The Third Round (McClure's Magazine 1923-24)/Part 5
Illustration: Drummond stood in the doorway, his arms still lashed in front of him, and his eyes—with the gleam of a homicidal maniac's—were fixed on Professor Goodman
In Which Bulldog Drummond Sets Out to Sea in an Ambulance
For Synopsis see Page 106[1]
ONCE again Mr. Robinson dashed to the bell and pealed it. His momentary shock at Freyder's ghastly accident had passed; his sole thought was that Drummond was no longer unconscious. And Drummond in full possession of his physical powers was a dangerous person to have about the place, even if his mind was wandering. But was it? That was the point. Or was he shamming? Such a possibility at once suggested itself to Mr. Robinson's tortuous brain, and he was not a gentleman who took any unnecessary risks.
He had watched Professor Goodman totter from his chair with a look of wild hope in his face as he realized the unexpected presence of a friend; he had watched him sink back into it again with a groan as his cry for help was greeted with a vacuous grin from the man happily playing on the floor. But still he was not satisfied, and a revolver gleamed ominously in his hand as he watched his enemy.
His finger tightened on the trigger, and he raised the revolver, till it was pointing direct at Drummond's heart.
“I'm going to kill you, Drummond,” he said quietly.
But if he expected to discover anything by such a test he was doomed to disappointment. There was still the same vacuous grin—still the same lolling head and a jumble of incoherent words—and very slowly he lowered the weapon as one of his men came rushing into the room to stop abruptly at the door as his eyes fell on the figure on the floor.
“So there you are, my beauty!” he muttered, with a igh of relief.
“Was it you who was told to look after Captain Drummond?” said Mr. Robinson softly.
The man looked at the speaker with fear in his eyes.
“I put him on the bed, Chief,” he said sullenly, “and he was unconscious. I hadn't had any supper so”
“You went downstairs to get some,” Mr. Robinson concluded his sentence for him. “You went downstairs, you miserable fool, leaving him alone.” The man shrank back against the wall at the look in his chief's eyes. “I will deal with you later,” continued Mr. Robinson, “and until then you will continue to look after him. If nothing further of this sort happens it is possible that I may overlook your fault—so you had better see to it. Go, now, and get one of the others. And bring some rope when you return.”
The man departed with alacrity, and once more Mr. Robinson fell to staring at the man sitting on the floor. To Professor Goodman he paid not the slightest attention; all his thoughts were concentrated on Drummond. Was he shamming, or was he not? Had Freyder's blow on the head deprived him of his reason—or was it a wonderful piece of acting? And finally he decided on yet another test.
Still watching Drummond narrowly, he walked over to the door and affected to give an order to some one in the passage outside.
“Bring the girl Phyllis in here.”
Now surely there would be some telltale start if he was shamming—some little movement that would give him away. But there was nothing—absolutely nothing—to show that Drummond had even heard. He was engrossed in some intricate shunting operations with his shoes, and after a time Mr. Robinson came back into the room. Almost, if not quite, his mind was made up—Drummond was insane. Only temporarily possibly—but insane.
The blow on the back of his head had caused something in his brain to snap, and the man he hated most on earth was just a babbling lunatic. Almost, if not quite, he was sure of it; for certain proof he would have to wait until he could examine him—and especially his eyes— more closely. And Mr. Robinson had no intention of examining Drummond, sane or insane, closely until Drummond's arms were very securely lashed together.
“You'd better be very careful,” he remarked, as the two men came in with rope. “I am almost certain that he's suffering from very bad concussion, but if you handle him roughly he may get angry. I shall be covering him the whole time with a revolver, but I want you to lash his wrists behind his back.”
They approached him cautiously, and Drummond smiled at them vacantly.
“All right, old chap,” murmured the first man ingratiatingly. “Pretty train you've got there. Won't you shake hands?”
“Gumph!” remarked Drummond brightly, busily pushing his shoe.
“Get hold of his other hand,” said the first man tersely to his companion. “Then we'll get them both behind his back and I'll slip a running noose over them.”
Which was excellent in theory, but poor in execution. A loud crack was heard and the two men staggered back holding their heads, which had impinged with violence.
“Gumph!” again remarked Drummond. “Puff—puff—puff.”
“Confound the swine!” snarled the man who had originally been told to look after him, and Mr. Robinson smiled gently. It was very obvious that, whatever his mental condition might be, Drummond's physical strength was unimpaired.
“I THINK, Chief,” said the second man, “that we should do it better if we lashed his wrists in front of him to start with.”
“Do it as you please,” snapped Mr. Robinson, “but do it quickly.”
Which again proved excellent in theory, but poor in execution. For it soon transpired that Drummond was far too happy playing with his train to realize the desirability of having his hands lashed together. In fact, the proceeding appeared to annoy him considerably. And it was not until another man had been summoned and Mr. Robinson himself had joined in the fray that they finally got the noose over his wrists and drew it tight.
When at last it was done, four panting men stood around in a ring regarding him triumphantly as he rolled on the floor. And after a while he lay still, with a foolish grin on his face.
Illustration
“Gug-gug! he burbled. “Where's my train?”
“I'll gug-—gug him!” snarled one of the men, kicking him heavily in the ribs.
“Stop that!” said Mr. Robinson savagely. “All accounts with this young man are settled by me. Now, stand by in case he struggles. I'm going to examine his eyes.”
They approached him cautiously, but for the moment the trouble seemed over. Like so many madmen, and people temporarily insane, his frenzied struggles of the last ten minutes had completely exhausted Drummond. And even when Mr. Robinson raised his eyelids and stared into his eyes he made no attempt to move, but lay there smiling stupidly. For a long while Mr. Robinson examined him, and then with a nod of satisfaction he rose to his feet.
“Take him to his room, and see that he doesn't escape again. He's mad, but how long he'll remain so I can't tell. If you see the faintest sign of his recovering his reason, come and tell me at once.”
He watched them pick up Drummond and carry him out. They took him into the next room and threw him on the bed, and Mr. Robinson followed. For a moment or two he moved restlessly on the pillows—then he gave a strangled grunt and a snore.
“He's asleep, Chief,” said one of the men, bending over him.
“Good,” answered Mr. Robinson. “Let us trust he remains so for some time.”
Then, with a look of cold determination on his face, he returned to the room where Professor Goodman still sat huddled in his chair.
“AND now, dear brother,” he remarked, gently closing the door, “we will resume our little discussion where we left off. I was, if you may remember, just about to ask you to sample the temperature of the furnace at 2,000° when the interruption occurred. Is it necessary that I should repeat that request, or was your experience at the lower temperature sufficient for you?”
Professor Goodman raised his haggard face and stared at his tormentor.
“What have you done to that poor young man, you fiend?”
Mr. Robinson smiled, and stroked his whiskers.
“Well, really,” he answered mildly, “I think the boot is on the other leg. The question is, rather, what has he done to my unfortunate staff! Poor Mr. Freyder I feel almost certain must be in great pain with his face, and”
“I know that,” said the other. “But what has sent him insane?”
Mr. Robinson smiled even more gently.
“As a scientist, dear brother, you should know the tiny dividing line between sanity and madness. One little link wrong in that marvelous mechanism of the brain, and the greatest thinker becomes but a babbling fool. Not that his best friends could ever have called poor Drummond a great thinker, but”—he paused to emphasize his words—“but, dear brother, he serves as a very good example of what might happen to one who is a great thinker.”
Professor Goodman shivered; there had been no need to emphasize the meaning underlying the words.
“You see,” continued Mr. Robinson, “Drummond very foolishly and very unfortunately for himself has again crossed my path. This time, as a matter of fact, it was by pure accident. Had you not lunched with him on the day of your death and given him the notes of your process, you may take it from me that this little interlude would never have occurred. But you did—and, well, you see what has happened to Drummond. The silly young fellow is quite mad.”
