“Unfortunately a bullet intended for him just missed,” answered Peterson casually. “A pity—because there would have been no trace of him by now.”
“Might be awkward for you,” murmured Hugh. “Such methods, Mr. Peterson, are illegal, you know. It’s a dangerous thing to take the law into your own hands. May I offer you a drink?”
Peterson declined courteously. “Thank you—not at this hour.” Then he rose. “I take it, then, that you will not return me my property here and now.”
“Still the same delusion, I see!” remarked Hugh with a smile.
“Still the same delusion,” repeated Peterson. “I shall be ready to receive both the paper and the man up till six o’clock to-night at 32A Berners Street; and it is possible, I might even say probable, should they turn up by then, that I shall not find it necessary to kill you.”
Hugh grinned. “Your kindly forbearance amazes me,” he cried. “Won’t you really change your mind and have a drink?”
“Should they not arrive by then, I shall be put to the inconvenience of taking them, and in that case—much as I regret it—you may have to be killed. You’re such an aggressive young man, Captain Drummond—and, I fear, not very tactful.” He spoke regretfully, drawing on his gloves; then as he got to the door he paused. “I’m afraid that my words will not have much effect,” he remarked, “but the episode last night did appeal to me. I would like to spare you—I would really. It’s a sign of weakness, my young friend, which I view with amazement—but nevertheless, it is there. So be warned in time. Return my property to Berners Street, and leave England for a few months.” His eyes seemed to burn into the soldier’s brain. “You are meddling in affairs,” he went on gently, “of the danger of which you have no conception. A fly in the gear-box of a motor-car would be a sounder proposition for a life insurance than you will be—if you continue on your present course.”
There was something so incredibly menacing in the soft, quiet voice, that Drummond looked at the speaker fascinated. He had a sudden feeling that he must be dreaming—that in a moment or two he would wake up and find that they had really been talking about the weather the whole time. Then the cynical gleam of triumph in Peterson’s eyes acted on him like a cold douche; quite clearly that gentleman had misinterpreted his silence.
“Your candour is as refreshing,” he answered genially, “as your similes are apt. I shudder to think of that poor little fly, Mr. Peterson, especially with your chauffeur grinding his gears to pieces.” He held open the door for his visitor, and followed him into the passage. At the other end stood Denny, ostentatiously dusting a book-shelf, and Peterson glanced at him casually. It was characteristic of the man that no trace of annoyance showed on his face. He might have been any ordinary visitor taking his leave.
And then suddenly from the room outside which Denny was dusting there came a low moaning and an incoherent babble. A quick frown passed over Drummond’s face, and Peterson regarded him thoughtfully.