtler-minded and cleverer could achieve. His habit of going for essentials and discarding side issues was merely the mental equivalent of those physical attributes which had made him a holy terror in the ring. Moreover, he had the invaluable gift of being able to put himself in the other man’s place.

But it may be doubted if in any of his duels with Peterson he had ever been more unerringly right than in his diagnosis of the immediate future. It was not a fluke; it was in no sense guesswork.

He merely put himself in Peterson’s place, and decided what he would do under similar circumstances. And having decided on that, he went straight ahead with his own plans, which, like all he made, were simple and to the point. They necessitated taking a chance, but, after all, what plan doesn’t?

He had made up his mind to kill Peterson, but he wanted to do it in such a manner that it would appeal to his sense of art in after-life. And with Drummond the sense of art was synonymous with the sense of fair play. He would give Peterson a fair chance to fight for his life. But in addition to that his ambition went a little farther. He felt that this culminating duel should be worthy of them both. The mental atmosphere must be correct, as well as the mundane surroundings.

That that was largely beyond his control he realised, but he hoped for the best. The sudden plunging of Peterson from the dizzy heights of success into the valley of utter failure must not be a hurried affair, but a leisurely business in which each word would tell. How dizzy were the heights to which Peterson thought he had attained was, of course, known only to Peterson. But, on that point, he need not have worried.

For Mr Edward Blackton, as he stepped out of the train at Montreux station at nine o’clock on a glorious summer’s evening, was in a condition in which even a request for one of his three remaining bottles of Napoleon brandy might have been acceded to.

True, his right arm pained him somewhat; true, he was supremely unaware that at seven o’clock that morning Drummond had descended from the Orient express on to the same platform. What he was aware of was that in his pocket reposed the secret which would make him all-powerful; and in his hand-bag reposed an English morning paper giving the eminently satisfactory news that only six survivors had been rescued from the S.Y. Gadfly, which had mysteriously blown up off the Needles. Moreover, all six had combined in saying that the temporary owner of the yacht—a Mr Robinson—must be amongst those drowned.

The hotel bus drew up at the door of the Palace Hotel, and Mr Blackton descended. He smiled a genial welcome at the manager, and strolled into the luxurious lounge. In the ballroom leading out of it a few couples were dancing, but his shrewd glance at once found whom he was looking for; In a corner sat Irma talking to a young Roumanian of great wealth, and a benevolent glow spread over him. No more would the dear child have to do these fatiguing things from necessity. If she chose to continue parting men from their money as a hobby it would be quite a different thing. There is a vast difference between pleasure and business.

He sauntered across the lounge towards her, and realised at once that there was something of importance she wished to say to him. For a minute or two, however, they remained there chatting; then with a courteous good night they left the Roumanian and ascended in the lift to their suite.

“What is it, my dearest?” he remarked, as he shut the sitting room door.

“That man Blantyre is here, Ted,” said the girl. “He’s been asking to see you.”

He sat down and pulled her to his knee. “Blantyre,” he laughed. “Sir Raymond! I thought it possible he might come. And is he very angry?”

“When he saw me he was nearly speechless with rage.”

“Dear fellow! It must have been a dreadful shock to him.”

“But, Ted,” she cried anxiously, “is it all right?”

“Righter even than that, carissima. Blantyre simply doesn’t come into the picture. All I trust is that he won’t have a fit in the room or anything, because I think that Sir Raymond in a fit would be a disquieting spectacle.”

There was a knock at the door, and the girl got quickly up. “Come in.”

Mr Blackton regarded the infuriated man who entered with a tolerant smile.

“Sir Raymond Blantyre, surely. A delightful surprise. Please shut the door, and tell us to what we are indebted for the pleasure of this visit.”

The President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate advanced slowly across the room. His usually florid face was white with rage, and his voice, when he spoke, shook uncontrollably.

“You scoundrel—you infernal, damned scoundrel!”

Mr Blackton thoughtfully lit a cigar; then, leaning back in his chair, he surveyed his visitor benignly. “Tush, tush!” he murmured. “I must beg of you to remember that there is a lady present.”

Sir Raymond muttered something under his breath; then, controlling himself with an effort, he sat down. “I presume it is unnecessary for me to explain why I am here,” he remarked at length.

“I had imagined through a desire to broaden our comparatively slight acquaintance into something deeper and more intimate,” said Mr Blackton hopefully.

“Quit this fooling,” snarled the other. “Do you deny that you have the papers containing Goodman’s process?”

“I never deny anything till I’m asked, and not always then.”

“Have you got them, or have you not?” cried Sir Raymond furiously.

