The Third Round (McClure's Magazine 1923-24)/Part 4

by Herman Cyril McNeile

 

In which the Professor Nearly Loses His Secret and Bulldog Drummond His Mind

IT cannot be said that Drummond found the process of explaining an easy one. The lady, having got her second wind, seemed only too ready to cut the cackle and get down to it again; and, as Drummond had to admit even to himself, the explanation sounded a bit lame. To assault unmercifully an elderly German savant in a lawyer's office merely because he was drumming with his left hand on his knee, was, as Mr. Tootem junior put it, a shade over the odds. And his excuse for so doing—his description of the inconceivable villainies of Carl Peterson in the past—was received coldly.

Near the halfway mark </ref>}}In fact, Hugh Drummond proceeded to spend an extremely unpleasant twenty minutes, which might have been considerably prolonged but for Mr. Tootem senior remembering that the umpires were just about coming out at Lords.

He rose from his chair pontifically.

“I think we must assume,” he remarked, “that this misguided young man was actuated by worthy motives, even though his actions left much to be desired. His keenness to safeguard the valuable notes of my late-lamented client no doubt inspired his amazing outburst. And since he has apologized so profusely to you, professor—and also, my dear madam, to you—I would suggest that you might see your way to accepting that apology, and that we—ah—might terminate the interview. I have no doubt that now that Captain Drummond has satisfied himself so—ah—drastically that you are not—I forget his friend's name, he will have no hesitation in handing over the notes to me. Should he still refuse, I shall, of course, have no other alternative but to send for the police—which would cause a most unpleasant contretemps for all concerned. Especially on the very day of the—er—funeral.”

Drummond fumbled in his pocket, still dazed.

“I'll hand 'em over, right enough,” he remarked wearily. “I wish I'd never seen the blame things.”

He passed the sheets of paper across the desk to Mr. Tootem senior.

Illustration: As Drummond leaned forward to take the receiver from the hook, the curtain behind him was pulled back, inch by inch, by a man who held in his right hand a villainous-looking iron bar

“If I don't get outside a pint of beer soon,” he continued, reaching for his hat, “there will be a double event in the funeral line.”

Once again he apologized profusely to the German, and staggered slightly in his tracks as he gazed at the lady. Then blindly he made his way to the door, and twenty minutes later he entered his house a comparatively broken man. Even Algy awoke from his lethargy and gazed at him appalled.

“You mean to say you pulled the old bean's nose!” he gasped.

“This way and that,” sighed Hugh. “And very, very hard. Only nothing like as hard as his wife hit me. She's got a sweeping left, Algy, like the kick of a mule. Good heavens! What an unholy box-up! I must say if it hadn't been for old Tootem, it might have been deuced serious. The office looked like the morning after a wet night.”

“So you've handed over the notes?”

“I have,” said Hugh savagely. “And as I told old Tootem in his office I wish to heaven I'd never seen the bally things. Old Scheidstrun's got 'em, and he can keep 'em.”

WHICH was where the error occurred. Professor Scheidstrun had certainly got them—Mr. Tootem senior had pressed them into his hands with almost indecent brevity the instant Drummond left the office—but Professor Scheidstrun was not going to keep them. At that very moment, in fact, he was handing them over to a benevolent-looking old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers in a room in Mr. Anderson's house in the quiet square.

“Tell me all about it,” murmured the old gentleman, with a smile. 'You've no idea how interested I am in it. I would have given a lot to have been present myself.”

“Mein Gott!” grunted the professor. “He is a holy terror, that man. He tear off my wig; he try to tear off my nose.”

“And then I him on the ear hit,” boomed his wife.

“Splendid!” chuckled the old gentleman. “Quite splendid. He is a violent young man at times, is Captain Drummond.”

“It was that the color of my wig was different that first made him suspect,” went on the German. “And then I do what you tell me—I tap with my left hand, so, upon my knee. The next moment he jumps upon me like a madman.”

“I thought he probably would,” said the old gentleman. “A very amusing little experiment in psychology. You might make a note of it, professor. The surest way of allaying suspicions is to arouse them thoroughly, and then prove that they are groundless. Hence your somewhat sudden summons by airplane from Germany. I have arranged that you should return in the same manner tomorrow after the funeral, which you will attend this afternoon.”

“It was inconvenient—that summons,” said his wife heavily. “And my husband has been assaulted——”

Her words died away as she looked at the benevolent old gentleman. For no trace of benevolence remained on his face, and she shuddered uncontrollably.

“People who do inconvenient things, frau,” he said quietly, “and get found out must expect inconvenient calls to be made upon them.”

“How long is this to continue?” she demanded. “How long are we to remain in your power? This is the second time that you have impersonated my husband. I tell you when I heard that young man speaking this morning, and knew how near he was to the truth—almost did I tell him.”

“But not quite. Not quite, Frau Scheidstrun. You are no fool; you know what would have happened if you had. I still hold the proofs of your husband's unfortunate slip a year or two ago.”

His eyes were fixed on hers, and once again she shuddered.

“I shall impersonate your husband when and where I please,” continued the old gentleman, “if it suits my convenience. I regard him as one of my most successful character studies.”

His tone changed abruptly: he was the benevolent old gentleman again.

“Come, come, my dear Frau Scheidstrun,” he remarked affably, “you take an exaggerated view of things. After all, the damage to your husband's nose is slight, considering the far-reaching results obtained by letting that young man pull it. All his suspicions are allayed: he merely thinks he's made a profound ass of himself. Which is just as it should be. Moreover, with the mark in its present depreciated state, I think the check I propose to hand to your husband for the trouble he has taken will ease matters in the housekeeping line.”

The old gentleman rose from his chair, chuckling again at the thought of Drummond's plight.

“Well, I think that is all. As I said before, you will attend the funeral this afternoon. Such a performance does not call for conversation, and so it will not be necessary for me to prime you with anything more than you know already. Your brother scientists, who will doubtless be there in force, you will know how to deal with far better than I, seeing that I should undoubtedly fail to recognize any of them. And should Drummond be there—well, my dear fellow—I leave it to your sense of Christian decency as to how you treat him. In the presence of—ah—death”—the old gentleman blew his nose—”a policy of kindly charity is, I think, indicated. Anyway, don't I beg of you so far forget yourself as to pull his nose. For without your wife to protect you I shudder to think what the results might be.”

He smiled genially as he lit a cigar.

“And you,” said the German, “you do not the funeral attend?”

“My dear professor,” murmured the other, “you surprise me. In what capacity do you suggest that I should attend this melancholy function? Even the mourners might be a trifle surprised if they saw two of us there. And as Mr. William Robinson—my present rôle—I had not the pleasure of the deceased gentleman's acquaintance. No, I am going into the country to join my brother—the poor fellow is failing a little mentally. Freyder will make all arrangements for your departure tomorrow, and so I will say good-by. You have committed to memory, have you not, the hours and days when you did things in London before you arrived? And destroyed the paper? Good! A document of that sort is dangerous.

“FINALLY, professor, don't forget your well-known reputation for absent-mindedness and eccentricity. Should any one ask you a question about your doings in London which you find difficult to answer, just give your celebrated imitation of a windmill and say nothing. I may remark that if Freyder's telephone report to me is satisfactory this evening, I shall have no hesitation in doubling the amount I suggested as your fee.”

With a wave of his hand he was gone, and Professor Scheidstrun and his wife watched the big car drive away from the door.

“Gott in Himmel!” muttered the German. “But the man is a devil.”

“His money is far from the devil,” replied his wife prosaically. “If he doubles it, we shall have five hundred pounds. And five hundred pounds will be very useful just now,”

Illustration: How long is this to continue?” Frau Scheidstrun demanded. “How long are we to remain in your power?” Then she shuddered uncontrollably as the old gentleman's eyes bored into hers

But her husband was not to be comforted.

“I am frightened, Minna,” he said tremulously. “We know not what we are mixed up in. He has told us nothing as to why he is doing all this.”

“He has told us all that he wishes us to know,” answered his wife. “That is his way.”

“Why is he dressed up like that?” continued the professor. “And how did Goodman really die?” He stared fearfully at his wife. “Blown up? Yes. But—by whom?” He shivered at the fearful surmise in his mind.

“Be silent, Heindrich,” said his wife, but fear was in her eyes, too. “It is not good to think of these things. Let us have lunch, and then you must go to the funeral. And after that he will send us the money, as he did last time, and we will go back to Dresden. Then we will pray the good God that he will leave us alone.”

