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Title: The Final Count
Author: Sapper [McNeile, Herman Cyril] (1888-1937)
Date of first publication: 1926
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1952
   ["Bull-dog Drummond, his four rounds with Carl Peterson":
   omnibus, first published in 1929, containing the first
   four novels in the series, of which The Final Count is
   the fourth.]
Date first posted: 25 November 2015
Date last updated: 25 November 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1286

This ebook was produced by Al Haines and Mark Akrigg


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

In Chapter 4, we have corrected
"in the case of the Australian--David Gayton"
to "in the case of the Australian--David Ganton".

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






  THE FINAL COUNT

  by Cyril McNeile ("Sapper")




CONTENTS

Introduction

  1. In which I hear a cry in the night
  2. In which I meet Hugh Drummond
  3. In which some excellent advice is followed
  4. In which Hugh Drummond discovers a new aunt
  5. In which we pay the aunt an informal visit
  6. In which we get a message from Robin Gaunt
  7. In which I appear to become irrelevant
  8. In which we come to Black Mine
  9. In which we are entertained strangely in Black Mine
  10. In which we read the narrative of Robin Gaunt
  11. In which we read the diary of Robin Gaunt
  12. In which the final count takes place
  13. In which I lay down my pen




Introduction

In endeavouring to put before the public for the first time the truth
concerning the amazing happenings of the summer of 1927, I feel myself
to be at a disadvantage.  In the first place I am no story-teller; so
maybe my presentation of the facts will fail to carry conviction.  Nay,
further: it is more than likely that what I am about to write down will
be regarded as a tissue of preposterous lies.  And yet to those who
condemn me offhand I would say one thing.  Take the facts as you know
them, and as they appeared in the newspapers, and try to account for
them in any other way.  You may say that in order to write a
book--gain, perhaps, a little cheap notoriety--I have taken the ravings
of a madman around which to build a fantastic and ridiculous story.
You are welcome to your opinion.  I can do no more than tell you what I
know: I cannot make you believe me.

In one respect, however, I feel that I am in a strong position: my own
part was a comparatively small one.  And it is therefore from no reason
of self-aggrandisement that I write.  To one man, and one man only, is
praise and honour due, and that is the man who led us--Hugh Drummond.
But if unbelievers should go to him for confirmation, it is more than
probable they will be disappointed.  He will burble at them genially,
knock them senseless with a blow of greeting on the back, and then
resuscitate them with a large tankard of ale.  And the doubter may well
be pardoned for continuing to doubt: I, myself, when I first met
Drummond was frankly incredulous as to his capabilities of being
anything but a vast and good-natured fool.  I disbelieved, politely,
the stories his friends told me about him: to be candid, his friends
were of very much the same type as himself.  There were four of them
whom I got to know intimately: Algy Longworth, a tall young man with a
slight drawl and an eyeglass; Peter Darrell, who usually came home with
the milk each morning, but often turned out to play cricket for
Middlesex; Ted Jerningham, who fell in love with a different girl
daily; and finally Toby Sinclair, who was responsible for introducing
me into the circle.

Finally, there was Drummond himself, of whom a few words of description
may not be amiss.  He stood just six feet in his socks, and turned the
scales at over fourteen stone.  And of that fourteen stone not one
ounce was made up of superfluous fat.  He was hard muscle and bone
clean through, and the most powerful man I have ever met in my life.
He was a magnificent boxer, a lightning and deadly shot with a
revolver, and utterly lovable.  Other characteristics I discovered
later: his complete absence of fear (though that seemed common to all
of them); his cool resourcefulness in danger: and his marvellous gift
of silent movement, especially in the dark.

But those traits, as I say, I only found out later: just at first he
seemed to me to be a jovial, brainless creature who was married to an
adorable wife.

It was his face and his boxing abilities that had caused him to be
nicknamed Bulldog.  His mouth was big, and his nose was small, and he
would not have won a prize at a beauty show.  In fact, it was only his
eyes--clear and steady with a permanent glint of lazy humour in
them--that redeemed his face from positive ugliness.

So much, then, for Hugh Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., who was destined to
play the leading part in the events of that summer, and to meet again,
and for the last time, the devil in human form who was our arch-enemy.
And though it is not quite in chronological order, yet I am tempted to
say a few words here concerning that monstrous criminal.  Often in the
earlier stages of our investigations did I hear Drummond mention his
name--a name which conveyed nothing to me, but which required no
explanation to the others or to his wife.  And one day I asked him
point blank what he meant.

He smiled slightly, and a dreamy look came into his eyes.

"What do I mean, by saying that I seem to trace the hand of Carl
Peterson?  I'll tell you.  There is a man alive in this world
to-day--at least he's alive as far as I know--who might have risen to
any height of greatness.  He is possessed of a stupendous brain,
unshakable nerve, and unlimited ambition.  There is a kink, however, in
his brain, which has turned him into an utterly unscrupulous criminal.
To him murder means no more than the squashing of a wasp means to you."

He looked at me quietly.

"Understand me: that remark is the literal truth.  Three times in the
past have he and I met: I'm just wondering if this will prove to be the
fourth; if, way back at the foundation of this ghastly affair, there
sits Carl Peterson, or Edward Blackton, or the Comte de Guy, or
whatever he calls himself, directing, controlling, organizing
everything.  I haven't seen him now or heard of him for three years,
and as I say--I wonder."

At the time, of course, it was Greek to me; but now that the thing is
over and the terror is finished, it may be of interest to those who
read to know before I start what we did not know at the time: to know
that fighting against us with every force at his command was that
implacable devil whom I will call Carl Peterson.

I say, we did not know it, but I feel that I must mitigate that
statement somewhat.  Looking back now I think---and Drummond himself
admits it--that deep down in his mind there was a feeling almost of
certainty that he was up against Peterson.  He had no proof: he says
that it was just a guess without much foundation--but he was convinced
that it was so.  And it was that conviction that kept him at it during
those weary weeks in London when all traces seemed to be lost.  For if
he had relaxed then, as we others did: if he had grown bored, thinking
that all was over, a thing would have occurred unparalleled in the
annals of crime.

But enough of this introduction: I will begin my story.  And in telling
it I shall omit nothing: even at the risk of boring my readers I shall
give in their proper place extracts from the newspapers of the day
which dealt with that part of the affair which is already known to the
public.  If there is to be a record, let it be a complete one.




1

  In which I hear a cry
  in the night

It was on a warm evening towards the end of April, 1927, that the first
act took place, though it is safe to say that there has never been any
connection in the public mind up till this day between it and what came
after.  I was dining at Prince's with Robin Gaunt, a young and
extremely brilliant scientist, and a very dear friend of mine.  We had
been at school together and at Cambridge; and though we had lost sight
of one another during the war, the threads of friendship had been
picked up again quite easily at the conclusion of that foolish
performance.  I had joined the Gunners, whilst he, somewhat naturally,
had gravitated towards the Royal Engineers.  For a year or two,
doubtless bearing in mind his really extraordinary gifts, the powers
that be ordained that he should make roads, a form of entertainment of
which he knew less than nothing.  And Robin smiled thoughtfully and
made roads.  At least he did so officially: in reality he did other
things, whilst a sergeant with a penchant for rum superintended the
steam roller.  And then one day came a peremptory order from G.H.Q.
that Lieutenant Robin Gaunt, R.E., should cease making roads, and
should report himself at the seats of the mighty at once.  And Robin,
still smiling thoughtfully, reported himself.  As I have said, he had
been doing other things during that eighteen months, and the fruits of
his labours, sent direct and not through the usual official channels,
lay on the table in front of the man to whom he reported.

From then on Robin became a mysterious and shadowy figure.  I met him
once on the leave boat going home, but he was singularly
uncommunicative.  He was always a silent sort of fellow, though on the
rare occasions when he chose to talk he could be brilliant.  But during
that crossing he was positively taciturn.

He looked ill and I told him so.

"Eighteen hours a day, old John, for eleven months on end.  That's what
I've been doing, and I'm tired."

He lit a cigarette and stared over the water.

"Can you take it easy now?" I asked him.

He gave a weary little smile.

"If you mean by that, have I finished, then I can--more or less.  But
if you mean, can I take it easy from a mental point of view, God knows.
I'll not have to work eighteen hours a day any more, but there are
worse things than physical exhaustion."

And suddenly he laid his hand on my arm.

"I know they're Huns," he said tensely: "I know it's just one's bounden
duty to use every gift one has been given to beat 'em.  But, damn it,
John--they're men too.  They go back to their womenkind, just as all
these fellows on this boat are going back to theirs."

He paused, and I thought he was going to say something more.  But he
didn't: he just gave a short laugh and led the way through the crowd to
the bar.

"A drink, John, and forget what I've been saying."

That was in July '18, and I didn't see him again till after the
Armistice.  We met in London, and at lunch I started pulling his leg
over his eighteen hours' work a day.  He listened with a faint smile,
and for a long while refused to be drawn.  And it was only when the
waiter went off to get change for the bill that he made a remark which
for many months stuck in my mind.

"There are a few things in my life that I'm thankful for, John," he
said quietly.  "And the one that I'm most thankful for is that the
Boches broke when they did.  For if they hadn't..."

"Well--if they hadn't?"

"There wouldn't have been any Boches left to break."

"And a damned good thing, too," I exclaimed.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"They're men too, as I said before.  However, in Parliamentary parlance
the situation does not arise.  Wherefore, since it's Tuesday to-day and
Wednesday to-morrow, we might have another brandy."

And with that the conversation closed.  Periodically during the next
few months that remark of his came back to my mind.

"There wouldn't have been any Boches left to break."

An exaggeration, of course: a figure of speech, and yet Robin Gaunt was
not given to the use of vain phrases.  Years of scientific training had
made him meticulously accurate in his use of words; and, certainly, if
one-tenth of the wild rumours that circulated round the military
Hush-Hush department was true, there might be some justification for
his remark.  But after a time I forgot all about it, and when Robin
alluded to the matter at dinner on that evening in April I had to rack
my brains to remember what he was talking about.

I'd suggested a play, but he had shaken his head.

"I've an appointment, old man, to-night, which I can't break.  Remember
my eighteen hours' work a day that you were so rude about?"

It took me a second or two to get the allusion.

"Great Scott!" I laughed, "that was the war to end war, my boy.  To
make the world safe for heroes to live in, with further slush _ad
nauseam_.  You don't mean to say that you are still dabbling in
horrors?"

"Not exactly, John," he said gravely.  "When the war was over I put the
whole of that part of my life behind me.  I hoped, as most of us did,
that a new era had dawned: now I realize, as all of us realize, that
we've merely gone back a few centuries.  You know as well as I do that
it is merely a question of time before the hatred of Germany for France
boils up and cannot be restrained.  Any thinking German will tell you
so.  Don't let's worry about whose fault it is; we're concerned more
with effects than causes.  But when it does happen, there will be a war
which for unparalleled ferocity has never before been thought of.
Don't let's worry as to whether we go in, or on whose side we go in:
those are problems that don't concern us.  Let us merely realize that
primitive passions are boiling and seething in Europe, backed by
inventions which are the last word in science.  Force is the sole
arbiter to-day: force and blazing hate, covered for diplomacy's sake
with a pitifully thin veneer of honeyed phrases.  I tell you, John,
I've just come back from Germany and I was staggered, simply staggered.
The French desire for revanche in 1870 compared to German feeling
to-day is as a tallow dip to the light of the sun."

He lit a cigar thoughtfully.

"However, all that is neither here nor there.  Concentrate on that one
idea, that force is the only thing that counts to-day: concentrate also
on the idea that frightfulness in war is inevitable.  I've come round
to that way of thinking, you know.  The more the thing drags on, the
more suffering and sorrow to the larger number.  Wherefore, pursuing
the argument to a logical conclusion, it seems to me that it might be
possible to arm a nation with a weapon so frightful, that by its very
frightfulness war would be impossible because no other country would
dare to fight."

"Frightfulness only breeds frightfulness," I remarked.  "You'll always
get counter-measures."

"Not always," he said slowly.  "Not always."

"But what's your idea, Robin?  What nation would you put in possession
of such a weapon--granting for the moment that the weapon is there?"

He looked at me surprised.  It was a silly remark, but I was thinking
of France and Germany.

"My dear old man--our own, of course.  Who else?  The policeman of the
world.  Perhaps America too: the English-speaking peoples.  Put them in
such a position, John, that they can say, should the necessity
arise--'You shall not fight.  You shall not again blacken the world
with the hideous suffering of 1914.  And since we can't prevent you
fighting by words, we'll do it by force.'"

His eyes were gleaming, and I stared at him curiously.  That he was in
dead earnest was obvious, but the whole thing seemed to me to be
preposterous.

"You can't demonstrate the frightfulness of any weapon, my dear
fellow," I objected, "unless you go to war yourself.  So what the devil
is the good of it anyway?"

"Then, if necessary, go to war.  Go to war for one day--against both of
them.  And at the end of that day say to them--'Now will you stop?  If
you don't, the same thing will happen to you to-morrow, and the next
day, and the next, until you do!'"

"But what will happen to them?" I cried.

"Universal, instantaneous death over as large or as small an area as is
desired."

I think it was at that moment that I first began to entertain doubts as
to Robin's sanity.  Not that people dining near would have noticed
anything amiss with him: his voice was low-pitched and quiet.  But the
whole idea was so utterly far-fetched and fantastic that I couldn't
help wondering if his brilliant brain hadn't crossed that tiny bridge
which separates genius from insanity.  I knew the hideous loathing he
had always felt for war: was it possible that continual brooding on the
idea had unhinged him?

"It was ready at Armistice time," he continued, "but not in its present
form.  To-day 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 realize that that is impossible.  At the
moment there is only one other being in this world who knows my
secret--the great-hearted 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.  To-night I am meeting
him again--I haven't seen him for three months--to tell him that I've
succeeded.  And to-morrow 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 his 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 agonized 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 to-morrow 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 gun
unless it's necessary."

The front door was not bolted, and for a moment or two we stood
listening in the tiny hall.  The silence was absolute, and a light from
a lamp outside shining through a window showed us the stairs.

"His rooms are on the first floor," I whispered.

"Then let's go and have a look at 'em," answered Toby.

With the revolver in my hand I led the way.  One or two stairs creaked
loudly, and I heard Sinclair cursing under his breath at the noise.
But no one appeared, and as we stood outside the door of Robin's
sitting-room and laboratory combined, the only sound was our own
breathing.

"Come on, old man," said Toby.  "The longer we leave it the less we'll
like it.  I'll open the door, and you cover anyone inside with your
gun."

With a quick jerk he flung the door wide open, and we both stood there
peering into the room.  Darkness again and silence just like the rest
of the house.  But there was one thing different: a faint, rather
bitter smell hung about in the air.

I groped for the switch and found it, and we stood blinking in the
sudden light.  Then we moved cautiously forward and began an
examination.

In the centre of the room stood the desk, littered, as usual, with an
untidy array of books and papers.  The telephone stood on one corner of
it, and I couldn't help thinking of that sudden anguished cry for help
that had been shouted down it less than a quarter of an hour before.
If only it could speak and tell us what had happened!

"Good Lord!  Look at that," muttered Toby.  "It's blood, man: the place
is running in blood."

It was true.  Papers were splashed with it, and a little trickle oozed
sluggishly off the desk on to the carpet.

The curtains were drawn, and suddenly Toby picked up a book and hurled
it at them.

"One of Drummond's little tricks," he remarked.  "If there's anyone
behind you can spot it at once, and with luck you may hit him in the
pit of the stomach."

But there was no one there: there was no one in the room at all.

"Where's that door lead to?" he asked.

"Gaunt's bedroom," I answered, and we repeated the performance.

We looked under the bed, and in the cupboard: not a sign of anybody.
The bed was turned down ready for the night, with his pyjamas laid in
readiness, and in the basin stood a can of hot water covered with a
towel.  But of Robin or anyone else there was no trace.

"Damned funny," said Toby, as we went back into the sitting-room.

"What's that scratching noise?"

It came from behind the desk, and suddenly a little short-tailed,
tawny-coloured animal appeared.

"Holy smoke!" cried Toby, "it's a guinea-pig.  And there's another of
'em, Stockton: dead."

Sure enough a little black one was lying rigid and stretched out close
to the desk.

"Better not touch it," I said warningly.  "Leave everything as it is."

And then a thought struck Toby.

"Look here, Stockton, he can't have been whispering down the 'phone.
Isn't there anyone else in the house who would have heard him?"

"There is no other lodger," I said.  "His landlady is probably down
below in the basement, but she's stone deaf.  She's so deaf that Gaunt
used generally to write things down for her in preference to talking."

"I think we ought to see the old trout, don't you?" he said, and I went
over and rang the bell.

"She may or may not hear it," I remarked, as we waited.  "Incidentally,
what on earth is this strange smell?"

Sinclair shook his head.

"Search me.  Though from the look of those bottles and test-tubes and
things I assume your pal was a chemist."

A creaking on the stairs, accompanied by the sounds of heavy breathing,
announced that the bell had been heard, and a moment later the landlady
appeared.  She stared at us suspiciously until she recognized me, which
seemed to reassure her somewhat.

"Good-evening," I roared.  "Have you seen Mr. Gaunt to-night?"

"I ain't seen him since yesterday morning," she announced.  "But that
ain't nothing peculiar.  Sometimes I don't see 'im for a week at a
time."

"Has he been in the house here since dinner?" I went on.

"I dunno, sir," she said.  "He comes and he goes, does Mr. Gaunt, with
'is own key.  And since 'e pays regular, I puts up with 'im in spite of
all those 'errors and chemicals and things.  I even puts up with 'is
dog, though it does go and cover all the chairs with white 'airs."

"Dog," said Toby thoughtfully.  "He'd a dog, had he?"

"A wire-haired terrier called Joe," I said.  "Topping little beast."

"Then I wonder where the dickens it is?" he remarked.  "Good Lord!
what's all that?"

From the hall below came the sound of many footsteps, and the voice of
our taxi-driver.

"This will give the old dame a fit," said Toby with a grin.  "I'd
forgotten all about our instructions to that stout-hearted Jehu."

There were two policemen and the driver who came crowding into the room
amidst the scandalized protests of the landlady.

"Five minutes was up, sir, so I did as you told me," said the driver.

"Splendid fellow," cried Toby.  "It's all right, constable: that
revolver belongs to my friend."

The policeman, who had picked it up suspiciously from the desk,
transferred his attention to me.

"What's all the trouble, sir?" he said.  "Don't be alarmed, mother: no
one's going to hurt you."

"She's deaf," I told him, and he bellowed in her ear to reassure her.

And then, briefly, I told the two constables exactly what had happened.
I told them what I knew of Gaunt's intentions after he had left me, of
the cry for help over the telephone, and of our subsequent movements.
The only thing I did not feel it incumbent on me to mention was the
object of his meeting with the Australian.  I felt that their stolid
brains would hardly appreciate the matter, so I left it at business.

"Quarter of an hour you say, sir, before you got here.  You're sure it
was your friend's voice you heard?"

"Positive," I answered.  "Absolutely positive.  He had an unmistakable
voice, and I knew him very well."

And at that moment from the window there came a startled exclamation.
The second constable had pulled the curtains, and he was standing there
staring at the floor.

"Gaw lumme," he remarked.  "Look at that."

We looked.  Lying on the floor, stone dead, and twisted into a terrible
attitude, was Robin's terrier.  We crowded round staring at the poor
little chap, and it seemed to me that the strange smell had become much
stronger.

Suddenly there came a yell of pain, and one of the policemen, who had
bent forward to touch the dog, started swearing vigorously and rubbing
his fingers.

"The little beggar is burning hot," he cried.  "Like touching a red-hot
coal."

He looked at his finger, and then there occurred one of the most
terrible things I have ever seen.  Literally before our eyes the
fingers with which he had touched the dog twisted themselves into
knots: then the hand: then the arm.  And a moment later he crashed to
the ground as if he'd been pole-axed, and lay still.

I don't know if my face was like the others, but they were all as white
as a sheet.  It was so utterly unexpected, so stunningly sudden.  At
one moment he had been standing there before us, a great, big, jovial,
red-faced man: the next he was lying on the carpet staring at the
ceiling with eyes that would never see again.

"Don't touch him," said a hoarse voice which I dimly recognized as my
own.  "For God's sake, don't touch him.  The poor devil is dead,
anyway."

The other policeman, who had gone down on his knees beside the body,
looked up stupidly.  Ordinary accidents, even straightforward murder,
would not have shaken him, but this was something outside his ken.

"I don't understand, sir," he muttered.  "What killed him?"

"He was killed because he touched that dead dog," said Sinclair
gravely.  "We can none of us tell any more than that, officer.  And
this gentleman is afraid that if you touch him the same thing may
happen to you."

"But it's devil's work," cried the constable, getting dazedly to his
feet.  "It ain't human."

For a while we stood there staring at the dead man, while the landlady
rocked hysterically in a chair with her apron over her head.  Of the
four of us only I had the remotest idea as to what must have happened:
to the others it must have seemed not human, as the policeman had said.
And even to me with my additional knowledge the thing was almost beyond
comprehension.

Robin's wonderful invention; the strange smell which seemed to be
growing less, or else I was getting accustomed to it; the dead dog,
from which the smell obviously came; and finally the dead policeman,
were all jumbled together in my mind in hopeless confusion.  That Joe
had been killed by this damnable thing his master had perfected was
fairly obvious; but why in Heaven's name should Robin have killed a dog
whom he adored?  The guinea-pig I could understand--but not Joe.

"It looks as you say, constable, like devil's work," I said at length.
"But since we know that that does not happen we can only conclude that
the devil in this case is human.  And I think the best thing to do is
to ring up Scotland Yard and get somebody in authority here at once.
This has become a little above our form."

"I agree," said Sinclair soberly.  "Distinctly above our form."

The constable went to the telephone, and the taxi-driver stepped
forward.

"If it's all the same to you, gents," he said, "I think I'll wait in
the cab outside.  I kind of feel safer in the fresh air."

"All right, driver," said Sinclair.  "But don't go away: they'll
probably want your evidence as well as ours."

"Inspector MacIver coming at once, sir," said the constable, replacing
the receiver with a sigh of relief.  "And until he comes I, think we
might as well wait downstairs.  Come along, mother: there ain't no good
your carrying on like that."

He supported the old landlady from the room, and when we had joined him
in the passage he shut and locked the door and slipped the key in his
pocket.  And then, having sent her down to her basement, we three sat
down to wait for the inspector.

"Cigarette, bobby?" said Sinclair, holding out his case.  "Helps the
nerves."

"Thank you, sir: I don't mind if I do.  It's fair shook me, that has.
I've seen men killed most ways in my time--burned, drowned, hung--not
to say nothing of three years in the war; but I've never seen the like
of that before.  For 'im just to go and touch that there dead dog, and
be dead 'imself."  He looked at us diffidently.  "Have you got any
idea, gentlemen, as to what it is that's done it?"

"It's some ghastly form of poison, constable," I said.  "Of that I'm
pretty certain.  But what it is, I know no more than you.  Mr. Gaunt
was a marvellous chemist."

"A damned sight too marvellous," said the policeman savagely.  "If it's
'im what's done it I'm thinking he'll find himself in Queer Street when
he comes back."

"I think it's _if_ he comes back," I said.  "There's been foul play
here--not only with regard to that dog, but also with regard to Mr.
Gaunt.  He idolized that terrier: nothing will induce me to believe
that it was he who killed Joe.  Don't forget that cry for help over the
telephone.  Look at all that blood.  It's my firm belief that the clue
to the whole mystery lies in the Australian gentleman whom he was going
to meet to-night.  He left me at Prince's to do so.  Find that man, and
you'll find the solution."

"Have you any idea what he looks like?" asked Toby.

"That's the devil of it," I answered.  "I haven't the slightest.  All I
can tell you is that he must be a fairly wealthy man who had two sons
killed in Gallipoli."

The policeman nodded his head portentously.

"The Yard has found men with less to go on than that, sir," he
remarked.  "Very likely he'll be putting up at one of the swell hotels."

"And very likely he won't," put in Toby.  "If what Mr. Stockton thinks
is right, and this unknown Australian is at the bottom of it all,
stopping at one of the big hotels is just what he wouldn't do.
However, there's a taxi, so presumably it's the Inspector."

The constable hurriedly extinguished his cigarette, and went to the
front door to meet MacIver.  He was a short, thick-set, powerful man
with a pair of shrewd penetrating eyes.  He gave a curt nod to each of
us, and listened in silence while I again repeated my story.  This time
I told it a little more fully, emphasizing the fact that Robin Gaunt
was at any rate under the impression that he had made a far-reaching
discovery which would revolutionize warfare.

"What sort of a discovery?" interrupted MacIver.

"I can't tell you, Inspector," I said, "for I don't know.  He was
employed during the war as a gas expert, and when the Armistice came he
had, I believe, invented a particularly deadly form which, of course,
was never used.  And from what he told me at dinner to-night, this
invention was now perfected.  He described it to me as causing
universal, instantaneous death."

The Inspector fidgeted impatiently: imagination was not his strong
point, and I admit it sounded a bit fanciful.

"He left me to come and interview an Australian who has helped him
financially.  His idea was that the appalling power of this discovery
of his could be used to prevent warfare in future, if it was in the
sole hands of one nation.  He thought that no other nation would then
dare to go to war.  And his intention was to demonstrate before the
Army Council to-morrow, with the idea that England might be that one
nation.  That is what he told me this evening.  How far his claims were
justified I don't know.  What his discovery was I don't know.  But two
things I do know: first, that Robin Gaunt is a genius, and second, that
his claim can be no more fantastic than what we all of us saw take
place before our very eyes half an hour ago."

MacIver grunted and rose from his chair.

"Let's go and have a look."

The constable led the way, and once again we entered the room upstairs.
Everything was just as we had left it: the dead man still stared
horribly at the ceiling: the terrier still lay a little twisted heap in
the window: the blood still dripped sluggishly off the desk.  But the
strange smell we had noticed was considerably less powerful, though the
Inspector noticed it at once and sniffed.  Then with the method born of
long practice he commenced his examination of the room.  And it was an
education in itself to see him work.  He never spoke; and at the end of
ten minutes not a corner had been overlooked.  Every drawer had been
opened, every paper examined and discarded, and the net result
was--nothing.

"A very extraordinary affair," he said quietly.  "I take it you knew
Mr. Gaunt fairly intimately?"

He looked at me and I nodded.

"Very intimately," I answered.  "We were at school together, and at
college, and I've frequently seen him since."

"And you have no idea, beyond what you have already told me, as to what
this discovery of his was?"

"None.  But I should imagine, Inspector, in view of his appointment
with the Army Council to-morrow, that someone at the War Office may be
able to tell you something."

"It is, of course, possible that he will keep that appointment," said
MacIver.  "Though I admit I'm not hopeful."

His eyes were fixed on the dead dog.

"That's what beats me particularly," he remarked.  "Why kill the
terrier?  A possible hypothesis is that he didn't: that the dog was
killed accidentally.  Let us, for instance, imagine for a moment that
your friend was experimenting with this device of his.  The dead
guinea-pig bears that out.  Then some accident occurred.  I make no
attempt to say what accident, because we have no idea as to the nature
of the device.  He lost his head, snatched up the telephone, got
through to you--and then, realizing the urgent danger, rushed from the
room, forgetting all about the dog.  And the dog was killed."

"But surely," I objected, "under those circumstances we should find
some trace of apparatus.  And there's nothing.  And why all that blood?"

"He might have snatched it up when he left, and thrown it away
somewhere."

"He might," I agreed.  "But I can't help thinking, Inspector, that it
is more sinister than that.  If I may say so, I believe that what
happened is this.  The Australian whom he was going to meet was not an
Australian at all.  He was possibly a German or some foreigner, who was
deeply interested in this device, and who had deceived Gaunt
completely.  He came here to-night, and overpowered Gaunt: then he
carried out a test on the dog, and found that it acted.  After that he,
probably with the help of accomplices, removed Gaunt, either with the
intention of murdering him at leisure, or of keeping him a prisoner."

"Another hypothesis," agreed the Inspector, "but it presents one very
big difficulty, Mr. Stockton.  Your friend must have suspected foul
play when he rang you up on the telephone.  Now you're on a different
exchange, and it must have taken, on a conservative estimate, a quarter
of a minute to get through.  Are we to assume that during those fifteen
seconds this Australian, or whatever he is, and his accomplices stood
around and looked at Mr. Gaunt doing the one thing they didn't want him
to do--getting in touch with the outside world?"

It was perfectly true, and I admit the point had not struck me.  And
yet in the bottom of my mind I still felt convinced that in the
Australian lay the clue to everything, and I said as much.

"Find that man, Inspector," I repeated, "and you've solved it.  There
are difficulties, I know, of which not the least is the telephone.
Another is the fact that Gaunt is a powerful man: he'd have struggled
like a tiger.  And except for the blood there's no sign of a struggle."

"They may have tidied up after," put in Toby.  "Hullo! what's the
matter, constable?"

The policeman, who, unnoticed by us, had left the room, was standing in
the door, obviously much shaken.

"This affair gets worse and worse, sir," he said to MacIver.  "Will you
just step over the passage here, and have a look in this room?"

We crowded after him into the room opposite--one which belonged to the
corresponding suite to Robin's.  Instantly the same faint smell became
noticeable, but it was not that which riveted our attention.  Lying on
the floor was a man, and we could see at a glance that he was dead.  He
was a great big fellow, and his clothes bore witness to the most
desperate struggle.  His coat was torn, his waistcoat ripped open, and
there was a dark purple bruise on his forehead.  But in the strange
rigidity of his limbs, and in the fixed staring eyes, he resembled
exactly the unfortunate constable in the room opposite.

A foot or so away from his head was a broadish-brimmed hat, and MacIver
turned it over with his foot.  Then he bent down to examine it.

"I'm thinking, Mr. Stockton," he remarked grimly, "that we've done what
you wanted to do.  We've found the Australian.  That hat was made in
Sydney."

He whistled softly under his breath.

"And that effectively knocks both our hypotheses out of court."

He made a sudden dart into the corner.

"Constable, give me those tongs.  I guess I'm not touching anything I
can avoid in this house to-night."

He took the tongs and lifted up what appeared to be an indiarubber
glove.  It was a sort of glazed white in colour, and was obviously new,
since the elastic band which fitted round the wrist was quite clean,
and there was no sign of scratches or dirt anywhere.

"Put this on the desk in the other room," said MacIver to the
policeman.  "And now we'll go over every single room in this house."

We did: we explored the attic and the basement, the sitting-rooms and
the scullery, and it was nearly three before we had finished.  But not
another thing did we discover: quite obviously everything that had
happened had occurred in those two rooms.  MacIver grew more and more
morose and uncommunicative, and it was obvious that he was completely
baffled.  Small blame to him: the whole thing seemed like the figment
of an incredible nightmare.

And even when Toby Sinclair put forward what seemed on the face of it
to be a fairly plausible explanation he merely grunted and expressed no
opinion.

"I'll bet you that that's what happened," Toby said, as, the search
concluded, we stood once again in Robin's room.  "The two of them were
in here--Gaunt and the Australian--when they were surprised by someone.
The Australian, whom we've suspected unjustly, fought like a tiger, and
gained just sufficient time for Gaunt to get through on the telephone.
Then they killed the Australian, and got at Gaunt.  Don't ask me to
explain the dog, for I can't."

It seemed plausible, as I say, and during the drive home behind our
patiently waiting taxi-driver, I could think of nothing better.  We'd
both been warned that our evidence would be required the following day,
and the constable, reinforced by another, had been left in possession
of the house.

"I believe you've hit it, Sinclair," I said, as the car turned into
Clarges Street.  "But what's worrying me is what has happened to that
poor devil Gaunt."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"If I am right, Stockton," he answered gravely, "I'm thinking I
wouldn't issue a policy on his life if I was in the insurance business.
In fact, what I don't understand is why they didn't kill him then and
there."

The car pulled up at the door of my rooms, and I gave the driver a
fiver.

"You've been splendid," I said, "and I'm much obliged to you."

"Don't mention it, sir," he answered.  "But I guess there's just one
thing you might like to know."

He pointed to a taxi which had just driven slowly past and was now
turning into Curzon Street.

"It's empty; but that there car was down in Kensington all to-night,
just about a 'undred yards along the road.  You two gents have been
followed."  He handed me a slip of paper.  "And that's the number of
the car."




2

In which I meet Hugh Drummond

I have purposely alluded at some length to that last conversation
between Robin Gaunt and myself at Prince's.  Apart altogether from the
fact that he was my friend, it is only fair that his true character
should be known.  At the time, it may be remembered, there were all
sorts of wild and malicious rumours going round about him.  From being
an absolutely unknown man as far as the general public was concerned,
he attained the notoriety of a popular film star.

It was inevitable, of course: the whole affair was so bizarre and
extraordinary that it captivated the popular fancy.  And the most
favourite explanation was the most unjust of all to Robin.  It was that
he was an old-blooded scientist who had been experimenting on his own
dog.  A sort of super-vivisectionist; a monster without a heart, who
had been interrupted in the middle of his abominable work by the
Australian, whom he had murdered in a fit of rage; and then, a little
alarmed at having killed a man as well as a dog and a guinea-pig, he
had rung me up on the telephone as a blind, and fled.

Apart from ignoring the question of the blood, it was ridiculous to
anyone who knew him, but there is no doubt that as an explanation of
what had occurred it was the one that had most adherents.  Certainly
the possibility of Robin having killed the Australian--it transpired
that he was one David Ganton, a wealthy man, who had been staying at
the Ritz---was entertained for a considerable time.  Until, in fact ...
But of that in due course.

I wish now to show how it was that theory started, and why it was that
at the inquest I made no mention of the conversation I have recorded.
For my lips were sealed by the interview which occurred the following
morning.  I was rung up on the telephone at eleven o'clock, and an
unknown voice spoke from the other end.

"Is that Mr. Stockton?  It is Major Jackson speaking.  I hope it won't
be inconvenient for you to come round at once to the War Office in
connection with the affair last night.  Ask for G branch, Room 38.
Instructions will be sent down, so you will have no delay at the door."

To Room 38, G Branch, I accordingly went, there to find four people
already assembled.  Seated at a desk was a tanned, keen-faced man who
had soldier written all over him; whilst standing against the
mantelpiece, smoking a cigarette was a younger man, whom I recognized,
as soon as he spoke, as the man who had rung me up.  The other two
consisted of Inspector MacIver and a thin-lipped man wearing pince-nez
whose face seemed vaguely familiar.

"Mr. Stockton?"  Major Jackson stepped forward and shook hands.  "This
is General Darton"--he indicated the man at the desk--"and this is Sir
John Dallas.  Inspector MacIver I think you know."

That was why Sir John's face had seemed familiar.  As soon as I heard
the name I remembered having seen his photograph in a recent copy of
the _Sphere_, as the author of an exhaustive book on toxicology.

"Sit down, Mr. Stockton," said the General, "and please smoke if you
want to.  You can guess, of course, the reason we have asked you to
come round...."

"I told him, sir," put in Major Jackson.

"Good!  Though I expect it was unnecessary.  Now, Mr. Stockton, we have
heard from Inspector MacIver an account of last night and what you told
him.  But we think it would be more satisfactory if we could hear it
from you first hand."

So once again I told them everything I knew.  I recalled as far as
possible, word for word, my conversation with Robin at dinner, and I
noticed that the two officers glanced at one another significantly more
than once.  But they listened in silence, save for one interruption
when I mentioned his notion of fighting indiscriminately against both
sides.

It was the General who smiled at that, and remarked that as an idea it
had at any rate the merit of novelty.

Then I went on and outlined what had happened up till the arrival of
the Inspector, paying, naturally, particular attention to the death of
the constable.  And it was at that point that Sir John spoke for the
first time.

"Did you happen to see what part of the dog the constable touched?" he
said.

"Roughly, I did, Sir John.  He laid his hand on the dog's ribs just
above the left shoulder."

He nodded as if satisfied.

"I thought as much.  Now another thing.  You saw this man die in front
of your eyes.  Did the manner of his death create any particular
impression on your brain apart from its amazing suddenness?"

"It produced the impression that he had acute pain spreading from his
fingers up his arm.  The whole arm seemed to twist and writhe, and then
he was dead."

And once again Sir John nodded as if satisfied.

"There is only one other point which I might mention," I concluded.
"The Inspector can tell you everything that happened while he was
there.  As we got out of our taxi in Clarges Street, another car drove
slowly by.  And our driver told us that it was the same car that had
been standing for hours about a hundred yards further down the road.
It was empty, and this is the number."  I handed the slip of paper to
MacIver, who glanced at it and gave a short laugh.  "It struck us both
that we might have been followed."

"This car was found deserted in South Audley Street this morning," he
said.  "Its rightful owner was arrested for being hopelessly drunk in
Peckham last night at about half-past nine.  And he swears by all his
gods that the only drink he'd had was one whisky-and-soda with a man
who was a stranger to him.  His car was standing in front of the pub at
the time, and he remembers nothing more till he woke up in his cell
with his boots off."

"That would seem to prove outside influence at work, Inspector," said
the General.

"Maybe, sir," said MacIver cautiously.  "Maybe not.  Though it does
point that way."

"But, good heavens, General," I cried, "surely there can be no doubt
about that.  What other possible solution can there be?"

For a moment or two he drummed with his fingers on the desk.

"That brings us, Mr. Stockton," he said gravely, "to the main reason
which made us ask you to come round here this morning.  We have decided
to take you into our confidence, and rely upon your absolute
discretion.  I feel sure we can do that."

"Certainly, sir," I said.

"In the first place, then, you must know that the Army Council regard
this as a most serious matter.  There is no doubt whatever that Gaunt
was a most brilliant man: his work during the war proved that.  But, as
you know yourself, the Armistice prevented any practical test.  And
there is a vast difference between theory and practice.  However, with
a man like that one is prepared to take a good deal on trust, and when
he asked to be allowed to give us a demonstration to-day we granted his
request at once.  I may say that at the time of the Armistice there
were still two points where his discovery failed.  The first and lesser
of the two lay in the stuff itself; the second and greater lay in the
method of distributing it.  In applying to us for his demonstration he
claimed to have overcome both these difficulties.

"At the time when the war ended it was, as you can guess, a very
closely guarded secret.  Not more than four men knew anything about it.
And then, the war over, and the necessity for its use no longer
existing, the whole thing was rather pigeon-holed.  In fact it was only
the day before yesterday, on the receipt of Gaunt's request, that the
matter was unearthed again.  Naturally we imagined that it was still
just as close a secret as ever.  The events of last night prove that it
cannot have been, unless my alternative theory should prove to be
correct.  And if that is so, Stockton, we are confronted with the
unpleasant fact that someone is in possession of this very dangerous
secret.  Even in its Armistice stage the matter would be serious
enough; but if Gaunt's claims are correct, words are inadequate to
express the dangers of the situation.  Now, as anyone who is in the
slightest degree in touch with the European pulse to-day knows, we are
living on the edge of a volcano.  And nothing must be done to start an
eruption.  Nothing, you understand.  All personal feelings must go to
the wall.  In a moment or two I shall ask Sir John to say a few words,
and from him you will realize that the first and lesser of the two
points has evidently been rectified by Gaunt.  What of the second and
greater one?  Until we know that, nothing must even be hinted at in the
papers as to the nature of the issues at stake.  And that brings me to
my point.  When you give your evidence at the inquest, Stockton, I want
you to obliterate from your mind the conversation you had with Gaunt
last night.  The whole force of Scotland Yard is being employed to try
and clear this thing up, and secrecy is essential.  And we therefore
rely entirely on your discretion and that of your friend, Mr. Sinclair."

"You can certainly rely on him, sir," I said.  "But what am I to say,
then?  I must give some explanation?"

"Precisely: you must give some explanation," he agreed.  "But before I
suggest to you what that explanation might be, I will ask Sir John to
run over once more the conclusions he has arrived at."

"They are quite obvious," said the celebrated toxicologist.  "As you
may be aware, the vast majority of poisons must either be swallowed or
injected to prove fatal.  With the first class we are not concerned,
but only with the second.  In this second class the primary necessity
is the introduction of the poison into a vein.  You may have the bite
of a snake, the use of a hypodermic syringe, or the prick of a poisoned
dart--each of which causes a definite puncture in the skin through
which the poison passes into a vein.  And in each of those cases the
puncture is caused mechanically--by the snake's fang, or the dart, as
the case may be.

"Now there is another tiny class of poisons--it is really a subdivision
of the second class--of which, frankly, we know very little.  Some
expert toxicologists are even inclined to dismiss them as legendary.
I'm not sure that I myself didn't belong to their number until this
morning.  Evidence is in existence--but it is not reliable--of the use
of these poisons by the Borgias, and by the Aztecs of Mexico.  They
were reputed to kill by mere external application, without the
necessity of a puncture in the skin.  They were supposed to generate
some strange shattering force, which killed the victim by shock.  Now
that is absurd: no poison can kill unless it reacts point-blank on the
heart.  In other words, a puncture is necessary, and this class
supplies its own punctures.

"You remember the policeman's last words--'The dog is burning hot.'
What he felt was a mass of small open blisters breaking out on his
hand, through which the poison passed into his veins and up his arm to
his heart.  Had he touched the dog anywhere else nothing would have
happened: as bad luck would have it he put his hand on the very spot
where the poison had been applied to the dog.

"So much is clear.  In all three cases that eruption of open blisters
is there: in the dog above its shoulder, in the policeman on his hand,
and in the case of the Australian on his right temple.  And excepting
in those places it is perfectly safe to touch the bodies.

"Now I was in that house at four o'clock this morning: the Inspector,
very rightly, judged that time was an important factor and called me
up.  I took down with me several guinea-pigs, and I carried out a
series of tests.  I held a guinea-pig against the danger spot in each
body, and the three guinea-pigs all died.  I did the same an hour
later.  The one I put against the dog died: the one I put against the
policeman's hand died, but the one I put on the Australian's forehead
did not.  It is possible that that means that the Australian was killed
some time before the dog: on the other hand, it may merely prove that
the dog's long coat retained the poison more effectively.  Finally, I
used three more guinea-pigs at six o'clock, and nothing happened to any
of them.

