Drummond lit a cigarette; then his merciless eyes fixed themselves again on Peterson.
“There is only one thing more,” he continued. “You have kindly warned me of my danger: let me give you a word of advice in my turn. I’m going to fight you; if I can, I’m going to beat you. Anything that may happen to me is part of the game. But if anything happens to Miss Benton during the course of operations, then, as surely as there is a God above, Peterson, I’ll get at you somehow and murder you with my own hands.”
For a few moments there was silence, and then with a short laugh Drummond turned away.
“Quite melodramatic,” he remarked lightly. “And very bad for the digestion so early in the morning. My regards to your charming daughter, also to him of the broken jaw. Shall we meet again soon?” He paused at the door and looked back.
Peterson was still standing by the table, his face expressionless.
“Very soon indeed, young man,” he said quietly. “Very soon indeed. …”
Hugh stepped out into the warm sunshine and spoke to his chauffeur.
“Take her out into the main road, Jenkins,” he said, “and wait for me outside the entrance to the next house. I shan’t be long.”
Then he strolled through the garden towards the little wicket-gate that led to The Larches. Phyllis! The thought of her was singing in his heart to the exclusion of everything else. Just a few minutes with her; just the touch of her hand, the faint smell of the scent she used—and then back to the game.
He had almost reached the gate, when, with a sudden crashing in the undergrowth, Jem Smith blundered out into the path. His naturally ruddy face was white, and he stared round fearfully.
“Gawd! sir,” he cried, “mind out. ’Ave yer seen it?”
“Seen what, Jem?” asked Drummond.
“That there brute. ’E’s escaped; and if ’e meets a stranger—” He left the sentence unfinished, and stood listening. From somewhere behind the house came a deep-throated, snarling roar; then the clang of a padlock shooting home in metal, followed by a series of heavy thuds as if some big animal was hurling itself against the bars of a cage.
“They’ve got it,” muttered Jem, mopping his brow.
“You seem to have a nice little crowd of pets about the house,” remarked Drummond, putting a hand on the man’s arm as he was about to move off. “What was that docile creature we’ve just heard calling to its young?”
The ex-pugilist looked at him sullenly.
“Never you mind, sir; it ain’t no business of yours. An’ if I was you, I wouldn’t make it your business to find out.”
A moment later he had disappeared into the bushes, and Drummond was left alone. Assuredly a cheerful household, he reflected; just the spot for a rest-cure. Then he saw a figure on the lawn of the next house which banished everything else from his mind; and opening the gate, he walked eagerly towards Phyllis Benton.
IV
“I heard you were down here,” she said gravely, holding out her hand to him. “I’ve been sick with anxiety ever since father told me he’d seen you.”
Hugh imprisoned the little hand in his own huge ones, and smiled at the girl.
“I call that just sweet of you,” he answered. “Just sweet. … Having people worry about me is not much in my line, but I think I rather like it.”
“You’re the most impossible person,” she remarked, releasing her hand. “What sort of a night did you have?”
“Somewhat parti-coloured,” returned Hugh lightly. “Like the hoary old curate’s egg—calm in parts.”
“But why did you go at all?” she cried, beating her hands together. “Don’t you realise that if anything happens to you, I shall never forgive myself?”
The soldier smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, little girl,” he said. “Years ago I was told by an old gipsy that I should die in my bed of old age and excessive consumption of invalid port. … As a matter of fact, the cause of my visit was rather humorous. They abducted me in the middle of the night, with an ex-soldier of my old battalion, who was, I regret to state, sleeping off the effects of much indifferent liquor in my rooms.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
“They thought he was your American millionaire cove, and the wretched Mullings was too drunk to deny it. In fact, I don’t think they ever asked his opinion at all.” Hugh grinned reminiscently. “A pathetic spectacle.”
“Oh! but splendid,” cried the girl a little breathlessly. “And where was the American?”
“Next door—safe with a very dear old friend of mine, Peter Darrell. You must meet Peter some day—you’ll like him.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “No,” he added, “on second thoughts, I’m not at all sure that I shall let you meet Peter. You might like him too much; and he’s a dirty dog.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she cried with a faint blush. “Tell me, where is the American now?”
“Many miles out of London,” answered Hugh. “I think we’ll leave it at that. The less you know, Miss Benton, at the moment—the better.”
“Have you found out anything?” she demanded eagerly.
Hugh shook his head.
“Not a thing. Except that your neighbours are as pretty a bunch of scoundrels as I ever
