this is a joke,” he said, “it strikes me as being a particularly bad one. I should like to know, sir, how you dare to come into this room and charge me and my friend—Mr. Rounceby—with being concerned in the murder of a young man who is even now actually standing by your side.”
John Dory started back. He looked with something like apprehension at the youth to whom Marnstam pointed.
“My name is Victor Franklin,” that young man declared. “What’s all this about?”
Dory felt the ground give beneath his feet. Nevertheless, he set his teeth and fought for his hand.
“You say that your name is Victor Franklin?” he asked.
“Certainly!”
“You are the inventor of a flying machine?”
“I am.”
“You were in Westmoreland with these two men a few days go?”
“I was,” the young man admitted.
“You left the village of Scawton in a motor car with them?”
“Yes! We quarrelled on the way, and parted.”
“You were robbed of nothing?”
Victor Franklin smiled.
“Certainly not,” he answered. “I had nothing worth stealing except my plans, and they are in my pocket now.”
There was a few moments’ intense silence. Dory wheeled suddenly round, and looked to where Mr. Vincent Cawdor had been standing.
“Where is Mr. Cawdor?” he asked, sharply.
“The gentleman with the grey moustache left a few seconds ago,” one of the men at the door said. Dory was very pale.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have to offer you my apologies. I have apparently been deceived by some false information. The charge is withdrawn.”
He turned on his heel and left the room. The two policemen followed him.
“Keep them under observation,” Dory ordered shortly, “but I am afraid this fellow Cawdor has sold me.”
He found a hansom outside, and sprang into it.
“Number 27, Southampton Row,” he ordered.
Rounceby and his partner were alone in the little smoking room. The former was almost inarticulate. The night porter brought them brandy, and both men drank.
“We’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Marnstam,” Mr. Rounceby muttered.
Mr. Marnstam was thinking.
“Do you remember that sound through the darkness,” he said—“the beating of an engine way back on the road?”
“What of it?” Rounceby demanded.
“It was a motor bicycle,” Marnstam said quietly. “I thought so at the time.”
“Supposing some one followed us and pulled him out,” Rounceby said, hoarsely, “why are we treated like this? I tell you we’ve been made fools of! We’ve been treated like children—not even to be punished! We’ll have the truth somehow out of that devil Cawdor! Come!”
They made their way to the courtyard and found a cab.
“Number 27, Southampton Row!” they ordered.
They reached their destination some time before Dory, whose horse fell down in the Strand, and who had to walk. They ascended to the fourth floor of the building and rang the bell of Vincent Cawdor’s room—no answer. They plied the knocker—no result. Rounceby peered through the keyhole.
“He hasn’t come home yet,” he remarked. “There is no light anywhere in the place.”
The door of a flat across the passage was quietly opened. Mr. Peter Ruff, in a neat black smoking suit and slippers, and holding a pipe in his hand, looked out.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “but I do not think that Mr. Cawdor is in. He went out early this evening, and I have not heard him return.”
The two men turned away.
“We are much obliged to you, sir,” Mr. Marnstam said.
“Can I give him any message?” Peter Ruff asked, politely. “We generally see something of one another in the morning.”
“You can tell him—” Rounceby began.
“No message, thanks!” Marnstam interrupted. “We shall probably run across him ourselves to-morrow.”
John Dory was nearly a quarter of an hour late. After his third useless summons, Mr. Peter Ruff presented himself again.
“I am afraid,” he said, “you will not find my neighbour at home. There have been several people enquiring for him to-night, without any result.”
John Dory came slowly across the landing.
“Good evening, Mr. Ruff!” he said.
“Why, it’s Mr. Dory!” Peter Ruff declared. “Come in, do, and have a drink.”
John Dory accepted the invitation, and his eyes were busy in that little sitting room during the few minutes which it took his host to mix that whisky and soda.
“Nothing wrong with our friend opposite, I hope?” Peter Ruff asked, jerking his head across the landing.
“I hope not, Mr. Ruff,” John Dory said. “No doubt in the morning he will be able to explain everything. I must say that I should like to see him to-night, though.”
“He may turn up yet,” Peter Ruff remarked, cheerfully. “He’s like myself—a late bird.”
“I fear not,” Dory answered, drily. “Nice rooms you have here, sir. Just a sitting room and bedroom, eh?”
Peter Ruff stood up and threw open the door of the inner apartment.
“That’s so,” he answered. “Care to have a look round?”
The detective did look round, and pretty thoroughly. As soon as he was sure that there was no one concealed upon the premises, he drank his whisky and soda and went.
“I’ll look in again to see Cawdor,” he remarked—“to-morrow, perhaps, or the next day.”
“I’ll let him know if I see him about,” Peter Ruff declared. “Sorry the lift’s stopped. Three steps to the left and straight on. Good-night!”
Miss Brown arrived early the following morning, and was disposed to be inquisitive.
“I should like to know,” she said, “exactly what has become of Mr. Vincent Cawdor.”
