The report made to Mr. Blackton on the condition of the Professor’s house was certainly justified. It looked just as if a heavy aeroplane bomb had registered a direct hit on the back of the premises. And the damage was continually increasing. The whole fabric of the house had been undermined, and it was only at considerable personal risk that the police pursued their investigations. Frequent crashes followed by clouds of choking dust betokened that more and more of the house was collapsing, and at length the Inspector in charge gave the order to cease work for the time. Half a dozen policemen kept the curious crowd away, whilst the Inspector retired to the front of the house, which had escaped the damage, to await the arrival of some member of the Professor’s family. It was not a task that he relished, but it was his duty to make what inquiries he could.

In his own mind he felt pretty clear as to what had happened. The parlourmaid, who appeared a sensible sort of girl, had told him all she knew⁠—particularly mentioning the German Professor’s remark as he left the house. And it seemed quite obvious that Professor Goodman had been experimenting with some form of violent explosive, and that, regrettable to say, the explosive had not behaved itself. When the debris had ceased to fall and it was safe to resume work, it might be possible to discover something more definite, but up to date the sole thing they had found of interest was one of the unfortunate savant’s boots. And since that had already been identified by the parlourmaid as belonging to Professor Goodman, all the identification necessary for the inquest was there. Which from a professional point of view was just as well, since there was nothing else left to identify.

An open Rolls-Royce drew up outside, and the Inspector went to the window and looked out. From the driver’s seat there descended a large young man, who said something to the two other occupants of the car, and then came rapidly up the short drive to the front door, where the Inspector met him.

“What on earth has happened?” he demanded.

“May I ask if you are a relative of Professor Goodman’s?” said the Inspector.

“No; I’m not. My name is Drummond, Captain Drummond. But if you’ll cast your eye on the back of my car you’ll see his daughter, Miss Goodman.”

“Well,” said the Inspector gravely, “I fear that I have some very bad news for Miss Goodman. There has been an accident, Captain Drummond⁠—an appalling accident. The whole of the back of the house has been blown to pieces, and with it, I regret to say, Professor Goodman. There is literally nothing left of the unfortunate gentleman.”

“Good God!” gasped Algy, who had come up in time to hear the last part of the remark. “Have you caught the swine⁠ ⁠…”

Hugh’s hand gripped his arm in warning.

“How did it happen?” he asked quietly. “Have you any ideas?”

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.

“There is no doubt whatever as to how it happened,” he answered. “The whole thing will, of course, be gone into thoroughly at the inquest, but it is all so obvious that there is no need for any secrecy. The unfortunate gentleman was experimenting with some form of high explosive, and he blew himself up and the house as well.”

“I see,” said Drummond thoughtfully. “Look here, Algy⁠—take Brenda back to my place, and tell the poor kid there. Turn her over to Phyllis.”

“Right you are, Hugh,” said Algy soberly. “By God!” he exploded again, and once more Drummond’s warning hand silenced him.

Without another word he turned and walked away. Brenda, in an agony of suspense, met him at the gateway and her sudden little pitiful cry showed that she had already guessed the truth. But she followed Algy back into the car, and it was not until it had disappeared that Drummond spoke again.

“You have no suspicions of foul play, I suppose?”

The Inspector looked at him quickly.

“Foul play, Captain Drummond? What possible reason could there be for foul play in the case of such a man as Professor Goodman? Oh! no. He was seen by the parlourmaid immersed in an experiment as she was letting some German Professor out⁠—a scientific acquaintance of the unfortunate gentleman. They had been having a discussion all the afternoon, and not five minutes after his visitor left the explosion took place.”

Drummond nodded thoughtfully.

“Deuced agile fellow⁠—the Boche. Did the hundred at precisely the right psychological moment. Would there be any objection, Inspector⁠—as a friend of the family and all that⁠—to my having a look at the scene of the accident? You see, there are only his wife and daughter left⁠—two women alone; and Miss Goodman’s fiancé⁠—the man who took her off in the car⁠—not being here, perhaps I might take it on myself to give them what information I can.”

“Certainly, Captain Drummond. But I warn you that there’s nothing to see. And you’d better be careful that you don’t get a fall of bricks on your head. I’ll come with you, if you like.”