“You have done something to him to make him so,” said the other dully.
“Of course,” agreed Mr. Robinson. “Or, to be strictly accurate, Freyder has.”
And suddenly Professor Goodman rose to his feet with a pitiful little cry.
“Oh! I don't understand. I think I'm going mad myself!”
FOR a moment or two Mr. Robinson looked at him narrowly. If such an appalling eventuality as that happened, the whole of his scheme would be frustrated. True, it was a common figure of speech, but Professor Goodman was a frail old man, accustomed to a sedentary life. And during the past two or three days his life had been far from sedentary. Suppose that under the strain the old man's reason did snap Mr. Robinson drew a deep breath; the mere thought of such a thing was too impossible to contemplate.
But it had to be contemplated, and it had to be taken into account in this immediate course of action. Whatever happened, Professor Goodman's intellect must be preserved at all costs. Even a nervous breakdown would constitute a well-nigh insuperable obstacle to his plans. And in spite of the seriousness of the position, Mr. Robinson could hardly help smiling at the irony of the thing. It was a problem in psychology which in the whole of his career he had never had to face under exactly similar conditions.
Illustration: Drummond's frenzied struggles had completely exhausted him. He lay on the floor, smiling stupidly
There had been occasions when a man's reason had snapped under the somewhat drastic treatment with which Mr. Robinson was wont to enforce his wishes. But on all those occasions a remarkable aptitude with the pen had enabled him to dispense with the formality of the victim's signature. This time, however, his wonderful gifts as a forger were wasted. Knowledge of ancient cuneiform writing might have been of some use in enabling him to decipher the notes, he reflected grimly—but as it was they were hopelessly and utterly unintelligible. Only Professor Goodman could do it, and that was the problem which had just come home to him more acutely than ever. What was the best line to adopt with the old man? How far would it be safe to go in a policy of threats and force? Or would apparent kindness do the trick more quickly? That was the important thing. It was a ticklish point to decide; but it was essential that it should be decided, and at once.
He glanced at the haggard, staring eyes of the man confronting him; he noted the twitching hands, and he made up his mind. After all, it was easy to go from kindness to threats, whereas the converse was difficult. And though he had reluctantly to admit to himself that burning a man's arm on red-hot metal can hardly be regarded as the act of a personal friend, there was no good worrying about it. It had been done, and could not be undone. All that he could do now was to try to efface the recollection of it as far as possible.
“Sit down, professor,” he said gently. “I feel that I owe you some explanation.”
WITH a groan the other sank back into his chair. “Will you have a cigar?” went on Mr. Robinson easily, holding out his case. “You don't smoke? You should. Most soothing to the nerves. In the first place I must apologize for not having made things clearer to you before, but this slight contretemps with Drummond has kept me rather fully occupied. Now I want you to recall to your mind the interviews that you had with Sir Raymond Blantyre.”
“I recall them perfectly,” answered the professor, and Mr. Robinson noted with quiet satisfaction that he seemed to be less agitated.
“He offered you—did he not—a large sum of money for the suppression of your secret, which you refused—and very rightly refused? But, my dear professor, do you really imagine for a moment that an unscrupulous blackguard of his type was going to accept your refusal? If you chose to refuse the money, so much the better for him; but whether you refused or accepted he intended to suppress you. And but for me”—he paused impressively—“he would have done so.”
Professor Goodman looked at him in bewilderment.
“But for me,” repeated Mr. Robinson, “you would now be dead—foully murdered. You have never in your life, and I trust you never will again be in such deadly peril as you were in a few days ago. Indeed, if it were known now that you were alive, I fear that even I would be powerless to save you.”
He leaned forward and touched the professor on the knee.
“Have you ever heard of a man called Peterson?”
“Never,” returned the other.
“No—probably not. You and he hardly move in the same circles. Peterson, of course, is only one of the many names by which that arch-devil is known. He is a King of Criminals—a man without mercy—a black-hearted villain.” Mr. Robinson's voice shook with the intensity of his emotion. “And to that man Sir Raymond Blantyre went with a certain proposal. Do you know what that proposal was? It concerned you and your death. You were to be murdered before you gave your secret to the world.”
“The villain!” cried Professor Goodman, in a shaking voice. “To think that I've had him to dinner at my home!”.
Mr. Robinson smiled pityingly.
“MY dear professor,” he said, “I'm afraid that your life has been lived far apart from the realities of the world. Do you really suppose that such a trifle as that would have weighed for one instant with Sir Raymond Blantyre? However, I will get on with my explanation. It matters not how I discovered these things; I will merely say that for twenty years now I have dogged this man Peterson as his shadow. He did me the greatest wrong one man can do another—I won't say more.
“I have dogged him, professor,” he repeated, “as I say for twenty years, hoping—always hoping—that the time would come for my revenge. I have lived for nothing else; I have thought of nothing else. But one thing I was determined on—that my revenge when it did come should be a worthy one. A dozen times I could have given him away to the police, but I stayed my hand. When it came I wanted the thing to be more personal. And at last the opportunity did come. It came with you.”
“With me?” echoed Professor Goodman. “How can I have had anything to do with your revenge on this man?”
“That is what I am going to explain to you,” continued Mr. Robinson. “In this man Peterson, Sir Raymond Blantyre had encountered a blackguard far more subtle than himself. Peterson was perfectly prepared to murder you—but he had no intention of murdering the secret of your process. That he proposed to keep for himself—so that he could continue blackmailing Sir Raymond. You see the manner of blackguard he is. It was a scheme after his own heart, and I made up my mind to strike at last. Apart from frustrating the monstrous crime of murdering you, I should achieve an artistic revenge. Now pay close attention. Professor Scheidstrun, the German scientist, made an appointment to see you, didn't he?”
“He was with me when I was chloroformed!” cried the other.
Mr. Robinson smiled. “No, he wasn't. A man you thought was Scheidstrun was with you.”
“But—good heavens!” gasped the professor. “I met him in the hall. I was late, I remember”
“And, as you say, you met him in the hall talking to your maid servant.”
“But how on earth did you know that?”
“BECAUSE the man you met in the hall was not Scheidstrun—it was I.” He laughed genially at the amazement on the other's face. “It's a shame to keep you mystified any longer; I will explain everything. It was Peterson who made the original appointment with you, writing in Scheidstrun's hand. What he intended to do I know not; how he intended to murder you I am not prepared to say. But the instant I discovered about it, I realized that there was not a moment to be lost. So I took the liberty, my dear professor, of posing over the telephone as your secretary. I rang up Peterson and, speaking in an assumed voice, I postponed his appointment with you until the following day. And then I took his place. I may say that I am not unskilled in the art of disguise, and I knew I could make myself up to resemble Scheidstrun sufficiently well to deceive you.”
“But why on earth didn't you tell me at the time?” said Professor Goodman, peering at him suspiciously.
Once again the other laughed.
“My dear fellow, surely during the course of your married life Mrs. Goodman must have let you into the secret of one of your characteristics. Or has she been too tactful? You are, as I think you must admit yourself, a little obstinate, aren't you?” He dropped his tone of light banter, and became serious. “I don't think—in fact, I know you don't realize the deadly peril you were in. Even had I succeeded in convincing you of your danger and you had agreed to come away and hide yourself, you would not have consented to the destruction of your laboratory. And that was essential. As long as Peterson thought you were alive he would have found you wherever you had hidden yourself. It was therefore of vital importance that he should think you dead—as he does now. Big issues, my dear professor, require big treatments.”
