had the whole complete ducal outfit guessing, dressed up as an Indian; he's come back here with a box containing the Duchess's pearls or I'll eat my hat, and feeling real good with himself; and now instead of enjoying life he's got to have a little chat with me."
"Did you drive him back?" demanded Sinclair, producing a bottle of Bass.
"Owing to the sudden decease of his chauffeur I had to," murmured Hugh. "And he's very angry over something. Let's go on the roof."
Silently they both climbed the ladder which had been placed in readiness, to find Peter Darrell and the American detective already in position. A brilliant light streamed out through the glass dome, and the inside of the central room was clearly visible.
"He's already talked to what he thinks is you," whispered Peter ecstatically, "and he is not in the best of tempers."
Hugh glanced down, and a grim smile flickered round his lips. In the three chairs sat the motionless, bound figures, so swathed in rope that only the tops of their heads were visible, just as Lakington had left him and Toby and Algy earlier in the evening. The only moving thing in the room was the criminal himself, and at the moment he was seated at the table with the Chinese cabinet in front of him. He seemed to be doing something inside with a penknife, and all the time he kept up a running commentary to the three bound figures.
"Well, you young swine, have you enjoyed your night?" A feeble moan came from one of the chairs. "Spirit broken at last, is it?" With a quick turn of
