“He has got some wonderful surprise for us, Hugh,” said the Duchess.
“Merely a trifling souvenir, my dear Duchess,” answered Wilmot suavely.
“Of what has become quite an institution, Mr. Wilmot,” put in Drummond.
Wilmot bowed.
“I had hoped perhaps to have made it even more of an institution,” he answered. “But the public takes to new things slowly. Ah! we’re off.”
“And what,” asked Drummond, “is our course tonight?”
“I thought we would do the Thames Valley. Duchess—a cocktail?”
A waiter with a row of exquisite glasses containing an amber liquid was handing her a tray.
“Captain Drummond? You, I’m sure, will have one.”
“Why, certainly, Mr. Wilmot. I feel confident that what the Duchess drinks is safe for me.”
And once again the eyes of the two men met.
Personally I think it was at that moment that the certainty came to Wilmot that Drummond knew. But just as certainly no sign of it showed on his face. All through the sumptuous dinner that followed, when he and Drummond sat one on each side of the Duchess, he played the part of the courteous host to perfection. I was two or three places away myself, so much of their conversation I missed. But some of it I did hear, and I marvelled at Wilmot’s nerve.
Deliberately Drummond brought up the subject of the Robin Gaunt mystery, and of the fate of the Hermione. And just as deliberately Wilmot discussed them both. But all the time he knew and we knew that things were moving inexorably towards their appointed end. And what was that end going to be?
That was the question I asked myself over and over again. It seemed impossible, incredible that the suave, self-possessed man at the head of the table could possess a mind so infamously black that, without a qualm, he would sacrifice all these women. And yet he had not scrupled to murder the women in the Hermione.
It seemed so needless—so unnecessary. Why have brought them at all? Why not have flown with his crew alone? Why have drawn attention to himself with his much-advertised gala night?
“Have you noticed the rate at which we are going? She’s positively quivering.”
Jerningham’s sudden question broke in on my thoughts, and I realised that the whole great vessel was vibrating like a thing possessed. But no one seemed to pay any attention: the band still played serenely on, scarcely audible over the loud buzz of conversation.
At last dinner was over, and a sudden silence fell as Wilmot rose to his feet. A burst of applause greeted him, and he bowed with a faint smile.
“Your Grace,” he began, “Ladies and Gentlemen. It is, believe me, not only a pleasure but an honour to have had such a distinguished company tonight to celebrate this last trip in my airship. I am no believer in long speeches, certainly not on occasions of this sort. But, before distributing the small souvenirs which I have obtained as a memento of this—I trust I may say—pleasant evening, there is one thing which as loyal subjects of our gracious Sovereign it is our duty to perform. Before, however, requesting the distinguished officer on my right”—he bowed to Drummond, and suddenly with a queer thrill I noticed that Drummond’s face was shining like an actor’s with grease paint—“to propose His Majesty’s health, I would like to mention one fact. The liqueur in which I would ask you to drink the King is one unknown in this country. It is an old Chinese wine the secret of which is known only to a certain sect of monks. Its taste is not unpleasant, but its novelty will lie in the fact that you are drinking what only two Europeans have ever drunk before. One of those is dead—not, I hasten to assure you, as a result of drinking it: the other is myself. I will now ask Captain Drummond to propose the King.”
In front of each of us had been placed a tiny glass containing a few drops of the liqueur, and Drummond rose to his feet, as did all of us.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said mechanically, and I could tell he was puzzled—“the King.”
The band struck up the National Anthem, and we stood there waiting for the end. Suddenly on Drummond’s face there flashed a look of horror, and he swung round staring at Wilmot. And then came his mighty shout—drowning the band with its savage intensity.
“Don’t drink. For God’s sake—don’t drink. It’s death.”
Unconsciously I sniffed the contents of my glass: smelt that strange sickly scent: realised that the liquid was Gaunt’s poison.
The band stopped abruptly, and a woman started to laugh hysterically. And still Drummond and Wilmot stared at one another in silence, whilst the great vessel drove on throbbing through the night.
“What’s all this damned foolery?” came in angry tones from a red-faced man halfway down the table. “You’re frightening the women, sir. What do you mean—death?”
He raised the glass to his lips, and before any of us could stop him, he drained it. And drinking it he crashed forward across the table—dead.
It was then that real pandemonium broke loose. Women screamed and huddled together in little groups, staring at the man who had spoken—now lying rigid and motionless with broken glass and upset flower vases all round him.
And still Drummond and Wilmot stared at one another in silence.
“The doors, you fellows.” Drummond’s voice reached us above the din. “And line up the servants and keep them covered.”
With a snarl that was scarcely human Wilmot sprang forward. He snatched up the Duchess’s liqueur glass and flung the contents in Drummond’s face. And Drummond laughed.
“Your mistake, Peterson,” he said. “You only got half the antidote when you murdered Sir John Dallas. Ah! no—your hands above your head.”
The barrel of his revolver gleamed in the light, and once again silence fell as, fascinated, we watched the pair of them. They stood alone,
