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Title: The Third Round
Author: Sapper
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Title: The Third Round
Author: Sapper



CONTENTS

 1. In Which the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate Holds Converse
    with Mr Edward Blackton
 2. In Which Professor Goodman Realises that there are More Things
    in Life than Chemistry
 3. In Which Strange Things Happen in Professor Goodman's Laboratory
 4 In Which Mr William Robinson Arrives at his Country Seat
 5 In Which Mr William Robinson Loses his Self-control
 6 In Which Hugh Drummond Loses his Self-control
 7 In Which Drummond Takes a Telephone Call and Regrets It
 8 In Which Drummond Plays a Little Game of Trains
 9 In Which Professor Goodman Has a Trying Time
10 In Which Drummond Goes on Board the SY Gadfly
11 In Which Drummond Leaves the SY Gadfly
12 In Which he Samples Mr Blackton's Napoleon Brandy
13 In Which Drummond Receives an Addition to his Library




CHAPTER 1 - In Which the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate Holds Converse
            with Mr Edward Blackton


With a sigh of pleasure Mr Edward Blackton opened the windows of his
balcony and leaned out, staring over the fake. Opposite, the mountains of
Savoy rose steeply from the water; away to the left the Dent du Midi
raised its crown of snow above the morning haze.

Below him the waters of the lake glittered and scintillated with a
thousand fires. A steamer, with much blowing of sirens and reversing of
paddle-wheels, had come to rest at a landing-stage hard by, and was
taking on board a bevy of tourists, while the gulls circled round
shrieking discordantly. For a while he watched them idly, noting the
quickness with which the birds swooped and caught the bread as it was
thrown into the air, long before it reached the water.

He noted also how nearly all the food was secured by half a dozen of the
gulls, whilst the others said a lot but got nothing. And suddenly Mr
Edward Blackton smiled.

"Like life, my dear," he said, slipping his arm round the waist of a girl
who had just joined him at the window. "It's the fool who shouts in this
world: the wise man says nothing and acts."

The girl lit a cigarette thoughtfully, and sat down on the ledge of the
balcony. For a while her eyes followed the steamer puffing fussily away
with its load of sightseers and its attendant retinue of gulls: then she
looked at the man standing beside her. Point by point she took him in:
the clear blue eyes under the deep forehead, the aquiline nose, the firm
mouth and chin. Calmly, dispassionately she noted the thick brown hair
greying a little over the temples, the great depth of chest, and the
strong, powerful hands: then she turned and looked once again at the
disappearing steamer. But to the man's surprise she gave a little sigh.

"What is it, my dear?" he said solicitously. "Bored?"

"No, not bored," she answered. "Whatever may be your failings, mon ami,
boring me is not one of them. I was just wondering what it would feel
like if you and I were content to go on a paddle-wheel steamer with a
Baedeker and a Kodak, and a paper bag full of bananas."

"We will try tomorrow," said the man, gravely lighting a cigar.

"It wouldn't be any good," laughed the girl. "Just once in a way we
should probably love it. I meant I wonder what it would feel like if that
was our life."

Her companion nodded.

"I know, carissima," he answered gently. "I have sometimes wondered the
same thing. I suppose there must be compensations in respectability,
otherwise so many people wouldn't be respectable. But I'm afraid it is
one of those things that we shall never know."

"I think it's that," said the girl, waving her hand towards the mountains
opposite--"that has caused my mood. It's all so perfectly lovely: the sky
is just so wonderfully blue. And look at that sailing boat."

She pointed to one of the big lake barges, with its two huge lateen
sails, creeping gently along in the centre of the lake. "It's all so
peaceful, and sometimes one wants peace."

"True," agreed the man; "one does. It's just reaction, and we've been
busy lately."

He rose and began to pace slowly up and down the balcony. "To be quite
honest, I myself have once or twice thought recently that if I could pull
off some really big coup--something, I mean, that ran into the
millions--I would give things up."

The girl smiled and shook her head.

"Don't misunderstand me, my dear," he went on. "I do not suggest for a
moment that we should settle down to a life of toping and ease. We could
neither of us exist without employing our brains. But with really big
money behind one, we should be in a position to employ our brains a
little more legitimately, shall I say, than we are able to at present,
and still get all the excitement we require.

"Take Drakshoff: that man controls three of the principal Governments of
Europe. The general public don't know it; the Governments themselves
won't admit it: but It's true for all that. As you know, that little job
I carried out for him in Germany averted a second revolution. He didn't
want one at the time; and so he called me in. And it cost him in all five
million pounds. What was that to him?" He shrugged his shoulders
contemptuously. "A mere flea-bite--a bagatelle. Why, with that man an odd
million or two one way or the other wouldn't be noticed in his
pass-book."

He paused and stared over the sunlit lake, while the girl watched him in
silence.

"Given money as big as that, and a man can rule the world. Moreover, he
can rule it without fear of consequences. He can have all the excitement
he requires; he can wield all the power he desires--and have special
posses of police to guard him. I'm afraid we don't have many to guard
us."

The girl laughed and lit another cigarette. "You are right, mon ami, we
do not. Hullo! who can that be?" Inside the sitting-room the telephone
bell was ringing, and with a slight frown Mr Edward Blackton took off the
receiver.

"What is it?" From the other end came the voice of the manager, suitably
deferential as befitted a client of such obvious wealth installed in the
most palatial suite of the Palace Hotel.

"Two gentlemen are here, Mr Blackton," said the manager, "who wish to
know when they can have the pleasure of seeing you. Their names are Sir
Raymond Blantyre and Mr Jabez Leibhaus. They arrived this morning from
England by the Simplon Orient express, and they say that their business
is most urgent."

A sudden gleam had come into Mr Blackton's eyes as he listened, but his
voice as he answered was almost bored.

"I shall be pleased to see both gentlemen at eleven o'clock up here.
Kindly have champagne and sandwiches sent to my sitting room at that
hour."

He replaced the receiver, and stood for a moment thinking deeply.

"Who was it?" called the girl from the balcony.

"Blantyre and Leibhaus, my dear," answered the man. "Now, what the deuce
can they want with me so urgently?"

"Aren't they both big diamond men?" said the girl, coming into the room.

"They are," said Blackton. "In romantic fiction they would be described
as two diamond kings. Anyway, it won't do them any harm to wait for half
an hour."

"How did they find out your address? I thought you had left strict
instructions that you were not to be disturbed."

There was regret in the girl's voice, and with a faint smile the man
tilted back her head and kissed her.

"In our profession, cara mia," he said gently, "there are times when the
strictest instructions have to be disobeyed. Freyder would never have
dreamed of worrying me over a little thing, but unless I am much mistaken
this isn't going to be little. It's going to be big: those two below
don't go chasing half across Europe because they've mislaid a collar
stud. Why--who knows?--it might prove to be the big coup we were
discussing a few minutes ago."

He kissed her again; then he turned abruptly away and the girl gave a
little sigh. For the look had come into those grey-blue eyes that she
knew so well: the alert, keen look which meant business.

He crossed the room, and unlocked a heavy leather dispatch-case. From it
he took out a biggish book which he laid on the table. Then, having made
himself comfortable on the balcony, he lit another cigar, and began to
turn over the pages.

It was of the loose-leaf variety, and every page had entries on it in
Blackton's small, neat hand-writing. It was what he called his "Who's
Who", but it differed from that excellent production in one marked
respect. The people in Mr Edward Blackton's production had not compiled
their own notices, which rendered it considerably more truthful even if
less complimentary than the orthodox volume.

It was arranged alphabetically, and it contained an astounding wealth of
information. In fact in his lighter moments the author was wont to say
that when he retired from active life he would publish it, and die in
luxury on the large sums paid him to suppress it. Mentioned in it were
the names of practically every man and woman possessed of real wealth--as
Blackton regarded wealth--in Europe and America.

There were, of course, many omissions, but in the course of years an
extraordinary amount of strange and useful information had been
collected. In many cases just the bare details of the person were given:
these were the uninteresting ones, and consisted of people who passed the
test as far as money was concerned but about whom the author had no
personal knowledge.

In others, however, the entries were far more human. After the name would
be recorded certain details, frequently of a most scurrilous description.
And these details had one object and one object only--to assist at the
proper time and place in parting the victim from his money.

Not that Mr Edward Blackton was a common blackmailer--far from it.
Blackmailing pure and simple was a form of amusement which revolted his
feelings as an artist. But to make use of certain privately gained
information about a man when dealing with him was a different matter
altogether.

It was a great assistance in estimating character when meeting a man for
the first time to know that his previous wife had divorced him for
carrying on with the housemaid, and that he had then failed to marry the
housemaid. Nothing of blackmail in that: just a pointer as to character.

In the immense ramifications of Mr Blackton's activities it was of course
impossible for him to keep all these details in his head. And so little
by little the book had grown until it now comprised over three hundred
pages. Information obtained first-hand or from absolutely certain sources
was entered in red; items not quite so reliable in black. And under Sir
Raymond Blantyre's name the en try was in red.

"Blantyre, Raymond. Born 1858. Vice-President Metropolitan Diamond
Syndicate. Married daughter of John Perkins, wool merchant in London.
Knighted 1904. Something shady about him in South Africa--probably I.D.B.
Races a lot. Wife a snob. Living up to the limit of his income. 5.13."

Mr Blackton laid the book on his knee and looked thoughtfully over the
lake. The last three figures showed that the entry had been made in May
1913, and if he was living up to the limit of his income then, he must
have had to retrench considerably now. And wives who are snobs dislike
that particularly.

He picked up the book again and turned up the dossier of his other
visitor, to find nothing of interest. Mr Leibhaus had only bare details
after his name, with the solitary piece of information that he, too, was
a Vice-President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate.

He closed the book and relocked it in the dispatch-case; then he glanced
at his watch.

"I think, my dear," he said, turning to the girl, "that our interview had
better be apparently private. Could you make yourself comfortable in your
bedroom, so that you will be able to hear everything and give me your
opinion afterwards?" He opened the door for her and she passed through.
"I confess," he continued, "that I'm a little puzzled. I cannot think
what they want to see me about so urgently."

But there was no trace of it on his face as five minutes later his two
visitors were ushered in by the sub-manager.

"See that the sandwiches and champagne are sent at once, please," he
remarked, and the hotel official bustled away.

"We shall be undisturbed, gentlemen," he said, "after the waiter brings
the tray. Until then we might enjoy the view over the lake. It is rare, I
am told, that one can see the Dent du Midi quite so clearly."

The three men strolled into the balcony and leaned out. And it struck
that exceptionally quick observer of human nature, Mr Blackton, that both
his visitors were a little nervous. Sir Raymond Blantyre especially was
not at his ease, answering the casual remarks of his host at random. He
was a short, stocky little man with a white moustache and a gold-rimmed
eyeglass, which he had an irritating ha bit of taking in and out of his
eye, and he gave a sigh of relief as the door finally closed behind the
waiter..

"Now perhaps we can come to business, Count--er--I beg your pardon, Mr
Blackton."

"The mistake is a natural one," said his host suavely. "Shall we go
inside the room to avoid the risk of being overheard?"

"I had better begin at the beginning," said Sir Raymond, waving away his
host's offer of champagne. "And when I've finished, you will see, I have
no doubt, our reasons for disturbing you in this way. Nothing short of
the desperate position in which we find ourselves would have induced us
to seek you out after what Mr Freyder told my friend Leibhaus. But the
situation is so desperate that we had no alternative."

Mr Blackton's face remained quite expressionless, and the other, after a
pause, went on: "Doubtless you know who we are, Mr Blackton. I am the
President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate and Mr Leibhaus is the
senior Vice-President. In the event of my absence at any time, he
deputises for me. I mention these facts to emphasise the point that we
are the heads of that combine, and that you are therefore dealing with
the absolute principals, and not with subordinates.

"Now, I may further mention that although the Metropolitan is our
particular syndicate, we are both of us considerably interested in other
diamond enterprises. In fact our entire fortune is bound up irretrievably
in the diamond industry--as are the fortunes of several other men, for
whom, Mr Blackton, I am authorised to speak.

"So that I am in a position to say that not only am I here as
representative of the Metropolitan Syndicate, but I am here as
representative of the whole diamond industry and the enormous capital
locked up in that industry."

"You make yourself perfectly clear, Sir Raymond," said Mr Blackton
quietly. His face was as mask like as ever, but he wondered more and more
what could be coming.

Sir Raymond took out his eyeglass and polished it; then he took a sip of
the champagne which, despite his refusal, his host had poured out for
him.

"That being so, Mr Blackton, and my position in the matter being fully
understood, I will come to the object of our visit. One day about a
fortnight ago I was dining at the house of a certain Professor Goodman.
You may perhaps have heard of him by name? No?

"Well, he is, I understand, one of the foremost chemists of the day. He
and I have not got much in common, but my wife and his became acquainted
during the war, and we still occasionally dine with one another. There
were six of us at dinner--our four selves, his daughter, and an
extraordinarily inane young man with an eyeglass--who, I gathered, was
engaged to the daughter.

"It was during dinner that my attention was caught by a rather peculiar
ornament that the daughter was wearing. It looked to me like a piece of
ordinary cut glass mounted in a claw of gold, and she was using it as a
brooch. The piece of glass was about the size of a large marble, and it
scintillated so brilliantly as she moved that I could not help noticing
it.

"I may say that it struck me as a distinctly vulgar ornament--the sort of
thing that a housemaid might be expected to wear when she was out. It
surprised me, since the Goodmans are the last people one would expect to
allow such a thing. And, of course, I should have said nothing about it
had not the vapid youth opposite noticed me. 'Looking at the monkey nut?'
he said, or something equally foolish. 'Pretty sound bit of work on the
part of the old paternal parent.'

"Professor Goodman looked up and smiled, and the girl took it off and
handed it to me. 'What do you think of it, Sir Raymond?' she asked. 'I
put it on especially for your benefit tonight.'

"I glanced at it, and to my amazement I found that it was a perfectly
flawless diamond, worth certainly ten to twelve thousand pounds, and
possibly more. I suppose my surprise must have been obvious, because they
all began to laugh. 'Well, what is your verdict, Blantyre?' said the
Professor.

"'I will be perfectly frank,' I answered. 'I cannot understand how you
can have placed such a really wonderful stone in such an unworthy
setting.' And then the Professor laughed still more. 'What would you say
was the value of that stone?' he inquired.

"'I should be delighted to give Miss Goodman a cheque for ten thousand
pounds for it here and now,' I said.

"And then he really roared with laughter. 'What about it, Brenda?' he
cried. 'Do you know what that stone cost me, Blantyre? Five pounds ten
shillings and sixpence and two burnt fingers.'"

Blackton leaned forward in his chair and stared at the speaker.
"Well--what then?" he said quietly.

Sir Raymond mopped his forehead and took another sip of champagne.
"You've guessed it, Mr Blackton. It was false--or when I say false, it
was not false in the sense that Tecla pearls are false. Bur it had been
made by a chemical process in Professor Goodman's laboratory. Otherwise
it was indistinguishable from the genuine article: in fact"--in his
agitation he thumped the table with his fist--"it was the genuine
article!"

Blackton carefully lit another cigar. "And what did you do?" he inquired.
"I presume that you have tested the matter fully since."

"Of course," answered the other. "I will tell you exactly what has
happened. That evening after dinner I sat on talking with the Professor.
Somewhat naturally I allowed no hint of my agitation to show on my face.

"As you probably know, Mr Blackton, artificial diamonds have been
manufactured in the past--real diamonds indistinguishable from those
found in nature. But they have been small, and their cost has been
greater when made artificially than if they had been found. And so the
process has never been economically worth while. But this was altogether
different.

"If what Professor Goodman told me was the truth--if he had indeed
manufactured that diamond for five pounds in his laboratory, we were
confronted with the possibility of an appalling crisis. And since he was
the last person to tell a stupid and gratuitous lie, you may imagine my
feelings.

"I need hardly point out to you that the whole diamond market is an
artificial one. The output of stones from the mines has to be limited to
prevent a slump--to keep prices up. And what would happen if the market
was swamped with stones worth a king's ransom each as prices go today and
costing a fiver to produce was too impossible to contemplate. It meant,
of course, absolute ruin to me and others in my position--to say nothing
of hundreds of big jewellers and dealers.

"I pointed this out to Professor Goodman, but,"--and once again Sir
Raymond mopped his forehead--"would you believe it, the wretched man
seemed completely uninterested. All he was concerned about was his
miserable chemistry. 'A unique discovery, my dear Blantyre,' he remarked
complacently. 'And two years ago I bet Professor--' I forget the fool's
name, but, at any rate, he had bet this Professor a fiver that he'd do
it."

Sir Raymond rose and walked up and down the room in his agitation.

"A fiver, Mr Blackton--a fiver! I asked him what he was going to do, and
he said he was going to read a paper on it, and give a demonstration at
the next meeting of the Royal Society. And that takes place in a
fortnight. I tried to dissuade him; I'm afraid I was foolish enough to
threaten him.

"At any rate, he rose abruptly from the table, and I cursed myself for a
fool. But towards the end of the evening he recovered himself
sufficiently to agree to give me and the other members of my syndicate a
private demonstration. His daughter also allowed me to take away her
brooch, so that I could subject it to more searching tests the next day."

He again sat down and stared at the man opposite him, who seemed more
intent on how long he could get the ash of his cigar before it dropped
than on anything else.

"Next day, Mr Blackton, my worst fears were confirmed. I subjected that
stone to every known test--but it was useless. It was a diamond--perfect,
flawless; and it had cost five pounds to make. I called together my
syndicate, and at first they were inclined to be incredulous.

"They suggested fraud--as you know, there have been in the past several
attempts made to obtain money by men who pretended they had discovered
the secret of making diamonds in the laboratory. And in every case, up
till now, sleight-of-hand has been proved. The big uncut diamond was not
produced by the chemical reaction, but was introduced at some period
during the experiment.

"Of course the idea was to obtain hush-money to suppress the supposed
secret. I pointed out to my friends how impossible such a supposition was
in the case of a man like Professor Goodman; and finally--to cut things
short--they agreed to come round with me the following afternoon to see
the demonstration.

"The Professor had forgotten all about the appointment--he is that sort
of man--and we waited in an agony of impatience while his secretary
telephoned for him all over London. At last she got him, and the
Professor arrived profuse in his apologies. 'I have just been watching a
most interesting experiment with some blue cheese-mould,' he told me,
'and I quite forgot the time. Now, what is it you gentlemen want to
see?', For the first time a very faint smile flickered on Mr Blackton's
lips, but he said nothing.

"I told him," continued Sir Raymond, "and we at once adjourned to the
laboratory. We had most of us attended similar demonstrations before, and
we expected to find the usual apparatus of a mould and a furnace. Nothing
of the sort, however, could we see. There was an electric furnace: a sort
of bowl made of some opaque material, and a variety of chemical salts in
bottles. 'You will forgive me, gentlemen,' he remarked, 'if I don't give
you my process in detail. I don't want to run any risk of my discovery
leaking out before I address the Royal Society.' He beamed at us through
his spectacles; and--serious though it was--I really could not help
smiling. That he should make such a remark to us of all people!

"'You are, of course, at liberty to examine everything that I put into
this retort,' he went on, 'and the retort itself.' He was fumbling in his
pocket as he spoke, and he finally produced two or three dirty sheets of
paper, at which he peered. 'Dear me!' he exclaimed. 'I've got the wrong
notes. These are the ones about my new albumen food for infants and
adults. Where can I have left them?'

"'I hope,' I remarked as calmly as I could, 'that you haven't left them
lying about where anyone could get at them, Professor.' He shook his head
vaguely, though his reply was reassuring. 'No one could understand them
even if I had,' he answered. 'Ah! here they are.' With a little cry of
triumph he produced some even dirtier scraps which he laid on the desk in
front of him.

"'I have to refer to my notes,' he said, 'as the process--though the
essence of simplicity, once the correct mixture of the ingredients is
obtained--is a difficult one to remember. There are no fewer than
thirty-nine salts used in the operation. Now would you gentlemen come
closer, so that you can see everything I do?'

"He produced a balance which he proceeded to adjust with mathematical
precision, while we crowded round as close as we could. 'While I think of
it,' he said, looking up suddenly, 'is there any particular colour you
would like me to make?' 'Rose-pink,' grunted someone, and he nodded.
'Certainly,' he answered. 'That will necessitate the addition of a
somewhat rare strontium salt-making forty in all.'

"He beamed at us and then he commenced. To say that we watched him
closely would hardly convey our attitude: we watched him without
movement, without speech, almost without breathing. He weighed his salts,
and he mixed them--and that part of the process took an hour at least.

"Then he took up the bowl and we examined that. It was obviously some
form of metal, but that was as far as we could get. And it was empty.
'Without that retort, gentlemen,' he remarked, 'the process would be
impossible. There is no secret as to its composition. It is made of a
blend of tungsten and osmium, and is the only thing known to science
today which could resist the immense heat to which this mixture will be
subjected in the electric furnace. Now possibly one of you would like to
pour this mixture into the retort, place the retort in the furnace, and
shut the furnace doors. Then I will switch on the current.'

"I personally did what he suggested, Mr Blackton. I poured the mixture of
fine powders into the empty bowl; I placed the bowl into the furnace,
having first examined the furnace; and then I closed the doors. And I
knew, and every man there knew, that there had been no suspicion of
fraud. Then he switched on the current, and we sat down to wait.

"Gradually the heat grew intense--but no one thought of moving. At first
the Professor rambled on, but I doubt if anyone paid any attention to
him. Amongst other things he told us that from the very start of his
experiments he had worked on different lines from the usual ones, which
consisted of dissolving carbon in molten iron and then cooling the mass
suddenly with cold water. 'That sets up gigantic pressure,' he remarked,
'but it is too quick. Only small stones are the result. My process was
arrived at by totally different methods, as you see.'

"The sweat poured off us, and still we sat there silent--each of us busy
with his own thoughts. I think even then we realised that there was no
hope; we knew that his claims were justified. But we had to see it
through, and make sure. The Professor was absorbed in some profound
calculations on his new albumen food; the furnace glowed white in the
corner; and, Mr Blackton, men worth tens of millions sat and dripped with
perspiration in order to make definitely certain that they were not worth
as many farthings.

"I suppose it was about two hours later that the Professor, having looked
at his watch, rose and switched off the current. 'In about an hour,
gentlemen," he remarked, 'the retort will be cool enough to take out. I
suggest that you should take it with you, and having cut out the clinker
you should carry out your own tests on it. Inside that clinker will be
your rose-pink diamond--uncut, of course. I make you a present of it: all
I ask is that you should return me my retort.'

"He blinked at us through his spectacles. 'You will forgive me if I leave
you now, but I have to deliver my address to some students on the
catalytic influence of chromo us chloride. I fear I am already an hour
and a half late, but that is nothing new.'

"And with that he bustled out of the room."

Sir Raymond paused and lit a cigarette. "You may perhaps think, Mr
Blackton, that I have been unnecessarily verbose over details that are
unimportant," he continued after a moment. "But my object has been to try
to show you the type of man Professor Goodman is."

"You have succeeded admirably, Sir Raymond," said Blackton quietly.

"Good. Then now I will go quicker. We took his retort home, and we cut
out the clinker. No one touched it except ourselves. We chipped off the
outside scale, and we came to the diamond. Under our own eyes we had it
cut--roughly, of course, because time was urgent. Here are the results."

He handed over a small box to Blackton, who opened it: Inside, resting on
some cotton-wool, were two large rose-pink diamonds and three smaller one
worth in all, to the expert's shrewd eye, anything up to twenty-five
thousand pounds. He took out a pocket lens and examined the largest, and
Sir Raymond gave a short, hard laugh.

"Believe me," he said harshly, "they're genuine right enough. I wish to
Heaven I could detect even the trace of a flaw. There isn't one, I tell
you: they're perfect stones, and that's why we've come to you."

Blackton laid the box on the table and renewed the contemplation of his
cigar. "At the moment," he remarked, 'the connection is a little obscure.
However, pray continue. I assume that you have interviewed the Professor
again?"

"The very next morning," said Sir Raymond. "I went round, ostensibly to
return his metal bowl, and then once again I put the whole matter before
him. I pointed out to him that if this discovery of his was made known,
it would involve thousands of people in utter ruin.

"I pointed out to him that after all no one could say that it was a
discovery which could benefit the world generally, profoundly wonderful
though it was. Its sole result, so far as I could see, would be to put
diamond tiaras within the range of the average scullery maid. In short, I
invoked every argument I could think of to try to persuade him to change
his mind. Useless, utterly useless. To do him justice, I do not believe
it is simply pig-headedness. He is honestly unable to understand our
point of view.

"To him it is a scientific discovery concerning carbon, and according to
him carbon is so vitally important, so essentially at the root of all
life, that to suppress the results of an experiment such as this would be
a crime against science. He sees no harm in diamonds being as plentiful
as marbles; in fact, the financial side of the affair is literally
meaningless to him.

"Meaningless, Mr Blackton, as I found when I played my last card. In the
name of my syndicate I offered him two hundred and fifty thousand pounds
to suppress it. He rang the bell--apologised for leaving me so
abruptly--and the servant showed me out. And that is how the matter stands
today. In a fortnight from now his secret will be given to the world,
unless..." Sir Raymond paused, and glanced at Mr Leibhaus.

"Precisely," he agreed. "Unless, as you say..."

Mr Blackton said nothing. It was not his business to help them out,
though the object of their journey was now obvious.

"Unless, Mr Blackton," Sir Raymond took the plunge, "we can induce you to
interest yourself in the matter."

Mr Blackton raised his eyebrows slightly. "I rather fail to see," he
remarked, "how I can hope to succeed where you have failed. You appear to
have exhausted every possible argument."

And now Sir Raymond was beginning to look visibly agitated. Unscrupulous
business man though he was, the thing he had to say stuck in his throat.
It seemed so cold-blooded, so horrible, especially in that room looking
on to the sparkling lake with the peaceful, snow-tipped mountains
opposite.

"It was Baron Vanderton," he stammered, "who mentioned the Comte de Guy
to me. He said that in a certain matter connected, I believe, with one of
the big European banking firms, the Comte de Guy had been called in. And
that as a result--er--a rather troublesome international financier
had--er--disappeared."

He paused abruptly as he saw Blackton's face. It was hard and merciless,
and the grey-blue eyes seemed to be boring into his brain.

"Am I to understand, Sir Raymond," he remarked, "that you are trying to
threaten me into helping you?"

He seemed to be carved out of stone, save for the fingers of his left
hand, which played a ceaseless tattoo on his knee.

"Good heavens! no, Mr Blackton," cried the other. "Nothing of the sort,
believe me. I merely mentioned the Baron to show you how we got on your
trail. He told us that you were the only man in the world who would be
able to help us, and then only if you were convinced the matter was
sufficiently big.

"I trust that now you have heard what we have to say you will
consider--like Mr Freyder--that the matter is sufficiently big to warrant
your attention. You must, Mr Blackton; you really must."

He leaned forward in his excitement. "Think of it: millions and millions
of money depending on the caprice of an old fool, who is really far more
interested in his wretched albumen food. Why--it's intolerable." For a
while there was silence, broken at length by Blackton.

"And so," he remarked calmly, "if I understand you aright, Sir Raymond,
your proposal is that I should interest myself in the shall we
say--removal of Professor Goodman? Or, not to mince words, in his death."

Sir Raymond shivered, and into Blackton's eyes there stole a faint
contempt.

"Precisely, Mr Blackton," he muttered. "Precisely. In such a way of
course that no shadow of suspicion can rest on us, or on--or on--anyone."

Mr Blackton rose: the interview was over. "I will let you know my
decision after lunch," he remarked. "Shall we drink coffee together here
at two o'clock? I expect my daughter will be in by then."

He opened the door and bowed them out; then he returned to the table and
picked up the bottle of champagne. It was empty, as was the plate of
sandwiches. He looked at his own unused glass, and with a faint shrug of
his shoulders he crossed to his dispatch-case and opened it. But when the
girl came in he was making a couple of entries in his book.

The first was under the heading 'Blantyre' and consisted of a line drawn
through the word 'Vice'; the second was under the heading 'Leibhaus', and
consisted of the one word 'Glutton' written in red. He was thorough in
his ways.

"You heard?" he said, as he replaced the book.

"Every word," she answered, lighting a cigarette. "What do you propose to
do?"

"There is only one possible thing to do," he remarked. "Don't you
realise, my dear, that had I heard of this discovery I should have been
compelled to interfere, even if they had not asked me to. In my position
I could not allow a diamond slump; as you know, we have quite a few
ourselves. But there is no reason why they shouldn't pay me for it...."

He smiled gently. "I shall cross to England by the Orient Express
tonight."

"But surely," cried the girl, "over such a simple matter you needn't go
yourself."

He smiled even more gently, and slipped his arm round her shoulders.

"Do you remember what we were talking about this morning?" he said. "The
big coup? Don't you see that even if this is not quite it, it will fill
in the time?" She looked a little puzzled.

"I'm damned if I do," she cried tersely. "You can't ask 'em more than
half a million."

"Funnily enough, that is the exact figure I intended to ask them," he
replied. "But you've missed the point, my love--and I'm surprised at you.
Everything that Blantyre said this morning was correct with regard to the
impossibility of letting such a discovery become known to the world at
large.

"I have no intention of letting it become known; but I have still less
intention of letting it be lost. That would be an act of almost suicidal
folly. Spread abroad, the knowledge would wreck everything; retained by
one individual, it places that individual in a position of supreme power.
And needless to say, I propose to be that individual."

He was staring thoughtfully over the lake, and suddenly she seized his
left hand.

"Ted--stop it."

For a moment he looked at her in surprise; then he laughed. "Was I doing
it again?" he asked. "It's a good thing you spotted that trick of mine,
my dear. If there ever is a next time with Drummond"--his eyes blazed
suddenly--"if there ever is--well, we will see. Just at the moment,
however, let us concentrate on Professor Goodman.

"A telling picture that--wasn't it? Can't you see the old man, blinking
behind his spectacles, absorbed in calculations on proteins for infants,
with a ring of men around him not one of whom but would have murdered him
then and there if he had dared!"

"But I still don't see how this is going to be anything out of the
ordinary," persisted the girl.

"My dear, I'm afraid that the balmy air of the Lake of Geneva has had a
bad effect on you."

Mr Blackton looked at her in genuine surprise. "I confess that I haven't
worked out the details yet, but one point is quite obvious. Before
Professor Goodman departs this life he is going to make several hundred
diamonds for me, though it would never do to let the two anxious
gentlemen downstairs know it. They might say that I wasn't earning my
half-million.

"Those diamonds I shall unload with care and discretion during the years
to come, so as not to cause a slump in prices. So it really boils down to
the fact that the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate will be paying me half a
million for the express purpose of putting some five or ten million
pounds' worth of stones in my pocket. My dear! It's a gift; It's one of
those things which make strong men consult a doctor for fear they may be
imagining things."

The girl laughed. "Where do I come in?"

"At the moment I'm not sure. So much will depend on circumstances. At any
rate, for the present you had better stop on here, and I will send for
you when things are a little more advanced."

A waiter knocked and began to lay the table for lunch; and when at two
o'clock the coffee and liqueurs arrived, closely followed by his two
visitors, Mr Blackton was in a genial mood. An excellent bottle of
Marcobrunner followed by a glass of his own particular old brandy had
mellowed him to such an extent that he very nearly produced the bottle
for them, but sanity prevailed. It was true that they were going to pay
him half a million for swindling them soundly, but there were only three
bottles of that brandy left in the world.

The two men looked curiously at the girl as Blackton introduced
them--Baron Vanderton had told them about the beauty of this so-called
daughter who was his constant and invariable companion. Only she, so he
had affirmed, knew what the man who now called himself Blackton really
looked like when shorn of his innumerable disguises into which he fitted
himself so marvellously.

But there were more important matters at stake than that, and Sir Raymond
Blantyre's hand shook a little as he helped himself to a cigarette from
the box on the table.

"Well, Mr Blackton," he said as the door closed behind the waiter. "Have
you decided?"

"I have," returned the other calmly. "Professor Goodman's discovery will
not be made public. He will not speak or give a demonstration at the
Royal Society."

With a vast sigh of relief Sir Raymond sank into a chair. "And
your--er--fee?"

"Half a million pounds. Two hundred and fifty thousand paid by cheque
made out to Self--now; the remainder when you receive indisputable proof
that I have carried out the job."

It was significant that Sir Raymond made no attempt to haggle. Without a
word he drew his cheque-book from his pocket, and going over to the
writing-table he filled in the required amount.

"I would be glad if it was not presented for two or three days," he
remarked, "as it is drawn on my private account, and I shall have to put
in funds to meet it on my return to England."

Mr Blackton bowed. "You return tonight?" he asked.

"By the Orient Express. And you?" Mr Blackton shrugged his shoulders.
"The view here is delightful," he murmured.

And with that the representatives of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate
had to rest content for the time--until, in fact, the train was
approaching the Swiss frontier. They had just finished their dinner,
their zest for which, though considerably greater than on the previous
night in view of the success of their mission, had been greatly impaired
by the manners of an elderly German sitting at the next table.

He was a bent and withered old man with a long hook nose and white hair,
who, in the intervals of querulously swearing at the attendant, deposited
his dinner on his waistcoat.

At length he rose, and having pressed ten centimes into the outraged hand
of the head waiter, he stood for a moment by their table, swaying with
the motion of the train. And suddenly he bent down and spoke to Sir
Raymond.

"Two or three days, I think you said, Sir Raymond."

With a dry chuckle he was gone, tottering and lurching down the carriage,
leaving the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate gasping
audibly.



CHAPTER 2 - In Which Professor Goodman Realises that there are More
            Things in Life than Chemistry


When Brenda Goodman, in a moment of mental aberration, consented to marry
Algy Longworth, she little guessed the result.

From being just an ordinary, partially wanting specimen he became a
raving imbecile. Presumably she must have thought it was natural as she
showed no signs of terror, at any rate in public, but it was otherwise
with his friends.

Men who had been wont to foregather with him to consume the matutinal
cocktail now fled with shouts of alarm whenever he hove in sight. Only
the baser members of that celebrated society, the main object of which is
to cultivate the muscles of the left arm when consuming liquid
refreshment, clung to him in his fall from grace.

They found that his mental fog was so opaque that he habitually forgot
the only rule and raised his glass to his lips with his right hand.

And since that immediately necessitated a further round at his expense,
they gave great glory to Allah for such an eminently satisfactory state
of affairs. And when it is further added that he was actually discovered
by Peter Darrell reading the poems of Ella Wheeler Wilcox on the morning
of the Derby, it will be readily conceded that matters looked black.

That the state of affairs was only temporary was, of course, recognised;
but while it lasted it became necessary for him to leave the councils of
men. A fellow who wants to trot back to the club-house from the ninth
green in the middle of a four-ball foursome to blow his fiancee a kiss
through the telephone is a truly hideous spectacle.

And so the sudden action of Hugh Drummond, one fine morning in June, is
quite understandable. He had been standing by the window of his room
staring into the street, and playing Beaver to himself, when with a wild
yell he darted to the bell. He pealed it several times; then he rushed to
the door and shouted: "Denny! Where the devil are you, Denny?"

"Here, sir."

His trusted body-servant and erstwhile batman appeared from the nether
regions of the house, and regarded his master in some surprise.

"The door, Denny--the front door. Go and bolt and bar it; put the chain
up; turn all the latchkeys. Don't stand there blinking, you fool. Mr
Longworth is tacking up the street, and I know he's coming here. Blow at
him through the letter-box, and tell him to go away. I will not have him
about the house at this hour of the morning. Tell him I'm in bed with
housemaid's knee. Not the housemaid's knee, you ass: It's a malady, not a
dissecting-room in a hospital."--With a sigh of relief he watched Denny
bar the door; then he returned to his own room and sank into an
arm-chair.

"Heavens!" he muttered, "what an escape! Poor old Algy!"

He sighed again profoundly, and then, feeling in need of support, he rose
and crossed to a cask of beer which adorned one corner of the room. And
he was just preparing to enjoy the fruits of his labours, when the door
opened and Denny came in.

"He won't go, sir--says he must see you, before you dine with his young
lady tonight."

"Great Scott! Denny--isn't that enough?" said Drummond wildly. "Not that
one minds dining with her, but It's watching him that is so painful. Have
you inspected him this morning?"

"I kept the door on the chain, sir, and glanced at him. He seems to me to
be a little worried."

Drummond crossed to the window and looked out. Standing on the pavement
outside was the unfortunate Algy, who waved his stick wildly as soon as
he saw him.

"Your man Denny has gone mad," he cried. "He kept the door on the chain
and gibbered like a monkey. I want to see you."

"I know you do, Algy: I saw you coming up Brook Street. And it was I who
told Denny to bar the door. Have you come to talk to me about love?"

"No, old man, I swear I haven't," said Algy earnestly. "I won't mention
the word, I promise you. And it's really most frightfully important."

"All right," said Drummond cautiously. "Denny shall let you in; but at
the first word of poetry--out you go through the window."

He nodded to his servant, and--a moment or two later Algy Longworth came
into the room. The newcomer was arrayed in a faultless morning coat, and
Hugh Drummond eyed him noncommittally. He certainly looked a little
worried, though his immaculate topper and white spats seemed to show that
he was bearing up with credit.

"Going to Ranelagh, old bird," said Algy. "Hence the bathing suit.
Lunching first, don't you know, and all that--so I thought I'd drop in
this morning to make sure of catching you. You and Phyllis are dining,
aren't you, this evening?"

"We are," said Hugh.

"Well, the most awful thing has happened, old boy. My prospective
father-in-law to be--Brenda's dear old male parent--has gone mad. He's
touched; He's wanting; he's up the pole."

He lit a cigarette impressively, and Drummond stared at him.

"What's the matter with the old thing?" he demanded. "I met him outside
his club yesterday and he didn't seem to me to be any worse than usual."

"My dear boy, I didn't know anything about it till last night," cried
Algy. "He sprang it on us at dinner, and I tell you I nearly swooned. I
tried to register mirth, but I failed, Hugh--I failed. I shudder to think
what my face must have looked like."

He was pacing up and down the room in his agitation.

"You know, don't you, old man, that he ain't what you'd call rolling in
boodle. I mean, with the best will in the world you couldn't call him a
financial noise. And though, of course, it doesn't matter to me what
Brenda has, if we can't manage, I shall have to do a job of work or
something--....yet I feel sort of responsible for the old parent.

"And when he goes and makes a prize ass of himself, it struck me that I
ought to sit up and take notice. I thought it over all last night, and
decided to come and tell you this morning, so that we could all have a go
at him tonight."

"What has he done?" demanded Hugh with some interest.

"You know He's got a laboratory," continued Algy, "where he goes and
plays games. It's a perfect factory of extraordinary smells, but the old
dear seems to enjoy himself. He'll probably try his new albumenised
chicken food on you tonight, but that's a detail. To get to the
point--have you ever noticed that big diamond Brenda wears as a brooch?"

"Yes, I have. Phyllis was speaking about it the other night."

"You know he made it," said Algy quietly, and Hugh stared at him. "It is
still supposed to be a secret: it was to be kept dark till the next
meeting of the Royal Society--but after what has happened I decided to
tell you. About a fortnight ago a peculiar-looking bloke called Sir
Raymond Blantyre came and dined.

"He's made his money in diamonds, and he was on to that diamond like a
terrier on to a rat. And when he heard old Goodman had made it, I thought
he was going to expire from a rush of blood to the head. He'd just
offered Brenda a cheque for ten thousand for it, when he was told it had
cost a little over a fiver to make.

"As I say, he turned a deep magenta and dropped his eyeglass in the sauce
tartare. That was the first spasm; the next we heard last night.
Apparently the old man agreed to give a demonstration to this bloke and
some of his pals, and the result of the show was--great heavens! when I
think of it, my brain comes out in a rash--the result, Hugh, was that they
offered him a quarter of a million pounds to suppress his discovery.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand acidulated tablets--and he refused. One
supreme glorious burst on fifty thousand of the best, and an income from
the remaining two hundred for the rest of his life. We worked it out
after dinner, my boy--Brenda and I. Two hundred thousand at five per cent.
We couldn't quite make out what it would come to, but whatever it is he
has cast it from him. And then you wonder at my anguish."

With a hollow groan Algy helped himself to beer and sank into a chair.

"Look here, Algy," said Hugh, after a pause, "you aren't playing the
fool, are you? You literally mean that Professor Goodman has discovered a
method by which diamonds can be made artificially?"

"Exactly; that is what I literally mean. And I further literally mean
that he has turned down an offer of a quarter of a million thick 'uns to
keep dark about it. And what I want you and Phyllis to do this
evening..."

"Dry up," interrupted Hugh. He was staring out of the window, and his
usual look of inane good temper had completely vanished.

He was thinking deeply, and after a few moments he swung round on the
disconsolate Algy.

"This is a pretty serious affair, Algy," he remarked.

"You bet your life it is," agreed his friend. "Quarter..."

"Cut it out about the boodle. That's bad, I admit--but it's not that I'm
thinking of."

"I don't know what the deuce else there is to think about. Just because
he wants to spout out his footling discovery to a bunch of old geysers at
the Royal Society..."

Hugh regarded him dispassionately. "I have often wondered why they ever
let you leave school," he remarked. "Your brain is even smaller than the
ten-bob helping of caviare they gave me at the Majestic last night. You
don't really think it's a footling discovery, do you? You don't really
think people run about the streets of London pressing two hundred and
fifty thousand pounds on comparative strangers for fun?"

"Oh! I suppose the old bean has spotted a winner right enough," conceded
Algy grudgingly.

"Now, look here," said Drummond quietly. "I don't profess to know
anything about diamonds or the diamond market. But if what you say is
correct--if the Professor can manufacture a stone worth at current prices
ten thousand pounds for a fiver--you don't require to know much about
markets to see that diamonds will be on a par with bananas as soon as the
process is known.

"Further, you don't require to know much about markets to see that such a
state of affairs would be deuced unpopular with quite a lot of people. If
you've got all your money in diamonds and wake up one bright morning to
read in the paper that a diamond weighing half a ton has just been
manufactured for three and sixpence, it's going to make the breakfast
kipper look a bit jaded."

"I know all that, old boy," said Algy a bit wearily. "But they're just
additional reasons for the old ass taking the money. Then everyone would
be happy. Only he's so confoundedly pigheaded. Why, when I sort of
suggested after dinner last night during the nut-mastication period that
he could do a lot with the boodle--help him no end with his albumenised
chicken seed, and all that--he got quite stuffy."

"'My dear boy,' he said, 'you don't understand. To offer a scientist
money to suppress a discovery of possibly far-reaching importance is not
only an insult to him, but it is also an insult to science. I would not
suppress this for a million pounds.'

"Then he forgot to pass the port, and the meeting broke up in disorder."

Hugh nodded thoughtfully. "I'm afraid they will suppress it for him," he
said gravely.

Algy stared at him. "How do you mean, suppress it for him?" he demanded
at length.

"I haven't an idea," answered Drummond. "Not even the beginning of one.
But people have fallen in front of tube trains before now; people have
been accidentally killed by a passing car--"

"But, good heavens, man," cried Algy dazedly, "you don't mean to say that
you think someone will murder the poor old fruit?" Drummond shrugged his
shoulders. "Your future father-in-law has it in his power to completely
ruin large numbers of extremely wealthy men. Apparently with the best
will in the world he proposes to do so. He has butted into a huge vested
interest, and, as far as I can make out from what you've told me, he
quite fails to realise the fact."

He lit a cigarette thoughtfully.

"But what the devil are we to do, Hugh?" said Algy, now very serious
himself. "I tell you it will be impossible to make him accept that money.
He's as docile as a sheep in some ways, but once he does stick his toes
in over anything, a bag of gun powder won't shift him."

"Well, if he really is determined to go through with it, it may be
necessary to get him away and keep a watchful eye on him till he gets it
off his chest at the Royal Society. That's to say if he'll come. Once
it's out--it's out, and the reasons for doing away with him will largely
have disappeared."

"Yes; but I say, old man--murder!"

Algy harked back to his original point. "Don't you think that's a bit
over the odds?" Hugh laughed grimly. "You've lived the quiet life too
long, Algy. There are stakes at issue now which strike me as being a
deuced sight bigger than anything we played for with dear old Carl
Peterson. Bigger at any rate financially."

An almost dreamy look came into his eyes, and he sighed deeply.

"Those were the days, Algy--those were the days. I'm afraid we shall never
have them again. Still--if what I'm afraid of is correct, we might have a
bit of fun, looking after the old man. Dull, of course, but better than
nothing."

He sighed again, and helped himself to more beer.

