It must be admitted that there was an air of gloom over Hugh Drummond’s house on the day following the inquest. Mrs. Goodman and Brenda had not left their rooms, and somewhat naturally Phyllis was principally occupied in seeing what she could do for them in their terrible sorrow; while Algy Longworth, faced with the necessity of postponing the wedding, had relapsed into a condition of complete imbecility and refused to be comforted. In fact it was not an atmosphere conducive to thought, and Hugh was trying to think.

On the next day was the funeral. The whole thing had already dropped out of the public eye, Professor Goodman, having been neither a pugilist, film star, nor criminal, but merely a gentle old man of science, could lay no claim whatever to the slightest popular interest. But to Hugh he was something more than a gentle old man of science. He was a man who to all intents and purposes had appealed to him for help⁠—a man whose life had been threatened, and who, within a few hours of receiving that threat, had died.

True, according to the verdict at the inquest, he would have died whether he had received that threat or not. But Hugh was still dissatisfied with that verdict. The proofs, the evidence, all pointed that way⁠—but he was still dissatisfied. And coupled with his dissatisfaction was an uneasy feeling, which only grew stronger with time, that he had been wrong to suppress his knowledge of that letter from the police.

Now it was impossible to put it forward, but that made things no better. The only result in fact as far as he was concerned was that it hardened his resolve not to let the matter drop where it was. Until after the funeral he would say nothing; then he’d begin some inquiries on his own. And for those inquiries two obvious avenues suggested themselves: the first was Professor Scheidstrun, the second Sir Raymond Blantyre.

Once again he took the Professor’s notes out of his pocketbook and studied them. He had already shown one sheet to a chemist in a neighbouring street in the hope that he might be able to decipher it, but with no result. The atrocious handwriting, coupled with the fact that, according to the chemist, it was written in a sort of code, made them completely incomprehensible to anyone save the man who wrote them. And he was dead.⁠ ⁠…

With a sigh he replaced the papers in his notecase and strolled over to the window. Brook Street presented a quiescent appearance due to the warmth of the day and the recent consumption by its dwellers of lunch. And Hugh was just wondering what form of exercise he could most decently take in view of Mrs. Goodman’s presence in the house, when he straightened up and his eyes became suddenly watchful. A wild, excited figure whom he recognised instantly was tacking up the street, peering with shortsighted eyes at the numbers of the houses.

“Algy!”

“What is it?” grunted Longworth, coming out of a melancholy reverie.

“Old Scheidstrun is blowing up the street. He’s looking for a house. Surely he can’t be coming here?”

Algy Longworth sat up in his chair.

“You mean the old bloke who gave evidence at the inquest?”

Hugh nodded.

“By Jove! he is coming here.” His voice held traces of excitement. “Now, why the deuce should he want to see me?”

He went quickly to the door.

“Denny,” he called, and his servant, who was already on his way to the front door, paused and looked up. “Show the gentleman outside straight up here to my room.”

He came back frowning thoughtfully.

“How on earth does he connect me with it, Algy?”

“It’s more than likely, old man,” answered Longworth, “that he may have heard that Mrs. Goodman is here, and has come to shoot a card. Anyway, we’ll soon know.”

A moment later Denny ushered Professor Scheidstrun into the room. Seen from close-to, he seemed more untidy and egg-stained than ever, as he stood by the door peering at the two young men.

“Captain Drummond?” he demanded in his hoarse, guttural voice.

“That’s me,” said Hugh, who was standing with his back to the fireplace regarding his visitor curiously. “What can I do for you, sir?”

The Professor waved his arms like an agitated semaphore and sank into a chair.

“Doubtless you wonder who I may be,” he remarked, “and what for I come you to see.”

“I know perfectly well who you are,” said Drummond quietly, “but I confess I’m beat as to why you want to see me. However, the pleasure is entirely mine.”

“So.” The German stared at him. “You know who I am?”

“You are Professor Scheidstrun,” remarked Drummond. “I was present at the inquest yesterday and saw you.”

“Goot.” The Professor nodded his head as if satisfied, though his brain was busy with this very unexpected item of news. “Then I will proceed at once to the business. In the excitement of all this dreadful accident I haf forgotten it until this moment. Then I remember and come to you at once.” He was fumbling in his pocket as he spoke. “A letter. Captain Drummond, which my poor friend give to me to post⁠—and I forget it till an hour ago. And I say at once, I will go round myself and see this gentleman and explain.”

Drummond took the envelope and glanced at it thoughtfully, while Algy looked over his shoulder.

“That’s Professor Goodman’s writing.”

“Since he the letter wrote presumably it is,” remarked the German with ponderous sarcasm.

“You know the contents of this letter, Professor?” asked Drummond, as he slit open the envelope.

“He it read to me,” answered the other. “Ach! it is almost incredible that what my dear friend should have said to me in jest⁠—indeed that which he has written there in jest⁠—should have proved true. Even now I can hardly believe that he is dead. It is a loss, gentlemen, to the world of science which can never be replaced.”