“What frightens me, Minna, is that it is I who am supposed to have been with Goodman on the afternoon it happened. And if the police should find out things, what am I to say? Already there are people who suspect—that big man this morning, for instance. How am I to prove that it was not I, but that devil made up to look like me? Mein Gott! But he is clever! I should not have hidden myself away as he told me to do in his letter.”

“He would have found out if you hadn't,” said his wife. “He knows everything.”

“There was no one who saw us start,” went on the German excitedly. “At least, no one who saw me start. You they saw—but me, I was smuggled into the airplane. Everything is accounted for by that devil. It is impossible for me to prove an alibi. For four days I have concealed myself: our friends all think that I have gone to England, as you told them. They think you follow, and they will see us return. Would any one believe us if now we said it was all a lie? They would say, 'Why did you remain hidden? What was the object of all this deceit?' And I—what can I say? That I am in the power of some one whom, to save my life, I cannot describe. No one would believe me; it would make my position worse.”

He grew almost hysterical in his agitation.

“There is one comfort, my dear,” said his wife soothingly. “As long as every one believes that it was you who was with Professor Goodman they are not likely to suspect very much. For foul play there must be a motive, and there could be no motive in your case. No, Heindrick, that devil has foreseen everything. No one was suspicious except the big man this morning, and now he is suspicious no longer. All that we have to do is just what we are told, and we shall be safe. But, mein Gott, I wish that we were on board that foul machine again, even if I should be sick the whole way.”

The worthy woman rose and placed a hand like a leg of mutton on her husband's shoulder.

“Lunch,” she continued. “And then you must go to the funeral while I await you here.”

And so an hour later Professor Scheidstrun, fortified by a most excellent meal, chartered a taxi and drove off to attend the ceremony. After all, his wife was a woman of sound common sense, and there was much in what she said. Moreover, five hundred pounds were not obtained every day. With his usual diabolical cleverness that man, whose real name even he did not know, had so arranged things that his scheme would succeed. He always did succeed—this would be no exception. And provided the scheme was successful, he personally would be safe.

He stepped out at the church door and paid his fare. A celebrated Scotch chemist whom he knew and who was entering the church at the same moment stopped and spoke a few words with him—and for a while they stood chatting on the pavement outside. Then the Scotchman moved away, and the professor was about to enter the church when some one touched him on the arm.

HE turned to see a young man wearing an eyeglass whom he had never seen before in his life.

“Afternoon, professor,” said the young man.

The professor grunted. Who on earth was this? Some relative of the dead man, presumably.

“You don't seem to remember me,” went on the young man slowly.

The fact was hardly surprising, but mindful of his instructions the German waved his arms vaguely and endeavored to escape into the church. But the young man, whose eyes had narrowed suddenly, was not to be shaken off quite so easily.

“One moment, professor,” he said quietly. “Do you remember me?”

Again the German grunted unintelligibly, but his brain was working quickly. Obviously this young man knew him; therefore he ought obviously to know the young man.

“Yah,” he grunted. “I haf met you, but I know not where.”

“Don't you remember coming around to Captain Drummond's house yesterday afternoon?” went on the other.

“Of course,” said the professor, beginning to feel firm ground again. “It was there that we did meet?”

“That's it,” said the young man cheerfully. “I was one of the four fellows there with Drummond.”

“It vas stupid of me to haf forgotten,” remarked the German, breathing an inward sigh of relief. “But so many were there, that must be my excuse.”

He escaped into the church, and Algy Longworth made no further attempt to detain him. Without thought and as a mere matter of politeness, he had spoken to the professor on seeing him, to be greeted with the blank stare of complete non-recognition. And now the German had concurred in his statement that there had been five of them in the room during the interview, whereas only Hugh and he himself had been present.

THE short service was drawing to a close, and Algy, who had not heard a word, still stared thoughtfully at the back of the professor's head, two pews in front. He had noted the nods of greeting from several distinguished-looking old gentlemen as the German had entered the church. But five instead of two! Surely it was incredible that any man, however absent-minded and engrossed in other things, should have made such a mistake as that. Even poor old Goodman himself had not been as bad as that. Besides, he personally had spoken not once but several times to the German during the interview. Surely he couldn't have forgotten so completely.

But the fact remained that after the service was over, Professor Scheidstrun chatted for some time with several other elderly men, who apparently had no doubts as to his identity. In fact, it was impossible to believe that the man was not what he professed to be, especially as he, too, remembering what Hugh had said, had laid his hand on the German's arm outside the church and felt it. It was skinny and thin—and yet five instead of two! That was the thing he could not understand.

If only he could think of some test question which would settle the matter! But he couldn't, and even if he had been able to there was no further chance of asking it. Professor Scheidstrun completely ignored his existence, and finally drove away without speaking to him again.

And it was a very puzzled young man who finally returned to Brook Street to find Hugh Drummond sunk in the depths of depression. He listened in silence to what Algy had to say, and then he shook his head.

“My dear old man,” he said at length, “it cuts no ice. It's funny, I know. If you or I went around to have a buck with a fellow, we should remember whether the isolation was complete or whether we were crushed to death in the mob. But with these scientific blokes it's altogether different. He probably has completely for- gotten the entire incident. And yet, Algy, the conviction is growing on me that I've been had for a mug. Somehow or other they've handed us the dirty end. I confess it's difficult to follow. I'm convinced that the man today in Tootem's office is the genuine article. And if he is it's almost impossible to believe that poor old Goodman's death was anything but an accident. Then where's the catch? That's what I've been trying to puzzle out for the last three hours, and I'm just where I was when I started.”

“You think that German is going to do what he said? Go back and carry on with Goodman's discovery?”

“I don't know what else to think.”

“Then I'll tell you one thing, Hugh,” said Algy thoughtfully. “You'd have a death from heat apoplexy if old Blantyre knew it. And he was showing no signs of a rush of blood to the face at the funeral today.”

Drummond sat up and stared at his friend.

“Which means either that he doesn't know anything about it and believes that the secret died with Goodman; or else, Algy, he's got at Scheidstrun. Somehow or other, he's found out about that letter and he's induced the German to part with the notes.”

He rose and paced up and down the room.

“Or else—great Scott! Algy, can it be possible that the whole thing has been carefully worked from beginning to end? Blantyre went over to Switzerland—Toby told me that. He went over looking like a sick headache and came back bursting with himself.” Drummond's face was hard. “If I thought that that swine had deliberately hired the German to murder poor old Goodman——”

His great hands were clenched by his sides, as he stared grimly out of the window.

“I made a fool of myself this morning,” he went on after a while. “I suppose I've got Carl Peterson on the brain. But there are other swine in the world, Algy, besides him. And if I could prove——”

“Quite,” remarked Algy. “But how the devil can you prove anything?”

Suddenly Drummond swung around.

“I'm going around to see Blantyre now,” he said decisively. “Will you come?”

ſ

HALF an hour later Algy and he walked through the unpretentious door that led to the office of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate to be greeted with a shout of joy from Toby Sinclair who was just emerging from an inner room.

“You have come to ask me to consume nourishment at your expense!” he cried. “I know it. I accept. I will also dine this evening.”

“Dry up, Toby,” grunted Hugh. “Is your boss in?”

“Sir Raymond? Yes—why?”

“I want to see him,” said Hugh quietly.

“My dear old man, I'm sorry, but it's quite out of the question,” answered Toby. “There's a meeting of the whole syndicate on at the present moment upstairs, and——”

“I want to see Sir Raymond Blantyre,” interrupted Hugh. “And, Toby, I'm going to see Sir Raymond Blantyre. And if his darned syndicate is there I'll see his syndicate as well.”

“But, Hugh, old man,” spluttered Toby, “be reasonable. It's an important business meeting, and——”

Hugh laid his hands on Toby's shoulders and grinned.

“Toby, don't waste time. Trot along upstairs—bow nicely, and say 'Captain Drummond craves audience.' And when he asks what for just say—'In connection with an explosion which took place at Hampstead.'”

Of a sudden it seemed as if a strange tension had come into Toby Sinclair's room. For Toby was one of those who had hunted with Hugh in days gone by, and he recognized the look in the big man's eyes. Something was up—something serious, that he knew at once. And certain nebulous, half-formed suspicions which he had vigorously suppressed in his own mind promptly stirred into being.

“What is it, old man?” he asked quietly a moment later.

