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“Such behaviour is intolerable,” said Mansel.

Kerrelin swallowed.

“I find it discourteous,” he said. “It makes a fool of me. If my men were not sympathetic, it would be bad for discipline.”

“Perhaps he’s outside,” said Mansel.

The other shook his head.

“No, sir. My men would warn me of his approach. Still, if you will excuse me, I should be outside.”

“What happens when he returns, to find that we have come back?”

“I hope he will see the wisdom of going away. I think, perhaps, he will enter and issue threats. But you will not be arrested. On that I have made up my mind.”

Mansel inclined his head.

“I’m much obliged. When I return to London, I shall report this affair. And you may be sure I shall say that, in spite of foreign pressure, the Austrian police decline to be deflected from the duty they swore to do.”

“That is very kind of you, sir.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Mansel. “You’d do the same for me.”

Then, in spite of his protests, we poured him a glass of wine, and we touched one another’s glasses, before we drank. After which, he took his leave, to resume an obnoxious vigil, which, though he did not know it, was going to last a long time.

Mansel sat back in his chair.

“What happens when Friar and Sloper recover consciousness?”

I began to laugh.

“I think it’s just as well that we took their arms.”

“Yes, they’ll be ripe for murder they cannot do. And, though they can’t think straight, they’ll have to take on the police. When once they’re alone again, Sloper’s strictures will be worth listening to.”

“And Boler?”

“Ah,” said Mansel. “And Boler. We should have put him in the river, instead of the byre. But it’s too late now.”

“How long is he out for?” I said.

Mansel shrugged his shoulders.

“Four or five hours, I should say. I hit him hard.”

“Will they wait so long?”

“I don’t see what else they can do.”

“And then what?”

“Friar will be suspected of knocking him out. Friar or Sloper, unless they find them first. Our alibi’s very good. It doesn’t really exist, but the Boche was sure we were out and Kerrelin saw us come in.”

I began to laugh.

“This,” I said, “is really too good to last.”

“That’s very true,” said Mansel. “Any moment now we shall go down the drain.” He sank his voice to a whisper. “Tell me, William, why did we take this on?”

“God knows,” said I. “I’ve been asking myself for days. The brutal answer is – because we’re a couple of mugs.”

“I don’t like that one,” said Mansel. “Let’s say we’re altruists. When d’you join up? Monday?”

“That’s right,” I said. “But I can’t take over at once.”

“Tuesday night, perhaps: but not before. You must get the hang of the, er, receptacles.”

We had finished our simple meal, when we heard a flurry outside and then Sloper’s voice.

“— ’avin’ tea, I was, with the Consul’s wife. An’ the las’ thing the Consul says, as ’e brings me ’at, ‘Arthur,’ ’e says, ‘don’t you stan’ no — from — ‘’Ere, wot’s this?” We heard the click of handcuffs. “Nasty, vulgar ’abits. An’ wot would you say I’d done?”

Another voice was reporting – in German of course.

“This man was found in the meadows, moving cautiously East. He was proposing, I think, to gain the entrance drive.

“And his car,” said Kerrelin.

“I imagine so, sir. There is, I think, no doubt that he is one of the gang.”

Kerrelin spoke in English.

“Where is Herr Friar?” he said.

“Sick,” said Sloper, promptly. “Cort a cole or somethin’. Left ’im at ’ome.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Come to see Capting Mansel – on private business.”

“Did you expect to find him out in the fields?”

“Out when I called, smartie: so I went to ’ave a laydown and falls asleep. Then I got into them meadows an’ lorse me way. Wanderin’, I was, when ’e foun’ me – bless ’is soul.”

Mansel and I began to shake with laughter.

“How did you know that Captain Mansel was here?”

“Gov’nor tole me: ’e’s a friend of ’is.”

“That is a lie,” said Kerrelin.

“Sez you. Frien’? ’E’s a — crony. Mansel, Palin an’ Friar…all at Eting together an’ always kep’ up. Talk abaht the ole school tie…”

“What was your business with Captain Mansel?”

