Drummond lit a cigarette; then his merciless eyes fixed themselves again on Peterson.
“There is only one thing more,” he continued. “You have kindly warned me of my danger: let me give you a word of advice in my turn. I’m going to fight you; if I can, I’m going to beat you. Anything that may happen to me is part of the game. But if anything happens to Miss Benton during the course of operations, then, as surely as there is a God above, Peterson, I’ll get at you somehow and murder you with my own hands.”
For a few moments there was silence, and then with a short laugh Drummond turned away.
“Quite melodramatic,” he remarked lightly. “And very bad for the digestion so early in the morning. My regards to your charming daughter, also to him of the broken jaw. Shall we meet again soon?” He paused at the door and looked back.
Peterson was still standing by the table, his face expressionless.
“Very soon indeed, young man,” he said quietly. “Very soon indeed....”
Hugh stepped out into the warm sunshine and spoke to his chauffeur.
“Take her out into the main road, Jenkins,” he said, “and wait for me outside the entrance to the next house. I shan’t be long.”
Then he strolled through the garden towards the little wicket-gate that led to The Larches. Phyllis! The thought of her was singing in his heart to the exclusion of everything else. Just a few minutes with her; just the touch of her hand, the faint smell of the scent she used—and then back to the game.
He had almost reached the gate, when, with a sudden crashing in the undergrowth, Jem Smith blundered out into the path. His naturally ruddy face was white, and he stared round fearfully.