“You fool.” He heard Lakington’s voice, shrill with anger. “You’ve killed him. Switch on the light. …”
But before the order could be carried out Hugh had disappeared, like a great cat, into the darkness of the passage above. It was neck or nothing; he had at the most a minute to get clear. As luck would have it the first room he darted into was empty, and he flung up the window and peered out.
A faint, watery moon showed him a twenty-foot drop on to the grass, and without hesitation he flung his legs over the sill. Below a furious hubbub was going on; steps were already rushing up the stairs. He heard Peterson’s calm voice, and Lakington’s hoarse with rage, shouting inarticulate orders. And at that moment something prompted him to look upwards.
It was enough—that one look; he had always been mad, he always would be. It was a dormer window, and to an active man access to the roof was easy. Without an instant’s hesitation he abandoned all thoughts of retreat; and when two excited men rushed into the room he was firmly ensconced, with his legs astride of the ridge of the window, not a yard from their heads.
Securely hidden in the shadow he watched the subsequent proceedings with genial toleration. A raucous bellow from the two men announced that they had discovered his line of escape; and in half a minute the garden was full of hurrying figures. One, calm and impassive, his identity betrayed only by the inevitable cigar, stood by the garden door, apparently taking no part in the game; Lakington, blind with fury, was running round in small circles, cursing everyone impartially.
“The car is still there.” A man came up to Peterson, and Hugh heard the words distinctly.
“Then he’s probably over at Benton’s house. I will go and see.”
Hugh watched the thickset, massive figure stroll down towards the wicket gate, and he laughed gently to himself. Then he grew serious again, and with a slight frown he pulled out his watch and peered at it. Half-past one … two more hours before dawn. And in those two hours he wanted to explore the house from on top; especially he wanted to have a look at the mysterious central room of which Phyllis had spoken to him—the room where Lakington kept his treasures. But until the excited throng below went indoors, it was unsafe to move. Once out of the shadow, anyone would be able to see him crawling over the roof in the moonlight.
At times the thought of the helpless man for whose death he had in one way been responsible recurred to him, and he shook his head angrily. It had been necessary, he realised: you can carry someone upstairs in a normal house without him having his neck broken—but still … And then he wondered who he was. It had been one of the men who sat round the table—of that he was tolerably certain. But which … ? Was it the frightened bunny, or the Russian, or the gentleman with the bloodshot eye? The only comfort was that whoever it had been, the world would not be appreciably the poorer for his sudden decease. The only regret was that it hadn’t been dear Henry. … He had a distaste for Henry which far exceeded his dislike of Peterson.
“He’s not over there.” Peterson’s voice came to him from below. “And we’ve wasted time enough as it is.”
The men had gathered together in a group, just below where Hugh was sitting, evidently awaiting further orders.
“Do you mean to say we’ve lost the young swine again?” said Lakington angrily.
“Not lost—merely mislaid,” murmured Peterson. “The more I see of him, the more do I admire his initiative.”
Lakington snorted.
“It was that damned fool Ivolsky’s own fault,” he snarled; “why didn’t he keep still as he was told to do?”
“Why, indeed?” returned Peterson, his cigar glowing red. “And I’m afraid we shall never know. He is very dead.” He turned towards the house. “That concludes the entertainment, gentlemen, for tonight. I think you can all go to bed.”
“There are two of you watching the car, aren’t there?” demanded Lakington.
“Rossiter and Le Grange,” answered a voice.
Peterson paused by the door.
“My dear Lakington, it’s quite unnecessary. You underrate that young man. …”
He disappeared into the house, and the others followed slowly. For the time being Hugh was safe, and with a sigh of relief he stretched his cramped limbs and lay back against the sloping roof. If only he had dared to light a cigarette. …
III
It was half an hour before Drummond decided that it was safe to start exploring. The moon still shone fitfully through the trees, but since the two car watchers were near the road on the other side of the house, there was but little danger to be apprehended from them. First he took off his shoes, and tying the laces together, he slung them round his neck. Then, as silently as he could, he commenced to scramble upwards.
It was not an easy operation; one slip and nothing could have stopped him slithering down and finally crashing into the garden below, with a broken leg, at the very least, for his pains. In addition, there was the risk of dislodging a slate, an unwise proceeding in a house where most of the occupants slept with one eye open. But at last he got his hands over the ridge of the roof, and in another moment he was sitting straddlewise across it.
The house, he discovered, was built on a peculiar design. The ridge on which he sat continued at the same height all round the top of the roof, and formed, roughly, the four sides of a square. In the middle the roof sloped down to a flat space from which stuck up a glass structure, the top of which was some five or six feet below his level. Around it was a space quite large
