“Excuse me, sir,” said a voice at his elbow, “but I would like a few words with you.”
He looked down, and his eyes narrowed suddenly. Standing beside him was the hunchback, Mr. Atkinson, and for a moment Hugh regarded him in silence. Then, dismissing a strong inclination to throw this unexpected apparition under a passing furniture van, he raised his eyebrows slightly and removed his cigar from his mouth. Evidently the next move had begun, and he felt curious as to what form it would take.
“My powers as a conversationalist are well known,” he remarked, “amongst a large and varied circle. I was not, however, aware that you belonged to it. In other words, sir, who the deuce are you and what the dickens do you want to talk to me about?”
“Something which concerns us both very intimately,” returned the other. “And with regard to the first part of your question—do you think it necessary to keep up the pretence, especially as there are no witnesses present? I suggest, however, that as our conversation may be a trifle prolonged, and this spot is somewhat draughty, we should adjourn to your house; Brook Street, I believe, is where you live, Captain Drummond.”
Hugh removed his cigar, and stared at the hunchback thoughtfully.
“I haven’t the slightest wish to have a prolonged conversation with you in any place, draughty or otherwise,” he remarked at length. “However, if you are prepared to run the risk of being slung out of the window if you bore me, I’ll give you ten minutes.”
He turned on his heel and strolled slowly on towards his house, while the hunchback, shooting venomous glances at him from time to time, walked by his side in silence. And it was not until some five minutes later when they were both in Drummond’s study that any further remark was made.
It was Hugh who spoke, standing with his back to the fireplace, and looking down on the misshapen little man who sat in an armchair facing the light. An unpleasant customer, he reflected, now that he saw him close to for the first time: a dangerous, vindictive little devil—but able, distinctly able. Just such a type as Peterson would choose for a tool.
“What is it you wish to say to me?” he said curtly.
“A few things, Captain Drummond,” returned the other, “that may help to clear the air. In the first place may I say how pleased I am to make your acquaintance in the flesh, so to speak? I have long wanted a little talk with the leader of the Black Gang.”
“I trust,” murmured Hugh solicitously, “that the sun hasn’t proved too much for you.”
“Shall we drop this beating about the bush?” snapped the other.
“I shall drop you down the stairs if you talk to me like that, you damned little microbe,” said Hugh coldly, and the other got to his feet with a snarl. His eyes, glaring like those of an angry cat, were fixed on Drummond, who suddenly put out a vast hand to screen the lower part of the hunchback’s face. With a cry of fear he recoiled, and Hugh smiled grimly. So it had been Mr. Atkinson himself who had flung the bomb the night before: the eyes that had glared at him through the crack in the door were unmistakably the same as those he had just looked into over his own hand. With the rest of the face blotted out to prevent distraction there could be no doubt about it, and he was still smiling grimly as he lowered his hand.
“So you think I’m the leader of the Black Gang, do you?” he remarked. “I don’t know that I’m very interested in your thoughts.”
“I don’t think: I know,” said the hunchback viciously. “I found it out today.”
“Indeed,” murmured Hugh politely. “Would it be indiscreet to ask how you found out this interesting fact?”
“Do you deny it?” demanded the other furiously.
“My dear little man,” said Hugh, “if you said I was the Pope I wouldn’t deny it. All I ask is that now you’ve afflicted me with your presence you should amuse me. What are your grounds for this somewhat startling statement?”
“My grounds are these,” said the hunchback, recovering his self-control: “last night my office in Hoxton was wrecked by a bomb.”
“Good Lord!” interrupted Hugh mildly, “it must be old Theodosius Longmoor and his hundred quid. I thought he looked at me suspiciously during lunch.”
“It was wrecked by a bomb, Captain Drummond,” continued the other, not heeding the interruption. “That bomb also killed a man.”
“It did,” agreed Hugh grimly.
“One of the three men who broke in. The other two escaped—how I don’t know. But one of them was recognized by the clerk downstairs.”
“I gathered that was the story,” said Hugh.
“He was recognized as the leader of the Black Gang,” continued the hunchback. “And that was all until today. Just the leader of the Black Gang—an unknown person. But today—at the Ritz, Captain Drummond—my clerk, who had brought me a message, recognized him again, without his disguise. No longer an unknown man, you understand—but you.”
Drummond smiled, and selected a cigarette from his case.
“Very pretty,” he answered, “but a trifle crude. As I understand you, I gather that your shrewd and intelligent clerk states that the leader of the Black Gang broke into your office last night in order to indulge in the doubtful pastime of throwing bombs about the premises. He further states that I am the humorist in question. Allowing for the moment that your clerk is sane, what do you propose to do about it?”
“In certain eventualities, Captain Drummond, I propose
