‘Did Mr Tom Jackson want to get some money out of Prince Eugen?’
‘Money! Not he! Tom’s never short of money.’
‘But I mean a lot of money—tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands?’
‘Tom never wanted money from anyone,’ said Miss Spencer doggedly.
‘Then had he some reason for wishing to prevent Prince Eugen from coming to London?’
‘Perhaps he had. I don’t know. If you kill me, I don’t know.’ Nella stopped to reflect. Then she raised the revolver. It was a mechanical, unintentional sort of action, and certainly she had no intention of using the weapon, but, strange to say, Miss Spencer again cowered before it. Even at that moment Nella wondered that a woman like Miss Spencer could be so simple as to think the revolver would actually be used. Having absolutely no physical cowardice herself, Nella had the greatest difficulty in imagining that other people could be at the mercy of a bodily fear. Still, she saw her advantage, and used it relentlessly, and with as much theatrical gesture as she could command. She raised the revolver till it was level with Miss Spencer’s face, and suddenly a new, queer feeling took hold of her. She knew that she would indeed use that revolver now, if the miserable woman before her drove her too far. She felt afraid—afraid of herself; she was in the grasp of a savage, primeval instinct. In a flash she saw Miss Spencer dead at her feet—the police—a court of justice—the scaffold. It was horrible.
‘Speak,’ she said hoarsely, and Miss Spencer’s face went whiter.
‘Tom did say,’ the woman whispered rapidly, awesomely, ‘that if Prince Eugen got to London it would upset his scheme.’
‘What scheme? What scheme? Answer me.’
‘Heaven help me, I don’t know.’ Miss Spencer sank into a chair. ‘He said Mr Dimmock had turned tail, and he should have to settle him and then Rocco—’