“Now I put it to you, my dear fellow, am I a fool or am I not?” Mr Blackton seemed almost pained. “Of course I have the papers of the process. What on earth do you suppose I put myself to the trouble and inconvenience of coming over to England for? Moreover, if it is of any interest to you, the notes are no longer in the somewhat difficult calligraphy of our lamented Professor, but in my own perfectly legible writing.”

“You scoundrel!” spluttered Sir Raymond. “You took our money—half a million pounds—on the clear understanding that the process was to be suppressed.”

Mr Blackton blew out a large cloud of smoke. “The point is a small one,” he murmured, “but that is not my recollection of what transpired. You and your syndicate offered me half a million pounds to prevent Professor Goodman revealing his secret to the world. Well, Professor Goodman hasn’t done so—nor will he do so. So I quite fail to see any cause for complaint.”

The veins stood out on Sir Raymond’s forehead. “You have the brazen effrontery to sit there and maintain that our offer to you did not include the destruction of the secret? Do you imagine we should have been so incredibly foolish as to pay you a large sum of money merely to transfer those papers from his pocket to yours?”

Mr Blackton shrugged his shoulders. “The longer I live, my dear Sir Raymond, the more profoundly do I become impressed with how incredibly foolish a lot of people are. But, in this case, do not let us call it foolishness. A kinder word is surely more appropriate to express your magnanimity. There are people who say that business men are hard. No—a thousand times, no. To present me with the secret was charming; but to force upon me half a million pounds sterling as well was almost extravagant.”

“Hand it over—or I’ll kill you like a dog.”

Mr Blackton’s eyes narrowed a little; then he smiled. “Really, Sir Raymond—don’t be so crude. I must beg of you to put that absurd weapon away. Why, my dear fellow, it might go off. And though I believe capital punishment has been abolished in most of the cantons in Switzerland, I don’t think imprisonment for life would appeal to you.”

Slowly the other man lowered his revolver.

“That’s better—much better,” said Mr Blackton approvingly. “And now, have we anything further to discuss?”

“What do you propose to do?” asked Sir Raymond dully.

“Really, my dear fellow, I should have thought it was fairly obvious. One thing you may be quite sure about: I do not propose to inform the Royal Society about the matter.”

“No, but you propose to make use of your knowledge yourself?”

“Naturally. In fact I propose to become a millionaire many times over by means of it.”

“That means the ruin of all of us.”

“My dear Sir Raymond, your naturally brilliant brain seems amazingly obtuse this evening. Please give me the credit of knowing something about the diamond market. I shall place these stones with such care that even you will have no fault to find. It will do me no good to deflate the price of diamonds. Really, if you look into it, you know, your half-million has not been wasted. You would have been ruined without doubt if Professor Goodman had broadcast his discovery to the world at large. Every little chemist would have had genuine diamonds the size of tomatoes in his front window. Now nothing of the sort will happen. And though I admit that it is unpleasant for you to realise that at any moment a stone worth many thousands may be put on the market at the cost of a fiver, It’s not as bad as it would have been if you hadn’t called me in. And one thing I do promise you: I will make no attempt to undersell you. My stones will be sold at the current market price.”

Sir Raymond stirred restlessly in his chair. It was perfectly true what this arch-scoundrel said: it was better that the secret should be in the hands of a man who knew how to use it than in those of an unpractical old chemist.

“You see, Sir Raymond,” went on Mr Blackton, “the whole matter is so simple. The only living people who know anything about this process are you and your syndicate—and I. One can really pay no attention to that inconceivable poop—I forget his name—I mean the one with the eyeglass.”

“There’s his friend,” grunted Sir Raymond—’that vast man.”

“You allude to Drummond,” said Mr Blackton softly.

“That’s his name. I don’t know how much he knows, but he suspects a good deal. And he struck me as being a dangerous young man.”

Mr Blackton smiled sadly. “Drummond! Dear fellow. My darling,” he turned to the girl, “I have some sad news for you. In the excitement of Sir Raymond’s visit, I quite forgot to tell you. Poor Drummond is no more.”

The girl sat up quickly. “Dead! Drummond dead! Good heavens! how?”

“It was all very sad, and rather complicated. The poor dear chap went mad. In his own charming phraseology he got kittens in the granary. But all through his terrible affliction, one spark of his old life remained: his rooted aversion to me. The only trouble was that he mistook someone else for your obedient servant, and at last his feelings overcame him. I took him for a short sea-voyage, with the gentleman he believed was me, and he rewarded me by frothing at the mouth, and jumping overboard in a fit of frenzy, clutching this unfortunate gentleman in the grip of a maniac. They were both drowned. Too sad, is it not?”

“But I don’t understand,” cried the girl. “Good heavens! what’s that?”