"My conclusions, therefore, are as follows: and, needless to say, they
concern only the poison itself and not what actually happened last
night.  Mr. Gaunt has discovered a poison which, judging from the few
tests I have carried out already, is unknown to science.  It kills
almost instantaneously when applied externally to the bare skin.  Its
effect lingers for some time, but only on the actual place on the body
where it was applied.  And after a lapse of seven or eight hours no
further trace of it remains.  As to the method of application, I can
give no positive opinion.  One thing, however, is clear: the person
using it would have to exercise the utmost caution.  If it is fatal to
his victim, it is equally fatal to the operator should it touch him.
It is, therefore, probable that the glove found on the floor was worn
by the man using the stuff.  And I put forward as a possible opinion
the idea of something in the nature of a garden syringe which could be
used to throw a jet in any required direction."

He paused and glanced at the General.

"I think that that is all I've got to say, except that I propose to
carry on with further experiments to see if I can isolate this poison.
But I confess that I'm not hopeful.  If I was able to obtain some of
the liquid neat I should be more confident, but I can only try my best."

"Thank you very much, Sir John," answered the soldier.  "Now, Stockton,
you see the position.  It seems pretty clear, as I said before, that
Gaunt has solved one difficulty, by perfecting the stuff: has he solved
the other as to the means of distribution?  A syringe such as Sir John
suggests may be deadly against an individual in a room; used by an army
in the field anything of that sort would be useless; just as after the
first surprise in the war, _flammenwerfer_ were useless.  Until we know
that second point, therefore, the less said about this matter the
better.  And so we come to what you are going to say.  It will be
distasteful to you, for Gaunt was your friend, but it is your plain and
obvious duty.  We are faced with the necessity of inventing a plausible
explanation, and the Inspector has suggested the following as filling
the bill."

And then he put forward the theory to which I have already alluded.  He
admitted that he didn't believe in it himself: he went so far as to say
that he wished to heaven he could.

"It will, of course, be unnecessary and undesirable for you to advance
this theory yourself," he concluded.  "All that is required of you is
that you should keep your mouth shut when it is advanced.  Because the
devil of it is, Stockton, that the signs of struggle on the Australian
preclude any idea of accident and subsequent loss of head on the part
of Gaunt."

For a time I sat in silence whilst they all stared at me.  To
deliberately allow one's pal to be branded as a murderer is not
pleasant.  But it was clear that there were bigger issues at stake than
that, and at length I rose.  What had to be, had to be.

"I quite understand, sir," I said.  "And I will get in touch with
Sinclair at once, and see that he says nothing."

"Good," said the General, holding out his hand.  "I knew I could rely
on you."

"Inquest to-morrow," put in MacIver.  "I'll notify you as to time and
place."

And with that I left and went in search of Toby Sinclair.  I found him
in his rooms consuming breakfast, whilst, seated in an easy-chair, with
his feet on the mantelpiece, was a vast man whom I had never seen
before.  It was my first meeting with Drummond.

"Hullo! old man: take a pew," cried Toby, waving half an impaled
sausage at a chair.  "That little fellow sitting opposite you is
Drummond.  I think I mentioned him to you last night."

"Morning," said Drummond, uncoiling himself and standing up.  We shook
hands, and I wished we hadn't.  "Hear you had some fun and games last
night."

"I've been telling him, Stockton, about our little effort," said
Sinclair, lighting a cigarette.

"Well, don't tell anyone else," I remarked.  "I've just come from the
War Office, and they're somewhat on the buzz.  In fact, they regard the
matter devilish seriously.  It's bound to come out, of course, that a
new and deadly form of poison was in action last night, but it's got to
rest at that."

I ran briefly over what General Darton and Sir John had said, and they
both listened without interruption.  And though it did not strike me
particularly at the time, one small fact made a subconscious impression
on my mind which subsequent knowledge of Drummond was to confirm.  As I
say, they both listened without interruption, but Drummond listened
without movement.  From the moment I started speaking till I'd finished
he sat motionless in his chair, with his eyes fixed on me, and I don't
believe he even blinked.

"What do you think of it, Hugh?" said Sinclair, after I'd finished.

"This beer ain't fit to drink, Toby.  That's what I think."  He rose
and strolled over to the window.  "Absolutely not fit to drink."

"Very interesting," I remarked sarcastically.  "The point is doubtless
of paramount importance, but may I ask you to be good enough to promise
me that what you've heard goes no farther.  The matter is somewhat
serious."

"The matter of this foul ale is a deuced sight more serious," he
answered genially.  "Toby, old lad, something will have to be done
about it.  In fact, something is going to be done about it now."

He strolled out of the room, and I looked at Sinclair in blank
amazement.

"What on earth is the man up to?" I said angrily.  "Does he think this
thing is a jest?"

Toby Sinclair was looking a bit surprised himself.

"You can never tell what old Hugh thinks," he began apologetically,
only to break off as a loud squealing noise was heard on the stairs.
And the next moment Drummond entered holding a small and very
frightened man by the ear.

"Foul beer, Toby," he remarked.  "Almost foul enough for this little
lump of intelligence to be made to drink as a punishment.  Now, rat
face, what excuse have you got to offer for living?"

"You let me go," whined his prisoner, "or I'll 'ave the perlice on yer."

"I think not, little man," said Drummond quietly.  "Anyway I'll chance
it.  Now who told you to watch this house?"

"I ain't watching it, governor: strite I ain't."

His shifty eyes were darting this way and that, looking for a way of
escape.

"I'm an honest man, I am, and--oh!  Gawd, guv'nor, lemme go.  You're
breaking my arm."

"I asked you a question, you little swine," said Drummond.  "And if you
don't answer it, I will break your arm.  And that thing you call a face
as well.  Now, who told you to watch this house?"

"A bloke wot I don't know," answered the man sullenly.  "'E promised me
'arf a quid if I did wot 'e told me."

"And what did he tell you to do?"

"Foller that there gent if he went out."  He pointed at Sinclair with a
grimy finger.  "Foller 'im and mark down where 'e went to."

"And how were you to recognize me?" asked Toby.

"'E showed me a photer, 'e did.  A swell photer."

For a moment or two Sinclair stared at the man in amazement: then he
crossed over to a writing-table in the corner.

"Well, I'm damned," he muttered, as he opened a big cardboard cover
with a photographer's name printed on it.  "I'll swear there were six
here yesterday, and there are only five now.  Was that the photograph
he showed you?"

He held one up in front of the man.

"That's it, governor: that's the very one."

"There is a certain atmosphere of rapidity about this," murmured
Drummond, "that appeals to me."  He thoughtfully contemplated his
captive.

"Where were you to report the result of what you found out?" he went
on.  "Where were you going to meet him, to get your half-quid?"

"Down at the Three Cows in Peckham, guv'nor: to-night at nine."

I gave a little exclamation, and Drummond glanced at me inquiringly.

"Not now," I said.  "Afterwards," and he nodded.

"Listen here, little man," he remarked quietly.  "Do you want to earn a
fiver?"

"You bet yer life I do, sir," answered the other earnestly.

"Well, if you do exactly what I tell you to do, you shall.  This
gentleman whose photo you have seen is shortly going out.  He is going
to lunch at Hatchett's in Piccadilly.  After lunch he will take a
little walk in the Park, and after that he will return here.  He will
probably dine at the Berkeley.  At nine o'clock to-night you will be in
the Three Cows at Peckham, and you will report this gentleman's
movements to the man who promised you half a quid.  If you do
that--exactly as I have told you--you can come back here to-morrow
morning about this time and you'll get a fiver."

"You swear there ain't no catch, guv'nor?" said the other.

"I swear there's no catch," said Drummond quietly.

"Right, sir, I'll do it.  Is that all you want with me now?"

"Yes: clear out.  And don't make any mistake about what you've got to
do."

"Trust me, sir."

He touched a finger to his forehead and dodged out of the room.

"A distinct air of rapidity," repeated Drummond thoughtfully.  "I
wonder if he'll do it."

"How did you know he was watching the house?" I asked curiously.

"It stuck out a yard," he answered.  "He was on the pavement when I
came here an hour ago, and he's not a Clarges Street type.  What was it
hit your fancy over the Three Cows?"

"The real driver of the taxi that followed us last night was drugged in
a Peckham pub by a man he didn't know.  Presumably it was the Three
Cows."

"Then possibly we shall meet the man who followed you last night at
nine o'clock this evening.  Which will be one step up the ladder at any
rate."

He picked up his hat and lit a cigarette.

"By the way, what's the number of your house?"

"3-B.  It's about ten doors down towards Piccadilly."

And suddenly he gave a grin of pure joy.

"Is it possible, my jovial bucks," he cried, "that once again we are on
the war-path?  That through the unpleasant object who has lately
honoured us with his presence we shall be led to higher and worthier
game?  Anyway we can but baptize such a wonderful thought in a Martini
or even two."

We followed him down the stairs, and Toby smiled as he saw the look on
my face.

"It's all right, old man," he remarked.  "He's always like this."

"And why not, forsooth?" boomed Drummond, waving his stick joyfully in
the air.  "Eat, drink and be merry....  Don't you agree with me, sir?"

He stopped suddenly in front of a complete stranger, who stared at him
in blank amazement.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" he spluttered.  "And what do you mean by
speaking to me?"

"I liked your face," said Drummond calmly.  "It's the sort of face that
inspires confidence in canaries and white mice.  Good-morning: sorry I
can't ask you to lunch."

"But the man is mad," I murmured helplessly to Toby, as we turned into
Piccadilly.

"There is generally method therein," he answered, and Drummond smiled.

"He knows not our ways, Toby," he remarked.  "But judging by
appearances you're evidently the important one, Stockton.  That one
only stuck out a foot."

"Do you mean to say that that man you spoke to was on the look-out for
me?" I stammered.

"What the dickens did you think he was doing?  Growing water-cress on
the pavement?"

He dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.

"Yes, Toby," he went on.  "I have distinct hopes.  Matters seem to me
to be marching well.  And if we adopt reasonable precautions this
afternoon it seems to me that they may march even better this evening
under the hospitable roof of the Three Cows."

He turned in to Hatchett's.

"We may as well conform to the first part of the programme at any rate.
And over some oysters we'll discuss the first move."

"Which is?" I asked.

"How to get you two fellows to my house without your being followed.
Because I feel that for any hope of success in the salubrious suburb of
Peckham we must effect one or two changes in our personal appearance,
and I have all the necessary wherewithal in Brook Street.  Toby's
little pal, I think, we can neglect: it's that other bloke who is after
you that will want watching."

He gave a short laugh.

"Talk of the devil; here he is.  Don't look round either of you, but
he's taken a table near the door.  Well, well: now the fun begins.  He
is ordering the _plat du jour_ and a whisky-and-soda: moreover, he is
adopting the somewhat unusual custom of paying in advance.  Most
thoughtful of him.  It goes to my heart to think that his money will be
wasted."

He signalled to the head waiter, who came at once.

"Add this little lot to my account," said Drummond.  "We've suddenly
remembered we're supposed to be lunching in Hampstead.  Now, you
two--up the stairs: through Burlington Arcade, into a taxi and straight
to Brook Street.  I'll deal with this bloke."

Looking back on things now after the lapse of many months, one of the
strangest things to me is the habit of unquestioning obedience to
Drummond into which I dropped at once.  If someone tells me to do a
thing, my nature as a general rule impels me to do the exact reverse.
In the Army I never took kindly to discipline.  And yet when Drummond
gave an order I never questioned, I never hesitated.  I mention this
fact merely to emphasize the peculiar influence he had on people with
whom he came in contact, and the extraordinary personality which he
tried to obscure by an air of fatuous nonsense.  And though it took me
some weeks to realize it, yet the fact remains that that first day I
met him I did what he said with the same readiness as I did in days to
come after I had grown to know him better.

And I remember another thing which struck me very forcibly that day.  I
stopped at the top of the stairs for a moment or two to see the fun.
Drummond was half-way up when he dropped his stick.  And in stooping to
pick it up he completely blocked the gangway.  Behind him, dancing
furiously from side to side in his endeavours to pass, was the other
man.

"Why, it's the man with the charming face," cried Drummond genially.
"But I wish you wouldn't hop, laddie.  It's so damned bad for the
tum-tum."

I heard no more: Toby Sinclair, swearing vigorously under his breath,
dragged me into Piccadilly.

"Confound you, Stockton, why the devil don't you do what you're told?
I was half-way along Burlington Arcade before I realized you weren't
there.  You'd better take it here and now that if Hugh tells you to do
a thing he means it to be done exactly as he said.  And he said nothing
about standing and watching him."

"Damn Drummond and everything connected with him," I said irritably.
"Who is he anyway to give me orders?"

He laughed quietly as we got into the taxi.

"I'm sorry, old man," he said.  "I was forgetting for the moment that
you only met him for the first time to-day.  You'll laugh yourself in a
few days when you recall that remark of yours."

I did; but at the time I was peevish.

"If there's a man living in England to-day," he went on, "who is more
capable than Hugh of finding out what happened last night, I'd like to
meet him."

And I smiled my incredulity.  To tell the truth, the things that had
happened since my return from the War Office had rather driven that
interview from my mind.  But now I had leisure to recall it, and the
more I thought of it the less I liked it.  It is all very well in
theory to say that there are occasions when an individual must suffer
for the good of the state, but in practice it is most unpleasant when
that individual is your own particular friend.  Your friend, too, who
has called to you for help and whom you have failed.  Mercifully Robin
had neither kith nor kin, which eased my mind a certain amount: by
allowing this false impression to be given at the inquest I was harming
no one, except Robin himself.  And if he was dead, sooner or later his
body would be found, which would prove beyond a doubt that he was not
the original culprit: whereas if he was alive the time would come when
I should be able to explain.  For all that, nothing could alter the
fact that I I disliked my rle, and not the less because it was
compulsory.

I said as much that afternoon as we sat in Drummond's study.  He had
come in about two hours after us, and he seemed a bit silent and
thoughtful.

"You can't help it, Stockton," he said.  "And probably Gaunt if he knew
would be the first man to realize the necessity.  It's not that that's
worrying me."  He rose and went to the window.  "I'm thinking I've made
a fool of myself.  I don't see a sign of anyone: I haven't for the last
hour--and I took Ted's car out of St. James's Square, and have been all
round London in it; but I'm afraid I've transferred attention to
myself.  There was just a second or two on the stairs at Hatchett's
when our little lad of the genial face looked at me with the utmost
suspicion."

He resumed his chair and stretched out his legs.

"However, we can but chance it.  It may lead to something."

"It's very good of you," I said a little doubtfully.  "But I really
don't know if--I mean, the police and all that, don't you know.
They've got the thing in hand."

He gazed at me in genuine amazement.

"Good Lord! my dear man," he remarked, "if you want to leave the thing
to old MacIver and Co., say the word.  I mean it's your palaver, and I
wouldn't butt in for the world.  Or if you want to handle the thing
yourself I'm away out from this moment.  And you can have the free run
of my various wardrobes if you want to go to Peckham to-night."

I couldn't help it: I burst out laughing.

"Frankly, it would never have dawned on me to go to Peckham to-night,"
I said.  "Incidentally if it hadn't been for you I shouldn't have known
anything about Peckham, for I should never have had the nerve to pull
that little blighter into Toby's rooms even if I'd realized he was
watching the house--which I shouldn't have.  What I meant was that it
seemed very good of you to worry over a thing like this--seeing that
you don't even know Gaunt."

An expression of profound relief had replaced the amazement.

"By Jove! old man," he remarked, "you gave me a nasty fright them.
What on earth does it matter if I know Gaunt or not?  Opportunities of
this sort are far too rare to stand on ceremony.  What I was afraid of
was that you might want to keep it all for yourself.  And I can assure
you that lots of amusing little shows I've had in the past have started
much less promisingly than this.  You get Toby to tell you about 'em
while I go and rout out some togs for to-night."

"What an amazing bloke he is," I said as the door closed behind him.
And Toby Sinclair smiled thoughtfully.

"In the words of the American philosopher, you have delivered yourself
of a perfectly true mouthful.  And now, if you take my advice, you'll
get some sleep.  For with Hugh on the war-path, and if we have any
luck, you won't get much to-night."

He curled himself up in a chair, and in a few minutes he was fast
asleep.  But try as I would I could not follow his example.  There was
a sense of unreality about the whole thing: events seemed to be moving
with that queer, jumbled incoherence that belongs to a dream.  Robin's
despairing cry: the policeman crashing to the floor like a bullock in a
slaughter-house: the dead Australian who had fought so fiercely.  And
against whom?  Who was it who had come into that room the night before?
What was happening there even as Robin got through to me on the 'phone?

And suddenly I seemed to see it all.  The door was opening slowly, and
Robin was staring at it.  For a moment or two we watched it, and then I
could bear the suspense no longer.  I hurled myself forward, to find
myself in the grip of a huge black-bearded man with a yellow
handkerchief knotted round his throat.

"You swine," I shouted, and then I looked round stupidly.

For the room had changed, and the noise of a passing taxi came from
Brook Street.

"Three hours of the best," said the big man genially, and a
nasty-looking little Jew clerk behind him laughed.  "It's half-past
seven, and time you altered your appearance."

"Good Lord!" I muttered with an attempt at a grin.  "I'm awfully sorry:
I must have been dreaming."

"It was a deuced agile dream," answered Drummond.  "My right sock
suspender is embedded about half an inch in my leg.  Toby saw you
coming and dodged."

He turned to the little Jew, who was lighting a cigarette.

"Make some cocktails, old man, while I rig up Stockton."

"Great Scott!" I said.  "I'd never have known either of you."

"You won't know yourself in twenty minutes," answered Drummond.
"You're going to be a mechanic with Communistic tendencies, and my
third revolver."




3

  In which some excellent
  advice is followed

The Three Cows at Peckham proved an unprepossessing spot.  It was a
quarter to nine when we entered the public bar, and the place was
crowded.  The atmosphere reeked of tobacco-smoke and humanity, and in
one corner stood one of those diabolical machines in which, for the
price of one penny, a large metal disc rotates and delivers itself of
an appalling noise.

Involuntarily I hesitated for a moment; then seeing that Drummond had
elbowed his way to the bar, and that Toby was standing behind him, I
reluctantly followed.  I really had half a mind to chuck up the whole
thing: after all, the police were already on the matter.  What on earth
was the use of this amateur dressing-up business?

"Three of four-'alf, please, Miss," said Drummond, planking down a
shilling on the counter.  "Blest if you ain't got much thinner since I
was last 'ere."

"Come off it," returned the sixteen-stone maiden tersely.  "You ain't a
blinking telegraph pole yourself.  Three whiskies and splash, and a
Guinness.  All right!  All right!  I've only got two hands, ain't I?"

She turned away, and I stared round the place with an increasing
feeling of disgust.  Racing touts, loafers, riff-raff of all
descriptions filled the room, and the hoarse hum of conversation,
punctuated by the ceaseless popping of corks for the drinkers of Bass,
half deafened one.  But of either of our friends of the morning there
was no sign.

I took a sip out of the glass in front of me.  Drummond was engaged
with a horsy-looking gentleman spotting winners for next day; on my
other side Toby Sinclair, in the intervals of dispassionately picking
his teeth, was chaffing the sixteen-stoner's elderly companion.  And I
wondered if I appeared as completely at ease in my surroundings and as
little noticeable as they did.  A cigarette might help, I reflected,
and I lit one.  And a moment or two later Drummond turned round.

"'Ear that," he remarked in a confidential whisper.  "Strite from the
stables.  Why the devil don't you smoke a Corona Corona, you fool!  Put
out that Turk.  And try and look a bit less like a countryman seeing
London for the first time.  Absolutely strite from the stables.
Stargazer--for the two-thirty.  'E can't lose."

"Like to back yer fancy, Mister?"  The horsy-looking gent leaned
forward with a wink.

"What's that?  I mean--er..."  I broke off, completely bewildered.
Mechanically I put out my cigarette.  For Drummond's words had confused
me.  They both laughed.

"'E ain't been long in London, 'ave yer, mate?" said Drummond.  "'E
comes from up North somewhere.  What this gentleman means is that if
you'd like to 'ave five bob or 'alf a Bradbury on a 'orse for to-morrer
'e can arrange it for yer."

"And wot's more," said the horsy man, "I can give you the winner of the
Derby.  As sure as my name is Joe Bloggs I can give you the winner.
You may not believe it, but I 'ad it direct from the stewards of the
Jockey Club themselves.  'Bloggs,' they says to me, they says, 'it
ain't everyone as we'd tell this to.  But you're different; we knows
you're a gentleman.'"

"Did they now?" said Drummond in an awed voice.

"But wot they said to me was this.  'We don't object to your a passing
of it on, if you can find men wot you trust.  But it ain't fair to give
anyone this information for nothing.  We don't want the money, but
there are 'orspitals that do.  The price to you, Bloggs, is one thick
'un; to be paid to the London 'Orspital.'  So I said to 'em, I
said--'Done with you, your graces; a thick 'un it is.'  And at 'ome,
mates, now--locked up along with my marriage lines and the youngster's
christening certificate is a receipt for one pound from the London
'Orspital.  I shall taike it with me to Epsom, and it'll be a proud day
for me if I can take receipts for two more.  It's yer chance, boys.
Hand over a couple of Brads, and the hinformation is
yours--hinformation which the King himself don't know!"

"I'll bet 'e doesn't," agreed Drummond.  "It's a pleasure to 'ave met
yer, Mr. Bloggs.  'Ave another gargle?  I guess me and my mate 'ere
will come in on that little deal.  Money for nothing, I calls it."

It was at that moment that I saw them enter the bar--the man who had
been in Hatchett's, and another one.  Of the squealing little specimen
who had been dragged into Toby's room I saw no sign, but doubtless he
would come later.  However, the great point was that the others had
arrived, and I glanced at Drummond to make sure he had noticed the fact.

To my amazement he was leaning over the bar calling for Mother to
replenish his glass and that of his new friend.  So I dug him in the
ribs covertly, at the same time keeping a careful eye on the two
new-comers.  It was easy to watch them unperceived, as they were
talking most earnestly together.  And by the most extraordinary piece
of good fortune they found a vacant place at the bar itself just beside
the horsy man.

Again I dug Drummond in the ribs, and he looked at me knowingly.

"All right, mate, o' course we'll take it.  But wot I was just
wondering was whether, seeing as 'ow there are the two of us like, this
gentleman wouldn't let us 'ave his hinformation for thirty bob.  Yer
see, guv'nor, it's this way.  You tells me the name of the 'orse, and I
pays you a quid.  Wot's to prevent me passing it on to him for nothing,
once I knows it?"

"The 'orspital, mate.  Them poor wasted 'uman beings wot looks to us
for 'elp in their sufferings.  As the Duke of Sussex said to me,
'Bloggs!' 'e said--'old friend of my youth...'"

I could stand it no longer: I leant over and whispered in Drummond's
ear--"Do you see who has just come in?  Standing next this awful stiff."

He nodded portentously.

"I quite agree with you, mate.  Excuse me one moment, Mr. Bloggs."

He turned to me, and his expression never varied an iota.

"Laddie," he murmured wearily, "I saw them ten minutes ago.  I felt
London shake when you gave your little start of surprise on seeing them
yourself.  With pain and gloom I have watched you regarding them as a
lion regards the keeper at feeding time at the Zoo.  All that remains
is for you to go up to them and let them know whom we are.  Then we'll
all sing 'Auld Lang Syne' and go home.  Well, then, that's agreed.
Seeing as 'ow it's for an 'orspital, Mr. Bloggs, my mate 'ere says
'e'll spring a thick 'un."

"Good for both of yer," cried the tipster.  "And you may take it from
me, boys, that it's dirt cheap at the price."

"Come in 'ere between us, Mr. Bloggs," said Drummond confidentially.
"It wouldn't do for no one else to 'ear anything about it.  We don't
want no shortening of the odds."

"I sees you knows the game, mate," said the other appreciatively as
they changed places, thereby bringing Drummond next to our quarry.
"You're right: the Duke would never forgive me if we was to do that.
'Spread your money amongst all yer bookmakers, Joe, and keep them
damned stiffs from bilking 'onest men like you and me'--them were his
very words."

"Wait a moment, mate," cried Drummond.  "Mother--give me a pencil and a
bit o' paper, will yer?  I've got a shocking memory, Mr. Bloggs, and
I'd like to 'ave this 'ere 'orse's name down in writing, seeing as 'ow
I'm springing a quid for it.  There it is, and now let's 'ear."

He produced a one-pound note which he laid on the bar, from which it
disappeared, with a speed worthy of Maskelyne and Cook, into Mr.
Bloggs' pocket.  And then the momentous secret was whispered in his ear.

"You don't say," said Drummond.  "Well, I never did."

"And if yer gets on now yer gets on at 66 to 1," said the tipster
triumphantly.

"Lumme! it's like stealing the cat's milk."  Drummond seemed suddenly
to be struck with an idea.  "Why, blow my dickey, if I 'ain't been and
forgotten young Isaac.  'E's careful with 'is money, Mr. Bloggs, is
Isaac--but for a cert like this 'e might spring a quid, too.
Isaac--'ere."

"Whath the matter?" said Toby, glancing round.

"Do you want the winner of the Derby 'orse-race, my boy?  That's the
matter."

"Go on," said Toby suspiciously.  "I've heard that stuff before."

"It's the goods this time, my boy," said Mr. Bloggs impressively.
"Strite from my old pal the Duke of Essex--I mean--er--Sussex--himself."

His back was turned to Drummond, and the movement of Drummond's face
was almost imperceptible.  But its meaning was clear: Toby was to
accept the offer.  And for the life of me, as I stood there feeling
bored and puzzled, I couldn't make out the object of all this
tomfoolery.  This palpable fraud had served his purpose; what on earth
was the use of losing another pound for no rhyme or reason?  The two
men behind Drummond were engrossed in conversation, and there was still
no sign of the third.

For a moment or two I listened half mechanically to Toby bargaining for
better terms, and then something drew my attention to a man seated by
himself in a corner.  He had a tankard of beer at his side, and his
appearance was quite inconspicuous.  He was a thick-set burly man, who
might have been an engine-driver off duty or something of that sort.
And yet he seemed to me to be studying the occupants of the bar in a
curiously intent manner.  At any ordinary time I probably shouldn't
have noticed him; but then at any ordinary time I shouldn't have been
in the Three Cows.  And after a while I began to watch him covertly,
until I grew convinced that my suspicions were correct.  He was
watching us.  Once or twice I caught his eye fixed on me with an
expression which left no doubt whatever in my mind that his presence
there was not accidental.  And though I immediately looked away, lest
he should think I had noticed anything, I began to feel certain that he
was another of the gang--possibly the very one we had come to find.
Moreover, my certainty was increased by the fact that never once, as
far as I could see, did the two men standing next to Drummond glance in
his direction.

Drummond noticed nothing: he and Toby were still occupied in haggling
with the Duke of Sussex's pal.  And I couldn't help smiling slightly to
myself as I realized the futility of all this ridiculous masquerade.
However, I duly paid my pound, as I didn't want to let them down in
their little game, and thought out one or two sarcastic phrases to put
across at Drummond later.  Though I had said nothing at the time, I had
not been amused by his remark about "Auld Lang Syne."

And then another idea dawned on me--why should I say anything about it?
Though I would never have thought it, there was a certain amount of fun
in this dressing-up game.  And one thing seemed pretty obvious without
any suggestion of self-conceit.  If Drummond could succeed at it, I
certainly could.  An excellent fellow doubtless, and one possessed of
great strength--but there it ended.  And I even began to wonder if he
really had spotted the arrival of the two men until I told him.  It's
easy to be wise after the event, and there is such a thing as jealousy.
So I decided that I would have a shot at it myself the following
evening.  At the moment I was not very busy, and doubtless I'd be able
to borrow my present disguise from Drummond.  After all he'd offered to
lend it to me whenever I wanted it, and even to give me the run of his
wardrobe.

"Well, I'm off."  It was Toby speaking, and with a nod that included
all of us he slouched out of the bar, to be followed shortly afterwards
by Mr. Bloggs.

"Don't forget, mate," said that worthy to me earnestly as he put down
his empty glass, "that it's the goods: 66 to 1 is the price to-day, so
that if yer backs it each way you lands a matter of eighty quid, which
is better than being 'it in the eye with a rotten hegg."

I agreed suitably with this profound philosophical fact, and omitted to
tell him that I hadn't even heard the name of this fortune-maker, owing
to slight deafness in the ear which I had presented to him.

"One of the lads," remarked Drummond, as the swing-doors closed behind
Mr. Bloggs and our three quid.  "Another of the same, Mother, and a
drop of port for yourself."

"Closing time," bellowed a raucous voice, and a general move towards
the door took place.  The two men next to Drummond finished their
drinks, and then, still engrossed in conversation, went out into the
street along with the rest, but he made no movement to follow them,
which rather surprised me.  In fact, he seemed to have completely lost
all interest in them, and he stayed on chaffing the two women behind
the bar until a general turning down of lights showed that it was
closing time in earnest.

And since my principal interest lay in the thick-set burly man, who was
one of the last to leave, it suited me very well.  In him I felt
convinced lay the first clue to what we wanted, and when I saw a second
man, whom I had not previously noticed, and who had been sitting in
another corner of the bar, whisper something in his ear as he went out,
it seemed proof positive.  However, true to my decision, I said nothing
about what I had discovered, and, smiling inwardly, I waited to hear
what Drummond proposed to do.

"Not bad," he remarked in his normal voice, as we strolled towards the
nearest Tube station.  "Almost too good.  In fact--I wonder."

"Whether the London Hospital will benefit to the extent of three
pounds," I remarked sarcastically, and he laughed.

"He was one of mother's bright boys, wasn't he?  It was a bit too
blatant, Stockton.  That's the trouble."

"As I'm afraid I didn't even catch the name of the horse I can't argue
the point."

"The name of the horse was 10, Ashworth Gardens," he answered.

"What on earth do you mean?" I remarked, staring at him blankly.

"10, Ashworth Gardens," he repeated, "wherever that may be.  Shortly we
will get into a taxi and follow Toby there."

"I say, do you mind explaining?" I demanded.  "Is that what that tout
fellow told you?"

He laughed again, and hailed a passing taxi.

"Victoria Station, mate--Brighton Line.  And 'op it.  Now," he
continued, as the man turned his car, "I will endeavour to elucidate.
Just before Mr. Joe Bloggs gave me a whisky shower-bath in the ear, and
told me that my uncle's horse, which was scratched late this afternoon,
was the winner, our two friends on my right mentioned that address.
They mentioned it again when I changed my position and stood next to
them.  Now my experience is that people don't shout important addresses
at one another in public--at least not people of that type.  That's why
I said that it struck me as being a little too blatant.  However, it
may have been that they thought they were perfectly safe, so that it's
worth trying."

He put his head through the window.

"I've changed my mind, mate.  I want to go to Hashworth Gardens.  Know
'em?"

"Know my face," answered the other.  "Of course I do.  Up Euston way."

"Well, stop afore you get there, and me and my pal will walk."

"So that was what you wrote on the paper and showed Sinclair," I
exclaimed as he resumed his seat.

"Bright lad," said Drummond, and relapsed into silence.

For a while I hesitated as to whether I should tell him of my
suspicions, but I still felt a bit riled at what I regarded as his
offhand manner.  So I didn't, and we sat in silence till Piccadilly
Circus and Shaftesbury Avenue were left behind us.

"Look here, Stockton," said Drummond suddenly, "this is your palaver
principally, so you'd better decide.  We're being followed."

He pointed at the little mirror in front of the driver.

"I rather expected we might be, and now I'm sure.  So what do you
propose to do?  It's only fair to warn you that we may be putting our
noses into a deliberate and carefully prepared trap."

"What would you do yourself if I wasn't here?" I remarked.

"Put my nose there, of course," he answered.

"Then mine goes too," I said.

"Good man," he cried.  "You'll be one of the firm in no time."

"Tell me," I said, laughing, "do you do this sort of thing often?  I
mean in this case, for no rhyme or reason as far as I can see, you are
running the risk of certain death."

"Oh!  I dunno," he answered casually.  "Probably not as bad as that.
Might lead to a scrap or something of that sort, which helps to pass
away the time.  And, really, when you come to think of it, Stockton,
this show was positively asking for it.  When a man whose lunch you
have spoilt literally bawls an address in your ear, it's not decent to
disregard it.  Incidentally, I wonder if little rat face will have the
gall to come and demand his fiver to-morrow."

The car pulled up and the driver stuck his head round the door.

"Second on the left up that road," he said, and we watched his red tail
lamp disappearing down the almost deserted street.  At the far end just
before a turn stood another stationary car, and Drummond gave a sudden
little chuckle.

"Our followers, unless I'm much mistaken.  Let's get a move on,
Stockton, and see what there is to be seen before they arrive."

He swung off down the turning, and at the corner of Ashworth Gardens a
figure detached itself from the shadows.  It was Toby Sinclair.

"Fourth house down on the left, Hugh," he said.  "And there's something
damned funny going on there.  I haven't seen the sign of a soul, but
there's the most extraordinary sort of sound coming from a room on the
first floor.  Just as if a sack was swinging against the blind."

It was an eerie sort of noise, such as you may hear sometimes in old
houses in the country when the wind is blowing.  Creak, shuffle,
thud--creak, shuffle, thud, and every now and then a sort of drumming
noise such as a man's heels might make against woodwork.  For a while
we stood listening, and once it seemed to me that the blind bulged
outwards with the pressure of something behind it.

"My God! you fellows," said Drummond quietly, "that's no sack.  I'm
going in, trap or no trap; there's foul play inside that room."

Without a second's hesitation he walked up the steps and tried the
front door.  It was open, and Sinclair whistled under his breath.

"It is a trap, Hugh," he whispered.

"Stop here, both of you," he answered.  "I'm going to see."

We stood there waiting in the hall, and I have no hesitation in
confessing that the back of my scalp was beginning to prick
uncomfortably.  The silence was absolute: the noise had entirely
ceased.  Just once a stair creaked above us, and then very faintly we
heard the sound of a door opening.  Simultaneously the noise began
again--thud, shuffle, creak--thud, shuffle, creak, and the next moment
we heard Drummond's voice.

"Come up--both of you."

We dashed up the stairs, and into the room with the open door.  At
first I could hardly see in the faint light from a street lamp outside,
and then things became clearer.  I made out Drummond holding something
in his arms by the window, and then Toby flashed on his torch.

"Cut the rope," said Drummond curtly.  "I've freed him from the strain."

It was Toby who cut it: I just stood there feeling dazed and sick.  For
the sack was no sack, but our rat-faced man of the morning.  He was
hanging from a hook in the ceiling, and his face was glazed and purple,
while his eyes stared horribly.  His hands were lashed behind his back,
and a handkerchief had been thrust into his mouth.

"Lock the door," ordered Drummond, as he laid the poor devil down on
the floor.  "He's not quite dead, and I'm going to bring him round if
every crook in London is in the house.  Keep your guns handy and your
ears skinned."

He unknotted the rope and pulled out the gag, and after ten minutes or
so the breathing grew less stertorous and the face more normal in
colour.

"Take a turn, Stockton," said Drummond at length.  "Just ordinary
artificial respiration.  I want to explore a bit."

I knelt down beside the man on the floor and continued the necessary
motions mechanically.  It was obvious now that he was going to pull
round, and if anything was going to be discovered I wanted to be in the
fun.  Sinclair had lit a cracked incandescent light which hung from the
middle of the ceiling, and by its light it was possible to examine the
room.  There was very little furniture: a drunken-looking horse-hair
sofa, two or three chairs and a rickety table comprised the lot.  But
on one wall, not far from where I knelt, there was hanging a somewhat
incongruous piece of stuff.  Not that it was valuable, but it seemed to
have no reason for its existence.  It was the sort of thing one might
put up to cover a mark on the wall, or behind a washstand to prevent
splashing the paper--but why there?  Someone upset the ink, perhaps:
someone...

My artificial respiration ceased, and my mouth grew dry.  For the bit
of stuff was moving: it was being pushed aside, and something was
appearing round the edge.  Something that looked like a small-calibre
revolver, and it was pointed straight at me.  No, not a revolver: it
was a small squirt or syringe, and behind it was a big white disc.
Into my mind there flashed the words of Sir John Dallas only that
morning--"Something in the nature of a garden syringe"--and with a
great effort I forced myself to act.  I rolled over towards the window,
and what happened then is still more or less a blur in my mind.  A thin
jet of liquid shot through the air, and hit the carpet just behind
where I'd been kneeling, and at the same moment there came the crack of
a revolver, followed by a scream and a heavy fall.  I looked up to see
Drummond ejecting a spent cartridge, and then I scrambled to my feet.

"What the devil," I muttered stupidly.

"Follow it up," snapped Drummond, "and shoot on sight."

He was out in the passage like a flash, with Toby and I at his heels.
The door of the next room was locked, but it lasted only one charge of
Drummond's.  And then for a moment or two we stood peering into the
darkness--at least I did.  The others did not, which is how one lives
and learns.  I never heard them: I never even realized they had left
me, and when two torches were flashed on from the other side of the
room, I shrank back into the passage.

"Come in, man, come in," muttered Drummond.  "Never stand in a doorway
like that.  Ah!"

He drew in his breath sharply as the beam of his torch picked up the
thing on the floor.  It was the man who had been in Hatchett's that
morning, the man who had stood behind him at the Three Cows, and he was
dead.  The same terrible distortion and rigour was visible: the cause
of death was obvious.

"Don't touch him, for Heaven's sake," I cried, as Drummond bent
forward.  "It's the same death as we saw last night?"

"And you were darned nearly the victim, old man," said Drummond grimly.

"By Jove!  Hugh, it was a good shot," said Toby.  "You hit the syringe
itself, and the stuff splashed on his face.  You can see the mark."

It was true: in the middle of his right cheek was an angry red circle,
in which it was possible to see an eruption of tiny blisters.  And the
same strange, sweet smell hung heavily about the air.

On each hand was a white glove of the same type as the one we had found
the previous night, and it was evidently that which had seemed to me
like a white disc around the syringe.

"So things begin to move," said Drummond quietly.  "The whole thing was
a trap, as I thought.  They evidently seem to want you pretty badly,
Stockton."

"But why?" I asked angrily.  "What the devil have I got to do with it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"They may think you know too much; that Gaunt told you things."

"But why hang that poor little toad in the next room?" said Toby.

"Ask me another," answered Drummond.  "Possibly they found out we'd got
at him, and they hanged him as a punishment for treachery: possibly to
ensure our remaining here some time to bring him round.  And
incidentally--who hanged him?  The occupants of the car that followed
us couldn't have got to this house before we did, and he was triced up
before Toby arrived here.  That means there were people here before,
and the occupants of that car have yet to arrive."

Suddenly his torch went out, and I felt his hand on my arm warningly.

"And unless I mistake," he whispered, "they've just come.  Stick by me,
Stockton: you're new to this game.  Get to the window, Toby, and keep
against the wall."

A half-breathed "Right" came from the darkness, and I felt myself led
somewhere.  Once the guiding hand drew me to the right, and I realized
that I had just missed a chair.  And then I felt the wall at my back,
and a faint light coming round the blind showed the window close by.
It was shut, and I could see the outline of Drummond's head as he
peered through it.

What had caused his sudden action, I wondered?  I hadn't heard a sound,
and at that time I had yet to find out his almost uncanny gift of
hearing.  To me the house was in absolute silence; the only sound was
the heavy pounding of my own heart.  And then a stair creaked as it had
creaked when Drummond left us in the hall.

I glanced at Drummond: his hand was feeling for the window-catch.  With
a little click it went back, and once more he crouched motionless.
Again the stair creaked, and yet again, and I thought I heard men
whispering outside the door.  Suddenly with a crash that almost
startled me out of my senses Drummond flung up the sash and the
whispering ceased.

"Stand by to jump, when I give the word," muttered Drummond, "and then
run like hell.  There's about a dozen of 'em."

He was crouching below the level of the window-sill; dimly on his other
side I could see Toby Sinclair.  And then the whispering started again;
men were coming into the room.  There was a stifled curse as someone
stumbled against a chair, and at that moment Drummond shouted "Jump."

Just for a second I almost obeyed him, for my leg was over the sill.
And then I heard him fighting desperately in the room behind.  He was
covering our retreat, a thing which no man could allow.

There may have been a dozen in all: I know there were three of them on
me.  Chairs went over as we fought on in the dark, and all the time I
was thinking of the liquid on the floor and the dead man's face and
what would happen if we touched it.  And as if in answer to my thoughts
there came Drummond's voice.

"I have one of you here powerless," he said.  "In this room is a dead
man who died you know how.  Unless my other two friends are allowed to
go at once, I will put this man's hand against the dead man's cheek.
And that means death."

"Who is that speaking?" came another voice out of the darkness.

"Great Scott!"  Drummond's gasp of surprise was obvious.  "Is that you,
MacIver?"

"Switch on the lights," returned the other voice angrily.

And there stood my burly thick-set man of the Three Cows.

"What is the meaning of this damned foolishness?" he snarled.  He
glared furiously at Drummond and then at me.  "Why are you masquerading
in that rig, Mr. Stockton?" he went on suspiciously.  And then his eyes
fell on the dead man.  "How did this happen?"

But Drummond sprawling in a chair was laughing helplessly.

"Rich," he remarked, "extremely rich.  Not to say ripe and fruity, old
friend of my youth.  Sorry, Mac"--the detective was glowering at him
furiously--"but my style of conversation has become infected by a gent
with whom I dallied awhile earlier in the evening."

"I didn't recognize you at the Three Cows, Captain Drummond," said
MacIver ominously.

"Nor I you," conceded Drummond.  "Otherwise we'd have had a spot
together."

"But I think it's only right to warn you that you're mixing yourself up
in a very serious matter.  Into Mr. Stockton's conduct I propose to
inquire later."  Once again he looked at me suspiciously.  "Just at the
moment, however, I should like to know how this man died."

Drummond nodded and grew serious.

"Quite right, MacIver.  We were in the next room--all three of us ...
Good Lord!  I wonder what's happened to rat face.  You see, an
unfortunate little bloke had been hanged in the next room...."

"What?" shouted MacIver, darting out into the passage.  We followed,
crowding after him, only to stand in amazement at the door.  The light
was still burning; the rope still lay on the carpet, but of the man we
had cut down from the ceiling there was no sign.  He had absolutely
disappeared.

"Well, I'm damned," muttered Drummond.  "This beats cock-fighting.
Wouldn't have missed it for a thousand.  Look out!  Don't go near that
pool on the floor.  That's some of the juice."

He stared round the room, and then lit a cigarette.

"There's no good you looking at me like that, MacIver," he went on
quietly.  "There's the hook, my dear fellow; there's the rope.  I'm not
lying.  We cut him down, and we laid him on the floor just there.  He
was nearly dead, but not quite.  For ten minutes or so I put him
through artificial respiration--then Mr. Stockton took it on.  And it
was while he was doing it.--kneeling down beside him--that that bit of
curtain stuff moved.  I'd be careful how you touch it; there may be
some of that liquid on it."