“I'll know better after the interview, Toby,” answered the other. “But one thing I will tell you now. It's either nothing at all, or else your boss is one of the most blackguardly villains alive in London today. Now go up and tell him.”

And without another word Toby Sinclair went. Probably not for another living man would he have interrupted the meeting upstairs. But the habits of other days held: when Hugh Drummond gave an order it was carried out.

A minute later he was down again.

“Sir Raymond will see you at once, Hugh,” he said, and for Toby Sinclair his expression was thoughtful. For the sudden silence that had settled on the room of directors as he gave the message had not escaped his attention. And the air of carefully-suppressed nervous expectancy on the part of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate did not escape Drummond's attention either as he entered the room, followed by Algy Longworth.

“Captain Drummond?” Sir Raymond Blantyre rose, and indicated a chair with his hand. “Ah! And Mr. Longworth, surely. Please sit down. I think I saw you in the distance at the funeral today. Now, Captain Drummond, perhaps you will tell us what you want as quickly as possible, as we are in the middle of a rather important meeting.”

“I will try to be as short as possible, Sir Raymond,” said Drummond quietly. “It concerns, as you have probably guessed, the sad death of Professor Goodman, in which I, personally, am very interested. You see the professor lunched with me on the day of his death.”

“Indeed!” murmured Sir Raymond politely.

“Yes—I met him in St. James' Square, where he'd been followed.”

“Followed!” said one of the directors. “What do you mean?”

“EXACTLY what I say. He was being followed. He was also in a very excited condition owing to the fact that he had just received a letter threatening his life, unless he consented to accept two hundred and fifty thousand pounds as the price for suppressing his discovery for manufacturing diamonds cheaply. But you know all this part, don't you?”

“I know nothing whatever about a threatening letter,” said Sir Raymond. “It's the first I've heard of it. Of his process, of course, I know. I think Mr. Longworth was present at the dinner on the night I examined the ornament Miss Goodman was wearing. And believing then that the process was indeed capable of producing genuine diamonds, I did offer Professor Goodman a quarter of a million pounds to suppress it.”

“Believing then?” said Drummond, staring at him.

“Yes; for a time I and my colleagues here did really believe that the discovery had been made,” answered Sir Raymond easily. “And I will go so far as to say that even as it stands the process—now so unfortunately lost to science—produced most marvelous imitations. In fact”—he gave a deprecatory laugh—“it produced such marvelous imitations that it deceived us. But they will not stand the test of time. In some samples he made for us at a demonstration, minute flaws are already beginning to show themselves, flaws which only the expert would notice—but they're there.”

“I see,” murmured Drummond quietly, and Sir Raymond shifted a little in his chair. Ridiculous though it was, this vast young man facing him had a peculiarly, direct stare which he found almost disconcerting.

“I see,” repeated Drummond. “So the system was a dud.”

“Precisely, Captain Drummond. The system was no use. A gigantic advance, you will understand, on anything that has ever been done before in that line—but still, no use. And if one may extract some little ray of comfort from the appalling tragedy which caused Professor Goodman's death, it surely is that he was at any rate spared the laughter of the scientific world, whose good opinion he valued so greatly.”

SIR RAYMOND leaned back in his chair, and a murmur of sympathetic approval for words well and truly uttered passed around the room. And, feeling considerably more sure of himself, it dawned on the mind of the chairman that up to date he had done most of the talking, and that so far his visitor's principal contribution had been confined to monosyllables. Who was he, anyway, this Captain Drummond? Some friend of the idiotic youth with the eyeglass, presumably. He began to wonder why he had ever consented to see him.

“However, Captain Drummond,” he continued, with a trace of asperity, “you doubtless came to speak to me about something. And since we are rather busy this evening——”

He broke off and waited.

“I did wish to speak to you,” said Drummond, carefully selecting a cigarette, “but since the process is no good, I don't think it matters very much.”

“It is certainly no good,” answered Sir Raymond.

“So I'm afraid poor old Scheidstrun will only be wasting his time.”

For a moment it almost seemed as if the clock had stopped—so intense was the sudden silence.

“I don't quite understand what you mean,” said Sir Raymond in a voice which, strive as he would, he could not make quite steady.

“No?” murmured Drummond placidly. “You didn't know of Professor Goodman's last instructions? However, since the whole thing is a dud, I won't worry you.”

“What do you know of Scheidstrun?” asked Sir Raymond.

“Just a funny old Boche. He came to see me yesterday afternoon with the professor's last will, so to speak. And then I interviewed him this morning in the office of the excellent Mr. Tootem, and pulled his nose—poor old dear.”

“Professor Scheidstrun came to see you?” cried Sir Raymond, standing up suddenly. “What for?”

“Why, to get the notes of the diamond process, which the professor gave me at lunch on the day of his death.” Drummond thoughtfully kt his cigarette, apparently oblivious of the fact that every man in the room was glaring at him speechlessly. “But since it's a dud—I'm afraid he'll waste his time.”

“But the notes were destroyed.” Every vestige of control had left Sir Raymond's voice; his agitation was obvious.

“How do you know?” snapped Drummond, and the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate found himself staring almost fascinated at a pair of eyes from which every trace of laziness had vanished.

“He always carried them with him,” he stammered. “And I—er—assumed——”

“Then you assumed wrong. Professor Goodman handed me those notes at lunch the day he died.”

“Where are they now?” It was Mr. Liebhaus who asked the question in his guttural voice.

“Since they are of no use, what does it matter?” answered Drummond indifferently.

“Gentlemen!” Sir Raymond's peremptory voice checked the sudden buzz of conversation. “Captain Drummond,” he remarked, “I must confess that what you have told me this afternoon has given me a slight shock. As I say, I had assumed that the notes of the process had perished with the professor. You now tell us that he handed them to you. Well, I make no bones about it that though from a purely scientific point of view the process fails, yet—er—from a business point of view it is not one that any of us would care to have noised abroad. You will understand that if diamonds, which except to the eye of the most practical expert are real, can be made cheaply it will—er—not be a good thing for those who are interested in the diamond market. You can understand that, can't you?”

“I tell you what I can understand, Sir Raymond,” said Drummond quietly. “And that is that you're a darned bad poker player. If, as you say, flaws have appeared in the diamonds manufactured by this process, you and your pals here would not now be giving the finest example of a vertical typhoon that I've ever seen.”

Sir Raymond subsided in his chair a little foolishly. He felt at a complete loss as to where he stood with this astonishing young man. And it was left to Mr. Liebhaus to make the next move.

“Let us leave that point for the moment,” he remarked. “Where are these notes now?”

“I've already told you,” replied Drummond casually. “The worthy Scheidstrun has them. And in accordance with Professor Goodman's written instructions, he proposes to give the secret to the world of science at an early date. In fact, he is going back to Germany tomorrow to do so.”

“But the thing is impossible!” cried Sir Raymond, recovering his speech. “You mean to say that Professor Goodman left written instructions that the notes of his process were to be handed over to—to Scheidstrun?”

“I do,” returned Drummond. “And if you want confirmation you can ring up Mr. Tootem of Austin Friars—Professor Goodman's lawyer. He saw the letter, and it was in his office that the notes were handed over.”

“You will excuse me, Captain Drummond, if I confer for a few moments with my friends,” said Sir Raymond, rising.

THE directors of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate withdrew to the farther end of the long room, leaving Drummond still sitting at the table. And to that gentleman's shrewd eye it was soon apparent that his chance arrow had hit the mark, though exactly what mark it was, was still beyond him. But the agitation displayed by the group of men in the window was too obvious to miss, and had he known all the facts he would have found it hardly surprising. The directors were faced unexpectedly with as thorny a problem as could well be devised.

Believing as they had that the notes had been destroyed—had not Mr. Edward Blackton assured them of that fact?—they had unanimously decided to declare that the process had proved useless, thereby removing any possible suspicion that might attach itself to them. And now they found that not only had the notes not been destroyed, but that they were in the possession of Blackton himself. And it needed but little imagination to realize that, dangerous though the knowledge of the process had been in the hands of Professor Goodman, it was twenty times more so in the hands of Blackton, if he meant to double-cross them. That was the point: did he?

Or had he discovered somehow or other that Drummond held the notes and taken these steps in order to get them?

And the second little matter which had to be solved was how much this man Drummond knew. If he knew nothing at all, why had he bothered to come around to see them? It was out of the question, surely, that he could have any inkling of the real truth concerning the bogus Professor Scheidstrun. Had not the impersonation deceived even London scientists who knew the real man, at the funeral that afternoon?