From a large cupboard occupying most of one wall came the sound of a cork being extracted. It was unmistakable, and a sudden deadly silence settled on the room. The occupants seemed temporarily paralysed: corks do not extract themselves. And then a strange pallor spread over Mr Blackton’s face, as if some ghastly premonition of the truth had dawned on him.

He tottered rather than walked to the cupboard and flung it open. Comfortably settled in the corner was Drummond. In one hand he held a corkscrew, in the other a full bottle of Napoleonic brandy, which he was sniffing with deep appreciation.

“I pass this, Carl,” he remarked, “as a very sound liqueur brandy. And if you would oblige me with a glass, I will decide if the taste comes up to the bouquet. A tooth-tumbler will do excellently, if you have no other.”

The pallor grew more sickly on Blackton’s face as he stared at the speaker. He had a sudden sense of unreality; the room was spinning round. It was untrue, of course; it was a dream. Drummond was drowned: he knew it. So how could he be sitting in the cupboard?

Manifestly the thing was impossible.

“Well, well,” said the apparition, stretching out his legs comfortably, “this is undoubtedly a moment fraught with emotion and, I trust I may say, tender memories.”

He bowed to the girl, who, with her hands locked together, was, staring at him with unfathomable eyes. “Before proceeding, may I ask the correct method of addressing you? I like to pander to your foibles, Carl, in any way I can, and I gather that neither Mr Robinson nor Professor Scheidstrun is technically accurate at the moment.”

“How did you get here?” said Blackton in a voice he hardly recognised as his own.

“By the Orient express this morning,” returned Drummond, emerging languidly from the cupboard.

“My God! you’re not human.”

The words seemed to be wrung from Blackton by a force greater than his own, and Drummond looked at him thoughtfully. There was no doubt about it—Peterson’s nerve had gone. And Drummond would indeed not have been human if a very real thrill of triumph had not run through him at that moment. But no trace showed on his face as he opened his cigarette-case.

“On the contrary—very human indeed,” he murmured. “Even as you, Carl—you’ll excuse me if I return to our original nomenclature: It’s so much less confusing. To err is human—and you erred once. It’s bad luck, because I may frankly say that in all the pleasant rencontres we’ve had together nothing has filled me with such profound admiration for your ability as this meeting. There are one or two details lacking in my mind—one in particular; but on what I do know, I congratulate you. And possessing, as I think you must admit, a sense of sportsmanship, I feel almost sorry for that one big error of yours, though it is a delightful compliment to my histrionic abilities. How’s Freyder’s face?”

“So you hadn’t got concussion?” said the other. His voice was steadier now; he was thinking desperately.

“You’ve hit it, Carl. I recovered from my concussion on the floor, of your room, and listened with interest to your plans for my future. And having a certain natural gift for lying doggo, I utilised it. But if it’s any gratification to you, I can assure you that I very nearly gave myself away when I found who it was you had upstairs. You will doubtless be glad to hear that by this time Professor Goodman is restored to the bosom of his family.”

A strangled noise came from behind him, and he turned round to find Sir Raymond Blantyre in a partially choking condition. “Who did you say?” he demanded thickly.

“Professor Goodman,” repeated Drummond, and his voice was icy. “I haven’t got much to say to you, Sir Raymond—except that you’re a nasty piece of work. Few things in my life have afforded me so much pleasure as the fact that you were swindled out of half a million. I wish it had been more. For the man who carried this coup through one can feel a certain unwilling admiration; for you, one can feel only the most unmitigated contempt.”

“How dare you speak like that!” spluttered the other, but Drummond was taking no further notice of him.

“That was your second error, Carl. You ought to have come into the motor-boat. I assure you I had a dreadful time dragging that poor old chap underneath it, as you crossed our stern. His knowledge of swimming is rudimentary.”

“So that was it, was it?” said Blackton slowly. His nerve had completely recovered, and he lit a cigar with ease. “I really think it is for me to congratulate you, my dear Drummond. Apart, however, from this exchange of pleasantries—er—what do we do now?”

“You say that Professor Goodman is still alive?” Sir Raymond had found his voice again. “Then who—who was buried?”

“Precisely,” murmured Drummond. “The one detail in particular in which I am interested. Who was the owner of the boot? Or shall I say who was the owner of the foot inside the boot, because the boot was undoubtedly the Professor’s?”

“The point seems to me to be of but academic interest,” remarked Mr Blackton in a bored voice. “Nil nisis bonum’—you know the old tag. And I can assure you that the foot’s proprietor was a tedious individual. No loss to the community whatever.”

And suddenly a light dawned on Sir Raymond Blantyre. “Great heavens! it was poor Lewisham.”

