Title: The Female of the Species (1928)
Author: Sapper
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Language:  English
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Title: The Female of the Species (1928)
Author: Sapper




CONTENTS


Chapter  1  In Which I Make Drummond's Acquaintance
Chapter  2  In Which I Find a Deserted Motor Car
Chapter  3  In Which I Get it in the Neck
Chapter  4  In Which We Get the Semblance of a Clue
Chapter  5  In Which the Letter Arrives
Chapter  6  In Which I Get the Second Clue
Chapter  7  In Which We Come to the Mere
Chapter  8  In Which We Explore the Mere
Chapter  9  In Which We Get the Second Clue
Chapter 10  In Which the Third Clue is Solved
Chapter 11  In Which I go to Friar's Heel by Day
Chapter 12  In Which I Write My Mind to Drummond
Chapter 13  In Which I go to Friar's Heel by Night
Chapter 14  In Which I Meet Mrs Drummond
Chapter 15  In Which Some of the Others Join Me
Chapter 16  In Which We Have a Rehearsal
Chapter 17  In Which the Curtain Rings Down




Chapter 1. In Which I Make Drummond's Acquaintance


Even now, after three months' calm thought, I sometimes feel that I must
have dreamed the whole thing. I say to myself that this is England: that
I am sitting at lunch in my club hoping that that gluttonous lawyer
Seybourne will not take all the best part of the Stilton: that unless I
get a move on I shall be very late at Lord's. I say all that just as I
always used to say it--particularly about Seybourne. And then it suddenly
comes over me--the events of those amazing days.

I don't suppose anybody will believe me: I wouldn't believe the story
myself if somebody else told it to me. As I say, I sometimes think it
must be a dream. And then I turn back my left sleeve nearly to the elbow
and look at a three-inch scar, still red and angry, though it's healing
nicely now. And I know it was no dream.

Was it a joke? If so, it was the grimmest and most desperate jest that
has ever been cracked, and one wherein the humour was difficult to find.
Moreover, it was a joke that would have brought the propounder of it to
the gallows--had we but been able to catch her. For there was a woman at
the bottom of it, and women can suffer the death penalty in England for
murder.

No it was no dream: no jest. It was grim, stem reality played for a stake
sufficient to crack the nerve of the principal player on our side had he
been possessed of nerves to crack. A game played against time: a game
where one mistake might have proved fatal.

Personally I am a peace-loving individual of mild appearance: I like my
rubber of bridge at the club and my round of golf: I am not averse to
letting people know that I was wounded in the leg in France. Moreover, I
fail to see why I should gratuitously add the information that I was in
the horse lines at the time, and Heaven alone knows where the bullet came
from. I mention these points merely to show that I am just a very
ordinary sort of person, and not at all of the type which seems to
attract adventure. In fact, until that amazing Whitsun, the only thing in
any way out of the ordinary which had ever happened to me was when I, on
one occasion, tried to stop a runaway horse. And the annoying thing then
was that the driver assured me he had the horse under control. Three
weeks had elapsed, and I was still in hospital, so I didn't argue the
point.

The truth is that I am not one of those enviable men who are at their
best when in a tight corner, or when confronted with the need for
immediate action. If, as I read somewhere once, men consist of two
classes--those who can stop a dog fight and those who can't--honesty
compels me to admit that I belong to the latter. In fact, put in a
nutshell, I am a rabbit.

And yet I wouldn't have missed that adventure for anything. I can't
flatter myself that I did very much: indeed, there were times when I fear
I was merely in the way. For all that, never once did a single member of
the extraordinary bunch of men who were playing on our side say any word
of reproach or irritation. They never let me feel that I was a passenger
even when the strain was greatest.

However, enough of this preamble. I will start at the beginning. For many
years it has been my custom to spend a few days round Whitsuntide with
some old friends of mine called Tracey. They have a charming house not
far from Pangbourne--Elizabethan, and standing in delightful grounds.
There is generally a small party--perhaps a dozen in all--and I may say
that the keyword to the atmosphere of the house is peace. It may be that
I am a little old-fashioned, but the pleasure to be derived from what is
sometimes described as an evening's jolly seems to me to be overrated.

As usual I went to them this year, arriving on the Thursday before
Whitsuntide. The motor met me at the station, and, having shaken Jenkins,
the chauffeur, by the hand, I got in. Somewhat to my surprise, he did not
at once drive off: he appeared to be waiting for someone else.

"Captain Drummond, sir," he said to me, "who is stopping at the house,
came down to get a paper."

"Captain Drummond, Jenkins," I mused. "Do I know him?"

"I think not, sir," he answered, and it seemed to me that a very faint
smile twitched round his lips. In fact, there was a sort of air of
expectancy about Jenkins--excitement almost--that was most unusual.
Jenkins I have always regarded as a model servant.

"Five to one, my trusty lad. That's better than breaking your false teeth
on a plum stone."

I turned at this somewhat astounding utterance and regarded the speaker.
He was still immersed in the paper, and for the moment I couldn't see his
face.

"Put anything on Moongazer?"

"'Alf a dollar each way, sir," said Jenkins, so far forgetting himself as
to suck his teeth in his excitement.

"You'll get your money back. Second at fours. That's not so bad for the
old firm."

"Pity about cook, sir," said Jenkins earnestly. "She don't 'old with
backing both ways. Moongazer--win only--she was." He consulted a small
notebook, apparently to verify the statement.

"That sheds a bit of gloom over the afternoon, Jenkins."

Captain Drummond lowered the paper, and seemed to become aware of my
existence for the first time. "Hullo! hullo! hullo!" he exclaimed. "The
new arrival. Home, Jenkins--and for God's sake don't break it to the cook
till after dinner."

He got into the car, and it struck me that I had seldom seen a larger
individual.

"Do you think it is quite wise to encourage the servants to bet?" I
inquired a little pointedly as we started.

"Encourage, old lad?" he boomed. "They don't want any encouragement. You
have to keep 'em off it with a field gun."

He waved a friendly hand at an extremely pretty girl on the pavement, and
I took off my hat.

"Who was that?" he said, turning to me.

"I don't know," I answered. "I thought you waved at her."

"But you took off your hat."

"Because you waved at her."

He pondered deeply.

"I follow your reasoning," he conceded at length. "The false premise, if
I may say so, is your conclusion that a friendly gesture of the right
hand betokens previous acquaintance. I regret to say I do not know the
lady: I probably never shall. Still, we have doubtless planted hope in
her virginal bosom." He relapsed into silence, while I glanced at him out
of the corner of my eye. A strange individual, I reflected: one, somehow,
I could hardly place at the Traceys'. Now that he was sitting beside me
he seemed larger than ever--evidently a very powerful man. Moreover, his
face was rather of the type that one associates with pugilism. He
certainly had no claims to good looks, and yet there was something very
attractive about his expression.

"The Cat and Custard Pot," he remarked suddenly, and Jenkins touched his
hat.

"It's nearly an hour," he said, turning to me, "since I lowered any ale.
And I don't really know Bill Tracey well enough to reason with him about
his. The damned stuff isn't fit to drink."

The car pulled up outside a pub, and my companion descended. I refused
his invitation to join him--ale is not a favourite beverage of mine--and
remained sitting in the car. The afternoon was warm, the air heavy with
the scent of flowers from a neighbouring garden. And in the distance one
got a glimpse of the peaceful Thames. Peaceful--the mot juste: everything
was peaceful in that charming corner of England. And with a feeling of
drowsy contentment I lay back and half closed my eyes.

I don't know what drew my attention to them first--the two men who were
sitting at one of the little tables under a tree. Perhaps it was that
they didn't seem quite to fit in with their surroundings. Foreigners, I
decided, and yet it was more from the cut of their clothes than from
their actual faces that I came to the conclusion. They weren't talking,
but every now and then they stole a glance at the door by which Drummond
had gone in. And then one of them turned suddenly and stared long and
earnestly at me.

"Who are those two men, Jenkins?" I said, leaning forward.

"Never seen 'em before today, sir," he answered. "But they was 'ere when
the Captain stopped for his pint on the way down. Lumme--look there."

I looked, and I must admit that for a moment or too I began to have
doubts as to Drummond's sanity. He had evidently come out by some other
door, and he was now standing behind the trunk of the tree under which
the men were sitting. They were obviously quite unaware of his presence,
and if such a thing hadn't been inconceivable I should have said he was
deliberately eavesdropping. Anyway, the fact remains that for nearly half
a minute he stood there absolutely motionless, whilst I watched the scene
in frank amazement. Then one of the two men happened to glance at me, and
I suppose my face must have given something away. He nudged his
companion, and the two of them rose to their feet just as Drummond
stepped out from behind the tree.

"Good afternoon, my pretties," he burbled genially. "Are we staying long
in Pangbourne's happy clime--or are we not?"

"Who the devil are you, sir?" said one of the men, speaking perfect
English, except for a slightly guttural accent.

Drummond took out his case and selected a cigarette with care.

"Surely," he remarked pleasantly, "your incompetence cannot be as
astounding as all that. Tush! tush!--"; he lifted a hand like a leg of
mutton as the man who had spoken started forward angrily. "I will push
your face in later, if necessary, but just at the moment I would like a
little chat. And since the appearance of you both is sufficient to shake
any man to the foundations, let us not waste time over unnecessary
questions."

"Look here," snarled the other angrily, "do you want a rough house, young
man?"

"Rough house?" said Drummond mildly. "What is a rough house? Surely you
cannot imagine for one minute that I would so far demean myself as to
lift my hand in anger against my neighbour."

And then the most extraordinary thing happened. I was watching the
strange scene very closely, wondering really whether I ought not to
interfere--yet even so I didn't see how it was done. It was so incredibly
quick, and as far as I could tell, Drummond never moved.

The two men seemed to close in on him suddenly with the idea obviously of
hustling him out of the garden. And they didn't hustle him out of the
garden. Far from it. There came a noise as of two hard bodies impinging
together, and the gentleman who had not yet spoken recoiled a pace,
holding his nose and cursing.

I sympathized with him: it is a singularly painful thing to hit one's
nose hard on somebody else's head. In fact, the only completely unmoved
person was Drummond himself.

"You shouldn't kiss in public places, laddies," he remarked sadly. "It
might make the barmaid jealous. And I do declare his little nosey-posey
is beginning to bleed. If you ask the chauffeur nicely he might lend you
a spanner to put down your back."

The two men stood there glaring at him, and they were not a prepossessing
pair. And then the one who had done the talking drew his friend of the
damaged nose on one side, and spoke to him in a low tone. He seemed to be
urging some course on the other which the latter was unwilling to accept.

"My God, sir," muttered Jenkins to me, "the bloke with the bleeding nose
has got a knife."

"Look out. Captain Drummond," I called out. "That man has a knife."

"I know, old lad," he answered. "He's been playing at pirates. Not going,
surely? Why, we've never had our little chat."

But without a backward glance, the two men passed through the gate and
started walking rapidly down the road in the direction of the station.
And after a time Drummond sauntered over to the car and got in.

"After which breezy little interlude," he murmured, "the powerful car
again swung forward, devouring mile after mile."

"Would you very much mind explaining?" I remarked dazedly.

"Explaining?" he said. "What is there to explain?"

"Do you usually go about the country molesting perfect strangers? Who are
those men?"

"I dunno," he answered. "But they knew me all right." He was staring at
the road ahead and frowning. "It's impossible," he muttered at length.
"And yet--"

He relapsed into silence, while I still gazed at him in amazement. "But,"
I cried, "it's astounding. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I
couldn't have believed it possible."

He grinned suddenly. "I suppose it was a bit disconcerting," he answered.
"But we're moving in deep waters, laddie--or, rather, I am. And I tell
you frankly I don't quite know where I am. Why should those two blokes
have followed me down here?"

"Then you have seen them before?"

He shook his head. "No. At least, I saw them when I stopped for some ale
on the way down to the station. And they aren't very clever at it."

"Clever at what?"

"The little game of observing without being observed. Apart from their
appearance, which made them stick out a mile when seen in an English
country inn, the man whose nose suffered slightly positively hissed into
the other's ear when he first saw me. In fact, I very nearly dealt with
them then and there, only I was afraid I'd be late for your train."

"But why should they follow you?" I persisted. "What's the idea?"

"I wish to God I knew," he answered gravely. "I don't think I'm losing my
nerve, or anything of that sort--but I'm absolutely in the dark. Almost
as much as you are, in fact. I loathe this waiting game."

"Of course," I remarked resignedly, "I suppose I am not insane. I suppose
there is some sense in all this, though at the moment I'm damned if I can
see it."

"Presumably you read Kipling?" he said suddenly. I stared at him in
silence--speech was beyond me. "A month ago," he continued calmly, "I
received this."

From his breast pocket he took a slip of paper, and handed it to me. On
it some lines were written in an obviously feminine hand.

'When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear, thus accosted, rends the peasant tooth and nail
And the point, I warn you, Drummond, is discovered in the tail.'

I handed the paper back to him.

"What do you make of it?" he asked.

"It looks like a stupid joke," I said. "Do you know the writing?"

He shook his head.

"No; I don't. So you think it's a joke, do you?"

"My dear sir," I cried, "what else can it be? I confess that at the
moment I forget the poem, but the first three lines are obviously
Kipling. Equally obviously the fourth is not."

"Precisely," he agreed with a faint smile. "I got as far as that myself.
And so it was the fourth line that attracted my attention. It seemed to
me that the message, if any, would be found in it. It was."