He drew it back, covering his hand with the table-cloth.

"You see there's a hole in the wall communicating with the next room.
Through that hole the man who is now lying dead next door let drive
with his diabolical liquid at Mr. Stockton.  By the mercy of Allah he
rolled over in time, and the stuff hit the carpet--you can see it
there, that dark stain.  So then it was my turn, and I let drive with
my revolver."

"We heard a shot," said MacIver.

"That's his syringe, or whatever you like to call the implement,"
continued Drummond.  "And it obviously wasn't empty, for some of the
contents splashed back in his face.  The result you see in the next
room, and I can't say I regret it."

"But this man whom you say was hanging?  What on earth has become of
him?"

"Search me," said Drummond.  "The only conclusion I can come to is that
he recovered after we had left the room, and decided to clear out.
When all is said and done he can't have had an overpowering affection
for the house, and he probably heard the shindy in the next room and
did a bolt."

MacIver grunted: he was obviously in an extremely bad temper.  And the
presence of his large group of stolid subordinates, who were evidently
waiting for orders in a situation that bewildered them, did not tend to
soothe him.

"Go and search the house," he snapped.  "Every room.  And if you find
anything suspicious, don't touch it, but call me."

He waited till they had all left the room; then he turned to Drummond.

"Now, sir," he said.  "I want to get to the bottom of this.  In the
first place, what brought you to this house?"

"The bird in the next room shouted the address in my ear," returned
Drummond, "that time we were having one at the Three Cows."

"Damn it," exploded MacIver, "what took you to the Three Cows?  In
disguise, too."

"Just vulgar curiosity, Mac," said Drummond airily.  "And we felt that
our presence in evening clothes might excite rude comment."

"Your presence in that rig excites my comment," snapped the detective.

"Undoubtedly, old lad," said Drummond soothingly.  "But there's no law
against toddling round in fancy dress as far as I know, and you ought
to be very grateful to us for bringing you here.  We've presented you
with a new specimen, in a better state of preservation than the others
you've got.  Moreover, he's the only one who deserved his fate.  The
fact of the matter, MacIver, is that we're up against some pretty
unscrupulous swine.  Their object to-night was to kill Mr. Stockton,
and they very nearly succeeded.  Why they should view him with dislike
is beyond me, but the fact remains that they do.  They set a deliberate
trap for us, and we walked into it with our eyes open.  You followed
on, and in the darkness everybody mistook everybody else."

The detective transferred his gaze to Toby Sinclair.

"You're Mr. Sinclair, ain't you?"

"I am," returned Toby affably.

"I thought you were both of you told not to pass this matter on.  How
is it that Captain Drummond comes to know of it?"

"My fault entirely, Inspector," said Toby.  "I'd already told him
before Mr. Stockton returned from the War Office this morning."

"So I thought I'd help you unofficially," murmured Drummond, "the same
as I did at the time of the Black Gang."

MacIver's scowl grew positively ferocious.

"I don't want your help," he snarled.  "And in future keep out of this
matter or you'll find yourself in trouble."

"Well?"  He swung round as some of his men came into the room.

"Nothing, sir.  The house is empty."

"Then, since the hour is late, I think we'll leave you," remarked
Drummond.  "You know where to find me, Mac; and you'd better let me
know what I'm to say about that bloke's death.  From now on, I may say,
we shall drop this, and concentrate exclusively on the breeding of
white mice."

For a moment I thought MacIver was going to stop us; then apparently he
thought better of it.  He favoured us with a parting scowl, and with
that we left him.  By luck we found a taxi, and Drummond gave his own
address.

"There are one or two things we might discuss," he said quietly, as we
got into the car.  "MacIver's arrival is an undoubted complication.  I
wonder how he spotted you, Stockton?"

"That's what beats me," I remarked.  "I spotted him--not as MacIver, of
course--down at the Three Cows.  He struck me as a suspicious
character, so I kept my eye on him casually while you were talking to
that racing tout."

"Oh!  Lord!" Drummond began to laugh.  "Then that accounts for it.  The
effect of your casual eye would make an archbishop feel he'd committed
bigamy.  It has a sledge-hammer action, about it, old man, that would
make a nun confess to murder."

"I'm very sorry," I said huffily.  "But please remember that this sort
of thing is quite new to me.  And the practical result seems to be that
we've got ourselves into a very nasty hole.  Why--that confounded
Inspector man suspects me."

"He doesn't really," said Drummond reassuringly.  "He was merely as mad
as thunder at having made an ass of himself."

And then he started laughing again.

"Poor old Mac!  Do you remember when we laid him out to cool on his own
doorstep, Toby?"

"I do," returned Sinclair.  "And I further noticed that your allusion
to the Black Gang was not popular.  But, joking apart, Hugh--what's the
next move?"

"It rests on a slender hope, old boy," said Drummond.  "And even then
it may lead to nothing.  It rests on the reappearance of little rat
face.  Of course he may be able to tell us nothing: on the other hand
there must have been some reason for tricing him up.  And that reason
may throw some light on the situation."

"But are you really going on with it?" I asked.

They both stared at me in amazement.

"Going on with it!" cried Drummond.  "What a question, my dear man.  Of
course we are.  Apart altogether from the fact that they're bound to
have another shot at you, and probably at us, too, there is all the
makings of a really sporting show in this affair.  Wash out MacIver's
unfortunate entrance for the moment, and concentrate on the other
aspects of the case.  Evidently what I feared this afternoon was
correct, and our friend at Hatchett's--now defunct--got on to us at
Brook Street.  He may have asked the head waiter whom I was--that's a
detail.  He follows us to the Three Cows; he lays a deliberate trap
into which we fall--admittedly with our eyes open.  The sole object of
that plot is to kill you and possibly us.  It fails, and somewhat
stickily for the originator.  But you don't imagine that we can allow
the matter to rest there, do you?  It wouldn't be decent."

"Still," I persisted, "it seems to me that we may be getting ourselves
into hot water with the police if we go on."

Drummond laid his hand reassuringly on my knee.

"It's not the first time, old lad," he remarked.  "Mac and I are really
bosom friends.  Still, if you feel doubtful, you can back out.
Personally I propose to continue the good work."

"Oh! if you're going on I'm with you," I said, a little ungraciously.
"Only please don't forget I'm reputed to be a lawyer."

"Magnificent," returned Drummond imperturbably.  "We'll come to you for
legal advice."

The car pulled up in front of his house and we got out.

"Come in and change," he went on, "and we'll have a nightcap."

I noticed that his eyes were searching the street.  The hour was two,
and as far as I could see it was deserted.  And yet I couldn't help a
distinct feeling of relief as the stout front door shut behind us.  It
gave one a feeling of safety and security which had been singularly
lacking during the preceding part of the evening: no one could get at
us there.

I lit one of my prohibited Turkish cigarettes, and as I did so I saw
that Drummond was staring with curious intentness at a letter and a
parcel that lay on the hall table.  The parcel was about the size of a
cigar box, and the label outside proclaimed that it came from Asprey's.

He led the way upstairs, carrying them both with him.  And then having
drawn himself some beer, and waved his hand at the cask in the corner
for us to help ourselves, he slit the envelope open with a paper knife.

"I thought as much," he said after he had read the contents.  "But how
very crude; and how very untruthful.  Though it shows they possess a
confidence in their ability, which is not so far justified by results."

We looked over his shoulder at the typewritten slip he held in his
hand.  It ran as follows:--


    "_Mr. Stockton is dead because he knew too much: a traitor is dead
    because he was a traitor.  Unless you stop at once, a fool will die
    because he was a fool._"


"How crude," he repeated.  "How very crude.  I'm afraid our opponents
are not very clever.  They must have been going to the movies or
something.  It is rare to find three lies in such a short space.  Toby,
bring me a basin chock-full of water, will you?  There's one in the
bathroom."

His eyes were fixed on the parcel, and he was smiling grimly.

"To be certain of success is an admirable trait, Stockton," he
murmured, "if you succeed.  If, on the contrary, you fail, it is
ill-advised to put your convictions on paper.  Almost as ill-advised,
in fact, as to send live-stock disguised as a cigarette-case."

"What on earth do you mean?" I asked.

"Put your ear against that parcel and listen," he answered shortly.

And suddenly I heard it--a faint rustling, and then, a gentle scraping
noise.

"You're having an excellent blooding to this sort of game," he laughed.
"In fact, I've rarely known events come crowding so thick and fast.
But crude--oh! so crude, as I said before."

"Here you are, old man.  Is there enough water?"

Toby had re-entered the room with the basin.

"Ample," answered Drummond, picking up the parcel and holding it under
the surface.  "Give me that paper-weight, Stockton, and then we can
resume our beer."

Fascinated I watched the bubbles rise to the surface.  At first they
came slowly, then as the water permeated the wrappings they rose in a
steady stream.  And then clear and distinct there came a dreadful
hissing noise, and the surface of the water became blurred with a faint
tremor as if the box itself was shaking.

"A pleasant little pet," murmured Drummond, watching the basin with
interest.  "There's no doubt about it, you fellows, that the air of
rapidity grows more and more marked."

At last the bubbles ceased; the whole parcel was water-logged.

"We'll give it five minutes," said Drummond, "before inspecting
Asprey's latest."

We waited, I at any rate with ill-concealed impatience, till the time
was up and Drummond took the parcel out of the water.  He cut the
string and removed the paper.  Inside was a wooden box with holes
drilled in it, and the water was draining out of it back into the basin.

With the paper-knife he prised open the lid, and even he gave a
startled exclamation when he saw what was inside.  Personally it filled
me with a feeling of nausea, and I saw Toby Sinclair clutch the table.

It was a spider of sorts, but such a spider as I have never dreamed of
in my wildest nightmares.  Its body was the size of a hen's egg; its
six legs the size of a crab's.  And it was covered with coarse black
hair.  Even in death it looked the manifestation of all evil, with its
great protruding eyes and short sharp jaws, and with a shudder I turned
away.

"A jest I do not like," said Drummond quietly; tipping the corpse out
into the basin.  "Hullo!  Another note."

He was staring at the bottom of the box, and there sure enough was an
envelope.  It was sodden with water, but the letter inside was legible.
And for a while we stared at it uncomprehendingly.


    "_This is to introduce William.  If you decide to keep him, his
    favourite diet is one of small birds and mice.  He is a married
    man, and since I hated to part him from his wife I have sent her
    along, too.  She is addressed to the most suitable person in the
    house to receive a lady._"


As I say, for a moment or two we stared at the note uncomprehendingly,
and then Drummond gave a sudden strangled grunt in his throat and
dashed from the room.

"Phyllis," he flung at us hoarsely, from the door.

"Good Lord! his wife," cried Toby, and with sick fear in our hearts we
followed him.

"It's all right, darling," came his voice from above us, but there was
no answer.  And when we got to the open door and looked into the room
the silence was not surprising.

Cowering in a corner, her eyes dilated with horror, there stood a girl.
She was staring at something on the carpet--something that was hidden
from us by the bed.  Her lips were moving, but no sound came from them,
and she never even lifted her eyes to look at her husband.

And I don't wonder.  Even now, though eighteen months have passed, my
skin still creeps as I recall that moment.  If the dead thing below had
been horrible, what words can I use for the living?  As with many
spiders, the female was larger than the male, and the thing which stood
on its six great legs about a yard from her feet looked the size of a
puppy.  It was squat and utterly loathsome, and as Drummond with the
poker in his hand dashed towards it, it scuttled under the bed, hissing
loudly.

It was I who caught Mrs. Drummond as she pitched forward in a dead
faint, and I held her whilst her husband went Berserk.  It was my first
acquaintance with his amazing strength.  He hurled heavy pieces of
furniture about as if they were out of a doll's house.  The two beds
flew apart with a crash, and the foul brute he was after sidled under a
wardrobe.  And then the wardrobe moved like Kipling's piano, save that
there was only one man behind and not several.

But at last he had it, and with a grunt of rage he hit it with the
poker between the beady staring eyes.  He hit it again and again and
then he turned round and stared at us.

"If ever I lay hands on the man who sent these brutes," he said
quietly, "I will do the same to him."

He took his wife from me and picked her up in his arms.

"Let's go out of here before she comes to," he went on.  "Poor kid;
poor little kid!"

He carried her downstairs, and a few minutes later she opened her eyes.
Stark horror still shone in them, and for a while she sobbed
hysterically.  But at length she grew calmer, and disjointedly, with
many pauses, she told us what had happened.

She'd come in from a dance, and seen the two boxes lying on the hall
table.  She'd taken hers upstairs, thinking it was a present from her
husband.  And she'd opened it at her dressing-table.  And then she'd
seen this awful monster staring at her.  Her maid had gone to bed, and
suddenly it had scrambled out of the box and flopped off the table on
to the floor at her feet.

"I tried to scream, Hugh, and I couldn't.  I think I was half
mesmerized.  I just rushed blindly away, and I went to the wrong
corner.  Instead of going to the door, I went to the other.  And it
followed me.  And when I stopped it stopped."

She began to shudder uncontrollably; then she pulled herself together
again.

"It just squatted there on the floor, and its eyes seemed to grow
bigger and bigger.  And once I found myself bending right forward
towards it, as if I was forced against my will.  I think if it had
touched me I should have gone mad.  Who sent it, Hugh: who was the
brute who sent it?"

"If ever I find that out," said Drummond grimly, "he will curse the day
that he was born.  But just now, darling, I want you to take some sleep
dope and go to bed."

"I couldn't," she cried.  "I couldn't sleep with a double dose."

"Right ho!" he answered.  "Then stop down here and talk to us.  By the
way, you don't know Mr. Stockton, do you?  He's really quite
good-looking when you see his real face."

"I'm afraid, Mrs. Drummond," I said apologetically, "that I am
indirectly responsible for those two brutes being sent to you to-night."

"Two," she cried.  "Your parcel had one, too?"

"Yes, my dear, it did," said Drummond.  "Only I took the precaution of
drowning mine before inspecting it."

"Look here, Hugh," cried his wife, "I know you're on the war-path
again.  Well, I tell you straight I can stand most things--you've
already given me three goes of Peterson--but I can't stand spiders.  If
I get any more of them I shall sue for divorce."

Her husband grinned, and she turned to me pathetically.

"You wouldn't believe what he's like, Mr. Stockton, once he gets going."

"I can hazard a pretty shrewd guess," I returned.  "We haven't exactly
been at a Sunday School treat this evening."

"Life is real and life is earnest," chanted her husband.  "And
Stockton's becoming one of the boys, my pet.  We've had a really
first-class show to-night.  I've got the winner of the Derby, if it
hadn't been scratched a little tactlessly by old Uncle Bob.  And
MacIver--you remember that shining light of Scotland Yard--has chased
us all over London, and is very angry in consequence.  And--oh! well,
lots of other things.  What's that you're grasping in your hand, Toby?"

"Another note, old boy.  He's a literary gent, is our spider friend."

"Where did you find it?"

"In the box on Phyllis's dressing-table.  And I don't think it will
amuse you."

It did not.


    "_A little nervy?  Lost your temper?  Well, well!  They were quite
    harmless, both of them, though I admit Mary's claim to beauty must
    not be judged by ordinary standards.  But let that be enough.  I
    don't want meddlers.  Next time I shall remove you without mercy.
    So cease being stupid._"


"An amazingly poor judge of human nature," said Drummond softly.
"Quite amazingly so.  I wonder which of the two it was.  I trust with
all my heart that it was not our friend of Hatchett's and Ashworth
Gardens.  I should hate to think we would never meet again."

"But why won't you?" said his wife hopefully.

"Well, we had a little game to-night, darling," answered Drummond.
"And he has taken his own excellent advice.  He has ceased being
stupid."




4

  In which Hugh Drummond
  discovers a new aunt

And at this point I feel that I owe my readers an apology.  In fact,
Hugh Drummond, who has just read the last chapter, insists on it.

"What an appalling song and dance about nothing at all," is the tenor
of his criticism.  "My dear fellow, concentrate on the big thing."

Well, I admit that in comparison with what was to come it was nothing
at all.  And yet I don't know.  After all, the first shell that bursts
near one affects the individual more than a bombardment later on.  And
the events I have described constituted my first shell, so that on that
score alone I crave indulgence.

But there is another reason too, which, in my opinion, renders it
impossible to concentrate only on the big thing.  Had these words been
penned at the time, much that I am writing now would have been
dismissed in a few lines, simply because the position of certain
episodes in the chain of events would not have been obvious.  But now,
looking back, and armed with one's present knowledge, it is easy to see
how they all fitted in; and how the two chains of events, the big one
and the one that Drummond calls little, ran side by side till they
finally met.  And so I will give them both, merely remarking that if
certain things appear obscure to the reader, they appeared even more
obscure to us at the time.

We were confronted then, on the morning after our visit to the Three
Cows, with the following position of affairs.  The secret of a
singularly deadly poison had been stolen, and in the process of the
theft the inventor of the poison had disappeared, his dog had been
killed, and the man who, according to his own story, had not only been
his friend but had also been financing his experiments, had been
murdered.  The death of the constable was an extraneous matter, and
therefore did not affect the position, save that it afforded proof, if
further proof was needed, of the deadliness of the poison.

Sinclair and I, owing to the fact that we had come to Gaunt's rooms,
had been followed; and, of the two of us, I was regarded as the more
dangerous.  So much the more dangerous, in fact, that my death had been
deliberately decided on under circumstances which our enemies imagined
did not admit of failure.

They had clearly added Drummond to our list, probably, as he surmised,
owing to the incident at Hatchett's.  And the fact that the head waiter
knew him rendered his efforts to throw them off his track abortive.  We
were undoubtedly followed to the Three Cows, with the idea of
inveigling us to Ashworth Gardens.  MacIver was there simply and solely
because he knew it was the pub. in which the taxi-driver had been
drugged the night before, and he hoped to pick up a thread to follow.

And there came our first query.  Did MacIver recognize the two men, and
did they recognize him?  To the first of these questions we
unhesitatingly answered--No.  There was no reason that he should know
them at all as far as we could see; and the fact that MacIver's worst
suspicions were at once concentrated on me rendered it less probable
that he would notice them.  To the other question we again
answered--No, but with less certainty.  It didn't appear a very
important one, anyway, but it struck us that it would be taking an
unnecessary and dangerous risk on their part to carry on with their
programme if they thought they were being watched.  And human nature,
being what it is, they would, with their guilty conscience, if they had
recognized MacIver, have assumed he was after them.

As far as we were concerned they didn't care--in fact, they wanted to
be recognized.  They wanted us to assume that they didn't know us--that
our disguises were perfect.  And so what was more natural than that
they should discuss things openly in our hearing?  In fact, they had
been very sure of themselves, had those two gentlemen.

All that was clear: it was over the subsequent events that there rested
the fog of war.  Why hang the poor little brute when obviously they had
a supply of the poison?  If they wished to kill him, that would have
been a far surer and more efficacious method.  And why the spiders?

We were holding a council of war, I remember, at which I met Peter
Darrell and Algy Longworth for the first time, and we discussed those
two points from every angle.  And it was Drummond who stuck out for the
simplest explanation.

"You're being too deep, old lads," he remarked.  "The whole of this
thing has been done with one idea, and one idea only--to frighten us.
They think I'm a positive poop--a congenital what-not.  They intended
to kill Stockton, whom they are afraid knows too much; and they
intended to inspire in me a desire to hire two nurses and a bath-chair
and trot up and down the front at Bournemouth.  The mere fact that they
have brought off a double event in the bloomer line doesn't alter the
motive."

He rose and pressed the bell, and in a moment or two his butler entered.

"Did you take in those two parcels from Asprey's last night, Denny?"

"I did, sir."

"What time did they come?"

"About midnight, sir."

"Who brought 'em?"

"A man, sir."

"You blithering juggins, I didn't suppose it was a tame rhinoceros.
What sort of a man?"

"Don't know that I noticed him particularly, sir.  He just handed 'em
in and said you'd understand."

Drummond dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"No help there," he remarked.  "Except as to time.  Obviously they had
everything prepared.  As soon as they saw we were going to Ashworth
Gardens, one of them came here, and the other followed us."

"Granted all that, old bean," said Toby.  "But why hang rat face?
that's what beats me."

Drummond lit a cigarette before replying.

"There's a far more interesting point than that," he remarked.  "And I
mentioned it last night.  Who hanged him?  There were people in that
house before we got there: men don't hang themselves as a general rule.
Those people left that house before we arrived there, just as the man
who tried to murder Stockton got there after we arrived there.  And on
one thing I'll stake my hat: the latter gentleman did not come up the
stairs, or I'd have heard him.  If he didn't come up the stairs he
entered by some unusual method: presumably the same as that by which
the others left, or else Toby would have seen them.  And houses with
unusual entrances always interest me."

"There's generally a back door," said Algy Longworth.

"But only one staircase, laddie," returned Drummond.  "And the man I
killed did not come up that staircase.  No: the old brain has seethed,
and I'm open to a small bet that what they intended to do is clear.
They meant to kill Stockton, and then they assumed that Toby and I
would dash into the next room to catch the fellow who did it.  Owing to
the door being locked he would have time to get away.  Then probably we
should go for the police.  And when we got back I'm wondering if we
would have found either body there.  On the other hand, we should have
had to admit that we were masquerading in disguise, and doubts as to
our sanity if nothing worse would be entertained.  That, coupled with
the spiders, they thought would put me off.  Instead of that, however,
he didn't kill Stockton and got killed himself.  Moreover, the police
came without our asking, and found a dead body."

"But look here, Hugh," interrupted Peter Darrell, "you said he'd have
time to get away.  How?  The door is off, and if he'd jumped out of the
window you could have followed him."

Drummond grinned placidly.

"The window was shut and bolted, Peter.  That's why I think I shall
return to Ashworth Gardens in the very near future."

"You mean to go back to the house?" I cried.

"No--not to Number 10," he answered.  "I'm going to Number 12--next
door.  And there's very little time to be lost."

He stood up and his eyes were glistening with anticipation.

"It's clear, boys: it must be.  Either I'm a damned fool, or those
blokes belong to the genus.  If only old MacIver hadn't arrived last
night we could have followed it through then.  There must be a means of
communication between the two houses, and in Number 12 we may find some
amusement.  Anyway, it's worth trying.  But, as I say, there's no time
to be lost.  They've brought the police down on themselves in a way
that shows no traces of insanity on our part, and they'll change their
quarters.  In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they've done so already."

"You aren't coming to the inquest?" said Toby.

Drummond shook his head.

"I haven't been warned to attend.  And when it comes to the turn of our
friend last night, doubtless MacIver will tell me what to say."

The door opened and Denny entered.

"Inspector MacIver would like to see you, sir."

"Show him up.  Dash it all--that's a nuisance.  It means more delay."

However, his smile was geniality itself as the detective entered.

"Good-morning, Inspector.  Just in time for a spot of ale."

But our visitor was evidently in no mood for spots of ale.

"Look here, Captain Drummond," he said curtly, "have you been up to
your fool tricks again?"

"Good Lord! what's happened now?" said Drummond, staring at him in
surprise.

"The body of the man you killed last night has completely disappeared,"
answered MacIver, and Drummond whistled softly.

"The devil it has," he muttered.  And then he began to laugh.  "You
don't imagine, do you, my dear fellow, that I've got it lying about in
the bathroom here?  But how did it happen?"

"If I knew that I shouldn't be here," snapped the Inspector, and then,
with the spot of ale literally forced on him, he proceeded to tell all
that he did know.

Three of his men had been left in the house, and owing to the smell
from the poison they had none of them been in the room with the dead
man.  Also the window had been left open and the door locked.  MacIver
had left to ring up Sir John Dallas, but he was out of London.  And
when he finally got through to the house of a well-known scientist in
Hampshire where Sir John was staying for the night, in order, as it
transpired, to discuss the very matter of this poison, it was nearly
five o'clock in the morning.  And Sir John had decided that so much
time had already elapsed that the chances of his being able to discover
anything new were remote.  So he had adhered to his original plan and
come up by an early train, which the Inspector met at Waterloo.
Together they went to 10, Ashworth Gardens, and MacIver unlocked the
door.  And the room was empty: the body had disappeared.

The three men who had been left behind all swore that they hadn't heard
a sound.  The front door had been locked all the night, and the men had
patrolled the house at intervals.

"'Pon my soul," cried MacIver, "this case is getting on my nerves.
That house is like a cupboard at a conjuring show.  Whatever you put
inside disappears."

I glanced at Drummond, and I thought I detected a certain suppressed
excitement in his manner.  But there was no trace of it in his voice.

"It is possible, of course," he remarked, "that the man wasn't dead.
He came to: found the door locked, and escaped through the window."

MacIver nodded his head portentously.

"That point of view naturally suggests itself.  And, taking everything
into account, I am inclined to think that it must be the solution."

"You didn't think of finding out if the blokes next door heard
anything?" said Drummond casually.

"My dear Captain Drummond!"  MacIver smiled tolerantly.  "Of course I
made inquiries about the occupants of neighbouring houses."

"You did, did you?" said Drummond softly.

"On one side is a clerk in Lloyd's with his wife and two children; on
the other is an elderly maiden lady.  She is an invalid, and, at the
moment, has a doctor actually in the house."

"Which is in Number 12?" asked Drummond.

"She is: her name is Miss Simpson.  However, the point is this, Captain
Drummond.  There will now, of course, be no inquest as far as the
affair of last night is concerned."

"Precisely," murmured Drummond.  "That is the point, as you say."

"So there will be no necessity..."

"For us to concoct the same lie," said Drummond, smiling.  "Just as
well, old policeman, don't you think?  It's really saved everyone a lot
of bother."

MacIver frowned, and finished his beer.

"At the same time you must clearly understand that Scotland Yard will
not tolerate any further activities on your part."

"From now on I collect butterflies," said Drummond gravely.  "Have some
more beer?"

"I thank you--no," said MacIver stiffly, and with a curt nod to us all
he left the room.

"Poor old MacIver's boots are fuller of feet than usual this morning,"
laughed Drummond as the door closed.  "He simply doesn't know which end
up he is."

"A rum development that, Hugh," said Sinclair.

"Think so, old man?  I don't know.  Once you've granted what I
maintain--namely, that there's some means of communication between the
two houses--I don't think it's at all rum.  Just as MacIver said--the
point is that there will be no inquests.  Inquests mean notoriety:
newspaper reporters, crowds of people standing outside the house
staring at it.  If I'm right, that's the one thing that the occupants
of Number 12 want to avoid."

"But dash it all, Hugh," cried Darrell, "you don't suggest that the
invalid, Miss Simpson----"

"To blazes with the invalid," said Drummond.  "How do we know it's an
invalid?  They may have killed the old dear, for all we know, and
buried her under the cucumber frame.  Of course, that man was dead:
I've never seen a deader.  Well, dead bodies don't walk.  Either he
went out through the window, or he went into Number 12.  The first
would be an appalling risk, seeing it was broad daylight; in fact,
without making the devil of a shindy, it would be an impossibility.  So
that's where I get the bulge on MacIver.  I can go into Number 12, and
he can't without a warrant.  That's so, isn't it, lawyer man?"

"He certainly can't enter the house without a warrant," I agreed.  "But
I don't see that you can go at all."

"My dear old lad," he answered, "I am Miss Simpson's long-lost nephew
from Australia.  If she is all that she pretends to be, I shall buy her
some muscatel grapes, kiss her heartily on each cheek and fade
gracefully away.  But if she isn't..."

"Well," I said curiously.  "If she isn't?"

"Then there will be two damned liars in the house, and that's always a
sound strategical position if you're the lesser of them.  So-long,
boys.  Tell me all about the inquest, and stand by for a show to-night."

He lounged out of the room, and I sat looking after him a little
helplessly.  His complete disregard for any normal methods of
procedure, his absolute lack of any conventionality, nonplussed me.
And yet I couldn't help admitting to myself that what he said was
perfectly correct.  If she was the genuine article he merely retired
gracefully: if she wasn't, he held the whip hand, since the last thing
the occupants of the house could do was to send for the police.  And
after a time I began to find myself hoping that she would prove to be
an impostor, and that there would be another show to-night.  It struck
me as being more exciting than the legal profession....

But at this point, in order to keep to the sequence of events, I must
digress for the moment and allude to the inquest.  It was an affair of
surpassing dullness, chiefly remarkable for the complete suppression of
almost all the facts that mattered.  I realized, of course, that it was
part of the pre-arranged plan: though even I, knowing as I did that
there is a definite understanding between the coroner and the police in
all inquests where murder has occurred, was surprised at the result
when compared to the facts.

But bald as that result was, the reporters got hold of it.  The few
central facts which concerned the death of the policeman and the
finding of the dead bodies of the dog and the Australian had to come
out.  Also the disappearance of Robin Gaunt.  In fact, as anyone who
cares to look up the account can see for himself, no mention occurred
of the War Office or things military throughout the whole of the
proceeding.  I saw Major Jackson in the body of the court, but since he
was in mufti, he was indistinguishable from any ordinary spectator.

I told of the cry over the telephone; and, in short, I told, with the
omissions I have mentioned, the story I have already put down in these
pages up to the moment when Inspector MacIver arrived.  And Toby
Sinclair confirmed it.

Then Sir John Dallas gave his evidence, which consisted of a series of
statements of fact.  The deaths had been due to an unknown poison
administered externally: he was unable to say how it had been applied.
He could give no opinion as to the nature of the poison, beyond saying
that it punctured the skin and passed up an artery to the heart.  He
was continuing his experiments in the hopes of isolating it.

Then MacIver was called, and I must say that I admired the almost
diabolical cunning with which he slurred over the truth, and advanced
the theory that had been decided upon.  He didn't say much, but the
reporters seized it with avidity, and turned it from a weakly infant
into a lusty child.

"No trace has been discovered of Mr. Gaunt?" said the coroner.

"None," admitted MacIver.

Though naturally a full description had been circulated all over the
country.

The verdict, as may be remembered, was "Wilful murder by some person or
persons unknown" in the case of the Australian--David Ganton: and
"Death by misadventure" in the case of the constable.  And in the
latter case expressions of sympathy were tendered to his widow.

"Well done, Stockton."  Major Jackson and I went out of the court
together.

"I suppose you know they had a shot at me last night?" I said.

"The devil they did," he remarked, looking thoughtful.  "Where?"

"It's too long a story to tell," I answered.  "Have you heard anything
about the selling of the secret abroad?"

"Couldn't have yet," he said.  "Of course, strictly between ourselves,
we're on to it in every country that counts.  But the devil of it all
is that unless old Dallas can isolate this poison, the mere fact of
finding out that some other Power has got the secret isn't going to
help, because we can't make it ourselves.  We've given him all the data
we possess at the War House, but he says it isn't enough.  He
maintains, in fact, that if that formula represents the whole of
Gaunt's discovery at the time of the Armistice, then it would have been
a failure."

"Gaunt said he'd perfected it," I remarked.

"Quite," answered Jackson.  "But, according to Dallas, it isn't merely
a process of growth along existing lines, but the introduction of
something completely new.  I'm no chemist, so I can't say if the old
boy is talking out of the back of his neck or not."

He hailed a passing taxi.

"It's serious, Stockton; deuced serious.  Our only hope lies, as the
General said yesterday, in the fact that the distribution question may
defeat them.  Because we've gone through every single available paper
of Gaunt's, and that point doesn't appear anywhere.  You see"--his
voice dropped to a whisper--"aeroplanes are impracticable--they travel
too fast, and they couldn't take up sufficient bulk.  And a
dirigible--well, you remember sausage balloons, don't you, falling in
flames like manna from the heavens in France?  One incendiary
bullet--and finish.  That's the point, but don't pass it on.  Has he
solved that?  If so..."

With a shrug of his shoulders he left his sentence uncompleted, and I
stood watching the car as it drove away towards Whitehall.

"Universal, instantaneous death."

Robin's words came back to me, and they continued to come back to me
all through the day, when, for very shame's sake, I was making a
pretence of work.  They danced between my eyes and the brief in front
of me, till in despair I gave up trying to concentrate on it.

"Universal, instantaneous death."

I lit a pipe and fell to reviewing the events of the past few days.
And after a time the humour of the situation struck me.  My elderly
clerk, I felt, regarded me with displeasure: evidently he thought that
a man of law displayed carelessness in getting mixed up in such a
matter.  As a set-off against that, however, I realized that I had
seriously jeopardized Douglas Fairbanks in the office boy's estimation.

But the point I had to consider was my own future action.  It was all
very well for Hugh Drummond and a crowd of his irresponsible friends to
go about committing breaches of the peace if they chose to: it was a
very different matter for me.  And Inspector MacIver had definitely
told him that such activities were to cease.  Yet, dash it all...

I took a pull at myself and lit another pipe.  Undoubtedly it was folly
on my part to continue.  The police had it in hand: almost certainly I
should be getting myself into trouble.  Yes, I'd be firm: I'd point out
exactly to Drummond and the others how matters stood: my reputation as
a lawyer and the impossibility of my countenancing such irregularities.
Besides, this brief...

And at the stage of my deliberations I heard a loud and well-known
voice in the office outside.

"Is Mr. Stockton in?  I can't help it if he is busy.  I've just killed
my grandmother and I want his advice."

I went to the door and opened it.  Drummond stood there beaming
cheerfully at my outraged clerk, and as soon as he saw me he waved his
hand.

"Bolted the badger," he cried.  "My boy, I must have words with you.
Yonder stout-hearted lad says you're busy."

"A brief," I said a little doubtfully, "which I ought to get on with.
However, come in."

"Blow your old brief," he answered.  "Give the poor girl custody of the
children and be done with it."

He sat down and put his legs on the desk, whilst I, with a glance at my
clerk's face of scandalized horror, hurriedly shut the door.

"Look here, Stockton," said Drummond, lowering his voice.  "I thought
I'd rout you out here, because it was a bit too long to say over the
telephone.  And since you're really the principal in this affair, you
ought to know at once.  To start at the end of the matter, I haven't
the faintest doubt in my own mind now that my suspicions about Number
12 are correct."

He lit a cigarette and I felt my determination weakening.  At any rate
I wasn't committed to anything by hearing what he had to say.

"As you know," he continued, "I went up to see my long-lost aunt--Miss
Simpson.  I put on a slouch hat, and made one or two slight alterations
in my appearance.  The first thing I did was to call at one or two of
the local food shops, and at the greengrocer's who supplied the house.
I discovered her name was Amelia.  Apparently she sometimes paid by
cheque--in fact, they'd had one only last week."

"Well, that was a bit of a jolt to start off with: however, I thought
I'd have a shot at it since I'd got so far.  So off I strolled to
Number 12.  Two of the most obvious policemen I've ever seen in my life
are watching Number 10, but they paid no attention to me as I went past.

"I rang the bell, and for some time nothing happened.  And then a
curtain in the room next the front door moved slightly.  I was being
inspected, so I rang again to show there was no ill-feeling.  An
unpleasant-looking female opened the door about four inches, and
regarded me balefully.

"'Good-morning,' I remarked, getting my foot wedged in that four
inches.  'I've come to see Aunt Amelia.'

"'Who are you?' she said suspiciously.

"'Aunt Amelia's nephew,' I answered.  'It's ten years now since my
father--that's her brother Harry--died, and his last words to me were,
"Wallie, my boy, if ever you go back to England, you look up sister
Amelia."'

"You see, Stockton, I'd already decided that if it was a genuine show
I'd get out of it by pretending that it must be another Miss Simpson.

"'Miss Amelia's ill,' said the woman angrily.

"'Too bad,' I said.  'I reckon that seeing me will be just the thing to
cheer her up.'

"'She's not seeing anyone, I tell you,' she went on.

"'She'll see little Wallie,' I said.  'Why, according to my father, she
was clean gone on me when I was a child.  Used to give me my bath, and
doses of dill-water.  Fair potty about me was Aunt Amelia.  Besides,
I've got a little memento for her that my father gave me to hand over
to her.'

"As a matter of fact I'd bought a small pearl necklace on the way up.

"'I tell you she can't see you,' snapped the woman.  'She's ill.  You
come back next week and she may be better.'

"Well, there was nothing for it: I leaned against the door and the door
opened.  And I tell you, Stockton, I got the shock of my life.
Standing at the foot of the stairs was a man with the most staggering
face I've ever thought of.  Tufts of hair sprouted from it like whin
bushes on a seaside links: he was the King Emperor of Beavers.  But it
wasn't that that stopped me in my tracks, it was the look of diabolical
fury in his eyes.  He came towards me--and he was a heavy-weight all
right--with a pair of great black hairy fists clenched at his sides.
And what he resembled most was a dressed-up gorilla.

"'What the devil do you want?" he snarled at me from the range of about
a foot.

"'Aunt Amelia,' I said, staring him in the eyes.  'And I reckon you're
not the lady in question.'

"I saw the veins beginning to swell in his neck, and the part of his
face not covered with vegetation turned a rich magenta.

"'You infernal puppy,' he shouted.  'Didn't you hear that Miss Simpson
was ill?'

"'The fact is hardly to be wondered at with you about the house,' I
retorted, getting ready, I don't mind telling you, Stockton, for the
father and mother of scraps.

"But he didn't hit me: he made a desperate effort and controlled
himself.

"'I am Miss Simpson's doctor,' he said, 'and I will tell her of your
visit.  If you leave your address I will see that you are communicated
with as soon as she is fit to receive visitors.'

"Now that told one beyond dispute that there was something wrong.  If
he really had been the old lady's doctor: if she really was ill
upstairs, my intentionally insulting remark could only have been
received as vulgar and gratuitous impertinence.  So I thought I'd try
another.

"'If this is a sample of your bedside manner,' I said, 'she won't be
fit to receive visitors for several years.'

"And once again I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn't.

"'If you come back to-morrow morning at this hour,' he remarked, 'I
think your aunt may be fit to receive you.  At the moment I fear I must
forbid it.'

"Well, I did some pretty rapid thinking.  In the first place I knew the
man was lying: he probably wasn't a doctor at all.  No man with a face
like that could be a doctor: all his patients would have died of shock.
In the second place I'd had a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my
eye of a couple of men upstairs who were examining me through a minor
hanging on the wall--a mirror obviously placed for that very purpose
with regard to visitors.

"And another thing stuck out a yard: throughout the whole of our
conversation he had kept between me and the stairs.  Of course it might
have been accidental: on the other hand, it might not.  The way it
struck me, however, was that he was afraid, seeing that I was obviously
a breezy customer, that I might make a dash for it.  And I damned
nearly did, Stockton--damned nearly.

"However, not quite.  I'd seen two men upstairs and there might be
more: moreover, the bird I was talking to--if he was as strong as he
looked--would have been an ugly customer by himself.  And even if I'd
got to the top and been able to explore the rooms, it wouldn't have
done much good.  I couldn't have tackled the show single-handed.

"So I pulled myself together, and did my best to appear convinced.

"'Well, I'm real sorry Aunt Amelia's so sick,' I said.  'And I'll come
round to-morrow as you say, doctor.  Just give her my love, will you,
and on my way back I'll call in and tell 'em to send along some grapes.'

"His mouth cracked in what I presume was a genial smile.

"'That is very good of you,' he answered.  'I feel sure Miss Simpson
will appreciate your kind attention.'

"And with that I hopped it, sent up some grapes, and that's that."

He lit a cigarette and stared at me with a smile.

"But didn't you tell the police?" I cried excitedly.

"Tell 'em what?" he answered.

"Why, that there's foul play going on there," I almost shouted.

"Steady, old man," he said quietly.  "Your lad outside will die of a
rush of blood to the head if he hears you."

"No, but look here, Drummond," I said, lowering my voice, "you may have
hit on the key of the whole affair."

"I think it's more than probable that I have," he answered calmly.
"But that seems to me to be quite an unnecessary reason to go trotting
off to the police."

"But I say, old man," I began feebly, mindful of my previous
resolutions.  And then the darned fellow grinned at me in that lazy way
of his, and I laughed.

"What do you propose to do?" I said at length.

"Anticipate the visit to Aunt Amelia by some nine or ten hours, and go
there to-night.  Are you on?"

"Confound you," I said, "of course I am."

"Good fellow," he cried.  "I knew you'd do it."  He took his feet off
the desk and leaned towards me.

"Stockton," he said quietly, "we're hot on the track.  I know we are.
Whether or not we shall find that unfortunate old lady upstairs I
haven't a notion.  True she signed a cheque quite recently, but there's
such a thing in this world as forgery.  And murder.  What induced them
to select that particular house and her, I know not.  But one thing I
do know.  To-night is going to be a pretty stiff show.  Be round in
Brook Street at eight o'clock."




5

  In which we pay the
  aunt an informal visit

I was there to the minute.  For a while after Drummond had gone, I told
myself that I would have nothing more to do with the business, but it
was a feeble struggle.  The excitement of the thing had got hold of me,
and poor old Stevens--my clerk--had never seemed so intolerably prosy
and long-winded.

"Splendid," said Drummond as I walked in.  "That completes us.
Stockton, this is Ted Jerningham, a lad of repulsive morals but
distinctively quick on the uptake."

He brought our numbers up to six, and when I look back now and think of
the odds against which, in all ignorance, we were pitting ourselves I
could almost laugh.  And yet I know one thing.  Even had Drummond
realized what those odds were, it would not have made an iota of
difference to him.  With him it was always a question of the more the
merrier.

"We will now run over the plan of operations," he went on, when I had
removed two dogs from a chair and sat down.  "I've told these birds
what I told you this afternoon, Stockton, so it only remains to discuss
to-night.  In the first place we've had a stroke of luck which is a
good omen.  The street running parallel to Ashworth Gardens is called
Jersey Street.  And the back of Number 13, Jersey Street, looks on to
the back of 12, Ashworth Gardens.  Moreover, the female who owns Number
13, Jersey Street lets rooms, and I have taken those rooms.  In fact,
I've taken the whole bally house for a week--rent paid in advance--for
a party of divinity students who have come up to this maelstrom of vice
to see the Mint and Madame Tussaud's and generally be inconceivably
naughty.

"Separating the backs of the houses are two brown patches of mud with a
low wall in the middle which a child of four could climb with ease.
And since there is no moon to-night, there oughtn't to be much
difficulty in getting over that wall unseen--should the necessity arise.

"And since the spectacle of four of you dashing down the stairs and out
of the old girl's back door might rouse unworthy suspicions in her
breast, I have stipulated that we must have the use of a ground floor
sitting-room at the back of the house.  She doesn't usually let it, but
I assured her that the wild distractions of Jersey Street would
seriously interfere with our meditations."

