“My Tootles,” he cried jovially. “My little flower of the east.”
Miss Simpson screamed: Ted Jerningham gave an uncontrollable guffaw.
“Dance with me, my poppet,” chanted Drummond, seizing her firmly round the waist.
Protesting shrilly, the unfortunate woman was dragged round the room, until between us we managed to get hold of Drummond. The poor chap was completely delirious, but fortunately for all concerned not violent. We explained to the almost hysterical woman that he had had a very bad blow on the head the preceding night, from one of the same gang of scoundrels who had abducted her—and that, of course, he was suffering from concussion. And then we got him downstairs and into a taxi. He was still humming gently to himself, and playing with a piece of string, but he offered no resistance.
“Extraordinary thing his going like that so suddenly,” I said to Darrell, who was sitting opposite.
“Frightfully so,” agreed Drummond. “Just hold that end of the string.”
“Good Lord!” I stammered. “Do you mean to say …”
“Hold the end,” he said tersely. “I want to see something.”
With his fingers outstretched he measured the distance between my end and the point he was holding, whilst I still stared at him in amazement.
“I thought as much,” he said quietly. “Tell the taxi to stop at the first small hotel we come to. You go back, Peter, and bring MacIver along there at once. Tell him it’s urgent, but don’t let that woman hear you.”
“Who—Miss Simpson?”
“She’s no more Miss Simpson than I am.”
The car pulled up, and we all got out.
“Go back in it, Peter: make any old excuse. Say I left my hat—but get MacIver quickly. Now, Stockton—let’s have a drink, and think things over.”
“I say, Drummond,” I said weakly, “do you mind explaining?”
“All in good time, old man—all in good time. I refuse to utter until I’ve got outside a pint.”
“What on earth is the meaning of this?” said MacIver a few minutes later as he came into the room where we were sitting.
“Only that you apologised for my attack of insanity so convincingly that I think the lady believed it. I sincerely hope so at any rate. While you were holding forth, Mac, about the secret opening I went on a little voyage of exploration. And I found a cupboard full of female clothes. They were all marked A. Simpson, and right in front three or four skirts were hanging. I don’t know why exactly, but it suddenly occurred to me that the skirts seemed singularly short for the lady. So I took one down and measured it round the waistband. And allowing the span of my hand to be about ten inches I found that Miss Simpson’s waist was approximately forty inches. Now that woman is thinner than my wife—but I thought I’d make sure. I took her measurement with this bit of string when I was dancing with her, and if that is Amelia Simpson she’s shrunk thirteen inches round the tum-tum. Laddie—it can’t be done. But, by Jove, it was a fine piece of acting. She’s got every man jack of us out of the house as easily as peeling a banana.”
MacIver rose and walked towards the door.
“What are you going to do?” said Drummond.
“Have that woman identified by somebody,” answered the detective. “Ask her some more questions, and if the answers aren’t satisfactory, clap her under lock and key at once.”
“Far be it from me to call you an ass, dear boy, but that doesn’t alter the fact that you are one. At least you will be if you arrest that woman.”
“Well, what do you suggest? We’ll have got one of them anyway.”
“And if you give her sufficient rope, we may get a lot more. Think, man, just think. What did that fellow who impersonated you run his head into a noose for this morning? Not for the pleasure of locking us into a cellar. What has that woman turned up for so quickly, pretending she is the rightful owner? If those garments belong to Miss Simpson—as they surely must do—the two women must be utterly unlike. True, they would assume—and rightly so as it happened—that none of us had ever seen Miss Simpson. All the same, if they hadn’t been in a tearing hurry they would surely have sent someone a little less dissimilar. They are in a tearing hurry—but what for? There’s something in that house that they want—and want quickly: something they forgot last night when they all flitted. And when that woman finds it—or if she finds it—she’ll go with it—to them. And we shall follow her. Do you get me, Steve? We can watch the house in front from Number 10. We can watch it from behind from Number 13 Jersey Street, in which six respectable divinity students have taken rooms for the week. We are the noble half-dozen. Let’s get rid of the young army that we’ve had tracking around up to date, and be nice and matey. But we insist, Mac, on seeing the fun. Out of the kindness of my heart I’ve put you wise as to what I discovered, and you’ve got to play the game. You and I and Stockton will go to Number 10; Ted, Peter and Algy to Jersey Street. Toby, you trot back and tell Phyllis what is happening—and tell her to put up some sandwiches and half a dozen Mumm ’. Then come back to Jersey Street, and tell the old geyser there that it’s a new form of Apenta Water. And send all the rest of your birds home to bed, Mac.”
“It’s strictly irregular,” he said, grinning, “but, dash it all, Captain Drummond, I’ll do it.”
“Good fellow!” cried Drummond. “Let’s get on with it.”
“I’ll keep a couple of my men below in 10 to follow her if she goes out,” went on MacIver.
“Excellent,” said Drummond. “And Toby can tell my chauffeur to bring