“Well, you see, Capting Mansel don’ know that the gov’nor’s ill. If ’e did, ’e’d come an’ see ’im, sure as a — gun. Bring ’im some books to read, an’ a bag o’ grapes. So the gov’nor sen’s me orf. I’m ’is servant, I am – ’ave bin for years. ‘Sloper,’ ’e says, ‘you go an’ fin’ the Capting,’ ’e says; ’an’ tell ’im ole Ned Friar’s sick. As like as not,’ ’e says, ‘’e’ll come back in the car wiv you.’”

A silence succeeded this truly admirable effort on Sloper’s part. Then a knock fell upon our door, and Mansel cried “Come in”.

Kerrelin entered the room.

“You have heard?” he said.

“Yes,” said Mansel, “we have. Your Mr Sloper has made us laugh very much. He may be a knave, but he is a comedian. His flights of imagination are very fine. Still, to come down to earth, his master, Herr Friar, is not on my visiting list. And Sloper did not come here to tell me that he was ill. For one thing, I have no doubt that Friar is here himself.”

“Nor I,” said Kerrelin. “I have told my men to look out for any movement. He will almost certainly try to approach his car.”

“I agree. But he must be extremely cross. He came to offer me violence, and you put a spoke in his wheel. And, but for you, it might not have been too good. If we had come in, as we did, to find Friar here… My impression is that he will be very cross: so I think your men should be careful.”

Kerrelin bowed.

“I am glad to think, sir, that we may have spoiled his game.”

“Thank you, my friend. But don’t let him turn upon you.”

Kerrelin smiled.

“To do that would be very foolish. Still, I will take precautions. And now I say ‘Good night.’”

“One moment,” said Mansel. “We’re both of us very tired and, if you have no objection, we’re going to bed. Is that all right by you?”

“Sirs,” cried Kerrelin, “I beg that you will retire. When we shall go depends upon Herr Boler. Leave without him, I cannot. But I assure you that you shall not be disturbed.”

We thanked him and bade him good night.

As I shut our bedroom door—

“I’ve sown the seed,” said Mansel, “and we must hope for the best. Of naughty temper Friar knocked Boler out. Damned thin, I admit. But it may be good enough.”

“For Boler?” said I.

“Why not? The man’s a fool. He may suspect it was either you or I: but the evidence will be against him. Very strong evidence, William. He had been gone half an hour before we appeared. And Kerrelin is our friend. All the same, we mustn’t stay here. And now call Carson, will you?”

A moment later Carson entered the room, which lay directly above the servants’ hall.

“Carson, you will watch for one hour and then call Bell. When Bell has watched for one hour, he will come and call me. The general idea is not to be seen or heard: the special idea is to keep an eye on the Rolls. So stay by the door from the garage that leads to the hail. Of course if you should hear something you think would interest me…”

Carson smiled.

“Very good, sir.”

As Carson withdrew—

“You’ve three hours, William,” said Mansel, “so do your best.”

Less than five minutes later I was asleep.

The daylight was broad, when Mansel touched my arm.

“Nothing?” I said, sitting up.

“Nothing,” said Mansel. “Neither Friar nor Boler. Kerrelin must be cursing the latter’s guts. But he’s sent two search-parties out.”

“To me, the honour,” I said.

“Perhaps. But mind you wake me.”

Three quarters of an hour had gone by, when Boler emerged from the covert, supported by two stout policemen and looking more dead than alive.

Almost before I had touched him, Mansel was out of his bed.

“What is this?” cried Kerrelin. “I thought–”

“Damn your thoughts,” cried Boler. “I have been more than half murdered and you are to blame.”

“That I am not,” said the other. “You call in the sentries and then go off on your own. How can I be expected–”

“I never went off,” screamed Boler. “I was here, in the drive: then came a lightning pain and I knew no more. I awake in a cattle-pen; and, wandering forth, not knowing at all where I am, I encounter these two boobies… My God, shall you pay for this? My body was put in your charge: and by your negligence, I have been done to death’s door.” Here he let out a scream. “To move the eyes is fatal. My God, I will make you suffer for this night’s work.”

Kerrelin drew himself up.

“Herr Boler,” he said, “I protest. You send me off after Wessel, and when I return, you are gone. How shall I know what has happened? I have, to my great inconvenience, awaited you all through the night, and–”

“
Your
inconvenience?” raved Boler. “And what of my death? I have been murdered, I tell you. And only my will to live has enabled me to survive.”

