Gurther was sleeping when he was called for duty, but presented himself before his director as bright and alert as though he had not spent a sleepless night, nor yet had endured the strain of a midnight train jump.

“Once more, my Gurther, I send you forth.” Dr. Oberzohn was almost gay. “This time to save us all from the Judas treachery of one we thought was our friend. Tonight the snake must bite, and bite hard, Gurther. And out into the dark goes the so-called Trusted! And after that, my brave boy, there shall be nothing to fear.”

He paused for approval, and got it in a snapped agreement.

“Tonight we desire from you a chef d’oeuvre, the supreme employment of your great art, Gurther; the highest expression of genius! The gentleman-club manner will not do. They may look for you and find you. Better it should be, this time, that you⁠—”

“Herr Doktor, will you graciously permit me to offer a humble suggestion?” said Gurther eagerly.

The doctor nodded his head slowly.

“You may speak, Gurther,” he said. “You are a man of intelligence; I would not presume to dictate to an artist.”

“Let me go for an hour, perhaps two hours, and I will return to you with a manner that is unique. Is it graciously permitted, Herr Doktor?”

“March!” said the doctor graciously, waving his hand to the door.

Nearly an hour and a half passed before the door opened and a gentleman came in who for even a moment even the doctor thought was a stranger. The face had an unearthly ivory pallor; the black brows, the faint shadows beneath the eyes that suggested a recent illness, the close-cropped black beard in which grey showed⁠—these might not have deceived him. But the man was obviously the victim of some appalling accident of the past. One shoulder was hunched, the hand that held the stick was distorted out of shape, and as he moved, the clump of his club foot advertised his lameness.

“Sir, you desire to see me⁠—?” began the doctor, and then stared open-mouthed. “It is not⁠ ⁠… !”

Gurther smiled.

“Herr Doktor, are you condescendingly pleased?”

“Colossal!” murmured Oberzohn, gazing in amazement. “Of all accomplishments this is supreme! Gurther, you are an artist. Some day we shall buy a theatre for you in Unter den Linden, and you shall thrill large audiences.”

“Herr Doktor, this is my own idea; this I have planned for many months. The boots I made myself; even the coat I altered”⁠—he patted his deformed shoulder proudly.

“An eyeglass?”

“I have it,” said Gurther promptly.

“The cravat⁠—is it not too proper?”

Gurther fingered his tie.

“For the grand habit I respectfully claim that the proper tie is desirable, if you will graciously permit.”

The Herr Doktor nodded.

“You shall go with God, Gurther,” he said piously, took a golden cigarette-case from his pocket and handed it to the man. “Sit down, my dear friend.”

He rose and pointed to the chair he had vacated.

“In my own chair, Gurther. Nothing is too good for you. Now here is the arrangement⁠ ⁠…”

Step by step he unfolded the timetable, for chronology was almost as great a passion with this strange and wicked man as it was with Aunt Alma.

So confident was Gurther of his disguise that he had gone in the open to speak to Oberzohn’s chauffeur, and out of the tail of his eye he had seen Manfred and Gonsalez approaching. It was the supreme test and was passed with credit to himself.

He did not dine at Mero’s; Gurther never ate or drank when he was wearing a disguise, knowing just how fatal that occupation could be. Instead, he had called a taxi, and had killed time by being driven slowly round and round the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park.

Gurther was doing a great deal of thinking in these days, and at the cost of much physical discomfort had curtailed his pernicious practices, that his head might be clear all the time. For if he were to live, that clear head of his was necessary.

The prisoner in the cellar occupied his thoughts. She had an importance for two reasons: she was a friend of the men whom he hated with a cold and deadly malignity beyond description; she represented wealth untold, and the Herr Doktor had even gone to the length of planning a marriage with her. She was not to be killed, not to be hurt; she was so important that the old man would take the risks attendant upon a marriage. There must be an excellent reason for that, because Dr. Oberzohn had not a very delicate mind.

He seemed to remember that, by the English law, a wife could not give evidence against her husband. He was not sure, but he had a dim notion that Pfeiffer had told him this: Pfeiffer was an educated man and had taken high honours at the gymnasium.

Gurther was not well read. His education had been of a scrappy character, and once upon a time he had been refused a leading part because of his provincial accent. That fault he had corrected in prison, under the tuition of a professor who was serving a life sentence for killing two women; but by the time Gurther had been released, he was a marked man, and the stage was a career lost to him forever.

Oberzohn possessed advantages which were not his. He was the master; Gurther was the servant. Oberzohn could determine events by reason of his vast authority, and the strings which he pulled in every part of the world. Even Gurther had accepted this position of blind, obedient servant, but now his angle had shifted, even as Oberzohn’s had moved in relation to Montague Newton. Perhaps because of this. The doctor, in curtailing one confidence, was enlarging another, and in the enlargement his prestige suffered.

