CHAPTER XXVII

NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE

Jimmy Thesiger arrived at Letherbury on a sunny autumn afternoon and

was greeted affectionately by Lady Coote and with cold dislike by Sir

Oswald. Aware of the keen match-making eye of Lady Coote upon him,

Jimmy took pains to make himself extremely agreeable to Socks Daventry.

O'Rourke was there in excellent spirits. He was inclined to be

official and secretive about the mysterious events at the Abbey, about

which Socks catechized him freely, but his official reticence took a

novel form--namely that of embroidering the tale of events in such a

fantastic manner that nobody could possibly guess what the truth might

have been.

"Four masked men with revolvers? Is that really so?" demanded Socks

severely.

"Ah! I'm remembering now that there was the round half dozen of them to

hold me down and force the stuff down my throat. Sure, and I thought it

was poison, and I done for entirely."

"And what was stolen, or what did they try and steal?"

"What else but the crown jewels of Russia that were brought to Mr.

Lomax secretly to deposit in the Bank of England."

"What a bloody liar you are," said Socks without emotion.

"A liar? I? And the jewels brought over by aeroplane with my best

friend as pilot. This is secret history I'm telling you, Socks. Will

you ask Jimmy Thesiger there if you don't believe me. Not that I'd be

putting any trust in what he'd say."

"Is it true," said Socks, "that George Lomax came down without his

false teeth? That's what I want to know."

"There were two revolvers," said Lady Coote. "Nasty things. I saw them

myself. It's a wonder this poor boy wasn't killed."

"Oh, I was born to be hanged," said Jimmy.

"I hear that there was a Russian countess there of subtle beauty," said

Socks. "And that she vamped Bill."

"Some of the things she said about Buda Pesth were too dreadful,"

said Lady Coote. "I shall never forget them. Oswald, we must send a

subscription."

Sir Oswald grunted.

"I'll make a note of it, Lady Coote," said Rupert Bateman.

"Thank you, Mr. Bateman. I feel one ought to do something as a thank

offering. I can't imagine how Sir Oswald escaped being shot--letting

alone die of pneumonia."

"Don't be foolish, Maria," said Sir Oswald.

"I've always had a horror of cat burglars," said Lady Coote.

"Think of having the luck to meet one face to face. How thrilling!"

murmured Socks.

"Don't you believe it," said Jimmy. "It's damned painful." And he

patted his right arm gingerly.

"How is the poor arm?" inquired Lady Coote.

"Oh, pretty well all right now. But it's been the most confounded

nuisance having to do everything with the left hand. I'm no good

whatever with it."

"Every child should be brought up to be ambidextrous," said Sir Oswald.

"Oh!" said Socks, somewhat out of her depth. "Is that like seals?"

"Not amphibious," said Mr. Bateman. "Ambidextrous means using either

hand equally well."

"Oh!" said Socks, looking at Sir Oswald with respect. "Can you?"

"Certainly; I can write with either hand."

"But not with both at once?"

"That would not be practical," said Sir Oswald shortly.

"No," said Socks thoughtfully. "I suppose that would be a bit too

subtle."

"It would be a grand thing now in a Government department," observed

Mr. O'Rourke, "if one could keep the right hand from knowing what the

left hand was doing."

"Can you use both hands?"

"No, indeed. I'm the most right-handed person that ever was."

"But you deal cards with your left hand," said the observant Bateman.

"I noticed the other night."

"Oh, but that's different entirely," said Mr. O'Rourke easily.

A gong with a sombre note pealed out and everyone went upstairs to

dress for dinner.

After dinner Sir Oswald and Lady Coote, Mr. Bateman and Mr. O'Rourke

played bridge and Jimmy passed a flirtatious evening with Socks. The

last words Jimmy heard as he retreated up the staircase that night were

Sir Oswald saying to his wife:

"You'll never make a bridge player, Maria."

And her reply:

"I know, dear. So you always say. You owe Mr. O'Rourke another pound,

Oswald. That's right."

It was some two hours later that Jimmy crept noiselessly (or so he

hoped) down the stairs. He made one brief visit to the dining-room

and then found his way to Sir Oswald's study. There, after listening

intently for a minute or two, he set to work. Most of the drawers

of the desk were locked, but a curiously shaped bit of wire in

Jimmy's hand soon saw to that. One by one the drawers yielded to his

manipulations.

