The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK ®. Sapper
to settle.”
“My account is not a little one,” said the hunchback viciously.
“Amazing though it is, it certainly looks as if you were right, my dear,” answered her father thoughtfully.
“Of course I’m right!” cried the girl. “Why, the darned thing is sticking out and barking at you. A big man, Christian name Hugh, was in Zadowa’s office last night. Hugh Drummond is downstairs at the moment, having actually tracked Zadowa here. Of course, they’re the same; an infant in arms could see it.”
“Granted you’re right,” said the Reverend Theodosius, “I confess at the moment that I am a little doubtful as to how to turn the fact to our advantage. The fact is an interesting one, my dear, more than interesting; but it don’t seem to me to come within the range of practical politics just at present.”
“I wonder,” said the girl. “His wife is coming here to lunch. You remember her—that silly little fool Phyllis Benton? And they live in Brook Street. It might be worth trying. If by any chance he has got the diamonds—well, she’ll be very useful. And if he hasn’t “—she shrugged her shoulders—”we can easily return her if we don’t want her.”
The Reverend Theodosius smiled. Long-winded explanations between the two of them were seldom necessary. Then he looked at his watch.
“Short notice,” he remarked; “but we’ll try. No harm done if we fail.”
He stepped over to the telephone, and put through a call. And having given two or three curt orders he came slowly back into the room.
“Chances of success very small, I’m afraid; but as you say, my dear, worth trying. And now I think I’ll renew my acquaintance with Drummond. It would be wiser if you had your lunch sent up here, Janet; just for the time our friend had better not connect us together in any way. And as for you, Zadowa “—his tone became curt—”you can go. Let us hope for your sake that Drummond has really got them.”
“There’s only one point,” put in the girl; “his departure will be reported at once to Drummond. He’s tipped both the men at the doors.”
“Then in that case you’d better stop here,” said the Reverend Theodosius. “I shall probably come up to lunch, but I might have it in the restaurant. I might “—he paused by the door—”I might even have it with Drummond and his friend.”
With a short chuckle he left the room, and a minute or two later a benevolent clergyman, reading the Church Times, was sitting in the lounge just opposite Hugh and Peter. Through half-closed eyes Hugh took stock of him, wondering casually if this was the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor. If so, assuredly nothing more benevolent in the line of sky-pilots could be well imagined. And when a few minutes later the clergyman took a cigarette out of his case, and then commenced to fumble in his pockets for matches which he had evidently forgotten, Hugh rose and offered him one.
“Allow me, sir,” he murmured, holding it out.
“I thank you, sir,” said the clergyman, with a charming smile. “I’m so terribly forgetful over matches. As a matter of fact I don’t generally smoke before lunch, but I’ve had such a distressing morning that I felt I must have a cigarette just to soothe my nerves.”
“By Jove! that’s bad,” remarked Hugh. “Bath water cold, and all that?”
“Nothing so trivial, I fear,” said the other. “No; a poor man who has been with me since ten has just suffered the most terrible blow. I could hardly have believed it possible here in London, but the whole of his business premises were wrecked by a bomb last night.”
“You don’t say so,” murmured Hugh, sinking into a chair, and at the table opposite Peter Darrell opened one eye.
“All his papers—everything—gone. And it has hit me, too. Quite a respectable little sum of money—over a hundred pounds, gathered together for the restoration of the old oak chancel in my church—blown to pieces by this unknown miscreant. It’s hard, sir, it’s hard. But this poor fellow’s loss is greater than mine, so I must not complain. To the best of my poor ability I have been helping him to bear his misfortune with fortitude and strength.”
The clergyman took off his spectacles and wiped them, and Drummond stole a lightning glance at Darrell. The faintest shrug of his shoulders indicated that the latter had heard, and was as much in the dark as Hugh. That this was the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor was now obvious, but what a charming, courteous old gentleman! It seemed impossible to associate guilt with such a delightful person, and, if so, they had made a bad mistake. It was not the hunchback who had thrown the bomb; they were up another blind alley.
For a while Hugh chatted with him about the outrage, then he glanced at his watch.
“Nearly time for lunch, I think,” said the clergyman. “Perhaps you would give a lonely old man the pleasure of your company.”
“Very nice of you, but I’m expecting my wife,” said Hugh. “She said she’d be here at one, and now it’s a quarter past. Perhaps you’ll lunch with us?”
“Charmed,” said the clergyman, taking a note which a pageboy was handing to him on a tray. “Charmed.” He glanced through the note and placed it in his pocket. “The ladies, bless them! so often keep us waiting.”
“I’ll just go and ring up,” said Drummond. “She may have changed her mind.”
“Another prerogative of their sex,” beamed his companion, as Drummond left him. He polished his spectacles and once more resumed his perusal of the Church Times, bowing in old-world fashion to two or three acquaintances who passed. And more and more was Peter Darrell becoming convinced that a big mistake had been made somewhere, when Hugh returned looking a little worried.
“Can’t make it out, Peter,” he said anxiously. “Just got through to Denny, and Phyllis left half an hour ago to come here.”
“Probably doing a bit of shopping, old man,” answered Peter reassuringly. “I say, Hugh, we’ve bloomered over this show.”
Hugh glanced across at the table where the clergyman was sitting, and suddenly Peter found his arm gripped with a force that made him cry out. He glanced at Hugh, and that worthy was staring at the clergyman with a look of speechless amazement on his face. Then he swung round, and his eyes were blazing.
“Peter!” he said tensely. “Look at him. The one trick that gives him away every time! Bloomered, have we? Great heavens above, man, it’s Carl Peterson!”
A little dazedly Darrell glanced at the clergyman. He was still reading the Church Times, but with his left hand he was drumming a ceaseless tattoo on his knee.
THE BLACK GANG [Part 2]
CHAPTER XI
In Which Hugh Drummond and the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor Take Lunch Together
“Rot, Hugh!” Peter turned a little irritably from his coven inspection of the Reverend Theodosius Longmoor. “You’ve got Peterson on the brain. Why, that old bird is no more like him than my boot.”
“Nevertheless, it’s Peterson,” answered Drummond doggedly. “Don’t look at him, Peter; don’t let him think we’re talking about him on any account. I admit he bears not the slightest resemblance to our one and only Carl, but he’s no more unlike him than the Comte de Guy was that time in Paris. It’s just that one little trick he can never shake off—that tapping with his left hand on his knee—that made me spot him.”
“Well, granted you’re right,” conceded Darrell grudgingly, “what do we do now, sergeant-major?”
Drummond lit a cigarette thoughtfully before he replied. Half-hidden by a large luncheon party which was just preparing to move into the restaurant, he stole another look at the object of their remarks. With an expression of intense benevolence the Reverend Theodosius was chatting with an elderly lady, and on Drummond’s face, as he turned back, was a faint grin of admiration. Truly