“The drug will work again in a day or two. When it does he’ll be a hopeless idiot and nobody will credit a word he’s said.”
“It may work—and it may not. Jimmie says that some Harley Street fellow has been giving him injections. That looks as though the drug has been spotted—eh?”
“Yes, it does. But old Grunberg assured me that a reaction must set in and hopeless idiocy will be the result. At least, let’s hope so.”
“I’m not so hopeful. The lad may yet be of some use to us. It’s fortunate that he’s never seen me.”
“It is. And you’d better keep away from me in London, for it’s evident that he is pretty shrewd, and is now constantly watchful.”
“I agree,” growled Claribut. “And he must not see me either.”
“No. He certainly must not,” said Freda Crisp. “Of course, the mystery of Edna has aroused his curiosity—which is a pity. Our only hope is that the drug will act as old Grunberg guaranteed it would. By Jove! those German chemists are devilish clever—aren’t they? Old Homfray has defied us, and he will very soon have cause to regret his words, as I told him he would. Yet he may, of course, risk everything and tell the police about Hugh Willard!”
“Oh! Don’t worry at all about that, you fool!” urged Gray. “As long as his son lives, whether idiot or not, he’ll keep his mouth closed for his own sake, depend upon it?”