Drawer by drawer he sorted through methodically, being careful to

replace everything in the same order. Once or twice he stopped

to listen, fancying he heard some distant sound. But he remained

undisturbed.

The last drawer was looked through. Jimmy now knew--or could have

known had he been paying attention--many interesting details relating

to steel; but he had found nothing of what he wanted--a reference to

Herr Eberhard's invention or anything that could give him a clue to

the identity of the mysterious No. 7. He had, perhaps, hardly hoped

that he would. It was an off-chance and he had taken it--but he had not

expected much result--except by sheer luck.

He tested the drawers to make sure that he had relocked them securely.

He knew Rupert Bateman's powers of minute observation and glanced round

the room to make sure that he had left no incriminating trace of his

presence.

"That's that," he muttered to himself softly. "Nothing there. Well,

perhaps I'll have better luck to-morrow morning--if the girls only play

up."

He came out of the study, closing the door behind him and locking it.

For a moment he thought he heard a sound quite near him, but decided he

had been mistaken. He felt his way noiselessly along the great hall.

Just enough light came from the high vaulted windows to enable him to

pick his way without stumbling into anything.

Again he heard a soft sound--he heard it quite certainly this time and

without the possibility of making a mistake. He was not alone in the

hall. Somebody else was there, moving as stealthily as he was. His

heart beat suddenly very fast.

With a sudden spring he jumped to the electric switch and turned on the

lights. The sudden glare made him blink--but he saw plainly enough. Not

four feet away stood Rupert Bateman.

"My goodness, Pongo," cried Jimmy, "you did give me a start. Slinking

about like that in the dark."

"I heard a noise," explained Mr. Bateman severely. "I thought burglars

had got in and I came down to see."

Jimmy looked thoughtfully at Mr. Bateman's rubber-soled feet.

"You think of everything, Pongo," he said genially. "Even a lethal

weapon."

His eye rested on the bulge in the other's pocket.

"It's as well to be armed. One never knows whom one may meet."

"I am glad you didn't shoot," said Jimmy. "I'm a bit tired of being

shot at."

"I might easily have done so," said Mr. Bateman.

"It would be dead against the law if you did," said Jimmy. "You've got

to make quite sure the beggar's house-breaking, you know, before you

pot at him. You mustn't jump to conclusions. Otherwise you'd have to

explain why you shot a guest on a perfectly innocent errand like mine."

"By the way, what did you come down for?"

"I was hungry," said Jimmy. "I rather fancied a dry biscuit."

"There are some biscuits in a tin by your bed," said Rupert Bateman.

He was staring at Jimmy very intently through his horn-rimmed

spectacles.

"Ah! That's where the staff work has gone wrong, old boy. There's a

tin there with 'Biscuits for Starving Visitors' on it. But when the

starving visitor opened it--nothing inside. So I just toddled down to

the dining-room."

And with a sweet, ingenuous smile, Jimmy produced from his

dressing-gown pocket a handful of biscuits.

There was a moment's pause.

"And now I think I'll toddle back to bed," said Jimmy. "Night-night,

Pongo."

With an affectation of nonchalance, he mounted the staircase. Rupert

Bateman followed him. At the doorway of his room, Jimmy paused as if to

say good-night once more.

"It's an extraordinary thing about these biscuits," said Mr. Bateman.

"Do you mind if I just--"

"Certainly, laddie, look for yourself."

Mr. Bateman strode across the room, opened the biscuit box and stared

at its emptiness.

"Very remiss," he murmured. "Well, good-night."

He withdrew. Jimmy sat on the edge of his bed listening for a minute.

"That was a narrow shave," he murmured to himself. "Suspicious sort of

chap, Pongo. Never seems to sleep. Nasty habit of his prowling around

with a revolver."

He got up and opened one of the drawers of the dressing-table. Beneath

an assortment of ties lay a pile of biscuits.

"There's nothing for it," said Jimmy. "I shall have to eat all the

damned things. Ten to one, Pongo will come prowling round in the

morning."

With a sigh, he settled down to a meal of biscuits for which he had no

inclination whatever.