“It was ready at Armistice time,” he continued, “but not in its present form. Today it is perfected.”
“But, damn it all, Robin,” I said, a little irritably, “what is this it?”
He smiled and shook his head.
“Not even to you, old man, will I tell that. If I could I would keep it entirely to myself, but I realise that that is impossible. At the moment there is only one other being in this world who knows my secret—the greathearted pacifist who has financed me. He is an Australian who lost both his sons in Gallipoli, and for the last two years he has given me ceaseless encouragement. Tonight I am meeting him again—I haven’t seen him for three months—to tell him that I’ve succeeded. And tomorrow I’ve arranged to give a secret demonstration before the Army Council.”
He glanced at his watch and stood up.
“I must be off, John. Coming my way?”
Not wanting to go back so early I declined, and I watched his tall spare figure threading its way between the tables. Little did I dream of the circumstances in which I was next to meet him: a knowledge of the future has mercifully been withheld from mortal man. My thoughts as I sat on idly at the table finishing my cigar were confined to what he had been saying. Could it be possible that he had indeed made some stupendous discovery? And if he had, was it conceivable that it could be used in the way he intended and achieve the result he desired? Reason answered in the negative, and yet reason didn’t seem quite conclusive.
“Universal, instantaneous death.”
Rot and rubbish: it was like the wild figment of a sensational novelist’s brain. And yet—I wasn’t satisfied.
“Hullo, Stockton! how goes it? Has she left you all alone?”
I glanced up to see Toby Sinclair grinning at me from the other side of the table.
“Sit down and have a spot, old man,” I said. “And it wasn’t a she, but a he.”
For a while we sat on talking, and it was only when the early supper people began to arrive that we left. We both had rooms in Clarges Street, and for some reason or other—I forget why—Sinclair came into mine for a few minutes before going on to his own. I mention it specially, because on that simple little point there hung tremendous issues. Had he not come in—and I think it was the first time he had ever done so: had he not been with me when the telephone rang on my desk, the whole course of events during the next few months would have been changed. But he did come in, so there is no good speculating on what might have happened if he hadn’t.
He came in and he helped himself to a whisky-and-soda and he sat down to drink it. And it was just as I was following his example that the telephone went. I remember wondering as I took up the receiver who could be ringing me up at that hour, and then came the sudden paralysing shock.
“John! John! Help. My rooms. Oh! my God.”
So much I heard, and then silence. Only a stifled scream, and a strange choking noise came over the wire, but no further words. And the voice had been the voice of Robin Gaunt.
I shouted down the mouthpiece, and Sinclair stared at me in amazement. I feverishly rang exchange, only to be told that the connection was broken and that they could get no reply.
“What the devil is it, man?” cried Sinclair, getting a grip on my arm. “You’ll wake the whole bally house in a moment.”
A little incoherently I told him what I’d heard, and in an instant the whole look of his face changed. How often in the next few weeks did I see just that same change in the expression of all that amazing gang led by Drummond, when something that necessitated action and suggested danger occurred. But at the moment that was future history: the present concerned that agonised cry for help from the man with whom I had just dined.
“You know his house?” said Sinclair.
“Down in Kensington,” I answered.
“Got a weapon of any sort?”
I rummaged in my desk and produced a Colt revolver—a relic of my Army days.
“Good,” he cried. “Stuff some ammunition in your pocket, and we’ll get a move on.”
“But there’s no necessity for you to come,” I expostulated.
“Go to hell,” he remarked tersely, and jammed his top hat on his head. “This is the sort of thing I love. Old Hugh will turn pea-green with jealousy tomorrow when he hears.”
We were hurtling West in a taxi, and my thoughts were too occupied with what we were going to find at the other end to inquire whom old Hugh might be. There was but little traffic—the after-supper congestion had not begun—and in less than ten minutes we pulled up outside Robin’s house.
“Wait here,” said Toby to the taxi-driver. “And if you hear or see nothing of us within five minutes, drive like blazes and get a policeman.”
“Want any help now, sir?” said the driver excitedly.
“Good lad!” cried Sinclair. “But I think not. Safer to have someone outside. We’ll shout if we do.”
The house was in complete darkness, as were those on each side. The latter fact was not surprising, as a “To be Sold” notice appeared in front of each of them.
“You know his rooms, don’t you?” said Sinclair. “Right! Then what I propose is this. We’ll walk straight in as if we’re coming to look him up. No good hesitating. And for the love of Allah don’t use that
