Chapter 2

Inside the sitting-room the telephone bell was ringing, and with a
slight frown Mr. Edward Blackton took off the receiver.

“What is it?”

From the other end came the voice of the manager, suitably deferential
as befitted a client of such obvious wealth installed in the most
palatial suite of the Palace Hotel.

“Two gentlemen are here, Mr. Blackton,” said the manager, “who wish to
know when they can have the pleasure of seeing you. Their names are Sir
Raymond Blantyre and Mr. Jabez Leibhaus. They arrived this morning from
England by the Simplon Orient express, and they say that their business
is most urgent.”

A sudden gleam had come into Mr. Blackton’s eyes as he listened, but his
voice as he answered was almost bored.

“I shall be pleased to see both gentlemen at eleven o’clock up here.
Kindly have champagne and sandwiches sent to my sitting-room at that
hour.”

He replaced the receiver, and stood for a moment thinking deeply.

“Who was it?” called the girl from the balcony.

“Blantyre and Leibhaus, my dear,” answered the man. “Now, what the
deuce can they want with me so urgently?”

“Aren’t they both big diamond men?” said the girl, coming into the room.

“They are,” said Blackton. “In romantic fiction they would be described
as two diamond kings. Anyway, it won’t do them any harm to wait for
half an hour.”

“How did they find out your address? I thought you had left strict
instructions that you were not to be disturbed.”

There was regret in the girl’s voice, and with a faint smile the man
tilted back her head and kissed her.

“In our profession, _cara mia_,” he said gently, “there are times when
the strictest instructions have to be disobeyed. Freyder would never
have dreamed of worrying me over a little thing, but unless I am much
mistaken this isn’t going to be little. It’s going to be big: those two
below don’t go chasing half across Europe because they’ve mislaid a
collar stud. Why–who knows?–it might prove to be the big coup we were
discussing a few minutes ago.”

He kissed her again; then he turned abruptly away and the girl gave a
little sigh. For the look had come into those grey-blue eyes that she
knew so well: the alert, keen look which meant business. He crossed the
room, and unlocked a heavy leather dispatch-case. From it he took out a
biggish book which he laid on the table. Then having made himself
comfortable on the balcony, he lit another cigar, and began to turn over
the pages.

It was of the loose-leaf variety, and every page had entries on it in
Blackton’s small, neat handwriting. It was what he called his “Who’s
Who,” but it differed from that excellent production in one marked
respect. The people in Mr. Edward Blackton’s production had not
compiled their own notices, which rendered it considerably more truthful
even if less complimentary than the orthodox volume.

It was arranged alphabetically, and it contained an astounding wealth of
information. In fact in his lighter moments the author was wont to say
that when he retired from active life he would publish it, and die in
luxury on the large sums paid him to suppress it. Mentioned in it were
the names of practically every man and woman possessed of real
wealth–as Blackton regarded wealth–in Europe and America.

There were, of course, many omissions, but in the course of years an
extraordinary amount of strange and useful information had been
collected. In many cases just the bare details of the person were
given: these were the uninteresting ones, and consisted of people who
passed the test as far as money was concerned but about whom the author
had no personal knowledge.

In others, however, the entries were far more human. After the name
would be recorded certain details, frequently of a most scurrilous
description. And these details had one object and one object only–to
assist at the proper time and place in parting the victim from his
money.

Not that Mr. Edward Blackton was a common blackmailer–far from it.
Blackmailing pure and simple was a form of amusement which revolted his
feelings as an artist. But to make use of certain privately gained
information about a man when dealing with him was a different matter
altogether.

It was a great assistance in estimating character when meeting a man for
the first time to know that his previous wife had divorced him for
carrying on with the housemaid, and that he had then failed to marry the
housemaid. Nothing of blackmail in that: just a pointer as to
character.

In the immense ramifications of Mr. Blackton’s activities it was of
course impossible for him to keep all these details in his head. And so
little by little the book had grown until it now comprised over three
hundred pages. Information obtained first-hand or from absolutely
certain sources was entered in red; items not quite so reliable in
black. And under Sir Raymond Blantyre’s name the entry was in red.

“Blantyre, Raymond. Born 1858. Vice-President Metropolitan Diamond
Syndicate. Married daughter of John Perkins, wool merchant in London.
Knighted 1904. Something shady about him in South Africa–probably
I.D.B. Races a lot. Wife a snob. Living up to the limit of his
income. 5.13.”

Mr. Blackton laid the book on his knee and looked thoughtfully over the
lake. The last three figures showed that the entry had been made in May
1913, and if he was living up to the limit of his income then, he must
have had to retrench considerably now. And wives who are snobs dislike
that particularly.

He picked up the book again and turned up the dossier of his other
visitor, to find nothing of interest. Mr. Leibhaus had only bare
details after his name, with the solitary piece of information that he,
too, was a Vice-President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate.

He closed the book and relocked it in the dispatch-case; then he glanced
at his watch.

“I think, my dear,” he said, turning to the girl, “that our interview
had better be apparently private. Could you make yourself comfortable
in your bedroom, so that you will be able to hear everything and give me
your opinion afterwards?” He opened the door for her and she passed
through. “I confess,” he continued, “that I’m a little puzzled. I
cannot think what they want to see me about so urgently.”

But there was no trace of it on his face as five minutes later his two
visitors were ushered in by the sub-manager.

“See that the sandwiches and champagne are sent at once, please,” he
remarked, and the hotel official bustled away.

“We shall be undisturbed, gentlemen,” he said, “after the waiter brings
the tray. Until then we might enjoy the view over the lake. It is
rare, I am told, that one can see the Dent du Midi quite so clearly.”