Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“In other words, once your precious scheme for the purchase of Che Fiangs fell down the copy wasn’t worth — to you — the paper on which it was written. It was a sound scheme, and it was an alternative to the more direct plan of getting the girl to steal the copy. It has succeeded.

“Within a couple of weeks, the provisions will be no longer secret. The thing is signed, and nothing can hold it back from enforcement. It is now of little value to any outside government, because it is un fait accompli. As a matter of fact, it was only valuable to a financier who contemplated a gamble in Che Fiangs. In addition, by the way, I have made an extremely large fortune.”

Smith heard it all without apparently being very moved. He admired Bordington as a man who had called check to him so far; one of the very few men who had ever done so. He admired Bordington for his lack of resort to forceful methods. He could never imagine Bordington threatening with a gun — like, say, Pink. Bordington would, however, get there just the same; get farther, in fact.

Smith paid one of the few compliments of his life. “My lord,” he said, unconsciously using the mocking appellation he had employed when he had Bordington in his power, “if you’d been in The Fellowship we’d have bossed the universe.”

Bordington smiled. “I’m not ambitious,” he said drily.

“No?” Smith studied him, standing with his back toward one of the windows, and facing Bordington squarely. “Well, we’ve chucked all the bouquets, and we’ve handed out all the explanations; so now we’ll get down to brass tacks. This is how I see it — plainly and without frills.”

“I can imagine you abhor frills,” observed Bordington. His lips were still smiling, but his eyes were very watchful. Though he had scored so far, he did not delude himself into thinking that the formidable man facing him was anywhere near to defeat. Bill Smith was not so easily beaten as all that.

“Yes,” said Smith. “I’ve got your treaty. To-morrow, unless you and I come to an arrangement, it’s going to be published word for word in my paper. Not only that, in heavy letters on the front page, is going to be given a full account of your little stunt at Monte Carlo — how you met Trevelyan and that girl he had’ in tow; how they got you to sign the paper; how you sold the treaty to me for that same scrap of paper.

“Further,” — Smith leaned forward slightly — “Trevelyan, who’s now in jail, will swear that it’s all true. He’ll turn King’s evidence, my lord. D’you get that? I’ll pay him to do it. I’ll make it worth his while. He’ll make a written confession, signed, sealed, delivered, and all the rest of it.

“I’ll have the girl over from Paris. I’ll pay her, too. I’ll put ’em in the box against you. I’ll break you — into little bits — if I break myself in doing so.”

His tone had increased in intensity as he spoke. His voice did not lift, but, rather, seemed to drop, so that he appeared to hiss the conclusion of this increasing threat.

Bordington listened intently. There was peril ungauged in it. He might face it through. His anticipatory move of advising the Home Secretary that the treaty had been stolen by a girl burglar — seen running across the park at night — might serve to negative Smith’s statement; but it might not.

Smith had a devil of a lot of mud to throw, and a devil of a lot of people to throw it. Some of it might stick. He, Bordington, had a wife and daughter in Paris, where the daughter expected to make an admirable match. There must inevitably be a scandal. His daughter’s future was at stake, to say nothing of his wife’s honor and the honor of his name.

Smith, he realized, was an adept at marshalling to best advantage forces which appeared half beaten.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly. “I would say, by the way, that I ask the question not because I contemplate immediate surrender to your threats, but so that I can weigh the whole situation — whether it will be better to meet you or fight you.”

“Don’t fight,” said Smith flatly. “It hurts. Even if you kill the other fellow he usually manages to leave marks on you. The war showed us that. Fighting’s not worth the candle. It’s only for history books and tales of romance. Compromise is the strongest suit in the human pack.

“You bite on that. I’ll tell you what I want right now. All you’ve made on Che Fiangs at the end of six months. Here — I’ll put it more plainly. You sell me your Che Fiang holdings now at two shillings a share. That more than covers you. Leaves you with a bit of profit, in fact.”

Bordington shrugged his shoulders. “You are too generous. I couldn’t possibly presume on you.”

Smith grinned. “Not you! But they’re my terms. Or — exposure.”

Bordington stood silent, looking down at the polished top of the table. Smith tried to read his thoughts by studying his face; but failed entirely to do so. He reckoned he had won. Bordington must surrender. He dared not face this thing through.

Bordington spoke at last.