The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
He made the injection, and Hugh watched the millionaire. He was still undecided as to how to act, but for the moment, at any rate, there was nothing to be done. And he was very curious to hear what Peterson had to say to the wretched man, who, up to date, had figured so largely in every round.
After a while the American ceased staring vacantly in front of him, and passed his hand dazedly over his forehead. Then he half rose from his chair and stared at the two men sitting facing him. His eyes came round to the girl, and with a groan he sank back again, plucking feebly with his hands at his dressing-gown.
“Better, Mr. Potts?” said Peterson suavely.
“I—I—” stammered the other. “Where am I?”
“At The Elms, Godalming, if you wish to know.”
“I thought—I thought—” He rose swaying. “What do you want with me? Damn you!”
“Tush, tush,” murmured Peterson. “There is a lady present, Mr. Potts. And our wants are so simple. Just your signature to a little agreement, by which in return for certain services you promise to join us in our—er—labours, in the near future.”
“I remember,” cried the millionaire. “Now I remember. You swine—you filthy swine, I refuse…absolutely.”
“The trouble is, my friend, that you are altogether too big an employer of labour to be allowed to refuse, as I pointed out to you before. You must be in with us, otherwise you might wreck the scheme. Therefore I require your signature. I lost it once, unfortunately—but it wasn’t a very good signature; so perhaps it was all for the best.”
“And when you’ve got it,” cried the American, “what good will it be to you? I shall repudiate it.”
“Oh, no! Mr. Potts,” said Peterson with a thoughtful smile; “I can assure you, you won’t. The distressing malady from which you have recently been suffering will again have you in its grip. My friend, Mr. Lakington, is an expert on that particular illness. It renders you quite unfit for business.”
For a while there was silence, and the millionaire stared round the room like a trapped animal.
“I refuse!” he cried at last. “It’s an outrage against humanity. You can do what you like.”
“Then we’ll start with a little more thumbscrew,” remarked Peterson, strolling over to the desk and opening a drawer. “An astonishingly effective implement, as you can see if you look at your thumb.” He stood in front of the quivering man, balancing the instrument in his hands. “It was under its influence you gave us the first signature, which we so regrettably lost. I think we’ll try it again…”
The American gave a strangled cry of terror, and then the unexpected happened. There was a crash as a pane of glass splintered and fell to the floor close beside Lakington; and with an oath he sprang aside and looked up.
“Peep-bo,” came a well-known voice from the sky-light. “Clip him one over the jaw, Potts, my boy, but don’t you sign.”
CHAPTER VIII
In Which He Goes To Paris for a Night
I
Drummond had acted on the spur of the moment. It would have been manifestly impossible for any man, certainly of his calibre, to have watched the American being tortured without doing something to try to help him. At the same time the last thing he had wanted to do was to give away his presence on the roof. The information he had obtained that night was of such vital importance that it was absolutely essential for him to get away with it somehow; and, at the moment, his chances of so doing did not appear particularly bright. It looked as if it was only a question of time before they must get him.
But as usual with Drummond, the tighter the corner, the cooler his head. He watched Lakington dart from the room, followed more slowly by Peterson, and then occurred one of those strokes of luck on which the incorrigible soldier always depended. The girl left the room as well.
She kissed her hand towards him, and then she smiled.
“You intrigue me, ugly one,” she remarked, looking up, “intrigue me vastly. I am now going out to get a really good view of the Kill.”
And the next moment Potts was alone. He was staring up at the skylight, apparently bewildered by the sudden turn of events, and then he heard the voice of the man above speaking clearly and insistently.
“Go out of the room. Turn to the right. Open the front door. You’ll see a house through some trees. Go to it. When you get there, stand on the lawn and call ‘Phyllis.’ Do you get me?”
The American nodded dazedly; then he made a great effort to pull himself together, as the voice continued:
“Go at once. It’s your only chance. Tell her I’m on the roof here.”
With a sigh of relief he saw the millionaire leave the room; then he straightened himself up, and proceeded to reconnoitre his own position. There was a bare chance that the American would get through, and if he did, everything might yet be well. If he didn’t—Hugh shrugged his shoulders grimly and laughed.
It had become quite light, and after a moment’s indecision Drummond took a running jump, and caught the ridge of the sloping roof on the side nearest the road. To stop by the skylight was to be caught like a rat in a trap, and he would have to take his chance of being shot. After all, there was a considerable risk in using firearms so near a main road, where at any time some labourer or other early riser might pass along. Notoriety was the last thing which Peterson desired, and if it got about that one of the pastimes at The Elms was potting stray human beings on the roof, the inquiries might become somewhat embarrassing.
It was as Hugh threw his leg over the top of the roof, and sat straddle-ways, leaning against a chimney-stack, that he got an idea. From where he was he could not see The Larches, and so he did not know what luck the American had had. But he realised that it was long odds against his getting through, and that his chief hope lay in himself. Wherefore, as has just been said, he got an idea—simple and direct; his ideas always were. It occurred to him that far too few unbiased people knew where he was; it further occurred to him that it was a state of affairs which was likely to continue unless he remedied it himself. And so, just as Peterson came strolling round a corner of the house, followed by several men and a long ladder, Hugh commenced to sing. He shouted, he roared at the top of his very powerful voice and all the time he watched the men below with a wary eye. He saw Peterson look nervously over his shoulder towards the road, and urge the men on to greater efforts, and the gorgeous simplicity of his manoeuvre made Hugh burst out laughing. Then, once again, his voice rose to its full pitch, as he greeted the sun with a bellow which scared every rook in the neighbourhood.
It was just as two labourers came to investigate the hideous din that Peterson’s party discovered the ladder was too short by several yards.
Then with great rapidity the audience grew. A passing milkman; two commercial travellers who had risen with the lark and entrusted themselves and their samples to a Ford car; a gentleman of slightly inebriated aspect, whose trousers left much to the imagination; and finally more farm labourers. Never had such a tit-bit of gossip for the local pub been seen before in the neighbourhood; it would furnish a topic of conversation for weeks to come. And still Hugh sang and Peterson cursed; and still the audience grew. Then, at last, there came the police with notebook all complete, and the singer stopped singing to laugh.
The next moment the laugh froze on his lips. Standing by the skylight, with his revolver raised, was Lakington, and Hugh knew by the expression on his face that his finger was trembling on the trigger. Out of view of the crowd below he did not know of its existence, and, in a flash, Hugh realised his danger. Somehow Lakington had got up on the roof while the soldier’s attention had been elsewhere; and now, his face gleaming with an unholy fury, Lakington was advancing step by step towards him with the evident intention of shooting him.
“Good morrow, Henry,” said Hugh quietly. “I wouldn’t fire if I were you. We are observed, as they say in