“Yes,” remarked Drummond, “I can. Henry has had an accident. After I drove him back from the Duchess’s last night”—the girl gave a cry, and Peterson steadied her with his arm—“we had words—dreadful words. And for a long time, Carl, I thought it would be better if you and I had similar words. In fact, I’m not sure even now that it wouldn’t be safer in the long run....”
“But where is he?” said the girl, through dry lips.
“Where you ought to be, Carl,” answered Hugh grimly. “Where, sooner or later, you will be.”
He pressed the studs in the niche of the wall, and the door of the big safe swung open slowly. With a scream of terror the girl sank half-fainting on the floor, and even Peterson’s cigar dropped on the floor from his nerveless lips. For, hung from the ceiling by two ropes attached to his arms, was the dead body of Henry Lakington. And even as they watched it, it sagged lower, and one of the feet hit sullenly against a beautiful old gold vase....
“My God!” muttered Peterson. “Did you murder him?”
“Oh, no!” answered Drummond. “He inadvertently fell in the bath he got ready for me, and then when he ran up the stairs in considerable pain, that interesting mechanical device broke his neck.”
“Shut the door,” screamed the girl; “I can’t stand it.”
She covered her face with her hands, shuddering, while the door slowly swung to again.
“Yes,” remarked Drummond thoughtfully, “it should be an interesting trial. I shall have such a lot to tell them about the little entertainments here, and all your endearing ways.”
With the big ledger under his arm he crossed the room, and called to some men who were standing outside in the hall; and as the detectives, thoughtfully supplied by Mr. Green, entered the central room, he glanced for the last time at Carl Peterson and his daughter. Never had the cigar glowed more evenly between the master-criminal’s lips; never had the girl Irma selected a cigarette from her gold and tortoiseshell case with more supreme indifference.