“How long was the old man here?” said Mr. Robinson abruptly.
“About half a minute. Then we turned him out.”
“Under no circumstances is he to be allowed in here again.”
Mr. Robinson again bent over Drummond and stared into his eyes. But no sign of reason showed on his face: the half-open mouth still grinned its vacant grin. And after a while Mr. Robinson straightened up again. He had allowed himself to be alarmed unnecessarily: Drummond was still off his head.
“We are leaving at once after breakfast,” he remarked. “He is to be put in the ambulance as he is. And if he makes any noise—gag him.”
“Very good, guv’nor. Is he to have anything to eat?”
“No—let the swine starve.”
Mr. Robinson left the room without a backward glance, and the sudden desperate glint in Drummond’s eyes passed unnoticed. For now indeed things did look utterly hopeless. The Professor’s plan passed to him on a piece of paper and which he had conveyed to his mouth and swallowed as soon as read, even if it was a plan of despair, had in it the germ of success. It was nothing more nor less than to set fire to the house with chemicals that would burn furiously, and trust to something happening in the confusion. At any rate it might have brought in outside people—the police, the fire-brigade. And Peterson could hardly have left him bound upstairs with the house on fire. Not from any kindly motives—but expediency would have prevented it. Only the chemicals had to come from London, and if they were starting at once after breakfast it was obvious that the stuff couldn’t arrive in time.
The dear old Professor he took his hat off to. Tortured and abominably treated, he had kept his head and his nerve in the most wonderful way. For a man of his age and sedentary method of life not to have broken down completely under the strain was nothing short of marvellous. And not only had he not broken down, but he’d thought out a scheme and got it to Drummond wrapped round a Gillette razor-blade. It had taken a bit of doing to get the blade into his waistcoat pocket, and had his arms been bound to his body he couldn’t have done it. But fortunately only his wrists were lashed together, and he had managed it. And now it all seemed wasted.
He debated in his mind whether he would try to cut the ropes, and chance everything in one wild fight at once. But the two men eating their breakfast near the foot of his bed were burly brutes. And even if by twisting himself up he had been able to cut the cord round his legs without their noticing he would be at a terrible disadvantage, cramped after his confinement as he was. Besides, there was the Professor. Nothing now would have induced him to leave the old man. Whatever happened, he must stay beside him in the hopes of being able to help him. Because one thing was clear. Even if he personally escaped, unless he could get help before the yacht started—the Professor was doomed. The yacht was going down with all hands: there lay the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.
And even if he could have prevented the yacht sailing, he knew Peterson quite well enough to realise that he would merely change his plans at the last moment. As he had so often done in the past, he would disappear, with the secret—having first killed Professor Goodman.
No; the only possible chance lay in his going on the yacht himself and trusting to luck to find a way out. Incidentally it was perhaps as well that the only possible chance did lie in that direction, since, as far as Drummond could see, his prospects of not going on board were even remoter than his prospects of getting any breakfast.
A sudden shuffling step in the passage outside brought his two guards to their feet. They dashed to the door just as Professor Goodman appeared, and then they stopped with a laugh. For the old man was swaying backwards and forwards and his eyes were rolling horribly.
“I’ve been drugged,” he muttered, and pitched forward on his face.
The men sat down again, leaving him where he lay.
“That’ll keep him quiet,” said one of them. “It was in his tea.”
“If I had my way I’d put a bucket of it into the swab on the bed,” answered the other. “It’s him that wants keeping quiet.”
The first speaker laughed brutally.
“He won’t give much trouble. Once we’ve got him on board, it’ll be just pure joy to watch the fun. Freyder’s like a man that’s sat on a hornet’s nest this morning.”
And at that moment Freyder himself entered the room. His face was still swathed in bandages, and Drummond beamed happily at him. The sight of him provided the one bright spot in an otherwise gloomy horizon, though the horrible blow which he received on the mouth rather obscured the brightness, and gave him a foretaste of what he could expect from the gentleman. But true to his role, Drummond still grinned on, though he turned his head away to hide the smouldering fury in his eyes. In the past he had been fairly successful with Peterson’s lieutenants, and he registered a mental vow that Mr. Julius Freyder would not be an exception.
He watched him go from the room kicking the sprawling body of the Professor contemptuously as he passed, and once again he was left to his gloomy thoughts. It was all very well to register vows of vengeance, but to carry them out first of all entailed getting free.
