Copyright & Information

The Female of the Species

First published in 1928

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of H.C. McNeile (Sapper) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore St., Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

EAN	ISBN	Edition
1842325477	9781842325476	Print
0755116763	9780755116768	Print (Alt)
0755122895	9780755122899	Pdf
0755123077	9780755123070	Mobi
0755123255	9780755123254	Epub

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

About the Author

Herman Cyril McNeile, who wrote under the pseudonym Sapper, was born in Bodmin, Cornwall, on 28 September 1888 to Captain Malcolm McNeile RN and his wife, Christiana Mary. He was educated at Cheltenham College, and then went on to the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, before joining the Royal Engineers in 1907, from which he derived his pseudonym – ‘sappers’ being the nickname of the Engineers.

During World War One he served first as a Captain, seeing action at both the First and the Second Battle of Ypres, and won the Military Cross before retiring from the army as a Lieutenant-Colonel in 1919. Prior to this, in 1914 he met and married Violet Baird, daughter of a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Cameron Highlanders. They eventually had two sons.

Somewhat remarkably, he managed to publish a number of books during the war and whilst still serving, (serving officers were not permitted to publish under their own names – hence the need for a pseudonym), commencing with The Lieutenant and Others and Sergeant Michael Cassidy, R.E. in 1915. Lord Northcliff, the owner of the Daily Mail, was so impressed by this writing that he attempted, but failed, to have McNeile released from the army so he could work as a war correspondent.

McNeile’s first full length novel, Mufti, was published in 1919, but it was in 1920 that his greatest hit Bulldog Drummond, was published. This concerned the exploits of a demobilised officer, Captain Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond, ‘who found peace dull’. This was an immediate and enduring success and has been filmed and performed on stage both in the UK and USA. Further Drummond adventures were to follow, along with other novels, notably those featuring the private detective Ronald Standish.

Much of his writing is based upon the atmosphere, rather than experiences, he absorbed from public school and London Gentleman’s Clubs. His heroes are most decidedly ‘English’ in character and ‘do the right thing’, whilst his villains are foreign and ‘do not play by the rules’. Ian Fleming once noted that his own hero James Bond was ‘Sapper’ from the waist up.

McNeile died in 1937 at his home in Sussex, having lived a relatively quiet and content life, in sharp contrast to the characters in his books. His friend Gerard Fairlie, thought to be the model for Drummond, went on to write seven more adventures. Many of his books are collections of short stories, with most having a twist in the tail, usually surprising the reader by totally flawing anticipations with regard to their ending within the last few sentences. They are as popular today as ever and eagerly adopted by succeeding generations as amongst the best of their genre.

House of Stratus was pleased to gain the right to publish from McNeile’s estate in 1999 and has since continually held his major works in print.

Chapter 1

Even now, after three months calm thought, I sometimes feel that I must have dreamed the whole thing. I say to myself that this is England: that I am sitting at lunch in my club hoping that that gluttonous lawyer Seybourne will not take all the best part of the Stilton: that unless I get a move on I shall be very late at Lord’s. I say all that just as I always used to say it – particularly about Seybourne. And then it suddenly comes over me – the events of those amazing days.

I don’t suppose anybody will believe me: I wouldn’t believe the story myself if somebody else told it to me. As I say, I sometimes think it must be a dream. And then I turn back my left sleeve nearly to the elbow and look at a three-inch scar, still red and angry, though it’s healing nicely now. And I know it was no dream.

Was it a joke? If so, it was the grimmest and most desperate jest that has ever been cracked, and one wherein the humour was difficult to find. Moreover, it was a joke that would have brought the propounder of it to the gallows – had we but been able to catch her. For there was a woman at the bottom of it, and women can suffer the death penalty in England for murder.

No: it was no dream: no jest. It was grim, stern reality played for a stake sufficient to crack the nerve of the principal player on our side had he been possessed of nerves to crack. A game played against time: a game where one mistake might have proved fatal.

