The Third Round (McClure's Magazine 1923-24)/Part 3

by Herman Cyril McNeile

 

Hugh Drummond Meets Professor Scheidstrun and Loses His Self-control

 

The Story from the Beginning

AT the urgent request of Sir Raymond Blantyre and Jabez Leibhaus, diamond magnates, Mr. Edward Blackton—known by various other names during his eventful career—comes to England to prevent the revelation of a recent discovery which will mean utter ruin to the diamond interests. Professor Goodman, a well-known chemist, has succeeded in producing, by artificial means, a diamond worth a king's ransom—at a cost of less than six pounds. And he has refused a vast fortune offered him by Sir Raymond to suppress the discovery. The professor's refusal of the money is a great disappointment to his daughter and her fiancé, Algy Longworth. Algy appeals to his friend Hugh Drummond to reason with the professor.

Later on Drummond meets the professor, who has just received an anonymous letter in which his life is threatened, and discovers that he is carrying around with him the notes on his process. Drummond insists on keeping them for him until they can be put into a safety vault. And then the scientist dashes off to his laboratory to keep an appointment with a German geologist—Professor Scheidstrun.

Meanwhile Blackton has interviewed the members of the Diamond Syndicate and discovered that one of them—Lewisham—had sent the threatening letter. He suggests that Lewisham obtain from the professor the incriminating message. And, later on, disguised as Professor Scheidstrun, Blackton himself waits in the Goodman laboratory, first having made preparations for the carrying out of a cold-blooded plan.

In accordance with this plan, Lewisham meets with instant death on his arrival at the laboratory and Professor Goodman is rendered unconscious by a liberal dose of ether. The clothes of the two men are exchanged and the professor placed in a long coffin-like box which, instead of containing the quartz with which the German professed to be experimenting, held a skillfully-made bomb. Dressed in the professor's clothes, Lewisham's body is propped up behind the table in the laboratory. Then Professor Scheidstrun departs, leaving the bomb to tick away relentlessly, and five minutes later the house is blown up.

 

AN hour later Edward Blackton was seated at his desk in the house in the quiet square. Up to date his scheme had gone even more smoothly than he had expected, though there were still one or two small points to be attended to before he could retire from observation and devote himself to the professor. There was bound to be an inquest, for instance, and he was far too big a man not to realize that it might be fatal for him not to attend it. Moreover, there was the little matter of that extra quarter of a million from the Metropolitan Syndicate.

But just at the moment Lewisham was occupying his mind. A note in cipher from Freyder on the table in front of him informed him that Henry Lewisham was a married man, and that he lived in South Kensington. And since the appearance of the late Mr. Lewisham betokened his immense respectability, there was but little doubt that Mrs. Lewisham would become seriously alarmed if her spouse absented himself for the night from the conjugal roof without sending any word to her.

Blackton pressed a bell on his desk twice, and a moment or two later the man who had been staring into the shop window, and to whom he had spoken as he left the Metropolitan Syndicate earlier in the day, entered.

“That man you followed this morning—Lewisham: did he go home to lunch?”

“No, Chief. He had a chop in a restaurant in the city.”

“Did he use the telephone, as far as you know?”

“I know he didn't use it. He was never out of my sight from the time he came into the street until he went into Goodman's house.”

Blackton nodded as if satisfied.

“Go to Euston, and send a wire to this address. 'Called North on urgent business. Henry.' Then go to the Plough Inn in Liverpool, and wait there for further orders. Draw fifty pounds for expenses”—he scribbled his signature on a slip of paper—“and it is possible that you will have to start for South America at a moment's notice. If you do, it will be necessary for you to make up to an approximate resemblance of Henry Lewisham, and your berth will be taken in his name.”

“I didn't have a chance to study his face very closely, Chief,” said the man doubtfully.

Blackton waved his hand in dismissal.

“Approximate resemblance, I said,” he remarked curtly. “You will receive full instructions later. Go.”

