“Mullings and his crowd,” said Darrell, seeing the look of mystification on Hugh’s face. “When Mr. Green got back and told me you’d shoved your great muttonhead in it again, I thought I’d better bring the whole outfit.”
“Oh, you daisy!” cried Hugh, rubbing his hands together, “you pair of priceless beans! The Philistines are delivered into our hands, even up to the neck.” For a few moments he stood, deep in thought; then once again the grin spread slowly over his face. “Right up to their necks,” he repeated, “so that it washes round their back teeth. Get the boys in, Peter; and get these lumps of meat carted out to the lorry. And, while you do that, we’ll go upstairs and mop up.”
III
Even in his wildest dreams Hugh had never imagined such a wonderful opportunity. To be in complete possession of the house, with strong forces at his beck and call, was a state of affairs which rendered him almost speechless.
“Up the stairs on your hands and knees,” he ordered, as they stood in the hall. “There are peculiarities about this staircase which require elucidation at a later date.”
But the murderous implement which acted in conjunction with the fifth step was not in use, and they passed up the stairs in safety.
“Keep your guns handy,” whispered Hugh. “We’ll draw each room in turn till we find the girl.”
But they were not to be put to so much trouble. Suddenly a door opposite opened, and the man who had been guarding Phyllis Benton peered out suspiciously. His jaw fell, and a look of aghast surprise spread over his face as he saw the four men in front of him. Then he made a quick movement as if to shut the door, but before he realised what had happened the American’s foot was against it, and the American’s revolver was within an inch of his head.
“Keep quite still, son,” he drawled, “or I guess it might sort of go off.”
But Hugh had stepped past him, and was smiling at the girl who, with a little cry of joyful wonder, had risen from her chair.
“Your face, boy,” she whispered, as he took her in his arms, regardless of the other, “your poor old face! Oh! that brute, Lakington!”
Hugh grinned.
“It’s something to know, old thing,” he remarked cheerily, “that anything could damage it. Personally I have always thought that any change in it must be for the better.”
He laughed gently, and for a moment she clung to him, unmindful of how he had got to her, glorying only in the fact that he had. It seemed to her that there was nothing which this wonderful man of hers couldn’t manage; and now, blindly trusting, she waited to be told what to do. The nightmare was over; Hugh was with her. …
“Where’s your father, dear?” he asked her after a little pause.
“In the dining-room, I think,” she answered with a shiver, and Hugh nodded gravely.
“Are there any cars outside?” He turned to the American.
“Yours,” answered that worthy, still keeping his eyes fixed on his prisoner’s face, which had now turned a sickly green.
“And mine is hidden behind Miss Benton’s greenhouse unless they’ve moved it,” remarked Algy.
“Good,” said Hugh. “Algy, take Miss Benton and her father up to Half Moon Street—at once. Then come back here.”
“But, Hugh—” began the girl appealingly.
“At once, dear, please.” He smiled at her tenderly, but his tone was decided. “This is going to be no place for you in the near future.” He turned to Longworth and drew him aside. “You’ll have a bit of a job with the old man,” he whispered. “He’s probably paralytic by now. But get on with it, will you? Get a couple of the boys to give you a hand.”
With no further word of protest the girl followed Algy, and Hugh drew a breath of relief.
“Now, you ugly-looking blighter,” he remarked to the cowering ruffian, who was by this time shaking with fright, “we come to you. How many of these rooms up here are occupied—and which?”
It appeared that only one was occupied—everyone else was below. … The one opposite. … In his anxiety to please, he moved towards it; and with a quickness that would have done even Hugh credit, the American tripped him up.
“Not so blamed fast, you son of a gun,” he snapped, “or there sure will be an accident.”
But the noise he made as he fell served a good purpose. The door of the occupied room was flung open, and a thin, weedy object clad in a flannel nightgown stood on the threshold blinking foolishly.
“Holy smoke!” spluttered the detective, after he had gazed at the apparition in stunned silence for a time. “What, under the sun, is it?”
Hugh laughed.
“Why, it’s the onion-eater; the intimidated rabbit,” he said delightedly. “How are you, little man?”
He extended an arm, and pulled him into the passage, where he stood spluttering indignantly.
“This is an outrage, sir,” he remarked; “a positive outrage.”
“Your legs undoubtedly are,” remarked Hugh, gazing at them dispassionately. “Put on some trousers—and get a move on. Now you”—he jerked the other man to his feet—“when does Lakington return?”
“Termorrow, sir,” stammered the other.
“Where is he now?”
The man hesitated for a moment, but the look in Hugh’s eyes galvanised him into speech.
“He’s after the old woman’s pearls, sir—the Duchess of Lampshire’s.”
“Ah!” returned Hugh softly. “Of course he is. I forgot.”
“Strike me dead, guvnor,” cringed the man, “I never meant no ’arm—I didn’t really. I’ll tell you all I know, sir. I will, strite.”
“I’m quite certain you will,” said Hugh. “And if you don’t, you swine, I’ll make you. When does Peterson come back?”
“Termorrow, too, sir, as far as I knows,” answered the man, and at that moment the intimidated rabbit shot rapidly out of his room, propelled
