The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
the front door?”
“Because it’s in sight of the other house,” said Hugh briefly. “I’m going to break in.”
He retreated a yard from the door, then, bracing his shoulder, he charged it once. And the door, as a door, was not… Rapidly the two men went from room to room—bedrooms, servants’ quarters, even the bathroom. Every one was empty: not a sound could be heard in the house. Finally, only the dining-room remained, and as they stood by the door looking round, the American shifted his third piece of gum to a new point of vantage.
“Somebody has been rough-housing by the look of things,” he remarked judicially. “Looks like a boozing den after a thick night.”
“It does,” remarked Hugh grimly, taking in the disorder of the room. The tablecloth was pulled off, the telephone lay on the floor. China and glass, smashed to pieces, littered the carpet; but what caught his eye, and caused him suddenly to step forward and pick it up, was a plain circle of glass with a black cord attached to it through a small hole.
“Algy Longworth’s eyeglass,” he muttered. “So he’s been caught too.”
And it was at that moment that, clear and distinct through the still evening air, they heard a woman’s agonised scream. It came from the house next door, and the American, for a brief space, even forgot to chew his gum.
The next instant he darted forward.
“Stop, you young fool!” he shouted, but he was too late.
He watched Drummond, running like a stag, cross the lawn and disappear in the trees. For a second he hesitated; then, with a shrug of square shoulders, he rapidly left the house by the way they had entered. And a few minutes later, Drummond’s car was skimming back towards London, with a grim-faced man at the wheel, who had apparently felt the seriousness of the occasion so acutely as to deposit his third piece of spearmint on the underneath side of the steering-wheel for greater safety.
But, seeing that the owner of the car was lying in blissful unconsciousness in the hall of The Elms, surrounded by half a dozen men, this hideous vandalism hurt him not.
CHAPTER X
In Which the Hun Nation Decreases By One
I
Drummond had yielded to impulse—the blind, all-powerful impulse of any man who is a man to get to the woman he loves if she wants him. As he had dashed across the lawn to The Elms, with the American’s warning cry echoing in his ears, he had been incapable of serious thought. Subconsciously he had known that, from every point of view, it was the act of a madman; that he was deliberately putting his head into what, in all probability, was a carefully prepared noose; that, from every point of view, he could help Phyllis better by remaining a free agent outside. But when a girl shrieks, and the man who loves her hears it, arguments begin to look tired. And what little caution might have remained to Hugh completely vanished as he saw the girl watching him with agonised terror in her face, from an upstair window, as he dashed up to the house. It was only for a brief second that he saw her; then she disappeared suddenly, as if snatched away by some invisible person.
“I’m coming, darling.” He had given one wild shout, and hurled himself through the door which led into the house from the garden. A dazzling light of intense brilliance had shone in his face, momentarily blinding him; then had come a crushing blow on the back of his head. One groping, wild step forward, and Hugh Drummond, dimly conscious of men all round him, had pitched forward on his face into utter oblivion.
“It’s too easy.” Lakington’s sneering voice broke the silence, as he looked vindictively at the unconscious man.
“So you have thought before, Henry,” chuckled Peterson, whose complete recovery from his recent unfortunate indisposition was shown by the steady glow of the inevitable cigar. “And he always bobs up somehow. If you take my advice you’ll finish him off here and now, and run no further risks.”
“Kill him while he’s unconscious?” Lakington laughed evilly. “No, Carl, not under any circumstances, whatever. He has quite a lengthy score to pay and by God! he’s going to pay it this time.” He stepped forward and kicked Drummond twice in the ribs with a cold, animal fury.
“Well, don’t kick him when he’s down, guv’nor. You’ll ’ave plenty o’ time after.” A hoarse voice from the circle of men made Lakington look up.
“You cut it out, Jem Smith,” he snarled, “or I might find plenty of time after for others beside this young swine.” The ex-pugilist muttered uneasily under his breath, but said no more, and it was Peterson who broke the silence.
“What are you going to do with him?”
“Lash him up like the other two,” returned Lakington, “and leave him to cool until I get back tomorrow. But I’ll bring him round before I go, and just talk to him for a little. I wouldn’t like him not to know what was going to happen to him. Anticipation is always delightful.” He turned to two of the men standing near. “Carry him into my room,” he ordered, “and another of you get the rope.”
And so it was that Algy Longworth and Toby Sinclair, with black rage and fury in their hearts, watched the limp form of their leader being carried into the central room. Swathed in rope, they sat motionless and impotent, in their respective chairs, while they watched the same process being performed on Drummond. He was no amateur at the game, was the rope-winder, and by the time he had finished, Hugh resembled nothing so much as a lifeless brown mummy. Only his head was free, and that lolled forward helplessly.
Lakington watched the performance for a time; then, wearying of it, he strolled over to Algy’s chair.
“Well, you puppy,” he remarked, “are you going to try shouting again?” He picked up the rhinoceros-hide riding-whip lying on the floor, and bent it between his hands. “That weal on your face greatly improves your beauty, and next time you’ll get two, and a gag as well.”
“How’s the jaw, you horrible bit of dreg?” remarked Algy insultingly, and Toby laughed.
“Don’t shake his nerve, Algy,” he implored. “For the first time in his filthy life he feels safe in the same room as Hugh.”
The taunt seemed to madden Lakington, who sprang across the room and lashed Sinclair over the face. But even after the sixth cut no sound came from the helpless man, though the blood was streaming down inside his collar. His eyes, calm and sneering, met those of the raving man in front of him without a quiver, and, at last, Peterson himself intervened.
“Stop it, Lakington.” His voice was stern as he caught the other’s upraised arm. “That’s enough for the time.”
For a moment it seemed as if Lakington would have struck Peterson himself; then he controlled himself, and, with an ugly laugh, flung the whip into a corner.
“I forgot,” he said slowly. “It’s the leading dog we want—not the puppies that run after him yapping.” He spun round on his heel. “Have you finished?”
The rope-artist bestowed a final touch to the last knot, and surveyed his handiwork with justifiable pride.
“Cold mutton,” he remarked tersely, “would be lively compared to him when he wakes up.”
“Good! Then we’ll bring him to.”
Lakington took some crystals from a jar on one of the shelves, and placed them in a tumbler. Then he added a few drops of liquid and held the glass directly under the unconscious man’s nose. Almost at once the liquid began to effervesce, and in less than a minute Drummond opened his eyes and stared dazedly round the room. He blinked foolishly as he saw Longworth and Sinclair; then he looked down and found he was similarly bound himself. Finally he glanced up at the man bending over him, and full realisation returned.
“Feeling better, my friend?” With a mocking smile, Lakington laid the tumbler on a table close by.
“Much, thank you, Henry,” murmured Hugh. “Ah! and there’s Carl. How’s the tummy,