The two men walked round to the back of the house. The crowd, which by now had largely increased in size, surged forward expectantly as they disappeared through the shattered wall, and the Inspector gave an order to one of the constables.

“Move them along,” he said. “There’s nothing to be seen.”

“Good heavens!” remarked Drummond, staring round in amazement. “This is what one used to expect in France. In fact I’ve slept in many worse. But in Hampstead⁠ ⁠…”

“I found this, sir, on the remains of the table,” said a sergeant, coming up to the Inspector with a key in his hand. “It belongs to the door.”

The Inspector took the key and tried it himself.

“That confirms what the maid said.” He turned to Drummond. “The door was locked on the inside. The maid heard him lock it as she showed the German out, which, of course, was a few minutes before the accident took place.”

Drummond frowned thoughtfully and lit a cigarette. That was a complication, and a very unexpected complication. In fact at one blow it completely shattered the idea that was already more than half formed in his mind⁠—an idea which, needless to say, differed somewhat radically from the worthy Inspector’s notion of what had happened.

“And what of the Professor himself?” he asked after a moment or two. “Is the body much damaged?”

“There is nothing left of the body,” said the Inspector gravely. “At least practically nothing.”

He crossed to the corner of the room by the door, where the damage was least, and removed a cloth which covered some object on the floor.

“This is all we have found at present.”

“Poor old chap,” said Drummond quietly, staring at the boot. There was a patch on it⁠—a rather conspicuous patch which he had noticed at lunch that day.

“It has been identified already by the parlourmaid as the Professor’s boot,” said the Inspector, replacing the cloth. “Not that there is much need for identification in this case. But it is always necessary at the inquest as a matter of form.”

“Of course,” answered Drummond absently, and once more fell to staring round the wrecked room. Three plainclothes men were carefully turning over heaps of debris, searching for further traces of the dead scientist. But the task seemed hopeless, and after a while he said goodbye to the Inspector and started to walk back to Brook Street.

The whole thing had come with such startling suddenness that he felt shaken. It seemed incredible that the dear, absentminded old man who had lunched with him only that day was dead and blown to pieces. Over and over again in his mind there arose the one dominant question⁠—was it foul play, or was it not? If it wasn’t, it was assuredly one of the most fortunate accidents for a good many people that could possibly have taken place. No longer any need to stump up a quarter of a million for the suppression of the Professor’s discovery⁠—no longer any need to worry. And suddenly Hugh stopped short in his tracks, and a thoughtful look came into his eyes.

“Great Scott!” he muttered to himself, “I’d almost forgotten.”

His hand went to his breast-pocket, and a grim smile hovered for a moment or two round his mouth as he strolled on. Professor Goodman might be dead, but his secret wasn’t. And if by any chance it had not been an accident⁠ ⁠… if by any chance this diamond syndicate had deliberately caused the poor defenceless old man’s death, the presence of those papers in his pocket would help matters considerably. They would form an admirable introduction to the gentlemen in question⁠—and he was neither old nor defenceless. In fact there dawned on his mind the possibility that there might be something doing in the near future. And the very thought of such a possibility came with the refreshing balm of a shower on parched ground. It produced in him a feeling of joy comparable only to that with which the hungry young view the advent of indigestible food. It radiated from his face; it enveloped him in a beatific glow. And he was still looking like a man who has spotted a winner at twenty to one as he entered his house.

His wife met him in the hall.

“Hugh, for goodness’ sake, compose your face,” she said severely. “Poor Mrs. Goodman is here, and Brenda, and you come in roaring with laughter.”

“Good Lord! I’d forgotten all about ’em,” he murmured, endeavouring to assume a mournful expression. “Where are they?”

“Upstairs. They’re going to stop here tonight. Brenda telephoned through to her mother. Hugh⁠—what an awful thing to have happened.”

“You’re right, my dear,” he answered seriously. “It is awful. The only comfort about it is that it must have been absolutely instantaneous. Where’s Algy?”

“He’s in your room. He’s most frightfully upset, poor old thing, principally on Brenda’s account.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Hugh⁠—he said something to me about it not being any accident. What did he mean?”

“Algy is a talkative ass,” answered her husband quietly. “Pay no attention to him, and don’t under any circumstances even hint at such a thing to Mrs. Goodman or Brenda.”

“But you don’t mean he killed himself?” said Phyllis in a horrified whisper.

