Once more he fell silent as he stared at the two tickets.
“I’ve got it now,” he said at length, and his voice was ominously quiet. “Yes—I’ve got it all now. Peterson sent me those two tickets, and there’s no need to ask why.”
He turned to the girl, who was putting the breakfast on the table.
“How long will it take to get through to London on the telephone? Anyway I must do it. Get me Mayfair 3XI. Now then, you fellows—food. And after that we’ll drive to London as even the old Hispano has never moved before.”
“What are you ringing up Algy for?” said Darrell.
“I want four more tickets, Peter, for tonight’s trip. And above all I want some of that antidote. Peterson is not the only man who can play that particular game.”
“What about wirelessing the Megalithic?” I asked.
He looked at me with a queer smile.
“No necessity now, Stockton. If there is one thing in this world that is certain beyond all others it is that Wilmot’s dirigible will be at the aerodrome when we get back to London. For I venture to think—without undue conceit—that there is one desire in Mr. Wilmot’s heart that runs even the possession of thirty million fairly close. And that desire is my death.”
I stared at him incredulously, but he was perfectly serious.
“Had I not known that he was going to be there, it would have been imperative to warn the Megalithic. Now the situation is different. If we wireless, don’t forget that he will get the message. We warn him equally with the ship.”
“Yes, but even so,” I objected, “dare we run the risk?”
“There is no risk,” said Drummond calmly. “Now that I know who Wilmot is—there is no risk. And tonight I’m going to have my final settlement with the gentleman.”
He would say no more: all the way back to London, when he drove like a man possessed with ten devils, he hardly opened his lips. And sitting beside him, busy with my own thoughts, the spell of his extraordinary personality began to obsess me. Never had he seemed so completely sure of himself—so absolutely confident.
And yet the whole thing was bizarre and strange enough to cause all sorts of doubts. I, too, had forgotten the much-advertised final trip of the airship, until Drummond had pulled the tickets out of his pocket. The dinner was to be even more wonderful than usual, and every guest was to receive a memento of the occasion from Mr. Wilmot himself. The thing that defeated me was why Wilmot should waste the time. Granted that Drummond’s theory was correct, and that after having attacked the Megalithic the airship was to come down in flames, why fool around with a two or three hours’ cruise beforehand? There was no longer any necessity to pose as an “institution.”
Drummond smiled at my remarks.
“Why of necessity should you assume that it’s going to be three hours wasted? You don’t imagine, do you, that a man like Peterson would consider it necessary to return to the aerodrome and deposit his passengers?”
“But, great Scott, man,” I exploded, “he can’t carry out an attack on the Megalithic with fifty complete strangers on board his airship.”
“Can’t he? Why not? Once granted that he’s going to carry out the attack at all, I don’t see that fifty or a hundred and fifty strangers would matter. You seem to forget that an integral part of his plan is that none of them should return alive to tell the tale.”
“It’s inconceivable that such a man can exist,” I said.
“He’s mother’s bright boy all right is Carl Peterson,” agreed Drummond. “I confess that I’m distinctly intrigued to see what is going to happen tonight.”
“But surely, Drummond,” I said, “we’re not justified in going through with this. An inspection of his ballast tanks will prove the presence of the poison. And then the matter passes into the hands of Scotland Yard.”
“I’m perfectly aware that that is what we ought to do,” he said gravely. “Moreover, it is what we would do if it was possible.”
“But why isn’t it possible?” I cried.
“Think, man,” he answered. “At a liberal estimate we shall have an hour in which to change and get to the aerodrome. If we puncture we shan’t have as much. Let us suppose that during that hour we can persuade MacIver and Co. that we are not mad—a supposition which I think is very doubtful. But for the sake of argument we will suppose it. What is going to happen then? MacIver appears at the aerodrome with a bunch of his pals, and attempts to board the airship. Peterson, who can spot MacIver a mile off, either sheers off at once in his dirigible, leaving MacIver dancing a hornpipe on the ground; or, what is just as likely, lets him come on board and then murders him. Don’t you see, Stockton, the one fundamental factor of the whole thing is that that airship is never going to return. It doesn’t matter one continental hoot to Peterson whether he is suspected or whether he isn’t suspected—once he has started. He may be branded as the world’s arch-devil: what does he care? A just retribution has overtaken him: he has perished miserably in the flames of his machine. No—I’ve thought it over, and I’m convinced that our best chance is to let his plans go on as he has arranged them. Don’t let him suspect that we suspect. It won’t seem strange to him that I turn up: he’ll merely assume that I’ve utilised the ticket he sent me in utter ignorance of who he is. And then …”
“Yes,” I said curiously as he paused. “And then—what?”
“Why—just one thing. The one vital thing, Stockton, which knocks the bottom out of his entire scheme. If we’re right, and I know we’re right, his whole plan depends on his ability to leave the airship. And he’s not going to leave the airship. …”
“For all that,” I argued, “he may cause the
