“A real, genuine, blue-nosed automatic,” he said with modest pride.
“No. I say,” said Bill, “is it really?”
He was undoubtedly impressed.
“Stevens, my man, got him for me. Warranted clean and methodical in his habits. You press the button and Leopold does the rest.”
“Oh!” said Bill. “I say, Jimmy?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful, won’t you? I mean, don’t go loosing that thing off at anybody. Pretty awkward if you shot old Digby walking in his sleep.”
“That’s all right,” said Jimmy. “Naturally, I want to get value out of Leopold now I’ve bought him, but I’ll curb my bloodthirsty instincts as far as possible.”
“Well, night-night,” said Bill for the fourteenth time, and this time really did depart.
Jimmy was left alone to take up his vigil.
Sir Stanley Digby occupied a room at the extremity of the west wing. A bathroom adjoined it on one side, and on the other a communicating door led into a smaller room, which was tenanted by Mr. Terence O’Rourke. The doors of these three rooms gave on to a short corridor. The watcher had a simple task. A chair placed inconspicuously in the shadow of an oak press just where the corridor ran into the main gallery formed a perfect vantage ground. There was no other way into the west wing, and anyone going to or from it could not fail to be seen. One electric light was still on.