“Good heavens! no,” answered Hugh. “But there is a possibility, my dear, and more than a possibility that he was murdered. Now⁠—not a word to a soul. The police think it was an accident; let it remain at that for the present.”

“But who on earth would want to murder the dear old man?” gasped his wife.

“The Professor had made a discovery, darling,” said Hugh gravely, “which threatened to ruin everyone who was concerned in the diamond industry. He had found out a method of making diamonds artificially at a very low cost. To show you how seriously the trade regarded it, he was offered two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to suppress it. That he refused to do. This morning he received a letter threatening his life. This afternoon he died, apparently as the result of a ghastly accident. But⁠—I wonder.”

“Does anybody know all this?” said Phyllis.

“A few very interested people who won’t talk about it, and you and Algy and I who won’t talk about it either⁠—yet. Later on we might all have a chat on the subject, but just at present there’s rather too much of the fog of war about. In fact the only really definite fact that emerges from the gloom, except for the poor old chap’s death, is this.”

He held out an envelope in his hand, and his wife looked at it, puzzled.

“That is the discovery which has caused all the trouble,” went on Hugh. “And the few very interested people I was telling you about don’t know that I’ve got it. And they won’t know that I’ve got it either⁠—yet.”

“So that’s why you were looking like that as you came in.”

His wife looked at him accusingly, and Hugh grinned.

“Truly your understanding is great, my angel,” he murmured.

“But how did you get it?” she persisted.

“He gave it to me at lunch today,” said her husband. “And in the near future it’s going to prove very useful⁠—very useful indeed. Why, I almost believe that if I advertised that I’d got it, it would draw old Peterson himself. Seconds out of the ring; third and last round: time.”

“Hugh⁠—you’re incorrigible. And don’t do that in the hall⁠—someone will see.”

So he kissed her again, and went slowly up the stairs to his own room. Most of the really brilliant ideas in life come in flashes, and he had had many worse than that last. There were times when his soul positively hankered for another little turn-up with Carl Peterson⁠—something with a real bit of zip in it, something to vary his present stagnation. But he fully realised that a gentleman of Peterson’s eminence had many other calls on his time, and that he must not be greedy. After all, he’d had two of the brightest and best, and that was more than most people could say. And perhaps there might be something in this present show which would help to keep his hand in. Sir Raymond Blantyre, the bird with the agitated eyeglass, for instance. He didn’t sound much class⁠—a bit of a rabbit at the game probably, but still, something might come of him.

He opened the door of his room, and Algy looked up from his chair.

“You don’t think it was an accident, do you, Hugh?” he remarked quietly.

“I don’t know what to think, old man,” answered Drummond. “If it was an accident, it was a very remarkable and fortunate one for a good many people. But there is one point which is a little difficult to explain unless it was: Hannah, or Mary, or whatever that sweet woman’s name is who used to breathe down one’s neck when she handed you things at dinner, saw the old man at work through the open door. She heard him lock the door. Moreover, the key was found in the room⁠—on the floor or somewhere; it was found while I was there. From that moment no one else entered the room until the explosion. Now, you haven’t seen the appalling mess that explosion made. There must have been an immense amount of explosive used. The darned place looks as if it had had a direct hit with a big shell. Well, what I’m getting at is that it is quite out of the question that the amount of explosive necessary to produce such a result could have been placed there unknown to old Goodman. And that rules out of court this German bloke who spent the afternoon with him.”

“He might have left a bomb behind him,” said Algy.

“My dear boy,” exclaimed Hugh, “you’d have wanted a bomb the size of a wheelbarrow. That’s the point I’ve been trying to force into your skull. You can’t carry a thing that size about in your waistcoat pocket. No⁠—it won’t work. Either the maid is talking through the back of her neck, or she isn’t. And if she isn’t, the old chap was dancing about in the room after the German left. Not only that, but he locked himself in. Well, even you wouldn’t lock yourself in with a land-mine, would you? Especially one you’d just seen carefully arranged to explode in five minutes. Besides, he knew this German; he told me so at lunch today.”

“I suppose you’re right,” grunted Algy. “And yet it seems so deuced suspicious.”

“Precisely: it is deuced suspicious. But don’t forget one thing, old boy. It is only suspicious to us because we’ve got inside information. It is not a bit suspicious to the police.”