Illustration: There was an expression of incredible ferocity on the benign countenance of Mr. Robinson as he stared at the motionless body on the floor

For a while the directors conferred together in whispers; then Sir Raymond advanced toward the table. The first thing was to get rid of Drummond.

“I am sure we are all very much obliged to you, Captain Drummond, for coming around to see us, but I don't think there is anything more you can do. Should an opportunity arise I will take steps to let Professor Scheidstrun know what we think——”

He held out a cordial hand to terminate the interview.

But it takes two people to terminate an interview, and Drummond had no intention of being the second. He realized that he was on delicate ground and that it behooved him to walk warily. But his conviction that something was wrong somewhere was stronger than ever, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it, if he could.

“It might perhaps be as well, Sir Raymond,” he remarked, “to go around and tell him now. I know where he is staying.”

Was it his imagination, or did the men in the window look at one another uneasily?

“As I told you, I pulled the poor old bean's nose this morning, and it seems a good way of making amends.”

Sir Raymond stared at him.

“May I ask why you pulled his nose?” he said.

Drummond decided on a bold move.

“Because, Sir Raymond, I came to the conclusion that Professor Scheidstrun was not Professor Scheidstrun, but somebody else.” There was no mistaking the air of tension now. “I may say that I was mistaken.”

“Who did you think he was?” Sir Raymond gave a forced laugh.

“A gentleman of international reputation, who masquerades under a variety of names,” said Drummond quietly. “I knew him first as Carl Peterson, but he answers to a lot of titles. The Comte de Guy is one of them.”

The atmosphere was electric now, a fact which did not escape Drummond. His eyes had narrowed; he was sitting very still. In the language of the old nursery game, he was getting warm.

“But I proved conclusively, gentlemen,” he continued, “that the man to whom I handed those notes this morning was not the Comte de Guy. The comte, gentlemen, has arms as big as mine. His physical strength is very great. This man had arms like walking sticks, and he couldn't have strangled a mouse.”

One by one the men at the window had returned to their seats and now they sat in perfect silence, staring at Drummond. What on earth was the new complication, or was this man deliberately deceiving them?

“Do you know the Comte de Guy well?” said Sir Raymond, after a pause.

“Very well indeed,” remarked Drummond. “Do you?”

“I have heard of him,” answered the other.

“Then, as you probably know, his power of disguising himself is so miraculous as to be uncanny. He has one little mannerism, however, which he sometimes shows in moments of excitement, whatever his disguise. And it has enabled me to spot him on one or two occasions. Therefore, when I saw that little trick of his in the lawyer's office this morning, I jumped to the conclusion that my old friend was on the warpath again. So I leaped upon him, and the subsequent scene was dreadful. It was not my old friend at all, but a complete stranger with a vast wife who nearly felled me with a blow on the ear.”

He selected another cigarette with care.

“However,” he continued casually, “it's a very good thing for you that the process is a dud. Because I am sure nothing would induce him to disregard Professor Goodman's wishes on the subject if it hadn't been.”

“You say you know where he is stopping,” said Sir Raymond.

“I do,” answered Drummond.

“THEN I think perhaps it would be a good thing to do as you suggest, go around to see him now.” He had been thinking rapidly while Drummond was speaking, and one or two points were clear. In some miraculous way this young man had blundered upon the truth. That the man Drummond had met in the lawyer's office that morning was any other than Blackton he did not for a moment believe. But Blackton had bluffed him somehow, and for the time had thrown him off the scent. The one vital thing was to prevent him from getting on to it again. And since there was no way of telling what Drummond would find when he went around to the house, it was imperative that he should be there himself. For if there was one person whom Sir Raymond did not expect to meet there, it was Professor Scheidstrun. And in that event he must be on hand to see what happened.

“Shall we go at once? My car is here.”

“By all means,” said Drummond. “And if there's room we might take Algy as well. He gets into mischief if he's left lying about.”

On one point, at any rate, Sir Raymond's expectations were not realized. Professor Scheidstrun was at the house, right enough. In fact, he and his wife had just finished their tea. And neither the worthy Teuton nor his spouse evinced the slightest pleasure on seeing their visitors. With the termination of the funeral they had believed their troubles to be over, and now this extremely powerful and objectionable young man had come to worry them again, to say nothing of his friend who had spoken to the professor at the funeral. And what did Sir Raymond Blantyre want? Scheidstrun had been coached carefully as to who and what Sir Raymond was, but what on earth had he come around about? Especially with Drummond!

It was the latter who stated the reason of their visit.

“I've come about those notes, professor,” he remarked cheerfully. “You know—the ones that caused that slight breeze in old Tootem's office this morning.”

“So,” grunted the professor, blinking uneasily behind his spectacles. It struck him that the ground was getting dangerous.

“I feel,” went on Drummond affably, “that after our unfortunate little contretemps I ought to try to make some amends. And as I know you're a busy man I shouldn't like you to waste your time needlessly. Now you propose to carry on with Professor Goodman's process, to demonstrate it to the world at large, don't you?”

“That is so,” said the German. “My old friend wished it.”

Out of the corner of his eye Drummond looked at Sir Raymond, but the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate was staring out of the window.

“Well, I'm sorry to say the process is a dud; a failure; no bully earthly. You get me, I trust.”

“A failure. Ach! Is dot so?” rumbled Scheidstrun, who was by this time completely out of his depth.

“And that being the case, professor,” murmured Sir Raymond, “it would be better to destroy the notes at once, don't you think? I was under the impression”—he added pointedly—“that they had already been destroyed in the accident.”

Strangely enough, the presence of Drummond gave him a feeling of confidence with Mr. Edward Blackton which he had never experienced before. And this was a golden opportunity for securing the destruction of those accursed papers and thus preventing any possibility of his being double-crossed.

“Shall we therefore destroy them at once?” he repeated quietly.

The German fidgeted in his chair. Willingly would he have destroyed them on the spot if they had still been in his possession. Anything to be rid of his visitors. He glanced from one to the other of them. Drummond was apparently staring at the flies on the ceiling: Sir Raymond was staring at him, and his stare was full of some hidden meaning. But since it was manifestly impossible for him to do as Sir Raymond suggested the only thing to do was to temporize.

“I fear that to destroy them I cannot,” he murmured. “At least—not yet. My duty to my dear friend——”

“Duty be hanged!” snarled Sir Raymond, forgetting Drummond's presence in his rage. This swine was trying to double-cross him, after all. “You'll destroy those notes here and now, or——” With a great effort he pulled himself together.

“Or what?” asked Drummond mildly. “You seem strangely determined, Sir Raymond, that Professor Scheidstrun shouldn't waste his time. Deuced praiseworthy I call it on your part——”

Sir Raymond smothered a curse, and glared still more furiously at the German. And suddenly Drummond rose to his feet, and strolled over to the open window.

“Well, I don't think there's much good our waiting here,” he remarked in a bored voice. “If he wants to fool around with the process he must. Coming, Sir Raymond?”

“In a moment or two, Captain Drummond. Don't wait.”

“Right. Come on, Algy. Apologies again about the nose, professor. So long.”

HE opened the door, and paused outside for Algy to join him. And every trace of boredom had vanished from his face.

“Go downstairs noisily,” he whispered. “Make a remark as if I were with you. Go out and slam the front door. Then hang about and wait for me.”

“Right,” answered the other. “But what are you going to do?”

“Listen to their conversation, old man. I have an idea it may be interesting.”

Without a sound he opened the door of the next room and went in. It was a bedroom and it was empty, and Drummond heaved a sigh of relief. The window he knew would be open: he had seen that as he looked out in the other room. Moreover, the square was a quiet one; he could easily hear what was being said next door by leaning out.

And for the next five minutes he leaned out, and he heard. And so engrossed was he in what he heard that he quite failed to notice a dark-skinned, sturdy man who paused abruptly on the pavement a few houses away, and disappeared as suddenly as he had come. So engrossed was he in what he heard that he even failed to hear a faint—in fact, a barely audible pick in the keyhole of the door just behind him, a few moments later.

All he noticed was that the voices in the next room suddenly ceased, but he had heard quite enough. There was not one Scheidstrun, but two Scheidstruns and he had assaulted the wrong one. Of Mr. Edward Blackton he had never heard, but there was only one man living who could have suggested that unmistakable trick with his hand—the man he knew as Carl Peterson. Somehow or other, he had found out this mannerism of his and had deliberately used it to bluff Drummond, even as he had deliberately double-crossed the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. It was just the sort of thing that would appeal to his sense of humor.