"Now you trot off and lunch with Brenda. Don't tell her anything about
what I've said. I shall make one or two discreet inquiries this
afternoon, and this evening I will bring the brain to bear over the fish
and chips."

"Right, old man," cried Algy, rising with alacrity. "Deuced good of you
and all that. I'd hate the dear old bird to take it in the neck. His port
is pretty putrid, I admit, but still--" He waved his stick cheerfully,
and a few seconds later Hugh watched him walking at speed down Brook
Street. And long after Algy had disappeared he was still standing at the
window staring into the street.

Hugh Drummond laid no claim to being brilliant. His brain, as he
frequently remarked, was of the 'also-ran' variety. But he was
undoubtedly the possessor of a very shrewd common sense, which generally
enabled him to arrive at the same result as a far more brilliant man and,
incidentally, by a much more direct route.

He was, it may be said, engaged in trying to arrive at what he called in
military parlance, the general idea. He did it by a process of reasoning
which at any rate had the merit of being easy to follow. First, Algy,
though a fool and partially demented, was not a liar. Therefore the story
he had just listened to was true.

Second, the bloke who had turned a deep magenta, though possibly a liar,
was certainly not a fool. If he had made his money in diamonds, he
couldn't be, at any rate, as far as diamonds were concerned.

Third, since he had offered Professor Goodman no less than a quarter of a
million to suppress the secret, he had evidently got a jolt in a tender
spot. Fourth, here was the great query: just how tender was that spot?

He had spoken glibly about markets to Algy, but he realised only too well
that he actually knew nothing about diamonds. He recalled dimly that they
were found in mines near Kimberley; beyond that his knowledge of the
subject was limited to the diamond engagement ring he had bought for
Phyllis. And having reached that point in his deliberations, he decided
that before coming to any definite conclusion it would be well to take
some expert advice on the matter.

He rose and pressed the bell: Toby Sinclair was the very man. In the
intervals of backing losers, that bright particular star graced a city
firm with his presence--a firm which dealt in precious stones on the
wholesale side.

"Denny," he said, as his servant came in, "ring up Mr Sinclair in the
city and ask him to come and lunch with me at the club today. Tell him
it's very important."

And five minutes later he was strolling in the same direction as that
taken by Algy, but at a more leisurely rate. His face was still contorted
with thought; he periodically stopped abruptly and glared into space. How
big was the jolt? Was it really big enough to justify the fears he had
expressed to Algy, or was he exaggerating things in his own mind? He
ruminated on the point over a cocktail in the Regency; he was still
ruminating as he passed into St James's Square on the way to his club.

To reach it he had to pass the doors of Professor Goodman's club, and as
he walked slowly on the cause of all his profound mental activity--the
worthy Professor himself--hove into sight.

Drummond paused: it seemed to him that something had happened. For the
Professor was muttering wildly to himself, while periodically he shook
his fist in the air.

"Morning, Professor," he remarked affably. "Been stung by a bee, or
what?" The Professor stopped abruptly and stared at him.

"It's you, Drummond, is it?" he said. "I've just received a most
scandalous letter--perfectly scandalous. A threat, sir--an anonymous
threat. Read it."

He held out a common-looking envelope which he handed to Drummond. But
that worthy only took it mechanically; his eyes--shrewd and
thoughtful--were looking over the Professor's shoulder. A man had come
hurriedly round King Street, only to pause with equal suddenness and
stare into an area below.

"I suppose, Professor," he remarked quietly, still holding the letter in
his hand, "that you know you're being followed."

"I know I'm being what?" barked the Professor. "Who is following me?"
Drummond slightly raised his voice. "If you turn round you will see an
unpleasant specimen of humanity gazing into the basement of that house. I
allude to the bird with the large ears, who is beginning to go a little
red about the tonsils."

With a snarl the man swung on his heel and came towards them. "Are you
talking about me, damn you?" he said, addressing Drummond.

"I am," remarked Drummond dispassionately. "Mushrooms growing well down
below there?" The man looked somewhat disconcerted. "Now, who told you to
follow Professor Goodman?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said the man surlily.

"Dear me!" remarked Drummond mildly. "I should have thought the question
was sufficiently clear even to a person of your limited intelligence.
However, if it will save you any bother, the Professor is lunching with
me at my club--that one over there with the warrior in uniform outside the
door--and will probably be leaving about three. So you can either run away
and play marbles till then, or you can stay here and watch the door."

He put his hand through the Professor's arm, and gently propelled him
towards the club, leaving the man scratching his head foolishly.

"But, my dear fellow," mildly protested the Professor, 'this is very kind
of you. I'd no idea I was lunching with you."

"No more had I," answered Hugh genially. "But I think it's a jolly sort
of idea, don't you? We'll get a table in the window and watch our friend
earning his pay outside, while we toy with a bit of elusive Stilton."

"But how do you know the man was following me, Drummond?" said the
Professor excitedly. "And if he was, don't you think I ought to tell the
police?" Gently but firmly Drummond piloted him up the steps of his club.
"I have an unerring instinct in such matters, Professor," he remarked.
"And he was very bad at it--very bad. Now we will lower a Martini apiece,
and I will read this threatening missive of yours."

The Professor sank into his chair and blinked at Hugh through his
spectacles. He had had a trying morning, and there was something very
reassuring about this large and imperturbable young man whom he knew was
his future son-in-law's greatest friend.

And as he watched him reading the typewritten piece of paper, strange
stories which he had heard of some of Drummond's feats in the past came
back to him. They had been told him by Algy and one or two by Brenda, but
he had not paid any great attention to them at the time. They were not
very much in his line, but now he felt distinctly comforted as he
recalled them. To have his life threatened was a new experience for the
worthy Professor, and one not at all to his liking. It had interfered
considerably with his work that morning, and produced a lack of mental
concentration which he found most disturbing.

The letter was short and to the point.

"Unless you accept the two hundred and fifty thousand pounds recently
offered to you, you will be killed."

The Professor leaned forward as Drummond laid the sheet of paper on the
table.

"I must explain, Drummond," he began, but the other interrupted him.

"No need to, Professor. Algy came round to see me this morning, and he
told me about your discovery."

He again picked up the paper and glanced at it. "You have no idea, I
suppose, who can have sent this?"

"None," said the Professor. "It is utterly inconceivable that Sir Raymond
Blantyre should have stooped to such a thing. He, as Algy probably told
you, is the man who originally offered me this sum to suppress my
discovery. But I refuse to believe for a moment that he would ever have
been guilty of such a vulgar threat."

Drummond regarded him thoughtfully. "Look here, Professor," he said at
length, "it seems to me that you are getting into pretty deep water. How
deep I don't quite know. I tell you frankly I can't understand this
letter. If, as you say, it is merely a vulgar threat, it is a very stupid
and dangerous thing to put on paper. If, on the other hand, it is more
than a threat--if it is an actual statement of fact--it is even more
incredibly stupid and dangerous."

"A statement of fact," gasped the Professor. "That I shall be killed if I
don't suppress my discovery!"

He was blinking rapidly behind his spectacles, and Drummond smiled.

"A statement of fact as far as the writer of this epistle is concerned,"
he remarked. "No more than that, Professor, I hope. In fact we must take
steps to ensure that it is no more than that. But this letter, on top of
your being followed, shows that you're in the public eye, so to speak."

"But I don't understand, Drummond," said the Professor feebly.

"No more do I," answered Hugh. "However, that will make it all the
jollier when we do. And it is possible that we may get a bit nearer the
mark today at lunch. A fellow of the name of Sinclair is joining us. He's
a pal of Algy's too--and he's in a big diamond merchant's office down in
the city. He's a knowledgeable sort of bird, and we'll pump him. I don't
want you to say a word as to your discovery--not a word. We'll just put
the case to him as ail academic one, and we'll get his actual opinion on
it."

"But I know their opinion about it already," said the Professor
peevishly. "And I tell you that nothing is going to stop me announcing my
discovery in ten days' time before the Royal Society."

Drummond drained his cocktail. "That's the spirit, Professor," he cried
cheerily. "But for all that we may just as well see where we are. Here is
Sinclair now: don't forget--not a word."

He rose as Toby Sinclair came up.

"Morning, Toby. Do you know Professor Goodman? He is the misguided man
who is allowing Algy to marry into his family."

"Morning, sir," said Sinclair with a grin. "Well, old man--a cocktail, a
rapid lunch, and I must buzz back. I tell you things are moving with some
celerity in our line, at present. And as the bright boy of the firm, my
time is fully occupied."

He lit a cigarette, and Hugh laughed.

"With a Lunar Guide and the Sportsman. Quite so, old boy--I know."

"No, really, Hugh," said Toby seriously, "the old office has not been the
usual rest-cure just lately. Strong men have rushed in and out and
conferred behind locked doors, and the strain has been enormous. Made one
quite dizzy to see them. However, It's been better the last two or three
days, ever since old Blantyre came back from Switzerland."

Drummond adroitly kicked the Professor's leg.

"And who is old Blantyre?" he remarked carelessly, "and why does he go to
Switzerland?"

"Sir Raymond Blantyre is the head of the syndicate to which our firm
belongs, though why he went to Switzerland I haven't any idea. All I can
tell you is that he went out there looking like nothing on earth, and
came back two days later smiling all over his face."

"Speaks well for the Swiss air," said Hugh dryly. "However, let's go and
inspect the menu."

He led the way towards the dining-room, and his expression was
thoughtful. If, as he had been given to understand, Sir Raymond Blantyre
was now facing immediate ruin, it was a little difficult to see why he
should be smiling all over his face. It showed, at any rate, a
resignation to Fate which was beyond all praise. Unless, of course,
something had happened in Switzerland... But, then, what could have
happened? Had he gone over there to dispose of his stock before the crash
came? He felt very vague as to whether it would be possible to do such a
thing. Anyway, it mightn't be a bad idea to find out where he had been to
in Switzerland. Just for future reference; in case anything happened.

"Yes--a deuced good advertisement for the Swiss air, old man," he
repeated, after they had sat down. "Where did he go to?"

"You seem very interested in his wanderings," said Toby with a laugh. "As
a matter of fact, I believe he went to Montreux, but since he was only
there a day, the air can't have had much to do with it."

Hugh glanced through the window; the man who had been following the
Professor was still loitering about the corner of the square. And the
frown on his face grew more pronounced. It beat him--the whole thing beat
him completely. Especially the threatening letter....

"You're marvellously merry and bright this morning, old boy."

Toby broke off his desultory conversation with the Professor and regarded
Hugh with the eye of an expert. "I don't think you can have been mother's
angel-boy last night. Anyway, what is this important thing you wanted to
see me about?" With an effort his host pulled himself together.

"I was thinking, Toby," he remarked, "and you know what an awful effect
that always has on my system. Look here, diamonds are a pretty good
thing, aren't they, as a birthday present for Phyllis?" Toby stared at
him. "I think they're a very good thing," he remarked. "Why?"

"No danger of them losing their value?"

"None whatever. The output is far too carefully controlled for that."

"But supposing someone came along and manufactured them cheap?" Toby
laughed. "You needn't worry about that, old man. It has been done in the
past and the results cost more than the genuine article."

"Yes, but supposing it did happen," persisted Hugh. "Supposing a process
was discovered by which big stones--really big stones could be made for a
mere sou--what then?" Toby shrugged his shoulders. "The discoverer of the
process could ask practically what he liked to suppress it," he answered.

"And if it wasn't suppressed--if it became known?"

"If it became widely known it would mean absolute ruin to thousands of
people. You may take it from me, old man, that in the first place such a
process is never likely to be found, and, if it ever was, that it would
never come out."

Hugh flashed a warning glance at the Professor.

"There are hundreds of millions of pounds involved directly or indirectly
in the diamond business," went on Toby. "So I think you can safely invest
in a few if you want to, for Phyllis."

He glanced at his watch and rose. "Look here, I must be toddling. Another
conference on this afternoon. If you want any advice on choosing them,
old boy, I'm always in the office from eleven-thirty to twelve."

Hugh watched him cross the room; then he turned thoughtfully to the
Professor.

"So that's that," he said. "Now, what about a bit of Stilton and a glass
of light port while we consider the matter?"

"But I knew all that before, and it has no influence on me, Drummond.
None at all."

The Professor was snorting angrily. "I will not be intimidated into the
suppression of a far-reaching chemical discovery by any considerations
whatever."

"Quite so," murmured Hugh soothingly. "I thought you'd probably feel like
that about it. But it's really Algy I'm thinking about. As you know, He's
a dear old pal of mine; his wedding is fixed in about a month, and since
that is the only thing that can possibly restore him to sanity, we none
of us want it postponed."

"Why should it be postponed?" cried the Professor.

"Mourning in the bride's family," said Drummond. "The betting is a tenner
to a dried banana that you expire within a week. Have some more cheese?"

"Don't be absurd, Drummond. If you think you are going to persuade
me--you're wrong. I suppose that foolish boy Algy has been trying to
enlist you on his side."

"Now look here, Professor," said Hugh quietly. "Will you listen to me for
a moment or two? It is perfectly true that Algy did suggest to me this
morning that I should try to persuade you to accept the offer Sir Raymond
made you. But I am not going to do anything of the sort. I may say that
even this morning it struck me that far more serious things were at stake
than your acceptance or refusal of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.
I am not at all certain in my own mind that if you accepted the money you
would even then be safe. You are the owner of far too dangerous a piece
of knowledge. However, as I say, it struck me this morning that things
were serious--now I'm sure of it, after what Toby said. He evidently knows
nothing about it, so the big men are keeping it dark. Moreover, the
biggest man of all, according to him, seems perfectly pleased with life
at the present moment. Yet it's not due to anything that you have done;
you haven't told them that you will accept their offer. Then why is he
pleased? Most people wouldn't be full of happiness when they were facing
immediate ruin. Professor, you may take it from me--and I am not an
alarmist by any means--that the jolly old situation has just about as many
unpleasant snags sticking out of it as any that I have ever contemplated.
And I've contemplated quite a few in my life."

He sat back in his chair and drained his port, and the Professor,
impressed in spite of himself, looked at him in perplexity.

"Then what do you suggest that I should do, Drummond?" he said. "These
sort of things are not at all in my line."

Hugh smiled. "No, I suppose they're not. Well, I'll tell you what I would
suggest your doing. If you are determined to go through with this, I
would first of all take that threatening letter to Scotland Yard. Ask for
Sir Bryan Johnstone, tell him you're a pal of mine, call him Tum-tum, and
he'll eat out of your hand. If you can't see him, round up Inspector
McIver, and tell him--well, as much or as little as you like. Of course,
it's a little difficult. You can hardly accuse Sir Raymond Blantyre of
having sent it. But still it seems the only thing to do. Then I propose
that you and your wife and your daughter should all come away, and Algy
too, and stop with my wife and me, for a little house-warming party at a
new place I've just bought down in Sussex. I'll rope in a few of Algy's
pals and mine to stop there too and we'll keep an eye on you, until the
meeting of the Royal Society."

"It's very good of you, Drummond," said the Professor uncertainly. "I
hardly know what to say. This letter, for instance."

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a bunch of papers, which he turned
over in his hands.

"To think that there's all this trouble over that," he continued, holding
out two or three sheets of notepaper. "Whereas nobody worries over these
notes on albumenised proteins."

Hugh stared at him in amazement.

"You don't mean to say that those are the notes of your diamond process,"
he gasped. "Carried loose in your pocket?"

"Yes, why not?" said the Professor mildly. "I always carry everything
loose like that, otherwise I lose them. And I should be helpless without
these."

"Good heavens! man, you must be mad," cried Hugh. "Do you mean to say
that you couldn't carry on without those notes? And yet you carry them
like that!"

"I should have to do it all over again, and it would take me months to
arrive at the right proportions once more."

He was peering through the scattered sheets. "Even now I believe I've
lost one--oh! no, here it is. You see, it doesn't make much odds, because
no one could understand them except me."

Hugh looked at him speechlessly for a while: then he passed his hand
dazedly across his forehead. "My dear Professor," he murmured, "you
astound me. You positively stagger my brain. The only remaining thing
which I feel certain you have not omitted to do is to ensure that Sir
Raymond and his friends know that you carry your notes about in your
pocket like that. You haven't forgotten to tell them that, have you?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, Drummond," said the Professor apologetically,
"I'm afraid they must guess that I do. You see, when I did my
demonstration before them I pulled my notes out of my pockets just as I
did a moment or two ago. I suppose it is foolish of me, but until now I
haven't thought any more about the matter. It all comes as such a
complete shock, that I really don't know where I am. What do you think
I'd better do with them?"

"Deposit them at your bank the very instant you leave here," said Hugh.
"I will come round with you, and--well, what's the matter now, Professor?"
The Professor had risen to his feet, blinking rapidly in his agitation.

"Good heavens! Drummond, I had completely forgotten. All this bother put
it quite out of my head. Professor Scheidstrun--a celebrated German
geologist--made an appointment with me at my house for this afternoon. He
has brought several specimens of carboniferous quartz which he claims
will completely refute a paper I have just written on the subject of
crystalline deposits. I must get home at once, or I shall be late."

"Not quite so fast, Professor," said Hugh with a smile. "I don't know
anything about carboniferous quartz, but there's one thing I do know. Not
for one minute longer do you walk about the streets of London with those
notes in your pocket. Come into the smoking-room and we'll seal them up
in an envelope. Then I'll take charge of them, at any rate until tonight
when I'm coming to dine at your house. And after dinner we can discuss
matters further."

He led the agitated savant into the smoking-room, and stood over him
while he placed various well-thumbed pieces of paper into an envelope.
Then he sealed the envelope and placed it in his pocket, and with a sigh
of relief the Professor rose. But Drummond had not finished yet.

"What about that letter and the police?" he said, holding out a detaining
hand.

"My dear boy, I really haven't got the time now," cried the old man.
"You've no idea of the importance of this interview this afternoon. Why--"
he laid his hand impressively on Drummond's arm--"if what Scheidstrun
claims is correct, it may cause a complete revolution in our present
ideas on the atomic theory. Think of that, my friend, think of that."

Drummond suppressed a strong desire to laugh. "I'm thinking, Professor,"
he murmured gravely. "And even though he does all that you say and more,
I still think that you ought to go to the police with that letter."

"Tomorrow, Drummond--I will." Like a rabbit between a line of beaters he
was dodging towards the door, with Drummond after him. "You shall come
with me yourself tomorrow, I promise you. And we'll discuss matters again
tonight. But the atomic theory--think of it."

With a gasp of relief he dashed into a waiting taxi, leaving Hugh
partially stupefied on the pavement.

"Tell him where to go, there's a good fellow," cried the Professor. "And
if you could possibly lend me half-a-crown, I'd be very grateful. I've
left all my money at home, as usual."

Drummond smiled and produced the necessary coin. Then a sudden thought
struck him.

"I suppose you know this German bloke, don't you?"

"Yes, yes," cried the Professor testily. "Of course I know him. I met him
ten years ago in Geneva. For goodness' sake, my boy, tell the man to
drive on."

Drummond watched the taxi swing round into King Street; then somewhat
thoughtfully he went back into his club. Discussing the atomic theory
with a German professor he knew, seemed a comparatively safe form of
amusement, calculated, in fact, to keep him out of mischief, but he still
felt vaguely uneasy. The man who had followed him seemed to have
disappeared; St James's Square was warm and peaceful. From one point of
view, it was hard to believe that any real danger could threaten the old
man: he felt he could understand his surprised incredulity. As he had
said, such things were out of his line. But as Drummond might have
answered, they were not out of his, and no man living knew better that
strange things took place daily in London, things which would tax the
credulity of the most hardened reader of sensational fiction. And the one
great dominant point which stuck out, and refused to be argued away, was
this. What was the life of one old man compared to the total loss of
hundreds of millions of pounds, when viewed from the standpoint of the
losers? He glanced at the envelope he still held in his hand, and slipped
it into his pocket. Then he went into the telephone box and rang up his
chauffeur to bring round his car.

He felt he wanted some fresh air to clear his brain, and all the way down
to Ranelagh the same question kept clouding it. Why had that threatening
letter been sent? If the intention was indeed to kill Professor Goodman,
why, in the name of all that was marvellous, be so incredibly foolish as
not only to warn him, but also to put that warning on paper? And if it
was merely a bluff, again why put it on paper when the writer must have
known that in all probability it would be taken straight to the police?
Or was the whole thing just a silly jest, and was he, personally, making
an appalling fool of himself by taking it seriously?

But the last alternative was untenable. The offer of a quarter of a
million pounds was no jest; not even the most spritely humorist could
possibly consider it one. And so he found himself back at the beginning
again, and he was still there when he saw Algy and his girl having tea.

He deposited himself in a vacant chair beside Brenda and, having assured
her of his continued devotion, he consumed the last sugar-cake.

"The male parent has just lunched with me," he remarked genially. "And as
a result I am in the throes of brain-fever. He borrowed half-a-crown, and
went off in Admiral Ferguson's hat, as I subsequently discovered. I left
the worthy seaman running round in small circles snorting like a bull.
You should discourage your father, Brenda, from keeping pieces of paper
written on with copying ink in the lining of his head-piece. Old
Ferguson, who put the hat on by mistake, has a chemistry lecture written
all over his forehead."

"Did you persuade Dad not to be such an unmitigated idiot, Hugh?" asked
the girl eagerly.

"I regret to state that I did not," answered Hugh. "In fact, honesty
compels me to admit, Brenda, that I no longer wonder at his allowing you
to marry Algy. He may be the outside size in chemistry, but beyond that
he wants lessons. Will you believe it, that at lunch today he suddenly
removed from his pocket the notes of this bally discovery of his? He has
been carrying them loose, along with some peppermint bull's-eyes and bits
of string!"

"Oh! but he always carries everything like that," laughed the girl. "What
is the old dear doing now?"

"He rushed away to commune with a German professor on carboniferous
quartz and the atomic theory. Seemed immensely excited about it, so I
suppose it means something. But to come to rather more important matters,
I have invited him and Mrs Goodman and you to come down and spend a few
days with us in Sussex. We might even include Algy."

"What's the notion, old man?" murmured Algy. "Think he's more likely to
see reason if we take him bird-nesting?"

"It's no good, Hugh," said Brenda decisively. "Besides, he wouldn't go."

She turned to speak to a passing acquaintance, and Hugh bent over to
Algy.

"He's damn well got to go," he said in a low voice. "He was being
followed this morning when I met him outside the club, and He's had a
letter threatening his life."

"The devil he has!" muttered Algy.

"If you can make him see reason and suppress his discovery, so much the
better," went on Hugh: "Personally, I think he's a pigheaded old ass, and
that it undoubtedly ought to be suppressed, but there's no good telling
him that at present. But if he won't, it's up to us anyway to look after
him, because he's utterly incapable of doing it himself. Not a word to
Brenda, mind, about the letter or his being followed. He's all right for
this afternoon, and we'll fix things up this evening definitely."

And since the afternoon was all that an afternoon should be, and no one
may ask for more than that and Ranelagh combined, it was just as well for
the peace of mind of all concerned that no power of second sight enabled
them to see what was happening in Professor Goodman's laboratory, where
he was discussing carboniferous quartz and the atomic theory with a
celebrated German geologist.



CHAPTER 3 - In Which Strange Things Happen in Pro lessor Goodman's
            Laboratory


At just about the same time that Algy Longworth was dancing on the
pavement in Brook Street and demanding admission to Drummond's house, Sir
Raymond Blantyre was holding a conference with the other members of the
Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. The proceedings were taking place behind
locked doors, and had an onlooker been present he would have noticed that
there was a general air of tension in the room. For good or ill the die
was cast, and try as they would the seven eminently respectable city
magnates assembled round the table could not rid themselves of the
thought that they had deliberately hired a man to commit murder for them.
Not that they admitted it even to themselves--at any rate, not as crudely
as that. Mr Blackton's services had been secured to arrange matters for
them with Professor Goodman--to negotiate for the suppression of his
discovery; How he did it was, of course, his concern, and nothing
whatever to do with them. Even Sir Raymond himself tried to lull his
conscience by reflecting that perhaps the drastic measures alluded to in
his interview at the Palace Hotel would not be necessary. And if they
were--well, only a weak man wavered and hesitated once he was definitely
committed to a particular line of action. After all, the responsibility
was not his alone; he had merely been the spokesman for the combined
opinions of the Syndicate reached after mature reflection. And if
Professor Goodman was so pig-headed and obstinate, he must take the
consequences. There were others to be considered--all those who would be
ruined.

Just at first after his return from Switzerland such specious arguments
had served their purpose; but during the last two days they seemed to
have lost some of their soothing power. He had found himself feverishly
snatching at every fresh edition of the evening paper to see if anything
had happened. He had even found himself wondering whether it was too late
to stop things even now, but he didn't know where the man who called
himself Blackton could be found. From the moment when he had realised in
the restaurant wagon that the old German professor and Mr Edward Blackton
were one and the same person, he had not set eyes on him again. There had
been no trace of him in Paris, and no trace on the boat. He had no idea
where he was; he did not even know if he was in London.

His cheque had been presented in Paris, so he had discovered from his
bank only that morning. And that was the last trace of the man he had
interviewed at Montreux.

"I suppose there's no chance of this man double-crossing us."

A dark sallow man was speaking and Sir Raymond glanced up quickly. "When
all is said and done he has had a quarter of a million, and we're hardly
in a position to claim it back."

"That was one of the risks we discussed before we approached him," said
Sir Raymond. "Of course there's a chance; that is obvious on the face of
it. My impression is, however, that he will not, apart from the fact that
another quarter of a million is at stake. He struck me, in a very marked
degree, as being a man of his word."

There was a silence for a while, a silence which was broken suddenly by a
mild-looking middle-aged man.

"It's driving me mad, this--absolutely mad," he cried, mopping the sweat
from his forehead. "I fell asleep last night after dinner, and I tell
you, I woke up shouting. Dreams--the most awful dreams, with that poor old
devil stabbed in the back and looking at me with great staring eyes. He
was calling me a murderer, and I couldn't stand it any more. I know I
agreed to it originally, but I can't go on with it--I can't."

There was a moment's tense silence, and then Sir Raymond spoke.

"I don't understand you, Mr Lewisham," he said coldly. "It is quite
impossible for you to back out of it now, without betraying us all. And
anyway, I would be greatly obliged if you would lower your voice."

With a great effort Mr Lewisham controlled himself. "Can't we think of
some other method, gentlemen?" he said. "This seems so horribly
cold-blooded."

"What other possible method is there?" snarled Leibhaus. "We've tried
everything."

The telephone in front of Sir Raymond rang suddenly and everyone started.
It showed the condition of their nerves, and for an appreciable time the
President tried to steady his hand before he picked up the receiver. And
when after a few seconds he laid it down again he moistened his lips with
his tongue, before he trusted himself to speak.

"Mr Blackton will be with us in a quarter of an hour, gentlemen," he
remarked, and his voice was shaking a little. "I have no idea what he
wants, and I am somewhat surprised at his coming here, since I laid
especial stress on the fact that we were not to be implicated in any way
with his--er--visit to England."

He gave a brief order through a speaking-tube; then he rose and walked
wearily up and down the room. The prospect of meeting Blackton again was
not at all to his taste, though his dislike was not in any way due to a
belated access of better feeling and remorse. It was due to the fact that
Blackton as a man thoroughly frightened him, and as he paced up and down
glancing at his watch every half-minute or so he felt exactly as he had
felt in years long gone by when he had been told that the headmaster was
awaiting him in his study. It was useless to try to bolster up his
courage by reflecting that Blackton was, after all, merely the paid
servant of his syndicate.

He knew perfectly well that Blackton was nothing of the sort, any more
than a doctor can be regarded as the paid servant of his patient. The
situation in brief was that Mr Blackton for a suitable fee had agreed to
assist them professionally, and any other interpretation of the position
would be exceedingly unwise.

He started nervously as he heard the sound of voices on the stairs, but
it was with a very creditable imitation of being at ease that he went
forward as the door opened and Mr Blackton was shown in. He had discarded
the disguise he had worn in the train, and appeared as he had done at
their first meeting in Switzerland.

He nodded briefly to Sir Raymond; then coming a few steps into the room,
he favoured each man present with a penetrating stare.

Then he laid his gloves on the table and sat down.

"On receiving your message, I was not quite sure in which guise we were
to expect you," said Sir Raymond, breaking the silence.

"The absurd passport regulations," said Mr Blackton suavely, "necessitate
one's altering one's appearance at times. However, to get to business.
You are doubtless wondering at my action in coming round to see you. I
may say that I had no intention of so doing until this morning. I have
been in London for two days, and my plans were complete--when a sudden and
most unexpected hitch occurred."

He paused and fixed his eyes on Sir Raymond. "How many people are there
who know of this discovery of Professor Goodman's?"

"His family and our syndicate," answered the President.

"No one else in the diamond world except the gentlemen in this room knows
anything about it?"

"No one," cried Sir Raymond. "We have most sedulously kept it dark. I
feel sure I may speak for my friends."

He glanced round the room and there was a murmur of assent.

"Then I am forced to the conclusion," continued Mr Blackton, "that the
writer of an anonymous letter received by the Professor this morning is
amongst us at the moment."

His eyes travelled slowly round the faces of his audience, to stop and
fasten on Mr Lewisham, whose tell-tale start had given him away.

"I am informed," went on Mr Blackton--"and my informant, who was cleaning
the windows amongst other things at the Professor's house, is a very
reliable man--I am informed, I say, that this morning the Professor
received a letter stating that unless he accepted the money you had
offered him, he would be killed. Now, who can have been so incredibly
foolish as to send that letter?" Mr Lewisham fidgeted in his chair, until
at length everyone in the room, noting the direction of Blackton's
glance, was staring at him.

"Was it you, Lewisham?" snapped Leibhaus.

Mr Lewisham swallowed once or twice; then he stood up, clutching the edge
of the table. "Yes--it was," he said defiantly. "It seemed to me that we
ought to neglect no possible chance of getting him to agree to our terms.
I typed it, and posted it myself last night."

Smothered curses came from all sides; only Mr Blackton seemed unmoved.
"You have realised, of course, what will happen should Professor Goodman
take that letter to the police," he remarked quietly. "The fact that it
was your syndicate that offered him the money will make it a little
unpleasant for you all."

But behind the impassive mask of his face Mr Blackton's brain was busy.
The thing--the only thing--with which even the most perfectly laid schemes
were unable to cope had happened here. And that thing was having a
chicken-hearted confederate, or, worse still, one who became suddenly
smitten with conscience. Against such a person nothing could be done. He
introduced an incalculable factor into any situation with which even a
master craftsman was unable to deal.

Not that he had the remotest intention of giving up the scheme--that was
not Mr Blackton's way at all. A further priceless idea had come to him
since the interview at Montreux, which would render this coup even more
wonderful than he had at first thought. Not only would he amass a large
store of diamonds himself, but after that had been done and any further
necessity for the continued existence of Professor Goodman had ceased, he
would still have the secret of the process in his possession. And this
secret he proposed to sell for a price considerably in excess of the two
hundred and fifty thousand pounds offered to its original discoverer.
After which he would decide what to do with the copy he had kept.

In fact Mr Blackton fully realised that, in the hands of a master expert
like himself, the affair presented promises of such boundless wealth that
at times it almost staggered even him. And now, at the last moment, this
new factor had been introduced into the situation which might possibly
jeopardise his whole carefully thought-out scheme. And the problem was to
turn it to the best advantage.

"I don't care," Mr Lewisham was saying obstinately to the little group of
men who were standing round him. "I don't care if that letter of mine
does stop it all. I'd sooner be ruined than go through the rest of my
life feeling that I was a murderer."

"Mr Lewisham seems a little excited," said Blackton suavely. "Who, may I
ask, has said anything about murder?" They fell silent, and stared at
him.

"When Sir Raymond Blantyre came to me in Montreux, his request to me was
to prevent the publication of this secret process of Professor
Goodman's. I stated that I would. I stated that the Professor would not
give his lecture before the Royal Society. I believe that the word
'murder' occurred in the conversation"--he gave a somewhat pained
smile--"but do you really imagine, gentlemen, that my methods are as
crude as that?" He carefully lit a cigar, while his audience waited
breathlessly for him to continue.

"Since I find, however, that this gentleman has been so incredibly
foolish and has lost his head so pitiably, I regret to state that in all
probability I shall have to wash my hands of the entire business."

Cries of anger and dismay greeted this announcement, though the anger was
entirely directed against the author of the letter.

"But, really--" stammered Mr Lewisham, plucking nervously at his collar.

"You have behaved like an hysterical schoolgirl, sir," snapped Blackton.
"You have jeopardised the success of my entire plan, and apart altogether
from the sending of this letter you have shown yourself to be totally
unfitted to be mixed up in an affair of this description. Even if the
police did treat it as a stupid hoax--even, in fact, if we were able to
prevent the letter being shown to the police at all--you are still totally
unfit to be trusted. You would probably proclaim your sin through a
megaphone in Trafalgar Square, taking special care to incriminate all
these other gentlemen. And so I think, since you have decided to act on
your own initiative in this way, you had better undertake the affair
yourself."

He rose as if to leave, only to be, at once, surrounded by the other
members of the syndicate, imploring him, to reconsider his decision. And
at length Mr Blackton allowed himself to be persuaded to resume his
chair. His indifference was sublime; to all outward intents and purposes
he was utterly bored with the whole proceedings.

"Really, Mr Blackton--I implore of you, we all implore of you, not to
desert us like this."

Sir Raymond's eyeglass was dreadfully agitated. "Can nothing be done to
counteract Mr Lewisham's inconceivable stupidity?" Mr Blackton affected
to consider the point. Not for him to say that he had already decided
exactly what was going to be done; not for him to say that the sole
object of his recent remarks had been to produce the exact atmosphere
that now existed--an atmosphere of combined antagonism to Lewisham, and an
uncomfortable feeling on the part of that unfortunate man that he really
had made a fool of himself. And certainly not for him to say what he had
decided was a meet and fit punishment for Mr Lewisham.

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "Since Mr Lewisham has caused
all this trouble," he said carelessly, "it is up to Mr Lewisham to
endeavour to rectify it."

A chorus of approval greeted the remark, and Lewisham leaned forward a
little in his chair.

"I suggest therefore that this afternoon he should pay a visit to
Professor Goodman, and find out what has happened to his letter. Should
it have been handed over to the police, he must endeavour to convince the
Professor that it was a stupid practical joke on his part, and persuade
the Professor to ring up Scotland Yard and explain things. There will be
no need for Mr Lewisham's name to be mentioned, if he handles the
Professor tactfully. On the other hand, if the note has not been handed
over to the police, Mr Lewisham must endeavour to regain possession of
it. And according to Mr Lewisham's report, I will decide whether I can
continue in this matter or not."

"That is tantamount to an avowal that the letter was sent by a member of
our syndicate," said Sir Raymond doubtfully. "You don't think that
perhaps it might be advisable to say that he had just discovered that
some clerk had played a foolish practical Joke?"

"The point seems really immaterial," returned Mr Blackton indifferently.
"But if Mr Lewisham prefers to say that, by all means let him do so."

"You will go, of course, Lewisham," said Sir Raymond, and the other
nodded.

"I will go and see what I can do," he answered. "And I can take it from
you, Mr Blackton, that there will be no question of--of killing Professor
Goodman?" For a brief moment there came into Mr Blackton's grey-blue eyes
a faint gleam as if some delicate inward jest was tickling his sense of
humour.

"You may take it from me," he answered gravely, "that nothing so
unpleasant is likely to happen to Professor Goodman."

Mr Lewisham gave a sigh of relief. "What time shall I go?" he asked.

Mr Blackton paused in the act of drawing on his gloves.

"The Professor, I am told," he remarked, "has an appointment at three
o'clock this afternoon. I would suggest therefore that you should call
about two-thirty."

"And where shall I communicate with you?"

"You can leave that entirely to me, Mr Lewisham," murmured the other,
with an almost benevolent smile. "I will take all the necessary steps to
get in touch with you. Well, gentlemen"--he turned to the others--"that is
all, I think, for the present. I will report further in due course. By
the way, Mr Lewisham, I wouldn't give your name to the servant,
if I were you."

With a slight bow he opened the door and passed down the stairs. He
paused as he reached the crowded pavement and spoke two words to a man
who was staring into a shop-window; then he deliberated whether he should
call a taxi, and decided to walk. And as he strolled along--slowly, so as
not to destroy the aroma of his cigar, his reflections were eminently
satisfactory. If the police had not received the note, he was in clover;
if they had, a little care would be necessary. But in either case the one
detail which had previously been, if not lacking, at any rate not
entirely satisfactory was now supplied. It gratified his intellect; it
pleased his artistic sense. Just as the sudden and unexpected acquisition
of a tube of some rare pigment completes a painter's joy, so this one
detail completed Mr Blackton's. That it consisted of a singularly cold
blooded murder is beside the point: all artists are a little peculiar.

And if fool men write fool letters, they must expect to suffer small
annoyances of that sort. After all, reflected Mr Blackton with
commendable thoughtfulness, the world would endure Mr Lewisham's
departure with almost callous fortitude.

He realised suddenly that he had reached his destination, and throwing
away his cigar he produced his latchkey and entered the house. It was
situated in one of those quiet squares which lie, like placid backwaters,
off the seething rivers of London. And its chief point of interest lay in
the fact that it formed the invariable pied-a-terre of Mr Blackton when
visiting England in whatever character he might at the moment be
assuming. It appeared in the telephone book as belonging to William
Anderson, a gentleman who spent much of his time a broad. And it was to
William Anderson that the Inland Revenue were wont yearly to address
their friendly reminders as to the duties of British citizens. Ever
mindful of those duties, Mr Anderson had declared his income at nineteen
hundred and fifty pounds per annum, and had opened a special account at a
branch bank to cope with the situation. He drew the line at admitting his
liability to super-tax; but after mature reflection he decided that his
method of life rendered it advisable to state that his income was
unearned.

He placed his gloves and stick on the table in the hall, and slowly
ascended the stairs. A few little details still required polishing up in
connection with his afternoon's work, and he was still deep in thought as
he entered a room on the first landing.

A man was seated at a desk, who rose as he entered--a man whose face was
well-nigh as inscrutable as his chief's. He was Mr Blackton's
confidential secretary, Freyder, a man with a salary of ten thousand a
year plus commission. He was as completely unscrupulous as his employer,
but he lacked the wonderful organising brain of the other. Given a
certain specific job to do, he could carry it out to perfection; and for
making arrangements in detail he was unrivalled. Which made him an ideal
staff officer--a fact which the other had very soon recognised. And
because Edward Blackton, like all big men, was not such a fool as to
underpay an almost invaluable subordinate, he took care that Freyder's
salary would be such that he would have no temptation to go. For it he
demanded implicit obedience, no mistakes, and at times twenty-four hours'
work out of twenty-four.

"What did you find out, Chief?" he asked curiously.

"It was sent by one of them, as I suspected," answered Blackton, seating
himself at his desk. "A stupid little man called Lewisham, who appears to
have lost his head completely. However, on my assuring him that I had no
intention of killing the excellent Goodman, he agreed to go round this
afternoon and talk to the Professor about the matter."

"Go round this afternoon?" echoed Freyder, surprised. "What do you want
him there for, this afternoon?" Blackton smiled gently. "He happens to be
about the same size as our worthy Professor," he murmured, "so it struck
me he would come in very handy. By the way, make a note, will you, to
obtain a specimen of his writing and signature. Find out if he's married,
and, if so, draft a letter to his wife from him saying that he's gone to
Valparaiso for the good of his health. Have it sent out to Number 13, and
posted there."

He stared thoughtfully out of the window, and Freyder waited for any
further instructions. "Anything more to be settled about the house?"

"Everything fixed, Chief; It's ready to move straight into this
afternoon." The telephone bell rang on Freyder's table. "Good," he
remarked a few moments later, replacing the receiver. "Number 10 reports
that he followed Goodman to St James's Square; that he is now having
lunch at the Junior Sports Club, and that he has not communicated
verbally with the police."

"And since the letter was in his pocket when he left his house,
presumably he has not communicated in writing. He must be a frivolous old
man, Freyder, to lunch at such a club. Anyway, I trust he will have a
substantial meal, as I'm afraid his constitution may be tried a little
during the next few hours."

He glanced at his watch. "The box and the men are ready?"

"Loaded upon the car at the garage."

"Excellent. Then I think a pint of champagne and a little caviare--and
after that I must get to work. And we will drink a silent toast to the
worthy Mr Lewisham for his kindly forethought in being much the same size
as the Professor, and wish him bon voyage to--what did I say?--oh! yes,
Valparaiso."

"I don't quite get Mr Lewisham's part in this show, Chief," remarked
Freyder.

Mr Blackton positively chuckled. "No more does he, my good Freyder--no
more does he. But I can positively assure you of one thing--he is not
going to Valparaiso."

And he was still chuckling ten minutes later when he rose and passed into
an inner room at the back. It was a strange place--this inner sanctum of
Mr Edward Blackton. The window was extra large, and was made of frosted
glass which effectually prevented any inquisitive neighbour from seeing
in. Around the walls full length mirrors set at different angles enabled
him to see himself from every position--an indispensable adjunct to making
up on the scale he found necessary. A huge cupboard filled one wall of
the room, a cupboard crammed with clothes and boots of all sorts and
descriptions; whilst on a shelf at the top, each in its separate
pigeon-hole, were half a dozen wigs. But the real interest of the room
lay in the small dressing-table which he proceeded to unlock.

A score of little bottles containing strange liquids, brushes,
instruments, lumps of a peculiar putty-like substance, were all most
carefully arranged on shelves. And it was the contents of this table, far
more than any change of clothes that enabled him to make such
extraordinary alterations in his personal appearance. Literally, when
seated at that table, he could build himself a new face. He could change
the colour of his eyes, he could alter the shape of his nose. A judicious
stain could turn his normally perfect teeth into unpleasant, badly kept
ones; whilst on the subject of dyes for hair and eyebrows he could have
written a text-book.

It was three-quarters of an hour before the door opened again and the
snuffling old German of the restaurant wagon emerged. Professor
Scheidstrun was ready to discuss the atomic theory with Professor Goodman
with special reference to carboniferous quartz.

Outside the door a motor-car was standing with a large box on board
containing his specimens, while by its side were two men who were to lift
the box off the car, and in due course lift it on again. And the only
other thing of interest which might be mentioned in passing is that if
Frau Scheidstrun had happened to see him getting into the car wheezing
peevishly in German, she would undoubtedly have wondered what on earth
her husband was doing in London--so perfect was the make-up. But since
that excellent woman was chasing the elusive mark in Dresden at the
moment, there was but little fear of such an unfortunate contretemps.

It was at twenty past two that he arrived at Professor Goodman's house.
As he stepped out of the car a man walked quietly towards him, a man who
stopped to watch the big box being carefully lowered to the ground. He
stopped just long enough to say, "No one in the house except the
servants," and then he strolled on.

With great care the two men carried the box up the steps and, considering
the contents were lumps of carboniferous quartz, the intense respect with
which they handled it might have struck an onlooker as strange. But the
parlourmaid, grown used through long experience to the sudden appearance
of strange individuals at odd hours, merely led the way to the
laboratory, and having remarked that the Professor might be back at
three, or possibly not till six, according to whether he had remembered
the appointment or not, she returned to her interrupted dinner.

"Get the box undone," said Blackton curtly. "But don't take anything
out."

The two men set to work, while he walked quickly round every corner of
the room. Of necessity a little had had to be left to chance, and though
he was perfectly capable of dealing with the unexpected when it arrived,
he preferred to have things as far as possible cut and dried beforehand.
And at the moment what he wanted to find was a cupboard large enough to
accommodate a man. Not that it was absolutely necessary, but it would
assist matters, especially in the event of the Professor bringing a
friend with him. That was a possibility always present in his mind, and
one which he had been unable to guard against without running the risk of
raising the Professor's suspicions.

He found what he wanted in a corner--a big recess under the working bench
screened by a curtain, and used for old retorts and test-tubes. It was
ideal for his purpose, and with a nod of satisfaction he went over to the
door. All was well--the key was on the inside; and with one final glance
round the room the exponent of the new atomic theory sat down to wait.

Before him lay the riskiest thing he had ever done in all his risky
career, but had anyone felt his pulse he would have found it normal. And
it wasn't of the next hour that Mr Blackton was thinking so much, but of
the future, when his coup had succeeded. That it would succeed was
certain; no thought of failure was ever allowed to enter his mind.

Five minutes passed--ten--when the ringing of the front-door bell brought
him back from dreams of the future. This must be Mr Lewisham, and with
his arrival came the time for action. Blackton listened intently--would he
be shown into the laboratory or into some other room? If the latter, it
would necessitate getting him in on some pretext; but steps coming along
the passage settled that point. Once more the door was flung open by the
parlourmaid; once more she returned to better things in the servants'
hall.

