and you can do pretty much as you like, within reason—subject to my approval, that is."
"One of us is mad," Lanyard commented profoundly.
"One of us is blind to his best interests," Wertheimer amended with entire good-humour.
"Perhaps … Let it go at that. I'm not interested—never did care for fairy tales."
"Don't go yet. There is still much to be said on both sides of the argument."
"Has there been one?"
"Besides, I promised you news from Antwerp."
"To be sure," Lanyard said, and paused, his curiosity at length engaged.
Wertheimer delved into the breast-pocket of his dress-coat and produced a blue telegraph-form, handing it to the adventurer.
Of even date, from Antwerp, it read:
"Underworld—Paris—Greggs arrested today boarding steamer for America after desperate struggle killed himself immediately afterward poison no confession—Q-2."
"Underworld?" Lanyard queried blankly.
"Our telegraphic address, of course. 'Q-2' is our chief factor in Antwerp."
"So they got Greggs!"
"Stupid oaf," Wertheimer observed; "I've no sympathy for him. The whole affair was a blunder, from first to last."
"But you got Greggs out and burned Troyon's—!"
"Still our friends at the Préfecture weren't satisfied. Something must have roused their suspicions."
