“We’ll see what he says about you—impertinent blackguard.”
Rapidly he turned the pages, and Hugh glanced over Crofter’s shoulder at the dossier.
He just had time to read: “Crofter, John. A consummate blackguard. Playing entirely for his own hand. Needs careful watching,” when the subject of the remarks, his face convulsed with fury, spun round and faced him.
“Who wrote that?” he snarled.
“Must have been Mr. Peterson,” answered Hugh placidly. “I see you had five thousand out of him, so perhaps he considers himself privileged. A wonderful judge of character, too,” he murmured, turning away to greet Mr. Ditchling, who arrived somewhat opportunely, in company with a thin pale man—little more than a youth—whose identity completely defeated Drummond.
“My God!” Crofter was livid with rage. “Me and Peterson will have words this afternoon. Look at this, Ditchling.” On second thoughts he turned over some pages. “We’ll see what this insolent devil has to say about you.”
“Drinks!” Ditchling thumped the table with a heavy fist. “What the hell does he mean? Say you, Mr. Secretary—what’s the meaning of this?”
“They represent Mr. Peterson’s considered opinions of you all,” said Hugh genially. “Perhaps this other gentleman …”
He turned to the pale youth, who stepped forward with a surprised look. He seemed to be not quite clear what had upset the others, but already Nestor had turned up his name.
“Terrance, Victor. A wonderful speaker. Appears really to believe that what he says will benefit the workingman. Consequently very valuable; but indubitably mad.”
“Does he mean to insult us deliberately?” demanded Crofter, his voice still shaking with passion.
“But I don’t understand,” said Victor Terrance dazedly. “Does Mr. Peterson not believe in our teachings, too?” He turned slowly and looked at Hugh, who shrugged his shoulders.
“He should be here at any moment,” he answered, and as he spoke the door opened and Carl Peterson came in.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he began, and then he saw Hugh. With a look of speechless amazement he stared at the soldier, and for the first time since Hugh had known him his face blanched. Then his eyes fell on the open ledger, and with a dreadful curse he sprang forward. A glance at the faces of the men who stood watching him told him what he wanted to know, and with another oath his hand went to his pocket.
“Take your hand out, Carl Peterson.” Drummond’s voice rang through the room, and the arch-criminal, looking sullenly up, found himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver. “Now, sit down at the table—all of you. The meeting is about to commence.”
“Look here,” blustered Crofter, “I’ll have the law on you. …”
“By all manner of means, Mr. John Crofter, consummate blackguard,” answered Hugh calmly. “But that comes afterwards. Just now—sit down.”
“I’m damned if I will,” roared the other, springing at the soldier. And Peterson, sitting sullenly at the table trying to readjust his thoughts to the sudden blinding certainty that through some extraordinary accident everything had miscarried, never stirred as a half-stunned Member of Parliament crashed to the floor beside him.
“Sit down, I said,” remarked Drummond affably. “But if you prefer to lie down, it’s all the same to me. Are there any more to come, Peterson?”
“No, damn you. Get it over!”
“Right. Throw your gun on the floor.” Drummond picked the weapon up and put it in his pocket; then he rang the bell. “I had hoped,” he murmured, “for a larger gathering, but one cannot have everything, can one, Mr. Monumental Ass?”
But Vallance Nestor was far too frightened to resent the insult; he could only stare foolishly at the soldier, while he plucked at his collar with a shaking hand. Save to Peterson, who understood, if only dimly, what had happened, the thing had come as such a complete surprise that even the sudden entrance of twenty masked men, who ranged themselves in single rank behind their chairs, failed to stir the meeting. It seemed merely in keeping with what had gone before.
“I shall not detain you long, gentlemen,” began Hugh suavely. “Your general appearance and the warmth of the weather have combined to produce in me a desire for sleep. But before I hand you over to the care of the sportsmen who stand so patiently behind you, there are one or two remarks I wish to make. Let me say at once that on the subject of Capital and Labour I am supremely ignorant. You will therefore be spared any dissertation on the subject. But from an exhaustive study of the ledger which now lies upon the table, and a fairly intimate knowledge of its author’s movements, I and my friends have been put to the inconvenience of treading on you.
“There are many things, we know, which are wrong in this jolly old country of ours; but given time and the right methods I am sufficiently optimistic to believe that they could be put right. That, however, would not suit your book. You dislike the right method, because it leaves all of you much where you were before. Every single one of you—with the sole possible exception of you, Mr. Terrance, and you’re mad—is playing with revolution for his own ends: to make money out of it—to gain power. …
“Let us start with Peterson—your leader. How much did you say he demanded, Mr. Potts, as the price of revolution?”
With a strangled cry Peterson sprang up as the American millionaire, removing his mask, stepped forward.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, you swine, was what you asked me.” The millionaire stood confronting his tormentor, who dropped back in his chair with a groan. “And when I refused, you tortured me. Look at my thumb.”
With a cry of horror the others sitting at the table looked at the mangled flesh, and then at the man who had done it. This, even to their mind, was going too far.
“Then there was the same sum,” continued Drummond, “to come from Hocking, the American cotton man—half German by birth; Steinemann, the German coal man;
