It was four days later. During that four days Drummond’s usual bright conversational powers had been limited to one word—“Stung.” And now as he drew his second pint from the cask in the corner of his room in Brook Street, he elaborated it.
“Stung in the centre and on both flanks,” he remarked morosely. “And biffed in the jaw into the bargain.”
“Still, old dear,” murmured Algy brightly—Algy’s world was bright again, now that there was no further need to postpone his marriage—“you may meet him again. You’d never really have forgiven yourself if you’d watched him passaging down a glacier. So near and yet so far, and all that sort of thing. I mean, what’s the good of a glacier, anyway? You can’t use the ice even to make a cocktail with. At least, not if old man Peterson was embalmed in it. It wouldn’t be decent.”
“Stung,” reiterated Drummond. “And not only stung, my dear boy, but very nearly bitten. Are you aware that only by the most uncompromising firmness on my part did I avoid paying his bill at the Palace Hotel? The manager appeared to think that I was responsible for his abrupt departure. A truly hideous affair.”
He relapsed into moody silence, which remained unbroken till the sudden entrance of Professor Goodman. He was holding in his hand an early edition of an evening paper, and his face was agitated.
“What’s up, Professor?” asked Drummond.
“Read that,” said the other.
Drummond glanced at the paper.
“Death of well-known English financier in Paris,” Thus ran the headline. He read on:
“This morning Sir Raymond Blantyre, who was stopping at the Savoy Hotel, was found dead in his bed. Beside the deceased man an empty bottle of veronal was discovered. No further details are at present to hand.”
The paragraph concluded with a brief description of the dead man’s career, but Drummond read no farther. So Blantyre had failed to face the music. As usual, the lesser man paid, while Peterson got off.
“Suicide, I assume,” said the Professor.
“Undoubtedly,” answered Drummond. “It saves trouble. And I may say I put the fear of God into him. Well, Denny—what is it?”
“This letter and parcel have just come for you, sir,” said his servant.
Drummond turned them both over in his hand, and a faint smile showed on his face. The postmark was Rome; the writing he knew. It was the letter he opened first:
“I have threatened often: I shall not always fail. You have threatened once: you could hardly hope to succeed. I shall treasure some edelweiss. Au revoir.”
Still smiling, he looked at the parcel. After all, perhaps it was as well. Life without Peterson would indeed be tame. He cut the string; he undid the paper. And then a strange look spread over his face—a look which caused the faithful Denny to step forward in alarm.
“Beer, fool—beer!” cried his master hoarsely.
On the table in front of him lay a book. It was entitled Our Tiny Tots’ Primer of Geography.
Colophon
The Third Round
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H. C. McNeile.
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Yachting, August 1930,
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