"Damn you!" muttered Melville, "you sneering devil."
He showed all his white teeth, half springing, with crouched shoulders. Wimsey waited quietly, his hands in his pockets.
The rush did not come. With a furious gesture, Melville pulled out his keys and unlocked his dressing-case.
"Take them," he growled, flinging a small parcel on the table; "you've got me. Take 'em and go to hell."
"Eventually—why not now?" murmured his lordship. "Thanks frightfully. Man of peace myself, you know—hate unpleasantness and all that." He scrutinised his booty carefully, running the stones expertly between his fingers. Over the portrait he pursed up his lips. "Yes," he murmured, "that would have made a row." He replaced the wrapping and slipped the parcel into his pocket.
"Well, good night, Melville—and thanks for a pleasant game."
"I say, Biggs," said Wimsey, when he had returned to the card-room. "You've had a lot of experience. What tactics d'you think one's justified in usin' with a blackmailer?"
"Ah!" said the K.C. "There you've put your finger on Society's sore place, where the Law is helpless. Speaking as a man, I'd say nothing could be too bad for the brute. It's a crime crueller and infinitely worse in its results than murder. As a lawyer, I can only say that I have consistently refused to defend a blackmailer or to prosecute any poor devil who does away with his tormentor."
"H'm," replied Wimsey. "What do you say, Colonel?"