no reply. He reached the door and turned the handle. The door was fast. He shook it—gently at first, and then violently. Suddenly he realized that it was locked. He turned sharply around.
“What game’s this?” he exclaimed, fiercely. “Let me out!”
They stood in their places without movement. There was something a little ominous in their silence. Masters was fast becoming a sober man.
“Let me out of here,” he exclaimed, “or I’ll break the door down!”
Sir Richard Dyson came slowly towards him. There was something in his appearance which terrified Masters. He raised his fist to strike the door. He was a fighting man, but he felt a sudden sense of impotence.
“Mr. Masters,” Sir Richard said suavely, “the truth is that we cannot afford to let you go—unless you agree to do what we have asked. You see we really have not the money or any way of raising it—and the inconvenience of being posted you have yourself very ably pointed out. Change your mind, Mr. Masters. Take those bills. We’ll do our best to meet them.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Masters answered, striking the door fiercely with his clenched fist. “I’ll have cash—nothing but the cash!”
There was a dull, sickening thud, and the bookmaker went over like a shot rabbit. His legs twitched for a moment—a little moan that was scarcely audible broke from his lips. Then he lay quite still. Sir Richard bent over him with the life preserver still in his hand.
“I’ve done it!” he muttered, hoarsely. “One blow! Thank Heaven, he didn’t want another! His skull was as soft as pudding! Ugh!”
He turned away. The man who lay stretched upon the floor was an ugly sight. His two companions, cowering over the table, were not much better. Dyson’s trembling fingers went out for the brandy decanter. Half of what he poured out was spilled upon the tablecloth. The rest he drank from a tumbler, neat.
“It’s nervous work, this, you fellows,” he said, hoarsely.
“It’s hellish!” Dickinson answered. “Let’s have some air in the room. By God, it’s close!”
He sank back into his chair, white to the lips. Dyson looked at him sharply.
“Look here,” he exclaimed, “I hold you both to our bargain! I was to be the one he attacked and who struck the blow—in self-defence! Remember that—it was in self-defence! I’ve done it! I’ve done my share! I hope to God I’ll forget it some day. Andrew, you know your task. Be a man, and get to work!”
Dickinson rose to his feet unsteadily. “Yes!” he said. “What was it? I have forgotten, for the moment, but I am ready.”
“You must get his betting book from his pocket,” Sir Richard directed. “Then you must help Merries downstairs with him, and into the car. Merries is—to get rid of him.”
Merries shivered. His hand, too, went out for the brandy.
“To get rid of him,” he muttered. “It sounds easy!”
“It is easy,” Sir Richard declared. “You have only to keep your nerve, and the thing is done. No one will see him inside the car, in that motoring coat and glasses. You can drive somewhere out into the country and leave him.”
“Leave him!” Merries repeated, trembling. “Leave him—yes!”
Neither of the two men moved.
“I must do more than my share, I suppose,” Sir Richard declared contemptuously. “Come!”
They dragged the man’s body on to a chair, wrapped a huge coat around him, tied a motoring cap under his chin, fixed goggles over his eyes. Sir Richard strolled into the hall and opened the front door. He stood there for a moment, looking up and down the street. When he gave the signal they dragged him out, supported between them, across the pavement, into the car. Ugh! His attitude was so natural as to be absolutely ghastly. Merries started the car and sprang into the driver’s seat. There were people in the Square now, but the figure reclining in the dark, cushioned interior looked perfectly natural.
“So long, Jimmy,” Sir Richard called out. “See you this evening.”
“Right O!” Merries replied, with a brave effort.
Peter Ruff, summoned by telephone from his sitting room, slipped down the stairs like a cat—noiseless, swift. The voice which had summoned him had been the voice of his secretary—a voice almost unrecognisable—a voice shaken with fear. Fear? No, it had been terror!
On the landing below, exactly underneath the room from which he had descended, there was a door upon which his name was written upon a small brass plate—Mr. Peter Ruff. He opened and closed it behind him with a swift movement which he had practised in his idle moments. He found himself looking in upon a curious scene.
Miss Brown, with the radiance of her hair effectually concealed, in plain black skirt and simple blouse—the ideal secretary—had risen from the seat in front of her typewriter, and was standing facing the door through which he had entered, with a small revolver—which he had given her for a birthday present only the day before—clasped in her outstretched hand. The object of her solicitude was, it seemed to Peter Ruff, the most pitiful-looking object upon which he had ever looked. The hours had dwelt with Merries as the years with some people, and worse. He had lost his cap; his hair hung over his forehead in wild confusion; his eyes were red, bloodshot, and absolutely aflame with the terrors through which he had lived—underneath them the black marks might have been traced with a charcoal pencil. His cheeks were livid save for one burning spot. His clothes, too, were in disorder—the starch had gone from his collar, his tie hung loosely outside his waistcoat. He was cowering back against the wall. And between him and the girl, stretched upon the floor, was the body of a man in a huge motor coat, a limp, inert mass which neither moved nor seemed to have any sign of life. No wonder that Peter Ruff looked around his office, whose serenity had been so tragically disturbed, with an air of mild surprise.
“Dear me,” he exclaimed, “something seems to have happened! My dear Violet, you can put that revolver away. I have secured the door.”
Her hand fell to her side. She gave a little shiver of relief. Peter Ruff nodded.
“That is more comfortable,” he declared. “Now, perhaps, you will explain—”
“That young man,” she interrupted, “or lunatic—whatever he calls himself—burst in here a few minutes ago, dragging—that!” She pointed to the motionless figure upon the floor. “If I had not stopped him, he would have bolted off without a word of explanation.”
Peter Ruff, with his back against the door, shook his head gravely.
“My dear Lord Merries,” he said, “my office is not a mortuary.”
Merries gasped.
“You know me, then?” he muttered, hoarsely.
“Of course,” Ruff answered. “It is my profession to know everybody. Go and sit down upon that easy-chair, and drink the brandy and soda which Miss Brown is about to mix for you. That’s right.”
Merries staggered across the room and half fell into an easy-chair. He leaned over the side with his face buried in his hands, unable still to face the horror which lay upon the floor. A few seconds later, the tumbler of brandy and soda was in his hands. He drank it like a man who drains fresh life into his veins.
“Perhaps now,” Peter Ruff suggested, pointing to the motionless figure, “you can give me some explanation as to this!”
Merries looked away from him all the time he was speaking. His voice was thick and nervous.
“There were three of us lunching together,” he began—“four in all. There was a dispute, and this man threatened us. Afterwards there was a fight. It fell to my lot to take him away, and I can’t get rid of him! I can’t get rid of him!” he repeated, with something that sounded like a sob.