Half an hour later Algy and he walked through the unpretentious door that led to the office of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate, to be greeted with a shout of joy from Toby Sinclair emerging from an inner room.

“You have come to ask me to consume nourishment at your expense,” he cried. “I know it. I accept. I will also dine this evening.”

“Dry up, Toby,” grunted Hugh. “Is your boss in?”

“Sir Raymond? Yes⁠—why?”

“I want to see him,” said Hugh quietly.

“My dear old man, I’m sorry, but it’s quite out of the question,” answered Toby. “There’s a meeting of the whole syndicate on at the present moment upstairs, and⁠ ⁠…”

“I want to see Sir Raymond Blantyre,” interrupted Hugh. “And, Toby, I’m going to see Sir Raymond Blantyre. And if his darned syndicate is there, I’ll see his syndicate as well.”

“But, Hugh, old man,” spluttered Toby, “be reasonable. It’s an important business meeting, and⁠ ⁠…”

Hugh laid his hands on Toby’s shoulders and grinned.

“Toby, don’t waste time. Trot along upstairs⁠—bow nicely, and say ‘Captain Drummond craves audience.’ And when he asks what for, just say, ‘In connection with an explosion which took place at Hampstead.’ ”

And of a sudden it seemed as if a strange tension had come into Toby Sinclair’s room. For Toby was one of those who had hunted with Hugh in days gone by, and he recognised the look in the big man’s eyes. Something was up⁠—something serious, that he knew at once. And certain nebulous, half-formed suspicions which he had vigorously suppressed in his own mind stirred into being.

“What is it, old man?” he asked quietly.

“I’ll know better after the interview, Toby,” answered the other. “But one thing I will tell you now. It’s either nothing at all, or else your boss is one of the most blackguardly villains alive in London today. Now go up and tell him.”

And without another word Toby Sinclair went. Probably not for another living man would he have interrupted the meeting upstairs. But the habits of other days held; when Hugh Drummond gave an order, it was carried out.

A minute later he was down again.

“Sir Raymond will see you at once, Hugh,” and for Toby Sinclair his expression was thoughtful. For the sudden silence that had settled on the room of directors as he gave the message had not escaped his attention. And the air of carefully suppressed nervous expectancy on the part of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate did not escape Drummond’s attention either as he entered, followed by Algy Longworth.

“Captain Drummond?” Sir Raymond Blantyre rose, and indicated a chair with his hand. “Ah! and Mr. Longworth surely. Please sit down. I think I saw you in the distance at the funeral today. Now, Captain Drummond, perhaps you will tell us what you want as quickly as possible, as we are in the middle of a rather important meeting.”

“I will try to be as short as possible, Sir Raymond,” said Drummond quietly. “It concerns, as you have probably guessed, the sad death of Professor Goodman, in which I, personally, am very interested. You see, the Professor lunched with me at my club on the day of his death.”

“Indeed,” murmured Sir Raymond politely.

“Yes⁠—I met him in St. James’s Square, where he’d been followed.”

“Followed,” said one of the directors. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say. He was being followed. He was also in a very excited condition owing to the fact that he had just received a letter threatening his life, unless he consented to accept two hundred and fifty thousand pounds as the price for suppressing his discovery for manufacturing diamonds cheaply. But you know all this part, don’t you?”

“I know nothing whatever about a threatening letter,” said Sir Raymond. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Of his process, of course, I know. I think Mr. Longworth was present at the dinner on the night I examined the ornament Miss Goodman was wearing. And believing then that the process was indeed capable of producing genuine diamonds, I did offer Professor Goodman a quarter of a million pounds to suppress it.”

“Believing then?” said Drummond, staring at him.

“Yes; for a time I and my colleagues here did really believe that the discovery had been made,” answered Sir Raymond easily. “And I will go as far as to say that even as it stands the process⁠—now so unfortunately lost to science⁠—produced most marvellous imitations. In fact”⁠—he gave a deprecatory laugh⁠—“it produced such marvellous imitations that it deceived us. But they will not stand the test of time. In some samples he made for us at a demonstration minute flaws are already beginning to show themselves⁠—flaws which only the expert would notice, but they’re there.”

“I see,” murmured Drummond quietly, and Sir Raymond shifted a little in his chair. Ridiculous though it was, this vast young man facing him had a peculiarly direct stare which he found almost disconcerting.

