“Baubles,” he said, scornfully. “Pretty baubles. What will you get for them?”
“Ten, perhaps fifteen thousand,” returned the other. “But it’s not the money I care about; it’s the delight in having them, and the skill required to get them.”
Peterson shrugged his shoulders.
“Skill which would give you hundreds of thousands if you turned it into proper channels.”
Lakington replaced the stones, and threw the end of his cigarette into the grate.
“Possibly, Carl, quite possibly. But it boils down to this, my friend, that you like the big canvas with broad effects, I like the miniature and the well-drawn etching.”
“Which makes us a very happy combination,” said Peterson, rising and walking over to the bath. “The pearls, don’t forget, are your job. The big thing”—he turned to the other, and a trace of excitement came into his voice—“the big thing is mine.” Then with his hands in his pockets he stood staring at the brown liquid. “Our friend is nearly cooked, I think.”
“Another two or three minutes,” said Lakington, joining him. “I must confess I pride myself on the discovery of that mixture. Its only drawback is that it makes murder too easy....”
The sound of the door opening made both men swing round instantly; then Peterson stepped forward with a smile.
“Back, my dear. I hardly expected you so soon.”