The Nether Millstone

by Fred M. White

"Mr. Darnley dining here, sir?" Slight asked with a rising inflection of voice. "Coming here tonight to meet that--I mean, Mr. Mayfield?"

"Well, why not? Any objection to make, Slight? Any little alteration to suit you? You have only to mention it."

Slight muttered a hasty apology. He had come very near to betraying himself. As he looked into Speed's bloodshot eyes he saw something there that filled his heart with a sudden fear. For the old man knew everything; there was not a single move in the game with which he was not acquainted.

But Speed had forgotten all about Slight and his little slip. A small liqueur and a cigarette put him on good terms with himself once more. It was a beautiful day, too, with a soft breeze and brilliant sunshine. Across the park the deer were moving in a dappled line; the fine old gardens were looking their very best. As Speed paced up and down the terrace one gardener and another touched their hats to him. It filled him with a feeling of pleasure--flattered self-importance. It was worth the risk to be the head of a place like this, to feel that it was all his own. And only two years before he had been the slave of the pen, the toady of a sweating employer.

Speed felt that he could never give it up again. In his heart he was a murderer, so far as Ralph Darnley was concerned. He had read somewhere that there were several different kinds of poisons that left no trace behind. One of these was the virus of the cobra. No doubt that could be obtained in London, where money could procure anything. A drop of that, and Ralph Darnley was a dead man. Nobody would be any the wiser, it would be assumed that he had died of heart failure. A comparatively small outlay might procure the poison. It would be worth while going to London to see.

In these circumstances Speed knew that he would not have hesitated. He really could not give up the place. He had always naturally been of extravagant, luxurious tastes, and now he was in a position to gratify them to the full. The new West End tailor grovelled before him; jewellers and wine and cigar merchants laid their stocks at his feet; he had only to choose the list. If he rang the bell a score of servants were ready to wait on him; the costliest wines were at his disposal.

No, it would be impossible to give it up. Speed's mind kept harping on the matter of those poisons. He must try to find out where they could be procured. Once Ralph Darnley was out of the way, nobody would trouble him any more. Once that event happened nobody would dispute his claim. But then perhaps Mayfield had an idea. Mayfield was a clever, long-headed chap, who was not disposed to be scrupulous. On the whole, perhaps it would be as well to leave things to Mayfield.

There would be plenty of time to discuss matters before dinner. There was more than time as it turned out, for Mayfield arrived unexpectedly before luncheon. He looked drawn and worried, Speed thought, but there was a grim determination in his eye that Speed liked. Mr. Dashwood met Mayfield in the friendliest possible manner. If he felt any disgust towards the newcomer he disguised it very effectively. He went off presently under a strong hint that his host and Mayfield had some important business to discuss. He was going as far as Longtown, he said, and should not be back before dinner.

"That's the way to get rid of him," Speed said as he lay back in his chair, a large cigar between his lips. Slight had placed the wine on the table and vanished. "What a useless old encumbrance he is about the house. I shall have to get rid of him, Mayfield. When I wrote my generous offer I hoped that Mary would come, too. Those confounded servants want keeping in hand, and, besides, nobody seems to care about calling here, so long as there is nothing in the shape of a mistress about the place."

"Everybody has been wise," Mayfield said cynically. "Anyway, I am glad you have not got rid of old Dashwood yet. He is going to be a puppet in the play. We shall be able to make a very effective use of him before the day is out. Nothing happened yet, no kind of move on the part of the foe, I suppose?"