HE lay back in his chair as the door closed behind the man, and pulled thoughtfully at his cigar. A merciful fact, he reflected, that it is not a police offense for a man to run away from his wife. In fact, if Mrs. Lewisham was anything like Mr. Lewisham it could hardly be regarded as an Offense at all by any disinterested person, but rather as an example of praiseworthy discretion. In due course a letter from Liverpool stating his intention; a resemblance sufficient to cope with a wireless description in case the lady should think of such a thing—and finally complete disappearance in South America. An easy place to disappear in—South America, reflected Mr. Blackton, a fact he had made use of on several occasions, when the circumstances had been similar. And it was better for sorrowing relatives to picture their dear one alive and wandering through primeval forests in Brazil, or dallying with nitrates in Chile, than for them to realize that the dear one was dead. Incidentally, it was also better for Mr. Blackton.

He dismissed the unfortunate Lewisham from his mind, and produced from his pocket the papers he had taken from Professor Goodman before removing his clothes. To his intense satisfaction, the first thing he saw was the warning typewritten letter, and holding a match under one corner of it he reduced it to ashes and finally to powder. Two or three private letters he treated similarly, and then he came to a dozen loose sheets of paper covered with incomprehensible, scrawled hieroglyphics. These he carefully pinned together and put in his pocket, reflecting again on the extreme goodness or fate.

And then for the second time he took from the drawer where he had placed it for safety the metal retort which apparently played such an important part in the process. He had found it standing on the electric furnace in the professor's laboratory, and now he examined it curiously. It was about double the size of an ordinary tumbler, and was made of some dull opaque substance which resembled dirty pewter. And as Blackton looked at it and realized the incredible fortune that was soon to come to him out of that interesting-looking pot, his hand shook uncontrollably.

Illustration: On the day following the inquest, Mrs. Goodman and Brenda stayed in their rooms, absorbed in grief

He replaced it in the drawer, as some one knocked on the door. It was the man who had spoken to him outside the professor's house.

“They're all humming like a hive of bees, Chief,” he remarked. “The police are in, and they've cleared away the débris. I managed to get in and have a look—and it's all right.”

“You're certain of that?” said Blackton quietly.

“There's nothing left of him, Chief, except a boot in one corner.”

Blackton rubbed his hands together.

“Excellent! Excellent! You've done very well. Cash this downstairs.”

Again he scribbled his initials on a slip of paper, and, pushing it across the table, dismissed the man. Assuredly luck was in, though as a general rule Blackton refused to allow the existence of such a thing. According to him, the big man made allowance for every possible contingency: only the fool ever trusted to luck if anything of importance was at stake. And in this case he only regarded his luck as being in because he would be able, as far as he could see, to carry on with the simplest of the three schemes which he had worked out to meet different emergencies should they arise. And though he had employed enough explosive to shatter ten men, no man knew better than he did how capricious it was in its action.

Now he was only waiting for one thing more—a telephone call from Freyder. He glanced at his watch: hardly time as yet, perhaps, for him to have reached his destination and to get through to London. In fact, it was twenty minutes before the bell rang.

“Everything has gone without a hitch.”

Freyder was speaking, and with a gentle sigh of pure joy for work well done Mr. Blackton put down the receiver.

And half an hour later he was strolling slowly along Pall Mall toward his club. A newsboy passed him shouting, “'Orrible explosion in 'Ampstead,” and he paused to buy a copy. It had occurred to him that it is always a good thing to have something to read in the cooler rooms of a Turkish bath. And he never went into the hotter ones. There were peculiarities about Mr. Edward Blackton's face which rendered great heat a trifle ill-advised.

Chapter IV

THE report made to Mr. Blackton on the condition of the professor's house was certainly justified. It looked as if a heavy airplane 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, while 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 parlor maid, 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 débris 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 parlor maid 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 automobile 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?” said the inspector.

“No; I'm not. My name is Drummond—Captain Drummond. But if you'll cast your eyes 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 heavens!” 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 idea?”

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 Jove!” 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 suspicion 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! The parlor maid saw him 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 around 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 around in amazement. “This is the sort of thing one used to expect in France. 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 in the professor's ill-fated laboratory.