Absorbed as he had been by other things, the strange disappearance of his indiscreet fellow-director, the peculiar radiogram from mid-Atlantic and subsequent silence, had slipped from his mind. Now it came back, and he stared at Blackton with a sort of fascinated horror. The reason for Lewisham’s visit to Professor Goodman was clear, and he shuddered uncontrollably. “It was Lewisham,” he repeated dully.

“I rather believe it was,” murmured Blackton, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “As I said before, the point is of but academic interest.”

He turned again to Drummond. “So Professor Goodman is restored to his family once more. I trust he has suffered no ill-effects from his prolonged immersion.”

“None at all, thank you,” answered Drummond. “Somewhat naturally, he is angry. In fact, for a mild and gentle old man, he is in what might be described as the devil of a temper.”

“But if he’s back in London,” broke in Sir Raymond excitedly, “what about his secret? It will be given to the world, and all this will have been in vain.”

Mr Blackton thoughtfully studied the ash on his cigar, while Drummond stared at the speaker. And then for one fleeting instant their eyes met. Sworn enemies though they were, for that brief moment they stood on common ground—unmitigated contempt for the man who had just spoken.

“From many points of view, Sir Raymond, I wish it could be given to the world,” said Drummond. “I can think of no better punishment for you, or one more richly deserved. Unfortunately, however, you can set your mind at rest on that point. Professor Goodman no longer possesses his notes on the process.”

“Precisely,” murmured Mr Blackton. “It struck me that one copy was ample. So I destroyed his.”

“But for all that,” continued Drummond, noting the look of relief that spread over Sir Raymond’s face, “I don’t think you’re going to have a fearfully jolly time when you return to London. In fact, if I may offer you a word of advice, I wouldn’t return at all.”

“What do you mean?” stammered the other.

“Exactly what I say, you damned swine,” snapped Drummond. “Do you imagine you can instigate murder and sudden death, and then go trotting into the Berkeley as if nothing had happened? You’re for it, Blantyre; you’re for it—good and strong. And you’re going to get it. As I say, the Professor is angry and he’s obstinate and he wants your blood. My own impression is that if you get off with fifteen years, you can think yourself lucky.”

Sir Raymond plucked at his collar feverishly. “Fifteen years! My God!”

Then his voice rose to a scream. “But it was this villain who did it all, I tell you, who murdered Lewisham, who…”

With a crash he fell back in the chair where Drummond had thrown him, and though his shaking lips still framed words, no sound came from them. Blackton was still critically regarding the ash on his cigar; Drummond had turned his back and was speaking again.

“Yes, Carl,” he was saying, “the Professor and I will deal with Sir Raymond. Or if anything should happen to me, then the Professor is quite capable of doing it himself.”

“And what do you anticipate should happen to you?” asked Blackton politely. “Nothing, I trust. But there is one thing which I have never done in the past during all our games of fun and laughter. I have never made the mistake of underrating you.”

Blackton glanced at him thoughtfully. “We appear,” he murmured, “to be approaching the sixpence in the plum-pudding.”

“We are,” returned Drummond quietly. “Sir Raymond is the Professor’s portion; you are mine.”

A silence settled on the room—a silence broken at length by Blackton. His blue eyes never left Drummond’s face; the smoke from his cigar rose into the air undisturbed by any tremor of his hand.

“I am all attention,” he remarked.

“There is not much to say,” said Drummond. “But what there is, I hope may interest you. If my memory serves me aright, there was one unfailing jest between us in the old days. Henry Lakington did his best to make it stale before he met with his sad end; that unpleasant Count Zadowa let it trip from his tongue on occasions; in fact, Carl, you yourself have used it more than once. I allude to the determination expressed by you all at one time or another—to kill me.”

Blackton nodded thoughtfully. “Now you speak of it, I do recall something of the sort.”

“Good,” continued Drummond. “And since no one could call me grudging in praise, I will admit that you made several exceedingly creditable attempts. This time, however, the boot is on the other leg; it’s my turn to say—snap. In other words, I am going to kill you, Carl. At least, lest I should seem to boast, I’m going to have a damned good attempt—one that I trust will be even more creditable than yours.”

Once again a silence settled, broken this time by an amused laugh from the girl. “Adorable as ever, my Hugh,” she murmured. “And where shall I send the wreath?”

“Mademoiselle,” answered Drummond gravely, “I propose to be far more original than that. To do your—er—father—well, we won’t press that point—to do Carl justice, his attempts were most original. You were not, of course, present on the evening at Maybrick Hall, when that exceedingly unpleasant Russian came to an untimely end. But for the arrival of the Black Gang, I fear that I should have been the victim—and Phyllis. However, let me assure you that I have no intention whatever of doing you any harm. But I should like you to listen—even as Phyllis had to listen—while I outline my proposals. Carl ran over his that night for my benefit, and I feel sure he would have fallen in with any proposals I had to make. Similarly, believe me, I shall be only too charmed to do the same for him.”

