For a moment his companion brightened up.
“True, O King,” he answered. “It will ease the situation somewhat; at least, I suppose so. But think of it, Toby: no Lakington, no Peterson—nothing at all to play about with and keep one amused.”
“You’re very certain, Hugh.” With a feeling almost of wonder Sinclair glanced at the square-jawed, ugly profile beside him. “There’s many a slip...”
“My dear old man,” interrupted Drummond, “there’s only one cure for the proverb-quoting disease—a dose of salts in the morning.” For a while they raced on through the warm summer’s night in silence, and it was not till they were within a mile of their destination that Sinclair spoke again.
“What are you going to do with them, Hugh?”
“Who—our Carl and little Henry?” Drummond grinned gently. “Why, I think that Carl and I will part amicably—unless, of course, he gives me any trouble. And as for Lakington—we’ll have to see about Lakington.” The grin faded from his face as he spoke. “We’ll have to see about our little Henry,” he repeated softly. “And I can’t help feeling, Toby, that between us we shall find a method of ridding the earth of such a thoroughly unpleasing fellow.”
“You mean to kill him?” grunted the other non-committally.
“Just that, and no more,” responded Hugh. “To-morrow morning as ever is. But he’s going to get the shock of his young life before it happens.”
He pulled the car up silently in the deep shadows of some trees, and the two men got out.
“Now, old boy, you take her back to The Elms. The ducal abode is close to—I remember in my extreme youth being worse than passing sick by those bushes over there after a juvenile bun-worry...”