"Four?" interrupted Jerningham.  "Why four?"

"I'm coming to that," said Drummond.  "I want someone with me in Number
12.  And since the sport will probably be there, I think it's only fair
to let Stockton have it, as this is really his show."

A chorus of assent greeted his remark, and for the life of me I
couldn't help laughing.  I had formed a mental picture of Drummond's
pal of the afternoon with the whin bushes sprouting from his face, and
I could see him being my portion for the evening.  But the whole tone
of the meeting was one of the most serious gravity: it might have been
a discussion before a shoot when the principal guest was being given
the best position.  So I suppressed the laugh and accepted with
becoming gratitude.

"Right," said Drummond.  "Then that's settled.  Now to the next point."

He picked up from his desk a cowl-shaped black mask, and regarded it
reminiscently.

"Lucky I kept a few of these: do you remember 'em, you fellows?
Stockton wouldn't, of course."

He turned to me.

"Years ago we had an amusing little show rounding up Communists and
other unwashed people of that type.  We called ourselves the Black
Gang, and it was a great sport while it lasted."

"Good Heavens!" I said, staring at him.  "I dimly remember reading
something about it in the papers.  I thought the whole thing was a
hoax."

They all laughed.

"That's when we chloroformed your pal MacIver and left him to cool on
his own doorstep.  Happy days, laddie: happy days.  However, taking
everything into account, the going at the moment might be worse.  And
it struck me that these things might come in handy to-night.  If we
wear our old black gauntlets, and these masks well tucked in round the
collar, it will afford us some protection if they start any monkey
tricks with that filthy juice of theirs.  At any rate there is no harm
in having them with us in case of accidents: they don't take up much
room and we can easily slip them into our pockets.  So it all boils
down to this.  Stockton and I will deposit you four in Jersey Street,
where you will take up a firm position in the back sitting-room.
Bearing in mind that you are destined for the Church, and the penchant
of landladies for keyholes, you will refrain from your usual
conversation.  Under no circumstances is Toby to tell any of his
stories, nor is Ruff's Guide to be placed in a prominent position on
the table when she brings you in your warm milk at ten.  Rather should
there be an attitude of devotion: possibly a note-book or two in which
you are entering up your impressions of the Wallace Collection----"

A struggling mass of men at length grew quiescent in a corner, with
Drummond underneath.

"It takes five of us to do it," panted Darrell to me, "and last time
the chandelier in the room below fell on Denny's head."

"That being quite clear," pursued Drummond from his place on the floor,
"we will pass on.  Should you hear shouts as of men in pain from the
house opposite; or should you, on glancing through the crack of the
blind, see me signalling, you will abandon your attitude of devotion
and leg it like hell over the wall.  Because we may want you damned
quick.  Wear your masks: Ted to be in charge, and I leave it to you as
to what to do once you arrive in Number 12."

"And if we neither hear nor see anything?" asked Jerningham.  "How long
are we to give you?"

They had resumed their normal positions, and Drummond thoughtfully lit
a cigarette.

"I think, old boy," he remarked, "that half an hour should be long
enough.  In fact," he added, rubbing his hands together in
anticipation, "I'm not at all certain it won't be twenty-nine minutes
too long.  Let's get on with it."

We pocketed our masks and gauntlets and went downstairs.  There was no
turning back for me now: I was definitely committed to go through with
it.  But I have no hesitation in admitting that our taxi-drive seemed
to me the shortest on record.  We had two cars, and Drummond stopped
them several hundred yards short of our objective.  Then leading the
way with me we walked in pairs to Jersey Street.

Number 13 was typical of all the houses in the neighbourhood--an
ordinary drab London lodging-house of the cheaper type.  But the
landlady, when she finally emerged, was affability itself.  The strong
odour of gin that emerged with her showed that the rent had not been
wasted, and led us to hope that sleep would shortly overcome her.  At
the moment it had merely made her thoroughly garrulous, and only the
timely advent of an acute attack of hiccoughs stemmed the reminiscences
of her girlhood's happy days.  But at last she went, and instantly
Drummond was at the window peering through a chink in the blind.

"Lower the light, someone, and then come and reconnoitre.  There's the
house facing you: there's the wall.  No lights: I wonder if the birds
have flown.  No, by Jove!  I saw a gleam then from that upstairs
window.  There it is again."

Sure enough a light was showing in one of the rooms, and I thought I
saw a shadow move across the blind.  Downstairs all was dark, and after
a few moments' inspection Drummond stepped back into the room.

"Come on, Stockton," he said.  "We'll go round by the front door.
Don't forget I'm an Australian, and you're a pal of mine whom I met
unexpectedly in London to-day.  And if I pretend to be a little
blotto--pugnaciously so--back me up.  Ted--half an hour; but keep your
eye glued on the house in case we want you sooner."

"Right ho! old man.  Good luck."

We walked through the hall cautiously, but the door leading to our
landlady's quarters was shut.  And in three minutes we were striding
down Ashworth Gardens.  A figure detached itself from the shadows
outside the scene of last night's adventure, and glanced at us
suspiciously.  But Drummond was talking loudly as we passed him of his
voyage home, and the man made no effort to detain us.

"One of MacIver's men," he muttered to me as we turned into Number 12.
"Now, old man, we're for it.  If I can I'm going to walk straight in."

But the front door was bolted, and perforce we had to ring.  Once more
he started talking in the aggressive way of a man who has had something
to drink, and I noticed that the detective was listening.

"I tell you my Aunt Amelia will just be charmed to see you, boy.  Any
pal of mine is a pal of hers.  And I haven't come twelve thousand miles
to be told that my father's sister isn't well enough to see Wallie.
No, sir--I have not."

The door suddenly opened and a man stood there looking at us angrily.

"What do you want?" he snapped.  "Are you aware, sir, that there is an
invalid in this house?"

"I'm perfectly well aware of it," said Drummond loudly.  "But what I'm
not aware of--and what I'm going to be aware of--is how that invalid,
who is my aunt, is being treated.  I'm not satisfied with the attention
she is receiving"--out of the corner of my eyes I saw the detective
drawing closer--"not at all satisfied.  And I and my friend here are
not going to leave this house until Aunt Amelia tells me that she's
being well looked after.  There's such a thing as the police, sir, I
tell you..."

"What on earth are you talking about?" said the man savagely, and I
noticed he was looking over our shoulders at the detective, who was now
listening openly.  "However, you'd better come inside, and I'll consult
the doctor in charge."

He closed the door behind us, and Drummond gave me an imperceptible
wink.  Then he went on again aggressively:

"How many doctors are there in this house?  I saw a man this afternoon
with a face like a hearth-rug--is he here?  And do you all live here?
I tell you I'm not satisfied.  And until I see my Aunt Amelia..."

A door opened and the man whom Drummond had described to me in my
office came out into the hall.

"How dare you return here, sir?" he shouted.  "You're the insolent,
interfering young swine who was here this afternoon, and if you aren't
out of this house in two seconds I'll throw you out."

"You'd better try," answered Drummond calmly.  "And why don't you let
your face out as a grouse moor?  I'm your patient's nephew and I want
to know what all you ugly-looking swabs are doing in this house?"

With a quick movement he stepped past the man into the room beyond, and
I followed him.  Three other men were there sitting round a table, and
they rose as we entered.  Two packed suit-cases lay in the floor
waiting to be strapped up, and on the table were five glasses and a
half-empty bottle of whisky.

"Five of you," continued Drummond.  "I suppose you'll be telling me
next that my aunt runs a boys' school.  Now then, face fungus, what the
hell does it mean?"

"It means that if you continue to make such a row your aunt's death
will probably be at your door," answered the other.

"I noticed that you were whispering yourself in the hall," said
Drummond.  "You're a liar, and a damned bad liar at that.  You aren't
doctors, any of you."

The men were glancing at one another uneasily, and suddenly the whole
beauty of the situation flashed on me.  They knew as well as we did
that there was a Scotland Yard man outside the house, and the fact was
completely tying their hands.  Whatever they may have suspected
concerning Drummond's alleged relationship, we were, as he had himself
remarked, in the sound strategical position of being the lesser liars
of the two.  Our opponents could do nothing, and the fact that they
were utterly nonplussed showed on their faces.  And I waited with
interest to see what their next move would be.  What answer were they
going make to Drummond's definite charge that they were none of them
doctors?

They were saved the trouble, and in, to me at any rate, the most
unexpected way.  In my own mind I was firmly convinced by this time
that there was no Miss Simpson, and that even if there was she was no
sickly invalid ailing in bed.  And yet at that moment there came a weak
querulous woman's voice from the landing upstairs.

"Doctor Helias!  Doctor Helias, I've been woken up again just as I was
going off to sleep.  Who is it making that terrible noise downstairs?"

The black-haired man swung round on Drummond.

"Now are you satisfied?" he said savagely.  "And if my patient has a
relapse and dies, by Heavens!  I'll make it hot for you at the inquest."

He strode to the door, and we heard him speaking from the foot of the
stairs.

"It's the nephew I told you about, Miss Simpson, who called to see you
this afternoon.  He seems to be afraid you aren't being properly looked
after.  Now I must insist on your going back to bed at once."

He went up the stairs, and I glanced at Drummond.  His eyes had
narrowed as if he too was puzzled, and he told me afterwards that a
woman's voice was the last thing he expected to hear.  But his voice
was perfectly casual as he addressed the room at large.

"Dangerous place London must be.  Do you--er--doctors always carry
revolvers with you?"

"What the devil are you talking about?" snapped the man who had let us
in.

Without a word Drummond pointed to one of the suit-cases, where the
butt of an automatic Colt was plainly visible.

"I suppose when your surgical skill fails you merely shoot your
patients," went on Drummond affably.  "Very kind and merciful of you, I
call it."

"Look here," said the other grimly, "we've had about enough of you,
young man.  You've forced your way into this house: you've insulted us
repeatedly, and I'm thinking it's about time you went."

"Are you?" said Drummond.  "Then you'd better think all over again."

"Do you mean to say that now you've heard what your aunt has said to
Doctor Helias, you still are not satisfied?"

"Never been less so in my life," he replied genially.  "This house
reeks of crooks like a seaside boarding-house of cabbage at lunch-time.
And since we've wakened poor Auntie up between us, I'm going to see her
before I go."

"By all manner of means," said Doctor Helias quietly.  He was standing
in the door, and his voice was genial.  "Your aunt would like to see
you and your friend.  But you must not alarm her or excite her in any
way.  And incidentally, when your interview is over, I shall await an
apology for your grossly insulting remarks."

He stood aside and I followed Drummond into the passage.

"The first door on the left," murmured the doctor.  "You will find your
aunt in bed."

"For God's sake, keep your eyes skinned, Stockton," whispered Drummond
as we went up the stairs.  "There is some trap here, or I'll eat my
hat."

But there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary as we entered the
room.  A shaded lamp was beside the bed, and the invalid was in shadow.
But even in the dim light one could see that she was a frail old lady,
with the ravages of pain and disease on her face.

"My nephew," she said in a gentle voice.  "My brother Harry's boy!
Well, well--how time does pass.  Come here, nephew, and let me see what
you've grown into."

With an emaciated hand she held up the electric lamp so that its rays
fell on Drummond.  And the next instant the lamp had crashed to the
floor.  I bent quickly and picked it up, and as I did so the light for
a moment shone on her face.  And I could have sworn that the look in
her eyes during that brief instant was one of sheer, stark terror....
So vivid was the impression that I stared at her in amazement.  True,
the look was gone at once, but I _knew_ I had not been mistaken.  The
sight of Drummond's face had terrified the woman in the bed.  Why?
Crooked or not crooked, it seemed unaccountable.

"I'm so weak," she said apologetically.  "Thank you, sir--thank you."
She was speaking to me, as if she realized that I was staring at her
curiously.  "It was quite a shock to me to see my nephew grown into
such a big man.  I should never have known him, but that's only
natural.  You must come again when I'm better, nephew, and tell me all
about your poor dear father."

"I certainly will, Aunt Amelia," said Drummond thoughtfully.

"Harry was always a little wild, but such a dear lovable boy," went on
the old lady.  "You're not very like him, nephew."

"So I've been told," murmured Drummond, and I saw his mouth beginning
to twitch.  "I'm much more like my mother.  She'd just about have been
the same age as you, Auntie, if she'd been alive.  You remember her,
don't you--Jenny Douglas that was, from Cirencester?"

"It's a long time ago, nephew."

"But my father always said that you two were such friends!"

For a moment the woman hesitated, and from downstairs came the sound of
an electric bell rung twice.

"Why, of course," she said, "I remember her well."

"Then you must have a darned good memory, auntie," said Drummond
grimly.  "It was conceivable that you might have had a brother called
Harry who went to Australia, though I did happen to invent him.  But by
no possible stretch of imagination could you have had a sister-in-law
called Jenny Douglas from Cirencester, for I've just invented her, too."

"Look out, Drummond," I shouted, and he swung round.  Stealing across
the floor towards us was the black-haired Doctor Helias with a piece of
gas-piping in his hand, and behind him were three of the others.

And then like a flash it happened.  It was the men we were watching;
we'd forgotten the invalid in bed.  I had a momentary glimpse of
bed-clothes being hurled off, and a woman fully dressed springing at
Drummond from behind.  In her hand was something that gleamed, and
suddenly the overpowering smell of ammonia filled the room.  But it was
Drummond who got it straight in the face.  In an instant he was
helpless from the fumes, lurching and staggering about blindly, and
even as I sprang forward to help him I heard the woman's voice--

"Put him out, you fool, and do it quick."

And the black-haired man put him out easily and scientifically.  He was
obviously an expert, for he didn't appear to use much force.  He just
applied his piece of piping to the base of Drummond's skull, and it was
over.  He went down as if he was pole-axed and lay still.

"My God!" I muttered, "you've killed him."

And that was my last remark for some hours.  The three men who applied
themselves to me were also experts in their line, and I estimated it at
half-a-minute before I was gagged and trussed up, and thrown into a
corner.  But I was still able to hear and see.

"You damned fool," said the woman to the man called Doctor Helias.
"Why didn't you tell me it was him?"

She was pointing at Drummond, and he stared at her in surprise.

"What do you mean?" he answered.  "I don't know who he is any more than
you do.  Isn't he the nephew?"

She gave a short laugh.

"No more than I am.  And you can take it from me I know him only too
well.  He suspected, of course: that's why I rang."

She flung the water pistol which had contained the ammonia on to a
table, and going to the cupboard took out a hat.

"Put 'em both below, and for Heaven's sake get a move on.  Is he dead?"
Once again she pointed at Drummond, and the big man shook his head.
"If I'd known he was coming I'd have been out of this house four hours
ago.  Mon Dieu!  Helias--you have bungled this show."

"But I don't understand," stammered the other.

"Throw 'em below," she stormed at him.  "With your brain you wouldn't
understand anything."

"Take 'em downstairs," snarled Helias to the others.  He was glaring
sullenly at the woman, but he was evidently too afraid of her to resent
her insults.

"Hurry, curse you."

And at that moment the fifth man dashed into the room.

"Men coming across the wall at the back," he said breathlessly.
"Listen: they're getting in now."

From below came the sound of a window opening, and muttered voices.

"Police?" whispered the woman tensely.

"Don't know: couldn't see."

"How many?"

"Three or four."

"Out with the light.  Whoever they are--do 'em down one by one as they
come into the room.  But no noise."

And then ensued the most agonizing minute I have ever spent in my life.
Helpless, unable to do anything to warn them, I lay in the corner.  It
was Ted Jerningham, of course, and the others--I knew that, and they
were walking straight into a trap.  The room was dark: the door was
open, and outlined against the light from the passage I could see the
huge form of Doctor Helias crouching in readiness.  Dimly I saw the
others waiting behind him, and then the woman moved forward and joined
them.  But before she did so I had seen her stand on a chair and remove
the bulb from the central electric light.

The steps on the stairs came nearer, and now the shadow of the two
leaders fell on the wall.  There was a click as the switch was turned
on--and then, when nothing happened they both sprang into the room.
For a moment they were clearly visible against the light, and even I
gave a momentary start at their appearance.  In the excitement of the
past few minutes I had forgotten about the black masks, and they looked
like two monstrous spectres from another world.  The woman gave a
little scream, and then the other two came through the door.

Thud!  Thud!  Swiftly Helias' arm rose and fell with that deadly piece
of piping in his hand, and the two last arrivals pitched forward on the
floor without a sound.

"At him, Peter."  It was Jerningham's voice muffled by the covering
over his face, and I saw the two of them spring at the doctor.

But it was hopeless from the start.  Two to five: the odds were
impossible, especially when one of the five was a man with the strength
of three.  It may have been half-a-minute, but it certainly wasn't more
before the bunch of struggling men straightened up, and two more
unconscious and black-cowled figures lay motionless.

With a feeling of sick despair I watched the woman put back the bulb
and flood the room with light.  What an ignominious conclusion to the
night's work.  And what was going to happen now?  We were utterly
powerless, and our captors were not overburdened with scruples.

Already Helias had taken off the masks, and was staring at the
unconscious men on the floor with a savage scowl.

"What's all this damned tomfoolery?" he muttered.  "Who are these young
fools, and why are they rigged up like that?"

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 hard 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 in 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 imitation of
Aunt Amelia, kept the light away from her face, and trusted to luck.
Then she recognized me, and saw at once that I was as big a fraud as
she was, and that the game was up."

"I don't know your pals, as I said before," I put in, "but that's
exactly what did happen."

"If I'm right, Stockton, you'll know 'em soon enough.  And furthermore,
if I'm right my debt of gratitude to you for putting me in the way of
this little show will be increased a thousandfold."

His voice was almost solemn, and I began to laugh.

"Mrs. Drummond's debt of gratitude will wilt a bit when she sees your
face," I said.  "Don't you think you'd better get home and have it
attended to?"

"Not on your life," he remarked.  "My face can wait: examining this
house can't.  So let us with due care as befits five blinking cripples,
see what we can find.  Then a bottle of Elliman's embrocation and bed."

"Damnation!" roared a furious voice from the door.  "What the devil are
you doing here again?"

"MacIver's little twitter," said Drummond.  "I would know that fairy
voice anywhere."

He rose cautiously and turned round.

"Mac, we have all taken it in the neck, not only metaphorically but
literally.  Any sudden movement produces on the spot an immediate
desire for death.  So be gentle with us, and kind and forbearing.
Otherwise you will see the heartrending spectacle of six men bursting
into tears."

"What on earth has happened to your face?" demanded the detective.

"Aunt Amelia sprayed it with ammonia from point-blank range," said
Drummond.  "A darned unfriendly act, I think you'll agree.  And then a
nasty man covered with black hair took advantage of my helpless
condition to sandbag me.  Mac, my lad, in the course of a long and
blameless career I've never been so badly stung as I was last night."

"What do you mean by Aunt Amelia?" growled the other.

"The official occupant of this house, Mac."

"Miss Simpson.  Where is she?"

"I know not.  But somehow I feel that the sweet woman I interviewed in
bed last night was not Miss Amelia."  Then with a sudden change of
tone--"Have you found the communication between the two houses?"

"How do you know there is one?"

"Because I'm not a damned fool," said Drummond.  "It was principally to
find it that I came here."

He glanced at the detective's suspicious face and began to laugh.

"Lord! man: it's obvious.  That fellow the other night was dead, so how
did the body disappear?  It couldn't have gone out by the window in
broad daylight, and unless your men were liars or asleep it couldn't
have gone out by the door.  So there must have been some way of
communication."

"I found it by accident a few minutes ago from the next house," said
MacIver.  "It opens into the bedroom above."

"I thought it must," said Drummond.  "And I wouldn't be surprised if
dear Aunt Amelia's bed was up against the opening."

"There was a woman here, was there?"

"There was."  For a moment or two Drummond hesitated.  "Look here,
MacIver," he said slowly, "we've had one or two amusing little episodes
together in the past, and I'm going to tell you something.  After they
knocked me out last night, Mr. Stockton, who was only bound and gagged,
heard one or two very strange things.  This woman who was here
masquerading as Miss Simpson evidently knew me.  She further evinced a
strong wish to have me killed then and there.  Now who can she have
been?  MacIver, I believe--and mark you, there is nothing inherently
improbable in it--I believe that once more we are up against Peterson.
He wasn't here; but the girl--his mistress--was.  I may be wrong, but
here and now I'd take an even pony on it."

"Perhaps you're right," acknowledged the other.  "We've heard nothing
of the gentleman for two or three years."

"And if we are, MacIver," continued Drummond gravely, "this whole show,
serious as it is at the moment, becomes ten times more so."

"If only I could begin to understand it," said the detective angrily.
"The whole thing seems so utterly disconnected and pointless."

"And it will probably remain so until we reach the end, if we ever do
reach the end," said Drummond.  "One thing is pretty clear: this house
was evidently the headquarters of that part of the gang which lived in
London."

"I'm getting into touch with Miss Simpson at once," said MacIver.

Drummond nodded.

"She may or may not be perfectly innocent."

"And two of my fellows are searching this house now," went on the
detective.  "But damn it, Captain Drummond, I'm defeated--absolutely
defeated.  If whoever is running this show wanted to get away with
Gaunt's secret--why all this?  Why didn't they go at once?  Why waste
time?"

He swung round as one of his men came into the room.  He was carrying
in his arms a metal tank of about four gallons capacity, which was
evidently intended to be strapped to a man's back.  To the bottom was
attached a length of rubber tubing, at the end of which was fixed a
long brass nozzle with a little tap attached.  On one side of the tank
a small pump was placed, and we crowded round to examine it as he
placed it on the table.

"Two or three more of them in the cellar below, sir," said the man.

"Pretty clear what they are intended for," said Drummond gravely.
"It's nothing more nor less than a glorified fruit sprayer.  And with
that liquid of theirs inside..."

"There is this, too, that I found," went on the man.  "I'd like you to
come yourself, sir, and see.  There was blood on the walls and on the
floor--and this----"

From his pocket he took a handkerchief, and it was stained an ominous
red.  It was quite dry, and MacIver opened it out and laid it beside
the tank.

"Hullo!" he muttered, "what's this mean?"

Scrawled over part of the material were some red letters.  The ink used
had been blood: the pen might have been the writer's finger.

  3P 7   ANT

A smear completed it: evidently he'd collapsed or been interrupted.

"I found it in a crack in the wall, sir," said the man.  "It had been
pushed in hard."

MacIver's eyes had narrowed, and without a word he pointed to the
corner of the handkerchief.  Clearly visible through the blood were two
small black letters.  And the letters were R.G.




6

  In which we get a
  message from Robin
  Gaunt

Robin Gaunt!  It was his blood-soaked handkerchief that lay in front of
us.  He too had been thrown into the same cellar where we had spent the
night.  And where was he now?

I picked up the handkerchief, and a sudden wave of bitterness swept
over me.  I pictured him, wounded--perhaps dying--scrawling his message
down there in the darkness, whilst outside men said vile things about
him and papers fanned the flame.

"Your super-vivisector, Inspector," I remarked.  "It's damned well not
fair."

"But just at present it's necessary, Mr. Stockton," he answered.  "By
Jove!  if only that handkerchief could speak!  3 P 7 A N T ... What on
earth was he trying to write?"

He turned and went briskly out of the room.

"Show me exactly where you found it," he said to his subordinate.

We all trooped after him, and by the light of an electric torch we
explored the cellar.  The officer pointed to the crack in the wall
where he had found the handkerchief, and to the dark stains just below
and on the floor.

"I'm thinking," said Drummond gravely, "that the poor devil was in a
pretty bad way."

Torch in hand MacIver was carrying out his examination systematically.
An opening in one wall led to a smaller cellar, and it was there that
three other spraying cisterns, similar to the one upstairs, were
standing.  They differed in small details, but their method of action
was the same.  In each design there was a pump for producing the
necessary pressure, and a small stopcock at the end of the spraying
pipe which allowed the jet of liquid to be turned on or off at will.

The main points of difference lay in the arrangement of the straps for
securing the reservoirs to the shoulders, and the shape and size of the
reservoirs themselves.  Also the rubber piping varied considerably in
length in the different models.

"Take these upstairs," said MacIver to the officer, "and put them
alongside the other one."

Once more he resumed his examination, only to stop abruptly at the
startled exclamation that came from his man.  He was standing at the
top of the cellar steps tugging at the door.

"It's locked, sir," he cried.  "I can't make it budge."

"Locked!" shouted MacIver.  "Who the devil locked it?"

"It's been locked from the other side, and the key is not in the
keyhole."

MacIver darted up the steps, and switched his torch on to the door.

"Who came in last?" he demanded.

"I did," said Toby Sinclair.  "And I left the door wide open.  I can
swear to it."

In a frenzy of rage the Inspector hurled himself against it, but the
result was nil.

"Not in a hundred years, Mac," said Drummond quietly.  "No man can open
a door as stout as that at the top of a flight of stairs.  You can't
get any weight behind your shoulder."

"But, damn it, man," cried the other, "we haven't been down here ten
minutes.  Whoever locked it must be in the house now."

"Bexton is there too, sir," said the officer.  "He was exploring
upstairs."

"Bexton!" bellowed the Inspector through the keyhole.  "Bexton!  Lord!
is the man deaf?  Bexton--you fool: come here."

But there was no answer.

"Steady, MacIver," said Drummond, "you'll have a rush of blood to the
head in a minute.  He's possibly up at the top of the house, and we'll
get him as soon as he comes down.  No good getting needlessly excited."

"But who has locked the door?" demanded the other.  "That's what I want
to know."

"Precisely, old lad," agreed Drummond soothingly.  "That's what we all
want to know.  But before we have any chance of knowing, we've got to
get to the other side.  And since we can't blow the blamed thing down
there's no good going on shouting.  Let's have a look at it: I'm a bit
of an authority on doors."

He went up the stairs, and after a brief examination he gave a short
laugh.

"My dear Mac--short of a crowbar and a pick-axe we're stung.  And since
we've none of us got either in our waistcoat pockets there's no good
worrying.  The bolt goes actually into the brickwork: you can see it
there.  And the lock on the door has been put on from the other side,
so a screw-driver is no good."

He came down laughing.

"I can't help it--I like these people.  They are birds after my own
heart.  They've bitten us properly, and got away with their expensive
set of uppers and lowers completely intact.  I shall sit down and
ruminate on life, and if anyone feels strong enough to massage my neck,
I shall raise no objections.  Lord! what a game we'll have when I meet
gorse bush again."

He lit a cigarette, and deposited himself on the floor with his back
against the wall.

"Mac, if that's our only means of illumination you'd better switch it
off.  We may want it later--you never know."

"Bexton must be down in a moment or two," said the Inspector angrily.

"True," answered Drummond.  "Unless he's down already."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that there are some people knocking about in this district who
are no slouches in the sand-bag game.  And I should think it was quite
on the cards that the worthy Bexton has already discovered the fact."

"If that's the case we're here for hours."

"Just so," agreed Drummond.  "Which is all the more reason for
preserving that air of masterly tranquillity which is the hall-mark of
the Anglo-Saxon in times of stress.  Men have won prizes ranging from
bulls-eyes to grand pianos for sentiments less profound than that.  We
are stung, Mac: we are locked in, and we shall remain locked in until
some kindly soul comes along to let us out.  And since the betting is
that the key has been dropped down the nearest drain-pipe, and that our
Mr. Bexton has taken it good and hard where I took it last night, I
think we can resign ourselves to a fairly lengthy period of rest and
meditation....  Damn my neck!"

"Supposing we all shouted together," I suggested, after we had sat in
silence for several minutes.  "Somebody must hear surely."

We let out a series of deafening bellows, and at length our efforts
were rewarded.  A heavy blow was struck on the other side of the door,
and an infuriated voice shouted through the keyhole.

"Stop that filthy row.  You'll have plenty of time to sing glees when
you're breaking stones on Dartmoor.  If you do it any more now I'll
turn a hose on you."

We heard the sound of retreating footsteps, and MacIver gave a gasp of
amazement.

"Am I mad?" he spluttered.  "Am I completely insane?  That was
Fosdick's voice--the man on duty next door."

And then every semblance of self-control left him, and he raved like a
lunatic.

"I'll sack the fellow!  I'll have him out of the force in disgrace.
He's been drinking: the fool's drunk.  Fosdick--come here, damn you,
Fosdick!"

He went on shouting and beating on the door with one of the tin
reservoirs, till once again came a blow from the other side followed by
Fosdick's voice.

"Look 'ere, you bally old twitterer: I'm getting fair fed up with you.
There's a crowd outside the door now asking when the performing hyenas
are going to be let out.  Now listen to me.  Every time I 'ears a sound
from any one of you, you stops down there another 'alf-hour without
your breakfasts.  The van when she comes can easily wait, and I ain't
in no hurry."

"Listen, you fool," roared MacIver.  "You're drunk: you've gone mad.  I
order you to open the door.  It's me--Inspector MacIver."

"Inspector my aunt," came the impassive reply.  "Now don't you forget
what I said.  The van oughtn't to be long now."

"The van," said MacIver weakly, as the footsteps outside departed.
"What van?  In the name of Heaven, what is the man talking about?"

"Oh!  Lord, Mac," cried Drummond helplessly, "don't make me laugh any
more.  As it is I've got the most infernal stitch."

"I fail to see the slightest humour in the situation," said MacIver
acidly.  "The only possible conclusion I can come to is that Fosdick
has suddenly lost his reason.  And in the meantime I, sir, am locked in
here at a time when every moment is of value.  In the whole of my
career such a thing has never happened."

"There's no doubt about it, old man," agreed Drummond in a shaking
voice, "that up to date our investigations have not met with that
measure of success which they justly deserve.  We can muster between us
five stiff necks, one parboiled face, and an excessively uncomfortable
floor to sit on."

"The whole thing is entirely owing to your unwarrantable interference,"
snapped the detective.

"My dear Mac," said Drummond, "if, as you think, your bloke Fosdick has
gone off the deep end, you really can't blame me.  Personally I don't
think he has."

"Then perhaps you'd be good enough to explain what he's doing this
for," said MacIver sarcastically.  "A little game, I suppose."

"Nothing of the sort," answered Drummond.  "My dear man, cease going
off like a steam-engine and think for a moment.  The whole thing is
perfectly obvious.  The van is to take us to prison."

"What on earth..." stuttered MacIver.

"No more and no less," went on Drummond calmly.  "Yonder stout-hearted
warrior is under the firm impression that he has a band of bloodthirsty
criminals safe under lock and key.  He sees promotion in store for him:
dazzling heights----"

"Inspector MacIver!  Inspector MacIver.  Are you there?"

It was Fosdick's agitated voice from the other side of the door.

"I should rather think I am," said MacIver grimly.  "Open this door,
you perishing fool..."

"I will, sir, at once.  It's all a mistake."

"Damn your mistakes!  Open the door."

"But I haven't got the key.  Wait a bit, sir, I'll get a screwdriver."

"Hurry," roared MacIver.  "May Heaven help that man when I get at him."

"I wouldn't be too hasty if I was you, Mac," said Drummond quietly.
"Better men than he have been caught napping."

It was a quarter of an hour before the door was opened and we trooped
upstairs, followed by the trembling Fosdick.

"Now, you fool," said MacIver, "will you kindly explain this little
jest of yours?"

"Well, sir," answered the man.  "I'm very sorry, I'm sure--but I acted
for the best."

"Get on with it," stormed the Inspector.

"I was on duty outside Number 10, when I saw you come out of the house."

"You saw me come out of this house?  Why, you blithering idiot, I've
been locked up in the cellar all the morning."

"I know that now, sir, but at the time I thought it was you.  You
passed me, sir--at least the man did--and you said to me, 'We've got
the whole bunch.'  It was your voice, sir; your voice exactly.
'They're in the cellar in Number 12--locked in, and I've got the key.
I'm going round to the Yard now, and I'll send a van up for 'em.  They
can't get out, but they may make a row.'  And then you went on--or
rather the other man did--'By Jove! this is a big thing.  I've got one
of 'em in there that the police of Europe and America are looking for.
I had him once before--and do you know how he got away?  Why, by
imitating my voice over the telephone so well that my man thought it
was me!'"

"How perfectly gorgeous," said Drummond ecstatically.

"And then you see, sir, when I heard your voice in that there cellar, I
thought it was this other bloke imitating you."

"I see."  Despite himself MacIver's lips were beginning to twitch.
"And what finally made you decide that I wasn't imitating my own voice?"

"Well, sir, I waited and waited and the van never came--and then I went
upstairs.  They've knocked out Bexton, sir; I found him unconscious on
the floor in the room above.  So then I rang up the Yard: nothing had
been heard of you.  And then I knew I'd been hoaxed.  But I swear, sir,
that bloke would have deceived Mrs. MacIver herself."

"He certainly put it across you all right," said MacIver grimly.  "I'd
give quite a lot to meet the gentleman."

"I wonder what the inducement was," said Drummond.  "No man was going
to run such an infernal risk for fun."

"By Jove!" cried MacIver, "that cistern is gone.  It's lucky I had the
handkerchief in my pocket."

"He was carrying a tin with straps on it when he spoke to me," said
Fosdick, and MacIver groaned.

"Literally through our fingers," he said.  "However, we've got the
other three cisterns.  Though I'd much sooner have had the man."

"Anyway, that's a point cleared up," remarked Drummond cheerfully.  "We
know why he came here----"

"We don't," snapped MacIver.  "The fact that he took the blamed thing
is no proof that he came for that purpose."

"True, my dear old policeman," said Drummond.  "But it is, as they say,
a possible hypothesis.  And, as I remarked before, he didn't come here
for fun, so in default of further information we may as well assume
that he came for the cistern.  In the hurry of their departure last
night they forgot these little fellows down in the cellar, so someone
came back to get them.  He found one nicely put out for him on the
table, and a personally conducted Cook's party in the cellar inspecting
the others.  So in addition to taking his property he locked the cellar
door.  Easy, laddie: easy."

"Yes; isn't it?" said MacIver sarcastically.  "And perhaps you'll
explain what he'd have done if we hadn't been in the cellar."

"My dear Mac, what's the good of making it harder?  I haven't the
faintest idea of what he'd have done.  Stood on his head and given an
imitation of a flower-pot.  He _did_ find us in the cellar, and that's
all we're concerned with.  He took a chance--and a darned sporting
chance--and it came off.  You're up against something pretty warm, old
lad.  I don't pretend to be a blinking genius, but if my reconstruction
of what has happened up to date is right, I take off my hat to 'em for
their nerve."

"What is your reconstruction?" said MacIver quietly, and I noticed his
look of keen attention.  Whatever may have been his official opinion of
our interference, it was pretty clear that unofficially he was under no
delusions with regard to Drummond.  In fact, as he told me many months
later, there was no one he knew who had such an uncanny faculty for
hitting the nail on the head.

"Well, this is how I see it," said Drummond.  "Their first jolt was the
fact that Gaunt managed to get through on the telephone to Stockton.
Had that not happened they'd have been in clover.  It might have been a
couple of days before the Australian was found dead in that house.  The
old woman is deaf, and probably the first thing she'd have known about
it was when she showed a prospective lodger a dead man in her best
bedroom and a dead dog across the passage.  But Gaunt getting through
on the 'phone started it all, and everything that has happened since is
due, I'm certain, to their endeavour to fit in their previous
arrangements with this unexpected development.  They brought Gaunt
here: that's obvious.  Why did they bring Gaunt here particularly?
Well--why not?  They had to take him somewhere.  They couldn't leave
him lying about in Piccadilly Circus.

"They brought him here, and then for reasons best known to themselves
they decided to murder Stockton.  Well, we all know what happened then,
and it was another unexpected development for them.  The last thing
they wanted was your arrival on the scene.  And you wouldn't have
arrived, Mac--unless you'd followed Stockton.  That's what huffed 'em:
old Stockton giving his celebrated rendering of a mechanic at the Three
Cows.  Naturally you suspected him at once: it was without exception
the most appalling exhibition of futility I've ever seen."

"Thanks so much," I murmured.

"That's all right, old bean," he said affably.  "I expect you're the
hell of a lawyer.  However, to continue.  You arrived, Mac, with most
of the police force of London next door--and you can bet your life the
people in here began to sweat some.  Why didn't they go away at once,
you say?  I don't know.  Instead of their quiet little backwater the
whole glare of Scotland Yard was beating on the next-door house.  And
what was even worse for them was, that not only had they failed to
murder Stockton before you came, but one of their own men was dead.
Inquests: newspaper publicity.  All the more reason for them to go at
once.  Why didn't they?  What was their reason for stopping on when
they must have realized their danger?  I don't know; but it must have
been a pretty strong one.  Anyway they chanced it--and, by Jove!
they've pulled it off.  That's why I take off my hat to 'em.  They were
ready to go last night, and they went last night, and the last
twenty-four hours they spent in this house must have been pretty
nerve-racking."

"May I ask what you are doing in my house?" came in an infuriated
female voice from the door.

A tall, thin, acidulated woman was standing there regarding us
balefully, and MacIver swung round.

"May I ask your name, madam?"

"Simpson is my name, sir.  And who may you be?"

"I'm Inspector MacIver from Scotland Yard, and I must ask you to answer
a few questions."

"Scotland Yard!" cried Miss Simpson shrilly.  "Then you're the very man
I want to see.  I have been the victim of a monstrous outrage."

"Indeed," remarked MacIver.  "I'm sorry about that.  What has happened?"

"Three weeks ago a female person called to see me in this house.  She
wished to know if I would let it furnished for a month.  I refused, and
told her that I considered her request very surprising, as I had not
told any house-agent that I wanted to let.  I further asked her why she
had picked on my house particularly.  She told me that she had just
returned from Australia, and was spending a month in London.  She
further said that before going to Australia she had lived with her
father in this house, and that since he was now dead she wished to
spend the month under the old roof for remembrance sake.  However, I
told her it was impossible, and she went away.  Two days afterwards
occurred the outrage.  Outrage, sir, abominable outrage, and if there
is any justice in England the miscreants should be brought to justice.
I was kidnapped, sir--abducted by a man."

"Is that so?" said MacIver gravely.  "How did it happen, Miss Simpson?"

"In a way, sir, that reflects the gravest discredit on the police.  I
was returning from the Tube station late in the evening--I had been to
a theatre--and as I reached the end of the road a taxi drew up beside
me.  At the time the road was deserted: as usual no adequate protection
by the police was available against gangs of footpads and robbers.
From the taxi stepped a man, and before I had time to scream, or even
guess their fell intention, I was bundled inside by him and the
driver--a handkerchief was bound round my mouth and another round my
eyes and we were off."

"You have no idea, of course, who the men were?" said MacIver.

"Absolutely none," she remarked indignantly.  "Do you imagine, sir,
that I should number among my acquaintances men capable of such a
dastardly act?";

"No one who knew you would ever be likely to abduct you," agreed
Drummond soothingly.  "Er--that is, in such a violent manner, don't you
know.  What I was going to say"--he went on hurriedly--"is, what about
the servants?  Didn't they start running round in circles when you
failed to roll up?"

"That is one of the very points I wish to clear up," she said.
"Jane--I keep only one maid--had received a telegram only that morning
stating that her mother in Devonshire was ill.  So she had gone off,
and there was therefore no one in the house.  But that was three weeks
ago.  Surely she must have returned in that time, and if so, when she
failed to find me here, why did she say nothing to the police?"

"An interesting point, Miss Simpson," said MacIver, "and one that we
will endeavour to clear up.  However, let's get on now with what
happened to you.  I hope these men used no unnecessary violence."

"Beyond forcibly placing me in the car," she conceded, "they did not.
And I may say that during the whole period of my imprisonment I was
treated very well."

"Where did they take you?" demanded MacIver eagerly.

"I don't know: I can't tell you.  It was a house in the country: that's
all I can say.  It stood by itself amongst some trees--but I was
blindfolded the whole way there.  And when they brought me back this
morning I was again blindfolded.  They brought me as far as the Euston
Road: whipped off the handkerchief from my eyes, pushed me out on the
pavement, and then drove off at a furious rate.  Now, sir, what is the
meaning of this inconceivable treatment?"

"If you'll come upstairs, Miss Simpson, you'll understand," answered
MacIver.  "The meaning of the whole thing is that you happened to be
living in this house.  And it wasn't you they wanted: it was the house.
Had you agreed to let it to that woman who called to see you, none of
this would have happened."

"But why did they want the house?"

"That's why."

MacIver stepped into the room where Drummond and I had interviewed the
bogus invalid, and pointed to an opening in the wall.

"You knew nothing of that, of course?"

"Good Heavens! no,"  She was staring at it in amazement.  "What's
through on the other side?"

"The next house: Number 10."

"And that's been there all these years.  Why!  I might have been
murdered in my bed."

"It's a carefully done job, MacIver," said Drummond, and the detective
nodded.

The wall of each room consisted of imitation oak boarding, and the
opening was made by means of two sliding panels.  The brickwork between
them had been removed to form the passage, and the opening thus made
crowned with a small iron girder.  The two panels moved in grooves
which had been recently oiled, and when closed it was impossible to
notice anything unusual.

"A bolt-hole, Miss Simpson," explained MacIver.  "A bolt-hole, the
existence of which was known to the gang that abducted you.  And a
bolt-hole is very useful at times.  That's why they wanted your house."

"Do you mean to say that a gang of criminals has been living in my
house?"

"That is just what I do mean," said MacIver.  "But I don't think they
are likely to return.  If they intended to do so they wouldn't have let
you go.  They lived here and they used the empty house next door.  The
thing I'm going to find out now is the name of your predecessor.  Can
you tell me the agent through whom you got this house?"

"Paul and Paul in the Euston Road."

"Good.  That saves time."

"And now I shall be glad, sir, if you would kindly go," she said.  "I
presume I may expect to hear in time that the police have a clue to
account for my treatment.  It would be too much to expect any more.
But at the moment my house resembles a bear garden, and I would like to
start putting it into some semblance of order----"

And then occurred a most embarrassing incident.  It was so sudden and
unexpected that it took us all by surprise, and it was over before
anyone could intervene.

Drummond became light-headed.  We heard a dreadful noise from an
adjoining room: he had burst into song.  And the next moment--to our
horror--he came dancing through the door, and made a bee-line for Miss
Simpson.

"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 that 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 apologized 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 waist-band.  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
'13.  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
the Hispano up to Jersey Street.  For I'll guarantee to keep in sight
of anything in England in her."