"What is the fourth line?" I asked curiously.

"'For the female of the species is more deadly than the male'" he
answered.

"But, surely," I cried in amazement, "you can't take a thing like that
seriously. It's probably a foolish hoax sent you by some girl you cut at
a night club."

I laughed a little irritably: for a man to take such a message in earnest
struck me as being childish to a degree. A stupid jest played by some
silly girl, with a penchant for being mysterious. Undoubtedly, I
reflected, the man was a fool. And, anyway, what had it got to do with
the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot?

"'The female of the species is more deadly than the male,'" he repeated,
as if he hadn't heard my remark. "No hoax about it, old lad; no jest,
believe you me. Just a plain and simple warning. And now the game has
begun."

For a moment or two I wondered if he was pulling my leg; but he was so
deadly serious that I realized that he, at any rate, believed it was
genuine. And my feeling of irritation grew. What an ass the man must be!
"What game?" I asked sarcastically. "Playing peep-bo behind the trees?"

He let out a sudden roar of laughter.

"You probably think I'm bughouse, don't you?" he cried. "Doesn't matter.
The only real tragedy of the day is that the cook didn't back Moongazer
each way."

Once again he relapsed into silence as the car rolled through the gates
of the Traceys' house.

"Good intelligence work," he said thoughtfully. "We only decided to come
down here yesterday. But I wish to the Lord you'd learn to control your
face. If you hadn't given a lifelike representation of a gargoyle in pain
I might have heard something of interest from those two blighters."

"Confound you!" I spluttered angrily.

"You couldn't help it." He waved a vast hand, and beat me on the back. "I
ought to have warned you. Must have looked a bit odd. But it's a pity--"

The car pulled up at the door, and he got out.

"Little Willie wants a drink," he remarked to Tracey, who came out to
greet us. "His nervous system has had a shock. By the way, where's
Phyllis?"

"Playing tennis," said our host, and Drummond strolled off in the
direction of the lawn.

"Look here. Bill," I cried when he was out of earshot, "is that man all
there?"

"Hugh Drummond all there?" he laughed. "Very few men in England more so.
Why?"

"Well, if he hits me on the back again I shan't be. He's rammed my braces
through my spine. But, honestly, I thought the man was mad. He's been
talking the most appalling hot air on the way up, and he assaulted two
complete strangers at the Cat and Custard Pot."

Bill Tracey stared at me in surprise. "Assaulted two strangers at the Cat
and Custard Pot!" he repeated. "What on earth did he do that for?"

"Ask me another," I said irritably. "Two foreign-looking men."

"That's funny," he remarked thoughtfully. "Rodgers--the gardener--was
telling me only a few minutes ago that he had seen two foreign-looking
men hanging round the house this morning, and had told them to clear off.
I wonder if they were the same."

"Probably," I said. "But the fact that they were hanging round here
hardly seems an adequate reason for Captain Drummond's behaviour. In
fact, my dear Bill--What's the matter?"

He was staring over my shoulder in the direction of the lawn, and I swung
round. Drummond was running towards us over the grass, and there was a
peculiar strained look on his face. He passed us without a word, and went
up the stairs two at a time. We heard a door flung open, and then we saw
him leaning out of his bedroom window.

"I don't like it, Algy," he said. "Not one little bit."

A somewhat vacuous-looking individual with an eyeglass had joined us,
whom the remark was obviously addressed to.

"Ain't she there, old bean?" he remarked.

"Not a trace," answered the other, disappearing from view.

"Can't understand old Hugh," remarked the newcomer plaintively. "I've
never seen him in this condition before. If I didn't think it was
impossible I should say he'd got the wind up."

"What's stung you all?" said Bill Tracey. "Isn't Mrs Drummond playing
tennis?"

"She was--after lunch," answered Algy. "Then she got a note. Your butler
wallah brought it out to her on the court. It seemed to upset her a bit,
for she stopped at once and came into the house."

"Where," remarked Drummond, who had joined us, "she changed her clothes.
It was a note, was it, Algy: not a letter? I mean, did you happen to
notice if there was a stamp on the envelope?"

"As a matter of fact, old lad, I particularly noticed there was not. I
was sitting next her when she took it."

The butler passed us at that moment, carrying the tea things.

"Parker," said Drummond quietly, "you gave a note to Mrs Drummond this
afternoon, I understand."

"I did, sir," answered the butler.

"Did you take it yourself at the front door?"

"I did, sir."

"Who delivered it?"

"A man, sir, who I did not know. A stranger to the neighbourhood, I
gathered."

"Why?" snapped Drummond.

"Because, sir, he asked me the nearest way to the station."

"Thank you, Parker," said Drummond quietly. "Algy, it's quicker than I
expected. Hullo! Jenkins, do you want me?"

The chauffeur touched his cap.

"Well, sir, you know you asked me to adjust your carburettor for you. I
was just wondering if you could tell me when the car will be back."

"Be back?" said Drummond. "What do you mean?"

"Why, sir, the Bentley ain't in the garage. I thought as 'ow Mrs Drummond
had probably taken it out."

And if anything had been needed to confirm my opinion that this vast
individual was a little peculiar, I got it then. He lifted his two
enormous fists above his head and shook them at the sky. I could see the
great muscles rippling under his sleeves, and instinctively I recoiled a
step.

The man looked positively dangerous.

"Thrice and unutterably damned fool that I am," he muttered. "But how
could I tell it would come so soon?"

"My dear fellow," said Bill Tracey, gazing at him apprehensively, "surely
there is nothing to get excited about. Mrs Drummond is a very good
driver."

"Driver be jiggered," cried Drummond. "If it was only a question of
driving I wouldn't mind. I'm afraid they've got her. For the Lord's sake,
give me a pint of ale. Yours is pretty bad--but it's better than
nothing."

And then he suddenly turned on me of all people.

"If only you could have kept your face in its place, little man, I might
have heard something. Still, it can't be helped. God made you like it."

"Really," I protested angrily, but this extraordinary individual had gone
indoors again. "The man is positively insulting."

"Nothing to what he can be if he dislikes you," said the being called
Algy placidly. "He'll be all right after he's had his beer."



Chapter 2. In Which I Find a Deserted Motor Car


Now, in view of the fact that this is my first essay in literature, I
realize that many of my relatives may feel it their bounden duty to buy
the result. Several, I know, will borrow a copy from one another, or else
will endeavour to touch me for one of the six free copies which, I am
given to understand, the author receives on publication. But most of
them, in one way or another, will read it. And I am particularly anxious,
bearing in mind the really astounding situations in which I found myself
later, that no misconception should exist in their minds as to my mood at
the beginning.

Particularly Uncle Percy--the Dean of Wolverhampton. He is, I am glad to
say, a man of advanced years and considerable wealth. He is also
unmarried, a fact which has never occasioned me great surprise. But few
women exist who would be capable of dealing with his intellect or
digestion, and so far he does not seem to have met one of them. For his
benefit, then, and that of others who know me personally, I may state
that when I saw Captain Drummond engaged in the operation, as he called
it, of 'golluping his beer with zest', I was extremely angry. He, on the
contrary, seemed to have recovered his spirits. No longer did he shake
his fists in the air; on the contrary, a most depressing noise issued
from his mouth as he put down the empty tankard on the table. He appeared
to be singing, and, incredible though it may seem, to derive some
pleasure from the operation. The words of his dirge seemed to imply that
the more we were together the merrier we would be--a statement to which I
took the gravest exception.

I was to learn afterwards the amazing way in which this amazing
individual could throw off a serious mood and become positively
hilarious. For instance--on this occasion--having delivered himself of
this deplorable sentiment, he advanced towards me. Fearing another blow
on the back, I retreated rapidly, but he no longer meditated assault. He
desired apparently to examine my cuff-links, a thing which did not strike
me as being in the best of taste.

"You approve, I trust?" I said sarcastically.

He shook his head sadly.

"I feared as much," he remarked. "Or have you left 'em at home?" he added
hopefully.

I turned to Bill Tracey. "Have you turned this place into a private
lunatic asylum?" I demanded.

And all Bill did was to shout with laughter. "Cheer up, Joe," he said.
"You'll learn our little ways soon."

"Doubtless," I remarked stiffly. "In the meantime I think I'll go and
have some tea."

I crossed the lawn to find several people I knew assembled in the
summerhouse. And, having paid my respects to my hostess, and been
introduced to two or three strangers, I sat down with a feeling of relief
beside Tomkinson, a dear old friend of mine.

"Really," I said to him under cover of the general conversation, "there
seem to be some very extraordinary people in this party. Who and what is
that enormous man who calls himself Drummond?"

He laughed, and lit a cigarette. "He does strike one as a bit odd at
first, doesn't he? But as a matter of fact, your adjective was right. He
is an extraordinary man. He did some feats of strength for us last night
that wouldn't have disgraced a professional strong man."

"He nearly smashed my spine," I said grimly, "giving it a playful tap."

"He is not communicative about himself," went on Tomkinson. "And what
little I know about him I have learned from that fellow with the
eyeglass--Algy Longworth--who incidentally regards him as only one degree
lower than the Almighty. He has got a very charming wife."

He glanced round the party.

"You won't see her here," I remarked. "She has apparently taken his
Bentley and gone out in it alone. Having discovered this fact, he first
of all announces 'They've got her!' in blood-curdling tones, and then
proceeds to lower inordinate quantities of ale. And his behaviour coming
up from the station--"

"What's that you said?"

A man whose face was vaguely familiar turned and stared at me.

"Why, surely you're Mr Darrell!" I cried. "You play for Middlesex?"

He nodded.

"I do--sometimes. But what's that you were saying about Drummond having
said 'They've got her?'"

"Just that--and nothing more," I answered. "As I was telling Tomkinson,
Mrs Drummond has apparently gone out in his Bentley alone, and when he
heard of it he said, 'They've got her.' But who 'they' are I can't tell
you."

"Good God!" His face had suddenly become grave. "There must be a mistake.
And yet Hugh doesn't make mistakes."

He made the last remark under his breath.

"It all seems a little hard to follow," I murmured with mild sarcasm. But
he paid no attention: he had glanced up quickly, and was staring over my
shoulder.

"What's this I hear about Phyllis, old boy?" he said.

"The Lord knows, Peter." Drummond was standing there with a queer look on
his face. "She got a note delivered here by a stranger. It came while I
was at the station. And Algy said it seemed to upset her. Anyway, she
went indoors and changed, and then went out alone in the Bentley."

A silence had fallen on the party which was broken by our hostess. "But
why should that worry you. Captain Drummond? Your wife often drives, she
tells me."

"She knows no one in this neighbourhood. Mrs Tracey, except your good
selves," answered Drummond quietly. "So who could have sent a note here
to be delivered by hand?"

"Well, evidently somebody did," I remarked. "And when Mrs Drummond
returns you'll find out who it was."

I spoke somewhat coldly: the man was becoming a bore.

"If she ever does return," he answered.

I regret to state that I laughed.

"My dear sir," I cried, "don't be absurd. You surely can't believe, or
expect us to believe, that some evilly-disposed persons are abducting
your wife in broad daylight and in the middle of England?"

But he still stood there with that queer look on his face. "Peter," he
said, "I want to have a bit of a talk with you."

Darrell rose instantly, and the two of them strolled away together.
"Really," I remarked irritably, when they were out of earshot, "the thing
is perfectly preposterous. Is he doing it as a joke, or what?" Algy
Longworth had joined them, and the three of them were standing in the
middle of the lawn talking earnestly.

"I must say it does all seem very funny," agreed our hostess. "And yet
Captain Drummond isn't the sort of man to make stupid jokes of that
sort."

"You mean," I said incredulously, "that he really believes that someone
may be abducting his wife? My dear Mary, don't be so ridiculous. Why
should anyone abduct his wife?"

"He's led a very strange life since the War," she answered. "I confess I
don't know much about it myself--neither he nor his friends are very
communicative. But I know he got mixed up with a gang of criminals."

"I am not surprised," I murmured under my breath.

"I'm not very clear about what happened," went on Mary Tracey. "But
finally Captain Drummond was responsible somehow or other for the death
of the leader of the gang. And a woman, who had been this man's mistress,
was left behind."

I stared at her: absurd, of course, but that bit of doggerel at the end
of Kipling's verse came back to me. And then common-sense reasserted
itself. This was England, not a country where secret societies nourished
and strange vendettas took place. The whole thing was a mere coincidence.
What connection could there possibly be between the two men at the Cat
and Custard Pot and the fact that Mrs Drummond had gone out alone in a
motor car?

"It seems," Mary Tracey was speaking again, "from what Bill tells me,
that this woman vowed vengeance on Captain Drummond. I know it sounds
very fantastic, and I expect we shall all laugh about it when Phyllis
gets back. And yet--" she hesitated for a moment. "Oh! I don't want to be
silly, but I do wish she'd come back soon."

"But, Mrs Tracey," said someone reassuringly, "there can be no danger.
What could happen to her?"

"I quite agree," I remarked. "If on every occasion a woman went out alone
in a motor car her friends and relations panicked about her being
abducted, life would become a hideous affair."

And then by tacit consent the subject dropped, and we dispersed about our
lawful occasions. I didn't see Drummond, but Darrell and Longworth were
practising putting on the other side of the lawn. I strolled over and
joined them.

"Your large friend," I laughed, "seems to have put the wind up most of
the ladies in the party fairly successfully."

