The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper

      CHAPTER IV

       IN WHICH HE SPENDS A QUIET NIGHT AT THE ELMS

       Table of Content

      I

      "It is a little difficult to know what to do with you, young man," said Peterson gently, after a long silence. "I knew you had no tact."

      Drummond leaned back in his chair and regarded his host with a faint smile.

      "I must come to you for lessons, Mr. Peterson. Though I frankly admit," he added genially, "that I have never been brought up to regard the forcible abduction of a harmless individual and a friend who is sleeping off the effects of what low people call a jag as being exactly typical of that admirable quality."

      Peterson's glance rested on the dishevelled man still standing by the door, and after a moment's thought he leaned forward and pressed a bell.

      "Take that man away," he said abruptly to the servant who came into the room, "and put him to bed. I will consider what to do with him in the morning."

      "Consider be damned," howled Mullings, starting forward angrily. "You'll consider a thick ear, Mr. Blooming Knowall. What I wants to know——"

      The words died away in his mouth, and he gazed at Peterson like a bird looks at a snake. There was something so ruthlessly malignant in the stare of the grey-blue eyes, that the ex-soldier who had viewed going over the top with comparative equanimity, as being part of his job, quailed and looked apprehensively at Drummond.

      "Do what the kind gentleman tells you, Mullings," said Hugh, "and go to bed." He smiled at the man reassuringly. "And if you're very, very good, perhaps, as a great treat, he'll come and kiss you good night."

      "Now that," he remarked as the door closed behind them, "is what I call tact."

      He lit a cigarette, and thoughtfully blew out a cloud of smoke.

      "Stop this fooling," snarled Peterson. "Where have you hidden Potts?"

      "Tush, tush," murmured Hugh. "You surprise me. I had formed such a charming mental picture of you, Mr. Peterson, as the strong, silent man who never lost his temper, and here you are disappointing me at the beginning of our acquaintance."

      For a moment he thought that Peterson was going to strike him, and his own fist clenched under the table.

      "I wouldn't, my friend," he said quietly, "indeed I wouldn't. Because if you hit me, I shall most certainly hit you. And it will not improve your beauty."

      Slowly Peterson sank back in his chair, and the veins which had been standing out on his forehead, became normal again. He even smiled; only the ceaseless tapping of his hand on his left knee betrayed his momentary loss of composure. Drummond's fist unclenched, and he stole a look at the girl. She was in her favourite attitude on the sofa, and had not even looked up.

      "I suppose that it is quite useless for me to argue with you," said Peterson after a while.

      "I was a member of my school debating society," remarked Hugh reminiscently. "But I was never much good. I'm too obvious for argument, I'm afraid."

      "You probably realise from what has happened to-night," continued Peterson, "that I am in earnest."

      "I should be sorry to think so," answered Hugh. "If that is the best you can do, I'd cut it right out and start a tomato farm."

      The girl gave a little gurgle of laughter and lit another cigarette.

      "Will you come and do the dangerous part of the work for us, Monsieur Hugh?" she asked.

      "If you promise to restrain the little fellows, I'll water them with pleasure," returned Hugh lightly.

      Peterson rose and walked over to the window, where he stood motionless staring out into the darkness. For all his assumed flippancy, Hugh realised that the situation was what in military phraseology might be termed critical. There were in the house probably half a dozen men who, like their master, were absolutely unscrupulous. If it suited Peterson's book to kill him, he would not hesitate to do so for a single second. And Hugh realised, when he put it that way in his own mind, that it was no exaggeration, no façon de parler, but a plain, unvarnished statement of fact. Peterson would no more think twice of killing a man if he wished to, than the normal human being would of crushing a wasp.

      For a moment the thought crossed his mind that he would take no chances by remaining in the house; that he would rush Peterson from behind and escape into the darkness of the garden. But it was only momentary—gone almost before it had come, for Hugh Drummond was not that manner of man—gone even before he noticed that Peterson was standing in such a position that he could see every detail of the room behind him reflected in the glass through which he stared.

      A fixed determination to know what lay in that sinister brain replaced his temporary indecision. Events up to date had moved so quickly that he had hardly had time to get his bearings; even now the last twenty-four hours seemed almost a dream. And as he looked at the broad back and massive head of the man at the window, and from him to the girl idly smoking on the sofa, he smiled a little grimly. He had just remembered the thumbscrew of the preceding evening. Assuredly the demobilised officer who found peace dull was getting his money's worth; and Drummond had a shrewd suspicion that the entertainment was only just beginning.

      A sudden sound outside in the garden made him look up quickly. He saw the white gleam of a shirt front, and the next moment a man pushed open the window and came unsteadily into the room. It was Mr. Benton, and quite obviously he had been seeking consolation in the bottle.

      "Have you got him?" he demanded thickly, steadying himself with a hand on Peterson's arm.

      "I have not," said Peterson shortly, eyeing the swaying figure in front of him contemptuously.

      "Where is he?"

      "Perhaps if you ask your daughter's friend Captain