“I see,” repeated Drummond. “So the system was a dud.”

“Precisely, Captain Drummond. The system was of no use. A gigantic advance, you will understand, on anything that has ever been done before in that line⁠—but still, of no use. And if one may extract some little ray of comfort from the appalling tragedy which caused Professor Goodman’s death, it surely is that he was at any rate spared from the laughter of the scientific world whose good opinion he valued so greatly.”

Sir Raymond leaned back in his chair, and a murmur of sympathetic approval for words well and truly uttered passed round the room. And feeling considerably more sure of himself, it dawned on the mind of the chairman that up to date he had done most of the talking, and that so far his visitor’s principal contribution had been confined to monosyllables. Who was he, anyway, this Captain Drummond? Some friend of the idiotic youth with the eyeglass, presumably. He began to wonder why he had ever consented to see him.

“However, Captain Drummond,” he continued with a trace of asperity, “you doubtless came round to speak to me about something. And since we are rather busy this evening⁠ ⁠…”

He broke off and waited.

“I did wish to speak to you,” said Drummond, carefully selecting a cigarette. “But since the process is no good, I don’t think it matters very much.”

“It is certainly no good,” answered Sir Raymond.

“So I’m afraid old Scheidstrun will only be wasting his time.”

For a moment it almost seemed as if the clock had stopped, so intense was the sudden silence.

“I don’t quite understand what you mean,” said Sir Raymond, in a voice which, strive as he would, he could not make quite steady.

“No?” murmured Drummond placidly. “You didn’t know of Professor Goodman’s last instructions? However, since the whole thing is a dud, I won’t worry you.”

“What do you know of Scheidstrun?” asked Sir Raymond.

“Just a funny old Boche. He came to see me yesterday afternoon with the Professor’s last will, so to speak. And then I interviewed him this morning in the office of the excellent Mr. Tootem, and pulled his nose⁠—poor old dear!”

“Professor Scheidstrun came to see you?” cried Sir Raymond, standing up suddenly. “What for?”

“Why, to get the notes of the diamond process, which the Professor gave me at lunch on the day of his death.”

Drummond thoughtfully lit his cigarette, apparently oblivious of the fact that every man in the room was glaring at him speechlessly.

“But since it’s a dud⁠—I’m afraid he’ll waste his time.”

“But the notes were destroyed.” Every vestige of control had left Sir Raymond’s voice; his agitation was obvious.

“How do you know?” snapped Drummond, and the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate found himself staring almost fascinated at a pair of eyes from which every trace of laziness had vanished.

“He always carried them with him,” he stammered. “And I⁠—er⁠—assumed⁠ ⁠…”

“Then you assumed wrong. Professor Goodman handed me those notes at lunch the day he died.”

“Where are they now?” It was Mr. Leibhaus who asked the question in his guttural voice.

“Since they are of no use, what does it matter?” answered Drummond indifferently.

“Gentlemen!” Sir Raymond’s peremptory voice checked the sudden buzz of conversation. “Captain Drummond,” he remarked, “I must confess that what you have told me this afternoon has given me a slight shock. As I say, I had assumed that the notes of the process had perished with the Professor. You now tell us that he handed them to you. Well, I make no bones about it that though⁠—from a purely scientific point of view the process fails⁠—yet⁠—er⁠—from a business point of view it is not one that any of us would care to have noised abroad. You will understand that if diamonds can be made cheaply which except to the eye of the most practical expert are real, it will⁠—er⁠—not be a good thing for those who are interested in the diamond market? You can understand that, can’t you?”

“I tell you what I can understand, Sir Raymond,” said Drummond quietly. “And that is that you’re a damned bad poker-player. If flaws⁠—as you say⁠—have appeared in the diamonds manufactured by this process, you and your pals here would not now be giving the finest example of a vertical typhoon that I’ve ever seen.”

Sir Raymond subsided in his chair a little foolishly; he felt at a complete loss as to where he stood with this astonishing young man. And it was left to Mr. Leibhaus to make the next move.

“Let us leave that point for the moment,” he remarked. “Where are these notes now?”

“I’ve already told you,” replied Drummond casually. “The worthy Scheidstrun has them. And in accordance with Professor Goodman’s written instructions he proposes to give the secret to the world of science at an early date. In fact he is going back to Germany tomorrow to do so.”