He rambled on while Drummond, having read the letter in silence, handed it to Algy. And if for one fleeting second there showed in the German’s eyes a gleam of almost maniacal hatred as they rested on the owner of the house, it was gone as suddenly as it came. The look on his face was benevolent, even sad, as befitted a man who had recently lost a confrère and friend, when Drummond turned and spoke again.

“The letter is a request, Professor, that certain notes now in my possession should be handed over to you.”

“That is so,” assented the other. “He to me explained all. He told me of his astounding discovery⁠—a discovery which even now I can hardly believe. But he assured me that it was the truth. And on my shoulders he laid the sacred duty of giving that discovery to the world, if anything should happen to him.”

“Astounding coincidence that on the very afternoon he wrote this something did happen to him,” remarked Drummond quietly.

“As I haf said, even now I can hardly believe it,” agreed the Professor. “But it is so, and there is no more to be said.”

“Rather astounding also that you did not mention this at the inquest,” pursued Drummond.

“Till one hour ago, my young friend, I forget I had the letter. I forget about his discovery⁠—about the diamonds⁠—about all. My mind was stunned by the dreadful tragedy. And think⁠—five, ten minutes more and I also to pieces would have been blown. Mein Gott! it makes me sweat.”

He took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“By the way, Professor,” said Drummond suddenly, “do you know Sir Raymond Blantyre?”

For the fraction of a second Professor Scheidstrun hesitated. It was not a question he had been expecting and he realised that a lot might hinge on the answer. And then like a flash he remembered that on leaving the inquest he had spoken two or three words to Sir Raymond. Moreover, Drummond had been there himself.

“Sir Raymond Blantyre,” he murmured. “He has a grey moustache and an eyeglass. Slightly I know him. He was⁠—ja! he was at the inquest himself.”

It was glib, it was quick. It would have passed muster nine times out of ten as a spontaneous reply to a perfectly ordinary question. But it was made to a man who was already suspicious, and it was made to a man whose lazy eyes missed nothing. Drummond had noticed that almost imperceptible pause; what was more to the point, he had noticed the sudden look of wariness on the other’s face. More a fleeting shadow than a look, but it had not escaped the lynx-eyed man lounging against the mantelpiece. And it had not tended to allay his suspicions, though his face was still perfectly impassive.

“I assume from what he has written here that Professor Goodman discussed with you the threatening letter he received,” he went on placidly.

“He mentioned it, of course.” The German shrugged his shoulders. “But for me it seems a stupid joke. Absurd! Ridiculous! Who would be so foolish as to write such a thing if it was a genuine threat? It was⁠—how do you say it⁠—it was a hoax? Nein⁠—nein⁠—to that I paid no attention. It was not for that he this letter wrote. He told me of his discovery, and I who know him well, I say, ‘Where are the notes? It is not safe for you to carry them. You who lose everything⁠—you will lose them. Or more likely still someone will your pocket pick. There are people in London who would like those notes.’ ”

“There undoubtedly are,” agreed Drummond mildly.

“He tells me he give them to you. I say, ‘This young man⁠—he too may lose them. Tell him to send them to your men of business.’ He says, ‘Goot⁠—I will.’ And he write the letter there. Then he add, as he thinks, his little joke. My poor friend! My poor, poor friend! For now the joke is not a joke. And on me there falls the sacred trust he has left. But his shall be the glory; all the credit will I give to him. And the world of science shall remember his name forever by this discovery.”

Overcome by his emotion the Professor lay back in his chair breathing stertorously, while once again he dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Very praiseworthy and all that,” murmured Drummond. “Then I take it that your proposal is, sir, that I should hand these notes over to you here and now?”

The German sat up and shrugged his shoulders.

“It would save trouble, Captain Drummond. For me I wish to return to Germany after my poor friend’s funeral tomorrow. Naturally I must with me take the notes. But if for any reason you would prefer to hand them to the good Mr. Tootem of Austin Friars, then perhaps we could arrange to meet there some time tomorrow morning.”

He leaned back in his chair as if the matter was of no account, and Drummond, his hands in his pocket, strolled over to the window. On the face of it everything was perfectly aboveboard⁠—and yet, try as he would, he could not rid himself of the feeling that something was wrong. Later, when he recalled that interview and realised that for half an hour on that warm summer’s afternoon he had been in his own house with the man he knew as Carl Peterson sitting in his best chair, he used to shake with laughter at the humour of it. But at the time no thought of such a wildly amazing thing was in his mind; no suspicion that Professor Scheidstrun was not Professor Scheidstrun had even entered his head. It was not the German’s identity that worried him, but his goodwill. Was he what he professed to be⁠—a friend of the late Professor Goodman’s? Did he intend to give this scientific discovery to the world as he had promised to do? Or had he deceived Professor Goodman? And if so, why? Could it be possible that this man was being employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre, and that he too was engaged in the conspiracy to destroy the results of the discovery forever?