“I regret,” said the other. “But it was not my fault. You sent me away; and Friar, who was lurking here, has vented his spleen upon you, because you had spiked his guns.”

“Friar?” howled Boler. “Show me the treacherous swine. I will tear his eyes from his head.”

“It can have been no other, for Mansel did not return for fifty minutes after you had been gone.”

“Was Chandos with him?”

“Yes. And the servants, as well.”

“Are they under arrest?”

“They are not,” said Kerrelin. “I saw no cause to arrest them. I see no cause now.”

“But they have the treasure, you booby. They must be clapped into prison and made to talk.”

“Herr Boler,” said Kerrelin, “I will give no such order. So far as I know, they have committed no crime.”

Before this blunt refusal to toe the line, the German abandoned the remnants of self-control. Shouting and stamping, he raved and cursed like a madman, now threatening with hideous dooms the Austrian police, now execrating Friar, and now, like some wilful infant, condemning the pain in his head. This indulgence of his emotion naturally made the pain worse, and he soon confined his reproaches to the agony, which, as he put it, dared to afflict an officer of the Reich. Had I not heard his words, I would not have believed that an adult could so debase the image in which he was made; for he addressed the pain as though it were some monster that understood what he said and actually argued with it, laughing to hideous scorn the justification which he pretended it lodged.

At last the tempest blew itself out, and Kerrelin told two men, one to bring a car to the courtyard and the other to escort Sloper to the foot of the drive.

“That is one of the gang,” cried Boler.

“Certainly,” said the other. “I would have pulled them in: but you have insisted that they should be left alone. Sloper walked into our arms, and I had no choice but to put him under arrest.”

“And the treacherous Friar?”

“We have sought high and low, but he is not to be seen. That is not surprising in country like this.”

“Yet it was he who would have done me to death. I shall not forget this, Kerrelin.”

Kerrelin shrugged his shoulders.

“I am tired,” he said. “If you are ready, I think that we should be gone.”

“You must leave two men here,” said the German, “to watch these English swine. Ere twenty-four hours have passed, I will produce to you proof which you cannot ignore. And then you will have to arrest them, my Austrian friend.”

“That is as may be. In any event, I cannot leave a man here. They are all worn out, as I am. What is the use of a guard that cannot stand up?”

“Very well. And if when we come back, they are gone, you may expect no mercy.”

Ignoring the threat, Kerrelin turned to Wessel.

“Are the others here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will go to the courtyard, and they to the foot of the drive. Are you ready, Herr Boler? By now the car should be there.”

Glowering, the German moved off in the wake of the plain-clothes men, and, after a glance at our window, Kerrelin brought up the rear.

“There goes a good man,” breathed Mansel “I’m sorry to have him on. And what did I say about moving?”

“I assume,” I said, “that he’s going to produce Diana.”

“That’s right,” said Mansel. “On her sworn deposition, Kerrelin’s bound to act. We slipped up there, William.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Friar, too – and Olivia Ferrers. One to the Boche, William. You can’t get away from that. Never mind. Let’s bathe and breakfast. I don’t think we need fade away until after lunch.”

Mansel had moved from the window, but I was still looking out, when Friar emerged from the covert and stood looking round.

“
Exeunt omnes
,” I said. “Enter Friar.”

“Go on,” said Mansel, turning.

“It’s like a play,” I said, laughing. “Of course he’s been listening in.”

Friar raised his voice.

“Captain Mansel.” Mansel moved to my side and, after a careful survey, put out his head. “Ah, there you are. I do hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all,” said Mansel. “What do you want?”

“I suppose some breakfast would be too much to ask.”

“Yes,” said Mansel, “it would.”

“Quite so. No doubt you were present at the conference lately held about here. Not to be seen, but present – as I was myself.”

“I heard what was said.”

“Good. Within thirty six hours from now, the hunt will be up. Our well-disposed Chief of Police will be forced to act. It seems a pity, you know, that all those incomparable gems should fall to the Boche.”

“I hope they won’t,” said Mansel.

“What can you do?” said Friar. “But I have ways and means. Even at this late hour, I can get them out of the country without any fuss. I will hand them to any agent you like to appoint. And all I should ask, is twenty per cent of the proceeds, when they are sold.”

“There’s nothing doing,” said Mansel.

“Quite sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Then, as sure as God lives, you’ll lose them.”