“Oh, let’s get him out!” he exclaimed. “It must be devilish down there in the dark, waiting for the next spout.”
“If you’re set on seeing him hanged, squire, we’ll do our best,” Sir Clinton conceded, with no sympathy in his tone.
But, even by doing their best, they had great difficulty in rescuing their quarry from the grip of the deathtrap. When at last they got him to the surface, he was more dead than alive; and three ribs had been cracked by the last torrent which had flung him against the side of the conduit.
As they lifted him into safety, Sapcote hurried up from the hotel; and, after a glance at the torn and haggard face, he recognised the prisoner.
“That’s Aird, sir. Used to be valet at Foxhills once.”
“Well, you can have Mr. Aird, inspector,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If you give him some brandy, he’ll probably wake up enough to part with any information you want. Don’t let your sympathy overcome you. We must get enough out of him to hang him if we can; and it depends on putting him through it while his nerve’s gone.”
He moved away without another glance at the broken figure on the ground, and, followed by Wendover, turned his steps towards the hotel.
“I suppose he calculated on being able to climb to the top before the jet began to play,” he continued. “Well, he seems to have paid for his mistake,” he concluded grimly.
At the hotel door, Wendover expected that they would go straight to the Fleetwood suite; but, rather to his surprise, Sir Clinton summoned one of the constables and gave him some instructions in a low voice. Then, accompanied by Wendover, he ascended the stairs.
“I want to see Cargill for a moment,” he explained, as they passed the first floor. “I’ve something to say to him.”
Rather puzzled, Wendover followed him to the Australian’s room.
“I happened to be passing,” he said, as he entered in response to Cargill’s permission, “and I dropped in to see how you’ve been getting on. Leg all right now?”
“It’s a bit better,” Cargill replied. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Got enough to read?” Sir Clinton inquired, stepping over a pile of books which lay near Cargill’s couch and picking up one of them. “I’ve got one or two I can lend you.”
Wendover was taken completely by surprise; for, without altering the tone of his voice, Sir Clinton bent suddenly forward and imprisoned Cargill’s wrists.
“See if you can find a pistol anywhere near, squire. It’s as well to be on the safe side.”
He whistled shrilly; and, before the Australian had recovered from the surprise of the attack, two constables had rushed into the room and made any attempt at a struggle impossible. Sir Clinton relaxed his grip.
“I shouldn’t kick about, if I were you, Cargill. All you’ll succeed in doing is to reopen that wound of yours. The game’s up, you see; and you may as well take it quietly. We’ve got some of your friends.”
Cargill’s face showed an eagerness at the words.
“Has my brother got off?”
“You mean the pseudo-Derek, I suppose? Yes, he’s gone to ground”—Cargill’s expression showed a relief which was quenched as Sir Clinton continued—“in the same place as you put Paul Fordingbridge.”
Cargill’s head sank at the news.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay,” Sir Clinton said, with almost ironical politeness. “You’ve given me such a lot of work to do, you know, lately. I shan’t trouble you with questions, because I think we shall get all we want from your confederates. If you need anything we can give you, please ask the constables for it. Good evening.”
In the corridor, Wendover broke into a flood of questions; but Sir Clinton brushed them aside.
“There’s time enough for that by and by,” he said brusquely. “I must get to the bottom of this business first. We’ll go along and ask if Mrs. Fleetwood can see us for a moment or two.”
Wendover was glad to find, when they entered the Fleetwood suite, that Cressida seemed to be getting over the worst of the shock. Her face lighted up as she saw them come in, and she began at once to thank them. Sir Clinton brushed the thanks aside.
“There’s nothing in it,” he said. “I only wish we’d been sooner.”
At the words, Cressida’s expression changed, as though some dreadful thing had been recalled to her. Sir Clinton put his hand into his pocket and drew out the glass syringe.
“What part did this thing play?” he asked gently.
The sight of it brought back all Cressida’s terrors.
“Oh, you were too late!” she exclaimed despairingly. “I’m still dazed by it all, and that brings it back.”
Under Sir Clinton’s sympathetic interrogation, she was soon able to tell them of the ordeal she had gone through. When she had finished, the chief constable bent forward and took up the hypodermic syringe from the table.
“You can sleep quietly tonight,” he said. “There was nothing in this affair except tap-water. I saw the fellow filling it at the sink as I passed the window. I’d have stopped him then, but there were only two of us against three of them, and I had to wait till they were all in one room. I must say the hypodermic puzzled me. I couldn’t make out what they were after, unless it was more drugging. But there was nothing in the syringe. I saw him washing it out under the tap before he filled it. At the worst you may have a sore arm; but the only germs in the syringe were some that might be in tap-water. The whole affair was a piece of bluff from start to finish. But it’s no wonder it took you in. They must have staged it well. Be thankful it’s no worse, Mrs. Fleetwood.”
“Oh, I am! You don’t know what a relief it is, Sir Clinton. I meant to go