He turned and stared at the German, who, overcome by the heat, was apparently asleep. But only apparently. Behind that coarse face and heavy forehead the brain was very wide awake. And it would have staggered Drummond could he have realised how exactly his thoughts were being read. Not very extraordinary either, since the whole interview had been planned to produce those thoughts by a master of psychology.

Suddenly the German sat up with a start.

“It is warm; I sleep.” He extracted a huge watch from his pocket and gave an exclamation as he saw the time. “I must go,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “Well⁠—how say you, Captain Drummond? Will you give me now the notes, or do we meet at the good Mr. Tootem’s?”

“I think, Professor,” said Drummond slowly, “that I would sooner we met at the lawyer’s. These notes were handed to me personally, and I should feel easier in my mind if I handed them over personally to the lawyer. Then my responsibility will end.”

“As you will,” remarked the German indifferently. “Then we will say eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, unless I let you know to the contrary.”

He shambled from the room, and Drummond escorted him to the front door. Then, having watched him down the steps, he returned to his room.

“Seems a bona fide show, Algy,” he remarked, lighting a cigarette.

“Will you give up the notes?” demanded his friend.

“My dear old thing, I must,” answered Hugh. “You’ve seen the Professor’s distinct instructions that jolly old Tootem & Tootem are to have ’em. I can’t go against that. What the legal wallah does with them afterwards is nothing to do with me. Still, I wish I could feel more certain in my own mind. You see, the devil of it is, Algy, that even if that bloke is a stumer, our hands are tied. There are old Goodman’s instructions, and the only thing I can do is to throw the responsibility on the lawyer’s shoulders.”

He paced thoughtfully up and down the room, to stop suddenly and pick up his hat.

“It’s worth trying,” he remarked half to himself and the next moment Algy was alone. From the window he saw Hugh hail a taxi and disappear, and with a shrug of his shoulders he resumed his study of Ruff’s Guide. At times the vagaries of his host were apt to be a little wearing.

And when some four hours later Hugh returned just in time for dinner, it certainly seemed as if he’d wasted his time.

“I’ve been watching Mr. Atkinson’s house, Algy,” he said despondently, “you know the one I spotted after the inquest, where Scheidstrun is living. Went to ground in a house opposite. Said I was a doctor looking for rooms. Thank heavens! the servant developed no symptoms requiring medical attention, because all I could have conscientiously recommended for anybody with a face like hers was a lethal chamber. However, as I say, I took cover in the parlour behind a bowl of stuffed fruit, and there I waited. Devil a thing for hours. Atkinson’s house was evidently occupied; in fact, I saw him look out of the window once. A benevolent-looking old chap with mutton-chop whiskers. However, I stuck it out, and at last, just as I was on the point of giving it up, something did happen, though not much. A closed car drove up, and from it there descended old Scheidstrun, a youngish man, and an elderly woman. Couldn’t see her very well⁠—but she looked a typical Boche. Probably his wife, I should think.”

He relapsed into silence and lit a cigarette.

“An afternoon wasted,” he grunted after a while. “I’m fed up with the whole dam’ show, Algy. Why the devil didn’t I give him the notes and be done with it when he was here? As it is, I’ve got to waste tomorrow morning as well fooling round in the city; and with the funeral in the afternoon the old brain will cease to function. Mix me a cocktail, like a good fellow. Everything is in the cupboard.”

And thus it came about that whilst two cocktails were being lowered in gloomy silence in Brook Street, a cheerful-looking old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers entered his quiet residential hotel in Bayswater. There were no signs of gloomy silence about the old gentleman; in fact, he was almost chatty with the lounge-waiter.

“I think⁠—yes, I think,” he remarked, “that I will have a small cocktail. Not a thing I often do⁠—but this evening I will indulge.”

“Spotted a winner, sir?” said the waiter, responding to the old gentleman’s mood.

“Something of that sort, my lad,” he replied genially⁠—“something of that sort.” And Mr. William Robinson’s smile was enigmatic.

He seldom remembered an afternoon when in a quiet way he had enjoyed himself so much. In fact, he was almost glad that Drummond had refused to hand over the notes: it would have been so inartistic⁠—so crude. Of course it would have saved bother, but where is the true artist who thinks of that? And he had never really imagined that Drummond would; he knew that young gentleman far too well for that. Naturally he was suspicious: well, he would be more suspicious tomorrow morning. He would be so suspicious, in fact, that in all probability the worthy Mr. Tootem would get the shock of his life. He chuckled consumedly, and departed so far from his established custom as to order a second Martini. And as he lifted it to his lips he drank a silent toast: he drank to the shrewd powers of observation of a beautiful girl who was even then watching orange change to pink on the snow-capped Dent du Midi from the balcony of her room in the Palace Hotel.

