For a moment he thought that Peterson was going to strike him, and his own fist clenched under the table.
“I wouldn’t, my friend,” he said quietly, “indeed I wouldn’t. Because if you hit me, I shall most certainly hit you. And it will not improve your beauty.”
Slowly Peterson sank back in his chair, and the veins which had been standing out on his forehead, became normal again. He even smiled; only the ceaseless tapping of his hand on his left knee betrayed his momentary loss of composure. Drummond’s fist unclenched, and he stole a look at the girl. She was in her favourite attitude on the sofa, and had not even looked up.
“I suppose that it is quite useless for me to argue with you,” said Peterson after a while.
“I was a member of my school debating society,” remarked Hugh reminiscently. “But I was never much good. I’m too obvious for argument, I’m afraid.”
“You probably realise from what has happened tonight,” continued Peterson, “that I am in earnest.”
“I should be sorry to think so,” answered Hugh. “If that is the best you can do, I’d cut it right out and start a tomato farm.”
The girl gave a little gurgle of laughter and lit another cigarette.
“Will you come and do the dangerous part of the work for us, Monsieur Hugh?” she asked.
“If you promise to restrain the little fellows, I’ll water them with pleasure,” returned Hugh lightly.
Peterson rose and walked over to the window, where he stood motionless staring out into the darkness. For all his assumed flippancy, Hugh realised that the situation was what in military phraseology might be termed critical. There were in the house probably half a dozen men who, like their master, were absolutely unscrupulous. If it suited Peterson’s book to kill him, he would not hesitate to do so for a single second. And Hugh realised, when he put it that way in his own mind, that it was no exaggeration, no façon de parler, but a plain, unvarnished statement of fact. Peterson would no more think twice of killing a man if he wished to, than the normal human being would of crushing a wasp.
For a moment the thought crossed his mind that he would take no chances by remaining in the house; that he would rush Peterson from behind and escape into the darkness of the garden. But it was only momentary—gone almost before it had come, for Hugh Drummond was not that manner of man—gone even before he noticed that Peterson was standing in such a position that he could see every detail of the room behind him reflected in the glass through which he stared.
A fixed determination to know what lay in that sinister brain replaced his temporary indecision. Events up to date had moved so quickly that he had hardly had time to get his bearings; even now the last twenty-four hours seemed almost a dream. And as he looked at the broad back and massive head of the man at the window, and from him to the girl idly smoking on the sofa, he smiled a little grimly. He had just remembered the thumbscrew of the preceding evening. Assuredly the demobilised officer who found peace dull was getting his money’s worth; and Drummond had a shrewd suspicion that the entertainment was only just beginning.
A sudden sound outside in the garden made him look up quickly. He saw the white gleam of a shirt front, and the next moment a man pushed open the window and came unsteadily into the room. It was Mr. Benton, and quite obviously he had been seeking consolation in the bottle.
“Have you got him?” he demanded thickly, steadying himself with a hand on Peterson’s arm.
“I have not,” said Peterson shortly, eyeing the swaying figure in front of him contemptuously.
“Where is he?”
“Perhaps if you ask your daughter’s friend Captain Drummond, he might tell you. For Heaven’s sake sit down, man, before you fall down.” He pushed Benton roughly into a chair, and resumed his impassive stare into the darkness.
The girl took not the slightest notice of the new arrival, who gazed stupidly at Drummond across the table.
“We seem to be moving in an atmosphere of cross-purposes, Mr. Benton,” said the soldier affably. “Our host will not get rid of the idea that I am a species of bandit. I hope your daughter is quite well.”
“Er—quite, thank you,” muttered the other.
“Tell her, will you, that I propose to call on her before returning to London tomorrow. That is, if she won’t object to my coming early.”
With his hands in his pockets, Peterson was regarding Drummond from the window.
“You propose leaving us tomorrow, do you?” he said quietly.
Drummond stood up.
“I ordered my car for ten o’clock,” he answered. “I hope that will not upset the household arrangements,” he continued, turning to the girl, who was laughing softly and polishing her nails.
“Vraiment! but you grow on one, my Hugh,” she smiled. “Are we really losing you so soon?”
“I am quite sure that I shall be more useful to Mr. Peterson at large, than I am cooped up here,” said Hugh. “I might even lead him to this hidden treasure which he thinks I’ve got.”
“You will do that all right,” remarked Peterson. “But at the moment I was wondering whether a little persuasion now—might not give me all the information I require more quickly and with less trouble.”
A fleeting vision of a mangled, pulplike thumb flashed across Hugh’s mind; once again he heard that hideous cry, half animal, half human, which had echoed through the darkness the preceding night, and for an instant his breath came a little faster. Then he smiled, and shook his head.
“I think you are rather too good a judge of human nature to try anything so foolish,” he said thoughtfully. “You see, unless you kill me, which I don’t
