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Bullard was evidently making for the City, presumably for his office. "Drop it!" said common sense; "go on!" said instinct ... and Teddy went on. It was nearing nine o'clock when Bullard's cab drew up at the magnificent entrance to Manchester House in New Broad Street, at that hour a well-nigh deserted thoroughfare. As Teddy was driven past he saw Bullard run up the steps.
He could do nothing but look on in silence while they searched, until they found But stay! he might as well despoil the spoilers when he had the chance. "I will take your money, sir," he said, in an odd voice. "Look in the bottom right-hand drawer in the writing table." Bullard's eyebrows rose. Then he got up and, with his eyes on the servant, opened the empty drawer.
He turned sharply from the desk to his visitor, who was still standing. "Come for your second and final hundred eh?" Flitch stared at the carpet, crushing his cloth cap in his hand, and uttered the most unexpected reply that had ever entered Bullard's ears. "No, mister." An appreciable time passed before Bullard's gape became modified to a grin. "I see! You want me to keep it till you sail.
This time Flitch did not go back, but toppled forward, clawing at Bullard's waistcoat, and reached the floor with a thud and a single gasp. And there was a silence, a period of petrifaction, that might have lasted for one minute or ten: Bullard could not have gauged it. At last he came to himself. His teeth were chattering slightly.
But right now, Bullard's too busy to cook, and everyone's going to be hungry when they find we're saved." I chuckled, and felt the relief wash over me finally. I dropped my hand from the control and caught hers a nice, friendly hand. But at the entrance I stopped and looked back toward the cabin where Wilcox lay. I could just make out the second movement of the Ninth beginning.
Caw thinks the same, and my uncle said as much just before he died. You and I know that he is no villain. And why delay sending an answer to this wire? There can be only one answer. You'll find forms on the table." "Won't you send it, Alan?" "I'll send one to Lancaster himself." "Better not." "Why?" "Mrs. Lancaster is on Bullard's side." "Ah!"
Stop the car!" repeated the madman, and wrenched at his captive's throat so that the latter's hands were torn from the wheel. Bullard's prayer, warning, or whatever it was, came forth in a mere gurgle. The car swerved, left the road, ran up a short, gentle, grassy slope, tilted at the summit, toppled and plunged to the rocky shore. There was an appalling explosion.
His little private income had disappeared, but he had a document worth all the world to him in his pocket. As he opened the door Bullard's face was that of a fiend; his hand went back to a drawer ere he remembered that he was not at his own desk. Teddy was a little behind time in reaching Kensington Gardens, and he looked so haggard that the girl's heart failed her.
And now Caw's voice was heard calling: "Mr. Alan, Mr. Alan, wait till I get another lamp." At that on Bullard's face the sweat broke thickly. With a gasp he let Flitch drop like a heavy sack, and started to run. Not far beyond the gates Flitch overtook him. Between thick sobs Flitch was moaning: "I heard his voice. 'Twas clear and strong. He's alive! ... I didn't kill him after all.
Lord William Lennox, in his Drafts on My Memory, is full of irrepressible and fascinating memorabilia, from the story of General Bullard's salad-dressing to important dramatic history connected with the theater of his time. The Spectator was the quintessence of gossip in an age of gossip and good conversation.
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