Peter Ruff and the Double Four. E. Phillips Oppenheim

      “I do not know, of course, where you got your information from,” Sir Richard began, “but it is perfectly true that I have come here to consult you upon a matter in which the two people whose names you have mentioned are concerned. The disappearance of Job Masters is, of course, common talk; but I cannot tell what has led you to associate with it the temporary absence of Lord Merries from this country.”

      “Let me ask you this question,” Ruff said. “How are you affected by the disappearance of Masters?”

      “Indirectly, it has caused me a great deal of inconvenience,” Sir Richard declared.

      “Facts, please,” murmured Peter.

      “It has been rumoured,” Sir Richard admitted, “that I owed Masters a large sum of money which I could not pay.”

      “Anything else?”

      “It has also been rumoured,” Sir Richard continued, “that he was seen to enter my house that day, and that he remained there until late in the afternoon.”

      “Did he?” asked Ruff.

      “Certainly not,” Sir Richard answered.

      Peter Ruff yawned for a moment, but covered the indiscretion with his hand.

      “Respecting this inconvenience,” he said, “which you admit that the disappearance of Job Masters has caused you, what is its tangible side?”

      Sir Richard drew his chair a little nearer to the table where Ruff was sitting. His voice dropped almost to a whisper.

      “It seems absurd,” he said, “and yet, what I tell you is the truth. I have been followed about—shadowed, in fact—for several days. Men, even in my own social circle, seem to hold aloof from me. It is as though,” he continued slowly, “people were beginning to suspect me of being connected in some way with the man’s disappearance.”

      Ruff, who had been making figures with a pencil on the edge of his blotting paper, suddenly turned round. His eyes flashed with a new light as they became fixed upon his companion’s.

      “And are you not?” he asked, calmly. Sir Richard bore himself well. For a moment he had shrunk back. Then he half rose to his feet.

      “Mr. Ruff!” he said. “I must protest—”

      “Stop!”

      Peter Ruff used no violent gesture. Only his forefinger tapped the desk in front of him. His voice was as smooth as velvet.

      “Tell me as much or as little as you please, Sir Richard,” he said, “but let that little or that much be the truth! On those terms only I may be able to help you. You do not go to your physician and expect him to prescribe to you while you conceal your symptoms, or to your lawyer for advice and tell him half the truth. I am not asking for your confidence. I simply tell you that you are wasting your time and mine if you choose to withhold it.”

      Sir Richard was silent. He recognized a new quality in the man—but the truth was an awful thing to tell! He considered—then told.

      Ruff briskly asked two questions. “In alluding to your heavy settlement with Masters, you said just now that you could not have paid him—then.”

      “Quite so,” Sir Richard admitted. “That is the rotten part of the whole affair. Four days later a wonderful double came off—one in which we were all interested, and one which not one of us expected. We’ve drawn a considerable amount already from one or two bookies, and I believe even Masters owes us a bit now.”

      “Thank you,” Ruff said. “I think that I know everything now. My fee is five hundred guineas.”

      Sir Richard looked at him.

      “What?” he exclaimed.

      “Five hundred guineas,” Ruff repeated.

      “For a consultation?” Sir Richard asked.

      Peter Ruff shook his head.

      “More than that,” he said. “You are a brave man in your way, Sir Richard Dyson, but you are going about now shivering under a load of fear. It sits like a devil incarnate upon your shoulders. It poisons the air wherever you go. Write your cheque, Sir Richard, and you can leave that little black devil in my wastebasket. You are under my protection. Nothing will happen to you.”

      Sir Richard sat like a man mesmerised. The little man with the amiable expression and the badly fitting suit was leaning back in his chair, his finger tips pressed together, waiting.

      “Nothing will happen!” Sir Richard repeated, incredulously.

      “Certainly not. I guarantee you against any inconvenience which might arise to you from this recent unfortunate affair. Isn’t that all you want?”

      “It’s all I want, certainly,” Sir Richard declared, “but I must understand a little how you propose to secure my immunity.”

      Ruff shook his head.

      “I have my own methods,” he said. “I can help only those who trust me.”

      Sir Richard drew a cheque book from his pocket. “I don’t know why I should believe in you,” he said, as he wrote the cheque.

      “But you do,” Peter Ruff said, smiling. “Fortunately for you, you do!”

      It was not so easy to impart a similar confidence into the breast of Colonel Dickinson, with whom Sir Richard dined that night tete-a-tete. Dickinson was inclined to think that Sir Richard ad been “had.”

      “You’ve paid a ridiculous fee,” he argued, “and all that you have in return is the fellow’s promise to see you through. It isn’t like you to part with money so easily, Richard. Did he hypnotise you?”

      “I don’t think so,” Sir Richard answered. “I wasn’t conscious of it.”

      “What sort of a fellow is he?” Dickinson asked.

      Sir Richard looked reflectively into his glass.

      “He’s a vulgar sort of little Johnny,” he said. “Looks as though he were always dressed in new clothes and couldn’t get used to them.”

      Three men entered the room. Two remained in the background. John Dory came forward towards the table.

      “Sir Richard Dyson,” he said, gravely, “I have come upon an unpleasant errand.”

      “Go on,” Sir Richard said, fingering something hard inside pocket of his coat.

      “I have a warrant for your arrest,” Dory continued, “in connection with the disappearance of Job Masters on Saturday, the 10th of November last. I will read the terms of the warrant, if you choose. It is my duty to warn you that anything you may now say can be used in evidence against you. This gentleman, I believe, is Colonel Dickinson?”

      “That is my name, sir,” Dickinson answered, with unexpected fortitude.

      “I regret to say,” the detective continued, “that I have also a warrant for your arrest in connection with the same matter.”

      Sir Richard had hold of the butt end of his revolver then. Like grisly phantoms, the thoughts chased one another through his brain. Should he shoot and end it—pass into black nothingness—escape disgrace, but die like a rat in a corner? His finger was upon the trigger. Then suddenly his heart gave a great leap. He raised his head as though listening. Something flashed in his eyes—something that was almost like hope. There was no mistaking that voice which he had heard in the hall! He made a great rally.

      “I can only conclude,” he said, turning to the detective, “that you have made some absurd blunder. If you really possess the warrants you speak of, however, Colonel Dickinson and I will accompany you wherever you choose.”

      Then the door