He was busying himself with something that he had taken from his pocket—a thick, square slab with a hole in the centre.
“I admit that your going to the police with my note surprised me. And it really was extraordinarily lucky that I happened to be in the office at the time. But it necessitated a slight change of plan on my part. If dear old McIver and his minions are outside the house, it’s much simpler for me to be in. And now, Mr. Latter—to come to business.”
He stood in front of the bound man, whose eyes were rolling horribly.
“We believe in making the punishment fit the crime. This afternoon you planned to destroy the livelihood of several thousand men with explosive, simply that you might make money. Here,” he held up the square slab, “is a pound of the actual guncotton, which was removed from Delmorlick himself before he started on a journey to join my other specimens. I propose to place this slab under you, Mr. Latter, and to light this piece of fuse which is attached to it. The fuse will take about three minutes to burn. During that three minutes if you can get free, so much the better for you; if not—well, it would be a pity not to have any explosion at all in Sheffield, wouldn’t it?”
For a moment or two Drummond watched the struggling, terrified man, and his eyes were hard and merciless. Then he went to the door, and Latter heard it opened and shut, and moaned horribly. His impotent struggles increased: out of the corner of his eye he could see the fire burning nearer and nearer. And then all of a sudden something seemed to snap in his brain …
Four minutes later Drummond came out from the screen behind which he had been standing. He picked up the burnt-out fuse and the block of wood to which it had been attached. Then he undid the ropes that bound the other man, removed the gag and put him back into bed. And after a while he nodded thoughtfully.
“Poetic justice,” he murmured. “And it saves a lot of trouble.”
Then, after one searching look round the room, he turned out the light and stepped quietly into the passage.
“An extraordinary thing, McIver,” said Sir Bryan Johnstone, late on the afternoon of the following day. “You say that when you saw Mr. Latter this morning he was mad.”
“Mad as a hatter, sir,” answered McIver, turning for confirmation to Drummond, who was sprawling in a chair.
“Absolutely up the pole, Tum-tum,” agreed Drummond.
“Gibbered like a fool,” said McIver, “and struggled wildly whenever he got near the foot of the bed. Seemed terrified of it, somehow. Did you notice that, Mr. Drummond?”
“My dear old lad, it was only ten o’clock, and I was barely conscious,” yawned that worthy, lighting a cigarette.
“Well, anyway, you had no trouble with the gang, McIver,” said his chief.
“None, sir,” agreed the Inspector. “I thought they wouldn’t try it on with me twice. I heard some fool story just before I caught the train, about one of the night watchmen at a big works who swears he saw a sort of court-martial—he was an old soldier—being held on three men by a lot of black-masked figures. But a lot of these people have got this yarn on the brain, Sir Bryan. It’s spread a good deal further than I thought.”
Sir Bryan nodded thoughtfully.
“I must say I’d like to know what sent Charles Latter mad!”
Drummond sat up lazily.
“Good heavens! Tumkins, don’t you know? The house-party, old son—the house-party; they had to be seen to be believed.”
VI
In Which an Effusion Is Sent to the Newspapers
Take a garrulous night-watchman and an enterprising journalist; mix them together over one, or even two glasses of beer, and a hard-worked editor feels safe for a column every time. And since the night-watchman at Greystone’s Steel Works was very garrulous, and the journalist was young and ambitious, the result produced several columns of the sort of stuff that everybody likes to read, and pretends he doesn’t.
Mr. Day was the night-watchman’s name, and Mr. Day was prepared to tell his story at a pint a time to anyone who cared to listen. It differed in detail, the difference depending entirely on the number of payments received during the day, but the essential part remained the same. And it was that essential part that was first published in one of the local Sheffield papers, and from there found its way into the London press.
Mr. Day, it appeared, had, according to his usual custom, been making his hourly tour of the works. It was about midnight, or perhaps a little after, that he thought he heard the sound of voices coming from the central power station. As he approached it had seemed to him that it was more lit up than it had been on his previous round, when only one electric light had been burning. He was on the point of opening the door to go in and investigate, when he heard at least half a dozen voices speaking angrily, and one in particular had stood out above the others. It was loud and convulsed with passion, and on hearing it Mr. Day, remembering his wife and four children, had paused.
“You damned traitor, as sure as there’s a God above, I’ll kill you for this some day.”
Such were the words which it appeared had given Mr. Day cause for reflection. At any time, and in any place, they would be apt to stand out from the ordinary level of bright chat; but as Mr. Day remarked succinctly, “they fair gave me the creeps, coming out o’ that there place, which was hempty,
