“They aren’t on Allen,” Blane said. They weren’t found here this afternoon, so they must——”
Two things are possible,” interrupted Rollison judicially. “Either Allen has hidden them in a safe place, or he never had them.”
“He had them all right!”
“As you’re so sure, where did he get them from?”
“I—I don’t know,” muttered Blane. He drew back, as if frightened of being hurt again. “I don’t know! I was told——”
“Who told you?”
“The Boss!”
“So the Boss told you,” said Rollison, shaking his head. “When in doubt, invent an all-powerful Boss and blame everything on to him, as with Cabinet Ministers.
“It’s true!” gasped Blane. “I’ve told you the truth, the Boss——”
“Who is this gentleman?”
“Well, well, isn’t that a remarkable thing,” marvelled Rollison. The Boss gives you orders and sends you out with a knife, and knows everything about Bob Allen and the mysterious diamonds, but you don’t even know the Boss’s name.”
He struck out with the brush.
Blane kicked at his groin, letting fly with all his strength, but Rollison moved again with bewildering speed, grabbed Blane’s ankle and thrust his leg aside. Blane crashed—the loudest crash of all.
“You hurt yourself that time,” said Rollison mildly. “Whichever way you move you’re bound to get hurt—one way more badly than another. Now, Harold!”
He yanked the man to his feet, pushed him into an easy chair, and demanded with deceptive gentleness:
“Who sent you here?”
Blane didn’t answer, but was desperately frightened now. His lips twitched, he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Barbara broke across his words with a startled cry, Blane glanced towards the door. Rollison backed swiftly away—and saw another man standing on the threshold, gripping a walking stick in his right hand.
CHAPTER FIVE
“BOB!” cried Barbara, and jumped from the bed, sending Blane’s possessions flying about the floor. “Bob !”
There was anguish in her cry.
It was understandable, Allen’s face was bruised and scratched, there was an ugly cut on his forehead, and his clothes were torn. Although his eyes were glittering and he held the walking-stick as if it were a weapon, his mouth was wide open, and he breathed laboriously; he must have held his breath to keep silent while coming across the hall.
“Bob!”
“Keep away!” gasped Allen. “Don’t——”
Blane jumped out of his chair.
“Get me out of here!” he rasped. “If you don’t, you know what’s coming to you. Get me out!”
“We’ve different ideas about that,” said Rollison. “You stay where you are. Allen, I’m——”
“I don’t give a hoot in hell what you are,” growled Allen, motioning to Blane. “Get out—I’m not stopping you.”
“Now, Allen!” began Rollison.
“Bob—” Barbara’s voice broke.
Allen glared at his wife and advanced a step into the room, raising the stick threateningly. Blane went towards the door, watching Rollison out of the corner of his eyes. Suddenly he made a dive—for the knife, which was still on the bed. Rollison shot out a hand and pushed him away, then tossed the sheet over the knife.
Blane hesitated, and Allen shouted:
“Get out, you fool!”
“Allen——” began Rollison.
“Shut your mouth !” roared Allen, and when Rollison grabbed at Blane, he struck out with the stick. The carved handle caught Rollison on the shoulder. Barbara cried: “Bob, don’t!” but Allen pushed Rollison aside. Blane paused on the threshold, then turned and disappeared.
The front door slammed.
“Oh, you’re mad!” gasped Barbara. “Bob, you’re crazy!”
