‘Is he staying here?’
‘Not at the “Feathers”. We’re particular who we have here.’
I thanked her for the implied compliment, ordered beer for the good of the house, and, lighting a pipe, sat down to meditate on this new development.
The vultures were gathered together with a vengeance. Sam within, Buck without, it was quite like old times, with the difference that now, I, too, was on the wrong side of the school door.
It was not hard to account for Buck’s reappearance. He would, of course, have made it his business to get early information of Mr Ford’s movements. It would be easy for him to discover that the millionaire had been called away to the north and that the Nugget was still an inmate of Sanstead House. And here he was preparing for the grand attack.
I had been premature in removing Buck’s name from the list of active combatants. Broken legs mend. I ought to have remembered that.
His presence on the scene made, I perceived, a vast difference to my plan of campaign. It was at this point that my purchase of the Browning pistol lost its absurdity and appeared in the light of an acute strategic move. With Sam the only menace, I had been prepared to play a purely waiting game, watching proceedings from afar, ready to give my help if necessary. To check Buck, more strenuous methods were called for.
My mind was made up. With Buck, that stout disciple of the frontal attack, in the field, there was only one place for me. I must get into Sanstead House and stay there on guard.
Did he intend to make an offensive movement tonight? That was the question which occupied my mind. From the point of view of an opponent, there was this merit about Mr MacGinnis, that he was not subtle. He could be counted on with fair certainty to do the direct thing. Sooner or later he would make another of his vigorous frontal attacks upon the stronghold. The only point to be decided was whether he would make it that night. Would professional zeal cause him to omit his beauty sleep?
I did not relish the idea of spending the night patrolling the grounds, but it was imperative that the house be protected. Then it occurred to me that the man for the vigil was Smooth Sam. If the arrival of Mr MacGinnis had complicated matters in one way, it had simplified them in another, for there was no more need for the secrecy which had been, till now, the basis of my plan of action. Buck’s arrival made it possible for me to come out and fight in the open, instead of brooding over Sanstead House from afar like a Providence. Tomorrow I proposed to turn Sam out. Tonight I would use him. The thing had resolved itself into a triangular tournament, and Sam and Buck should play the first game.
Once more I called up the house on the telephone. There was a long delay before a reply came. It was Mr Fisher’s voice that spoke. Audrey, apparently, had not returned to the house immediately after leaving me.
‘Hullo!’ said Sam.
‘Good evening, Mr Fisher.’
‘Gee! Is that you, young fellow-me-lad? Are you speaking from London?’
‘No. I am at the “Feathers”.’
He chuckled richly.
‘Can’t tear yourself away? Hat still in the ring? Say, what’s the use? Why not turn it up, sonny? You’re only wasting your time.’
‘Do you sleep lightly, Mr Fisher?’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘You had better do so tonight. Buck MacGinnis is back again.’
There was silence at the other end of the wire. Then I heard him swear softly. The significance of the information had not been lost on Mr Fisher.
‘Is that straight?’
‘It is.’
‘You’re not stringing me?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You’re sure it was Buck?’
‘Is Buck’s the sort of face one forgets?’
He swore again.
‘You seem disturbed,’ I said.
‘Where did you see him?’ asked Sam.
‘Coming out of the “Feathers”, looking very fierce and determined. The Berserk blood of the MacGinnises is up. He’s going to do or die. I’m afraid this means an all-night sitting for you, Mr Fisher.’