“Maybe,” said I, watching his right arm move. “I took your pistol, too,”
I added carelessly.
For a moment or two he almost lost control. Then he took a deep breath.
“Well,” he sighed, “you’re thorough. I’ll give you that. And my
chauffeur? I suppose I owe his failure to the same virtue.”
“You do,” said I. “And the message.”
“Dear, dear,” said he. “Not the telegram, too?”
“The telegram, too,” said I.
“Well, I’m damned,” said he, crossing his legs. “You do work hard, don’t
you?” With half-closed eyes, he let the smoke make its way out of his
mouth. “Glorious view from here. . . . That why you brought me?”
“In a way,” said I. “It’s quite a good place to—to see the sun go
down.”
Perowne shot me a glance.
“No doubt,” he said shortly. “But—I’m afraid I can’t wait so long. And
now tell me your game, and I’ll see if I care to play. Which is
it—blackmail or murder?”
“It’s not blackmail,” said I, and took off my goggles.
“Hullo,” said Perowne. “If it isn’t old What’s-his-name!”
The thrust was shrewd. Almost I lost my temper. To pretend that she’d
meant so little that her name was out of his mind. . . .