Illustration: They were somewhere amid the shipping in Southampton Water, Drummond discovered, by peering cautiously through a slit in the curtain of the car
HAVING delivered himself of this profound utterance, Mr. Robinson leaned back in his chair and gazed at his listener. Bland assurance radiated from his mutton-chop whiskers, but his mind was busy. How was the old fool taking it? He still had his trump card to play, but he wanted that to win the game without possibility of failure. And as his mental metaphors grew a little mixed he realized that it must fall on carefully prepared soil.
Professor Goodman stirred uneasily in his chair.
“I really can hardly believe all this,” he said at length. “Why is all this deception necessary? Why must I pose as your brother? And why, above all, have you tortured me?”
“Let me answer your last point first, if I can,” said Mr. Robinson. “And yet I can't. Even if I can persuade you to forgive me, I never shall be able to forgive myself. Sudden anger, professor, makes men do strange things—dreadful things. And I was furious with rage when I found that you had deliberately failed in the experiment. I realize now that I should have explained everything to you to start with. But I suppose my hatred of Peterson and my wish for revenge blinded me to other things. As I have told you, everything is subservient to that in my mind. Bringing you here, making you pose as my brother—what was all that done for except to throw that fiend off the scent should he by any chance suspect. And at present he does not. He believes that the secret for which he would have given untold gold has perished with you. He is angry, naturally, at what he considers a buffet of fate, but that is no use to me as a revenge. He must know that it was not fate, but I who wrecked his scheme. He must know that not only has he lost the secret forever, but that J have got it. There will be the revenge for which I have waited twenty years.” His eyes glistened, and he shook his fists in the air. “And then and not till then will it be safe for you to go back and join your wife.”
Professor Goodman leaped from his chair.
“You mean that?” he cried. “You will let me go?”
Mr. Robinson gazed at him in pained surprise; then he bowed his head.
“I deserve it,” he said in a low voice. “I deserve your bad opinion of me firstly for not having told you, but especially for my vile and inexcusable loss of temper. But surely you can never have believed that I was going to keep you here for good! Why”—he gave a little pained laugh—“'it's almost as if you thought I was a murderer. Foolish I may have been, obsessed with one idea, but I never dreamed that you would think quite as badly of me as that. After all—believe me or not as you like—I saved your life.
He rose from his chair and paced thoughtfully up and down the room.
“No, no, my dear fellow, please reassure yourself on that point. The very instant it is safe for you to do so you shall return to your wife.”
“But when will it be safe?” cried the professor excitedly.
“When Peterson knows that your secret is in my possession, and that therefore murdering you will avail him nothing,” answered Mr. Robinson calmly.
“But how do I know you will keep your word?”
“You don't,” said the other frankly. “You've got to trust me. At the same time, I beg of you to use your common sense. Of what possible advantage is it to me to keep you here? I shall have to trust you to take no steps to incriminate me, and that I am fully prepared to do. My quarrel is not with you, professor; nor is it with that young man Drummond. But quite by accident he got between me and my life's object—and he had to be removed. So is it fair to Mrs. Goodman to keep her in this dreadful sorrow for one moment longer than is necessary? The very instant you have given me your secret, and your word of honor that you will say nothing to the police, you have my word of honor that you are free to go.”
“But what do you propose to do with my secret when you've got it?” asked the professor. He was watching his captor with troubled eyes, wondering what to believe.
“Do with it!” cried the other exultantly. “I propose to seek out Peterson and let him know that I have got what he has missed. And if you but knew the man, you would realize that no more wonderful revenge could be thought of.”
“Yes, yes! I see all that,” said the professor irritably. “But in the event of my giving the secret to the world—what then?”
MR. ROBINSON curbed a rising desire to throttle the old man. Never had his self-control been so severely tried as it was now with precious moments flying when every one was of value. But, true to his new policy, he kept every hint of irritation out of his voice as he answered.
“I shall have to have your promise also on that point, professor. For one year you will have to keep your discovery to yourself. That will be sufficient for my revenge.”
He realized that had he made no proviso of that sort it would have been enough to arouse the other's suspicions, for Professor Goodman was no fool. He also realized that if he made the period too long the other's inherent pig-headedness might tempt him to refuse. So he compromised on a year, and to his intense relief it looked as if the old man were inclined to consider it favorably. He still sat motionless, but his brow was wrinkled in thought.
“One year,” he said at length. “For I warn you, sir, that not all the Petersons in the world will keep me from publishing my discovery then.”
“One year will be sufficient,” said Mr. Robinson quietly.
“And will you on your side,” continued the professor, “promise not to publish it before that date?”
Mr. Robinson concealed a smile.
“I undoubtedly will promise that,” he answered.
“And the instant you possess the secret I may go to my wife?”
MR. ROBINSON'S pulse was beating a little faster than normal. Could it be that he had succeeded in bluffing him?
“As soon as Peterson knows that the secret of the process is mine—and that will be very soon—you may go. Before that it would not be safe.”
“And if I refuse?”
For a moment or two Mr. Robinson did not reply; he seemed to be weighing his words with care
“Need we discuss that, professor?” he said at length. “I have already told you the main—almost the sole object of my life: revenge on this man—Peterson. Rightly or wrongly, I have decided that this is my opportunity for obtaining it. I have gone to an immense amount of trouble and risk to achieve my object, and though, as I said, I have no quarrel with you, yet, professor, you are an essential part of my scheme. Without you I must fail—I make no bones about it. And I do not want to fail. So should you still refuse, your wife will go on thinking herself a widow until you change your mind. It rests with you and you alone.”
His eyes, shrewd and penetrating, searched the old man's face. Had he said enough, or had he said too much? Like an open book he read the other's mind: saw doubt, indecision, despair succeed one another in rapid succession. And then suddenly he almost stopped breathing. For the professor had risen to his feet, and Mr. Robinson knew that one way or the other he had come to a decision.
“Very well, sir,” said the old man wearily. “I give in. It seems that the only way of setting my poor wife's mind at rest as soon as possible is for me to trust you. I will tell you my process.”
Mr. Robinson drew in his breath in a little whistling hiss, but his voice was quite steady as he answered.
“You have decided very wisely,” he remarked. “And since there is no time like the present I think we will have a bottle of champagne and some sandwiches to fortify us and then get on with the experiment at once.”
“As you will,” said the professor. “And then perhaps tomorrow you will let me go.”
Mr. Robinson glanced at his watch.
“Today, professor,” he remarked jovially. “It is past midnight. And I can promise you that should your experiment succeed, you will leave this house today.”
He watched the champagne bring back some color to the other's cheeks, and then he produced his notebook.
“To save time,” he said, “I propose to write down the name of each salt as you take it and the amount you use. Does it make any difference in what order the salts are mixed?”
“None whatever,” answered the professor. “Provided they are all mixed properly. No chemical reaction takes place until the heat is applied.”
“And to make it perfectly certain you had better rive me the formula for each salt at the same time,” continued Mr. Robinson.
At first the old man's fingers trembled so much that he could hardly use the balance, but Mr. Robinson betrayed no impatience. And after a while the enthusiasm of the scientist supplanted everything else, and the professor became absorbed in his task. Entry after entry was made in Mr. Robinson's neat handwriting, and gradually the look of triumph deepened in his eyes. Success had come at last.
Of pity for the poor old man opposite he felt no trace—pity was a word unknown in his vocabulary. And so for an hour the murderer and his victim worked on steadily in the silent house until at length the last salt was mixed—the last entry made. The secret was in Mr. Robinson's possession. Not for another four hours would he be absolutely certain: the test of the electric furnace would furnish the only conclusive proof. But short of that he felt as sure as a man may feel that there had been no mistake this time, and his eyes were gleaming as he rose from the table.
“Excellent, my dear professor,” he murmured. “You have been lucidity itself. Now all that remains is to start up our current and await results.”
“The results will be there,” answered the other. “That I know.”
HE opened the furnace door and placed the retort inside; then, switching on the current, he sank wearily into his chair.
