"He's not over there." Peterson's voice came to him from below. "And we've wasted time enough as it is."
The men had gathered together in a group, just below where Hugh was sitting, evidently awaiting further orders.
"Do you mean to say we've lost the young swine again?" said Lakington angrily.
"Not lost—merely mislaid," murmured Peterson. "The more I see of him, the more do I admire his initiative."
Lakington snorted.
"It was that damned fool Ivolsky's own fault," he snarled; "why didn't he keep still as he was told to do?"
"Why, indeed?" returned Peterson, his cigar glowing red. "And I'm afraid we shall never know. He is very dead." He turned towards the house. "That concludes the entertainment, gentlemen, for to-night. I think you can all go to bed."
"There are two of you watching the car, aren't there?" demanded Lakington.
"Rossiter and Le Grange," answered a voice.
Peterson paused by the door.
"My dear Lakington, it's quite unnecessary. You underrate that young man…."
He disappeared into the house, and the others followed slowly. For the time being Hugh was safe, and with a sigh of relief he stretched his cramped limbs and lay back against the sloping roof. If only he had dared to light a cigarette….