But they neither of them seemed to regard it as a subject for mirth.

"Let us hope it will end at that," said Darrell gravely. "I confess that
I have rarely been so uneasy in my life."

And that, mark you, from a man who played for Middlesex! Really, I
reflected, the thing was ceasing to be funny. And I was just getting a
suitable remark ready, when Longworth suddenly straightened up and stared
across the lawn. Bill Tracey was coming towards us, and at his side was a
police sergeant. And Bill Tracey's face was serious.

"Where's Drummond?" he called out.

"He said he was going to stroll down to the river," said Darrell.

He cupped his mouth with his hands and let out a shout that startled the
rooks for miles around. And very faintly from the distance came an
answering cry.

"What's happened?" he said curtly.

"I don't know," answered Bill uneasily. "Quite possibly it's capable of
some simple explanation. Apparently the Bentley has been found empty.
However, we'd better wait till Drummond comes, and then the sergeant can
tell his story."

I noticed Darrell glance significantly at Longworth; then he calmly
resumed the study of a long putt. With a bang the ball went into the
hole, and he straightened himself up.

"My game, Algy. So Hugh was right: I was afraid of it. Here he comes."

We watched him breasting the hill that led down to the river, running
with the long, easy stride of the born athlete. And it's curious how
little things strike one at times. I remember noticing as he came up that
his breathing was as normal as my own, though he must have run the best
part of a quarter of a mile.

"What's up?" he said curtly, his eyes fixed on the sergeant.

"Are you Captain Drummond?" remarked the officer, producing a notebook.

"I am."

"Of 5a, Upper Brook Street?" He was reading these details from the book
in his hand.

Drummond nodded. "Yes."

"You have a red Bentley car numbered ZZ 103?"

"I have," said Drummond.

With maddening deliberation the worthy sergeant replaced his notebook in
his breast pocket. And another curious little thing struck me: though
Drummond must have been on edge with suspense, no sign of impatience
showed in his face.

"Have you been out in that car today, sir?"

"I have not," said Drummond. "But my wife has."

"Was she alone, sir?"

"To the best of my belief she was," answered Drummond. "She left here
when I was down at the station in Mr Tracey's car meeting this
gentleman."

The sergeant nodded his head portentously. "Well, sir, I have to report
to you that your car has been found empty standing by the side of the
road not far from the village of Tidmarsh."

"How did you know I was here?" said Drummond quietly.

"The constable who found the car, sir, saw your name and address printed
on a plate on the instrument board. So he went to the nearest telephone
and rang up your house in London. And your servant told him you was
stopping down here. So he rang up at the station in Pangbourne."

"But why take all the trouble?" said Drummond even more quietly. "Surely
there's nothing very extraordinary about an empty car beside the road?"

"No, sir," agreed the sergeant. "There ain't. That's true. But the
constable further reported"--his voice was grave--"that he didn't like
the look of the car. He said it struck him that there had been some sort
of struggle."

"I see," said Drummond. Quite calmly he turned to Darrell.

"Peter--your Sunbeam, and hump yourself. Algy--ring up Ted and Toby, and
tell 'em they're wanted. Put up at the hotel. Sergeant--you come with me.
Tracey, ring up the railway station and find out if two foreign-looking
men have been seen there this afternoon. If so, did they take tickets,
and for what destination? Let's move."

And we moved. Gone in a flash was the large and apparently brainless ass;
in his place was a man accustomed to lead, and accustomed to instant
obedience. Heaven knows why I got into the Sunbeam: presumably because I
was the only person who had received no definite instructions. And
Drummond evinced no surprise when he found me sitting beside him in the
back seat. The sergeant, a little dazed at such rapidity of action, was
in front with Darrell, and except for him none of us even had a hat.

"Tell us the way. Sergeant," said Drummond, as we swung through the
gates. "And let her out, Peter."

And Peter let her out. The worthy policeman gasped feebly once or twice
concerning speed limits, but no one took the faintest notice, so that
after a time he resigned himself to the inevitable and concentrated on
holding on his hat. And I, having no hat to hold on, concentrated on the
man beside me.

He seemed almost unaware of my existence. He sat there, motionless save
for the swaying of the car, staring in front of him. His face was set and
grave, and every now and then he shook his head as if he had arrived at
an unpleasant conclusion in his train of thought.

My own thoughts were frankly incoherent. Somehow or other I still
couldn't believe that the matter was serious--certainly not as serious as
Drummond seemed to think. And  yet my former scepticism was shaken, I
confess. If what the sergeant said was right: if there were signs of a
struggle in the car, it was undoubtedly sufficiently serious to make it
very unpleasant. But I still refused to believe that the whole thing was
not capable of some simple solution. A tramp, perhaps, seeing that an
approaching car contained a woman alone had stopped it by the simple
expedient of standing in the middle of the road. Then he had attacked Mrs
Drummond with the idea of getting her money.

Unpleasant, as I say--very unpleasant. But quite ordinary. A very
different matter to all this absurd twaddle about gangs of criminals and
dead men's mistresses. Moreover, I reflected, with a certain amount of
satisfaction, there was another thing that proved my theory. On
Drummond's own showing he attached considerable importance to the two
foreign-looking men at the Cat and Custard Pot. Now it was utterly
impossible that they could have had anything to do with it since they
were sitting there in the garden at the very time that Mrs Drummond must
have left Tracey's house in the car. Which completely knocked Drummond's
conclusion on the head. The whole thing was simply a coincidence, and I
said as much to the man beside me. He listened in silence.

"Ever been ratting?" he asked when I'd finished.

Once more did I stare at this extraordinary individual in amazement. What
on earth had that got to do with it?

"Well--have you?" he repeated when I didn't answer.

"In the days of my youth I believe I did," I answered. "Though the exact
bearing of a boyish pastime on the point at issue is a little obscure."

"Then it oughtn't to be," he remarked curtly. "It's only obscure because
your grey matter is torpid. When a party of you go ratting, you put a
bloke at every hole you know of before you start to bolt your rats."

He relapsed again into silence, and so did I. The confounded fellow
seemed to have an answer for everything. And then just ahead of us we saw
the deserted car.

A constable was standing beside it, and a group of four or five children
were looking on curiously. It stood some three or four feet from the
left-hand side of the road, so that there was only just room for another
car to pass. And the road itself at this point ran through a small
wood--barely more than a copse.

"You've moved nothing. Constable?" said the sergeant.

"Just as I found it. Sergeant."

We crowded round the car and looked inside. It was an ordinary open
touring model, and it was obvious at once that there were signs which
indicated a struggle. The rug, for instance, instead of being folded, was
half over the front seat and half in the back of the car. A lady's
handkerchief, crumpled up, was lying just behind the steering-wheel, and
one of the covers which was fastened to the upholstery by means of press
studs, was partially wrenched off. It was the cover for of the side
doors, and underneath it was a pocket for maps and papers.

"This is your car, sir?" asked the sergeant formally.

"It is," said Drummond, and once more we fell silent.

There was something sinister about that deserted car. One felt an insane
longing that the rug could speak, that a thrush singing in the drowsy
heat on a tree dose by could tell us what had happened. Its head, of
course, was pointed away from Pangbourne, and suddenly Drummond gave an
exclamation. He was looking at the road some fifteen yards in front of
the bonnet.

At first I noticed nothing, though my sight is as good as most men's. And
it wasn't until I got close to die place that I could see what had
attracted his attention. Covered with dust was a pool of black
lubricating oil--and covered so well that only the sharpest eye would
have detected it.

"That accounts for one thing, anyway," said Drummond quietly.

"What is that, sir?" remarked the sergeant, with considerable respect in
his voice. I was evidently not the only one who had been impressed with
the keenness of Drummond's sight.

"I know my wife's driving better than anybody else," he answered, "and,
under normal circumstances, if she pulled up, she would instinctively get
into the side of the road. So the first question I asked myself was why
she had stopped with the car where it is. She was either following
another car which pulled up in front of her, or she came round the corner
and found it stationary in the middle of the road, not leaving her room
to pass. And the owners of the car that did not leave her room to pass
wanted to conceal the fact that they had been here, if possible. So,
finding they had leaked oil, they tried to cover it up. God! if only the
Bentley could talk."

It was over in a moment--that sudden, natural spasm of feeling, and he
was the same cool, imperturbable man again. And I felt my admiration for
him growing. Criminal gangs or no criminal gangs, it's a damnable thing
to stand on the spot where an hour or two earlier your wife has been the
victim of some dastardly outrage, and feel utterly impotent to do
anything.

"Do you think it's possible to track that car?" said Darrell. We walked
along the road for a considerable distance, but it was soon obvious that
the idea was impossible. Far too much traffic had been along previously,
and since there had been no rain the chance of following some distinctive
tyre marking had gone. "Hopeless," said Drummond heavily. "Absolutely
hopeless. Hullo! one of those kids has found something."

They were running towards us in a body led by a little boy who was waving
some object in his hand.

"Found this, governor, in the grass beside the road," he piped out.

"My God!" said Drummond, staring at it with dilated eyes.

For "this" was a large spanner, and one end was stained a dull red.
Moreover, the red was still damp, and when he touched it, it came off on
his finger. Blood. And the question which rose in all of our minds, and
the question which none of us dared to answer was--Whose? I say, none of
us dared to answer it out loud. I think we all of us had answered it to
ourselves.

"You don't recognize the spanner, I suppose, sir?" said the sergeant. "Is
it one from your car or not?"

"I do recognize it," answered Drummond. "It's the regular set spanner I
keep in the pocket with the maps and papers and not in the toolbox,
because it fits the nut of the petrol tank."

"The pocket that was wrenched open," I put in, and he nodded.

"Show us just where you found it, nipper," said the sergeant, and we all
trooped back to the Bentley.

"Here, sir," said the urchin. "Behind that there stone." He was pointing
to a place just about level with the bonnet, and it required no keenness
of vision such as had been necessary to spot the dust-covered pool of oil
to see the next clue. From the stone where the spanner had been found to
a point in the grass opposite where the other car must have stood, there
stretched a continuous trail of ominous red spots. Some were big, and
some were small, but the line was unbroken. Blood once again--and once
again the same unspoken question.

"Well, sir," said the sergeant gravely, "it's obvious that there has been
foul play. I think the best thing I can do is to get back to the station
and phone Scotland Yard. We want a lookout kept all over the country for
a motorcar containing a wounded lady."

Drummond gave a short laugh.

"Don't be too sure of that, sergeant," he remarked. "It was only my wife
who knew where that spanner was kept. I should be more inclined, if I
were you, to keep a lookout for a motor containing a wounded man. Though
I tell you candidly if this thing is what I think it is--or, rather, what
I know it is--you're wasting your time."

And not another word would he say.



Chapter 3. In Which I Get it in the Neck


It was hopeless, of course, as I think we all realized from the
beginning. But it was impossible to sit still and do nothing. And for the
rest of that afternoon, until long past the time for dinner, we scoured
the country. Drummond drove the Bentley alone--he was in no mood for
talking--and I went with Darrell.

It was in the course of that wearisome and fruitless search that I began
to understand things a little more clearly. My companion amplified Mary
Tracey's vague remarks, until I began to ask myself if I was dreaming.
That this affair was the work of no ordinary person was obvious, but for
a long time I believed that he must be exaggerating. Some of the things
he told me sounded too incredible.

They concerned a man called Carl Peterson, who, it appeared, had been the
head of the gang our hostess had alluded to. This man was none other than
Wilmot, of airship  fame. I, naturally, remembered the name
perfectly--just as I remembered the destruction of his airship,
mercifully after all the passengers had disembarked. Wilmot himself was
killed--burned to death, as were the rest of the crew.

And here was Darrell, in the most calm and matter-of-fact way, stating
something completely different.

"I was one of the passengers that night," he said. "I know. Wilmot--or,
rather Peterson, as we prefer to call him--was not burned to death. He
was killed by Drummond."

"Killed!" I gasped. "Good God! what for?"

Darrell smiled grimly.

"It was long overdue," he answered. "But that was the first opportunity
there had been of actually doing it."

"And this woman knows that he killed him?" I said.

"No--and yes," he said. "She was not there at the time, but four days
later she met Drummond by the wreckage of the airship. And she told him
the exact hour when Peterson had died. I don't know how to account for
it. Some form of telepathy, I suppose. She also told him that they would
meet again. And this is the beginning of the meeting."

"So that verse was sent by her, was it?"

He nodded.

"But it seems rather an extraordinary thing to do," I persisted. "Why go
out of your way to warn a person?"

"She is rather an extraordinary woman," he answered. "She is also a most
terribly dangerous one. Like all women who have a kink, they are more
extreme than men. And I don't mind telling you, Dixon, that I'm
positively sick with anxiety over this show. An eye for an eye, and a
tooth for a tooth--you know the old tag? I'm afraid it's going to be a
life for a life."

"You mean they may kill Mrs Drummond?" I cried in horror.

"Just that and nothing more," he said gravely. "Drummond killed her
lover: she will kill his wife. She would have no more scruples over so
doing than you would have over treading on a wasp. The only thing
is--does it suit her book? Is she going to try and get Drummond into her
power by using his wife as a lever? And only time will tell us that."

"What sort of a woman is she?" I said curiously.

