Fairweather swallowed.
"How much do you think she'll want?"
"I don't know. I don't think I care very much. It doesn't seem to be very important. Money is a very temporary solution — you never know how soon you may have to repeat the dose. This cloakroom story may be a myth from beginning to end. She might easily have these papers in her dressing-table drawer. She might easily have no papers at all. Her attitude is the thing that matters; and with this man Templar in the background it would be unwise to take chances." Luker shrugged. "No, my dear Algy, I'm afraid we shall have to take more permanent steps to deal with both of them."
"W-what sort of steps?" stammered Fairweather feebly. "H-how can we deal with them?"
That seemed to amuse Luker. The ghost of a smile dragged at the corners of his mouth.
"Do you really want to know?" he asked interestedly.
"You mean…" Fairweather didn't seem to know how to go on. His collar appeared to be choking him. He tugged at it in spasmodic efforts to loosen it. "I–I don't think so," he said. "I…"
Luker laughed outright.
"There's a sort of suburban piousness about you and Sangore that verges on the indecent," he remarked. "You're just like a couple of squeamish old maids who hold shares in a brothel. You want your money, but you're determined not to know how it's obtained. If anything unpleasant or drastic has to be done, that's all right with you so long as you don't have to do it yourselves. That's how you felt about getting rid of Kennet. Now it's Templar and Lady Valerie. Well, they've got to be murdered, haven't they?"
Fairweather wriggled, as if his clothes were full of ants. His face was glistening with sweat.