Personally, I am a peace-loving individual of mild appearance: I like my rubber of bridge at the club and my round of golf: I am not averse to letting people know that I was wounded in the leg in France. Moreover, I fail to see why I should gratuitously add the information that I was in the horse-lines at the time, and Heaven alone knows where the bullet came from. I mention these points merely to show that I am just a very ordinary sort of person, and not at all of the type which seems to attract adventure. In fact, until that amazing Whitsun, the only thing in any way out of the ordinary which had ever happened to me was when I, on one occasion, tried to stop a runaway horse. And the annoying thing then was that the driver assured me he had the horse under control. Three weeks had elapsed, and I was still in hospital, so I didn’t argue the point.

The truth is that I am not one of those enviable men who are at their best when in a tight corner, or when confronted with the need for immediate action. If, as I read somewhere once, men consist of two classes – those who can stop a dog fight and those who can’t – honesty compels me to admit that I belong to the latter. In fact, put in a nutshell, I am a rabbit.

And yet I wouldn’t have missed that adventure for anything. I can’t flatter myself that I did very much: indeed, there were times when I fear I was merely in the way. For all that, never once did a single member of the extraordinary bunch of men who were playing on our side say any word of reproach or irritation. They never let me feel that I was a passenger, even when the strain was greatest.

However, enough of this preamble. I will start at the beginning. For many years it has been my custom to spend a few days round Whitsuntide with some old friends of mine called Tracey. They have a charming house not far from Pangbourne – Elizabethan, and standing in delightful grounds. There is generally a small party – perhaps a dozen in all – and I may say that the keyword to the atmosphere of the house is peace. It may be that I am a little old-fashioned, but the pleasure to be derived from what is sometimes described as an evening’s jolly seems to me to be over-rated.

As usual, I went to them this year, arriving on the Thursday before Whitsuntide. The motor met me at the station, and, having shaken Jenkins, the chauffeur, by the hand, I got in. Somewhat to my surprise, he did not at once drive off: he appeared to be waiting for someone else.

“Captain Drummond, sir,” he said to me, “who is stopping at the house, came down to get a paper.”

“I think not, sir,” he answered, and it seemed to me that a very faint smile twitched round his lips. In fact, there was a sort of air of expectancy about Jenkins – excitement almost – that was most unusual. Jenkins I have always regarded as a model servant.

“Five to one, my trusty lad. That’s better than breaking your false teeth on a plum stone.”

I turned at this somewhat astounding utterance and regarded the speaker. He was still immersed in the paper, and for the moment I couldn’t see his face.

“’Alf a dollar each way, sir,” said Jenkins, so far forgetting himself as to suck his teeth in his excitement.

“You’ll get your money back. Second at fours. That’s not so bad for the old firm.”

“Pity about cook, sir,” said Jenkins earnestly. “She don’t ’old with backing both ways. Moongazer – win only – she was.”

Captain Drummond lowered the paper, and seemed to become aware of my existence for the first time.

“Hullo! hullo! hullo!” he exclaimed. “The new arrival. Home, Jenkins – and for God’s sake don’t break it to the cook till after dinner.”

He got into the car, and it struck me that I had seldom seen a larger individual.

“Do you think it is quite wise to encourage the servants to bet?” I enquired a little pointedly as we started.

“Encourage, old lad?” he boomed. “They don’t want any encouragement. You’d have to keep ’em off it with a field-gun.”

He waved a friendly hand at an extremely pretty girl on the pavement, and I took off my hat.

“I follow your reasoning,” he conceded at length. “The false premise, if I may say so, is your conclusion that a friendly gesture of the right hand betokens previous acquaintance. I regret to say I do not know the lady: I probably never shall. Still, we have doubtless planted hope in her virginal bosom.”

He relapsed into silence, while I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. A strange individual, I reflected: one, somehow, I could hardly place at the Traceys’. Now that he was sitting beside me he seemed larger than ever – evidently a very powerful man. Moreover, his face was rather of the type that one associates with pugilism. He certainly had no claims to good looks, and yet there was something very attractive about his expression.