"To look at she is tall, dark, and very soignee. She's handsome rather
than pretty, and I should think has some Southern blood in her."  He
smiled slightly. "But don't run away with the impression that she'd be
likely to look like that if you met her. Far more probably would she be a
wizened-up crone covered with spectacles, or a portly dame with creaking
corsets. So much for her appearance. Her character is a thing to stand
aghast at. She has the criminal instinct developed to its highest degree:
she is absolutely without mercy: she is singularly able. How much, of
course, was her and how much Carl Peterson in the old days is a thing I
don't know. But even if it was him principally, to start with, she must
have profited considerably by seeing him at work. And a final point which
is just as important if not more so than those I've already given, she
must be a very wealthy woman. Peterson's life was not a wasted one as far
as other people's money was concerned."

"It sounds a tough proposition," I murmured.

"It is," he agreed gravely. "A damned tough proposition. In fact, Dixon,
there is only one ray of sunshine that I can see in the whole business.
To do them both justice, in the past they have never been crude in their
methods. In their own peculiar way they had a sense of art. If that sense
of art is stronger now with her than her primitive desire for revenge,
there's hope."

"I don't quite follow," I said.

"She will play the fish--the fish being us. To kill Mrs Drummond offhand
would be crude."

"I fail to see much comfort," I remarked, "in being played if the result
is going to be the same. It's only prolonging the agony."

"Quite so," he said quietly, "but is the result going to be the same?"

A peculiar smile flickered for a moment round his lip.

"You probably think I'm talking rot," he went on. "At least, that I'm
exaggerating grossly."

"Well," I admitted, "it's all a little hard to follow."

"Naturally. You've never struck any of these people before. We have. We
met them quite by accident at first, and since then we've almost become
old friends. We know their ways: they know ours. Sometimes we've fought
with the police on our side: sometimes we've fought a lone hand. And up
to date on balance we have won hands down. That is why I cannot help
feeling--at any rate hoping--that this woman would not  regard the slate
as being dean if she merely killed Mrs Drummond. It has been our wits
against theirs up till now. She wants much fuller revenge than such a
crude action as that would afford her."

"I am glad you feel optimistic over the prospect," I murmured. "Chacun a
son gout."

"Of course," he went on thoughtfully, "I may be wrong. If so--it's
hopeless from the start. They've got Drummond's wife: if they want to
they can kill her right away. But somehow or other--"

He broke off, staring at the road ahead. The light was of that
half-and-half description when headlamps are useless and driving is most
difficult.

"Anyway, I'm afraid this is a pretty hopeless quest," I said. "We don't
even know what sort of a car we are looking for--"

He touched the accelerator with his foot.

"What's that dark thing there beside the road?" he said. "It's a car
right enough, and you never can tell."

We drew up beside it, and the first thing I noticed was a pool of
lubricating oil in the road, under the back axle. Only a coincidence, of
course, I reflected, but I felt a sudden tingle of excitement. Could it
possibly be the car we were looking for?

We got out and walked up to it. The car was empty--the blinds of the back
windows drawn down. "We'd better be careful," I said a little nervously,
"the owner may be in the field."

"On the other hand, he may not," said Darrell coolly, and opened the
door.

It was an ordinary standard limousine, and at first sight there seemed
nothing out of the normal to be seen. There was no sign of disorder, as
there had been in the Bentley: the rug on the seat was carefully folded.
And it was almost mechanically that I opened one of the back doors, to
stand nearly frozen with horror at what I saw. The covering of the front
bucket seat beside the driver's was saturated with blood from the top
right down to the floorboards.

"Good God!" I muttered, "look here."

Darrell came and looked over my shoulder, and I heard him catch his
breath sharply.

"This evidently," he remarked, "is the car we are after. There's a torch
in the pocket of the Sunbeam: get it, like a good fellow."

By its light we examined the stain more closely. The average width was
about six inches, though it narrowed off towards the bottom. But one very
peculiar point about it was that near the top were a number of strange
loops and smears, stretching away out of the main stream. They were the
sort of smears that a child might make who had dipped its fingers in the
blood, and had then started to draw patterns.

"The person who sat in this seat must have bled like a pig," said Darrell
gravely. "From a wound in the head obviously."

Whose head? Who was it who had sat in the seat? Once again the same
ghastly question, unasked and unanswered, save in our own minds. But I
remember that to me all his hopes and ideas about crudeness and art
suddenly became rather pitiful. To me there seemed no doubt who it was
who had sat in that seat. And I felt thankful that Drummond wasn't there
with us.

One could picture the poor girl sitting there, probably unconscious, with
the blood welling out from some terrible wound in her head, while the
devil beside her drove remorselessly on. A hideous thought, but what
alternative was there?

"What do you make of it, Dixon?"

Darrell's voice cut into my thoughts.

"I'm afraid it's pretty obvious," I said. "And I'm afraid it rather
disposes of your hopes as to crudity and art. This is the crudest and
most brutal attack on a woman, that's all."

"You think so?" he said thoughtfully, "And yet it's all a little
difficult to understand. Why did they stop here? What has become of
them?"

"It's a road without much traffic," I answered. "Probably they changed
into another car to put people still more off the scent. Don't forget
that if they had garaged this car anywhere for the night they would have
had some pretty awkward questions to answer."

"That's true," he agreed. "And yet it presupposes that the thing had been
arranged beforehand."

"It probably was," I pointed out. "They were anyway going to change cars,
and the fact that the poor girl was so terribly wounded did not make them
alter their plans."

"But why mess up two cars?" he argued. "That's what I can't get at."

He once more switched the torch on to the stained cover.

"You know," he said, "those loops and smears puzzle me.  What on earth
can have caused them? What possible agency can have made that stream of
blood divert itself like that? Hold the torch a moment, will you? I'm
going to copy them into a notebook."

"My dear fellow," I remarked, "what on earth is the use? Do it if you
like, but I should say that the best thing we can do is to make tracks
for the nearest police station and give them the number of this car. We
want to find the owner."

"It won't take a moment," he said, "and then we'll push off. There--is
that about right?"

He handed me his rough sketch: a copy of it is before me, as I write.

[The book here includes a picture of a scrawled message]

"Yes," I remarked, "that's pretty well how  it looks. But I'm afraid it's
not going to help us much."

"You never can tell," he answered. "Those marks didn't come there
accidentally--that I swear. It's a message of sorts: I'm certain of it."

"It may be a message, but it's absolute gibberish," I retorted. "Now
don't you think we'd better push on to a police station. I've got the
number of this car--ZW 3214."

He looked at me thoughtfully.

"Can you drive my Sunbeam?" he said.

"I blush to admit it," I answered, "but I'm one of those extraordinary
people who have never driven a car in my life."

"That's a pity," he remarked. "Because I was going to propose that I
stopped here while you went. I think one of us ought to remain in case
anything happens."

"Good God!" I said, "hasn't enough happened already? However, I don't
mind staying. Only get a move on: I'm beginning to feel like dinner."

"Stout fellow," he cried. "I'll be as quick as I possibly can."

He got into his car, and in half a minute was out of sight.

Now as I have already explained I am not one of those fortunate
individuals to whom battle, murder, and sudden death come as the zest of
life. And honesty compels me to admit that at no period of my career have
I more bitterly regretted not having had lessons in driving. Moreover, I
am essentially a town man: the country always seems to me to be so full
of strange noises. Especially at night--and it was dark by now.

I lit a cigarette--quite unaware of the horror with which Drummond would
have viewed such a proceeding. To see and not be seen, to hear and not be
heard, was a dictum of his I was to learn later.

All sorts of weird whispering sounds came to my ears as I stood there
beside the car. And once I gave a terrific start as a shrill scream came
from the field close by.

"An animal," I reflected angrily. "A. rabbit caught by a stoat. Don't be
such a fool."

I began pacing up and down the middle of the road, conscious of an absurd
desire for someone to speak to, even if it was only an inebriated farm
labourer. And then by way of forcing discipline on my mind, I made myself
go over the whole amazing business from the beginning.

What was the letter that had made Mrs Drummond leave the house? Where did
the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot come in? Why had this car stopped
here and what had happened after? And finally those strange smears. Were
they indeed some message, and if so who had written it? Was it that poor
girl trying to write some final communication as she felt her life
slipping away from her?

My thoughts turned to Drummond, and I felt most bitterly sorry for my
earlier sarcasm. Still, there had been some excuse: I defy any ordinary
person to have viewed his behaviour without feeling some doubts as to his
sanity. The fact remained, however, that I owed him the most abject
apology. Not that my apology would be much use to the poor devil in
exchange for his wife.

I ground my cigarette out with my heel, and stared down the road. Surely
it was about time for Darrell to get back. And as I stood there leaning
against the bonnet, a bird got up with a sharp cry from a point in the
hedge some hundred yards away. It was the cry of sudden alarm from which
a poacher might have read much, but I read nothing.

And then a twig cracked: I heard it distinctly and stiffened.
Another--and yet another, whilst I stood there motionless peering into
the darkness. Did my eyes deceive me, or was there something dark moving
cautiously along the grass beside the road, in the shadow of the hedge? I
recalled times in France when strange things took shape in No-Man's-Land:
when men became as bushes and bushes as men. And putting my hand to my
forehead I found it was wet with sweat.

I listened again: all was silent. The stealthy mover, if there was a
mover, was moving no more. My imagination probably, and with a shaking
hand I extracted my cigarette case. Damn it! what was there to be
frightened at?

"Lawks sakes--look at this 'ere!"

The voice came from the hedge not ten yards away, and in my fright I
dropped my case in the road. Then with an effort I pulled myself
together: to be frightened at my time of life by a mere yokel was not
good for one's pride.

"Look 'e 'ere, mister."

"Where are you?" I said. "I can't see you."

The fellow gave a cackling laugh which made me think he was not quite
right in his head. And then came another remark which caused me to start
forward in horror.

"A dead 'un."

"Where?" I cried, moving towards him slowly. My mouth felt suddenly dry.
It required all my will power to force myself to go. I knew what I was
going to see: I knew that there in the darkness just ahead of me I would
find some half-witted yokel staring inquisitively at the body of the
unfortunate girl. There would be a terrible wound in her head, and at
each step I took my reluctance increased. I loathed the thought of having
definite proof: up to date there had been a doubt, however shadowy.

"Where?" I said thickly, once again, and then I saw him just in front.
His back was towards me, and he was bending over something that lay in
the ditch close to the hedge. He was chuckling to himself in an idiotic
way, and I heard a voice croak at him: "Shut up!" It was my own.

I reached his side, and bent over, too. And for a moment or two I stood
there staring, hardly able to believe my eyes. True, a body was there,
lying in that peculiar twisted position which tells its own tale. True,
there was a terrible wound in the head, dearly visible even in the
darkness. But it was not a woman; it was a man. And the feeling of relief
was stupendous.

I turned to the yokel foolishly: turned and froze into immobility. The
idiotic chuckling had ceased, and the face that was thrust near mine wore
a sarcastic smile.

"Too easy," he remarked.

A pair of hands fastened on my throat, and I began to struggle
desperately. Dimly I realized that it was a trap: that the man had been
acting a part so as to draw me into an advantageous position in which to
attack me. And then all other thoughts were blotted out by the appalling
knowledge that as far as strength went I was a child in his hands. There
was a roaring in my ears, a ghastly tightness in my throat. And I
remember that my last coherent thought before I became unconscious was
that if Drummond had been in my place the result would have been very
different.

It was fitting, therefore, that the first man I should see when I opened
my eyes was Drummond himself. For a moment or two I couldn't remember
what had happened, and I stared foolishly around. I was lying on the
grass beside the road, and my head and coat were sopping wet. Drummond
with Darrell and another man were standing close to me in the light of
the headlamps of a car.

"Hullo!" I said feebly.

They swung round.

"Hullo! little man," said Drummond. "You gave us a nasty shock. What fun
and laughter have you been engaged in?"

"Where's the dead man?" I cried, sitting up.

They all stared at me.

"What's that?" said Drummond slowly. "A dead man, you say?"

I struggled to my feet, and stood swaying dizzily.

"Steady, old man," said Drummond. "Easy does it."

"There was a dead man," I repeated, and then I stared round. "Where's the
other car?"

"Precisely," agreed Drummond. "Where is it? It wasn't here when we
arrived."

"Not here," I repeated stupidly, "I don't understand. What's happened?"

"That's easily told," said Drummond. "By mere chance I ran into Peter at
the police station, and when I heard what you'd found I came along with
him and this officer. We must   have gone half a mile beyond here before
he knew we'd gone too far. So we turned and came back. And the pool of
oil told us where the car had been. Peter knew you couldn't drive, so we
thought you must have been abducted in the car. And then quite by chance
the officer found you in the ditch. You looked like a goner at first, but
we sluiced you with cold water, and you'll be as fit as a trivet in a
minute or two. When you do let's hear what happened to you."

"I'm all right now," I said. "A bit dizzy, that's all. Let me sit down in
the car for a little."

It was quite true. My head was quite clear, and, except for a most
infernally stiff neck, I felt none the worse for my experience. And I
told them exactly what had taken place. They listened in silence, and it
was only when I hesitated a little over saying who it was I had expected
to find in the ditch that Drummond spoke.

"I understand," he said curtly. "Go on."

I finished my story, and then he spoke again.

"If any confirmation is needed," he remarked, "the ditch should supply
it. Where was the body lying?"

I got out of the car and led them to the spot. As he had said, the ditch
did supply it. A great pool of blood showed up red and sinister in the
light of Darrell's torch, but of the body of the man whose blood it was
there was no trace.