“But the thing is impossible,” cried Sir Raymond, recovering his speech. “You mean to say that Professor Goodman left written instructions that the notes of his process were to be handed over to⁠—to Scheidstrun?”

“I do,” returned Drummond. “And if you want confirmation, you can ring up Mr. Tootem of Austin Friars⁠—Professor Goodman’s lawyer. He saw the letter, and it was in his office the notes were handed over.”

“You will excuse me, Captain Drummond, if I confer for a few moments with my friends,” said Sir Raymond, rising.

The directors of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate withdrew to the farther end of the long room, leaving Drummond still sitting at the table. And to that gentleman’s shrewd eye it was soon apparent that his chance arrow had hit the mark, though exactly what mark it was, was still beyond him. But the agitation displayed by the group of men in the window was too obvious to miss, and had he known all the facts he would have found it hardly surprising. The directors were faced unexpectedly with as thorny a problem as could well be devised.

Believing as they had that the notes had been destroyed⁠—had not Mr. Edward Blackton assured them of that fact?⁠—they had unanimously decided to adopt the role that the process had proved useless, thereby removing any possible suspicion that might attach itself to them. And now they found that not only had the notes not been destroyed, but that they were in the possession of Blackton himself. And it needed but little imagination to realise that dangerous though the knowledge of the process had been in the hands of Professor Goodman, it was twenty times more so in the hands of Blackton if he meant to double-cross them.

That was the point: did he? Or had he discovered somehow or other that Drummond held the notes and taken these steps in order to get them?

And the second little matter which had to be solved was how much this man Drummond knew. If he knew nothing at all, why had he bothered to come round and see them? It was out of the question, surely, that he could have any inkling of the real truth concerning the bogus Professor Scheidstrun. Had not the impersonation deceived even London scientists who knew the real man at the funeral that afternoon?

For a while the directors conferred together in whispers; then Sir Raymond advanced towards the table. The first thing was to get rid of Drummond.

“I am sure we are all very much obliged to you, Captain Drummond, for taking so much trouble and coming round to see us, but I don’t think there is anything more you can do. Should an opportunity arise I will take steps to let Professor Scheidstrun know what we think⁠—”

He held out a cordial hand to terminate the interview.

But it takes two people to terminate an interview, and Drummond had no intention of being the second. He realised that he was on delicate ground and that it behoved him to walk warily. But his conviction that something was wrong somewhere was stronger than ever, and he was determined to try to get to the bottom of it.

“It might perhaps be as well, Sir Raymond,” he remarked, “to go round and tell him now. I know where he is stopping.”

Was it his imagination, or did the men in the window look at one another uneasily?

“As I told you, I pulled the poor old bean’s nose this morning, and it seems a good way of making amends.”

Sir Raymond stared at him.

“May I ask why you pulled his nose?”

And Drummond decided on a bold move.

“Because, Sir Raymond, I came to the conclusion that Professor Scheidstrun was not Professor Scheidstrun, but somebody else.” There was no mistaking the air of tension now. “I may say that I was mistaken.”

“Who did you think he was?” Sir Raymond gave a forced laugh.

“A gentleman of international reputation,” said Drummond quietly, “who masquerades under a variety of names. I knew him first as Carl Peterson, but he answers to a lot of titles. The Comte de Guy is one of them.”

And now the atmosphere was electric, a fact which did not escape Drummond. His eyes had narrowed; he was sitting very still. In the language of the old nursery game, he was getting warm.

“But I conclusively proved, gentlemen,” he continued, “that the man to whom I handed those notes this morning was not the Comte de Guy. The Comte, gentlemen, has arms as big as mine. His physical strength is very great. This man had arms like walking-sticks, and he couldn’t have strangled a mouse.”

One by one the men at the window had returned to their seats, and now they sat in perfect silence staring at Drummond. What on earth was this new complication, or was this man deliberately deceiving them?

“Do you know the Comte de Guy well?” said Sir Raymond after a pause.

“Very well,” remarked Drummond. “Do you?”

“I have heard of him,” answered the other.

