Drummond pulled himself together; such thoughts were dangerous. He forced himself to remember that night when it had been the question of seconds between life and death for Phyllis; he recalled to his mind the words he had listened to as he lay on the floor in the house to which Freyder had brought him while still unconscious.
“I think if it was a question between getting away with the process and killing Drummond—it would be the latter.”
If the positions were reversed, would one thought of mercy have softened the man he now held in his power? No one knew better than Drummond himself that it would not. He was a fool even to think about it. The man who hated him so bitterly was in his power. He deserved, no man more so, to die; he was going to die. Moreover he was going to have a sporting chance for his life into the bargain. And that was a thing he had never given Drummond. And yet he could have wished the girl had not proved herself so rotten.
The lights went out on the long terrace fronting the lake, and he glanced at his watch. It was twelve o’clock: in another three hours it would be light enough to start. Through Château d’Oex to Interlaken—he knew the way quite well. And then up either by train or car to Grindelwald. It would depend on what time they arrived as to the rest of the programme. And as he saw in his mind’s eye the grim struggle that would be the finish one way or the other—for Peterson was no mean antagonist physically—Drummond’s fists tightened instinctively and his breathing came a little quicker. Up above the snow-line they would fight, in the dusk when the light was bad, and there would be no wandering peasant to spread awkward stories.
Peterson’s voice cut in on his thoughts.
“You are quite determined to go through with this?”
“Quite,” answered Drummond. “As I told you, I have definitely come to the conclusion that the world is not big enough for both of us.”
Peterson said no more, but after a while he rose and walked into the glassed-in balcony. The windows were open, and with his hands in his pockets he stood staring out over the lake.
“I advise you to try nothing foolish,” said Drummond, joining him. “The Swiss police are remarkably efficient, and communication with the frontiers by telephone is rapid.”
“You think of everything,” murmured Peterson. “But there are no trains, and it takes time to order a car at midnight. And since it is beyond my powers to swim the lake, there doesn’t seem much more to be said.” He turned and faced Drummond thoughtfully. “How on earth do you do it, my young friend? Are you aware that you are the only man in the world who has ever succeeded in doing me down? And you have done it not once—but three times. I wonder what your secret is.” He gave a short laugh, then once again stared intently out of the window. “Yes, I wonder very much. In fact I shall really have to find out. Good God! look at that fool Blantyre.”
Drummond swung round, and even as he did so Peterson hit him with all his force under the jaw. The blow caught him off his balance, and he crashed backwards, striking the back of his head against the side of the balcony as he fell. For a moment or two he lay there half-stunned. Dimly he saw that Peterson had disappeared, then, dazed and sick, he scrambled to his feet and tottered to the window. And all he saw was the figure of a man which showed up for a second in the light of a streetlamp and then disappeared amongst the trees which led to the edge of the lake.
Desperately he pulled himself together. The police outside; the telephone; there was still time. He could hear the engine of a motorboat now, but even so there was time. He rushed across the room to the door; outside in the passage were the two gendarmes.
They listened as he poured out the story, and then one of them shook his head a little doubtfully.
“It is perfectly true, Monsieur,” he remarked, “that we can communicate with the gendarmes of all the Swiss towns au bord du lac—and at once. But with the French towns it is different.”
“French?” said Drummond, staring at him. “Isn’t this bally lake Swiss?”
“Mais non, monsieur. Most of it is. But the southern shore from St. Gingolph to Hermance is French. Evian-les-Bains is a well-known French watering-place.”
“Evian-les-Bains!” shouted Drummond—“Evian-les-Bains! Stung!—utterly, absolutely, completely stung! And to think that that girl fixed the whole thing under my very nose.”
For a moment he stood undecided; then at a run he started along the corridor.
“After ’em, mes braves. Another motorboat is the only chance.”
There was another moored close inshore, and into it they all tumbled, followed by Ted Jerningham and Algy Longworth, whom they had roused from their slumbers in the lounge. Ted, as the authority, took charge of the engine—only to peer at it once and start laughing.
“What’s the matter?” snapped Drummond.
“Nothing much, old man,” said his pal. “Only that there are difficulties in the way of making a petrol engine go when both sparking-plugs have long been removed.”
And it seemed to Drummond that, at that moment, there came a faint, mocking shout from far out on the darkness of the lake.
“Mind you wear hobnailed boots on the glacier.”
XIII
In Which Drummond Receives an Addition to
