Read The Return Of Bulldog Drummond for Free Online Page B

said, scratching his head in a bewildered way. “But I don’t quite–”
    “Listen,” she interrupted imperiously. “I have told you that they hanged my son, and I have sworn to be revenged on them. Then perhaps the curse may be lifted.”
    He stared at her, and for the first time noticed that she was carrying a suit of clothes over her arm.
    “And for that reason, Morris, I have brought you these.”
    She laid the clothes on a chair.
    “I am going to help you to escape so that I can revenge myself on those who hanged my son. They are my son’s clothes, which I have kept against such a day as this. When I leave you, you will put them on. In the pockets you will find money, and cigarettes. Leave your own clothes on the floor here: I will dispose of them tomorrow. Do not thank me.” She held up her hand to stop him. “I do this not for you, but for my son: so that the curse may be lifted. One thing, and one thing only, do I say to you: as you value your life, and more than your life, do not go upstairs. For when the fog is on Dartmoor, there is death in this house.”
    The convict stared at her fearfully and the hair on the back of his scalp began to tingle and prick. Her eyes seemed to be glowing more than ever: her right arm was outstretched, with finger pointing directly at him. And even as he watched her she appeared to recede through the doorway: a moment later he was alone. The door was shut: the candle still flickered on the table, but of his mysterious visitor no trace remained save the clothes lying on the chair.
    “Barmy,” he muttered to himself. “Clean barmy. But, strewth, the old gal guessed right.”
    His nerves were still on edge, and the sound of his own voice comforted him.
    “Suppose them ruddy clothes are real,” he went on. “Not ghost clothes, are they, like everything else in this blinking spookery?”
    He crossed to the chair and picked them up: no ghost about them. He ran his fingers eagerly through the pockets: notes, silver, cigarettes were all there.
    “Lumme!” he chuckled, “’ere’s luck to the old geyser. May ’er curse be lifted. But if ever I sees ’er again, I’ll ask ’er to wear glasses. Luva-duck, them eyes of ’ers were ’orrid.”
    He lit a cigarette, and blew out a cloud of smoke luxuriously. Then he poured out the beer, and bringing the other four bottles he ranged them on the table.
    “If the meal was for me,” he announced, “I’ll show the old gal that I appreciates it.”
    He finished his cigarette, and then began to change his clothes. His convict rig he threw into the cupboard, and to his joyful amazement he found that the others fitted passably well. A little tight round the shoulders, and a little long in the legs, but not too bad, he considered, as he toasted his reflection in the mirror. The hat was a bit small, which was a pity, but by ripping out the lining he could just get it on.
    Anyway, what was a hat? He had already counted the money – fifteen pounds odd: he would buy another at the first opportunity. And having by that time lowered the third bottle of beer, he decided that it was time he made some plans. Here he was with clothes and money, full of good food and good drink – in fact, in a position that would have seemed impossible half an hour ago – but he was not out of the wood by any manner of means yet. He poured out the fourth bottle, and began to think.
    Presumably he could wait there till the morning if he wished to – the beer had produced a certain contempt for such trifles as spooks. And if he went now he would undoubtedly again lose his way in the fog. Of course daylight was dangerous: he knew that his description would have been circulated everywhere. But even if he went now, daylight would still come, and he would have the intense discomfort of wandering about in the fog all the night.
    And then another idea struck him which was so wonderful that he promptly broached the fifth bottle. Why should he go at all – at any