“Then, as you probably know, his power of disguising himself is so miraculous as to be uncanny. He has one little mannerism, however, which he sometimes shows in moments of excitement, whatever his disguise. And it has enabled me to spot him on one or two occasions. When therefore I saw that little trick of his in the lawyer’s office this morning, I jumped to the conclusion that my old friend was on the warpath again. So I leaped upon him, and the subsequent scene was dreadful. It was not my old friend at all, but a complete stranger with a vast wife who nearly felled me with a blow on the ear.”

He selected another cigarette with care.

“However,” he continued casually, “it’s a very good thing for you that the process is a dud. Because I am sure nothing would induce him to disregard Professor Goodman’s wishes on the subject if it hadn’t been.”

“You say you know where he is stopping?” said Sir Raymond.

“I do,” answered Drummond.

“Then I think perhaps that it would be a good thing to do as you suggest, and go round and see him now.” He had been thinking rapidly while Drummond was speaking, and one or two points were clear. In some miraculous way this young man had blundered on to the truth. That the man Drummond had met in the lawyer’s office that morning was any other than Blackton he did not for a moment believe. But Blackton had bluffed him somehow, and for the time had thrown him off the scent. The one vital thing was to prevent him getting on to it again. And since there was no way of telling what Drummond would find when he went round to the house, it was imperative that he should be there himself. For if there was one person whom Sir Raymond did not expect to meet there, it was Professor Scheidstrun. And in that event he must be on hand to see what happened.

“Shall we go at once? My car is here.”

“By all means,” said Drummond. “And if there’s room we might take Algy as well. He gets into mischief if he’s left lying about.”

On one point at any rate Sir Raymond’s expectations were not realised. Professor Scheidstrun was at the house right enough; in fact he and his wife had just finished their tea. And neither the worthy Teuton nor his spouse evinced the slightest pleasure on seeing their visitors. With the termination of the funeral they had believed their troubles to be over, and now this extremely powerful and objectionable young man had come to worry them again, to say nothing of his friend who had spoken to the Professor at the funeral. And what did Sir Raymond Blantyre want? Scheidstrun had been coached carefully as to whom and what Sir Raymond was, but what on earth had he come round about? Especially with Drummond?

It was the latter who stated the reason of their visit.

“I’ve come about those notes, Professor,” he remarked cheerfully. “You know⁠—the ones that caused that slight breeze in old Tootem’s office this morning.”

“So,” grunted the Professor, blinking uneasily behind his spectacles. It struck him that the ground was getting dangerous.

“I feel,” went on Drummond affably, “that after our unfortunate little contretemps I ought to try to make some amends. And as I know you’re a busy man I shouldn’t like you to waste your time needlessly. Now, you propose, don’t you, to carry on with Professor Goodman’s process, and demonstrate it to the world at large?”

“That is so,” said the German.

Out of the corner of his eye Drummond looked at Sir Raymond, but the President of the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate was staring impassively out of the window.

“Well, I’m sorry to say the process is a dud; a failure; no bally earthly. You get me, I trust.”

“A failure. Ach! is dot so?” rumbled Scheidstrun, who was by this time completely out of his depth.

“And that being the case, Professor,” murmured Sir Raymond, “it would be better to destroy the notes at once, don’t you think? I was under the impression”⁠—he added pointedly⁠—“that they had already been destroyed in the accident.”

Strangely enough, the presence of Drummond gave him a feeling of confidence with Mr. Edward Blackton which he had never experienced before. And this was a golden opportunity for securing the destruction of those accursed papers, and thus preventing any possibility of his being double-crossed.

“Shall we therefore destroy them at once?” he repeated quietly.

The German fidgeted in his chair. Willingly would he have destroyed them on the spot if they had still been in his possession. Anything to be rid of his visitors. He glanced from one to the other of them. Drummond was apparently staring at the flies on the ceiling; Sir Raymond was staring at him, and his stare was full of some hidden meaning. But since it was manifestly impossible for him to do as Sir Raymond suggested, the only thing to do was to temporise.

“I fear that to destroy them I cannot,” he murmured. “At least⁠—not yet. My duty to my dear friend⁠ ⁠…”

“Duty be damned!” snarled Sir Raymond, forgetting Drummond’s presence in his rage. This swine was trying to double-cross him after all. “You’ll destroy those notes here and now, or⁠ ⁠…”

With a great effort he pulled himself together.