So be it: they would crack a jest together over it later. At the moment he wanted a word or two with Sir Raymond Blantyre. He crossed to the door and tried to open it. But the door was locked, and the key was on the outside.

For a moment or two he stood staring at it. His mind was still busy with the staggering conversation he had been listening to, which had almost, if not quite, explained everything. Facts, disconnected before, now joined themselves together in a more or less logical sequence. Sir Raymond Blantyre's visit to Montreux to enlist the aid of this Mr. Edward Blackton; the arrival in England of the spurious Professor Scheidstrun; the accident at Hampstead—all that part was clear now. And with regard to that accident Drummond's face was grim. Cold-blooded murder it must have been, in spite of all Sir Raymond's guarded utterances on the subject.

The Story from the Beginning

LURED by the prospect of incalculable wealth for himself, Edward Blackton, international criminal, returns to England at the request of Sir Raymond Blantyre, who represents vast diamond interests, in jeopardy at the moment. Blackton's plan is to gain possession of the secret process by which a well-known chemist, Professor Goodman, has been able to produce flawless diamonds by artificial means and at a cost of less than six pounds.

Blackton, disguised as Professor Scheidstrun, a German geologist, gains an entrance into the Goodman laboratory, kidnaps the professor, and blows up the place. But when he later interviews the professor, in the guise of Mr. William Robinson, a wealthy and eccentric man of science, he finds that there is an unforeseen hitch in the carrying out of his scheme. For Professor Goodman hasn't the notes of his process, and without them he can do nothing. And the man who has them now is—Hugh Drummond!

Robinson is momentarily dumfounded at the revelation, but he soon evolves a plan for their recovery that appeals to his sense of humor. And, again attired as Professor Scheidstrun, he interviews Hugh Drummond. He gives him a letter from the professor—written presumably before his tragic death—requesting that, should anything happen to him, the notes of his process be handed over to his old friend Scheidstrun.

Drummond is suspicious because the professor's death, coming as it did after his refusal of the vast fortune offered him by Sir Raymond Blantyre for the suppression of his discovery, seemed such a strange and fortunate coincidence for the diamond interests. But he is bound to honor the professor's wishes in the matter. Therefore, he consents to deliver the notes to Goodman's lawyer, who will, in turn, give them to Scheidstrun.

But next day, at the lawyer's office, the professor displays a characteristic of an old-time enemy of Drummond—Carl Peterson! Drummond leaps upon him with a yell of joy—only to find to his intense mystification that Scheidstrun is Scheidstrun, and that he has made a ghastly mistake.

For it had been ten minutes before that gentleman finally realized that the Scheidstrun he was talking to was the genuine article, and during that ten minutes he had spoken with some freedom. And then, when he had finally realized it and grasped the fact that he and his syndicate had been double-crossed, his rage had been terrible. Moreover, he had then said things which made matters even clearer to the man who was listening in the next room. Out of his own mouth he stood condemned as the instigator of an abominable crime.

But Sir Raymond could wait; there would be plenty of time later to deal with that gentleman and his syndicate. The man who called himself Edward Blackton was his immediate concern. And Drummond had no illusions now as to his identity. It was Carl Peterson again, and with the faintest flicker of a smile he acknowledged the touch of genius that had caused him to pass on his little mannerism to the genuine Scheidstrun. It had had exactly the intended effect: certainty that they had again met in the lawyer's office, followed immediately by a crushing proof to the contrary—a proof so overwhelming that but for vague suspicion engendered by the professor's non-recognition of Algy at the funeral he would have let the whole thing drop.

It was just like Peterson to bluff to the limit of his hand; moreover, it would have appealed to his sense of humor. And the point which was not clear to either Sir Raymond or the German was very clear to him. To them it had seemed an unnecessary complication to bring over the genuine Scheidstrun—but Drummond could supply the missing link. And that link was his previous acquaintance with the arch criminal.

The combination of shrewd insight and consummate nerve which deliberately banked on that previous acquaintance and turned it to gain was Peterson all over—or rather Blackton, to give him his present name. Moreover, the advantage of having the genuine article at the funeral, where he was bound to run into many friends and acquaintances, was obvious. Most assuredly the touch of the master hand was in evidence again, but where was the hand itself? It was that question which Sir Raymond, almost inarticulate with rage, had asked again and again; and it was the answer to that question which Professor Scheidstrun would not or could not give.

Listening intently, Drummond had inclined to the latter alternative, though, not being able to see the speaker's face, he had had to rely on inflection of voice. But it had seemed to him as if the German was speaking the truth when he absolutely denied any knowledge whatever of Blackton's whereabouts. An old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers—that was all he could say. But where he was or what he was doing, he knew no more than Sir Raymond. He had left that morning with the notes in his possession, and that was all he could tell his infuriated questioner.

Illustration: “Puff—puff!” he cried happily. “Naughty man kicked train!” And the train which he was busily pushing along the floor consisted of his own shoes

AND then a sudden silence had fallen while Drummond still craned out of the window listening—a silence which endured so long that finally he stepped back into the room, only to discover that he was locked in. For a moment or two, as has been said, he stood staring at the door; then, with a grunt, he charged it with his shoulder. But the door was strong, and it took three minutes before it burst open with a final resounding, splintering crash, almost throwing him on his face.

For a while he stood listening: the house was silent. And since in ordinary respectable houses the bursting open of a door is not greeted with absolute silence, Drummond's hand went automatically to his hip pocket. Past association with Peterson accounted for the involuntary movement, but much water had flowed under the bridge since those happy days, and with a sigh he realized that he was unarmed. With his back to the wall he took careful stock of his surroundings. Every nerve was alert for possible eventualities: his arms, hanging a little forward, were tingling at the prospect of action.

Still there was no sound. The passage was deserted; all the doors were shut. And yet keys do not turn by themselves. Some one had locked him in. The question was who had done it. And where was he? Or could it be a she? Could it be that monumental woman who had assaulted him only that morning? He turned a little pale at the thought, but with the knowledge that he now possessed of her husband's complicity in the affair he felt he could meet her on rather more level terms. And there was comfort in the knowledge that every one in the house was so confoundedly crooked. 'The likelihood of their sending for the police to eject him from the premises was, to put it mildly, remote.

Silently as a cat, he took a quick step along the passage, and flung open the door of the room in which he had left Sir Raymond Blantyre and the German. It was empty; there was no sign of either man. He crossed to one of the heavy curtains which was drawn across a window behind the desk, and hit it a heavy blow with his fist. But the folds went back unresistingly: there was no one hiding behind it. And then swiftly and methodically he went from room to room, moving with that strange, silent tread which was one of his most marked peculiarities. No one ever heard Drummond coming; in the darkness no one ever saw him if he didn't wish them to. The first thing they knew of his presence was a pair of great hands which seemed to materialize out of the night, forcing their heads backward and further back. And sometimes that was the last thing they knew, as well——

But there was no darkness in the house as he searched it from top to bottom—only silence. Once he thought he heard the sound of a step above him as he stood downstairs in the dining room, but it was not repeated and he decided it was only imagination—a board creaking, perhaps. He went into the kitchen and the scullery. The fire was lit in the range, but of cook or servant there was no sign.

And finally he returned thoughtfully to the hall. There was no doubt about it, the house was empty save for himself. Sir Raymond and the German had gone during the period that he was locked in the room upstairs. And during that period the other occupants of the house, if any, had gone also.

He carefully selected a cigarette and lit it. The situation required reviewing.

ITEM one: Sir Raymond Blantyre was a consummate swine who had, by the grace of Allah, been stung on the raw by a hornet. Moreover, before Drummond had finished with him the hornets would have swarmed. But he could wait.

Item two: The genuine Professor Scheidstrun appeared to be a harmless old poop who was more sinned against than sinning. And he certainly could wait.

Item three: The other Professor Scheidstrun—alias Blackton, alias Peterson, present address unknown—had got away with the goods. He was in full and firm possession of the momentous secret, which Blantyre had paid him half a million to destroy. Drummond smiled involuntarily. How like him! How completely Peterson to the life! And then the smile faded. To get it he had murdered a harmless, gentle old man in cold blood.

Item four: He himself was in undisputed possession of an empty house in which Peterson had been only that morning.

