“This is a pleasant surprise,” he remarked affably. “Have you been to Paris too?”
For a moment Drummond looked at him narrowly. Was it a stupid bluff, or was the man so sure of his power of disguise that he assumed with certainty he had not been recognised? And it suddenly struck Hugh that, save for that one telltale habit—a habit which, in all probability, Peterson himself was unconscious of—he would not have recognised him.
“Yes,” he answered lightly. “I came over to see how you behaved yourself!”
“What a pity I didn’t know!” said Peterson, with a good-humoured chuckle. He seemed in excellent spirits, as he carefully tore the telegram into tiny pieces and dropped them overboard. “We might have had another of our homely little chats over some supper. Where did you stay?”
“At the Ritz. And you?”
“I always stop at the Bristol,” answered Peterson. “Quieter than the Ritz, I think.”
“Yes, it was quite dreadful last night,” murmured Hugh. “A pal of mine—quite incorrigible—that bird over there”—he pointed to Ted Jerningham, who was strolling up and down the deck with the American—“insisted on dressing up as a waiter.” He laughed shortly at the sudden gleam in the other’s eye, as he watched Jerningham go past. “Not content with that, he went and dropped the fish over some warrior’s boiled shirt, and had to leave in disgrace.” He carefully selected a cigarette. “No accountin’ for this dressing-up craze, is there, Carl? You’d never be anything but your own sweet self, would you, little one? Always the girls’ own friend—tender and true.” He laughed softly; from previous experience he knew that this particular form of baiting invariably infuriated Peterson. “Some day, my Carl, you must tell me of your life, and your early struggles, amidst all the bitter temptations of this wicked world.”
“Some day,” snarled Peterson, “I’ll—”
“Stop.” Drummond held up a protesting hand. “Not that, my Carl—anything but that.”
“Anything but what?” said the other savagely.
“I felt it in my bones,” answered Drummond, “that you were once more on the point of mentioning my decease. I couldn’t bear it, Carl: on this beautiful morning I should burst into tears. It would be the seventeenth time that that sad event has been alluded to either by you or our Henry; and I’m reluctantly beginning to think that you’ll have to hire an assassin, and take lessons from him.” He looked thoughtfully at the other, and an unholy joy began to dawn on his face. “I see you have thrown away your cigar, Carl. May I offer you a cigarette? No? … But why so brusque? Can it be—oh no! surely not—can it be that my little pet is feeling icky-boo? Face going green—slight perspiration—collar tight—only the yawning stage between him and his breakfast! Some people have all the fun of the fair. And I thought of asking you to join me below at lunch. There’s some excellent fat pork. …”
A few minutes later, Jerningham and the American found him leaning by himself against the rail, still laughing weakly.
“I ask no more of life,” he remarked when he could speak. “Anything else that may come will be an anticlimax.”
“What’s happened?” asked Jerningham.
“It’s happening,” said Drummond joyfully. “It couldn’t possibly be over yet. Peterson, our one and only Carl, has been overcome by the waves. And when he’s feeling a little better I’ll take him a bit of crackling. …” Once again he gave way to unrestrained mirth, which finally subsided sufficiently to allow him to stagger below and feed.
At the top of the stairs leading to the luncheon saloon, he paused, and glanced into the secret place reserved for those who have from early childhood voted for a Channel tunnel.
“There he is,” he whispered ecstatically, “our little Carl, busy recalling his past. It may be vulgar, Ted: doubtless it is. I don’t care. Such trifles matter not in the supreme moments of one’s life; and I can imagine of only one more supreme than this.”
“What’s that?” asked Ted, firmly piloting him down the stairs.
“The moment when he and Henry sit side by side and recall their pasts together,” murmured Hugh solemnly. “Think of it, man—think of it! Each cursin’ the other between spasms. My hat! What a wonderful, lovely dream to treasure through the weary years!” He gazed abstractedly at the waiter. “Roast beef—underdone,” he remarked, “and take a plate of cold fat up to the silence room above. The third gentleman from the door would like to look at it.”
But the third gentleman from the door, even in the midst of his agony, was consoled by one reflection.
“Should it be necessary, letter awaits him.” So had run the telegram, which he had scattered to the winds right under Drummond’s nose. And it was necessary. The mutton-headed young sweep had managed to escape once again: though Petro had assured him that the wretched native had never yet failed. And he personally had seen the man clamber on to the top of the cupboard. …
For a moment his furious rage overcame his sufferings. … Next time … next time … and then the seventh wave of several seventh waves arrived. He had a fleeting glimpse of the scoundrel Drummond, apparently on the other end of a seesaw, watching him delightedly from outside; then, with a dreadful groan, he snatched his new basin, just supplied by a phlegmatic steward, from the scoundrel next him, who had endeavoured to appropriate it.
IV
“Walk right in, Mr. Green,” said Hugh, as, three hours later, they got out of a taxi in Half Moon Street. “This is my little rabbit-hutch.”
He followed the American up the stairs, and produced his latchkey. But before he could even insert it in the hole the door was flung open, and Peter Darrell stood facing him with evident relief in his face.
“Thank the Lord you’ve come, old son,” he cried, with a brief look at the detective. “There’s something doing down at
