“Move,” said the fourth to Hugh. “You join the picnic.”
With fury gathering in his eyes he preceded his captor along the passage and downstairs. A large car drove up as they reached the street, and in less time than it takes to tell, the two helpless men were pushed in, followed by the leader; the door was shut and the car drove off.
“Don’t forget,” he said to Drummond suavely, “this gun is silent. You had better be the same.”
At one o’clock the car swung up to The Elms. For the last ten minutes Hugh had been watching the invalid in the corner, who was making frantic efforts to loosen his gag. His eyes were rolling horribly, and he swayed from side to side in his seat, but the bandages round his hands held firm and at last he gave it up.
Even when he was lifted out and carried indoors he did not struggle; he seemed to have sunk into a sort of apathy. Drummond followed with dignified calmness, and was led into a room off the hall.
In a moment or two Peterson entered, followed by his daughter. “Ah! my young friend,” cried Peterson affably. “I hardly thought you’d give me such an easy run as this.” He put his hand into Drummond’s pockets, and pulled out his revolver and a bundle of letters. “To your bank,” he murmured. “Oh! surely, surely not that as well. Not even stamped. Ungag him, Irma—and untie his hands. My very dear young friend—you pain me.”
“I wish to know, Mr. Peterson,” said Hugh quietly, “by what right this dastardly outrage has been committed. A friend of mine, sick in bed—removed; abducted in the middle of the night: to say nothing of me.”
With a gentle laugh Irma offered him a cigarette. “Mon Dieu!” she remarked, “but you are most gloriously ugly, my Hugh!” Drummond looked at her coldly, while Peterson, with a faint smile, opened the envelope in his hand. And, even as he pulled out the contents, he paused suddenly and the smile faded from his face. From the landing upstairs came a heavy crash, followed by a flood of the most appalling language.
“What the —— hell do you think you’re doing, you flat-faced son of a Maltese goat? And where the —— am I, anyway?”
“I must apologise for my friend’s language,” murmured Hugh gently, “but you must admit he has some justification. Besides, he was, I regret to state, quite wonderfully drunk earlier this evening, and just as he was sleeping it off these desperadoes abducted him.”