Could he turn item four to advantage in solving the address question in item three? Everything else was subservient to a knowledge of Peterson's present whereabouts. And from his knowledge of the gentleman he felt it was unlikely that he had left directions for forwarding letters pasted conspicuously on the wall. He was one of those shy flowers that prefer to blush unseen. At the same time, it was possible that an exhaustive search of the desk upstairs might reveal some clue. And if it didn't, presumably the bird who had locked him in would return in due course to find out how he was getting on. Everything, therefore, pointed to a policy of masterly inactivity in the hope that something or somebody would turn up.

He slowly ascended the stairs, and again entered the room where the interview had taken place. Time was of no particular object, and for a while he stood by the door turning over the problem in his mind. Then suddenly his eyes became alert: there was a door let into the wall which by some strange oversight he had not seen before. And in a flash he remembered the step which he thought he had heard while he was below. Was there some one in that room, and, if so, who? Could it be possible—a glow of wild excitement began to tingle in his veins at the mere thought—could it be possible that the solution of the problem lay close at hand? That here—practically in the same room with him—was Peterson himself!

With one bound he was across the room, and the door was open. One glance was sufficient to dash the dawning hope to the ground: the room was empty like all the rest had been. But though it was empty it was not devoid of interest, and a faint smile came on Drummond's face as he surveyed the contents. Wigs, clothes, mirrors filled the place to overflowing, though there was no trace of untidiness. And he realized that he was in the inner sanctum where Peterson carried out his marvelous changes of appearance. With sudden grim amusement he recognized on a chair the identical egg-stained coat that the spurious Professor Scheidstrun had worn on his visit to him the preceding afternoon. In fact, he was so interested in that and other things that he failed to notice a rather curious phenomenon in the room behind him. The heavy curtain which he had hit with his fist moved slightly, as if blown by the wind. And there was no wind.

WITH genuine interest he examined the exhibits—as he called them in his own mind. It was the first time he had ever penetrated into Peterson's holy of holies, and though the proprietor was not there himself to act as showman he was quite able to appreciate the museum without the services of a guide. The wigs—each one on its head rest—particularly appealed to him. In fact, he went so far as to try on some of them. And after a time a genuine feeling of admiration for the wonderful thoroughness of the man filled his mind. Murderer, thief, forger and blackguard generally—but what a brain!

After all, he fought a lone hand, deliberately pitting himself against the whole of the organized resources of the world. With only the girl to help him, he had fought mankind and up to date he had won through. For both their previous battles had been drawn, and now that the third round was under way—or soon would be—he saluted his adversary in spirit as a foeman worthy of his steel. It was a good thing, after all, that he had not brought in the police. Peterson fought alone: so would he. As it had been in the past, so let it be this time. Their own particular pals on each side could join in the battle if and when occasion arose: but the principal combat must be between Peterson and him—no mercy given, no mercy asked.

And this time he had a presentiment that it would be a fight to a finish. It required no stretch of imagination on his part to realize the enormous plum which the criminal had got hold of; it required no stretch of imagination to realize that he would fight as he had never fought before to retain it.

And once again there came up the unanswered question: where was he? It was even impossible to say if he was still in England.

ANOTHER thing occurred to Drummond as he strolled back into the other room and sat down at the desk. On this occasion the dice would be loaded more heavily in Peterson's favor than before. In the past the only method by which he had ever recognized him was by his strange, but unmistakable little mannerism when excited—the mannerism which was innate and had persisted through all his disguises. And now he had discovered what it was, had actually told another man to employ the very trick to fool Drummond! And if he had discovered it, he would take very good care not to use it himself. He would keep his hand in his pocket or something of that sort.

Drummond lay back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, with his head almost touching the heavy curtains behind him. Life was undoubtedly good. Except for the murder of Professor Goodman it would have been very good—very good indeed. And at that moment the telephone on the desk in front of him began to ring.

With a jerk Drummond sat up and looked at it—his mind recalled to the circumstances of the moment. Should he let it go on ringing till the operator gave up in despair, or should he take the call? One thing was obvious on the face of it: The call could not be for him. But that was no conclusive reason why he shouldn't take it. Monotonously, insistently, the instrument went on sounding in the silent room, and at last Drummond leaned forward and took the receiver from the hook. And as he did so the curtain behind him stirred again and then was still. But whereas before it had hung in even, regular folds, now it did not. Outlined against it was the figure of a man—a man who was pulling the curtain back, inch by inch, a man who held in his right hand a short villainous-looking iron bar. And as Drummond leaned forward to be ready to speak into the mouthpiece Freyder's hard eyes concentrated on the nape of his neck. He was an expert with a life preserver——

Julius Freyder had been anticipating that telephone call, which was why he had concealed himself behind the curtain. From the room which Drummond had overlooked until the end, he had watched him strike it with his fist and had gambled on his not doing so again. Rarely had he received such a shock as when, rounding the corner of the street below, he had seen Drummond, of all men, leaning out of the window. For it showed conclusively that this accursed bête noire was on their heels again, though how he had managed to get there was a mystery. And when on entering the house he had heard, even before he mounted the stairs, the furious utterances of Sir Raymond Blantyre and had realized that Drummond must have heard them, too, the need for instant action was obvious.

Julius Freyder was no fool, or he would not have occupied the position he did. And not only was he no fool, but he was also an extremely powerful and dangerous man. It was the work of a second to lock Drummond in, and rush the two excited gentlemen and every one else in the house through a bolt hole at the back into some old mews and thus away. But he had no delusions as to the efficacy of a mere bolt against Drummond, and the door was already beginning to crack and splinter as he hid himself among the clothes in the inner sanctum.

What to do, that was the question. Powerful though he was, he would no more have dreamed of tackling Drummond single-handed than he would have thought of challenging the entire London police force. He would have lasted five seconds, with luck. At the same time it was manifestly impossible to leave him in the house alone. Aside from the telephone call which he expected from the chief at any moment, there might be incriminating documents in the desk. But it was the call that worried him most. Once Drummond got that, even if he didn't recognize the voice at the other end, he would be sure to ask exchange where it came from.

AND from that, to going down to the New Forest to investigate for himself, probably supported by a bunch of his confounded friends, would only be a question of hours. Which was the very last thing to be desired. Just as speed had been the essence of the game before, now it was secrecy. At all costs Drummond must be prevented from finding out the whereabouts of Mr. William Robinson.

Perhaps he'd go—leave the house when he found it empty. But no such luck. And Freyder, ensconced behind the curtain, cursed savagely under his breath as Drummond sat down not two feet from him. Once he was a sorely tempted to use his life preserver then and there, but caution prevailed. Perhaps the call would be delayed; perhaps he would get tired of waiting and go. That was all Freyder wanted—to get him out of the house. A stunned or wounded man at that stage of the proceedings would complicate matters terribly, and when that man was Drummond it could only be done as a last resource. But if it was done it would have to be done properly—no bungling, no faltering.

And then came the ring. Freyder gripped his life preserver a little tighter and waited. He heard the click of the receiver being taken off the hook; he heard Drummond's preliminary “Hello.” And the next moment he struck. It was an easy mark, and, as has been said, he was an expert. With a little sighing grunt, Drummond pitched forward and lay motionless, and Freyder picked up the receiver. From it came the chief's voice vibrant with suspicion.

“What's happened? What was that I heard?”

“It's Freyder speaking, Chief. Drummond is here.”

“What?” It was almost a shout.

“He is asleep.” There was a peculiar inflection in Freyder's voice, and he smiled grimly as he heard the long-drawn sigh of relief. “But I don't think it would be wise to leave him here in his present condition of health,” he went on suggestively.

“What does he know?”

“That it is impossible to say at present. But Sir Raymond Blantyre has found out a lot.”

The voice at the other end cursed thoughtfully.

“I must have at least twenty-four hours, Freyder—if possible more. I'd like three days, but two might do.” There was a pause. “Will our friend sleep for long?”

“Quite a time, I think,” said Freyder. “But I think he should be under supervision when he wakes. He might have concussion, or be suffering from loss of memory,” he explained.

“Ah!” Again came that long-drawn sigh of relief. “Then a sea voyage, Freyder, is clearly indicated. We will have two invalids instead of one. So bring our young friend here tonight.”

With a faint smile Freyder replaced the receiver on its hook, and bent over the unconscious figure of Drummond as it sprawled over the desk.

