He had made up his mind to kill Peterson, but he wanted to do it in such a manner that it would appeal to his sense of art in afterlife. And with Drummond the sense of art was synonymous with the sense of fair play. He would give Peterson a fair chance to fight for his life. But in addition to that his ambition went a little farther. He felt that this culminating duel should be worthy of them both. The mental atmosphere must be correct, as well as the mundane surroundings. That that was largely beyond his control he realised, but he hoped for the best. The sudden plunging of Peterson from the dizzy heights of success into the valley of utter failure must not be a hurried affair, but a leisurely business in which each word would tell. How dizzy were the heights to which Peterson thought he had attained was, of course, known only to Peterson. But, on that point, he need not have worried.
For Mr. Edward Blackton, as he stepped out of the train at Montreux station at nine o’clock on a glorious summer’s evening, was in a condition in which even a request for one of his three remaining bottles of Napoleon brandy might have been acceded to. True, his right arm pained him somewhat; true, he was supremely unaware that at seven o’clock that morning Drummond had descended from the Orient Express on to the same platform. What he was aware of was that in his pocket reposed the secret which would make him all-powerful; and in his handbag reposed an English morning paper giving the eminently satisfactory news that only six survivors had been rescued from the S.Y. Gadfly, which had mysteriously blown up off the Needles. Moreover, all six had combined in saying that the temporary owner of the yacht—a Mr. Robinson—must be amongst those drowned.
The hotel bus drew up at the door of the Palace Hotel, and Mr. Blackton descended. He smiled a genial welcome at the manager, and strolled into the luxurious lounge. In the ballroom leading out of it a few couples were dancing, but his shrewd glance at once found whom he was looking for. In a corner sat Irma talking to a young Romanian of great wealth, and a benevolent glow spread over him. No more would the dear child have to do these fatiguing things from necessity. If she chose to continue parting men from their money as a hobby it would be quite a different thing. There is a vast difference between pleasure and business.
He sauntered across the lounge towards her, and realised at once that there was something of importance she wished to say to him. For a minute or two, however, they remained there chatting; then with a courteous good night they left the Romanian and ascended in the lift to their suite.
“What is it, my dearest?” he remarked, as he shut the sitting-room door.
“That man Blantyre is here, Ted,” said the girl. “He’s been asking to see you.”
He sat down and pulled her on to his knee.
“Blantyre,” he laughed. “Sir Raymond! I thought it possible he might come. And is he very angry?”
“When he saw me he was nearly speechless with rage.”
“Dear fellow! It must have been a dreadful shock to him.”
“But, Ted,” she cried anxiously, “is it all right?”
“Righter even than that, carissima. Blantyre simply doesn’t come into the picture. All I trust is that he won’t have a fit in the room or anything, because I think that Sir Raymond in a fit would be a disquieting spectacle.”
There was a knock at the door, and the girl got quickly up.
“Come in.”
Mr. Blackton regarded the infuriated man who entered with a tolerant smile.
“Sir Raymond Blantyre; surely. A delightful surprise. Please shut the door, and tell us to what we are indebted for the pleasure of this visit.”
The President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate advanced slowly across the room. His usually florid face was white with rage, and his voice, when he spoke, shook uncontrollably.
“You scoundrel—you infernal, damned scoundrel!”
Mr. Blackton thoughtfully lit a cigar; then, leaning back in his chair, he surveyed his visitor benignly.
“Tush, tush!” he murmured. “I must beg of you to remember that there is a lady present.”
Sir Raymond muttered something under his breath; then, controlling himself with an effort, he sat down.
“I presume it is unnecessary for me to explain why I am here,” he remarked at length.
“I had imagined through a desire to broaden our comparatively slight acquaintance into something deeper and more intimate,” said Mr. Blackton hopefully.
“Quit this fooling,” snarled the other. “Do you deny that you have the papers containing Goodman’s process?”
“I never deny anything till I’m asked, and not always then.”
“Have you got them, or have you not?” cried Sir Raymond furiously.
“Now I put it to you, my dear fellow, am I a fool or am I not?” Mr. Blackton seemed almost pained. “Of course I have the papers of the process. What on earth do you suppose I put myself to the trouble and inconvenience of coming over to England for? Moreover, if it is of any interest to you, the notes are no longer in the somewhat difficult caligraphy of our lamented Professor, but in my own perfectly legible writing.”
“You scoundrel!” spluttered Sir Raymond. “You took our money—half a million pounds—on the clear understanding that the process was to be suppressed.”
Mr. Blackton blew out a large cloud of smoke.
“The point is a small one,” he murmured, “but that is not my recollection of what transpired. You and your syndicate
