He was quick, but Campion was before him. With a sudden catlike movement he snatched up the weapon, and as the other came for him, lunging forward, all his ponderous weight behind his fist, Campion stepped back lightly and then, raising his arm above his head, brought down the butt of the pistol with all his strength upon the close-shaven skull.
The man went down like a log as Abbershaw scrambled to his feet, breathless and apologetic.
“My dear old bird, don’t lose your Organizing Power, Directive Ability, Self-Confidence, Driving Force, Salesmanship, and Business Acumen,” chattered Mr. Campion cheerfully. “In other words, look on the bright side of things. This fruity affair down here, for instance, has solved his own problem. All we have to do now is to stuff him in a cupboard and lock the door. He won’t wake up for a bit yet.”
Abbershaw, still apologetic, assisted him to lift the heavy figure into a hanging cupboard, where they deposited him, shutting the door and turning the key.
“Well, now I suppose we’d better lend a hand with the devilry downstairs,” said Mr. Campion, stretching himself. “I haven’t heard any more shots, have you?”
“I don’t know,” said Abbershaw. “I fancied I heard something while you were dealing with—er—that last customer. And I say, Campion, I haven’t liked to ask you before now, but where the devil did you get that gun from?”
Mr. Campion grinned from behind his enormous spectacles. “Oh, that,” he said, “that was rather fortunate as it happened. I had a notion things might be awkward, so I was naturally anxious that the guns, or at least one of them, should fall into the hands of someone who knew something about bluff at any rate.”
“Where did you get it from?” demanded Abbershaw. “I thought only one of those men in the dining-room had a gun?”
“Nor had they when we tackled ’em,” agreed Mr. Campion. “I relieved our laddie of this one earlier on in the meal, while I was performing my incredible act with the saltcellar, in fact. It was the first opportunity I’d had, and I couldn’t resist it.”
Abbershaw stared at him.
“By Jove,” he said, with some admiration, “while you were doing your conjuring trick you picked his pocket.”
Mr. Campion hesitated, and Abbershaw had the uncomfortable impression that he reddened slightly.
“Well,” he said at last, “in a way, yes, but if you don’t mind—let’s call it legerdemain, shall we?”
XX
The Roundup
As Abbershaw and Campion made their way slowly down the staircase to the first floor, the house seemed to be unnaturally silent. The candles in the iron sconces had not been lighted, and the corridors were quite dark save for a faint greyness here and there when the open doors of a room permitted the faint light of the stars to penetrate into the gloom.
Abbershaw touched his companion’s arm.
“How about going through the cupboard passage to the box-room and then down the staircase into Dawlish’s room through the fireplace door?” he whispered. “We might take him by surprise.” Mr. Campion appeared to hesitate. Then his voice, high and foolish as ever, came softly through the thick darkness.
“Not a bad notion, doctor,” he said, “but we’re too late for that, I’m afraid. Hang it all, our friends’ target practice downstairs must have given the old boy a hint that something was up. It’s only natural. I think we’d better toddle downstairs to see how the little ones progress. Walk softly, keep your gun ready, and for heaven’s sake don’t shoot unless it’s a case of life or sleep perfect sleep.”
On the last word he moved forward so that he was a pace or two ahead of Abbershaw, and they set off down the long corridor in single file.
They reached the head of the staircase without hindrance and paused for a moment to listen.
All beneath them was silent, the husky, creaky quiet of an old house at night, and Abbershaw was conscious of an uneasy sensation in the soles of his feet and a tightening of his collar band.
After what seemed an interminable time Campion moved on again, hugging the extra shadow of the wall, and treading so softly that the ancient wood did not creak beneath him. Abbershaw followed him carefully, the gun clenched in his hand. This sort of thing was manifestly not in his line, but he was determined to see it through as creditably as he was able. He might lack experience, but not courage.
A sudden stifled exclamation from Mr. Campion a pace or so ahead of him made him start violently, however; he had not realized how much the experience of the past forty-eight hours had told on his nerves.
“Look out!” Campion’s voice was barely audible. “Here’s a casualty.”
He dropped silently as he spoke, and the next moment a little pinprick of light from a minute electric torch fell upon the upturned face of the body upon the stairs.
Abbershaw felt the blood rise and surge in his ears as he looked down and recognized Chris Kennedy, very pale from a gash over his right temple.
“Dotted over the beam with the familiar blunt instrument,” murmured Campion sadly. “He was so impetuous. Boys will be boys, of course, but—well, well, well.”
“Is he dead?” Abbershaw could not see the extent of the damage, and he hardly recognized his own voice, it was so strained and horror-stricken.
“Dead?” Mr. Campion seemed to be surprised. “Oh, dear me, no—he’s only out of action for a bit. Our friends here are artists in this sort of thing, and I rather fancy that so far Daddy Dawlish has decided against killing off his chicks. Of course,” he went on softly, “what his attitude will be now that we’ve taken up the offensive deliberately I don’t like to suggest. On the whole I think our present policy of complete caution is to be maintained. Hop over this—he’s as safe here as anywhere—and come on.”
Abbershaw stepped carefully over the recumbent figure, and advanced softly after the indefatigable Mr. Campion.
They
