Tom Tiddler's Island, стр. 62
“I’ll see to it,” Colin assured him.
He followed Northfleet into the hall and, leaving him, went upstairs. Evidently Hazel was on the look-out, for his first signal was answered immediately. He gave her a summary of the truce conditions; and from her reply he gathered how great a relief the girls felt at the news. He sent a further encouraging message and then bade them good night.
As he came downstairs again, it occurred to him that Beeston must be uncomfortable at his isolated post. Good-naturedly, Colin decided to look him up. As he stood on the doorstep, he glanced up at the sky.
“Going to last for a while yet,” was his judgment of the gale.
First the ram and then the wind,
Halliards, gaffs, and topsails mind . . .
Seems to be working out all right, this shot.” He walked cautiously down to the gate, picking his steps to avoid stumbling over the trip-wires. When he came near the entrance to the garden, he thought it well to give Beeston a hail. There was no answer. When Colin reached Beeston’s post the assistant was gone.
“Another rat left the ship,” was Colin’s angry comment. “Hope the omen’s wrong this shot. Wonder where the beggar’s gone.”
He called into the dark, but there was no reply.
“Well, he was no great catch at the best,” Colin consoled himself.
He established himself in Beeston’s stead, merely for the sake of feeling that he was doing something definite. He had no desire for Leven’s society at any price. Leven was as repulsive to him as the gunmen themselves. Leading the life he had led—Colin remembered Northfleet’s hints on that subject—Leven probably thought less of women’s honour than most people. But to throw his niece to the wolves as he had proposed to do—— “A bit thick,” was Colin’s rather inadequate digest of his own views.
He had not been very long at his post when Northfleet returned, empty-handed, so far as Colin could see. He received the news of Beeston’s defection without comment.
“Not much use bothering about the gate, now we’re down to three,” he decided. “If they come at all, we’ll be scuppered anyhow. You’d better come inside now. I’ll need some help in this job.”
They re-entered Heather Lodge and stripped off their dripping Burberrys in the hall. Leven was still in the sitting-room, hunched in his favourite posture at the hearth.
“I want some tools,” said Northfleet curtly. “Files, metal-cutting saws, and a pick, if you have one amongst your garden stuff. Or, if you haven’t it, a hammer and a cold chisel will do at a pinch.”
Leven had evidently accepted Northfleet’s leadership. He made no protest against being given orders, but went off at once to fetch the requisites. When he had left the room, Northfleet pulled from his pocket the gold ingot which Colin had given to him and winch he had gone to fetch from the shieling. He studied it for a moment or two before speaking.
“That man makes my gorge rise,” he said bitterly.
“Mine, too,” Colin concurred. “But, I say, what are your plans? Didn’t quite catch on, I admit, when you were telling them all these lies——”
“Lies?” Northfleet interrupted sharply. “I told no lies. I gave ’em the literal truth. What would be the point in telling lies when the truth will serve? I promised ’em gold, didn’t I? Well, there it is.”
He held out the golden ingot.
“You promised ’em a bit more than that,” Colin protested. “By the way you talked, I thought you must have discovered a new Rand on Ruffa.”
“I promised them precisely what they’ll get,” said Northfleet with perfect seriousness. “No, I haven’t time to explain it just now. We’re in for a busy time, I promise you. Here’s that swine coming back.”
He re-pocketed the gold brick as Leven entered, carrying the tools.
“Now I want to see your lab., and the way down to your cellar,” Northfleet informed his involuntary host. “After that, you’d better go upstairs and get some sleep. Trent and I are standing watch for a while. We’ll rouse yon when your turn cornea.”
As soon as Leven had gone upstairs, Northfleet led the way to the laboratory. A brief search unearthed some eighty-ounce stoppered bottles, which the chemist placed on one of the benches. Colin read the labels as they came to hand: HYDROCHLORIC ACID (Concentrated); NITRIC ACID (Concentrated); AMMONIA (Sp. Gr. 0,880). Colin’s knowledge of chemistry was elementary, but he had sufficient to tell him that none of these reagents contained any trace of gold. A mixture of nitric and hydrochloric acids formed the aqua regia of the alchemists, that king-solvent which attacked even the noble metals. And, of course, ammonia neutralised acids. Colin, staring incuriously at a muffle furnace, did not find these facts very suggestive.
“Zelensky seems to have run true to form, from what you told me about his earlier career,” he commented, as Northfleet rummaged in cupboards in search of large porcelain evaporating dishes.
“Yes. I expected something of the sort as soon as the deputation gave away the show about gold-making. Neither Zelensky nor Natorp knew what was really going on; but they were quick enough to pick up the hint when it was put in front of them. And once they saw which side of the bread the butter was on, they ratted without hesitation. It was bound to happen as soon as they had a talk with the gunmen. There was no way of