"Unhappily, Sir Charles, that is utterly impossible."
"Then I shall save it!"
"How?"
"By calling in the police and arresting you for attempted blackmail."
I broke into a soft rippling laugh. "So—" I muttered, "you only value your neck at five hundred pounds! Such fine and delicate vertebrae they are too!"
The irony brought some colour to his cheek. "My neck is in no danger," he retorted angrily. "What can you prove against us you fool, except that I performed a wonderful operation in the cause of science, in the ardent hope of saving a man's life, and in the sure trust of benefitting the whole human race?"
"But the man died, doctor, and he was one of nineteen! The coroner will shortly have a harvest, nineteen autopsies, Sir Charles! Think of them! Nineteen autopsies!"
"You fool," he repeated in tones of repressed passion, "if there were even ninety—what of it? But enough of this! choose between five hundred pounds and the lock-up. Choose quickly!"
He turned as he spoke and strode to the door. His hand was already on the latch. In another second the door would have been thrown wide. Perhaps there was a policeman in the passage, I thought it unlikely but still—possible! At all events it was time for me to cease trifling with my adversary.
"You appear, Sir Charles Venner, to have forgotten the matter of Cavanagh's death!" I hissed out. "He killed himself at the hospital, and his body was discovered at the studio!"