"So what happened," said Drummond thoughtfully, "is fairly easy to spot.
But the reason for it is a little more obscure. The gentleman who
caressed your windpipe had evidently been sent back to retrieve car and
corpse. Finding you here he gave you the necessary medicine. Then he
removed corpse in car. But if that was the great idea, why were car and
corpse left here in the first place?"

"Would you recognize the man who attacked you, sir?" said the police
officer, speaking for the first time.

"I think I'd recognise him," I said, "but I couldn't give you a
description of him that would be the slightest help."

"Well, there doesn't seem much use our standing here any more," remarked
Drummond at length, and his voice was weary. "We know the number of the
car, so the owner can be traced. But I shall be very much surprised if we
find that helps us much."

He sighed, and lit a cigarette.  "Come on, Peter, we'd better be getting
back. My stomach is flapping against my backbone for want of food, and we
can't do any more good here."

And I, for one, agreed with him fervently.



Chapter 4. In Which We Get the Semblance of a Clue


Looking back on it now after the lapse of time, I find it hard to recall
my exact state of mind that night. I remember that amongst certain
members of the house party I found myself in the position of a popular
hero. To have been assaulted and left for dead conferred an air of
distinction on me which I found rather grateful and comforting. The tacit
assumption seemed to be that only abnormal strength of constitution on my
part had saved my life.

I also remember experiencing a distinct feeling of pique that amongst
other members of the party my adventure seemed to cut no ice at all. They
appeared to regard it as the most ordinary thing in the world. Two new
arrivals had come--the two whom Longworth had been told to summon under
the names of Ted and Toby. Their surnames were respectively Jerningham
and Sinclair, and Tracey had managed to squeeze them into the house. And
it was in describing the events of the afternoon and evening to these two
that the point of view of this second section of the party became
obvious. Not, I mean, that I wished it to be exaggerated in any way: at
the same time I admit that I felt, when all was said and done, that
whilst Drummond and Darrel had been in perfect safety at a
police-station, I had had a murderous assault made on my life. And to
have it described by Darrell as getting a clip over the earhole struck me
as somewhat inadequate. The replies of the audience also left, I thought,
a certain amount to be desired.

Jerningham said: "Pity you didn't ladle the bloke one back."

Sinclair said: "Splendid! So we know one of them by sight, anyway."

Then they all dismissed the matter as trifling, and resumed the
interminable discussion. Not that I minded, you understand--but it struck
me that it showed a slight lack of a proper sense of proportion.

However, I waived the matter: it was not my wife who had been forcibly
dragged from her car in broad daylight. Had it been I should have been
insane with worry. And that was the extraordinary thing about Drummond.
Outwardly he seemed the most self-possessed of us all, and only the
strained look in his eyes showed the mental condition he was in.

Bill Tracey was absolutely beside himself. That such a thing should have
happened in his house made him almost incoherent. And it was
characteristic of Drummond that, in spite of his own agonising suspense,
he should have gone out of his way to ease things for Bill.

"My dear fellow," he said more than once, "please don't blame yourself.
The fact that it happened to take place here is nothing whatever to do
with you. They waited till they were ready and then they struck. That
they happened to become ready when we were staying with you is just pure
chance."

Which, though perfectly true, did but little to alleviate his feelings of
responsibility. It was his house, and the bald fact remained that one of
his guests, and a woman at that, had been decoyed away from it and been
made the victim of foul play. And apart from his natural grief at such a
thing happening, the prospect of the notoriety involved concerned him, of
course, more than any of us save Drummond himself. It was Jerningham who
summarized the situation after a while.

"Let's just see," he said, "that we've got this thing clear. Whilst
playing tennis this afternoon Phyllis got a note delivered by hand of
such importance that she stops playing and goes out alone in the Bentley.
At that time Hugh was having a bit of back chat with the two
foreign-looking blokes--"

"Who have not been traced at the railway station," put in Tracey.

"Who have since disappeared," went on Jerningham. "But it is generally
agreed that they had something to do with it, though what we don't know.
Shortly after, the Bentley is found deserted, showing every sign of
having been the scene of a struggle."

"She dotted him one, Ted," said Drummond with certainty. "She dotted him
good and hard with that spanner. In fact she killed him--glory be to
Allah!"

They pondered this point in silence for a while.

"It stands to reason, old boy," went on Drummond, "that the man Dixon saw
lying in the ditch is the same man whose trail we followed on the grass
beside the Bentley."

"Very well then," said Jerningham, "make it so. She dotted him one.
Finding herself suddenly attacked she out with the spanner and slogged
him good and hard. So then the other bloke--there must have been at least
one more--bunged Phyllis into the back of the other car, stuffed his pal
into the seat beside him, and pushed off."

"It don't sound right to me, Ted," said Drummond slowly.

"What's wrong?" demanded Jerningham.

"All the last part. If you were driving a motorcar in broad daylight, and
had to take with you a fellow who was bleeding like a pig from a wound in
the head, would you put him on the seat beside you? Especially if you did
not want to draw attention to yourself."

He took a long gulp of beer.

"Not so, old lad: you'd bung him on the floor at the back. And from
Peter's description of the blood in the car that's what happened. If he'd
been sitting in the seat beside the driver, the front of it would have
been stained, too. It wasn't--only the back."

"I don't see that it matters much, anyway," I remarked. "Back or front
the result is the same. Perhaps Mrs Drummond was beside the driver."

"Good Lord!" said Drummond, sitting up and staring at me. "I hadn't
thought of that. Perhaps she was."

"What's stung you?" said Darrell, surprised, and we all looked at him
curiously. He seemed strangely excited.

"Supposing Phyllis was sitting in that seat," he remarked. "Supposing the
man was bleeding to death behind. Supposing she managed to get her hand
over the back of the seat, with the idea of getting some message through
by dipping her finger in the blood and writing on the cover."

His excitement infected us all though, for the life of me, I couldn't see
what he was getting at.

"Well--get on with it," said Darrell.

"Don't you see that the writing would be upside down?" cried Drummond.
"Where's your notebook, Peter? Turn the page the other way round."

We crowded over his shoulder and stared at the rough sketch.

"It is," shouted Drummond. "Smeared letters, or I'll eat my hat. There's
a K there: two K's. And L: and E. What's that first word? Something KE...
LUKE is it?

"Like," I hazarded. "That first letter might be L."

"Then it's LIKE LAK," said Drummond, and we stared at one another a
little blankly. If that was the solution it didn't seem to advance us
much. Like Lak. It was meaningless. Probably not realizing that it was
useless the message had continued into the stream of blood where it had
been obliterated. But that was no help.

"Anyway," said Drummond quietly, "it proves one thing. She wasn't
unconscious."

He got up and went to the open window, where he stood with his back to
us, staring out into the darkness. His shoulders were a little bowed: his
hands were in his pockets. And, by Jove! I felt for the poor chap.
Somewhere out under those same stars--perhaps twenty miles away, perhaps
a hundred--his wife was in the hands of this infamous gang. Up-to-date,
action had kept him going, even if it had only consisted of futile
motoring up and down roads. Now the time of forced inaction had come.
There was nothing to distract his thoughts, nothing to take his mind off
the ghastly possibilities of the situation.

There was no use sympathizing with him: the matter had passed beyond
words. Besides, it struck me that he was of the brand that is apt to shy
away from sympathy like a frightened colt. And so we sat on in silence,
hardly daring to meet one another's eyes, with the same fear clutching at
all our hearts.  It didn't seem to matter very much whether or not Mrs
Drummond had been conscious in the car. Was she conscious now? Was she
even alive? It seemed too incredible to be sitting there in that peaceful
room contemplating such an appalling thought. And yet what was there to
be done? That was the maddening part of it. Literally the only clue in
our possession was the number of the car--ZW 3214. It was true that I
might recognize the man who had nearly throttled me, but even on that
point I felt doubtful. And that wasn't going to be much use unless I saw
him again.

The same applied to the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot. Both Drummond
and I would recognize them again--but where were they? And even if they
were found they would probably prove to be only very minor characters in
the caste. The telephone on Tracey's desk rang suddenly, sounding
unnaturally loud in the silence, and we looked at it almost
apprehensively. Was it some further complication, or was it news?

"Hullo!" said Tracey, picking up the receiver. "Yes--speaking."

Drummond had swung round, his hands still in his pockets. And he stood
there, his face expressionless, while the metallic voice from the
machine, punctuated by occasional grunts from our host, droned on. At
last Tracey replaced the receiver, and shook his head gloomily.

"Nothing, I'm afraid," he said. "It was the police. They've traced the
car, and it belongs to a man called Allbright in Reading. He's a retired
grocer, and absolutely above suspicion. He is away from home at the
moment, and the car must have been coolly stolen from his garage this
morning. He has a deaf housekeeper, who is also above suspicion, and who
was in complete ignorance that the car had gone until visited by the
police this evening."

Once more silence fell on the room, and Drummond, with the faintest
perceptible shrug of his shoulders, again turned his back on us and
stared into the darkness. Our only positive clue gone--or at any rate
valueless, the outlook blacker, if possible, than before. The butler
brought in a tray of drinks and Tracey waved his hand at it mechanically.

"Help yourselves," he remarked, but nobody moved.

And then at last Drummond spoke. His back was still towards us: his voice
was perfectly quiet.  "This situation is too impossible to continue," he
said. "Something is bound to happen soon."

And as if in answer to his remark the telephone bell jangled a second
time.

"I told you so," he said calmly. "This is news."

Tracey had again taken the receiver: and again we watched him with a kind
of feverish anxiety. Was Drummond right? Or was it some further futile
communication from the police?

"A lady wishes to speak to you, Drummond," said Tracey, and the tension
suddenly became acute. "She won't give her name."

Drummond went to the instrument, and we waited breathlessly. And if there
is a more maddening proceeding during a time of suspense than having to
listen to one end of a telephone conversation I have yet to experience
it. We heard the metallic voice of the other speaker; we saw Drummond
give an uncontrollable start, and then freeze into absolute immobility.

"So it is you," he said in a low voice. "Where is Phyllis?"

Again that metallic voice, and then quite clearly a laugh.

"Damn you," said Drummond, still in the same quiet tone. "What have you
done with her?"

This time the voice went on for nearly a minute, and all we could do was
to watch the changing expressions on his face and try to imagine what was
causing them. Anger, bewilderment, and finally blank surprise were all
registered, and it was the latter which remained when the voice ceased.

"But look here!" he cried. "Are you there? Damn it--she's gone!"

He rang the bell furiously for the Exchange.

"Where did that last call come from?" he asked. "London. Can you possible
get me the number?"

We waited eagerly, only to see him lay down the receiver wearily.

"The public callbox at Piccadilly Circus," he said.

"It was Irma?" almost shouted Darrell.

"Yes--it was."

He stood there frowning, and we waited eagerly.

"It was that she-cat right enough. I'd know her voice anywhere. And she's
got some dirty game up her sleeve."

"What did she say?" asked someone.

"She first of all said that she was charmed to renew her acquaintance
with Phyllis, and that it seemed quite like old times. She went on to say
that so far she had only been able to have a very brief chat with her,
but that she hoped for many more in the near future. She was sure I would
like to know that she was unhurt, but how long that condition of affairs
lasted depended on me entirely. That I should have a letter from her in
the morning making things quite clear, and that all she could advise me
to do for the present was to have a good night in. Then she rang off."

"Well--that's something," said Darrell. "We know she's unhurt."

"Yes--I don't think she would lie," agreed Drummond. "But what's she
getting at? How can it depend on me?"

"That seems fairly obvious," said Jerningham gravely. "You're going to be
put through it, old man, and if you don't play nicely Phyllis is going to
suffer. There's no good not facing facts, and she's got you by the short
hairs."

Drummond sat down heavily.

"I suppose you're right," he said slowly. "I'll do anything--anything. I
wanted to ask her tonight if she would take me instead of Phyllis, but
she'd rung off."

Darrell laughed shortly.

"I don't think the answer would have been very satisfactory even if she
hadn't," he said. "You're not a very comfortable person to have about the
house, old boy."

"Hell!" said Drummond tersely.

Then he stood up, and the expression on his face made me feel profoundly
thankful that I was never likely to come up against him.

"I'm going to take one of your boats, Tracey," he remarked. "Don't wait
up for me: I shan't go to bed tonight."

The next moment he had vanished through the open window.

"Poor devil," said Bill. "I'm sorry for him. But I don't see that there's
anything to be done."

"There isn't," said Darrell. "We can only wait for this letter tomorrow
morning."

He helped himself to a whiskey and soda, and I followed his example. That
was all we could do--wait for the letter. But it was impossible to
prevent oneself speculating on the contents. What test was Drummond going
to be put to? Was he going to be told to commit some crime? Some robbery
possibly with his wife's safety depending on his success?  What a ghastly
predicament to be in! To have to run the risk of a long term of
imprisonment, or else to know that he was putting his wife in danger. And
even if he ran the risk how could he be sure that the others would stick
to their side of the bargain? Avowedly they were criminals of the worst
type, so what reliance could possible be put on their word?

The others had gone off to the billiard room, leaving Tracey and me
alone. And suddenly the utter incredibility of the whole situation came
over me in a wave. Not twelve hours ago had I been sitting peacefully in
my club, earnestly discussing with the secretary whether the new brandy
was as good as the last lot. He had said yes: I had disagreed. And it had
seemed a very important matter.

I laughed: and he looked up at me quickly. "I don't see anything very
humorous in the situation," he remarked.

