'But meanwhile we still have you here,' said Lord Iveldown, with an equal quietness that contrasted strangely with the nervous flickers that jerked across his mottled face. He turned to his host. 'Farwill, we must go to London at once. Miss Holm will be--ah--concerned to hear the news.'
'She has a great sense of humour,' said the Saint metallically, but his voice sounded odd in his own ears.
Iveldown shrugged.
'That remains to be seen. I believe that it will be comparatively easy to induce her to listen to reason,' he said thoughtfully; and the Saint's blood went cold.
'She wouldn't even listen to you,' he said and knew that he lied.
Lord Iveldown must have known it, too, for he paid no attention. He turned away without answering, gathering his party like a schoolmaster rallying a flock of boys.
'Nassen, you will remain here and guard these two. When Mr. Yorkland arrives, explain the developments to him, and let him do what he thinks best. . . . Farwill, you must find some pretext to dismiss your servants for the night. It will avoid difficulties if Nassen is compelled to exercise force. We will leave the front door open so that York-land can walk in. . . .'
'Mind you don't catch cold,' said the Saint in farewell.
He smoked his cigarette through and listened to the hum of Lord Iveldown's car going down the drive and fading away into the early night.
Not for a moment since Iveldown walked into the room had he minimized his danger. Admittedly it is easier to be distantly responsible for the deaths of ten thousand unknown men than to order directly the killing of one; yet Simon knew that Lord Iveldown, who had done the first many years ago, had in the last two days slipped over a borderline of desperation to the place where he would be capable of the second. The fussiness, the pretentious speech, the tatters of pomposity which still clung to him and made him outwardly ridiculous made no difference. He would kill like a sententious ass; but still he would kill. And something told the Saint that the Rose of Peckham would not be unwilling to do the job at his orders.
He lighted another cigarette and paced the room with the smooth nerveless silence of a cat. It was queer, he thought, how quickly and easily, with so little melodrama, an adventurer's jest could fall under the shadow of death; and he knew how utterly false to human psychology were the ranting bullying villains who committed the murders in fiction and films. Murder was so rarely done like that. It was done by heavy, grandiose, flabby, frightened men--like Lord Iveldown or the Honourable Leo Farwill or Mr. Neville Yorkland, M.P. And it made no difference that Simon Templar, who had often visualized himself being murdered, had a futile angry objection to being murdered by pettifogging excrescences of that type.
They would have no more compunction in deal-ing with Patricia. Perhaps less.
That was the thought which gnawed endlessly at his mind, infinitely more than any consideration of his own danger. The smooth nerveless silence of his own walking was achieved only by a grim effort of will. His muscles strained against it; a savage helplessness tore at his nerves while the minutes went by. Farwill and Iveldown had seventy-five miles to go; and with every minute his hope of overtaking them, even with his car and brilliant driving, was becoming more and more forlorn.
He glanced at Hoppy Uniatz. Mr. Uniatz was sitting hunched in his chair, his fists clenched, glowering at Nassen with steady unblinking malevolence. In Hoppy's philosophy there could be only one outcome to what had happened and his own failure on the draw. There was no point in revolving schemes of escape: the chance to put them into practice was never given. The only question to be answered was--how long? His wooden nerves warping under the strain of the long silence, he asked it.
'Well,' he growled, 'when do we go for dis ride?'
'I'll tell you when the time comes,' said Nassen.
The Saint pitched away his cigarette and lighted yet another. Nassen was alone. There were two of them; and nobody had thought to take Hoppy's gun away. If Hoppy could only get a second chance to draw--if Nassen's nerves could be played on, skilfully and relentlessly, until It be-came a question of which side could outlast the other . . .
'What does it feel like to be monarch of all you survey, Snowdrop?' he asked. 'Doesn't it make your little heart go pit-a-pat? I mean, suppose Hoppy and I suddenly decided we didn't love you any more, and we both jumped up together and slapped you?'
'You'd better try,' said Nassen. 'I'd be glad of the excuse.'
He spoke with a cold stolidity that made the Saint stop breathing for a moment. Not until then, perhaps, had he admitted to himself how hopeless was the idea which had crossed his mind--hopeless, at least, to achieve any results in time for it to be worth the effort.
He halted in front of Nassen, gazing at him over the gun between them. So there was only one way left. Nassen could not possibly miss him; but he might be held long enough to give Hoppy Uniatz a chance. And after that, Hoppy would have to carry the flag. . . .
'You know that would be murder, don't you, Snowdrop?' he said slowly, without a flinch of fear in his bleak watchful eyes.
'Would it?' said Nassen mincingly. 'For all anyone would ever know, you're a couple of armed burglars caught red-handed. Your record at Scotland Yard will do the rest. Don't forget whose house this is------'
He broke off.
Another pair of headlights had flashed across the windows; and a car, frantically braked, skidded on the gravel outside. A bell rang in the depths of the house; the knocker hammered impatiently; then came the slight creak of the front door opening. Every movement of the man outside could be pictured from the sounds. The unlatched door moved when he plied the knocker: he looked at it for a moment in indecision--took the first hesitant step into the hall--hurried on. ...
Nassen was listening, too. And suddenly the Saint realized that the chance he had never looked for, the chance he had never thought of, had been given him. Nassen's attention was distracted--he, too, had been momentarily fascinated by the imaginary picture that could be deduced from the sequence of sounds. But he recovered less quickly than the Saint. And Simon's fist had already been clenched for a desperate blow when the interruption came.
