For a moment I had a blessed thought that he was about to go for me, for I would have welcomed a scrap like nothing else on earth. There may have been a flicker of passion, but it was quickly suppressed. His eyes had become grave and reproachful.
“I have been kind to you,” he said, “and have treated you as a friend. This is my reward. The most charitable explanation is that your wits are unhinged. But you had better leave this house.”
“Not before you hear me out. I have something to propose, Mr. Medina. You have still a third hostage in your hands. We are perfectly aware of the syndicate you have been working with—the Barcelona nut business, and the Jacobite count, and your friend the Shropshire master-of-hounds. Scotland Yard has had its hand over the lot for months, and tonight the hand will be closed. That shop is shut for good. Now listen to me, for I have a proposal to make. You have the ambition of the devil, and have already made for yourself a great name. I will do nothing to smirch that name. I will swear a solemn oath to hold my tongue. I will go away from England, if you like. I will bury the memory of the past months, and my knowledge will never be used to put a spoke in your wheel. Also, since your syndicate is burst up, you will want money. Well, I will give you one hundred thousand pounds. And in return for my silence and my cash I ask you to restore to me David Warcliff, safe and sane. Sane, I say, for whatever you have made of the poor little chap you have got to unmake it.”
I had made up my mind about this offer as I came along in the taxi. It was a big sum, but I had more money than I needed, and Blenkiron, who had millions, would lend a hand.
His face showed no response, no interest, only the same stern melancholy regard.
“Poor devil!” he said. “You’re madder than I thought.”
My lassitude was disappearing, and I began to get angry.
“If you do not agree,” I said, “I will blacken your reputation throughout the civilised world. What use will England have for a kidnapper and a blackmailer and—a—a bogus magician?”
But as I spoke I knew that my threats were foolish. He smiled, a wise, pitying smile, which made me shiver with wrath.
“No, it is you who will appear as the blackmailer,” he said softly. “Consider. You are making the most outrageous charges. I don’t quite follow your meaning, but clearly they are outrageous—and what evidence have you to support them? Your own dreams. Who will believe you? I have had the good fortune to make many friends, and they are loyal friends.” There was a gentle regret in his voice. “Your story will be laughed to scorn. Of course people will be sorry for you, for you are popular in a way. They will say that a meritorious soldier, more notable perhaps for courage than for brains, has gone crazy, and they will comment on the long-drawn-out effects of the War. I must of course protect myself. If you blackguard me I will prosecute you for slander and get your mental condition examined.”
It was only too true. I had no evidence except my own word. I knew that it would be impossible to link up Medina with the doings of the syndicate—he was too clever for that. His blind mother would die on the rack before she spoke, and his tools could not give him away, because they were tools and knew nothing. The world would laugh at me if I opened my mouth. At that moment I think I had my first full realisation of Medina’s quality. Here was a man who had just learned that his pet schemes were shattered, who had had his vanity wounded to the quick by the revelation of how I had fooled him, and yet he could play what was left of the game with coolness and precision. I had struck the largest size of opponent.
“What about the hundred thousand pounds, then?” I asked. “That is my offer for David Warcliff.”
“You are very good,” he said mockingly. “I might feel insulted, if I did not know you were a lunatic.”
I sat there staring at the figure in the glow of the one lamp, which seemed to wax more formidable as I looked, and a thousandfold more sinister. I saw the hideous roundness of his head, the mercilessness of his eyes, so that I wondered how I had ever thought him handsome. But now that most of his game was spoiled he only seemed the greater, the more assured. Were there no gaps in his defences? He had kinks in him—witness the silly rhyme which had given me the first clue. … Was there no weakness in that panoply which I could use? Physical fear—physical pain—could anything be done with that?
I got to my feet with a blind notion of closing with him. He divined my intention, for he showed something in his hand which gleamed dully. “Take care,” he said. “I can defend myself against any maniac.”
“Put it away,” I said hopelessly. “You’re safe enough from me. My God, I hope that somewhere there is a hell.” I felt as feeble as a babe, and all the while the thought of the little boy was driving me mad.
Suddenly I saw Medina’s eyes look over my shoulder. Someone had come into the room, and I turned and found Kharáma.
He was in evening dress, wearing a turban, and in the dusk his dark malign face seemed an embodied sneer at my helplessness. I did not see how Medina took his arrival, for all at once something seemed to give in my head. For the Indian I felt now none of the awe which I had for the other, only a flaming,