I laughed again. "No more do I, Bill, not really. But it had just
occurred to me that if I was suddenly transported to the smoking-room of
the club, and I told the occupants that since I last saw them a lady had
been kidnapped from your house, I had found a dead man in a ditch, and
finally had been nearly murdered for my pains--they might not believe
me."

He grunted. "You're right," he said. "They might not. At times I hardly
believe it myself. Damn this accursed woman Irma--or whatever she calls
herself!" He mixed himself a drink savagely. "We're going to have hordes
of newspaper men round the place, poking their confounded noses into
everything. And, being Whitsuntide, they'll probably run special steamers
to view the scene of the crime. I tell you, Joe, I wouldn't have had it
happen for worlds. Of course I'm very sorry for Drummond--but I wish it
had taken place somewhere else."

"Naturally," I agreed. "At the same time. Bill, don't forget that
everything that happened did take place somewhere else. The dead man I
found was twelve miles from here--and he has since disappeared. The car
has disappeared, too. In fact there's nothing to connect the matter with
this house."

"What do you mean?" he said. "Nothing to connect it with this house! What
about Mrs. Drummond? Wasn't she staying here?"

"She was--undoubtedly. But hasn't it occurred to you--mind you, I only
put it forward as a possibility--that Drummond may be compelled by the
gang who have got her to keep the fact of her disappearance quiet?"

"But the police know it already," he cried.

"They know she went out in a car, and that the car was found empty. That
does not necessarily mean that she has disappeared. We know she has, but
that's a very different matter. And if, as I surmise, Drummond is going
to be ordered to commit a crime as the price for his wife's life--or at
any rate safety--the first essential is that he should keep the police
out of it as much as possible."

"Commit a crime!" He stared at me for a moment or two and then put down
his glass on the table. "You really think that that is going to be the
next move?"

"I don't know any more than you do," I said. "The whole thing is so
absolutely amazing that no ordinary rules seem to apply. If they had
murdered the poor girl outright as an act of revenge it would at any rate
have been understandable. But this new development can only mean that
they are going to put pressure on him through his wife."

"Well, I must frankly admit," he said at length, "that the less that is
known about this affair the better I shall be pleased. At the same time
I'd hate to know that Drummond was running round the country robbing
churches or something of that sort."

He paused, struck by a sudden thought.

"It might be a case, not of blackmail exactly, but of ransom. On the
payment of a sum of money she will be returned."

"Is he a wealthy man?" I asked.

"Quite well off. Do you think that's the solution, Joe?"

"My dear old man," I cried, "ask me another. I don't think I've ever been
so hopelessly at sea in my life. I shall put a cold compress round my
neck, and go to bed. Presumably all our questions will be answered
tomorrow morning."

And to bed I went--but not to sleep. Try as I would I could not stop
thinking about the affair. That last idea of Bill Tracey's had a good
deal to be said for it. And what would happen if Drummond wouldn't
pay--or couldn't? People of the type we were up against were not likely
to ask a small sum.

Would they go on keeping her a prisoner until he had scraped together the
money? Or would they murder her? I shuddered at the thought: this was
England, not a bandit-infested desert. They would never dare to run such
an appalling risk. They might threaten, of course, but at that it would
stop. And then as if to mock me I saw once again that evil face with its
cynical smile, heard that voice: "Too easy," felt those vicelike hands on
my throat. Would they stop at that?

At last I could bear it no longer. I got up and lit a cigarette: then I
went and sat down by the open window. A very faint breeze was stirring in
the trees: from the other end of the lawn came the mournful cry of an
owl. And somewhere out there in the darkness was that poor devil
Drummond, on the rack with anxiety and worry.

Suddenly the moon came out from behind a cloud, throwing fantastic
shadows across the lawn--the clear-cut black and white shadows of the
night. And after a while I began to imagine things, to see movement where
there was no movement, to hear noises when there was no noise. Every
board that creaked in the house seemed like the footsteps of a man, and
once I started violently as a bat flitted past close to. In fact I came
quite definitely to the conclusion that during the hours of darkness
Piccadilly was good enough for me. With which profound reflection I got
back into bed, and promptly fell asleep. But what the footman thought, I
don't know. Because when a motor car with blood spouting from the
radiator is on the point of knocking you down, and you see that it isn't
really a radiator, but the face of a man with a cynical smile who
continually says "Too easy," it is only natural that you should push that
face. I did--and it was the footman's stomach. The only comfort was that
he had already put down the tea.



Chapter 5. In Which the Letter Arrives


And now I come to the beginning proper of the amazing adventure which was
to occupy us for the next few days. The happenings of the preceding day
were only the necessary preliminaries without which the adventure could
not have started.

As I have said, the two alternatives which I had in my mind as I went
downstairs the next morning could be summed up in the two words--ransom
or crime. And it was with a queer feeling of excitement that I saw
Drummond standing in the hall holding a bulky letter in his hand. THE
letter.

"How's the neck?" he remarked.

"So so," I said. "You've heard from that woman?"

He nodded his head thoughtfully.

"I have. And I'll be damned if I can make out if I'm mad or if she is. Go
and hit a sausage, and then we'll have a council of war."

I went into the dining-room, to find that the rest of his pals had nearly
finished. None of the women were down yet, so conversation was
non-existent. And ten minutes later we all duly assembled in Tracey's
study.

"I've read this letter twice," said Drummond, coming straight to the
point, "and as I said to Dixon I don't know whether I'm mad or she is.
He looked a bit fine-drawn, I thought, but much less worried than he had
done the previous night.

"I should think the best thing to do is for me to read it aloud to you,"
he went on. "The postmark on the envelope is of no assistance. It was
posted in London, and that doesn't help. Somewhat naturally also there is
no address."

He spread out the sheets and began.

'MON AMI,

'In case you have forgotten, I wish to recall to your memory the
circumstances of our last meeting. A little more than six months ago you
may remember we met beside the wreckage of the airship. And I told you
then that I knew you had killed Carl. It matters not how I knew: some
things are incapable of ordinary explanation. But if it is of any
interest to you, I did, as a matter of fact, make further inquiries from
people who had been on that last voyage. And from them I learned that I
was right, and that you did kill him.

'Six months ago, Drummond, and during those six months you have never
been out of my thoughts for long. There was no hurry, and during a winter
spent in Egypt I have been indulging in the luxury of anticipation. They
say it is better than realization: the next few days should decide that
point as far as this particular case is concerned. There was another
reason also which necessitated a little delay. Various arrangements had
to be made in England--arrangements which took time. These have now been
made, and I trust that in the near future you will find them
satisfactory.

'However, I go too fast. The first thing I had to decide was what method
I should adopt for punishing you adequately. My revenge, if I was to
enjoy it to the full, had to be carefully thought out. I wanted nothing
crude;' (I caught Darrell's eye at that moment) 'I wanted something
artistic. And above all I wanted something long drawn out.

'And so your brilliant intellect will at once perceive that no mere death
coming suddenly out of the blue could fit into my ideas. You smile,
perhaps: you recall that in the past you were frequently threatened with
death and that you are very much alive today. Agreed, mon ami; but do not
forget the little verse I sent you. Doubtless you have inspected the
message contained in it, and it is up to me to prove that that message is
no empty boast.

'For example, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have
killed your dear Phyllis yesterday afternoon. And her positively
murderous assault on one of my most trusted assistants really made me
very angry for a while. The poor man is quite dead.

'In parenthesis, mon cher, who on earth is the funny little man you left
to guard the car when you found it? From the description I've heard he's
a new one on me.'

"Damn the woman!" I spluttered, and even Drummond grinned suddenly. Then
he went on.

'To return, however. It would have been very easy to have killed her, but
so far from doing so the dear girl is sitting with me as I write. Not
only easy--but just. We should have been all square. But I want more
satisfaction than that, Drummond, much more. And so I will come down to
my little scheme.

'In the past your physical strength has always excited my warmest
admiration. But I have never been quite so certain about your mental
ability. Luck, I think, has entered a good deal into the matter, and
though I should be the last person to belittle luck, yet it is apt to
affect the issue somewhat unfairly.

'And so on this occasion I propose to test your brain. Not unduly, I
trust, but enough to afford me a certain amount of amusement. Do not be
alarmed--your physical strength will be tested also. If you emerge
triumphant your dear Phyllis will be restored to your bosom. If on the
other hand you fail, then I shall claim my pound of flesh. In other
words, what might have so easily been done yesterday afternoon will
merely have been postponed.

'The test is expressed simply by two words: Find Phyllis. You raise your
eyebrows: that, you say, is somewhat naturally the test. But wait, mon
ami, and I will explain a little further. You have doubtless heard of
hidden treasure hunts: perhaps joined in one yourself. This is going to
be run on the same rules. You will receive clues which you will interpret
to the best of your ability. These clues will lead you to various places
where further clues will await you. They will also lead you to various
places where you may or may not enjoy yourself. Things will happen which
you may or may not like. In fact, my dear Drummond, to put the matter in
a nutshell, you may or may not pull through. As I said, I have made my
arrangements with some care.

One further word. This little matter is between you and me. I have no
objection to your roping in your friends--in fact, the more the merrier.
But I don't want the police butting in. You could not avoid it yesterday
afternoon, I know, so you are forgiven for that. But get them out of it
now--quickly. Another thing, too. I don't want Uncle Percival or whatever
he calls himself asking absurd questions from any of the Broadcasting
centres. If that should happen our little game would cease abruptly. So
bear those two points in mind: no police, no broadcasting. And that, I
think, is all. You will get your first clue today.'

Drummond laid down the letter, and lit a cigarette. "What do you think of
it?" he said.

"The thing is a fantastic leg pull," cried Tracey.

But Drummond shook his head doubtfully. "I wonder," he said. "What do you
think, Peter?"

"That she means every word of it, old boy," answered Darrell, positively.
"That's no leg pull: it's damned grim earnest."

"Hear, hear," said Jerningham. "We're for the trail again."

"You mean to tell me," spluttered Tracey, "that this woman has hidden
your wife, and now expects you to go chasing round the country till you
find her! Dash it--it's absurd."

"Absurd or not absurd," said Drummond gravely, "that is exactly what this
woman has done. And from what I know of her it's going to be some chase."
 He got up, and suddenly, to my amazement, an almost ecstatic grin spread
over his face.

"Gosh! boys," he said, "if it wasn't that it was Phyllis, what a glorious
time we should have. Why did we never think of it before with Carl? We
might have had two or three games in our spare time."

Then he became serious again.

"Look here, Tracey," he said: "and you, too, Dixon, may I rely on you not
to say a word of this even to the ladies? The fewer people who know about
it the better. If this came to the ears of a newspaper man we'd have the
whole of Fleet Street on our heels. So--not a word to a soul."

"A police sergeant to see you, sir."

The butler was holding the door open.

"Mind," said Drummond urgently, "not a word."

The officer who had gone with us to the deserted Bentley the previous
afternoon entered the room.

"Good morning. Sergeant," said Drummond quietly. "Found Mr Allbright's
car yet?"

The policeman shook his head.

"I'm afraid not, sir," he said. "May I ask if you have any news of your
wife?"

Drummond frowned suddenly: then he gave a short laugh. "Yes--I have. Look
here. Sergeant--you're a man of discretion."

I looked at him covertly: what tale was he going to tell?

"Well, sir," said the officer, with a slightly gratified smile, "they
don't make you a sergeant for nothing."

"Precisely," said Drummond. "Well--the fact of the matter is this. My
wife has run away--bolted. With another man." He lit a cigarette with a
sort of savage resignation. "I didn't say so yesterday, but I feared even
then that that note that was brought her was from the swine who--"

He broke off abruptly--words had failed him--and strode to the window.

"Poor old Hugh," said Sinclair sadly. "It's a devilish business. That
dirty little sweep of all people, too."

Drummond invoked the Deity twice, while the sergeant stared at him
blankly.

"But look here, sir," he said, "what about all that blood?"

"That, Sergeant," remarked Drummond, "is the staggering part of the whole
business. When my wife rang me up last night to tell me that she had--she
had left me, she said 'I suppose you've found the Bentley by now.' I said
to her, 'But what about the blood on the grass?' She said 'What on earth
are you talking about? If it's a riddle I haven't got time to buy it
now.' Then she rang off. She knew nothing about it, sergeant--absolutely
nothing."

The officer's face was blanker than before.

"Since then," went on Drummond, "we've been trying to reconstruct what
happened. And the only possible conclusion we can come to is this. The
car belonging to Mr Allbright was stolen by two or three men. Driving
along the road they came on the deserted Bentley. Well, if they'd steal
one car, they'd steal another. So they decided to steal that too. And
then they fell out--why. Heaven alone knows. Probably one of them was
already at the wheel of the Bentley--and there was a struggle in which
somebody got hit over the head with the spanner. Much harder than was
intended. They all became frightened, and bundled the wounded man into
the closed car. Of course," he continued modestly, "it's only crude
amateur deduction: there are doubtless many objections to our theory--"

"Many," agreed Darrell, staring out of the window.

"Which your trained brain will spot," went on Drummond. "But the great
point as far as we are concerned is this. As far as I am concerned, I
should say. The whole thing is merely an amazing coincidence. The blood
we saw on the road, the blood in Mr Allbright's car, has nothing to do
with my wife's disappearance. And since I still have hopes that she will
realize the error of her way and come back to me, the last thing I want
is to run any risk of hardening her heart by worrying her with police
inquiries."

"You know my views, Hugh," said Jerningham.

