The gates of Camperdown Works gaped open, with the covered space for the Russian carriage accusingly empty. Peter Smith, the day watchman, stepped out to challenge their entry.
“Fetch Dr Lennox,” Watters ordered. “And be quick about it.” Although his concern for Duff had not diminished, his sense of duty was gnawing at him. He knew he would not rest until Anderson was safely locked in a cell.
“You’ve no authority over me!” Smith said until Watters snarled at him when he fled.
“In here, Scuddamore,” Watters guided them inside the watchman’s cottage and commandeered the desk and chair. “Sit down there, Duff!”
Weak from loss of blood, Duff sunk onto the chair, white-faced, and still protesting that he would be fine after a few moments’ rest.
“Where’s that blasted doctor?” Watters shouted
