And yet unlike so many powerful men his quickness on his feet was astounding—as many a good heavyweight boxer had found to his cost. In the days of his youth Hugh Drummond—known more familiarly to his intimates as Bulldog—had been able to do the hundred in a shade over ten seconds. And though the mere thought of such a performance now would have caused him to break out into a cold sweat, he was still quite capable of a turn of speed which many a lighter-built man would have envied.
Between him and Sir Bryan Johnstone existed one of those friendships which are founded on totally dissimilar tastes. He had been Bryan Johnstone’s fag at school, and for some inscrutable reason the quiet scholarship of the elder boy had appealed to the kid of fourteen who was even then a mass of brawn. And when one day Johnstone, going about his lawful occasions as a prefect, discovered young Drummond reducing a boy two years older than himself to a fair semblance of a jelly, the appeal was reciprocated.
“He called you a scut,” said Drummond a little breathlessly when his lord and master mildly inquired the reason of the disturbance. “So I scutted him.”
It was only too true, and with a faint smile Johnstone watched the “scutted” one depart with undignified rapidity. Then he looked at his fag.
“Thank you, Drummond,” he remarked awkwardly.
“Rot. That’s all right,” returned the other, blushing uncomfortably.
And that was all. But it started then, and it never died, though their ways lay many poles apart. To Johnstone a well-deserved knighthood and a high position in the land: to Drummond as much money as he wanted and a life of sport.
“Has someone stolen the goldfish?” queried Sir Bryan with mild sarcasm.
“Great Scott! I hope not,” cried Hugh in alarm. “Phyllis gave me complete instructions about the brutes before she toddled off. I make a noise like an ant’s egg, and drop them in the sink every morning. No, old lad of the village, it is something of vast import: a stain upon the escutcheon of your force. Last night—let us whisper it in Gath—I dined and further supped not wisely but too well. In fact I deeply regret to admit that I became a trifle blotto—not to say tanked. Of course it wouldn’t have happened if Phyllis had been propping up the jolly old home, don’t you know: but she’s away in the country with the nightingales and slugs and things. Well, as I say, in the young hours of the morning, I thought I’d totter along home. I’d been with some birds—male birds, Tumkins”—he stared sternly at Sir Bryan, while McIver stiffened into rigid horror at such an incredible nickname—“male birds, playing push halfpenny or some such game of skill or chance. And when I left it was about two a.m. Well, I wandered along through Leicester Square, and stopped just outside Scott’s to let one of those watering carts water my head for me. Deuced considerate driver he was too: stopped his horse for a couple of minutes and let one jet play on me uninterruptedly. Well, as I say, while I was lying in the road, steaming at the brow, a motor car went past, and it stopped in Piccadilly Circus.”
McIver’s air of irritation vanished suddenly, and a quick glance passed between him and Sir Bryan.
“Nothing much you observe in that, Tumkins,” he burbled on, quite unconscious of the sudden attention of his hearers. “But wait, old lad—I haven’t got to the motto yet. From this car there stepped large numbers of men: at least, so it seemed to me, and you must remember I’d recently had a shampoo. And just as I got abreast of them they lifted out another warrior, who appeared to me to be unconscious. At first I thought there were two, until I focused the old optics and found I’d been squinting. They put him on the pavement and got back into the car again just as I tottered alongside.
“ ‘What ho! souls,’ I murmured, ‘what is this and that, so to speak?’
“ ‘Binged, old bean, badly binged,’ said the driver of the car. ‘We’re leaving him there to cool.’
“And with that the car drove off. There was I, Tumkins, in a partially binged condition alone in Piccadilly Circus with a bird in a completely binged condition.
“ ‘How now,’ I said to myself. ‘Shall I go and induce yon water merchant to return’—as a matter of fact I was beginning to feel I could do with another whack myself—‘or shall I leave you here—as your pals observed—to cool?’
“I bent over him as I pondered this knotty point, and as I did so, Tumkins, I became aware of a strange smell.”
Hugh paused dramatically and selected another cigarette, while Sir Bryan flashed a quick glance of warning at McIver, who was obviously bursting with suppressed excitement.
“A peculiar and sickly odour, Tumkins,” resumed the speaker with maddening deliberation. “A strange and elusive perfume. For a long time it eluded me—that smell: I just couldn’t place it. And then suddenly I got it: right in the middle, old boy—plumb in the centre of the windpipe. It was chloroform: the bird wasn’t drunk—he was doped.”
Completely exhausted Hugh lay back in his chair, and once again Sir Bryan flashed a warning glance at his exasperated subordinate.
“Would you be able to recognize any of the men in the car if you saw them again?” he asked quietly.
“I should know the driver,” answered Hugh after profound thought. “And the bird beside him. But not the others.”
“Did you take the number of the car?” snapped McIver.
“My dear old man,” murmured Hugh in a pained voice, “who on earth ever does take the
