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It was Constance who finally disturbed the uneasy stasis. She rose and disappeared upstairs. After ten minutes she reappeared, holding a small, well-worn leather notebook. She turned to the butler, who was still waiting at the parlor entrance. “Light a taper in a blue lantern and place it in the window of the last bedroom on the right, third floor.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Gosnold disappeared to fulfill the request.
“Just a moment,” said Pendergast. He turned to Constance. “Is that the Arcanum?”
“Did you think you were the only one who had a copy? You forget: I was there while he developed it.”
“So you intend to comply with Leng’s instructions? You’ll give him the Arcanum—which will allow him to carry out his plan?”
“Do you have a better proposal?”
Pendergast shut his eyes, then opened them again without replying.
“It won’t matter that he has the Arcanum,” she said. “Because he won’t live long enough to use it—I will see to that.”
Once again, the parlor was silent for a moment. Pendergast shifted in his chair. “Don’t you think Leng has already anticipated this intention of yours?”
Constance stared at him. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Leng knows everything and anticipates everything. Whether you care to admit it or not, he is far cleverer than either of us. Not only that—he knows I’m here. He will be prepared for whatever you do—whateverwedo.”
“He will not,” said a sudden, soft voice from the darkness, “be prepared forme.”
A match flared in a rear doorway of the parlor.
And then a figure stepped forward, lighting a salmon-colored Lorillard cigarette set into an ebony holder. The flare illuminated the pale face, the aquiline nose and high smooth forehead, the ginger-colored beard, and the two eyes—one hazel, the other a milky blue—of Diogenes Pendergast.
“I am come,” he said, “as your Angel of Vengeance.” Then the match was shaken out and the figure returned to silhouette as a low, quiet laugh filled the room before dying away, leaving the parlor once again in shadow and silence.
to be concluded…