His finger tightened on the trigger, and he raised his revolver till it was pointing direct at Drummond’s heart.
“I’m going to kill you, Drummond,” he said quietly.
But if he expected to discover anything by such a test he was doomed to disappointment. Still the same vacuous grin, still the same lolling head, and a jumble of incoherent words was all the result; and very slowly he lowered his weapon, as one of his men came rushing into the room, to stop abruptly at the door as his eyes fell on the figure on the floor.
He gave a sigh of relief.
“So there you are, my beauty,” he muttered.
“Was it you who was told off to look after Captain Drummond?” said Mr. Robinson softly.
The man looked at the speaker with fear in his eyes.
“I put him on the bed, Chief,” he said sullenly, “and he was unconscious. And I hadn’t had any supper, so …”
“You went downstairs to get some,” Mr. Robinson concluded his sentence for him. “You went downstairs, you miserable fool, leaving him alone.” His eyes bored into the man’s brain, and he shrank back against the wall. “I will deal with you later,” continued Mr. Robinson, “and until then you will continue to look after him. If nothing further of this sort happens, it is possible that I may overlook your fault—so you had better see to it.”
“I’ll swear it won’t happen again, Chief,” said the man eagerly. “It was only because I thought the young swine was stunned …”
With a gesture Mr. Robinson cut him short.
“You’re not paid to think, you’re paid to do what you’re told,” he remarked coldly. “Go, now, and get one of the others. And bring some rope when you return.”
The man departed with alacrity, and once more Mr. Robinson fell to staring at the man sitting on the floor. To Professor Goodman he paid not the slightest attention; all his thoughts were concentrated on Drummond. Was he shamming, or was he not? Had Freyder’s blow on the head deprived him of his reason—or was it a wonderful piece of acting? And finally he decided on yet another test.
Still watching Drummond narrowly, he walked over to the door and affected to give an order to someone in the passage outside.
“Bring the girl Phyllis in here.”
Now surely there would be some telltale start if he was shamming—some little movement that would give him away. But there was nothing—absolutely nothing—to show that Drummond had even heard. He was engrossed in some intricate shunting operations with his shoes, and after a time Mr. Robinson came back into the room. Almost, if not quite, his mind was made up—Drummond was insane. Only temporarily possibly—but insane. The blow on the back of his head had caused something in his brain to snap, and the man he hated most on earth was just a babbling lunatic. Almost, if not quite, he was sure of it; for certain proof he would have to wait until he could examine him—and especially his eyes—more closely. And Mr. Robinson had no intention of examining Drummond, sane or insane, closely until Drummond’s arms were very securely lashed together.
“You’d better be very careful of him,” he remarked as the two men came in with rope. “I am almost certain that he’s got very bad concussion, but if you handle him roughly he may get angry. I shall be covering him the whole time with a revolver, but I want you to lash his wrists behind his back.”
They approached him cautiously, and Drummond smiled at them vacantly.
“All right, old chap,” murmured the first man ingratiatingly. “Pretty train you’ve got there. Won’t you shake hands?”
“Gumph,” remarked Drummond brightly, busily pushing his shoe.
“Get hold of his other hand,” said the first man tersely to his companion. “Then we’ll get them both behind his back, and I’ll slip a running noose over them.”
Which was excellent in theory, but poor in execution. A loud crack was heard and the two men staggered back holding their heads, which had impinged with violence.
“Gumph,” again remarked Drummond. “Puff—puff—puff.”
“Damn the swine!” snarled the man who had originally been told off to look after him, and Mr. Robinson smiled gently. It was very obvious that, whatever his mental condition might be, Drummond’s physical strength was unimpaired.
“I think, Chief,” said the second man, “that we should do it better if we lashed his wrists in front of him to start with. It’s being manhandled that he doesn’t take to, and we might be able to slip the noose over his wrists without his realising what the game is.”
“Do it how you like,” snapped Mr. Robinson, “but do it quickly.”
Which again proved excellent in theory, but poor in execution. For it soon transpired that Drummond was far too happy playing trains on the floor to realise the desirability of having his hands lashed together. In fact the proceeding appeared to annoy him considerably. And it was not until another man had been summoned and Mr. Robinson himself had joined in the fray that they finally got the noose over his wrists and drew it tight. And in the course of doing so two of the men had crashed heavily into the furnace, which, though cooling, was still unpleasantly hot.
But at last it was done, and four panting men stood round in a ring regarding him triumphantly as he rolled on the floor. And then after a while he lay still, with a foolish grin on his face.
“Gug-gug,” he burbled. “Where’s my train?”
“I’ll gug-gug him,” snarled one of the men, kicking him heavily in the ribs. “The young devil’s a homicidal maniac.”
“Stop that!” said Mr. Robinson savagely. “All accounts with this young man are settled by me. Now stand by in case he struggles. I’m going to examine his eyes.”
They approached him cautiously, but for the moment the trouble seemed over. Like so many madmen, and people temporarily insane, his frenzied struggles of the last ten minutes had completely
