Chapter 12
I
In those grey days there was one thought, of the many that
occupied my mind, which brought with it a certain measure of
consolation. It was the reflection that this state of affairs
could not last for ever. The school term was drawing to a close.
Soon I should be free from the propinquity which paralysed my
efforts to fight. I was resolved that the last day of term should
end for ever my connection with Sanstead House and all that was in
it. Mrs Ford must find some other minion. If her happiness
depended on the recovery of the Little Nugget, she must learn to
do without happiness, like the rest of the inhabitants of this
horrible world.
Meanwhile, however, I held myself to be still on duty. By what
tortuous processes of thought I had arrived at the conclusion I do
not know, but I considered myself responsible to Audrey for the
safeguarding of the Little Nugget, and no altered relations
between us could affect my position. Perhaps mixed up with this
attitude of mind, was the less altruistic wish to foil Smooth Sam.
His continued presence at the school was a challenge to me.
Sam's behaviour puzzled me. I do not know exactly what I expected
him to do, but I certainly did not expect him to do nothing. Yet
day followed day, and still he made no move. He was the very model
of a butler. But our dealings with one another in London had left
me vigilant, and his inaction did not disarm me. It sprang from
patience, not from any weakening of purpose or despair of success.
Sooner or later I knew he would act, swiftly and suddenly, with a
plan perfected in every detail.
But when he made his attack it was the very simplicity of his
methods that tricked me, and only pure chance defeated him.
I have said that it was the custom of the staff of masters at
Sanstead House School--in other words, of every male adult in the
house except Mr Fisher himself--to assemble in Mr Abney's study
after dinner of an evening to drink coffee. It was a ceremony,
like most of the ceremonies at an establishment such as a school,
where things are run on a schedule, which knew of no variation.
Sometimes Mr Abney would leave us immediately after the ceremony,
but he never omitted to take his part in it first.
On this particular evening, for the first time since the beginning
of the term, I was seized with a prejudice against coffee. I had
been sleeping badly for several nights, and I decided that
abstention from coffee might remedy this.
I waited, for form's sake, till Glossop and Mr Abney had filled
their cups, then went to my room, where I lay down in the dark to
wrestle with a more than usually pronounced fit of depression
which had descended upon me. Solitude and darkness struck me as
the suitable setting for my thoughts.
At this moment Smooth Sam Fisher had no place in my meditations.
My mind was not occupied with him at all. When, therefore, the
door, which had been ajar, began to open slowly, I did not become
instantly on the alert. Perhaps it was some sound, barely audible,
that aroused me from my torpor and set my blood tingling with
anticipation. Perhaps it was the way the door was opening. An
honest draught does not move a door furtively, in jerks.
I sat up noiseless, tense, and alert. And then, very quietly,
somebody entered the room.
There was only one person in Sanstead House who would enter a room
like that. I was amused. The impudence of the thing tickled me. It
seemed so foreign to Mr Fisher's usual cautious methods. This
strolling in and helping oneself was certainly kidnapping _de
luxe_. In the small hours I could have understood it; but at
nine o'clock at night, with Glossop, Mr Abney and myself awake and
liable to be met at any moment on the stairs, it was absurd. I
marvelled at Smooth Sam's effrontery.
I lay still. I imagined that, being in, he would switch on the
electric light. He did, and I greeted him pleasantly.
'And what can I do for _you_, Mr Fisher?'
For a man who had learned to control himself in difficult
situations he took the shock badly. He uttered a startled
exclamation and spun round, open-mouthed.
I could not help admiring the quickness with which he recovered
himself. Almost immediately he was the suave, chatty Sam Fisher
who had unbosomed his theories and dreams to me in the train to
London.
'I quit,' he said pleasantly. 'The episode is closed. I am a man
of peace, and I take it that you would not keep on lying quietly
on that bed while I went into the other room and abstracted our
young friend? Unless you have changed your mind again, would a
fifty-fifty offer tempt you?'
'Not an inch.'
'Just so. I merely asked.'
'And how about Mr Abney, in any case? Suppose we met him on the
stairs?'
'We should not meet him on the stairs,' said Sam confidently. 'You
did not take coffee tonight, I gather?'
'I didn't--no. Why?'
He jerked his head resignedly.
'Can you beat it! I ask you, young man, could I have foreseen
that, after drinking coffee every night regularly for two months,
you would pass it up tonight of all nights? You certainly are my
jinx, sonny. You have hung the Indian sign on me all right.'
His words had brought light to me.
'Did you drug the coffee?'
'Did I! I fixed it so that one sip would have an insomnia patient
in dreamland before he had time to say "Good night". That stuff
Rip Van Winkle drank had nothing on my coffee. And all wasted!
Well, well!'
He turned towards the door.
'Shall I leave the light on, or would you prefer it off?'
'On please. I might fall asleep in the dark.'
'Not you! And, if you did, you would dream that I was there, and
wake up. There are moments, young man, when you bring me pretty
near to quitting and taking to honest work.'
He paused.
'But not altogether. I have still a shot or two in my locker. We
shall see what we shall see. I am not dead yet. Wait!'
'I will, and some day, when I am walking along Piccadilly, a
passing automobile will splash me with mud. A heavily furred
plutocrat will stare haughtily at me from the tonneau, and with a
start of surprise I shall recognize--'
'Stranger things have happened. Be flip while you can, sonny. You
win so far, but this hoodoo of mine can't last for ever.'
He passed from the room with a certain sad dignity. A moment later
he reappeared.
'A thought strikes me,' he said. 'The fifty-fifty proposition does
not impress you. Would it make things easier if I were to offer my
cooperation for a mere quarter of the profit?'
'Not in the least.'
'It's a handsome offer.'
'Wonderfully. I'm afraid I'm not dealing on any terms.'
He left the room, only to return once more. His head appeared,
staring at me round the door, in a disembodied way, like the
Cheshire Cat.
'You won't say later on I didn't give you your chance?' he said
anxiously.
He vanished again, permanently this time. I heard his steps
passing down the stairs.
