Free The Return Of Bulldog Drummond by Sapper Page A

thinks is going to revolutionise the whole business.”
    “Indeed,” murmured Drummond. “Then we can only hope there are no more diversions of the sort that occurred tonight. It will have a most upsetting effect on his studies. By the way, you know it is your room, don’t you, that is reputed to be haunted?”
    “What: my bedroom!” she cried. “Is that really so?”
    “My host, Mr Jerningham, is quite positive about it,” he answered. “We didn’t see anything, I must admit, but perhaps your father and Mr Slingsby have an antagonistic aura for ghosts. Fortunately we did one good deed in shutting up a box of your cigarettes, which would otherwise have got dreadfully stale.”
    She stared at him thoughtfully.
    “Do you think it’s possible,” she remarked at length, “that the woman this man Morris said he saw was a spirit?”
    “My dear Comtessa,” said Drummond gravely, “I have reached the age when I never think anything is impossible. And there is no doubt that the amount of beer he had consumed might have rendered him prone to see things. However, those surely are the fairy footsteps of the police I hear on the drive. After we have talked to them, you must allow us to see you home.”
    It turned out to be a sergeant, who stood in the door with his helmet under his arm.
    “Mr Jerningham?” He looked round the group, and Jerningham nodded.
    “That’s me,” he said.
    “It was you that telephoned, sir, wasn’t it, about this murder at Glensham House? Well, sir, the Inspector has gone straight there, and he gave me orders to ask you to go round there at once and the other gentlemen that were with you.”
    “Of course,” cried Drummond. “We’ll all go. And you too, Comtessa.”
    “He didn’t say nothing about any lady, sir,” said the sergeant dubiously.
    “The Comtessa is living at Glensham House,” said Drummond. “Fortunately for her, she has been in Plymouth today, and lost her way in the fog coming back.”
    “Then that’s a different matter, sir,” answered the sergeant. “It’s much clearer now: we shan’t have any difficulty in getting there.”
    “Good,” said Drummond. “Let’s start.”
    The sergeant proved right: a few isolated stars were showing as they left the house. Pockets of mist still hung about the road, but they grew thinner and thinner each moment. And in a few minutes they could see the outline of Glensham House in front of them. There were lights showing in several of the downstair rooms, and finding the front door open, they walked straight in.
    An inspector, with a constable beside him, was seated at the table: opposite him were Hardcastle and Slingsby and a third man who was smoking a cigar.
    “Gee, honey,” cried Hardcastle, springing to his feet, “what under the sun are you doing here? I thought you were in Plymouth.”
    “I suddenly decided to come back, Dad,” she said, “and in the fog I went to this gentleman’s house by mistake. What is this awful thing I hear?”
    He patted her on the arm.
    “There, there,” he cried soothingly. “It’s just one of the most terrible things that’s ever happened. An escaped convict has murdered poor young Bob Marton.”
    “Are you the gentleman who telephoned?” asked the Inspector, rapping on the table for silence.
    “I telephoned from Merridale Hall,” said Jerningham.
    “I’ve explained that our instrument was disconnected,” said Hardcastle.
    “Please allow me, sir, to do the talking,” said the Inspector firmly. “Now, sir, would you be good enough to tell me exactly what happened? But before you begin, would you, sir” – he swung round in his chair and addressed Drummond – “be good enough to stop walking about?”
    “Sorry, old lad,” boomed Drummond, coming back into the centre of the room. “Carry on, Ted.”
    “One moment,” interrupted Hardcastle. “I’m sure you don’t want to ask my daughter anything, Inspector, and she must be tired. Go to bed, honey: go to