And so, once more, we returned to Number 10.  No one had entered the
house next door during our absence--and no one had come out, at any
rate, at the front.  Of that Fosdick, who was still on duty, was sure.
And then there commenced a weary vigil.  Personally, I make no bones
about it, I dozed through most of the afternoon.  We were in the room
which communicated with Number 12, but though we pulled back the panel
on our side, no sound came from the next house.  If she was carrying
out her intention of restoring some semblance of order she was being
very quiet about it.

Just once we heard the noise of drawers being pulled out, and what
sounded like their contents being scattered on the floor; and later on
footsteps in the next room caused MacIver to noiselessly slide back the
panel into its closed position.  But that was all we heard, while the
sleepy afternoon drowsed on and the shadows outside grew longer and
longer.

I think MacIver was nodding himself when there suddenly came the sound
that banished all sleep.  It was a scream--a woman's scream--curiously
muffled, and it came from Number 12.  It was not repeated, and as we
dashed open the other panel the house was as silent as before.  We
rushed through into the passage and thence into the bedrooms:
everywhere the same scene of disorder.  Clothes thrown here and there:
bedclothes ripped off and scattered on the floor.

"She's restored a semblance of order all right," said MacIver grimly,
as we went downstairs.

And then he paused: a light was filtering out from the half-opened
cellar door.

"The end of the search, Mac," said Drummond.  "Go easy."

At first as we stood on the top of the stairs we could see nothing.  A
solitary candle guttered on the floor, throwing monstrous shadows in
all directions: and then we smelt it once again--that strange bitter
sweet smell--the smell of death.

MacIver's torch flashed out--to circle round and finally concentrate on
something that lay just beyond the buttress wall still stained with
Robin Gaunt's blood.  And there was no need to ask what that something
was: the poison had claimed another victim.

She lay there--the woman who had taken Miss Simpson's place--and the
scream we had heard had been with her last breath.  The same dreadful
distortion: the same staring look of horror in: the eyes--everything
was just the same as in the other cases.  But somehow with a woman it
seemed more horrible.

"My God! but it's diabolical stuff," cried MacIver fiercely as he bent,
over the woman.  "How did it happen, I wonder?"

"It's on her hand," said Drummond.  "She's cut it on something.  Look,
man--there's a bit of a broken bottle beside her with liquid in it.
For Heaven's sake be careful: the whole place is saturated with the
stuff."

"We'll leave the body exactly as it is," said the Inspector, "until Sir
John Dallas comes.  I'll go and telephone him now.  Captain Drummond,
will you and Mr. Stockton mount guard until I return?"

"Certainly," answered Drummond, and we followed the Inspector up the
stairs.

"So that's what they came to look for," I remarked as the front door
closed behind MacIver.

"Seems like it," agreed Drummond, lighting a cigarette thoughtfully.
"And yet it's all a little difficult.  A fellow may quite easily forget
his handkerchief when he goes out, but he ain't likely to forget his
trousers.  What I mean, Stockton, is this.  The whole thing has been
done from the very beginning with the sole idea of getting the secret
of that poison.  Are we really to believe that after committing
half-a-dozen murders and a few trifles of that description they went
off and left it behind?  Is that the only sample in existence?  And if
it isn't, what is the good of worrying about it?  Why send back for it
at all?  It looked as if it was quite a small bottle.

"There's another point," he went on after a moment.  "Where was that
bottle this morning?  I'll stake my dying oath that it wasn't lying
about in the cellar.  It was either hidden there somewhere, or that
woman took it down there with her.  Great Scott! but it's a baffling
show!"

We sat on in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.  For me it was
Robin who filled them: what had happened to him--where was he now?  Or
had they killed him?  Or had he died as the result of his injuries?  It
was a possible solution to many things.

"If Gaunt is dead, Drummond," I said after a while, "it may account for
a lot.  It's not likely that he had very large supplies of the stuff in
his rooms.  And we know anyway that a lot of it was wasted when you
shot our friend the night before last.  So it seems to me to be
perfectly feasible that that bottle down below contained the only
existing sample--which in the event of Gaunt's death would become
invaluable to them.  They may not know his secret: in which case their
only hope would be to get a sample."

"But why leave it behind?" he objected.  "Why go to the worry and
trouble of hiding it in the cellar?  For I think it must have been
hidden there: the idea that that unfortunate woman should have carried
it down there seems pointless.  It's just my trouser example, Stockton."

"Each one may have thought the other had it," I said, but he shook his
head.

"You may be right," he remarked, "but I don't believe it was that that
she was looking for!  And my opinion is that the clue to the whole
thing is contained in that blood-stained handkerchief, if only one
could interpret it.  3P  7 A N T.  It's directions for something: it
can't be meaningless."

Once again we relapsed into silence, until the sound of a taxi outside
announced the arrival of someone.  It was MacIver, and with him was Sir
John, carrying some guinea-pigs in cases.

"Sorry to have been so long," said the Inspector, "but I couldn't get
Sir John on the telephone, so I had to go and find him.  Anything
happened?"

"Not a thing," said Drummond.

MacIver had brought another torch and several candles, and by their
light Sir John proceeded to make his examination.  He had donned a pair
of stout india-rubber gloves, but even with their protection he handled
things very gingerly.

First he poured what was left of the poison into another bottle, and
corked it with a rubber cork.  Then he took a sample of the dead
woman's blood, which he placed in a test-tube and carefully stoppered.
And finally, after a minute examination of the cut in her hand and the
terrible staring eyes, he rose to his feet.

"We can now carry her upstairs," he remarked.  "There is nothing more
to be seen here.  But on your life don't touch her hand."

We lifted her up, and MacIver gave a sudden exclamation.  Underneath
where the body had been lying, and so unseen by us until then, was a
hole in the floor.  It had been made by removing a brick, and the brick
itself, which had been concealed by the body, lay beside the hole.  At
the bottom of the hole was some broken glass and the neck of the bottle
from the base of which Sir John had removed the poison.  So it was
obviously the place where the poison had been hidden.  But who had
hidden it--and why?

"Obviously not a member of the gang," said MacIver, "or she would have
known where it was and not wasted time ransacking the house."

"Therefore obviously Gaunt himself," said Drummond.  "Great Scott!
man," he added, "it's the third brick from the wall.  Give me your
stick, Sir John.  The handkerchief, MacIver--3 and 7."

He tapped on the seventh brick, and sure enough it sounded hollow.
With growing excitement we crowded round as he endeavoured to prise it
up.

"Careful--careful," cried Sir John anxiously.  "If there's another
bottle we don't want any risk of another casualty.  Let me: I've got
gloves on."

And sure enough when the seventh brick was removed, a similar hole was
disclosed, at the bottom of which lay a small cardboard pill-box.  With
the utmost care he lifted it out, and removed the lid.  It was filled
with a white paste, which looked like boracic ointment.

"Hullo!" he said after he'd sniffed it.  "What fresh development have
we here?"

And suddenly Drummond gave a shout of comprehension.

"I've got it.  It's the message on the handkerchief.  3 P.  The third
brick--poison: 7 A N T--the seventh brick, antidote.  That's the
antidote, Sir John, you've got in your hand; and that's what they've
been after.  That woman came down to look for it--and she only found
the poison.  Gaunt must have hidden them both while he was a prisoner
down here, and then left that last despairing message of his..."

"We'll try at once," said Sir John quietly.

He handed me the pill-box, and took the poison himself.

"Take a little of the ointment on the end of a match," he said, "and
I'll take a little of the poison.  You hold one of the guinea-pigs,
MacIver.  Now the instant I have applied the poison, you follow it up
with your stuff in the same place, Stockton."

But the experiment was valueless.  With a sudden convulsive shudder the
little animal died, and when we tried with another the result was the
same.

"Not a very effective antidote," said Sir John sarcastically.

"Nevertheless," said Drummond doggedly, "I'll bet you it is the
antidote.  Couldn't you analyse it, Sir John?"

"Of course I can analyse it," snapped the other.  "And I shall analyse
it."

He slipped the box into his bag, followed by the bottle of poison.

"I wonder if I might make a suggestion," said Drummond.  "I don't want
to seem unduly alarmist, but I think we've seen enough to realize that
we are up against a pretty tough proposition.  Now do you think it's
wise to have all one's eggs in one basket, or rather all that stuff in
one box?  It might get lost: it might be stolen.  Wouldn't it be safer,
Sir John, to give say half of it to MacIver--until at any rate your
analysis is concluded?  I see you have a spare box in your bag."

We were going up the steps as he spoke and he was in front.  And
suddenly he paused for a moment or two and stared at the door.  Then he
went on into the hall, and I noticed that he glanced round him in all
directions.

"A most sensible suggestion," said Sir John, "with which I fully agree."

"Then come in here, Sir John," said Drummond.  He led the way into one
of the downstairs rooms, and shut the door.  And it seemed to me that
he was looking unduly grave.  He watched the transfer of half the paste
to another box, and he waited till MacIver had it in his pocket.
Then----

"Please send for Fosdick, MacIver."

A little surprised, the Inspector stepped to the window and beckoned to
the man outside.

"Anyone been in this house, Fosdick, during the last half-hour?" said
Drummond.

"Only Sir John's assistant, sir."

"I haven't got an assistant," snapped Sir John.

"My sainted aunt, Mac," said Drummond grimly.  "we're up against the
real thing this time.  He's gone, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir," said Fosdick.  "About ten minutes ago."

"Then I tell you, Sir John, your life is not safe.  It's the stuff in
the pill-box that they are after.  Perhaps you've got to eat it.
Anyway that man who posed as your assistant knows you've got it.  I beg
of you to put yourself under police protection day and night.  If
possible, at any rate, until you have analysed the stuff don't go near
your house.  Remain inside Scotland Yard itself."

But what Sir John lacked in inches he made up for in pugnacity.

"If you imagine, sir," he snapped, "that I am going to be kept out of
my own laboratory by a gang of dirty poisoners you're wrong.  If the
Inspector here considers it necessary he can send one of his men to
stand outside the house.  But not one jot will I deviate from my
ordinary method of life for twenty would-be murderers.
Incidentally"--he added curiously--"how did you know a man had been
here?"

"The position of the cellar door," answered Drummond.  "It's a heavy
door, and I know how I left it when we came in.  It was a foot farther
open when we came out--and there is no draught."

Sir John nodded approvingly.

"Quick: I like quickness.  What in the name of fortune have you done to
your face?"

"Don't you worry about my face, Sir John," said Drummond quietly: "you
concentrate on your own life."

"And you mind your own business, young man," snapped the other angrily.
"My life is my own affair."

"It isn't," answered Drummond.  "It's the nation's--until you've
analysed that stuff.  After that, I agree with you: no one is likely to
care two hoots."

Sir John turned purple.

"You insolent young puppy," he stuttered.

"Cut it out, you silly little man," said Drummond wearily.  "But don't
forget--I've warned you.  Come on, Stockton: we'll rope in the others
and push off.  Mount Street finds me, Mac; but I must have some sleep.
Let me know how things go, like a good fellow."

"Sorry I lost my temper with the little bloke," he said to me, as he
spun the Hispano into the Euston Road.  "But really, old man, this
stunt of yours is enough to try anybody's nerves."

The other four were behind, all more or less asleep, and I was nodding
myself.  In fact I hardly noticed where he was taking us until we
pulled up in front of his house.

"My warrior can take you round and drop you," he said, yawning
prodigiously.  "And to-morrow we might resume the good work."

Personally I didn't even get as far as bed.  I just fell asleep in an
easy-chair in my room, until I woke with a start to find the lights lit
and someone shaking me by the shoulder.

It was Drummond, and the look on his face made me sit up quickly.

"They've got him," he said, "as I knew they would.  Sir John was
stabbed through the heart in his laboratory an hour ago."

"My God!" I muttered.  "How do you know?"

"MacIver has just rung me up.  Stockton--as I've said before--we're up
against the real thing this time."




7

  In which I appear to
  become irrelevant

I think it was the method of the murder of Sir John that brought home
to me most forcibly the nerve of the gang that confronted us.  And
though there will be many people who remember the affair, yet, for the
benefit of those who do not, I will set forth what happened as detailed
in the papers of the following day.  The cutting is before me as I
write.

"Another astounding and cold-blooded murder occurred between the hours
of nine and ten last night.  Sir John Dallas, the well-known scientist
and authority on toxicology, was stabbed through the heart in his own
laboratory.

"The following are the facts of the case.  Sir John, as our readers
will remember, gave evidence as recently as the day before yesterday in
the sensational Robin Gaunt affair.  He described in court the action
of the new and deadly poison, by means of which the dog, the policeman
and the Australian--David Ganton--had been killed.  He also stated that
he was endeavouring to analyse the drug, and there can be little doubt
that he was engaged on that very work when he met his end.

"It appears that yesterday afternoon a further and at present, secret
development occurred, which caused Sir John to feel hopeful of success.
He returned to his house in Eaton Square in time for dinner, which he
had served in his study--the usual course of procedure when he was
busy.  At eight-thirty he rang the bell and Elizabeth Perkins, the
parlour-maid, came and removed the tray.  He was apparently completely
absorbed in his research at that time, since he failed to answer her
twice-repeated question as to what time he would like his milk.  On the
desk in front of him was a bottle containing a colourless liquid which
looked like water, and a small cardboard box.

"These facts are interesting in view of what is to follow, and may
prove to have an important bearing on the case.  At between nine
o'clock and a quarter-past the front-door bell rang, and it was
answered by Perkins.  There was a man outside who stated that he had
come to see Sir John on a very important matter.  She told him that Sir
John was busy, but when he told her that it was in connection with Sir
John's work, that he was there, she showed him along the passage to the
laboratory.  And then she heard the stranger say distinctly, 'I've come
from Scotland Yard, Sir John.'

"Now there can be but little doubt that this man was the murderer
himself, since no one from Scotland Yard visited Sir John at that hour.
And as walking openly into a man's house, killing him, and walking out
again requires a nerve possessed by few, the added touch of introducing
himself as a member of the police is quite in keeping with the whole
amazing case.

"To return, however, to what happened.  Perkins, having shown this man
into the laboratory, returned to the servants' hall, where she remained
till ten o'clock.  At ten o'clock she had a standing order to take Sir
John a glass of warm milk, if he had not rung for it sooner.  She got
the milk and took it along to the laboratory.  She knocked, and
receiving no answer she entered the room.  At first she thought he must
have gone out, as the laboratory appeared to be empty, and then,
suddenly, she saw a leg sticking out from behind the desk.  She went
quickly to the place to find, to her horror, that Sir John was lying on
the floor with a dagger driven up to the hilt in his heart.

"She saw at a glance that he was dead, and rushing out of the house she
called in a policeman, who at once rang up Scotland Yard.  Inspector
MacIver, who, it will be recalled, is in charge of the Robin Gaunt
mystery, at once hurried to the scene.  And it was he who elucidated
the fact that the bottle containing the colourless liquid, and the
little cardboard box, had completely disappeared.  It seems, therefore,
impossible to doubt that at any rate one motive for the murder of this
distinguished savant was the theft of these two things with their
unknown contents.  And further, since we know that Sir John was
experimenting with this mysterious new poison, the connection between
this dastardly crime and the Gaunt affair seems conclusive.

"The matter is in the capable hands of Inspector MacIver, and it is to
be hoped that before long the cold-blooded criminals' concerned will be
brought to justice.  It is an intolerable and disquieting state of
affairs that two such appalling crimes can be committed in London
within three days of one another."

Which was a fair sample of what they all said.  The _Daily Referee_
offered a reward of a thousand pounds to the first person who
discovered a clue which should lead to the arrest of the murderer or
murderers.  "Retired Colonel" and "Frankly disgusted" inflicted their
opinions oh a long-suffering public; and as day after day went past and
nothing happened, Scotland Yard began to get it hot and strong in the
Press.

Somehow or other MacIver managed to hush up the death of the woman at
Number 12, Ashworth Gardens, but there was no getting away from the
fact that the authorities were seriously perturbed.  Their principal
cause of anxiety lay, as I have shown, in a fact unknown to the public;
and whereas the latter were chiefly concerned with bringing the
murderers to book, Scotland Yard and the Secret Service's chief worry
was as to what had happened to the secret.  Had it been disposed of to
a foreign Power?  If so, to which?

The only ray of comfort during the weeks that followed lay in
Drummond's happy idea of dividing the antidote--if it was an
antidote--into two portions.  For MacIver's specimen had been analysed,
and its exact composition was known.  The trouble lay in the fact that
it was impossible to carry out further experiments, since we possessed
none of the poison.  For an antidote to be efficacious it is advisable
to know how to use it, and since the most obvious way was not the
correct one, we were not much farther advanced.  Still, the general
opinion was that Drummond's theory was correct, and all the necessary
steps were taken to allow of its immediate manufacture on a large
scale, should occasion arise.

Gradually, as was only natural, public interest died down.  Nothing
further happened, and it seemed to all of us that the events of those
few days were destined to have no sequel.  Only Drummond, in fact,
continued to do anything: the rest of us slipped back into the normal
tenor of our ways.  He still periodically disappeared for hours at a
time--generally in a disguise of some sort.  He was not communicative
as to what he did during these absences, and after a time he, too,
seemed to be losing interest.  But the whole thing rankled in his mind:
he made no secret of that.

"Put it how you like," he said to me on one occasion, "we got very much
the worst of it, Stockton.  They got away with everything they wanted,
right under our noses.  And positively the only thing we have to show
for our trouble is the antidote."

"A pretty considerable item," I reminded him.

He grunted.

"Oh, for ten minutes with gorse bush alone," he sighed.  "Or even five."

"You may get it yet," I said.

Off and on we saw a good deal of MacIver, in whose mind the affair
rankled also.  The comments in the Press concerning Scotland Yard had
not pleased him, and I rather gathered that the comments of his
immediate superiors had not pleased him either.  It was particularly
the murder of Sir John Dallas that infuriated him, and over which
criticism was most bitter.  The other affair contained an element of
mystery; a suspicion, almost of the uncanny.  There seemed to be some
excuse for his failure in connection with Robin Gaunt.  But there was
no element of mystery over stabbing a man to death.  It was just a
plain straight-forward murder.  And yet it remained wrapped in as dense
a fog as the other.  It was perfectly true that Elizabeth Perkins
stated that she would recognize the man again.  But, as MacIver said,
what was the use of that unless he could first be found?  And as she
was quite unable to describe him beyond saying that he was of medium
height, clean-shaven and dark, the prospect of finding him was remote.
At a conservative estimate her description would have fitted some ten
million men.

The case of the man called Doctor Helias held out a little more
prospect of success.  Drummond and I separately described that human
monstrosity to MacIver, and within two days a description of him was
circulated all over the world.  But, as Major Jackson pointed out a
little moodily, it wasn't likely to prove of much use.  If our fears
were justified: if the secret of the poison had been handed over to a
foreign Power, it was clear that Doctor Helias was an agent of that
Power.  And if so they wouldn't give him away.

It certainly proved of no use: no word or trace of him was discovered.
He seemed to have disappeared as completely as everyone else connected
with the business.

Another thing MacIver did was to turn his attention to the genuine
owner of Number 12.  First he tracked the maid, and we found out that
part, at any rate, of the story told us by the woman who had died was
true.  Someone had come round and asked Miss Simpson to let the house:
she had talked it over later with the maid.  And on a certain morning a
wire had come stating that her mother was ill, and summoning the maid
to her home in Devonshire.  To her surprise she found her mother
perfectly fit.  The wire had been sent from the village by a woman;
that was all they could tell her at the Post Office.  And then next
morning, when she was still puzzling over the affair, had come a letter
in Miss Simpson's handwriting.  It was brief and to the point, stating
that she had decided after all to let her house, and was proposing to
travel.  And it enclosed a month's wages in lieu of notice.  The maid
had felt hurt at such a brusque dismissal, and was shortly going to
another place.

"That's really all I've got out of her," said MacIver, "except for a
description of Miss Simpson.  She is short and fat, as Captain Drummond
surmised.  Also, according to the maid, she had no near relatives and
very few friends.  She hardly went out at all, and no one ever came to
the house.  Moreover, the description the maid gave me of the woman who
came to ask to rent the house would fit the woman who impersonated Miss
Simpson and was killed, which may be poetic justice, but it doesn't
help us much."

Inquiries as to Miss Simpson's predecessors helped as little.  Messrs.
Paul & Paul were the agents right enough; but all they could say,
having consulted their books, was that the house had belonged to a Mr.
Startin, who, they believed, had gone abroad.  And they knew absolutely
nothing about him.

"A dead end everywhere," said MacIver despondently.  "Never in the
whole course of my career have I seen every trace so completely
covered.  They set the whole Press blazing from end to end in the
country, and then they disappear as if they were wiped out."

And then on the 20th of June occurred the next link in the chain.  It
was an isolated one, and it is safe to say that the few people who may
have read the paragraph in the papers never connected it with the other
issues.

"A fisherman named Daniel Coblen made a gruesome discovery late
yesterday afternoon.  He was walking over the rocks near the
Goodrington Sands at Paignton when he saw something floating in the
sea.  It proved to be the body of a woman in an advanced stage of
decomposition.  He at once informed the police.  From marks on the
unfortunate lady's garments it appears that her name was A. Simpson.
Doctor Epping, who made an examination, stated that she must have been
dead for considerably over a month."

As I say, the few people who may have read the paragraph would
assuredly have traced no connection between it and Sir John Dallas
being stabbed to death, but MacIver went down post haste to Paignton.
It transpired at the inquest that death was due to drowning: no marks
of violence could be found on the body.  But the point of interest lay
in how it had happened.  How had she been drowned?  No local boatman
knew anything about it: no ship had reported that any passenger of that
name was missing.  How, then, had Miss Simpson been drowned?

That it was a question of foul play seemed obvious--but beyond that one
bald fact everything seemed blank.  The gang had decided to get rid of
her, and they had chosen drowning as the method.  Why they had done so
was a totally different matter.

It was well-nigh inconceivable that they would have taken the trouble
to put her on board a boat merely to take her out to sea and drown her,
when their record in London showed that they had no hesitation in using
far more direct methods.  It seemed to add but one more baffling
feature to a case that contained no lack of them already.

And the sole result was that Drummond's interest, which had seemed to
be waning, revived once more.  Sometimes I wonder if Drummond, with
that strangely direct brain of his, didn't have a glimmering of the
truth.  Not the final actual truth--that would have been impossible at
that stage of the proceedings; but a glimpse of the open ground through
the trees.  He said nothing then, and when I asked him the other day he
only shrugged his shoulders.  But I wonder ... Day after day he
disappeared by himself until his wife grew quite annoyed about it.  As
a matter of fact I, too, thought he was wasting his time.  What he was
doing, or where he went, he would never say.  He just departed in the
morning or after lunch, and often did not return till two or three in
the morning.  And since there seemed to be nothing particular to look
for, and no particular place to look for it in, the whole thing struck
me as somewhat pointless.

It was about that time that I began to see a good deal of Major
Jackson.  His club had been closed down for structural repairs, and the
members had come to mine.  So I saw Jackson two or three times a week
at lunch.  General Darton, too, was frequently there, and sometimes we
shared the same table.  On the whole I thought they were fairly
optimistic: nothing had as yet been heard from any of our agents abroad
which led them to suspect any particular Power of having acquired the
secret.

"Somebody must have it, presumably," said the General.  "Crimes of that
sort aren't perpetrated for fun.  But the great point, Stockton, is
this--we've got the antidote.  It might be quite useful if we could
discover how it worked," he added sarcastically.  "Anyway those
squirting machines must have a very small range, and there still are
rifles left in the world amidst this mass of filthy chemicals."

The worthy infantryman snorted, and Jackson kicked me gently under the
table.  He was off on his favourite topic, and he required no
assistance from us.  Only now as I look back on that conversation,
which was only one of many similar ones, that big fundamental mistake
of ours looms large.  It was a natural mistake, particularly since the
War Office had been concerned in the affair from the very beginning.
Automatically their gaze was fixed on the foreign target; and it was
tacitly assumed by us all that the direction was right.  Until, that
is, Drummond proved it wrong.

At the time, however, all of us who knew the inner history of the
affair had our attention fixed abroad; and for the rest--the great
general public--the Robin Gaunt mystery had become a back number.  The
Press had buried him in a final tirade of obloquy and turned its
attention to other things--principally, as will be remembered, the
Wilmot dirigible airship.

It was in July, I see after reference to my files, that the Wilmot
airship publicity stunt was first started.  Up to that date airships
were regarded as essentially connected with the fighting services.  And
it was then that the big endeavour was made to popularize them
commercially.

The first difficulty which the promoters of the scheme had to overcome
was a distinct feeling of nervousness on the part of the public.
Aeroplanes they were accustomed to: the magnificent Croydon to Paris
service was by this time regarded as being as safe as the boat train.
But airships were a different matter.  Airships caught fire and burned:
airships broke their backs and crashed: airships had all sorts of
horrible accidents.

The second difficulty was financial nervousness in the City, doubtless
induced largely by the physical nervousness of the public.  Would a
fleet of airships--six was the number suggested--pay?  They were costly
things to construct: a mooring mast worked out at about 25,000--a shed
at more than 100,000.  Would it prove a commercial success?

And the promoters of the scheme, rightly realizing that the first
difficulty was the greater, took every step they could to reassure the
public.  Who can fail to remember that beautiful, graceful ship
circling over London day after day: going long trips over the Midlands
and down to the West Country: anchored to the revolving top of the
lattice-work mooring mast?

And then came the celebrated trip on July 25th, when representatives
from every important London paper were taken for a trial voyage, and
entertained to a luncheon during the journey which the Ritz itself
could not have beaten.

I have before me a copy of the _Morning Herald_ of the 26th in which an
account of the trip is given.  And I cannot refrain from quoting a
brief extract.  Having described the journey, and paid a glowing
tribute to the beauty and comfort of the airship, the writer proceeds
as follows:

"Then came the culminating moment of this wonderful experience.  Lunch
was over, a meal which no restaurant de luxe could have bettered.  The
drone of the engines ceased, and, as we drifted gently down wind, the
whole gorgeous panorama of English woodland scenery unfolded itself
before our eyes.  It was the psychological moment of the day: it was
the fitting moment for Mr. Wilmot to say a few words.  He rose, and we
tore our eyes away from the view to look at the man who had made that
view possible.  Tall, thick-set, and with greying hair and eyes
gleaming with enthusiasm he stood at the end of the table.

"'I am not going to say much,' he remarked, in his deep steady voice--a
voice which holds the faintest suspicion of American accent, 'but I
feel that this occasion may mark the beginning of a new epoch in
British aviation.  To-day you have seen for yourselves something of the
possibilities of the airship as opposed to the aeroplane: I want the
public to see those possibilities, too.  The lunch which you have eaten
has been prepared entirely on board: not one dish was brought into the
kitchen ready-made.  I mention that to show that the domestic
arrangements are, as I think you will agree, passably efficient.  But
that, after all, is a detail.  Think of the other possibilities.  A
range of 3,000 miles carrying fifty passengers in the essence of
comfort.  Australia in a fortnight; America in three days.  And it is
safe, gentlemen--safe.  That is the message I want you to give the
British public.'"

And at this point I can imagine the reader laying the book down in
blank amazement.  What, he will say, is the fellow talking about?  What
on earth has the Wilmot dirigible got to do with the matter?  We all
know that any hope of success for the scheme was killed when the
airship crashed in flames.  There were ridiculous rumours of Wilmot
going mad, though for some reason or other the thing was hushed, up in
the papers.  Anyway, what has it go to do with Gaunt and his poison?

Don't get irritable, my friend.  I warned you that I am no
story-teller: may be if I was I could have averted your anger by some
trick of the trade.  And I admit it looks as if I had suddenly taken
leave of my senses, and that a dissertation on the habits of ferrets
would have been equally relevant.  I will merely say that at the time I
would have agreed with you.  The Wilmot dirigible had as little to do
with Robin Gaunt in my mind as the fact that my clerk's name was
Stevens.  If I ever thought of Mr. Wilmot, which I presume I must have
done, I pictured him as an ordinary business man who saw a great
commercial future in the rigid airship.  I take it that such was the
picture in everybody's mind.  I know that I heard of him lunching in
the City: I know that I heard rumours of a company being actually
floated.  (The Duke of Wessex was to be one of the directors).

The principal thing I did not know at the time was the truth.  So bear
with me, my irritated friend: in due course you shall know the truth
yourself.  Whether you believe it or not is a totally different matter.

Furthermore, I'm now going to make you angry again.  More apparent red
herrings are going to be drawn across the trail: herrings which, I once
again repeat, seemed as red to me then as they will to you now.

On the 31st of July the celebrated American multimillionaire, Cosmo A.
Miller, steamed into Southampton Water in his equally celebrated yacht,
the _Hermione_.  He had with him on board the type of party that a
multi-millionaire might have been expected to entertain.  To take the
ladies first, there was his wife, for whom he had recently bought the
notorious Shan diamonds.  The diamonds of death, they have been
christened: strange, wasn't it, how they lived up to their evil
reputation!  Then there was Angela Greymount, a well-known film star;
Mrs. Percy Franklin, a New York society woman and immensely wealthy;
and finally Mrs. James Delmer, the wife of a Chicago millionaire.  The
feminine side of the party was to be completed by the Duchess of
Sussex--also an American, and Lady Agatha Dawkins, an extremely amusing
woman whom I knew slightly.  These last two were to join the yacht at
Southampton, and it was to pick them up that the _Hermione_ called
there.

The men consisted of the owner, three American business friends, the
Duke of Sussex and Tony Beddington, who was, incidentally, a pal of
Drummond's.  He and the Duke also joined the yacht in England.

Cowes week was in progress at the time, of course--so the eyes of
social England and the pens of those who chronicle the doing of the
great were already occupied in that quarter.  But the arrival of the
_Hermione_ was something which dwarfed everything else.  Never had so
much wealth been gathered together in a private yacht before.  Mrs.
Tattle, in that bright and breezy column which she contributed daily to
the _Morning Express_, stated that the jewellery alone was worth over
two million pounds sterling.  And it is, I gather, a fact that a dear
friend of Mrs. Cosmo Miller's once stated that she'd lunched with
Minnie's diamonds, and she believed Minnie was inside.

The yacht itself was a miniature floating palace.  It had a swimming
pool and a gymnasium: it had listening-in sets and an electric piano
encrusted in precious stones--or almost.  There was gold plate for use
at dinner, and the plebeian silver for lunch.  In fact it was the
supreme essence of blatant vulgarity.  In addition to the guests there
were the Wallaby Coon Quartette, the Captain, the wireless operator,
four maids, the chef and the writer of "The Three Hundred Best
Cocktails" as barman.  The crew numbered sixteen.

So that when the _Hermione_ steamed slowly down Southampton Water there
were in all forty souls on board.  The sea was like a mill-pond; the
date was August 2nd.  On August 4th a marconigram was received in
London by the firm of Bremmer and Bremmer.  It was from Mr. Miller, and
is of interest merely because it is the last recorded message received
from the _Hermione_.  From that moment she completely disappeared with
every soul on board.

At first no one worried.  When the _Hermione_ failed to arrive at the
Azores, which was originally intended, it was assumed that Mr. Miller
and his guests had changed their route.  But when, on August 10th,
Bremmer and Bremmer having obtained the information required by Mr.
Miller proceeded to wireless it to the _Hermione_, no response whatever
was received from her.  The sea was still beautifully calm: no report
of any storms had been received from the Atlantic.  And somewhere in
the Atlantic the _Hermione_ must be, since it was definitely certain
she had not passed Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean.

By August 12th the whole Press--English and American--was seething with
it.

"Mysterious Disappearance of Multi-Millionaire's Yacht."

"Cosmo A. Miller beats it with Wallaby Quartette."

"S.Y. _Hermione_ refuses wireless calls," etc., etc.

Still no one took it seriously.  The yacht was fitted with a Marconi
installation: the sea was still like glass.  The general opinion was
that there had been a break-down in the engines, and that for some
obscure reason the wireless was out of action.

But by August 20th, when the silence was still unbroken, the tone of
the Press began to change.  Once again I will refer to my file
cuttings, and quote from the Morning Herald of that date.

"The mysterious silence of the S.Y. _Hermione_ has now become
inexplicable.  The last communication from her was received more than a
fortnight ago.  Since then nothing further has been heard, though Mr.
Cosmo Miller, her owner, has been repeatedly called up on important
business matters.  It is impossible to avoid a feeling of grave anxiety
that all is not well."

But what could have happened?  The wireless operator was known to be a
first-class man, and it seemed impossible that such damage could have
happened to his instruments, in a perfectly calm sea, that he would be
unable to effect a temporary cure.

Then some bright specimen had an idea which held the field for quite a
while.  It was just an advertisement--an elaborate publicity stunt.
They were receiving all these messages, and taking no notice of them
merely in order to keep the eyes of the world focussed on them.  Such a
thing, it was argued, was quite in keeping with at any rate Mrs.
Miller's outlook on life.  And it wasn't until August 25th came and
went that one of the officials at Southampton Docks shattered that
theory.  The _Hermione's_ bunkers only held sufficient coal for a
fortnight, and that only when steaming at her economic speed.  And it
was now twenty-four days since she had sailed.

By this time the public on both sides of the Atlantic were very gravely
perturbed.  The wildest rumours were flying round: from pirates to sea
serpents all sorts of suggestions were put forward.

Both the British and American navies despatched light cruisers to
discover what they could; and it may be remembered that when Mr.
Wilmot's patriotic offer to place his airship at the disposal of the
authorities was refused, he himself, at his own expense went far out
into the Atlantic to see if he could find out anything.

Nothing was ever discovered; no trace was found of the yacht.  And no
trace ever will be; for she sank with every soul on board.

Now for the first time I will put down what happened and show the
connection, between the two chains of events--the big and the so-called
little: between the disappearance of the _Hermione_ and Robin Gaunt's
cry over the telephone.  I will tell of the death of Mr. Wilmot, and of
what happened to the man called Helias in that lonely spot in Cornwall.
And, perhaps, most important of all, certainly most interesting, I will
set down word for word the last statement of Robin Gaunt.




8

  In which we come to
  Black Mine

But before I go on to pick up the thread of my story, I wish again to
reiterate one thing.  On September 5th, when Drummond rang me up at my
office asking me to go round to his house at once, there was no inkling
in my mind that there was any connection.  Nor was there in his.  The
events I have just recorded were as irrelevant to us as they appear to
be on these pages.  In fact the last thing known to us which was
connected in any way with Robin Gaunt in our mind was the discovery of
Miss Simpson's body at Paignton.

So it was with a considerable feeling of surprise that I listened to
what Drummond had to say over the telephone.

"Found out something that may be of value: can you come round at once?"

I went, to find, to my amazement, a man with him whom I had never
expected to see again.  It was little rat face, who had been put to
watch Toby Sinclair and whom we had saved from hanging in Number 10.
He was sitting on the edge of his chair, plucking nervously at a greasy
hat in the intervals of getting outside a quart of Drummond's beer.

"You remember Mr. Perton, don't you, old boy?" said Drummond, winking
at me.  "I happened to meet him this morning, and reminded him that
there was a little matter of a fiver due to him."

"Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Perton nervously, "I don't know as 'ow I
can call it due, for I didn't do wot you told me to.  But I couldn't,
sir: I 'ad a dreadful time.  You won't believe wot them devils did to
me.  They 'ung me."

"Did they, indeed?" said Drummond quietly.  "They don't seem to have
done it very well."

"Gawd knows 'ow I escaped, guv'nor.  They 'ung me, the swine--and left
me swinging.  I lost consciousness, I did--and then when I come to
again, I was laying on the floor in the room alone.  You bet yer life I
didn't 'alf do a bolt."

"A very sound move, Mr. Perton.  Have some more beer?  Now do you know
why they hanged you?"

"Strite I don't, guv'nor.  They said to me, they said--'You're bait, my
man: just bait.'  They'd got me gagged, the swine: and they was
a-peering out of the window.  'Here they come,' says one of 'em: 'trice
'im up!'  So they triced me up, and then they give me a push to start
me swinging.  Then they does a bunk into the next 'ouse."

"How do you know they bunked into the next house?" said Drummond.

"Well, guv'nor, there was a secret door, there was--and they'd brought
me from the next house."

He looked at us nervously, as if afraid of the reception of his story.

"How long had you been in the next house, Mr. Perton," asked Drummond
reassuringly, "before they brought you through the secret door to hang
you?"

"Three or four hours, sir: bound and gagged.  Thrown in the corner like
a ruddy sack of pertaters.  Just as I told you, sir."

"I know, Mr. Perton; but I want my friend to hear what you have to say
also.  During those three or four hours whilst you were thrown in the
corner, you heard them talking, didn't you?"

"Well, I didn't pay much attention, sir," said Mr. Perton
apologetically.  "I was a-wondering wot was going to 'appen to me too
'ard.  But there was a great black-bearded swine, who was swearing
something awful.  And two others wot was sitting at a table drinking
whisky.  They seemed to be fair wild about something.  Then the other
bloke come in--the bloke wot had been in Clarges Street that morning,
and the one wot had brought me from the Three Cows to the 'ouse.  They
shut up swearing, though you could see they was still wild.

"'You know wot to do,' says the new man, 'with regard to that thing.'
He points to me, and I listened 'ard.

"'We knows wot to do,' said the black-bearded swab, 'but it's damned
tomfoolery.'

"'That's for me to decide,' snaps the new bloke.  'I'll get the others
next door, and I'll do the necessary once they're there.'  They didn't
say nothing then abaht making me swing, you see, so..."

"Quite, Mr. Perton," interrupted Drummond.  "But they did say something
else, didn't they?"

"Wot! that there bit about Land's Hend?  Wot was it 'e said, now--old
black beard?  Yus--I know.  'We'll all be in 'ell's end,' he said, 'not
Land's Hend if we goes on like this.'  And then someone cursed 'im for
a ruddy fool."

"You're sure of that, Mr. Perton, aren't you?"  I could hear the
excitement in Drummond's voice.  "I mean the bit about Land's End?"

"Sure as I'm sitting 'ere, sir."

He took a large gulp of beer, and Drummond rose to his feet.

"Well, I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Perton.  I have your address in
case I want it, and since you had such a rotten time, I must make that
fiver a tenner."  He thrust two notes into the little man's hand,
rushed him through the door, and bawled for Denny to let him out.  Then
he came back, and his face was triumphant.

"Worth it, Stockton: Worth day after day, night after night searching
London for that man.  Heavens! the amount of liquor I've consumed in
the Three Cows."

"Great Scott!" I cried, "is that what you've been doing?"

"That--and nothing else.  And then I ran into him this morning by
accident outside your rooms in Clarges Street.  Still, it's been worth
it: we've got a clue at last."

"You mean?" I said, a little bewildered.

"Land's End, man: Land's End," he cried.  "I nearly kicked the desk
over when he said it first.  Then I sent for you: I wanted him to
repeat his story for confirmation.  He did--word for word.  The fog is
lifting a little, old boy: one loose end is accounted for at any rate.
I always thought they hanged the poor little swine in order to get a
sitting shot at us.  As they told him--bait.  But, anyway, that is all
past, and a trifle.  He's got a tenner in his pocket and two quarts of
beer in his stomach--and we can let him pass out of the picture.  We,
on the contrary, I hope and trust, are just going to pass into it
again."

"You really think," I said a little doubtfully, "that we're likely to
find out anything at Land's End?"

"I'm going to have a damned good try, Stockton." he said quietly.  "On
his own showing the little man was listening with all his ears at that
time, and it seems incredible to me that he would invent a thing like
that.  We know that the rest of his story was true--the part that he
would think us least likely to believe.  Very well, then: assuming that
black beard did make that remark it must have had some meaning.  And
what meaning can it have had except the obvious one?--namely, that the
gang was going to Land's End.  Why they went to Land's End, Heaven
alone knows.  But what this child knows is that we're going there, too.
I've warned in the boys: Toby, Peter and Ted are coming with us.  Algy
is stopping behind here to guard the fort."

"What about MacIver?" I asked.

Drummond grinned.

"Mac hates leaving London," he remarked.  "And if by any chance we do
run into gorse bush, I feel MacIver would rather cramp my style.  When
can you start?"

"Well," I said doubtfully.

"After lunch?"

"I've got a rather important brief."

"Damn your brief."

I did, and after lunch we started.  We went in the Hispano, and spent
the night in Exeter.

"Tourists, old lads," remarked Drummond.  "That's what we are.
Visiting Penzance.  Let's make that our headquarters."

And so at four o'clock on the 6th September, five tourists arrived at
Penzance and took rooms at an hotel.  But should any doubting reader
who dwells in that charming West Country town search the various hotel
registers I can tell him in advance that he will find no record of our
names.  Further, I may say that mine host at Exeter would have been
hard put to it to recognize the five men who got out of the Hispano in
Penzance.  There was no point in handicapping ourselves unnecessarily,
and Drummond and I at any rate would be certainly recognized by the
gang, even if the others weren't.

The next day we split up.  The plan of action we had decided on was to
search the whole of the ground west of a line drawn from St. Ives to
Mount's Bay.  We split it into five approximately equal parts with the
help of a large-scale ordnance map, and each part worked out at about
ten square miles.

"To do it properly should take three or perhaps four days," said
Drummond.  "It's hilly going, and the north coast is full of caves.  If
anybody discovers anything, report to the hotel at once.  Further, in
order to be on the safe side, we'd better all return here every night."

We drew lots for our beats, and I got the centre strip terminating to
the north in the stretch of coast on each side of Gurnard's Head.
Having a very mild sketching ability, I decided that I would pose as an
artist.  So I purchased the necessary gear, slung a pair of Zeiss
field-glasses over my shoulder, and started off I had determined to
work my strip from north to south, since I felt sure that if the gang
was there at all they would have chosen the desolate country in the
north or centre rather than the comparatively populous part near
Penzance itself.

The weather was glorious, and since I happen to love walking I foresaw
a very pleasant holiday in store.  I admit frankly that I did not share
the optimism of the others.  It struck me that, considering over four
months had elapsed, we were building altogether too much on a chance
remark.

This is not a guide-book, so I won't bore my readers with rhapsodies
over the scenery.  The granite cliffs carved and indented into
fantastic shapes by countless centuries of erosion: the wild rugged
tors rising from the high moorland--it is all too well known to need
any further description from my pen.  And the desolation of it!  Here
and there a deserted mine shaft--tin, I supposed, or copper.  No longer
a paying proposition: not even worth the labour of dismantling the
rusty machinery.

I stopped for a few moments to light my pipe, and a passing shepherd
touched his cap.

"Going sketching, sir," he said in his delightful West Country burr.
"There certainly do be some fine views round these parts."

