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As he watched Crook, Desmond glanced from time to time at the photograph of Bellward which he had picked up from the table. He had an intuition that Bellward behaved and spoke just as the man before him. Then, at Crook's suggestion, Desmond assumed the role of Bellward. The expert interrupted him continually. "The hands, Major, the hands, you must not keep them down at your sides.
Turning to the Chief he added with a touch of formality: "May Gunner Barling tell his story, sir?" "By all means," replied the Chief. "I am all attention. But first let this fellow be removed." And beckoning to two of his men; he pointed to the body of Bellward. "Is he dead" asked Desmond. The Chief shook his head.
"Fiddlesticks!" retorted the lady, "the timbre is quite different! Bellward, I believe you're in love! Don't tell me you've been running after that hank of hair that Mortimer is so devoted to!" She glanced in Mortimer's direction, but that gentleman was engaged in earnest conversation with Behrend and the tall man. "Whom do you meant" asked Desmond. "Where are your eyes, man?" rapped out Mrs.
Bellward well, he would certainly be "for it," as the soldiers say. No, he must hold his hand until the meeting had taken place. This was the first conference that Mortimer had summoned, and Desmond intended to see that it should be the last. But first he meant to find out all there was to know about the working of the gang. He resolved to wait and see what the evening would bring forth.
Desmond remembered the arm which had shot out beside Bellward at the window and swung him so easily off his feet. He knew only one man capable of achieving that very respectable muscular performance; for Desmond weighed every ounce of twelve stone. That man was Maurice Strangwise.
Desmond sprang from his chair with alacrity. His marching orders at last! he thought, as he hurried across the hall to the library. "Hullo!" he cried as he picked up the receiver. "Is that Mr. Bellward?" answered a nasal voice. "Bellward speaking!" said Desmond, wondering who had called him up. The voice was a man's but it was not the abrupt clear tones of the Chief nor yet Mr.
"We didn't waste any time getting through that window," he said, "but the catch was stiff and the broken glass was deuced unpleasant. Still, we were too late. You were laid out on the floor; Mortimer, Bellward and the lady had made their lucky escape. And the secret door showed us how they had gone..." "But I thought you had a man posted at the back?" "Would you believe it?
Bellward must have come straight there; for he had not even taken the very elementary precaution of shaving off his beard. That made Desmond think that he must have escaped some time that evening after the barbers' shops were closed. With thumping heart, with bated breath, he waited for what was to come. In a very little while, he told himself, the truth must come out.
The red and black setting of the room had a suggestion of Oriental cruelty in its very garishness. Desmond looked from Strangwise, cool and smiling, to Bellward, gross and beastly, and from the two men to Barbara, wan and still and defenceless. And he was afraid. Then Bellward scrambled clumsily to his feet, plucking a revolver from his inside pocket as he did so.
The shuffle of feet drew nearer and presently a beam of light shone out from under the door. A quavering voice called out: "Here I am, Mr. Bellward, here I am, sir!" Then a bolt was drawn back, a key turned, and the door swung slowly back, revealing an old woman, swathed in a long shawl and holding high in her hand a lamp as she peered out into the darkness.
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