The Third Round by H.C. McNeile — Read

At just about the same time that Algy Longworth was dancing on the pavement in Brook Street and demanding admission to Drummond's house, Sir Raymond Blantyre was holding a conference with the other members of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. The proceedings were taking place behind locked doors, and had an onlooker been present he would have noticed that there was a general air of tension in the room. For good or ill the die was cast, and try as they would the seven eminently respectable city magnates assembled round the table could not rid themselves of the thought that they had deliberately hired a man to commit murder for them. Not that they admitted it even to themselves -- at any rate, not as crudely as that. Mr. Blackton's services had been secured to arrange matters for them with Professor Goodman -- to negotiate for the suppression of his discovery. How he did it was, of course, his concern, and nothing whatever to do with them. Even Sir Raymond himself tried to lull his conscience by reflecting that perhaps the drastic measures alluded to in his interview at the Palace Hotel would not be necessary. And if they were -- well, only a weak man wavered and hesitated once he was definitely committed to a particular line of action. After all, the responsibility was not his alone; he had merely been the spokesman for the combined opinions of the Syndicate reached after mature reflection. And if Professor Goodman was so pigheaded and obstinate, he must take the consequences. There were others to be considered -- all those who would be ruined.

Just at first after his return from Switzerland such specious arguments had served their purpose; but during the last two days they seemed to have lost some of their soothing power. He had found himself feverishly snatching at every fresh edition of the evening paper to see if anything had happened. He had even found himself wondering whether it was too late to stop things even now, but he didn't know where the man who called himself Blackton could be found. From the moment when he had realised in the restaurant wagon that the old German professor and Mr. Edward Blackton were one and the same person, he had not set eyes on him again. There had been no trace of him in Paris, and no trace on the boat. He had no idea where he was; he did not even know if he was in London.