“Draw up Peter, old lad,” he boomed, “and put your nose inside a wet.”
Peter Darrell took the next chair, and his eyes glanced quickly round the lounge.
“Have you seen him, Hugh?” he said, lowering his voice. “I don’t see anything answering to the bird growing about the place here.”
“No,” answered Hugh. “But from discreet inquiries made from old pimply-face yonder I find that he arrived here about ten o’clock. He was at once shown up to the rooms of a gent calling himself the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor, where, as far as I can make out, he has remained ever since. Anyway, I haven’t seen him trotting up and down the hall, calling to his young; nor have either of the beadles at the door reported his departure. So here I remain like a bird in the wilderness until the blighter and his padre pal break covert. I want to see the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor, Peter.”
A ball of wool rolled to his feet, and Hugh stooped to pick it up. The owner was a girl sitting close by, busily engaged in knitting some obscure garment, and Hugh handed her the wool with a bow.
“Thank you so much!” she said, with a pleasant smile. “I’m afraid I’m always dropping my wool all over the place.”
“Don’t mention it,” remarked Hugh politely. “Deuced agile little thing—a ball of wool. Spend my life picking up my wife’s. Everybody seems to be knitting these jumper effects now.”
“Oh, this isn’t a jumper,” answered the girl a little sadly. “I’ve no time for such frivolities as that. You see, I’ve just come back from the famine stricken parts of Austria—and not only are the poor things hungry, but they can’t get proper clothes. So just a few of us are knitting things for them—stock sizes, you know—big, medium, and small.”
“How fearfully jolly of you!” said Hugh admiringly. “Dashed sporting thing to do. Awful affair, though, when the small size shrinks in the wash. The proud proprietor will burst out in all directions. Most disconcerting for all concerned.”
The girl blushed faintly and Hugh subsided abashed in his chair.
“I must tell my wife about it,” he murmured in confusion. “She’s coming here to lunch, and she ought to turn ’em out like bullets from a machine gun—what?”
The girl smiled faintly as she rose.
“It would be very good of her if she would help,” she remarked gently, and then, with a slight bow, she walked away in the direction of the lift.
“You know, old son,” remarked Hugh, as he watched her disappearing, “it’s an amazing affair when you really come to think of it. There’s that girl with a face far superior to a patched boot and positively oozing virtue from every pore. And yet, would you leave your happy home for her? Look at her skirts—five inches too long; and yet she’d make a man an excellent wife. A heart of gold probably, hidden beneath innumerable strata of multicoloured wools.”
Completely exhausted he drained his cocktail, and leaned back in his chair, while Peter digested the profound utterance in silence. A slight feeling of lassitude was beginning to weigh on him owing to the atrocious hour at which he had been compelled to rise, and he felt quite unable to contribute any suitable addition to the conversation. Not that it was required: the ferocious frown on Drummond’s face indicated that he was in the throes of thought and might be expected to give tongue in the near future.
“I ought to have a bit of paper to write it all down on, Peter,” he remarked at length. “I was getting it fairly clear when that sweet maiden put me completely in the soup again. In fact, I was just going to run over the whole affair with you when I had to start chasing wool all over London. Where are we, Peter? That is the question. Point one: we have the diamonds—more by luck than good management. Point two: the hunchback gentleman who has a sufficiently strong constitution to live at the South Surrey Hotel in Bloomsbury has not got the diamonds. Point three: he, at the present moment is closeted with the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor upstairs. Point four: we are about to consume another cocktail downstairs. Well—bearing that little lot in mind, what happens when we all meet?”
“Yes, what!” said Peter, coming out of a short sleep.
“A policy of masterly inactivity seems indicated,” continued Hugh thoughtfully. “We may even have to see them eat. But I can’t buttonhole Snooks, or whatever the blighter’s name is, and ask him if he bunged a bomb at me last night, can I? It would be so deuced awkward if he hadn’t. As I said before, a brief survey of the devil-dodger’s face might help. And, on the other hand, it might not. In fact, it is all very obscure, Peter—very obscure.”
A slight snore was his only answer, and Hugh continued to ponder on the obscurity of the situation in silence. That several rays of light might have been thrown on it by a conversation then proceeding upstairs was of no help to him: nor could he have been expected to know that the fog of war was about to lift in a most unpleasantly drastic manner.
“Coincidence? Bosh!” the girl with the heart of gold was remarking at that very moment. “It’s a certainty. Whether he’s got the diamonds or not I can’t say, but your big friend of last night, Zadowa, is sitting downstairs now drinking a cocktail in the lounge.
“And your big friend of last night is a gentleman with whom he and I”—she smiled thoughtfully at the Reverend Theodosius—“have a little account to settle.”
“My account is not a little one,” said the hunchback viciously.
“Amazing though it is, it certainly looks as if you were right, my dear,” answered her father thoughtfully.
“Of course I’m right!” cried the girl. “Why, the darned thing is sticking out
