The seconds dragged by and Blackton stared in front of him. Plan after plan flashed through his mind, only to be dismissed as impossible. He was caught—and he knew it. Once the police had him, he was done for utterly and completely. They could hang him ten times over in England alone. Moreover, anything in the nature of personal violence under present circumstances was out of the question. Powerful though he was, at no time was he a match for Drummond in the matter of physical strength; but here in the Palace Hotel it was too impossible even to think of. Almost as impossible as any idea of bribery.
He was caught: not only had this, his greatest coup, failed, but his life was forfeit as well. For he was under no delusions as to what would be the result of the fight on the glacier.
He heard the snap of a watch closing.
“Your half-minute is up, Peterson.” Drummond’s hand was on the door. “And I must say—I thought better of you.”
“Stop,” said the other sullenly. “I accept.”
Drummond came back into the room slowly.
“That is good,” he remarked. “Then—first of all—the notes of Professor Goodman’s process.”
Without a word Blackton handed over two sheets of paper, though in his eyes was a look of smouldering fury.
“You fool!” he snarled, as he watched them burn to ashes. “You damned fool!”
“Opinions differ,” murmured Drummond, powdering the ash on the table. “And now to discuss arrangements. We start early tomorrow morning by car. I have been to some pains to examine the timetable—I mention this in case you should try to bolt. There is nothing that will do you any good either in the Lausanne direction or towards Italy. Behind you have the mountain railways, which don’t run trains at night; in front you have the lake. Below two very good friends of mine are waiting to assist if necessary—though I can promise you they will take no part in our little scrap. But you’re such an elusive person, Peterson, that I felt I could take no chances. To the best of my ability I’ve hemmed you in for the few hours that remain before we start. And then you and I will sit on the back seat and discuss the view. I feel the precautions seem excessive, but I have not the advantage of a specially prepared house—like you have always had in the past.”
“And until we start?” said Blackton quietly.
“We remain in this room,” answered Drummond. “At least—you and I do. Mademoiselle must please herself.”
The girl looked at him languidly.
“You don’t mind if I leave you?” she remarked. “To tell you the truth, mon ami, you’re being a little tedious this evening. And since I am going to Evian-les-Bains for the waters tomorrow, I think I’ll retire to bed. Do you know Evian?”
“Never heard of it, I’m afraid,” said Drummond. “My geography was always rotten.”
He was lighting a cigarette, more to conceal his thoughts than for any desire to smoke. That she was a perfect actress he knew, and yet it seemed impossible to believe that her composure was anything but natural. He glanced at Peterson, who was still sitting motionless, his chin sunk on his chest. He glanced at the girl, and she was patting a stray tendril of hair in front of a mirror. He even glanced at Sir Raymond, but there was nothing to be learned from that gentleman. He still resembled a man only partially recovered from a drugged sleep. Was it conceivable that he had left a loophole in his scheme? Or could it be that she had ceased to care for Peterson?
She had turned and was regarding him with a faint smile.
“I fear I shan’t be up before you go tomorrow,” she murmured. “But whoever does not go into cold storage must come and tell me about it. And there are a lot of other things, too, I want to hear about. Why Carl, for instance, ought to have looked in the motorboat, and how you got concussion.”
Drummond looked at her steadily.
“I find you a little difficult to understand, Mademoiselle. I trust you are under no delusions as to whether I am bluffing or not. You can, at any rate, settle one point in your mind by glancing outside the door.”
“To see the two large policemen,” laughed the girl. “La, la, my dear man—they would give me what you call a nightmare. I will take your word for it.”
“And any appeal for help will result somewhat unfortunately for Carl.”
She shrugged her shoulders irritably.
“I know when the game is up,” she remarked. Then abruptly she turned on the man who had been her companion for years. “Bah! you damned fool!” she stormed. “Every time this great idiot here does you down. Not once, but half a dozen times have you told me ‘Drummond is dead,’ and every time he bobs up again like a jack-in-the-box. And now—this time—when you had everything—everything—everything, you go and let him beat you again. You tire me. It is good that we end our partnership. You are imbecile.”
She raged out of the room, and Carl Peterson raised his haggard eyes as the door closed. His lips had set in a twisted smile, and after a while his head sank forward again, and he sat motionless, staring at the table in front of him. His cigar had long gone out; he seemed to have aged suddenly. And into Drummond’s mind there stole a faint feeling of pity.
“I’m sorry about that, Peterson,” he said quietly. “She might at least have seen the game out to the end.”
The other made no reply—only by a slight shake of his shoulders did he show that he had heard. And Drummond’s feeling of pity increased. Scoundrel, murderer, unmitigated blackguard though
