Then, like a ghost, he vanished along the passage in the direction of his own room.
“I wonder who the bird was,” he murmured thoughtfully to himself. “Somehow I don’t think he’ll laugh quite so much in future—damn him.”
III
At eight o’clock the next morning a burly-looking ruffian brought in some hot water and a cup of tea. Hugh watched him through half-closed eyes, and eliminated him from the competition. His bullet head moved freely on a pair of massive shoulders; his neck showed no traces of nocturnal trouble. As he pulled up the blinds the light fell full on his battered, rugged face, and suddenly Hugh sat up in bed and stared at him.
“Good Lord!” he cried, “aren’t you Jem Smith?”
The man swung round like a flash and glared at the bed.
“Wot the ’ell ’as that got to do wiv you?” he snarled, and then his face changed. “Why, strike me pink, if it ain’t young Drummond.”
Hugh grinned.
“Right in one, Jem. What in the name of fortune are you doing in this outfit?”
But the man was not to be drawn.