“I trust you'll enjoy the trip, you young scoundrel!” he snarled.

Chapter VIII

THE blow that Drummond had received would have broken the neck of any ordinary man. But not being an ordinary man, he was only badly stunned. And he was still unconscious when he was carried out of a motor car at Mr. William Robinson's house in the New Forest. That his arrival was regarded as an important affair was evident from the fact that his host came himself to the front door to greet him. But from that moment it is to be feared that Mr. Robinson's knowledge of those excellent books on etiquette, which deal with the whole duty of a host toward those who honor his roof with their presence, went under a slight eclipse.

Regrettable to state, he did not escort his guest personally to the old oak bedroom complete with lavender-scented sheets; in fact, he even forgot himself so far as to leave him lying in the hall with his head in the coal scuttle. But it is pleasant to state that not for long was he so remiss. At a sign from him two men picked up Drummond and carried him into his own private room, where they dropped him on the floor.

“I will make arrangements for the night later,” he remarked. “Just at present I would like to look at him from time to time, so leave him here.”

The two men went out, leaving Freyder alone with his chief. And though he had much to tell him of importance, for a while Freyder said nothing. For there was an expression of such incredible ferocity on the benign countenance of Mr. Robinson as he stared at the motionless body on the floor, that Freyder realized his presence was forgotten. For perhaps two minutes Mr. Robinson's eyes never left the prostrate Drummond. Then he turned to his subordinate.

“I don't think I should ever have forgiven you, my dear Freyder,” he said softly, “if you'd had the misfortune to kill him. That supreme joy must be mine and mine alone.” With almost an effort he obliterated Drummond from his mind, and sat down at his desk. “Business first; pleasure afterward. Things have evidently been happening in London. Tell me everything.”

CLEARLY and concisely Freyder told him what had occurred, while Mr. Robinson smoked his cigar in silence. Once or twice he frowned slightly, but otherwise he gave no sign of his feelings.

“You have no idea then as to how Drummond and Sir Raymond Blantyre found the house?” he asked, as Freyder finished.

“Not the slightest, Chief,” he answered. “All I know is that it was Drummond who found it and not Blantyre. Sir Raymond told me that much as I was rushing him out of the house.”

“Did he make any objection to going?”

“Not the slightest. In fact, when he realized that what he had been saying to Scheidstrun had been overheard by Drummond his one desire was to get away as fast as he could. He apparently thought Drummond had left the house a quarter of an hour before.”

Mr. Robinson shrugged his shoulders.

“The point really is immaterial,” he murmured. “That fool Blantyre dare not speak; Drummond can't. By the way, what has become of Scheidstrun?”

“I sent him and his wife off this evening,” said Freyder. “The pilot said he could make Brussels tonight, and finish the journey tomorrow.”

“Excellent, Freyder. Excellent!” said Mr. Robinson. “And the slight inconvenience of Blantyre's knowing that I have not destroyed the notes is amply compensated for by the possession of our young friend here.”

“But it will mean altering our plans somewhat,” remarked Freyder doubtfully.

For a while Mr. Robinson smoked in silence, gently stroking his mutton-chop whiskers.

“Yes,” he remarked at length, “it will. Not the plans so much as the time-table. The advent of Drummond at this stage of the proceedings I must confess I did not contemplate. And since I am under no delusions as to his infinite capacity for making a nuisance of himself, the sooner he is finally disposed of the better.”

Freyder shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, Chief,” he said callously, “there he is. And there's no time like the present.”

Mr. Robinson raised a deprecating hand.

“How coarse, my dear Freyder—how almost vulgar! My feelings against this young man are of a purely personal type. And I assure you they would not be gratified in the smallest degree by disposing of him when he was in the condition he is in now. One might just as well assault a carcass in a butcher's shop. No; no. It will be my earnest endeavor to restore Captain Drummond to perfect health before disposing of him. Or at any rate to such a condition that he realizes what is taking place. But from my knowledge of him it is a matter that cannot be postponed indefinitely. As I said before, his capacity for making trouble when confined in any ordinary house is well-nigh unbelievable.”

“Then what do you propose to do, Chief?”

Given his own way, now that Drummond was safely out of London and in their power, he would have finished him off then and there. To his mind, Drummond was one of those unpleasant individuals who can be regarded as really safe only when they're dead. And once granted that he was going to be killed in the near future, Freyder would have wasted no further time about it. But he knew the absolute futility of arguing with his chief once the latter's mind was made up, so he resigned himself at once to the inevitable.

“You are certain that you were not followed here?” said Mr. Robinson.

“As certain as any one can ever be,” answered Freyder. “Twice I stopped the car at the end of a long straight stretch of road and turned into a lane. There was no sign of any one. I didn't bother to change the tires since most of the road is tar macadam and there's been no rain. And really there are so many cars like that one about now, that it's only a waste of time.”

“And as far as I could make out the telephone operator had no suspicions,” went on his chief. “You did it extremely skillfully and silently. So I think, Freyder, we can count on twenty-four hours for certain, before any one even begins to take any notice. Drummond is a man of peculiar habits, and, somewhat naturally, when I realized he was coming here I sent a letter in his writing to that inconceivable poop Longworth. A friend of his,” he explained, seeing the look of mystification on the other's face, “who is engaged to Miss Goodman. It states that he is hot on the trail and the postmark will be Birmingham. So I think we can certainly rely on twenty-four hours—or even forty-eight—before his friends begin to move. And that will give me plenty of time to insure that our friend upstairs has not forgotten his process. Once I am assured of that, and he has written out in a legible hand the ingredients he uses we will delay no longer. It's a nuisance—for I detest manual labor and smells in a laboratory. Except for Drummond, as you know, we would have remained on here for six months or so, and let the old fool make the stones himself, before disposing of him finally. But since this slight contretemps has occurred, much as I regret it, I shall have to dispense with that part of the program. Once I know for certain that I can do it myself—and I shall devote tomorrow to that exclusively—we will give up this house forthwith and go on board the yacht. A good idea of mine—that yacht, Freyder. There is nothing like dying convincingly to enable one to live in comfort,” he ended epigrammatically.

FREYDER grinned, as he watched Mr. Robinson help himself to a mild whisky and soda: undoubtedly the chief was in an excellent humor.

“We've run a pretty big risk this time, my dear fellow,” he went on thoughtfully. “And sometimes it almost staggers me when I think how wonderfully we've succeeded. But I am under no delusions as to the abilities of the English police. Once they get on to a thing they never let go—and sooner or later they are bound to get on to this. Probably they will do it through Drummond's disappearance—and Scheidstrun. Sooner or later they will track our connection with this house, and the good ship Gadfly. And then when they find that the Gadfly left England and has never been heard of again, with true British phlegm they will assume that she has sunk with all hands. And Sir Raymond Blantyre will breathe again—unless they've put the scoundrel in prison for having suggested such an abominable crime to me. In fact, every one will breathe again except Drummond and our friend upstairs. Oh! And Mr. Lewisham. Did you attend the obsequies on Mr. Lewisham, Freyder?”

“I did not,” laughed Freyder, and Mr. Robinson, contrary to his usual custom, helped himself to another whisky and soda.

“Yes,” he continued dreamily, “it's a wonderful end to what I may claim without conceit has been a wonderful career. Henceforward, Freyder, my life will be one of blameless virtue.” He drained the glass slowly.

The other shook his head doubtfully.

“You'll find it a bit monotonous, Chief,” he said.

Mr. Robinson smiled.

“Perhaps so—but I shall give it a trial. And whenever it becomes too monotonous I shall merely remove more money from the pockets of those two villainous men, Blantyre and Liebhaus. It almost makes one despair of human nature when one realize that such cold-blooded scoundrels exist!”

“And Drummond! Have you made up your mind yet as to how you intend to dispose of him?”

“QUITE simply,” replied Mr. Robinson genially. “I shall merely attach some heavy weights to his feet and drop him overboard. I am not anxious that his body should be recovered, any more than our other friend's. That part of the affair presents no difficulties.” His eyes, grown suddenly hard and cruel, fastened on the motionless figure of Drummond, still sprawling on the floor. And suddenly he rose and bent over him with a look of anxiety on his face which changed to relief.

“For a moment I thought he was dead,” he remarked, resuming his seat. “And that would have been a real grief to me. For him to die without knowing would rob this final coup of its crown. It is the one thing needed, Freyder, to make it perfect.”

The other looked at him curiously.

“How you must hate him, Chief!”

