The two men closed in warily on their prisoner, but he gave no further bother. Babbling happily he walked between them out of the room, and Mr. Robinson suddenly remembered the unfortunate Professor.
“A powerful and dangerous young man,” he remarked suavely. “I trust he hasn’t hurt you, my dear Professor.”
“No,” said the other dazedly; “he hasn’t hurt me.”
“An extraordinary delusion of his,” pursued Mr. Robinson. “Fancy thinking that you, of all people, were that villain Peterson.”
“Most extraordinary!” muttered the Professor.
“And it’s really quite amazing that he should have allowed himself to be separated from you so easily. His friends, I believe, call him Bulldog, and he has many of the attributes of that noble animal.” He peered at the Professor’s throat. “Why, he’s hardly marked you. You can count yourself very lucky, believe me. Even when sane he’s a terror—but in his present condition … However, such a regrettable contretemps will not occur again, I trust.”
He glanced at the furnace.
“Another hour, I suppose, before it will be cool enough to see the result of our experiment?”
“Another hour,” agreed the Professor mechanically.
And during that hour the two men sat in silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts, and it would be hard to say which would have received the greater shock had he been able to read the other’s mind.
For Mr. Robinson was thinking, amongst other things, of the approaching death of the Professor, which would scarcely have been comforting to the principal actor in the performance. And Professor Goodman—who might have been expected to be thinking of nothing but his approaching reunion with his wife—had, sad to relate, completely forgotten the lady’s existence. His mind was engrossed with something quite different. For when a man who is undoubtedly mad—so mad, in fact, that in a fit of homicidal mania he has just throttled a man—gets you by the throat, you expect to experience a certain discomfort. But you do not expect to be pushed backwards and forwards as a child is pushed when you play with it—without discomfort or hurt. And above all you do not expect that madman to mutter urgently in your ear, “For God’s sake—don’t give your secret away. Delay him—at all costs. You’re in the most deadly peril. Burn the house down. Do anything.”
Unless, of course, the madman was not mad.
X
In Which Drummond Goes on Board the S.Y. Gadfly
But however chaotic Professor Goodman’s thoughts, they were like a placid pool compared to Drummond’s. He had first recovered consciousness as he lay on the floor in the room below, and with that instinctive caution which was second nature to him, he had remained motionless. Two men were talking, and the sound of his own name instinctively put him on his guard. At first he listened vaguely—his head was still aching infernally—while he tried to piece together in his mind what had happened. He remembered taking the receiver off the telephone in the deserted house; he remembered a stunning blow on the back of his head; and after that he remembered nothing more. And since he realised that he was now lying on the floor, it was obvious that an overwhelming desire for his comfort was not a matter of great importance with the floor’s owner. The first point, therefore, to be decided was the identity of that gentleman.
On that score he was not left long in doubt, and it needed all his marvellous self-control to go on lying doggo when he realised who it was. It was Peterson—and as he listened to the thoughtful arrangements for his future it was evident that Peterson’s feelings for him were still not characterised by warm regard. He heard the other man pleasantly suggest finishing him off then and there; he heard Peterson’s refusal and the reasons for it. And though his head was still swimming, and thinking was difficult, his subconscious mind dictated the obvious course. As long as he remained unconscious, Peterson’s insensate hatred for him would keep him safe. So far, so good—but it wasn’t very far. However, they couldn’t sit there talking the whole night, and once they left him alone, or even with some man to guard him, he had ample faith in his ability to get away. And once out of the house he and Peterson would be on level terms again.
Once again he turned his attention to the conversation. Yacht—what was this about a yacht? With every sense alert he strove to make his throbbing brain take in what they were saying. And gradually as he listened the main outline of the whole diabolical scheme grew clear in all its magnificent simplicity. But who on earth was the man upstairs to whom Peterson kept alluding? Whoever he was, he was presumably completely unconscious of the fate in store for him. And it struck Drummond that he was going to complicate matters. It would mean intense rapidity of action on his part once he was out of the house if he was going to save the poor devil’s life.
For one brief instant, as Peterson bent over him, he had a wild thought of bringing matters to a head then and there. To get his hands on the swine once more was an almost overmastering temptation, but he resisted it successfully. It would mean a fight and an unholy fight at that, and Drummond realised that conditions were all against him. His head, for one thing—and total ignorance of the house. And then, to his relief, Peterson sat down again. No—there was nothing for it but to go on shamming and take his chance later.
Up to date he had not dared to open his eyes for even the fraction of a second, so he had no idea in what guise Peterson was at present masquerading. Nor had he a notion as to what the second
