“I see, sir,” said James.
“No, you don’t—you don’t see anything. Now trot along over, James, and give my compliments to Mr. Darrell. Ask him to come in and see me for a moment. Say I’m thinking and daren’t move.”
James rose obediently, and Drummond heard him cross over the passage to the other suite of rooms that lay on the same floor. Then he heard the murmur of voices, and shortly afterwards his servant returned.
“He is in his bath, sir, but he’ll come over as soon as he’s finished.” He delivered the message and stood waiting. “Anything more, sir?”
“Yes, James. I feel certain that there’s a lot. But just to carry on with, I’ll have another glass of beer.”
As the door closed, Drummond rose and started to pace up and down the room. The plan he had in his mind was simple, but he was a man who believed in simplicity.
“Peterson will not come himself—nor will our one and only Henry. Potts has not been long in the country, which is all to the good. And if it fails—we shan’t be any worse off than we are now. Luck—that’s all; and the more you tempt her, the kinder she is.” He was still talking gently to himself when Peter Darrell strolled into the room.
“Can this thing be true, old boy,” remarked the newcomer. “I hear you’re in the throes of a brainstorm.”
“I am, Peter—and not even that repulsive dressing-gown of yours can stop it. I want you to help me.”
“All that I have, dear old flick, is yours for the asking. What can I do?”