“Or what?” asked Drummond mildly. “You seem strangely determined, Sir Raymond, that Professor Scheidstrun shouldn’t waste his time. Deuced praiseworthy, I call it, on your part.⁠ ⁠… Interests of science and all that.⁠ ⁠…”

Sir Raymond smothered a curse, and glared still more furiously at the German. And suddenly Drummond rose to his feet, and strolled over to the open window.

“Well, I don’t think there’s much good our waiting here,” he remarked in a bored voice. “If he wants to fool round with the process, he must. Coming, Sir Raymond?”

“In a moment or two, Captain Drummond. Don’t you wait.”

“Right. Come on, Algy. Apologies again about the nose, Professor. So long.”

He opened the door, and paused outside for Algy to join him. And every trace of boredom had vanished from his face.

“Go downstairs noisily,” he whispered. “Make a remark as if I was with you. Go out and slam the front door. Then hang about and wait for me.”

“Right,” answered the other. “But what are you going to do?”

“Listen to their conversation, old man. I have an idea it may be interesting.”

Without a sound he opened the door of the next room and went in. It was a bedroom and it was empty, and Drummond heaved a sigh of relief. The window, he knew, would be open⁠—he had seen that as he looked out in the other room. Moreover, the square was a quiet one; he could hear easily what was being said next door by leaning out.

And for the next five minutes he leaned out, and he heard. And so engrossed was he in what he heard that he quite failed to notice a dark-skinned, sturdy man who paused abruptly on the pavement a few houses away, and disappeared as suddenly as he had come. So engrossed was he in what he heard that he even failed to hear a faint click from the door behind him a few moments later.

All he noticed was that the voices in the next room suddenly ceased, but he had heard quite enough. There was not one Scheidstrun, but two Scheidstruns, and he had assaulted the wrong one. Of Mr. Edward Blackton he had never heard; but there was only one man living who could have suggested that unmistakable trick with his hand⁠—the man he knew as Carl Peterson. Somehow or other he had found out this mannerism of his and had used it deliberately to bluff Drummond, even as he had deliberately double-crossed the Metropolitan Diamond Syndicate. It was just the sort of thing that would appeal to his sense of humour.

So be it: they would crack a jest together over it later. At the moment he wanted a word or two with Sir Raymond Blantyre. He crossed to the door and tried to open it. But the door was locked, and the key was on the outside.

For a moment or two he stood staring at it. His mind was still busy with the staggering conversation he had been listening to, which had almost, if not quite, explained everything. Facts, disconnected before, now joined themselves together in a more or less logical sequence. Sir Raymond Blantyre’s visit to Montreux to enlist the aid of this Mr. Edward Blackton; the arrival in England of the spurious Professor Scheidstrun; the accident at Hampstead⁠—all that part was clear now. And with regard to that accident, Drummond’s face was grim. Cold-blooded murder it must have been, in spite of all Sir Raymond’s guarded utterances on the subject.

For it had taken that gentleman ten minutes before he finally realised that the Scheidstrun he was talking to was the genuine article, and during that ten minutes he had spoken with some freedom. And then when he had finally realised it, and grasped the fact that he and his syndicate had been double-crossed, his rage had been terrible. Moreover, he had then said things which made matters even clearer to the man who was listening in the next room. Out of his own mouth he stood condemned as the instigator of an abominable crime.

But Sir Raymond could wait; there would be plenty of time later to deal with that gentleman and his syndicate. The man who called himself Edward Blackton was the immediate necessity, and Drummond had no illusions now as to his identity. It was Carl Peterson again, and with the faintest flicker of a smile he acknowledged the touch of genius that had caused him to pass on his little mannerism to the genuine Scheidstrun. It had had exactly the intended effect: certainty that they had again met in the lawyer’s office, followed immediately by a crushing proof to the contrary⁠—a proof so overwhelming that but for vague suspicion engendered by the Professor’s non-recognition of Algy at the funeral he would have let the whole thing drop.