“The Cat and Custard Pot,” he remarked suddenly, and Jenkins touched his hat.

“It’s nearly an hour,” he said, turning to me, “since I lowered any ale. And I don’t really know Bill Tracey well enough to reason with him about his. The damned stuff isn’t fit to drink.”

The car pulled up outside a pub, and my companion descended. I refused his invitation to join him – ale is not a favourite beverage of mine – and remained sitting in the car. The afternoon was warm, the air heavy with the scent of flowers from a neighbouring garden. And in the distance one got a glimpse of the peaceful Thames. Peaceful – the mot juste: everything was peaceful in that charming corner of England. And with a feeling of drowsy contentment, I lay back and half-closed my eyes.

I don’t know what drew my attention to them first – the two men who were sitting at one of the little tables under a tree. Perhaps it was that they didn’t seem to quite fit in with their surroundings. Foreigners, I decided, and yet it was more from the cut of their clothes than from their actual faces that I came to the conclusion. They weren’t talking, but every now and then they stole a glance at the door by which Drummond had gone in. And then one of them turned suddenly and stared long and earnestly at me.

“Never seen ’em before today, sir,” he answered. “But they was ’ere when the Captain stopped for his pint on the way down. Lumme – look there.”

I looked, and I must admit that for a moment or two I began to have doubts as to Drummond’s sanity. He had evidently come out by some other door, and he was now standing behind the trunk of the tree under which the men were sitting. They were obviously quite unaware of his presence, and if such a thing hadn’t been inconceivable, I should have said he was deliberately eavesdropping. Anyway, the fact remains that for nearly half a minute he stood there absolutely motionless, whilst I watched the scene in frank amazement. Then one of the two men happened to glance at me, and I suppose my face must have given something away. He nudged his companion, and the two of them rose to their feet just as Drummond stepped out from behind the tree.

“Good afternoon, my pretties,” he burbled genially. “Are we staying long in Pangbourne’s happy clime – or are we not?”

“Who the devil are you, sir?” said one of the men, speaking perfect English, except for a slightly guttural accent.

“Surely,” he remarked pleasantly, “your incompetence cannot be as astounding as all that. Tush! tush!–” he lifted a hand like a leg of mutton as the man who had spoken started forward angrily. “I will push your face in later, if necessary, but just at the moment I would like a little chat. And since the appearance of you both is sufficient to shake any man to the foundations, let us not waste time over unnecessary questions.”

“Look here,” snarled the other angrily, “do you want a rough house, young man?”

“Rough house?” said Drummond mildly. “What is a rough house? Surely you cannot imagine for one minute that I would so far demean myself as to lift my hand in anger against my neighbour.”

And then the most extraordinary thing happened. I was watching the strange scene very closely, wondering really whether I ought not to interfere – yet even so I didn’t see how it was done. It was so incredibly quick, and as far as I could tell, Drummond never moved.

The two men seemed to close in on him suddenly with the idea obviously of hustling him out of the garden. And they didn’t hustle him out of the garden. Far from it. There came a noise as of two hard bodies impinging together, and the gentleman who had not yet spoken recoiled a pace, holding his nose and cursing.

I sympathised with him: it is a singularly painful thing to hit one’s nose hard on somebody else’s head. In fact, the only completely unmoved person was Drummond himself.

“You shouldn’t kiss in public places, laddies,” he remarked sadly. “It might make the barmaid jealous. And I do declare his little nosey-posey is beginning to bleed. If you ask the chauffeur nicely he might lend you a spanner to put down your back.”

The two men stood there glaring at him, and they were not a prepossessing pair. And then the one who had done the talking drew his friend of the damaged nose on one side, and spoke to him in a low tone. He seemed to be urging some course on the other which the latter was unwilling to accept.

“My God, sir,” muttered Jenkins to me, “the bloke with the bleeding nose has got a knife.”

“I know, old lad,” he answered. “He’s been playing at pirates. Not going, surely? Why, we’ve never had our little chat.”

