Wyatt was still angry. He gave up trying to apologize for the incident, however, and joined with the others in discussing it.
“He’s loony, of course,” said Martin Watt lazily. “Campion got his goat beautifully, I thought.”
“Still, even if he is potty, if what he says is true, things are going to be pretty sportive,” remarked Chris Kennedy cheerfully. “I fear I may be called upon to bash his head in.”
Abbershaw rose to his feet.
“I don’t know what you think, Wyatt,” he said, “but it occurs to me that it might be an idea if we all went into the other room and talked this thing over. The servants won’t disturb us there. I don’t think there’s any real danger,” he went on reassuringly, “but perhaps we ought to find out if what Gideon says about the cars is true.”
Chris Kennedy got up eagerly.
“I’ll toddle down and discover, shall I?” he said. “Really—I should like to,” he added, as Wyatt regarded him doubtfully, and he went off whistling.
The party adjourned to the next room as Abbershaw had suggested. They still talked lightly, but there was a distinctly constrained atmosphere amongst them. Jeanne was frankly scared, Anne Edgeware out of her depth, and the rest apprehensive.
Abbershaw was the last to step into the enormous hall that was now a blaze of sunlight. It poured in through long diamond-paned windows, glinted on the polished floor, and shone softly on Tudor rose and linenfold. But it was not these which caught his eye and made him start back with a half-concealed exclamation.
Over the far fireplace, set in the circle of lance-heads, its clear blade dazzling in the sun and gleaming as brightly as if it had never left its plaque, sinister and beautiful, was the Black Dudley Dagger.
IX
Chris Kennedy Scores a Try Only
As soon as Abbershaw had recovered from his first surprise, he turned to Meggie. She was standing just beside him, the others having split up into little groups talking quietly together. “Did you come in here this morning,” he said, “after we came in from the garden?”
She nodded, and he saw that she was trembling slightly. “Yes,” she whispered, “and—and it was here then, hanging just where it is now. I—I couldn’t help coming in to see. Someone must have put it back—in the night.”
Her voice died away in a sob on the last word, and he laid a hand on her arm.
“Scared?” he said.
She met his eyes bravely.
“I’m glad you’re here too,” she said simply.
A wave of pleasure swept over Abbershaw, and he coloured, but he did not speak. The gravity of the situation was by no means lost to him. He was the eldest of the party, and, moreover, he knew more about the events of the last twelve hours than probably anyone else in the room.
Something told him to keep quiet about his discoveries, however; he realized that they were up against dangerous men. Mr. Benjamin Dawlish, as he styled himself, was no ordinary individual, and, at the moment, he was angry.
The main idea now was to get away at all costs; Abbershaw was sure of it.
He had not dreamed that the late Colonel’s extraordinary friends would dare to take this extreme course, but since they had done so, he was not fool enough to think that they would risk the possibility of being overpowered; their forces must be very strong.
Once out of the house he himself could get an immediate inquiry instituted by the highest authorities. If the police could be informed without their captors’ knowledge, so much the better, but the principal problem was escape, and that, in the present circumstances, did not appear to be any too simple.
There was, of course, one way of obtaining freedom; he felt the battered red wallet in his pocket now, but he was loth to take that path, for it meant the escape of what he felt certain was a leader of one of the most skilful criminal organizations in the world. So far he had been working in the dark, and if he gave in now, that darkness would never be lightened. It would mean complete surrender. The mystery would remain a mystery.
He glanced down at Meggie.
“We’ll lick ’em yet,” he said.
She laughed at him.
“Or die in the attempt.”
Abbershaw appeared vastly relieved.
“That’s how I feel,” he said.
It was at this moment that Mr. Campion made the entire party one group again by a single fatuous remark.
“Of course,” he said affably, “I suppose nobody has pinched anything.”
“I’ve got two bits of soap in my room,” murmured Prenderby, “but I shouldn’t think that’s what the old bird’s after by the look of him. And look here, Wyatt,” he added suddenly, “there’s something damned queer about something else! I suppose you know—”
Abbershaw interposed hastily.
“The whole thing is a bit queer, Michael,” he said, fixing the boy with his eyes. Prenderby took the hint, and was silent, but Wyatt turned to him.
“I’m beyond apologizing,” he said. “The whole business is quite out of my experience. My uncle asked me to bring a party down for this weekend. He had often done so before. I have met Gideon here before, but never exchanged more than half a dozen words with him. As for that Hun, Dawlish, he’s a complete stranger.”
Prenderby, to whom the words had sounded like a reproach, coloured, and what might have been an uncomfortable pause was covered by the sudden return of Chris Kennedy. He was in high good humour. His handsome young face was flushed with excitement, and the others could not banish the suspicion that he was enjoying the situation thoroughly.
“They have, the blighters!” he said, bursting into the group. “Not a drain
