“He’s not dead, you poor fish,” said Craig impatiently. “I might be congratulating you if he was. No, he’s got a bit of a wound.”
“Who shot him?”
“That’s just what I want to know,” said Craig. “Was it you?”
“Me!” Her look of horror supplied a satisfactory answer to his question. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t know he was here, or coming here. I thought he was at the hotel, till I saw him. Yet I had a feeling that he was coming here tonight, and I’ve been waiting about all evening. I saw Peter and dodged him.”
“Peter? Has he been near the club?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. He was on his way. I thought he was going to the Highlow. There’s nowhere else he’d go in this street—I saw him twice.”
Craig turned his bright, suspicious eyes upon the porter.
“Peter been here? I didn’t see anything about Mr. Brown of Montreal?” he asked sarcastically.
“No, he hasn’t. I haven’t seen Peter since the Lord knows when,” said the porter emphatically. “That’s the truth. You can give the elevator boy permission to tell you all he knows, and if Peter was here tonight you can hang me.”
Craig considered for a long time.
“Does Peter know his way in by the easy route?” he asked.
“You mean the fire-escape? Yes, Peter knows that way, but members never come in by the back nowadays. They’ve got nothing to hide.”
Craig went out of the room and walked down the passage stopping at No. 13. Immediately opposite the door was a window, and it was wide open. Beyond was the grille of the fire-escape landing. He stepped out through the window and peered down into the dark yard where the escape ended. By the light of a street lamp he saw a stout gate, in turn pierced by a door, and this led to the street. The door was open, a fact which might be accounted for by the presence in the yard of two uniformed policemen, the flash of whose lanterns he saw. He came back into the corridor and to Stevens.
“Somebody may have used the fire-escape tonight, and they may not,” he said. “What time did Gray come in? Who came in first?”
“Jeff came first, about five minutes before Gray.”
“Then what happened?”
“I had a chat with Captain Gray,” said the porter, after a second’s hesitation. “He went round into the side passage—”
“The same way that Jeff had gone?”
The porter nodded.
“About a minute later—in fact, it was shorter than a minute—I heard what I thought was a door slammed. I remarked upon the fact to the elevator man.”
“And then?”
“I suppose four or five minutes passed after that, and Captain Gray came out. Said he might look in later.”
“There was no sign of a struggle in Captain Gray’s clothes?”
“No, sir. I’m sure there was no struggle.”
“I should think not,” agreed Craig. “Jeff Legge never had a chance of showing fight.”
The girl was lying on the sofa, her head buried in her arms, her shoulders shaking, and the sound of her weeping drew the detective’s attention to her.
“Has she been here before tonight?”
“Yes, she came, and I had to throw her out—Emanuel told me she was not to be admitted.”
Craig made a few notes in his book, closed it with a snap and put it in his pocket.
“You understand, Stevens, that, if you’re not under arrest, you’re under open arrest. You’ll close the club for tonight and admit no more people. I shall leave a couple of men on the premises.”
“I’ll lock up the beer,” said Stevens facetiously.
“And you needn’t be funny,” was the sharp retort. “If we close this club you’ll lose your job—and if they don’t close it now they never will.”
He took aside his assistant.
“I’m afraid Johnny’s got to go through the hoop tonight,” he said. “Send a couple of men to pull him in. He lives at Albert Mansions. I’ll go along and break the news to the girl, and somebody’ll have to tell Peter—I hope there’s need for Peter to be told,” he added grimly.
XVI
A surprise awaited him when he came to the Charlton. Mrs. Floyd had gone—nobody knew whither. Her husband had followed her some time afterwards, and neither had returned. Somebody had called her on the telephone, but had left no name.
“I know all about her husband not returning,” said Craig. “But haven’t you the slightest idea where the lady is?”
“No.”
The negative reply was uncompromising.
“Her father hasn’t been here?”
His informant hesitated.
“Yes, sir; he was on Mrs. Floyd’s floor when she was missing—in fact, when Major Floyd was down here making inquiries. The floor waiter recognised him, but did not see him come or go.”
Calling up the house at Horsham he learnt, what he already knew, that Peter was away from home. Barney, who answered him, had heard nothing of the girl; indeed, this was the first intimation he had had that all was not well. And a further disappointment lay in store for him. The detective he had sent to find Johnny returned with the news that the quarry had gone. According to the valet, his master had returned and changed in a hurry, and, taking a small suitcase, had gone off to an unknown destination.
An inquiry late that night elicited the fact that Jeff was still living, but unconscious. The bullet had been extracted,