“You don't think it will be long, do you, before you can convince this man Peterson?” he said, with a pathetic sort of eagerness.
“I can assure you that it won't be,” returned the other, with an enigmatic smile. “I keep in very close touch with him.”
“Because I would be prepared to run any risk in order to let my dear wife know as soon as possible that I am alive.”
Mr. Robinson nodded sympathetically.
“Of course you would, my dear fellow. I quite understand that. But I feel that I must safeguard you even against your own inclinations. However, the instant that I consider it safe, you shall go back.”
“Can't I even write to her?” queried the other.
Mr. Robinson affected to consider the point; then regretfully he shook his head.
“No—not even that,” he answered. “I know this man Peterson too well. In fact, professor, I am not even going to allow you to return to your wife from this house. It is better and safer for you that you should remain in ignorance of where you have been, and so I propose to take you for a short sea voyage in my yacht and land you on another part of the coast. From the boat you will be able to radio to your wife, so that her mind will be set at rest. And then, when you finally rejoin her, I would suggest your pleading sudden loss of memory to account for your mysterious disappearance.”
“But what on earth am I to say about the man who was buried?” And suddenly the full realization of all that the question implied came home to him and he stood up. “Who was that man?”
“An uninteresting fellow,” remarked Mr. Robinson genially.
“But if you were the man I thought was Scheidstrun, you must—you must have murdered him!” The old man's voice rose almost to a scream. “Good heavens! I'd forgotten all about that.”
He shrank back, staring at Mr. Robinson who was watching him narrowly.
“My dear professor,” he said coldly, “pray do not excite yourself unnecessarily. I have often thought that a society of murderers run on sound conservative lines would prove an admirable institution. After all, it is the majority who should be considered, and there are so many people who are better out of the way. However, to set your mind at rest,” he continued, “it may interest you to know that the foot which was buried in your boot did not belong to a living man. As you are doubtless aware there are methods of obtaining these things for experimental purposes, if you possess a degree.”
There was no object, he reflected, in unnecessarily alarming the old man; it saves bother to get an animal to walk to the slaughter house rather than having to drag it there. And he was likely to have all the dragging he wanted with Drummond, even though he was insane.
Professor Goodman, only half satisfied, sank back in his chair. Already the perspiration was running down both their faces from the heat of the furnace, but Mr. Robinson had no intention of leaving the room. He was taking no chances this time; not until the current was turned off and the furnace was cool enough to handle did he propose to rest. Then, once he was satisfied that the retort did contain diamonds, he would have some badly needed sleep in preparation for the work next night.
The yacht Gadfly was lying in Southampton water, and he had decided to go on board in the late afternoon. His two invalids would be carried on stretchers; an ambulance was even now in readiness below to take them to the coast. They would both be unconscious—a matter which presented but little difficulty to Mr. Robinson. And the professor would never regain consciousness. He had served his purpose, and all that mattered as far as he was concerned was to dispose of him as expeditiously as possible. With Drummond, things were a little different. In spite of what he had said to Freyder downstairs, the scheme was too big to run any unnecessary risks and though it went against his grain to kill him in his present condition, he quite saw that he might have to.
Point by point he ran over his plans and point by point he found them good. Their strength lay in their simplicity, and he could see nothing which was likely to go wrong before he was on board the Gadfly. Up to date no mention of Mr. Lewisham's sudden disappearance had found its way into the papers; presumably, whatever Mrs. Lewisham might think of the matter she had not consulted the police. And as for Drummond, no questions were likely to be asked in his case until long after he was safely out of the country.
And after that, as he had said to Freyder, nothing mattered. The S. Y. Gadfly would founder with all hands somewhere off the coast of Africa, but not too far from the shore to prevent Freyder and himself reaching it. That the crew, drugged and helpless, would go down in her, he did not propose to tell them when he went on board. After all, there were not many of them and it would be a pity to spoil their last voyage.
THE heat from the furnace was growing almost insupportable, and he glanced at his watch. There was another hour to go, and with a sigh of impatience he sat back in his chair. Opposite him, Professor Goodman was nodding in a kind of heavy doze; though every now and then he sat up with a jerk and stared about him with frightened eyes. He was muttering to himself, and once he sprang.out of his chair with a stifled scream, only to sink back again as he saw the motionless figure opposite.
“I was dreaming,” he muttered foolishly. “I thought I saw a man standing by the door.”
Mr. Robinson swung around and peered into the passage; there was no one there. Absolute silence still reigned in the house. And then suddenly he rose and went to the door; it seemed to him as if something had stirred outside. But the passage was empty and he resumed his seat. He felt angry with himself because his own nerves were not quite under their usual iron control. After all, what could possibly happen? It must be the strain of the last few days, he decided.
Slowly the minutes ticked on, and had any one been there to see, it must have seemed like some ceremony of black magic. The furnace glowing white-hot and in the circle of light thrown by it two elderly men sitting in chairs—one gently stroking his mutton-chop whiskers; the other muttering restlessly to himself. And then outside the ring of light—darkness. Every now and then a sizzling hiss came from inside the furnace, as the chemical process advanced another stage toward completion—that completion which meant all power to one of the two who watched and waited, and death to the other. The perspiration dripped down their faces; breathing was hard in the dried-up air. But to Mr. Robinson nothing mattered; such things were trifles. Whatever might be the material discomfort, it was the crowning moment of his life—the moment when the greatest coup of his career had come to a successful conclusion.
Illustration: Robinson gazed triumphantly at the big uncut diamond. Success at last, assured and beyond doubt! There was no need for further delay
And suddenly he shut his watch with a snap.
“The time is up!” he cried and, strive as he would, he could not keep the exultation out of his voice.
With a start Professor Goodman scrambled to his feet and, mumbling foolishly, he switched off the current. It was over; he had given away his secret. And all he wanted to do now was to get home as soon as possible. Two hours more to let it cool
He paused motionless, his lips twitching. Great heavens! What was that in the door—that great dark shape? It was moving, and he screamed. It was coming into the circle of light, and as he screamed again Mr. Robinson leaped to his feet.
Once more the thing moved, and now the light from the furnace shone on it. It was Drummond, his arms still lashed in front of him. His face was covered with blood, but his eyes were fixed on Professor Goodman. And they were the eyes of a homicidal maniac.
FOR a moment or two Mr. Robinson stood motionless, staring at him. Drummond's appearance was so utterly unexpected and terrifying that his brain refused to work, and before he realized what had happened Drummond sprang. But not at him. It was Professor Goodman who had evidently incurred the madman's wrath, and the reason was soon obvious. Insane though he was, the one dominant idea of his life was still a ruling factor in his actions, though now it was uncontrolled by any reason. And that idea was Peterson.
Why he should imagine that Professor Goodman was Peterson it was impossible to say, but he undoubtedly did. Again and again he grunted the name as he shook the unfortunate scientist backward and forward, and for a while Mr. Robinson wondered cynically whether he should let him go on in his delusion and await results. He was almost certain to kill the old man, which might save trouble. At the same time there was still the possibility of some mistake in the process, which rendered it inadvisable to dispense with him for good quite yet.
An uproar in the passage outside took him to the door. Two of the three men who had been told to guard Drummond were running toward him, and he cursed them savagely.
“Pull him off!” he roared. “He'll murder the old man.”
They hurled themselves on Drummond, who had forced the professor to his knees. And this time, strangely enough, he gave no trouble. He looked at them with a vacant stare, and then grinned placidly.
“Good heavens, Chief!” cried one of the men. “He's murdered Simpson. He's lying there with his neck broken.”
Mr. Robinson darted from the room, to return almost at once. It was only too true. The third man was lying across the bed with his neck broken.
“Where were you two imbeciles?” he snarled savagely.