A strange look came into Mr. Robinson's eyes, and involuntarily Freyder shuddered. Anger, rage, passion he had seen on many men's faces, but never before such cold-blooded ferocity as that which showed on the face of the man opposite.

“We all have our weaknesses, Freyder, and I confess that Drummond is mine. And incredible though it may sound to you, if it were necessary for me to choose between revenge on him and getting away with Professor Goodman's secret, I believe I would choose the former.”

For a while he sat in silence; then with a short laugh he rose. Mr. Robinson was his benevolent self once more.

“Happily, the alternative is not likely to arise. We have both, my dear fellow—thanks largely to your quickness and skill. And now I think I will go upstairs and see how our friend is getting on. By this time he should be very nearly ready to show me the result of his afternoon's labors.”

“And what about Drummond?” said Freyder, eying him professionally. “I don't think he's likely to give us any trouble for the present, but it's just as well to be on the safe side.”

Mr. Robinson turned the unconscious man over with his foot.

“Have him carried upstairs,” he ordered, “and put in one of the bedrooms. And have some one look after him.” He paused by the door as a thought struck him. “And by the way—let me know the instant he recovers consciousness. I'd hate to postpone my first interview with the gentleman for one instant longer than necessary.”

“Well, if”m any judge of such matters, Chief, you'll have to postpone it till tomorrow.”

“Then it will be a refreshing interlude in my period of tuition.”

And with a cheerful wave of his hand Mr. Robinson made his way up the stairs. It was six hours since Professor Goodman had started, and by now the clinker in the metal retort should be cold enough to handle. Just at first the obstinate old fool had given a little trouble; in fact, he had even gone so far as to refuse categorically to carry out the experiment. But not for long—two minutes, to be exact. At the end of that period a whimpering, and badly-hurt old man had started mixing the necessary ingredients under the watchful eye of Mr. Robinson himself. And not till they were mixed and the retort placed in the electric furnace did he leave the room.

Twice during the two hours that followed did he come back again, unexpectedly. But the old scientist's feeble resistance was broken and the visits were unnecessary. Bent almost double, he sat in his chair, with the white light from the glowing furnace falling on his face. And he was still in the same position when Mr. Robinson opened the door and went in.

THE heat in the room was stifling, though the furnace had been out for two or three hours, and he left the door open. Then, without a glance at the huddled figure, he strode over to the table, his eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement. For there was the retort, and, after cautiously testing it with his hand to discover the temperature, he picked it up and examined it curiously.

Though he had heard the experiment described in detail by Sir Raymond Blantyre it was the first time he had actually seen it done. The retort, still warm, was full of an opaque shaly substance which he realized was the clinker. And inside that, like the stone inside a cherry, was the diamond. For a moment his hands shook uncontrollably; then, with feverish excitement, he started to chip the clinker away with a small chisel.

It broke up easily, coming off in great flakes. And as he got down deeper and deeper his excitement increased.

Once satisfied that the diamond was there, and that Professor Goodman had forgotten nothing, he proposed to waste no time over that particular stone. Certainly he would put it aside for future use—but what was one paltry diamond to him? It was the process he wanted—and the certainty that he could carry out that process himself.

Deeper and deeper went the chisel, and gradually a dreadful suspicion began to grip him. Surely by now he ought to have struck the stone itself! More than half of the clinker had come away, and still there was no sign of it. Could it be possible that the accursed old fool had made a mistake?

Feverishly he went on chipping, and at length the suspicion became a certainty. There was no diamond in the retort; nothing but valueless gray powder. The experiment had failed.

For a moment or two Mr. Robinson stood motionless, staring at the now-empty retort. This was the one thing for which he had not legislated. That, owing to the unusual conditions and the strain to which Professor Goodman had been subjected, the stones might prove indifferent, he had been prepared for. But not total failure. His eyes rested thoughtfully on the huddled figure in the chair, but in them there was no trace of mercy.

“This seems an unfortunate little effort on your part, my dear brother,” he remarked softly. “Are you aware that your experiment has failed, and that there is no diamond in that retort?”

The old man sat up blinking.

“It is not my fault,” he said querulously. “How can I be expected to carry out a delicate process under such conditions and after the abominable way I have been treated?”

“May I point out,” pursued Mr. Robinson, still in the same soft tone, “that you assured me yourself that the conditions were in every way favorable? Further, that you told me yourself as you put the retort into the furnace that everything was all right. Since then you have had to do nothing save regulate the heat of the electric furnace.” He paused, and a new note crept into his voice. “Can it be, my dear brother, that you were lying to me?”

“It may be that the heat in the furnace was different to the one to which I have been accustomed,” answered the other, scrambling to his feet.

“May I point out that you assured me that the furnace was, if anything, better than your own? Further, you have a thermometer there by which to regulate the heat. So once again, dear brother, can it be that you were lying to me?” With a snarl he gripped the professor by the arm, and shook him roughly. “Speak, you miserable old fool—speak! And if you don't speak the truth—by Jove! I'll torture you till you pray for death.”

HE let go suddenly, and the professor collapsed in his chair, only to stand up again to face the other bravely.

“A man can only die once,” he said simply. “And men have been tortured in vain for other things besides religion. To me my science is my religion. I knew you would find no diamond in the retort—and you never will. You may torture me to death, you vile scoundrel—but never, never, never will I tell you my secret.”

Gently, almost caressingly, Mr. Robinson stroked his mutton-chop whiskers.

“Is that so?” he murmured. “Most interesting, my dear brother—most interesting.” With a benevolent smile he walked over to the bell and rang it. “Most interesting,” he continued, returning to the other man who was watching him with fear in his eyes. “Brave words, in fact—but we will see. I think you remarked before you told me the truth that it was possibly the fault of the electric furnace. A naughty fib, dear brother and naughty fibs should always be punished. One presses this switch, I think, to start it. Yes, why I feel the warmth already. And I see that the maximum temperature registered this evening was 2000° Centigrade. Is that you, Freyder?” he continued, without turning his head; as some one entered the room.

“It is, Chief. What's the trouble?”

“The trouble, Freyder, is that this incredibly stupid old man refuses to carry out his process for me. He has wasted six valuable hours producing a nasty-looking mess of gray powder. He has also wasted a lot of expensive electric current. And we are now going to waste a little more. I can only hope that my experiment will prove more satisfactory than his, though I greatly fear, my dear brother, that you will find it rather more painful.”

“What are you going to do?” Professor Goodman's voice was shaking, as he looked first at his tormentor and then at the furnace which was already glowing a dull red.

“I'm going to make quite certain,” remarked Mr. Robinson affably, “that these thermometers register correctly. I imagine that there must be a difference in the feeling of metal at 2000° and metal at 2000°, though both I should think would be most unpleasant. However, my dear professor, you will know for certain very shortly. I see that it is just about 1000° now. The left arm, I think, Freyder—if you would be so good.”

A dreadful scream rang through the house, and Professor Goodman fell back in his chair almost fainting.

“Only half a second,” murmured Mr. Robinson, “and it will only be half a second at 2000°—this time. Then, dear brother, you will again carry out your process. If it succeeds—well and good. It it should fail again—I fear we shall have to make it a full second. And a second is a long time under certain conditions.”

Moaning pitifully, Professor Goodman lay back in his chair with his eyes closed.

“I won't,” he muttered again and again through clenched teeth, while the heat from the furnace grew greater and greater, and the dull red changed to white.

“Foolish fellow,” sighed Mr. Robinson. “However,” he added hopefully, “it's only half a second this time. And as a special concession I'll let you off with only 1000°. Now, Freyder—we are quite ready.”

Freyder took a step forward, and gave one agonized shout of terror. Then scream after scream of agony rang through the house. For it was not Professor Goodman's arm which touched the white-hot furnace, but Freyder's face—and to his chief's horrified eyes it had seemed as if he had dived straight at it.

“Good heavens!” he muttered foolishly, as Freyder, moaning, dashed from the room. “How did it happen?”

The words died away on his lips and he stood staring into the shadows beyond the light thrown by the furnace. Drummond was sitting on the floor, grinning vacantly at space.

“Gug-gug-gug,” he burbled foolishly. “Pretty light.”

Then, apparently bored with life in general, he returned with interest to his occupation.

“Puff—puff!” he cried happily. “Puff—puff. Naughty man kicked train.”

And the train which he was busily pushing along the floor consisted of his own shoes.

[[[../Part 5|To be continued]])