Sir Raymond Blantyre sat up and pinched himself. Was this some strange jest staged for his special benefit? Was this large young man who spoke with a twinkle in his eyes the jester? And glancing at the two men, he saw that there was no longer any twinkle, and that Blackton’s face had become strangely drawn and anxious. But his voice when he spoke was calm.

“We appear to be in for an entertaining chat,” he murmured.

“I hope you will find it so,” returned Drummond gravely. “But before we come to my actual proposal, I would like you to understand quite clearly what will happen if you refuse to fall in with it. Outside in the passage, Carl, are two large, stolid Swiss gendarmes: men of sterling worth, and quite unbribable. They don’t know why they are there at present; but it will not take long to enlighten them. Should you decide, therefore, to decline my suggestion, I shall be under the painful necessity of requesting them to step in here, when I will inform them of just so much of your past history as to ensure your sleeping for the next few nights in rather less comfortable quarters. Until, in fact, extradition papers arrive from England. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” answered the other. “That will occur if I do not fall in with your suggestion. So let us hear the suggestion.”

“It took a bit of thinking out,” admitted Drummond. “I haven’t got your fertile brain, Carl, over these little matters. Still, I flatter myself it’s not bad for a first attempt. I realised somewhat naturally the drawbacks to shooting you on sight—besides, it’s so bad for the carpet. At the same time I have come to the unalterable conclusion that the world is not big enough for both of us. I might—you will justly observe—hand you over anyway to those stolid warriors outside. And since you would undoubtedly be hanged, the problem would be solved. But unsatisfactorily, Carl—most unsatisfactorily.”

“We are certainly in agreement on that point,” said the other.

“We have fought in the past without the police; we’ll finish without them. And having made up my mind to that, it became necessary to think of some scheme by which the survivor should not suffer. If it’s you—well, you’ll get caught sooner or later; if it’s me, I certainly don’t propose to suffer in any way. Apart from having just bought weight-carrying hunters for next winter, it would be grossly unfair that I should.”

He selected a cigarette with care and lit it.

“It was you, Carl, who put the idea into my head,” he continued, “so much of the credit is really yours. Your notion of making my death appear accidental that night at Maybrick Hall struck me as excellent. Worthy undoubtedly of an encore. Your death, Carl—or mine—will appear accidental, which makes everything easy for the survivor. I hope I’m not boring you.”

“Ger down to it,” snarled Blackton. “Don’t play the fool, damn you!”

“As you did, Carl, that night at Maybrick Hall.”

For a moment the veins stood out on Drummond’s neck as the remembrance of that hideous scene came back to him; then he controlled himself and went on. “At first sight it may seem absurd—even fanciful—this scheme of mine; but don’t judge it hastily, I beg you. Know anything about glaciers, Carl?” He smiled at the look of blank amazement on the other’s face. “Jolly little things, my dear fellow, if you treat ’em the right way. But dangerous things to play tricks with. There are great cracks in them, you know-deep cracks with walls of solid ice. If a man falls down one of those cracks, unless help is forthcoming at once, he doesn’t live long, Carl; in fact, he dies astonishingly quickly.”

Blackton moistened his lips with his tongue.

“People fall down these cracks accidentally sometimes,” continued Drummond thoughtfully. “In fact there was a case once—I won’t vouch for its truth—but I’m sure you’d like to hear the story. It occurred on the glacier not far from Grindelwald—and it’s always tickled me to death. It appears that one of the local celebrities went out to pick edelweiss or feed the chamois or something equally jolly, and failed to return. He’d gone out alone, and after a time his pals began to get uneasy. So they instituted a search-party, and in due course they found him. Or rather they saw him. He had slipped on the edge of one of the deepest crevasses in the whole glacier, and there he was about fifty feet below them wedged between the two walls of ice. He was dead, of course—though they yodelled at him hopefully for the rest of the day. A poor story, isn’t it, Carl?—but It’s not quite finished. They decided to leave him there for the night, and return next day and extract him. Will you believe it, Mademoiselle, when they arrived the following morning, they couldn’t get at him. The old glacier had taken a heave forward in the night, and there he was wedged. Short of blasting him out with dynamite he was there for keeps. A terrible position for a self-respecting community, don’t you think? To have the leading citizen on full view in a block of ice gives visitors an impression of carelessness. Of course, they tried to keep it dark; but it was useless.

