“Meet anyone?” said Martin.
“Not a soul,” said Kennedy cheerfully, “and little Christopher Robin has an idea. If I asked you for a drink, Petrie, would you give me ginger-beer?” There was an air of suppressed jubilation in his tone as he spoke.
“My dear fellow …” Wyatt started forward. “I think you’ll find all you want here,” he said, and led the way to a cupboard set in the panelling of the fireplace. Kennedy stuck his head in it, and came out flushed and triumphant. “Two Scotch and a ‘Three Star’ Brandy,” he said, tucking the bottles under his arm. “It’s blasphemy, but there’s no other way. Get to the window, chicks, and Uncle Christopher will now produce the rabbit.”
“What are you going to do with that stuff?” said Watt, who was not an admirer of the athletic type. “Fill yourself up with it and run amok?”
Kennedy grinned at him over his shoulder; he was already half out of the room.
“No fear!” he said, pausing with his hand on the door-handle. “But the Salmson is. Watch the garage. Keep your eyes upon the performance, ladies and gentlemen. This trick cannot be repeated.”
The somewhat bewildered little group regarded him doubtfully.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you even now,” said Martin, still coldly. “I’m probably infernally thick, but I don’t get your drift.”
Michael Prenderby suddenly lifted his head.
“Good Lord!” he said. “I do believe you might do it. What a stunt!”
“That’s what I thought,” said Kennedy.
He went out, and they heard him racing down the corridor.
Abbershaw turned to Michael.
“What’s the idea?” he said.
Prenderby grinned.
“He’s going to use the booze as juice,” he said. “Rather an idea, don’t you think? A car like that ought to run on pure spirit, I suppose. Let’s watch him.”
He led the way to the windows and the others followed him. By craning their necks they could just see the doors of the barn, both of which stood open.
For some minutes nothing happened, and Martin Watt was just beginning to assure himself that his first impression of Kennedy’s ideas in general was going to be justified when a terrific backfire sounded from the garage.
“Good heavens!” said Abbershaw. “He’s going to do it.”
Someone began to laugh.
“What a pack of fools they’ll look,” said Prenderby.
Another small explosion sounded from the garage, and the next moment the little car appeared in a cloud of blue smoke, with Mr. Kennedy at the wheel. It was moving slowly but triumphantly, and emitting a stream of backfires like a machine-gun.
“Isn’t he marvellous?”
Anne Edgeware clasped her hands as she spoke, and even Martin Watt admitted grudgingly that “the lad had initiative.” Kennedy waved to them, and they saw his face flushed and excited as a child’s. As he changed gear the car jerked forward and set off down the drive at an uneven but ever-increasing pace.
“That’ll show ’em,” said Prenderby with a chuckle.
“They haven’t even tried to stop him,” said little Jeanne Dacre.
At that moment Mr. Kennedy changed into top gear with a roar, and immediately there was a sharp report, followed by a second, which seemed to come from a window above their heads. Instantly, even as they watched it, the Salmson swerved violently, skidded drunkenly across the drive and turned over, pitching its occupant out upon the grass beside the path.
“Good God!”
Michael Prenderby’s voice was hoarse in the silence.
Martin Watt spoke quickly.
“Dawlish’s gun. They’ve got him. The Hun was in earnest. Come on, you fellows.”
He thrust open the window and leapt out upon the lawn, the men following him.
Chris Kennedy was already picking himself up when they reached him. He was very white, and his left hand grasped his other wrist, from which the blood was streaming.
“They got my nearside front wheel and my driving arm,” he gasped, as they came up. “There’s a bloke somewhere about who can shoot like hell.”
He swayed a little on the last word, and smiled valiantly. “Do you mind if we get in?” he murmured. “This thing is turning me sick.”
They got him back to the house and into the room where they had all been standing. As they crossed the lawn, Abbershaw, glancing up at the second-floor windows, fancied he saw a heavy expressionless face peering out at them from behind the dark curtains.
The rescue party considerably subdued. They were beginning to believe in the sincerity of Mr. Benjamin Dawlish’s remarks.
Kennedy collapsed into a chair, and, after saving him from the tender ministrations of Anne Edgeware, Abbershaw was just about to set out in search of warm water and a dress shirt to tear up as a bandage, when there was a discreet tap on the door and a manservant entered bearing a complete surgical outfit together with antiseptic bandages and hot water.
“With Mr. Gideon’s compliments,” he said gravely, and went out.
Kennedy smiled weakly.
“Curse their dirty politeness,” he said, and bowed his head over his injured wrist.
Abbershaw removed his coat and went over to the tray which the man had brought.
“Hullo!” he said. “There’s a note. Read it, Wyatt, will you, while I get on with this. These are Whitby’s things, I suppose. It almost looks as if he was expecting trouble.”
Wyatt took the slip of paper off the tray and read the message aloud in his clear even voice.
“We are not joking. No one leaves this house until we have what we want.”
“There’s no signature,” he added, and handed the note to Prenderby, who looked at it curiously.
“Looks as if they have lost something,” he said. “What the devil is it? We can’t help ’em much till we know what it is.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“Yes, that’s true,” said Martin Watt at last, “and the only thing we know about it is that it isn’t an egg.”
There was a faint titter of laughter at this, but it soon died down; the party was beginning to realize the seriousness