Gurther was now the confidant, therefore the equal; and logically, the equal can always become the superior. He had dreamed dreams of a life of ease, a gratification of his sense of luxury without the sobering thought that somewhere round the corner was waiting a man ready to tap him on the shoulder⁠ ⁠… a white palace in a flowery land, with blue swimming pools, and supple girls who called him Master. Gurther began to see the light.

Until he had taken his seat in the theatre, he had not so much as glimpsed the man and the woman in the end box.

Joan was happy⁠—happier than she remembered having been. Perhaps it was the reaction from her voluntary imprisonment. Certainly it was Monty’s reluctant agreement to a change of plans which so exalted her. Monty had dropped the thin pretence of an accommodation marriage; and once he was persuaded to this, the last hindrance to enjoyment was dissipated. Let Oberzohn take the girl if he wanted her; take, too, such heavy responsibility as followed. Monty Newton would get all that he wanted without the risk. Having arrived at this decision, he had ordered another bottle of champagne to seal the bargain, and they left Mero’s club a much happier couple than they had been when they entered.

“As soon as we’ve carved up this money, we’ll get away out of England,” he told her as they were driving to the theatre. “What about Buenos Aires for the winter, old girl?”

She did not know where Buenos Aires was, but she gurgled her delight at the suggestion, and Monty expatiated upon the joys of the South American summer, the beauties of B.A., its gaieties and amusements.

“I don’t suppose there’ll be any kick coming,” he said, “but it wouldn’t be a bad scheme if we took a trip round the world, and came back in about eighteen months’ time to settle down in London. My hectic past would have been forgotten by then⁠—why, I might even get into Parliament.”

“How wonderful!” she breathed, and then: “What is this play about, Monty?”

“It’s a bit of a thrill, the very play for you⁠—a detective story that will make your hair stand on end.”

She had all the gamin’s morbid interest in murder and crime, and she settled down in the box with a pleasant feeling of anticipation, and watched the development of the first act.

The scene was laid in a club, a low-down resort where the least desirable members of society met, and she drank in every word, because she knew the life, had seen that type of expensively dressed woman who swaggered on to the stage and was addressed familiarly by the club proprietor. She knew that steady-eyed detective when he made his embarrassing appearance. The woman was herself. She even knew the cadaverous wanderer who approached stealthily at the door: a human wolf that fled at the sight of the police officer.

The three who sat in the front row of the stalls⁠—how Leon Gonsalez secured these tickets was one of the minor mysteries of the day⁠—saw her, and one at least felt his heart ache.

Monty beamed his geniality. He had taken sufficient wine to give him a rosy view of the world, and he was even mildly interested in the play, though his chief pleasure was in the girl’s enchantment. He ordered ices for her after the first interval.

“You’re getting quite a theatre fan, kiddie,” he said. “I must take you to some other shows. I had no idea you liked this sort of thing.”

She drew a long breath and smiled at him.

“I like anything when I’m with you,” she said, and they held hands foolishly, till the house lights dimmed and the curtain rose upon a lawyer’s office.

The lawyer was of the underworld: a man everlastingly on the verge of being struck off the rolls. He had betrayed a client with whom he had had dealings, and the man had gone to prison for a long term, but had escaped. Now the news had come that he had left Australia and was in London, waiting his opportunity to destroy the man whose treachery was responsible for his capture.

Here was a note to which the heart of the girl responded. Even Monty found himself leaning forward, as the old familiar cant terms of his trade came across the footlights.

“It is quite all right,” he said at the second interval, “only”⁠—he hesitated⁠—“isn’t it a bit too near the real thing? After all, one doesn’t come to the theatre to see⁠ ⁠…”

He stopped, realizing that conditions and situations familiar to him were novel enough to a fashionable audience which was learning for the first time that a “busy” was a detective, and that a police informer went by the title of “nose.”

The lights up, he glanced round the house, and suddenly he started and caught her arm.

“Don’t look for a moment,” he said, averting his eyes, “then take a glance at the front row. Do you see anybody you know?”

Presently she looked.

“Yes, that is the fellow you hate so much, isn’t it⁠—Gonsalez?”

“They’re all there⁠—the three of them,” said Monty. “I wonder,”⁠—he was troubled at the thought⁠—“I wonder if they’re looking for you?”

“For me? They’ve nothing on me, Monty.”

He was silent.

“I’m glad you’re not going back to that place tonight. They’ll trail you sure⁠—sure!”

He thought later that it was probably a coincidence that they were there at all. They seemed to show no interest in the box, but were chattering and talking and laughing to one another. Not once did their eyes come up to his level, and after a while he gained in confidence, though he was glad enough when the play was resumed.