“People came flocking from all over the place. Scientists came and made mathematical calculations as to when he’d come out at the bottom. Every year he moved on a few more yards; every year his widow—a person now of some consequence—took her children to see father, and later on her grandchildren to see grandfather. Forty years was the official time—and I believe he passed the winning post in forty-one years three months: a wonderful example of pertinacity and dogged endurance.” Drummond paused hopefully. “That’s a pretty original idea, Carl, don’t you think?”

Sir Raymond gave a short, almost hysterical laugh, but there was no sign of mirth on the faces of the other two.

“Am I to understand,” said Blackton harshly, “that you propose that one or other of us should fall down a crevasse in a glacier? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.”

“Don’t say that,” answered Drummond. “It’s no more ridiculous than braining me with a rifle-butt, as you intended to do once. And a great deal less messy. Anyway, that is my proposal. You and I, Carl, will go unarmed to a glacier. We will there find a suitably deep crevasse. And on the edge of that crevasse”—his voice changed suddenly—”we will fight for the last time, with our bare hands. It will be slippery, which is to your advantage, though the fact that I am stronger than you cannot be adjusted at this late hour.

“It’s that—or the police, Peterson: one gives you a chance, the other gives you none. And if, as I hope, you lose—why, think of your triumph. The leading detectives of four continents will be dancing with rage on the top of the ice watching you safely embalmed underneath their feet.”

“I refuse utterly,” snarled the other. “It’s murder—nothing more nor less.”

“A form of amusement you should be used to,” said Drummond. “However, you refuse. Very good. I will now send for the police.”

He rose and went to the door, and Blackton looked round desperately.

“Wait,” he cried. “Can’t we—can’t we come to some arrangement?”

“None. Those are my terms. And there is one other that I have not mentioned. You said that two copies of the Professor’s notes were excessive. I agree—but I go farther: one is too much; that process is altogether too dangerous. If the police take you—it doesn’t matter; but if you accept my terms, you’ve got to hand that copy over to me now. And I shall burn it. I don’t mind running the risk of being killed; but if I am, you’re not going to get away with the other thing too.”

Drummond glanced at his watch. “I give you half a minute to decide.”

The seconds dragged by and Blackton stared in front of him.

Plan after plan flashed through his mind, only to be dismissed as impossible. He was caught—and he knew it. Once the police had him, he was done for utterly and completely. They could hang him ten times over in England alone. Moreover, anything in the nature of personal violence under present circumstances was out of the question. Powerful though he was, at no time was he a match for Drummond in the matter of physical strength; but here in the Palace Hotel it was too impossible even to think of. Almost as impossible as any idea of bribery.

He was caught: not only had this, his greatest coup, failed, but his life was forfeit as well. For he was under no delusions as to what would be the result of the fight on the glacier.

He heard the snap of a watch closing.

“Your half-minute is up, Peterson.” Drummond’s hand was on the door. “And I must say—I thought better of you.”

“Stop,” said the other sullenly. “I accept.”

Drummond came back into the room slowly. “That is good,” he remarked. “Then first of all—the notes of Professor Goodman’s process.”

Without a word Blackton handed over two sheets of paper, though in his eyes was a look of smouldering fury.

“You fool!” he snarled, as he watched them burn to ashes. “You damned fool!”

“Opinions differ,” in murmured Drummond, powdering the ash on the table. “And now to discuss arrangements. We start early tomorrow morning by car. I have been to some pains to examine the time-table—I mention this in case you should try to bolt. There is nothing that will do you any good either in the Lausanne direction or towards Italy. Behind you have the mountain railways, which don’t run trains at night; in front you have the lake. Below two very good friends of mine are waiting to assist if necessary—though I can promise you they will take no part in our little scrap. But you’re such an elusive person, Peterson, that I felt I could take no chances.

“To the best of my ability I’ve hemmed you in for the few hours that remain before we start. And then you and I will sit on the back seat and discuss the view. I feel the precautions seem excessive, but I have not the advantage of a specially prepared house—like you have always had in the past.”

“And until we start?” said Blackton quietly.

“We remain in this room,” answered Drummond. “At least—you and I do. Mademoiselle must please herself.”

The girl looked at him languidly.

“You don’t mind if I leave you?” she remarked. “To tell you the truth, mon ami, you’re being a little tedious this evening. And since I am going to Evian-Les-Bains for the waters tomorrow, I think I’ll retire to bed. Do you know Evian?”

“Never heard of it, I’m afraid,” said Drummond. “My geography was always rotten.”