It was just like Peterson to bluff to the limit of his hand; moreover, it would have appealed to his sense of humour. And the point which was not clear to either Sir Raymond or the German was very clear to him. To them it had seemed an unnecessary complication to bring over the genuine Scheidstrun⁠—but there Drummond could supply the missing link. And that link was his previous acquaintance with the arch-criminal. The combination of shrewd insight and consummate nerve which deliberately banked on that previous acquaintance and turned it to gain was Peterson all over⁠—or rather Blackton, to give him his present name. Moreover, the advantage of having the genuine article at the funeral where he was bound to run into many friends and acquaintances was obvious. Most assuredly the touch of the master-hand was in evidence again, but where was the hand itself? It was that question which Sir Raymond, almost inarticulate with rage, had asked again and again; and it was the answer to that question which Professor Scheidstrun would not or could not give. Listening intently, Drummond had inclined to the latter alternative, though not being able to see the speaker’s face, he had had to rely on inflection of voice. But it had seemed to him as if he was speaking the truth when he absolutely denied any knowledge whatever of Blackton’s whereabouts. An old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers⁠—that was all he could say. But where he was, or what he was doing, he knew no more than Sir Raymond. He had left that morning with the notes in his possession, and that was all he could tell his infuriated questioner.

And then a sudden silence had fallen while Drummond still craned out of the window listening⁠—a silence which endured so long that finally he stepped back into the room, only to discover that he was locked in. For a moment or two, as has been said, he stood staring at the door; then with a grunt he charged it with his shoulders. But the door was strong, and it took him three minutes before, with a final splintering crash, the door burst open, almost throwing him on his face. For a while he stood listening: the house was silent. And since in ordinary respectable houses the bursting open of a door is not greeted with absolute silence, Drummond’s hand went automatically to his hip-pocket. Past association with Peterson accounted for the involuntary movement, but much water had flowed under the bridge since those happy days, and with a sigh he realised that he was unarmed. With his back to the wall he took careful stock of his surroundings. Every nerve was alert for possible eventualities; his arms, hanging a little forward, were tingling at the prospect of action.

Still there was no sound. The passage was deserted; all the doors were shut. And yet keys do not turn by themselves. Someone had locked him in: the question was, who had done it? And where was he? Or could it be a she? Could it be that monumental woman who had assaulted him only that morning. He turned a little pale at the thought; but with the knowledge that he now possessed of her husband’s complicity in the affair he felt he could meet her on rather more level terms. And there was comfort in the knowledge that everyone in the house was so confoundedly crooked. The likelihood of their sending for the police to eject him from the premises was, to put it mildly, remote.

Silently as a cat, he took a quick step along the passage and flung open the door of the room in which he had left Sir Raymond Blantyre and the German. It was empty; there was no sign of either man. He crossed to one of the heavy curtains which was drawn back in the window behind the desk, and hit it a heavy blow with his fist. But the folds went back unresistingly; there was no one hiding behind it. And then swiftly and methodically he went from room to room, moving with that strange, silent tread which was one of his most marked peculiarities. No one ever heard Drummond coming; in the darkness no one ever saw him, if he didn’t wish him to. The first thing he knew of his presence was a pair of great hands which seemed to materialise out of the night, forcing his head backwards and farther back. And sometimes that was the last thing he knew as well.⁠ ⁠…

But there was no darkness in the house as he searched it from top to bottom⁠—only silence. Once he thought he heard the sound of a step above him as he stood downstairs in the dining-room, but it was not repeated, and he decided it was only imagination⁠—a board creaking, perhaps. He went into the kitchen and the scullery; the fire was lit in the range, but of cook or servant there was no sign.

And finally, he returned thoughtfully to the hall. There was no doubt about it, the house was empty save for himself. Sir Raymond and the German had gone during the period that he was locked in the room upstairs. And during that period the other occupants of the house, if any, had gone also.

He carefully selected a cigarette and lit it. The situation required reviewing.

Item one. Sir Raymond Blantyre was a consummate swine who had, by the grace of Allah, been stung on the raw by a hornet. Moreover, before Drummond had finished with him the hornets would have swarmed. But he could wait.

Item two. The genuine Professor Scheidstrun appeared to be a harmless old poop, who was more sinned against than sinning. And he certainly could wait.

Item three. The other Professor Scheidstrun⁠—alias Blackton, alias Peterson, present address unknown⁠—had got away with the goods. He was in full and firm possession of the momentous secret, which Blantyre had paid him half a million to destroy. And involuntarily Drummond smiled. How like him! How completely Peterson to the life! And then the smile faded. To get it, he had murdered a harmless old man in cold blood.

Item four. He himself was in undisputed possession of an empty house in which Peterson had been only that morning.