But without a backward glance, the two men passed through the gate and started walking rapidly down the road in the direction of the station. And after a time Drummond sauntered over to the car and got in.

“After which breezy little interlude,” he murmured, “the powerful car again swung forward, devouring mile after mile.”

“Do you usually go about the country molesting perfect strangers? Who are those men?”

“But,” I cried, “it’s astounding. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I couldn’t have believed it possible.”

“I suppose it was a bit disconcerting,” he answered. “But we’re moving in deep waters, laddie – or, rather, I am. And I tell you frankly I don’t quite know where I am. Why should those two blokes have followed me down here?”

“No. At least, I saw them when I stopped for some ale on the way down to the station. And they aren’t very clever at it.”

“The little game of observing without being observed. Apart from their appearance, which made them stick out a mile when seen in an English country inn, the man whose nose suffered slightly positively hissed into the other’s ear when he first saw me. In fact, I very nearly dealt with them then and there, only I was afraid I’d be late for your train.”

“I wish to God I knew,” he answered gravely. “I don’t think I’m losing my nerve, or anything of that sort – but I’m absolutely in the dark. Almost as much as you are, in fact. I loathe this waiting game.”

“Of course,” I remarked resignedly, “I suppose I am not insane. I suppose there is some sense in all this, though at the moment I’m damned if I can see it.”

From his breast pocket he took a slip of paper, and handed it to me. On it some lines were written in an obviously feminine hand.

“My dear sir,” I cried, “what else can it be? I confess that at the moment I forget the poem, but the first three lines are obviously Kipling. Equally obviously the fourth is not.”

“Precisely,” he agreed with a faint smile. “I got as far as that myself. And so it was the fourth line that attracted my attention. It seemed to me that the message, if any, would be found in it. It was.”

“‘For the female of the species is more deadly than the male,’” he answered.

“But, surely,” I cried in amazement, “you can’t take a thing like that seriously. It’s probably a foolish hoax sent you by some girl you cut at a night club.”

I laughed a little irritably: for a man to take such a message in earnest struck me as being childish to a degree. A stupid jest played by some silly girl, with a penchant for being mysterious. Undoubtedly, I reflected, the man was a fool. And, anyway, what had it got to do with the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot?

“‘The female of the species is more deadly than the male,’” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard my remark. “No hoax about it, old lad; no jest, believe you me. Just a plain and simple warning. And now the game has begun.”

For a moment or two I wondered if he was pulling my leg; but he was so deadly serious that I realised that he, at any rate, believed it was genuine. And my feeling of irritation grew. What an ass the man must be!

“You probably think I’m bughouse, don’t you?” he cried. “Doesn’t matter. The only real tragedy of the day is that the cook didn’t back Moongazer each way.”

Once again he relapsed into silence, as the car rolled through the gates of the Traceys’ house.

“Good intelligence work,” he said thoughtfully. “We only decided to come down here yesterday. But I wish to the Lord you’d learn to control your face. If you hadn’t given a life-like representation of a gargoyle in pain I might have heard something of interest from those two blighters.”

“You couldn’t help it.” He waved a vast hand, and beat me on the back. “I ought to have warned you. Must have looked a bit odd. But it’s a pity–”

“Little Willie wants a drink,” he remarked to Tracey, who came out to greet us. “His nervous system has had a shock. By the way, where’s Phyllis?”

“Playing tennis,” said our host, and Drummond strolled off in the direction of the lawn.

“Look here, Bill,” I cried, when he was out of earshot, “is that man all there?”

“Hugh Drummond all there?” he laughed. “Very few men in England more so. Why?”

“Well, if he hits me on the back again I shan’t be. He’s rammed my braces through my spine. But, honestly, I thought the man was mad. He’s been talking the most appalling hot air on the way up, and he assaulted two complete strangers at the Cat and Custard Pot.”

“Assaulted two strangers at the Cat and Custard Pot!” he repeated. “What on earth did he do that for?”

“That’s funny,” he remarked thoughtfully. “Rodgers – the gardener – was telling me only a few minutes ago that he had seen two foreign-looking men hanging round the house this morning, and had told them to clear off. I wonder if they were the same.”