He was lighting a cigarette, more to conceal his thoughts than for any desire to smoke. That she was a perfect actress he knew, and yet it seemed impossible to believe that her composure was anything but natural. He glanced at Peterson, who was still sitting motionless, his chin sunk on his chest. He glanced at the girl, and she was patting a stray tendril of hair in front of a mirror. He even glanced at Sir Raymond, but there was nothing to be learned from that gentleman. He still resembled a man only partially recovered from a drugged sleep. Was it conceivable that he had left a loophole in his scheme? Or could it be that she had ceased to care for Peterson?

She had turned and was regarding him with a faint smile.

“I fear I shan’t be up before you go tomorrow,” she murmured. “But whoever does not go into cold storage must come and tell me about it. And there are a lot of other things, too, I want to hear about. Why Carl, for instance, ought to have looked in the motorboat, and how you got concussion.”

Drummond looked at her steadily. “I find you a little difficult to understand, Mademoiselle. I trust you are under no delusions as to whether I am bluffing or not. You can, at any rate settle one point in your mind by glancing outside the door.”

“To see the two large policemen,” laughed the girl. “La, la, my dear man—they would give me what you call a nightmare. I will take your word for it.”

“And any appeal for help will result somewhat unfortunately for Carl.”

She shrugged her shoulders irritably. “I know when the game is up,” she remarked. Then abruptly she turned on the man who had been her companion for years. “Bah! you damned fool!” she stormed. “Every time this great idiot here does you down. Not once, but half a dozen times have you told me ‘Drummond is dead,’ and every time he bobs up again like a jack-in-the-box. And now—this time—when you had everything—everything—everything, you go and let him beat you again. You tire me. It is good that we end our partnership. You are imbecile.”

She raged out of the room, and Carl Peterson raised his haggard eyes as the door closed. His lips had set in a twisted smile, and after a while his head sank forward again, and he sat motionless, staring at the table in front of him. His cigar had long gone out; he seemed to have aged suddenly. And into Drummond’s mind there stole a faint feeling of pity.

“I’m sorry about that, Peterson,” he said quietly. “She might at least have seen the game out to the end.”

The other made no reply—only by a slight shake of his shoulders did he show that he had heard. And Drummond’s feeling of pity increased. Scoundrel, murderer, unmitigated blackguard though he knew this man to be, yet when all was said and done he was no weakling. And it wasn’t difficult to read his thoughts at the moment-to realise the bitterness and the fury that must be possessing him. Half an hour ago he had believed himself successful beyond his wildest dreams; now-And then for the girl to go back on him at the finish.

Drummond pulled himself together; such thoughts were dangerous. He forced himself to remember that night when it had been the question of seconds between life and death for Phyllis; he recalled to his mind the words he had listened to as he lay on the floor in the house to which Freyder had brought him while still unconscious. “I think if it was a question between getting away with the process and killing Drummond—it would be the latter.”

If the positions were reversed, would one thought of mercy have softened the man he now held in his power? No one knew better than Drummond himself that it would not. He was a fool even to think about it. The man who hated him so bitterly was in his power. He deserved, no man more so, to die; he was going to die.

Moreover he was going to have a sporting chance for his life into the bargain. And that was a thing he had never given Drummond. And yet he could have wished the girl had not proved herself so rotten.

The lights went out on the long terrace fronting the lake, and he glanced at his watch. It was twelve o’clock: in another three hours it would be light enough to start. Through Chateau d’Oex to Interlaken—he knew the way quite well. And then up either by train or car to Grindelwald. It would depend on what time they arrived as to the rest of the programme. And as he saw in his mind’s eye the grim struggle that would be the finish one way or the other—for Peterson was no mean antagonist physically. Drummond’s fists tightened instinctively and his breathing came a little quicker. Up above the snow-line they would fight, in the dusk when the light was bad, and there would be no wandering peasant to spread awkward stories.

Peterson’s voice cut in on his thoughts. “You are quite determined to go through with this?”

“Quite,” answered Drummond. “As I told you, I have definitely come to the conclusion that the world is not big enough for both of us.”

Peterson said no more, but after a while he rose and walked into the glassed-in balcony. The windows were open, and with his hands in his pockets he stood staring out over the lake.

“I advise you to try nothing foolish,” said Drummond, joining him. “The Swiss police are remarkably efficient, and communication with the frontiers by telephone is rapid.”

“You think of everything,” murmured Peterson. “But there are no trains, and it takes time to order a car at midnight. And since it is beyond my powers to swim the lake, there doesn’t seem much more to be said.”

He turned and faced Drummond thoughtfully. “How on earth do you do it, my young friend? Are you aware that you are the only man in the world who has ever succeeded in doing me down? And you have done it not once—but three times. I wonder what your secret is.”

He gave a short laugh, then once again stared intently out of the window. “Yes, I wonder very much. In fact I shall really have to find out. Good God! look at that fool Blantyre.”