"And I damned well don't want to hear them again," snapped Drummond.

"A lounge lizard like that!" cried Jerningham scornfully. "How you can
dream of forgiving her I don't know."

"Lounge lizard, gentlemen?" said the bewildered policeman.

"That's right, sergeant," Jerningham pointed an outraged finger at space.
"A lounge lizard. A ballroom snake. What matter that his Black Bottom is
the best in London."

"My Gawd! sir," gasped the other. "His 'ow much?"

"What matter, I say?" swept on Jerningham. "Is that a thing which should
commend itself to reasonable decent men?"

"I should 'ardly say so myself, sir," agreed the sergeant fervently.

Jerningham paused to recover his breath.

"What is the gent's name, sir," said the sergeant, producing his pencil
and notebook.

"Albert. Albert Prodnut," said Jerningham, and Drummond sat down
abruptly.

"And his address?"

"I wish we knew," answered Jerningham. "If we did, doubtless by this time
Captain Drummond would have removed his liver with a rusty penknife. I
speak metaphorically."

"So you don't know where he is, sir?"

"Somewhere on the Continent," said Drummond in a hollow voice.

"And your wife, too?"

Drummond groaned and hid his face in his hands, while Jerningham rose and
took the sergeant by the arm.

"No more now, sergeant," he whispered confidentially. "He is strung up to
breaking point. In a week or two, perhaps. Or a month. And in the
meantime you will treat what we have told you as absolutely confidential,
won't you?"

He propelled him gently towards the door.

"It's all very strange, sir," he said in a worried voice.

"If you knew Albert Prodnut you'd think it was a damned sight stranger,"
said Jerningham feelingly. "One of those strange cases of mental
aberration. Sergeant--almost I might say of psycho-sclerosis--which
baffle the cleverest doctor. Leave him to us now."

The door dosed behind the harassed officer, and Jerningham held up his
two thumbs.

"Prodnut," said Drummond weakly. "Why Prodnut?"

"Why not? It's very difficult to think of a name when you're suddenly
asked for one. There is a ring of sincerity about Albert Prodnut that
carries entire conviction."

"Look here, you fellows," said Tracey seriously, "this is getting beyond
a joke. You can't expect any man out of a lunatic asylum to believe that
absurd rigmarole."

"We had to say something," remarked Drummond. "Personally I think we told
the tale rather well."

"Yes--but what about me?" said Tracey. "It's a tissue of lies from
beginning to end."

"We can't tell the truth," answered Drummond gravely. "Look here, Tracey.
I'm very sorry about this, and I quite appreciate the difficulties of
your position. In the bottom of your mind you probably think that that
woman's letter is a bluff. I know it isn't. We've got to keep the police
out of this if we possibly can. And I really couldn't think of anything
better on the spur of the moment."

"You still mean," said Tracey amazed, "to take that woman at her word! To
go hunting about all over England on clues she sends you which will
probably lead you nowhere nearer your wife than you are at present!"

"What else can I do?" cried Drummond. "She's in the position of being
able to dictate terms."

Once again the door opened and Parker came in, this time with a telegram
on a salver. "For you, sir," he said, handing it to Drummond.

He tore open the yellow envelope, and as he read the message a look of
complete bewilderment spread over his face. "Well, I'm damned!" he
muttered. "No answer, thank you, Parker. Listen here, you fellows," he
went on as the butler left the room, "what in the name of fortune do you
make of this?

"My first a horse may draw or even two the rest is found at York and aids
the view and when you've solved that bit by dint of trying an inn you'll
find where fishermen are lying"

"It's the first clue," said Jerningham excitedly. "She said you'd get it
this morning."

"But it's hopeless," cried Drummond in despair. "The simplest crossword
reduces me to a jibbering wreck. If I've got to try and solve these
damned things I'm done before I start."

"There are half a dozen perfectly good people to help you, old boy," said
Darrell. "Sling the paper over. Let's put it down as it's meant to be--in
the form of a verse."

He scribbled the words on a piece of paper while we leaned over his
shoulder. And even Tracey seemed impressed by this sudden new
development.

"Now then," said Darrell, "does that make it any better?"

My first a horse may draw, or even two;
The rest is found at York, and aids the view.
And when you've solved that bit by dint of trying,
An inn you'll find where fishermen are lying.

"If line three is right," I said, "the first two are a complete clue in
themselves."

"That's so," agreed Tracey. "But what sort of a clue? Is it the name of a
man or a town or what?"

"Let's assume it's a town to start with," said Jerningham. "There's an
inn mentioned in the last line."

"What's found at York?" demanded Drummond gloomily.

"Ham, dear old boy," burbled Algy Longworth.

"And Archbishops," said Sinclair hopefully.

"I don't know that it can be truthfully maintained," said Tracey mildly,
"that either ham or Archbishops aid the view."

"Hold hard a bit," remarked Darrell. "Let's start at the beginning. 'My
first a horse may draw, or even two.' Presumably that means two horses.
So it's a horse-drawn vehicle suitable for one or two horses."

"By Jove! Peter, you're a bunking marvel," cried Drummond. "Cart, cab,
wagon."

"You don't have a two-horse cab," objected Jerningham.

"Wagon sounds possible," said Darrell. "There must be places beginning
with Wagon. Got a map Tracey?"

"Here's the Times Gazetteer," he answered. "By Jove! Wagonmound."

"Got it!" shouted Drummond. "There's bound to be a mound at York."

But Tracey was shaking his head.

"Sorry. I spoke too soon. The darned place is in New Mexico. And that's
the only place beginning with Wagon that's mentioned."

"Hell!" said Drummond, and relapsed into silence.

"What about Dray," I remarked. "You speak of a one-horse dray and a
two-horse dray."

"Stout fellow," cried Drummond. "Look up Dray, Tracey."

"There are about forty Draytons," he said. "Lots of Draycotts:
Drayminster, Drayney."

"Drayminster!" I yelled. "Minster, York Minster."

"I believe you've got it," said Darrell. "It fits at any rate as far as
the first two lines are concerned."

"By Jove! you fellows," cried Jerningham. "Listen here. This is the AA
handbook. Drayminster. Population 2231, Sussex. 55 miles to London. Now
brace yourselves for it. Hotel--the Angler's Rest. We have got it."

For a while we all stared at one another too excited to speak. Was there
a mistake? Fishermen lying; Anglers' Rest. No one could say that York
Minster was not an aid to the view: a dray could certainly be drawn by
one or two horses. It fitted, every clue fitted.

"Get packed, boys," cried Drummond. "We lunch at the Angler's Rest. Gosh!
I feel better. We've started. Beer, Tracey old lad, pints of beer! And
you and Dixon shall wish us good hunting."

The beer arrived, and then Drummond raised his hand as for some solemn
rite. Slowly he waved it to and fro, and once more did the words of his
favourite refrain burst forth with vigour:

"The more we are together--together--together: the more we are together
the merrier we shall be."

"A new music-hall song?" I inquired politely.

And all they did was to roar with laughter.

"When we start hunting, boys," he said, "that shall be the war-cry. Don't
forget--once for the rally, twice for danger."

I suppose it was foolish of me, but I really couldn't help it. There was
something contagious about the spirits of this extraordinary gang which
must have infected me.

"I must learn the tune," I said. "For if you'll allow me I should very
much like to join you in whatever is coming."

They all stared at me, then, a little doubtfully, at one another.

"Of course," I said stiffly, "if you'd prefer I didn't."

"It isn't that," interrupted Drummond. "Look here, Dixon, if you're going
to come in on this thing you'd better be under no delusions. You got a
taste last night of the sort of people we're going to be up against. And
believe you me that's nothing to what we shall strike. I want you to
understand quite clearly that if you do join us you'll be taking your
life in your hands at most hours of the day and night. I mean it--quite
literally. It's not going to be a question of merely solving little
puzzles."

"I'll chance it," I answered. "As a matter of fact I dislike most
strongly the implication behind the phrase funny little man."

Once more the whole lot burst out laughing. "Right," said Drummond. "That
settles it. But don't say you weren't warned if you get your ear bitten
badly."



Chapter 6. In Which I Get the Second Clue


The village of Drayminster is one of the beauty spots of England.
Somewhat out of the beaten track, it is as yet unspoiled by motor coaches
and hordes of trippers. The river Dray meanders on its peaceful way
parallel to the main street, and in the very centre of the village stands
the Angler's Rest. A strip of grass separates it from the water's edge,
and moored to two stakes a punt stretches out into the stream from the
end of which the energetic may fish for the wily roach and perch. A
backwater--but what a pleasant backwater.

"Your lady friend," I said to Drummond, "has undoubtedly an artistic
eye." We were sitting on the lawn after lunch, and he grunted
thoughtfully. The others had departed on a tour of exploration, and save
for the motionless figure of the landlord's son at the end of the punt,
we were alone.

"If only I could be absolutely certain that we were right," he remarked.
"That we aren't wasting our time sitting here."

"Unless the whole thing is a stupid hoax," I said reassuringly, "I'm
certain our solution was correct."

It was the inaction that chafed him, I could see. I think he had expected
to find another clue waiting for us on our arrival. But there had been
nothing, and gradually his mood A of elation had left him. He had kept
his eyes fixed so searchingly on an elderly parson and his daughter
during lunch that the poor man had become quite hot and bothered. In
fact, it wasn't until our host had assured him that the reverend
gentleman had come to the hotel regularly for the last twenty years that
he desisted.

"It's not a hoax," he said doggedly. "So why the devil, if we're right,
haven't we heard something more?"

"Quite possibly that's all part of the game," I answered. "They may know
that that is a method of rattling you."

"By Jove!" he cried, "I hadn't thought of that."

He looked quite relieved at the suggestion.

"There's one thing we might do," I went on. "It may not be any good, but
it can't do any harm. Let's find out if there are any houses in the
neighbourhood that have recently changed hands. If they are hiding your
wife a house is the most likely place to do it in."

"Dixon," he said, "you're the bright boy all right. My brain at the
moment is refusing to function altogether. Hi! John--or whatever your
name is--cease tormenting fish and come here a moment."

Obediently the boy put down his rod and approached.

"Now, you know all the big houses in the neighbourhood, don't you?"

The boy nodded his head.

"That's right, mister. There be the Old Manor--that be Squire Foley's.
And there be Park House. That do belong to Sir James--but he be away
now."

"Has there been any house sold round about here recently," I put in.

The boy scratched his head.

"There be Widow Maybury's," he said. "She did sell her little cottage,
and be gone to live with her darter near Lewes."

"Who bought it," I cried.

"They do say he be a writer from Lunnon, or sommat fulish like that. He
just comes occasional like."

"Is he here now," asked Drummond.

"Ay," said the boy. "He come last night. There was a young leddy with
him."

I caught Drummond's eye, and it was blazing with excitement.

"They come in a motor car," went on the boy.

"Where is the cottage?" said Drummond.

"End o' village," he replied. "'Lily Cottage,' it do be called."

Drummond had already risen to his feet, and the boy looked at him
doubtfully.

"He be a terrible funny-tempered gentleman," he said. "He set about Luke
Gurney with a stick, he did--two or three weeks ago. Had to pay Luke five
pounds, he did, or old Gaffer Gurney would have had him up afore the
beak."

"My lad," said Drummond, "there is half a crown. You may now resume your
occupation of catching fish."

He turned to me. "Are you coming," he said.

"Well," I said a little doubtfully, "we'd better be careful, hadn't we?
This fellow may be a perfectly harmless individual."

"In which case we will withdraw gracefully," he cried. "Damn it, man, I
believe we're on the scent. Why--Good God! Phyllis may be actually there
now."

"All right--I'll come," I said. "Only--cautious does it." But for the
moment Drummond was beyond caution. The thought that possibly his wife
was within half a mile of him had sent him completely crazy, and it was
only with the greatest difficulty that I restrained him from bursting
straight into the house when we got there. "You can't, my dear fellow," I
cried. "We must have some sort of excuse."

It was a small cottage standing back a little from the road. A tiny patch
of garden in front was bright with flowers, and two pigeons regarded us
thoughtfully from a dovecot. "We'll ask if it's for sale," he said, and
then suddenly he gripped my arm like a vice.

"Look up at the top left-hand window," he muttered. I did so, and got a
momentary glimpse of the saturnine, furious face of a man glaring at us.
Then like a flash it was gone.

"Dixon," he said hoarsely, "we've done it. She's in there. And I'm going
through that house with a fine comb."

A little dubiously I followed him up the path. Nothing that I could have
done would have stopped him, but even before he knocked on the door I had
a shrewd suspicion that he was making a blazing error. It seemed
impossible that, after all the chat and bother there had been, the
solution should prove so simple. And a blazing error it proved. The door
was flung open and the man we had seen peering at us through the window
appeared. And to put it mildly he was not amused.

"What the--" he began.

"Laddie," interrupted Drummond firmly, "something tells me that you and I
will never be friends. Nevertheless I am going to honour your charming
cottage with a call."

He extended a vast hand and the other man disappeared into the
hat-rack--an unstable structure. Drummond disappeared upstairs. And the
scene that followed beggared description. The hat-rack, in falling, had
pinned the owner underneath. Moreover, as far as I could see, one of the
metal pegs was running straight into the small of his back. Then came a
shrill feminine scream from above, and Drummond appeared at the top of
the stairs looking pensive. He was still looking pensive when he joined
me.

"I fear," he murmured, "that someone has blundered."

