“I shall do it,” said Mast, doggedly. “But I don’t see how it repairs anything. I don’t see how it helps us at all.”
It was only then that Sir John spoke of the certainty that a disputed succession would follow upon the death of Smith, and of the use that the exiles would be able to make of it. It was so much better to represent Smith’s death as a punishment for a past crime than as a murder for a future advantage.
Mast remained spiritless and rather sullen. He was a little stunned at finding what was required of him. He had liked Smith—had been rather intimate with him at one time.
“There’s no other way?” he asked.
Sir John became a little impatient. “That’s all been talked out. Look here, Mast, if your promises were so much hot air, and you’re too frightened to do what you said you would, own up at once and waste no more of our time.”
Mast scowled. “On the day that Lechworthy leaves Faloo the King will die,” he said. “I shall kill him. Does that satisfy you?”
“Quite.”
“Well, I want to think it over. I needn’t wait for this damned committee meeting, need I?”
“Of course you must wait. Pryce is away, and we must have three for the look of the thing. It won’t take twenty minutes.”