“It would be if you told ’em about that letter he got.”

Hugh lit a cigarette and stared out of the window.

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But do we want to rouse their suspicions, old boy? If we’re wrong⁠—if it was a bona fide accident⁠—there’s no use in doing so; if we’re right, we might have a little game all on our own. I mean I was all in favour of the old boy going to the police about it while he was alive, but now that he’s dead it seems a bit late in the day.”

“And how do you propose to make the other side play?” demanded Algy.

“Good Lord! I haven’t got as far as that,” said Hugh vaguely. “One might biff your pal with the eyeglass on the jaw, or something like that. Or one might get in touch with them through these notes on the Professor’s discovery, and see what happens. If they then tried to murder me, we should have a bit of a pointer as to which way the wind was blowing. Might have quite a bit of fun, Algy; you never know. Anyway, I think we’ll attend the inquest tomorrow; we might spot something if we’re in luck. We will sit modestly at the back of the court, and see without being seen.”

But the inquest failed to reveal very much. It was a depressing scene, and more in the nature of a formality than anything else. The two young men arrived early, and wedged themselves in the back row, whence they commanded a good view of the court. And suddenly Algy caught Hugh’s arm.

“See that little bird with the white moustache and the eyeglass in the second row,” he whispered. “That’s the fellow I was telling you about, who put up the offer of a quarter of a million.”

Hugh grunted noncommittally; seen from that distance he seemed a harmless sort of specimen. And then the proceedings started. The police gave their formal evidence, and after that the parlourmaid was put into the box. She described in detail the events of the afternoon, and the only new point which came to light was the fact that another man beside the German Professor had been to the house for a short time and left almost at once. First the German had arrived. No, she did not know his name⁠—but his appearance was peculiar. Pressed for details, it appeared that his clothes were dirty, and his hands stained with chemicals. Oh! yes⁠—she would certainly know him again if she saw him. A box had come with him which was carried into the laboratory by two men. They had brought it in a car, and had waited outside part of the time the German was there. Yes⁠—she had talked to them. Had they said anything about the German? Surely they must have mentioned his name. No⁠—they didn’t even know it. The witness paused, and having been duly encouraged by the Coroner was understood to say that the only thing they had said about him was that he was a bit dippy.

The laughter in court having been instantly quelled, the witness proceeded. Just after the German had arrived another visitor came. No⁠—she didn’t know his name either. But he was English, and she showed him into the laboratory too. Then she went down to finish her dinner.

About ten minutes later the front-door bell rang again. She went upstairs to find the German dancing about in the hall in his excitement. He wanted to know when Professor Goodman was returning. Said he had made an appointment, and that unless the Professor returned shortly he would go as the other visitor had gone.

Pressed on this point by the Coroner⁠—she knew the second visitor had gone, as the only people in the laboratory as she passed it were the two men already alluded to. And just then Professor Goodman came in, apologised for having kept the German waiting, and they disappeared into the laboratory. For the next hour and a half she heard them talking whenever she passed the door; then the laboratory bell rang. She went up to find that the German was leaving. Through the open door she saw Professor Goodman bending over his bench hard at work; then just as she was halfway across the hall she heard the key turn in the door. And the German had waved his arms in the air, and said something about the house going sky-high. The motor had gone by that time, and the box and the two men. It was just before then that she’d spoken to them. And it was about four or five minutes later after the German had disappeared down the road that the explosion took place.

The witness paused, and stared into the court.

“There he is,” she cried. “That’s him⁠—just come in.”

Drummond swung round in time to see the tall, ungainly figure of Professor Scheidstrun go shambling up the court. He was waving his arms, and peering short-sightedly from side to side.

“I hof just heard the dreadful news,” he cried, pausing in front of the Coroner. “I hof it read in the newspaper. My poor friendt has himself blown up. But that I had gone he would myself have blown also.”

After a short delay he was piloted into the witness-box. His evidence, which was understood with difficulty, did, however, elucidate the one main fact which was of importance⁠—namely, the nature of the explosive which had caused the disaster. It appeared that Professor Goodman had been experimenting for some time with a new form of blasting powder which would be perfectly harmless unless exploded by a detonator containing fulminate of mercury. No blow, no heat would cause it to explode. And when he left the house the Professor had in front of him numerous specimens of this blasting powder of varying quality. One only was the perfected article⁠—the rest were the failures. But all were high explosive of different degrees of power. And then some accident must have happened.