A rending crash from behind announced that the hat-rack was still in the
picture, and we faded rapidly down the street.

"A complete stranger," he remarked. "With very little on. Most
embarrassing."

I began to shake helplessly.

"But I maintain," he went on, "that no man has a right to possess a face
like that. It's enough to make anyone suspicious."

A howl of rage from behind us announced that the battle of the hat-rack
was over.

"Pretend," said Drummond, "that I'm not all there."

"Hi, you, sir," came a shout, and we paused.

"You are addressing me, sir?" remarked Drummond majestically as the other
approached.

"You scoundrel," he spluttered. "How dare you force your way into my
house?"

"My Prime Minister will raise the point at the next meeting of
Parliament," said Drummond. "Do you ever hit yourself hard on the head
with a heavy spanner? Hard and often. You must try it. It's so wonderful
when you stop. The audience is terminated."

He turned on his heel, and strode off down the street, whilst I touched
my head significantly.

"Good God!" said the other. "Is he mad?"

"Touched," I murmured. "Result of shell shock. He'll probably be quite
all right in an hour or two when he'll have completely forgotten the
whole incident."

"But the cursed fellow ought to be locked up," he cried angrily.

"His relatives don't want it to come to that if it can be avoided," I
said. "I much regret the incident, sir--but..."

"Bring me a mushroom omelette without..." Drummond had suddenly returned,
and was staring fixedly at his late victim.

"Without?" stammered the other nervously. "Without what?"

"Without mushrooms, you fool. Damn it--the man's not right in his head.
What else could it be without? Come, fellow, I would fain sleep."

He seized me by the arm, and stalked off in the direction of the Angler's
Rest, leaving the other standing speechless in the road.

"Did we put it across him?" he said when we were out of hearing.

"More or less," I answered. "He said you ought to be locked up."

"I really don't blame him," he conceded. "She was a pretty girl, too," he
continued irrelevantly as we arrived at the hotel. "Very pretty."

Darrell and Jerningham were both on the lawn, but the others had
evidently not yet returned.

"Any luck?" they asked as we pulled up a couple of chairs.

"Damn all," said Drummond moodily. "I pushed a bloke's face into a
hat-rack, and contemplated a charming lady with very little on, but we
never got the trace of a clue. What's worrying me, chaps, is whether we
ought to sit still and wait, or run round in small circles and look."

"After your recent entertainment," I remarked mildly, "I should suggest
the former. At any rate for a time."

"Perhaps you're right," he agreed resignedly. "All I hope is that it
won't be for long."

"But you don't imagine, do you, old boy," remarked Jerningham, "that
Phyllis is likely to be round about here? Because I don't."

"What's that?" said Drummond blankly.

"This is but the beginning of the chase. And I don't think Mademoiselle
Irma would have run the risk of bringing her to the place where all of us
would certainly be, granted we solved the first clue. All we're going to
get here is the second clue."

"And probably have a darned sticky time getting it," said Darrell.

He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes, and after a while I
followed his example. The afternoon was drowsy, and if we were going to
have a sticky time, sleep seemed as good a preparation for it as
anything. And it seemed only a moment afterwards that a hand was laid on
my shoulder, and I sat up with a start.

The shadows had lengthened, and at first I saw no one. The landlord's son
had ceased to fish: the chairs that the others had occupied were empty.

"You will, I am sure, excuse me," came a pleasant voice from over my
shoulder, "but your snores are a little disconcerting to the sensitive
ear."

"I beg your pardon," I said stiffly as I rose. "Falling asleep when
sitting up is always dangerous."

He regarded me affably--a pleasant-faced little white-haired man.

"Don't mention it," he said. "I do to others as I would they should do to
me. And I feared you might collect a crowd, who would misconstrue the
reason of the uproar in view of the proximity of the Angler's Rest."

He sat down in the seat recently occupied by Drummond.

"You are staying long?" he inquired pleasantly.

"That largely depends," I answered.

"A charming village," he remarked. "A bit of old-world England, the like
of which I regret to say is becoming all too rare. They tell me it was
fifth--or was it sixth--in the competition for the most beautiful
village."

He frowned. "How annoying. Was it fifth or sixth?"

"Does it," I murmured, "make very much difference?"

For a moment or two he stared at me fixedly.

"It might," he said gravely, "make a lot."

Then he looked away, and I felt a sudden pricking feeling of excitement.
Was he implying something? Was there a hidden meaning in his apparently
harmless remark? Was he one of those people who really are worried by
failing to remember some small, insignificant detail such as that--or was
it the beginning of a new clue?

"Only, I should imagine, to the lucky inhabitants," I said lightly. "For
my own part I am content with it whatever place it occupied in the list
of honour."

He nodded. "Perhaps so. It is certainly very lovely. And the inn is most
comfortable. I always feel that in such a setting as this the old-time
English beverage of ale tastes doubly good--a point of view which was
shared, I think, by a very large individual who was sitting in this chair
half an hour or so ago."

"I know the man you mean," I answered. "He is a very capacious beer
drinker."

"He crooned some incantation which seemed to assist his digestion," he
went on with an amused smile. "You are all one party, I suppose?"

"As a matter of fact we are," I said politely, restraining a desire to
ask what business it was of his. If there was anything to be got--I'd get
it. "We are here," I added on the spur of the moment, "on a quest."

"Indeed," he murmured. "How interesting! And how mysterious! Would it be
indiscreet to inquire the nature of the quest?"

"That I fear is a secret," I remarked. "But it concerns principally the
large individual of whom you spoke."

"My curiosity is aroused," he said. "It sounds as if a lady should be at
the bottom of it."

"A lady is at the bottom of it," I answered.

He shook his head with a whimsical smile.

"What it is to be young! I, alas! can only say with the poet
'Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.'" Once again did he give me
a peculiar direct stare before looking away.

"At the moment," I remarked, "the quotation eludes me."

"It may perhaps return in time," he smiled. "And prove of assistance."

"In what possible way can it prove of assistance?" I said quickly.

"It is always an assistance to the mind when a forgotten tag is
recalled," he remarked easily.

I said nothing: was I imagining things, or was I not? He seemed such a
harmless old buffer, and yet...

"As one grows older," he went on after a while, "one turns more and more
to the solace of books. And yet what in reality are words worth? 'Si
jeunesse savait: si vieillesse pouvait.' The doctrine of life in a
nutshell, my friend."

Still I said nothing: why I know not, but the conviction was growing on
me that there was a message underlying his remarks.

"Words may be worth a lot," I said at length, "if one fully understands
their meaning."

For the third time he gave me a quick, penetrating stare.

"To do that it is necessary to use one's brain," he murmured. "You will
join me in a little gin and vermouth?"

"Delighted," I said perfunctorily. Then--"May I ask you a perfectly
straight question, sir?"

He returned to his seat from ringing the bell.

"But certainly," he said. "Whether I give you a perfectly straight
answer, however, is a different matter."

"Naturally," I agreed. "Do you know why we are here or do you not?"

"You have already told me that you are in quest of a lady."

He raised his glass to his lips.

"Votre sante, m'sieur--and also to the success of your search. If any
stray words of mine have assisted you I shall be doubly rewarded for
having roused you from your slumbers."

He replaced his glass on the table.

"Exquisite, is it not--the gold and black of the colour scheme? But alas!
the air grows a little chilly pour la vieillesse. You will pardon me, I
trust--if I leave you. And once again--good hunting."

He went indoors and I sat on, thinking. More and more strongly was the
conviction growing on me that the second due lay in our conversation:
less and less, could I see a ray of light. Was it contained in that
quotation: 'Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance?' He had said it
might prove of assistance--and then had passed off his remark.

Who had written it, anyway? It came back to me as a dimly remembered tag,
but as to the author my mind was a blank. Had the well-known old French
proverb any bearing on the case?

His voice from a window above me cut into my reverie.

"I feel sure that you are tormenting yourself over the author of my
little quotation," he chuckled. "It has  suddenly occurred to me that his
name was actually mentioned in our conversation."

The window closed, leaving me staring blankly at it. Mentioned in our
conversation! No author's name had been mentioned: to that I could swear.
And yet would he have said so if it was not the case? It seemed stupid
and unnecessary.

Once more I ran over it, trying to recall it word by word. It was
maddening to think that I was now possibly in actual possession of the
information we wanted, and yet that I couldn't get it.

I ordered another gin and vermouth: perhaps, after all, I had been
mistaken. An old gentleman in all probability with an impish delight in
the mysterious who was deliberately playing a little joke on me. And then
the window above me opened again.

"Goodbye, my friend. I am sorry to say that I have to leave this charming
spot. And I trust for all your sakes that your brain will prove equal to
my little problem."

I got up quickly: surely that remark clinched the matter. He was one of
the others, and I'd make him tell me more. A Ford was standing by the
door, and a minute or two later I saw him getting into it. "Look here,
sir," I said, "I must insist on your being more explicit. You do know why
we are here; you have been giving me the second clue."

He raised his eyebrows.

"You have told me why you are here," he answered. "And as for the second
clue, the phrase sounds most exciting. And as for me I have a train to
catch. To the station, driver."

The car started, leaving me standing there blankly. And then he put his
head out of the window.

"Good hunting."

I suppose Drummond would have pulled him out of the car by the scruff of
the neck: I wasn't Drummond. I watched the car disappear up the road,
then I went back to my neglected gin and vermouth, swearing under my
breath.

"Who," I said to the landlord who came out at that moment, "is the old
gentleman who had just driven off?"

"He entered himself in the book, sir, as Mr Johnson of London. More than
that I can't tell you."

Evidently disposed for a chat he rambled on, whilst I pretended to
listen. And suddenly--I don't know what the worthy man was talking about
at the moment--I fired a question at him.

"Have you got any books of poetry in the hotel?"

It must have been a bit disconcerting, for he stared at me as if I had
taken leave of my senses.

"I believe the missus has," he said in an offended voice. "I don't hold
with the stuff myself. I'll ask her."

He went indoors to return in a few moments with the information that she
had Longfellow, Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats. I cut short the catalogue
with a yell, and this time the poor man looked really alarmed.

"Wordsworth," I said. "Please ask her to lend me Wordsworth."

He again went indoors, and I sat there marvelling at my denseness. "And
yet what in reality are words worth?"

At the time the phrasing had struck me as peculiar, a little pedantic.
And there it had been sticking out right under my nose. Now there was
nothing for it but to go clean through until I found the quotation, and
then if my reasoning was right we should find the clue in the context.

Mine host handed me the book with an air of hurt dignity, and retired
once more indoors whilst I started on my lengthy task. In couples the
others came back looking moody and disconsolate, and disinclined for
conversation. They took no notice of me, and I, for fear I might raise
false hopes, said nothing. Plenty of time to talk if I proved right.

Dinner came, and over the steak and kidney pie, I found it.

'Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.'

I stared at the page blankly. Lady of the Mere. What earthly good was
that? Had all my time been wasted? Was the old man a harmless jester
after all?

"Everything to your satisfaction, gentlemen?" The landlord came up to our
table, and a I drew a bow at a venture. "Tell me, landlord," I said, "is
there in this neighbourhood any place called the Mere?"

He stared at me for a moment or two without speaking. "There is," he
answered at length, and his jovial expression had vanished. "May I ask
why you want to know, sir?"

"Curiosity," I said, hardly able to keep the excitement out of my voice.
"Is it a pond--or what?"

"It's a house," he said. "An old house. About three miles from here."

"Who is the owner?" I cried.

"Owner!" he gave a short laugh. "There ain't been no owner, sir, for nigh
on ten years. And there ain't never likely to be."

"What's the matter with the place?"

"I bain't a superstitious man, gentlemen," he said gravely, "but it would
take more'n a bag of gold to get me across the threshold of the
Mere--even by day. And by night, I wouldn't go--not for all the money in
the Bank of England."

"Haunted, is it?" I prompted.

"Maybe--maybe not," he answered. "There be grim things, sir, black things
go on in that house. Ten years ago the owner, old Farmer Jesson, were
murdered there. A fierce man he was: used to keep the most awful savage
dogs. And they do say that he found his young wife with a lad--a
powerful-tempered boy. And they had a terrible quarrel. The lad, so the
story goes--'e struck the old man and killed him after an awful struggle.
And as he died he cursed the lad and his young wife. He cursed the house:
he cursed everything he could think of. Certain it is that the lad and
the lass disappeared: folks do say they died where they stood and then
were mysteriously removed. As I say, I bain't superstitious, and I don't
rightly hold with that story. But what I do know is that since then there
be strange lights and noises that come from the old place--for I've seen
'em and heard 'em myself. And I do know that there come a young gentleman
from London who heard the tales and didn't believe them. He went there
one night, and they found him next day on the ground outside, lying on
his back and staring at the sky--as mad as a hatter. No, no,
gentlemen--take my advice and give the Mere a wide berth, or you'll
regret it."

He bustled off to attend to a new arrival.

"How fearfully jolly," I remarked.

The others were staring at me curiously.

"Why this incursion into local superstition?" asked Darrell.

"No particular reason," I answered on the spur of the moment. "As I said,
just idle curiosity."



Chapter 7. In Which We Come to the Mere


I really don't know why I didn't tell them at once. Somehow or other the
whole thing seemed so terribly thin as I ran over it in my mind. And told
secondhand it would have sounded even thinner. A tag from Wordsworth: the
coincidence of a name. And that was positively all.

I felt that something more definite was wanted, and there seemed only one
way of getting it. I would go