Lewisham paused, and glanced a little doubtfully at the old German in his
dirty black clothes. Some chemical friend of the Professor's evidently;
possibly it would be better to wait somewhere else. He half turned to the
door as if to go out again, when suddenly he felt two hands like bars of
steel around his throat. For a moment or two he struggled impotently;
then he grew still. And after a while the limp body slipped to the floor
and lay still.

"Underneath that bench with him," snapped Blackton. "Quick."

He had opened the door an inch or two and was peering out. The passage
was empty, and faint sounds were coming up the stairs from the servants'
quarters. "Stay where you are," he said to the two men. "I shall be back
in a minute."

He walked along the passage towards the front door, which he opened. Then
he deliberately rang the bell, and stood for a few seconds peering out.
And it was not until he heard the footsteps of the parlourmaid that he
shut the door again with a bang, and advanced towards her, gesticulating
wildly.

"Where is your master?" he cried. "I must to my business get; I cannot
here the whole day wait. That other gentleman--he does not wait. He go. I
too--I follow him."

He glanced at the girl.

"Speak, woman."

He waved his arms at her, and she retreated in alarm. "I will take my
specimens, and I will go--like him."

Still muttering horribly under his breath, he walked up and down the
hall, while the parlourmaid endeavoured to soothe him.

"I expect the Professor will be back soon, sir," she murmured.

"Soon," he raved. "I who have come from Germany him to see, and then I
wait. He write to me: I write to him--and then I come with my specimens.
And you say soon. Nein--I go. I go like that other."

It was at that moment that the front door opened and Professor Goodman
entered.

"A thousand apologies, my dear Professor," he cried, hurrying forward. "I
fear I am late--very late. I hope I have not kept you waiting."

He led the other towards the laboratory, and the parlourmaid made hurried
tracks for safety.

"No wonder that there other one wouldn't wait," she remarked to the cook.
"He's a holy terror--that German. Dirty old beast, with egg all over his
coat, waving his arms at me. Old Goodman is a pretty fair freak, but he
does wash. I 'opes he enjoys himself."

Which was a kindly thought on the part of the parlourmaid. And the fact
that it was expressed at the exact moment that Professor Goodman went
fully under the influence of an anaesthetic may be regarded as a strange
coincidence. For there was no time wasted in the laboratory that
afternoon. Much had to be done, and hardly had the door closed behind the
master of the house when he found himself seized and pinioned. One feeble
cry was all he gave; then a pad soaked in ether was pressed over his nose
and mouth, and the subsequent proceedings ceased to interest him.

Very interesting proceedings they were too--that went on behind the locked
door. Bursts of German loquacity with intervals of a voice astonishingly
like Professor Goodman's would have convinced any inquisitive person
listening outside the door that the two savants were in full blast. Not
that anyone was likely to listen, but Blackton was not a man who took
chances. And it takes time to change completely two men's clothes when
one is dead and the other is unconscious. One hour it was, to be exact,
before the body of Mr Lewisham, dressed in Professor Goodman's clothes,
even down to his boots, was propped up in a chair against the bench, with
various bottles and retorts in front of him. One hour and a quarter it
was before a number of small packets had been taken from the big wooden
case and stacked carefully on the bench so that they touched the dead
man's chest. One hour and a half it was before the still unconscious
Professor Goodman was placed as comfortably as possible--Mr Blackton had
no wish to run any chances with his health--in the big wooden case, and
nailed up. And during the whole of that hour and a half the discussion on
carboniferous quartz had continued with unabated zest.

At last, however, everything was finished, and Blackton took from his
pocket a little instrument which he handed very gingerly. He first of all
wound it up rather as a Bee clock is wound, and when it was ticking
gently he placed it in the centre of the heap of small packets. Then he
unlocked the door.

"Put the box on the car," he ordered. "Then pick up Freyder, and go
straight to the house."

Once again the two men staggered down the passage with their load, while
Blackton glanced at his watch. Just a quarter of an hour to put
through--before things happened. He closed the door again, and once more
his guttural voice was raised in wordy argument for the benefit of any
possible audience. And in the intervals when he ceased only the faint
ticking broke the silence. Everything had gone without a hitch, but there
were still one or two small things to be done. And the first of these
showed the amazing attention to detail which characterised all his
actions. He took the key from the door and put it on the desk; a
master-key of his own would enable him to lock the door from outside,
whereas the presence of the key in the room would make it appear that it
had been locked from within. And it was precisely that appearance which
he wished given.

Once more he looked at his watch: ten minutes to go. Nervous work, that
waiting; and even he began to feel the strain. But he daren't go too
soon; he daren't leave too long a space of time between the moment he
left the house and the moment when the ticking would cease. And he didn't
want to go too late, because the last thing he desired was to be on, or
even too near, the premises when the ticking ceased. Moreover, there was
always the possibility of a flaw in the mechanism. Morelli was a
wonderful craftsman, and he had staked his reputation on its taking
exactly a quarter of an hour. But even so--it was nervous work, waiting.

Precisely five minutes later--and they were the longest five minutes Mr
Blackton had ever spent in his life--he pressed the bell. His guttural
voice was raised in expostulation and argument as the parlourmaid knocked
at the door. Still talking, he opened it himself, and over his shoulder
the girl got a fleeting glance of Professor Goodman engaged in one of his
experiments to the exclusion of all else.

"My hat, girl," cried the German, waving his arms at her. She went to get
it, and from behind her back came the noise of a key turning. "Ach! my
friend--no one will disturb you," rumbled the German. "No need to your
door lock."

Mechanically he took the hat the parlourmaid was holding out, while he
still continued muttering to himself. "What is the good? one mistake, and
you will experiment no more. You and your house will go sky-high."

Still waving his arms, he shambled off down the street, and the girl
stood watching him. And it was just after he had turned the corner and
she was expressing her opinion of his appearance to the cook, who was
taking a breather in the area below, that she was hurled forward flat on
her face. A terrific explosion shook the house; windows broke; plaster
and pictures came crashing down.

And if it was bad in the front, it was immeasurably worse at the back. A
huge hole had been blown in the outside wall of what had once been the
Professor's laboratory; the three inside walls had collapsed, and the
ceiling had descended, bringing with it a bed, two wardrobes, and a
washing-stand complete.

In fact there was every justification for the remark of the parlourmaid
as she picked herself up.

"Lumme! what's the old fool done now? I suppose he'll ring the bell in a
minute and ask me to sweep up the mess."

An hour later Edward Blackton was seated at his desk in the house in the
quiet square. Up to date his scheme had gone even more smoothly than he
had expected, though there were still one or two small points to be
attended to before he could retire from observation and devote himself to
the Professor. There was bound to be an inquest, for instance, and he was
far too big a man not to realise that it might be fatal for him not to
attend it. Moreover, there was the little matter of that extra quarter of
a million from the Metropolitan Syndicate.

But just at the moment Lewisham was occupying his mind. A note in cipher
on the table in front of him from Freyder informed him that Henry
Lewisham was a married man, and that he lived in South Kensington. And
since the appearance of the late Mr Lewisham betokened his immense
respectability, there was but little doubt that Mrs Lewisham would become
seriously alarmed if her spouse absented himself for the night from the
conjugal roof without any word to her.

Blackton pressed a bell on his desk twice, and a moment or two later the
man who had been staring into the shop-window, and to whom he had spoken
as he left the Metropolitan Syndicate earlier in the day, entered.

"That man you followed this morning--Lewisham: did he go home to lunch?"

"No, Chief. He had a chop in a restaurant in the city."

"Did he use the telephone as far as you know?"

"I know he didn't use it. He was never out of my sight from the time he
came into the street till he went into Goodman's house."

Blackton nodded as if satisfied.

"Go to Euston, and send a wire to this address. 'Called North on urgent
business, Henry.' Then go to the Plough Inn in Liverpool, and wait
there for further orders. Draw fifty pounds for expenses"--he scribbled
his signature on a slip of paper--"and it is possible you will have to
start for South America at a moment's notice. If you do, it will be
necessary for you to make yourself up to an approximate resemblance of
Henry Lewisham, and your berth will be taken in his name."

"I didn't have a chance of studying his face very closely, Chief," said
the man doubtfully.

Blackton waved his hand in dismissal.

"Approximate resemblance, I said," he remarked curtly. "You will receive
full instructions later. Go."

He lay back in his chair as the door closed behind the man, and pulled
thoughtfully at his cigar. A merciful fact, he reflected, that it is not
a police offence for a man to run away from his wife. In fact if Mrs
Lewisham was anything like Mr Lewisham, it could hardly be regarded as an
offence at all by any disinterested person, but rather as an example of
praiseworthy discretion. A letter in due course from Liverpool stating
his intention; a resemblance efficient to cope with a wireless
description in case the lady should think of such a thing--and finally
complete disappearance in South America. An easy place to disappear
in--South America, reflected Mr Blackton; a fact he had made use of on
several occasions, when the circumstances had been similar. And it was
better for sorrowing relatives to picture their dear one alive and
wandering through primeval forests in Brazil, or dallying with nitrates
in Chile, than for them to realise that the dear one was very, very dead.
It was also better for Mr Blackton.

He dismissed the unfortunate Lewisham from his mind, and produced from
his pocket the papers he had taken from Professor Goodman before removing
his clothes. The first thing he saw, to his intense satisfaction, was the
warning typewritten letter, and holding a match under one corner of it he
reduced it to ashes and finally to powder. Two or three private letters
he treated similarly, and then he came to a dozen loose sheets of paper
covered with incomprehensible scrawling hieroglyphics. These he carefully
pinned together and put in his pocket, reflecting yet again on the
extreme goodness of fate. And then for the second time he took from the
drawer where he had placed it for safety the metal retort which
apparently played such an important part in the process. He had found it
standing on the electric furnace in the Professor's laboratory, and now
he examined it curiously. It was about double the size of an ordinary
tumbler, and was made of some dull opaque substance which resembled dirty
pewter. And as Blackton looked at it and realised the incredible fortune
that was soon to come to him out of that uninteresting--looking pot, his
hand shook uncontrollably.

He replaced it in the drawer, as someone knocked on the door. It was the
man who had spoken to him outside the Professor's house.

"They're all humming like a hive of bees, Chief," he remarked. "The
police are in, and they've cleared away the debris. I managed to get in
and have a look--and it's all right."

"You're certain of that," said Blackton quietly.

"There's nothing left of him, Chief, except a boot in one corner."

Blackton rubbed his hands together. "Excellent--excellent! You've done
very well: cash this downstairs."

Again he scribbled his initials on a slip of paper, and pushing it across
the table dismissed the man. Assuredly luck was in, though as a general
rule Blackton refused to allow the existence of such a thing. The big
man, according to him, made allowance for every possible contingency;
only the fool ever trusted to luck if anything of importance was at
stake. And in this case he only regarded his luck as being in because he
would be able, as far as he could see, to carry on with the simplest of
the three schemes which he had worked out to meet different emergencies
should they arise. And though he had employed enough explosive to shatter
ten men, no man knew better than he did how capricious it was in its
action.

Now he was only waiting for one thing more--a telephone call from Freyder.
He glanced at his watch: hardly time as yet, perhaps, for him to have
reached his destination and to get through to London. In fact it was
twenty minutes before the bell rang at his side.--"Everything gone without
a hitch."

Freyder was speaking, and with a gentle sigh of pure joy for work well
and truly done Mr Blackton laid down the receiver.

Half an hour later he was strolling along Pall Mall towards his club. A
newsboy passed him shouting. "'Orrible explosion in 'Ampstead," and he
paused to buy a copy. It had occurred to him that it is always a good
thing to have something to read in the cooler rooms of a Turkish bath.
And he never went into the hotter ones; there were peculiarities about Mr
Edward Blackton's face which rendered great heat a trifle ill-advised.



CHAPTER 4 - In Which Mr William Robinson Arrives at his Country Seat


The report made to Mr Blackton on the condition of the Professor's house
was certainly justified. It looked just as if a heavy aeroplane bomb had
registered a direct hit on the back of the premises. And the damage was
continually increasing. The whole fabric of the house had been
undermined, and it was only at considerable personal risk that the police
pursued their investigations. Frequent crashes followed by clouds of
choking dust betokened that more and more of the house was collapsing,
and at length the Inspector in charge gave the order to cease work for
the time. Half a dozen policemen kept the curious crowd away, whilst the
Inspector retired to the front of the house, which had escaped the
damage, to await the arrival of some member of the Professor's family. It
was not a task that he relished, but it was his duty to make what
inquiries he could..

In his own mind he felt pretty clear as to what had happened. The
parlourmaid, who appeared a sensible sort of girl, had told him all she
knew--particularly mentioning the German professor's remark as he left the
house. And it seemed quite obvious that Professor Goodman had been
experimenting with some form of violent explosive, and that, regrettable
to say, the explosive had not behaved itself. When the debris had ceased
to fall and it was safe to resume work, it might be possible to discover
something more definite, but up to date the sole thing they had found of
interest was one of the unfortunate savant's boots. And since that had
already been identified by the parlourmaid as belonging to Professor
Goodman, all the identification necessary for the inquest was there.
Which from a professional point of view was just as well, since there was
nothing else left to identify.

An open Rolls-Royce drew up outside, and the Inspector went to the window
and looked out. From the driver's seat there descended a large young man,
who said something to the two other occupants of the car, and then came
rapidly up the short drive to the front door, where the Inspector met
him.

"What on earth has happened?" he demanded.

"May I ask if you are a relative of Professor Goodman's?" said the
Inspector.

"No; I'm not. My name is Drummond, Captain Drummond. But if you'll cast
your eye on the back of my car you'll see his daughter, Miss Goodman."

"Well," said the Inspector gravely, "I fear that I have some very bad
news for Miss Goodman. There has been an accident, Captain Drummond--an
appalling accident. The whole of the back of the house has been blown to
pieces, and with it, I regret to say, Professor Goodman. There is
literally nothing left of the unfortunate gentleman."

"Good God!" gasped Algy, who had come up in time to hear the last part
of the remark. "Have you caught the swine..."

Hugh's hand gripped his arm in warning. "How did it happen?" he asked
quietly. "Have you any ideas?" The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.
"There is no doubt whatever as to how it happened," he answered.

"The whole thing will, of course, be gone into thoroughly at the inquest,
but it is all so obvious that there is no need for any secrecy. The
unfortunate gentleman was experimenting with some form of high explosive,
and he blew himself up and the house as well."

"I see," said Drummond thoughtfully. "Look here, Algy--take Brenda back to
my place, and tell the poor kid there. Turn her over to Phyllis."

"Right you are, Hugh," said Algy soberly. "By God!" he exploded again,
and once more Drummond's warning hand silenced him.

Without another word he turned and walked away. Brenda, in an agony of
suspense, met him at the gateway and her sudden little pitiful cry showed
that she had already guessed the truth. But she followed Algy back into
the car, and it was not until it had disappeared that Drummond spoke
again.

"You have no suspicions of foul play, I suppose?" The Inspector looked at
him quickly.

"Foul play, Captain Drummond? What possible reason could there be for
foul play in the case of such a man as Professor Goodman? Oh! no. He was
seen by the parlourmaid immersed in an experiment as she was letting some
German professor out--a scientific acquaintance of the unfortunate
gentleman. They had been having a discussion all the afternoon, and not
five minutes after his visitor left the explosion took place."

Drummond nodded thoughtfully. "Deuced agile fellow--the Boche. Did the
hundred at precisely the right psychological moment. Would there be any
objection, Inspector--as a friend of the family and all that--to my having
a look at the scene of the accident? You see, there are only his wife and
daughter left--two women alone; and Miss Goodman's fiance--the man who took
her off in the car--not being here, perhaps I might take it on myself to
give them what information I can."

"Certainly, Captain Drummond. But I warn you that there's nothing to see.
And you'd better be careful that you don't get a fall of bricks on your
head. I'll come with you, if you like."

The two men walked round to the back of the house. The crowd, which by
now had largely increased in size, surged forward expectantly as they
disappeared through the shattered wall, and the Inspector gave an order
to one of the constables.

"Move them along," he said. "There's nothing to be seen."

"Good heavens!" remarked Drummond, staring round in amazement. "This is
what one used to expect in France. In fact I've slept in many worse. But
in Hampstead..."

"I found this, sir, on the remains of the table," said a sergeant, coming
up to the Inspector with a key in his hand. "It belongs to the door."

The Inspector took the key and tried it himself.

"That confirms what the maid said."

He turned to Drummond.

"The door was locked on the inside. The maid heard him lock it as she
showed the German out, which, of course, was a few minutes before the
accident took place."

Drummond frowned thoughtfully and lit a cigarette. That was a
complication, and a very unexpected complication. In fact at one blow it
completely shattered the idea that was already more than half formed in
his mind--an idea which, needless to say, differed somewhat radically from
the worthy Inspector's notion of what had happened.

"And what of the Professor himself?" he asked after a moment or two. "Is
the body much damaged?"

"There is nothing left of the body," said the Inspector gravely. "At
least practically nothing."

He crossed to the corner of the room by the door, where the damage was
least, and removed a cloth which covered some object on the floor.

"This is all we have found at present."

"Poor old chap," said Drummond quietly, staring at the boot.

There was a patch on it--a rather conspicuous patch which he had noticed
at lunch that day.

"It has been identified already by the parlourmaid as the Professor's
boot," said the Inspector, replacing the cloth. "Not that there is much
need for identification in this case. But it is always necessary at the
inquest as a matter of form."

"Of course," answered Drummond absently, and once more fell to staring
round the wrecked room. Three plain-clothes men were carefully turning
over heaps of debris, searching for further traces of the dead scientist.
But the task seemed hopeless, and after a while he said good-bye to the
Inspector and started to walk back to Brook Street.

The whole thing had come with such startling suddenness that he felt
shaken. It seemed incredible that the dear, absent-minded old man who had
lunched with him only that day was dead and blown to pieces. Over and
over again in his mind there arose the one dominant question--was it foul
play, or was it not? If it wasn't, it was assuredly one of the most
fortunate accidents for a good many people that could possibly have taken
place. No longer any need to stump up a quarter of a million for the
suppression of the Professor's discovery--no longer any need to worry. And
suddenly Hugh stopped short in his tracks, and a thoughtful look came
into his eyes.

"Great Scott!" he muttered to himself, "I'd almost forgotten."

His hand went to his breast-pocket, and a grim smile hovered for a moment
or two round his mouth as he strolled on. Professor Goodman might be
dead, but his secret wasn't. And if by any chance it had not been an
accident... if by any chance this diamond syndicate had deliberately
caused the poor defenceless old man's death, the presence of those papers
in his pocket would help matters considerably. They would form an
admirable introduction to the gentlemen in question--and he was neither
old nor defenceless. In fact there dawned on his mind the possibility
that there might be something doing in the near future. And the very
thought of such a possibility came with the refreshing balm of a shower
on parched ground. It produced in him a feeling of joy comparable only to
that with which the hungry young view the advent of indigestible food. It
radiated from his face; it enveloped him in a beatific glow. And he was
still looking like a man who has spotted a winner at twenty to one as he
entered his house.

His wife met him in the hall.

"Hugh, for goodness' sake, compose your face," she said severely. "Poor
Mrs Goodman is here, and Brenda, and you come in roaring with laughter."

"Good Lord! I'd forgotten all about 'em," he murmured, endeavouring to
assume a mournful expression. "Where are they?"

"Upstairs. They're going to stop her tonight. Brenda telephoned through
to her mother. Hugh--what an awful thing to have happened."

"You're right, my dear," he answered seriously. "It is awful. The only
comfort about it is that it must have been absolutely instantaneous.
Where's Algy?"

"He's in your room. He's most frightfully upset, poor old thing,
principally on Brenda's account."

She laid her hand on his arm. "Hugh--he said something to me about it not
being any accident. What did he mean?"

"Algy is a talkative ass," answered her husband quietly. "Pay no
attention to him, and don't under any circumstances even hint at such a
thing to Mrs Goodman or Brenda."

"But you don't mean he killed himself?" said Phyllis in a horrified
whisper.

"Good heavens! no," answered Hugh. "But there is a possibility, my dear,
and more than a possibility that he was murdered. Now--not a word to a
soul. The police think it was an accident; let it remain at that for the
present."

"But who on earth would want to murder the dear old man?" gasped his
wife.

"The Professor had made a discovery, darling," said Hugh gravely, "which
threatened to ruin everyone who was concerned in the diamond industry. He
had found out a method of making diamonds artificially at a very low
cost. To show you how seriously the trade regarded it, he was offered two
hundred and fifty thousand pounds to suppress it. That he refused to do.
This morning he received a letter threatening his life. This afternoon he
died, apparently as the result of a ghastly accident. Hm--I wonder."

"Does anybody know all this?" said Phyllis.

"A few very interested people who won't talk about it, and you and Algy
and I who won't talk about it either--yet. Later on we might all have a
chat on the subject, but just at present there's rather too much of the
fog of war about. In fact the only really definite fact that emerges from
the gloom, except for the poor chap's death, is this."

He held out an envelope in his hand, and his wife looked at it, puzzled.

"That is the discovery which has caused all the trouble," went on Hugh.
"And the few very interested people I was telling you about don't know
that I've got it. And they won't know that I've got it either--yet."

"So that's why you were looking like that as you came in."

His wife looked at him accusingly, and Hugh grinned.

"Truly your understanding is great, my angel," he murmured.

"But how did you get it?" she persisted.

"He gave it to me at lunch today," said her husband. "And in the near
future it's going to prove very useful--very useful indeed. Why, I almost
believe that if I advertised that I'd got it, it would draw old Peterson
himself. Seconds out of the ring; third and last round; time."

"Hugh--you're incorrigible. And don't do that in the hall--someone will
see."

So he kissed her again, and went slowly up the stairs to his own room.
Most of the really brilliant ideas in life come in flashes, and he had
had many worse than that last. There were times when his soul positively
hankered for another little turn-up with Carl Peterson--something with a
real bit of zip in it, something to vary his present stagnation. But he
fully realised that a gentleman of Peterson's eminence had many other
calls on his time, and that he must not be greedy. After all, he'd had
two of the brightest and best, and that was more than most people could
say. And perhaps there might be something in this present show which
would help to keep his hand in. Sir Raymond Blantyre, the bird with the
agitated eyeglass, for instance. He didn't sound much class--a bit of a
rabbit at the game probably, but still, something might come of him.

He opened the door of his room, and Algy looked up from his chair.

"You don't think it was an accident, do you, Hugh?" he remarked quietly.

"I don't know what to think, old man," answered Drummond. "If it was an
accident, it was a very remarkable and fortunate one for a good many
people. But there is one point which is a little difficult to explain
unless it was: Hannah, or Mary, or whatever that sweet woman's name is
who used to breathe down one's neck when she handed you things at dinner,
saw the old man at work through the open door. She heard him lock the
door. Moreover, the key was found in the room--on the floor or somewhere;
it was found while I was there. From that moment no one else entered the
room until the explosion. Now, you haven't seen the appalling mess that
explosion made. There must have been an immense amount of explosive used.
The darned place looks as if it had had a direct hit with a big shell.
Well, what I'm getting at is that it is quite out of the question that
the amount of explosive necessary to produce such a result could have
been placed there unknown to old Goodman. And that rules out of court
this German bloke who spent the afternoon with him."

"He might have left a bomb behind him," said Algy.

"My dear boy," exclaimed Hugh, "you'd have wanted a bomb the size of a
wheelbarrow. That's the point I've been trying to force into your skull.
You can't carry a thing that size about in your waistcoat pocket. No--it
won't work. Either the maid is talking through the back of her neck, or
she isn't. And if she isn't, the old chap was dancing about in the room
after the German left. Not only that, but he locked himself in. Well,
even you wouldn't lock yourself in with a land-mine, would you?
Especially one you'd just seen carefully arranged to explode in five
minutes. Besides, he knew this German; he told me so at lunch today."

"I suppose you're right," grunted Algy. "And yet it seems so deuced
suspicious."

"Precisely: it is deuced suspicious. But don't forget one thing, old boy.
It is only suspicious to us because we've got inside information. It is
not a bit suspicious to the police."

"It would be if you told 'em about that letter he got..."

Hugh lit a cigarette and stared out of the window. "Perhaps," he agreed.
"But do we want to rouse their suspicions, old boy? If we're wrong--if it
was a bona-fide accident--there's no use in doing so; if we're right, we
might have a little game all on our own. I mean I was all in favour of
the old boy going to the police about it while he was alive, but now that
he's dead it seems a bit late in the day."

"And how do you propose to make the other side play?" demanded Algy.

"Good Lord! I haven't got as far as that," said Hugh vaguely. "One might
biff your pal with the eyeglass on the jaw, or something like that. Or
one might get in touch with them through these notes on the Professor's
discovery, and see what happens. If they then tried to murder me, we
should have a bit of a pointer as to which way the wind was blowing.
Might have quite a bit of fun, Algy; you never know. Anyway, I think
we'll attend the inquest tomorrow; we might spot something if we're in
luck. We will sit modestly at the back of the court, and see without
being seen."

But the inquest failed to reveal very much. It was a depressing scene,
and more in the nature of a formality than anything else. The two young
men arrived early, and wedged themselves in the back row, whence they
commanded a good view of the court. And suddenly Algy caught Hugh's arm.

"See that little bird with the white moustache and the eyeglass in the
second row," he whispered. "That's the fellow I was telling you about,
who put up the offer of a quarter of a million."

Hugh grunted non-committally; seen from that distance he seemed a
harmless sort of specimen. And then the proceedings started. The police
gave their formal evidence, and after that the parlourmaid was put into
the box. She described in detail the events of the afternoon, and the
only new point which came to light was the fact that another man beside
the German professor had been to the house for a short time and left
almost at once. First the German had arrived. No, she did not know his
name but his appearance was peculiar. Pressed for details, it appeared
that his clothes were dirty, and his hands stained with chemicals. Oh!
yes--she would certainly know him again if she saw him. A box had come
with him which was carried into the laboratory by two men.

They had brought it in a car, and had waited outside part of the time the
German was there. Yes--she had talked to them. Had they said anything
about the German? Surely they must have mentioned his name. No--they
didn't even know it. The witness paused, and having been duly encouraged
by the Coroner was understood to say that the only thing they had said
about him was that he was a bit dippy.

The laughter in court having been instantly quelled, the witness
proceeded. Just after the German had arrived another visitor came. No--she
didn't know his name either. But he was English, and she showed him into
the laboratory too. Then she went down to finish her dinner.

About ten minutes later the front-door bell rang again. She went upstairs
to find the German dancing about in the hall in his excitement. He wanted
to know when Professor Goodman was returning. Said he had made an
appointment, and that unless the Professor returned shortly he would go
as the other visitor had gone.

Pressed on this point by the Coroner--she knew the second visitor had
gone, as the only people in the laboratory as she passed it were the two
men already alluded to. And just then Professor Goodman came in,
apologised for having kept the German waiting, and they disappeared into
the laboratory. For the next hour and a half she heard them talking
whenever she passed the door; then the laboratory bell rang. She went up
to find that the German was leaving. Through the open door she saw
Professor Goodman bending over his bench hard at work; then just as she
was halfway across the hall she heard the key turn in the door. And the
German had waved his arms in the air, and said something about the house
going sky-high. The motor had gone by that time, and the box and the two
men. It was just before then that she'd spoken to them.

And it was about four or five minutes later after the German had
disappeared down the road that the explosion took place.

The witness paused, and stared into the court. "There he is," she cried.
"That's him--just come in."

Drummond swung round in time to see the tall, ungainly figure of
Professor Scheidstrun go shambling up the court. He was waving his arms,
and peering short-sightedly from side to side.

"I hof just heard the dreadful news," he cried, pausing in front of the
Coroner. "I hof it read in the newspaper. My poor friendt has himself
blown up. But that I had gone he would myself have blown also."

After a short delay he was piloted into the witness-box. His evidence,
which was understood with difficulty, did, however, elucidate the one
main fact which was of importance--namely, the nature of the explosive
which had caused the disaster. It appeared that Professor Goodman had
been experimenting for some time with a new form of blasting powder which
would be perfectly harmless unless exploded by a detonator containing
fulminate of mercury. No blow, no heat would cause it to explode. And
when he left the house the Professor had in front of him numerous
specimens of this blasting powder of varying quality. One only was the
perfected article--the rest were the failures. But all were high explosive
of different degrees of power. And then some accident must have happened.

He waved his arms violently in the air, and mopped his forehead with a
handkerchief that had once been white. Then like a momentarily dammed
stream the flood of verbosity broke forth again. The partially stunned
court gathered that it was his profound regret that he had only yesterday
afternoon called the deceased man a fool. He still considered that his
views on the atomic theory were utterly wrong, but he was not a fool. He
wished publicly to retract the statement, and to add further that as a
result of this deplorable accident not only England but the world had
lost one of its most distinguished men. And with that he sat down again,
mopping his forehead.

It was then the Coroner's turn. He said that he was sure the bereaved
family would be grateful for the kind words of appreciation from the
distinguished scientist who had just given evidence--words with which he
would humbly like to associate himself also.

It was unnecessary, he considered, to subject Mrs Goodman to the very
painful ordeal of identifying the remains, as sufficient evidence had
already been given on that point. He wished to express his profound
sympathy with the widow and daughter, and to remind them that 'Peace hath
its victories no less renowned than War.' And so with a verdict of
'Accidental Death caused by the explosion of blasting powder during the
course of experimental work', the proceedings terminated. The court
arose, and with the court rose Algy, to discover, to his surprise, that
Hugh had already disappeared. He hadn't seen him go, but that was nothing
new.

For as Algy and everyone else connected with Hugh Drummond had discovered
long ago, he had a power of rapid and silent movement which was almost
incredible in such a big man. Presumably he had got bored and left. And
sure enough when Algy got outside he saw Drummond on the opposite side of
the street staring into the window of a tobacconist's. He sauntered
across to join him.

"Well--that's that," he remarked. "Don't seem to have advanced things
much."

"Get out of sight," snapped Drummond. "Go inside and stop there. Buy
matches or something."

With a feeling of complete bewilderment Algy did as he was told. He went
inside and he stopped there, until the proprietor began to eye him
suspiciously. There had been two or three cases of hold ups in the papers
recently, and after he had bought several packets of unprepossessing
cigarettes and half a dozen boxes of matches the atmosphere became
strained. In desperation he went to the door and peered out, thereby
confirming the shopman's suspicions to such good effect that he
ostentatiously produced a dangerous looking life-preserver.

Hugh had completely disappeared. Not a trace of him was to be seen, and
feeling more bewildered than ever Algy hailed a passing taxi and drove
off to Brook Street. Presumably Hugh would return there in due course,
and until then he would have to possess his soul in patience.

It was two hours before he came in, and sank into a chair without a word.

"What's all the excitement?" demanded Algy eagerly.

"I don't know that there is any," grunted Hugh. "I'm not certain the
whole thing isn't a false alarm. What did you think of the inquest?"

"Not very helpful," said Algy. "Seems pretty conclusive that it really
was an accident."

Once again Hugh grunted. "I suppose you didn't notice the rather
significant little point that your diamond pal Blantyre knew the old
German."

Algy stared at him.

"I happened to be looking at him as the German appeared, and I saw him
give a most violent start. And all through the Boche's evidence he was as
nervous as a cat with kittens. Of course there was no reason why he
shouldn't have known him, but in view of what we know it seemed a bit
suspicious to me. So I waited for them to come out of court. Sir Raymond
came first and hung about a bit. Then came the old German, who got into a
waiting taxi. And as he got in he spoke to Sir Raymond--just one brief
sentence.

"What it was I don't know, of course, but it confirmed the fact that they
knew one another. It also confirmed the fact that for some reason or
other they did not wish to have their acquaintance advertised abroad.
Now--why? That, old boy, is the question I asked myself all the way down
to Bloomsbury in a taxi. I had one waiting too, and I followed the
German. Why this mystery? Why should they be thus bashful of letting it
be known that they had met before?"

"Did you find out anything?" asked Algy.

"I found out where the old German is staying. But beyond that nothing. He
is stopping at a house belonging to a Mr Anderson--William Anderson, who,
I gathered from discreet inquiries, is a gentleman of roving disposition.
He uses the house as a sort of pied-a-terre when he is in London, which
is not very often. Presumably he made the German's acquaintance abroad,
and invited him to make use of his house."

"Don't seem to be much to go on, does there?" said Algy disconsolately.

"Dam' little," agreed Hugh cheerfully. "In fact if you boil down to it,
nothing at all. But you never can tell, old boy. I saw a baby with a
squint this morning and passed under two ladders, so all may yet be well.
Though I greatly fear nothing will come of it. I thought vaguely
yesterday that we might get some fun by means of these notes of the old
man's, but 'pon my soul don't know how. In the first place, they're
indecipherable; and even if they weren't, I couldn't make a diamond in a
thousand years. In the second place, they don't belong to us; and in the
third it would look remarkably like blackmail. Of course, they're our
only hope, but I'm afraid they won't amount to much in our young lives."

He sighed profoundly, and replaced the envelope in his pocket.

"Oh! for the touch of a vanished hand," he murmured. "Carl--my Carl--it
cannot be that we shall never meet again. I feel, Algy, that if only he
could know the position of affairs he would burst into tears and fly to
our assistance. He'd chance the notes being unintelligible if he knew
what they were about. Once again would he try to murder me with all his
well-known zest. What fun it would all be!"

"Not a hope," said Algy. "Though I must say I do rather wonder what the
blighter is doing now."

To be exact; he was just putting the last final touch on the aquiline
nose of Edward Blackton, and remarking to himself that everything was for
the best in the best of all possible worlds.

Replaced carefully on their respective pegs were the egg-stained garments
of Professor Scheidstrun; the grey wig carefully combed out occupied its
usual head-rest.

And not without reason did Edward Blackton--alias Carl Peterson--alias the
Comte du Guy, etc.--feel pleased with himself. Never in the course of his
long and brilliant career had a coup gone with such wonderful success. It
almost staggered him when he thought about it. Not a hitch anywhere; not
even the suspicion of a check. Everything had gone like clockwork from
beginning to end, thereby once again bearing out the main theory of his
life, which was that the bigger the crop the safer it was. It is the bank
clerk with his petty defalcations who gets found out every time; the big
man does it in millions and entertains Royalty on the proceeds. But in
his line of business, as in every other, to get big results the original
outlay must be big. And it was on that point that Mr Blackton felt so
particularly pleased. For the original outlay in this case had not only
been quite small, but, in addition, had been generously found by the
Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate.

Which tickled his sense of humour to such an extent that once or twice it
had quite interfered with the delicate operation of face building.

But at last he had finished, and with his Corona drawing to his entire
satisfaction he locked up his inner sanctuary and stepped into the room
which served him as an office. At three o'clock he was to meet Sir
Raymond Blantyre and receive from him the remaining quarter of a million
in notes; at three-fifteen he would be on his way to the house Freyder
had acquired for him to begin business in earnest. A note from Freyder
received that morning had stated that Professor Goodman, though a little
dazed, seemed in no way to have suffered from his uncomfortable journey,
which was eminently satisfactory. For it was certainly no part of his
play to treat his prisoner with anything but the utmost care and
consideration, unless, of course, he should prove foolish. For a moment
Blackton's eyes narrowed at the thought; then he gave the faintest
possible shrug of his shoulders. Sufficient unto the day, and he had
dealt with such cases before.

So after a final look round the room he carefully pulled down the blinds
and went downstairs. Mr William Anderson was leaving London for another
of his prolonged visits abroad.

His anticipations that there would be no trouble over the second payment
were justified. Sir Raymond Blantyre and three other members of the
syndicate were awaiting his arrival, and the expressions on their faces
reminded him of young girls being introduced to a man who mother has told
them is very wicked and not at all a nice person to know.

"Well, gentlemen," he remarked affably, "I trust you are satisfied.
This--er--fortunate accident has settled things very pleasantly for all
concerned, has it not?"

"It really was an accident?" said Sir Raymond, and his voice shook a
little.

"Surely, Sir Raymond, your pitiable agitation in court this morning was
not so great as to prevent your hearing the verdict? And that, I think,
is all that concerns any of us; that, and the fact that Professor Goodman
will not deliver his address to the Royal Society which was the raison
d'etre of our meeting. And so shall we terminate the business?" In
silence Sir Raymond handed over the notes, which Blackton carefully
folded and placed in his pocket-book.

"Delightful weather, is it not?" he said courteously. "My--ah--daughter
tells me that Montreux has never been more lovely."

"You are going back to Switzerland at once?" said Sir Raymond.

"Who knows?" answered the other. "I am a man of moods."

He picked up his hat, and a faint smile hovered round his lips. "But I
certainly feel that I have earned a holiday. Well, gentlemen--I will say
good-bye. Possibly we may meet again, though I doubt if I shall still be
Mr Blackton. A pity, because I rather fancy myself like this. It is quite
my best-looking role, so I am informed by competent judges. But change
and novelty are essential in my work, as doubtless you can understand."

He strolled towards the door, still smiling gently.

"One moment, Mr Blackton," cried Sir Raymond. "What about Mr Lewisham?
His wife rang me up on the telephone this morning to say that he had not
returned last night, and that she'd had a wire from Euston saying he'd
been called North on business."

Blackton studied the ash on his cigar. "Really," he murmured. "You don't
say so. However, I don't know that I'm greatly interested. He wasn't very
entertaining, was he?"

"But that note," cried Leibhaus "--the threatening note."

"Destroyed by me personally. You may rest assured of that. And when you
next see Mr Lewisham, please give him my kind regards. Doubtless an
excellent man, though I thought him very quiet the last time I saw him.
Dull--and overburdened with conscience. A depressing mixture. Well,
gentlemen, once again--good-bye. Or shall I say--au revoir?" The door
closed behind him a little abruptly. Just at the moment the topic of Mr
Lewisham was not one he wished to go into in detail. Once he was on his
way to Valparaiso it wouldn't matter so much--but at the moment, no. The
subject failed to commend itself to him, and he dismissed it from his
mind as he entered his waiting motor-car. It still remained the one weak
link in the whole business, but nothing more could be done to strengthen
it than he had already done. And that being the case, there was no object
in bothering about it further. There were other things of more immediate
importance in the near future to be decided, and it was of those he was
thinking as the car spun smoothly along towards the luxurious house
Freyder had acquired for him on the borders of the New Forest.

After mature thought he had decided to add a completely new character to
his repertoire. At first he had considered the possibilities of being an
ordinary English country gentleman, but he had very soon dismissed the
idea. The gentleman part he could do--none better; even the English, but
not the country. And he was far too clever not to realise his own
limitations. Yet it was a pity, since no type is more inconspicuous in
its proper place, and to be inconspicuous was his object in life. But it
was too risky a role to play in the middle of the genuine article, and so
he had reluctantly decided against it. And his intention now was to
assume the character of an elderly recluse of eccentric habits and great
wealth devoted to all sorts of scientific research work--particularly
electrical and chemical. Most of his life had been spent abroad, and now,
in his declining years, he had come back to the country of his birth
partially from feelings of sentiment, but more particularly to look after
his only brother, whose health and brain had been failing for some time.
A part of the house was set apart for this brother, who was subject to
delusions and saw no one.

Six months was the period he gave it before--in a last despairing effort
to restore his brother's health--he took him for a cruise on a private
yacht, and buried him quietly at sea. Possibly less; a great deal would
depend on the rapidity with which the invalid produced the diamonds. For
though he had no doubt as to his ability to learn the process in a very
short time, the thought of mixing chemicals and getting electric shocks
bored him excessively. Having got the dog, he had no intention of barking
himself. No--six months was the period he had in his mind; after which the
real game would begin. Again would an eminent savant approach Sir Raymond
Blantyre and his syndicate and make diamonds artificially; again would
the services of Mr Edward Blackton be requisitioned to deal with the
situation. And as the gorgeous possibility of being paid a vast sum to
kill himself dawned on him, as the endless vista of money, money, all the
time stretched out before his imagination in all its wonderful
simplicity, the charm of the countryside took on an added beauty. A glow
of sublime benevolence flooded his soul; for one brief moment he took up
the speaking-tube to stop the car.

He felt he wanted to hear the birds sing; to put buttercups in his hair
and dance with the chauffeur on the green sward. And since such a
performance might have perplexed that worthy mechanic more than it
enthralled him, it was just as well that at that moment the car swung
through some massive gates and entered the drive of a largish house,
which could be seen in the distance through the trees.

Mr William Robinson had reached his destination. For, quite rightly
realising that shibboleth of our country life which concerns itself with
whether a stranger belongs to the Leicestershire or the Warwickshire
branch of the family, he had decided against calling himself De Vere
Molyneux.



CHAPTER 5 - In Which Mr William Robinson Loses his Self-control


He was met at the front door by Freyder, who led him at once to the room
which he had set apart for his Chief's own particular and private use. In
every house taken by Mr William Robinson--to adopt, at once, his new
name--there was one such room into which no one, under any pretext
whatever, might enter without his permission, once he was in residence.
Freyder himself would not have dreamed of doing so; and even the girl,
who was still enjoying the sunshine at Montreux, invariably knocked
before she went into the holy of holies.

"Capital, Freyder," he remarked, glancing round the room with a critical
eye. "And how is our friend?"

"Getting damned angry, Chief," answered the other. "Talking about legal
proceedings and infamous conduct. The poor old bloke was wedged up
against a nail in the packing-case, and it's made him as mad as the
devil."

"A pity," murmured Mr Robinson. "Still, I don't know that it matters very
much. It would have been pleasanter, of course, if we could have kept the
proceedings on an amicable basis, but I always had grave doubts. A
pig-headed old man, Freyder; but there are ways of overcoming
pig-headedness."

He smiled genially; he still felt he wanted to hear the birds sing. "And
now I will just make one or two alterations in my personal appearance.
Then I will interview our friend."

"Very good, Chief. By the way--the dynamo is installed, also the most
modern brand of electric furnace. But, of course, I haven't been able to
do anything with regard to the chemicals as yet."

"Of course not. You've done extremely well, my dear fellow--extremely
well. He will have to tell me what chemicals he requires this evening,
and you will go up to London first thing tomorrow and obtain them."

With a wave of his hand he dismissed his subordinate, and then for over
an hour he occupied himself in front of a mirror. Mr William Robinson was
being created. It was his first appearance in public, and so a little
licence was allowable. There would be no one to point an accusing finger
at his nose and say it had grown larger in the night or anything awkward
of that sort. This was creation, pure and simple, giving scope to the
creator's artistic mind. He could make what he would. Once made, a series
of the most minute measurements with gauges recording to the hundredth of
an inch would be necessary. Each would be entered up with mathematical
precision in a book kept specially for the purpose, along with other
details concerning the character. But that came later, and was merely the
uninteresting routine work. The soul of the artist need not be troubled
by such trifles.

And since the soul of the artist was gay within him, he fashioned a
genial old man with twinkling eyes and mutton-chop whiskers.

His nose was rather hooked; his horn spectacles reposed on his forehead
as if they had been absent-mindedly pushed up from their proper position.
His scanty grey hair was brushed back untidily (it was the ruthless
thinning out of his normal crop with a razor that he disliked most); his
clothes were those of a man who buys good ones and takes no care of them.
And, finally, his hands were covered with the stains of the chemist.

At length he had finished, and having surveyed himself from every angle
he rang the bell for Freyder, who paused in genuine amazement at the
door. Accustomed as he was to these complete metamorphoses of his Chief,
he never ceased to marvel at them.

"How's that, Freyder?" demanded Mr Robinson.

"Wonderful, Chief," said the other. "Simply wonderful. I congratulate
you."

"Then I think I'll go and see our friend--my dear, dear brother. Doubtless
a little chat will clear the air."

With a curious shambling gait he followed Freyder up the stairs to the
top of the house. Then rubbing his hands together genially, he entered
the room which Freyder had pointed to and closed the door behind him.

Professor Goodman rose as he came in and took a step forward.

"Are you the owner of this house, sir?" he demanded angrily.

"Yes," said the other. "I am. I hope my servants have made you
comfortable."

"Then I demand to know by what right you dare to keep me a prisoner. How
dare you, sir--how dare you? And where am I, anyway?" With a sudden little
gesture of weakness Professor Goodman sat down. He was still bewildered
and shaken at his treatment, and Mr Robinson smiled affably.

"That's better," he remarked. "Let us both sit down and have a friendly
talk. I feel that one or two words of explanation are due to you, which I
trust, my dear Professor, you will receive in a friendly and--er--brotherly
spirit. Brotherly, because you are my brother."

"What the devil do you mean, sir?" snapped the Professor. "I haven't got
a brother; I've never had a brother."

"I know," murmured the other sadly. "A most regrettable oversight on your
parents' part. But isn't it nice to have one now? One, moreover, who
will surround you with every care and attention in your illness."

