helpless man, though the blood was streaming down inside his collar. His eyes, calm and sneering, met those of the raving man in front of him without a quiver, and, at last, Peterson himself intervened.
"Stop it, Lakington." His voice was stern as he caught the other's upraised arm. "That's enough for the time."
For a moment it seemed as if Lakington would have struck Peterson himself; then he controlled himself, and, with an ugly laugh, flung the whip into a corner.
"I forgot," he said slowly. "It's the leading dog we want—not the puppies that run after him yapping." He spun round on his heel. "Have you finished ?"
The rope-artist bestowed a final touch to the last knot, and surveyed his handiwork with justifiable pride.
"Cold mutton," he remarked tersely, "would be lively compared to him when he wakes up."
"Good! Then we'll bring him to."
Lakington took some crystals from a jar on one of the shelves, and placed them in a tumbler. Then he added a few drops of liquid and held the glass directly under the unconscious man's nose. Almost at once the liquid began to effervesce, and in less than a minute Drummond opened his eyes and stared dazedly round the room. He blinked foolishly as he saw Longworth and Sinclair; then he looked down and found he was similarly bound himself. Finally he glanced up at the man bending over him, and full realisation returned.
"Feeling better, my friend?" With a mocking smile, Lakington laid the tumbler on a table close by.
