The man he had shot through the leg was unceremoniously bundled on to the grass beside the drive, whilst another man climbed the gate and went up to the car, which had come to a standstill ten yards or so away. Drummond heard the sound of a window being lowered, and an excited conversation; then the man who had approached the car stepped back again into the glare of the headlights.
“Open the gate,” he said curtly, and there was a sardonic grin on his face.
And now Drummond was waiting tensely. If he was to bring it off it would be a matter of seconds and half-seconds. Little by little he edged nearer to the drive, as a man with what appeared to be a huge glove on his hand approached the gate. There was a bright flash as he pressed down the catch and the circuit was broken, and at the same moment the headlights on the car went out, while an inside light was switched on.
And Drummond stopped dead—frozen in his tracks. The car was moving forward slowly, and he could see the people inside clearly. One was Count Zadowa—alias Mr. Atkinson; one was the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor. But the other—and it was the third person on whom his eyes were fixed with a hopeless feeling of impotent rage—the other was Phyllis herself. The two men were holding her in front of them, so that to fire was an impossibility, and Peterson was smiling out of the window with the utmost benevolence. Then they were past him, and he watched the red tail-lamp disappearing up the drive, while the gate was shut behind them. Another flashing spark stabbed the darkness: the circuit was complete again. And with a feeling of sick, helpless fury, Drummond realized that it had all been useless. He was exactly where he had been half an hour before, with the vital difference that the events of the last half-hour could not be repeated. He was caught: it was the finish. Somehow or other the poor girl must have blundered right into the car, and probably asked the occupants for help. She wouldn’t have known who they were; she’d just stopped the car on spec, and … He shook his fists impotently, and at that moment he heard a loud, powerful voice which he recognized at once speaking from the direction of the house.
“Unless Captain Drummond comes into the house within five minutes, I shall personally kill Mrs. Drummond.”
And the voice was the voice of Carl Peterson.
XVII
In Which a Murderer Is Murdered at Maybrick Hall
“You appear to have a wonderful faculty for remaining alive, my young friend,” remarked Peterson two minutes later, gazing benevolently at Drummond over his clerical collar.
“Principally, Theo, my pet, because you’ve got such a wonderful faculty for making bloomers,” answered Drummond affably.
No trace of the impotent rage he had given way to in the garden showed in his face as he spoke; and yet, in all conscience, the situation was desperate enough. He was unarmed—his revolver had been removed from him as he entered the house—and behind his chair stood two men, each with the muzzle of a gun an inch off his neck. In another corner sat Phyllis, and behind her stood an armed man also. Every now and then his eyes stole round to her, and once he smiled reassuringly—an assurance he was far from feeling. But principally his eyes were fixed on the three men who were sitting at the table opposite him. In the centre was Carl Peterson, smoking the inevitable cigar; and, one on each side of him, sat Count Zadowa and the redheaded Russian Yulowski.
“You can’t imagine the pleasant surprise it gave me,” Peterson continued gently, “when your charming wife hailed my car. So unexpected: so delightful. And when I realized that you were running about in our grounds here instead of being drowned as that fool No. 10 told me over the telephone … By the way, where is No. 10.”
He turned snarling on the Russian, but it was one of the men behind Drummond’s chair who answered.
“He’s dead. This guy threw him on the live wires.”
“Is that little Franz?” murmured Hugh Drummond, lighting a cigarette. “Yes—I regret to state that he and I had words, and my impression is that he has passed away. Do you mind standing a little further away?” he continued, addressing the men behind him. “You’re tickling the back of my neck, and it makes me go all goosey.”
“Do you mean to say,” said the Russian in his harsh voice, “that it was you and only you outside there?”
“You have guessed it, Adolph,” answered Drummond, speaking mechanically. It had seemed to him, suddenly, that, unseen by the others, Phyllis was trying to convey some message. “Alone I did it, to say nothing of that squib-faced bird upstairs with the long arms. In fact, without wishing to exaggerate, I think the total bag is five—with dear old pericoloso spargersi as an ‘also ran.’ ”
What was she trying to make him understand.
And then suddenly she began