"But, damn you!" roared the unhappy man, "I'm not ill."

Mr Robinson waved a deprecating hand. "I implore of you, do not excite
yourself. In your weak mental state it would be most injurious. I assure
you that you are my partially insane brother, and that I have taken this
house entirely on your account. Could altruism go further?" Professor
Goodman was swallowing hard, and clutching the arms of his chair.
"Perhaps you'll say what you really do mean," he muttered at length.

"Certainly," cried Mr Robinson benevolently. "It is for that express
purpose that we are having this interview. It is essential that you
should understand exactly where you are. Now, perhaps you are unaware of
the fact that you died yesterday."

"I did--what?" stammered the other.

"Died," said Mr Robinson genially. "I thought you might find that bit a
little hard to follow, so I've brought you a copy of one of the early
evening papers. In it you will find a brief account of the inquest--your
inquest."

With a trembling hand the Professor took the paper. "But I don't
understand," he said after he had read it. "For Heaven's sake, sir, won't
you explain? I remember nothing from the time when I was chloroformed in
my laboratory till I came to in a packing-case. It wasn't I who was blown
up?"

"Obviously," returned the other. "But the great point is, Professor, that
everyone thinks it was. The cream of the scientific world, in fact, will
attend the burial of somebody else's foot, in the firm belief that they
are honouring your memory. Whose foot it is you needn't worry about; I
assure you he was a person of tedious disposition."

"But I must go at once and telephone."

He rose in his agitation. "It's the most dreadful thing. Think of my poor
wife."

"I know," said Mr Robinson sadly. "Though not exactly married myself, I
can guess your feelings. But I'm afraid, my dear brother, that your wife
must remain in ignorance of the fact that she is not a widow."

Professor Goodman's face went grey. He knew now what he had only
suspected before that he was in danger.

"Possibly things are becoming clearer to you," went on the other. "The
world thinks you are dead. No hue-and-cry will be raised to find you.
But you are not dead--far from it. You are, as I explained, my partially
insane brother, whom no one is allowed to see. I admit that you are not
insane nor are you my brother--but qu'importe. It is not the truth that
counts, but what people think is the truth. I trust I make myself clear?"
Professor Goodman said nothing; he was staring at the speaker with fear
in his eyes. For the mask of benevolence had slipped a little from Mr
Robinson's face: the real man was showing through the assumed role.

"From your silence I take it that I do," he continued. "No one will look
for you as Professor Goodman; no one will be permitted to see you as my
brother. So--er--you will not be very much disturbed."

"In plain language, you mean I'm a prisoner," said the Professor. "Why?
What is your object?"

"You have recently, my dear Professor," began Mr Robinson, "made a most
remarkable discovery."

"I knew it," groaned the other. "I knew it was that. Well, let me tell
you one thing, sir. If this infamous outrage has been perpetrated on me
in order to make me keep silent about it--I still refuse utterly. You may
detain me here in your power until after the meeting of the Society, but
I shall give my discovery to the world all the same."

Mr Robinson gently stroked his side whiskers. "A most remarkable
discovery," he repeated as if the other had not spoken. "I congratulate
you upon it, Professor. And being a chemist in a small way myself, I am
overcome with curiosity on the subject. I have therefore gone to no
little inconvenience to bring you to a place where, undisturbed by
mundane trifles, you will be able to impart your discovery to me, and at
the same time manufacture diamonds to your heart's content. I should like
you to make hundreds of diamonds during the period of your retirement; in
fact, that will be your daily task...."

"You want me to make them?" said the bewildered man. "But that's the very
thing Blantyre and those others didn't want me to do."

Mr Robinson stroked his whiskers even more caressingly. "How fortunate it
is," he murmured, 'that we don't all think alike!"

"And if I refuse?" said the other.

Mr Robinson ceased stroking his whiskers. "You would be unwise, Professor
Goodman--most unwise. I have methods of dealing with people who refuse to
do what I tell them to do which have always succeeded up to date."

His eyes were suddenly merciless, and with a sick feeling of fear the
Professor sat back in his chair.

"A dynamo has been installed," went on Mr Robinson after a moment or two.
"Also the most modern type of electric furnace. Here I have the retort
which you use in your process--" he placed it on the table beside him--"and
all that now remains are the necessary chemicals. Your notes are a trifle
difficult to follow, so you will have to prepare a list yourself of those
chemicals and they will be obtained for you tomorrow."

He took the papers from his pocket and handed them to the Professor.

"Just one word of warning. Should anything go wrong with your process,
should you pretend out of stupid obstinacy that you are unable to make
diamonds--may God help you! If there is anything wrong with the apparatus,
let me know, and it will be rectified. But don't, I beg of you, try any
tricks."

He rose, and his voice became genial again.

"I am sure my warning is unnecessary," he said gently. "Now I will leave
you to prepare the list of the salts you require."

"But these are the wrong notes," said Professor Goodman, staring at them
dazedly. "These are my notes on peptonised proteins."

Mr Robinson stood very still.

"What do you mean?" he said at length. "Are those not the notes on your
process of making diamonds?"

"Good gracious, no," said the Professor. "These have got nothing to do
with it."

"Are the notes necessary?"

"Absolutely. Why, I can't even remember all the salts without them--let
alone the proportions in which they are used."

"Do you know where they are?" The Professor passed his hand wearily
across his forehead.

"Whom was I lunching with?" he murmured. "It was just before I went to
meet Professor Scheidstrun, and I gave them to him to take care of. And
by the way--what has happened to Scheidstrun? Surely it wasn't he who was
killed."

"Don't worry about Scheidstrun," snarled Mr Robinson. "Whom were you
lunching with, you damned old fool?"

"I know--I remember now. It was Captain Drummond. I lunched at his club.
He's got them. Good God! why are you looking like that?" For perhaps the
first time in his life every vestige of self-control had left the
master-criminal's face and he looked like a wild beast.

"Drummond!" he shouted savagely. "Not Captain Hugh Drummond, who lives in
Brook Street?"

"That's the man," said the Professor. "Such a nice fellow, though rather
stupid. Do you know him by any chance?" How near Professor Goodman was to
a violent death at that moment it is perhaps as well he did not know. In
mild perplexity he watched the other man's face, diabolical with its
expression of animal rage and fury, and wondered vaguely why the mention
of Hugh Drummond's name should have produced such a result.

And it was a full minute before Mr Robinson had recovered himself
sufficiently to sit down and continue the conversation. Drummond
again--always Drummond. How, in the name of everything conceivable and
inconceivable, had he got mixed up in this affair? All his carefully
worked out and brilliantly executed plan frustrated and brought to
nothing by one miserable fact which he could not possibly have foreseen,
and which, even now, he could hardly believe.

"What induced you to give the notes to him?" he snarled at length.

"He said he didn't think it was safe for me to carry them about with me,"
said the other mildly. "You see, I had received a threatening letter in
the morning--a letter threatening my life..." He blinked apologetically.

So it was Lewisham's letter that had done it, and the only ray of comfort
in the situation lay in the fact that at any rate he'd killed Lewisham.

"Did you give him any special instructions?" he demanded.

"No--I don't think so," answered the Professor. "I think he said something
about handing them over to the bank."

Mr Robinson rose and started to pace up and down the room. The blow was
so staggering in its unexpectedness that his brain almost refused to
work. That Drummond of all people should again have crossed his path was
as far as his thoughts would go. The fact that Drummond was blissfully
unaware that he had done so was beside the point; it seemed almost like
the hand of Fate. And incredible though it may seem, for a short time he
was conscious of a feeling of genuine superstitious fear.

But not for long. The prize, in this case, was too enormous for any
weakness of that sort. If Captain Drummond had the notes, steps would
have to be taken to make him give them up. The question was--what were
those steps to be?

With an effort he concentrated on the problem. The thing must be done
with every appearance of legality; it must be done naturally.

From Drummond's point of view, which was the important one to consider,
the situation would be a simple one. He was in the possession of valuable
papers belonging to a dead man--papers to which he had no right; but
papers to which he--being the type of person he was--would continue to
stick to if he had the faintest suspicion of foul play. And since he had
seen the threatening letter, those suspicions must be latent in his mind
already. To keep them latent and not arouse them was essential.

And the second and no less important part of the problem was to ensure
that once the notes had left Drummond's hands they should pass with a
minimum of delay into his. The thought of anything happening to them or
of someone else obtaining possession of them turned him cold all over.

He paused in his restless pacing up and down, and thoughtfully lit a
cigar. His self-control was completely recovered; Mr William Robinson was
himself again. A hitch had occurred in an otherwise perfect plan--that was
all. And hitches were made to be unhitched.

"What is the name of your lawyer?" he said quietly.

"Mr Tootem of Tootem, Price, & Tootem," answered Professor Goodman in
mild surprise. "Why do you want to know?"

"Never mind why. Now here's a pen and some paper. Write as I dictate. And
don't let there be any mistake about the writing, my friend.

"'DEAR DRUMMOND,

"'I have been discussing things with my friend Scheidstrun this
afternoon, and he agrees with you that it is better that I should not
carry about the notes I gave you. So will you send them to Tootem, Price
& Tootem....'

"What's the address? Austin Friars. Well--put it in.

"'They will keep them for me until the meeting of the Royal Society. And
if, as Scheidstrun humorously says, I shall have blown myself up before
then with my new blasting powder, it is my wish that he should be given
the notes. He is immensely interested in my discovery, and I know of no
one to whom I would sooner bequeath it. But that, my dear Drummond, is
not likely to occur.

"'Yours sincerely,'

"Now sign your name."

The Professor laid down his pen with a sigh. "It is all very confusing,"
he murmured. "And I do hope I'm not going to get blood poisoning where
that nail in the packing-case ran into my leg."

But Mr Robinson evinced no interest in such an eventuality. He stood with
the letter in his hand, pulling thoughtfully at his cigar, and striving
to take into account every possible development which might arise. For
perhaps a minute he remained motionless while Professor Goodman rubbed
his injured limb; then he made a decisive little gesture oddly out of
keeping with his benevolent appearance. His mind was made up; his plan
was clear.

"Address an envelope," he said curtly, "to Captain Drummond."

He took the envelope and slipped the letter inside. There was no time to
be lost; every moment was valuable.

"Now, Professor Goodman," he remarked, "I want you to pay close attention
to what I am going to say. The fact that you have not got the notes of
your process constitutes a slight check in my plans. However, I am about
to obtain those notes, and while I am doing so you will remain here. You
will be well looked after, and well fed. A delightful bedroom will be
placed at your disposal, and I believe, though I have not personally
verified the fact, that there is a very good library below. Please make
free use of it. But I must give you one word of warning. Should you make
any attempt to escape, should you make the slightest endeavour even to,
communicate with the outside world, you will be gagged and put in irons
in a dark room."

Professor Goodman's hands shook uncontrollably; he looked what at the
moment he was, a badly frightened old man. "But, sir," he quavered
pitifully, "won't you tell me where I am, and why all this is happening
to me?"

"Finding the answer should give you some interesting mental recreation
during my absence," said Mr Robinson suavely.

"And my poor wife," moaned the unhappy man.

"The pangs of widowhood are hard to bear," agreed the other. "But
doubtless time will soften the blow. And anyway, my dear Professor, you
died in the cause of duty. I can assure you that Professor Scheidstrun's
peroration over your sole remaining boot brought tears to the eyes of all
who heard it. Well, I win say au revoir. Ask for anything you require,
but don't, I beg of you, try any stupid tricks. My servants are rough
fellows--some of them."

With a genial smile he left the room and went downstairs.

Whatever may have been his thoughts only the most perfect equanimity
showed on his face. He possessed that most priceless asset of any great
leader--the power of concealing bad news from his staff. In fact the
tighter the corner the more calmly confident did this man always look.
Nothing is more fatal to any enterprise than the knowledge on the part of
subordinates that the man in charge is shaken. And though he would hardly
admit it to himself, Mr William Robinson was badly shaken. In fact when
he reached his own private sanctum he did a thing which in his whole long
career of crimes he had done but twice before. From a small locked
cabinet he took a bottle containing a white powder, and calmly and
methodically he measured out a dose which he sniffed up his nose.

And had anyone seen this secret operation, he would have realised that
the man was the master and not the drug. Only one man in a million may
employ cocaine as a servant and keep it in that position: Mr William
Robinson was that one.

Deliberately he sat down to await the drug's action; then with a faint
smile he rose and replaced the bottle in the cabinet. The nerve crisis
had passed; the master-criminal was himself again.

"Freyder," he remarked as thin worthy entered the room in answer to the
bell, "a slight hitch has occurred in my scheme. The indecipherable notes
which I so carefully extracted from our friend's pocket yesterday refer
apparently to the prolongation of the lives of rabbits and other fauna.
The ones we require are--er--elsewhere. I, naturally, propose to obtain
them forthwith, but it will be necessary to proceed with a certain amount
of discretion. Incredible to relate, they are in the possession of a
young gentleman who we have come across before--one Drummond."

Freyder's breath came in a sharp whistle.

"I see that you recall the name," went on the other quietly. "And I must
say that when Professor Goodman informed me of the fact, I felt for the
moment unreasonably annoyed. One cannot legislate for everything, and how
any man out of an asylum could give that vast fool anything of importance
to look after is one of those things which I confess baffle me
completely. However, all that concerns us is that he has them at the
moment: the problem is to remove them from his keeping as rapidly as
possible. Under normal circumstances the solution of that problem would
have presented no difficulties, but Drummond, I am bound to admit, is not
normal. In fact, Freyder, as you may remember, I have twice made the
unforgivable mistake of underestimating him. This time, however, I have
decided on a little scheme which, though a trifle complicated at first
sight, is, in reality, profoundly simple. Moreover, it appeals to my
sense of humour, which is a great point in its favour. You have your
notebook? Then I will give you my instructions."

They were clear and concise with no possibility of a misunderstanding,
and, as Mr Robinson had said, they contained in them a touch of humour
that was akin to genius. In fact, despite the seriousness of the
situation, on two or three occasions Freyder broke into uncontrollable
chuckles of laughter. The whole thing was so gloriously simple that it
seemed there must be a flaw somewhere, and yet, try as he would, he could
discover none.

"The essence of the whole thing is speed, Freyder," said his Chief,
rising at length. "It is impossible to say what Drummond will do with
those notes if he's left too long in undisturbed possession of them. He
must know their value, but for all that he's quite capable of using them
for shaving paper. The one thing, knowing him, which I don't think he
will do is to take them to Scotland Yard. But I don't want to run any
risks. To have to be content with a miserable half-million for this
little affair would deprive me of my reason. I should totter to an early
grave, as a grey-headed old man. So speed, don't forget--speed is
absolutely essential."

"I can make all arrangements tonight, Chief," said Freyder, rising, "and
start at dawn tomorrow morning. Back tomorrow evening, and the whole
thing can be done the day after."

"Good," answered the other. "Then send for the car at once and we'll get
off."

And thus it happened that two hours after Mr Edward Blackton had arrived
at his house on the borders of the New Forest, Mr William Robinson left
it again. But on the return journey it is to be regretted that he no
longer wished to hear the birds sing or put buttercups in his hair. He
sat in his corner sunk in silence while the powerful limousine ate up the
miles to London. And his companion Freyder knew better than to break that
silence.

It was not until the tramlines at Hounslow were reached that he spoke.

"If I fail to settle accounts with Drummond this time, Freyder, I'll do
as he once recommended and take to growing tomatoes."

Freyder grunted. "The notes first, Chief, and after that the man. You'll
win this time."

He spoke down the speaking-tube and the car slowed up.

"I'll get out here; our man is close-to. And I'll be back tomorrow
evening."

He gave the chauffeur the name of a residential hotel in a quiet part of
Bayswater, and stood for a moment watching the car drive away. Then he
turned and disappeared down a side-street, while Mr Robinson continued
his journey alone. There was nothing more to be done now until Freyder
returned, and so, in accordance with his in variable custom, he dismissed
the matter from his mind.

To do in Rome as the Romans was another rule of his. And so after dinner
at the quiet residential hotel Mr Robinson joined heartily in a merry
round game which lacked much of its charm as two cards were missing from
the pack. Then refusing with becoming modesty a challenge to take on the
hotel champion at halma, he retired to his room and was asleep almost at
once. And he was still peacefully sleeping at five o'clock the next
morning, when Freyder, shivering a little in the morning air, drew his
thick leather coat more closely around his throat. Below him lay the grey
sea--hazy still, for the sun had no warmth as yet. In front the pilot was
sitting motionless, and after a while the steady roar of the engine
lulled him into a gentle doze. The aeroplane flew steadily on towards the
east... and Germany.



CHAPTER 6 - In Which Hugh Drummond Loses his Self-control.


It must be admitted that there was an air of gloom over Hugh Drummond's
house on the day following the inquest. Mrs Goodman and Brenda had not
left their rooms, and somewhat naturally Phyllis was principally occupied
in seeing what she could do for them in their terrible sorrow; while Algy
Longworth, faced with the necessity of postponing the wedding, had
relapsed into a condition of complete imbecility and refused to be
comforted. In fact it was not an atmosphere conducive to thought, and
Hugh was trying to think.

On the next day was the funeral. The whole thing had already dropped out
of the public eye; Professor Goodman, having been neither a pugilist,
film star, nor criminal, but merely a gentle old man of science, could
lay no claim whatever to the slightest popular interest. But to Hugh he
was something more than a gentle old man of science. He was a man who to
all intents and purposes had appealed to him for help--a man whose life
had been threatened, and who, within a few hours of receiving that
threat, had died.

True, according to the verdict at the inquest, he would have died whether
he had received that threat or not. But Hugh was still dissatisfied with
that verdict. The proofs, the evidence, all pointed that way--but he was
still dissatisfied. And coupled with his dissatisfaction was an uneasy
feeling, which only grew stronger with time, that he had been wrong to
suppress his knowledge of that letter from the police.

Now it was impossible to put it forward, but that made things no better.
The only result in fact as far as he was concerned was that it hardened
his resolve not to let the matter drop where it was. Until after the
funeral he would say nothing; then he'd begin some inquiries on his own.
And for those inquiries two obvious avenues suggested themselves: the
first was Professor Scheidstrun, the second Sir Raymond Blantyre.

Once again he took the Professor's notes out of his pocket-book and
studied them. He had already shown one sheet to a chemist in a
neighbouring street in the hope that he might be able to decipher it, but
with no result. The atrocious handwriting, coupled with the fact that,
according to the chemist, it was written in a sort of code, made them
completely incomprehensible to anyone save the man who wrote them. And he
was dead....

With a sigh he replaced the papers in his notecase and strolled over to
the window. Brook Street presented a quiescent appearance, due to the
warmth of the day and the recent consumption by its dwellers of lunch.
And Hugh was just wondering what form of exercise he could most decently
take in view of Mrs Goodman's presence in the house, when he straightened
up and his eyes became suddenly watchful. A wild, excited figure whom he
recognised instantly was tacking up the street, peering with short
sighted eyes at the numbers of the houses.

"Algy!"

"What is it?" grunted Longworth, coming out of a melancholy reverie.

"Old Scheidstrun is blowing up the street. He's looking for a house.
Surely he can't be coming here?" Algy Longworth sat up in his chair.

"You mean the old bloke who gave evidence at the inquest?" Hugh nodded.
"By Jove! he is coming here." His voice held traces of excitement. "Now,
why the deuce should he want to see me?" He went quickly to the door.
"Denny," he called, and his servant, who was already on his way to the
front door, paused and looked up. "Show the gentleman outside straight up
here to my room."

He came back frowning thoughtfully. "How on earth does he connect me with
it, Algy?"

"It's more than likely, old man," answered Longworth, "that he may have
heard that Mrs Goodman is here, and has come to shoot a card. Anyway,
we'll soon know."

A moment later Denny ushered Professor Scheidstrun into the room. Seen
from close-to, he seemed more untidy and egg-stained than ever, as he
stood by the door peering at the two young men. "Captain Drummond?" he
demanded in his hoarse, guttural voice.

"That's me," said Hugh, who was standing with his back to the fireplace
regarding his visitor curiously. "What can I do for you, sir?" The
Professor waved his arms like an agitated semaphore and sank into a
chair. "Doubtless you wonder who I may be," he remarked, "and what for I
come you to see."

"I know perfectly well who you are," said Drummond quietly, "but I
confess I'm beat as to why you want to see me. However, the pleasure is
entirely mine."

"So." The German stared at him. "You know who I am?"

"You are Professor Scheidstrun," remarked Drummond. "I was present at the
inquest yesterday and saw you."

"Goot." The Professor nodded his head as if satisfied, though his brain
was busy with this very unexpected item of news. "Then I will proceed at
once to the business. In the excitement of all this dreadful accident I
had forgotten it until this moment. Then I remember and come to you at
once."

He was fumbling in his pocket as he spoke. "A letter, Captain Drummond,
which my poor friend give to me to post--and I forgot it till an hour ago.
And I say at once, I will go round myself and see this gentleman and
explain."

Drummond took the envelope and glanced at it thoughtfully, while Algy
looked over his shoulder. "That's Professor Goodman's writing."

"Since he the letter wrote presumably it is," remarked the German with
ponderous sarcasm.

"You know the contents of this letter, Professor?" asked Drummond, as he
slit open the envelope.

"He read it to me," answered the other. "Ach! it is almost incredible
that what my dear friend should have said to me in jest--indeed that which
he has written there in jest--should have proved true. Even now I can
hardly believe that he is dead. It is a loss, gentlemen, to the world of
science which can never be replaced."

He rambled on while Drummond, having read the letter in silence, handed
it to Algy. And if for one fleeting second there showed in the German's
eyes a gleam of almost maniacal hatred as they rested on the owner of the
house, it was gone as suddenly as it came. The look on his face was
benevolent, even sad, as befitted a man who had recently lost a confrere
and friend, when Drummond turned and spoke again.

"The letter is a request, Professor, that certain notes now in my
possession should be handed over to you."

"That is so," assented the other. "He to me explained all. He told me of
his astounding discovery--a discovery which even now I can hardly believe.
But he assured me that it was the truth. And on my shoulders he laid the
sacred duty of giving that discovery to the world, if anything should
happen to him."

"Astounding coincidence that on the very afternoon he wrote this
something did happen to him," remarked Drummond quietly.

"As I haf said, even now I can hardly believe it," agreed the Professor.
"But it is so, and there is no more to be said."

"Rather astounding also that you did not mention this at the inquest,"
pursued Drummond.

"Till one hour ago, my young friend, I forget I had the letter. I forget
about his discovery--about the diamonds--about all. My mind was stunned by
the dreadful tragedy. And think--five, ten minutes more and I also to
pieces would have been blown. Mein Gott! it makes me sweat." He took out
a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

"By the way, Professor," said Drummond suddenly, "do you know Sir Raymond
Blantyre?" For the fraction of a second Professor Scheidstrun hesitated.
It was not a question he had been expecting and he realised that a lot
might hinge on the answer. And then like a flash he remembered that on
leaving the inquest he had spoken two or three words to Sir Raymond.
Moreover, Drummond had been there himself. "Sir Raymond Blantyre," he
murmured. "He has a grey moustache and an eyeglass. Slightly I know him.
He was--ja! he was at the inquest himself."

It was glib, it was quick. It would have passed muster nine times out of
ten as a spontaneous reply to a perfectly ordinary question.

But it was made to a man who was already suspicious, and it was made to a
man whose lazy eyes missed nothing. Drummond had noticed that almost
imperceptible pause; what was more to the point, he had noticed the
sudden look of wariness on the other's face. More a fleeting shadow than
a look, but it had not escaped the lynx-eyed man lounging against the
mantelpiece. And it had not tended to allay his suspicions, though his
face was still perfectly impassive.

"I assume from what he has written here that Professor Goodman discussed
with you the threatening letter he received," he went on placidly.

"He mentioned it, of course." The German shrugged his shoulders. "But for
me it seems a stupid joke. Absurd! Ridiculous! Who would be so foolish as
to write such a thing if it was a genuine threat? It was--how do you say
it--it was a hoax? Nein--nein--to that I paid no attention. It was not for
that he this letter wrote. He told me of his discovery, and I who know
him well, I say, 'Where are the notes? It is not safe for you to carry
them. You who lose everything--you will lose them. Or more likely still
someone will your pocket pick. There are people in London who would like
those notes.'"

"There undoubtedly are," agreed Drummond mildly.

"He tells me he give them to you. I say, 'This young man--he too may lose
them. Tell him to send them to your men of business.' He says, 'Goot--I
will.' And he write the letter there. Then he add, as he thinks, his
little joke. My poor friend! My poor, poor friend! For now the joke is
not a joke. And on me there falls the sacred trust he has left. But his
shall be the glory; all the credit will I give to him. And the world of
science shall remember his name for ever by this discovery."

Overcome by his emotion the Professor lay back in his chair breathing
stertorously, while once again he dabbed at his forehead with his
handkerchief.

"Very praiseworthy and all that," murmured Drummond. "Then I take it that
your proposal is, sir, that I should hand these notes over to you here
and now?" The German sat up and shrugged his shoulders. "It would save
trouble, Captain Drummond. For me I wish to return to Germany after my
poor friend's funeral tomorrow. Naturally I must with me take the notes.
But if for any reason you would prefer to hand them to the good Mr Tootem
of Austin Friars, then perhaps we could arrange to meet there some time
tomorrow morning."

He leaned back in his chair as if the matter was of no account, and
Drummond, his hands in his pockets, strolled over to the window. On the
face of it everything was perfectly above-board--and yet, try as he would,
he could not rid himself of the feeling that something was wrong. Later,
when he recalled that interview and realised that for half an hour on
that warm summer's afternoon he had been in his own house with the man he
knew as Carl Peterson sitting in his best chair, he used to shake with
laughter at the humour of it. But at the time no thought of such a wildly
amazing thing was in his mind; no suspicion that Professor Scheidstrun
was not Professor Scheidstrun had even entered his head. It was not the
German's identity that worried him, but his goodwill. Was he what he
professed to be a friend of the late Professor Goodman's? Did he intend
to give this scientific discovery to the world as he had promised to do?
Or had he deceived Professor Goodman? And if so, why? Could it be
possible that this man was being employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre, and
that he too was engaged in the conspiracy to destroy the results of the
discovery for ever?

He turned and stared at the German, who, overcome by the heat, was
apparently asleep. But only apparently. Behind that coarse face and heavy
forehead the brain was very wide awake. And it would have staggered
Drummond could he have realised how exactly his thoughts were being read.
Not very extraordinary either, since the whole interview had been planned
to produce those thoughts by a master of psychology.

Suddenly the German sat up with a start. "It is warm; I sleep."

He extracted a huge watch from his pocket and gave an exclamation as he
saw the time. "I must go," he said, scrambling to his feet. "Well--how say
you, Captain Drummond? Will you give me now the notes, or do we meet at
the good Mr Tootem's?"

"I think, Professor," said Drummond slowly, 'that I would sooner we met
at the lawyer's. These notes were handed to me personally, and I should
feel easier in my mind if I handed them over personally to the lawyer.
Then my responsibility will end."

"As you will," remarked the German indifferently. "Then we will say
eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, unless I let you know to the contrary."

He shambled from the room, and Drummond escorted him to the front door.
Then, having watched him down the steps, he returned to his room.

"Seems a bona-fide show, Algy," he remarked, lighting a cigarette.

"Will you give up the notes?" demanded his friend.

"My dear old thing, I must," answered Hugh. "You've seen the Professor's
distinct instructions that jolly old Tootem & Tootem are to have 'em. I
can't go against that. What the legal wallah does with them afterwards is
nothing to do with me. Still, I wish I could feel more certain in my own
mind. You see, the devil of it is, Algy, that even if that bloke is a
stumer, our hands are tied. There are old Goodman's instructions, and the
only thing I can do is to throw the responsibility on the lawyer's
shoulders."

He paced thoughtfully up and down the room, to stop suddenly and pick up
his hat. "It's worth trying," he remarked half to himself, and the next
moment Algy was alone. From the window he saw Hugh hail a taxi and
disappear, and with a shrug of his shoulders he resumed his study of
Ruff's Guide. At times the vagaries of his host were apt to be a little
wearing.

And when some four hours later Hugh returned just in time for dinner, it
certainly seemed as if he'd wasted his time.

"I've been watching Mr Atkinson's house, Algy," he said despondently,
"you know the one I spotted after the inquest, where Scheidstrun is
living. Went to ground in a house opposite. Said I was a doctor looking
for rooms. Thank heavens! the servant developed no symptoms requiring
medical attention, because all I could have conscientiously recommended
for anybody with a face like hers was a lethal chamber. However, as I
say, I took cover in the parlour behind a bowl of stuffed fruit, and
there I waited. Divil a thing for hours. Atkinson's house was evidently
occupied; in fact, I saw him look out of the window once. A
benevolent-looking old chap with mutton-chop whiskers. However, I stuck
it out, and at last, just as I was on the point of giving it up,
something did happen, though not much. A closed car drove up, and from it
there descended old Scheidstrun, a youngish man, and an elderly woman.
Couldn't see her very well--but she looked a typical Boche. Probably his
wife, I should think."

He relapsed into silence and lit a cigarette. "An afternoon wasted," he
grunted after a while. "I'm fed up with the whole dam' show, Algy. Why
the devil didn't I give him the notes and be done with it when he was
here? As it is, I've got to waste tomorrow morning as well fooling round
in the city; and with the funeral in the afternoon the old brain will
cease to function. Mix me a cocktail, like a good fellow. Everything is
in the cupboard."

And thus it came about that while two cocktails were being lowered in
gloomy silence in Brook Street, a cheerful-looking old gentleman with
mutton-chop whiskers entered his quiet residential hotel in Bayswater.
There were no signs of gloomy silence about the old gentleman; in fact,
he was almost chatty with the lounge waiter.

"I think--yes, I think," he remarked, 'that I will have a small cocktail.
Not a thing I often do--but this evening I will indulge."

"Spotted a winner, sir?" said the waiter, responding to the old
gentleman's mood.

"Something of that sort, my lad," he replied genially--"something of that
sort."

And Mr William Robinson's smile was enigmatic.

He seldom remembered an afternoon when in a quiet way he had enjoyed
himself so much. In fact, he was almost glad that Drummond had refused to
hand over the notes: it would have been so inartistic--so crude. Of course
it would have saved bother, but where is the true artist who thinks of
that? And he had never really imagined that Drummond would; he knew that
young gentleman far too well for that. Naturally he was suspicious: well,
he would be more suspicious tomorrow morning. He would be so suspicious,
in fact, that in all probability the worthy Mr Tootem would get the shock
of his life. He chuckled consumedly, and departed so far from his
established custom as to order a second Martini. And as he lifted it to
his lips he drank a silent toast: he drank to the shrewd powers of
observation of a beautiful girl who was even then watching orange change
to pink on the snow-capped Dent du Midi from the balcony of her room in
the Palace Hotel.

And so it is unnecessary to emphasise the fact that there were wheels
destined to rotate within wheels in the comfortable room in Austin Friars
where Mr Tootem senior discharged his affairs, though that pillar of the
legal profession was supremely unaware of the fact. With his usual
courtly grace he had risen to greet the eminent German savant Professor
Scheidstrun, who had arrived at about ten minutes to eleven on the
following morning. Somewhat to Mr Tootem's surprise, the Professor had
been accompanied by his wife, and Frau Scheidstrun was now waiting in the
next room for the business to be concluded.

"Most sad, Professor," murmured Mr Tootem. "An irreparable loss, as you
say, to the scientific world--and to his friends." He glanced at the
clock. "This young man--Captain Drummond--will be here, you say, at
eleven."

"That is the arrangement that I haf with him made," answered the German.
"He would not to me quite rightly the notes hand over yesterday; but as
you see from the letter, it was my dear friend's wish that I should haf
them, and carry on with the great discovery he has made."

"Quite so," murmured Mr Tootem benevolently, wishing profoundly that
Drummond would hasten his arrival. The morning, was warm; the Professor's
egg-stained garments scandalised his British soul to the core; and in
addition, Mr Tootem senior had arrived at that ripe age when office hours
were made to be relaxed. He particularly wished to be at Lord's in time
to see Middlesex open their innings against Yorkshire, and only the fact
that Professor Goodman had been a personal friend of his had brought him
to the city at all that day.

At length with a sigh of relief he looked up. Sounds of voices outside
betokened someone's arrival, and the business would be a short one.

"Is this the young man?" he said, rubbing his hands together.

But the Professor made no reply: he was watching the door which opened at
that moment to admit Drummond. And since Mr Tootem rose at once to greet
him, the fact that he had not answered escaped the lawyer's attention. He
also failed to notice that an unaccountable expression of uneasiness
showed for a moment on the German's face, as he contemplated Drummond's
vast bulk.

"Ah! Captain Drummond, I'm glad you've come," remarked Mr Tootem. "Let me
see--you know Professor Scheidstrun, don't you?" He waved Drummond to a
chair.

"Yes, we had a little pow-wow yesterday afternoon," said Drummond,
seating himself.

The strained look had vanished from the Professor's face: he beamed
cheerfully. "In which I found him most suspicious," he said in his
guttural voice. "But quite rightly so."

"Exactly," murmured Mr Tootem, again glancing at the clock. It would take
him at least twenty minutes to get to Lord's. "But I am sure he will not
be suspicious of me. And since I have one or two important--er--business
engagements, perhaps we can conduct this little matter through
expeditiously."

He beamed benevolently on Drummond, who was leaning back in his chair
regarding the Professor through half-closed lids. "Now, I understand that
my dear friend and client, the late Professor Goodman, handed over to you
some very valuable papers, Captain Drummond," continued Mr Tootem. "A
great compliment, I may say, showing what faith he placed in your
judgment and trustworthiness. I have here--and I gather you have seen this
letter--instructions that those papers should be handed over to me. You
have them with you, I trust?"

"Oh! yes. I've got them with me," said Drummond quietly, though his eyes
never left the German's face.

"Excellent," murmured Mr Tootem. At a pinch he might do Lord's in a
quarter of an hour. "Then if you would kindly let me have them, that
will--ah--conclude the matter. I may say that I quite appreciate your
reluctance to hand them to anyone but me..."

The worthy lawyer broke off abruptly. "Good heavens! Captain Drummond,
what is the matter?" For Drummond had risen from his chair, and was
standing in front of the Professor. "You're not the man who came to see
me yesterday," he said quietly. "You're not Professor Scheidstrun at
all."

"But the man is mad," gasped the German. "You say I am not
Scheidstrun--me."

"You're made up to look exactly like him--but you're not Scheidstrun! I
tell you, Mr. Tootem"--he turned to the lawyer, who was staring at him
aghast--"that that man is no more Scheidstrun than I am. The disguise is
wonderful--but his hair is a slightly different colour. Ever since I came
in I've been wondering what it was."

"This young man is mad," said the German angrily. "The reason that it is
a slightly different colour is that I wear a wig. I haf two: this morning
I wear the other one to what I wear yesterday."

But Drummond wasn't even listening. Like a bird fascinated by a snake he
was staring at the Professor's left hand, beating an agitated tattoo on
his knee. For a moment or two he was dazed, as the stupendous reality
burst on his mind. Before him sat Carl Peterson himself, given away once
again by that old trick which he could never get rid of, that ceaseless
nervous movement of the left hand. It was incredible; the suddenness of
the thing took his breath away. And then the whole thing became clear to
him. Somehow or other Peterson had heard of the discovery; perhaps
employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre himself. He had found out that the notes
of the process were to be handed to Scheidstrun, and with his usual
consummate daring had decided to impersonate the German. And the woman he
had seen arriving the night before was Irma.

His thoughts were chaotic: only the one great thing stuck out. The man in
front of him was Peterson: he knew it. And with one wild hoot of utter
joy he leapt upon him.

"My little Carl," he murmured ecstatically, "the pitcher has come to the
well once too often."

Possibly it had; but the scene which followed beggared description.
Peterson or not Peterson, his confession as to wearing a wig was the
truth. It came off with a slight sucking noise, revealing a domelike
cranium completely devoid of hair. With a wild yell of terror the
unfortunate German sprang from his chair, and darted behind the portly
form of Mr Tootem, while Drummond, brandishing the wig, advanced on him.

"Damn it, sir," spluttered Mr Tootem, "I'll send for the police, sir; you
must be mad."

"Out of the way, Tootles," said Drummond happily. "You'll scream with
laughter when I tell you the truth. Though we'd best make certain the
swab hasn't got a gun."

With a quick heave he jerked the cowering man out from behind the lawyer,
who immediately rushed to the door shouting for help.

"A madman," he bellowed to his amazed staff. "Send for a keeper, and a
straight-jacket."

He turned round, for a sudden silence had settled on the room behind.
Drummond was standing motionless gripping both the Professor's arms, with
a look of amazement slowly dawning on his face. Surely he couldn't be
mistaken, and yet--unless Peterson had suffered from some wasting
disease--what on earth had happened to the man? The arms he felt under the
coat-sleeve were thin as match-sticks, whereas Peterson as he remembered
of old was almost as strong as he was.

He stared at Professor Scheidstrun's face. Yes--surely that nose was too
good to be true. He pulled it thoughtfully and methodically--first this
way then that--while the unhappy victim screamed with agony, and the
junior clerk upset the ink in his excitement at the untoward spectacle.

It was real right enough--that nose. At least nothing had come off so far,
and a little dazedly Drummond backed away, still staring at him. Surely
he hadn't made a mistake: the gesture--that movement of the left hand had
been quite unmistakable. And the next instant a terrific blow on the
right ear turned his attention to other things.

He swung round to find a monumental woman regarding him with the light of
battle in her eyes.

"How dare you," she boomed, "the nose of my Heinrich pull?" With great
agility Drummond dodged a heavy second to the jaw, and it was now his
turn to flee for safety. And it took a bit of doing.

The lady was out for blood, as a heavy volume on the intricacies of Real
Estate which missed Drummond's head by half an inch and broke a
flower-vase clearly proved.

"He seize my wig; he try to pull off my nose," wailed the Professor, as
Mr Tootem, junior, attracted by the din, rushed in. "And if I the coward
catch," bellowed his spouse, picking up a companion volume on Probate and
Divorce, "I will not try--I will succeed with this."

"Three to one on the filly," murmured young Tootem gracelessly, as with a
heavy crash Probate and Divorce shot through the window.

But mercifully for all concerned, especially the reputation of Tootem,
Price & Tootem, it proved to be the lady's dying gasp.

Completely exhausted she sank into a chair, and Drummond cautiously
emerged from behind a table. He was feeling a little faint himself; the
need for alcohol was pressing. One thing even to his whirling brain was
beyond dispute. Impossible though it was that Peterson should have
shrunk, it was even more impossible that Irma should have swollen. By no
conceivable art of disguise could that beautiful and graceful girl have
turned herself into the human monstrosity who was now regarding him
balefully from her chair.

Her arms were twice the size of his own, and unless Irma had developed
elephantiasis the thing simply could not be. Of course she might have
covered herself with india-rubber and blown herself out in some way; he
didn't put anything beyond Peterson. But the thought of pricking her with
a pin to make sure was beyond even his nerve. It was too early in the day
to ask any woman to burst with a slow whistling noise. And if she was
real... He trembled violently at the mere thought of what would happen.

No; incredible though it was, he had made a ghastly mistake. Moreover,
the next move was clearly with him. "I'm afraid I've made a bloomer," he
murmured, mopping his forehead. "What about a small spot all round,
and--er--I'll try to explain."

It cannot be said that he found the process of explaining an easy one.
The lady in particular, having got her second wind, seemed only too ready
to cut the cackle and get down to it again; and, as Drummond had to admit
even to himself, the explanation sounded a bit lame. To assault
unmercifully an elderly German savant in a lawyer's office merely because
he was drumming with his left hand on his knee was, as Mr Tootem junior
put it, a shade over the odds.

And his excuse for so doing--his description of the inconceivable
villainies of Carl Peterson in the past--was received coldly.

In fact Hugh Drummond proceeded to spend an extremely unpleasant twenty
minutes, which might have been considerably prolonged but for Mr Tootem
senior remembering that the umpires were just about coming out at Lord's.

He rose from his chair pontifically.

"I think we must assume," he remarked, "that this misguided young man was
actuated by worthy motives, even though his actions left much to be
desired. His keenness to safeguard the valuable notes of my late lamented
client no doubt inspired his amazing outburst. And since he has
apologised so profusely to you, Professor--and also, my dear Madam, to
you--I would suggest that you might see your way to accepting that
apology, and that we might terminate the interview. I have no doubt that
now that Captain Drummond has satisfied himself so--ah--practically that
you are not--I forget his friend's name--will have no hesitation in handing
over the notes to me. Should he still refuse, I shall, of course, have no
other alternative but to send for the police which would cause a most
unpleasant contretemps for all concerned. Especially on the very day of
the--er--funeral."

Drummond fumbled in his pocket. "I'll hand 'em over right enough," he
remarked wearily. "I wish I'd never seen the blamed things."

He passed the sheets of paper across the desk to Mr Tootem. "If I don't
get outside a pint of beer soon," he continued, reaching for his hat,
"there will be a double event in the funeral line."

Once again he apologised profusely to the German, and staggered slightly
in his tracks as he gazed at the lady. Then blindly he made his way to
the door, and twenty minutes later he entered his house a comparatively
broken man. Even Algy awoke from his lethargy and gazed at him appalled.

"You mean to say you pulled the old bean's nose?" he gasped.

"This way and that," sighed Hugh. "And very, very hard. Only nothing like
as hard as his wife hit me. She's got a sweeping left, Algy, like the
kick of a mule. Good Lord! what an unholy box-up. I must say if it hadn't
been for old Tootem, it might have been deuced serious. The office looked
like the morning after a wet night."

"So you've handed over the notes?"

"I have," said Hugh savagely. "And as I told old Tootem in his office, I
wish to heavens I'd never seen the bally things. Old Scheidstrun's got
'em, and he can keep 'em."

Which was where the error occurred. Professor Scheidstrun had certainly
got them--Mr Tootem senior had pressed them into his hands with almost
indecent brevity the instant Drummond left the office--but Professor
Scheidstrun was not going to keep them. At that very moment, in fact, he
was handing them over to a benevolent looking old gentleman with
mutton-chop whiskers in a room in Mr Atkinson's house in the quiet
square.

"Tell me all about it," murmured the old gentleman, with a smile. "You've
no idea how interested I am in it. I would have given quite a lot to have
been present myself."

"Mein Gott!" grunted the Professor. "He is a holy terror, that man. He
tear off my wig; he try to tear off my nose."

"And then I him on the ear hit," boomed his wife.

"Splendid," chuckled the other. "Quite splendid. He is a violent young
man at times, is Captain Drummond."

"It was that the colour of my wig was different that first made him
suspect," went on the German. "And then I do what you tell me--I tap with
my left hand so upon my knee. The next moment he jumps upon me like a
madman."

"I thought he probably would," said the old gentleman. "A very amusing
little experiment in psychology. You might make a note of it, Professor.
The surest way of allaying suspicions is to arouse them thoroughly, and
then prove that they are groundless. Hence your somewhat sudden summons
by aeroplane from Germany. I have arranged that you should return in the
same manner tomorrow after the funeral--which you will attend this
afternoon."

"It was inconvenient--that summons," said his wife heavily. "And my
husband has been assaulted..."

Her words died away as she looked at the benevolent old man. For no trace
of benevolence remained on his face, and she shuddered uncontrollably.

"People who do inconvenient things, Frau," he said quietly, "and get
found out must expect inconvenient calls to be made upon them."

"How long is this to continue?" she demanded. "How long are we to remain
in your power? This is the second time that you have impersonated my
husband. I tell you when I heard that young man speaking this morning,
and knew how near he was to the truth almost did I tell him."

"But not quite. Not quite, Frau Scheidstrun. You are no fool; you know
what would have happened if you had. I still hold the proofs of your
husband's unfortunate slip a year or two ago."

His eyes were boring into her, and once again she shuddered.

"I shall impersonate your husband when and where I please," he continued,
"if it suits my convenience. I regard him as one of my most successful
character-studies."

His tone changed; he was the benevolent old gentleman again. "Come, come,
my dear Frau Scheidstrun," he remarked affably, "you take an exaggerated
view of things. After all, the damage to your husband's nose is slight,
considering the far-reaching results obtained by letting that young man
pull it. All his suspicions are allayed; he merely thinks he's made a
profound ass of himself. Which is just as it should be. Moreover, with
the mark in its present depreciated state, I think the cheque I propose
to hand to your husband for the trouble he has taken will ease matters in
the housekeeping line."

He rose from his chair chuckling.

