Bulldog Drummond. Herman Cyril McNeile

dream dreams. That the force he proposed to tamper with was a dangerous force disturbed him not at all: he was a dangerous man. That his scheme would bring ruin, perhaps death, to thousands of innocent men and women, caused him no qualm: he was a supreme egoist. All that appealed to him was that he had seen the opportunity that existed, and that he had the nerve and the brain to turn that opportunity to his own advantage. Only the necessary money was lacking … and … With a quick movement he pulled out his watch. They had had their ten minutes … the matter was settled, the die was cast. …

      He rose and walked across the lounge. At the swing doors was the head waiter, bowing obsequiously. …

      It was to be hoped that the dinner had been to the liking of Monsieur le Comte … the wines all that he could wish … that he had been comfortable and would return again. …

      ​"That is improbable." The Count took out his pocket-book. "But one never knows; perhaps I shall." He gave the waiter a note. "Let my bill be prepared at once, and given to me as I pass through the hall."

      Apparently without a care in the world the Count passed down the passage to his private room, while the head waiter regarded complacently the unusual appearance of an English five-pound note.

      For an appreciable moment the Count paused by the door, and a faint smile came to his lips. Then he opened it, and passed into the room. …

      The American was still chewing his toothpick; Steinemann was still breathing hard. Only von Gratz had changed his occupation, and he was sitting at the table smoking a long thin cigar. The Count closed the door, and walked over to the fireplace. …

      "Well, gentlemen," he said quietly, "what have you decided?"

      It was the American who answered.

      "It goes. With one amendment. The money is too big for three of us: there must be a fourth. That will be a quarter of a million each."

      The Count bowed.

      "Have you any suggestions as to who the fourth should be?"

      "Yep," said the American shortly. "These two gentlemen agree with me that it should be another of my countrymen—so that we get equal numbers. The man we have decided on is coming to England in a few weeks—Hiram C. Potts. If you get him in, you can count us in too. If not, the deal's off."

      ​The Count nodded, and if he felt any annoyance at this unexpected development he showed no sign of it on his face.

      "I know of Mr. Potts," he answered quietly. "Your big shipping man, isn't he? I agree to your reservation."

      "Good," said the American. "Let's discuss some details."

      Without a trace of emotion on his face the Count drew up a chair to the table. It was only when he sat down that he started to play a tattoo on his knee with his left hand. …

      *****

      Half an hour later he entered his luxurious suite of rooms at the Hôtel Magnificent.

      A girl, who had been lying by the fire reading a French novel, looked up at the sound of the door. She did not speak, for the look on his face told her all she wanted to know.

      He crossed to the sofa and smiled down at her.

      "Successful … on our own terms. To-morrow, Irma, the Comte de Guy dies, and Carl Peterson and his daughter leave for England. A country gentleman, I think, is Carl Peterson. He might keep hens, and possibly pigs."

      The girl on the sofa rose, yawning.

      "Mon Dieu! What a prospect! Pigs and hens—and in England! How long is it going to take?"

      The Count looked thoughtfully into the fire.

      "Perhaps a year—perhaps six months … It is on the lap of the gods. … "

      ​

CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      IN WHICH HE TAKES TEA AT THE CARLTON AND IS SURPRISED

      I

      Captain Hugh Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., late of His Majesty's Royal Loamshires, was whistling in his morning bath. Being by nature of a cheerful disposition, the symptom did not surprise his servant, late private of the same famous regiment, who was laying breakfast in an adjoining room.

      After a while the whistling ceased, and the musical gurgle of escaping water announced that the concert was over. It was the signal for James Denny—the square-jawed ex-batman—to disappear into the back regions and get from his wife the kidneys and bacon which that most excellent woman had grilled to a turn. But on this particular morning the invariable routine was broken. James Denny seemed preoccupied, distrait.

      Once or twice he scratched his head, and stared out of the window with a puzzled frown. And each time, after a brief survey of the other side of Half Moon Street, he turned back again to the breakfast table with a grin.

      "What's you looking for, James Denny?" The irate voice of his wife at the door made him turn round ​guiltily. "Them kidneys is ready and waiting these five minutes."

      Her eyes fell on the table, and she advanced into the room wiping her hands on her apron.

      "Did you ever see such a bunch of letters?" she said.

      "Forty-five," returned her husband grimly, "and more to come." He picked up the newspaper lying beside the chair and opened it out.

      "Them's the result of that," he continued cryptically, indicating a paragraph with a square finger, and thrusting the paper under his wife's nose.

      "Demobilised officer," she read slowly, "finding peace incredibly tedious, would welcome diversion. Legitimate, if possible; but crime, if of a comparatively humorous description, no objection. Excitement essential. Would be prepared to consider permanent job if suitably impressed by applicant for his services. Reply at once Box XlO."

      She put down the paper on a chair and stared first at her husband and then at the rows of letters neatly arranged on the table.

      "I calls it wicked," she announced at length. "Fair flying in the face of Providence. Crime, Denny—crime. Don't you get 'aving nothing to do with such mad pranks, my man, or you and me will be having words." She shook an admonitory finger at him, and retired slowly to the kitchen. In the days of his youth James Denny had been a bit wild, and there was a look in his eyes this morning—the suspicion of a glint—which recalled old memories.

      A moment or two later Hugh Drummond came in. ​Slightly under six feet in height, he was broad in proportion. His best friend would not have called him good-looking, but he was the fortunate possessor of that cheerful type of ugliness which inspires immediate confidence in its owner. His nose had never quite recovered from the final one year in the Public Schools Heavy Weights; his mouth was not small. In fact, to be strictly accurate, only his eyes redeemed his face from being what is known in the vernacular as the Frozen Limit.

      Deep-set and steady, with eyelashes that many a woman had envied, they showed the man for what he was—a sportsman and a gentleman. And the combination of the two is an unbeatable production.

      He paused as he got to the table, and glanced at the rows of letters. His servant, pretending to busy himself at the other end of the room, was watching him surreptitiously, and noted the grin which slowly spread over Drummond's face as he picked up two or three and examined the envelopes.

      "Who would have thought it, James?" he remarked at length. "Great Scot! I shall have to get a partner."

      With disapproval showing in every line of her face, Mrs. Denny entered the room, carrying the kidneys, and Drummond glanced at her with a smile.

      "Good morning, Mrs. Denny," he said. "Wherefore this worried look on your face? Has that reprobate James been misbehaving himself?"