He followed Hugh into the sitting-room.
“At twelve o’clock today Toby rang up. He was talking quite ordinarily—you know the sort of rot he usually gets off his chest—when suddenly he stopped quite short and said, ‘My God! What do you want?’ I could tell he’d looked up, because his voice was muffled. Then there was the sound of a scuffle, I heard Toby curse, then nothing more. I rang and rang and rang—no answer.”
“What did you do?” Drummond, with a letter in his hand which he had taken off the mantelpiece, was listening grimly.
“Algy was here. He motored straight off to see if he could find out what was wrong. I stopped here to tell you.”
“Anything through from him?”
“Not a word. There’s foul play, or I’ll eat my hat.”
But Hugh did not answer. With a look on his face which even Peter had never seen before, he was reading the letter. It was short and to the point, but he read it three times before he spoke.
“When did this come?” he asked.
“An hour ago,” answered the other. “I very nearly opened it.”
“Read it,” said Hugh. He handed it to Peter and went to the door.
“Denny,” he shouted, “I want my car round at once.” Then he came back into the room. “If they’ve hurt one hair of her head,” he said, his voice full of a smouldering fury, “I’ll murder that gang one by one with my bare hands.”
“Say, Captain, may I see this letter?” said the American; and Hugh nodded.
“ ‘For pity’s sake, come at once,’ ” read the detective aloud. “ ‘The bearer of this is trustworthy.’ ” He thoughtfully picked his teeth. “Girl’s writing. Do you know her?”
“My fiancée,” said Hugh shortly.
“Certain?” snapped the American.
“Certain!” cried Hugh. “Of course I am. I know every curl of every letter.”
“There is such a thing as forgery,” remarked the detective dispassionately.
“Damn it, man,” exploded Hugh; “do you imagine I don’t know my own girl’s writing?”
“A good many bank cashiers have mistaken their customers’ writing before now,” said the other, unmoved. “I don’t like it, Captain. A girl in real trouble wouldn’t put in that bit about the bearer.”
“You go to hell,” remarked Hugh briefly. “I’m going to Godalming.”
“Well,” drawled the American, “not knowing Godalming, I don’t know who scores. But, if you go there—I come too.”
“And me,” said Peter, brightening up.
Hugh grinned.
“Not you, old son. If Mr. Green will come, I’ll be delighted; but I want you here at headquarters.”
He turned round as his servant put his head in at the door.
“Car here, sir. Do you want a bag packed?”
“No—only my revolver. Are you ready, Mr. Green?”
“Sure thing,” said the American. “I always am.”
“Then we’ll move.” And Peter, watching the car resignedly from the window, saw the American grip his seat with both hands, and then raise them suddenly in silent prayer, while an elderly charlady fled with a scream to the safety of the area below.
They did the trip in well under the hour, and the detective got out of the car with a faint sigh of relief.
“You’ve missed your vocation, Captain,” he murmured. “If you pushed a bath-chair it would be safer for all parties. I bolted two bits of gum in that excursion.”
But Drummond was already out of earshot, dodging rapidly through the bushes on his way to The Larches; and when the American finally overtook him, he was standing by a side-door knocking hard on the panels.
“Seems kind of empty,” said the detective thoughtfully, as the minutes went by and no one came. “Why not try the front door?”
“Because it’s in sight of the other house,” said Hugh briefly. “I’m going to break in.”
He retreated a yard from the door, then, bracing his shoulder, he charged it once. And the door, as a door, was not. … Rapidly the two men went from room to room—bedrooms, servants’ quarters, even the bathroom. Every one was empty: not a sound could be heard in the house. Finally, only the dining-room remained, and as they stood by the door looking round, the American shifted his third piece of gum to a new point of vantage.
“Somebody has been roughhousing by the look of things,” he remarked judicially. “Looks like a boozing den after a thick night.”
“It does,” remarked Hugh grimly, taking in the disorder of the room. The tablecloth was pulled off, the telephone lay on the floor. China and glass, smashed to pieces, littered the carpet; but what caught his eye, and caused him suddenly to step forward and pick it up, was a plain circle of glass with a black cord attached to it through a small hole.
“Algy Longworth’s eyeglass,” he muttered. “So he’s been caught too.”
And it was at that moment that, clear and distinct through the still evening air, they heard a woman’s agonised scream. It came from the house next door, and the American, for a brief space, even forgot to chew his gum.
The next instant he darted forward.
“Stop, you young fool,” he shouted, but he was too late.
He watched Drummond, running like a stag, cross the lawn and disappear in the trees. For a second he hesitated; then, with a shrug of square shoulders, he rapidly left the house by the way they had entered. And a few minutes later, Drummond’s car was skimming back towards London, with a grim-faced man at the wheel, who had apparently felt the seriousness of the occasion so acutely, as to deposit his third piece of spearmint on the underneath side of the steering-wheel for greater safety.
But, seeing that the owner of the car was lying in blissful unconsciousness in the hall of The Elms, surrounded by half a dozen men, this hideous vandalism hurt him not.
X
In Which the Hun Nation Decreases by One
I
Drummond had yielded to impulse—the blind, all-powerful impulse of any man who is a man to get to the woman he loves if she wants him. As he had dashed across the lawn to The Elms,