"Well, I think that is all. As I said before, you will attend the funeral
this afternoon. Such a performance does not call for conversation, and so
it will not be necessary for me to prime you with anything more than you
know already. Your brother-scientists, who will doubtless be there in
force, you will know how to deal with far better than I, seeing that I
should undoubtedly fail to recognise any of them. And should Drummond be
there--well, my dear fellow, I leave it to your sense of Christian decency
as to how you treat him. In the presence of--ah--death"--the old gentleman
blew his nose--"a policy of kindly charity is, I think, indicated. Anyway,
don't, I beg of you, so far forget yourself as to pull his nose. For
without your wife to protect you I shudder to think what the results
might be."

He smiled genially as he lit a cigar.

"And you," said the German, "you do not the funeral attend?"

"My dear Professor," murmured the other, "you surprise me. In what
capacity do you suggest that I should attend this melancholy function?
Even the mourners might be a trifle surprised if they saw two of us
there. And as Mr William Robinson--my present role--I had not the pleasure
of the deceased gentleman's acquaintance. No; I am going into the country
to join my brother--the poor fellow is failing a little mentally. Freyder
will make all arrangements for your departure tomorrow, and so I will say
good-bye. You have committed to memory--have you not?--the hours and days
when you did things in London before you arrived? And destroyed the
paper? Good; a document of that sort is dangerous. Finally, Professor,
don't forget your well-known reputation for absent-mindedness and
eccentricity. Should anyone ask you a question about your doings in
London which you find difficult to answer, just give your celebrated
imitation of a windmill and say nothing. I may remark that if Freyder's
telephone report to me is satisfactory this evening, I shall have no
hesitation in doubling the amount I suggested as your fee."

With a wave of his hand he was gone, and Professor Scheidstrun and his
wife watched the big car drive away from the door.

"Gott im Himmel," muttered the German. "But the man is a devil."

"His money is far from the devil," replied his wife prosaically. "If he
doubles it, we shall have five hundred pounds. And five hundred pounds
will be very useful just now."

But her husband was not to be comforted. "I am frightened, Minna," he
said tremulously. "We know not what we are mixed up in. He has told us
nothing as to why he is doing all this."

"He has told us all that he wishes us to know," answered his wife.

"That is his way."

"Why he is dressed up like that?" continued the Professor. "And how did
Goodman really die?" He stared fearfully at his wife. "Blown up? Yes.
But--by whom?"

"Be silent, Heinrich," said his wife, but fear was in her eyes too. "It
is not good to think of these things. Let us have lunch, and then you
must go to the funeral. And after that he will send us the money, as he
did last time, and we will go back to Dresden. Then we will pray the good
God that he will leave us alone."

"What frightens me, Minna, is that it is I who am supposed to have been
with Goodman on the afternoon it happened. And if the police should find
out things, what am I to say? Already there are people who suspect that
big man this morning, for instance. How am I to prove that it was not I,
but that devil made up to look like me? Mein Gott, but he is clever. I
should not have hidden myself away as he told me to do in his letter."

"He would have found out if you hadn't," said his wife. "He knows
everything."

"There was no one who saw us start," went on the German excitedly. "At
least no one who saw me start. You they saw--but me, I was smuggled into
the aeroplane. Everything is accounted for by that devil. It is
impossible for me to prove an alibi. For four days I have concealed
myself; our friends all think, as you told them, that I have gone to
England. They think you follow, and they will see us return. Would anyone
believe us if now we said it was all a lie? They would say--why did you
remain hidden? What was the object of all this deceit? And I--what can I
say? That I am in the power of someone whom, to save my life, I cannot
describe. No one would believe me; it would make my position worse." He
grew almost hysterical in his agitation.

"There is one comfort, my dear," said his wife soothingly. "As long as
everyone believes that it was you who was with Professor Goodman they are
not likely to suspect very much. For foul play there must be a motive,
and there could be no motive in your case. No, Heinrich, that devil has
foreseen everything. No one was suspicious except the big man this
morning, and now he is suspicious no longer. All that we have to do is
just what we are told, and we shall be safe. But, mein Gott, I wish that
we were on board that foul machine again, even though I shall assuredly
be sick the whole way."

The worthy woman rose and placed a hand like a leg of mutton on her
husband's shoulder. "Lunch," she continued. "And then you must go to the
funeral, while I await you here."

And so an hour later Professor Scheidstrun, fortified by a most excellent
meal, chartered a taxi and drove off to attend the ceremony.

After all, his wife was a woman of sound common sense, and there was much
in what she said. Moreover, five hundred pounds was not obtained every
day. With his usual diabolical cleverness that man, whose real name even
he did not know, had so arranged things that his scheme would succeed. He
always did succeed; this would be no exception. And provided the scheme
was successful, he personally would be safe.

He stepped out at the church door and paid his fare. A celebrated Scotch
chemist whom he knew, and who was entering the church at the same moment,
stopped and spoke a few words with him, and for a while they stood
chatting on the pavement outside. Then the Scotchman moved away, and the
Professor was about to enter the church when someone touched him on the
arm.

He turned to find a young man, wearing an eyeglass, whom he had never
seen before in his life.

"Afternoon, Professor," said the young man.

The Professor grunted. Who on earth was this? Some relative presumably of
the dead man.

"You don't seem to remember me," went on the young man slowly. The fact
was hardly surprising, but mindful of his instructions the German waved
his arms vaguely and endeavoured to escape into the church. But the young
man, whose eyes had narrowed suddenly, was not to be shaken off quite so
easily.

"One moment, Professor," he said quietly. "Do you remember me?" Again the
German grunted unintelligibly, but his brain was working quickly.
Obviously this young man knew him; therefore he ought obviously to know
the young man.

"Ja," he grunted, "I haf met you, but I know not where."

"Don't you remember coming round to Captain Drummond's house yesterday
afternoon?" went on the other.

"Of course," said the Professor, beginning to feel firm ground again. "It
was there that we did meet."

"That's it," said the young man cheerfully. "I was one of the four
fellows there with Drummond."

"It vos stupid of me to haf forgotten," remarked the German, breathing an
inward sign of relief. "But so many were there, that must be my excuse."

He escaped into the church, and Algy Longworth made no further attempt to
detain him. Without thought, and as a mere matter of politeness, he had
spoken to the Professor on seeing him, to be greeted with the blank stare
of complete non-recognition.

And now the German had concurred in his statement that there had been
five of them in the room during the interview, whereas only Hugh and he
himself had been present. The short service was drawing to a close, and
Algy, who had not heard a word, still stared thoughtfully at the back of
the Professor's head, two pews in front.

He had noted the nods of greeting from several distinguished looking old
gentlemen as the German had entered the church; but five instead of two!
Surely it was incredible that any man, however absent-minded and
engrossed in other things, should have made such a mistake as that. Even
poor old Goodman himself had not been as bad as that. Besides, he
personally had spoken not once but several times to the German during the
interview. He couldn't have forgotten so completely.

But the fact remained that after the service was over, Professor
Scheidstrun chatted for some time with several other elderly men, who had
apparently had no doubts as to his identity. In fact it was impossible to
believe that the man was not what he professed to be, especially as he
too, remembering what Hugh had said, had laid his hand on the German's
arm outside the church and felt it. It was skinny and thin--and yet five
instead of two! That was the thing that stuck in his gizzard.

If only he could think of some test question which would settle the
matter! But he couldn't, and even if he had been able to there was no
further chance of asking it. Professor Scheidstrun completely ignored his
existence, and finally drove away without speaking to him again.

And it was a very puzzled young man who finally returned to Brook Street
to find Hugh Drummond sunk in the depths of depression. He listened in
silence to what Algy had to say, and then he shook his head.

"My dear old man," he said at length, "it cuts no ice. It's funny, I
know. If you or I went round to have a buck with a fellow, we should
remember whether the isolation was complete or whether we were crushed to
death in the mob. But with these scientific blokes It's altogether
different. He probably has completely forgotten the entire incident. And
yet, Algy, the conviction is growing on me that I've been had for a mug.
Somehow or other they've handed us the dirty end. I confess it's
difficult to follow. I'm convinced that the man today in Tootem's office
is the genuine article. And if he is it's almost impossible to believe
that poor old Goodman's death was anything but an accident. Then where's
the catch? That's what I've been trying to puzzle out for the last three
hours, and I'm just where I was when I started."

"You think that German is going to do what he said? Go back and carry on
with Goodman's discovery?"

"I don't know what else to think."

"Then I'll tell you one thing, Hugh," said Algy thoughtfully. "You'd have
a death from heat--apoplexy if old Blantyre knew it. And he was showing no
signs of a rush of blood to the face at the funeral today."

Drummond sat up and stared at his friend. "Which means either that he
doesn't know anything about it and believes that the secret died with
Goodman; or else, Algy, he's got at Scheidstrun. Somehow or other he's
found out about that letter, and he's induced the German to part with the
notes."

He rose and paced up and down the room.

"Or else--Great Scott! Algy, can it be possible that the whole thing has
been carefully worked from beginning to end? Blantyre went over to
Switzerland--Toby told me that. He went over looking like a sick headache
and came back bursting with himself."

Drummond's face was hard.

"If I thought that that swine had deliberately hired the German to murder
poor old Goodman..." His great hands were clenched by his side, as he
stared grimly out of the window.

"I made a fool of myself this morning," he went on after a while. "I
suppose I've got Carl Peterson on the brain. But there are other swine in
the world, Algy, beside him. And if I could prove..."

"Quite," remarked Algy. "But how the devil can you prove anything?"

Suddenly Drummond swung round. "I'm going round to see Blantyre now," he
said decisively. "Will you come?"



CHAPTER 7 - In Which Drummond Takes a Telephone Call and Regrets It


Half an hour later Algy and he walked through the unpretentious door that
led to the office of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate, to be greeted
with a shout of joy from Toby Sinclair emerging from an inner room.

"You have come to ask me to consume nourishment at your expense," he
cried. "I know it. I accept. I will also dine this evening."

"Dry up, Toby," grunted Hugh. "Is your boss in?"

"Sir Raymond? Yes--why?"

"I want to see him," said Hugh quietly.

"My dear old man, I'm sorry, but it's quite out of the question,"
answered Toby. "There's a meeting of the whole syndicate on at the
present moment upstairs, and..."

"I want to see Sir Raymond Blantyre," interrupted Hugh. "And, Toby, I'm
going to see Sir Raymond Blantyre. And if his darned syndicate is there,
I'll see his syndicate as well."

"But, Hugh, old man," spluttered Toby, "be reasonable. It's an important
business meeting, and..."

Hugh laid his hands on Toby's shoulders and grinned.

"Toby, don't waste time. Trot along upstairs--bow nicely, and say 'Captain
Drummond craves audience'. And when he asks what for, just say, 'In
connection with an explosion which took place at Hampstead.' And of a
sudden it seemed as if a strange tension had come into Toby Sinclair's
room. For Toby was one of those who had hunted with Hugh in days gone by,
and he recognised the look in the big man's eyes. Something was
up--something serious, that he knew at once. And certain nebulous,
half-formed suspicions which he had vigorously suppressed in his own mind
stirred into being.

"What is it, old man?" he asked quietly.

"I'll know better after the interview, Toby," answered the other. "But
one thing I will tell you now. It's either nothing at all, or else your
boss is one of the most blackguardly villains alive in London today. Now
go up and tell him."

And without another word Toby Sinclair went. Probably not for another
living man would he have interrupted the meeting upstairs. But the habits
of other days held; when Hugh Drummond gave an order, it was carried out.

A minute later he was down again. "Sir Raymond will see you at once,
Hugh," and for Toby Sinclair his expression was thoughtful. For the
sudden silence that had settled on the room of directors as he gave the
message had not escaped his attention. And the air of carefully
suppressed nervous expectancy on the part of the Metropolitan Diamond
Syndicate did not escape Drummond's attention either as he entered,
followed by Algy Longworth.

"Captain Drummond?" Sir Raymond Blantyre rose, and indicated a chair with
his hand. "Ah! and Mr Longworth surely. Please sit down. I think I saw
you in the distance at the funeral today. Now, Captain Drummond, perhaps
you will tell us what you want as quickly as possible, as we are in the
middle of a rather important meeting."

"I will try to be as short as possible, Sir Raymond," said Drummond
quietly. "It concerns, as you have probably guessed, the sad death of
Professor Goodman, in which I, personally, am very interested. You see,
the Professor lunched with me at my club on the day of his death."

"Indeed," murmured Sir Raymond politely.

"Yes--I met him in St James's Square, where he'd been followed."

"Followed," said one of the directors. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say. He was being followed. He was also in a very excited
condition owing to the fact that he had just received a letter
threatening his life, unless he consented to accept two hundred and fifty
thousand pounds as the price for suppressing his discovery for
manufacturing diamonds cheaply. But you know all this part, don't you?"

"I know nothing whatever about a threatening letter," said Sir Raymond.
"It's the first I've heard of it. Of his process, of course, I know. I
think Mr Longworth was present at the dinner on the night I examined the
ornament Miss Goodman was wearing. And believing then that the process
was indeed capable of producing genuine diamonds, I did offer Professor
Goodman a quarter of a million pounds to suppress it."

"Believing then?" said Drummond, staring at him.

"Yes; for a time I and my colleagues here did really believe that the
discovery had been made," answered Sir Raymond easily. "And I will go as
far as to say that even as it stands the process--now so unfortunately
lost to science--produced most marvellous imitations. In fact--he gave a
deprecatory laugh--" it produced such marvellous imitations that it
deceived us. But they will not stand the test of time. In some samples he
made for us at a demonstration minute flaws are already beginning to show
themselves--flaws which only the expert would notice, but they're there."

"I see," murmured Drummond quietly, and Sir Raymond shifted a little in
his chair. Ridiculous though it was, this vast young man facing him had a
peculiarly direct stare which he found almost disconcerting.

"I see," repeated Drummond. "So the system was a dud."

"Precisely, Captain Drummond. The system was of no use. A gigantic
advance, you will understand, on anything that has ever been done before
in that line--but still, of no use. And if one may extract some little ray
of comfort from the appalling tragedy which caused Professor Goodman's
death, it surely is that he was at any rate spared from the laughter of
the scientific world whose good opinion he valued so greatly."

Sir Raymond leaned back in his chair, and a murmur of sympathetic
approval for words well and truly uttered passed round the room. And
feeling considerably more sure of himself, it dawned on the mind of the
chairman that up to date he had done most of the talking, and that so far
his visitor's principal contribution had been confined to monosyllables.
Who was he, anyway, this Captain Drummond? Some friend of the idiotic
youth with the eyeglass, presumably. He began to wonder why he had ever
consented to see him...

"However, Captain Drummond," he continued with a trace of asperity, "you
doubtless came round to speak to me about something. And since we are
rather busy this evening..."

He broke off and waited. "I did wish to speak to you," said Drummond,
carefully selecting a cigarette. "But since the process is no good, I
don't think it matters very much."

"It is certainly no good," answered Sir Raymond.

"So I'm afraid old Scheidstrun will only be wasting his time."

For a moment it almost seemed as if the clock had stopped, so intense was
the sudden silence.

"I don't quite understand what you mean," said Sir Raymond, in a voice
which, strive as he would, he could not make quite steady.

"No?" murmured Drummond placidly. "You didn't know of Professor Goodman's
last instructions? However, since the whole thing is a dud, I won't worry
you."

"What do you know of Scheidstrun?" asked Sir Raymond.

"Just a funny old Boche. He came to see me yesterday afternoon with the
Professor's last will, so to speak. And then I interviewed him this
morning in the office of the excellent Mr Tootem, and pulled his
nose--poor old dear!"

"Professor Scheidstrun came to see you?" cried Sir Raymond, standing up
suddenly. "What for?"

"Why, to get the notes of the diamond process, which the Professor gave
me at lunch on the day of his death."

Drummond thoughtfully lit his cigarette, apparently oblivious of the fact
that every man in the room was glaring at him speechlessly.

"But since it's a dud--I'm afraid he'll waste his time."

"But the notes were destroyed."  Every vestige of control had left Sir
Raymond's voice; his agitation was obvious.

"How do you know?" snapped Drummond, and the President of the
Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate found himself staring almost fascinated at
a pair of eyes from which every trace of laziness had vanished.

"He always carried them with him," he stammered. "And I--er--assumed..."

"Then you assumed wrong. Professor Goodman handed me those notes at lunch
the day he died."

"Where are they now?" It was Mr Leibhaus who asked the question in his
guttural voice.

"Since they are of no use, what does it matter?" answered Drummond
indifferently.

"Gentlemen!"  Sir Raymond's peremptory voice checked the sudden buzz of
conversation. "Captain Drummond," he remarked, "I must confess that what
you have told me this afternoon has given me a slight shock. As I say, I
had assumed that the notes of the process had perished with the
Professor. You now tell us that he handed them to you. Well, I make no
bones about it that though--from a purely scientific point of view the
process fails--yet--er--from a business point of view it is not one that any
of us would care to have noised abroad. You will understand that if
diamonds can be made cheaply which except to the eye of the most
practical expert are real, it will--er--not be a good thing for those who
are interested in the diamond market. You can understand that, can't
you?"

"I tell you what I can't understand, Sir Raymond," said Drummond quietly.
"And that is that you're a damned bad poker player. If flaws--as you
say--have appeared in the diamonds manufactured by this process, you and
your pals here would not now be giving the finest example of a vertical
typhoon  that I've ever seen."

Sir Raymond subsided in his chair a little foolishly; he felt at a
complete loss as to where he stood with this astonishing young man. And
it was left to Mr Leibhaus to make the next move.

"Let us leave that point for the moment," he remarked. "Where are these
notes now?"

"I've already told you," replied Drummond casually. "The worthy
Scheidstrun has them. And in accordance with Professor Goodman's written
instructions he proposes to give the secret to the world of science at an
early date. In fact he is going back to Germany tomorrow to do so."

"But the thing is impossible," cried Sir Raymond, recovering his speech.
"You mean to say that Professor Goodman left written instructions that
the notes of his process were to be handed over to--to Scheidstrun?"

"I do," returned Drummond. "And if you want confirmation, you can ring up
Mr Tootem of Austin Friars--Professor Goodman's lawyer. He saw the
letter, and it was in his office the notes were handed over."

"You will excuse me, Captain Drummond, if I confer for a few moments with
my friends," said Sir Raymond, rising.

The directors of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate withdrew to the
farther end of the long room, leaving Drummond still sitting at the
table. And to that gentleman's shrewd eye it was soon apparent that his
chance arrow had hit the mark, though exactly what mark it was, was still
beyond him. But the agitation displayed by the group of men in the window
was too obvious to miss, and had he known all the facts he would have
found it hardly surprising.

The directors were faced unexpectedly with as thorny a problem as could
well be devised.

Believing as they had that the notes had been destroyed--had not Mr Edward
Blackton assured them of that fact?--they had unanimously decided to adopt
the role that the process had proved useless, thereby removing any
possible suspicion that might attach itself to them. And now they found
that not only had the notes not been destroyed, but that they were in the
possession of Blackton himself. And it needed but little imagination to
realise that dangerous though the knowledge of the process had been in
the hands of Professor Goodman, it was twenty times more so in the hands
of Blackton if he meant to double-cross them.

That was the point: did he? Or had he discovered somehow or other that
Drummond held the notes and taken these steps in order to get them?

And the second little matter which had to be solved was how much this man
Drummond knew. If he knew nothing at all, why had he bothered to come
round and see them? It was out of the question, surely, that he could
have any inkling of the real truth concerning the bogus Professor
Scheidstrun. Had not the impersonation deceived even London scientists
who knew the real man at the funeral that afternoon?

For a while the directors conferred together in whispers; then Sir
Raymond advanced towards the table. The first thing was to get rid of
Drummond.

"I am sure we are all very much obliged to you, Captain Drummond, for
taking so much trouble and coming round to see us, but I don't think
there is anything more you can do. Should an opportunity arise I will
take steps to let Professor Scheidstrun know what we think--" He held out
a cordial hand to terminate the interview.

But it takes two people to terminate an interview, and Drummond had no
intention of being the second. He realised that he was on delicate ground
and that it behoved him to walk warily. But his conviction that something
was wrong somewhere was stronger than ever, and he was determined to try
to get to the bottom of it.

"It might perhaps be as well, Sir Raymond," he remarked, "to go round and
tell him now. I know where he is stopping."  Was it his imagination, or
did the men in the window look at one another uneasily? "As I told you, I
pulled the poor old bean's nose this morning, and it seems a good way of
making amends."

Sir Raymond stared at him. "May I ask you why you pulled his nose?" And
Drummond decided on a bold move.

"Because, Sir Raymond, I came to the conclusion that Professor
Scheidstrun was not Professor Scheidstrun, but somebody else."  There was
no mistaking the air of tension now. "I may say that I was mistaken."

"Who did you think he was?" Sir Raymond gave a forced laugh.

"A gentleman of international reputation," said Drummond quietly, "who
masquerades under a variety of names. I knew him first as Carl Peterson,
but he answers to a lot of titles. The Comte de Guy is one of them."

And now the atmosphere was electric, a fact which did not escape
Drummond. His eyes had narrowed; he was sitting very still. In the
language of the old nursery game, he was getting warm.

"But I conclusively proved, gentlemen," he continued, "that the man to
whom I handed those notes this morning was not the Comte de Guy. The
Comte, gentlemen, has arms as big as mine. His physical strength is very
great. This man had arms like walking sticks, and he couldn't have
strangled a mouse."

One by one the men at the window had returned to their seats, and now
they sat in perfect silence staring at Drummond. What on earth was this
new complication, or was this man deliberately deceiving them?

"Do you know the Comte de Guy well?" said Sir Raymond after a pause.

"Very well," remarked Drummond. "Do you?"

"I have heard of him," answered the other.

"Then, as you probably know, his power of disguising himself is so
miraculous as to be uncanny. He has one little mannerism, however, which
he sometimes shows in moments of excitement whatever his disguise. And it
has enabled me to spot him on one or two occasions. When therefore I saw
that little trick of his in the lawyer's office this morning, I jumped to
the conclusion that my old friend was on the war-path again. So I leaped
upon him and the subsequent scene was dreadful. It was not my old friend
at all, but a complete stranger with a vast wife who nearly felled me
with a blow on the ear."

He selected another cigarette with care.

"However," he continued casually, "It's a very good thing for you that
the process is a dud. Because I am sure nothing would induce him to
disregard Professor Goodman's wishes on the subject if it hadn't been."

"You say you know where he is stopping?" said Sir Raymond.

"I do," answered Drummond.

"Then I think perhaps that it would be a good thing to do as you suggest,
and go round and see him now."

He had been thinking rapidly while Drummond was speaking, and one or two
points were clear. In some miraculous way this young man had blundered on
to the truth. That the man Drummond had met in the lawyer's office that
morning was any other than Blackton he did not for a moment believe. But
Blackton had bluffed him somehow, and for the time had thrown him off the
scent. The one vital thing was to prevent him getting on to it again. And
since there was no way of telling what Drummond would find when he went
round to the house, it was imperative that he should be there himself.
For if there was one person whom Sir Raymond did not expect to meet
there, it was Professor Scheidstrun. And in that event he must be on hand
to see what happened. "Shall we go at once? My car is here."

"By all means," said Drummond. "And if there's room we might take Algy as
well. He gets into mischief if he's left lying about."

On one point at any rate Sir Raymond's expectations were not realised.
Professor Scheidstrun was at the house right enough; in fact he and his
wife had just finished their tea. And neither the worthy Teuton nor his
spouse evinced the slightest pleasure on seeing their visitors. With the
termination of the funeral they had believed their troubles to be over,
and now this extremely powerful and objectionable young man had come to
worry them again, to say nothing of his friend who had spoken to the
Professor at the funeral. And what did Sir Raymond Blantyre want?
Scheidstrun had been coached carefully as to whom and what Sir Raymond
was, but what on earth had he come round about? Especially with Drummond?

It was the latter who stated the reason of their visit. "I've come about
those notes, Professor," he remarked cheerfully. "You know--the ones that
caused that slight breeze in old Tootem's office this morning."

"So," grunted the Professor, blinking uneasily behind his spectacles. It
struck him that the ground was getting dangerous.

"I feel," went on Drummond affably, 'that after our unfortunate little
contretemps I ought to try to make some amends. And as I know you're a
busy man I shouldn't like you to waste your time needlessly. Now, you
propose, don't you, to carry on with Professor Goodman's process, and
demonstrate it to the world at large?"

"That is so," said the German Out of the corner of his eye Drummond
looked at Sir Raymond, but the President of the Metropolitan Diamond
Syndicate was staring impassively out of the window.

"Well, I'm sorry to say the process is a dud; a failure; no bally
earthly. You get me, I trust."

"A failure. Ach! is dot so?" rumbled Scheidstrun, who was by this time
completely out of his depth.

"And that being the case, Professor," murmured Sir Raymond, "it would be
better to destroy the notes at once, don't you think? I was under the
impression"--he added pointedly--"that they had already been destroyed in
the accident."

Strangely enough, the presence of Drummond gave him a feeling of
confidence with Mr Edward Blackton which he had never experienced before.
And this was a golden opportunity for securing the destruction of those
accursed papers, and thus preventing any possibility of his being
double-crossed.

"Shall we therefore destroy them at once?" he repeated quietly.

The German fidgeted in his chair. Willingly would he have destroyed them
on the spot if they had still been in his possession. Anything to be rid
of his visitors. He glanced from one to the other of them. Drummond was
apparently staring at the flies on the ceiling; Sir Raymond was staring
at him, and his stare was full of some hidden meaning. But since it was
manifestly impossible for him to do as Sir Raymond suggested, the only
thing to do was to temporise.

"I fear that to destroy them I cannot," he murmured. "At least not yet.
My duty to my dear friend..."

"Duty be damned!"  snarled Sir Raymond, forgetting Drummond's presence in
his rage. This swine was trying to double-cross him after all. "You'll
destroy those notes here and now, or..." With a great effort he pulled
himself together.

"Or what?" asked Drummond mildly. "You seem strangely determined, Sir
Raymond, that Professor Scheidstrun shouldn't waste his time. Deuced
praiseworthy, I call it, on your part.... Interests of science and all
that...." Sir Raymond smothered a curse, and glared still more furiously
at the German. And suddenly Drummond rose to his feet, and strolled over
to the open window.

"Well, I don't think there's much good our waiting here," he remarked in
a bored voice. "If he wants to fool round with the process, he must.
Coming, Sir Raymond?"

"In a moment or two, Captain Drummond. Don't you wait."

"Right. Come on, Algy. Apologies again about the nose, Professor. So
long."

He opened the door, and paused outside for Algy to join him. And every
trace of boredom had vanished from his face. "Go downstairs noisily," he
whispered. "Make a remark as if I was with you. Go out and slam the front
door. Then hang about and wait for me."

"Right,"  answered the either. "But what are you going to do?"

"Listen to their conversation, old man. I have an idea it may be
interesting." Without a sound he opened the door of the next room and
went in. It was a bedroom and it was empty, and Drummond heaved a sigh of
relief. The window, he knew, would be open--he had seen that as he looked
out in the other room. Moreover, the square was a quiet one; he could
hear easily what was being said next door by leaning out.

And for the next five minutes he leaned out, and he heard. And so
engrossed was he in what he heard that he quite failed to notice a
dark-skinned, sturdy man who paused abruptly on the pavement a few houses
away, and disappeared as suddenly as he had come. So engrossed was he in
what he heard that he even failed to hear a faint click from the door
behind him a few moments later.

All he noticed was that the voices in the next room suddenly ceased, but
he had heard quite enough. There was not one Scheidstrun, but two
Scheidstruns, and he had assaulted the wrong one.

Of Mr Edward Blackton he had never heard; but there was only one man
living who could have suggested that unmistakable trick with his hand--the
man he knew as Carl Peterson. Somehow or other he had found out this
mannerism of his and had used it deliberately to bluff Drummond, even as
he had deliberately double-crossed the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. It
was just the sort of thing that would appeal to his sense of humour.

So be it: they would crack a jest together over it later. At the moment
he wanted a word or two with Sir Raymond Blantyre. He crossed to the door
and tried to open it. But the door was locked, and the key was on the
outside.

For a moment or two he stood staring at it. His mind was still busy with
the staggering conversation he had been listening to, which had almost,
if not quite, explained everything. Facts, disconnected before, now
joined themselves together in a more or less logical sequence. Sir
Raymond Blantyre's visit to Montreux to enlist the aid of this Mr Edward
Blackton; the arrival in England of the spurious Professor Scheidstrun;
the accident at Hampstead--all this part was clear now. And with regard to
that accident, Drummond's face was grim. Cold-blooded murder it must have
been, in spite of all Sir Raymond's guarded utterances on the subject.

For it had taken that gentleman ten minutes before he finally realised
that the Scheidstrun he was talking to was the genuine article, and
during that ten minutes he had spoken with some freedom. And then when he
had finally realised it, and grasped the fact that he and his syndicate
had been double-crossed, his rage had been terrible. Moreover, he had
then said things which made matters even clearer to the man who was
listening in the next room.

Out of his own mouth he stood condemned as the instigator of an
abominable crime.

But Sir Raymond could wait; there would be plenty of time later to deal
with that gentleman and his syndicate. The man who called himself Edward
Blackton was the immediate necessity, and Drummond had no illusions now
as to his identity. It was Carl Peterson again, and with the faintest
flicker of a smile he acknowledged the touch of genius that had caused
him to pass on his little mannerism to the genuine Scheidstrun. It had
had exactly the intended effect: certainty that they had again met in the
lawyer's office, followed immediately by a crushing proof to the
contrary--a proof so overwhelming that but for vague suspicion engendered
by the Professor's non-recognition of Algy at the funeral he would have
let the whole thing drop.

It was just like Peterson to bluff to the limit of his hand; moreover, it
would have appealed to his sense of humour. And the point which was not
clear to either Sir Raymond or the German was very clear to him. To them
it had seemed an unnecessary complication to bring over the genuine
Scheidstrun--but there Drummond could supply the missing link. And that
link was his previous acquaintance with the arch-criminal. The
combination of shrewd insight and consummate nerve which deliberately
banked on that previous acquaintance and turned it to gain was Peterson
all over-or rather Blackton, to give him his present name. Moreover, the
advantage of having the genuine article at the funeral where he was bound
to run into many friends and acquaintances was obvious.

Most assuredly the touch of the master-hand was in evidence again, bur
where was the hand itself? It was that question which Sir Raymond, almost
inarticulate with rage, had asked again and again; and it was the answer
to that question which Professor Scheidstrun would not or could not give.
Listening intently Drummond had inclined to the latter alternative,
though not being able to see the speaker's face, he had had to rely on
inflection of voice. But it had seemed to him as if he was speaking the
truth when he absolutely denied any knowledge whatever of Blackton's
whereabouts. An old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers--that was all he
could say. But where he was, or what he was doing, he knew no more than
Sir Raymond. He had left that morning with the notes in his possession,
and that was all he could tell his infuriated questioner.

And then a sudden silence had fallen while Drummond still craned out of
the window listening--a silence which endured so long that finally he
stepped back into the room, only to discover that he was locked in. For a
moment or two, as has been said, he stood staring at the door; then with
a grunt he charged it with his shoulders. But the door was strong, and it
took him three minutes before, with a final splintering crash, the door
burst open, almost throwing him on his face. For a while he stood
listening: the house was silent. And since in ordinary respectable houses
the bursting open of a door is not greeted with absolute silence,
Drummond's hand went automatically to his hip-pocket. Past association
with Peterson accounted for the involuntary movement, but much water had
flowed under the bridge since those happy days, and with a sigh he
realised that he was unarmed. With his back to the wall he took careful
stock of his surroundings. Every nerve was alert for possible
eventualities; his arms, hanging a little forward, were tingling at the
prospect of action.

Still there was no sound. The passage was deserted; all the doors were
shut. And yet keys do not turn by themselves. Someone had locked him in:
the question was, who had done it? And where was he? Or could it be a
she? Could it be that monumental woman who had assaulted him only that
morning? He turned a little pale at the thought; but with the knowledge
that he now possessed of her husband's complicity in the affair he felt
he could meet her on rather more level terms. And there was comfort in
the knowledge that everyone in the house was so confoundedly crooked. The
likelihood of their sending for the police to eject him from the premises
was, to put it mildly, remote.

Silently as a cat, he took a quick step along the passage and flung open
the door of the room in which he had left Sir Raymond Blantyre and the
German. It was empty; there was no sign of either man. He crossed to one
of the heavy curtains which was drawn back in the window behind the desk,
and hit it a heavy blow with his fist. But the folds went back
unresistingly; there was no one hiding behind it. And then swiftly and
methodically he went from room to room, moving with that strange, silent
tread which was one of his most marked peculiarities. No one ever heard
Drummond coming; in the darkness no one ever saw him, if he didn't wish
him to. The first thing he knew of his presence was a pair of great hands
which seemed to materialise out of the night, forcing his head backwards
and farther back. And sometimes that was the last thing he knew as
well....

But there was no darkness in the house as he searched it from top to
bottom--only silence. Once he thought he heard the sound of a step above
him as he stood downstairs in the dining-room, but it was not repeated,
and he decided it was only imagination--a board creaking, perhaps. He went
into the kitchen and the scullery; the fire was lit in the range, but of
cook or servant there was no sign.

And finally, he returned thoughtfully to the hall. There was no doubt
about it, the house was empty save for himself. Sir Raymond and the
German had gone during the period that he was locked in the room
upstairs. And during that period the other occupants of the house, if
any, had gone also.

He carefully selected a cigarette and lit it. The situation required
reviewing. Item one. Sir Raymond Blantyre was a consummate swine who had,
by the grace of Allah, been stung on the raw by a hornet. Moreover,
before Drummond had finished with him the hornets would have swarmed. But
he could wait.

Item two. The genuine Professor Scheidstrun appeared to be a harmless old
poop, who was more sinned against than sinning. And he certainly could
wait.

Item three. The other Professor Scheidstrun--alias Blackton, alias
Peterson, present address unknown--had got away with the goods. He was in
full and firm possession of the momentous secret, which Blantyre had paid
him half a million to destroy. And involuntarily Drummond smiled. How
like him! How completely Peterson to the life! And then the smile faded.
To get it, he had murdered a harmless old man in cold blood.

Item four. He himself was in undisputed possession of an empty house in
which Peterson had been only that morning.

Could he turn item four to advantage in solving the address question in
item three? Everything else was subservient to that essential fact: where
was Peterson now? And from his knowledge of the gentleman it was unlikely
that he had left directions for forwarding letters pasted conspicuously
on the wall. He was one of those shy flowers that prefer to blush unseen.
At the same time it was possible that an exhaustive search of the desk
upstairs might reveal some clue. And if it didn't, presumably the bird
who had locked him in would return in due course to find out how he was
getting on. Everything therefore pointed to a policy of masterly
inactivity in the hopes that something or somebody would turn up.

He slowly ascended the stairs, and again entered the room where the
interview had taken place. Time was of no particular object, and for a
while he stood by the door turning over the problem in his mind. Then
suddenly his eyes became alert: there was a door let into the wall which,
by some strange oversight, he had not seen before. And in a flash he
remembered the step which he thought he had heard while he was below. Was
there someone in that room? and if so, who? Could it be possible--and a
glow of wild excitement began to tingle in his veins at the mere
thought--could it be possible that the solution of the problem lay close
at hand? That here, practically in the same room with him, was Peterson
himself?

With one bound he was across the room, and the door was open.

One glance was sufficient to dash the dawning hope to the ground: the
room was empty, like all the rest had been. But though it was empty it
was not devoid of interest, and a faint smile came on Drummond's face as
he surveyed the contents. Wigs, clothes, mirrors filled the place to
overflowing, though there was no trace of untidiness. And he realised
that he was in the inner sanctum where Peterson carried out his
marvellous changes of appearance. And with a sudden grim amusement he
recognised on a chair the identical egg-stained coat that the spurious
Professor Scheidstrun had worn on his visit to him the preceding
afternoon. In fact he was so interested in that and other things that he
failed to notice a rather curious phenomenon in the room behind him. The
heavy curtain which he had hit with his fist moved slightly as if blown
by the wind. And there was no wind.

With genuine interest he examined the exhibits--as he called them in his
own mind. It was the first time he had ever penetrated into one of
Peterson's holy of holies, and though the proprietor was not there
himself to act as showman, he was quite able to appreciate the museum
without the services of a guide. The wigs--each one on its own
head-rest--particularly appealed to him. In fact he went so far as to try
some of them on. And after a time a feeling of genuine admiration for the
wonderful thoroughness of the man filled his mind. Murderer, thief,
forger, and blackguard generally--but what a brain! After all, he fought a
lone hand, deliberately pitting himself against the whole of the
organised resources of the world.

With only the girl to help him he had fought mankind, and up to date he
had won through. For both their previous battles had been drawn, and now
that the third round was under way--or soon would be--he saluted his
adversary in spirit as a foeman worthy of his steel. It was a good thing,
after all, that he had not brought in the police. Peterson fought alone:
so would he: as it had been in the past, so let it be this time. Their
own particular pals on each side could join in the battle if and when
occasion arose; but the principal combat must be between Peterson and
him--no mercy given, no mercy asked. And this time he had a presentiment
that it would be a fight to a finish. It required no stretch of
imagination on his part to realise the enormous plum which the criminal
had got hold of; it required no stretch of imagination to realise that he
would fight as he had never fought before to retain it.

And once again there came up the unanswered question--where was he? It was
even impossible to say if he was still in England.

Another thing occurred to Drummond also, as he strolled back into the
other room and sat down at the desk. On this occasion the dice would be
loaded more heavily in Peterson's favour than before.

In the past the only method by which he had ever recognised him was by
his strange but unmistakable little mannerism when excited--the mannerism
which was innate and had persisted through all his disguises. And now he
had discovered what it was; had actually told another man to employ the
very trick to fool Drummond. And if he had discovered it, he would take
very good care not to use it himself. He would keep his hand in his
pocket or something of that sort.

Drummond lay back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, with his head
almost touching the heavy curtains behind him. Life undoubtedly was good;
but for the murder of Professor Goodman it would have been very good--very
good indeed. And at that moment the telephone on the desk in front of him
began to ring.

With a jerk Drummond sat up and looked at it--his mind recalled to the
circumstances of the moment. Should he let it go on ringing till the
operator gave up in despair, or should he take the call? One thing was
obvious on the face of it: the call could not be for him. But that was no
conclusive reason why he shouldn't take it. Monotonously, insistently,
the instrument went on sounding in the silent room, and at last Drummond
leaned forward and took the receiver from the hook. And as he did so the
curtain behind him stirred again and then was still. But whereas before
it had hung in even, regular folds, now it did not. Outlined against it
was the figure of a man--a man who inch by inch was pulling the curtain
back, a man who held in his right hand a short, villainous-looking iron
bar. And as Drummond leaned forward to be ready to speak into the
mouthpiece, Freyder's hard eyes concentrated on the nape of his neck. He
was an expert with a life-preserver...

Julius Freyder had been anticipating that telephone call, which was why
he had concealed himself behind the curtain. From the room which Drummond
had overlooked until the end he had watched him strike that curtain with
his fist, and had gambled on his not doing so again. Rarely had he
received such a shock as when, rounding the corner of the street below,
he had seen Drummond of all men leaning out of the window. For it showed
conclusively that this accursed bete noire was on their heels again,
though how he had managed to get there was a mystery. And when on
entering the house he had heard, even before he mounted the stairs, the
furious utterances of Sir Raymond Blantyre and had realised that Drummond
must have heard them too, the need for instant action was obvious.

Julius Freyder was no fool, or he would not have occupied the position he
did. And not only was he no fool, but he was also an extremely powerful
and dangerous man. It was the work of a second to lock Drummond in, and
rush the two excited gentlemen and everyone else in the house through a
bolt-hole at the back into some old mews and thus away. But he had no
delusions as to the efficacy of a mere bolt against Drummond, and the
door was already beginning to crack and splinter as he hid himself
amongst the clothes in the inner sanctum. What to do: that was the
question.

Powerful though he was, he would no more have dreamed of tackling
Drummond single-handed than he would have thought of challenging the
entire London police force. He would have lasted five seconds with luck.
At the same time it was manifestly impossible to leave him in the house
alone. Apart from the telephone call which he expected from the Chief at
any moment, there might be incriminating documents in the desk. But it
was the call that worried him most. Once Drummond got that, even if he
didn't recognise the voice at the other end, he would be sure to ask
exchange where it came from. And from that, to going down to the New
Forest to investigate for himself, probably supported by a bunch of his
damned friends, would only be a question of hours.

Which was the very last thing to be desired. Just as speed had been the
essence of the game before, now it was secrecy. At all costs Drummond
must be prevented from finding out the whereabouts of Mr William
Robinson.

Perhaps he'd go--leave the house when he found it empty. But no such luck,
and Freyder, ensconced behind the curtain, cursed savagely under his
breath, as Drummond sat down not two feet from him. Once he was sorely
tempted to use his life-preserver then and there, but caution prevailed.
Perhaps the call would be delayed; perhaps he would get tired of waiting
and go. That was all Freyder wanted--to get him out of the house. A
stunned or wounded man at that stage of the proceedings would complicate
matters terribly, and when that man was Drummond it could only be done as
a last resource. But if it was done it would have to be done properly--no
bungling, no faltering.

And then came the ring. Freyder gripped his life-preserver a little
tighter and waited. He heard the click of the receiver being taken off
the hook; he heard Drummond's preliminary "Hullo".

And the next moment he struck. It was an easy mark, and, as has been
said, he was an expert. With a little sighing grunt Drummond pitched
forward and lay motionless, and Freyder picked up the receiver. From it
came the Chief's voice vibrant with suspicion.

"What's happened? What was that I heard?"

"It's Freyder speaking, Chief. Drummond is here."

"What?" It was almost a shout from the other end of the wire.

"He is asleep."  There was a peculiar inflection in Freyder's voice, and
he smiled grimly as he heard the long-drawn sigh of relief. "But I don't
think it would be wise in his present condition of health to leave him
here."

"What does he know?"

"That it is impossible to say at present. But Sir Raymond Blantyre has
found out a lot."

The voice at the other end cursed thoughtfully. "I must have at least
twenty-four hours, Freyder; if possible more. I'd like three days, but
two might do."  There was a pause. "Will our friend sleep for long?"

"Quite a time, I think," said Freyder. "But I think he should be under
supervision when he wakes. He might have concussion or be suffering from
loss of memory."

"Ah!"

Again came that long-drawn sigh of relief. "Then a sea voyage, Freyder,
is clearly indicated. We will have two invalids instead of one. So bring
our young friend here tonight."

With a faint smile Freyder replaced the receiver on its hook and bent
over the unconscious figure of Drummond as it sprawled over the desk.

"I trust you'll enjoy the trip, you young devil," he snarled.



CHAPTER 8 - In Which Drummond Plays a Little Game of Trains


The blow that Drummond had received would have broken the neck of any
ordinary man. But not being an ordinary man he was only badly stunned.
And he was still unconscious when he was carried out of a motor-car at Mr
William Robinson's house in the New Forest. That his arrival was regarded
as an important affair was evident from the fact that his host came
himself to the front door to greet him. But from that moment it is to be
feared that Mr Robinson's knowledge of those excellent books on etiquette
which deal with the whole duty of a host towards those who honour his
roof with their presence went under a slight eclipse. Regrettable to
state, he did not escort his guest personally to the old oak bedroom
complete with lavender-scented sheets; in fact, he even forgot himself so
far as to leave him lying in the hall with his head in the coal-scuttle.
But it is pleasant to state that not for long was he so remiss. At a sign
from him two men picked up Drummond and carried him into his own private
room, where they dropped him on the floor.

"I will make arrangements for the night later," he remarked. "Just at
present I would like to look at him from time to time, so leave him
here."

The two men went out, leaving Freyder alone with his Chief.

And though he had much to tell him of importance, for a while Freyder
said nothing. For there was an expression of such incredible ferocity on
the benign countenance of Mr Robinson as he stared at the motionless body
on the floor that Freyder realised his presence was forgotten. For
perhaps two minutes Mr Robinson's eyes never left Drummond's face; then
he turned to his subordinate.

"I don't think I should ever have forgiven you, my dear Freyder," he said
softly, "if you'd had the misfortunate to kill him. That supreme joy must
be mine and mine alone."

With almost an effort he obliterated Drummond from his mind, and sat down
at his desk.

"Business first; pleasure afterwards. Things have evidently been
happening in London. Tell me everything."

Clearly and concisely Freyder told him what had occurred, while Mr
Robinson smoked his cigar in silence. Once or twice he frowned slightly,
but otherwise he gave no sign of his feelings.

"You have no idea, then, as to how Drummond and Sir Raymond Blantyre
found the house?" he asked as Freyder finished.

"Not the slightest, Chief," he answered. "All I know is that it was
Drummond who found it, and not Blantyre. Sir Raymond told me that much as
I was rushing him out of the house."

