But there seemed to be no pursuit, no hue and cry. As he reached the little gate he paused and looked back, and he fancied he saw outside the window a gleam of white, such as a shirtfront. He lingered for an instant, peering into the darkness and recovering his breath, when with a vicious phut something buried itself in the tree beside him. Drummond lingered no more; long years of experience left no doubt in his mind as to what that something was.
“Compressed-air rifle—or electric,” he muttered to himself, stumbling on, and half dragging, half carrying his dazed companion.
He was not very clear in his own mind what to do next, but the matter was settled for him unexpectedly. Barely had he got into the drawing-room, when the door opened and the girl rushed in.
“Get him away at once,” she cried. “In your car. … Don’t waste a second. I’ve started her up.”
“Good girl,” he cried enthusiastically. “But what about you?”
She stamped her foot impatiently. “I’m all right—absolutely all right. Get him away—that’s all that matters.”
Drummond grinned. “The humorous thing is that I haven’t an idea who the bird is—except that—” He paused, with his eyes fixed on the man’s left thumb. The top joint was crushed into a red, shapeless pulp, and suddenly the meaning of the instrument Lakington had produced from his pocket became clear. Also the reason of that dreadful cry at dinner. …
“By God!” whispered Drummond, half to himself, while his jaws set like a steel vice. “A thumbscrew. The devils … the bloody swine …”
“Oh! quick, quick,” the girl urged in an agony. “They may be here at any moment.” She dragged him to the door, and together they forced the man into the car.
“Lakington won’t,” said Hugh with a grin. “And if you see him tomorrow—don’t ask after his jaw. … Good night, Phyllis.”
With a quick movement he raised her hand to his lips; then he slipped in the clutch and the car disappeared down the drive. …
He felt a sense of elation and of triumph at having won the first round, and as the car whirled back to London through the cool night air his heart was singing with the joy of action. And it was perhaps as well for his peace of mind that he did not witness the scene in the room at The Elms.
Lakington still lay motionless on the floor; Peterson’s cigar still glowed steadily in the darkness. It was hard to believe that he had ever moved from the table; only the bullet imbedded in a tree proved that somebody must have got busy. Of course, it might have been the girl, who was just lighting another cigarette from the stump of the old one.
At length Peterson spoke. “A young man of dash and temperament,” he said genially. “It will be a pity to lose him.”
“Why not keep him and lose the girl?” yawned Irma. “I think he might amuse me—”
“We have always our dear Henry to consider,” answered Peterson. “Apparently the girl appeals to him. I’m afraid, Irma, he’ll have to go … and at once. …”
The speaker was tapping his left knee softly with his hand; save for that slight movement he sat as if nothing had happened. And yet ten minutes before a carefully planned coup had failed at the instant of success. Even his most fearless accomplices had been known to confess that Peterson’s inhuman calmness sent cold shivers down their backs.
III
In Which Things Happen in Half Moon Street
I
Hugh Drummond folded up the piece of paper he was studying and rose to his feet as the doctor came into the room. He then pushed a silver box of cigarettes across the table and waited.
“Your friend,” said the doctor, “is in a very peculiar condition, Captain Drummond—very peculiar.” He sat down and, putting the tips of his fingers together, gazed at Drummond in his most professional manner. He paused for a moment, as if expecting an awed agreement with this profound utterance, but the soldier was calmly lighting a cigarette. “Can you,” resumed the doctor, “enlighten me at all as to what he has been doing during the last few days?”
Drummond shook his head. “Haven’t an earthly, doctor.”
“There is, for instance, that very unpleasant wound in his thumb,” pursued the other. “The top joint is crushed to a pulp.”
“I noticed that last night,” answered Hugh non-committally. “Looks as if it had been mixed up between a hammer and an anvil, don’t it?”
“But you have no idea how it occurred?”
“I’m full of ideas,” said the soldier. “In fact, if it’s any help to you in your diagnosis, that wound was caused by the application of an unpleasant medieval instrument known as a thumbscrew.”
The worthy doctor looked at him in amazement. “A thumbscrew! You must be joking, Captain Drummond.”
“Very far from it,” answered Hugh briefly. “If you want to know, it was touch and go whether the other thumb didn’t share the same fate.” He blew out a cloud of smoke, and smiled inwardly as he noticed the look of scandalised horror on his companion’s face. “It isn’t his thumb that concerns me,” he continued; “it’s his general condition. What’s the matter