He waved his arms violently in the air, and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief that had once been white. Then like a momentarily dammed stream the flood of verbosity broke forth again. The partially stunned court gathered that it was his profound regret that he had only yesterday afternoon called the deceased man a fool. He still considered that his views on the atomic theory were utterly wrong, but he was not a fool. He wished publicly to retract the statement, and to add further that as a result of this deplorable accident not only England but the world had lost one of its most distinguished men. And with that he sat down again, mopping his forehead.

It was then the Coroner’s turn. He said that he was sure the bereaved family would be grateful for the kind words of appreciation from the distinguished scientist who had just given evidence⁠—words with which he would humbly like to associate himself also. It was unnecessary, he considered, to subject Mrs. Goodman to the very painful ordeal of identifying the remains, as sufficient evidence had already been given on that point. He wished to express his profound sympathy with the widow and daughter, and to remind them that “Peace hath its victories no less renowned than War.”

And so with a verdict of “Accidental Death caused by the explosion of blasting powder during the course of experimental work,” the proceedings terminated. The court arose, and with the court rose Algy, to discover, to his surprise, that Hugh had already disappeared. He hadn’t seen him go, but that was nothing new. For as Algy and everyone else connected with Hugh Drummond had discovered long ago, he had a power of rapid and silent movement which was almost incredible in such a big man. Presumably he had got bored and left. And sure enough when Algy got outside he saw Drummond on the opposite side of the street staring into the window of a tobacconist’s. He sauntered across to join him.

“Well⁠—that’s that,” he remarked. “Don’t seem to have advanced things much.”

“Get out of sight,” snapped Drummond. “Go inside and stop there. Buy matches or something.”

With a feeling of complete bewilderment Algy did as he was told. He went inside and he stopped there, until the proprietor began to eye him suspiciously. There had been two or three cases of holdups in the papers recently, and after he had bought several packets of unprepossessing cigarettes and half a dozen boxes of matches the atmosphere became strained. In desperation he went to the door and peered out, thereby confirming the shopman’s suspicions to such good effect that he ostentatiously produced a dangerous-looking life-preserver.

Hugh had completely disappeared. Not a trace of him was to be seen, and feeling more bewildered than ever Algy hailed a passing taxi and drove off to Brook Street. Presumably Hugh would return there in due course, and until then he would have to possess his soul in patience.

It was two hours before he came in, and sank into a chair without a word.

“What’s all the excitement?” demanded Algy eagerly.

“I don’t know that there is any,” grunted Hugh. “I’m not certain the whole thing isn’t a false alarm. What did you think of the inquest?”

“Not very helpful,” said Algy. “Seems pretty conclusive that it really was an accident.”

Once again Hugh grunted.

“I suppose you didn’t notice the rather significant little point that your diamond pal Blantyre knew the old German.”

Algy stared at him.

“I happened to be looking at him as the German appeared, and I saw him give a most violent start. And all through the Boche’s evidence he was as nervous as a cat with kittens. Of course there was no reason why he shouldn’t have known him⁠—but in view of what we know it seemed a bit suspicious to me. So I waited for them to come out of court. Sir Raymond came first and hung about a bit. Then came the old German, who got into a waiting taxi. And as he got in he spoke to Sir Raymond⁠—just one brief sentence. What it was I don’t know, of course, but it confirmed the fact that they knew one another. It also confirmed the fact that for some reason or other they did not wish to have their acquaintance advertised abroad. Now⁠—why? That, old boy, is the question I asked myself all the way down to Bloomsbury in a taxi. I had one waiting too, and I followed the German. Why this mystery? Why should they be thus bashful of letting it be known that they had met before?”

“Did you find out anything?” asked Algy.

“I found out where the old German is staying. But beyond that nothing. He is stopping at a house belonging to a Mr. Anderson⁠—William Anderson, who, I gathered from discreet inquiries, is a gentleman of roving disposition. He uses the house as a sort of pied-à-terre when he is in London, which is not very often. Presumably he made the German’s acquaintance abroad, and invited him to make use of his house.”

