“Take them or leave them.” So much had he said in effect, if not in actual words, and not one of his audience but was far too used to men and matters to have dreamed of suggesting any compromise. All or nothing: and no doctrine could have appealed more to the three men in whose hands lay the decision. …
“Perhaps, Count, you would be good enough to leave us for a few minutes.” Von Gratz was speaking. “The decision is a big one, and …”
“Why, certainly, gentlemen.” The Count moved towards the door. “I will return in ten minutes. By that time you will have decided—one way or the other.”
Once in the lounge he sat down and lit a cigarette. The hotel was deserted save for one fat woman asleep in a chair opposite, and the Count gave himself up to thought. Genius that he was in the reading of men’s minds, he felt that he knew the result of that ten minutes’ deliberation. … And then … What then? … In his imagination he saw his plans growing and spreading, his tentacles reaching into every corner of a great people—until, at last, everything was ready. He saw himself supreme in power, glutted with it—a king, an autocrat, who had only to lift his finger to plunge his kingdom into destruction and annihilation. … And when he had done it, and the country he hated was in ruins, then he would claim his million and enjoy it as a great man should enjoy a great reward. … Thus for the space of ten minutes did the Count see visions and dream dreams. That the force he proposed to tamper with was a dangerous force disturbed him not at all: he was a dangerous man. That his scheme would bring ruin, perhaps death, to thousands of innocent men and women, caused him no qualm: he was a supreme egoist. All that appealed to him was that he had seen the opportunity that existed, and that he had the nerve and the brain to turn that opportunity to his own advantage. Only the necessary money was lacking … and … With a quick movement he pulled out his watch. They had had their ten minutes … the matter was settled, the die was cast. …
He rose and walked across the lounge. At the swing doors was the head waiter, bowing obsequiously. …
It was to be hoped that the dinner had been to the liking of Monsieur le Comte … the wines all that he could wish … that he had been comfortable and would return again. …
“That is improbable.” The Count took out his pocketbook. “But one never knows; perhaps I shall.” He gave the waiter a note. “Let my bill be prepared at once, and given to me as I pass through the hall.”
Apparently without a care in the world the Count passed down the passage to his private room, while the head waiter regarded complacently the unusual appearance of an English five-pound note.
For an appreciable moment the Count paused by the door, and a faint smile came to his lips. Then he opened it, and passed into the room. …
The American was still chewing his toothpick; Steinemann was still breathing hard. Only von Gratz had changed his occupation, and he was sitting at the table smoking a long thin cigar. The Count closed the door, and walked over to the fireplace. …
“Well, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “what have you decided?”
It was the American who answered.
“It goes. With one amendment. The money is too big for three of us: there must be a fourth. That will be a quarter of a million each.”
The Count bowed.
“Have you any suggestions as to who the fourth should be?”
“Yep,” said the American shortly. “These two gentlemen agree with me that it should be another of my countrymen—so that we get equal numbers. The man we have decided on is coming to England in a few weeks—Hiram C. Potts. If you get him in, you can count us in too. If not, the deal’s off.”
The Count nodded, and if he felt any annoyance at this unexpected development he showed no sign of it on his face.
“I know of Mr. Potts,” he answered quietly. “Your big shipping man, isn’t he? I agree to your reservation.”
“Good,” said the American. “Let’s discuss some details.”
Without a trace of emotion on his face the Count drew up a chair to the table. It was only when he sat down that he started to play a tattoo on his knee with his left hand. …
Half an hour later he entered his luxurious suite of rooms at the Hôtel Magnificent.
A girl, who had been lying by the fire reading a French novel, looked up at the sound of the door. She did not speak, for the look on his face told her all she wanted to know.
He crossed to the sofa and smiled down at her.
“Successful … on our own terms. Tomorrow, Irma, the Comte de Guy dies, and Carl Peterson and his daughter leave for England. A country gentleman, I think, is Carl Peterson. He might keep hens, and possibly pigs.”
The girl on the sofa rose, yawning.
“Mon Dieu! what a prospect! Pigs and hens—and in England! How long is it going to take?”
The Count looked thoughtfully into the fire.
“Perhaps a year—perhaps six months … It is on the lap of the gods. …”
I
In Which He Takes Tea at the Carlton and Is Surprised
I
Captain Hugh Drummond, D.S.O., M.C., late of His Majesty’s Royal Loamshires, was whistling in his morning bath. Being by nature of a cheerful disposition, the symptom did not surprise his servant, late private of the same famous regiment, who was laying breakfast in an adjoining room.
After a while the whistling ceased, and the musical gurgle of escaping water announced that the concert was over. It was the signal for James Denny—the square-jawed ex-batman—to disappear into the back regions and get from his wife the kidneys and bacon which that most excellent
