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 afterlife. 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 handbag reposed an English morning paper giving the eminently satisfactory news that only six survivors had been rescued from the S.Y. 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 Romanian 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 Romanian 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 on 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 advanced 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 caligraphy 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 broadcasted 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 a 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.”

“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 motorboat. 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 nisi bonum⁠—you know the old tag. And I can assure you that the foot’s proprietor was 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.”

“Get 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,” 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 timetable⁠—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 Château 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 streetlamp 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 motorboat 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 motorboat 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 hobnailed boots on the glacier.”