“Don’t seem to be much to go on, does there?” said Algy disconsolately.

“Dam’ little,” agreed Hugh cheerfully. “In fact if you boil down to it, nothing at all. But you never can tell, old boy. I saw a baby with a squint this morning and passed under two ladders, so all may yet be well. Though I greatly fear nothing will come of it. I thought vaguely yesterday that we might get some fun by means of these notes of the old man’s, but ’pon my soul⁠—I don’t know how. In the first place, they’re indecipherable; and even if they weren’t, I couldn’t make a diamond in a thousand years. In the second place, they don’t belong to us; and in the third it would look remarkably like blackmail. Of course, they’re our only hope, but I’m afraid they won’t amount to much in our young lives.”

He sighed profoundly, and replaced the envelope in his pocket.

“Oh! for the touch of a vanished hand,” he murmured. “Carl⁠—my Carl⁠—it cannot be that we shall never meet again. I feel, Algy, that if only he could know the position of affairs he would burst into tears and fly to our assistance. He’d chance the notes being unintelligible if he knew what they were about. Once again would he try to murder me with all his well-known zest. What fun it would all be!”

“Not a hope,” said Algy. “Though I must say I do rather wonder what the blighter is doing now.”

To be exact, he was just putting the last final touch on the aquiline nose of Edward Blackton, and remarking to himself that everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Replaced carefully on their respective pegs were the egg-stained garments of Professor Scheidstrun; the grey wig carefully combed out occupied its usual headrest.

And not without reason did Edward Blackton⁠—alias Carl Peterson⁠—alias the Comte du Guy, etc.⁠—feel pleased with himself. Never in the course of his long and brilliant career had a coup gone with such wonderful success. It almost staggered him when he thought about it. Not a hitch anywhere; not even the suspicion of a check. Everything had gone like clockwork from beginning to end, thereby once again bearing out the main theory of his life, which was that the bigger the coup the safer it was. It is the bank clerk with his petty defalcations who gets found out every time; the big man does it in millions and entertains Royalty on the proceeds. But in his line of business, as in every other, to get big results the original outlay must be big. And it was on that point that Mr. Blackton felt so particularly pleased. For the original outlay in this case had not only been quite small, but, in addition, had been generously found by the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. Which tickled his sense of humour to such an extent that once or twice it had quite interfered with the delicate operation of face-building.

But at last he had finished, and with his Corona drawing to his entire satisfaction he locked up his inner sanctuary and stepped into the room which served him as an office. At three o’clock he was to meet Sir Raymond Blantyre and receive from him the remaining quarter of a million in notes; at three-fifteen he would be on his way to the house Freyder had acquired for him to begin business in earnest. A note from Freyder received that morning had stated that Professor Goodman, though a little dazed, seemed in no way to have suffered from his uncomfortable journey, which was eminently satisfactory. For it was certainly no part of his play to treat his prisoner with anything but the utmost care and consideration, unless, of course, he should prove foolish. For a moment Blackton’s eyes narrowed at the thought; then he gave the faintest possible shrug of his shoulders. Sufficient unto the day, and he had dealt with such cases⁠—before.

So after a final look round the room he carefully pulled down the blinds and went downstairs. Mr. William Anderson was leaving London for another of his prolonged visits abroad.

His anticipations that there would be no trouble over the second payment were justified. Sir Raymond Blantyre and three other members of the syndicate were awaiting his arrival, and the expressions on their faces reminded him of young girls being introduced to a man who mother has told them is very wicked and not at all a nice person to know.

“Well, gentlemen,” he remarked affably, “I trust you are satisfied. This⁠—er⁠—fortunate accident has settled things very pleasantly for all concerned, has it not?”

“It really was an accident?” said Sir Raymond, and his voice shook a little.

“Surely, Sir Raymond, your pitiable agitation in court this morning was not so great as to prevent your hearing the verdict? And that, I think, is all that concerns any of us; that, and the fact that Professor Goodman will not deliver his address to the Royal Society which was the raison d’être of our meeting. And so shall we terminate the business?”

In silence Sir Raymond handed over the notes which Blackton carefully folded and placed in his pocketbook.

“Delightful weather, is it not?” he said courteously. “My⁠—ah⁠—daughter tells me that Montreux has never been more lovely.”

“You are going back to Switzerland at once?” said Sir Raymond.