“Probably,” I said. “But the fact that they were hanging round here hardly seems an adequate reason for Captain Drummond’s behaviour. In fact, my dear Bill – What’s the matter?”

He was staring over my shoulder in the direction of the lawn, and I swung round. Drummond was running towards us over the grass, and there was a peculiar strained look on his face. He passed us without a word, and went up the stairs two at a time. We heard a door flung open, and then we saw him leaning out of his bedroom window.

A somewhat vacuous-looking individual with an eyeglass had joined us, whom the remark was obviously addressed to.

“Can’t understand old Hugh,” remarked the newcomer plaintively. “I’ve never seen him in this condition before. If I didn’t think it was impossible I should say he’d got the wind up.”

“What’s stung you all?” said Bill Tracey. “Isn’t Mrs Drummond playing tennis?”

“She was – after lunch,” answered Algy. “Then she got a note. Your butler wallah brought it out to her on the court. It seemed to upset her a bit, for she stopped at once and came into the house.”

“Where,” remarked Drummond, who had joined us, “she changed her clothes. It was a note, was it, Algy: not a letter? I mean, did you happen to notice if there was a stamp on the envelope?”

“As a matter of fact, old lad, I particularly noticed there was not. I was sitting next her when she took it.”

“Parker,” said Drummond quietly, “you gave a note to Mrs Drummond this afternoon, I understand.”

“A man, sir, who I did not know. A stranger to the neighbourhood, I gathered.”

“Thank you, Parker,” said Drummond quietly. “Algy, it’s quicker than I expected. Hullo! Jenkins, do you want me?”

“Well, sir, you know you asked me to adjust your carburettor for you. I was just wondering if you could tell me when the car will be back.”

“Why, sir, the Bentley ain’t in the garage. I thought as ’ow Mrs Drummond had probably taken it out.”

And if anything had been needed to confirm my opinion that this vast individual was a little peculiar, I got it then. He lifted his two enormous fists above his head and shook them at the sky. I could see the great muscles rippling under his sleeves, and instinctively I recoiled a step.

“Thrice and unutterably damned fool that I am,” he muttered. “But how could I tell it would come so soon?”

“My dear fellow,” said Bill Tracey, gazing at him apprehensively, “surely there is nothing to get excited about. Mrs Drummond is a very good driver.”

“Driver be jiggered,” cried Drummond. “If it was only a question of driving, I wouldn’t mind. I’m afraid they’ve got her. For the Lord’s sake, give me a pint of ale. Yours is pretty bad – but it’s better than nothing.”

“If only you could have kept your face in its place, little man, I might have heard something. Still, it can’t be helped. God made you like it.”

“Really,” I protested angrily, but this extraordinary individual had gone indoors again. “The man is positively insulting.”

“Nothing to what he can be if he dislikes you,” said the being called Algy placidly. “He’ll be all right after he’s had his beer.”

Chapter 2

Now, in view of the fact that this is my first essay in literature, I realise that many of my relatives may feel it to be their bounden duty to buy the result. Several, I know, will borrow a copy from one another, or else will endeavour to touch me for one of the six free copies which, I am given to understand, the author receives on publication. But most of them, in one way or another, will read it. And I am particularly anxious, bearing in mind the really astounding situations in which I found myself later, that no misconception should exist in their minds as to my mood at the beginning.

Particularly Uncle Percy – the Dean of Wolverhampton. He is, I am glad to say, a man of advanced years and considerable wealth. He is also unmarried, a fact which has never occasioned me great surprise. But few women exist who would be capable of dealing with his intellect or digestion, and so far he does not seem to have met one of them.

For his benefit, then, and that of others who know me personally, I may state that when I saw Captain Drummond engaged in the operation, as he called it, of “golluping his beer with zest”, I was extremely angry. He, on the contrary, seemed to have recovered his spirits. No longer did he shake his fists in the air; on the contrary, a most depressing noise issued from his mouth as he put down the empty tankard on the table. He appeared to be singing, and, incredible though it may seem, to derive some pleasure from the operation. The words of his dirge seemed to imply that the more we were together the merrier we would be – a statement to which I took the gravest exception.