And so it is unnecessary to emphasise the fact that there were wheels destined to rotate within wheels in the comfortable room in Austin Friars where Mr. Tootem senior discharged his affairs, though that pillar of the legal profession was supremely unaware of the fact. With his usual courtly grace he had risen to greet the eminent German savant Professor Scheidstrun who had arrived at about ten minutes to eleven on the following morning. Somewhat to Mr. Tootem’s surprise, the Professor had been accompanied by his wife, and Frau Scheidstrun was now waiting in the next room for the business to be concluded.

“Most sad, Professor,” murmured Mr. Tootem. “An irreparable loss, as you say, to the scientific world⁠—and to his friends.” He glanced at the clock. “This young man⁠—Captain Drummond⁠—will be here, you say, at eleven.”

“That is the arrangement that I haf with him made,” answered the German. “He would not to me quite rightly the notes hand over yesterday; but as you see from the letter, it was my dear friend’s wish that I should haf them, and carry on with the great discovery he has made.”

“Quite so,” murmured Mr. Tootem benevolently, wishing profoundly that Drummond would hasten his arrival. The morning was warm; the Professor’s egg-stained garments scandalised his British soul to the core; and in addition, Mr. Tootem senior had arrived at that ripe age when office hours were made to be relaxed. He particularly wished to be at Lord’s in time to see Middlesex open their innings against Yorkshire, and only the fact that Professor Goodman had been a personal friend of his had brought him to the city at all that day.

At length with a sigh of relief he looked up. Sounds of voices outside betokened someone’s arrival, and the business would be a short one.

“Is this the young man?” he said, rubbing his hands together.

But the Professor made no reply: he was watching the door which opened at that moment to admit Drummond. And since Mr. Tootem rose at once to greet him, the fact that he had not answered escaped the lawyer’s attention. He also failed to notice that an unaccountable expression of uneasiness showed for a moment on the German’s face, as he contemplated Drummond’s vast bulk.

“Ah! Captain Drummond, I’m glad you’ve come,” remarked Mr. Tootem. “Let me see⁠—you know Professor Scheidstrun, don’t you?”

He waved Drummond to a chair.

“Yes, we had a little powwow yesterday afternoon,” said Drummond, seating himself.

The strained look had vanished from the Professor’s face: he beamed cheerfully.

“In which I found him most suspicious,” he said in his guttural voice. “But quite rightly so.”

“Exactly,” murmured Mr. Tootem, again glancing at the clock. It would take him at least twenty minutes to get to Lord’s. “But I am sure he will not be suspicious of me. And since I have one or two important⁠—er⁠—business engagements, perhaps we can conduct this little matter through expeditiously.” He beamed benevolently on Drummond, who was leaning back in his chair regarding the Professor through half-closed lids.

“Now, I understand that my dear friend and client, the late Professor Goodman, handed over to you some very valuable papers, Captain Drummond,” continued Mr. Tootem. “A great compliment, I may say, showing what faith he placed in your judgment and trustworthiness. I have here⁠—and I gather you have seen this letter⁠—instructions that those papers should be handed over to me. You have them with you, I trust?”

“Oh! yes. I’ve got them with me,” said Drummond quietly, though his eyes never left the German’s face.

“Excellent,” murmured Mr. Tootem. At a pinch he might do Lord’s in a quarter of an hour. “Then if you would kindly let me have them, that will⁠—ah⁠—conclude the matter. I may say that I quite appreciate your reluctance to hand them to anyone but me⁠ ⁠…” The worthy lawyer broke off abruptly. “Good heavens! Captain Drummond, what is the matter?”

For Drummond had risen from his chair, and was standing in front of the Professor.

“You’re not the man who came to see me yesterday,” he said quietly. “You’re not Professor Scheidstrun at all.”

“But the man is mad,” gasped the German. “You say I am not Scheidstrun⁠—me.”

“You’re made up to look exactly like him⁠—but you’re not Scheidstrun! I tell you, Mr. Tootem”⁠—he turned to the lawyer, who was staring at him aghast⁠—“that that man is no more Scheidstrun than I am. The disguise is wonderful⁠—but his hair is a slightly different colour. Ever since I came in I’ve been wondering what it was.”

“This young man is mad,” said the German angrily. “The reason that it is a slightly different colour is that I wear a wig. I haf two: this morning I wear the other one to what I wear yesterday.”

But Drummond wasn’t even listening. Like a bird fascinated by a snake he was staring at the Professor’s left hand, beating an agitated tattoo on his knee. For a moment or two he was dazed, as the stupendous reality burst on his mind. Before him sat Carl Peterson himself, given away once again by that one trick which he could never get rid of, that ceaseless nervous movement of the left hand. It was incredible; the suddenness of the thing took his breath away. And then the whole thing became clear to him. Somehow or other Peterson had heard of the discovery; perhaps employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre himself. He had found out that the notes of the process were to be handed to Scheidstrun, and with his usual consummate daring had decided to impersonate the German. And the woman he had seen arriving the night before was Irma.

