“My dear Carl, at this hour?” Lakington stifled a yawn.
“Yes. Give him an injection, Henry—and, by God, we’ll make the fool sign. Then I can actually take it over to the meeting with me.”
He strode to the door, followed by Lakington; and the girl in the chair stood up and stretched her arms above her head. For a moment or two Hugh watched her; then he too stood upright and eased his cramped limbs.
“Make the fool sign.” The words echoed through his brain, and he stared thoughtfully at the grey light which showed the approach of dawn. What was the best thing to do? “Make” with Peterson generally implied torture if other means failed, and Hugh had no intention of watching any man tortured. At the same time something of the nature of the diabolical plot conceived by Peterson was beginning to take a definite shape in his mind, though many of the most important links were still missing. And with this knowledge had come the realisation that he was no longer a free agent. The thing had ceased to be a mere sporting gamble with himself and a few other chosen spirits matched against a gang of criminals; it had become—if his surmise was correct—a national affair. England herself—her very existence—was threatened by one of the vilest plots ever dreamed of in the brain of man. And then, with a sudden rage at his own impotence, he realised that even now he had nothing definite to go on. He must know more; somehow or other he must get to Paris; he must attend that meeting at the Ritz. How he was going to do it he hadn’t the faintest idea; the farthest he could get as he stood on the roof, watching the first faint streaks of orange in the east, was the definite decision that if Peterson went to Paris, he would go too. And then a sound from the room below brought him back to his vantage point. The American was sitting in a chair, and Lakington, with a hypodermic syringe in his hand, was holding his arm.
He made the injection, and Hugh watched the millionaire. He was still undecided as to how to act, but for the moment, at any rate, there was nothing to be done. And he was very curious to hear what Peterson had to say to the wretched man, who, up to date, had figured so largely in every round.
After a while the American ceased staring vacantly in front of him, and passed his hand dazedly over his forehead. Then he half rose from his chair and stared at the two men sitting facing him. His eyes came round to the girl, and with a groan he sank back again, plucking feebly with his hands at his dressing-gown.
“Better, Mr. Potts?” said Peterson suavely.
“I—I—” stammered the other. “Where am I?”
“At The Elms, Godalming, if you wish to know.”
“I thought—I thought—” He rose swaying. “What do you want with me? Damn you!”
“Tush, tush,” murmured Peterson. “There is a lady present, Mr. Potts. And our wants are so simple. Just your signature to a little agreement, by which in return for certain services you promise to join us in our—er—labours, in the near future.”
“I remember,” cried the millionaire. “Now I remember. You swine—you filthy swine, I refuse … absolutely.”
“The trouble is, my friend, that you are altogether too big an employer of labour to be allowed to refuse, as I pointed out to you before. You must be in with us, otherwise you might wreck the scheme. Therefore I require your signature. I lost it once, unfortunately—but it wasn’t a very good signature; so perhaps it was all for the best.”
“And when you’ve got it,” cried the American, “what good will it be to you? I shall repudiate it.”
“Oh no! Mr. Potts,” said Peterson with a thoughtful smile; “I can assure you, you won’t. The distressing malady from which you have recently been suffering will again have you in its grip. My friend Mr. Lakington is an expert on that particular illness. It renders you quite unfit for business.”
For a while there was silence, and the millionaire stared round the room like a trapped animal.
“I refuse!” he cried at last. “It’s an outrage against humanity. You can do what you like.”
“Then we’ll start with a little more thumbscrew,” remarked Peterson, strolling over to the desk and opening a drawer. “An astonishingly effective implement, as you can see if you look at your thumb.” He stood in front of the quivering man, balancing the instrument in his hands. “It was under its influence you gave us the first signature, which we so regrettably lost. I think we’ll try it again. …”
The American gave a strangled cry of terror, and then the unexpected happened. There was a crash as a pane of glass splintered and fell to the floor close beside Lakington; and with an oath he sprang aside and looked up.
“Peep-bo,” came a well-known voice from the skylight. “Clip him one over the jaw, Potts, my boy, but don’t you sign.”
VIII
In Which He Goes to Paris for a Night
I
Drummond had acted on the spur of the moment. It would have been manifestly impossible for any man, certainly one of his calibre, to have watched the American being tortured without doing something to try to help him. At the same time the last thing he had wanted to do was to give away his presence on the roof. The information he had obtained that night was of such vital importance that it was absolutely essential for him to get away with it somehow; and, at the moment, his chances of so doing did not appear particularly bright. It looked as if it was only a question of time before they must get him.
But as usual with Drummond, the tighter the corner, the cooler his