I was to learn afterwards the amazing way in which this amazing individual could throw off a serious mood and become positively hilarious. For instance – on this occasion – having delivered himself of this deplorable sentiment, he advanced towards me. Fearing another blow on the back, I retreated rapidly, but he no longer meditated assault. He desired apparently to examine my cuff-links, a thing which did not strike me as being in the best of taste.

“I feared as much,” he remarked. “Or have you left ’em at home?” he added hopefully.

“Doubtless,” I remarked stiffly. “In the meantime I think I’ll go and have some tea.”

I crossed the lawn to find several people I knew assembled in the summer-house. And, having paid my respects to my hostess, and been introduced to two or three strangers, I sat down with a feeling of relief beside Tomkinson, a dear old friend of mine.

“Really,” I said to him under cover of the general conversation, “there seem to be some very extraordinary people in this party. Who and what is that enormous man who calls himself Drummond?”

“He does strike one as a bit odd at first, doesn’t he? But as a matter of fact, your adjective was right. He is an extraordinary man. He did some feats of strength for us last night that wouldn’t have disgraced a professional strong man.”

“He is not communicative about himself,” went on Tomkinson. “And what little I know about him I have learned from that fellow with the eyeglass – Algy Longworth – who incidentally regards him as only one degree lower than the Almighty. He has got a very charming wife.”

“You won’t see her here,” I remarked. “She has apparently taken his Bentley and gone out in it alone. Having discovered this fact, he first of all announces ‘They’ve got her!’ in blood-curdling tones, and then proceeds to lower inordinate quantities of ale. And his behaviour coming up from the station–”

“I do – sometimes. But what’s that you were saying about Drummond having said ‘They’ve got her?’”

“Just that – and nothing more,” I answered. “As I was telling Tomkinson, Mrs Drummond has apparently gone out in his Bentley alone, and when he heard of it he said, ‘They’ve got her.’ But who ‘they’ are I can’t tell you.”

“Good God!” His face had suddenly become grave. “There must be a mistake. And yet Hugh doesn’t make mistakes.”

But he paid no attention: he had glanced up quickly, and was staring over my shoulder.

“She got a note delivered here by a stranger. It came while I was at the station. And Algy said it seemed to upset her. Anyway, she went indoors and changed, and then went out alone in the Bentley.”

“But why should that worry you, Captain Drummond? Your wife often drives, she tells me.”

“She knows no one in this neighbourhood, Mrs Tracey, except your good selves,” answered Drummond quietly. “So who could have sent a note here to be delivered by hand?”

“Well, evidently somebody did,” I remarked. “And when Mrs Drummond returns you’ll find out who it was.”

“My dear sir,” I cried, “don’t be absurd. You surely can’t believe, or expect us to believe, that some evilly-disposed persons are abducting your wife in broad daylight and in the middle of England?”

“Really,” I remarked irritably, when they were out of earshot, “the thing is perfectly preposterous. Is he doing it as a joke, or what?”

Algy Longworth had joined them, and the three of them were standing in the middle of the lawn talking earnestly.

“I must say it does all seem very funny,” agreed our hostess. “And yet Captain Drummond isn’t the sort of man to make stupid jokes of that sort.”

“You mean,” I said incredulously, “that he really believes that someone may be abducting his wife? My dear Mary, don’t be so ridiculous. Why should anyone abduct his wife?”

“He’s led a very strange life since the War,” she answered. “I confess I don’t know much about it myself – neither he nor his friends are very communicative. But I know he got mixed up with a gang of criminals.”

“I’m not very clear about what happened,” went on Mary Tracey. “But finally Captain Drummond was responsible somehow or other for the death of the leader of the gang. And a woman, who had been this man’s mistress, was left behind.”

