“Next door—safe with a very dear old friend of mine, Peter Darrell. You must meet Peter some day—you’ll like him.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “No,” he added, “on second thoughts, I’m not at all sure that I shall let you meet Peter. You might like him too much; and he’s a dirty dog.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she cried with a faint blush. “Tell me, where is the American now?”
“Many miles out of London,” answered Hugh. “I think we’ll leave it at that. The less you know, Miss Benton, at the moment—the better.”
“Have you found out anything?” she demanded eagerly.
Hugh shook his head.
“Not a thing. Except that your neighbours are as pretty a bunch of scoundrels as I ever want to meet.”
“But you’ll let me know if you do.” She laid a hand beseechingly on his arm. “You know what’s at stake for me, don’t you? Father, and—oh! but you know.”
“I know,” he answered gravely. “I know, old thing. I promise I’ll let you know anything I find out. And in the meantime I want you to keep an eye fixed on what goes on next door, and let me know anything of importance by letter to the Junior Sports Club.” He lit a cigarette thoughtfully. “I have an idea that they feel so absolutely confident in their own power, that they are going to make the fatal mistake of underrating their opponents. We shall see.” He turned to her with a twinkle in his eye. “Anyway, our Mr. Lakington will see that you don’t come to any harm.”
“The brute!” she cried, very low. “How I hate him!” Then with a sudden change of tone, she looked up at Drummond. “I don’t know whether it’s worth mentioning,” she said slowly, “but yesterday afternoon four men came at different times to The Elms. They were the sort of type one sees tub-thumping in Hyde Park, all except one, who looked like a respectable working-man.”
Hugh shook his head.