There was no mistaking his inference, but to Abbershaw’s surprise Mr. Campion seemed to jump at the idea.
“Righto,” he said, “I shall be delighted.”
Chris Kennedy’s answering remark was cut short, rather fortunately, Abbershaw felt, by a single and, in the circumstances, highly dramatic sound—the deep booming of the dinner gong.
XIX
Mr. Campion’s Conjuring Trick
The six young people went down to the big dining-hall with a certain amount of trepidation. Jeanne clung to Prenderby, the other two girls stuck together, and Abbershaw was able to have a word or two with Mr. Campion.
“You don’t like the idea?” he murmured.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s the risk, my old bird,” he said softly. “Our pugilistic friend doesn’t realize that we’re not up against a gang of racecourse thugs. I tried to point it out to him but I’m afraid he just thought I was trying to be funny. People without humour always have curious ideas on that subject. However, it may come off. It’ll be the last thing he’ll expect us to do, anyway, and if you really have burnt that paper it’s the best thing we could do.”
“I suppose you think I’m a fool,” said Abbershaw, a little defiantly. Campion grinned.
“On the contrary, young sir, I think you’re a humorist. A trifle unconscious, perhaps, but none the worse for that.”
Their conversation ended abruptly, for they had reached the foot of the staircase and were approaching the dining-room.
The door stood open, and they went in to find the table set for all nine of them, and the two men who had acted as footmen during the weekend awaiting their coming. They sat down at the table. “The others won’t be a moment, but we’ll start, please,” said Campion, and the meal began.
For some minutes it seemed as if the funereal atmosphere which surrounded the whole house was going to damp any attempt at bright conversation that anyone might feel disposed to make, but Mr. Campion sailed nobly into the breach.
Abbershaw was inclined to wonder at him until he realized with a little shock that considering the man’s profession the art of talking rubbish in any circumstances might be one of his chief stock-in-trades.
At the moment he was speaking of food. His high voice worked up to a pitch of enthusiasm, and his pale eyes widened behind his horn-rimmed spectacles.
“It all depends what you mean by eating,” he was saying. “I don’t believe in stuffing myself, you know, but I’m not one of those people who are against food altogether. I knew a woman once who didn’t believe in food—thought it was bad for the figure—so she gave it up altogether. Horrible results, of course; she got so thin that no one noticed her around—husband got used to being alone—estrangement, divorce—oh, I believe in food. I say, have you seen my new trick with a napkin and a saltcellar—rather natty, don’t you think?”
He covered a saltcellar with his napkin as he spoke, made several passes over it, a solemn expression on his face, and then, whisking the napery away, disclosed nothing but shining oak beneath.
His mind still on Mr. Campion’s profession, Abbershaw was conscious of a certain feeling of apprehension. The saltcellar was antique, probably worth a considerable sum.
Mr. Campion’s trick was not yet over, however. A few more passes and the saltcellar was discovered issuing from the waistcoat of the manservant who happened to be attending to him at the time.
“There!” he said. “A pretty little piece of work, isn’t it? All done by astrology. For my next I shall require two assistants, any live fish, four aspidistras, and one small packet of Gold Flake.” As he uttered the last words he turned sharply to beam around the table, and his elbow caught Meggie’s glass and sent it crashing to the floor.
A little breathless silence would have followed the smash had not he bounded up from his chair immediately and bent down ostensibly to gather up the fragments, jabbering the whole time. “What an idiot! What an idiot! Have I splashed your dress, Miss Oliphant? All over the floor! What a mess, what a mess! Come here, my man, here: bring a dustpan and broom with you.” He was making such a fuss and such a noise that no one had noticed the door open, and the somewhat self-conscious entry of Chris Kennedy’s little band. No one, that is, save Campion, who from his place of vantage halfway under the table had an excellent view of the feet.
At the moment when Martin Watt leapt forward at the man by the carving table, Campion threw his arms round the other manservant’s legs just below the knees, and jerked him back on to the flags with an almost professional neatness. Within two seconds he was seated astride the man’s chest, his knees driven into the fleshy part of his arms, whilst he stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Abbershaw and Prenderby hurried to his assistance and between them they strapped the man into a chair, where he sat glaring at them, speechless and impotent.
Kennedy’s party, though less neat, had been quite as successful, and Chris himself, flushed with excitement, now stood with his man’s loaded revolver in his hand.
“Have you got his gun?” he said, in a voice which sounded hoarse even to himself, as he indicated Campion’s captive.
“No,” said Abbershaw, and began his search. Two minutes later he looked up, disappointed.
“He hasn’t one,” he said at last, and even the man himself seemed surprised.
Kennedy swore softly and handed the gun which he held to Martin.
“You’d better have it,” he said. “I’m hopeless with my right arm gone. Now, then, Campion, will you go upstairs with the girls? Abbershaw, you’d better go with them. As soon as you’ve seen them safely locked in the room, come back to us. We’re making for the servants’ quarters.”
They obeyed in silence, and Abbershaw led Campion and the three girls quietly out of the room, across the hall, and up the wide staircase.
