Chapter 3

“You shouldn’t kiss in public places, laddies,” he remarked sadly. “It
might make the barmaid jealous. And I do declare his little nosey-posey
is beginning to bleed. If you ask the chauffeur nicely he might lend you
a spanner to put down your back.”

The two men stood there glaring at him, and they were not a
prepossessing pair. And then the one who had done the talking drew his
friend of the damaged nose on one side, and spoke to him in a low tone.
He seemed to be urging some course on the other which the latter was
unwilling to accept.

“My God, sir,” muttered Jenkins to me, “the bloke with the bleeding nose
has got a knife.”

“Look out, Captain Drummond,” I called out. “That man has a knife.”

“I know, old lad,” he answered. “He’s been playing at pirates. Not
going, surely? Why, we’ve never had our little chat.”

But without a backward glance, the two men passed through the gate and
started walking rapidly down the road in the direction of the station.
And after a time Drummond sauntered over to the car and got in.

“After which breezy little interlude,” he murmured, “the powerful car
again swung forward, devouring mile after mile.”

“Would you much mind explaining?” I remarked dazedly.

“Explaining?” he said. “What is there to explain?”

“Do you usually go about the country molesting perfect strangers? Who
are those men?”

“I dunno,” he answered. “But they knew me all right.”

He was staring at the road ahead and frowning.

“It’s impossible,” he muttered at length. “And yet——”

He relapsed into silence, while I still gazed at him in amazement.

“But,” I cried, “it’s astounding. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,
I couldn’t have believed it possible.”

He grinned suddenly.

“I suppose it was a bit disconcerting,” he answered. “But we’re moving
in deep waters, laddie——or, rather, I am. And I tell you frankly I don’t
quite know where I am. Why should those two blokes have followed me down
here?”

“Then you have seen them before?”

He shook his head.

“No. At least, I saw them when I stopped for some ale on the way down to
the station. And they aren’t very clever at it.”

“Clever at what?”

“The little game of observing without being observed. Apart from their
appearance, which made them stick out a mile when seen in an English
country inn, the man whose nose suffered slightly positively hissed into
the other’s ear when he first saw me. In fact, I very nearly dealt with
them then and there, only I was afraid I’d be late for your train.”

“But why should they follow you?” I persisted. “What’s the idea?”

“I wish to God I knew,” he answered gravely. “I don’t think I’m losing
my nerve, or anything of that sort—but I’m absolutely in the dark.
Almost as much as you are, in fact. I loathe this waiting game.”

“Of course,” I remarked resignedly, “I suppose I am not insane. I
suppose there is some sense in all this, though at the moment I’m damned
if I can see it.”

“Presumably you read Kipling?” he said suddenly.

I stared at him in silence—speech was beyond me.

“A month ago,” he continued calmly, “I received this.”

From his breast-pocket he took a slip of paper, and handed it to me. On
it some lines were written in an obviously feminine hand.

“When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear, thus accosted, rends the peasant tooth and nail.
And the point, I warn you, Drummond, is discovered in the tail.”

I handed the paper back to him.

“What do you make of it?” he asked.

“It looks like a stupid joke,” I said. “Do you know the writing?”

He shook his head.

“No; I don’t. So you think it’s a joke, do you?”

“My dear sir,” I cried, “what else can it be? I confess that at the
moment I forget the poem, but the first three lines are obviously
Kipling. Equally obviously the fourth is not.”

“Precisely,” he agreed with a faint smile. “I got as far as that myself.
And so it was the fourth line that attracted my attention. It seemed to
me that the message, if any, would be found in it. It was.”

“What is the fourth line?” I asked curiously.

“‘For the female of the species is more deadly than the male,’” he
answered.

“But, surely,” I cried in amazement, “you can’t take a thing like that
seriously. It’s probably a foolish hoax sent you by some girl you cut at
a night club.”

I laughed a little irritably: for a man to take such a message in
earnest struck me as being childish to a degree. A stupid jest played by
some silly girl, with a penchant for being mysterious. Undoubtedly, I
reflected, the man was a fool. And, anyway, what had it got to do with
the two men at the _Cat and Custard Pot_?

“‘The female of the species is more deadly than the male,’” he repeated,
as if he hadn’t heard my remark. “No hoax about it, old lad; no jest,
believe you me. Just a plain and simple warning. And now the game has
begun.”

For a moment or two I wondered if he was pulling my leg; but he was so
deadly serious that I realised that he, at any rate, believed it was
genuine. And my feeling of irritation grew. What an ass the man must be!

“What game?” I asked sarcastically. “Playing peep-bo behind the trees?”

He let out a sudden roar of laughter.

“You probably think I’m bughouse, don’t you?” he cried. “Doesn’t matter.
The only real tragedy of the day is that the cook didn’t back Moongazer
each way.”

Once again he relapsed into silence, as the car rolled through the gates
of the Traceys’ house.

“Good intelligence work,” he said thoughtfully. “We only decided to come
down here yesterday. But I wish to the Lord you’d learn to control your
face. If you hadn’t given a life-like representation of a gargoyle in
pain I might have heard something of interest from those two blighters.”

“Confound you!” I spluttered angrily.

“You couldn’t help it.” He waved a vast hand, and beat me on the back.
“I ought to have warned you. Must have looked a bit odd. But it’s a
pity——”

The car pulled up at the door, and he got out.

“Little Willie wants a drink,” he remarked to Tracey, who came out to
greet us. “His nervous system has had a shock. By the way, where’s
Phyllis?”

“Playing tennis,” said our host, and Drummond strolled off in the
direction of the lawn.

“Look here, Bill,” I cried, when he was out of earshot, “is that man all
there?”

“Hugh Drummond all there?” he laughed. “Very few men in England more so.
Why?”