Illustration: Drummond swung around to find a monumental woman regarding him with the light of battle in her eyes. “How dare you the nose of my Heindrich pull?” she boomed

“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 parlor maid 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 around the wrecked room. Three plain-clothes men were carefully turning over heaps of débris, searching for further traces of the dead scientist. But the task seemed hopeless and after a while Hugh said good-by to the inspector and started to walk back to Brook Street, as he pondered on the awful tragedy.

The whole thing had come with such startling suddenness that he felt shaken. It seemed incredible that the absent-minded old man who had lunched with him only that day was dead—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 hand over quarter of a million for the suppression of the professor's discovery—no longer any need. And then, suddenly, Hugh stopped short, 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 for a moment or two a grim smile hovered around his mouth as he strolled on. Professor Goodman might be dead, but his secret wasn't. And if by any chance it had mot been an accident—if by any chance this diamond syndicate had deliberately caused the poor defenseless 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 defenseless.

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. What on earth has happened?”

“Good heavens! I'd forgotten all about 'em,” he murmured, endeavoring to assume a mournful expression. “Where are they?”

“Upstairs.” They're going to stay here tonight. Brenda telephoned to her mother. Hugh, what an awful thing to have happened!” she exclaimed.

“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 asked, suddenly remembering his perturbed friend.

“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 an accident. What did he mean by that?”

“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,” he cautioned.

“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,” he added. “We want to be sure of our ground before bringing them in.”

“But who on earth would want to murder the dear old man?” gasped his wife, with horror in her voice.

“The professor had made a discovery, darling,” Hugh explained gravely, “that threatened to ruin every one 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, endeavoring to grasp the situation.

“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, 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.

“The professor 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 had 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—some one will see.”

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 with Carl Peterson—something with a real bit of zip in it, something to vary his present stagnation. But he fully realized that a gentleman of Peterson's eminence had many other calls on his time, and that he might 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 very thrilling—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 that is a little difficult to explain, unless it was an accident. 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 after 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, you'd have wanted a bomb the size of a wheelbarrow!” exclaimed Hugh. “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 arouse 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 favor 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 heavens! I haven't got as far as that,” said Hugh vaguely. “We might biff your pal with the eyeglass on the jaw, or something like that. Or we 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 mustache and the eyeglass in the second row?” he whispered. “That's the fellow I was telling you about, the one who put up the offer of 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 parlor maid was put into the box. She described in detail the events of the afternoon, and the only new point that came to light was the fact that another man beside the German professor had been at the house for a short time, and had left almost at once. First, the German had arrived. No, she did not know his name—but his appearance was peculiar. Pressed for details, she mentioned 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 had shown 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.

She knew the second visitor had gone, she said in answer to the coroner's question, as the only people in the laboratory when she passed it were the two men already alluded to. And just then Professor Goodman came in, apologized 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 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 around in time to see the tall, ungainly figure of Professor Scheidstrun go shambling up the courtroom. He was waving his arms, and peering short-sightedly from side to side.

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

Illustration: “But who on earth would want to murder the dear old man?” gasped Phyllis

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 varying quality of this blasting powder. One only was the perfected article—the others were the failures. But all were high explosives of different degrees of power. And then some accident must have happened.

Professor Scheidstrun 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. 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 rose, 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 every one 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. He sauntered across to join him.

“Well, that's that,” he remarked. “Doesn't seem to have advanced things much.”

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

With a feeling of complete bewilderment, Algy did as he was told. He went inside and he stayed there, until the proprietor began to eye him suspiciously. There had been two or three cases of hold-ups 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 professor'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.”

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

“Deuced 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. If 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 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 gray wig, carefully combed out, occupied its usual head rest.

AND not without reason did Edward Blackton—alias Carl Peterson, alias the Comte du Guy, etc., 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. This tickled his sense of humor 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 cigar 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 around 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 around his lips. “But I certainly feel that I have earned a holiday. Well, gentlemen—I will say good-by. 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 my best-looking rôle, so I am informed by competent judges. But change and novelty are essential in my work, as doubtless you can understand.”

He strolled toward 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.”

For a moment 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 a very interesting man, was he?”

“But that note!” cried Leibhaus. “The threatening note.”