“We were taking it in turns, boss,” said one of the men sullenly. “The swine was asleep and his arms were bound” He turned vindictively on Drummond.
“So you left him alone with only one of you,” Mr. Robinson remarked coldly. “You fools! You triple-distilled fools! And then I suppose he woke and Simpson went to tuck him up. And Drummond just took him by the throat and killed him, as he'd kill you or any one else he got his hands on—bound or not.”
“Gug-gug,” said Drummond, sitting down and beaming at them. “That man in there hit me in the face, when I took his throat in my hands.”
And suddenly the madness returned to his eyes and his huge hands strained and wrestled with the rope that bound them. He grunted and cursed, and the two men instinctively backed away. Only Mr. Robinson remained where he was, and the light from the still-glowing furnace glinted on the revolver which he held in his hand. This was no time for half measures; there was no telling what this powerful madman might do next. If necessary, though he did not want to have to do it, he would shoot him where he sat. But the spasm passed, and he lowered his revolver.
“Just so,” he remarked. “You might as well hit a steam roller as hit Drummond, once he's got hold. And, judging by his face, Simpson must have hit him hard and often before he died. Take him away; lash him up—and unless you want to join that fool Simpson don't take turns guarding him—and don't get within range of his hands.”
The two men closed in warily on their prisoner, but he gave no further trouble. Babbling happily, he walked between them out of the room, and Mr. Robinson suddenly remembered the unfortunate professor.
“A powerful and dangerous young man,” he remarked suavely. “I trust he hasn't hurt you, my dear professor.”
“No,” said the other dazedly, “he hasn't hurt me.”
“An extraordinary delusion of his,” pursued Mr. Robinson. “Fancy thinking that you, of all people, were that villain Peterson!”
“Most extraordinary,” muttered the professor.
“And it's really quite amazing that he should have allowed himself to be separated from you so easily. His friends, I believe, call him Bulldog, and he has many of the attributes of that noble animal.” He peered at the professor's throat. “Why, he's hardly marked you. You can count yourself very lucky, believe me. Even when sane he's a terror—but in his present condition However, such a regrettable contretemps will not occur again, I trust.” He glanced at the furnace. “Another hour, I suppose—before it will be cool enough to see the result of our experiment?”
“Another hour, that is correct,” agreed the professor mechanically.
And during that hour the two men sat in silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts, and it would be hard to say which would have received the greater shock had he been able to read the other's mind.
For Mr. Robinson was thinking among other things of the approaching death of the professor, which would scarcely have been comforting to the principal actor in the performance. And Professor Goodman—who might have been expected to be thinking of nothing but his approaching reunion with his wife—had, sad to relate, completely forgotten the lady's existence. His mind was engrossed with something quite different. For when a man who is undoubtedly mad—so mad, in fact, that in a fit of homicidal mania he has just throttled a man—gets you by the throat, you expect to experience a certain discomfort. But you do not expect to be pushed backward and forward as a child is pushed when you play with it—without discomfort or hurt. And, above all, you do not expect that madman to mutter urgently in your ear: “For heaven's sake—don't give your secret away. Delay him—at all costs. You're in the most deadly peril. Burn the house down. Do anything!”
Unless, of course, the madman was not mad.
BUT, however chaotic Professor Goodman's thoughts, they were like a placid pool compared to Drummond's. He had first recovered consciousness as he lay on the floor in the room below, and with that instinctive caution which was second nature to him he had remained motionless. Two men were talking, and the sound of his own name instinctively put him on his guard.
At first he listened vaguely—his head was still aching infernally—while he tried to piece together in his mind what had happened. He remembered taking the receiver off the telephone in the deserted house; he remembered a stunning blow on the back of his head, and after that he remembered nothing more. And since he realized that he was now lying on the floor, it was obvious that an overwhelming desire for his comfort was not a matter of great importance with the floor's owner. The first point to be decided, therefore, was the identity of that gentleman.
{Illustration}
On that score he was not left long in doubt, and it needed al! his marvelous self-control to go on lying motionless when he realized who it was. It was Peterson and as he listened to the thoughtful arrangements for his future it was evident that Peterson's feelings for him were still not characterized by warm regard. He heard the other man pleasantly suggest finishing him off then and there; he heard Peterson's refusal and the reasons for it. And though his head was still swimming and thinking was difficult, his subconscious mind dictated the obvious course. As long as he remained unconscious, Peterson's insensate hatred for him would keep him safe.
So far, so good—but it wasn't very far. However, they couldn't sit there talking the whole night, and once they left him alone, or even with some man to guard him, he had ample faith in his ability to get away. And once out of the house, he and Peterson would be on level terms again.
Once again he turned his attention to the conversation. Yacht—what was this about a yacht? With every sense alert, he strove to make his throbbing brain take in what they were saying. And gradually as he listened the main outline of the whole diabolical scheme grew clear in all its magnificent simplicity. But who on earth was the man upstairs to whom Peterson kept alluding? Whoever he was, he was presumably completely unconscious of the fate in store for him. And it struck Drummond that he was going to complicate matters. It would mean intense rapidity of action on his part once he was out of the house if he was going to save the poor chap's life.
For one brief instant, as Peterson bent over him, he had a wild thought of bringing matters to a head then and there. To get his hands on the swine once more was an almost overmastering temptation, but he resisted it successfully. It would mean a fight and an unholy fight at that, and Drummond realized that conditions were all against him. His head, for one thing—and total ignorance of the house. And then to his relief Peterson sat down again. No—there was nothing for it but to go on shamming and take his chance later.
Up to date he had not dared to open his eyes for even the fraction of a second, so he had no idea in what guise Peterson was at present masquerading. Nor had he a notion as to what the second man looked like. All he knew about that sportsman was that he was the dealer of the blow that had stunned him. And Drummond had a rooted dislike for men who stunned him. His name, he gathered, was Freyder; so he added Mr. Freyder to his mental black list.
AT last to his relief the conversation had ended, and he heard the orders given about his disposal for the night. Inert and sagging, he had allowed himself to be carried upstairs and thrown on the bed. And then in very truth nature had asserted herself. He ceased to sham and fell asleep. For how long he remained asleep he had no idea, but he awoke to find himself alone in the room. The door was open and from outside there came the sound of voices. It seemed to him that it was now or never, and the next instant he was off the bed. He slipped off his shoes and stole into the passage.
The voices were coming from the next room, and the door of that was also open. He recognized the voices as those of Peterson and the man called Freyder, and without further delay he turned and went in the opposite direction, only to stop short in his tracks as a terrible scream rang out. It came from the room where Peterson was.
Like a shadow he stole back and looked in, and the sight he saw almost made him wonder if he wasn't delirious. For there, moaning pitifully in a chair, was Professor Goodman. That was the staggering fact which drummed in his brain—Professor Goodman was not dead, but alive. But—what to do: that was the point. They were going to torture the poor old man again, and he already heard steps in the hall.
And like a flash there came the only possible solution. Downstairs they had mentioned concussion: so be it—he would be concussed. It was the only hope, and the ease with which Freyder's face made contact with the electric furnace was a happy augury.
But he was under no delusions. From being a helpless log, he had suddenly become an obstreperous madman. It was going to make things considerably more difficult. And one thing it had definitely done—it had lessened any chance he had of escaping from the house. They would be certain to tie him up. Still—now that he had discovered the amazing fact about Professor Goodman, it would have been impossible for him to leave the house in any case, unless he could take the old man with him when he went.
With his hands lashed together on the bed, and this time feigning sleep, he tried to see the way out. Three men were in the room with him now, and for a time he was inclined to curse himself for a fool. Better almost to have let the old man be burned again—and got away himself for help. But no man—certainly not Drummond—could have allowed such a thing to take place if it was in his power to prevent it. Besides, Freyder's face was an immense compensation.