Could he turn item four to advantage in solving the address question in item three? Everything else was subservient to that essential fact: where was Peterson now? And from his knowledge of the gentleman it was unlikely that he had left directions for forwarding letters pasted conspicuously on the wall. He was one of those shy flowers that prefer to blush unseen. At the same time it was possible that an exhaustive search of the desk upstairs might reveal some clue. And if it didn’t presumably the bird who had locked him in would return in due course to find out how he was getting on. Everything therefore pointed to a policy of masterly inactivity in the hopes that something or somebody would turn up.

He slowly ascended the stairs, and again entered the room where the interview had taken place. Time was of no particular object, and for a while he stood by the door turning over the problem in his mind. Then suddenly his eyes became alert: there was a door let into the wall which, by some strange oversight, he had not seen before. And in a flash he remembered the step which he thought he had heard while he was below. Was there someone in that room? and if so, who? Could it be possible⁠—and a glow of wild excitement began to tingle in his veins at the mere thought⁠—could it be possible that the solution of the problem lay close at hand? That here, practically in the same room with him, was Peterson himself?

With one bound he was across the room, and the door was open. One glance was sufficient to dash the dawning hope to the ground: the room was empty, like all the rest had been. But though it was empty it was not devoid of interest, and a faint smile came on Drummond’s face as he surveyed the contents. Wigs, clothes, mirrors filled the place to overflowing, though there was no trace of untidiness. And he realised that he was in the inner sanctum where Peterson carried out his marvellous changes of appearance. And with a sudden grim amusement he recognised on a chair the identical egg-stained coat that the spurious Professor Scheidstrun had worn on his visit to him the preceding afternoon. In fact he was so interested in that and other things that he failed to notice a rather curious phenomenon in the room behind him. The heavy curtain which he had hit with his fist moved slightly as if blown by the wind. And there was no wind.

With genuine interest he examined the exhibits⁠—as he called them in his own mind. It was the first time he had ever penetrated into one of Peterson’s holy of holies, and though the proprietor was not there himself to act as showman, he was quite able to appreciate the museum without the services of a guide. The wigs⁠—each one on its own headrest⁠—particularly appealed to him. In fact he went so far as to try some of them on. And after a time a feeling of genuine admiration for the wonderful thoroughness of the man filled his mind. Murderer, thief, forger, and blackguard generally⁠—but what a brain! After all, he fought a lone hand, deliberately pitting himself against the whole of the organised resources of the world. With only the girl to help him he had fought mankind, and up to date he had won through. For both their previous battles had been drawn, and now that the third round was under way⁠—or soon would be⁠—he saluted his adversary in spirit as a foeman worthy of his steel. It was a good thing, after all, that he had not brought in the police. Peterson fought alone: so would he. As it had been in the past, so let it be this time. Their own particular pals on each side could join in the battle if and when occasion arose; but the principal combat must be between Peterson and him⁠—no mercy given, no mercy asked. And this time he had a presentiment that it would be a fight to a finish. It required no stretch of imagination on his part to realise the enormous plum which the criminal had got hold of; it required no stretch of imagination to realise that he would fight as he had never fought before to retain it.

And once again there came up the unanswered question⁠—where was he? It was even impossible to say if he was still in England.

Another thing occurred to Drummond also, as he strolled back into the other room and sat down at the desk. On this occasion the dice would be loaded more heavily in Peterson’s favour than before. In the past the only method by which he had ever recognised him was by his strange but unmistakable little mannerism when excited⁠—the mannerism which was innate and had persisted through all his disguises. And now he had discovered what it was; had actually told another man to employ the very trick to fool Drummond. And if he had discovered it, he would take very good care not to use it himself. He would keep his hand in his pocket or something of that sort.

Drummond lay back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, with his head almost touching the heavy curtains behind him. Life undoubtedly was good; but for the murder of Professor Goodman it would have been very good⁠—very good indeed. And at that moment the telephone on the desk in front of him began to ring.

