The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
of a corpse," said Lakington. "It's nearly finished."
The girl threw off her opera cloak, and coming forward, peered over the edge of the bath.
"It's not my ugly soldier?" she cried.
"Unfortunately not," returned Lakington grimly; and Peterson laughed.
"Henry is most annoyed, Irma. The irrepressible Drummond has scored again."
In a few words he told the girl what had happened, and she clapped her hands together delightedly.
"Assuredly I shall have to marry that man," she cried. "He is quite the least boring individual I have met in this atrocious country." She sat down and lit a cigarette. "I saw Walter to-night."
"Where?" demanded Peterson quickly. "I thought he was in Paris."
"He was this morning. He came over especially to see you. They want you there for a meeting, at the Ritz."
Peterson frowned.
"It's most inconvenient," he remarked with a shade of annoyance in his voice. "Did he say why?"
"Amongst other things I think they're uneasy about the American," she answered. "My dear man, you can easily slip over for a day."
"Of course I can," said Peterson irritably; "but that doesn't alter the fact that it's inconvenient. Things will be shortly coming to a head here, and I want to be on the spot. However——" He started to walk up and down the room, frowning thoughtfully.
"Your fish is hooked, mon ami," continued the girl to Lakington. "He has already proposed three times; and he has introduced me to a dreadful-looking woman of extreme virtue, who has adopted me as her niece for the great occasion."
"What great occasion?" asked Lakington, looking up from the bath.
"Why, his coming of age," cried the girl. "I am to go to Laidley Towers as an honoured guest of the Duchess of Lampshire." She threw back her head and laughed. "What do you think of that, my friend? The old lady will be wearing pearls and all complete, in honour of the great day, and I shall be one of the admiring house party."
"How do you know she'll have them in the house?" said Lakington.
"Because dear Freddie has told me so," answered the girl. "I don't think you're very bright to-night, Henry. When the young Pooh-ba comes of age, naturally his devoted maternal parent will sport her glad rags. Incidentally the tenants are going to present him with a loving cup, or a baby giraffe or something. You might like to annex that too." She blew two smoke rings and then laughed.
"Freddie is really rather a dear at times. I don't think I've ever met anyone who is so nearly an idiot without being one. Still," she repeated thoughtfully, "he's rather a dear."
Lakington turned a handle underneath the bath, and the liquid, now clear and still, commenced to sink rapidly. Fascinated, Hugh watched the process; in two minutes the bath was empty—a human body had completely disappeared without leaving a trace. It seemed to him as if he must have been dreaming, as if the events of the whole night had been part of some strange jumbled nightmare. And then, having pinched himself to make sure he was awake, he once more glued his eyes to the open space of the window.
Lakington was swabbing out the bath with some liquid on the end of a mop; Peterson, his chin sunk on his chest, was still pacing slowly up and down; the girl, her neck and shoulders gleaming white in the electric light, was lighting a second cigarette from the stump of the first. After a while Lakington finished his cleaning operations and put on his coat.
"What," he asked curiously, "does he think you are?"
"A charming young girl," answered Irma demurely, "whose father lost his life in the war, and who at present ekes out a precarious existence in a government office. At least, that's what he told Lady Frumpley—she's the woman of unassailable virtue. She was profoundly sentimental and scents a romance, in addition to being a snob and scenting a future duke, to say nothing of a future duchess. By the mercy of Allah she's on a committee with his mother for distributing brown-paper underclothes to destitute Belgians, and so Freddie wangled an invite for her. Voilà tout."
"Splendid!" said Lakington slowly. "Splendid! Young Laidley comes of age in about a week, doesn't he?"
"Monday, to be exact, and so I go down with my dear aunt on Saturday."
Lakington nodded his head as if satisfied, and then glanced at his watch.
"What about bed?" he remarked.
"Not yet," said Peterson, halting suddenly in his walk. "I must see the Yank before I go to Paris. We'll have him down here now."
"My dear Carl, at this hour?" Lakington stifled a yawn.
"Yes. Give him an injection, Henry—and, by God, we'll make the fool sign. Then I can actually take it over to the meeting with me."
He strode to the door, followed by Lakington; and the girl in the chair stood up and stretched her arms above her head. For a moment or two Hugh watched her; then he too stood upright and eased his cramped limbs.
"Make the fool sign." The words echoed through his brain, and he stared thoughtfully at the grey light which showed the approach of dawn. What was the best thing to do? "Make" with Peterson generally implied torture if other means failed, and Hugh had no intention of watching any man tortured. At the same time something of the nature of the diabolical plot conceived by Peterson was beginning to take a definite shape in his mind, though many of the most important links were still missing. And with this knowledge had come the realisation that he was no longer a free agent. The thing had ceased to be a mere sporting gamble with himself and a few other chosen spirits matched against a gang of criminals; it had become—if his surmise was correct—a national affair. England herself—her very existence—was threatened by one of the vilest plots ever dreamed of in the brain of man. And then, with a sudden rage at his own impotence, he realised that even now he had nothing definite to go on. He must know more; somehow or other he must get to Paris; he must attend that meeting at the Ritz. How he was going to do it he hadn't the faintest idea; the farthest he could get as he stood on the roof, watching the first faint streaks of orange in the east, was the definite decision that if Peterson went to Paris, he would go too. And then a sound from the room below brought him back to his vantage point. The American was sitting in a chair, and Lakington, with a hypodermic syringe in his hand, was holding his arm.
He made the injection, and Hugh watched the millionaire. He was still undecided as to how to act, but for the moment, at anyrate, 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