“Destroyed by me personally. You may rest assured of that. And when next you 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—good-by. 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 motor car. 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 to be decided, and it was of those he was thinking as the car spun smoothly along toward 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 realize 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 rôle to play in the midst 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—particularly 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 for Mr. Blackton.

A glow of sublime benevolence flooded his soul; for one brief moment he took up the speaking tube to stop the car. He felt that 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 a massive gateway and entered the drive of a large house, which could be seen in the distance through the trees.

Mr. William Robinson had reached his destination. For quite rightly realizing 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.

Chapter V

HE was met at the front door by Freyder, who led him at once to the room which he had set apart for his chief's own particular and private use. In every house taken by Mr. William Robinson—to adopt, at once, his new name—there was one such room into which no one, under any pretext whatever, might enter without his permission, once he was in residence. Freyder himself would not have dreamed of doing so; and even the girl, who was still enjoying the sunshine at Montreux, invariably knocked before she went into the holy of holies.

“Capital, Freyder,” he remarked, glancing around the room with a critical eye. “And how is our friend?”

“Getting jolly angry, Chief,” answered the other. “Talking about legal proceedings and infamous conduct. The poor old bloke was wedged up against a nail in the packing case, and it's made him infernally mad.”

“A pity,” murmured Mr. Robinson. “Still, I don't know that it matters very much. It would have been pleasanter, of course, if we could have kept the proceedings on an amicable basis, but I always had grave doubts. A pig-headed old man, Freyder; but there are ways of overcoming pig-headedness.” He smiled genially; he still felt that he wanted to hear the birds sing. “And now I will just make one or two alterations in my personal appearance. Then I will interview our friend.”

“Very good, Chief. By the way—the dynamo is installed, also the most modern brand of electric furnace. But, of course, I haven't been able to do anything with regard to the chemicals as yet.”

“Of course not. You've done extremely well, my dear fellow—extremely well. He will have to tell me what chemicals he requires this evening, and you will go up to London first thing tomorrow to buy them.”

With a wave of his hand he dismissed his subordinate, and then for over an hour he occupied himself in front of a mirror. Mr. William Robinson was being created. It was his first appearance in public, and so a little license was allowable. There would be no one to point an accusing finger at his nose and say it had grown larger in the night or anything awkward of that sort. This was creation—pure and simple—giving scope to the creator's artistic mind. He could make what he would.

Once made, a series of the most minute measurements with gauges recording to the hundredth of an inch would be necessary. Each would be entered with mathematical precision in a book kept especially for the purpose, along with other details concerning the character. But that came later, and was merely the uninteresting routine work. The soul of the artist need not be troubled by such trifles.

And since the soul of the artist was gay within him, he fashioned a genial old man with twinkling eyes and mutton-chop whiskers. His nose was rather hooked; his horn spectacles reposed on his forehead as if they had been absent-mindedly pushed up from their proper position. His scanty gray hair was brushed back untidily—it was the ruthless thinning out of his normal crop with a razor that he disliked most; his clothes were those of a man who buys good ones and takes no care of them. And finally his hands were covered with the stains of the chemist.

At length he had finished, and, having surveyed himself from every angle, he rang the bell for Freyder, who paused in genuine amazement at the door. Accustomed as he was to these complete metamorphoses of his chief, he never ceased to marvel at them.

“How's that, Freyder?” demanded Mr. Robinson.

“Wonderful, Chief,” said the other. “Simply wonderful. I congratulate you.”

“Then I think I'll go to see our friend—my dear, dear brother. Doubtless a little chat will clear the air.”

With a curious shambling gait he followed Freyder up the stairs to the top of the house. Then, rubbing his hands together genially, he entered the room which Freyder had pointed out to him, and closed the door behind him.

Professor Goodman rose as he came in and took a step forward.

“Are you the owner of this house, sir?” he demanded angrily.

“Yes,” said the other. “I am. I hope my servants have made you comfortable.”

“Then I demand to know by what right you dare to keep me a prisoner. How dare you, sir! How dare you! And where am I, anyway?”