With a jerk Drummond sat up and looked at it⁠—his mind recalled to the circumstances of the moment. Should he let it go on ringing till the operator gave up in despair, or should he take the call? One thing was obvious on the face of it: the call could not be for him. But that was no conclusive reason why he shouldn’t take it. Monotonously, insistently, the instrument went on sounding in the silent room, and at last Drummond leaned forward and took the receiver from the hook. And as he did so the curtain behind him stirred again and then was still. But whereas before it had hung in even, regular folds, now it did not. Outlined against it was the figure of a man⁠—a man who inch by inch was pulling the curtain back, a man who held in his right hand a short, villainous-looking iron bar. And as Drummond leaned forward to be ready to speak into the mouthpiece, Freyder’s hard eyes concentrated on the nape of his neck. He was an expert with a life-preserver.⁠ ⁠…

Julius Freyder had been anticipating that telephone call, which was why he had concealed himself behind the curtain. From the room which Drummond had overlooked until the end he had watched him strike that curtain with his fist, and had gambled on his not doing so again. Rarely had he received such a shock as when, rounding the corner of the street below, he had seen Drummond of all men leaning out of the window. For it showed conclusively that this accursed bête noire was on their heels again, though how he had managed to get there was a mystery. And when on entering the house he had heard, even before he mounted the stairs, the furious utterances of Sir Raymond Blantyre and had realised that Drummond must have heard them too, the need for instant action was obvious.

Julius Freyder was no fool, or he would not have occupied the position he did. And not only was he no fool, but he was also an extremely powerful and dangerous man. It was the work of a second to lock Drummond in, and rush the two excited gentlemen and everyone else in the house through a bolt-hole at the back into some old mews and thus away. But he had no delusions as to the efficacy of a mere bolt against Drummond, and the door was already beginning to crack and splinter as he hid himself amongst the clothes in the inner sanctum. What to do: that was the question. Powerful though he was, he would no more have dreamed of tackling Drummond single-handed than he would have thought of challenging the entire London police force. He would have lasted five seconds with luck. At the same time it was manifestly impossible to leave him in the house alone. Apart from the telephone call which he expected from the Chief at any moment, there might be incriminating documents in the desk. But it was the call that worried him most. Once Drummond got that, even if he didn’t recognise the voice at the other end, he would be sure to ask exchange where it came from. And from that, to going down to the New Forest to investigate for himself, probably supported by a bunch of his damned friends, would only be a question of hours. Which was the very last thing to be desired. Just as speed had been the essence of the game before, now it was secrecy. At all costs Drummond must be prevented from finding out the whereabouts of Mr. William Robinson.

Perhaps he’d go⁠—leave the house when he found it empty. But no such luck, and Freyder, ensconced behind the curtain, cursed savagely under his breath, as Drummond sat down not two feet from him. Once he was sorely tempted to use his life-preserver then and there, but caution prevailed. Perhaps the call would be delayed; perhaps he would get tired of waiting and go. That was all Freyder wanted⁠—to get him out of the house. A stunned or wounded man at that stage of the proceedings would complicate matters terribly, and when that man was Drummond it could only be done as a last resource. But if it was done, it would have to be done properly⁠—no bungling, no faltering.

And then came the ring. Freyder gripped his life-preserver a little tighter and waited. He heard the click of the receiver being taken off the hook; he heard Drummond’s preliminary “Hullo.” And the next moment he struck. It was an easy mark, and, as has been said, he was an expert. With a little sighing grunt Drummond pitched forward and lay motionless, and Freyder picked up the receiver. From it came the Chief’s voice vibrant with suspicion.

“What’s happened? What was that I heard?”

“It’s Freyder speaking, Chief. Drummond is here.”

“What?” It was almost a shout from the other end of the wire.

“He is asleep.” There was a peculiar inflection in Freyder’s voice, and he smiled grimly as he heard the long-drawn sigh of relief. “But I don’t think it would be wise in his present condition of health to leave him here.”

“What does he know?”

“That it is impossible to say at present. But Sir Raymond Blantyre has found out a lot.”

The voice at the other end cursed thoughtfully.

“I must have at least twenty-four hours, Freyder; if possible more. I’d like three days, but two might do.” There was a pause. “Will our friend sleep for long?”

“Quite a time, I think,” said Freyder. “But I think he should be under supervision when he wakes. He might have concussion or be suffering from loss of memory.”

“Ah!” Again came that long-drawn sigh of relief. “Then a sea voyage, Freyder, is clearly indicated. We will have two invalids instead of one. So bring our young friend here tonight.”

With a faint smile Freyder replaced the receiver on its hook and bent over the unconscious figure of Drummond as it sprawled over the desk.

“I trust you’ll enjoy the trip, you young devil,” he snarled.