The other man was now approaching casually, and Drummond regarded him curiously. “A friend of our little Phyllis, Peterson,” said Lakington, as he came up. “I found them having tea together yesterday at the Carlton.”
“Any friend of Miss Benton’s is, I hope, ours,” said Peterson with a smile. “You’ve known her a long time, I expect?”
“Quite a long time,” returned Hugh. “We have jazzed together on many occasions.”
“Which makes it all the more unfortunate that we should have delayed you,” said Peterson. “I can’t help thinking, Lakington, that that new chauffeur is a bit of a fool.”
“I hope he avoided the crash all right,” murmured Drummond politely.
Both men looked at him. “The crash!” said Lakington. “There was no question of a crash. We just stopped.”
“Really,” remarked Drummond, “I think, sir, that you must be right in your diagnosis of your chauffeur’s mentality.” He turned courteously to Peterson. “When something goes wrong, for a fellah to stop his car by braking so hard that he locks both back wheels is no bon, as we used to say in France. I thought, judging by the tracks in the dust, that you must have been in imminent danger of ramming a traction engine. Or perhaps,” he added judicially, “a sudden order to stop would have produced the same effect.” If he saw the lightning glance that passed between the two men he gave no sign. “May I offer you a cigarette? Turkish that side—Virginian the other. I wonder if I could help your man,” he continued, when they had helped themselves. “I’m a bit of an expert with a Rolls.”
“How very kind of you,” said Peterson. “I’ll go and see.” He went over to the man and spoke a few words.
“Isn’t it extraordinary,” remarked Hugh, “how the eye of the boss galvanises the average man into activity! As long, probably, as Mr. Peterson had remained here talking, that chauffeur would have gone on tinkering with the engine. And now—look, in a second—all serene. And yet I daresay Mr. Peterson knows nothing about it really. Just the watching eye, Mr. Lakington. Wonderful thing—the human optic.”
He rambled on with a genial smile, watching with apparent interest the car in front. “Who’s the quaint bird sitting beside the chauffeur? He appeals to me immensely. Wish to Heaven I’d had a few more like him in France to turn into snipers.”
“May I ask why you think he would have been a success at the job?” Lakington’s voice expressed merely perfunctory interest, but his cold, steely eyes were fixed on Drummond.
“He’s so motionless,” answered Hugh. “The bally fellow hasn’t moved a muscle since I’ve been here. I believe he’d sit on a hornet’s nest, and leave the inmates guessing. Great gift, Mr. Lakington. Shows a strength of will but rarely met with—a mind which rises above mere vulgar curiosity.”
“It is undoubtedly a great gift to have such a mind, Captain Drummond,” said Lakington. “And if it isn’t born in a man, he should most certainly try to cultivate it.” He pitched his cigarette away, and buttoned up his coat. “Shall we be seeing you this evening?”
Drummond shrugged his shoulders. “I’m the vaguest man that ever lived,” he said lightly. “I might be listening to nightingales in the country; or I might be consuming steak and onions preparatory to going to a night club. So long. … You must let me take you to Hector’s one night. Hope you don’t break down again so suddenly.”
He watched the Rolls-Royce start, but seemed in no hurry to follow suit. And his many friends, who were wont to regard Hugh Drummond as a mass of brawn not too plentifully supplied with brains, would have been puzzled had they seen the look of keen concentration on his face, as he stared along the white dusty road. He could not say why, but suddenly and very certainly the conviction had come to him, that this was no hoax and no leg-pull—but grim and sober reality. In his imagination he heard the sudden sharp order to stop the instant they were over the hill, so that Peterson might have a chance of inspecting him; in a flash of intuition he knew that these two men were no ordinary people, and that he was suspect. And as he slipped smoothly after the big car, now well out of sight, two thoughts were dominant in his mind. The first was that there was some mystery about the motionless, unnatural man who had sat beside the driver; the second was a distinct feeling of relief that his automatic was fully loaded.
III
At half-past five he stopped in front of Godalming Post Office. To his surprise the girl handed him a wire, and Hugh tore the yellow envelope open quickly. It was from Denny, and it was brief and to the point:
“Phone message received. AAA. Must see you Carlton tea day after tomorrow. Going Godalming now. AAA. Message ends.”
With a slight smile he noticed the military phraseology—Denny at one time in his career had been a signaller—and then he frowned. “Must see you.” She should—at once.
He turned to the girl and inquired the way to The Larches. It was about two miles, he gathered, on the Guildford road, and impossible to miss. A biggish house standing well back in its own grounds.
“Is it anywhere near a house called The Elms?” he asked.
“Next door, sir,” said the girl. “The gardens adjoin.”
He thanked her, and having torn up the telegram into small pieces, he got into his car. There was nothing for it, he had decided, but to drive boldly up to the house, and say that he had come to call on Miss Benton. He had never been a man who beat about the bush, and simple methods appealed to him—a trait in his character which many a boxer, addicted to tortuous
