"Sit back." Carruthers's voice cut in on my thoughts. "Here they come." I glanced through the window. Sure enough, there were the girl and James standing on the pavement. And a moment later the big man joined them. The commissionaire was calling up another taxi, and the instant they were in Carruthers leant out of the window. "Follow that car," he said. "And keep a good fifty yards behind."
"Right, sir," grinned the man, and we started.
Now, I have since wondered what Carruthers would have done had they lived at the top of a block of service flats. He'd have got at his quarry somehow, I'm convinced, but it might have seriously complicated matters. As it was, that side of the affair proved easy. Up St. John's Wood Road and past Swiss Cottage the chase lay, and we soon realised that our destination was one of those large and ultra-respectable houses in Hampstead. "Go past him when he pulls up," said Carruthers to the driver. "I'll tell you when to stop."
It was a detached house, standing back from the road, that their taxi halted in front of, and Carruthers stole a look at it as we went by. "Excellent," he muttered. "There's quite a bit of vegetation in the garden. And we'll have to reconnoitre the land first." He rapped on the window of the car, and we got out. "Keep in the shadow," he whispered, "and if you see a policeman say good night in an affable voice."
"Lord help me!" I groaned. "Lead on. I leave it to you."
We strolled back towards the house, when suddenly, to my horror, Carruthers started to sing. And at the same time I felt his hand grip my arm, and force me past the gate.
Just inside was standing a weasel-faced man, who stared at me as we went by. "The plot thickens," said Carruthers when we were out of earshot. "He will be your share."
"You're too generous," I remarked.
He swung me round again, and once more we walked past the house. Weasel-face was no longer there, but a light was shining from one of the ground-floor windows through a chink in the curtains.
"Now's our chance," he whispered. "Keep under cover of the bushes and don't make a sound."
The next instant he was through the gate, and I found time even then to marvel at the quickness of his movements—and the silence. He skirted round the edge of the lawn, while I followed him as rapidly as I could. By this time I was as excited as he was; considerably more so, in fact. Certainly he seemed as cool as a cucumber when I joined him underneath the window. "It's pretty grim," he breathed in my ear, "but I don't think it will last long. Listen."
And grim was not the word. At odd periods in my life I had heard the Honourable James in varying stages of fatuous imbecility. I had heard him in his cups. I had heard him endeavouring to tell humorous stories; but I had never heard him making love. And I sincerely trust I never shall again.
Gradually I wormed my way up till I could see into the room. Her arms were round his neck, and she was gazing into his eyes with a look of rapt adoration on her face. In fact, I was just beginning to feel thoroughly embarrassed—even an object like James might reasonably object to being watched in such a situation—when I heard a whisper in my ear: "Watch the door!"
It was slowly opening. Now, James had his back to it; the girl had not. And as it opened she kissed James firmly. James returned the compliment. And Carruthers chuckled.
"May heaven deliver us," he muttered, "but this came out of the Ark with Noah. Still, I suppose it's good enough for him."
Weasel-face was standing in the doorway—the picture of outraged horror. The girl had risen to her feet with a pitiful cry of terror, while James, plucking at his collar, was helping the situation by remarking: "I say, by Jove! what's this fellah want?"
"My husband!" gasped the girl.
"You hound!" hissed Weasel-face.
"Oh! but I say—dash it all!" spluttered the Honourable James.
And then Carruthers pushed up the window and vaulted into the room. "Good evening," he remarked affably. "Shall we cut out the rest?"
Weasel-face and the girl seemed bereft of speech; they just stood there staring at him blankly. In fact, only James seemed capable of utterance, and that was when he saw me. "Hullo, old lad!" he burbled. "What brings you here?"
"So it's you, is it?" came a harsh voice from the door. The big man was standing there chewing a cigar, and he came slowly towards Carruthers, staring at him through narrowed eyes. And once again I had a feeling of being out of the picture. The thing had narrowed down to the two of them. "May I ask what you're doing in my house?" said the big man.
"Waiting to give you a lesson in manners." answered Carruthers.
"Is that so?" said the big man softly, and a fist like a leg of mutton whizzed past Carruthers's ear. A believer in deeds, not words, evidently, but it is inadvisable to start scrapping with a cigar in your mouth. That cigar disintegrated suddenly, and the big man stepped back with a grunt as Carruthers caught him fairly on the mouth.
And then in perfect silence they got down to it. I was watching Weasel-face, but he made no attempt to interfere. A gentleman of discretion, he very wisely decided that the matter had passed beyond him. And no bad judge either, when two heavyweights are fighting for a knock-out in a room full of furniture.
Moreover, the big man could use his fists; there was no doubt about that. That first jolt on the face had roused the devil in him, and some of his blows, delivered with a grunt of rage, would have finished the thing then and there if they'd got home. But they didn't, and gradually his breathing began to grow stertorous, and he started to slog wildly.
It was a smash on the point of the jaw with the whole weight of the body behind it that ended it. It took the big man clean off his feet and landed him crumpled up in a corner, where he lay staring at his opponent with murder in his eyes.
"Had enough?" said Henry St. John Carruthers.
"I'll kill you for this," said the big man, but he made no movement to rise.
"Some other time I shall be at your service." remarked Carruthers politely. "Just now I think we will leave you. Come on, you fellows. I know of a haunt where a man may obtain beer."
We left as we had come—through the window, with the Honourable James clinging to us even closer than a brother.
"But I say, dear old chaps," he burbled for the twentieth time as we got into a belated taxi, "what's it all mean—what?"
"Dry up," said Carruthers morosely. "Things like you ought to have a nurse."
"But she never told me she was married," pursued James.
"May Allah deliver me!" Carruthers contemplated him dispassionately. "She surely told you, didn't she, that her father had a living in Gloucestershire?"
"Yorkshire, she said," remarked James.
"And that one brother was up at Oxford? I thought so. He used always to be in the Guards during the War."
"By Jove! then—you knew her," said James. "What an extraordinary coincidence!"
"I shall weep in a minute," said Carruthers pessimistically.
"Don't do that, old man," I answered. "Once or twice tonight I thought you were going to break your record. You got as far as grinning, anyhow. Can't you raise a laugh, even out of James?"
"Laugh," he groaned. "Laugh! Come on—here we are. Let's get down to that beer. Perhaps if I look at him quietly for half an hour I might."
We went upstairs, and I left them to go and wash my hands. And all of a sudden I became aware of a strange noise. It was a discordant sound, rising and falling at, intervals, and somewhat reminiscent of the female hyena calling to her mate. I suppose it must have been going on for about half a minute when the door burst open and the Honourable James rushed in.
"I