little fool has lost her memory, curse her!”
“That’s been annoying for you and your friends, I reckon. What about the
other girl, the one you decoyed away over a week ago?”
“She’s there too,” said the Russian sullenly.
“That’s good,” said Julius. “Isn’t it all panning out beautifully? And a
lovely night for the run!”
“What run?” demanded Kramenin, with a stare.
“Down to Gatehouse, sure. I hope you’re fond of motoring?”
“What do you mean? I refuse to go.”
“Now don’t get mad. You must see I’m not such a kid as to leave you here.
You’d ring up your friends on that telephone first thing! Ah!” He observed the
fall on the other’s face. “You see, you’d got it all fixed. No, sir, you’re
coming along with me. This your bedroom next door here? Walk right in. Little
Willie and I will come behind. Put on a thick coat, that’s right. Fur lined?
And you a Socialist! Now we’re ready. We walk downstairs and out through the
hall to where my car’s waiting. And don’t you forget I’ve got you covered every
inch of the way. I can shoot just as well through my coat pocket. One word, or
a glance even, at one of those liveried menials, and there’ll sure be a strange
face in the Sulphur and Brimstone Works!”
Together they descended the stairs, and passed out to the waiting car. The
Russian was shaking with rage. The hotel servants surrounded them. A cry
hovered on his lips, but at the last minute his nerve failed him. The American
was a man of his word.
When they reached the car, Julius breathed a sigh of relief. The
danger-zone was passed. Fear had successfully hypnotized the man by his side.
“Get in,” he ordered. Then as he caught the other’s sidelong glance, “No,
the chauffeur won’t help you any. Naval man. Was on a submarine in Russia when
the Revolution broke out. A brother of his was murdered by your people.
George!”
“Yes, sir?” The chauffeur turned his head.
“This gentleman is a Russian Bolshevik. We don’t want to shoot him, but it
may be necessary. You understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“I want to go to Gatehouse in Kent. Know the road at all?”
“Yes, sir, it will be about an hour and a half’s run.”
“Make it an hour. I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” The car shot forward through the traffic.
Julius ensconced himself comfortably by the side of his victim. He kept his
hand in the pocket of his coat, but his manner was urbane to the last degree.
“There was a man I shot once in Arizona—-” he began cheerfully.
At the end of the hour’s run the unfortunate Kramenin was more dead than
alive. In succession to the anecdote of the Arizona man, there had been a tough
from ‘Frisco, and an episode in the Rockies. Julius’s narrative style, if not
strictly accurate, was picturesque!
Slowing down, the chauffeur called over his shoulder that they were just
coming into Gatehouse. Julius bade the Russian direct them. His plan was to
drive straight up to the house. There Kramenin was to ask for the two girls.
Julius explained to him that Little Willie would not be tolerant of failure.
Kramenin, by this time, was as putty in the other’s hands. The terrific pace
they had come had still further unmanned him. He had given himself up for dead
at every corner.
The car swept up the drive, and stopped before the porch. The chauffeur
looked round for orders.
“Turn the car first, George. Then ring the bell, and get back to your
place. Keep the engine going, and be ready to scoot like hell when I give the
word.”
“Very good, sir.”
The front door was opened by the butler. Kramenin felt the muzzle of the
revolver pressed against his ribs.
“Now,” hissed Julius. “And be careful.”
The Russian beckoned. His lips were white, and his voice was not very
steady:
“It is I–Kramenin! Bring down the girl at once! There is no time to
lose!”
Whittington had come down the steps. He uttered an exclamation of
astonishment at seeing the other.