Drummond swung round, and even as he did so Peterson hit him with all his force under the jaw. The blow caught him off his balance, and he crashed backwards, striking the back of his head against the side of the balcony as he fell. For a moment or two he lay there half-stunned. Dimly he saw that Peterson had disappeared, then, dazed and sick, he scrambled to his feet and tottered to the window. And all he saw was the figure of a man which showed up for a second in the light of a street-lamp and then disappeared amongst the trees which led to the edge of the lake.

Desperately he pulled himself together. The police outside; the telephone; there was still time. He could hear the engine of a motor-boat now, but even so there was time. He rushed across the room to the door; outside in the passage were the two gendarmes.

They listened as he poured out the story, and then one of them shook his head a little doubtfully.

“It is perfectly true, Monsieur,” he remarked, “that we can communicate with the gendarmes of all the Swiss towns au bord du lac—and at once. But with the French towns it is different.”

“French?” said Drummond, staring at him. “Isn’t this bally lake Swiss?”

“Mais non, monsieur. Most of it is. But the southern shore from St Gingolph to Hermance is French. Evian-les-Bains is a well known French watering-place.”

“Evian-les-Bains!” shouted Drummond—”Evian-les-Bains! Stung!—utterly, absolutely, completely stung! And to think that that girl fixed the whole thing under my very nose.” For a moment he stood undecided; then at a run he started along the corridor.

“After ’em, mes braves. Another motor-boat is the only chance.”

There was another moored close inshore, and into it they all tumbled, followed by Ted Jerningham and Algy Longworth, whom they had roused from their slumbers in the lounge. Ted, as the authority, took charge of the engine—only to peer at it once and start laughing.

“What’s the matter?” snapped Drummond.

“Nothing much, old man,” said his pal. “Only that there are difficulties in the way of making a petrol engine go when both sparking-plugs have long been removed.”

And it seemed to Drummond that, at that moment, there came a faint, mocking shout from far out on the darkness of the lake.

“Mind you wear hobnailed boots on the glacier.”

CHAPTER XIII

In Which Drummond Receives an Addition to His Library

It was four days later. During that four days Drummond’s usual bright conversational powers had been limited to one word—’Stung’. And now as he drew his second pint from the cask in the corner of his room in Brook Street, he elaborated it.

“Stung in the centre and on both flanks,” he remarked morosely. “And biffed in the jaw into the bargain.”

“Still, old dear,” murmured Algy brightly—Algy’s world was bright again, now that there was no further need to postpone his marriage—”you may meet him again. You’d never really have forgiven yourself if you’d watched him passaging down a glacier. So near and yet so far, and all that sort of thing. I mean, what’s the good of a glacier, anyway? You can’t use the ice even to make a cocktail with. At least, not if old man Peterson was embalmed in it. It wouldn’t be decent.”

“Stung,” reiterated Drummond. “And not only stung, my dear boy, but very nearly bitten. Are you aware that only by the most uncompromising firmness on my part did I avoid paying his bill at the Palace Hotel? The manager appeared to think that I was responsible for his abrupt departure. A truly hideous affair.”

He relapsed into moody silence, which remained unbroken till the sudden entrance of Professor Goodman. He was holding in his hand an early edition of an evening paper, and his face was agitated.

“What’s up, Professor?” asked Drummond.

“Read that,” said the other.

Drummond glanced at the paper.

“Death of well-known English financier in Paris.”

Thus ran the headline. He read on: “This morning Sir Raymond Blantyre, who was stopping at the Savoy Hotel, was found dead in his bed. Beside the deceased man an empty bottle of veronal was discovered. No further details are at present to hand.”

The paragraph concluded with a brief description of the dead man’s career, but Drummond read no farther. So Blantyre had failed to face the music. As usual, the lesser man paid, while Peterson got off.

“Suicide, I assume,” said the Professor.

“Undoubtedly,” answered Drummond. “It saves trouble. And I may say I put the fear of God into him. Well, Denny—what is it?”

“This letter and parcel have just come for you, sir,” said his servant.

Drummond turned them both over in his hand, and a faint smile showed on his face. The postmark was Rome; the writing he knew.

It was the letter he opened first: “I have threatened often: I shall not always fail. You have threatened once: you could hardly hope to succeed. I shall treasure some edelweiss. Au revoir.”

Still smiling, he looked at the parcel. After all, perhaps it was as well. Life without Peterson would indeed be tame. He cut the string; he undid the paper. And then a strange look spread over his face—a look which caused the faithful Denny to step forward in alarm.

“Beer, fool—beer!” cried his master hoarsely.

On the table in front of him lay a book. It was entitled Our Tiny Tots’ Primer of Geography.