bandages round his hands held firm and at last he gave it up.
Even when he was lifted out and carried indoors he did not struggle; he seemed to have sunk into a sort of apathy. Drummond followed with dignified calmness, and was led into a room off the hall.
In a moment or two Peterson entered, followed by his daughter. "Ah! my young friend," cried Peterson affably. "I hardly thought you'd give me such an easy run as this." He put his hand into Drummond's pockets, and pulled out his revolver and a bundle of letters. "To your bank," he murmured. "Oh! surely, surely not that as well. Not even stamped. Ungag him, Irma—and untie his hands. My very dear young friend—you pain me."
"I wish to know, Mr. Peterson," said Hugh quietly, "by what right this dastardly outrage has been committed. A friend of mine, sick in bed—removed; abducted in the middle of the night: to say nothing of me."
With a gentle laugh Irma offered him a cigarette. "Mon Dieu!" she remarked, "but you are most gloriously ugly, my Hugh!" Drummond looked at her coldly, while Peterson, with a faint smile, opened the envelope in his hand. And, even as he pulled out the contents, he paused suddenly and the smile faded from his face. From the landing upstairs came a heavy crash, followed by a flood of the most appalling language.
"What the —— hell do you think you're doing, you flat-faced son of a Maltese goat? And where the —— am I, anyway?"
