“I see you’re one of the Die-Hards. I confess I never drive with a Bible under my arm. But there you are.” He rose and peered at the ditch. “Another two inches of your precious slice of the way, and I should have been all right.” “Four,” said I, and pointed to a scar in the road. “That was your safety crease. With a wheel on that, I knew you were bound to go.” Perowne stared at the scar. It might have been cut with a punch. As a matter of fact, it had. Presently he looked at me. I pressed my tobacco home and stared at the sky. Perowne got out of his car and looked at her tracks. Then he picked up a stick and did some measuring. . . . “You’re right,” said he. “Right to an eighth of an inch.” “I know,” said I. “I measured your car last night.” For a moment he never moved. Then he took out cigarettes, lighted one carefully and leaned against the door with a foot on the step. “So I was wrong,” he said softly. “You do know how to drive.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe,” said I, watching his right arm move. “I took your pistol, too,” I added carelessly. For a moment or two he almost lost control. Then he took a deep breath. “Well,” he sighed, “you’re thorough. I’ll give you that. And my chauffeur? I suppose I owe his failure to the same virtue.” “You do,” said I. “And the message.” “Dear, dear,” said he. “Not the telegram, too?” “The telegram, too,” said I. “Well, I’m damned,” said he, crossing his legs. “You do work hard, don’t you?” With half-closed eyes, he let the smoke make its way out of his mouth. “Glorious view from here. . . . That why you brought me?” “In a way,” said I. “It’s quite a good place to—to see the sun go down.” Perowne shot me a glance. “No doubt,” he said shortly. “But—I’m afraid I can’t wait so long. And now tell me your game, and I’ll see if I care to play. Which is it—blackmail or murder?” “It’s not blackmail,” said I, and took off my goggles. “Hullo,” said Perowne. “If it isn’t old What’s-his-name!” The thrust was shrewd. Almost I lost my temper. To pretend that she’d meant so little that her name was out of his mind. . . . Instead— “Some names sting the tongue,” I said quietly. He lifted his head and looked at the cold blue sky. “True,” he said. “And the brush of some lips the mouth.” “I’ll take your word for it,” said I. “Tell me,” he said, frowning. “Did she go back to you?” “She did,” said I: “to die.” “I thought she would,” said Perowne. “Forgive me,” said I. “You thought she wouldn’t dare.” He started. “You used her love for me to bind her feet. That’s how you held her, you rotten loose-lipped thief. . . trading on her devotion to another man. . . . And then at the last, poor lady, she called her bully’s bluff, stared Blackmail out of countenance, and came back.”