The Third Round

With a sigh of pleasure Mr. Edward Blackton opened the windows of his balcony and leaned out, staring over the lake. Opposite, the mountains of Savoy rose steeply from the water; away to the left the Dent du Midi raised its crown of snow above the morning haze.

Below him the waters of the lake glittered and scintillated with a thousand fires. A steamer, with much blowing of sirens and reversing of paddle-wheels, had come to rest at a landing-stage hard by, and was taking on board a bevy of tourists, while the gulls circled round shrieking discordantly. For a while he watched them idly, noting the quickness with which the birds swooped and caught the bread as it was thrown into the air, long before it reached the water. He noted also how nearly all the food was secured by half a dozen of the gulls, whilst the others said a lot but got nothing. And suddenly Mr. Edward Blackton smiled.

“Like life, my dear,” he said, slipping his arm round the waist of a girl who had just joined him at the window. “It’s the fool who shouts in this world: the wise man says nothing and acts.”

The girl lit a cigarette thoughtfully, and sat down on the ledge of the balcony. For a while her eyes followed the steamer puffing fussily away with its load of sightseers and its attendant retinue of gulls: then she looked at the man standing beside her.

Lewisham paused, and glanced a little doubtfully at the old German in his dirty black clothes. Some chemical friend of the Professor’s evidently; possibly it would be better to wait somewhere else. He half turned to the door as if to go out again, when suddenly he felt two hands like bars of steel around his throat. For a moment or two he struggled impotently; then he grew still. And after a while the limp body slipped to the floor and lay still.

“Underneath that bench with him,” snapped Blackton. “Quick.”

He had opened the door an inch or two and was peering out. The passage was empty, and faint sounds were coming up the stairs from the servants’ quarters.

“Stay where you are,” he said to the two men. “I shall be back in a minute.”

He walked along the passage towards the front door, which he opened. Then he deliberately rang the bell, and stood for a few seconds peering out. And it was not until he heard the footsteps of the parlourmaid that he shut the door again with a bang, and advanced towards her, gesticulating wildly.

“Where is your master?” he cried. “I must to my business get; I cannot here the whole day wait. That other gentleman⁠—he does not wait. He go. I too⁠—I follow him.” He glanced at the girl. “Speak, woman.” He waved his arms at her, and she retreated in alarm. “I will take my specimens, and I will go⁠—like him.”

“Certainly,” cried Mr. Robinson benevolently. “It is for that express purpose that we are having this interview. It is essential that you should understand exactly where you are. Now, perhaps you are unaware of the fact that you died yesterday.”

“I did⁠—what?” stammered the other.

“Died,” said Mr. Robinson genially. “I thought you might find that bit a little hard to follow, so I’ve brought you a copy of one of the early evening papers. In it you will find a brief account of the inquest⁠—your inquest.”

With a trembling hand the Professor took the paper.

“But I don’t understand,” he said after he had read it. “For Heaven’s sake, sir, won’t you explain? I remember nothing from the time when I was chloroformed in my laboratory till I came-to in a packing-case. It wasn’t I who was blown up?”

“Obviously,” returned the other. “But the great point is, Professor, that everyone thinks it was. The cream of the scientific world, in fact, will attend the burial of somebody else’s foot, in the firm belief that they are honouring your memory. Whose foot it is you needn’t worry about; I assure you he was a person of tedious disposition.”

“But I must go at once and telephone.” He rose in his agitation. “It’s the most dreadful thing. Think of my poor wife.”

“I know,” said Mr. Robinson sadly. “Though not exactly married myself, I can guess your feelings. But I’m afraid, my dear brother, that your wife must remain in ignorance of the fact that she is not a widow.”

For Drummond had risen from his chair, and was standing in front of the Professor.

“You’re not the man who came to see me yesterday,” he said quietly. “You’re not Professor Scheidstrun at all.”

“But the man is mad,” gasped the German. “You say I am not Scheidstrun⁠—me.”

“You’re made up to look exactly like him⁠—but you’re not Scheidstrun! I tell you, Mr. Tootem”⁠—he turned to the lawyer, who was staring at him aghast⁠—“that that man is no more Scheidstrun than I am. The disguise is wonderful⁠—but his hair is a slightly different colour. Ever since I came in I’ve been wondering what it was.”

“This young man is mad,” said the German angrily. “The reason that it is a slightly different colour is that I wear a wig. I haf two: this morning I wear the other one to what I wear yesterday.”

But Drummond wasn’t even listening. Like a bird fascinated by a snake he was staring at the Professor’s left hand, beating an agitated tattoo on his knee. For a moment or two he was dazed, as the stupendous reality burst on his mind. Before him sat Carl Peterson himself, given away once again by that one trick which he could never get rid of, that ceaseless nervous movement of the left hand. It was incredible; the suddenness of the thing took his breath away. And then the whole thing became clear to him. Somehow or other Peterson had heard of the discovery; perhaps employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre himself.

Freyder took a step forward, and at that moment it happened. He gave one agonised shout of terror, and then scream after scream of agony rang through the house. For it was not Professor Goodman’s arm which touched the white-hot furnace, but Freyder’s face⁠—and to his Chief’s horrified eyes it had seemed as if he had dived straight at it.

“My God!” he muttered foolishly, as Freyder, moaning horribly, dashed from the room. “How did it happen?”

The words died away on his lips and he stood staring into the shadows beyond the light thrown by the furnace. Drummond was sitting on the floor grinning vacantly at space.

“Gug, gug, gug,” he burbled foolishly. “Pretty light.”

Then, apparently bored with life in general, he returned with interest to his occupation.

“Puff⁠—puff!” he cried happily. “Puff⁠—puff! Naughty man kicked train.”

And the train which he was busily pushing along the floor consisted of his own shoes.