“Look here, Manfred, there’s a law in this country——” began Monty Newton hotly.
“I am the law.” The words rang like a knell of fate. “In this matter I am judge, jury, hangman. Old or young, I will not spare,” he said evenly.
“Are you immortal too?” sneered Monty.
Only for a second did Manfred’s eyes leave the old man’s face.
“The law is immortal,” he said. “If you dream that, by some cleverly concerted coup, you can sweep me from your path before I grow dangerous, be sure that your sweep is clean.”
“You haven’t asked me to come here to listen to this stuff, have you?” asked Newton, and though his words were bold, his manner aggressive, there were shadows on his face which were not there when Manfred had come into the room—shadows under his eyes and in his cheeks where plumpness had been.
“I’ve come here to tell you to let up on Miss Leicester. You’re after something that you cannot get, and nobody is in a position to give you. I don’t know what it is—I will make you a present of that piece of information. But it’s big—bigger than any prize you’ve ever gone after in your wicked lives. And to get that, you’re prepared to sacrifice innocent lives with the recklessness of spendthrifts who think there is no bottom to their purse. The end is near!”
He rose slowly and stood by the table, towering over the stiff-backed doctor.
“I cannot say what action the police will take over this providential snake-bite, Oberzohn, but I’ll make you this offer: I and my friends will stand out of the game and leave Meadows to get you in his own way. You think that means you’ll go scot-free? But it doesn’t. These police are like bulldogs: once they’ve got a grip of you, they’ll never let go.”
“What is the price you ask for this interesting service?” Newton was puffing steadily at his cigar, his hands clasped behind him, his feet apart, a picture of comfort and well-being.