I walked with him for a while, listening absent-mindedly to his views
on men and matters.  And, in common with a large number of people in
many walks of life, he was of the opinion that things were not what
they were.  The good old days!  Those were the times.

"I remember, sir, when each one of them was a working concern."  He
paused and pointed to a derelict mine below us.  "That was Damar
Mine--that was, and two hundred men used to work there."

"Bad luck on them," I said, "but I think as far as the scenery is
concerned it's better as it is.  Didn't pay, I suppose?"

"That's it, sir: didn't pay.  Though they do say as how the men that
are working Black Mine are going to make it pay.  A rare lot of money
they're putting into it, so Peter Tregerthen told me.  He be one of the
foremen."

"Where is Black Mine?" I asked perfunctorily.

"Just over this hill, sir, and you'll see it.  Only started in May,
they did.  Queer people, too."

I stared at him: it was impossible, of course--just a coincidence....

"How do you mean--queer people?" I asked.

"Peter Tregerthen he tells me as how they've got queer ideas," he
answered.  "Scientific mining they're a-going for: carrying out lots of
experiments secretly--things which the boss says will revolutionize the
industry.  But so far nothing seems to have come of them: they just
goes on mining in the old way.  There it is, sir: that's Black Mine."

We had reached the top of the tor, and below us, a quarter of a mile
away, lay the road from Land's End to St. Ives.  On the other side,
half-way between the road and the edge of the cliffs, stood the works,
and for a moment or two a sudden uncontrollable excitement took hold of
me.  Was it possible that our search was ended almost before it had
begun?  And then I took a pull at myself: I was jumping ahead with a
vengeance.  To base such an idea on a mere coincidence in dates and a
Cornish miner's statements that the owners were queer people was
ridiculous.  And anything less nefarious than the peaceful appearance
of Black Mine would have been hard to imagine.  Smoke drifted lazily up
from the tall chimney, and lines of trucks drawn by horses passed and
repassed.

"How many men are employed there?" I asked my companion.

"Not many, sir, yet," he answered.  "It's up in that wooden building
yonder on the edge of the cliffs that they be experimenting as I told
you.  No one aren't allowed near at all.  In fact Peter Tregerthen he
did tell me that one day he went up and there was a terrible scene.  He
wanted for to ask the boss something or t'other, and the boss very nigh
sacked him.  Well, sir, I reckoned I must be a-going on.  Be you
waiting here?"

"Yes," I said.  "I think I'll stop here a bit.  Good-morning to you."

I watched him go down the hill and strike the road: then, moved by a
sudden impulse, I retraced my steps to the reverse slope of the tor,
and lying down behind a rock I focussed my field-glasses on the wooden
building which was so very private in its owners' estimation.  It
seemed a perfectly ordinary erection, though considerably larger than I
had thought when I saw it with the naked eye.  I could see now that it
stretched back some distance from the edge of the cliff, though, being
foreshortened, it was hard to guess any dimensions.

Of signs of life in it I could see none.  No one entered or left, and
on the land-side--the only one I could observe properly--there were no
windows as far as I could make out.  And then a sudden glint, such as
the sun makes when its light strikes something shining, came from up
near the roof.  It was not repeated, though I kept my glasses glued on
the spot for ten minutes.

It was as I was coming to the conclusion that I was wasting time, and
that an inspection from closer range was indicated (after all, they
couldn't sack me), that a man came out of the building and walked
towards the mine.  I saw, on consulting the ordnance map, that the mine
itself was just over half a mile from where I lay, and the cliff's edge
was distant a further half-mile.  And it was just about ten minutes
before the man reappeared on my side of the mine buildings.  I watched
him idly: he was still too far off for me to be able to distinguish his
features.  After a while he struck the road, but instead of turning
along it one way or the other he came straight on, and commenced to
climb the hill.  In fact it suddenly dawned on me that he was coming
directly for me.  I slipped backwards out of sight, and hurriedly set
up my easel and camp stool, only to see another man approaching from my
right rear.  And the second man must have seen my hurried preparations.
However, I argued to myself that there is no law that prevents a man
admiring a view through field-glasses preparatory to sketching it.  And
though as an argument it was perfectly sound, the presence of Drummond
would have been far more comforting.

"Good-morning."

The man who had come from the mine breasted the rise in front of me,
and I glanced up.  He was a complete stranger, with a dark rather
swarthy face, and I returned the compliment politely.

"Sketching, I see," he remarked affably.

"Just beginning," I answered.  And then I took the bull by the horns.
"I've been admiring the country through my glasses most of the morning."

"So I perceived," said another voice behind my shoulder.  It was the
second man, who again I failed to recognize.  "You seemed to decide to
start work very suddenly."

"I presume," I remarked coldly, "that I can decide to start work when I
like, where I like, and how I like.  The matter is my business, and my
business only."

A quick look passed between the two men, and then the first arrival
spoke.

"Of course," he remarked still more affably.  "But the fact of the
matter is this.  By way of experiment a small syndicate of us have
taken over Black Mine.  We believe, I trust rightly, that we have
stumbled on a method which will enable us to make a large fortune out
of tin mining.  The information has leaked out, and we have had several
people attempting to spy on us.  Please wait"--he held up his hand as I
began an indignant protest.  "Now that I have seen you, I am perfectly
sure that you are not one of them.  But you will understand that we
must take precautions."

"I would be obliged," I remarked sarcastically, "if you would tell me
how you think I can discover your secret--even granted I knew anything
about tin-mining, which I don't--from the range of a mile."

"A very natural remark," he replied.  "But, to adopt military terms for
a moment, there is such a thing as reconnoitring a position, I believe,
before attempting to assault it."

"Which it seems to me, sir, you have been doing pretty thoroughly this
morning," put in the other.

I rose to my feet angrily.

"Look here," I said, "I've had about enough of this.  I'm an
Englishman, and this is England.  If you will inform me of any law
which prohibits me from looking through field-glasses at anything I
like for as long as I like, I shall be pleased to listen to you.  If,
however, you can't, I should be greatly obliged if you'd both of you go
to blazes.  I may say that the question of tin-mining leaves me even
colder than your presence."

Once again I saw a quick glance pass between them.

"There is no good losing your temper, sir," said the first man.  "We
are speaking in the most friendly way.  And since you have no
connection with the tin-mining industry there is no need for us to say
any more."

"I certainly have no connection with the tin-mining industry," I
agreed.  "But for the sake of argument supposing I had.  Is that a
crime?"

"In this locality, and from our point of view," he smiled, "it is.  In
fact it is worse than a crime: it is a folly.  Several people have
proved that to their cost.  Good-morning."

I watched them go, and my first thought was to pack up and walk
straight back to the hotel.  And then saner counsels prevailed.  That
second man--where had he come from?  I felt certain now that that flash
had been a signal.  Or an answer.  He must have been lying up in that
high ground behind me on the right.  And glancing round I could see
hundreds of places where men could lie hidden and watch my every
movement.

Was it genuine? that was the whole point.  Was all this talk about
revolutionizing tin-mining the truth, or merely an elaborate bluff?
There below me was an actual tin mine going full blast, which
substantiated their claim.  Anyway the main thing was to give them no
further cause for suspicion.  And in view of the fact that for all I
knew unseen eyes might still be watching me, I decided to stop on for a
couple of hours, eat my lunch, and then saunter back to Penzance.
Moreover, I determined that I wouldn't use the field-glasses again.  I
had seen all I could see from that distance, so there was no object in
rousing further suspicion in the event of my being watched.

Was it genuine?  The question went on reiterating itself in my mind.
And it was still unanswered when I returned to the hotel about
tea-time.  I had seen no trace of any other watcher; the high ground on
each side of me had seemed silent and deserted while I ate my lunch and
sketched perfunctorily for an hour or so.  Was it genuine?  Or did the
so-called secret process cloak something far more sinister?

We weighed up the points for and against the second alternative over a
round of short ones before dinner.

Points for--Coincidence of dates and the very special precautions taken
to prevent outsiders approaching.  Point against--Why come to a
derelict tin mine in the back of beyond, and incur all the expense of
paying miners, when on the face of it a far more accessible and cheaper
location could be found?

"In fact," remarked Drummond, "the matter can only be solved in one
way.  We will consume one more round of this rather peculiar tipple
which that sweet girl fondly imagines is a Martini: we will then have
dinner: and after that we will go and see for ourselves."

"Supposing it is genuine?" I said doubtfully.

"Then, as in the case of Aunt Amelia, we will apologize and withdraw.
And if they refuse to accept our apologies and show signs of wishing to
rough-house Heaven forbid that we should disappoint them."

We started at nine in the car.  There was no moon and we decided to
approach from the west, that is, the Land's End direction.

"We'll leave the car a mile or so away--hide it if possible," said
Drummond.  "And then, Stockton, call up your war lore, for we're going
to have a peerless night creep."

"Do we scatter, Hugh, or go in a bunch?" asked Jerningham.

"Ordinary patrol, Ted.  I'll lead: you fellows follow in pairs."

His eyes were gleaming with excitement; and if my own feelings were any
criterion we were all of us in the same condition.  My doubts of the
morning had been replaced by a quite unjustifiable optimism: I felt
that we were on the track again at last.  Undoubtedly the wish was
father to the thought, but as we got into the car after dinner I was
convinced that these were no genuine experiments in tin.

"Carry a revolver, but don't use it except as a last resort."

Such were Drummond's orders, followed by a reminder of the stringent
necessity for silence.

"On their part as well as our own," he said quietly.  "If you stumble
on anyone, don't let him give the alarm."

In our pockets we each of us had a gag, a large handkerchief, a length
of fine rope, and a villainous-looking weapon which Drummond alluded to
as Mary.  It was a short, heavily loaded stick, and as he calmly
produced these nefarious objects from his suit-case, followed by five
decent-sized bottles of chloroform, I couldn't help roaring with
laughter.

"Always travel hoping for the best," he grinned.  "Don't forget,
boys--no shooting.  To put it mildly, it would be distinctly awkward if
we killed a genuine tin merchant."

It was ten o'clock when we reached a spot at which Drummond considered
it sound to park the car.  For the last two miles we had been
travelling without lights, and with the aid of a torch we confirmed our
position on the map.

"I make out that there is another ridge beyond the one in front of us
before we get to Black Mine." said Drummond.  "If that's so and they've
got the place picketed, the sentry will be on the further one.
Man-handle her in, boys: she'll make a noise on reverse."

We backed the car off the road into a small deserted quarry and then,
with a final inspection to see that all our kit was complete, we
started off.  Toby and I came five yards behind Drummond, with the
other two behind us again, and I soon began to realize that the yarns I
had heard from time to time--told casually by his pals about our
leader--were not exaggerated.  I have mentioned before his marvellous
gift of silent movement in the dark; and I had myself seen an
exhibition of it in the house in Ashworth Gardens.  But that was
indoors: that night I was to see it in the open.  You could hear
nothing: you could see nothing, until suddenly he would loom up under
your nose with whispered instructions.

Toby had had previous experience of him, but the first time it happened
I very nearly made a fool of myself.  It was so utterly unexpected
that, never dreaming it was he, I lunged at him viciously with my
loaded stick.  The blow fell on empty air, and I heard him chuckle
faintly.

"Steady, old man," he whispered from somewhere behind me.  "Don't lay
me out at this stage of the proceedings.  We're just short of the top
of the first ridge: spread out sideways until we're over.  Then same
formation.  Pass it back."

We waited till the other two bumped into us, I feeling the most
infernal ass.  And then, even as we were passing on the orders, there
came a faint snarling noise away to our left.  We stared in the
direction it came from, but it was not repeated.  All was silent save
for the lazy beat of the breakers far below.

"By Gad! you fellows, we've bumped the first sentry."  Drummond
materialized out of the night.  "Fell right on top of him.  Had to dot
him one.  What's that?"

A stone moved a few yards away from us, and a low voice called
out--"Martin!  Martin--are you there?  What was that noise?  God! this
gives me the jumps.  Martin--where are you?  Ah----"

The beginnings of a scream were stifled in the speaker's throat, and we
moved cautiously forward to find Drummond holding someone by the throat.

"Put him to sleep, Ted," he whispered, and the sickly smell of
chloroform tainted the air.

"Lash him up and gag him," said Drummond, and then, with infinite
precaution, he switched his torch for a second on to the man's face.
He was one of the two who had spoken to me that morning.

"Good," said Drummond cheerfully.  "We won't bother about the other: he
will sleep for several hours.  And now, having mopped up the first
ridge, let us proceed to do even likewise with the second.  Hullo! what
the devil is that light doing?  Out to sea there."

Three flashes and a long pause--then two flashes.  That was all: after
that, though we waited several times, we saw nothing more.

"Obviously a signal of some sort," remarked Drummond.  "And presumably
it is to our friends in front.  By Jove! you fellows, is it possible
that we've run into a bunch of present-day smugglers?  What a perfectly
gorgeous thought.  Let's get on with it.  There's not likely to be
anyone in the hollow in front, but go canny in case of accidents.  Same
formation as before, and spread out when we come to the next ridge."

Once more we started off.  Periodically I glanced out to sea, but there
was no repetition of the signal.  Whatever boat had made it was lying
off there now without lights--waiting.  And for what?  Smugglers?
Possibly, of course.  But what a coast to choose!  And yet was it a bad
one?  Well out of the beaten track: full of caves: sparsely populated.
One thing anyway seemed certain.  If the signal had been intended for
the present owners of Black Mine, it rather disposed of the genuineness
of their claim.  The connection between tin-mining secrets and
mysterious signals out at sea seemed rather too obscure to be credible.

"Hit him, Stockton."

Toby Sinclair's urgent voice startled me out of my theorising just in
time.  I had literally walked on a man, and it was a question of the
fraction of a second as to whether he got away and gave the alarm.

"Good biff," came in Drummond's whisper as the man crashed.  "I've got
the other beauty.  We're through the last line."

The other two had joined us, and for a while we stood there listening.
Ahead of us some three hundred yards away was the Black Mine: to the
left, on the edge of the cliff, a wooden house stood outlined against
the sky.  And even as we stared at it a door opened for a second,
letting out a shaft of light as someone came out.

"So our friends are not in bed," said Drummond softly.  "There is
activity in the home circle.  Let's go and join the party.  We'll make
for the edge of the cliff a bit this side of the house."

It was farther than it looked, but we met no more sentries.  No further
trace of life showed in the wooden house as we worked our way
cautiously forward.

"Careful."  Drummond's whisper came from just in front of us.  "We're
close to the edge."  He was peering in front, and suddenly he turned
round and gripped my arm.  "Look up there towards the house.  See
anything?  Underneath a little--just below the top of the cliff."

I stared at the place he indicated, and sure enough there was a patch
which seemed less dark than its surroundings.

"There's a heavily screened light inside there," he muttered.  "It's an
opening in the cliff."

And then, quite clearly audible over the lazy beat of the sea below, we
heard the sound of rowlocks.

"This is where we go closer," said Drummond.  "It strikes me things are
going to happen."

We crept towards the house, and I know that I, at any rate, was
quivering with excitement.  I could, just see Drummond in front well
enough to conform to his every movement.  He paused every now and then,
but not for long, and I pictured him peering into the darkness with
that uncanny sight of his.  Once, I remember, he stopped for nearly
five minutes, and while I lay there trying to stop the pounding of my
heart I thought I heard voices below.  Then he went on again, until the
house seemed almost on top of us.

At last he stopped for good, and I saw him beckoning to us to come and
join him.  He was actually on the edge of the cliff, and when I reached
his side and passed over, I very nearly gave the show away in my
surprise.  Not twenty feet below us a man's head was sticking out of
the face of the cliff.  We could see it outlined against a dim light
that came from inside, and he was paying out something hand over hand.
At first I couldn't see what it was.  It looked like a rope, and yet it
seemed singularly stiff and inflexible.

"Form a circle," breathed Drummond to the other three.  "Not too near.
For heaven's sake don't let us be surprised from behind."

"What on earth is it that he's paying out?" I whispered in his ear as
he once more lay down beside me.

"Tubing of sorts," he answered.  "Don't talk--watch."

From below came a whistle, and the man immediately stopped.  Then a few
seconds later came another whistle and the man disappeared.  Something
must have swung into position behind him, for the light no longer shone
out; only a faint lessening of the darkness marked the spot where he
had been.  And then, though it may have been my imagination, I thought
I heard a slight gurgling noise such as a garden hose makes when you
first turn the water on.

For some time nothing further happened; then again from below came the
whistle.  He must have been waiting for it from behind the screen, for
he reappeared instantly.  As before the light shone on him, and
suddenly I felt Drummond's hand close on my arm like a vice.  _For the
man was wearing india-rubber gauntlets_.

Coil by coil he pulled the tubing up until it was all in: then again he
disappeared and the screen swung down, shutting out the light.

"Stockton," whispered Drummond, "we've found 'em."

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"Explore," he said quietly.  "If we'd got through without bumping their
sentries, I'd have given it a chance till daylight to-morrow.  As it
is, it's now or never."

"Then I'm coming with you," I remarked.

"All right," he whispered.  "But I'm going down to reconnoitre first."

He collected the other three and gave his orders.  He, Jerningham and I
would go down and force an entrance through the front of the cliff: the
other two would guard our retreat and hold the rope for us to ascend
again.  But Toby was adamant.  There was a large post rammed into the
ground for some purpose or other to which the rope could be attached,
and he and Peter insisted on coming, too.  And even in the darkness I
could see Drummond's quick grin as he agreed.

"As soon as I signal all right, the next man comes down.  And if they
find the bally rope and cut it we'll fight our way out through the back
door.  One other thing: instructions _re_ revolvers cancelled.  It's
shoot quick, and shoot often.  Great Heavens! what's that?"

From somewhere near by there came a dreadful chattering laugh followed
by a babble of words which died away as abruptly as it had started.  To
the others it was merely a sudden noise, staggering because of the
unexpectedness of it, but to me it was a paralysing shock which for the
moment completely unnerved me.  For the voice which had babbled at us
out of the night was the voice of Robin Gaunt.




9

  In which we are entertained
  strangely in Black Mine

"You're certain of that?" muttered Drummond tensely, for even his iron
nerves had been shaken for the moment.

"Absolutely," I answered.  "That cry came from Robin Gaunt."

"Then that finally proves that we're on to 'em.  Let's get busy:
there's no time to lose."

We made fast the rope, and then lay peering over the edge of the cliff
as he went down hand over hand.  For a moment the light gleamed out as
he drew aside the screen, and then we heard his whispered "Come on."
One after another we followed him till all five of us were standing in
the cave.  Behind us a curtain of stout sacking, completely covering
the entrance, was all that separated us from a hundred-feet fall into
the Atlantic: in front--what lay in front?  What lay round the corner
ten yards away?  Even now, though many months have elapsed since that
terrible night, I can still feel the pricking at the back of my scalp
during the few seconds we stood there waiting.

Suddenly Drummond stooped down and sniffed at something that lay on the
floor.  Then he beckoned significantly to me.  It was the end of the
tubing which we had seen the man paying out, and from it came the
unmistakable scent of the poison.  More confirmation of the presence of
the gang: and another piece in this strange and inexplicable jig-saw.

I straightened up to see that Drummond had reached the corner and was
peering cautiously round it.  He was flattened against the rough wall,
and his revolver was in his hand.  Inch by inch he moved forward with
Jerningham just behind him, and the rest of us following in single file.

The passage went on bending to the left and sloping downwards.  The
floor was smooth and made of cement, but the walls and roof were left
in their natural condition just as they had been blasted out.  It was
not new except for the floor, and as we crept forward I wondered for
what purpose, and by whom it had been originally made.  The
illumination came from somewhere in front, and it was obvious through
the light getting brighter that that somewhere was very close.

Suddenly Drummond became motionless: just ahead of us a man had laughed.

"Damned if I see what there is to laugh at," snarled a harsh voice.
"I'm sick to death of this performance."

"You won't be when you get your share of the stuff," came the answer.

"It's an infernal risk, Dubosc."

"You don't handle an amount like that without running risks," answered
the other.  "What's come over you to-night?  We've, been here four
months and now, when we're clearing out, you're as jumpy as a cat with
kittens."

"It's this damned place, I suppose.  No report in from the sentries?
No one about?"

"Of course there's no one about.  Who would be about in this
God-forsaken stretch of country if he hadn't got to be?"

"There was that sketching fellow this morning.  And Vernier swears that
he was lying there on the hill examining the place for an hour through
glasses."

"What if he was?  He couldn't see anything."

"I know that.  But it means he suspected something."

"It's about time you took a tonic," sneered the other.  "We've gone
through four months in this place without being discovered; and now,
when we've got about four more hours to go at the most, you go and lose
your nerve because some stray artist looks at the place through
field-glasses.  You make me tired.  Devil take it, man, it's a tin
mine, with several perfectly genuine miners tinning in it."

He laughed once again, and we heard the tinkle of a glass.

"There was every excuse if you like for being windy when we were in
London.  And it served that cursed fool Turgovin right.  What did we
want anyway with that man--what was his name--Stockton, wasn't it?
What was the good of killing him, even if the fool had done it, and not
got killed himself?  I tell you that when I saw the Chief a week later,
he was still apoplectic with rage.  And if Turgovin hadn't been dead,
the Chief would have killed him, himself.  We ought to have done what
Helias said, and cleared out as soon as we got Gaunt."

"What are we going to do with that madman when we go?"

"Kill him," said the other callously.  "If he hadn't gone mad, and
suffered from his present delusion, he'd have been killed weeks ago.
Hullo, here he is.  Why ain't you tucked up in the sheets, looney?"

And then I heard old Robin's voice.

"Surely it's over by now, isn't it?"

"Surely what's over?  Oh! the war.  No: that's not over.  The Welsh
have gained a great victory over the English and driven 'em off the top
of Snowdon.  Your juice doesn't seem to be functioning quite as well as
it ought to."

"It must succeed in time," said Robin, and his voice was the vacant
voice of madness.  "How many have been killed by it?"

"A few hundred thousand," answered the other.  "But they're devilish
pugnacious fighters, these Englishmen.  And the General won't give up
until he's got that leg of Welsh mutton for his dinner.  By the way,
looney, you'll be getting slogged in the neck if I hear you making that
infernal noise again.  Your face is bad enough without adding that
filthy shindy to it."

"That's so," came in a new deep voice.  I saw Drummond's hand clench
and he glanced round at me.  Doctor Helias had come on the scene.  "If
it occurs again, Gaunt, I shall hang you up head downwards as I did
before."

A little whimpering cry came from Robin, and suddenly the veins stood
out on Drummond's neck.  For a moment I thought he was going to make a
dash for them then and there, which would have been a pity.  Sooner or
later it would have to come: in the meantime, incomprehensible though
much of it was, we wanted to hear everything we could.

"Get out, you fool," snarled Helias.

There was a sound of a heavy blow, and a cry of pain from Robin.

"Let him be, Helias," said one of the others.  "He's been useful."

"His period of utility is now over," answered Helias.  "I'm sick of the
sight of him."

"But there isn't enough," wailed Gaunt.  "Too much has gone into the
sea, and it is the air that counts."

"It's all right, looney; there's plenty for to-night.  Go and put your
pretty suit on so as to be ready when he comes."

A door closed and for a time there was silence save for the rustling of
some papers.  And then Helias spoke again.

"You've neither of you left anything about, have you?"

"No.  All cleared up."

"We clear the instant the job is finished.  Dubosc--you're detailed to
fill the tank with water as soon as it's empty.  I'll deal with the
madman."

"Throw him over the cliff, I suppose."

"Yes; it's easiest.  You might search his room, Gratton: I want no
traces left.  Look at the fool there peering at his gauge to see if
there is enough to stop the war."

"By Jove! this is going to be a big job, Helias."

"A big job with a big result.  The Chief is absolutely confident.
Lester and Degrange are in charge of the group on board the
_Megalithic_, and Lester can be trusted not to bungle."

"Boss!  Boss!  Vernier is lying bound and gagged on the hill outside
there."

Someone new had come dashing in and Drummond gave us a quick look of
warning.  Discovery now was imminent.

"What's that?"  We heard a chair fall over as Helias got up.  "Vernier
gagged.  Where are the others?"

"Don't know, boss.  Couldn't see them.  But I was going out to relieve
Vernier, and I stumbled right on him.  He's unconscious.  So I rushed
back to give the warning."

"Rouse everyone," said Helias curtly.  "Post the danger signal in the
roof.  And if you see any stranger, get him dead or alive."

"Terse and to the point," remarked Drummond.  "Just for a moment,
however, stand perfectly still where you are."

He had stepped forward into the room, and the rest of us ranged up
alongside of him.

"Well, gorse bush--we meet again.  I see you've removed your face
fungus.  Very wise: the police were so anxious to find you."

"By God! it's the Australian," muttered Helias.  He was standing at the
table in the centre of the room, and his eyes were fixed on Drummond.

"Have it that way if you like," answered Drummond.  "The point is
immaterial.  What my friends and I are principally interested in is
you, Doctor Helias.  And when we're all quite comfortable we propose to
ask you a few questions.  First of all, you three go and stand against
that wall, keeping your hands above your heads."

Dazedly they did as they were told: our sudden appearance seemed to
have cowed them completely.

"Feel like sitting down, do you, Doctor?  All right.  Only put both
your hands on the table."

He pulled up a chair and sat down facing Helias.

"Now then to begin at the end.  Saves time, doesn't it?  What exactly
is the game?  What are you doing here?"

"I refuse to say," answered the other.

"That's a pity," said Drummond.  "It would have saved so much breath.
Let's try another.  Why have you got Gaunt here, and why has he gone
mad?"

"Ask him yourself."

"Look here," said Drummond quietly, "let us be perfectly clear on one
point, Doctor Helias.  I know you, if not for a cold-blooded murderer
yourself, at any rate for a man who is closely connected with several
of the worst.  I've got you and you're going to the police.  What
chance you will have then you know best.  But if you get my goat you
may never get as far as the police.  For only a keen sense of public
duty restrains me from plugging you where you sit, you ineffable swine."

"In which case you would undoubtedly hang for it," snarled the other.
His great hairy hands kept clenching and unclenching on the table: his
eyes, venomous with hatred, never left Drummond's face.

"I think not," said Drummond.  "However, at present the point does not
arise.  Now another question, Helias.  Who was the woman who
impersonated the wretched Miss Simpson the first time?"

"I refuse to say."

"She knew me, didn't she?  I see you start.  You forget that Stockton
was not unconscious like the rest of us.  Helias--do you know a man
called Carl Peterson?"

He fired the question out suddenly, and this time there was no
mistaking the other's agitation.

"So," said Drummond quietly.  "You do.  Where is he, Helias?  Is he at
the bottom of all this?  Though it's hardly necessary to ask that.
Where is he?"

"You seem to know a lot," said Helias slowly.

"I want to know just that one thing more," answered Drummond.
"Everything else can wait.  Where is Carl Peterson?"

"Supposing I told you, would you let me go free?"

Drummond stared at him thoughtfully.

"If I had proof positive--and I would not accept your word only--as to
where Peterson is, I might consider the matter."

"I will give you proof positive.  To do so, however, I must go to that
cupboard."

"You may go," said Drummond.  "But I shall keep you covered, and shoot
without warning on the slightest suspicion of trickery."

"I am not a fool," answered the other curtly.  "I know when I'm
cornered."

He rose and walked to the cupboard, and I noticed he was wearing a pair
of high white rubber boots.

"Been paddling in your filthy poison, I suppose," said Drummond.  "You
deserve to be drowned in a bath of it."

The other took no notice.  He was sorting out some papers, and
apparently oblivious of Drummond's revolver pointing unwaveringly at
the base of his skull.

"Strange how one never can find a thing when one wants to," he remarked
conversationally.  "Ah!  I think this is it."

He came back to the table with two or three documents in his hand.

"I have your word," he said, "that if I give you proof positive you
will let me go."

"You have my word that I will at any rate think about it," answered
Drummond.  "Much depends on the nature of the proof."

Helias had reseated himself at the table opposite Drummond, who was
looking at the papers that had been handed to him.

"But this has got nothing to do with it," cried Drummond after a while.
"Are you trying some fool trick, Helias?"

"Is it likely?" said the other.  "Read on."

"Keep him covered, Ted."

And then suddenly Drummond sniffed the air.

"There's a strong smell of that poison of yours, Helias."

I caught one glimpse on Helias's face of unholy triumph, and the next
moment I saw it.

"Lift your legs, Drummond," I yelled.  "Lift them off the floor."

The advancing wave had actually reached his chair; another second would
have been too late.  I have said that the passage sloped down abruptly
from the opening, in the cliff to the room, and pouring down it was a
stream of the liquid.  It came surging over the smooth floor and in an
instant there ensued a scene of wild confusion.  Drummond had got on
the table: Toby Sinclair and I scrambled on to chairs, and Jerningham
and Darrell just managed to reach a wooden bench.

"You devil," shouted the man Dubosc, "turn off the stopcock.  We're cut
off."

Helias laughed gratingly from the passage into which he had escaped in
the general scramble.  And then for the first time we noticed the three
other members of the gang.  They were standing against the
wall--completely cut off, as they said.  Owing to some irregularity in
the floor they were surrounded by the liquid, which still came surging
into the room.

And then there occurred the most dreadful scene I have ever witnessed.
They screamed and fought like wild beasts for the central position--the
place which, the poison would reach last.  It was three inches deep now
under our chairs, and it was within a yard of the place where the three
men struggled.

Suddenly the first of them went.  He slipped and fell right into the
foul stuff, and as he fell he died.  Without heeding him the other two
fought on.  What good they could do by it was beside the point: the
frenzied instinct of self-preservation killed all reason.  And
forgetful of our own danger we watched them, fascinated.

It was Dubosc who managed to wrap his legs round the other's waist, at
the same time clutching him round the neck with his arms.

"Carry me to the cupboard, you fool," he screamed.  "It's the only
chance."

But the other man had completely lost his head.  In a last frenzied
attempt to get rid of his burden he stumbled and fell.  And with an
ominous splash they both landed in the oncoming liquid.  It was over;
and we stared at the three motionless bodies in stupefied silence.

"I don't like people who interfere with my plans," came the voice of
Helias from the passage.  "Unfortunately I shan't have the pleasure of
seeing you die because the thought of your revolver impels me to keep
out of sight.  But I will just explain the situation.  In the cupboard
is a stopcock.  In the building beyond you is a very large tank
containing some tons of this poison.  We use the stopcock to allow the
liquid to pass through the pipe down to the sea--on occasions.  Now,
however, the end of the pipe is in the passage, which, as you doubtless
observed, slopes downwards into the room where you are.  And so the
liquid is running back into the room, and will continue to do so until
the stopcock is turned off or the tank is empty.  It ought to rise
several feet, I should think.  I trust I make myself clear."

We looked round desperately: we were caught like rats in a trap.
Already the liquid was so deep that the three dead men were drifting
about in it sluggishly, and the smell of it was almost overpowering.

"There's only one thing for it," said Drummond at length.  His voice
was quite steady, and he was tucking his trousers into his socks as he
spoke.

"You're not going to do it, Hugh," shouted Jerningham, "We'll toss."

"No, we won't, old lad.  I'm nearest."

He stood up and measured the distance to the cupboard with his eye.

"Cheer oh! old lads--and all that sort of rot," he remarked.  "Usual
messages, don't you know.  It's my blithering fault for having brought
you here."

And Peter Darrell was crying like a child.

"Don't!" we shouted.  "For God's sake, man--there's another way.  There
must be."

And our shout was drowned by the crack of a revolver.  It was Drummond
who had fired, and the shot was followed by the sound of a fall.

"I thought he might get curious," he said grimly.  "He did.  Poked his
foul face round the corner."

"Is he dead?" cried Ted.

"Very," said Drummond.  "I plugged him through the brain."

"Good Lord! old man," said Peter shakily.  "I thought you meant that
other stuff."

"Dear old Peter," Drummond smiled: "I did.  And I do.  But I'm glad to
have paid the debt first.  You might--er--just tell--er--you know,
Phyllis and all that."

For a moment his voice faltered: then with that wonderful cheery grin
of his he turned to face certain death.  And it wasn't only Peter who
was sobbing under his breath.

His knees were bent: he was actually crouching for the jump when the
apparition appeared in the door.

"Hugh," shouted Ted.  "Wait."

It was the figure of a man clothed from head to foot in a rubber
garment.  His legs were encased in what looked like high fishing
waders: his body and hands were completely covered with the same
material.  But it was his head that added the finishing touch.  He wore
a thing that resembled a diver's helmet, save that it was much less
heavy and clumsy.  Two pieces of glass were fitted for his eyes, and
just underneath there was a device to allow him to breathe.

He stood there for a moment with the liquid swirling round his legs,
and then he gave a shout of rage.

"The traitor: the traitor.  There will not be enough for the air."

It was Robin Gaunt, and with sudden wild hope we watched him stride to
the cupboard.  Of us he took no notice: he did not even pause when one
of the bodies bumped against him.  He just turned off the stopcock, and
then stood there muttering angrily whilst we wiped the sweat from our
foreheads and breathed again.  At any rate for the moment we were
reprieved.

"The traitor.  But I'll do him yet.  I'll cheat him."

He burst into a shout of mad laughter.

"I'll do him.  There shall be enough."

Still taking no notice of us, he waded back to the door and disappeared
up the passage.  What wild delusion was in the poor chap's brain we
knew not: sufficient for us at the moment that the liquid had ceased to
rise.

Half-an-hour passed--an hour with no further sign of Gaunt.  And the
same thought was in all our minds.  Had we merely postponed the
inevitable?  The fumes from the poison were producing a terrible
nausea, and once Darrell swayed perilously on his bench.  Sooner or
later we should all be overcome, and then would come the end.  One
thing--it would be quick.  Just a splash--a dive...

"Stockton," roared Drummond.  "Wake up."

With a start I pulled myself together and stared round stupidly.

"We must keep awake, boys," said Drummond urgently.  "In an hour or two
it will be daylight, and there may be someone about who will hear us
shout.  But if you sleep--you die."

And as he spoke we heard Gaunt's voice outside raised in a shout of
triumph.

"He is coming: he is coming.  And there will be enough."

We pulled ourselves together: hope sprang up again in our minds; though
Heaven knows what we hoped for.  Whoever this mysterious he proved to
be, it was hardly likely that he would provide us with planks or
ladders by which we could walk over the liquid.

"What's that noise?" cried Toby.

It sounded like a motor bicycle being ridden over undulating ground, or
a distant aeroplane on a gusty day.  It was the drone of an engine--now
loud, now almost dying away, but all the time increasing in volume.
Shout after shout of mad laughter came from Gaunt, and once he rushed
dancing into the room with arms outstretched above his head.

"He comes," he cried.  "And the war will cease."

And now the noise of the engine was loud and continuous and seemed to
come from close at hand.  Gaunt in a frenzy of joy was shouting
meaningless phrases whilst we stood there marooned in his foul poison,
utterly bewildered.  For the moment intense curiosity had overcome all
other thoughts.

Suddenly Gaunt reappeared again, staggering and lurching with something
in his arms.  It was a pipe similar to the one which had so nearly
caused our death, and he dropped the nozzle in the liquid.

"I'll cheat him," chuckled Gaunt.  "The traitor."

It was Drummond who noticed it first, and his voice almost broke in his
excitement.

"It's sinking, you fellows: it's sinking."

It was true: the level of the liquid was sinking fast.  Hardly daring
to believe our eyes we watched it disappearing: saw first one and then
another of the dead men come to rest on the floor and lie there sodden
and dripping.  And all the time Robin Gaunt stood there chuckling and
muttering.

"Go on, pump: go on.  I will give you the last drop."

"But where's it being pumped to?" said Jerningham dazedly.  "I suppose
we aren't mad, are we?  This is really happening.  Great Scott! look at
him now."

Holding the pipe in his hands, Gaunt went to pool after pool of the
poison as they lay scattered on the uneven floor.  His one obsession
was to get enough, but at last he seemed satisfied.

"You shall have more," he cried.  "The tank is still half full."

He lurched up the passage with the piping, and a few seconds later we
heard a splash.

"Go on," came his shout.  "Pump on: there is more."

"Devil take it," cried Drummond.  "What is happening?  I wonder if it's
safe to cross this floor."

"Be careful, old man," said Jerningham.  "Hadn't we better let it dry
out a bit more?  Everything is still wringing wet."

"I know that.  But what's happening?  We're missing it all.  Who has
pumped up this stuff?"

He gave a sudden exclamation.

"I've got it.  Chuck me a handkerchief, someone.  These two books will
do."

He sat down on the table, and tied a book to the sole of each of his
shoes.  Then he cautiously lowered himself to the ground.

"On my back--each of you in turn," he cried.

And thus did we escape from that ghastly room, to be met with a sight
that drove every other thought out of our minds.  Floating above the
wooden hut, so low down that it shut out the whole sky, was a huge
black shape.  It was Wilmot's dirigible.

Standing by the tank of which Helias had spoken was Robin Gaunt, and
the piping which had drained the liquid from the room was now emptying
the main reservoir.

"Enough: there will be enough," he kept on saying.  "And this time he
will succeed.  The war will stop.  Instantaneous, universal death.  And
I shall have done it."

"But there isn't any war, Robin," I cried.

He stared at me vacantly through his goggles.

"Instantaneous, universal death," he repeated.  "It is better so--more
merciful."

We could see the details of the airship now: pick out the two central
gondolas and the keel which formed the main corridor of the vessel.
And once I thought I saw a man peering down at us--a man covered with
just such a garment as Robin was wearing.

"Pumping it into a ballast tank," said Toby, going to the door.  "You
see that: they're letting water out as this stuff goes in."

He pointed to the stern of the vessel, and in the dim light it was just
possible to see a stream of liquid coming out of the airship.

"To think," he went on dazedly, "that ten days ago I went for one of
Wilmot's Celebrated Six-hour Trips and had Lobster  l'Americain for
lunch."

Suddenly the noise of the engine increased, and the airship began to
move.  I glanced at Robin and he was nodding his head triumphantly.

"I knew there would be enough," he cried.  "Go: go, and stop the
senseless slaughter."

The poor devil stood there, his arms thrown out dramatically while the
great vessel gathered speed and swung round in a circle.  Then she flew
eastwards, and five minutes later was lost to sight.

"Well, I'm damned," said Jerningham, sitting down on the grass and
scratching his head.

"You're certain it was Wilmot's?" said Drummond.

"Absolutely," said Toby.  "There's no mistaking her."

"Can't we get any sense out of Gaunt?" cried Jerningham.

"Where is he anyway?"

And just then he appeared.  He had taken off his suit of indiarubber,
and I gave an exclamation of horror as I saw his face.  From chin to
forehead ran a huge red scar; the blow that gave it to him must have
wellnigh have split his head open.  He came towards us as we sat on the
ground, and stopped a few yards way, peering at us curiously.

"Who are you?" he said.  "I don't know you."

"Don't you know me, Robin?" I said gently.  "John Stockton."

For a while he stared at me: then he shook his head.

"It doesn't matter," I went on.  "Tell us why your poison is pumped up
into the airship."

"To stop the war," he said instantly.  "It flies over the place where
they are fighting and sprays the poison down.  And everyone touched by
the poison dies."

"It sounds fearfully jolly," remarked Drummond.  "And what happens if a
shell bursts in the airship; or an incendiary bullet?"

A sudden look of cunning came on Robin's face.

"That would not matter," he answered.  "Not one: nor even two.  And an
incendiary bullet is useless.  Just death.  Instantaneous, universal
death."

He stared out over the sea, and Drummond shrugged his shoulders
hopelessly.

"Or better still, as I have told them all," went on Robin dreamily, "is
a big pity.  The rain of death.  Think of it!  Think of it in
London...."

"Good God!"  With a sudden gasp Drummond got to his feet.  "What are
you saying, man?  What do you mean?"

"The rain of death coming down from the sky.  That would stop the war."

"But there isn't a war," shouted Drummond, and Robin cringed back in
terror.

"Steady, Drummond," I said.  "Don't frighten him.  What do you mean,
Robin?  Is that airship going to spray your poison on London?"

"I don't know," he said.  "Perhaps if the war doesn't stop he will do
it.  I have asked him to."

He wandered away a few paces, and Jerningham shook his head.

"Part of the delusion," he said.  "Why, damn it, Wilmot is trying to
float a company."

"I know that," said Drummond.  "But why has he got that poison on
board?"

"It's possible," I remarked, "that he is taking the stuff over to some
foreign Power to sell it."

"Then why not make it over there and save bother?"

To which perfectly sound criticism there was no answer.

"Anyway," said Drummond, "there is obviously only one thing to do.  Get
out of this and notify the police.  I should think they would like a
little chat with Mr. Wilmot."  And then suddenly he stared at us
thoughtfully.  "Wilmot!  Can it be possible that Wilmot himself is
Peterson?"

He shook both his fists in the air suddenly.

"Oh! for a ray of light in this impenetrable fog.  Who was down there
last night?  Whom did we see signalling from the sea?  Why did they
want the poison?  Why does the airship want it?  In fact, what the
devil does it all mean?  Hullo!  What's Ted got hold of?"

Jerningham was coming towards us waving some papers in his hand.

"Just been into another room," he cried, "and found these.  Haven't
examined them yet, but they might help."

With a scream of rage Robin, who had been standing vacantly beside us,
sprang at Jerningham and tried to snatch the papers away.

"They're mine," he shouted.  "Give them to me."

"Steady, old man," said Drummond, though it taxed all his strength to
hold the poor chap in his mad frenzy.  "No one is going to hurt them."

"It's gibberish," I said, peering over Jerningham's shoulder.  He was
turning over the sheets, on which disconnected words and phrases were
scrawled.  They had been torn out of a cheap note-book and there seemed
to be no semblance of order or meaning.  Stray chemical formula were
mixed up with sentences such as "Too much to the sea.  I have told him."

"Just mad gibberish," I repeated.  "What else can one expect?"

I turned away, and as I did Jerningham gave a cry of triumph.

"Is it?" he said.  "That's where you're wrong.  It may not help us
much, but this isn't gibberish."

In his hand he held a number of sheets of paper covered with Robin's
fine handwriting.  He glanced rapidly over one or two, and gave an
excited exclamation.

"Written before he lost his reason," he cried.  "It's sense, you
fellows--sense."

And the man who had written sense before he lost his reason was crying
weak tears of rage as he still struggled impotently in Drummond's grip.