"Did he make any objections to going?"

"Not the slightest. In fact, when he realised that what he had been
saying to Scheidstrun had been overheard by Drummond, his one desire was
to get away as fast as he could. He apparently thought Drummond had left
the house a quarter of an hour before."

Mr Robinson shrugged his shoulders.

"The point really is immaterial," he murmured. "That fool Blantyre dare
not speak; Drummond can't. By the way, what has become of Scheidstrun?"

"I sent him and his wife off this evening," said Freyder. "The pilot said
he could make Brussels tonight, and finish the journey tomorrow."

"Excellent, Freyder--excellent," said Mr Robinson. "And the slight
inconvenience of Blantyre knowing that I have not destroyed the notes is
amply compensated for by the possession of our young friend here."

"But it will mean altering our plans somewhat," remarked Freyder
doubtfully.

For a while Mr Robinson smoked in silence, gently stroking his
mutton-chop whiskers. "Yes."  he remarked at length, "it will. Not the
plans so much as the time-table. The advent of Drummond at this stage of
the proceedings I must confess I did not contemplate. And since I am
under no delusions as to his infinite capacity for making a nuisance of
himself, the sooner he is finally disposed of the better."

Freyder shrugged his shoulders. "Well, Chief," he said callously, "there
he is. And there's no time like the present."

Mr Robinson raised a deprecating hand. "How coarse, my dear Freyder!--how
almost vulgar! My feelings against this young man are of a purely
personal type. And I assure you they would not be gratified in the
smallest degree by disposing of him when he was in the condition he is in
now. One might just as well assault a carcase in a butcher's shop. No,
no. It will be my earnest endeavour to restore Captain Drummond to
perfect health before disposing of him. Or at any rate to such a
condition that he realises what is taking place. But from my knowledge of
him it is a matter that cannot be postponed indefinitely. As I said
before, his capacity for making trouble when confined in any ordinary
house is well-nigh unbelievable."

"Then what do you propose to do, Chief?" asked Freyder.

Given his own way now that Drummond was safely out of London and in their
power, he would have finished him off then and there. To his mind
Drummond was one of those unpleasant individuals who can be regarded as
really safe only when they're dead. And once granted that he was going to
be killed in the near future, Freyder would have wasted no further time
about it. But he knew the absolute futility of arguing with his Chief
once the latter's mind was made up, so he resigned himself at once to the
inevitable.

"You are certain that you were not followed here?" said Mr Robinson.

"As certain as anyone can ever be," answered Freyder. "Twice I stopped
the car at the end of a long, straight stretch of road and turned into a
lane. There was no sign of anyone. I didn't bother to change the tyres,
since most of the road is tar macadam and there's been no rain. And
really there are so many Dunlop Magnums about now, that it's only a waste
of time."

"And as far as I could make out, the telephone operator had no
suspicions," went on his Chief. "You did it extremely skilfully and
silently. So I think, Freyder, we can assume on twenty-four hours for
certain before anyone even begins to take any notice. Drummond is a man
of peculiar habits, and, somewhat naturally, when I realised he was
coming here, I sent a letter in his writing to that inconceivable poop
Longworth. A friend of his," he explained, seeing the look of
mystification on the other's face, "who is engaged to Miss Goodman. It
states that he is hot on the trail and the postmark will be Birmingham.
So I think we can certainly rely on twenty-four hours, or even
forty-eight before his friends begin to move. And that will give me
plenty of time to ensure that our friend upstairs has not forgotten his
process. Once I am assured of that, and he has written out in a legible
hand the ingredients he uses, we will delay no longer. It's a nuisance,
for I detest manual labour and smells in a laboratory. And but for
Drummond, as you know, we would have remained on here for six months or
so, and let the old fool make the stones himself, before disposing of him
finally. But since this slight contretemps has occurred, I shall have,
much as I regret it, to dispense with that part of the programme. Once I
know for certain that I can do it myself--and I shall devote tomorrow to
that exclusively--we will give up this house forthwith and go on board the
yacht. A good idea of mine, that yacht, Freyder. There is nothing like
dying convincingly to enable one to live in comfort."

Freyder grinned as he watched Mr Robinson help himself to a mild whisky
and soda: undoubtedly the Chief was in an excellent humour.

"We've run a pretty big risk this time, my dear fellow," he went on
thoughtfully. "And sometimes it almost staggers me when I think how
wonderfully we've succeeded. But I am under no delusions as to the
abilities of the English police. Once they get on to a thing they never
let go--and sooner or later they are bound to get onto this. Probably they
will do it through Drummond's disappearance, and Scheidstrun. Sooner or
later they will track our connection with this house, and the good ship
Gadfly. And then when they find that Gadfly left England and has never
been heard of again, with true British phlegm they will assume that she
has sunk with all hands. And Sir Raymond Blantyre will breathe
again--unless they've put the scoundrel in prison for having suggested
such an abominable crime to me; in fact, everyone will breathe again
except Drummond and our friend upstairs. Oh! and Mr Lewisham. Did you
attend the obsequies on Mr Lewisham, Freyder?"

"I did not," laughed Freyder; and Mr Robinson, contrary to his usual
custom, helped himself to another whisky and soda.

"Yes," he continued dreamily, "It's a wonderful end to what I may claim
without conceit has been a wonderful career. Henceforward, Freyder, my
life will be one of blameless virtue."

The other shook his head doubtfully. "You'll find it a bit monotonous,
Chief," he said.

Mr Robinson smiled. "Perhaps so--but I shall give it a trial. And whenever
it becomes too monotonous, I shall merely remove more money from the
pockets of those two villainous men Blantyre and Leibhaus. It almost
makes one despair of human nature when one realises that such
cold-blooded scoundrels exist."

"And Drummond! Have you made up your mind yet as to how you intend to
dispose of him?"

"Quite simply," replied Mr Robinson genially. "I shall merely attach some
heavy weights to his feet and drop him overboard. I am not anxious that
his body should be recovered, any more than that of our other friend.
That part of the affair presents no difficulties."

His eyes, grown suddenly hard and cruel, fastened on the motionless
figure of Drummond, still sprawling on the floor. And suddenly he rose
and bent over him with a look of anxiety on his face which changed to
relief.

"For a moment I thought he was dead," he remarked, resuming his seat.
"And that would have been a real grief to me. For him to die without
knowing would rob this final coup of its crown. It is the one thing
needed, Freyder, to make it perfect."

The other looked at him curiously. "How you must hate him, Chief!"

A strange look came into Mr Robinson's eyes, and involuntarily Freyder
shuddered. Anger, rage, passion, he had seen on many men's faces, but
never before such cold-blooded ferocity as that which showed on the face
of the man opposite.

"We all have our weaknesses, Freyder, and I confess that Drummond is
mine. And incredible though it may sound to you, if such a thing were
possible as for me to have to choose between revenge on him and getting
away with Professor Goodman's secret, I believe I would choose the
former."

For a while he sat silent; then with a short laugh he rose. Mr Robinson
was his benevolent self once more.

"Happily the alternative is not likely to arise. We have both, my dear
fellow--thanks largely to your quickness and skill. And now I think I will
go upstairs and see how our friend is getting on. By this time he should
be very nearly ready to show me the result of his afternoon's labours."

"And what about Drummond?" said Freyder, eyeing him professionally.

"I don't think he's likely to give us any trouble for the present, but
it's just as well to be on the safe side."

Mr Robinson turned the unconscious man over with his foot.

"Have him carried upstairs," he ordered, "and put in one of the bedrooms.
And tell off someone to look after him."

He paused by the door as a thought struck him. "And by the way, let me
know the instant he recovers consciousness. I'd hate to postpone my first
interview with the gentleman for one instant longer than necessary."

"Well, if I'm any judge of such matters, Chief, you'll have to postpone
it till tomorrow."

"Then it will be a refreshing interlude in my period of tuition."

And with a cheerful wave of his hand Mr Robinson made his way up the
stairs. It was six hours since Professor Goodman had started, and by now
the clinker in the metal retort should be quite cold enough to handle.
Just at first the obstinate old fool had given a little trouble; in fact,
he ad even gone so far as to categorically refuse to carry out the
experiment. But not for long--two minutes to be exact. At the end of that
period a whimpering and badly hurt old man had started mixing the
necessary ingredients under the watchful eye of Mr Robinson himself. And
not till they were mixed and the retort placed in the electric furnace
did he leave the room.

Twice during the two hours that followed did he come back again,
unexpectedly. But the old scientist's feeble resistance was broken and
the visits were unnecessary. Bent almost double he sat in his chair, with
the white light from the glowing furnace falling on his face. And he was
still in the same position when Mr Robinson opened the door and went in.

The heat in the room was stifling, though the furnace had now been out
for two or three hours, and he left the door open. Then without a glance
at the huddled figure he strode over to the table, his eyes gleaming with
suppressed excitement. For there was the, retort, and after cautiously
testing it with his hand to discover the temperature, he picked it up and
examined it curiously.

Though he had heard the experiment described in detail by Sir Raymond
Blantyre, it was the first time he had actually seen it done. The retort,
still warm, was full of an opaque, shaly substance which he realised was
the clinker. And inside that, like the stone inside a cherry, was the
diamond. For a moment his hands shook uncontrollably; then with feverish
excitement he started to chip the clinker away with a small chisel.

It broke up easily, coming off in great flakes. And as he got down deeper
and deeper his excitement increased. Amongst his other accomplishments Mr
Robinson was no bad judge of diamonds in the rough; in fact, if pushed to
it, he could even cut and polish a stone for himself. Not, of course,
with the wonderful accuracy of the expert, but sufficient to alter the
appearance of any well-known historical diamond should it come into his
possession. And in the past, it may be mentioned that many had. But in
this case he had no intention of bothering over such trifles. Once
satisfied that the diamond was there, and that Professor Goodman had
forgotten nothing, he proposed to waste no time over that particular
stone.

Certainly he would put it aside for future use--but what was one paltry
diamond to him? It was the process he wanted--and the certainty that he
could carry out that process himself.

Deeper and deeper went the chisel, and gradually a dreadful suspicion
began to grip him. Surely by now he ought to have struck the stone
itself? More than half of the clinker had come away, and still there
was--no sign of it. Could it be possible that the accursed old fool had
made a mistake?

Feverishly he went on chipping, and at length the suspicion became a
certainty. There was no diamond in the retort; nothing but valueless grey
powder. The experiment had failed.

For a moment or two Mr Robinson stood motionless, staring at the now
empty retort. This was the one thing for which he had not legislated.
That owing to the unusual conditions, and the strain to which Professor
Goodman had been subjected, the stones might prove indifferent, he had
been prepared for. But not total failure.

His eyes rested thoughtfully on the huddled figure in the chair, but in
them there was no trace of mercy. He cared not one whit for the obvious
exhaustion of the weary old man; his sole thought was blind,
overmastering rage at this further hitch in his scheme.

Especially now that time had again become a dominant factor.

"This seems an unfortunate little effort on your part, my dear brother,"
he remarked softly.

Professor Goodman sat up with a start.

"I beg your pardon," he mumbled. "I'm afraid I was asleep."

"Then you would be well advised to wake up."

He crossed and stood in front of the Professor. "Are you aware that your
experiment has failed, and that there is no diamond in that retort?"

The old man sat up blinking. "It is not my fault," he said querulously.
"How can I be expected to carry out a delicate process under such
conditions, and after the abominable way I have been treated?"

"May I point out," pursued Mr Robinson, still in the same soft tone,
"that you assured me yourself that the conditions were in every way
favourable? Further that you told me yourself, as you put the retort into
the furnace, that everything was all right. Since then you have had to do
nothing save regulate the heat of the electric furnace."

He paused, and a new note crept into his voice.

"Can it be, my dear brother, that you were lying to me?"

"It may be that the heat in the furnace was different from the one to
which I have been accustomed," answered the other, scrambling to his
feet.

"May I point out that you assured me that the furnace was if anything
better than your own? Further, you have a thermometer there by which to
regulate the heat. So once again, dear brother, can it be that you were
lying to me?" With a snarl he gripped the Professor by the arm, and shook
him roughly. "Speak, you miserable old fool--speak. And if you don't speak
the truth, I'll torture you till you pray for death."

He let go suddenly, and the Professor collapsed in his chair, only to
stand up again and face the other bravely.

"A man can only die once," he said simply. "And men have been tortured in
vain for other things besides religion. To me my science is my religion.
I knew you would find no diamond in the retort, and you never will. You
may torture me to death, you vile scoundrel--but never, never, never will
I tell you my secret."

Gently, almost caressingly, Mr Robinson stroked his muttonchop whiskers.

"Is that so?" he murmured. "Most interesting, my dear brother--most
interesting."

With a benevolent smile he walked over to the bell and rang it.

"Most interesting," he continued, returning to the other man, who was
watching him with fear in his eyes. "Brave words, in fact--but we will
see. I think you remarked before you told me the truth, that it was
possibly the fault of the electric furnace. A naughty fib, dear
brother--and naughty fibs should always be punished. One presses this
switch, I think, to start it. Yes--why, I feel the warmth already. And I
see that the maximum temperature registered this evening was 20000
Centigrade. Is that you, Freyder?" he continued without turning his head,
as someone entered the room.

"It is, Chief. What's the trouble?"

"The trouble, Freyder, is that this incredibly stupid old man refuses to
carry out his process for me. He has wasted six valuable hours producing
a nasty-looking mess of grey powder. He has also wasted a lot of
expensive electric current. And we are now going to waste a little more.
I can only hope that my experiment will prove more satisfactory than his,
though I greatly fear, my dear brother, that you will find it rather more
painful."

"What are you going to do?" Professor Goodman's voice was shaking, as he
looked first at his tormentor, and then at the furnace which was already
glowing a dull red.

"I'm going to make quite certain," remarked Mr Robinson affably, "that
these thermometers register correctly. I imagine that there must be a
difference in the feeling of metal at 10000 and metal at 20000, though
both, I should think, would be most unpleasant. However, my dear
Professor, you will know for certain very shortly. I see that it is just
about 10000 now. The left arm, I think, Freyder--if you would be so good.
And perhaps you had better turn up his sleeve: burning cloth gives such
an unpleasant smell."

A dreadful scream rang through the house, and Professor Goodman fell back
in his chair almost fainting.

"Only half a second," murmured Mr Robinson. "And it will only be half a
second at 20000--this time. Then, dear brother, you will again carry out
your process. If it succeeds--well and good. If it should fail again--I
fear we shall have to make it a full second. And a second is a long time
under certain conditions."

Moaning pitifully, Professor Goodman lay back in his chair with his eyes
closed.

"I won't," he muttered again and again through clenched teeth, while the
heat from the furnace grew greater and greater, and the dull red changed
to white.

"Foolish fellow," sighed Mr Robinson. "However," he added hopefully,
"It's only half a second this time. And as a special concession I'll let
you off with only 1900°. Now, Freyder--we are quite ready."

Freyder took a step forward, and at that moment it happened.

He gave one agonised shout of terror, and then scream after scream of
agony rang through the house. For it was not Professor Goodman's arm
which touched the white-hot furnace, but Freyder's face--and to his
Chief's horrified eyes it had seemed as if he had dived straight at it.

"My God!" he muttered foolishly, as Freyder, moaning horribly, dashed
from the room. "How did it happen?" The words died away on his lips and
he stood staring into the shadows beyond the light thrown by the furnace.
Drummond was sitting on the floor grinning vacantly at space.

"Gug, gug, gug," he burbled foolishly. "Pretty light." Then, apparently
bored with life in general, he returned with interest to his occupation.

"Puff-puff!"  he cried happily. "Puff-puff! Naughty man kicked train."

And the train he was busily pushing along the floor consisted of his own
shoes.

Once again Mr Robinson dashed to the bell and pealed it. His momentary
shock at Freyder's ghastly accident had passed; his sole thought was that
Drummond was no longer unconscious. And Drummond in full possession of
his physical powers was a dangerous person to have about the place, even
if his mind was wandering. But was it? That was the point. Or was he
shamming?

Such a possibility at once suggested itself to Mr Robinson's tortuous
brain, and he was not a gentleman who took any unnecessary risks.

He had watched Professor Goodman totter from his chair with a look of
wild hope in his face as he realised the unexpected presence of a friend;
he had watched him sink back into it again with a groan as his cry for
help was greeted with a vacuous grin from the man so happily playing on
the floor. But still he was not satisfied, and a revolver gleamed
ominously in his hand as he watched his enemy.

His mind was made up on one point. Shamming or not shamming--mad or
sane--at the slightest hint of trouble on Drummond's part he would kill
him and be done with it. In fact he was sorely tempted to do so at once:
it would save a lot of bother in the long run. His finger tightened on
the trigger, and he raised his revolver till it was pointing direct at
Drummond's heart.

"I'm going to kill you, Drummond," he said quietly.

But if he expected to discover anything by such a test he was doomed to
disappointment. Still the same vacuous grin, still the same lolling head,
and a jumble of incoherent words was all the result; and very slowly he
lowered his weapon, as one of his men came rushing into the room, to stop
abruptly at the door as his eyes fell on the figure on the floor.

He gave a sigh of relief. "So there you are, my beauty," he muttered.

"Was it you who was told off to look after Captain Drummond?" said Mr
Robinson softly.

The man looked at the speaker with fear in his eyes.

"I put him on the bed, Chief," he said sullenly, "and he was unconscious.
And I hadn't had any supper, so..."

"You went downstairs to get some," Mr Robinson concluded his sentence for
him. "You went downstairs, you miserable fool, leaving him alone."

His eyes bored into the man's brain, and he shrank back against the wall.
"I will deal with you later," continued Mr Robinson, "and until then you
will continue to look after him. If nothing further of this sort happens,
it is possible that I may overlook your fault--so you had better see to
it."

"I'll swear it won't happen again, Chief," said the man eagerly. "It was
only because I thought the young swine was stunned..."

With a gesture Mr Robinson cut him short. "You're not paid to think,
you're paid to do what you're told," he remarked coldly. "Go, now, and
get one of the others. And bring some rope when you return."

The man departed with alacrity, and once more Mr Robinson fell to staring
at the man sitting on the floor. To Professor Goodman he paid not the
slightest attention; all his thoughts were concentrated on Drummond. Was
he shamming, or was he not? Had Freyder's blow on the head deprived him
of his reason--or was it a wonderful piece of acting? And finally he
decided on yet another test.

Still watching Drummond narrowly, he walked over to the door and affected
to give an order to someone in the passage outside. "Bring the girl
Phyllis in here."

Now surely there would be some tell-tale start if he was shamming--some
little movement that would give him away. But there was
nothing--absolutely nothing--to show that Drummond had even heard. He was
engrossed in some intricate shunting operations with his shoes, and after
a time Mr Robinson came back into the room. Almost, if not quite, his
mind was made up--Drummond was insane. Only temporarily possibly--but
insane.

The blow on the back of his head had caused something in his brain to
snap, and the man he hated most on earth was just a babbling lunatic.
Almost, if not quite, he was sure of it; for certain proof he would have
to wait until he could examine him--and especially his eyes--more closely.
And Mr Robinson had no intention of examining Drummond, sane or insane,
closely until Drummond's arms were very securely lashed together.

"You'd better be very careful of him," he remarked as the two men came in
with rope. "I am almost certain that He's got very bad concussion, but if
you handle him roughly he may get angry. I shall be covering him the
whole time with a revolver, but I want you to lash his wrists behind his
back."

They approached him cautiously, and Drummond smiled at them vacantly.

"All right, old chap," murmured the first man ingratiatingly. "Pretty
train you've got there... Won't you shake hands?"

"Gumph," remarked Drummond brightly, busily pushing his shoe.

"Get hold of his other hand," said the first man tersely to his
companion. "Then we'll get them both behind his back, and I'll slip a
running noose over them."

Which was excellent in theory, but poor in execution. A loud crack was
heard and the two men staggered back holding their heads, which had
impinged with violence.

"Gumph," again remarked Drummond. "Puff-puff-puff."

"Damn the swine!"  snarled the man who had originally been told off to
look after him, and Mr Robinson smiled gently. It was very obvious that,
whatever his mental condition might be, Drummond's physical strength was
unimpaired.

"I think, Chief," said the second man, 'that we should do it better if we
lashed his wrists in front of him to start with. It's being man-handled
that he doesn't take to, and we might be able to slip the noose over his
wrists without his realising what the game is."

"Do it how you like," snapped Mr Robinson, "but do it quickly." Which
again proved excellent in theory, but poor in execution.

For it soon transpired that Drummond was far too happy playing trains on
the floor to realise the desirability of having his hands lashed
together. In fact the proceeding appeared to annoy him considerably. And
it was not until another man had been summoned and Mr Robinson himself
had joined in the fray that they finally got the noose over his wrists
and drew it tight. And in the course of doing so two of the men had
crashed heavily into the furnace, which, though cooling, was still
unpleasantly hot.

But at last it was done, and four panting men stood round in a ring
regarding him triumphantly as he rolled on the floor. And then after a
while he lay still, with a foolish grin on his face.

"Gug-gug," he burbled. "Where's my train?"

"I'll gug-gug him," snarled one of the men, kicking him heavily in the
ribs. "The young devil's a homicidal maniac."

"Stop that!"  said Mr Robinson savagely. "All accounts with this young
man are settled by me. Now stand by in case he struggles. I'm going to
examine his eyes."

They approached him cautiously, but for the moment the trouble seemed
over. Like so many madmen, and people temporarily insane, his frenzied
struggles of the last ten minutes had completely exhausted Drummond. And
even when Mr Robinson raised his eyelids and stared into his eyes he made
no attempt to move, but just lay there smiling stupidly. For a long while
Mr Robinson examined him, and then with a nod of satisfaction he rose to
his feet.

"Take him to his room, and see that he doesn't escape again. He's mad,
but for how long he'll remain so I can't tell. If you see the faintest
sign of his recovering his reason, come and tell me at once."

He watched them pick up Drummond and carry him out. They took him into
the next room and threw him on the bed, and Mr Robinson followed, For a
moment or two he moved restlessly on the pillows--then he gave a strangled
grunt and a snore.

"He's asleep, Chief," said one of the men, bending over him.

"Good," answered Mr Robinson. "Let us trust he remains so for some time."

Then with a look of cold determination on his face he returned to the
room where Professor Goodman still sat huddled in his chair.



CHAPTER 9 - In Which Professor Goodman Has a Trying Time


"And now, dear brother;"  he remarked; gently closing the door, "we will
resume our little discussion where we left off. I was, if you remember
just about to ask you to sample the temperature of the furnace at 2000°
when the interruption occurred. Is it necessary that I should repeat that
request, or was your experience at the lower temperature sufficient for
you?" Professor Goodman raised his haggard face and stared at his
tormentor.

"What have you done to that poor young man, you devil?"

Mr Robinson smiled and stroked his whiskers. "Well, really," he answered
mildly, "I think the boot is on the other leg. The question is more what
has he done to my unfortunate staff? Poor Mr Freyder I feel almost
certain must be in great pain with his face, judging by the noise he
made, and two of my other servants have very nasty burns."

"I know all that," said the other. "But what has sent him insane?"

Mr Robinson smiled even more gently. "As a scientist, dear brother, you
should know the tiny dividing line between sanity and madness. One little
link wrong in that marvellous mechanism of the brain, and the greatest
thinker becomes but a babbling fool. Not that his best friends could ever
have called poor Drummond a great thinker, but-" he paused to emphasise
his words "--but, dear brother, he serves as a very good example of what
might happen to one who is a great thinker."

Professor Goodman shivered; there had been no need to emphasise the
meaning underlying the words.

"You see," continued Mr Robinson, "Drummond very foolishly and very
unfortunately for himself has again crossed my path. This time, as a
matter of  fact, it was by pure accident. Had you not lunched with him on
the day of your death and given him the notes of your process, you may
take it from me that this little interlude would never have occurred. But
you did--and, well, you see what has happened to Drummond. The silly young
fellow is quite mad."

"You have done something to him to make him so," said the other dully.

"Of course," agreed Mr Robinson. "Or to be strictly accurate, Freyder
has."

And suddenly Professor Goodman rose to his feet with a pitiful little
cry. "Oh! my God! I don't understand. I think I'm going mad myself."

For a moment or two Mr Robinson looked at him narrowly. If such an
appalling eventuality as that happened, the whole of his scheme would be
frustrated. True, it was a common figure of speech, but Professor Goodman
was a frail old man, accustomed to a sedentary life. And during the past
two or three days his life had been far from sedentary. Supposing under
the strain the old man's reason did snap.... Mr Robinson drew a deep
breath: the mere thought of such a thing was too impossible to
contemplate.

But it had to be contemplated, and it had to be taken into account in his
immediate course of action. Whatever happened, Professor Goodman's
intellect must be preserved at all costs. Even a nervous breakdown would
constitute a well-nigh insuperable obstacle to his plans. And in spite of
the seriousness of the position, Mr Robinson could hardly help smiling at
the irony of the thing.

Here was he with the greatest prize of his career waiting to be picked
up--almost, but not quite, within his grasp. All the difficult practical
details, all that part of his scheme concerned solely with organisation,
had gone without a hitch. And now he was confronted by something far
smaller in comparison, and yet almost as important as all the rest put
together--the state of the mind of an elderly scientist. It was a problem
in psychology which in the whole of his career he had never had to face
under exactly similar conditions.

There had been occasions when men's reasons had snapped under the
somewhat drastic treatment with which Mr Robinson was wont to enforce his
wishes. But on all those occasions a remarkable aptitude with the pen had
enabled him to dispense with the formality of their signature. This time,
however, his wonderful gifts as a forger were wasted. Knowledge of
ancient cuneiform writing might have been of some use in enabling him to
decipher the notes, he reflected grimly--but as it was they were
hopelessly and utterly unintelligible. Only Professor Goodman could do
it, and that was the problem which had just come home to him more acutely
than ever. What was the best line to adopt with the old man? How far
would it be safe to go in a policy of threats and force? Or would
apparent kindness do the trick better and quicker?

Especially quicker--that was the important thing. It was a ticklish point
to decide; but it was essential that it should be decided, and at once.

He glanced at the haggard, staring eyes of the man confronting him; he
noted the twitching hands and he made up his mind. After all, it was easy
to go from kindness to threats, whereas the converse was difficult. And
though he had reluctantly to admit to himself that burning a man's arm on
red-hot metal can hardly be regarded as the act of a personal friend,
there was no good worrying about it. It had been done, and could not be
undone. All that he could do now was to try to efface the recollection of
it as far as possible.

"Sit down, Professor," he said gently. "I feel that I owe you some
explanation." With a groan the other sank back into his chair. "Will you
have a cigar?" went on Mr Robinson easily, holding out his case. "You
don't smoke? You should. Most soothing to the nerves. In the first place
I must apologise for not having made things clearer to you before, but
this slight contretemps with Drummond has kept me rather fully occupied.
Now I want you to recall to your mind the interviews that you had with
Sir Raymond Blantyre."

"I recall them perfectly," answered the Professor, and Mr Robinson noted
with quiet satisfaction that he seemed to be less agitated.

"He offered you, did he not? a large sum of money for the suppression of
your secret, which you refused--and very rightly refused. But, my dear
Professor, do you really imagine for a moment that an unscrupulous
blackguard of his type was going to lie down and accept your refusal? If
you chose to refuse the money, so much the better for him; but whether
you refused or accepted, he intended to suppress you. And but for me--" he
paused impressively "--he would have done."

Professor Goodman passed a bewildered hand across his forehead.

"But for me," repeated Mr Robinson, "you would now be dead--foully
murdered. You have never in your life--and I trust you never will
again--been in such deadly peril as you were in a few days ago. Indeed, if
it were known now that you were alive, I fear that even I would be
powerless to save you."  He drew carefully at his cigar; then he leaned
forward and touched the Professor on the knee. "Have you ever heard of a
man called Peterson?"

"Never," returned the other.

"No--probably not. You and he hardly move in the same circles. Peterson,
of course, is only one of the many names by which that arch-devil is
known. He is a King of Criminals--a man without mercy--a black-hearted
villain."  Mr Robinson's voice shook with the intensity of his emotion.
"And to that man Sir Raymond Blantyre went with a certain proposal. Do
you know what that proposal was? It concerned you and your death. You
were to be murdered before you gave your secret to the world."

"The villain!"  cried Professor Goodman, in a shaking voice. "To think
that I've had him to dinner, and that his wife is a friend of ours."

Mr Robinson smiled pityingly. "My dear Professor," he said, "I'm afraid
that your life has been lived far apart from the realities of the world.
Do you really suppose that such a trifle as that would have weighed for
one instant with Sir Raymond Blantyre? However, I will get on with my
explanation. It matters not how I discovered these things: I will merely
say that for twenty years now I have dogged this man Peterson as his
shadow. He did me the greatest wrong one man can do another: I won't say
any more."

Mr Robinson choked slightly.

"I have dogged him, Professor," he went on after a while, "as I say, for
twenty years, hoping--always hoping--that the time would come for my
revenge. I have lived for nothing else; I have thought of nothing else.
But one thing I was determined on--that my revenge when it did come should
be a worthy one. A dozen times could I have given him away to the police,
but I stayed my hand. When it came, I wanted the thing to be more
personal. And at last the opportunity did come. It came with you."

"With me?" echoed Professor Goodman. "How can I have had anything to do
with your revenge on this man?"

"That is what I am just going to explain to you," continued Mr Robinson.
"In this man Peterson, Sir Raymond Blantyre had encountered a blackguard
far more subtle than himself. Peterson was perfectly prepared to murder
you--but he had no intention of murdering the secret of your process. That
he proposed to keep for himself--so that he could continue blackmailing
Sir Raymond. You see the manner of blackguard he is. It was a scheme
after his own heart, and I made up my mind to strike at last. Apart from
frustrating the monstrous crime of murdering you, I should achieve an
artistic revenge."

He again pulled thoughtfully at his cigar. "Now pay close attention.
Professor Scheidstrun the German scientist made an appointment to see
you, didn't he?"

"He was, with me when I was chloroformed," cried the other.

Mr Robinson smiled. "No, he wasn't. A man you thought was Scheidstrun was
with you."

"But--good heavens!"  gasped the Professor. "I met him in the hall. I was
late, I remember..."

"And, as you say, you met him in the hall talking to your maidservant."

"But how on earth did you know that?"

"Because the man you met in the hall was not Scheidstrun--but me."  He
laughed genially at the amazement on the other's face. "It's a shame to
keep you mystified any further; I will explain everything. It was
Peterson who made the original appointment with you, writing in
Scheidstrun's hand. What he intended to do I know not; how he intended to
murder you I am not prepared to say. But the instant I discovered about
it, I realised that there was not a moment to be lost. So I took the
liberty, my dear Professor, of posing over the telephone as your
secretary. I rang up Peterson, and speaking in an assumed voice I
postponed his appointment with you until the following day. And then I
took his place. I may say that I am not unskilled in the art of disguise,
and I knew I could make myself up to resemble Scheidstrun quite
sufficiently well to deceive you."

"But why on earth didn't you tell me at the time?" said Professor
Goodman, peering at the speaker suspiciously.

Once again the other laughed. "My dear fellow, surely Mrs Goodman must,
during the course of your married life, have let you into the secret of
one of your characteristics. Or has she been too tactful? You are, as I
think you must admit yourself, a little obstinate, aren't you?" He
dropped his tone of light banter, and became serious. "I don't think--in
fact, I know you don't realise the deadly peril you were in. Even had I
succeeded in convincing you on the matter, and you had agreed to come
away and hide yourself, you would not have consented to the destruction
of your laboratory. And that was essential. As long as Peterson thought
you were alive he would have found you wherever you had hidden yourself.
It was therefore of vital importance that he should think you dead--as he
does now. Big issues, my dear Professor, require big treatments."

Mr Robinson, having delivered himself of this profound utterance, leaned
back in his chair and gazed at his listener. Bland assurance radiated
from his mutton-chop whiskers, but his mind was busy. How was the old
fool taking it? He still had his trump card to play, but he wanted that
to win the game without possibility of failure. And as his mental
metaphors grew a little mixed, he realised that it must fall on carefully
prepared soil.

Professor Goodman stirred uneasily in his chair.

"I really can hardly believe all this," he said at length. "Why is all
this deception necessary? Why have I to pose as your brother? And why,
above all, have you tortured me?"

"Let me answer your last point first if I can," said Mr Robinson. "And
yet I can't. Even if I can persuade you to forgive me, I never shall be
able to forgive myself. Sudden anger, Professor, makes men do strange
things--dreadful things. And I was furious with rage when I found that you
had deliberately failed in the experiment. I realise now that I should
have explained everything to you to start with. But I suppose my hatred
of Peterson and my wish for revenge blinded me to other things.
Everything, as I have told you, is subservient to that in my mind.
Bringing you here, making you pose as my brother--what was all that done
for except to throw that devil off the scent should he by any chance
suspect? And at present he does not. He believes that the secret for
which he would have given untold gold has perished with you. He is angry,
naturally, at what he considers a buffet of fate, but that is no use to
me as a revenge. He must know that it was not fate--but I who wrecked his
scheme. He must know that not only has he lost the secret for ever--but
that I have got it. There will be my revenge for which I have waited
twenty years."

His eyes glistened, and he shook his fists in the air. "And then and not
till then will it be safe for you to go back and join your wife."

Professor Goodman leapt from his chair.

"You mean that?" he cried. "You will let me go?"

Mr Robinson gazed at him in pained surprise; then he bowed his head. "I
deserve it," he said in a low voice. "I deserve your bad opinion of me,
firstly for not having told you, but especially for my vile and
inexcusable loss of temper. But surely you can never have believed I was
going to keep you here for good. Why--" he gave a little pained laugh
"--it's almost as if you thought I was a murderer. Foolish I may have
been, obsessed with one idea, but I never thought that you would think
quite as badly of me as that. After all, believe me or not as you like, I
saved your life."

He rose from his chair and paced thoughtfully up and down the room. "No,
no, my dear fellow, please reassure yourself on that point. The very
instant it is safe for you to do so, you shall return to your wife."

"But when will it be safe?" cried the Professor excitedly.

"When Peterson knows that your secret is in my possession, and that
therefore murdering you will avail him nothing," answered Mr Robinson
calmly.

"But how do I know you will keep your word?"

"You don't," said the other frankly. "You've got to trust me. At the same
time I beg of you to use your common sense. Of what possible advantage is
it to me to keep you here? I shall have to trust you to take no steps to
incriminate me, and that I am fully prepared to do. My quarrel is not
with you, Professor; nor is it with that young man Drummond. But quite by
accident he got between me and my life's object--and he had to be removed.
So is it fair to Mrs Goodman to keep her in this dreadful sorrow for one
moment longer than is necessary? The very instant you have given me your
secret, and your word of honour that you will say nothing to the police,
you have my word of honour that you are free to go."

"But what do you propose to do with my secret when you've got it?" asked
the Professor. He was watching his captor with troubled eyes, wondering
what to believe.

"Do with it?" cried the other exultantly. "I propose to seek out Peterson
and let him know that I have got what he has missed. And if you but knew
the man, you would realise that no more wonderful revenge could be
thought of."

"Yes, yes--I see all that," said the Professor irritably. "But in the
event of my giving the secret to the world--what then?"

Mr Robinson curbed a rising desire to throttle the old man in the chair.
Never had his self-control been so severely tried as it was now; precious
moments were flying when everyone was of value. But true to his new
policy he kept every hint of irritation out of his voice as he answered.
"I shall have to have your promise also on that point, Professor. For one
year you will have to keep your discovery to yourself. That will be
sufficient for my revenge."

He realised that had he made no proviso of that sort it would have been
enough to raise the other's suspicions, for Professor Goodman was no
fool. He also realised that if he made the period too long the other's
inherent pig-headedness might tempt him to refuse. So he compromised on a
year, and to his intense relief it looked as if the old man was inclined
to consider it favourably. He still sat motionless, but his brow was
wrinkled in thought, and he drummed incessantly with his fingers on the
arms of his chair.

"One year," he said at length. "For I warn you, sir, that all the
Petersons in the world will not prevent me publishing my discovery then."

"One year will be sufficient," said Mr Robinson quietly.

"And will you on your side," continued the Professor, "promise not to
publish it before that date?"

Mr Robinson concealed a smile. "I undoubtedly will promise that," he
answered.

"And the instant you possess the secret I may go to my wife?"

Mr Robinson's pulse was beating a little quicker than normal. Could it be
that he had succeeded in bluffing him? "As soon as Peterson knows that
the secret of the process is mine--and that will be very soon--you may go.
Before that it would not be safe."

"And if I refuse?"

For a moment or two Mr Robinson did not reply; he seemed to be weighing
his words with care. "Need we discuss that, Professor?" he said at
length. "I have already told you the main--almost the sole--object of my
life: revenge on this man Peterson. Rightly or wrongly, I have decided
that this is my opportunity for obtaining it. I have gone to an immensity
of trouble and risk to achieve my object, and though, as I said, I have
no quarrel with you, yet, Professor, you are an essential part of my
scheme. Without you I must fail; I make no bones about it. And I do not
want to fail. So should you still refuse, your wife will go on thinking
herself a widow until you change your mind. It rests with you and you
alone."

His eyes, shrewd and penetrating, searched the old man's face. Had he
said enough, or had he said too much? Like an open book he read the
other's mind: saw doubt, indecision, despair, succeed one another in
rapid succession. And then suddenly he almost stopped breathing. For the
Professor had risen to his feet, and Mr Robinson knew that one way or the
other he had come to a decision.

"Very well, sir," said the old man wearily. "I give in. It seems that the
only way of setting my poor wife's mind at rest as soon as possible is
for me to trust you. I will tell you my process."

Mr Robinson drew in his breath in a little whistling hiss, but his voice
was quite steady as he answered.

"You have decided very wisely," he remarked. "And since there is no time
like the present, I think we will have a bottle of champagne and some
sandwiches to fortify us, and then get on with the experiment at once."

"As you will," said the Professor. "And then perhaps tomorrow you will
let me go."

Mr Robinson glanced at his watch.

"Today, Professor," he remarked jovially. "It is past midnight. And I can
promise you that should your experiment succeed, you will leave this
house today." He watched the champagne bring back some colour to the
other's cheeks, and then he produced his notebook.

"To save time," he said, "I propose to write down the name of each salt
as you take it, and the amount you use. Does it make any difference in
what order the salts are mixed?"

"None whatever," answered the Professor. "Provided they are all mixed
properly. No chemical reaction takes place until the heat is applied."

"And to make it perfectly certain, you had better give me the formula for
each salt at the same time," continued Mr Robinson.

At first the old man's fingers trembled so much that he could hardly use
the balance, but Mr Robinson betrayed no impatience.

And after a while the enthusiasm of the scientist supplanted everything
else, and the Professor became absorbed in his task. Entry after entry
was made in Mr Robinson's neat handwriting, and gradually the look of
triumph deepened in his eyes. Success had come at last.

Of pity for the poor old man opposite he felt no trace; pity was a word
unknown in his vocabulary. And so for an hour in the silent house the
murderer and his victim worked on steadily, until, at length, the last
salt was mixed, the last entry made. The secret was in Mr Robinson's
possession. Not for another four hours would he be absolutely certain;
the test of the electric furnace would furnish the only conclusive proof.
But short of that he felt as sure as a man may feel that there had been
no mistake this time, and his eyes were gleaming as he rose from the
table.

"Excellent, my dear Professor," he murmured. "You have been lucidity
itself. Now all that remains is to start up our current and await
results."

"The results will be there," answered the other. "That I know."

He opened the furnace door and placed the retort inside; then, switching
on the current, he sank wearily into his chair. "You don't think it will
be long, do you, before you can convince this man Peterson?" he said with
apathetic sort of eagerness.

"I can assure you that it won't be," returned the other, with an
enigmatic smile. "I keep in very close touch with him."

"Because I would be prepared to run any risk in order to let my dear wife
know that I am alive as soon as possible."

Mr Robinson nodded sympathetically. "Of course you would, my dear fellow.
I quite understand that. But I feel that I must safeguard you even
against your own inclinations. The instant, however, that I consider it
safe, you shall go back."

"Can't I even write to her?" queried the other.

Mr Robinson affected to consider the point; then regretfully he shook his
head.

"No--not even that," he answered. "I know this man Peterson too well. In
fact, Professor, I am not even going to allow you to return to your wife
from this house. It is better and safer for you that you should remain in
ignorance of where you have been, and so I propose to take you for a
short sea-voyage in my yacht and land you on another part of the coast.
From the boat you will be able to radio to your wife, so that her mind
will be set at rest: And then when you finally rejoin her, I would
suggest your pleading sudden loss of memory to account for your
mysterious disappearance."

"But what on earth am I to say about the man who was buried?" And
suddenly the full realisation of all that the question implied came home
to him and he stood up. "Who was that man?"

"An uninteresting fellow," remarked Mr Robinson genially.

"But if you were the man I thought was Scheidstrun, you must--you must
have murdered him."  The old man's voice rose almost to a scream. "My
God! I'd forgotten all about that."

He shrank back staring at Mr Robinson, who was watching him narrowly.

"My dear Professor," he said coldly, "pray do not excite yourself
unnecessarily. I have often thought that a society of murderers run on
sound conservative lines would prove an admirable institution. After all,
it is the majority who should be considered, and there are so many people
who are better out of the way. However, to set your mind at rest," he
continued, "it may interest you to know that the foot which was buried in
your boot did not belong to a living man. There are methods of obtaining
these things, as you are doubtless aware, for experimental purposes, if
you possess a degree."

There was no object, he reflected, in unnecessarily alarming the old man;
it saves bother to get an animal to walk to the slaughterhouse rather
than having to drag it there. And he was likely to have all the dragging
he wanted with Drummond, even though he was insane.

Professor Goodman, only half satisfied, sank back in his chair.

Already the sweat was running down both their faces from the heat of the
furnace, but Mr Robinson had no intention of leaving the room. He was
taking no chances this time; not until the current was turned off and the
furnace was cool enough to handle did he propose to go and rest. Then,
once he was satisfied that the retort did contain diamonds, he would have
some badly needed sleep in preparation for the work next night.

The yacht Gadfly was lying in Southampton Water, and he had decided to go
on board in the late afternoon. His two invalids would be carried on
stretchers; an ambulance was even now in readiness below to take them to
the coast. They would both be unconscious--a matter which presented but
little difficulty to Mr Robinson. And the Professor would never regain
consciousness.

He had served his purpose, and all that mattered as far as he was
concerned was to dispose of him as expeditiously as possible. With
Drummond things were a little different. In spite of what he had said to
Freyder downstairs, the scheme was too big to run any unnecessary risks,
and though it went against his grain to kill him in his present
condition, he quite saw that he might have to.

Drummond might remain in his present condition for months, and it was
manifestly impossible to wait for that length of time to obtain his
revenge. It might be, of course, that when he woke up he would have
recovered his reason, and, if so... Mr Robinson's eyes gleamed at the
thought. In anticipation he lived through the minute when he would watch
Drummond, bound and weighted, slip off the deck into the sea.

Then with an effort he came back to the present. Was there anything left
undone in his plans which would cause a check? Point by point he ran over
them, and point by point he found them good.

Their strength lay in their simplicity, and he could see nothing which
was likely to go wrong before he was on board the Gadfly.

Up to date no mention of Mr Lewisham's sudden disappearance had found its
way into the papers; presumably, whatever Mrs Lewisham might think of the
matter, she had not consulted the police. Similarly with regard to
Drummond. No questions were likely to be asked in his case until long
after he was safely out of the country. And after that, as he had said to
Freyder, nothing mattered.

The SY Gadfly would founder with all hands somewhere off the coast of
Africa, but not too far from the shore to prevent Freyder and himself
reaching it. That the crew, drugged and helpless, would go down in her he
did not propose to tell them when he went on board. After all, there were
not many of them, and it would be a pity to spoil their last voyage.

The heat from the furnace was growing almost insupportable, and he
glanced at his watch. There was another hour to go, and with a sigh of
impatience he sat back in his chair. Opposite him Professor Goodman was
nodding in a kind of heavy doze, though every now and then he sat up with
a jerk and stared about him with frightened eyes. He was muttering to
himself, and once he sprang out of his chair with a stifled scream, only
to sink back again as he saw the motionless figure opposite.

"I was dreaming," he muttered foolishly. "I thought I saw a man standing
by the door."

Mr Robinson swung round and peered into the passage; there was no one
there. Absolute silence still reigned in the house. And then suddenly he
rose and went to the door: it seemed to him as if something had stirred
outside. But the passage was empty, and he resumed his seat. He felt
angry with himself because his own nerves were not quite under their
usual iron control. After all, what could possibly happen? It must be the
strain of the last few days, he decided.