Why were they torturing him? There could only be one reason—to compel him to do something which he didn't wish to do. And what could that be except reveal to Peterson the secret of his process? The more he thought about it, the clearer it became. Once Peterson was in possession of the secret, any further necessity for keeping Goodman alive would have departed. Obviously, he had deceived Peterson once—but would he have the pluck to do it again? That he was an obstinate old man at times, Drummond knew—but torture has a way of overcoming obstinacy. Especially Peterson's brand of torture.
FOR all that, however, torture would be better than death, and to give Peterson the secret would be signing his death warrant. For hours he lay there trying to see a ray of light. That Peterson would try to restore him to sanity before killing him he knew, but, at the same time, it was not safe to bank on it absolutely. That Peterson would kill Goodman at the first moment, possible he also knew. And that was the fact which tied his hands so completely.
If only he could get at Goodman—if only he could warn him not to give away his secret whatever happened—there was hope. The professor's life was safe till then; they might hurt him—but his life was safe. And if only he could get away he might pull it off, even now. The process, he knew, took six hours; if the professor had the nerve to bluff Peterson twice more—twelve hours, say fourteen A lot could be done in fourteen hours.
And suddenly he lay very still. Two of the men were leaving the room. Was this his chance? He stirred uneasily on the bed, as a sick man does who is asleep. Then he rolled over on his back breathing stertorously. It was all perfectly natural, and roused no suspicions in the mind of the remaining man. But it brought Drummond's hands into the position in which he wanted them.
Contemptuously the man came over and stared at him. It was a foolish thing to do, and it was still more foolish to lean down a little to see the patient better. For the next moment a pair of hands with fingers like steel hooks had fastened on his throat, and the sleeper was asleep no more. Gasping and choking, the man beat impotently at Drummond's face, striking it again and again, but he might as well have hit the wall for all the good he did. And gradually his struggles grew fainter and fainter till they ceased altogether.
Thus had Drummond got his message through to Professor Goodman. On the spur of the moment it had occurred to him that by pretending to believe he was Peterson not only would it increase his chances of speaking to the professor, but it would also tend to strengthen the belief that he was insane. And now as once again he lay on the bed—bound this time hand and foot—he wondered desperately if he had succeeded.
PROFESSOR GOODMAN had got his whispered message—that he knew. But had he been in time? In addition, as far as he could tell, he had up to the present successfully bluffed Peterson and every one else in the house as to his mental condition. But could he keep it up? And, anyway, trussed up as he now was and as common sense told him he would continue to be until he was taken on board the yacht, what good would it do even if he could? It might save his life for the time being, but it wouldn't help him or the professor to get away. Once they were on board, he had to admit to himself that their chance of coming out alive was small.
Anything can happen on a boat where the whole crew are unscrupulous. And even if the possibility of his getting away by going overboard and swimming arose, it was out of the question for the professor. Besides, it was not a matter of great difficulty to lower a boat, and an oar is a nasty thing to be hit on the head with, when swimming. No—the only hope seemed to be that Professor Goodman should hold out, and that by some fluke he should get away. Or send a message. But to whom—and how? He didn't even know where he was.
And at that very moment the principal part of that forlorn hope was being dashed to the ground in the next room. Once again the benevolent Mr. Robinson was chiseling out the clinker from the metal retort, while the professor watched him wearily from his chair. There was no mistake this time; Drummond's warning had come too late. And with a cry of triumph Mr. Robinson felt his chisel hit something hard: the diamond was there. He dug on feverishly and the next minute a big uncut diamond—dirty still with the fragments of clinker adhering to it—lay in his hand. He gazed at it triumphantly, and for a moment or two felt almost unable to speak. Success at last, assured and beyond doubt. In his notebook was the process; there was no need for further delay.
And then he realized that Professor Goodman was speaking.
“I have shown you as I promised.” His voice seemed very weary. “That is the method of making the ordinary white diamond. Tomorrow, after I have rested for a while, I will show you how to make one that is rose-pink.”
“Is there much difference in the system?” Mr. Robinson asked thoughtfully.
The professor's voice shook a little—but then it was hardly to be wondered at. He had had a trying evening.
“It will mean obtaining a somewhat rare strontium salt,” he answered. “It has to be added to the other salts in minute doses from time to time to insure perfect mixing. The heat, also, has to be regulated a little differently.”
His eyes searched the other's face anxiously. “Delay him—at all costs.” Drummond's urgent words still rang in his ears, and this seemed the only chance of doing so. The main secret he had already given away; there was nothing he could do or say to alter that. Only with Drummond's warning had he realized finally that he had been fooled; that in all probability the promise of rejoining his wife had been a lie from beginning to end. And the realization had roused every atom of fight he had in him.
He was a shrewd old man for all his absent-mindedness, and during the hour he had sat there while the furnace cooled his mind had been busy. How Drummond had got there he didn't know, but in Drummond lay his only hope. And if Drummond said delay, he would do his best to carry out instructions. Moreover, Drummond had said something else, too, and he was a chemist.
“Where can you obtain this strontium salt?” asked Mr. Robinson at length.
“From any big chemist in London,” replied the other.
Mr. Robinson fingered the diamond in his hand. It would mean additional delay, but did that matter very much? Now that he was in possession of the secret he had half decided to get away early in the morning. The yacht was ready; he could step on board when he liked. But there were undoubted advantages in being able to make rose-pink diamonds as well as the ordinary brand, and it struck him that after all he might just as well adhere to his original plan. Drummond was safe; there was nothing to fear from the old fool in the chair. So why not?
“Give me the name of the salt and it shall be sent for tomorrow,” he remarked.
“If you're sending,” said the professor mildly, “you might get some other salts, too. By my process I can make them blue, green, black or yellow, as well as red. Each requires a separate. salt, though the process is basically the same.”
Once again Mr. Robinson frowned thoughtfully, and once again he decided—why not? Blue diamonds were immensely valuable, and he might as well have the process complete.
“Make a list of everything you want,” he snapped, “and I will get the whole lot tomorrow. And after you've done that, go to bed.”
He watched the old man go shambling along the passage to his room; then, slipping the diamond into his pocket, he went in to have a look at Drummond. He was apparently asleep, and for a while Mr. Robinson stood beside him with a look of malignant satisfaction on his face. That his revenge on the man lying bound and helpless on the bed added to the risk of his plans, he knew; but no power on earth would have made him forego it. In the eyes of the world Professor Goodman was already dead: in his case, he would merely be confirming an already established fact. But with Drummond it was different. There would be a hue and cry; there was bound to be. But what did it matter? Was not he himself going to die—officially? And dead men are uninteresting people to pursue.
“Don't relax your guard for an instant,” he said to the two men. “We shall be leaving here tomorrow afternoon.”
HE left the room and went down to his own particular sanctum. He had made up his mind as to what he would do, and it seemed to solve all the difficulties in the most satisfactory way. These special salts should be sent direct to the yacht, and Professor Goodman should initiate him into their mysteries on board. He would have the electric furnace taken from the house, and the experiments could be carried out just as easily at sea. And when finally he felt confident of making all the various colors, and not till then, he would drop the old fool overboard, and Drummond also. The extra few days would increase the chance of his becoming sane again.
He suddenly bethought him of Freyder, and went into his room. His face, even his eyes, were completely hidden by bandages and Mr. Robinson expressed his sympathy. Then he left the room and, returning to his study, took the diamond out of his pocket. The tools at his disposal were not very delicate, but he determined, even at the risk of damaging the diamond, to work with them. He wanted to make assurance doubly sure, and it was not until the first faint streaks of dawn were coming through the window that he rose from his work with a sigh of satisfaction. On the table in front of him lay diamonds to the value of some six or seven thousand pounds. There had been no mistake this time. And with a sigh of satisfaction he placed them in his safe.
