The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
or ten minutes, sir, will be ample."
"Good. You shall have that. There's the bathroom. Go in, and don't make a sound."
"Very good, sir."
"And wait. Have Giuseppi and Number 10 come yet?"
"They left headquarters, sir, just after I did. They should be here by now."
The man disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and once again the Reverend Theodosius glanced at his watch.
"Our young friend should be here shortly," he murmured. "And then the single which he seems so anxious to play can begin in earnest."
The benign expression which he had adopted as part of his role disappeared for an instant to be replaced by a look of cold fury.
"The single will begin in earnest," he repeated softly, "and it's the last one he will ever play."
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "He has certainly asked for it," she remarked, "but it strikes me that you had better be careful. You may bet on one thing—that he hasn't kept his knowledge about you and me to himself. Half those young idiots that run about behind him know everything by this time, and if they go to Scotland Yard it will be very unpleasant for us, mon cheri. And that they certainly will do if anything should happen to dear Hugh."
The clergyman smiled resignedly. "After all these years, you think it necessary to say that to me! My dear, you pain me—you positively wound me to the quick. I will guarantee that all Drummond's friends sleep soundly in their beds to-night, harbouring none but the sweetest thoughts of the kindly and much-maligned old clergyman at the Ritz."
"And what of Drummond himself?" continued the girl.
"It may be to-night, or it may be to-morrow. But accidents happen at all times—and one is going to happen to him." He smiled sweetly, and lit a cigar. "A nasty, sticky accident which will deprive us of his presence. I haven't worried over the details yet—but doubtless the inspiration will come. And here, if I mistake not, is our hero himself."
The door swung open and Drummond entered. "Well, Carl, old lad," he remarked breezily, "here I am on the stroke of time with the bag of nuts all complete."
"Excellent," murmured the clergyman, waving a benevolent hand towards the only free chair. "But if you must call me by my Christian name, why not make it Theo?" Drummond grinned delightedly.
"As you wish, my little one. Theo it shall be in future, and Janet." He bowed to the girl as he sat down. "There's just one little point I want to mention, Theo, before we come to the laughter and games. Peter Darrell, whom you may remember of old, and who lunched with us to-day, is sitting on the telephone in my house. And eight o'clock is the time limit. Should his childish fears for my safety and my wife's not be assuaged by that hour, he will feel compelled to interrupt Tum-tum at his dinner. I trust I make myself perfectly clear."
"You are the soul of lucidity," beamed the clergyman.
"Good! Then first of all, there are the diamonds. No, don't come too near, please, you can count them quite easily from where you are." He tumbled them out of the bag, and they lay on the table like great pools of liquid light. The girl's breath came quickly as she saw them, and Drummond turned on her with a smile.
"To one given up to good works and knitting, Janet, doubtless, such things do not appeal. Tell me, Theo," he remarked as he swept them back into the bag—"who was the idiot who put them in Snooks' desk? Don't answer if you'd rather not give away your maidenly secrets; but it was a pretty full- sized bloomer on his part, wasn't it—pooping off the old bomb?"
He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment a gleam shone in the other's eyes, for the nape of Drummond's neck came exactly against the centre of the impregnated linen cover.
"Doubtless, Captain Drummond, doubtless," he murmured politely. "But if you will persist in talking in riddles, don't you think we might choose a different subject until Mrs. Drummond arrives?"
"Anything you like, Theo," said Drummond. "I'm perfectly happy talking about you. How the devil do you do it?" He sat up and stared at the other man with genuine wonder on his face. "Eyes different—nose—voice—figure—everything different. You're a marvel—but for that one small failing of yours."
"You interest me profoundly," said the clergyman. "What is this one small failing that makes you think I am other than what I profess to be?"
Drummond laughed genially.
"Good heavens, don't you know what it is? Hasn't Janet told you? It's that dainty little trick of yours of tickling the left ear with the right big toe that marks you every time. No man can do that, Theo, and blush unseen."
He leaned back again in his chair, and passed his hand over his forehead.
"By Jove, it's pretty hot in here, isn't it?"
"It is close everywhere to-day," answered the other easily, though his eyes behind the spectacles were fixed intently on Drummond. "Would you care for a drink?"
Drummond smiled; the sudden fit of muzziness seemed to have passed as quickly as it had come.
"Thank you—no," he answered politely. "In your last incarnation, Theo, you may remember that I did not drink with you. There is an element of doubt about your liquor which renders it a dangerous proceeding."
"As you will," said the clergyman indifferently, at the same time placing the bottle of whisky and the glasses on the table. "If you imagine that I am capable of interfering with an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker, obtained from the cellars of the Ritz, it would be well not to join me." He was carefully removing the tinfoil as he spoke, and once again the strange muzzy feeling swept over Drummond. He felt as if things had suddenly become unreal—as if he was dreaming. His vision seemed blurred, and then for the second time it passed away, leaving only a strange mental confusion. What was he doing in this room? Who was this benevolent old clergyman drawing the cork out of a bottle of whisky?
With an effort he pulled himself together. It must be the heat or something, he reflected, and he must keep his brain clear. Perhaps a whisky-and-soda would help. After all, there could be no danger in drinking from a bottle which he had seen opened under his very eyes.
"Do you know, Theo," he remarked, "I think I will change my mind and have a whisky-and-soda."
His voice sounded strange to his ears; and he wondered if the others noticed anything. But apparently not; the clergyman merely nodded briefly, and remarked, "Say when."
"When," said Drummond, with a foolish sort of laugh. It was a most extraordinary thing, but he couldn't focus his eyes; there were two glasses on the table and two clergymen splashing in soda from two siphons. Surely he wasn't going to faint; bad thing to faint when he was alone with Peterson.
He took a gulp at his drink and suddenly began to talk—foolishly and idiotically.
"Nice room, Carl, old lad...Never expected meet you again: certainly not in nice room...Wrote letter paper after poor old Latter went mad. Drew you—drew badger. Send badger mad too."
His voice trailed away, and he sat there blinking stupidly. Everything was confused, and his tongue seemed weighted with lead. He reached out again for his glass—or tried to—and his arm refused to move. And suddenly out of the jumble of thoughts in his brain there emerged the one damning certainty that somehow or other he had been trapped and drugged. He gave a hoarse, inarticulate cry, and struggled to rise to his feet, but it was useless; his legs and arms felt as if they were bound to the chair by iron bands. And in the mist that swam before his eyes he saw the mocking faces of the clergyman and his daughter.
"It seems to have acted most excellently," remarked the Reverend Theodosius, and Drummond found he could hear quite normally; also his sight was improving; things in the room seemed steadier. And his mind was becoming less confused—he could think again. But to move or to speak was utterly impossible; all he could do was to sit and watch and rage inwardly at having been such a fool as to trust Peterson.
But that gentleman appeared in no