10

  In which we read the
  narrative of Robin Gaunt

Many times since then have I read that strange document, the original
of which now lies in Scotland Yard.  And whenever I do my mind goes
back to that September morning, when, sitting in a circle on the short
clipped turf two hundred feet above the Atlantic, we first learned the
truth.  For after a while Robin grew quiet, though I kept an eye on him
lest he should try and snatch his precious papers away.  But he didn't:
he just sat a little apart from us staring out to sea, and occasionally
babbling out some foolish nonsense.

Before me as I write is an exact copy.  Not a line will be altered: not
a comma.  But I would ask those who may read to visualize the
circumstances under which we first read that poor madman's closely
guarded secret with the writer himself beside us, and the gulls
screaming discordantly over our heads.


I am going mad.

[Thus it started without preamble.]

I, Robin Caxton Gaunt, believe that I shall shortly lose my reason.
The wound inflicted on me in my rooms in London: the daily torture I am
subjected to, and above all the final unbelievable atrocity which I saw
committed with my own eyes, and for which, so help me God, I feel a
terrible personal responsibility, are undermining my brain.  I have
some rudimentary medical knowledge: I know how tiny is the dividing
line between sanity and madness.  And I have been seeing things lately
that are not there: and hearing things that do not exist.

It may be that I shall never complete this document.  Perhaps my brain
will go first: perhaps one of these devils will discover me writing.
But I am making the attempt, and maybe in the future the result will
fall into the hands of someone who will search out the arch monster
responsible and kill him as one kills a mad dog.  Also--for they showed
me the newspapers at the time--it may help to clear my character from
the foul blot which now rests on it.  Though why John Stockton, who I
thought was my friend, didn't say what he knew at the inquest I can't
imagine.

[That hurt, as you may guess.]

I will begin at the beginning.  During the European war I was employed
at Head-quarters on the chemical branch.  And just before the Armistice
was signed I had evolved a poison which, if applied subcutaneously,
caused practically instant death.  It was a new poison unknown before
to toxicologists, and if it were possible I would like the secret to
die with me.  God knows, I wish now I had never discovered it.  Anyway
I will not put down its nature here.  Sufficient to say that it is the
most rapid and deadly drug known at present in the civilized world.

As a death-dealing weapon, however, it suffered from one grave
disadvantage: it had to be applied under the skin.  To impinge on a cut
or a small open place was enough, but it was not possible to rely on
finding such a thing.  Moreover, the method of distribution was faulty.
I had evolved a portable cistern capable of carrying five gallons,
which could be ejected through a fine-pointed nozzle for a distance of
over fifty yards when pressure was applied by means of a pump, on the
principle of a pressure-fed feed in a motor-car.  But a rifle bullet
carries considerably more than fifty yards, and therefore rifle fire
afforded a perfectly effective counter except in in isolated cases of
surprise.

The possibility of shells filled with the liquid, of distribution by
aeroplane or airship, were all discussed and rejected for one reason or
another.  And the scheme which was finally approved consisted of the
use of the poison on a large scale from fleets of tanks.

All that, however, is ancient history.  The Armistice was signed: the
war was over: an era of peace and plenty was to take place.  So we
thought--poor deluded fools.  Six years later found Europe an armed
camp with every nation snarling at every other nation.  Scientific
soldiers gave lectures in which they stated their ideas of the next
war: civilized human beings talked glibly of raining down myriads of
disease germs on huge cities.  It was horrible--incredible: man had
called in science to aid him in destroying his fellow-men, and science
had obeyed him--at a price.  It was a price that had not been
contemplated: it was a case of another Frankenstein's monster.  Man had
now to obey science, not science man: he had created a thing which he
could not control.

It was in the summer of 1924 that the idea first came to me of
inventing a weapon so frightful that its mere existence would control
the situation.  The bare fact that it was there would act as the
presence of the headmaster in a room full of small boys.  One very
forgetful lad might have to be caned once, after that the lesson would
be learned.  At first it seemed a wildly fanciful notion, but the more
I thought of it the more the idea gripped me.  And quite by chance in
the July of that year when I was stopping in Scotland playing golf I
met a man called David Ganton--an Australian--whose two sons had been
killed in Gallipoli.  He was immensely wealthy--a multi-millionaire,
and rather to my surprise when I mentioned my idea to him casually one
evening he waxed enthusiastic over it.  To him war was abhorrent as it
was to me: and he, like I, was doubtful as to the efficacy of the
League of Nations.  He immediately placed at my disposal a large sum of
money for research work, and told me that I could call on him for any
further amount I required.

My starting-point, somewhat naturally, was the poison I had discovered
during the war.  And the first difficulty to be overcome was the
problem of the subcutaneous injection.  A wound, or an opening of some
sort, must be caused on the skin before the poison could act.  For
months I wrestled with the problem till I was almost in despair.  And
then one evening I got the solution--obvious, as things like that so
often are.  Why not mix with the poison an irritant blister which would
make the openings necessary?

Again months of work, but this time with renewed hope.  The main idea
was, I knew, the right one: the difficulty now was to find some liquid
capable of blistering the skin, which when mixed with the poison would
not react with it chemically and so impair its deadliness.  The blister
and the poison had, in short, though mixed together as liquids, each to
retain its own individuality.

In December 1925 I solved the problem: I had in my laboratory a liquid
so perfectly blended that two or three drops touching the skin meant
instantaneous death.

Then came the second great difficulty--distribution.  The tank scheme,
however effective it might have been when a war was actually raging,
was clearly an impossibility in such circumstances as I contemplated.
Something far more sudden, far more mobile was essential.

Aeroplanes had great disadvantages.  Their lifting power was limited:
they were unable to hover: they were noisy.

And then there came to my mind the so-called silent raid on London
during the war when a fleet of Zeppelins drifted down-wind over the
capital with their engines shut off.  Was that the solution?

There were disadvantages there too.  First and foremost--vulnerability.
Silent raids by night were not my idea of the function of a world
policeman.  But by day an airship is a comparatively easy thing to hit;
and once hit she comes down in flames.

The solution to that was obvious: helium.  Instead of hydrogen she
would be filled with the non-inflammable gas helium.

Which brought me to the second difficulty--expense.  Hydrogen can be
produced by a comparatively cheap process--the electrolysis of water:
helium is rare and costly.

I met Ganton in London early in 1926 and told him my ideas.  His
enthusiasm was unbounded: the question of expense he waved aside as a
trifle.

"That's my side of the business, Gaunt: leave that to me.  You've done
your part: I'll do the rest."

And then as if it was the most normal thing in the world, he calmly
announced his intention of having a rigid dirigible constructed of the
Zeppelin type.

For many months after that I did not see him, though I was in constant
communication with him by letter.  Difficulties had arisen, as I had
rather anticipated they might, but with a man like Ganton difficulties
only increased his determination.  And then there came on the scene the
man--if such a being can be called a man--who goes by the name of
Wilmot.  What that devil's real name is I know not; but if these words
are ever read, then to the reader I say, seek out Wilmot and kill him,
for a man such as he has no right to live.

From the very first poor Ganton was utterly deceived.  Letter after
letter to me contained glowing eulogies of Wilmot.  He too was heart
and soul with me in his abhorrence of war; and, what was far more to
the point, he was in a position to help very considerably with regard
to the airship.  It appeared that a firm in Germany had very nearly
completed a dirigible of the Zeppelin type, to be used for commercial
purposes.  It was to be the first of a fleet, and the firm was prepared
to hand it over when finished provided they secured a very handsome
profit on the deal.  They made no bones about it: they were
constructing her for their own use and they were not going to sell
unless it was really made worth their while.

Ganton agreed.  The exact figure he paid I don't know--but it was
enormous.  And his idea, suggested again by Wilmot, was to employ the
airship for a dual purpose.  Ostensibly she was to be a commercial
vessel, and, in fact, she was literally to be employed as one.  But, in
addition, she was to have certain additions made to her water ballast
tanks which would enable those tanks to be filled with my poison if the
necessity arose.  The English Government was to be informed, and the
vessel was to be subjected to any tests which the War Office might
desire.  After that the airship would remain a commercial one until
occasion should arise for using her in the other capacity.  Such was
the proposition that I was going to put before the Army Council on the
morning of April 28th of this year.  The appointment was made, and
mentioned by me to John Stockton when I dined with him at Prince's the
preceeding evening.  Why did he say nothing about it in his evidence at
the inquest?

As the reader may remember, on the night of April 27th, a ghastly
tragedy occurred in my rooms in Kensington--a tragedy for which I have
been universally blamed.  That I know: I have seen it in the Press.
They say I am a madman, a cold-blooded murderer, a
super-vivisectionist.  They lie, damn them, they lie.

[In the original document it was easy to see the savage intensity with
which that last sentence was written.]

Here and now I will put down the truth of what happened in my rooms
that night.  It must be remembered that I had never seen Wilmot, but I
knew that he was coming round with Ganton to see the demonstration.
Ganton had written me to that effect, and so I was expecting them both.
He proved to be a big, thick-set man, clean-shaven, and with hair
greying a little over the temples.  His eyes were steady and
compelling: in fact the instant you looked at him you realized that his
was a dominating personality.

I let them both in myself--Mrs. Rogers, my landlady, being stone
deaf--and took them at once up to my room.  I was the only lodger in
the house at the time, and looking back now I wonder what that devil
would have done had there been others.  He'd have succeeded all right:
he isn't a man who fails.  But it would have complicated things for him.

He professed to be keenly interested, and stated that he regarded it as
an honour to be allowed to be present at such an epoch-making event.
And then briefly I told them how matters stood.  Since I had perfected
the poison, I had spent my time in searching for an antidote: a month
previously I had discovered one.  It was not an antidote in the
accepted sense of the word, in that it was of no use if applied _after_
the poison.  It consisted of an ointment containing a drug which
neutralized not the poison but the blister.  So that if it was rubbed
into the skin _before_ the application of the poison the blister failed
to act, and the poison--not being applied subcutaneously--was harmless.
I pointed out that it was for additional security, though the special
indiarubber gloves and overalls I had had made were ample protection.

He was interested in the matter of the antidote, was that devil Wilmot.

Then I showed them the special syringes and cisterns I had designed
more out of curiosity than anything else, for our plan did not include
any close-range work.

And he was interested--very interested in those--was that devil Wilmot.

Then I experimented on two guinea-pigs.  The first I killed with the
poison: the second I saved with the antidote.  And I saw one fool in
the papers who remarked that I must obviously be mad since I had left
something alive in the room!

"Most interesting," remarked Wilmot.  He went to the window and threw
it up.  "The smell is rather powerful," he continued, leaning out for a
moment.  Then he closed the window again and came back: he had
signalled to his brother devils outside from before our very eyes and
we didn't guess it.  Why should we have?  We had no suspicions of him.

"And to-morrow you demonstrate to the War Office," he said.

"I have an appointment at ten-thirty," I told him.

"And no one save us three at present knows anything about it."

"No one," I said.  "And even you two don't know the composition of the
poison or of the antidote."

"But presumably, given samples, it would be easy to analyse them both."

"The antidote--yes: the poison--no," I remarked.  "The poison is a
secret known only to me, though, of course I propose to tell you.  I
take it that there will be no secrets between us three?"

"None, I hope," he answered.  "We are all engaged on the same great
work."

And just then a stair creaked outside.  Now I knew Mrs. Rogers slept
downstairs, and rarely if ever came up that hour.  And so almost
unconsciously--certainly suspecting nothing--I went to the door and
opened it.  What happened then is still a confused blur in my mind, but
as far as I can sort it out I will try and record it.

Standing just outside the door were two men.  One was the man whom I
afterwards got to know as Doctor Helias: the other I never saw again
till he was carried in dead to the cellar where they confined me.

But it was the appearance of Helias that dumbfounded me for a moment or
two.  Never have I seen such an appalling-looking man: never have I
dreamed that such a being could exist.  Now that description of him has
been circulated by the police he has shaved off the mass of black hair
that covered his face; but nothing can ever remove the mass of vile
devilry that covers his black soul.

But to go back to that moment.  I heard a sudden cry behind me, and
there was Ganton struggling desperately with Wilmot.  In Wilmot's hand
was a syringe filled with the poison, and he was snarling like a brute
beast.  For a second I stood there stupefied; then it seemed to me we
all sprang forward together--I to Ganton's assistance, the other two to
Wilmot's.  And after that I'm not clear.  I know that I found myself
fighting desperately with the second man, whilst out of the corner of
my eye I saw Wilmot, Helias and Ganton go crashing through the open
door.

"Telephone Stockton."

It was Ganton's voice, and I fought my way to the machine.  I was
stronger than my opponent, and I hurled him to the floor, half stunning
him.  It was Stockton's number that came first to my head, and I just
got through to him.  I found out from the papers that he heard me, for
he came down at once; but as for me I know no more.  I can still see
Helias springing at me from the door with something in his hand that
gleamed in the light: then I received a fearful blow in the face.  And
after that all is blank.  It wasn't till later that I found out that
little Joe--my terrier--had sprung barking at Wilmot as he came back
into the room and had been killed with what was left of the poison
after Ganton had been murdered in the next room.

How long afterwards it was before I recovered consciousness I cannot
say.  I found myself in a dimly-lit stone-floored room which I took to
be a cellar.  Where it was I know not to this day.  At first I could
not remember anything.  My head was splitting and I barely had the
strength to lift a hand.  Now I realize that the cause of my weakness
was loss of blood from the wound inflicted on me by Helias: at the time
I could only lie in a kind of stupor in which hours were as minutes and
minutes as days.

And then gradually recollection began to come back--and with it a blind
hatred of the treacherous devil who called himself Wilmot.  What had he
done it for?  The answer seemed clear.  He wished to get the secret of
the poison in order to sell it to a foreign Power.  Ganton had confided
in him believing him to be straight, and all the time he had been
waiting and planning for this.  And if once the secret was handed over
to a nation which could not be trusted to use it in the way I
intended--God help the world.  I imagined Russia possessing it--Russia
ruled by its clique of homicidal alien Jews.  And it would be my
fault--my responsibility.

In my agony of mind I tried to get up.  It was useless: I was too weak
to move.  And suddenly I happened to look at my hands in the dim light
and I saw they were covered with blood.  I was lying in a pool of it,
and it was my own.  Once again time ceased, but I did not actually lose
consciousness.  Automatically my brain went on working, though my
thoughts were the jumbled chaos of a fever dream.  And then out of the
hopeless confusion there came an idea--vague at first but growing in
clearness as time went on.  I was still in evening clothes, and in the
pockets of my dinner jacket I had placed the two samples--the bottle
containing the poison, and the box full of the antidote?  Were they
still there?  I felt, and they were.  Would it be possible to hide them
somewhere in the hopes of them being found by the police?  And if they
were found, then at any rate my own country would be in the possession
of the secret too.

But where to hide them?  Remember, I was too weak to even stand, much
less walk, so the hiding-place would have to be one which I could reach
from where I sat.  And just then I noticed, because my hand was resting
on the ground, that some of the bricks in the floor were loose.

Now I know from what Wilmot has told me since that the hiding-place was
discovered by the authorities.  Was it my handkerchief, I wonder, on
which I scrawled the clue in blood with my finger?  But oh! dear
Heavens, why did they lose the antidote?  Why didn't they guard John
Dallas?  He was murdered, of course: you know that.  He was murdered by
Wilmot himself.  He was murdered by that devil--that devil--that ... I
must take a pull at myself.  I must be calm.  But the noises are
roaring in my head: they always do when I think that it was all in
vain.  Besides, I'm going on too fast.

I buried the two things under two bricks, and I pushed the handkerchief
into a crack in the wall behind me.  And then I think I must have
slept--for the next thing I remember was the door of the cellar opening
and men coming in carrying another in their arms.  They pitched him
down in a corner, and I saw he was dead.  Then I looked closer, and I
saw it was the man I had fought with at the telephone.

But how had he died?  Why did his eyes stare so horribly?  Why was he
so rigid?

It was Helias who told me--he had followed the other two in.

"Well, Mr. Pacifist," he remarked, "do you like the effects of your
poison?  That man died of it."

Until my reason snaps, which can't be long now, I shall never forget
the horror of that moment.  It was the first time I had seen the result
of my handiwork on a human being.  Since then, God help me, I have seen
it often--but that first time, in the dim light of the cellar, is the
one that haunts me.

For a while I could think of nothing else: those eyes seemed to curse
me.  I think I screamed at them to turn his head away.  I know that
Helias came over and kicked me in the ribs.

"Shut that noise, damn you," he snarled.  "We've got quite enough to
worry us as it is without your help.  I'll gag you if you make another
sound."

Then he turned to the other two.

"That fool has brought the police into the next house," he raved, and
wild hope sprang up in my mind.  "That means we must get these two out
of it to-night.  Get his clothes."

One of the men went out, to come back almost at once with a suit of
mine.

"Look here, Helias," he said, "if we're to keep him alive we'd better
handle him gently.  He's lost about two buckets of blood."

"Handle him how you like," returned Helias, "but he's got to be out of
this in an hour."

And so they took off my evening clothes and put on the others.  Then
one of them put a rough bandage on my head and face, and here and now I
would say--if ever that vile gang be caught--that I hope mercy will be
shown him.  I don't know his name, and I have never seen him since, but
he is the only one who has treated me with even a trace of kindness
since I fell into their clutches.

I think I must have become unconscious again: certainly I have no
coherent recollection of anything for the next few hours.  Dimly I
remember being put into a big motor-car, seeing fields and houses flash
past.  But where I was taken to I have no idea.  Beyond the fact that
it was somewhere in the country and that there were big trees around
the house I can give no description of the place in which I was kept a
prisoner for the next few weeks.

Little by little I recovered my strength, and the ghastly wound on my
face healed up.  But I was never allowed out of doors, and when I asked
any question, no answer was given.  The window was barred on the
outside: escape was impossible even had I possessed the necessary
strength.

But one night when I was feeling desperate, I determined to chance
things.  I flashed my electric light on and off, hoping possibly to
attract the attention of some passer-by.  And two minutes later Helias
came into the room.  I had not seen him since the night in the cellar,
and at first I did not recognize him, for he had shaved his face clean.

"You would, would you?" he said softly.  "Signalling!  How foolish.
Because anyway no one could see.  But you obviously need a lesson."

He called to another man, and between them they slung me up to a hook
in the wall by my feet, so that I hung head downwards.  And after a
while the pressure of blood on the partially healed wound on my face
became so terrible that I thought my head would burst.

"Don't be so stupid another time," he remarked as they cut me down.
"If you do I'll have your window boarded up."

They left me, and in my weakness I sobbed like a child.  Had I had any,
I would have killed myself then and there with my own poison.  But I
hadn't, and they took care to see that I had no weapon which could take
its place.  I wasn't allowed to shave: I wasn't even allowed a steel
knife with my meals.

The days dragged on into weeks, and weeks into months, and still
nothing happened.  And I grew more and more mystified as to what it was
all about.  Remember that then I had seen no papers, and knew nothing.
I wasn't even sure that David Ganton was dead.  Why did they bother to
keep me alive? was the question I asked myself again and again.  They
had the secret: at least I assumed they must have, for the paper on
which I had written the formula of the poison was no longer in my
possession.  So what use could I be to them?

And then one day--I'd almost lost count of time, but I should say it
was about the 10th of June--the door of my room opened and Helias came
in, followed by Wilmot.

"You certainly hit him pretty hard, Doctor," said Wilmot, after he'd
looked at me for some time.  "Well, Mr. Gaunt--been happy and
comfortable?"

"You devil," I burst out, and then maddened by his mocking smile, I
cursed and raved at him till I was out of breath.

"Quite finished?" he remarked when I stopped.  "I'm in no particular
hurry, and as I can easily understand a slight feeling of annoyance on
your part, please don't mind me.  Say it all over again if it comforts
you in any way."

"What do you want?" I said, almost choking with sullen rage.

"Ah! that's better.  Will you have a cigar?  No.  Then you won't mind
if I do.  The time has come, Mr. Gaunt," he went on, when it was
drawing to his satisfaction, "when you must make a little return for
the kindness we have shown you in keeping you alive.  For a while I was
undecided as to whether I would dispose of you like your lamented
confrre Mr. Ganton, but finally I determined to keep you with us."

"So Ganton is dead," I said.  "You murdered him that night."

"Yes," he agreed.  "As you say, I killed him that night.  I have a few
little fads, Mr. Gaunt, and one of them is a dislike to the word
murder.  It's so coarse and crude.  Well--to return, Mr. Ganton's
sphere of usefulness as far as I was concerned was over the moment he
had afforded me the pleasure of meeting you.  But for the necessity of
his doing that, he would have--er--disappeared far sooner.  He had very
kindly paid a considerable sum of money to acquire an airship, and as I
wanted the airship and not Mr. Ganton, the inference is obvious.
You've no idea, Mr. Gaunt, how enormously it simplifies matters when
you can get other people to pay for what you want yourself."

I found myself staring at him speechlessly: in comparison with this
cold, deadly suavity, Helias seemed merely a coarse, despicable bully.

"In addition to that," he went on quietly, "the late Mr. Ganton
presented me with an idea.  And ideas are my stock-in-trade.  For
twenty years now I have lived by turning ideas into deeds, and though I
have accumulated a modest pittance I have not yet enough to retire on.
I trust that with the help of Mr. Ganton's idea--elaborated somewhat
naturally by me--I shall be able to spend my declining years in the
comfort to which I consider myself entitled."

"I don't understand what you're talking about," I muttered stupidly.

"It is hardly likely that you would at this stage of the proceedings,"
he continued.  "It is also quite unnecessary that you should.  But I
like everyone with whom I work to take an intelligent interest in the
proceedings.  And the thought that your labours during the next few
weeks will help to provide me with my pension should prove a great
incentive to you.  In addition you must remember that it will also
repay a little of the debt you owe to Doctor Helias for his unremitting
care of you during your period of convalescence."

"For God's sake, don't go on mocking," I cried.  "What is it you want
me to do?"

"Firstly, you will move from here to other quarters which have been got
ready for you.  Not quite so comfortable, perhaps, but I trust they
will do.  Then you will take in hand the manufacture of your poison on
a large scale, a task for which you are peculiarly fitted.  A plant has
been installed which may perhaps need a little alteration under your
expert eye: anything of that sort will be attended to at once.  You
have only to ask."

"But what do you want the poison for?" I asked.

"That, as Mr. Gilbert once said--or was it Mr. Sullivan?--is just like
the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la-la.  It has nothing to do
with the case.  In time you will know, Mr. Gaunt: until then, you
won't."

"Is it for a foreign country?" I demanded.

He smiled.  "It is for me, Mr. Gaunt, and I am cosmopolitan.  But you
need have no fears on that score.  I am aware of the charming ideal
that actuated you and Mr. Ganton, but, believe me, my dear young
friend, there's no money in it."

"It was never a question of money," I cried.

"I know."  His voice was almost pained.  "That is just what struck me
as being so incredible about it all.  And that is where my elaboration
comes in.  Now there is money in it: very big money if things work out
as I have every reason to hope they will."

"And what if I refuse?" I said.

He studied the ash on the end of his cigar.

"In the course of the twenty years I have already mentioned, Mr.
Gaunt," he said, "I wouldn't like to say how many people have made that
remark to me.  And the answer has become monotonous with repetition.
Latterly one of your celebrated politicians has given me an alternative
reply, which I will now give to you.  Wait and see.  We've been very
kind to you, Gaunt, up to date.  You gave me a lot of trouble over that
box of antidote which you hid in the cellar"--how my heart sank at
that--"though I realize that it was partially my fault--in not
remembering sooner that you had it in your pocket.  In fact, I had to
dispose of an eminent savant, Sir John Dallas, in order to get hold of
it."

"Then the authorities got it?" I almost shouted.

"Only to lose it again, I regret to say.  By the way," he leaned
forward suddenly in his chair--"do you know a man called
Drummond--Captain Hugh Drummond?"


From beside me as I read, Drummond heaved a deep sigh of joy.

"It is Peterson," he said.  "That proves it.  Go on, Stockton."


"Hugh Drummond!  No, I've never heard of the man.  But do you mean to
say you murdered Sir John?"

"Dear me!  That word again.  I keep on forgetting that you have been
out of touch with current affairs.  Yes, Sir John failed to see
reason--so it was necessary to dispose of him.  Your omission of the
formula for the antidote on the paper containing that of the poison has
deprived the world, I regret to state, of an eminent scientist.
However, during the sea-voyage which you are shortly going to take I
will see that you have an opportunity of perusing the daily papers of
that date.  They should interest you, because really, you know, your
discovery of this poison has had the most far-reaching results.  Still,
if you will give me these ideas..."

He rose shrugging his shoulders.

"Am I to be taken abroad?" I cried.

"You are not," he answered curtly.  "You will remain in England.  And
if I may give you one word of warning, Mr. Gaunt, it is this.  I
require your services on one or two matters, and I intend to have your
services.  And my earnest advice to you is that you should give that
service willingly.  It will save me trouble, and you--discomfort."

With that they left me, if possible more completely bewildered than
before.  I turned it over from every point of view in my mind, and I
could see no ray of light in the darkness.  The only point of comfort
was that at any rate I was going to change my quarters, and it was
possible that I might escape from the new ones.  Vain hope!  It is dead
now, but it buoyed me up for a time.

It was two days later that Helias entered the room and told me to get
ready.

"You are going in a car," he said.  "And I am going with you.  If you
make the slightest endeavour to communicate or signal to anyone I shall
gag you and truss you up on the floor."

And that brings me to the point....  Eyes, those ghastly staring eyes.
And the woman screaming....  Oh!  God, my head ...


At this point the narrative as a narrative breaks off.  It is continued
in the form of a diary.  But it has given rise to much conjecture.
Personally I think the matter is clear.  I believe, in fact from a
perusal of the original it is obvious, that "head" was the last
coherent word written by Robin Gaunt.  The rest of the sheet is covered
with meaningless scrawls and blots.  In fact I think that at that point
the poor chap's reason gave way.  How comes it, then, that the diary
records events which occurred _after_ he had been taken away in the
motor-car?  To me the solution is clear.  The diary, though its
chronological position comes after the narrative given above, was
actually written first.

Surely it must be so.  Up to the time when he was removed in the car he
was in such a dazed physical and mental condition that the mere effort
of keeping a diary would have been beyond him.  Besides, what was there
to record?  His mind, as he says, was hopelessly fogged.  He knew
nothing when he left the house in which he had been confined as to what
had happened in his rooms in London--or rather shall I say he knew
nothing as to what had been reported in the papers?  And yet the
narrative already given was obviously written with a full knowledge of
those reports.

Besides--take his first paragraph, "Daily torture." There had been no
question of daily torture.  "Final unbelievable atrocity."  There had
been none.  No: it is clear.  When things began to happen Gaunt kept a
diary.  And when, at the end he felt his reason going, he wrote the
narrative to fill in the gap not covered by the subsequent notes.  Had
he not gone mad we might have had the whole story in the form in which
he presented the first half.

I know that certain people hold a different view.  They agree with me
that he went mad at this point, but they maintain that the diary was
written by him when he was insane.  They say, in fact, that he scrawled
down the disordered fancies of his brain, and for confirmation of their
argument they point to the bad writing--sometimes well-nigh illegible:
to the scraps of paper the notes were made on: to the general
untidiness and dirt of the record.

I can only say that I am utterly convinced they are wrong.  The bad
writing, the scraps of paper were due, I feel certain, to the inherent
difficulties under which they were written.  Always was he trying to
escape detection: he just scribbled when he could and where he could.
Then for some reason which we shall never know he found himself in the
position of being able to write coherently and at length.  And the
fortunate thing is that he brought his narrative so very close to the
point where his diary starts.




11

  In which we read
  the diary of Robin Gaunt

I am on board a ship.  She is filling with oil now from a tanker
alongside.  No lights.  No idea where we are.  Thought the country we
motored through resembled Devonshire.

They're Russians--the crew--unless I'm much mistaken.  The most
frightful gang of murderous-looking cut-throats I've ever seen.  Two of
them fighting now: officers seem to have no control.  Difficult to tell
which are the officers.  Believe my worst fears confirmed: the
Bolsheviks have my secret.  May God help the world!


Under weigh.  Just read the papers Wilmot spoke about.  Is Stockton
mad?  Why did he say nothing at the inquest?  And Joe--poor little
chap.  How dare they say such things about me?  The War Office knew;
why have they kept silent?


The murderers!  The foul murderers!  There was a wretched woman on
board, and these devils have killed her.  They pushed her in suddenly
to the cabin where I was sitting.  She was terrified with fear, poor
soul.  The most harmless little short fat woman.  English.  They
hustled her through--three of them, and she screamed to me to help her.
But what could I do?  Two more of the crew appeared, and one of them
clapped his hand over her mouth.  They took her on deck--and with my
own eyes I saw them throw her overboard.  It was dark, and she
disappeared at once.  She just gave one pitiful cry--then silence.  Are
they going to do the same to me?


Four men playing cards outside the door.  Certain now that they are
Russians.  What does it all mean?


It is incomprehensible.  There must be at least fifty rubber suits on
board with cisterns and everything complete for short range work with
my poison.  An officer took me to see them, and one of the men put one
on.

"Good?" said the officer, looking at me.

I wouldn't answer, and a man behind me stuck a bayonet into my back.

"Good now?" snarled the officer.

I nodded.  Oh! for a chance to be on equal terms....

But they are good: far too good.  They have taken my rough idea, and
improved upon it enormously.  A man in one of those suits could bathe
in the poison safely.  But what do they want them for, on board a ship?


Thank Heavens!  I am on shore again.  They dragged me up on deck and I
thought it was the end.  A boat was alongside, and they put me in it.
Then some sailors rowed me away.  It was dark, and the boom of breakers
on rocks grew louder and louder.  At last we reached a little cove, and
high above me I could see the cliffs.  The boat was heaving, and then
the man in charge switched on an electric torch.  It flashed on the end
of a rope ladder dangling in front of us, and swaying perilously as the
swell lapped it and then receded.  He signed to me to climb up it, and
when I hesitated for a moment, he struck me in the face with his
boat-hook.  So I jumped and caught the ladder, and immediately the boat
was rowed away, leaving me hanging precariously.  Then a wave dashed me
against the cliff, half stunning me, and I started to climb.  An ordeal
even for a fit man....  Exhausted when I reached the top.  I found
myself in a cave hewn out of granite.  And Helias was waiting for me.

"Your quarters," he said.  "And no monkey tricks."

But I was too done in to do anything but sleep.


The mystery deepens.  This place is too amazing.  To-day I have been
shown the plant in which my poison is to be made.  It is a huge tank
capable of holding I know not how many tons, concealed from view by a
wooden building built around it.  The building is situated on the top
of a cliff and the cliff itself is honeycombed with caves and passages.
One in particular leads down from the tank to a kind of living-room,
and thence up again to another opening in the cliff similar to the one
by which I entered.  And from the bottom of the tank there runs a
pipe--yards and yards of it coiled in the room.  Enough to allow the
end to reach the sea.  There is a valve in the room by which the flow
can be stopped.  It must be to supply the vessel below.  But why so
much?  I will not make it: I swear I will not make it, even if they
torture me.


Dear God!  I didn't know such things were known to man.  Four
days--four centuries.  Don't judge me ...  I tried, but the entrance
was guarded.

[In the original this fragment was almost illegible.  Poor devil--who
would judge him?  Certainly not I.  Who can even dimly guess the
refinements of exquisite torture they brought to bear on him in that
lonely Cornish cave?  And I like to think that behind that last
sentence lies his final desperate attempt to outwit them by hurling
himself on to the rocks below.

"But the entrance was guarded."]


It is made.  And now that it is made what are they going to do with it?
They've let me alone since I yielded, but my conscience never leaves me
alone.  Night and day: night and day it calls me "Coward."  I am a
coward.  I should have died rather than yield.  And yet they _could_
have made it themselves: they said so.  They knew the formula.  But
they thought I'd do it better.  If any accident took place I was to be
the sufferer.

Should I have ended it all?  It would have been so easy.  It would be
so easy now.  One touch: one finger in the tank and everything
finished.  But surely sooner or later this place must be discovered.  I
lie and look out over the grey sea, and sometimes on the far horizon
there comes the smoke of a passing vessel.

Always far out--too far out.  Anyway I have no means of signalling.
I'm just a prisoner in a cave.  They don't even give me a light at
night.  Nothing to do but think and to go on thinking, and wonder
whether I'm going mad.  Is it a dream?  Shall I wake up suddenly?

Yesterday I had a strange thought.  I must be dead.  It was another
world, and I was being shown the result of my discovery on earth.
Cruelty, death, torture--that was all that the use of such a poison as
mine could lead to.  It was my punishment.  It's come back to me
since--that thought.  What was that strange and wonderful play I saw on
earth?  "Outward Bound."  Rather the same idea: no break--you just go
on.  Am I dead?

[Undoubtedly to my mind the first time that Robin Gaunt's reason began
to totter.  Poor devil--day after day--brooding alone.]


Things are going to happen.  There's a light at sea--signalling.  Is it
the ship, I wonder?  They're letting down the pipe from the cave above
me.  It's flat calm: there is hardly a murmur from the sea below.


At last I know the truth.  At last I know the reason for the tank on
the top of the cliff, and all that has happened in the last three
months.  With my own eyes I have seen an atrocity, cold-blooded and
monstrous beyond the limits of human imagination.

Six thousand feet below me gleams the Atlantic: I am on board the
dirigible that Wilmot murdered Ganton to obtain.  I have locked my
cabin door: I hope for a few hours to be undisturbed.  And so whilst
the unbelievable thing that has happened is fresh in my mind I will put
it down on paper.

[I may say that this final portion of Robin Gaunt's diary was written
in pencil in much the same ordered and connected way as the first part
of his narrative.  It shows no trace of undue excitement in the
handwriting: nor, I venture to think, does it show any mental
aberration as far as the phraseology is concerned.]

I will start from the moment when I saw the signal from the sea.  The
pipe was hanging down the cliff, and after a while there came a whistle
from below.  Almost at once I heard the gurgle of liquid in the pipe:
evidently poison from the tank was being lowered to someone underneath.
Another whistle and the gurgling ceased.  Then came the noise of oars;
the pipe was drawn up, and for some time nothing more happened.

It was about half-an-hour later that Helias appeared and told me to
come with him.  I went to the main living-room, where I found Wilmot,
and a man whom I recognized as having seen on board.  They were talking
earnestly together and poring over a chart that lay between them on the
table.

"The 2nd or 3rd," I heard Wilmot say, "and the first port of call is
the Azores."

The other man nodded, and pricked a point on the chart.

"That's the spot," he said.  "A bit west of the Union Castle route."

And just then I became aware of the faint drone of an engine.  It
sounded like an aeroplane, and Wilmot rose.

"Then that settles everything.  Now I want to see how this part works."
He glanced at me as I stood there listening to the noise, which by this
time seemed almost overhead.  "One frequently has little hitches the
first time one does a thing, Mr. Gaunt.  You will doubtless be able to
benefit from any that may occur when you proceed yourself to stop the
next war."

They all laughed, and I made no answer.

"Let's go and watch," said Wilmot, glancing at his watch.  "I'll just
time it, I think."

He led the way up the passage towards the tank, and I followed.  That
there was some devilish scheme on foot I knew, but I was intensely
eager to see what was going to happen.  Anything was better than the
blank ignorance of the past few weeks.

We approached the tank, and then to my amazement I saw that there was a
large open space in the roof through which I could see the stars.  And
even as I stared upwards they were blotted out by a huge shape that
drifted slowly across the opening so low down that it seemed on top of
us.

"The dirigible that Mr. Ganton so kindly bought for me," said Wilmot
genially.  "As I say, it is the first time we have done this and I feel
a little pardonable excitement."

And now the huge vessel above us was stationary, with her engines going
just sufficiently to keep her motionless in the light breeze.  One
could make out the two midship gondolas, and the great central keel
that forms the backbone of every airship of her type.  And as I stared
at her fascinated, something hit the side of the wooden house with a
thud.  A man clad in one of the rubber suits who was standing on the
roof slipped forward and caught the end of a pipe similar to the one in
the cave.  This he dropped carefully into the tank.

"Ingenious, don't you think, Mr. Gaunt?" said Wilmot.  "We now pump up
your liquid into the ballast tanks, at the same time discharging water
to compensate for weight.  You will see that by keeping one tank
permanently empty there is always room for your poison to be taken on
board.  When the first empty tank is filled, another has been emptied
of water and is ready."

I hardly listened to him: I was too occupied in watching the level of
the liquid fall in the gauge of the tank: too occupied in wondering
what was the object of it all.

"Twelve minutes," he remarked as the pump above began to suck air in
the tank.  "Not so bad.  We will now go on board.  Another little
device, Gaunt, on which we flatter ourselves.  It looks alarming, but
there is no danger."

Swinging above us was a thing that looked like a cage, which had
evidently been let down from the airship.  In a moment or two it came
to rest on the roof, and Wilmot beckoned to me to go up the steps.

"Room for us both," he remarked.

I made no demur: it was useless to argue.  Why he wanted me on board
was beyond me, though doubtless I should know in time.  So I followed
him into the cage, and he shut the door.  And the next moment we were
being drawn up to the dirigible.

It was the first time I had been outside and I stared round eagerly,
but in the faint grey light that precedes dawn it was difficult to see
much.  Far below us lay the sea, whilst inland the ground was hilly.  I
saw what I took to be a road in the distance: also a tall chimney which
stuck up from the midst of low-lying buildings.  And then the cage came
to rest: it had been drawn right into the keel of the airship.  A metal
plate closed underneath us with a clang, and we both stepped out into
the central corridor.

"Something to eat and drink, Mr. Gaunt," said Wilmot, and I followed
him in a sort of dull stupor.

He led the way to a luxurious cabin which was fitted up as a
dining-room.  On the table were champagne and a variety of sandwiches.

"We will regard this as a holiday for you," he remarked.  "And if you
behave yourself there is no reason why it shouldn't prove a very
pleasant one.  After it is over you will have to refill the tank for
us, but for the next three or four days let us merely enjoy ourselves."

We were flying eastwards--I could tell that by the light; and I peered
out of the window, trying to see if I could spot where we were.

"A beautiful sight, isn't it?" said Wilmot.  "And when the sun rises it
is even more beautiful.  Lord Grayling and the Earl of Dorset both
agreed that to see the dawn from such a vantage-point was a very
wonderful sight."

"In God's name," I burst out, "what does it all mean?"

He smiled as he selected a sandwich.

"Just your scheme, my dear fellow," he answered.  "Your scheme in
practice."

"But there's no war on," I cried;

"No.  There's no war on," he agreed.

"Then why have you filled the ballast tanks with poison?"

"You may remember that I once pointed out to you the weak point in your
scheme," he answered.  "There was no money in it.  In the course of the
next few days you are going to see that defect remedied, I trust.

"Of course," he went on after a while, "this is only going to be quite
a small affair.  It's in the nature of a trial run: just to accustom
everyone to what they have to do when the big thing comes along.  And
that's why I've brought you along.  You have had, I gather, a little
lesson over not doing what you're told, and I feel sure that you will
give me no further trouble.  But one never knows that some little hitch
may not occur, and should it do so in your particular department, it
will be up to you to rectify it."

But I haven't the time to give that devil's conversation in full.  I
can see him now, suave and calm, seated at the table smoking a cigar
whilst he played with me as a cat plays with a mouse.  Utterly ignorant
then as to what was going to happen, much of it was lost on me.  Now I
can see it all.

It conveyed nothing to me then that the British public was keenly
interested in the airship: that tours at popular prices were given
twice a week: that there was talk of floating a company in the City.

"Not that that is ever likely to come off, my dear Gaunt," he remarked,
"though if it did, of course, I should have no objection to taking the
money.  But it instils confidence in the public mind: makes them regard
me as an institution.  And an institution can do no wrong.  You might
as well suspect the Cornish Riviera express of robbing the Bank of
England."

There lies the diabolical ingenuity of it all.  Did I not hear from the
cabin where they kept me bound and gagged--guarded by two men--did I
not hear him showing two members of the Royal Family over the vessel?
That was while we were tied up to the mooring mast before we started.

Did we not go for a four-hour trip with thirty people on board, amongst
them some of the highest in the land?  He told me their names that
night, with a vile mocking smile on his face.

"But why," I shouted at him, "why?"

"All in good time," he answered.  "I am just showing you what an
institution I am."

That's it; and will anyone believe what I am going to write down?  I
see it all now: the tin mine ostensibly being worked as a tin mine; in
reality merely a cloak to disguise the making of the poison.  As he
said, it had to be in a deserted place by the sea, because the ship had
to take supplies on board.

He's told me everything: he knows I'm in his power.  He seems to take a
delight in tormenting me: in exposing for my benefit the workings of
his vile brain.  But he's clever: diabolically clever.

It was two days ago that they let me out of my cabin.  The airship was
in flight, and looking out I saw that we were over the sea.  They took
me into the dining-cabin, and there I saw Wilmot and a woman.  She was
smoking a cigarette, and I saw she was very beautiful.  She stared at
me with a sort of languid interest: then she made some remark to Wilmot
at which he laughed.

"Our friend Helias has a strong right arm," he remarked.  "Well,
Gaunt--very soon now your curiosity is going to be satisfied.  We have
ceased to be commercial: we're going to go and stop your war.  But we
still remain an institution.  Have you ever heard of Mr. Cosmo Miller?"

"I have not," I said.

"He is an American multi-millionaire, and at the moment he is some
forty miles ahead of us in his yacht.  If you look through that
telescope you will be able to see her."

I glanced through the instrument, and saw away on the horizon the
graceful outlines of a steam yacht.

"A charming boat--the _Hermione_," he went on.  "It goes against the
grain to sink her."

"To do what?" I gasped.

"Sink her, my dear Gaunt.  She is, one might say, your war.  She is
also the trial run to give us practice for other and bigger game."

I stared at him speechlessly: surely he must be jesting.

"Considerate of Mr. Miller to select this moment for his trip, wasn't
it?  Otherwise we might have had to try our 'prentice hand on less
paying game.  At any rate he has sufficient jewellery on board to pay
for our running expenses if nothing more."

"But, good God!" I burst out, "you can't mean it.  What is going to
happen to the people on board?"

"They are going to sink with her," he replied, getting up and looking
through the telescope.

A man came into the cabin and Wilmot swung round.

"No message been sent yet, Chief."

Wilmot nodded and dismissed him.

"A wonderful invention--wireless, isn't it?  But I confess that it
renders modern piracy a little difficult.  In this case the matter is
not one of vital importance, but when we come to the bigger game the
question will have to be very carefully handled.  Now on this occasion
it may be that the two excellent and reliable men who took the place of
two members of the _Hermione's_ crew at Southampton have broken up the
instrument already; or it may be that the wireless operator hardly
considers it worth while to broadcast the information that he has seen
us.  However, we shall soon know.  My dear!" he added to the girl,
"we're getting very close.  I think it might interest you now."