His thoughts were chaotic: only the one great thing stuck out. The man in front of him was Peterson: he knew it. And with one wild hoot of utter joy he leapt upon him.

“My little Carl,” he murmured ecstatically, “the pitcher has come to the well once too often.”

Possibly it had; but the scene which followed beggared description. Peterson or not Peterson, his confession as to wearing a wig was the truth. It came off with a slight sucking noise, revealing a domelike cranium completely devoid of hair. With a wild yell of terror the unfortunate German sprang from his chair, and darted behind the portly form of Mr. Tootem, while Drummond, brandishing the wig, advanced on him.

“Damn it, sir,” spluttered Mr. Tootem, “I’ll send for the police, sir; you must be mad.”

“Out of the way, Tootles,” said Drummond happily. “You’ll scream with laughter when I tell you the truth. Though we’d best make certain the swab hasn’t got a gun.”

With a quick heave he jerked the cowering man out from behind the lawyer, who immediately rushed to the door shouting for help.

“A madman,” he bellowed to his amazed staff. “Send for a keeper, and a straightjacket.”

He turned round, for a sudden silence had settled on the room behind. Drummond was standing motionless gripping both the Professor’s arms, with a look of amazement slowly dawning on his face. Surely he couldn’t be mistaken, and yet⁠—unless Peterson had suffered from some wasting disease⁠—what on earth had happened to the man? The arms he felt under the coat-sleeve were thin as matchsticks, whereas Peterson as he remembered of old was almost as strong as he was.

He stared at Professor Scheidstrun’s face. Yes⁠—surely that nose was too good to be true. He pulled it thoughtfully and methodically⁠—first this way then that⁠—while the unhappy victim screamed with agony, and the junior clerk upset the ink in his excitement at the untoward spectacle.

It was real right enough⁠—that nose. At least nothing had come off so far, and a little dazedly Drummond backed away, still staring at him. Surely he hadn’t made a mistake: the gesture⁠—that movement of the left hand had been quite unmistakable. And the next instant a terrific blow on the right ear turned his attention to other things.

He swung round to find a monumental woman regarding him with the light of battle in her eyes.

“How dare you,” she boomed, “the nose of my Heinrich pull?”

With great agility Drummond dodged a heavy second to the jaw, and it was now his turn to flee for safety. And it took a bit of doing. The lady was out for blood, as a heavy volume on the intricacies of Real Estate which missed Drummond’s head by half an inch and broke a flower-vase clearly proved.

“He seize my wig; he try to pull off my nose,” wailed the Professor, as Mr. Tootem junior, attracted by the din, rushed in.

“And if I the coward catch,” bellowed his spouse, picking up a companion volume on Probate and Divorce, “I will not try⁠—I will succeed with his.”

“Three to one on the filly,” murmured young Tootem gracelessly, as with a heavy crash Probate and Divorce shot through the window.

But mercifully for all concerned, especially the reputation of Tootem, Price & Tootem, it proved to be the lady’s dying gasp. Completely exhausted she sank into a chair, and Drummond cautiously emerged from behind a table. He was feeling a little faint himself; the need for alcohol was pressing. One thing even to his whirling brain was beyond dispute. Impossible though it was that Peterson should have shrunk, it was even more impossible that Irma should have swollen. By no conceivable art of disguise could that beautiful and graceful girl have turned herself into the human monstrosity who was now regarding him balefully from her chair. Her arms were twice the size of his own, and unless Irma had developed elephantiasis the thing simply could not be. Of course she might have covered herself with india-rubber and blown herself out in some way; he didn’t put anything beyond Peterson. But the thought of pricking her with a pin to make sure was beyond even his nerve. It was too early in the day to ask any woman to burst with a slow whistling noise. And if she was real⁠ ⁠… He trembled violently at the mere thought of what would happen.

No; incredible though it was, he had made a ghastly mistake. Moreover, the next move was clearly with him.

“I’m afraid I’ve made a bloomer,” he murmured, mopping his forehead. “What about a small spot all round, and⁠—er⁠—I’ll try to explain.”

It cannot be said that he found the process of explaining an easy one. The lady in particular, having got her second wind, seemed only too ready to cut the cackle and get down to it again; and, as Drummond had to admit even to himself, the explanation sounded a bit lame. To assault unmercifully an elderly German savant in a lawyer’s office merely because he was drumming with his left hand on his knee was, as Mr. Tootem junior put it, a shade over the odds. And his excuse for so doing⁠—his description of the inconceivable villainies of Carl Peterson in the past⁠—was received coldly.

In fact Hugh Drummond proceeded to spend an extremely unpleasant twenty minutes, which might have been considerably prolonged but for Mr. Tootem senior remembering that the umpires were just about coming out at Lord’s.

