The Search Party. George A. Birmingham
the result of an accident he had had with a gun. Well, he isn’t. I defy any man to scorch the skin off the backs of both his own legs with a gun. The thing simply couldn’t be done.”
“Exert your skill as a physician, and be silent,” said Mr. Red.
“You may fancy yourself to be the Cham of Tartary,” said Dr. O’Grady, “or Augustus Cæsar, or Napoleon Bonaparte, or a Field Marshal in the army of the Emperor of Abyssinia, but you’ve got to give some account of how that man flayed the backs of his legs or else I’ll have the police in here to-morrow.”
Mr. Red smiled, waved his hand loftily, and left the room.
Dr. O’Grady, his professional instinct aroused, proceeded to dress the man’s wounds. They were not dangerous, but they were extremely painful, and at first the doctor asked no questions. At length his curiosity became too strong for him.
“How did you get yourself into such a devil of a state?” he asked.
The man groaned.
“It looks to me,” said Dr. O’Grady, “as if you’d sat down in a bath of paraffin oil and then struck a match on the seat of your breeches. Was that how it happened?”
The man groaned again.
“If it wasn’t that,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you must have tied a string round your ankles, stuffed the legs of your trousers with boxes of matches, and then rubbed yourself against something until they went off. I can’t imagine anything else that could have got you into the state that you’re in.”
“I was smoking,” said the man at last, “in the Chamber of Research.”
“In the what?”
“It’s what ’e calls it,” said the man. “I don’t know no other name for it.”
“Perhaps the floor of the Chamber of Research was covered with gunpowder behind where you were standing, and you dropped a lighted match into it.”
“’Ow was I to know the stuff would go off?”
“If you knew it was gunpowder,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you might have guessed it would go off if you dropped a match into it.”
“It weren’t gunpowder, not likely. It were some bloomin’ stuff ’e made. ’E’s always messing about making stuff, and none of it ever went off before.”
“If you mean Mr. Red,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I can quite imagine that the stuff he made wouldn’t go off. Unless, of course, it was intended not to. From what I’ve seen of him so far, I should say that his notion of manufacturing dynamite would be to take a hundredweight or so of toothpowder, and say to it, ‘Powder, explode.’ Still, you ought to have been more careful.”
“’E’s a damned ass,” said the man.
“He is,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Still, even an ass, if he goes on experimenting for four months in a chamber specially set apart for research, is sure to hit upon something that will explode by the end of the time. By the way, do you happen to know where he got that dining-room wall-paper with the crocodiles on it?”
The door opened and Mr. Red stalked into the room.
“Follow me,” he said to Dr. O’Grady.
“All right. I’ve finished with this fellow’s legs for the present. I’ll call again to-morrow afternoon, or rather, this afternoon. He’ll get along all right. There’s nothing to be frightened about. You may give him a little beef-tea and—— Damn it all! Augustus Cæsar has gone! Good-bye, my man. I’ll see you again soon. I must hurry off now. It won’t do to keep the Field Marshal waiting. The crocodiles might get on his nerves if he was left too long in the room alone with them.”
CHAPTER III
Dr. O’Grady left the room and closed the door behind him. His spirits, owing to the ten-pound note which lay in his breast pocket, were cheerful. He whistled “The Minstrel Boy” as he walked along the passage. Just as he reached that part of the tune which goes with the discovery of the boy in the ranks of death he stopped abruptly and swore. He was seized from behind by two men, flung to the ground with some violence, and held there flat on his back. A few useless struggles convinced him that he could not make good his escape. He lay still and looked at his captors. The foreign gentleman with the long black beard was one of them. The other was the man whom Dr. O’Grady had declared to be a Norwegian. He was a powerful man, adorned with a mass of fair hair which fell down over his forehead and gave him a look of unkempt ferocity. Behind these two who knelt beside and on Dr. O’Grady stood Mr. Red.
“Hullo, Emperor!” said the Doctor, “what’s the game now? If you want a gladiatorial show, with me and these two swashbucklers as chief performers, you ought to have given me fair notice. You can’t expect a man to put up much of a fight when he’s caught from behind just as he’s in the middle of whistling a tune.”
“You have learned too much,” said Mr. Red, with fierce intensity. “It is necessary in the interests of the Brotherhood to secure your silence.”
“Right,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You shall secure it. One hundred and fifty pounds down and the secrets of the Brotherhood are safe. Or if prompt cash inconveniences you in any way, I’ll be quite content with your name on the back of a bill. Jimmy O’Loughlin would cash it.”
“I have passed judgment on you,” said Mr. Red, “and the scales are depressed on the side of mercy. Your life is spared. You remain a captive until the plans of the Brotherhood are matured and discovery can be set at defiance. Then you will be released.”
“If that’s all,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you needn’t have knocked me down and set these two brigands to kneel on my chest and legs. I haven’t the slightest objection to remaining a captive. I shall enjoy it. Of course, I shall expect to be paid a reasonable fee for my time. I’m a professional man.”
“Number 2 and Number 3,” said Mr. Red, “will bind you and convey you to the place of confinement.”
He spoke a few words to his assistants in a language which Dr. O’Grady did not understand. Two ropes were produced.
“If you choose to tie me up,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you can do it of course. But you’ll simply be wasting time and energy. I’ve told you already that I don’t in the least mind being a captive. Just you tell me the place you want me to go to, and if it isn’t an insanitary, underground dungeon, I shall step into it with the greatest pleasure, and stay there without making the least attempt at escape as long as you choose to go on paying me my fees.”
“Give your parole,” said Mr. Red.
“Parole? Oh, yes, of course; I know the thing you mean now. I’ll give it, certainly—swear it if you like. And now, like a good man, tell your fair-haired pirate to get off my legs. He’s hurting my left ankle abominably.”
Mr. Red gave an order, and Dr. O’Grady was allowed to stand up.
“Now for the cell,” he said. “I know this house pretty well, and I should suggest that you give me the two rooms on the top floor which open into each other. And look here, Emperor, I’m a first-class political prisoner, of course. I’m not going to do any hard labour, or get out of bed before I want to in the morning. I must be decently fed, and supplied with tobacco. You agree to all that I suppose?”
“Lead the prisoner upstairs,” said Mr. Red.
“One minute,” said Dr. O’Grady. “We haven’t settled yet about my fee. Let me see, what would you say—my time is valuable, you know. I have a very extensive practice, including the nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood; Lord Manton, for instance, and Jimmy O’Loughlin’s wife. What would you say to——? Good Lord! Emperor, put that thing down,