‘My dear girl, you haven’t seen!’ Martin turned upon her. ‘He can’t murder half the county. There’s a crowd outside the house that makes the place look like the local horse show. Daddy Dawlish’s stunt for putting the fear of God into Campion’s little friend has brought the entire Hunt down upon him thirsting for his blood. Looks as if they’ll get it now, too. Hullo! Here they come.’
His last words were occasioned by the sound of footsteps outside, and then a horrified voice said clearly:
‘Good heavens! What’s the smell of kerosene?’
Several heavy blows outside followed. Then there was the grating of bolts and the heavy door swung open.
On the threshold stood Guffy Randall, a pleasant, horsy young man with a broken nose and an engaging smile. He was backed by half a dozen or so eager and bewildered horsemen.
‘I say, Bertie,’ he said, without further introduction, ‘what’s up? The passage out here is soaked with paraffin, and there’s a small mountain of faggots on the stairs.’
Martin Watt grasped his arm.
‘All explanations later, my son,’ he said. ‘The one thing we’ve got to do now is to prevent Uncle Bosche from getting away. He’s got a gang of about ten, too, but they’re not so important. He’s the lad we want, and a little sheeny pal of his.’
‘Righto. We’re with you. Of course the man’s clean off the bean. Did you see that hound?’
‘Yes,’ said Martin soothingly. ‘But it’s the chappie we want now. He’ll make for his car.’