They saw Drummond open the cigarette-case and take from it what looked like a tube of wood. Then he felt in his pocket and took out a matchbox, containing a number of long thin splinters. And, having fitted one of the splinters into the tube, he put the other end in his mouth.
With a quick heave they saw him jerk the German round and catch his unbroken arm with his free left hand. And the two bound watchers looked at Hugh’s eyes as he stared at the moaning Boche, and saw that they were hard and merciless.
There was a sharp, whistling hiss, and the splinter flew from the tube into the German’s face. It hung from his cheek, and even the ceaseless movement of his head failed to dislodge it.
“I have broken your arm, Boche,” said Drummond at length, “and now I have killed you. I’m sorry about it: I wasn’t particularly anxious to end your life. But it had to be done.”
The German, hardly conscious of what he had said owing to the pain in his arm, was frantically kicking the Englishman’s legs, still bound to the chair; but the iron grip on his wrists never slackened. And then quite suddenly came the end. With one dreadful, convulsive heave the German jerked himself free, and fell doubled up on the floor. Fascinated, they watched him writhing and twisting, until, at last, he lay still. … The Boche was dead. …
“My God!” muttered Hugh, wiping his forehead. “Poor brute.”
“What was that blowpipe affair?” cried Sinclair hoarsely.
“The thing they tried to finish me with in Paris last night,” answered Hugh grimly, taking a knife out of his waistcoat pocket. “Let us trust that none of his pals come in to look for him.”
A minute later he stood up, only to sit down again abruptly, as his legs gave way. They were numbed and stiff with the hours he had spent in the same position, and for a while he could do nothing but rub them with his hands, till the blood returned and he could feel once more.
Then, slowly and painfully, he tottered across to the others and set them free as well. They were in an even worse condition than he had been; and it seemed as if Algy would never be able to stand again, so completely dead was his body from the waist downwards. But, at length, after what seemed an eternity to Drummond, who realised only too well that should the gang come in they were almost as helpless in their present condition as if they were still bound in their chairs, the other two recovered. They were still stiff and cramped—all three of them—but at any rate they could move; which was more than could be said of the German, who lay twisted and rigid on the floor, with his eyes staring up at them—a glassy, horrible stare.
“Poor brute!” said Hugh again, looking at him with a certain amount of compunction. “He was a miserable specimen—but still …” He shrugged his shoulders. “And the contents of my cigarette-case are half a dozen gaspers, and a ten-bob Bradbury patched together with stamp paper!”
He swung round on his heel as if dismissing the matter, and looked at the other two.
“All fit now? Good! We’ve got to think what we’re going to do, for we’re not out of the wood yet by two or three miles.”
“Let’s get the door open,” remarked Algy, “and explore.”
Cautiously they swung it open, and stood motionless. The house was in absolute silence; the hall was deserted.
“Switch out the light,” whispered Hugh. “We’ll wander round.”
They crept forward stealthily in the darkness, stopping every now and then to listen. But no sound came to their ears; it might have been a house of the dead.
Suddenly Drummond, who was in front of the other two, stopped with a warning hiss. A light was streaming out from under a door at the end of a passage, and, as they stood watching it, they heard a man’s voice coming from the same room. Someone else answered him, and then there was silence once more.
At length Hugh moved forward again, and the others followed. And it was not until they got quite close to the door that a strange, continuous noise began to be noticeable—a noise which came most distinctly from the lighted room. It rose and fell with monotonous regularity; at times it resembled a brass band—at others it died away to a gentle murmur. And occasionally it was punctuated with a strangled snort. …
“Great Scott!” muttered Hugh excitedly, “the whole boiling bunch are asleep, or I’ll eat my hat.”
“Then who was it who spoke?” said Algy. “At least two of ’em are awake right enough.”
And, as if in answer to his question, there came the voice again from inside the room.
“Wal, Mr. Darrell, I guess we can pass on, and leave this bunch.”
With one laugh of joyful amazement Hugh flung open the door, and found himself looking from the range of a yard into two revolvers.
“I don’t know how you’ve done it, boys,” he remarked, “but you can put those guns away. I hate looking at them from that end.”
“What the devil have they done to all your dials?” said Darrell, slowly lowering his arm.
“We’ll leave that for the time,” returned Hugh grimly, as he shut the door. “There are other more pressing matters to be discussed.”
He glanced round the room, and a slow grin spread over his face. There were some twenty of the gang, all of them fast asleep. They sprawled grotesquely over the table, they lolled in chairs; they lay on the floor, they huddled in corners. And, without exception, they snored and snorted.
“A dandy bunch,” remarked the American, gazing at them with satisfaction. “That fat one in the corner took enough dope to kill a bull, but