He rose from his chair pontifically.

“I think we must assume,” he remarked, “that this misguided young man was actuated by worthy motives, even though his actions left much to be desired. His keenness to safeguard the valuable notes of my late lamented client no doubt inspired his amazing outburst. And since he has apologised so profusely to you, Professor⁠—and also, my dear Madam, to you⁠—I would suggest that you might see your way to accepting that apology, and that we⁠—ah⁠—might terminate the interview. I have no doubt that now that Captain Drummond has satisfied himself so⁠—ah⁠—practically that you are not⁠—I forget his friend’s name⁠—he will have no hesitation in handing over the notes to me. Should he still refuse, I shall, of course, have no other alternative but to send for the police⁠—which would cause a most unpleasant contretemps for all concerned. Especially on the very day of the⁠—er⁠—funeral.”

Drummond fumbled in his pocket.

“I’ll hand ’em over right enough,” he remarked wearily. “I wish I’d never seen the blamed things.”

He passed the sheets of paper across the desk to Mr. Tootem.

“If I don’t get outside a pint of beer soon,” he continued, reaching for his hat, “there will be a double event in the funeral line.”

Once again he apologised profusely to the German, and staggered slightly in his tracks as he gazed at the lady. Then blindly he made his way to the door, and twenty minutes later he entered his house a comparatively broken man. Even Algy awoke from his lethargy and gazed at him appalled.

“You mean to say you pulled the old bean’s nose?” he gasped.

“This way and that,” sighed Hugh. “And very, very hard. Only nothing like as hard as his wife hit me. She’s got a sweeping left, Algy, like the kick of a mule. Good Lord! what an unholy box-up. I must say if it hadn’t been for old Tootem, it might have been deuced serious. The office looked like the morning after a wet night.”

“So you’ve handed over the notes?”

“I have,” said Hugh savagely. “And as I told old Tootem in his office, I wish to heavens I’d never seen the bally things. Old Scheidstrun’s got ’em, and he can keep ’em.”

Which was where the error occurred. Professor Scheidstrun had certainly got them⁠—Mr. Tootem senior had pressed them into his hands with almost indecent brevity the instant Drummond left the office⁠—but Professor Scheidstrun was not going to keep them. At that very moment, in fact, he was handing them over to a benevolent-looking old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers in a room in Mr. Atkinson’s house in the quiet square.

“Tell me all about it,” murmured the old gentleman, with a smile. “You’ve no idea how interested I am in it. I would have given quite a lot to have been present myself.”

“Mein Gott!” grunted the Professor. “He is a holy terror, that man. He tear off my wig; he try to tear off my nose.”

“And then I him on the ear hit,” boomed his wife.

“Splendid,” chuckled the other. “Quite splendid. He is a violent young man at times is Captain Drummond.”

“It was that the colour of my wig was different that first made him suspect,” went on the German. “And then I do what you tell me⁠—I tap with my left hand so upon my knee. The next moment he jumps upon me like a madman.”

“I thought he probably would,” said the old gentleman. “A very amusing little experiment in psychology. You might make a note of it, Professor. The surest way of allaying suspicions is to arouse them thoroughly, and then prove that they are groundless. Hence your somewhat sudden summons by aeroplane from Germany. I have arranged that you should return in the same manner tomorrow after the funeral⁠—which you will attend this afternoon.”

“It was inconvenient⁠—that summons,” said his wife heavily. “And my husband has been assaulted⁠ ⁠…”

Her words died away as she looked at the benevolent old man. For no trace of benevolence remained on his face, and she shuddered uncontrollably.

“People who do inconvenient things, Frau,” he said quietly, “and get found out must expect inconvenient calls to be made upon them.”

“How long is this to continue?” she demanded. “How long are we to remain in your power? This is the second time that you have impersonated my husband. I tell you when I heard that young man speaking this morning, and knew how near he was to the truth⁠—almost did I tell him.”

“But not quite. Not quite, Frau Scheidstrun. You are no fool; you know what would have happened if you had. I still hold the proofs of your husband’s unfortunate slip a year or two ago.”

His eyes were boring into her, and once again she shuddered.

“I shall impersonate your husband when and where I please,” he continued, “if it suits my convenience. I regard him as one of my most successful character-studies.”

His tone changed; he was the benevolent old gentleman again.

“Come, come, my dear Frau Scheidstrun,” he remarked affably, “you take an exaggerated view of things. After all, the damage to your husband’s nose is slight, considering the far-reaching results obtained by letting that young man pull it. All his suspicions are allayed; he merely thinks he’s made a profound ass of himself. Which is just as it should be. Moreover, with the mark in its present depreciated state, I think the cheque I propose to hand to your husband for the trouble he has taken will ease matters in the housekeeping line.”

He rose from his chair chuckling.

