“Well, well,” said the apparition, stretching out his legs comfortably, “this is undoubtedly a moment fraught with emotion and, I trust I may say, tender memories.” He bowed to the girl, who, with her hands locked together, was staring at him with unfathomable eyes. “Before proceeding, may I ask the correct method of addressing you? I like to pander to your foibles, Carl, in any way I can, and I gather that neither Mr. Robinson nor Professor Scheidstrun is technically accurate at the moment.”
“How did you get here?” said Blackton in a voice he hardly recognised as his own.
“By the Orient Express this morning,” returned Drummond, emerging languidly from the cupboard.
“My God! you’re not human.”
The words seemed to be wrung from Blackton by a force greater than his own, and Drummond looked at him thoughtfully. There was no doubt about it—Peterson’s nerve had gone. And Drummond would indeed not have been human if a very real thrill of triumph had not run through him at that moment. But no trace showed on his face as he opened his cigarette-case.
“On the contrary—very human indeed,” he murmured. “Even as you, Carl—you’ll excuse me if I return to our original nomenclature: it’s so much less confusing. To err is human—and you erred once. It’s bad luck, because I may frankly say that in all the pleasant rencontres we’ve had together nothing has filled me with such profound admiration for your ability as this meeting. There are one or two details lacking in my mind—one in particular; but on what I do know, I congratulate you. And possessing, as I think you must admit, a sense of sportsmanship, I feel almost sorry for that one big error of yours, though it is a delightful compliment to my histrionic abilities. How’s Freyder’s face?”
“So you hadn’t got concussion?” said the other. His voice was steadier now; he was thinking desperately.
“You’ve hit it, Carl. I recovered from my concussion on the floor of your room, and listened with interest to your plans for my future. And having a certain natural gift for lying doggo, I utilised it. But if it’s any gratification to you, I can assure you that I very nearly gave myself away when I found who it was you had upstairs. You will doubtless be glad to hear that by this time Professor Goodman is restored to the bosom of his family.”
A strangled noise came from behind him, and he turned round to find Sir Raymond Blantyre in a partially choking condition.
“Who did you say?” he demanded thickly.
“Professor Goodman,” repeated Drummond, and his voice was icy. “I haven’t got much to say to you, Sir Raymond—except that you’re a nasty piece of work. Few things in my life have afforded me so much pleasure as the fact that you were swindled out of half a million. I wish it had been more. For the man who carried this coup through one can feel a certain unwilling admiration; for you, one can feel only the most unmitigated contempt.”
“How dare you speak like that!” spluttered the other, but Drummond was taking no further notice of him.
“That was your second error, Carl. You ought to have come into the motorboat. I assure you I had a dreadful time dragging that poor old chap underneath it, as you crossed our stern. His knowledge of swimming is rudimentary.”
“So that was it, was it?” said Blackton slowly. His nerve had completely recovered, and he lit a cigar with ease. “I really think it is for me to congratulate you, my dear Drummond. Apart, however, from this exchange of pleasantries—er—what do we do now?”
“You say that Professor Goodman is still alive?” Sir Raymond had found his voice again. “Then who—who was buried?”
“Precisely,” murmured Drummond. “The one detail in particular in which I am interested. Who was the owner of the boot? Or shall I say who was the owner of the foot inside the boot, because the boot was undoubtedly the Professor’s?”
“The point seems to me to be of but academic interest,” remarked Mr. Blackton in a bored voice. “Nil nisi bonum—you know the old tag. And I can assure you that the foot’s proprietor was tedious individual. No loss to the community whatever.”
And suddenly a light dawned on Sir Raymond Blantyre.
“Great heavens! it was poor Lewisham.”
Absorbed as he had been by other things, the strange disappearance of his indiscreet fellow-director, the peculiar radiogram from mid-Atlantic and subsequent silence, had slipped from his mind. Now it came back, and he stared at Blackton with a sort of fascinated horror. The reason for Lewisham’s visit to Professor Goodman was clear, and he shuddered uncontrollably.
“It was Lewisham,” he repeated dully.
“I rather believe it was,” murmured Blackton, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “As I said before, the point is of but academic interest.” He turned again to Drummond. “So Professor Goodman is restored to his family once more. I trust he has suffered no ill-effects from his prolonged immersion.”
“None at all, thank you,” answered Drummond. “Somewhat naturally, he is angry. In fact, for a mild and gentle old man, he is in what might be described as the devil of a temper.”
“But if he’s back in London,” broke in Sir Raymond excitedly, “what about his secret? It will be given to the world, and all this will have been in vain.”
Mr. Blackton thoughtfully studied the ash on his cigar, while Drummond stared at the speaker. And then for one fleeting instant their eyes met. Sworn enemies though they were, for that brief moment they stood on common ground—unmitigated contempt for the man who had just spoken.
“From many points of view, Sir Raymond, I wish it could be given to the world,” said Drummond. “I can think of no better punishment for you, or one more richly deserved. Unfortunately, however, you can set your mind at rest on that point. Professor Goodman no longer possesses his notes on