There were two scenes in the act: the first was a police station, the second the lawyer’s room. The man was drunk, and the detective had come to warn him that The Ringer was after him. And then suddenly the lights on the stage were extinguished and the whole house was in the dark. It was part of the plot. In this darkness, and in the very presence of the police, the threatened man was to be murdered. They listened in tense silence, the girl craning her head forward, trying to pierce the dark, listening to the lines of intense dialogue that were coming from the blackness of the stage. Somebody was in the room⁠—a woman, and they had found her. She slipped from the stage detective’s grasp and vanished, and when the lights went up she was gone.

“What has happened, Monty?” she whispered.

He did not answer.

“Do you think⁠—”

She looked round at him. His head was resting on the plush-covered ledge of the box. His face, turned towards her, was grey; the eyes were closed, and his teeth showed in a hideous grin.

She screamed.

“Monty! Monty!”

She shook him. Again her scream rang through the house. At first the audience thought that it was a woman driven hysterical by the tenseness of the stage situation, and then one or two people rose from their stalls and looked up.

“Monty! Speak to me! He’s dead, he’s dead!”

Three seats in the front row had emptied. The screams of the hysterical girl made it impossible for the scene to proceed, and the curtain came down quickly.

The house was seething with excitement. Every face was turned towards the box where she knelt by the side of the dead man, clasping him in her arms, and the shrill agony in her voice was unnerving.

The door of the box swung open, and Manfred dashed in. One glance he gave at Monty Newton, and he needed no other.

“Get the girl out,” he said curtly.

Leon tried to draw her from the box, but she was a shrieking fury.

“You did it, you did it!⁠ ⁠… Let me go to him!”

Leon lifted her from her feet, and, clawing wildly at his face, she was carried from the box.

The manager was running along the passage, and Leon sent him on with a jerk of his head. And then a woman in evening dress came from somewhere.

“May I take her?” she said, and the exhausted girl collapsed into her arms.

Gonsalez flew back to the box. The man was lying on the floor, and the manager, standing at the edge of the box, was addressing the audience.

“The gentleman has fainted, and I’m afraid his friend has become a little hysterical. I must apologize to you, ladies and gentlemen, for this interruption. If you will allow us a minute to clear the box, the play will be resumed. If there is a doctor in the house, I should be glad if he would come.”

There were two doctors within reach, and in the passage, which was now guarded by a commissionaire, a hasty examination was made. They examined the punctured wound at the back of the neck and then looked at one another.

“This is The Snake,” said one.

“The house mustn’t know,” said Manfred. “He’s dead, of course?”

The doctor nodded.

Out in the passage was a big emergency exit door, and this the manager pushed open, and, running out into the street, found a cab, into which all that was mortal of Monty Newton was lifted.

Whilst this was being done, Poiccart returned.

“His car has just driven off,” he said. “I saw the numberplate as it turned into Lisle Street.”

“How long ago?” asked Gonsalez quickly.

“At this very moment.”

Leon pinched his lip thoughtfully.

“Why didn’t he wait, I wonder?”

He went back through the emergency door, which was being closed, and passed up the passage towards the entrance. The box was on the dress-circle level, and the end of a short passage brought him into the circle itself.

And then the thought of the lame man occurred to him, and his eyes sought the first seat in the front row, which was also the seat nearest to the boxes. The man had gone.

As he made this discovery, George emerged from the passage.

“Gurther!” said Leon. “What a fool I am! But how clever!”

“Gurther?” said Manfred in amazement. “Do you mean the man with the club foot?”

Leon nodded.

“He was not alone, of course,” said Gonsalez. “There must have been two or three of the gang here, men and women⁠—Oberzohn works these schemes out with the care and thoroughness of a general. I wonder where the management have taken the girl?”

He found the manager discussing the tragedy with two other men, one of whom was obviously associated with the production, and he signalled him aside.

“The lady? I suppose she’s gone home. She’s left the theatre.”

“Which way did she go?” asked Gonsalez, in a sudden panic.

The manager called a linkman, who had seen a middle-aged woman come out of the theatre with a weeping girl, and they had gone down the side-street towards the little square at the back of the playhouse.

“She may have taken her home to Chester Square,” said Manfred. His voice belied the assumption of confidence.

Leon had not brought his own machine, and they drove to Chester Square in a taxi. Fred, the footman, had neither heard nor seen the girl, and nearly fainted when he learned of the tragic ending to his master’s career.

“Oh, my God!” he groaned. “And he only left here this afternoon⁠ ⁠… dead, you say?”

Gonsalez nodded.

“Not⁠—not The Snake?” faltered the man.

“What do you know about the snake?” demanded Manfred sternly.

“Nothing, except⁠—well, the snake made him nervous, I know. He told me today that he hoped he’d get through the week without a snakebite.”

