The man gave a short laugh.
“A very long one, my dear. Too long to bother about.”
“It would be a pity if he was dead,” she went on thoughtfully. “I would have liked to see my Hugh Drummond again.”
“If he has been killed, if your supposition is correct,” returned the man, “it will do something towards reconciling me to the loss of the diamonds. But I don’t think it’s likely. And incidentally he is the only sideshow I am going to allow myself during this trip.”
Little Janet laughed softly.
“I wonder,” she said, “I wonder. Let us, as you say, go to bed.”
X
In Which Hugh Drummond Makes a Discovery
The prospect in front of Count Zadowa, alias Mr. Atkinson, was not a very alluring one, and the more he thought about it the less he liked it. Either the diamonds were blown to dust, or they were in the hands of the authorities. In the first event he had the Reverend Theodosius to reckon with; in the second the police. And for preference the police won in a canter.
He was under no delusions was the hunchback. This mysterious man who signed all his communications by the enigmatic letter X, and whose real appearance was known probably only to the girl who was his constant companion, so wonderful and varied were his disguises, was not a person whom it paid to have any delusions about. He paid magnificently, even lavishly, for work well done: for failure he took no excuse. Even long association did not mitigate the offence. With a shudder Count Zadowa remembered the fate of certain men he had known in the past, men who had been employed, even as he was now employed, on one of the innumerable schemes of their chief. No project, from the restoration of a monarchy to the downfall of a business combine, was too great for the man who now called himself the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor. All that mattered was that there should be money in it. Why he should be interesting himself in the spread of Communism in England it was not for Count Zadowa to inquire, even though he was the head of that particular activity. Presumably he was being paid for it by others; it was no business of Count Zadowa’s.
And as he undressed that night in the quiet hotel in Bloomsbury, where he lived, the hunchback cursed bitterly under his breath. It was such a cruel stroke of luck. How much he had dreaded that first interview with his chief he had hardly admitted even to himself. And then had come the heaven-sent opportunity of killing the leader of the Black Gang in perfect safety; of making it appear that the three men inside the room, and who had no business to be inside the room, had blown themselves up by mistake. How was he to know about the diamonds: how could he possibly be expected to know? And once again he cursed, while the sweat glistened on his forehead as he realized his predicament.
He had already decided that his only method lay in going down to the office next morning as usual. He would find it, of course, in the possession of the police, and would be told what had happened. And then he would have to trust to luck to discover what he could. Perhaps—and at the thought of it he almost started to dress again—perhaps the desk was not utterly ruined. Perhaps the diamonds were there, even now, in the secret drawer. And then he realised that if he went to his office at two o’clock in the morning, it must look suspicious. No; waiting was the only possibility, and Count Zadowa waited. He even went so far as to get into bed, but Count Zadowa did not sleep.
Punctually at half-past nine the next morning he arrived at 5, Green Street. As he had expected, a constable was standing at the door.
“Who are you, sir?” The policeman was barring his entrance.
“My name is Atkinson,” said the Count, with well-feigned surprise. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“Haven’t you heard, sir?” said the constable. “There was a bomb outrage here last night. In your office upstairs.”
“A bomb outrage?” Mr. Atkinson gazed at the constable in amazement, and a loafer standing by began to laugh.
“Not ’arf, guv’nor,” he remarked cheerfully. “The ’ole ruddy place is gone to blazes.”
“You dry up,” admonished the policeman. “Move along, can’t you?”
“Orl rite, orl rite,” grumbled the other, shambling off. “Not allowed to live soon, we won’t be.”
“You’d better go up, sir,” continued the constable. “The Inspector is upstairs.”
Mr. Atkinson needed no second invitation. Taking no notice of the half-dozen clerks who had gathered in a little group discussing the affair, he passed along the passage into his own room. And the scene that met his eyes reflected credit on the manufacturer of the bomb. Viewed by the light of day which came streaming in through the great hole in the wall the ruin was complete. In the centre—and it was there Mr. Atkinson’s eyes strayed continuously even while he was acknowledging the greetings of the Inspector—stood the remnants of the desk. And as he looked at it any faint hope he may have cherished vanished completely. It was literally split to pieces in every direction; there was not left a hiding-place for a pea, much less a bag of diamonds.
“Not much in the office, sir, which was lucky for you.”
The Inspector was speaking and Mr. Atkinson pulled himself together. He had a part to play, and whatever happened no suspicions must be aroused.
“I feel quite staggered, Inspector.” His glance travelled to a sinister-looking heap in the corner—a heap roughly covered with an old rug. The wall above it was stained a dull red, and from under the rug stretched out two long streams of the same colour—streams