I stared at her: absurd, of course, but that bit of doggerel at the end of Kipling’s verse came back to me. And then common sense reasserted itself. This was England: not a country where secret societies flourished and strange vendettas took place. The whole thing was a mere coincidence. What connection could there possibly be between the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot and the fact that Mrs Drummond had gone out alone in a motorcar?

“It seems,” Mary Tracey was speaking again, “from what Bill tells me, that this woman vowed vengeance on Captain Drummond. I know it sounds very fantastic, and I expect we shall all laugh about it when Phyllis gets back. And yet–” she hesitated for a moment. “Oh! I don’t want to be silly, but I do wish she’d come back soon.”

“But, Mrs Tracey,” said someone reassuringly, “there can be no danger. What could happen to her?”

“I quite agree,” I remarked. “If on every occasion a woman went out alone in a motorcar her friends and relations panicked about her being abducted, life would become a hideous affair.”

And then by tacit consent the subject dropped, and we dispersed about our lawful occasions. I didn’t see Drummond, but Darrell and Longworth were practising putting on the other side of the lawn. I strolled over and joined them.

“Your large friend,” I laughed, “seems to have put the wind up most of the ladies in the party fairly successfully.”

“Let us hope it will end at that,” said Darrell gravely. “I confess that I have rarely been so uneasy in my life.”

And that, mark you, from a man who played for Middlesex! Really, I reflected, the thing was ceasing to be funny. And I was just getting a suitable remark ready, when Longworth suddenly straightened up and stared across the lawn. Bill Tracey was coming towards us, and at his side was a police-sergeant. And Bill Tracey’s face was serious.

He cupped his mouth with his hands and let out a shout that startled the rooks for miles around. And very faintly from the distance came an answering cry.

“I don’t know,” answered Bill uneasily. “Quite possibly it’s capable of some simple explanation. Apparently the Bentley has been found empty. However, we’d better wait till Drummond comes, and then the sergeant can tell his story.”

I noticed Darrell glance significantly at Longworth; then he calmly resumed the study of a long putt. With a bang the ball went into the hole, and he straightened himself up.

We watched him breasting the hill that led down to the river, running with the long, easy stride of the born athlete. And it’s curious how little things strike one at times. I remember noticing as he came up that his breathing was as normal as my own, though he must have run the best part of a quarter of a mile.

With maddening deliberation the worthy sergeant replaced his notebook in his breast pocket. And another curious little thing struck me: though Drummond must have been on edge with suspense, no sign of impatience showed in his face.

“To the best of my belief she was,” answered Drummond. “She left here when I was down at the station in Mr Tracey’s car meeting this gentleman.”

“Well, sir, I have to report to you that your car has been found empty standing by the side of the road not far from the village of Tidmarsh.”

“The constable who found the car, sir, saw your name and address printed on a plate on the instrument board. So he went to the nearest telephone and rang up your house in London. And your servant told him you was stopping down here. So he rang up at the station in Pangbourne.”

“But why take all the trouble?” said Drummond even more quietly. “Surely there’s nothing extraordinary about an empty car beside the road?”

“No, sir,” agreed the sergeant. “There ain’t. That’s true. But the constable further reported” – his voice was grave – “that he didn’t like the look of the car. He said it struck him that there had been some sort of struggle.”

“Peter – your Sunbeam, and hump yourself. Algy – ring up Ted and Toby, and tell ’em they’re wanted. Put up at the hotel. Sergeant – you come with me. Tracey, ring up the railway-station and find out if two foreign-looking men have been seen there this afternoon. If so, did they take tickets, and for what destination? Let’s move.”

And we moved. Gone in a flash was the large and apparently brainless ass; in his place was a man accustomed to lead, and accustomed to instant obedience. Heaven knows why I got into the Sunbeam: presumably because I was the only person who had received no definite instructions. And Drummond evinced no surprise when he found me sitting beside him in the back seat. The sergeant, a little dazed at such rapidity of action, was in front with Darrell, and except for him none of us even had a hat.

“Tell us the way, sergeant,” said Drummond, as we swung through the gates. “And let her out, Peter.”

