The train was going at thirty miles an hour when Gurther dropped on to a ridge of sand by the side of the track, and in the next second he was sliding forward on his face. Fortunately for him the veil, though torn, kept his eyes free. Stumbling to his feet, he looked round. The level-crossing gates should be somewhere here. He had intended jumping the train at this point, and Oberzohn had made arrangements accordingly. A signalman, perched high above the track, saw the figure and challenged.

“I’ve lost my way,” said Gurther. “Where is the level-crossing?”

“A hundred yards farther on. Keep clear of those metals⁠—the Eastbourne express is coming behind.”

If Gurther had had his way, he would have stopped long enough to remove a rail for the sheer joy of watching a few hundred of the hated people plunged to destruction. But he guessed that the car was waiting, went sideways through the safety gates into a road which was fairly populous. There were people about who turned their heads and looked in amazement at the bedraggled woman in black, but he had got beyond worrying about his appearance.

He saw the car with the little green light which Oberzohn invariably used to mark his machines from others, and, climbing into the cab (as it was), sat down to recover his breath. The driver he knew as one of the three men employed by Oberzohn, one of whom Mr. Washington had seen that morning.

The journey back to town was a long one, though the machine, for a public vehicle, was faster than most. Gurther welcomed the ride. Once more he had failed, and he reasoned that this last failure was the most serious of all. The question of Oberzohn’s displeasure did not really arise. He had travelled far beyond the point when the Swede’s disapproval meant very much to him. But there might be a consequence more serious than any. He knew well with what instructions Pfeiffer had been primed on the night of the attack at Rath House⁠—only Gurther had been quicker, and his snake had bitten first. Dr. Oberzohn had no illusions as to what had happened, and if he had tactfully refrained from making reference to the matter, he had his purpose and reasons. And this night journey with Elijah Washington was one of them.

There was no excuse; he had none to offer. His hand wandered beneath the dress to the long knife that was strapped to his side, and the touch of the worn handle was very reassuring. For the time being he was safe; until another man was found to take Pfeiffer’s place Oberzohn was working single-handed and could not afford to dispense with the services of this, the last of his assassins.

It was past eleven when he dismissed the taxi at the end of the long lane, and, following the only safe path, came to the unpainted door that gave admission to Oberzohn’s property. And the first words of his master told him that there was no necessity for explanation.

“So you did not get him, Gurther?”

“No, Herr Doktor.”

“I should not have sent you.” Oberzohn’s voice was extraordinarily mild in all the circumstances. “That man you cannot kill⁠—with the snake. I have learned since you went that he was bitten at the blind man’s house, yet lives! That is extraordinary. I would give a lot of money to test his blood. You tried the knife?”

“Ja, Herr Doktor.” He lifted his veil, stripped off hat and wig in one motion. The rouged and powdered face was bruised; from under the brown wig was a trickle of dried blood.

“Good! You have done as well as you could. Go to your room, Gurther⁠—march!”

Gurther went upstairs and for a quarter of an hour was staring at his grinning face in the glass, as with cream and soiled towel he removed his makeup.

Oberzohn’s very gentleness was a menace. What did it portend? Until that evening neither Gurther nor his dead companion had been taken into the confidence of the two men who directed their activities. He knew there were certain papers to be recovered; he knew there were men to be killed; but what value were the papers, or why death should be directed to this unfortunate or that, he neither knew nor cared. His duty had been to obey, and he had served a liberal paymaster well and loyally. That girl in the underground room? Gurther had many natural explanations for her imprisonment. And yet none of them fitted the conditions. His cogitations were wasted time. That night, for the first time, the doctor took him into his confidence.

He had finished dressing and was on his way to his kitchen when the doctor stood at the doorway and called him in.

“Sit down, Gurther.” He was almost kind. “You will have a cigar? These are excellent.”

He threw a long, thin, black cheroot, and Gurther caught it between his teeth and seemed absurdly pleased with his trick.

“The time has come when you must know something, Gurther,” said the doctor. He took a fellow to the weed the man was smoking, and puffed huge clouds of rank smoke into the room. “I have for a friend⁠—who? Heir Newton?” He shrugged his shoulders. “He is a very charming man, but he has no brains. He is the kind of man, Gurther, who would live in comfort, take all we gave him by our cleverness and industry, and never say thank you! And in trouble what will he do, Gurther? He will go to the police⁠—yes, my dear friend, he will go to the police!”

