Drummond gazed at the speaker open-mouthed. “My dear sir,” he protested feebly, “you overwhelm me. Are you really accusing me of being a sort of wild west show?” He waggled a finger at Peterson. “You know you’ve been to the movies too much, like my fellah, James. He’s got revolvers and things on the brain.”
Peterson’s face was absolutely impassive; save for a slightly tired smile it was expressionless. “Finally, Captain Drummond, you tore in half a piece of paper which I require—and removed a very dear old friend of my family, who is now in this house. I want them both back, please, and if you like I’ll take them now.”
Drummond shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “There is something about you, Mr. Peterson,” he murmured, “which I like. You strike me as being the type of man to whom a young girl would turn and pour out her maidenly secrets. So masterful, so compelling, so unruffled. I feel sure—when you have finally disabused your mind of this absurd hallucination—that we shall become real friends.”
Peterson still sat motionless save for a ceaseless tapping with his hand on his knee.
“Tell me,” continued Hugh, “why did you allow this scoundrel to treat you in such an offhand manner? It doesn’t seem to me to be the sort of thing that ought to happen at all, and I suggest your going to the police at once.”
“Unfortunately a bullet intended for him just missed,” answered Peterson casually. “A pity—because there would have been no trace of him by now.”
“Might be awkward for you,” murmured Hugh. “Such methods, Mr. Peterson, are illegal, you know. It’s a dangerous thing to take the law into your own hands. May I offer you a drink?”
Peterson declined courteously. “Thank you—not at this hour.” Then he rose. “I take it, then, that you will not return me my property here and now.”
“Still the same delusion, I see!” remarked Hugh with a smile.
“Still the same delusion,” repeated Peterson. “I shall be ready to receive both the paper and the man up till six o’clock tonight at 32A Berners Street; and it is possible, I might even say probable, should they turn up by then, that I shall not find it necessary to kill you.”
Hugh grinned. “Your kindly forbearance amazes me,” he cried. “Won’t you really change your mind and have a drink?”
“Should they not arrive by then, I shall be put to the inconvenience of taking them, and in that case—much as I regret it—you may have to be killed. You’re such an aggressive young man, Captain Drummond—and, I fear, not very tactful.” He spoke regretfully, drawing on his gloves; then as he got to the door he paused. “I’m afraid that my words will not have much effect,” he remarked, “but the episode last night did appeal to me. I would like to spare you—I would really. It’s a sign of weakness, my young friend, which I view with amazement—but nevertheless, it is there. So be warned in time. Return my property to Berners Street, and leave England for a few months.” His eyes seemed to burn into the soldier’s brain. “You are meddling in affairs,” he went on gently, “of the danger of which you have no conception. A fly in the gearbox of a motorcar would be a sounder proposition for a life insurance than you will be—if you continue on your present course.”
There was something so incredibly menacing in the soft, quiet voice, that Drummond looked at the speaker fascinated. He had a sudden feeling that he must be dreaming—that in a moment or two he would wake up and find that they had really been talking about the weather the whole time. Then the cynical gleam of triumph in Peterson’s eyes acted on him like a cold douche; quite clearly that gentleman had misinterpreted his silence.
“Your candour is as refreshing,” he answered genially, “as your similes are apt. I shudder to think of that poor little fly, Mr. Peterson, especially with your chauffeur grinding his gears to pieces.” He held open the door for his visitor, and followed him into the passage. At the other end stood Denny, ostentatiously dusting a bookshelf, and Peterson glanced at him casually. It was characteristic of the man that no trace of annoyance showed on his face. He might have been any ordinary visitor taking his leave.
And then suddenly from the room outside which Denny was dusting there came a low moaning and an incoherent babble. A quick frown passed over Drummond’s face, and Peterson regarded him thoughtfully.
“An invalid in the house?” he remarked. “How inconvenient for you!” He laid his hand for a moment on the soldier’s arm. “I sadly fear you’re going to make a fool of yourself. And it will be such a pity.” He turned towards the stairs. “Don’t bother, please; I can find my own way out.”
III
Hugh turned back into his own room, and lighting a particularly noisy pipe, sat down in his own special chair, where James Denny found him five minutes later, with his hands deep in his pockets, and his legs crossed, staring out of the window. He asked him about lunch twice without result, and having finally been requested to go to hell, he removed himself aggrievedly to the kitchen. Drummond was under no delusions as to the risks he was running. Underrating his opponent had never been a fault of his, either in the ring or in France, and he had no intention of beginning now. The man who could abduct an American millionaire, and drug him till he was little better than a baby, and then use a thumbscrew to enforce his wishes, was not likely to prove over-scrupulous in the future. In fact, the phit of that bullet still rang unpleasantly in his ears.
After a while he began half-unconsciously to talk aloud to himself. It was an old trick of his when he wanted to make up his mind