He was questioned closely, but although it was clear that he knew something of his master’s illicit transactions, and that he was connected in business with Oberzohn, the footman had no connection with the doctor’s gang. He drew a large wage and a percentage of profits from the gaming side of the business, and confessed that it was part of his duties to prepare stacks of cards and pass them to his master under cover of bringing in the drinks. But of anything more sinister he knew nothing.

“The woman, of course, was a confederate, who had been planted to take charge of the girl the moment the snake struck. I was in such a state of mind,” confessed Leon, “that I do not even remember what she looked like. I am a fool⁠—a double-distilled idiot! I think I must be getting old. There’s only one thing for us to do, and that is to get back to Curzon Street⁠—something may have turned up.”

“Did you leave anybody in the house?”

Leon nodded. “Yes, I left one of our men, to take any phone messages that came through.”

They paid off the taxi before the house, and Leon sprinted to the garage to get the car. The man who opened the door to them was he who had been tied up by the pedlar at Heavytree Farm, and his first words came as a shock to Manfred:

“Digby’s here, sir.”

“Digby?” said the other in surprise. “I thought he was on duty?”

“He’s been here since just after you left, sir. If I’d known where you had gone, I’d have sent him to you.”

Digby came out of the waiting-room at that moment, ready to apologize.

“I had to see you, sir, and I’m sorry I’m away from my post.”

“You may not be missing much,” said Manfred unsmilingly. “Come upstairs and tell me all about it.”

Digby’s story was a strange one. He had gone down that afternoon to the canal bank to make a reconnaissance of ground which was new to him.

“I’m glad I did too, because the walls have got broken glass on top. I went up into the Old Kent Road and bought a garden hoe, and prised the mortar loose, so that if I wanted, I could get over. And then I climbed round the water-gate and had a look at that barge of his. There was nobody about, though I think they spotted me afterwards. It is a fairly big barge, and, of course, in a terrible state, but the hold is full of cargo⁠—you know that, sir?”

“You mean there is something in the barge?”

Digby nodded.

“Yes, it has a load of some kind. The after part, where the bargee’s sleeping quarters are, is full of rats and water, but the fore part of the vessel is watertight, and it holds something heavy too. That is why the barge is down by its head in the mud. I was in the Thames police and I know a lot about river craft.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?”

“No, sir, it was something queerer than that. After I’d given the barge a look over and tried to pull up some of the boards⁠—which I didn’t manage to do⁠—I went along and had a look at the factory. It’s not so easy to get in, because the entrance faces the house, but to get to it you have to go half round the building, and that gives you a certain amount of cover. There was nothing I could see in the factory itself. It was in a terrible mess, full of old iron and burnt-out boxes. I was coming round the back of the building,” he went on impressively, “when I smelt a peculiar scent.”

“A perfume?”

“Yes, sir, it was perfume, but stronger⁠—more like incense. I thought at first it might be an old bale of stuff that had been thrown out, or else I was deceiving myself. I began poking about in the rubbish heaps⁠—but they didn’t smell of scent! Then I went back into the building again, but there was no smell at all. It was very strong when I returned to the back of the factory, and then I saw a little waft of smoke come out of a ventilator close to the ground. My first idea was that the place was on fire, but when I knelt down, it was this scent.”

“Joss-sticks?” said Poiccart quickly.

“That’s what it was!” said the detective. “Like incense, yet not like it. I knelt down and listened at the grating, and I’ll swear that I heard voices. They were very faint.”

“Men’s?”

“No, women’s.”

“Could you see anything?”

“No, sir, it was a blind ventilator; there was probably a shaft there⁠—in fact, I’m sure there was, because I pushed a stone through one of the holes and heard it drop some distance down.”

“There may be an underground room there,” said Poiccart, “and somebody’s burnt joss-sticks to sweeten the atmosphere.”

“Under the factory? It’s not in the plans of the building. I’ve had them from the surveyor’s office and examined them,” said George, “although surveyors’ plans aren’t infallible. A man like Oberzohn would not hesitate to break so unimportant a thing as a building law!”

Leon came in at that moment, heard the story and was in complete agreement with Poiccart’s theory.

“I wondered at the time we saw the plans whether we ought to accept that as conclusive,” he said. “The store was built at the end of 1914, when architects and builders took great liberties and pleaded the exigencies of the war.”

Digby went on with his story.

“I was going back to the barge to get past the water-gate, but I saw the old man coming down the steps of the house, so I climbed the wall, and very glad I was that I’d shifted that broken glass, or I should never have got over.”

Manfred pulled his watch from his pocket with a frown. They had lost nearly an hour of precious time with their inquiries in Chester Square.

“I hope we’re not too late,” he said ominously. “Now, Leon⁠ ⁠…”

But Leon had gone down the stairs in three strides.