Illustration: Gradually the man's struggles grew fainter and fainter, until they ceased altogether. And when he finally lay still, Drummond left the room
He felt suddenly tired and, glancing at his watch, he found that it was already half-past three. A little rest was essential, and Mr. Robinson went upstairs. He stopped by the professor's room and looked in: the old man was fast asleep in bed. Then he went to see Drummond once more, and found him muttering uneasily under the watchful eyes of his two guards. Everything was correct and in order, and with another sigh of satisfaction he retired to his room for a little well-earned repose.
It was one of his assets that he could do with a very small amount of sleep, and eight o'clock the following morning found him up and about again. His first care were his two prisoners, and to his surprise he found the professor already up and pottering about in the room where he had been working the night before. He seemed in the best of spirits.
“One day nearer rejoining my dear wife,” the old man remarked, as he saw the other standing in the doorway. “You can't think how excited I feel about it!”
“Not being married myself,” agreed Mr. Robinson pleasantly, “I admit that I cannot enter Into your joy. You're up early this morning.”
“I couldn't sleep after six,” explained the professor. “And so I decided to rise.”
“Your breakfast will be brought to you shortly,” remarked Mr. Robinson. “I would advise you to eat a good one, as we shall be starting shortly afterward.”
“Starting?” stammered the professor. “But I thought you wished me to show you how to make blue diamonds. And the other colors, too.”
“I do,” answered the other. “But you will show me, professor, on board my yacht. I trust that you are a good sailor, though at this time of year the sea should be calm.”
Professor Goodman stood by the electric furnace, plucking nervously at his collar. It seemed as if the news of this early departure had given him a bit of a shock.
“I see,” he said at length. “I did not understand that we were starting so soon.”
“You have no objections, I hope,” murmured Mr. Robinson politely. “The sooner we start the sooner will come that delirious moment when you once more clasp Mrs. Goodman in your arms. And now I will leave you if you will excuse me. I have one or two things to attend to among them our obstreperous young friend of last night.”
He strolled along the passage into the room where Drummond was. And though he realized that the idea was absurd, he felt a little throb of relief when he saw him still lying bound on the bed. Ridiculous, of course, that he should find anything else, and yet Drummond, in the past, had extricated himself from such seemingly impossible situations that the sight of him bound and helpless was reassuring. Drummond smiled at him vacantly, and with a shrug of his shoulders he turned to the two men.
“Has he given any trouble?” he asked.
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 manufacture flawless diamonds at a small cost.
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 interviews the professor, in the guise of Mr. William Robinson, a wealthy scientist, he finds that there is an unforeseen hitch in the carrying out of his scheme. For the professor hasn't the notes of his process, and without them he can do nothing. And he learns that Drummond has them now!
In order to recover them, Robinson sends for the real Scheidstrun, to whom Drummond reluctantly delivers the notes after receiving a letter from Professor Goodman—written presumably before his death—requesting that he do so. But Drummond is suspicious and he finally interviews the members of the Diamond Syndicate, telling them that Scheidstrun is in possession of the secret process—a fact of which they are ignorant. Blantyre, Algy Longworth and Drummond call upon the German, who is living in the house of a Mr. Anderson, Drummond has discovered. Later, Drummond conceals himself in the house, where he overhears a conversation between Sir Raymond and the real Professor Scheidstrun which clears up the mystery for him.
But, unfortunately, he is discovered by Freyder, Robinson's secretary, who knocks him unconscious, and takes him to Robinson's abode.
Meanwhile, Robinson has forced Professor Goodman to produce a diamond for him by his secret process, and soon after the arrival of Freyder and the unconscious Drummond, the experiment is finished and the retort cool enough to examine. Robinson chips away the clinker in intense excitement, only to find that the professor has deceived him! There is no diamond. Then, in a rage, Robinson turns on the electric furnace and tortures the poor old man. Professor Goodman screams. A moment later, with the furnace glowing white-hot, Freyder instead of Goodman plunges against it.
And Robinson, staring in wonder at the shrieking man, sees Drummond sitting on the floor in the shadow, grinning vacantly and pushing along a train that consists of his own shoes.
“Not a bit, guv'nor,” answered one of them. “He's as balmy as he can be. Grins and smiles all over his face, except when that old bloke next door comes near him.”
“What do you mean?” cried Mr. Robinson. “Has the old man been in here this morning?”
“He came in about half an hour ago,” answered the other. “Said he wanted to see how the poor fellow was getting on. And as soon as Drummond saw him he started snarling and cursing and trying to get at him. I tell you we had the devil's own job with him—and then after a while he lay quiet again. Thinks he's some bloke of the name of Peterson.”
“How long was the old man here?” said Mr. Robinson abruptly.
“About half a minute. Then we turned him out.”
“Under no circumstances is he to be allowed in here again.”
Mr. Robinson again bent over Drummond and stared into his eyes. But no sign of reason showed on his face; the half-open mouth still grinned its vacant grin. And after a while Mr. Robinson straightened up again. He had allowed himself to be alarmed unnecessarily; Drummond was still off his head.
“We are leaving at once after breakfast,” he remarked. “He is to be put in the ambulance as he is. And if he makes any noise—gag him.”
“Very good, guv'nor. Is he to have anything to eat?”
“No—let the swine starve.”
Mr. Robinson left the room without a backward glance, and the sudden desperate glint in Drummond's eyes passed unnoticed. For now indeed things did look utterly hopeless. The professor's plan passed to him on a piece of paper, which he had conveyed to his mouth and swallowed as soon as read, even if it was a plan of despair, had in it the germ of success. It was nothing more nor less than to set fire to the house with chemicals that would burn furiously, and trust to something happening in the confusion.
At any rate, it might have brought in outside people—the police, the fire brigade. And Peterson could hardly have left him bound upstairs with the house on fire. Not from any kindly motives—but expediency would have prevented it. Only the chemicals had to come from London, and if they were starting at once after breakfast it was obvious that the stuff couldn't arrive in time.
He took his hat off to the dear old professor. Tortured and abominably treated, he had kept his head and his nerve in the most wonderful way. For a man of his age and sedentary method of life not to have broken down completely under the strain was nothing short of marvelous. And not only had he not broken down, but he'd thought out a scheme and got it to Drummond wrapped around a Gilette razor blade. It had taken a bit of doing to get the blade into his waistcoat pocket, and had his arms been bound to his body he couldn't have done it. But fortunately only his wrists were lashed together, and he had managed it. And now it all seemed wasted.
HE debated in his mind whether he would try to cut the ropes, and chance everything in one wild fight at once. But the two men eating their breakfast near the foot of his bed were burly brutes. And even if by twisting himself up he had been able to cut the cord round his legs without them noticing he would be at a terrible disadvantage, cramped after his confinement as he was. Besides, there was the professor. Nothing now would have induced him to leave the old man. Whatever happened, he must stay beside him in the hope of being able to help him. Because one thing was clear. Even if he personally escaped, unless he could get help before the yacht started—the professor was doomed. The yacht was going down with all hands; there lay the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.
And even if he could have prevented the yacht sailing, he knew Peterson quite well enough to realize that he would merely change his plans at the last moment. As he had so often done in the past, he would disappear with the secret—having first killed Professor Goodman.
No; the only possible chance lay in his going on the yacht himself and trusting to luck to find a way out. Incidentally, it was perhaps as well that the only possible chance did lie in that direction, since as far as Drummond could see his prospects of not going on board were even remoter than his prospects of getting any breakfast.
A sudden shuffling step in the passage outside brought his two guards to their feet. They dashed to the door just as Professor Goodman appeared, and then they stopped with a laugh. For the old man was swaying backward and forward.
“I've been drugged,” he muttered, and pitched forward on his face.