Slowly the minutes ticked on, and had anyone been there to see, it must
have seemed like some ceremony of black magic. The furnace glowing white
hot, and in the circle of light thrown by it two elderly men sitting in
chairs--one gently stroking his muttonchop whiskers, the other muttering
restlessly to himself. And then outside the ring of light--darkness. Every
now and then a sizzling hiss came from inside the furnace, as the
chemical process advanced another stage towards completion--that
completion which meant all power to one of the two who watched and
waited, and death to the other. The sweat dripped down their faces;
breathing was hard in the dried-up air. But to Mr Robinson nothing
mattered: such things were trifles. Whatever might be the material
discomfort, it was the crowning moment of his life--the moment when the
greatest coup of his career had come to a successful conclusion.

And suddenly he shut his watch with a snap.

"Two hours," he cried, and strive as he would he could not keep the
exultation out of his voice. "The time is up."

With a start Professor Goodman scrambled to his feet, and mumbling
foolishly he switched off the current. It was over; he had given away his
secret. And all he wanted to do now was to get home as soon as possible.
Two hours more to let it cool....

He paused, motionless, his lips twitching. Great heavens! what was that
in the door--that great dark shape. It was moving, and he screamed. It was
coming into the circle of light, and as he screamed again, Mr Robinson
leapt to his feet.

Once more the thing moved, and now the light from the furnace shone on
it. It was Drummond, his arms still lashed in front of him.

His face was covered with blood, but his eyes were fixed on Professor
Goodman. And they were the eyes of a homicidal maniac.

For a moment or two Mr Robinson stood motionless, staring at him.
Drummond's appearance was so utterly unexpected and terrifying that his
brain refused to work, and before he realised what had happened, Drummond
sprang. But not at him. It was Professor Goodman who had evidently
incurred the madman's wrath, and the reason was soon obvious. Insane
though he was, the one dominant idea of his life was still a ruling
factor in his actions, though now it was uncontrolled by any reason. And
that idea was Peterson.

Why he should imagine that Professor Goodman was Peterson it was
impossible to say, but he undoubtedly did. Again and again he grunted the
name as he shook the unfortunate scientist backwards and forwards, and
for a while Mr Robinson wondered cynically whether he should let him go
on in his delusion and await results.

He was almost certain to kill the old man, which might save trouble. At
the same time there was still the possibility of some mistake in the
process which rendered it inadvisable to dispense with him for good quite
yet.

An uproar in the passage outside took him to the door. Two of the three
men who had been told off to guard Drummond were running towards him, and
he cursed them savagely.

"Pull him off," he roared. "He'll murder the old man."

They hurled themselves on Drummond, who had forced the Professor to his
knees. And this time, strangely enough, he gave no trouble. He looked at
them with a vacant stare, and then grinned placidly. "Chief!"  cried one
of the men, "He's murdered Simpson. He's lying there with his neck
broken."

Mr Robinson darted from the room, to return almost at once. It was only
too true. The third man was lying across the bed dead.

"Where were you two imbeciles?" he snarled savagely.

"We were taking it in turns, boss," said the one who had spoken,
sullenly. "The swine was asleep and his arms were bound...."

He turned vindictively on Drummond, who grinned vacantly again.

"So you left him alone with only one of you," Mr Robinson remarked
coldly. "You fools!--you triple-distilled damned fools. And then I suppose
he woke and Simpson went to tuck him up. And Drummond just took him by
the throat, and killed him, as he'd kill you or anyone else he got his
hands on--bound or not."

"Gug-gug," said Drummond, sitting down and beaming at them. "That man in
there hit me in the face, when I took his throat in my hands."

And suddenly the madness returned to his eyes, and his huge hands
strained and wrestled with the rope that bound them. He grunted and
cursed, and the two men instinctively backed away.

Only Mr Robinson remained where he was, and the light from the still
glowing furnace glinted on the revolver which he held in his hand. This
was no time for half-measures; there was no telling what this powerful
madman might do next. If necessary, though he did not want to have to do
it, he would shoot him where he sat. But the spasm passed, and, he
lowered his revolver.

"Just so," he remarked. "You might as well hit a steam-roller as hit
Drummond, once he's got hold. And judging by his face, Simpson must have
hit him hard and often before he died. Take him away; lash him up; and
unless you want to join that fool Simpson, don't take it in turns to
guard him--and don't get within range of his hands."

The two men closed in warily on their prisoner, but he gave no further
bother. Babbling happily he walked between them out of the room, and Mr
Robinson suddenly remembered the unfortunate Professor.

"A powerful and dangerous young man," he remarked suavely. "I trust he
hasn't hurt you, my dear Professor."

"No," said the other dazedly; "he hasn't hurt me."

"An extraordinary delusion of his," pursued Mr Robinson. "Fancy thinking
that you, of all people, were that villain Peterson."

"Most extraordinary!"  muttered the Professor.

"And it's really quite amazing that he should have allowed himself to be
separated from you so easily. His friends, I believe, call him Bulldog,
and he has many of the attributes of that noble animal."

He peered at the Professor's throat. "Why, he's hardly marked you. You
can count yourself very lucky, believe me. Even when sane he's a
terror--but in his present condition... However, such a regrettable
contretemps will not occur again, I trust."  He glanced at the furnace.
"Another hour, I suppose, before it will be cool enough to see the result
of our experiment?"

"Another hour," agreed the Professor mechanically.

And during that hour the two men sat in silence. Each was busy with his
own thoughts, and it would be hard to say which would have received the
greater shock had he been able to read the other's mind.

For Mr Robinson was thinking, amongst other things, of the approaching
death of the Professor, which would scarcely have been comforting to the
principal actor in the performance. And Professor Goodman--who might have
been expected to be thinking of nothing but his approaching reunion with
his wife--had, sad to relate, completely forgotten the lady's existence.
His mind was engrossed with something quite different. For when a man who
is undoubtedly mad--so mad, in fact, that in a fit of homicidal mania he
has just throttled a man--gets you by the throat, you expect to experience
a certain discomfort. But you do not expect to be pushed backwards and
forwards as a child is pushed when you play with it--without discomfort or
hurt. And above all you do not expect that madman to mutter urgently in
your ear, "For God's sake--don't give your secret away. Delay him--at all
costs. You're in the most deadly peril. Burn the house down. Do
anything."

Unless, of course, the madman was not mad.



CHAPTER 10 - In Which Drummond Goes on Board the SY Gadfly


But however chaotic Professor Goodman's thoughts, they were like a placid
pool compared to Drummond's. He had first recovered consciousness as he
lay on the floor in the room below, and with that instinctive caution
which was second nature to him, he had remained motionless. Two men were
talking, and the sound of his own name instinctively put him on his
guard. At first he listened vaguely--his head was still aching
infernally--while he tried to piece together in his mind what had
happened. He remembered taking the receiver off the telephone in the
deserted house; he remembered a stunning blow on the back of the head;
and after that he remembered nothing more. And since he realised that he
was now lying on the floor, it was obvious that an overwhelming desire
for his comfort was not a matter of great importance with the floor's
owner. The first point, therefore, to be decided was the identity of that
gentleman...

On that score he was not left long in doubt, and it needed all his
marvellous self-control to go on lying doggo when he realised who it was.
It was Peterson--and as he listened to the thoughtful arrangements for his
future it was evident that Peterson's feelings for him were still not
characterised by warm regard. He heard the other man pleasantly suggest
finishing him off then and there; he heard Peterson's refusal and the
reasons for it. And though his head was still swimming, and thinking was
difficult, his subconscious mind dictated the obvious course. As long as
he remained unconscious, Peterson's insensate hatred for him would keep
him safe. So far, so good--but it wasn't very far. However, they couldn't
sit there talking the whole night, and once they left him alone, or even
with some man to guard him, he had ample faith in his ability to get
away. And once out of the house he and Peterson would be on level terms
again.

Once again he turned his attention to the conversation. Yacht--what was
this about a yacht? With every sense alert he strove to make his
throbbing brain take in what they were saying. And gradually as he
listened the main outline of the whole diabolical scheme grew clear in
all its magnificent simplicity. But who on earth was the man upstairs to
whom Peterson kept alluding?

Whoever he was, he was presumably completely unconscious of the fate in
store for him. And it struck Drummond that he was going to complicate
matters. It would mean intense rapidity of action on his part once he was
out of the house if he was going to save the poor devil's life.

For one brief instant, as Peterson bent over him, he had a wild thought
of bringing matters to a head then and there. To get his hands on the
swine once more was an almost overmastering temptation, but he resisted
it successfully. It would mean a fight and an unholy fight at that, and
Drummond realised that conditions were all against him. His head, for one
thing--and total ignorance of the house. And then, to his relief, Peterson
sat down again. No--there was nothing for it but to go on shamming and
take his chance later.

Up to date he had not dared to open his eyes for even the fraction of a
second, so he had no idea in what guise Peterson was at present
masquerading. Nor had he a notion as to what the second man looked like.
All he knew about that sportsman was that he was the dealer of the blow
that had stunned him. And Drummond had a rooted dislike for men who
stunned him. His name he gathered was Freyder, so he added Mr Freyder to
his mental black-list.

At last, to his relief, the conversation had ended, and he heard the
orders given about his disposal for the night. Inert and sagging, he had
allowed himself to be carried upstairs, and thrown on the bed. And then
in very truth nature had asserted herself. He ceased to sham and fell
asleep. For how long he remained asleep he had no idea, but he awoke to
find himself alone in the room. The door was open, and from outside there
came the sound of voices. It seemed to him that it was now or never, and
the next instant he was off the bed. He slipped off his shoes and stole
into the passage.

The voices were coming from the next room, and the door of that was also
open. He recognised Peterson and the man called Freyder, and without
further delay he turned and went in the opposite direction, only to stop
short in his tracks as a terrible scream rang out. It came from the room
where Peterson was.

Like a shadow he stole back and looked in, and the sight he saw almost
made him wonder if he wasn't delirious. For there, moaning pitifully in a
chair, was Professor Goodman. That was the staggering fact which drummed
in his brain--Professor Goodman was not dead, but alive. But--what to do:
that was the point. They were going to torture the poor old man again,
and he already heard steps in the hall.

And like a flash there came the only possible solution. Downstairs they
had mentioned concussion: so be it--he would be concussed. It was the only
hope, and the ease with which Freyder's face made contact with the
electric furnace was a happy augury.

But he was under no delusions. From being a helpless log, he had suddenly
become an obstreperous madman. It was going to make things considerably
more difficult. And one thing it had definitely done--it had lessened any
chance he had of escaping from the house. They would be certain to tie
him up. Still, now that he had discovered the amazing fact about
Professor Goodman, it would have been impossible for him to leave the
house in any case, unless he could take the old man with him.

With his hands lashed together on the bed, and this time feigning sleep,
he tried to see the way out. Three men were in the room with him now, and
for a time he was inclined to curse himself for a fool. Better almost to
have let the old man be burnt again--and got away himself for help. But no
man--certainly not Drummond--could have allowed such a thing to take place
if it was in his power to prevent it. Besides, Freyder's face was an
immense compensation.

Why were they torturing him? There could only be one reason--to compel him
to do something which he didn't wish to. And what could that be except
reveal to Peterson the secret of the process?

The more he thought about it, the clearer it became. Once Peterson was in
possession of the secret, any further necessity for keeping Goodman alive
would have departed. Obviously he had deceived Peterson once--but would he
have the pluck to do it again? That he was an obstinate old man at times,
Drummond knew--but torture has a way of overcoming obstinacy. Especially
Peterson's brand of torture.

For all that, however, torture would be better than death, and to give
Peterson the secret would be signing his death-warrant. For hours he lay
there trying to see a ray of light. That Peterson would try to restore
him to sanity before killing him he knew, but, at the same time, it was
not safe to bank on it absolutely. That Peterson would kill Goodman at
the first moment possible he also knew.

And that was the fact which tied his hands so completely.

If only he could get at Goodman--if only he could warn him not to give
away his secret, whatever happened--there was hope. The Professor's life
was safe till then; they might hurt him--but his life was safe. And if
only he could get away, he might pull it off even now. The process, he
knew, took six hours; if the Professor had the nerve to bluff Peterson
twice more--twelve hours, say fourteen....

A lot could be done in fourteen hours.

And suddenly he lay very still--two of the men were leaving the room. Was
this his chance? He stirred uneasily on the bed, as a sick man does who
is asleep. Then he rolled over on his back breathing stertorously. It was
all perfectly natural, and roused no suspicions in the mind of the
remaining man. But it brought Drummond's hands into the position in which
he wanted them.

Contemptuously the man came over and stared at him as he lay.

It was a foolish thing to do, and it was still more foolish to lean down
a little to see the patient better. For the next moment a pair of hands
with fingers like steel hooks had fastened on his throat, and the sleeper
was asleep no more. Gasping and choking, he beat impotently at the big
man's face, striking it again and again, but he might as well have hit
the wall for all the good he did. And gradually his struggles grew
fainter and fainter till they ceased altogether.

Thus had Drummond got his message through to Professor Goodman. On the
spur of the moment it had occurred to him that by pretending to believe
he was Peterson not only would it increase his chances of speaking to the
Professor, but it would also tend to strengthen the belief that he was
insane. An unexpected and additional help towards that end had been his
appearance, though that he couldn't be expected to know. And now as once
again he lay on the bed--bound this time hand and foot--he wondered
desperately if he had succeeded.

Professor Goodman had got his whispered message--that he knew. But had he
been in time? In addition, so far as he could tell, he had, up to the
present, successfully bluffed Peterson and everyone else in the house as
to his mental condition. But could he keep it up? And, anyway, trussed up
as he now was, and as common sense told him he would continue to be until
he was taken on board the yacht, what good would it do even if he could?
It might save his life for the time being, but it wouldn't help his
ultimate hopes of getting away. Nor the Professor's. Once they were on
board he had to admit to himself that their chance of coming out alive
was small.

Anything can happen on a boat where the whole crew are unscrupulous.

And even if the possibility arose of his getting away by going overboard
and swimming, it was out of the question for the Professor. The chances
were that the old man couldn't swim a stroke, and Drummond, powerful
though he was in the water, was not such a fool as to imagine that he
could support a non-swimmer for possibly several hours. Besides, it was
not a matter of great difficulty to lower a boat, and an oar is a nasty
thing to be hit on the head with, when swimming. No, the only hope seemed
to be that Professor Goodman should hold out, and that by some fluke he
should get away. Or send a message. But whom to?--and how? He didn't even
know where he was.

And at that very moment the principal part of that forlorn hope was being
dashed to the ground in the next room. Once again the benevolent Mr
Robinson was chiselling out the clinker from the metal retort, while the
Professor watched him wearily from his chair. There was no mistake this
time; Drummond's warning had come too late. And with a cry of triumph Mr
Robinson felt his chisel hit something hard: the diamond was there. He
dug on feverishly, and the next minute a big uncut diamond--dirty still
with the fragments of clinker adhering to it--lay in his hand. He gazed at
it triumphantly, and for a moment or two felt almost unable to speak.
Success at last: assured and beyond doubt. In his notebook was the
process; there was no need for further delay.

And then he realised that Professor Goodman was saying something. "I have
shown you as I promised."  His voice seemed very weary. "That is the
method, of making the ordinary white diamond. Tomorrow, after I have
rested for a while, I will show you how to make one that is rose-pink."

Mr Robinson hesitated. "Is there much difference in the system?" he
remarked thoughtfully.

The Professor's voice shook a little--but then it was hardly to be
wondered at. He had had a trying evening. "It will mean obtaining a
somewhat rare strontium salt," he answered. "Also it has to be added to
the other salts in minute doses from time to time to ensure perfect
mixing. The heat also has to be regulated a little differently."

His eyes searched the other's face anxiously. Delay him--at all costs.
Drummond's urgent words still rang in his ears, and this seemed the only
chance of doing so. The main secret he had already given away; there was
nothing he could do or say to alter that. Only with Drummond's warning
had he realised finally that he had been fooled; that in all probability
the promise of rejoining his wife had been a lie from beginning to end.
And the realisation had roused every atom of fight he had in him.

He was a shrewd old man for all his absentmindedness, and during the hour
he had sat there while the furnace cooled his mind had been busy. How
Drummond had got there he didn't know, but in Drummond lay his only hope.
And if Drummond said delay, he would do his best to carry out
instructions. Moreover, Drummond had said something else too, and he was
a chemist.

"Where can you obtain this strontium salt?" asked Mr Robinson at length.

"From any big chemist in London," replied the other.

Mr Robinson fingered the diamond in his hand. It would mean additional
delay, but did that matter very much? Now that he was in possession of
the secret he had half decided to get away early in the morning. The
yacht was ready; he could step on board when he liked. But there were
undoubted advantages in being able to make rose-pink diamonds as well as
the ordinary brand, and it struck him that, after all, he might just as
well adhere to his original plan. Drummond was safe; there was nothing to
fear from the old fool in the chair. So why not?

"Give me the name of the salt and it shall be sent for tomorrow," he
remarked.

"If you're sending," said the Professor mildly, "you might get some other
salts too. By my process I can make them blue, green, black, or yellow,
as well as red. Each requires a separate salt, though the process is
basically the same."

Once again Mr Robinson frowned thoughtfully, and once again he
decided--why not? Blue diamonds were immensely valuable, and he might as
well have the process complete.

"Make a list of everything you want," he snapped, "and I will get the
whole lot tomorrow. And now, after you've done that, go to bed."

He watched the old man go shambling along the passage to his room; then,
slipping the diamond into his pocket, he went in to have a look at
Drummond. He was apparently asleep, and for a while Mr Robinson stood
beside him with a look of malignant satisfaction on his face. That his
revenge on the man lying bound and helpless on the bed added to the risk
of his plans, he knew; but no power on earth would have made him forgo
it. In the eyes of the world Professor Goodman was already dead; in his
case he would merely be confirming an already established fact. But with
Drummond it was different. There would be a hue and cry: there was
bound to be. But what did it matter? Was he not going to die
himself--officially? And dead men are uninteresting people to pursue.

"Don't relax your guard for an instant," he said to the two men. "We
shall be leaving here tomorrow afternoon."

He left the room and went down to his own particular sanctum.

He had made up his mind as to what he would do, and it seemed to solve
all the difficulties in the most satisfactory way. These special salts
should be sent direct to the yacht and Professor Goodman should initiate
him into their mysteries on board. He would have the electric furnace
taken from the house, and the experiments could be carried out just as
easily at sea. And when finally he felt confident of making all the
various colours, and not till then, he would drop the old fool overboard.
Drummond also; the extra few days would increase the chance of his
becoming sane again.

He suddenly bethought him of Freyder, and went into his room. His face,
even his eyes, were completely hidden by bandages, and Mr Robinson
expressed his sympathy. In fact after Freyder had exhausted his
vocabulary on the subject of Drummond, Mr Robinson even went so far as to
promise his subordinate a special private chance of getting some of his
own back.

"You may do anything you like to him, my dear fellow," he said
soothingly, "save actually kill him. I shall watch it all with the
greatest pleasure. I only reserve to myself the actual coup de grace."
He closed the door and, returning to his study, took the diamond out of
his pocket. The tools at his disposal were not very delicate, but he
determined, even at the risk of damaging the diamond, to work with them.
He wanted to make assurance doubly sure, and it was not until the first
faint streaks of dawn were coming through the window that he rose from
his work with a sigh of satisfaction.

On the table in front of him lay diamonds to the value of some six or
seven thousand pounds; there had been no mistake this time. And with a
sigh of satisfaction he placed them in his safe.

He felt suddenly tired, and glancing at his watch he found that it was
already half-past three. A little rest was essential, and Mr Robinson
went upstairs. He stopped by the Professor's room and looked in: the old
man was fast asleep in bed. Then he went to see Drummond once more, and
found him muttering uneasily under the watchful eyes of his two guards.
Everything was correct and in order, and with another sigh of
satisfaction he retired to his room for a little well-earned repose.

It was one of his assets that he could do with a very small amount of
sleep, and eight o'clock the following morning found him up and about
again. His first care were his two prisoners, and to his surprise he
found the Professor already up and pottering about in the room where he
had been working the night before. He seemed in the best of spirits, and
for a moment or two Mr Robinson eyed him suspiciously. He quite failed to
see what the old man had to be pleased about.

"One day nearer rejoining my dear wife," he remarked as he saw the other
standing in the doorway. "You can't think how excited I feel about it."

"Not being married myself," agreed Mr Robinson pleasantly, "I admit that
I cannot enter into your joy. You're up early this morning."

"I couldn't sleep after six," explained the Professor. "And so I decided
to rise."

Mr Robinson grunted. "Your breakfast will be brought to you shortly," he
remarked. "I would advise you to eat a good one, as we shall be starting
shortly afterwards."

"Starting?" stammered the Professor. "But I thought you wished me to show
you how to make blue diamonds. And the other colours too."

"I do," answered the other. "But you will show me, Professor, on board my
yacht. I trust that you are a good sailor, though at this time of year
the sea should be calm."

Professor Goodman stood by the electric furnace plucking nervously at his
collar. It seemed as if the news of this early departure had given him a
bit of a shock.

"I see," he said at length. "I did not understand that we were starting
so soon."

"You have no objections, I hope," murmured Mr Robinson politely. "The
sooner we start, the sooner will come that delirious moment when you once
more clasp Mrs Goodman in your arms. And now I will leave you, if you
will excuse me. I have one or two things to attend to--amongst them our
obstreperous young friend of last night."

He strolled along the passage into the room where Drummond was. And
though he realised that the idea was absurd, he felt a little throb of
relief when he saw him still lying bound on the bed.

Ridiculous, of course, that he should find anything else, and yet
Drummond, in the past, had extricated himself from such seemingly
impossible situations that the sight of him bound and helpless was
reassuring. Drummond smiled at him vacantly, and with a shrug of his
shoulders he turned to the two men.

"Has he given any trouble?" he asked.

"Not a bit, guv'nor," answered one of them. "He's as barmy as he can be.
Grins and smiles all over his face, except when that old bloke next door
comes near him."

Mr Robinson stared at the speaker.

"What do you mean?" he said. "Has the old man been in here this morning?"

"He came in about half an hour ago," answered the other. "Said he wanted
to see how the poor fellow was getting on. And as soon as Drummond saw
him he started snarling and cursing and trying to get at him. I tell you
we had the devil's own job with him--and then after a while he lay quiet
again. Thinks he's some bloke of the name of Peterson."

"How long was the old man here?" said Mr Robinson abruptly.

"About half a minute. Then we turned him out."

"Under no circumstances is he to be allowed in here again."

Mr Robinson again bent over Drummond and stared into his eyes. But no
sign of reason showed on his face: the half-open mouth still grinned its
vacant grin. And after a while Mr Robinson straightened up again. He had
allowed himself to be alarmed unnecessarily: Drummond was still off his
head.

"We are leaving at once after breakfast," he remarked. "He is to be put
in the ambulance as he is. And if he makes any noise--gag him."

"Very good, guv'nor. Is he to have anything to eat?"

"No--let the swine starve."

Mr Robinson left the room without a backward glance, and the sudden
desperate glint in Drummond's eyes passed unnoticed. For now indeed
things did look utterly hopeless. The Professor's plan passed to him on a
piece of paper and which he had conveyed to his mouth and swallowed as
soon as read, even if it was a plan of despair, had in it the germ of
success. It was nothing more nor less than to set fire to the house with
chemicals that would burn furiously, and trust to something happening in
the confusion. At any rate it might have brought in outside people--the
police, the fire brigade. And Peterson could hardly have left him bound
upstairs with the house on fire. Not from any kindly motives--but
expediency would have prevented it. Only the chemicals had to come from
London, and if they were starting at once after breakfast it was obvious
that the stuff couldn't arrive in time.

The dear old Professor he took his hat off to. Tortured and abominably
treated, he had kept his head and his nerve in the most wonderful way.
For a man of his age and sedentary method of life not to have broken down
completely under the strain was nothing short of marvellous. And not only
had he not broken down, but he'd thought out a scheme and got it to
Drummond wrapped round a Gillette razor-blade. It had taken a bit of
doing to get the blade into his waistcoat pocket, and had his arms been
bound to his body he couldn't have done it. But fortunately only his
wrists were lashed together, and he had managed it. And now it all seemed
wasted.

He debated in his mind whether he would try to cut the ropes, and chance
everything in one wild fight at once. But the two men eating their
breakfast near the foot of his bed were burly brutes.

And even if by twisting himself up he had been able to cut the cord round
his legs without their noticing he would be at a terrible disadvantage,
cramped after his confinement as he was. Besides, there was the
Professor. Nothing now would have induced him to leave the old man.
Whatever happened, he must stay beside him in the hopes of being able to
help him. Because one thing was clear.

Even if he personally escaped, unless he could get help before the yacht
started--the Professor was doomed. The yacht was going down with all
hands: there lay the devilish ingenuity of the scheme.

And even if he could have prevented the yacht sailing, he knew Peterson
quite well enough to realise that he would merely change his plans at the
last moment. As he had so often done in the past, he would disappear,
with the secret--having first killed Professor Goodman.

No; the only possible chance lay in his going on the yacht himself and
trusting to luck to find a way out. Incidentally it was perhaps as well
that the only possible chance did lie in that direction, since, as far as
Drummond could see, his prospects of not going on board were even remoter
than his prospects of getting any breakfast.

A sudden shuffling step in the passage outside brought his two guards to
their feet. They dashed to the door just as Professor Goodman appeared,
and then they stopped with a laugh. For the old man was swaying backwards
and forwards and his eyes were rolling horribly.

"I've been drugged," he muttered, and pitched forward on his face.

Then the men sat down again, leaving him where he lay.

"That'll keep him quiet," said one of them. "It was in his tea."

"If I had my way I'd put a bucket of it into the swab on the bed,"
answered the other. "It's him that wants keeping quiet."

The first speaker laughed brutally.

"He won't give much trouble. Once we've got him on board, it'll be just
pure joy to watch the fun. Freyder's like a man that's sat on a hornet's
nest this morning."

And at that moment Freyder himself entered the room. His face was still
swathed in bandages, and Drummond beamed happily at him. The sight of him
provided the one bright spot in an otherwise gloomy horizon, though the
horrible blow which he received on the mouth rather obscured the
brightness, and gave him a foretaste of what he could expect from the
gentleman. But true to his role, Drummond still grinned on, though he
turned his head away to hide the smouldering fury in his eyes. In the
past he had been fairly successful with Peterson's lieutenants, and he
registered a mental vow that Mr Julius Freyder would not be an exception.

He watched him go from the room kicking the sprawling body of the
Professor contemptuously as he passed, and once again he was left to his
gloomy thoughts. It was all very well to register vows of vengeance, but
to carry them out first of all entailed getting free.

And then a sudden ray of hope dawned in his mind. How were they going to
be got on board? Stretchers presumably, and that would be bound to
attract attention if the yacht was lying in any harbour.

But was she? She might be lying out to sea somewhere, and send a boat
ashore for them in some deserted stretch of coast. That was the devil of
it, he hadn't the faintest idea where he was. He might be in Essex; he
might be on the South Coast; he might even be down on the Bristol
Channel.

A little wearily he gave it up; after all, what was the good of worrying?
He was bound and the Professor was drugged, and as far as he could see
any self-respecting life insurance would hesitate at a ninety-five per
cent premium for either of them. His principal desire at the moment was
for breakfast, and as that was evidently not in the programme, all he
could do was to inhale the aroma of eggs and bacon, and wonder why he'd
been such a damned fool as to take that telephone call.

The tramp of footsteps on the stairs roused him from his lethargy, and he
half-turned his head to look at the door. Two men were there with a
stretcher, on which they were placing the Professor. Then they
disappeared, to return again a few moments later with another, which they
put down beside his bed. It was evidently his turn now, but, even bound
as he was, they showed no inclination to treat him as unceremoniously as
the Professor. His reputation seemed to have got abroad, and, though he
smiled at them inanely and burbled foolishly, they invoked the assistance
of the other two men, who had just finished their breakfast, before
lifting him up and putting him on the stretcher.

In the hall stood Mr Robinson, who again peered at him intently as he
passed, and then Drummond found himself hoisted into the back of a car
which seemed to be a cross between an ambulance and a caravan. The back
consisted of two doors instead of the conventional ambulance curtains,
and on each side was a window covered with muslin blind. Two bunks, one
on each side, stretched the full length of the car and a central
gang-way, which had a little washbasin at the end nearest the engine,
separated them.

On one of these bunks lay Professor Goodman, breathing with the heavy,
stertorous sounds of the drugged. The men pitched him on to the other, as
Mr Robinson, who had followed them out, appeared.

"You have your orders," he remarked curtly. "If Drummond makes a
sound--gag him. I shall be on board myself in about two hours."

He closed the doors, leaving the two men inside, and the car started. It
was impossible to see out of either window owing to the curtains, and the
ostentatious production of a revolver by one of the men removed any
thought Drummond might have had of trying to use the razor-blade. "Mad or
not, take no chances," was the motto of his two guards, and when on top
of everything else, though he hadn't made a sound, they crammed a
handkerchief half-down his throat, he almost laughed.

He judged they had been going for about an hour, when the diminished
speed of the car and the increased sounds of traffic indicated a town. It
felt as if they were travelling over cobbles, and once they stopped at
what was evidently a level crossing, for he heard a train go by. And then
came the sound of a steamer's siren, to be followed by another and yet a
third.

A seaport town obviously, he reflected, though that didn't help much. The
only comfort was that a seaport town meant a well-used waterway outside.
And if he could get free, if he could go overboard with the Professor,
there might be a shade more of a chance of being picked up. Also there
would almost certainly be curious loungers about as they were carried on
board.

The car had stopped; he could hear the driver talking to someone. Then it
ran forward a little and stopped again. And a moment or two later a
curious swaying motion almost pitched him off the bunk. Surely they
couldn't be at sea yet. The car dropped suddenly, and with a sick feeling
of despair he realised what had happened. The car had been hoisted bodily
on board; his faint hope of being able to communicate with some onlooker
had gone.

Once again the car became stationary, save for a very faint and almost
imperceptible movement. From outside came the sounds of men heaving on
ropes, and the car steadied again. They were actually on board, and the
car was being made fast.

Still the two men sat there with the doors tight shut, and the windows
hermetically sealed by the blinds. They seemed to be waiting for
something, and suddenly, with a sigh of relief, one spoke.

"She's off."  It was true: Drummond could feel the faint throb of the
propeller.

"The specimens are aboard," laughed the other man, "and I guess it will
be safe to open the doors in about a quarter of an hour or so, and get a
bit of air. This damned thing is like a Turkish bath."

He rose and peered cautiously through a slit in the curtain, but he made
no movement to open the door until the throbbing of the propeller had
ceased, and the harsh rattle of a chain showed that they were anchoring.
Then and not till then did he open the doors with a sigh of relief.

Cautiously Drummond raised his head, and stared out. Where were they? He
had followed every movement in his mind since he had come on board, but
he was still as far as ever from knowing where they were. And luckily one
glance was enough. It didn't even need the glimpse he got of a huge
Cunarder about a half-mile away: he recognised the shore. They were in
Southampton Water, and though the knowledge didn't seem to help very
much, at any rate it was something to have one definite fact to start
from.

Southampton Water! He managed to shift the sodden pocket handkerchief
into a more comfortable position, and his train of thought grew
pessimistic. Why would men invent processes for making diamonds? he
reflected morosely. If only the dear old blitherer still peacefully
sleeping in the opposite bunk had stuck to albumenised food, he wouldn't
have been lying trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Far from it: he would
have been disporting himself on Ted Jerningham's governor's yacht at
Cowes. Had not Ted expressly invited him--Ted, who had hunted Peterson
with him in the past, and asked for nothing better than to hunt him
again?

The irony of it! To think that Ted might even see the yacht go by; might
remark on the benevolence of the appearance of muttonchop whiskers, if by
chance he should be on deck. And he would never know. In all ignorance he
would return to one of his habitual spasms of love, which always assailed
him when afloat, with anyone who happened to be handy.

It was a distressing thought, and, after a while, he resolutely tried to
banish it from his mind. But it refused to be banished.

Absurd, of course, but suppose--just suppose he could communicate with
Ted. Things were so desperate that he could not afford to neglect even
the wildest chance. Ted's father's yacht generally lay, as he knew, not
far from the outgoing waterway; he remembered sitting on deck with
Phyllis and watching a Union Castle boat go by so close that he could see
the passengers' faces on deck. What if he could shout or something? But
Ted might not be on deck.

Eagerly he turned the problem over in his mind, and the more he thought
of it the more it seemed to him to be the only possible way out. How to
do it, he hadn't an idea--but at any rate it was something to occupy his
thoughts. And when the benevolent face of Mr Robinson appeared at the
door some hours later, he was still wrestling with the problem, though
the vacant look in his eyes left nothing to be desired.

"Any difficulty getting on board?" asked Mr Robinson.

"None at all, boss," answered the man who was still on guard. "We gagged
the madman to be on the safe side."

Mr Robinson beamed. "Take the old man below," he remarked. "He'll be
coming round soon. I will stay with our friend here till you return."

Thoughtfully he pulled the handkerchief out of Drummond's mouth and sat
down on the opposite bunk. "Still suffering from concussion," he said
gently. "Still, we have plenty of time, Captain Drummond--plenty of time."

"Gug-gug," answered Drummond happily.

"Precisely," murmured the other. "I believe that men frequently say that
when they drown. But I promise you we won't drown you at once. As I
say--there is plenty of time."



CHAPTER 11 - In Which Drummond Leaves the SY Gadfly


Still smiling benevolently, Mr Robinson strolled away, and shortly
afterwards a series of sharp orders followed by a faint throbbing
announced that the voyage of the SY Gadfly had commenced. The Cunarder
receded into the distance, and still Drummond lay on the bunk wrestling
with the problem of what to do. He judged the time as being about six, so
they would pass Ted Jerningham's yacht in daylight.

Apparently no guard was considered necessary for him now that the yacht
was under way; after all, to watch a completely bound madman is a boring
and uninteresting pastime. And with a feeling of impotent rage Drummond
realised how easy it would be to cut the ropes and go quietly overboard.
A swim of a mile or so meant nothing to him. If only it hadn't been for
the Professor!...

No; the last hope--the only hope--lay in Ted Jerningham. Once that failed,
it seemed to Drummond that nothing could save them.

And it was perfectly clear that by no possibility could he hope to
communicate with Ted from his present position. He must be free to use
his limbs. And during the next ten minutes he discovered that the blade
of a safety-razor is an unpleasant implement with which to cut half-inch
rope, especially when one's wrists are bound.

But at last it was done, and he was free. No one had interrupted him,
though once some footsteps outside had made him sweat with fear. But he
was still no nearer to the solution of the problem. At any moment someone
might come in and find him, and there would be no mistake about binding
him the second time. Moreover, it would prove fairly conclusively that he
was not as mad as he pretended.

Quickly he arranged the ropes with the cut ends underneath, so that to a
cursory glance they appeared intact. Then he again lay still. That the
glance would have to be very cursory for anyone to be deceived he
realised, but it was the best he could do. And anyway he was free, even
if only for the time. If the worst came to the worst he had no doubt as
to his ability to fight his way to the side and go overboard; gun work is
impossible in Southampton Water. But unless he did it near another ship,
he feared that the delay before he could do anything would be fatal to
the Professor. Peterson would take no chances in this case; he would
murder the old man out of hand, instead of postponing the event.

And then, suddenly, came the idea--Ted's motor-boat. How it was going to
help he didn't see; he had no coherent plan. But with a sort of
subconscious certainty he felt that in Ted's motor-boat lay the key to
the problem. She was a wonderful machine, capable of doing her forty
knots with ease, and she was the darling of Ted's heart. Her method of
progress in the slightest swell resembled a continuous rush down the
waterchute at Earl's Court; and her owner was wont to take whoever
occupied his heart for the moment for what he termed "a bit of a
breather"  on most evenings after dinner.

Ted's motor-boat was their hope, he decided; but how? How to get at Ted,
how to tell him, was the problem. Methodically he thought things out; now
that he had something definite in his mind to go on, his brain was cool
and collected. And it seemed to him that the only way would be to go
overboard as they passed Ted's yacht, and then follow the Gadfly at once
while she was still close to land. There would be men on Ted's yacht, and
they could board the Gadfly and hold her up. That there were difficulties
he realised.

It meant leaving the Professor for at least an hour even under the most
favourable conditions. Further it would be getting dark when they
overtook the Gadfly, and to board a yacht steaming her twelve to fifteen
knots is not a simple matter when the crew of the yacht do not desire
your presence, and await you with marline-spikes on deck. Besides, the
guests on Ted's yacht might feel that as an evening's amusement 'hunt the
slipper'  won on points. Still, it seemed the only chance, and he decided
on it unless something better turned up. Anyway, it was a plan with a
chance of success, which was something.

He glanced through the open door to try to spot his position, and
estimated that another half-hour at the rate they were going would just
about bring them opposite Ted's yacht. Still no one came near him, though
periodically he could see one of the sailors moving about the deck. As
far as he could tell, he had been slung just aft of the funnel, though he
dared not raise himself too much for fear of being seen.

The minutes passed, and his hopes began to rise. Could it be that luck
was going to be on his side? Could it be that no one would come, and that
in the failing light he might be able to slip over the side unperceived?
If so, he might gain an invaluable half-hour; more--he might be able to
get the motor-boat alongside the Gadfly later without the crew suspecting
anything. It seemed too good to be true, and yet a quarter of an hour,
twenty minutes, passed, and he was still alone.

He peered out again; they were getting very close. The deck was deserted,
and suddenly he felt he could bear the strain no longer.

He rose from the bunk and cautiously peered out of the door. And the
sight he saw almost staggered him with his good fortune. If he had been
walking about the deck instead of being cooped up under cover he could
not have timed it more exactly. Not a hundred yards away to port lay
Jerningham's yacht, with the motor-boat alongside the gangway.

Drummond glanced round; he could see no one. The structure in which he
had been hoisted on board effectively screened him from the bridge; the
sailors were apparently having their evening meal. And taking a quick
breath he prepared to make a sprint for the side when he saw something
which completely altered his plans. Leaning over the side of the yacht he
was watching were a man and a woman. And the man was Ted Jerningham
himself.

Drummond saw him focus a pair of field-glasses and turn them on the
Gadfly. And then clear and distinct across the water he heard the amazed
shout of "Hugh". Jerningham had seen him; the supreme chance had come, if
only he wasn't interrupted. And it is safe to say that during the next
minute a very astonished girl stood beside a man whom she almost failed
to recognise as the Ted Jerningham of normal life.

"A pencil," he snapped. "Write as I spell out. Get a move on. Look out:
He's beginning. D.A.N.G.E.R. F.O.L.L.O.W. I.N. M.O.T.O.R. B.O.A.T.
P.E.T.E.R.S.O.N. U.R.G.E.N.T. That's all." She looked up: the huge man on
board the passing yacht who had been standing outlined against the sky
waving his arms had disappeared..

"What on earth was he doing?" she cried.

"Semaphoring," answered Jerningham briefly.

"But I don't understand," she said.

"Nor do I," returned her companion. "But that was Hugh Drummond. And what
Hugh says goes, if we follow for the whole night. Coming?"

"Rather. Who's Peterson?"

"A very dear old friend," said Jerningham with a grim smile. "But how the
deuce..." He broke off, and stared after the retreating yacht. "He loves
me, because I emptied the entire sauce-boat over his shirt-front one
night in Paris, when disguised as a waiter at the Ritz."

"My dear Ted, are you mad?" laughed the girl, following him down the
gangway into the waiting motor-boat.

"Oh! no--just fun and laughter. You wouldn't believe what a humorist old
man Peterson is."

A terrific explosion rent the air, followed by a cloud of blue smoke, and
Jerningham took the tiller.

"Warm enough, Pat?" he asked. "It may be a long show."

"Quite, thanks," she answered. "Ted, why do you look so grave?"

"I'm just wondering, my dear, if I ought to take you."  His hand was
still on the gangway, and he looked at her irresolutely.

"Why on earth not?"

"Because there may be very grave danger."

The girl laughed. "Get on with it while the going's good," she said.
"That yacht will be past the Needles if you delay much longer."

And so it came about that Drummond, watching feverishly from his bunk in
the Gadfly, saw with a sigh of intense relief the motor-boat shoot out
across the water. It was nearly a mile astern, but a mile was nothing to
a boat of its great speed. Moreover, the distance was lessening, and he
breathed a prayer that Ted wouldn't come too close. With the amount of
traffic round and about Cowes at that time of year an odd motor-boat
could raise no suspicion, but if he settled down to follow steadily at a
hundred yards or so astern he would be bound to draw attention to
himself.

He had not dared to send a longer message, and, of necessity, it had left
a good deal to Ted's imagination. But of all the men who had followed him
unhesitatingly in the past, Ted Jerningham had been always the quickest
on the uptake, and he soon saw that his confidence had not been
misplaced. Ted had evidently realised that to follow steadily would
arouse suspicion, and was laying his plans accordingly. He overhauled
them like an express train, passed forty yards to starboard, circled
their bow, and came dashing back. Then away at a tangent for half a mile
or so, only to shoot back and stop apparently with engine trouble.

The sea was like a millpond, and as the Gadfly passed the now silent
motor-boat the sounds of a gramophone were plainly audible from it.
Obviously someone with a racing motor-boat joy-riding with a girl,
reflected the skipper as he paced the bridge; and forthwith dismissed the
matter from his mind. He had other more important things to think of, and
the first was the exact object of this trip. That the benevolent Mr
Robinson had hired the Gadfly from its owner to take two invalids to
Madeira he knew, but he wasn't quite satisfied. The method of bringing
the invalids on board had seemed so unnecessarily secretive. However, as
is the way of men who go down to the sea in ships, his nature was not
curious. He was there to carry out orders, and mind his own business--not
other people's. Still, he couldn't help wondering.

And had he seen the occupation of one of those invalids at the moment he
would have wondered still more. For Drummond, having found a cake of soap
on the basin beside his bunk, was carefully cutting it into small cubes
with the blade of a safety razor.

Though perhaps that is what one would expect from a madman.

A sudden hoarse scream of fear some five minutes later made the Captain
jump to the side of the bridge. Two sailors were rushing along the deck
as if pursued by the devil, and he roared an order at them. But they took
no notice of him, and dashed below. For a moment the worthy skipper stood
there dumbfounded; then, cursing fluently, he dashed after them, only to
stop with a strange pricking feeling in his scalp as a huge and ghastly
figure confronted him. A great mass of foam was round its mouth, and it
was brandishing a marline spike and bellowing. A terrifying spectacle in
the half-light of dusk--a spectacle to put the fear of God into any man.
And then as suddenly as it appeared it was gone.

Terror is an infectious thing, and the infection spread in the good ship
Gadfly. Within two minutes men were running in all directions, shouting
that a homicidal maniac was loose on board.

Below an appalling crash of breaking crockery and the sudden appearance
on deck of a terrified steward told its own tale. The Captain was
powerless; things had gone beyond him. He roared a futile order or two:
no one paid the slightest attention to him. And then, quite suddenly, the
pandemonium ceased--and men held their breath. How he had got there no one
could say--but they all saw him outlined against the darkening sky.

The madman was in the stern, and in his arms he held the body of a man.
"At last," they heard him shout, "at last I've got you, Peterson. We die
together--you devil...."

"Stop them," howled Mr Robinson, who had just dashed on deck, holding a
limp right arm; but no man moved. Only a loud splash broke the silence,
and the stern was empty.

"Man overboard. Lower a boat. Stop the yacht, you cursed fool," snarled
Mr Robinson to the Captain, and then he rushed to the stern. Dimly in the
failing light he thought he could see two heads in the water, but it was
a couple of minutes before a boat was lowered, and in that couple of
minutes he heard the roar of an engine coming nearer. Then the engine
ceased, and he saw the outline of a motor-boat.

"That boat may have picked 'em up, sir," said the Captain, as Mr Robinson
ran down the gangway into the waiting cutter.

"Give way all," came the second officer's curt order. "With a will,
boys."

The motor-boat, still motionless, loomed rapidly up, and Mr Robinson
stood up.

"Ahoy there! Did you pick up those two men who fell overboard?"

"Two!" Ted Jerningham, a conspicuous figure in white flannels, stood up
also. "I heard the most infernal shindy on board your yacht and then a
splash. Do you mean to say two men have fallen overboard?" The yacht's
boat was close to, the sailors resting on their oars.

"Yes. Have you seen 'em?" asked the second officer.

"Not a sign. And the water's like a duckpond too."

The girl with him shuddered. "How dreadful! You don't mean the poor
fellows are drowned?"

"Afraid it looks like it, miss," said the officer, staring round the
water. "Even in this light we'd see them with the sea as calm as it is."

