It was a gay little party that assembled at the Great South Central Hotel. May Sandford had invited a girl friend, and Mr. Sandford had brought back the junior partner of one of the City houses he did business with.
Black was late and did not arrive till a quarter of an hour after the time settled for dinner. Sandford had given orders for the meal to be served when the colonel came in.
“Sit down, Black,” said Sandford. There was a chair between the ironmaster and his daughter, and into this he dropped.
His hand shook as he took up the spoon to his soup.
He put the spoon down again and unfolded his serviette. A letter dropped out. He knew those grey envelopes now, and crushed the letter into his pocket without attempting to read it.
“Busy man, Black, eh?” smiled Sandford. He was a florid, hearty man with a wisp of white whisker on either side of his rubicund face, and in his pleasant moments he was a very lovable man. “You ought to be grateful I did not agree to the amalgamations—you would have been worked to death.”
“Yes,” said the colonel shortly. He stuck out his jaw—a trick he had when he was perturbed.
“In a way,” bantered the elder man, “you’re an admirable chap. If you were a little more reasonable you would be more successful.”
“Wouldn’t you call me successful?”
Sandford pouted thoughtfully.
“Yes and no,” he said. “You are not altogether successful. You see, you have achieved what you would call success too easily.”
Colonel Black did not pursue the subject, nor did he encourage the other to go any further. He needed opportunity. For a time he had to sit patiently, joining in, with such scraps of speech as he could muster, the conversation that rippled about him.
At his left hand were the girl’s wineglasses. She refused the lighter wines and drew forth a laughing protest from her father.
“Dearie, on your birthday—you must sip some champagne!”
“Champagne, then!” she said gaily. She was happy for many reasons, but principally because—well, just because.
That was the opportunity.
Absentmindedly he drew her glass nearer, then he found the bottle in his pocket. With one hand he removed the cork and spilt half the contents of the phial on to his serviette. He re-corked the bottle and slipped it into his pocket. He took the glass on to his lap. Twice he wiped the edge of it with the damp napkin. He replaced the glass unnoticed.
Now it was done he felt better. He leant back in his chair, his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets. It was an inelegant attitude, but he derived a sense of comfort.
“Black, wake up, my dear fellow!” Sandford was talking to him, and he roused himself with a start. “My friend here was rude enough to comment on your hair.”
“Eh?” Black put up his hand to his head.
“Oh, it’s all right and it isn’t disarranged—but how long has it been white?”
“White?”
He had heard of such things and was mildly interested.
“White? Oh—er—quite a time.”
He did not further the discussion. The waiters were filling the glasses. He looked across to Sandford. How happy, how self-sufficient he was. He intercepted the tender little looks that passed between father and daughter. There was perfect sympathy between the two. It was a pity that in a minute or so one should be dead and the other broken. She so full of life, so splendid of shape, so fresh and lovely. He turned his head and looked at her. Curious, very curious, how frail a thing is life, that a milligram of a colourless fluid should be sufficient to snap the cord that binds soul to body.
The waiter filled the glasses—first the girl’s, then his.
He raised his own with unconcern and drank it off.
The girl did not touch hers. She was talking to the man on her left. Black could see only the rounded cheek and one white shoulder.
He waited impatiently.
Sandford tried to bring him into the conversation, but he refused to be drawn. He was content to listen, he said. To listen, to watch and to wait. He saw the slim white fingers close round the stem of the glass, saw her half raise it, still looking towards her partner.
Black pushed his chair a little to one side as the glass reached her lips. She drank, not much, but enough.
The colonel held his breath. She replaced the glass, still talking with the man on her left.
Black counted the slow seconds. He counted sixty—a hundred, oblivious to the fact that Sandford was talking to him.
The drug had failed!
“Are you ill, colonel?”
Everybody was staring at him.
“Ill?” he repeated hoarsely. “No, I am not ill—why should I be ill?”
“Open one of those windows, waiter.”
A blast of cold air struck him and he shivered.
He left the table hurriedly and went blundering blindly from the room. There was an end to it all.
In the corridor of the hotel he came in his haste into collision with a man. It was the man who had called upon him some time before.
“Excuse me,” said the man, catching his arm. “Colonel Black, I believe.”
“Stand out of my way.”
Black spat out the words savagely.
“I am Detective-Sergeant Kay from Scotland Yard, and shall take you into custody.”
At the first hint of danger the colonel drew back. Suddenly his fist shot out and caught the officer under the jaw. It was a terrific blow and the detective was unprepared. He went down like a log.
The corridor was empty. Leaving the man upon the floor, the fugitive sped into the lobby. He was hatless, but he shaded his face and passed through the throng in the vestibule into the open air. He signalled a taxi.
“Waterloo, and I will give you a pound if you catch my train.”
He was speeding down the Strand in less than a minute. He changed his instructions before the station was reached.
“I have lost the train—drop me at the corner of Eaton Square.”
At Eaton Square he paid the