The men sat down again, leaving him on the floor.
“That'll keep him quiet,” said one of them. “It was in his tea.”
“If I had my way I'd put a bucket of it into the swab on the bed,” answered the other. “It's him that wants keeping quiet.”
The first speaker laughed brutally.
“He won't give much trouble. Once we've got him on board, it'll be just pure joy to watch the fun. Freyder's like a man that's sat on a hornet's nest this morning.”
And at that moment Freyder himself entered the room. His face was still swathed in bandages, and Drummond beamed happily at him. The sight of him provided the one bright spot in an otherwise gloomy horizon, though the horrible blow which he received on the mouth at that moment rather obscured the brightness and gave him a foretaste of what he could expect from the gentleman later on. But, true to his rôle, Drummond still grinned on though he turned his head away to hide the smoldering fury in his eyes. In the past he had been fairly successful with Peterson's lieutenants, and he registered a mental vow that Mr. Julius Freyder would not be an exception.
He watched him go from the room, kicking the sprawling body of the professor contemptuously as he passed, and once again he was left to his gloomy thoughts. It was all very well to register vows of vengeance, but to carry them out entailed getting free first of all. And then a sudden ray of hope dawned in his mind. How were they going to be got on board? Stretchers, presumably, and that would be bound to attract attention if the yacht was lying in any harbor. But was she? She might be lying out at sea somewhere and send a boat ashore for them in some deserted stretch of coast. That was the devil of it! He hadn't the faintest idea where he was. He might be in Essex; he might be on the South Coast; he might even be down on the Bristol Channel.
A little wearily he gave it up. After all, what was the good of worrying? He was bound and the professor was drugged, and as far as he could see any self-respecting life insurance company would hesitate at a ninety-five per cent premium for either of them. His principal desire at the moment was for breakfast and as that was evidently not on the program, all he could do was to inhale the aroma of eggs and bacon, and wonder why he'd been such a confounded fool as to take that telephone call.
The tramp of footsteps on the stairs roused him from his lethargy and he turned his head to look at the door. Two men were there with a stretcher, on which they were placing the professor. Then they disappeared, to return again a few moments later with another, which they put down beside his bed. It was evidently his turn now, but, even bound as he was they showed no inclination to treat him as unceremoniously as they had the professor. His reputation seemed to have got abroad, and, though he smiled at them inanely and burbled foolishly, they invoked the assistance of the other two men, before lifting him up and putting him on the stretcher.
In the hall stood Mr. Robinson, who again peered at him intently as he passed, and then Drummond found himself hoisted into the back of a car through two doors. On each side of the car was a window covered with a muslin curtain. Two bunks, one on each side, stretched the full length of the car—and a central gangway, which had a little wash basin at the end nearest the engine, separated them.
ON one of these bunks lay Professor Goodman, breathing with the heavy stertorous sounds of the drugged. The men pitched him upon the other, as Mr. Robinson, who had followed them out, appeared at the door.
“You have your orders,” he remarked curtly. “If Drummond makes a sound—gag him. I shall be on board myself in about two hours.”
He closed the doors, leaving the two men inside, and the car started. It was impossible to see out of either window, owing to the curtains, and the ostentatious production of a revolver by one of the men removed any thought Drummond might have had of trying to use the razor blade. Mad or not, take no chances—was the motto of his two guards, and when on top of everything else, though he hadn't made a sound they crammed a handkerchief half down his throat, he almost laughed.
He judged they had been going for about an hour when the diminished speed of the car and the increased sounds of traffic indicated a town. It felt as if they were traveling over cobbles, and once they stopped at what was evidently a level crossing, as he heard a train go by. And then came the sound of a steamer's siren, to be followed by another and yet a third.
A seaport town obviously, he reflected, though that didn't help much. The only comfort was that a seaport town meant a well-used waterway outside. And if he could get free, if he could go overboard with the professor there might be a shade more chance of being picked up. Also, there would almost certainly be curious loungers about as they were carried on board.
THE car had stopped; he could hear the driver talking to some one. Then it ran forward a little and stopped again. And a moment or two later a curious swaying motion almost pitched him off the bunk. Surely they couldn't be at sea yet. Then the car dropped suddenly, and with a sick feeling of despair he realized what had happened. The car had been hoisted bodily on board; his faint hope of being able to communicate with some onlooker had snapped.
Once again the car became stationary, save for a very faint and almost imperceptible movement. From outside came the sounds of men heaving on ropes, and the car steadied again. They were actually on board, and the car was being made fast.
Still the two men sat there with the doors tight shut, and the windows hermetically sealed by the curtains. They seemed to be waiting for something, and suddenly with a sigh of relief one spoke.
“She's off.”
It was true. Drummond could feel the faint throb of the propeller.
“The specimens are aboard,” laughed the other man, “and I guess it will be safe to open the doors in about a quarter of an hour or so, and get a bit of air. This infernal thing is like a Turkish bath.”
He rose and peered cautiously through a slit in the curtain, but he made no movement to open the door until the throbbing of the propeller had ceased and the harsh rattle of a chain outside showed that they were anchoring. Then and not till then did he open the doors with a sigh of relief.
Cautiously Drummond raised his head and stared out. Where were they? He had followed every movement since he had come on board in his mind, but he was still as far as ever from knowing where they were. But luckily one glance was enough. It didn't even need the glimpse he got of a huge Cunarder about a half mile away; he recognized the shore. They were in Southampton water, and though the knowledge didn't seem to help very much, at any rate it was something to have at least one definite fact to start from.
Southampton water! He managed to shift the sodden pocket handkerchief into a more comfortable position and his train of thought grew pessimistic. Why would men invent processes for making diamonds, he reflected morosely. If only the dear old blitherer still peacefully sleeping in the opposite bunk had stuck to albuminized food, he wouldn't have been lying trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Far from it! He would have been disporting himself on Ted Jerningham's governor's yacht at Cowes. Had not Ted expressly invited him—Ted, who had hunted Peterson with him in the past, and asked for nothing better than to hunt him again.
The irony of it! To think that Ted might even see the yacht go by; might remark on the benevolence of the appearance of mutton-chop whiskers, if by chance he should be on deck. And he would never know. In all ignorance he would return to one of his habitual spasms of love, which always assailed him when afloat, with any one who happened to be handy.
It was a distressing thought, and after a while he resolutely tried to banish it from his mind. But it refused to be banished. Absurd, of course, but suppose—just suppose he could communicate with Ted! Things were so desperate that he could not afford to neglect even the wildest chance. Ted's father's yacht generally lay, as he knew, not far from outgoing steamers. He remembered sitting on deck with Phyllis and watching one of the Union Castle boats go by so close that he could see the passengers' faces on deck. What if he could shout or something? But Ted might not be on deck.
Eagerly he turned the problem over in his mind, and the more he thought of it the more it seemed to him to be the only possible way out. How to do it, he hadn't an idea—but at any rate it was something to occupy his thoughts. And when the benevolent face of Mr. Robinson appeared at the door some hours later, he was still wrestling with the problem, though the vacant look in his eyes left nothing to be desired.
“Any difficulty getting on board?” asked Mr. Robinson.
“None at all, boss,” answered the man who was still on guard. “We gagged the madman to be on the safe side.”
Mr. Robinson beamed.
“Take the old man below and put him to bed,” he remarked. “I will stay with our friend here till you return.”
Thoughtfully he pulled the handkerchief out of Drummond's mouth and sat down on the opposite bunk.
“Still suffering from concussion,” he said gently. “Still—we have plenty of time, Captain Drummond—plenty of time.”
“Gug-gug,” answered Drummond happily.
“Precisely,” murmured the other. “I believe that men when they drown frequently say that. But I promise you we won't drown you at once. As I say—there is plenty of time.”
- ↑ Near the end of this part