“Who knows?” answered the other. “I am a man of moods.” He picked up his hat, and a faint smile hovered round his lips. “But I certainly feel that I have earned a holiday. Well, gentlemen⁠—I will say goodbye. Possibly we may meet again, though I doubt if I shall still be Mr. Blackton. A pity, because I rather fancy myself like this. It is quite my best-looking role, so I am informed by competent judges. But change and novelty are essential in my work, as doubtless you can understand.”

He strolled towards the door, still smiling gently.

“One moment, Mr. Blackton,” cried Sir Raymond. “What about Mr. Lewisham? His wife rang me up on the telephone this morning to say that he had not returned last night, and that she’d had a wire from Euston saying he’d been called North on business.”

Blackton studied the ash on his cigar.

“Really,” he murmured. “You don’t say so. However, I don’t know that I’m greatly interested. He wasn’t very entertaining, was he?”

“But that note,” cried Leibhaus⁠—“the threatening note.”

“Destroyed by me personally. You may rest assured of that. And when you next see Mr. Lewisham, please give him my kind regards. Doubtless an excellent man, though I thought him very quiet the last time I saw him. Dull⁠—and overburdened with conscience. A depressing mixture. Well, gentlemen, once again⁠—goodbye. Or shall I say⁠—au revoir?”

The door closed behind him a little abruptly. Just at the moment the topic of Mr. Lewisham was not one he wished to go into in detail. Once he was on his way to Valparaiso it wouldn’t matter so much⁠—but at the moment, no. The subject failed to commend itself to him, and he dismissed it from his mind as he entered his waiting motorcar. It still remained the one weak link in the whole business, but nothing more could be done to strengthen it than he had already done. And that being the case, there was no object in bothering about it further. There were other things of more immediate importance in the near future to be decided, and it was of those he was thinking as the car spun smoothly along towards the luxurious house Freyder had acquired for him on the borders of the New Forest.

After mature thought he had decided to add a completely new character to his repertoire. At first he had considered the possibilities of being an ordinary English country gentleman, but he had very soon dismissed the idea. The gentleman part he could do⁠—none better; even the English, but not the country. And he was far too clever not to realise his own limitations. Yet it was a pity, since no type is more inconspicuous in its proper place, and to be inconspicuous was his object in life. But it was too risky a role to play in the middle of the genuine article, and so he had reluctantly decided against it. And his intention now was to assume the character of an elderly recluse of eccentric habits and great wealth devoted to all sorts of scientific research work⁠—particularly electrical and chemical. Most of his life had been spent abroad, and now, in his declining years, he had come back to the country of his birth partially from feelings of sentiment, but more particularly to look after his only brother, whose health and brain had been failing for some time. A part of the house was set apart for this brother, who was subject to delusions and saw no one.

Six months was the period he gave it before⁠—in a last despairing effort to restore his brother’s health⁠—he took him for a cruise on a private yacht, and buried him quietly at sea. Possibly less; a great deal would depend on the rapidity with which the invalid produced the diamonds. For though he had no doubt as to his ability to learn the process in a very short time, the thought of mixing chemicals and getting electric shocks bored him excessively. Having got the dog, he had no intention of barking himself. No⁠—six months was the period he had in his mind; after which the real game would begin. Again would an eminent savant approach Sir Raymond Blantyre and his syndicate and make diamonds artificially; again would the services of Mr. Edward Blackton be requisitioned to deal with the situation. And as the gorgeous possibility of being paid a vast sum to kill himself dawned on him, as the endless vista of money, money, all the time stretched out before his imagination in all its wonderful simplicity, the charm of the countryside took on an added beauty. A glow of sublime benevolence flooded his soul; for one brief moment he took up the speaking-tube to stop the car. He felt he wanted to hear the birds sing; to put buttercups in his hair and dance with the chauffeur on the green sward. And since such a performance might have perplexed that worthy mechanic more than it enthralled him, it was just as well that at that moment the car swung through some massive gates and entered the drive of a largish house, which could be seen in the distance through the trees.

Mr. William Robinson had reached his destination. For, quite rightly realising that shibboleth of our country life which concerns itself with whether a stranger belongs to the Leicestershire or the Warwickshire branch of the family, he had decided against calling himself De Vere Molyneux.