And then something made me look at the woman. She was leaning against the table, and in her eyes was something of that same look of terror that I had seen before.
“Kill them. Kill them all: now—at once.”
Her voice was harsh and metallic, and the others stared at her in amazement.
“Impossible, Madame,” said Helias sharply. “It would be an act of inconceivable folly.”
She turned on him furiously.
“It would be an act of inconceivable folly not to. I tell you they are more dangerous far, these men, than all the police of England.”
“Well, they are not particularly dangerous at the moment,” said the other soothingly. “Think, Madame: reflect for a moment. We have difficulties already, severe enough in all conscience. And are we to add to those difficulties by murdering six young fools in cold blood?”
“I tell you, I know these men,” she stormed. “And that one”—she pointed to Drummond—“is the devil himself.”
“I can’t help it, Madame,” returned the doctor firmly. “I have no scruples as you know, but I am not a fool. And to kill these men or any of them would be the act of a fool. We have to get away at once: there is no possible method of disposing of the bodies. Sooner or later they are bound to be discovered in this house, and a hue and cry will start, which is the last thing we want. Pitch them into the cellar below and leave them there, by all means. But no unnecessary killing.”
For a moment I thought she was going to continue the argument: then with a little shrug of her shoulders she turned away.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she remarked. “But, mon Dieu! I would sooner have seen all Scotland Yard here than that man.”
“Who is he?” said Helias curiously.
“His name is Drummond,” answered the woman. “Get on with it, and put them below.”
And from the darkness of the cellar where they pitched us I listened to the sounds of their departure. How long it was before the last footstep ceased above I don’t know, but at length the house was silent. The stertorous breathing of the unconscious men around me was the only sound, and after a while I fell into an uneasy doze.
I woke with a start. Outside a wagon was rumbling past, but it was not that which had disturbed me: it was something nearer at hand.
“Peter! Algy!”
It was Ted Jerningham’s voice, and I gave two strangled grunts by way of reply.
“Who’s there?”
Once more I grunted, and after a pause I heard him say, “I’m going to strike a match.”
The feeble light flickered up and he gave a gasp of astonishment. Sprawling over the floor just where they had been thrown lay the others, and as the match spluttered and went out Algy Longworth groaned and turned over.
“Holy smoke!” came his voice plaintively: “have I been passed over by a motor bus or have I not?”
It was Drummond himself who had taken it worst. The cowls had broken the force of the blows in the case of the others, whilst I had come off almost scot free. But Drummond, poor devil, was in a really bad way. His face was burnt and scalded by the ammonia, and the slightest movement of his head hurt him intolerably. In fact it was a distinctly pessimistic party that assembled upstairs at half-past six in the morning. We none of us asked anything better than to go home to bed—none of us, that is, save the most damaged one. Drummond wouldn’t hear of it.
“We’re here now,” he said doggedly, “and even if my neck is broken, which is more than likely by the feel of it, we’re going to see if we can find any clue to put us on the track of that bunch. For if it takes me five years, I’ll get even with that damned gorse bush.”
“I think the lady disliked us more than he did,” I remarked. “Especially you. She went so far as to suggest killing the lot of us.”
“The devil she did,” grunted Drummond.
“She knew you. She knew your name. I think she knew all of you fellows by sight, but she certainly knew Drummond.”
“The devil she did,” he grunted again, and stared at me thoughtfully out of the one eye that still functioned. “You’re certain of that?”
“Absolutely. You remember she dropped the lamp in her agitation when she first saw your face. I saw the look in her eyes as I picked it up: it was terror.”
And now they were all staring at me.
“Why,” I went on, “she alluded to you as the devil himself.”
“Good Lord!” said Drummond softly, “it can’t be. … Surely, it can’t be …”
“There’s no reason why it shouldn’t,” said Jerningham. “It’s big enough for them to handle.”
“We’re talking of things unknown to you, Stockton,” explained Drummond. “But in view of what you saw and heard, it may be that a very extraordinary thing has taken place. … Confound my neck! …”
He rubbed it gently, and then went on again.
“As far as I know there is only one woman in the world who is likely to regard me as the devil himself, and be kind enough to suggest killing me. And if it is her … Great Scott! boys—what stupendous luck.”
“Marvellous!” I ejaculated. “She must love you to distraction.”
But he was beyond my mild sarcasm.
“If it’s her—then Helias … oh! my sainted aunt! don’t tell me that old gorse bush was Carl Peterson.”
“I don’t know anything about Carl Peterson,” I said. “But it was old gorse bush, as you call him, who flatly refused to kill you and us as well. Moreover, he didn’t know you.”
“Then gorse bush wasn’t Carl. But the woman. … Ye Gods! I wonder. Just think of the humour of it, if it really was Irma. Not knowing it was me, she thought I possibly was the genuine article—the real Australian nephew. She made herself up into a passable