Mr Robinson whispered something in his ear, which he seemed to resent.

"Do what you're told," snarled his master, and with a shrug he gave an
order.

"Give way."

The oars dipped in the water, and they passed astern of the motor-boat.
And had Mr Robinson been watching Ted Jerningham instead of the water he
might have seen a sudden strained look appear on that young gentleman's
face, and his hand move instinctively towards the starting-switch. He
might even have wondered why the girl, who had seemed so calm and
unperturbed in the face of this dreadful tragedy, should suddenly give
vent to a loud and hysterical outburst.

"It's dreadful," she sobbed--"too dreadful! To think of those two poor men
being drowned like that."

But Mr Robinson was not concerned with the dreadfulness of the situation;
all that mattered to him was whether it was true or not. From the moment
when Drummond, foaming at the mouth, had dashed into the dining-saloon,
Mr Robinson's brain had been working furiously. An attempt to intercept
himself between Drummond and Professor Goodman had resulted in an
appalling blow on his arm with a marline spike. And then, accustomed
though he was to the rapidity of Drummond's movements, even he for a few
seconds had been nonplussed. There had been something so diabolical about
this huge man, bellowing hoarsely, who had, after that first blow, paid
no more attention to him, but had hurled himself straight on the dazed
Professor. And even when the Professor, squealing like a rabbit, had
dashed on deck with Drummond after him, for an appreciable time Mr
Robinson had remained staring stupidly at the door. Drummond sane was
dangerous; Drummond mad was nerve-shattering. And then he had pulled
himself together just in time to dash on deck and see them both go
overboard.

Thoughtfully his eyes searched the water again; there was no trace of
either man. Of a suspicious nature, he had examined both sides of the
motor-boat; moreover, he had seen inside the motorboat.

And now as the girl's sobs died away he turned to the officer beside him.

"There can be no doubt about it, I fear," he remarked with a suitable
inflection of sorrow in his voice.

"None, sir, I'm afraid. Even if we couldn't see them, we could hear them.
I'm afraid the madman's done the poor old gentleman in."

"Sink in a brace of shakes with a holy terror like that 'anging round yer
neck," said one of the sailors, and a mutter of agreement came from the
others.

"Yes, I'm afraid there can be no possibility of saving them now."

Ted Jerningham took out his cigarette-case, only to replace it hurriedly
as he remembered the dreadful tragedy they had just witnessed.
"Doubtless, however, their bodies will be washed ashore in time."

"Er--doubtless," murmured Mr Robinson. That aspect of the case had already
struck him, and had not pleased him in the slightest degree. Had he been
able to conform with his original plan, neither body would have ever been
seen again. However, he had not been able to conform to that plan, so
there was no more to be said about it. The main point was that both of
them were drowned.

"Doubtless," he repeated. "Poor fellows!--poor fellows! Two neurasthenic
patients of mine, sir.... How sad!--How terribly sad! However, I fear
there is no good wasting any more time. I can only thank you for your
prompt assistance, and regret that, through no fault of yours, it was not
more effective."

Jerningham bowed. "Don't mention it, sir--don't mention it," he murmured.
"But I think, as I can do no more, that I will now get back. The tragedy,
as you will understand, has somewhat upset this lady."

He put his finger on the starting-switch, and the quiet of the night was
broken by the roar of the engine. And as the sailors dipped in their oars
to row back to the yacht, the motor-boat circled slowly round.

"Good night, sir."  Mr Robinson waved a courteous hand. "And again a
thousand thanks."

"And again don't mention it," returned Jerningham, sitting down by the
tiller. "You can take your wrap off his hand now, Pat," he whispered.
"They can't see."

A vast hand grasping the gunwale was revealed as she did so, and an
agonised whisper came from the water.

"Hurry, old man, for the love of Pete. Unless we can hold the old man
upside-down soon to drain the water out of him, he'll drown."

"Right-oh! Hugh. Can you hold on for a couple of hundred yards? I'll go
slow. But they may have a searchlight on the yacht, and we're still very
close to her."

"All right, Ted. I leave it to you."

"I'll still keep broadside on, old man; though I don't think he had any
suspicions."

He nosed the motor-boat through the water, and a few moments later the
necessity of his precaution was justified. A blinding light flickered
across the water, found them, and held steady: it was the Gadfly's
searchlight. Jerningham rose and waved his hand, and after a while the
beam passed on searching the sea. One final attempt evidently to try to
spot the victims of the tragedy, rewarded by empty water. And at last the
light went out; all hope had been abandoned.

"Quick, Hugh," cried Jerningham. "Get the old boy on board."

With a heave the almost unconscious form of Professor Goodman was hoisted
into the boat, to be followed immediately by Drummond himself.

"Lie down, old man--lie down in case they use that searchlight again."

The engine roared and spluttered, and two black mountains of water
swirled past the bows.

"Forty-five on her head, Hugh," shouted Ted. "Incidentally, what's this
particular brand of round game?"

"The largest drink in the shortest time, old son," laughed the other.
"And for the Professor--bed, quick."

He turned to the girl. "My dear soul," he said, "you were magnificent. If
you hadn't had hysteria when I began to sneeze it was all up."

"But what could he have done?" cried the girl. "And he looked such a nice
old man."

Drummond laughed grimly. "Did you recognise him, Ted?" Once again he
turned to the girl. "If he'd known that we were in the water, that nice
old man would have had no more compunction in shooting you and Ted and
dropping your bodies overboard than I shall have in drinking that drink.
It's been the biggest coup of his life, Ted--but it's failed. But, by
Jove, old man, it's been touch and go, believe me."

The roar of the engine made conversation difficult, but after covering
the dripping form of the Professor with a dry rug they fell silent.
Astern the lights of the Gadfly were growing fainter and fainter in the
distance; ahead lay Cowes and safety. But Drummond's mind, now that the
immediate danger was over, had jumped ahead to the future. To restore the
Professor to the bosom of his family was obviously the first thing to be
done; but--after that?

The engine ceased abruptly, and he realised they had reached the yacht.
Leaning over the side were some of the guests, and as--he and Ted lifted
the body of the professor up the gangway a chorus of excited questioning
broke out, a chorus which was interrupted by the amazed ejaculation of an
elderly man.

"God bless my soul," he cried incredulously, as the light fell on the
Professor's face, "It's old Goodman's double!"

"Not exactly," answered Drummond. "It's Professor Goodman himself."

"Damme, sir," spluttered the other, "I was at his funeral a week ago. He
was blown up in his house in Hampstead doing some fool experiment."

"So we all thought," remarked Drummond quietly. "And as it happened we
thought wrong. Get him below, Ted--and get him to bed, or we really shall
be attending his funeral. He's swallowed most of the English Channel as
it is. Though I can assure you, sir," he addressed the elderly man again,
'that he possesses a vitality which turns Kruschen salts a pale pink.
Within the last week he's been blown up; his remains, consisting of one
boot, have been buried; he's been bounced on a white-hot electric furnace
to keep his circulation going; he's had his breakfast doped; and last,
but not least, he's gone backwards and forwards under Ted's motorboat.

"And now if someone will lead me to a whisky-and-soda of vast dimensions,
I'll--My God! what's that?" It was very faint, like the boom of a distant
heavy gun, but he happened to be looking towards the Needles. And he had
seen a sudden deep orange flash, in the water against the sky--the flash
such as in old days an aeroplane bomb had made on bursting. The others
swung round and stared seawards, but there was nothing more to be seen.

"It sounded like a shell," said one of the men. "What did you think it
was?" He turned to Drummond, but he had disappeared, only to dash on deck
a moment or two later with Ted behind him.

"Every ounce you can get out of her, Ted. Rip her to pieces if
necessary--but get there. That infernal devil has blown up the yacht."

The motor-boat spun round, and like a living beast gathered speed. The
bow waves rose higher and higher, till they stood four feet above the
gunwales, to fall away astern into a mass of seething white.

"I'll never forgive myself," shouted Drummond in Ted's ear. "I knew he
was going to blow her up, but I never thought he'd do it so soon."
Quivering like a thing possessed, the boat rushed towards the scene of
the explosion. The speedometer needle touched--went back--touched again--and
then remained steady at fifty.

"Go to the bows," howled Ted. "Wreckage."

With a nod Drummond scrambled forward, and lying between the two black
walls of water, he slowly swung the headlight backwards and forwards over
the sea in front. To hit a piece of floating wreckage at the speed they
were travelling would have ripped them open from stem to stern. Other
craft attracted to the spot loomed up and dropped back as if stationary,
and then suddenly Drummond held up his hand. In front was a large dark
object with two or three men clinging to it, and as he focused the
headlight on them he could see them waving. The roar of the engine died
away, and timing it perfectly Jerningham went full speed astern.

The thing in the water was one of the large wooden lockers used for
storing life-belts, and they drew alongside just in time. It was
waterlogged, and the weight of the men clinging to it was more than it
could stand. Even as the last of them stepped into the boat, with a
sullen splash the locker turned over and drifted away only just awash.

"Yer'd better mind out," said one of the men. "There's a lot of that
about."

"Go slow, Ted," cried Drummond. Then he turned to the men. "What
happened?"

"Strike me pink, governor, I'm damned if I know. We've had a wonderful
trip, we 'ave--you can take my word. Fust a ruddy madman jumps overboard
with another bloke--and they both drowns. Then half an hour later there
comes the devil of an explosion from below; the 'ole deck goes sky 'igh,
and the skipper he yells, 'We're sinking.'  It didn't require for 'im to
say that; we all knew we was. We 'eeled right over, and in 'alf a minute
she sank."

"Anybody else saved?" asked Drummond.

"I dunno, governor," answered the man. "There wasn't no women and
children on board, so I reckons it was everyone for himself."

"Any idea what caused the explosion?"

"I 'aven't, governor--that's strite. But I knew as no good was a-going to
come of this trip, as soon as that there madman went and drowned
hisself."

Drummond stared silently ahead. In the dim light he had no fear of being
recognised, even if any of the three men they had saved had seen him. And
his mind was busy. He had not the slightest doubt that Peterson had
caused the explosion; he had even less doubt that Peterson, at any rate,
was not drowned. But why had he taken the appalling risk of doing such a
thing in so populous a waterway?

He went back to the stern and sat down beside Ted, who was nosing the
boat gently through the water. Masses of debris surrounded them, and it
was necessary to move with the utmost caution.

"What made him risk it here, Ted?" he whispered.

"Obvious, old man," returned the other in a low voice. "He thought your
bodies would be washed ashore; he had no means of telling when. He knew
they would be identified; he further knew that I would at once say what
had happened. From that moment he would be in deadly danger; wireless
would put every ship at sea wise. And to do a little stunt of this sort,
if he was to escape, it was imperative he should be near land. So, as
Peterson would do, he didn't hesitate for a moment, but put the job
through at once."

Drummond nodded thoughtfully.

"You're right, Ted--perfectly right."

"And unless I'm very much surprised, our friend at the present moment is
stepping out of his life-belt somewhere on the beach in Colwell Bay.
Tomorrow, I should imagine, he will cross to Lymington--and after that you
possibly know what his moves will be. I certainly don't--for I'm
completely in the dark over the whole stunt."

"It's too long a story to tell you now, old man," said Drummond. "But one
thing I do know. Whoever else may be picked up, our friend will not be
amongst the survivors. He's run unheard-of risks to pull this thing off,
including a cold-blooded murder. And now officially he's going to die
himself in order to throw everyone off the scent."  He laughed grimly.
"Moreover, he'd have done what he set out to do if you hadn't been
leaning over the side of your governor's yacht."

"But what's the prize this time?"

"Old Goodman's secret for making artificial diamonds--that was the prize,
and Peterson has got it."

Ted whistled softly. "I heard something about it from Algy," he remarked.
"But it seems to me, Hugh, that if that is the case, he's won."

Drummond laughed. "You were a bit surprised, Ted, when I refused to allow
you to pull us on board your boat. Of course I knew as well as you did
that with your speed we could have got clean away from them. But don't
you see, old man, the folly of doing so? He would have spotted at once
that we were not drowned; he would further have spotted that I was not as
mad as I made out. Chewing soap is the hell of a game," he added
inconsequently. Then he went on again, emphasising each point on his
fingers.

"Get me so far? Once he knew we were alive, it would have necessitated a
complete alteration of his plans. He'd probably have put straight into
some place on the south coast; gone ashore himself and never returned.
And then he'd have disappeared into the blue. Maybe he'd have had another
shot at murdering old Goodman; however, that point doesn't arise. The
thing is he'd have disappeared."

"Which is what he seems to have done now," remarked Ted.

Again Drummond laughed. "But I think I know where he'll turn up again. In
what form or guise remains to be seen: our one and only Carl is never
monotonous, to give him his due. You see, Ted, you don't seem to realise
the intense advantage of being dead. I didn't till I heard him discussing
it one night in his study. And now I'm dead, and the Professor's dead,
and dear Carl is dead. That's why I bumped the poor old man's head on the
barnacles underneath your boat, as we changed sides. It's a gorgeous
situation."

"Doubtless, old man," murmured the other. "Though you must remember it's
all a little dark and confusing to me. And anyway, where do you think
he'll turn up again so that you can recognise him--"

"My dear man, our little Irma, or Janet, or whatever name the sweet thing
is masquerading under this time, is a powerful magnet. And I am open to a
small bet that at the moment she is taking the air in Switzerland:
Montreux to be exact. What more natural, then, that believing himself
perfectly safe, our one and only Carl will return to the arms of his
lady--if only for a time."

"And you propose to fly there also?"

"Exactly. I want the notes of that process, and I also want a final
reckoning with the gentleman."

"Final?" said Ted, glancing at Drummond thoughtfully.

"Definitely final," answered Drummond quietly. "This time our friend has
gone too far."

Jerningham looked at the numerous other boats which, by this time, had
arrived at the scene of the disaster. Then he swung his helm hard round.

"That being so," he remarked, "since our presence is no longer needed
here, I suggest that we get a move on. From my knowledge of Montreux, old
man, it is getting uncomfortably hot just now. Deauville will be more in
Irma's line. If I were you, I'd get out there, and do it quick. Joking
apart, you may be right and, of course, I don't know all the fact of the
case. But from what I've guessed, I think friend Peterson will cover all
his tracks at the first possible moment."

"He may," agreed Drummond. "And yet--believing that the Professor and I
are both dead--he may not. You see," he repeated once again, "he thinks
he's safe. Therein lies the maggot in the Stilton." With which profound
simile he relapsed into silence, only broken as once more the boat drew
up alongside the yacht.

"He thinks he's safe, which is where he goes into the mulligatawny up to
his neck. Put these fellows on shore, Ted, give me a change of clothes,
and then run me over to Lymington."



CHAPTER 12 - In Which he Samples Mr Blackton's Napoleon Brandy


That Drummond was no fool his intimate friends knew well. He had a
strange faculty for hitting the nail on the head far more often than not.
Possibly his peculiarly direct method of argument enabled him to reach
more correct conclusions than someone subtler-minded and cleverer could
achieve. His habit of going for essentials and discarding side issues was
merely the mental equivalent of those physical attributes which had made
him a holy terror in the ring. Moreover, he had the invaluable gift of
being able to put himself in the other man's place.

But it may be doubted if in any of his duels with Peterson he had ever
been more unerringly right than in his diagnosis of the immediate future.
It was not a fluke; it was in no sense guesswork.

He merely put himself in Peterson's place, and decided what he would do
under similar circumstances. And having decided on that, he went straight
ahead with his own plans, which, like all he made, were simple and to the
point. They necessitated taking a chance, but, after all, what plan
doesn't?

He had made up his mind to kill Peterson, but he wanted to do it in such
a manner that it would appeal to his sense of art in after-life. And with
Drummond the sense of art was synonymous with the sense of fair play. He
would give Peterson a fair chance to fight for his life. But in addition
to that his ambition went a little farther. He felt that this culminating
duel should be worthy of them both. The mental atmosphere must be
correct, as well as the mundane surroundings.

That that was largely beyond his control he realised, but he hoped for
the best. The sudden plunging of Peterson from the dizzy heights of
success into the valley of utter failure must not be a hurried affair,
but a leisurely business in which each word would tell. How dizzy were
the heights to which Peterson thought he had attained was, of course,
known only to Peterson. But, on that point, he need not have worried.

For Mr Edward Blackton, as he stepped out of the train at Montreux
station at nine o'clock on a glorious summer's evening, was in a
condition in which even a request for one of his three remaining bottles
of Napoleon brandy might have been acceded to.

True, his right arm pained him somewhat; true, he was supremely unaware
that at seven o'clock that morning Drummond had descended from the Orient
express on to the same platform. What he was aware of was that in his
pocket reposed the secret which would make him all-powerful; and in his
hand-bag reposed an English morning paper giving the eminently
satisfactory news that only six survivors had been rescued from the SY
Gadfly, which had mysteriously blown up off the Needles. Moreover, all
six had combined in saying that the temporary owner of the yacht--a Mr
Robinson--must be amongst those drowned.

The hotel bus drew up at the door of the Palace Hotel, and Mr Blackton
descended. He smiled a genial welcome at the manager, and strolled into
the luxurious lounge. In the ballroom leading out of it a few couples
were dancing, but his shrewd glance at once found whom he was looking
for; In a corner sat Irma talking to a young Roumanian of great wealth,
and a benevolent glow spread over him. No more would the dear child have
to do these fatiguing things from necessity. If she chose to continue
parting men from their money as a hobby it would be quite a different
thing. There is a vast difference between pleasure and business.

He sauntered across the lounge towards her, and realised at once that
there was something of importance she wished to say to him. For a minute
or two, however, they remained there chatting; then with a courteous good
night they left the Roumanian and ascended in the lift to their suite.

"What is it, my dearest?" he remarked, as he shut the sitting room door.

"That man Blantyre is here, Ted," said the girl. "He's been asking to see
you."

He sat down and pulled her to his knee. "Blantyre," he laughed. "Sir
Raymond! I thought it possible he might come. And is he very angry?"

"When he saw me he was nearly speechless with rage."

"Dear fellow! It must have been a dreadful shock to him."

"But, Ted," she cried anxiously, "is it all right?"

"Righter even than that, carissima. Blantyre simply doesn't come into the
picture. All I trust is that he won't have a fit in the room or anything,
because I think that Sir Raymond in a fit would be a disquieting
spectacle."

There was a knock at the door, and the girl got quickly up. "Come in."

Mr Blackton regarded the infuriated man who entered with a tolerant
smile.

"Sir Raymond Blantyre, surely. A delightful surprise. Please shut the
door, and tell us to what we are indebted for the pleasure of this
visit."

The President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate advocated slowly
across the room. His usually florid face was white with rage, and his
voice, when he spoke, shook uncontrollably.

"You scoundrel--you infernal, damned scoundrel!"

Mr Blackton thoughtfully lit a cigar; then, leaning back in his chair, he
surveyed his visitor benignly. "Tush, tush!" he murmured. "I must beg of
you to remember that there is a lady present."

Sir Raymond muttered something under his breath; then, controlling
himself with an effort, he sat down. "I presume it is unnecessary for me
to explain why I am here," he remarked at length.

"I had imagined through a desire to broaden our comparatively slight
acquaintance into something deeper and more intimate," said Mr Blackton
hopefully.

"Quit this fooling," snarled the other. "Do you deny that you have the
papers containing Goodman's process?"

"I never deny anything till I'm asked, and not always then."

"Have you got them, or have you not?" cried Sir Raymond furiously.

"Now I put it to you, my dear fellow, am I a fool or am I not?" Mr
Blackton seemed almost pained. "Of course I have the papers of the
process. What on earth do you suppose I put myself to the trouble and
inconvenience of coming over to England for? Moreover, if it is of any
interest to you, the notes are no longer in the somewhat difficult
calligraphy of our lamented Professor, but in my own perfectly legible
writing."

"You scoundrel!" spluttered Sir Raymond. "You took our money--half a
million pounds--on the clear understanding that the process was to be
suppressed."

Mr Blackton blew out a large cloud of smoke. "The point is a small one,"
he murmured, "but that is not my recollection of what transpired. You and
your syndicate offered me half a million pounds to prevent Professor
Goodman revealing his secret to the world. Well, Professor Goodman hasn't
done so--nor will he do so. So I quite fail to see any cause for
complaint."

The veins stood out on Sir Raymond's forehead. "You have the brazen
effrontery to sit there and maintain that our offer to you did not
include the destruction of the secret? Do you imagine we should have been
so incredibly foolish as to pay you a large sum of money merely to
transfer those papers from his pocket to yours?"

Mr Blackton shrugged his shoulders. "The longer I live, my dear Sir
Raymond, the more profoundly do I become impressed with how incredibly
foolish a lot of people are. But, in this case, do not let us call it
foolishness. A kinder word is surely more appropriate to express your
magnanimity. There are people who say that business men are hard. No--a
thousand times, no. To present me with the secret was charming; but to
force upon me half a million pounds sterling as well was almost
extravagant."

"Hand it over--or I'll kill you like a dog."

Mr Blackton's eyes narrowed a little; then he smiled. "Really, Sir
Raymond--don't be so crude. I must beg of you to put that absurd weapon
away. Why, my dear fellow, it might go off. And though I believe capital
punishment has been abolished in most of the cantons in Switzerland, I
don't think imprisonment for life would appeal to you."

Slowly the other man lowered his revolver.

"That's better--much better," said Mr Blackton approvingly. "And now, have
we anything further to discuss?"

"What do you propose to do?" asked Sir Raymond dully.

"Really, my dear fellow, I should have thought it was fairly obvious. One
thing you may be quite sure about: I do not propose to inform the Royal
Society about the matter."

"No, but you propose to make use of your knowledge yourself?"

"Naturally. In fact I propose to become a millionaire many times over by
means of it."

"That means the ruin of all of us."

"My dear Sir Raymond, your naturally brilliant brain seems amazingly
obtuse this evening. Please give me the credit of knowing something about
the diamond market. I shall place these stones with such care that even
you will have no fault to find. It will do me no good to deflate the
price of diamonds. Really, if you look into it, you know, your
half-million has not been wasted. You would have been ruined without
doubt if Professor Goodman had broadcast his discovery to the world at
large. Every little chemist would have had genuine diamonds the size of
tomatoes in his front window. Now nothing of the sort will happen. And
though I admit that it is unpleasant for you to realise that at any
moment a stone worth many thousands may be put on the market at the cost
of a fiver, It's not as bad as it would have been if you hadn't called me
in. And one thing I do promise you: I will make no attempt to undersell
you. My stones will be sold at the current market price."

Sir Raymond stirred restlessly in his chair. It was perfectly true what
this arch-scoundrel said: it was better that the secret should be in the
hands of a man who knew how to use it than in those of an unpractical old
chemist.

"You see, Sir Raymond," went on Mr Blackton, 'the whole matter is so
simple. The only living people who know anything about this process are
you and your syndicate--and I. One can really pay no attention to that
inconceivable poop--I forget his name--I mean the one with the eyeglass."

"There's his friend," grunted Sir Raymond--'that vast man."

"You allude to Drummond," said Mr Blackton softly.

"That's his name. I don't know how much he knows, but he suspects a good
deal. And he struck me as being a dangerous young man."

Mr Blackton smiled sadly. "Drummond! Dear fellow. My darling," he turned
to the girl, "I have some sad news for you. In the excitement of Sir
Raymond's visit, I quite forgot to tell you. Poor Drummond is no more."

The girl sat up quickly. "Dead! Drummond dead! Good heavens! how?"

"It was all very sad, and rather complicated. The poor dear chap went
mad. In his own charming phraseology he got kittens in the granary. But
all through his terrible affliction, one spark of his old life remained:
his rooted aversion to me. The only trouble was that he mistook someone
else for your obedient servant, and at last his feelings overcame him. I
took him for a short sea-voyage, with the gentleman he believed was me,
and he rewarded me by frothing at the mouth, and jumping overboard in a
fit of frenzy, clutching this unfortunate gentleman in the grip of a
maniac. They were both drowned. Too sad, is it not?"

"But I don't understand," cried the girl. "Good heavens! what's that?"

From a large cupboard occupying most of one wall came the sound of a cork
being extracted. It was unmistakable, and a sudden deadly silence settled
on the room. The occupants seemed temporarily paralysed: corks do not
extract themselves. And then a strange pallor spread over Mr Blackton's
face, as if some ghastly premonition of the truth had dawned on him.

He tottered rather than walked to the cupboard and flung it open.
Comfortably settled in the corner was Drummond. In one hand he held a
corkscrew, in the other a full bottle of Napoleonic brandy, which he was
sniffing with deep appreciation.

"I pass this, Carl," he remarked, "as a very sound liqueur brandy. And if
you would oblige me with a glass, I will decide if the taste comes up to
the bouquet. A tooth-tumbler will do excellently, if you have no other."

The pallor grew more sickly on Blackton's face as he stared at the
speaker. He had a sudden sense of unreality; the room was spinning round.
It was untrue, of course; it was a dream. Drummond was drowned: he knew
it. So how could he be sitting in the cupboard?

Manifestly the thing was impossible.

"Well, well," said the apparition, stretching out his legs comfortably,
"this is undoubtedly a moment fraught with emotion and, I trust I may
say, tender memories."

He bowed to the girl, who, with her hands locked together, was, staring
at him with unfathomable eyes. "Before proceeding, may I ask the correct
method of addressing you? I like to pander to your foibles, Carl, in any
way I can, and I gather that neither Mr Robinson nor Professor
Scheidstrun is technically accurate at the moment."

"How did you get here?" said Blackton in a voice he hardly recognised as
his own.

"By the Orient express this morning," returned Drummond, emerging
languidly from the cupboard.

"My God! you're not human."

The words seemed to be wrung from Blackton by a force greater than his
own, and Drummond looked at him thoughtfully. There was no doubt about
it--Peterson's nerve had gone. And Drummond would indeed not have been
human if a very real thrill of triumph had not run through him at that
moment. But no trace showed on his face as he opened his cigarette-case.

"On the contrary--very human indeed," he murmured. "Even as you,
Carl--you'll excuse me if I return to our original nomenclature: It's so
much less confusing. To err is human--and you erred once. It's bad luck,
because I may frankly say that in all the pleasant rencontres we've had
together nothing has filled me with such profound admiration for your
ability as this meeting. There are one or two details lacking in my
mind--one in particular; but on what I do know, I congratulate you. And
possessing, as I think you must admit, a sense of sportsmanship, I feel
almost sorry for that one big error of yours, though it is a delightful
compliment to my histrionic abilities. How's Freyder's face?"

"So you hadn't got concussion?" said the other. His voice was steadier
now; he was thinking desperately.

"You've hit it, Carl. I recovered from my concussion on the floor, of
your room, and listened with interest to your plans for my future. And
having a certain natural gift for lying doggo, I utilised it. But if it's
any gratification to you, I can assure you that I very nearly gave myself
away when I found who it was you had upstairs. You will doubtless be glad
to hear that by this time Professor Goodman is restored to the bosom of
his family."

A strangled noise came from behind him, and he turned round to find Sir
Raymond Blantyre in a partially choking condition. "Who did you say?" he
demanded thickly.

"Professor Goodman," repeated Drummond, and his voice was icy. "I haven't
got much to say to you, Sir Raymond--except that you're a nasty piece of
work. Few things in my life have afforded me so much pleasure as the fact
that you were swindled out of half a million. I wish it had been more.
For the man who carried this coup through one can feel a certain
unwilling admiration; for you, one can feel only the most unmitigated
contempt."

"How dare you speak like that!" spluttered the other, but Drummond was
taking no further notice of him.

"That was your second error, Carl. You ought to have come into the
motor-boat. I assure you I had a dreadful time dragging that poor old
chap underneath it, as you crossed our stern. His knowledge of swimming
is rudimentary."

"So that was it, was it?" said Blackton slowly. His nerve had completely
recovered, and he lit a cigar with ease. "I really think it is for me to
congratulate you, my dear Drummond. Apart, however, from this exchange of
pleasantries--er--what do we do now?"

"You say that Professor Goodman is still alive?" Sir Raymond had found
his voice again. "Then who--who was buried?"

"Precisely," murmured Drummond. "The one detail in particular in which I
am interested. Who was the owner of the boot? Or shall I say who was the
owner of the foot inside the boot, because the boot was undoubtedly the
Professor's?"

"The point seems to me to be of but academic interest," remarked Mr
Blackton in a bored voice. "Nil nisis bonum'--you know the old tag. And I
can assure you that the foot's proprietor was a tedious individual. No
loss to the community whatever."

And suddenly a light dawned on Sir Raymond Blantyre. "Great heavens! it
was poor Lewisham."

Absorbed as he had been by other things, the strange disappearance of his
indiscreet fellow-director, the peculiar radiogram from mid-Atlantic and
subsequent silence, had slipped from his mind. Now it came back, and he
stared at Blackton with a sort of fascinated horror. The reason for
Lewisham's visit to Professor Goodman was clear, and he shuddered
uncontrollably. "It was Lewisham," he repeated dully.

"I rather believe it was," murmured Blackton, dismissing the matter with
a wave of his hand. "As I said before, the point is of but academic
interest."

He turned again to Drummond. "So Professor Goodman is restored to his
family once more. I trust he has suffered no ill-effects from his
prolonged immersion."

"None at all, thank you," answered Drummond. "Somewhat naturally, he is
angry. In fact, for a mild and gentle old man, he is in what might be
described as the devil of a temper."

"But if he's back in London," broke in Sir Raymond excitedly, "what about
his secret? It will be given to the world, and all this will have been in
vain."

Mr Blackton thoughtfully studied the ash on his cigar, while Drummond
stared at the speaker. And then for one fleeting instant their eyes met.
Sworn enemies though they were, for that brief moment they stood on
common ground--unmitigated contempt for the man who had just spoken.

"From many points of view, Sir Raymond, I wish it could be given to the
world," said Drummond. "I can think of no better punishment for you, or
one more richly deserved. Unfortunately, however, you can set your mind
at rest on that point. Professor Goodman no longer possesses his notes on
the process."

"Precisely," murmured Mr Blackton. "It struck me that one copy was ample.
So I destroyed his."

"But for all that," continued Drummond, noting the look of relief that
spread over Sir Raymond's face, "I don't think you're going to have a
fearfully jolly time when you return to London. In fact, if I may offer
you a word of advice, I wouldn't return at all."

"What do you mean?" stammered the other.

"Exactly what I say, you damned swine," snapped Drummond. "Do you imagine
you can instigate murder and sudden death, and then go trotting into the
Berkeley as if nothing had happened? You're for it, Blantyre; you're for
it--good and strong. And you're going to get it. As I say, the Professor
is angry and he's obstinate and he wants your blood. My own impression is
that if you get off with fifteen years, you can think yourself lucky."

Sir Raymond plucked at his collar feverishly. "Fifteen years! My God!"

Then his voice rose to a scream. "But it was this villain who did it all,
I tell you, who murdered Lewisham, who..."

With a crash he fell back in the chair where Drummond had thrown him, and
though his shaking lips still framed words, no sound came from them.
Blackton was still critically regarding the ash on his cigar; Drummond
had turned his back and was speaking again.

"Yes, Carl," he was saying, "the Professor and I will deal with Sir
Raymond. Or if anything should happen to me, then the Professor is quite
capable of doing it himself."

"And what do you anticipate should happen to you?" asked Blackton
politely. "Nothing, I trust. But there is one thing which I have never
done in the past during all our games of fun and laughter. I have never
made the mistake of underrating you."

Blackton glanced at him thoughtfully. "We appear," he murmured, 'to be
approaching the sixpence in the plum-pudding."

"We are," returned Drummond quietly. "Sir Raymond is the Professor's
portion; you are mine."

A silence settled on the room--a silence broken at length by Blackton. His
blue eyes never left Drummond's face; the smoke from his cigar rose into
the air undisturbed by any tremor of his hand.

"I am all attention," he remarked.

"There is not much to say," said Drummond. "But what there is, I hope may
interest you. If my memory serves me aright, there was one unfailing jest
between us in the old days. Henry Lakington did his best to make it stale
before he met with his sad end; that unpleasant Count Zadowa let it trip
from his tongue on occasions; in fact, Carl, you yourself have used it
more than once. I allude to the determination expressed by you all at one
time or another--to kill me."

Blackton nodded thoughtfully. "Now you speak of it, I do recall something
of the sort."

"Good," continued Drummond. "And since no one could call me grudging in
praise, I will admit that you made several exceedingly creditable
attempts. This time, however, the boot is on the other leg; it's my turn
to say--snap. In other words, I am going to kill you, Carl. At least, lest
I should seem to boast, I'm going to have a damned good attempt--one that
I trust will be even more creditable than yours."

Once again a silence settled, broken this time by an amused laugh from
the girl. "Adorable as ever, my Hugh," she murmured. "And where shall I
send the wreath?"

"Mademoiselle," answered Drummond gravely, "I propose to be far more
original than that. To do your--er--father--well, we won't press that
point--to do Carl justice, his attempts were most original. You were not,
of course, present on the evening at Maybrick Hall, when that exceedingly
unpleasant Russian came to an untimely end. But for the arrival of the
Black Gang, I fear that I should have been the victim--and Phyllis.
However, let me assure you that I have no intention whatever of doing you
any harm. But I should like you to listen--even as Phyllis had to
listen--while I outline my proposals. Carl ran over his that night for my
benefit, and I feel sure he would have fallen in with any proposals I had
to make. Similarly, believe me, I shall be only too charmed to do the
same for him."

Sir Raymond Blantyre sat up and pinched himself. Was this some strange
jest staged for his special benefit? Was this large young man who spoke
with a twinkle in his eyes the jester? And glancing at the two men, he
saw that there was no longer any twinkle, and that Blackton's face had
become strangely drawn and anxious. But his voice when he spoke was calm.

"We appear to be in for an entertaining chat," he murmured.

"I hope you will find it so," returned Drummond gravely. "But before we
come to my actual proposal, I would like you to understand quite clearly
what will happen if you refuse to fall in with it. Outside in the
passage, Carl, are two large, stolid Swiss gendarmes: men of sterling
worth, and quite unbribable. They don't know why they are there at
present; but it will not take long to enlighten them. Should you decide,
therefore, to decline my suggestion, I shall be under the painful
necessity of requesting them to step in here, when I will inform them of
just so much of your past history as to ensure your sleeping for the next
few nights in rather less comfortable quarters. Until, in fact,
extradition papers arrive from England. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," answered the other. "That will occur if I do not fall in
with your suggestion. So let us hear the suggestion."

"It took a bit of thinking out," admitted Drummond. "I haven't got your
fertile brain, Carl, over these little matters. Still, I flatter myself
it's not bad for a first attempt. I realised somewhat naturally the
drawbacks to shooting you on sight--besides, it's so bad for the carpet.
At the same time I have come to the unalterable conclusion that the world
is not big enough for both of us. I might--you will justly observe--hand
you over anyway to those stolid warriors outside. And since you would
undoubtedly be hanged, the problem would be solved. But unsatisfactorily,
Carl--most unsatisfactorily."

"We are certainly in agreement on that point," said the other.

"We have fought in the past without the police; we'll finish without
them. And having made up my mind to that, it became necessary to think of
some scheme by which the survivor should not suffer. If it's you--well,
you'll get caught sooner or later; if it's me, I certainly don't propose
to suffer in any way. Apart from having just bought weight-carrying
hunters for next winter, it would be grossly unfair that I should."

He selected a cigarette with care and lit it.

"It was you, Carl, who put the idea into my head," he continued, "so much
of the credit is really yours. Your notion of making my death appear
accidental that night at Maybrick Hall struck me as excellent. Worthy
undoubtedly of an encore. Your death, Carl--or mine--will appear
accidental, which makes everything easy for the survivor. I hope I'm not
boring you."

"Ger down to it," snarled Blackton. "Don't play the fool, damn you!"

"As you did, Carl, that night at Maybrick Hall."

For a moment the veins stood out on Drummond's neck as the remembrance of
that hideous scene came back to him; then he controlled himself and went
on. "At first sight it may seem absurd--even fanciful--this scheme of mine;
but don't judge it hastily, I beg you. Know anything about glaciers,
Carl?" He smiled at the look of blank amazement on the other's face.
"Jolly little things, my dear fellow, if you treat 'em the right way. But
dangerous things to play tricks with. There are great cracks in them, you
know-deep cracks with walls of solid ice. If a man falls down one of
those cracks, unless help is forthcoming at once, he doesn't live long,
Carl; in fact, he dies astonishingly quickly."

Blackton moistened his lips with his tongue.

"People fall down these cracks accidentally sometimes," continued
Drummond thoughtfully. "In fact there was a case once--I won't vouch for
its truth--but I'm sure you'd like to hear the story. It occurred on the
glacier not far from Grindelwald--and It's always tickled me to death. It
appears that one of the local celebrities went out to pick edelweiss or
feed the chamois or something equally jolly, and failed to return. He'd
gone out alone, and after a time his pals began to get uneasy. So they
instituted a search-party, and in due course they found him. Or rather
they saw him. He had slipped on the edge of one of the deepest crevasses
in the whole glacier, and there he was about fifty feet below them wedged
between the two walls of ice. He was dead, of course--though they yodelled
at him hopefully for the rest of the day. A poor story, isn't it,
Carl?--but It's not quite finished. They decided to leave him there for
the night, and return next day and extract him. Will you believe it,
Mademoiselle, when they arrived the following morning, they couldn't get
at him. The old glacier had taken a heave forward in the night, and there
he was wedged. Short of blasting him out with dynamite he was there for
keeps. A terrible position for a self-respecting community, don't you
think? To have the leading citizen on full view in a block of ice gives
visitors an impression of carelessness. Of course, they tried to keep it
dark; but it was useless.

"People came flocking from all over the place. Scientists came and made
mathematical calculations as to when he'd come out at the bottom. Every
year he moved on a few more yards; every year his widow--a person now of
some consequence--took her children to see father, and later on her
grandchildren to see grandfather. Forty years was the official time--and I
believe he passed the winning post in forty-one years three months: a
wonderful example of pertinacity and dogged endurance." Drummond paused
hopefully. "That's a pretty original idea, Carl, don't you think?"

Sir Raymond gave a short, almost hysterical laugh, but there was no sign
of mirth on the faces of the other two.

"Am I to understand," said Blackton harshly, 'that you propose that one
or other of us should fall down a crevasse in a glacier? I've never heard
anything so ridiculous in my life."

"Don't say that," answered Drummond. "It's no more ridiculous than
braining me with a rifle-butt, as you intended to do once. And a great
deal less messy. Anyway, that is my proposal. You and I, Carl, will go
unarmed to a glacier. We will there find a suitably deep crevasse. And on
the edge of that crevasse"-his voice changed suddenly-"we will fight for
the last time, with our bare hands. It will be slippery, which is to your
advantage, though the fact that I am stronger than you cannot be adjusted
at this late hour.

"It's that--or the police, Peterson: one gives you a chance, the other
gives you none. And if, as I hope, you lose--why, think of your triumph.
The leading detectives of four continents will be dancing with rage on
the top of the ice watching you safely embalmed underneath their feet."

"I refuse utterly," snarled the other. "It's murder--nothing more nor
less."

"A form of amusement you should be used to," said Drummond. "However, you
refuse. Very good. I will now send for the police."

He rose and went to the door, and Blackton looked round desperately.

"Wait," he cried. "Can't we--can't we come to some arrangement?"

"None. Those are my terms. And there is one other that I have not
mentioned. You said that two copies of the Professor's notes were
excessive. I agree--but I go farther: one is too much; that process is
altogether too dangerous. If the police take you--it doesn't matter; but
if you accept my terms, you've got to hand that copy over to me now. And
I shall burn it. I don't mind running the risk of being killed; but if I
am, you're not going to get away with the other thing too."

Drummond glanced at his watch. "I give you half a minute to decide."

The seconds dragged by and Blackton stared in front of him.

Plan after plan flashed through his mind, only to be dismissed as
impossible. He was caught--and he knew it. Once the police had him, he was
done for utterly and completely. They could hang him ten times over in
England alone. Moreover, anything in the nature of personal violence
under present circumstances was out of the question. Powerful though he
was, at no time was he a match for Drummond in the matter of physical
strength; but here in the Palace Hotel it was too impossible even to
think of. Almost as impossible as any idea of bribery.

He was caught: not only had this, his greatest coup, failed, but his life
was forfeit as well. For he was under no delusions as to what would be
the result of the fight on the glacier.

He heard the snap of a watch closing.

"Your half-minute is up, Peterson." Drummond's hand was on the door. "And
I must say--I thought better of you."

"Stop," said the other sullenly. "I accept."

Drummond came back into the room slowly. "That is good," he remarked.
"Then first of all--the notes of Professor Goodman's process."

Without a word Blackton handed over two sheets of paper, though in his
eyes was a look of smouldering fury.

"You fool!" he snarled, as he watched them burn to ashes. "You damned
fool!"

"Opinions differ," in murmured Drummond, powdering the ash on the table.
"And now to discuss arrangements. We start early tomorrow morning by car.
I have been to some pains to examine the time-table--I mention this in
case you should try to bolt. There is nothing that will do you any good
either in the Lausanne direction or towards Italy. Behind you have the
mountain railways, which don't run trains at night; in front you have the
lake. Below two very good friends of mine are waiting to assist if
necessary--though I can promise you they will take no part in our little
scrap. But you're such an elusive person, Peterson, that I felt I could
take no chances.

"To the best of my ability I've hemmed you in for the few hours that
remain before we start. And then you and I will sit on the back seat and
discuss the view. I feel the precautions seem excessive, but I have not
the advantage of a specially prepared house--like you have always had in
the past."

"And until we start?" said Blackton quietly.

"We remain in this room," answered Drummond. "At least--you and I do.
Mademoiselle must please herself."

The girl looked at him languidly.

"You don't mind if I leave you?" she remarked. "To tell you the truth,
mon ami, you're being a little tedious this evening. And since I am going
to Evian-Les-Bains for the waters tomorrow, I think I'll retire to bed.
Do you know Evian?"

"Never heard of it, I'm afraid," said Drummond. "My geography was always
rotten."

He was lighting a cigarette, more to conceal his thoughts than for any
desire to smoke. That she was a perfect actress he knew, and yet it
seemed impossible to believe that her composure was anything but natural.
He glanced at Peterson, who was still sitting motionless, his chin sunk
on his chest. He glanced at the girl, and she was patting a stray tendril
of hair in front of a mirror. He even glanced at Sir Raymond, but there
was nothing to be learned from that gentleman. He still resembled a man
only partially recovered from a drugged sleep. Was it conceivable that he
had left a loophole in his scheme? Or could it be that she had ceased to
care for Peterson?

She had turned and was regarding him with a faint smile.

"I fear I shan't be up before you go tomorrow," she murmured. "But
whoever does not go into cold storage must come and tell me about it. And
there are a lot of other things, too, I want to hear about. Why Carl, for
instance, ought to have looked in the motorboat, and how you got
concussion."

Drummond looked at her steadily. "I find you a little difficult to
understand, Mademoiselle. I trust you are under no delusions as to
whether I am bluffing or not. You can, at any rate settle one point in
your mind by glancing outside the door."

"To see the two large policemen," laughed the girl. "La, la, my dear
man-they would give me what you call a nightmare. I will take your word
for it."

"And any appeal for help will result somewhat unfortunately for Carl."

She shrugged her shoulders irritably. "I know when the game is up,"
she remarked. Then abruptly she turned on the man who had been
her companion for years. "Bah! you damned fool!" she stormed. "Every
time this great idiot here does you down. Not once, but half a dozen
times have you told me 'Drummond is dead,' and every time he bobs
up again like a jack-in-the-box. And now--this time--when you had
everything--everything--everything, you go and let him beat you again.
You tire me. It is good that we end our partnership. You are imbecile."

She raged out of the room, and Carl Peterson raised his haggard eyes as
the door closed. His lips had set in a twisted smile, and after a while
his head sank forward again, and he sat motionless, staring at the table
in front of him. His. cigar had long gone out; he seemed to have aged
suddenly. And into Drummond's mind there stole a faint feeling of pity.

"I'm sorry about that, Peterson," he said quietly. "She might at least
have seen the game out to the end."

The other made no reply-only by a slight shake of his shoulders did he
show that he had heard. And Drummond's feeling of pity increased.
Scoundrel, murderer, unmitigated blackguard though he knew this man to
be, yet when all was said and done he was no weakling. And it wasn't
difficult to read his thoughts at the moment-to realise the bitterness
and the fury that must be possessing him. Half an hour ago he had
believed himself successful beyond his wildest dreams; now-And then for
the girl to go back on him at the finish.

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 Chateau 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 street-lamp 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 motor-boat
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 motor-boat 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 hob-nailed boots on the glacier."



CHAPTER 13 - In Which Drummond Receives an Addition to his Library


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".



THE END

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