‘Not so eager, not so eager!’ Albert Campion strolled over to them as he spoke. ‘Old Daddy Dawlish is an energetic bit of work, believe me. Besides, he has only to get going with his Boy Scout’s ever-ready, self-expanding, patent pocket-knife and the fun will begin all over again. No, I think that the doc. had better stay here with his gun, his patient and the prisoners, while you come along with me. I’ll take Prenderby’s gun.’
‘Righto,’ said Martin. ‘What’s the idea, a tour of the works?’
‘More or less,’ Campion conceded. ‘I want you to do a spot of ambulance work. The White Hope of our side is draped tastefully along the front stairs. While you’re gathering up the wreckage I’ll toddle round to find Poppa von Faber, and on my way back after the argument I’ll call in for the girls, and we’ll all make our final exit en masse. Dignity, Gentlemen, and British Boyhood’s Well-known Bravery, Coolness, and Distinction are the passwords of the hour.’
Martin looked at him wonderingly. ‘Do you always talk bilge?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Mr Campion lightly, ‘but I learnt the language reading advertisements. Come on.’
He led the way out of the brewhouse into the kitchen, Martin following. On the threshold he paused suddenly, and an exclamation escaped him.
‘What’s happened?’ Abbershaw darted after them, and the next moment he, too, caught his breath.
Wendon, the man Campion had laid out not ten minutes before, and left lying an inert mass on the fibre matting, had vanished utterly. Campion spoke softly, and his voice was unusually grave.
‘He didn’t walk out of here on his own,’ he said. ‘There’s not a skull on earth that would withstand that tap I gave him. No, my sons, he was fetched.’ And while they looked at him he grinned.
‘To be continued – evidently,’ he said, and added lightly, ‘Coming, Martin?’