“What induced you to give the notes to him?” he snarled at length.
“He said he didn’t think it was safe for me to carry them about with me,” said the other mildly. “You see, I had received a threatening letter in the morning—a letter threatening my life …” He blinked apologetically.
So it was Lewisham’s letter that had done it, and the only ray of comfort in the situation lay in the fact that at any rate he’d killed Lewisham.
“Did you give him any special instructions?” he demanded.
“No—I don’t think so,” answered the Professor. “I think he said something about handing them over to the bank.”
Mr. Robinson rose and started to pace up and down the room. The blow was so staggering in its unexpectedness that his brain almost refused to work. That Drummond of all people should again have crossed his path was as far as his thoughts would go. The fact that Drummond was blissfully unaware that he had done so was beside the point; it seemed almost like the hand of Fate. And incredible though it may seem, for a short time he was conscious of a feeling of genuine superstitious fear.
But not for long. The prize, in this case, was too enormous for any weakness of that sort. If Captain Drummond had the notes, steps would have to be taken to make him give them up. The question was—what were those steps to be?
With an effort he concentrated on the problem. The thing must be done with every appearance of legality; it must be done naturally. From Drummond’s point of view, which was the important one to consider, the situation would be a simple one. He was in the possession of valuable papers belonging to a dead man—papers to which he had no right; but papers to which he—being the type of person he was—would continue to stick to if he had the faintest suspicion of foul play. And since he had seen the threatening letter, those suspicions must be latent in his mind already. To keep them latent and not arouse them was essential.
And the second and no less important part of the problem was to ensure that once the notes had left Drummond’s hands they should pass with a minimum of delay into his. The thought of anything happening to them or of someone else obtaining possession of them turned him cold all over.
He paused in his restless pacing up and down, and thoughtfully lit a cigar. His self-control was completely recovered; Mr. William Robinson was himself again. A hitch had occurred in an otherwise perfect plan—that was all. And hitches were made to be unhitched.
“What is the name of your lawyer?” he said quietly.
“Mr. Tootem of Tootem, Price & Tootem,” answered Professor Goodman in mild surprise. “Why do you want to know?”
“Never mind why. Now here’s a pen and some paper. Write as I dictate. And don’t let there be any mistake about the writing, my friend.
“ ‘Dear Drummond,
“ ‘I have been discussing things with my friend Scheidstrun this afternoon, and he agrees with you that it is better that I should not carry about the notes I gave you. So will you send them to Tootem, Price & Tootem.’ …
“What’s the address? Austin Friars. Well—put it in.
“ ‘They will keep them for me until the meeting of the Royal Society. And if, as Scheidstrun humorously says, I shall have blown myself up before then with my new blasting powder, it is my wish that he should be given the notes. He is immensely interested in my discovery, and I know of no one to whom I would sooner bequeath it. But that, my dear Drummond, is not likely to occur.
“Now sign your name.”
The Professor laid down his pen with a sigh.
“It is all very confusing,” he murmured. “And I do hope I’m not going to get blood poisoning where that nail in the packing-case ran into my leg.”
But Mr. Robinson evinced no interest in such an eventuality. He stood with the letter in his hand, pulling thoughtfully at his cigar, and striving to take into account every possible development which might arise. For perhaps a minute he remained motionless while Professor Goodman rubbed his injured limb; then he made a decisive little gesture oddly out of keeping with his benevolent appearance. His mind was made up; his plan was clear.
“Address an envelope,” he said curtly, “to Captain Drummond.”
He took the envelope and slipped the letter inside. There was no time to be lost; every moment was valuable.
“Now, Professor Goodman,” he remarked, “I want you to pay close attention to what I am going to say. The fact that you have not got the notes of your process constitutes a slight check in my plans. However, I am about to obtain those notes, and while I am doing so you will remain here. You will be well looked after, and well fed. A delightful bedroom will be placed at your disposal, and I believe, though I have not personally verified the fact, that there is a very good library below. Please make free use of it. But I must give you one word of warning. Should you make any attempt to escape, should you make the slightest endeavour even to communicate with the outside world you will be gagged and put in irons in a dark room.”
Professor Goodman’s hands shook uncontrollably; he looked what at the moment he was, a badly frightened old man.
“But, sir,” he quavered pitifully, “won’t you tell me where I am, and why all this is happening to me?”
“Finding the answer should give you some interesting mental recreation during my absence,” said Mr. Robinson suavely.
“And my poor wife,” moaned the unhappy man.
“The pangs of widowhood are hard to bear,” agreed