He nodded. Gurther had heard the same story that night when he had crept soft-footed to the door and had heard the doctor discuss certain matters with the late Mr. Pfeiffer.

“He would, without a wink of his eyelash, without a snap of his hand, send you and me to death, and would read about our execution with a smile, and then go forth and eat his plum-pudding and roast beef! That is our friend Heir Newton! You have seen this with your own eyes?”

“Ja, Herr Doktor!” exclaimed the obedient Gurther.

“He is a danger for many reasons,” Oberzohn proceeded deliberately. “Because of these three men who have so infamously set themselves out to ruin me, who burnt down my house, and who whipped you, Gurther⁠—they tied you up to a post and whipped you with a whip of nine tails. You have not forgotten, Gurther?”

“Nein, Herr Doktor.” Indeed, Gurther had not forgotten, though the vacant smirk on his face might suggest that he had a pleasant memory of the happening.

“A fool in an organization,” continued the doctor oracularly, “is like a bad plate on a ship, or a weak link in a chain. Let it snap, and what happens? You and I die, my dear Gurther. We go up before a stupid man in a white wig and a red cloak, and he hands us to another man who puts a rope around our necks, drops us through a hole in the ground⁠—all because we have a stupid man like Herr Montague Newton to deal with.”

“Ja, Herr Doktor,” said Gurther as his master stopped. He felt that this comment was required of him.

“Now, I will tell you the whole truth.” The doctor carefully knocked off the ash of his cigar into the saucer of his cup. “There is a fortune for you and for me, and this girl that we have in the quiet place can give it to us. I can marry her, or I can wipe her out, so! If I marry her, it would be better, I think, and this I have arranged.”

And then, in his own way, he told the story of the hill of gold, concealing nothing, reserving nothing⁠—all that he knew, all that Villa had told him.

“For three-four days now she must be here. At the end of that time nothing matters. The letter to Lisbon⁠—of what value is it? I was foolish when I tried to stop it. She has made no nominee, she has no heirs, she has known nothing of her fortune, and therefore is in no position to claim the renewal of the concession.”

“Herr Doktor, will you graciously permit me to speak?”

The doctor nodded.

“Does the Newton know this?”

“The Newton knows all this,” said the doctor.

“Will you graciously permit me to speak again, Herr Doktor? What was this letter I was to have taken, had I not been overcome by misfortune?”

Oberzohn examined the ceiling.

“I have thought this matter from every angle,” he said, “and I have decided thus. It was a letter written by Gonsalez to the Secretary or the Minister of the Colonies, asking that the renewal of the concession should be postponed. The telegram from my friend at the Colonial Office in Lisbon was to this effect.” He fixed his glasses, fumbled in his waistcoat and took out the three-page telegram. “I will read it to you in your own language⁠—

“ ‘Application has been received from Leon Gonsalez, asking His Excellency to receive a very special letter which arrives in two days. The telegram does not state the contents of the letter, but the Minister has given orders for the messenger to be received. The present Minister is not favourable to concessions granted to England or Englishmen.’ ”

He folded the paper.

“Which means that there will be no postponement, my dear Gurther, and this enormous fortune will be ours.”

Gurther considered this point and for a moment forgot to smile, and looked what he was in consequence: a hungry, discontented wolf of a man.

“Herr Doktor, graciously permit me to ask you a question?”

“Ask,” said Oberzohn magnanimously.

“What share does Herr Newton get? And if you so graciously honoured me with a portion of your so justly deserved gains, to what extent would be that share?”

The other considered this, puffing away until the room was a mist of smoke.

“Ten thousand English pounds,” he said at last.

“Gracious and learned doctor, that is a very small proportion of many millions,” said Gurther gently.

“Newton will receive one half,” said the doctor, his face working nervously, “if he is alive. If misfortune came to him, that share would be yours, Gurther, my brave fellow! And with so much money a man would not be hunted. The rich and the noble would fawn upon him; he would have his lovely yacht and steam about the summer seas everlastingly, huh?”

Gurther rose and clicked his heels.

“Do you desire me again this evening?”

“No, no, Gurther.” The old man shook his head. “And pray remember that there is another day tomorrow, and yet another day after. We shall wait and hear what our friend has to say. Good night, Gurther.”

“Good night, Herr Doktor.”

The doctor looked at the door for a long time after his man had gone and took up his book. He was deep in the chapter which was headed, in the German tongue: “The Subconscious Activity of the Human Intellect in Relation to the Esoteric Emotions.” To Dr. Oberzohn this was more thrilling than the most exciting novel.