Not that he had the remotest intention of giving up the scheme—that was not Mr. Blackton’s way at all. A further priceless idea had come to him since the interview at Montreux, which would render this coup even more wonderful than he had at first thought. Not only would he amass a large store of diamonds himself, but after that had been done and any further necessity for the continued existence of Professor Goodman had ceased, he would still have the secret of the process in his possession. And this secret he proposed to sell for a price considerably in excess of the two hundred and fifty thousand pounds offered to its original discoverer. After which he would decide what to do with the copy he had kept.
In fact Mr. Blackton fully realised that, in the hands of a master-expert like himself, the affair presented promises of such boundless wealth that at times it almost staggered even him. And now, at the last moment, this new factor had been introduced into the situation which might possibly jeopardise his whole carefully-thought-out scheme. And the problem was to turn it to the best advantage.
“I don’t care,” Mr. Lewisham was saying obstinately to the little group of men who were standing round him. “I don’t care if that letter of mine does stop it all. I’d sooner be ruined than go through the rest of my life feeling that I was a murderer.”
“Mr. Lewisham seems a little excited,” said Blackton suavely. “Who, may I ask, has said anything about murder?”
They fell silent, and stared at him.
“When Sir Raymond Blantyre came to me in Montreux, his request to me was to prevent the publication of this secret process of Professor Goodman’s. I stated that I would. I stated that the Professor would not give his lecture before the Royal Society. I believe that the word ‘murder’ occurred in the conversation”—he gave a somewhat pained smile—“but do you really imagine, gentlemen, that my methods are as crude as that?”
He carefully lit a cigar, while his audience waited breathlessly for him to continue.
“Since I find, however, that this gentleman has been so incredibly foolish and has lost his head so pitiably, I regret to state that in all probability I shall have to wash my hands of the entire business.”
Cries of anger and dismay greeted this announcement, though the anger was entirely directed against the author of the letter.
“But, really—” stammered Mr. Lewisham, plucking nervously at his collar.
“You have behaved like an hysterical schoolgirl, sir,” snapped Blackton. “You have jeopardised the success of my entire plan, and apart altogether from the sending of this letter you have shown yourself to be totally unfitted to be mixed up in an affair of this description. Even if the police did treat it as a stupid hoax—even, in fact, if we were able to prevent the letter being shown to the police at all—you are still totally unfit to be trusted. You would probably proclaim your sin through a megaphone in Trafalgar Square, taking special care to incriminate all these other gentlemen. And so I think, since you have decided to act on your own initiative in this way, you had better undertake the affair yourself.”
He rose as if to leave, only to be, at once, surrounded by the other members of the syndicate, imploring him to reconsider his decision. And at length Mr. Blackton allowed himself to be persuaded to resume his chair. His indifference was sublime; to all outward intents and purposes he was utterly bored with the whole proceedings.
“Really, Mr. Blackton—I implore of you, we all implore of you, not to desert us like this.” Sir Raymond’s eyeglass was dreadfully agitated. “Can nothing be done to counteract Mr. Lewisham’s inconceivable stupidity?”
Mr. Blackton affected to consider the point. Not for him to say that he had already decided exactly what was going to be done; not for him to say that the sole object of his recent remarks had been to produce the exact atmosphere that now existed—an atmosphere of combined antagonism to Lewisham, and an uncomfortable feeling on the part of that unfortunate man that he really had made a fool of himself. And certainly not for him to say what he had decided was a meet and fit punishment for Mr. Lewisham.
He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“Since Mr. Lewisham has caused all this trouble,” he said carelessly, “it is up to Mr. Lewisham to endeavour to rectify it.”
A chorus of approval greeted the remark, and Lewisham leaned forward a little in his chair.
“I suggest therefore that this afternoon he should pay a visit to Professor Goodman, and find out what has happened to his letter. Should it have been handed over to the police, he must endeavour to convince the Professor that it was a stupid practical joke on his part, and persuade the Professor to ring up Scotland Yard and explain things. There will be no need for Mr. Lewisham’s name to be mentioned, if he handles the Professor tactfully. On the other hand, if the note has not been handed over to the police, Mr. Lewisham must endeavour to regain possession of it. And according to Mr. Lewisham’s report, I will decide whether I can continue in this matter or not.”
“That is tantamount to an avowal that the letter was sent by a member of our syndicate,” said Sir Raymond doubtfully. “You don’t think that perhaps it might be advisable to say that he had just discovered that some clerk had played a foolish practical joke.”
“The point seems really immaterial,” returned Mr. Blackton indifferently. “But if Mr. Lewisham prefers to say that, by all means let him do so.”
“You will go, of course, Lewisham,” said Sir Raymond, and the other nodded.
“I will go and see what I can
