One thing, at any rate, was certain: the other occupant of the room was human, and with that realisation all his nerve returned. There would be time enough later on to find out how he got there, and what those strange pinging noises had been caused by. Just at that moment only one thing was on the programme; and without a sound he crept round the bed towards the cupboard, to put that one thing into effect in his usual direct manner.
Twice did he hear the little whistling hiss from above, but nothing sang past his head. Evidently the man had lost him, and was probably still aiming at the door. And then, with hands that barely touched it, he felt the outlines of the cupboard.
It was standing an inch or two from the wall, and he slipped his fingers behind the back on one side. He listened for a moment, but no movement came from above; then, half facing the wall, he put one leg against it. There was one quick, tremendous heave; a crash which sounded deafening; then silence. And once again he switched on his torch…
Lying on the floor by the window was one of the smallest men he had ever seen. He was a native of sorts, and Hugh turned him over with his foot. He was quite unconscious, and the bump on his head, where it had hit the floor, was rapidly swelling to the size of a large orange. In his hand he still clutched the little tube, and Hugh gingerly removed it. Placed in position at one end was a long splinter of wood, with a sharpened point; and by the light of his torch Hugh saw that it was faintly discoloured with some brown stain.
He was still examining it with interest when a thunderous knock came on the door. He strolled over and switched on the electric light; then he opened the door.
An excited night-porter rushed in, followed by two or three other people in varying stages of undress, and stopped in amazement at the scene. The heavy cupboard, with a great crack across the back, lay face downwards on the floor; the native still lay curled up and motionless.
“One of the hotel pets?” queried Hugh pleasantly, lighting a cigarette. “If it’s all the same to you, I wish you’d remove him. He was—ah—finding it uncomfortable on the top of the cupboard.”
It appeared that the night-porter could speak English; it also appeared that the lady occupying the room below had rushed forth demanding to be led to the basement, under the misapprehension that war had again been declared and the Germans were bombing Paris. It still further appeared that there was something most irregular about the whole proceeding—the best people at the Ritz did not do these things. And then, to crown everything, while the uproar was at its height, the native on the floor, opening one beady and somewhat dazed eye, realised that things looked unhealthy. Unnoticed, he lay “doggo” for a while; then, like a rabbit which has almost been trodden on, he dodged between the legs of the men in the room, and vanished through the open door. Taken by surprise, for a moment no one moved: then, simultaneously, they dashed into the passage. It was empty, save for one scandalised old gentleman in a nightcap, who was peering out of a room opposite angrily demanding the cause of the hideous din.
Had he seen a native—a black man? He had seen no native, and if other people only drank water, they wouldn’t either. In fact, the whole affair was scandalous, and he should write to the papers about it. Still muttering, he withdrew, banging his door, and Hugh, glancing up, saw the American detective advancing towards them along the corridor.
“What’s the trouble, Captain?” he asked, as he joined the group.
“A friend of the management elected to spend the night on the top of my cupboard, Mr. Green,” answered Drummond, “and got cramp half-way through.”
The American gazed at the wreckage in silence. Then he looked at Hugh, and what he saw on that worthy’s face apparently decided him to maintain that policy. In fact, it was not till the night-porter and his attendant minions had at last, and very dubiously, withdrawn, that he again opened his mouth.
“Looks like a hectic night,” he murmured. “What happened?” Briefly Hugh told him what had occurred, and the detective whistled softly.
“Blowpipe and poisoned darts,” he said shortly, returning the tube to Drummond. “Narrow escape—damned narrow! Look at your pillow.”
Hugh looked: embedded in the linen were four pointed splinters similar to the one he held in his hand; by the door were three more, lying on the floor.
“An engaging little bird,” he laughed; “but nasty to look at.” He extracted the little pieces of wood and carefully placed them in an empty matchbox: the tube he put into his cigarette-case. “Might come in handy: you never know,” he remarked casually.
“They might if you stand quite still,” said the American, with a sudden, sharp command in his voice. “Don’t move.”
Hugh stood motionless, staring at the speaker who, with eyes fixed on his right forearm, had stepped forward. From the loose sleeve of his pyjama coat the detective gently pulled another dart and dropped it into the matchbox.
“Not far off getting you that time, Captain,” he cried cheerfully. “Now you’ve got the whole blamed outfit.”
III
It was the Comte de Guy who boarded the boat express at the Gare du Nord the next day; it was Carl Peterson who stepped off the boat express at Boulogne. And it was only Drummond’s positive assurance which convinced the American that the two characters were the same man.
He was leaning over the side of the boat reading a telegram when he first saw Hugh ten minutes after the boat had left the harbour; and if he had hoped for a different result to the incident of the night before, no sign of it showed on his face. Instead he waved a cheerful greeting to Drummond.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he remarked affably. “Have you been to Paris, too?”
For a moment Drummond looked at him narrowly. Was it a stupid bluff, or was the man so sure of his power of disguise that he assumed with certainty he had not been recognised? And it suddenly struck Hugh that, save for that one tell-tale habit—a habit which, in all probability, Peterson himself was unconscious of—he would not have recognised him.
“Yes,” he answered lightly. “I came over to see how you behaved yourself!”
“What a pity I didn’t know!” said Peterson, with a good-humoured chuckle. He seemed in excellent spirits, as he carefully tore the telegram into tiny pieces and dropped them overboard. “We might have had another of our homely little chats over some supper. Where did you stay?”
“At the Ritz. And you?”
“I always stop at the Bristol,” answered Peterson. “Quieter than the Ritz, I think.”
“Yes, it was quite dreadful last night,” murmured Hugh. “A pal of mine—quite incorrigible—that bird over there”—he pointed to Ted Jerningham, who was strolling up and down the deck with the American—“insisted on dressing up as a waiter.” He laughed shortly at the sudden gleam in the other’s eye, as he watched Jerningham go past. “Not content with that, he went and dropped the fish over some warrior’s boiled shirt, and had to leave in disgrace.” He carefully selected a cigarette. “No accountin’ for this dressing-up craze, is there, Carl? You’d never be anything but your own sweet self, would you, little one? Always the girls’ own friend—tender and true.” He laughed softly; from previous experience he knew that this particular form of baiting invariably infuriated Peterson. “Some day, my Carl, you must tell me of your life, and your early struggles, amidst all the bitter temptations of this wicked world.”
“Some