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"Throgton," he said, "it has occurred to me that there were points about that solution that we didn't get exactly straight somehow." "So do I," said Throgton. V. Broken Barriers; or, Red Love on a Blue Island. It was on a bright August afternoon that I stepped on board the steamer Patagonia at Southampton outward bound for the West Indies and the Port of New Orleans.
Masterman Throgton took the card. On it was printed: PETER KELLY For a moment Throgton and Kent sat looking at one another. "Show the man up," said Throgton. A minute later the door opened and a man entered. Kent's keen eye analysed him as he stood. His blue clothes, his tanned face, and the extraordinary dexterity of his fingers left no doubt of his calling. He was a sailor.
Throgton with a sudden effort forced a break of three; but Kent rallied and in another twenty minutes they were even again at nineteen all. But it was soon clear that Transome Kent had something else in mind than to win the game. Presently his opportunity came. With a masterly stroke, such as few trained players could use, he had potted his adversary's ball.
The red ball was left over the very jaws of the pocket. The white was in the centre. Kent looked into Throgton's face. The balls were standing in the very same position on the table as on the night of the murder. "I did that on purpose," said Kent quietly. "What do you mean?" asked Throgton. "The position of those balls," said Kent. "Mr. Throgton, come into the library.
The score advanced rapidly, both players standing precisely equal. At the end of the first half-hour it stood at ten all. Throgton, a grim look upon his face, had settled down to work, playing with one knee on the table. Kent, calm but alive with excitement, leaned well forward to his stroke, his eye held within an inch of the ball. At fifteen they were still even.
Only in one place was quiet namely, in the room where sat the big man on whose capacious intellect the whole organization depended. Masterman Throgton, the general manager of the Planet, was a man in middle life. There was something in his massive frame which suggested massiveness, and a certain quality in the poise of his great head which indicated a balanced intellect.
My eye had noticed already the trap above. I climbed up to it. Shall I explain how?" "Don't," said Kent, "I can analyse it afterwards." "There I saw what passed. I saw Mr. Throgton and Kivas Kelly come in. I watched their game. They were greatly excited and quarrelled over it. Throgton lost." The big man nodded with a scowl. "By his potting the white," he said.
It was the strongest expression that this solid, self-contained, semi-detached man ever allowed himself. Anything stronger would have seemed too near to profanity. "Good God!" he repeated, "Kivas Kelly murdered! In his own home! Why, he dined with me last night! I drove him home!" For a brief moment the big man remained plunged in thought. But with Throgton the moment of musing was short.
His reputation at his club as a cool, determined player was surpassed by few. Throgton had been known to run nine, ten, and even twelve at a break. It was not unusual for him to drive his ball clear off the table. His keen eye told him infallibly where each of the three balls was; instinctively he knew which to shoot with. In Kent, however, he had no mean adversary.
Throgton turned and looked the man full in the eye. "That is not billiard chalk," he said, "it is face powder." Saying which this big, imperturbable, self-contained man stepped into the elevator and went to the ground floor in one drop. The inquest upon the body of Kivas Kelly was held upon the following day.
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