“Well, I think that is all. As I said before, you will attend the funeral this afternoon. Such a performance does not call for conversation, and so it will not be necessary for me to prime you with anything more than you know already. Your brother-scientists, who will doubtless be there in force, you will know how to deal with far better than I, seeing that I should undoubtedly fail to recognise any of them. And should Drummond be there⁠—well, my dear fellow, I leave it to your sense of Christian decency as to how you treat him. In the presence of⁠—ah⁠—death”⁠—the old gentleman blew his nose⁠—“a policy of kindly charity is, I think, indicated. Anyway, don’t, I beg of you, so far forget yourself as to pull his nose. For without your wife to protect you I shudder to think what the results might be.”

He smiled genially as he lit a cigar.

“And you,” said the German, “you do not the funeral attend?”

“My dear Professor,” murmured the other, “you surprise me. In what capacity do you suggest that I should attend this melancholy function? Even the mourners might be a trifle surprised if they saw two of us there. And as Mr. William Robinson⁠—my present role⁠—I had not the pleasure of the deceased gentleman’s acquaintance. No; I am going into the country to join my brother⁠—the poor fellow is failing a little mentally. Freyder will make all arrangements for your departure tomorrow, and so I will say goodbye. You have committed to memory⁠—have you not?⁠—the hours and days when you did things in London before you arrived? And destroyed the paper? Good; a document of that sort is dangerous. Finally, Professor, don’t forget your well-known reputation for absentmindedness and eccentricity. Should anyone ask you a question about your doings in London which you find difficult to answer, just give your celebrated imitation of a windmill and say nothing. I may remark that if Freyder’s telephone report to me is satisfactory this evening, I shall have no hesitation in doubling the amount I suggested as your fee.”

With a wave of his hand he was gone, and Professor Scheidstrun and his wife watched the big car drive away from the door.

“Gott in Himmel,” muttered the German. “But the man is a devil.”

“His money is far from the devil,” replied his wife prosaically. “If he doubles it, we shall have five hundred pounds. And five hundred pounds will be very useful just now.”

But her husband was not to be comforted.

“I am frightened, Minna,” he said tremulously. “We know not what we are mixed up in. He has told us nothing as to why he is doing all this.”

“He has told us all that he wishes us to know,” answered his wife. “That is his way.”

“Why is he dressed up like that?” continued the Professor. “And how did Goodman really die?” He stared fearfully at his wife. “Blown up? Yes. But⁠—by whom?”

“Be silent, Heinrich,” said his wife, but fear was in her eyes too. “It is not good to think of these things. Let us have lunch, and then you must go to the funeral. And after that he will send us the money, as he did last time, and we will go back to Dresden. Then we will pray the good God that he will leave us alone.”

“What frightens me, Minna, is that it is I who am supposed to have been with Goodman on the afternoon it happened. And if the police should find out things, what am I to say? Already there are people who suspect⁠—that big man this morning, for instance. How am I to prove that it was not I, but that devil made up to look like me? Mein Gott, but he is clever. I should not have hidden myself away as he told me to do in his letter.”

“He would have found out if you hadn’t,” said his wife. “He knows everything.”

“There was no one who saw us start,” went on the German excitedly. “At least no one who saw me start. You they saw⁠—but me, I was smuggled into the aeroplane. Everything is accounted for by that devil. It is impossible for me to prove an alibi. For four days I have concealed myself; our friends all think, as you told them, that I have gone to England. They think you follow, and they will see us return. Would anyone believe us if now we said it was all a lie? They would say⁠—why did you remain hidden? What was the object of all this deceit? And I⁠—what can I say? That I am in the power of someone whom, to save my life, I cannot describe. No one would believe me; it would make my position worse.”

He grew almost hysterical in his agitation.

“There is one comfort, my dear,” said his wife soothingly. “As long as everyone believes that it was you who was with Professor Goodman they are not likely to suspect very much. For foul play there must be a motive, and there could be no motive in your case. No, Heinrich, that devil has foreseen everything. No one was suspicious except the big man this morning, and now he is suspicious no longer. All that we have to do is just what we are told, and we shall be safe. But, mein Gott, I wish that we were on board that foul machine again, even though I shall assuredly be sick the whole way.”

The worthy woman rose and placed a hand like a leg of mutton on her husband’s shoulder.

“Lunch,” she continued. “And then you must go to the funeral, while I await you here.”

And so an hour later Professor Scheidstrun, fortified by a most excellent meal, chartered a taxi and drove off to attend the ceremony. After all, his wife was a woman of sound common sense, and there was much in what she said. Moreover, five hundred pounds was not obtained every day. With his usual diabolical cleverness that man, whose real name even he did not know, had so arranged things that his scheme would succeed. He always did succeed; this would be no exception. And provided the scheme was successful, he personally would be safe.

He stepped out at the church door and paid his fare. A celebrated Scotch chemist whom he knew, and who was entering the church at the same moment, stopped and spoke a few words with him, and for a while they stood chatting on the pavement outside. Then the Scotchman moved away, and the Professor was about to enter the church when someone touched him on the arm.

