“Precisely,” murmured Mr. Blackton. “It struck me that one copy was ample. So I destroyed his.”
“But for all that,” continued Drummond, noting the look of relief that spread over Sir Raymond’s face, “I don’t think you’re going to have a fearfully jolly time when you return to London. In fact, if I may offer you a word of advice, I wouldn’t return at all.”
“What do you mean?” stammered the other.
“Exactly what I say, you damned swine,” snapped Drummond. “Do you imagine you can instigate murder and sudden death, and then go trotting into the Berkeley as if nothing had happened? You’re for it, Blantyre; you’re for it—good and strong. And you’re going to get it. As I say, the Professor is angry and he’s obstinate—and he wants your blood. My own impression is that if you get off with fifteen years, you can think yourself lucky.”
Sir Raymond plucked at his collar feverishly.
“Fifteen years! My God!” Then his voice rose to a scream. “But it was this villain who did it all, I tell you, who murdered Lewisham, who …”
With a crash he fell back in the chair where Drummond had thrown him, and though his shaking lips still framed words, no sound came from them. Blackton was still critically regarding the ash on his cigar; Drummond had turned his back and was speaking again.
“Yes, Carl,” he was saying, “the Professor and I will deal with Sir Raymond. Or if anything should happen to me, then the Professor is quite capable of doing it himself.”
“And what do you anticipate should happen to you?” asked Blackton politely.
“Nothing, I trust. But there is one thing which I have never done in the past during all our games of fun and laughter. I have never made the mistake of underrating you.”
Blackton glanced at him thoughtfully.
“We appear,” he murmured, “to be approaching the sixpence in the plum-pudding.”
“We are,” returned Drummond quietly. “Sir Raymond is the Professor’s portion; you are mine.”
A silence settled on the room—a silence broken at length by Blackton. His blue eyes never left Drummond’s face; the smoke from his cigar rose into the air undisturbed by any tremor of his hand.
“I am all attention,” he remarked.
“There is not much to say,” said Drummond. “But what there is, I hope may interest you. If my memory serves me aright, there was one unfailing jest between us in the old days. Henry Lakington did his best to make it stale before he met with his sad end; that unpleasant Count Zadowa let it trip from his tongue on occasions; in fact, Carl, you yourself have used it more than once. I allude to the determination expressed by you all at one time or another to kill me.”
Blackton nodded thoughtfully.
“Now you speak of it, I do recall something of the sort.”
“Good,” continued Drummond. “And since no one could call me grudging in praise, I will admit that you made several exceedingly creditable attempts. This time, however, the boot is on the other leg: it’s my turn to say—snap. In other words, I am going to kill you, Carl. At least, lest I should seem to boast, I’m going to have a damned good attempt—one that I trust will be even more creditable than yours.”
Once again a silence settled, broken this time by an amused laugh from the girl.
“Adorable as ever, my Hugh,” she murmured. “And where shall I send the wreath?”
“Mademoiselle,” answered Drummond gravely, “I propose to be far more original than that. To do your—er—father—well, we won’t press that point—to do Carl justice, his attempts were most original. You were not, of course, present on the evening at Maybrick Hall, when that exceedingly unpleasant Russian came to an untimely end. But for the arrival of the Black Gang, I fear that I should have been the victim—and Phyllis. However, let me assure you that I have no intention whatever of doing you any harm. But I should like you to listen—even as Phyllis had to listen—while I outline my proposals. Carl ran over his that night for my benefit, and I feel sure he would have fallen in with any proposals I had to make. Similarly, believe me, I shall be only too charmed to do the same for him.”
Sir Raymond Blantyre sat up and pinched himself. Was this some strange jest staged for his special benefit? Was this large young man who spoke with a twinkle in his eyes the jester? And glancing at the two men, he saw that there was no longer any twinkle, and that Blackton’s face had become strangely drawn and anxious. But his voice when he spoke was calm.
“We appear to be in for an entertaining chat,” he murmured.
“I hope you will find it so,” returned Drummond gravely. “But before we come to my actual proposal, I would like you to understand quite clearly what will happen if you refuse to fall in with it. Outside in the passage, Carl, are two large, stolid Swiss gendarmes: men of sterling worth, and quite unbribable. They don’t know why they are there at present; but it will not take long to enlighten them. Should you decide, therefore, to decline my suggestion, I shall be under the painful necessity of requesting them to step in here, when I will inform them of just so much of your past history as to ensure your sleeping for the next few nights in rather less comfortable quarters. Until, in fact, extradition papers arrive from England. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” answered the other. “That will occur if I do not fall in with your suggestion. So let us hear the suggestion.”
“It took a bit of thinking out,” admitted Drummond. “I haven’t got your fertile brain, Carl, over these little matters. Still; I flatter myself it’s not bad for a first attempt. I realised somewhat naturally the drawbacks to shooting you on sight—besides, it’s so bad for the carpet. At the same time I have come to the unalterable conclusion that the world is not
