ago just as we were coming in?”
“He also came to call, but he didn’t seem to like the house. He got the willies about it and decided to leave.”
“Look here,” said the other savagely, beginning to mount the stairs, “is this whole outfit bug house? What under the sun are you doing up there anyway?”
He paused in front of Drummond, a great, powerful, raking man with a nasty look in his eyes.
“We’ve been ghost-hunting, Percy,” said Drummond genially. “Very naughty of us, but we thought the house was empty. And instead of that we find a delightful escaped convict replete with your supper, and other things too numerous to mention.”
“If you call me Percy again,” snarled the other, “you won’t speak for a few days.”
“Is that so, Percy darling?” said Drummond lazily. “I always thought it was such a nice name.”
The veins stood out on the other’s forehead, and he took a step forward with his fists clenched. And then the look in Drummond’s eyes made him pause, while his companion whispered something in his ear.
“Well, the house isn’t empty,” he remarked sullenly. “So you can damned well clear out before I send for the police.”
“But how inhospitable of you,” said Drummond mildly. “However, I fear that anyway you will have to communicate with that excellent body of men. You must do something about the dead man, mustn’t you?”
The other stared at him.
“The dead man,” he said at length. “What in fortune are you talking about?”
“I told you we’d found a lot of other things,” remarked Drummond. “Come along, and you shall see for yourself.”
They walked along the passage to the room where the body lay.
“Holy Smoke!” cried the big man, pausing by the door. “Who’s done that?”
“Who indeed,” murmured Drummond thoughtfully.
“Where are his clothes?” asked the other.
“Adorning Mr Morris, the escaped convict,” said Drummond: “the gentleman who left the house so rapidly.”
For a while the other looked at him in a puzzled way.
“This seems to me to be a mighty rum affair,” he remarked at length.
“Mighty rum,” agreed Drummond.
“Since you say the convict was wearing his clothes, it looks as if he had done it.”
“It certainly does,” Drummond again agreed.
“What a damnable crime! Jake! if we hadn’t gone out for a breather this would never have happened. I guess I’ll never forgive myself.”
“It sure is tough on the poor young chap,” said his companion.
“A young friend of ours, Mr… Mr…?”
“Drummond is my name. Captain Drummond.”
“Hardcastle is mine. And my pal is Jake Slingsby. To think that this poor young fellow should be murdered like that: I guess I can’t get over it.”
“The strange thing is that he should have had a premonition of danger,” remarked Drummond. “I saw him this afternoon when he lost his way in the fog.”
“He told us he had called in at the wrong house,” said Hardcastle.
“A call is one way of describing his visit,” murmured Drummond. “I gathered his name was Marton.”
“That’s so. Down on business about the house. Well, well! This is terrible: I don’t know how I shall break the news to his father.”
“Nor do I,” said Drummond. “For, unless I am greatly mistaken, his father was killed last night through a gun accident.”
“What’s that you say?” shouted Hardcastle, and his companion seemed equally perturbed. “Old Marton dead?”
“According to the papers he is,” answered Drummond. “It must be a great shock to you, Mr Hardcastle, to have a firm with whom you are doing business dying off so rapidly.”
The other looked at him suspiciously, but Drummond’s face was expressionless.
“Well, I suppose we ought to ring up the police,” he went on after a pause.
“That would seem to be the thing to do,” remarked Drummond. “And since they will probably take some time coming on a night like this, I think we might wait for them
“He also came to call, but he didn’t seem to like the house. He got the willies about it and decided to leave.”
“Look here,” said the other savagely, beginning to mount the stairs, “is this whole outfit bug house? What under the sun are you doing up there anyway?”
He paused in front of Drummond, a great, powerful, raking man with a nasty look in his eyes.
“We’ve been ghost-hunting, Percy,” said Drummond genially. “Very naughty of us, but we thought the house was empty. And instead of that we find a delightful escaped convict replete with your supper, and other things too numerous to mention.”
“If you call me Percy again,” snarled the other, “you won’t speak for a few days.”
“Is that so, Percy darling?” said Drummond lazily. “I always thought it was such a nice name.”
The veins stood out on the other’s forehead, and he took a step forward with his fists clenched. And then the look in Drummond’s eyes made him pause, while his companion whispered something in his ear.
“Well, the house isn’t empty,” he remarked sullenly. “So you can damned well clear out before I send for the police.”
“But how inhospitable of you,” said Drummond mildly. “However, I fear that anyway you will have to communicate with that excellent body of men. You must do something about the dead man, mustn’t you?”
The other stared at him.
“The dead man,” he said at length. “What in fortune are you talking about?”
“I told you we’d found a lot of other things,” remarked Drummond. “Come along, and you shall see for yourself.”
They walked along the passage to the room where the body lay.
“Holy Smoke!” cried the big man, pausing by the door. “Who’s done that?”
“Who indeed,” murmured Drummond thoughtfully.
“Where are his clothes?” asked the other.
“Adorning Mr Morris, the escaped convict,” said Drummond: “the gentleman who left the house so rapidly.”
For a while the other looked at him in a puzzled way.
“This seems to me to be a mighty rum affair,” he remarked at length.
“Mighty rum,” agreed Drummond.
“Since you say the convict was wearing his clothes, it looks as if he had done it.”
“It certainly does,” Drummond again agreed.
“What a damnable crime! Jake! if we hadn’t gone out for a breather this would never have happened. I guess I’ll never forgive myself.”
“It sure is tough on the poor young chap,” said his companion.
“A young friend of ours, Mr… Mr…?”
“Drummond is my name. Captain Drummond.”
“Hardcastle is mine. And my pal is Jake Slingsby. To think that this poor young fellow should be murdered like that: I guess I can’t get over it.”
“The strange thing is that he should have had a premonition of danger,” remarked Drummond. “I saw him this afternoon when he lost his way in the fog.”
“He told us he had called in at the wrong house,” said Hardcastle.
“A call is one way of describing his visit,” murmured Drummond. “I gathered his name was Marton.”
“That’s so. Down on business about the house. Well, well! This is terrible: I don’t know how I shall break the news to his father.”
“Nor do I,” said Drummond. “For, unless I am greatly mistaken, his father was killed last night through a gun accident.”
“What’s that you say?” shouted Hardcastle, and his companion seemed equally perturbed. “Old Marton dead?”
“According to the papers he is,” answered Drummond. “It must be a great shock to you, Mr Hardcastle, to have a firm with whom you are doing business dying off so rapidly.”
The other looked at him suspiciously, but Drummond’s face was expressionless.
“Well, I suppose we ought to ring up the police,” he went on after a pause.
“That would seem to be the thing to do,” remarked Drummond. “And since they will probably take some time coming on a night like this, I think we might wait for them
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