The door closed behind him, and Hugh lit a cigarette thoughtfully. Most assuredly he was starting in style: Lakington’s jaw one night, Peterson’s neck the second, seemed a sufficiently energetic opening to the game for the veriest glutton. Then that cheerful optimism which was the envy of his friends asserted itself.
“Supposin’ I’d killed ’em,” he murmured, aghast. “Just supposin’. Why, the bally show would have been over, and I’d have had to advertise again.”
Only Peterson was in the dining-room when Hugh came down. He had examined the stairs on his way, but he could see nothing unusual which would account for the thing which had whizzed past his head and clanged sullenly against the wall. Nor was there any sign of the cobra by the curtained door; merely Peterson standing in a sunny room behind a bubbling coffee-machine.
“Good morning,” remarked Hugh affably. “How are we all to-day? By Jove! that coffee smells good.”
“Help yourself,” said Peterson. “My daughter is never down as early as this.”
“Rarely conscious before eleven—what!” murmured Hugh. “Deuced wise of her. May I press you to a kidney?” He returned politely towards his host, and paused in dismay. “Good heavens! Mr. Peterson, is your neck hurting you?”
“It is,” answered Peterson grimly.
“A nuisance, having a stiff neck. Makes everyone laugh, and one gets no sympathy. Bad thing—laughter.... At times, anyway.” He sat down and commenced to eat his breakfast.
“Curiosity is a great deal worse, Captain Drummond. It was touch and go whether I killed you last night.”
The two men were staring at one another steadily.