And Peter let her out. The worthy policeman gasped feebly once or twice concerning speed limits, but no one took the faintest notice, so that after a time he resigned himself to the inevitable and concentrated on holding on his hat. And I, having no hat to hold on, concentrated on the man beside me.

He seemed almost unaware of my existence. He sat there, motionless save for the swaying of the car, staring in front of him. His face was set and grave, and every now and then he shook his head as if he had arrived at an unpleasant conclusion in his train of thought.

My own thoughts were frankly incoherent. Somehow or other I still couldn’t believe that the matter was serious – certainly not as serious as Drummond seemed to think. And yet my former scepticism was shaken, I confess. If what the sergeant said was right: if there were signs of a struggle in the car, it was undoubtedly sufficiently serious to make it very unpleasant. But I still refused to believe that the whole thing was not capable of some simple solution. A tramp, perhaps, seeing that an approaching car contained a woman alone had stopped it by the simple expedient of standing in the middle of the road. Then he had attacked Mrs Drummond with the idea of getting her money.

Unpleasant, as I say – very unpleasant. But quite ordinary. A very different matter to all this absurd twaddle about gangs of criminals and dead men’s mistresses. Moreover, I reflected, with a certain amount of satisfaction, there was another thing that proved my theory. On Drummond’s own showing he attached considerable importance to the two foreign-looking men at the Cat and Custard Pot. Now it was utterly impossible that they could have had anything to do with it since they were sitting there in the garden at the very time that Mrs Drummond must have left Tracey’s house in the car. Which completely knocked Drummond’s conclusion on the head. The whole thing was simply a coincidence, and I said as much to the man beside me. He listened in silence.

Once more did I stare at this extraordinary individual in amazement. What on earth had that got to do with it?

“In the days of my youth I believe I did,” I answered. “Though the exact bearing of a boyish pastime on the point at issue is a little obscure.”

“Then it oughtn’t to be,” he remarked curtly. “It’s only obscure because your grey matter is torpid. When a party of you go ratting, you put a bloke at every hole you know of before you start to bolt your rats.”

He relapsed again into silence, and so did I. The confounded fellow seemed to have an answer for everything. And then just ahead of us we saw the deserted car.

A constable was standing beside it, and a group of four or five children were looking on curiously. It stood some three or four feet from the left-hand side of the road, so that there was only just room for another car to pass. And the road itself at this point ran through a small wood – barely more than a copse.

We crowded round the car and looked inside. It was an ordinary open touring model, and it was obvious at once that there were signs which indicated a struggle. The rug, for instance, instead of being folded, was half over the front seat and half in the back of the car. A lady’s handkerchief, crumpled up, was lying just behind the steering-wheel, and one of the covers which was fastened to the upholstery by means of press studs, was partially wrenched off. It was the cover for one of the side doors, and underneath it was a pocket for maps and papers.

There was something sinister about that deserted car. One felt an insane longing that the rug could speak: that a thrush singing in the drowsy heat on a tree close by could tell us what had happened. Its head, of course, was pointed away from Pangbourne, and suddenly Drummond gave an exclamation. He was looking at the road some fifteen yards in front of the bonnet.

At first I noticed nothing, though my sight is as good as most men’s. And it wasn’t until I got close to the place that I could see what had attracted his attention. Covered with dust was a pool of black lubricating oil – and covered so well that only the sharpest eye would have detected it.

“What is that, sir?” remarked the sergeant, with considerable respect in his voice. I was evidently not the only one who had been impressed with the keenness of Drummond’s sight.

“I know my wife’s driving better than anybody else,” he answered, “and, under normal circumstances, if she pulled up, she would instinctively get into the side of the road. So the first question I asked myself was why she had stopped with the car where it is. She was either following another car which pulled up in front of her, or she came round the corner and found it stationary in the middle of the road, not leaving her room to pass. And the owners of the car that did not leave her room to pass wanted to conceal the fact that they had been here, if possible. So, finding they had leaked oil, they tried to cover it up. God! if only the Bentley could talk.”