She got up and stood beside him, whilst I stood there in a sort of
stupor.  I watched Wilmot go to speaking-tube: heard him give
directions to fly lower.  And then, drawn by some unholy fascination, I
too went and looked out.

Half-a-mile ahead of us was the yacht, steaming slowly ahead.  The
passengers were lining the rail staring up at us, and in a few seconds
we had come so close that I could see the flutter of their
pocket-handkerchiefs.

"Come with me, Gaunt," snapped Wilmot.  "Now comes the business.  My
dear, you stay here."

He rushed me along the main corridor till we came to one of the central
ballast tanks.  The engines were hardly running, and I realized that we
must be directly over the yacht and just keeping pace with her.  Two
men clad in rubber suits stood by the tank: two others were by the
corresponding tank on the opposite side of the gangway.  Wilmot himself
was peering into an instrument set close by the first tank, and I saw a
duplicate by the second.  I went to it and found it was an arrangement
of mirrors based on the periscope idea: by looking into it I saw
directly below the airship.

And of the next ten minutes how can I tell?

Straight underneath us--not a hundred feet below--lay the yacht.
Everyone--guests, crew, servants--were peering up at the great airship,
which must have seemed to fill the entire sky.  And then Wilmot gave an
order.  Two levers were pulled back, and the rain of death began to
fall.  The rain that I had invented----  Oh, God!--it was
unbelievable....

I saw a woman who had been waving at us fall backwards suddenly on the
deck and lie there rigid, her face turned up towards us.  A man rushed
forward to her help: he never reached her.  The poison got him first.
And all over the deck it was the same.  Men and woman ran screaming to
and fro, only to crash forward suddenly and lie still as the death rain
went on falling.  I saw three niggers, their black faces incongruous
against their white ducks.  They had rushed out at the sound of the
pandemonium on deck, and with one accord, as if they had been pole-axed
simultaneously, they died.  I saw a man in uniform shaking his fist at
us.  He only shook it once, poor devil....

And then as if from a great distance I heard Wilmot's voice--"Enough."

The rain of death ceased: it was indeed enough.  No soul moved on the
yacht: only a white-clad figure at the wheel kept her on her course.

Stumbling blindly, I went back to the central cabin.  The girl was
still there, staring out of the window, and I think I screamed foolish
curses at her.  She took no notice: she was watching something through
a pair of glasses.

"Quite well timed," she remarked as Wilmot entered.  "She's only about
a mile off."

I looked and saw a vessel tearing through the water towards us: coming
to the rendezvous of death.

"I would never have believed," said Wilmot, "that with her lines she
would have been capable of such speed."

Then he turned to me.

"Put on that suit," he said curtly.  "We're going down on deck."

He was getting into one himself, and half unconsciously I followed his
example.  I was dazed: stunned by the incredible atrocity I had just
witnessed.

And if it had been terrible from above, what words can paint the scene
on deck as we stepped out of the cage?  In every corner lay dead
bodies; and one and all they stared at me out of their sightless eyes.
They cursed me for having killed them: everywhere I turned they cursed
me.

The deck was wringing wet: the smell of the poison lay heavy in the
air.  And again and again I asked myself--What was the meaning of this
senseless outrage?  I didn't know then of the incredible wealth of the
wretched people who had been killed: of the marvellous jewels that were
on board.

The other vessel lay alongside: a dozen of the crew clothed in rubber
suits had come on board the yacht.  It was the ruthless efficiency of
it all that staggered me: they worked like drilled soldiers.  One by
one they carried the bodies below and piled them into cabins.  And when
a cabin was full they shut the door.  They damped down the stoke-room
fires: they blew off what head of steam remained.  They stove in the
four ship's boats and sank them: they moved every single thing that
would float and put it below in such a place that when the ship sank
everything would go down with her.  And all the while the dirigible
circled overhead.

Once, and only once, did anything happen to interrupt them.  Heaven
knows where he had been hidden or how he had escaped, but suddenly,
with a wild shout, one of the crew darted on deck.  In his hands he
held a pick: he was a stoker evidently.  Gallant fellow: he got one of
them before he died.  In the head--with his pick, and then another of
the pirates just laid his glove wet with the poison against the
stoker's face.  And the work went on.

At last Wilmot appeared again.  He was carrying a suit-case, and I saw
him signal to the airship.  She manoeuvred back into position and the
cage was lowered on to the deck of the yacht.  And a minute later we
were in the dirigible once more.

"A most satisfactory little experiment," said Wilmot.  "We will now
examine the spoils more closely."

Sick with the horror of it all, I stood at the cabin window, whilst he
and the woman went over the jewels on the table behind me.  We had
circled a little away from the yacht, and the other vessel no longer
lay alongside, but a hundred yards or so away.  And suddenly there came
a dull boom, and the yacht rocked a little on the calm sea.

"A sight, my dear, which I don't think you've ever seen," said Wilmot,
and he and the woman came to the window.  "A ship sinking."

Slowly the yacht settled down in the water: they had blown a great hole
in her bottom.  And then at last with a sluggish lurch her bows went
under and she turned over and sank.  For a time the water swirled
angrily to mark her grave: then everything grew quiet.  No trace
remained of their devilish handiwork: the sea had swallowed it up.

"Most satisfactory," repeated Wilmot.  "Don't you agree, Gaunt?"

He laughed evilly at the look on my face.

"And you have committed that atrocious crime for those," I said,
pointing at the jewels.

"Not altogether," he answered.  "As I told you before, this is merely
in the nature of a trial trip.  Of course it's pleasant to have one's
expenses paid, but the principal value of this has been practice for
bigger game....  That is what we are out for, my dear Gaunt: bigger
game."

I watched him with a dazed sort of fascination as he lit a cigar.  Then
he began to examine through a lens the great heap of precious stones in
front of him.  And after a while the thought began to obsess me that he
was not human.  His complete air of detachment: his amused comments
when he discovered that a beautiful tiara was only paste: above all the
languorous indifference of the girl who only an hour before had
witnessed an act of wholesale murder made my head spin.

They are devils---both of them: devils in human form; and I told them
so.

They laughed, and Wilmot poured me out a glass of champagne.

"You flatter us, Gaunt," he remarked.  "Surely you have not been
listening to the foolish remarks of the crew.  They, poor simple-minded
fellows, do, I understand, credit me with supernatural powers, but I am
surprised at you.  Merely your antidote, my friend: that's all."

"I don't understand what you're talking about," I muttered.

"There now," he said genially, "I am always forgetting that your
knowledge of past events is limited.  An amusing little story, Gaunt,
and one which flatters your powers as a chemist.  I may say that it
also flatters my powers as a prophet.  My men, as you may know, are
largely Russians of the lower classes.  Docile, good fellows as a
general rule, with a strong streak of superstition in them.  And
realizing that in a concern of this sort one has to control with an
iron hand, I anticipated that possibly an occasion might arise when
some foolish man would question that control.  It was because of that,
my dear Gaunt, that I took so much trouble to procure that admirable
ointment of yours the existence of which is not known to the members of
my crew.  In that point lay the little element of--if I may say
so--genius, which separates a few of us from the common herd.  Though I
admit that it was with some trepidation--pardonable I think you will
allow--that I put the matter to the test.  Of the efficacy of your
poison I had no doubt, but with regard to the antidote I had only seen
it in action once, and then on a guinea-pig.  If I remember aright, my
darling," he said to the girl, "we drank to Mr. Gaunt's skill as a
chemist in one of our few remaining bottles of Imperial Tokay, at the
conclusion of the episode.  A wonderful wine, Gaunt; but I fear
extinct.  These absurd revolutions that take place for obscure reasons
do a lot of harm."

That's how he talked: the man is _not_ human.  Then he went on.

"But the episode in question will, I am sure, interest you.  As I had
foreseen, some stupid men began to question my authority.  In fact,
though you will hardly believe it, it came to my ears that there was a
conspiracy to take my life.  It is true I had had a man flogged to
death, but what is a Russian peasant more or less?  Apparently this
particular fellow sang folk-songs well, or tortured some dreadful
musical instrument better than his friends.  At any rate he was
popular, and his death was a source of annoyance to the others.  So, of
course, it became necessary to take the matter in hand at once in a way
which should restore discipline, and at the same time prevent a
recurrence in the future.  My dearest, this caviare is not so good as
the last consignment.  Another devastating example of the harm done by
revolutions, I fear.  Even the Sturgeons have gone on strike.

"However, to return to my little story.  I bethought me of your
antidote.  'Here,' said I to myself, 'is an opportunity to test that
dear chap Gaunt's excellent ointment in a manner both useful and
spectacular.'  So I rubbed it well into my face and hands--even into my
hair, Gaunt--and strode like a hero of old into the midst of the
malcontents.  You perceive the beauty of the idea.  A man not gifted
with our brains might reasonably remark, 'Why not don a rubber suit,
which you know is quite safe?'

"True, but besides being hot and uncomfortable--I think we shall have
to try and improve those suits, Gaunt--it is very clumsy in the event
of the wearer being attacked with a knife.  And though I anticipated
from what I had heard that they proposed to use your poison, one has to
allow for all eventualities.  Also there was that mystic vein in them
which I wanted to impress.

"Behold me then, my dear fellow, apparently as I am now, striding alone
and unarmed to their quarters.  For a moment they stared at me
dumbfounded--my sudden appearance had cowed them.  And then one of them
pulled himself together and discharged a syringe full of the liquid at
me.  It hit me in the cheek---a most nervous moment, I assure you.  I
apologize deeply to you now for my qualms; I should have trusted your
skill better.

"Nothing happened, and the men cowered back.  I said no word; but step
by step I advanced on the miscreant who had dared to try and rob the
world of one of its chief adornments.  And step by step he retreated
till he could retreat no further.  Then I took his hand and laid it on
my cheek.  And that evening we tied him in a weighted sack, and buried
him at sea."

He smiled thoughtfully and studied the ash on his cigar.

"It was most successful.  Rumours about me vary amongst these excellent
fellows.  The one I like best is that I am a reincarnation of Rasputin.
But there has been no further trouble."

He rose from the table and swept the jewels carelessly into the
suit-case.

"Not a bad haul, my little one.  We shall have to be very careful over
the disposal of the Shan diamonds: they're notorious stones."

They both walked over to one of the windows together and ...

[At this point the narrative breaks off abruptly.  Evidently Gaunt was
interrupted and crammed the papers hurriedly into his pocket.  And the
only other document--the most vital of all--was scrawled almost
illegibly on a torn scrap of paper.  Whether it was written on the
airship or at Black Mine will never be known.  Of how he got back to
the mine there is no record.  Who were the men alluded to as "them" is
also a mystery, though I have no doubt that one of them was Wilmot.
Possibly the other was Helias.]

I heard them to-day.  They didn't know I was listening.  The
_Megalithic_ with thirty of the gang on board.  Attack by night.  The
bigger game.  He will succeed: he is not human....  Hydrogen not
helium....  Not changed....  Sacrifice ship....  Fire....


That is all.  Those are the papers that we read, sitting on the edge of
the cliff with the writer beside us staring with vacant eyes over the
grey sea below.  Those were the papers stumbled on by the merest
accident, on which we had to base our plans.  Was it true or were we
the victims of some gigantic delusion on the part of Gaunt?  That was
the problem that faced us as the first rays of the early sun lit up
Black Mine on the morning of September 8th.




12

  In which the final count
  takes place

How much of it was true?  We had confirmation of a certain amount with
our own eyes.  We had seen the pipe lowered over the cliff: we had seen
the mysterious signal from the sea.  Above all we had seen Wilmot's
dirigible actually filling up with poison.  So much, therefore, we
knew.  But what of the rest?

What of the astounding story of the _Hermione_?  Had we discovered the
solution of the yacht's disappearance, or had we been wasting our time
reading the hallucination of a madman's brain?  Had Gaunt--having read
in the papers of the loss of the _Hermione_--imagined the scene he had
described?

Against that theory was the fact--as I have mentioned before--that
neither in the writing nor the phraseology could we detect any sign of
insanity.  And surely if the whole thing was a delusion, traces of
incoherence and wildness would have been bound to appear.

So we reasoned, and still could come to no conclusion.  It seemed so
widely fantastic: so well-nigh incredible.  And if those epithets could
be used in connection with the _Hermione_, what was to be said
concerning the amazing fragment about the _Megalithic_?  Even granted
for the moment that the description of the loss of the _Hermione_ was
correct, were we seriously to imagine that the same thing could be done
to a great Atlantic liner?

From the very first moment Drummond made up his mind and never changed
it.  I admit that I was sceptical until the last damning proof came to
us, but he never hesitated.

"It's the truth," he said quietly.  "I am convinced of it.  The mystery
of the _Hermione_ is solved.  And with regard to the _Megalithic_ it is
the truth also."

I suppose he saw my look of incredulity, for he then addressed himself
exclusively to me.

"Stockton, ever since the time in Ashworth Gardens when that woman
recognized me, I've known that we were up against Peterson.  I've felt
it in every fibre of my being.  Now it's proved beyond a shadow of
doubt.  Whatever may or may not be true in that diary of Gaunt's, that
fact is obvious.  Wilmot is Peterson: nothing else could account for
his asking Gaunt if he knew me."

He lit a cigarette, and I was struck by the gravity of his face.

"You've asked once or twice about Peterson," he went on after a while.
"But though we've told you a certain amount, to you he is merely a
name.  To us, and to me particularly, he's rather more than that.  That
is why I am certain in my own mind that that scrawled message about the
_Megalithic_ is true.  And the principal reason for making me think it
is true lies in the last few words.  That is Peterson all over."

I glanced at the scrap of paper.

"Hydrogen not helium....  Not changed....  Sacrifice ship....  Fire...."

"My God! you fellows"--Drummond was almost shouting in his
excitement--"it's stupendous.  Don't you see the tear in the paper
there between sacrifice and ship?  Ship doesn't refer to the
_Megalithic_: the word 'air' has been torn out.  It's the airship he is
going to sacrifice.  It is still full of hydrogen: Peterson wasn't
going to the expense of refilling with helium."

He was pacing up and down, his hands in his pockets.

"That's it: I'll swear that's it.  It's the Peterson creed.  It's the
loophole of escape that he always leaves himself.  He has decided to
attack the _Megalithic_; why, we don't know.  Possibly a boatload of
American multi-millionaires on board.  He's got thirty of his own men
in the ship, and that strange craft of his alongside.  Let's suppose
the attack is successful.  The liner disappears: sinks with all hands.
Right: there's nothing further to worry about.  But supposing it isn't
successful.  With the best of luck and arrangement it's a pretty big
job to tackle--even for Peterson.  What's going to happen then?  In a
few seconds the astounding news will be wirelessed all over the world
that Wilmot's dirigible is carrying out an act of piracy on the high
seas of such unbelievable devilry that it would make our old pal
Captain Hook rotate in his coffin if he heard of it.  Suppose another
thing too.  Suppose it is successful, but that the wireless people in
the _Megalithic_ manage to get a message through before their gear is
put out of action.  Peterson gets that message on his own installation.
What's he going to do?  He may be an institution all right at the
moment, but he won't have the mayor and brass band out to welcome him
on his return once the truth is known.  So he descends from his airship
either into this mysterious vessel of his, or else on dry land.  We
know he can do that.  What he does to the crew is immaterial.  Probably
leaves them with a few ripe and fruity instructions, and a bomb timed
to explode a little later.  And so Wilmot's dirigible pays the just
retribution for an astounding and diabolical crime, while Wilmot
himself retires to Monte Carlo on the proceeds thereof.  It's what he
has always said: there's nothing like dying to put people off the
scent.  No police in the world are going to bother to look for the
blighter if they think he is a perfectly good corpse in his own
burnt-out airship.  It's a pity in a way," he concluded regretfully, "a
great pity.  I should have liked to deal with him personally."

"Well, why not?" said Jerningham.

"It's too big altogether, Ted," answered Drummond.  "I never mind
chancing things a certain amount with MacIver, but I don't think we'd
be justified this time.  The consequences of failure would be too
appalling.  Let's dump the sentries inside the hut, and then push off
and have some breakfast.  After that we'll make for London and MacIver.
Whatever is believed or is not believed, there's one thing that
Peterson is going to find it hard to explain.  Why are his ballast
tanks full of Gaunt's poison?"

So we carried the men, who still lay bound and gagged, into the wooden
hut.  And there, having locked the door, we left them, with the scent
of death still heavy in the air and their four gruesome companions.

"It breaks my heart," said Drummond disconsolately as we strolled
towards the car, "to think that we've got to pull in Scotland Yard.
Still, we've had a bit of fun...."

"We have," I agreed grimly.  "Incidentally what on earth are we going
to do with Gaunt?"

"Well, since the poor bloke is bug-house, I suppose we'll have to stuff
him in a home or something.  Anyway that comes later: the first thing
is to lead him to an egg or possibly a kipper.  We can pretend he's
eccentric, if the staff go up the pole when they see him."

And so we returned to the hotel, which I certainly had never expected
to see again.  Now that it was all over the reaction had set in, and I
even found myself wondering whether it hadn't all been some terrible
nightmare.  Only there sat Robin Gaunt to prove the reality, and in my
pocket I could feel the sheets of his diary.

Sleep!  I wanted it almost more than food: sleep and something to get
rid of the racking headache which the fumes of that foul liquid had
produced.  And even as I waited for breakfast I found my head nodding
on to the table.  It was over: the strain and tension was past.  One
could relax....

"Good Lord!"  Drummond's startled exclamation roused us all.  He was
staring at a newspaper, whilst his neglected cigarette burnt the
table-cloth beside him.

"What's the day of the week?"

"Thursday," said someone sleepily.

"Look here, you fellows," he said gravely, "pull yourselves together
and wake up.  The _Megalithic_ sails to-day from Liverpool for New
York."

We woke up all right at that, and his next remark completed the
arousing process.

"To-day, mark you--carrying thirty million in bullion on board."

"Instantaneous, universal death," babbled Gaunt, but we paid no
attention.  We just sat there--all ideas of sleep banished--staring at
Drummond.

"They must be warned," he said decisively.  "Even at the risk of making
ourselves look complete and utter fools.  The _Megalithic_ must be
wirelessed."

He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out some letters.

"Give me a pencil: I'll scribble down a message."

And then suddenly he broke off, and sat looking blankly at something he
held.

"Well, I'm damned," he muttered.  "I'd forgotten all about that.
To-night is the night of Wilmot's Celebrated Farewell Gala Night Trip.
Somebody sent me two complimentary tickets for it.  Couldn't think
who'd done it or why.  Phyllis was keen on going."

Once more he fell silent as he stared at the two tickets.

"I've got it now," he said at length, and his voice was ominously
quiet.  "Yes--I've got it all now.  Peterson sent me those two tickets,
and there's no need to ask why."

He turned to the girl, who was putting the breakfast on the table.

"How long will it take to get through to London on the telephone?
Anyway I must do it.  Get me Mayfair 3XI.  Now then, you fellows--food.
And after that we'll drive to London as even the old Hispano has never
moved before."

"What are you ringing up Algy for?" said Darrell.

"I want four more tickets, Peter, for to-night's trip.  And above all I
want some of that antidote.  Peterson is not the only man who can play
that particular game."

"What about wirelessing the _Megalithic_?" I asked.

He looked at me with a queer smile.

"No necessity now, Stockton.  If there is one thing in this world that
is certain beyond all others it is that Wilmot's dirigible will be at
the aerodrome when we get back to London.  For I venture to
think--without undue conceit--that there is one desire in Mr. Wilmot's
heart that runs even the possession of thirty million fairly close.
And that desire is my death."

I stared at him incredulously, but he was perfectly serious.

"Had I not known that he was going to be there, it would have been
imperative to warn the _Megalithic_.  Now the situation is different.
If we wireless, don't forget that he will get the message.  We warn him
equally with the ship."

"Yes, but even so," I objected, "dare we run the risk?"

"There is no risk," said Drummond calmly.  "Now that I know who Wilmot
is--there is no risk.  And to-night I'm going to have my final
settlement with the gentleman."

He would say no more: all the way back to London, when he drove like a
man possessed with ten devils, he hardly opened his lips.  And sitting
beside him, busy with my own thoughts, the spell of his extraordinary
personality began to obsess me.  Never had he seemed so completely sure
of himself--so absolutely confident.

And yet the whole thing was bizarre and strange enough to cause all
sorts of doubts.  I, too, had forgotten the much-advertised final trip
of the airship, until Drummond had pulled the tickets out of his
pocket.  The dinner was to be even more wonderful than usual, and every
guest was to receive a memento of the occasion from Mr. Wilmot himself.
The thing that defeated me was why Wilmot should waste the time.
Granted that Drummond's theory was correct, and that after having
attacked the _Megalithic_ the airship was to come down in flames, why
fool around with a two or three hours' cruise beforehand?  There was no
longer any necessity to pose as an "institution."

Drummond smiled at my remarks.

"Why of necessity should you assume that it's going to be three hours
wasted?  You don't imagine, do you, that a man like Peterson would
consider it necessary to return to the aerodrome and deposit his
passengers?"

"But, great Scott, man," I exploded, "he can't carry out an attack on
the _Megalithic_ with fifty complete strangers on board his airship."

"Can't he?  Why not?  Once granted that he's going to carry out the
attack at all, I don't see that fifty or a hundred and fifty strangers
would matter.  You seem to forget that an integral part of his plan is
that none of them should return alive to tell the tale."

"It's inconceivable that such a man can exist," L said.

"He's mother's bright boy all right is Carl Peterson," agreed Drummond.
"I confess that I'm distinctly intrigued to see what is going to happen
to-night."

"But surely, Drummond," I said, "we're not justified in going through
with this.  An inspection of his ballast tanks will prove the presence
of the poison.  And then the matter passes into the hands of Scotland
Yard."

"I'm perfectly aware that that is what we ought to do," he said
gravely.  "Moreover, it is what we would do if it was possible."

"But why isn't it possible?" I cried.

"Think, man," he answered.  "At a liberal estimate we shall have an
hour in which to change and get to the aerodrome.  If we puncture we
shan't have as much.  Let us suppose that during that hour we can
persuade MacIver and Co. that we are not mad--a supposition which I
think is very doubtful.  But for the sake of argument we will suppose
it.  What is going to happen then?  MacIver appears at the aerodrome
with a bunch of his pals, and attempts to board the airship.  Peterson,
who can spot MacIver a mile off, either sheers off at once in his
dirigible, leaving MacIver dancing a hornpipe on the ground; or, what
is just as likely, lets him come on board and then murders him.  Don't
you see, Stockton, the one fundamental factor of the whole thing is
that that airship is never going to return.  It doesn't matter one
continental hoot to Peterson whether he is suspected or whether he
isn't suspected--once he has started.  He may be branded as the world's
arch-devil: what does he care?  A just retribution has overtaken him:
he has perished miserably in the flames of his machine.  No--I've
thought it over, and I'm convinced that our best chance is to let his
plans go on as he has arranged them.  Don't let him suspect that we
suspect.  It won't seem strange to him that I turn up: he'll merely
assume that I've utilized the ticket he sent me in utter ignorance of
who he is.  And then..."

"Yes," I said curiously as he paused.  "And then--what?"

"Why--just one thing.  The one vital thing, Stockton, which knocks the
bottom out of his entire scheme.  If we're right, and I _know_ we're
right, his whole plan depends on his ability to leave the airship.  And
he's not going to leave the airship...."

"For all that," I argued, "he may cause the most ghastly damage to the
_Megalithic_."

"I think not," said Drummond quietly.  "I've made out a rough
time-table, and this is how I see it.  He plans to attack her somewhere
off the south coast of Ireland, probably in the early hours of
to-morrow morning.  Long before that the guests will have realized that
something is wrong.  The instant that occurs he will show his hand, and
matters will come to a head.  One way or another it will be all over by
eleven o'clock."

"My God! it's an awful risk we're running," I muttered.

"And an unavoidable one," he answered.  "There's not a human being in
England who would not believe us to be absolutely crazy if we told them
what we know.  So that any possibility of preventing people going on
board that airship to-night may be ruled out of court at once."

It was half-past five when we arrived, and we found Algy Longworth
waiting for us at Drummond's house.

"Done everything you told me, old lad," he cried cheerfully.  "They
thought I was mad at the War House.  Great Scott!" he broke off
suddenly as he saw Gaunt, "who's your pal?"

"Doesn't matter about him, Algy.  You've got the antidote?"

"A bucket of it, old boy.  Saw Stockton's pal--one Major Jackson."

"And you've got the four tickets for Wilmot's dirigible this evening?"

"Got 'em at Keith and Prowse.  What is the fun and laughter?"

"Peterson, Algy.  Our one and only Carl.  He's Wilmot."

Algy Longworth stared at him incredulously.

"My dear old bird," he said at length, "you're pulling my leg."

"Wilmot is Carl Peterson, Algy.  Of that there is no shadow of doubt.
And that's why you've got four tickets.  We renew our acquaintance
to-night."

"Good Lord!  Well, the tickets are a tenner each, including dinner, and
I got the last.  So we must get our money's worth."

"You'll get that all right," said Drummond grimly.  "Have you brought
everybody's clothes round?  Good.  Get changed, you fellows: we start
at six."

And now I come to the final act in the whole amazing drama.  Though
months have elapsed, every detail of that last flight is as clear in my
mind as if it had happened yesterday.

We started at six, leaving Denny in charge of Robin.  Each of us had in
our pockets a pot of the antidote and a revolver; and no one talked
very much.  Drummond, his face set like granite, stared at the road in
front of him.  Algy Longworth polished and repolished his eyeglass
ceaselessly.  In fact, in sporting parlance--I don't know about
Drummond, but as far as the rest of us were concerned--we had got the
needle.

The evening was calm and still as we motored into the aerodrome.  Great
flaring arc lights lit up everything with the brightness of day: whilst
above our heads, attached to the mooring mast, floated the graceful
vessel, no longer dark and sinister as we had seen her the night
before, but a blaze of light from bow to stern.

She was due to start at seven o'clock, and at ten minutes to the hour
we stepped out of the lift at the top of the mast into the main
corridor of the dirigible.  Everywhere the vessel was gaily decorated
with festoons of brightly coloured paper and fairy-lights.  And in the
first of the big cabins ahead we caught a glimpse of a crowd of
fashionably dressed women gathered round a thick-set good-looking man
in evening clothes.  Mr. Wilmot was welcoming his guests.

"Is that Peterson?" I whispered to Drummond.

He laughed shortly.

"Do you mean--do I recognize him?  No, I don't.  I never have yet, by
looking at his face.  But it's Peterson all right."

Drummond was handing his coat and hat to a diminutive black boy in a
bright red uniform, and I glanced at his face.  A faint smile was
hovering round his lips, but his eyes were expressionless.  And even
the smile vanished as he strolled towards the group in the ante-room:
he was just the ordinary society man attending some function.

And what a function it proved.  It was the first time that I had ever
been inside an airship, and the thing that impressed me most was the
spaciousness of everything--and the luxury.  Even granting that it was
a special occasion, one had to admit that the whole thing was
marvellously well done.  The lighting effect was superb; and in every
corner great masses of hot-house flowers gave out a heavy scent.

"It's Eastern," I said to Drummond.  "Oriental."

"Peterson has always been spectacular," he answered.  "But I agree that
he has spared no pains with the coffin."

"I simply can't believe it," I said.  "Now that we're actually here,
surrounded by all this, it seems incredible that he proposes to
sacrifice it all."

"There are a good many things about Peterson that strike one as
incredible," said Drummond quietly.  "But I wish I had even an inkling
of what he's going to do."

Suddenly the eyes of the two men met over the heads of the women.  It
was the moment I had been waiting for and I watched Wilmot intently.
For perhaps the fraction of a second he paused in his conversation and
it seemed to me that a gleam of triumph showed on his face: then once
again he turned to the woman beside him with just the correct shade of
deference which is expected of those who converse with a Duchess.

Drummond also had turned away and was chatting with someone he knew,
but I noticed that he continually edged nearer and nearer to the place
where Wilmot was standing a little apart from the others.  At last he
stopped in front of them and bowed.

"Good evening, Duchess," he remarked.  "Why aren't you slaughtering
birds up North?"

"How are you, Hugh?  Same thing applies to you.  By the way--do you
know Mr. Wilmot?--Captain Drummond?"

The two men bowed, and Jerningham and I, talking ostensibly, drew
closer.  I know my hands were clammy with excitement, and I don't think
the others were in much better condition.

"Your last trip, Mr. Wilmot, I believe," said Drummond.

"That is so," answered the other.  "In England, I regret to say, the
weather is so treacherous that after the early part of September flying
ceases to be a pleasure."

"He has got some wonderful surprise for us, Hugh," said the Duchess.

"Merely a trifling souvenir, my dear Duchess," answered Wilmot suavely.

"Of what has become quite an institution, Mr. Wilmot," put in Drummond.

Wilmot bowed.

"I had hoped perhaps to have made it even more an institution," he
answered.  "But the public takes to new things slowly.  Ah! we're off."

"And what," asked Drummond, "is our course to-night?"

"I thought we would do the Thames Valley.  Duchess--a cocktail?"

A waiter with a row of exquisite glasses containing an amber liquid was
handing her a tray.

"Captain Drummond?  You, I'm sure, will have one."

"Why, certainly, Mr. Wilmot.  I feel confident that what the Duchess
drinks is safe for me."

And once again the eyes of the two men met.

Personally I think it was at that moment that the certainty came to
Wilmot that Drummond knew.  But just as certainly no sign of it showed
on his face.  All through the sumptuous dinner that followed, when he
and Drummond sat one on each side of the Duchess, he played the part of
the courteous host to perfection.  I was two or three places away
myself, so much of their conversation I missed.  But some of it I did
hear, and I marvelled at Wilmot's nerve.

Deliberately Drummond brought up the subject of the Robin Gaunt
mystery, and of the fate of the _Hermione_.  And just as deliberately
Wilmot discussed them both.  But all the time he knew and we knew that
things were moving inexorably towards their appointed end.  And what
was that end going to be?  That was the question I asked myself over
and over again.  It seemed impossible, incredible that the suave,
self-possessed man at the head of the table could possess a mind so
infamously black that, without a qualm, he would sacrifice all these
women.  And yet he had not scrupled to murder the women in the
_Hermione_.

It seemed so needless--so unnecessary.  Why have brought them at all?
Why not have flown with his crew alone?  Why have drawn attention to
himself with his much-advertised gala night?

"Have you noticed the rate at which we are going?  She's positively
quivering."

Jerningham's sudden question broke in on my thoughts, and I realized
that the whole great vessel was vibrating like a thing possessed.  But
no one seemed to pay any attention: the band still played serenely on,
scarcely audible over the loud buzz of conversation.

At last dinner was over, and a sudden silence fell as Wilmot rose to
his feet.  A burst of applause greeted him, and he bowed with a faint
smile.

"Your Grace," he began, "Ladies and Gentlemen.  It is, believe me, not
only a pleasure but an honour to have had such a distinguished company
to-night to celebrate this last trip in my airship.  I am no believer
in long speeches, certainly not on occasions of this sort.  But, before
distributing the small souvenirs which I have obtained as a memento of
this--I trust I may say--pleasant evening, there is one thing which as
loyal subjects of our gracious Sovereign it is our duty to perform.
Before, however, requesting the distinguished officer on my right"--he
bowed to Drummond, and suddenly with a queer thrill I noticed that
Drummond's face was shining like an actor's with grease paint--"to
propose His Majesty's health, I would like to mention one fact.  The
liqueur in which I would ask you to drink the King is one unknown in
this country.  It is an old Chinese wine the secret of which is known
only to a certain sect of monks.  Its taste is not unpleasant, but its
novelty will lie in the fact that you are drinking what only two
Europeans have ever drunk before.  One of those is dead--not, I hasten
to assure you, as a result of drinking it: the other is myself.  I will
now ask Captain Drummond to propose the King."

In front of each of us had been placed a tiny glass containing a few
drops of the liqueur, and Drummond rose to his feet, as did all of us.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he said mechanically, and I could tell he was
puzzled--"the King."

The band struck up the National Anthem, and we stood there waiting for
the end.  Suddenly on Drummond's face there flashed a look of horror,
and he swung round staring at Wilmot.  And then came his mighty
shout--drowning the band with its savage intensity.

"Don't drink.  For God's sake--don't drink.  It's death."

Unconsciously I sniffed the contents of my glass: smelt that strange
sickly scent: realized that the liquid was Gaunt's poison.

The band stopped abruptly, and a woman started to laugh hysterically.
And still Drummond and Wilmot stared at one another in silence, whilst
the great vessel drove on throbbing through the night.

"What's all this damned foolery?" came in angry tones from a red-faced
man half-way down the table.  "You're frightening the women, sir.  What
do you mean--death?"

He raised the glass to his lips, and before any of us could stop him,
he drained it.  And drinking it he crashed forward across the
table--dead.

It was then that real pandemonium broke loose.  Women screamed and
huddled together in little groups, staring at the man who had
spoken--now lying rigid and motionless with broken glass and upset
flower vases all round him.

And still Drummond and Wilmot stared at one another in silence.

"The doors, you fellows."  Drummond's voice reached us above the din.
"And line up the servants and keep them covered."

With a snarl that was scarcely human Wilmot sprang forward.  He
snatched up the Duchess's liqueur glass and flung the contents in
Drummond's face.  And Drummond laughed.

"Your mistake, Peterson," he said.  "You only got half the antidote
when you murdered Sir John Dallas.  Ah! no--your hands above your head."

The barrel of his revolver gleamed in the light, and once again silence
fell, as, fascinated, we watched the pair of them.  They stood alone,
at the head of the table, and Drummond's eyes were hard and merciless,
while Peterson plucked at his collar with hands that shook.

"Where are we driving to at this rate, Carl Peterson?" said Drummond.

"There's some mistake."  muttered the other.

"No, Peterson, there is no mistake.  To-night you were going to do to
the _Megalithic_ what you did to the _Hermione_--sink her with every
soul on board.  There's no good denying it: I spent last night in Black
Mine."

The other started uncontrollably, and the blazing hatred in his eyes
grew more maniacal.

"What are you going to do, Drummond?" he snarled.

"A thing that has been long overdue, Peterson," answered Drummond
quietly.  "You unspeakable devil: you damnable wholesale murderer."

He slipped the revolver back into his pocket, and picked up his own
liqueur glass.

"The good host drinks first, Peterson."  His great hand shot out and
clutched the other's throat.  "Drink, you foul brute: drink."

Never to my dying day shall I forget the hoarse yell of terror that
Peterson uttered as he struggled in that iron grip.  His eyes stared
fearfully at the glass, and with a sudden stupendous effort he knocked
it out of Drummond's hand.

And once again Drummond laughed: the contents had spilled on the
other's wrist.

"If you won't drink--have it the other way, Carl Peterson.  But the
score is paid."

His grip relaxed on Peterson's throat: he stood back, arms folded,
watching the criminal.  And whether it was the justice of fate, or
whether it was that previous applications of the antidote had given
Peterson a certain measure of immunity, I know not.  But for full five
seconds did he stand there before the end came.  And in that five
seconds the mask slipped from his face, and he stood revealed for what
he was.  And of that revelation no man can write....

Thus did Carl Peterson die on the eve of his biggest coup.  As he had
killed, so was he killed.  Whilst all unconscious of what had happened,
the navigator still drove the airship full speed towards the west.


And now but little remains to be told.  It was Drummond who walked
along the corridor and found the control cabin.  It was Drummond who
put a revolver in the navigator's neck, and forced him to swing the
airship round and head back to London.  It was Drummond who commanded
the dirigible till finally we tied up once more to the mooring mast.

And then it was Drummond who, revolver in hand to stop any rush of the
crew, superintended the disembarkation of the guests.  Lift load after
lift load of white-faced women and men went down to the ground till
only we six remained.  One final look did we take at the staring glassy
eyes of the man who sprawled across the chair in which he had sat to
entertain Royalty, and then we too dropped swiftly downwards.

News had already passed round the aerodrome, and excited officials
thronged round us as we stepped out of the lift.  But Drummond would
say nothing.

"Ring up Inspector MacIver at Scotland Yard," he remarked curtly.
"Leave all the rest of them on board till he comes.  I will stop here."

But, as all the world knows, it was decreed otherwise.  Barely had we
sat down in one of the waiting-rooms when an agitated man rushed in.

"She's off," he cried.  "Wilmot's dirigible is under way."

We darted outside to see the great airship slowly circling round.  She
still blazed with light, and from the windows leaned men, waving their
arms mockingly.  Then she headed north-east.  And she was barely clear
of the aerodrome when it happened.  What looked to me like a yellow
flash came from amidships, followed by a terrible rending noise.  And
before our eyes the dirigible became a roaring furnace of flame.  Then,
splitting in two, she dropped like a stone.

What caused the accident no one will ever know.  Personally I am
inclined to agree with Drummond that one of the crew, realizing that
Wilmot was dead, decided to ransack his cabin to see what he could
steal.  And in the cabin he found some infernal device for causing
fire, which in his unskilful hands exploded suddenly.  It is a possible
solution: that is all I can say for it.  Anyway the point is
immaterial.  For twelve hours no man could approach the wreckage, so
intense was the heat.  And when at length it was possible, the bodies
were so terribly burned as to be unrecognizable.  Two only could be
traced: the two in evening clothes.  Though which was the red-faced man
who had drunk and which was Wilmot no one could say.  And again the
point is immaterial.  For when a man is dead he's dead, and there's not
much use in worrying further.  What did matter was that one of those
two charred corpses was all that remained of the super-criminal known
to the world as Wilmot--and known to Drummond as Carl Peterson.




13

  In which I lay down
  my pen

I have finished.  To the best of my ability I have set down the events
of that summer.  At the outset I warned my readers that I was no
literary man: had there been anyone else willing to tackle the job I
would willingly have resigned in his favour.

There will be many even now who will in all probability shrug their
shoulders incredulously.  Well, as I have said more than once, I cannot
_make_ any man believe me.  If people choose to think that Gaunt's
description of the sinking of the _Hermione_ is a madman's delusion
based on what he had read in the papers, they are welcome to their
opinion.  But the _Hermione_ has never been heard of again, and it is
now more than a year since she sailed from Southampton.  And I have, at
any rate, put forward a theory to account for her loss.

What is of far more interest to me is what would have happened had the
attack been carried out on the _Megalithic_.  What would have happened
if Drummond had not chanced to pick out the scent of death in his
glass, from the heavy languorous smell of the hot-house flowers that
filled the cabin in which we dined?  Can't you picture that one
terrible moment, as with one accord every man and woman round that
table pitched forward dead, under the mocking cynical eyes of Wilmot,
and the great airship with its ghastly load tore on through the night?

And then--what would have happened?  Would the attack have been
successful?  I know not, but sometimes I try to visualise the scene.
The dirigible--no longer blazing with light--but dark and ghostly,
keeping pace with the liner low down on top of her.  Those thirty
desperate men: the shattered wireless: and over everything the rain of
death.  And then the strange craft capable of such speed in spite of
her lines, alongside.  Everywhere panic-stricken women and men dashing
to and fro, and finding no escape.  Perhaps the siren blaring madly
into the night, until that too ceased because no man was left to sound
it.

Then in the grey dawn the transfer of the bullion to the other vessel:
the descent of Wilmot from the airship: perhaps a torpedo.  A torpedo
was all that was necessary for the _Lusitania_.

And then, last of all, I can see Wilmot--his hands in his pockets, a
cigar drawing evenly between his lips--standing on the bridge of his
ship.  The swirling water has calmed down: only some floating wreckage
marks the grave of the _Megalithic_.  Suddenly from overhead there
comes a blinding sheet of flame, and the doomed airship falls blazing
into the sea.

Guess-work, I admit--but that is what I believe would have happened.
But it didn't, and so guess-work it must remain to the end.  There are
other things too we shall never know.  What happened to the vessel with
the strange lines?  There is no one known to us who can describe her
save Robin Gaunt, and he is incurably insane.  Where is she?  What is
she doing now?  Is she some harmless ocean-going tramp, or is she
rotting in some deserted harbour?

What happened to the men we had left bound in Black Mine?  For when the
police got there next day there was no sign of them.  How did they get
away?  Where are they now?  Pawns--I admit; but they might have told us
something.

And finally, the thing that intrigues Drummond most.  How much did
Peterson think we knew?

Personally I do not think that Peterson believed we knew anything at
all until the end.  Obviously he had no idea that we had been to Black
Mine the night before, until Drummond told him so.  Obviously he
believed himself perfectly safe, and but for the discovery of Gaunt's
diary he would have been.  Should we, or rather Drummond, ever have
suspected that liqueur except for the knowledge we had?  I doubt it,
and so does Drummond.  Even though we knew that smell so well--the
smell of death--I doubt if we should have picked it out from the heavy
exotic scent of the flowers.

They are questions which for ever will remain unanswered, though it is
possible that some day a little light may be thrown on them.

And now there is but one thing more.  Drummond and his wife are in
Deauville, so I must rely on my memory.

It was four days after the airship had crashed in flames.  The scent of
the poison no longer hung about the wreckage: the charred bodies had
all been recovered.  And as Drummond stood looking at the debris a
woman in deep black approached him.

"You have killed the man I loved, Hugh Drummond," she said.  "But do
not think it is the end."

He took off his hat.

"It would be idle to pretend, mademoiselle," he said, "that I do not
know you.  But may I ask why you state that I killed Carl Peterson?  Is
not that how he died?"

With his hand he indicated the wreckage.

She shook her head.

"The airship came down in flames at half-past one," she said.  "It was
at ten o'clock that Carl died."

"That is so," he said gravely.  "I said the other to spare your
feelings.  You have seen, I presume, someone who was on board?"

"I have seen no one," she answered.

"But those details have been kept out of the papers," he exclaimed.

"I have read no paper," she replied.

"Then how did you know?"

"He spoke to me as he died," she said quietly.  "And as I said before,
it is not the end."

Without another word she left him.  Was she speaking the truth, or was
there indeed some strange _rapport_ between her and Peterson?  Did the
personality of that arch-criminal project itself through space to the
woman he had lived with for so many years?  And if so, what terrible
message of hatred against Drummond did it give to her?

He has not seen her since: the memory of that brief interview is
getting a little blurred.  Perhaps she too has forgotten: perhaps not.
Who knows?




THE END






[End of The Final Count, by Sapper]