He turned to find a young man, wearing an eyeglass, whom he had never seen before in his life.

“Afternoon, Professor,” said the young man.

The Professor grunted. Who on earth was this? Some relative presumably of the dead man.

“You don’t seem to remember me,” went on the young man slowly.

The fact was hardly surprising, but mindful of his instructions the German waved his arms vaguely and endeavoured to escape into the church. But the young man, whose eyes had narrowed suddenly, was not to be shaken off quite so easily.

“One moment, Professor,” he said quietly. “Do you remember me?”

Again the German grunted unintelligibly, but his brain was working quickly. Obviously this young man knew him; therefore he ought obviously to know the young man.

“Ja,” he grunted, “I haf met you, but I know not where.”

“Don’t you remember coming round to Captain Drummond’s house yesterday afternoon?” went on the other.

“Of course,” said the Professor, beginning to feel firm ground again. “It was there that we did meet.”

“That’s it,” said the young man cheerfully. “I was one of the four fellows there with Drummond.”

“It vos stupid of me to haf forgotten,” remarked the German, breathing an inward sigh of relief. “But so many were there, that must be my excuse.”

He escaped into the church, and Algy Longworth made no further attempt to detain him. Without thought, and as a mere matter of politeness, he had spoken to the Professor on seeing him, to be greeted with the blank stare of complete non-recognition. And now the German had concurred in his statement that there had been five of them in the room during the interview, whereas only Hugh and he himself had been present. The short service was drawing to a close, and Algy, who had not heard a word, still stared thoughtfully at the back of the Professor’s head, two pews in front. He had noted the nods of greeting from several distinguished-looking old gentlemen as the German had entered the church; but five instead of two! Surely it was incredible that any man, however absentminded and engrossed in other things, should have made such a mistake as that. Even poor old Goodman himself had not been as bad as that. Besides, he personally had spoken not once but several times to the German during the interview. He couldn’t have forgotten so completely.

But the fact remained that after the service was over, Professor Scheidstrun chatted for some time with several other elderly men, who apparently had no doubts as to his identity. In fact it was impossible to believe that the man was not what he professed to be, especially as he too, remembering what Hugh had said, had laid his hand on the German’s arm outside the church and felt it. It was skinny and thin⁠—and yet five instead of two! That was the thing that stuck in his gizzard.

If only he could think of some test question which would settle the matter! But he couldn’t, and even if he had been able to there was no further chance of asking it. Professor Scheidstrun completely ignored his existence, and finally drove away without speaking to him again.

And it was a very puzzled young man who finally returned to Brook Street to find Hugh Drummond sunk in the depths of depression. He listened in silence to what Algy had to say, and then he shook his head.

“My dear old man,” he said at length, “it cuts no ice. It’s funny, I know. If you or I went round to have a buck with a fellow, we should remember whether the isolation was complete or whether we were crushed to death in the mob. But with these scientific blokes it’s altogether different. He probably has completely forgotten the entire incident. And yet, Algy, the conviction is growing on me that I’ve been had for a mug. Somehow or other they’ve handed us the dirty end. I confess it’s difficult to follow. I’m convinced that the man today in Tootem’s office is the genuine article. And if he is it’s almost impossible to believe that poor old Goodman’s death was anything but an accident. Then where’s the catch? That’s what I’ve been trying to puzzle out for the last three hours, and I’m just where I was when I started.”

“You think that German is going to do what he said? Go back and carry on with Goodman’s discovery?”

“I don’t know what else to think.”

“Then I’ll tell you one thing, Hugh,” said Algy thoughtfully. “You’d have a death from heat-apoplexy if old Blantyre knew it. And he was showing no signs of a rush of blood to the face at the funeral today.”

Drummond sat up and stared at his friend.

“Which means either that he doesn’t know anything about it and believes that the secret died with Goodman; or else, Algy, he’s got at Scheidstrun. Somehow or other he’s found out about that letter, and he’s induced the German to part with the notes.”

He rose and paced up and down the room.

“Or else⁠—Great Scott! Algy, can it be possible that the whole thing has been carefully worked from beginning to end? Blantyre went over to Switzerland⁠—Toby told me that. He went over looking like a sick headache and came back bursting with himself.”

Drummond’s face was hard.

“If I thought that that swine had deliberately hired the German to murder poor old Goodman⁠ ⁠…”

His great hands were clenched by his side, as he stared grimly out of the window.

“I made a fool of myself this morning,” he went on after a while. “I suppose I’ve got Carl Peterson on the brain. But there are other swine in the world, Algy, beside him. And if I could prove⁠ ⁠…”

“Quite,” remarked Algy. “But how the devil can you prove anything?”

Suddenly Drummond swung round.

“I’m going round to see Blantyre now,” he said decisively. “Will you come?”