With a sudden little gesture of weakness, Professor Goodman sat down. He was still bewildered and shaken, and Mr. Robinson smiled affably.

“That's better,” he remarked. “Let us both sit down and have a friendly talk. I feel that one or two words of explanation are due to you, and I trust, my dear professor, that you will receive them in a friendly and—er—brotherly spirit. Brotherly, because you are my brother.”

“What do you mean, sir?” snapped the professor. “I haven't got a brother; I've never had a brother.”

“I know,” murmured the other sadly. “A most regrettable oversight on your parent's part. But isn't it nice to have one now? One, moreover, who will surround you with every care and attention in your illness.”

“But confound you!” roared the unhappy man. “I'm not ill.”

Mr. Robinson waved a deprecating hand.

“I implore of you, do not excite yourself. In your weak mental state it would be most injurious. I assure you that you are my partially insane brother, and that I have taken this house entirely on your account. Could altruism go further?”

PROFESSOR GOODMAN was swallowing hard and clutching the arms of his chair.

“Perhaps you'll say what you really do mean,” he muttered at length.

“Certainly!” cried Mr. Robinson benevolently. “It is for that express purpose that we are having this interview. It is essential that you should understand exactly where you are. Now perhaps you are unaware of the fact that you died yesterday.”

“I did—what?” stammered the other.

“Died,” said Mr. Robinson genially. “I thought you might find that bit a little hard to follow, so I've brought you a copy of one of the early evening papers. In it you will find a brief account of the inquest—your inquest.”

With a trembling hand, the professor took the paper.

“But I don't understand,” he said, after he had read it. “For heaven's sake, sir, won't you explain? I remember nothing from the time when I was chloroformed in my laboratory till I came to in a packing case. It wasn't I who was blown up!”

“Obviously,” returned the other. “But the great point is, professor, that every one thinks it was. The cream of the scientific world, in fact, will attend the burial of somebody else's foot, in the firm belief that they are honoring your memory. Whose foot it is you needn't worry about. I assure you he was a person of tedious disposition.”

“But I must go at once and telephone.” The professor rose—in his agitation. “It's the most dreadful thing. Think of my poor wife!”

“I know,” said Mr. Robinson sadly. “Though not exactly married myself, I can guess your feelings. But I'm afraid, my dear brother, that your wife must remain in ignorance of the fact that she is not a widow.”

Professor Goodman's face went gray. He knew now what he had only suspected before—that he was in danger.

“Possibly things are becoming clearer to you,” went on the other. “The world thinks you are dead. No hue and cry will be raised to find you. But you are not dead—far from it. You are, as I explained, my partially insane brother, whom no one is allowed to see. I admit that you are not insane, nor are you my brother—but 'qu'importe?' It is not the truth that counts, but what people think is the truth. I trust I make myself clear?”

Illustration: For perhaps the first time in his life every vestige of self-control had left the master criminal's face, and he looked like a wild animal

Professor Goodman said nothing: he was staring at the speaker with fear in his eyes. For the mask of benevolence had slipped from Mr. Robinson's face—the real man was showing through the assumed rôle.

“From your silence I take it that I do,” he continued. “No one will look for you as Professor Goodman; no one will be permitted to see you as my brother. So—er—you will not be very much disturbed.”

“In plain language, you mean I'm a prisoner,” said the professor. “Why? What is your object?”

“You have recently, my dear professor, made a most remarkable discovery,” began Mr. Robinson.

“I knew it,” groaned the other. “I knew it was that. Well, let me tell you one thing, sir. If this infamous outrage has been perpetrated on me in order to make me keep silent about it—I still refuse utterly. You may detain me here in your power until after the meeting of the Society, but I shall give my discovery to the world all the same.”

Mr. Robinson gently stroked his side whiskers.

“A most remarkable discovery,” he repeated, as if the other had not spoken. “I congratulate you upon it, professor. And, being a chemist in a small way myself, I am overcome with curiosity on the subject. I have therefore gone to no little inconvenience to bring you to a place where, undisturbed by mundane trifles, you will be able to impart your discovery to me, and at the same time manufacture diamonds to your heart's content. I should like you to make hundreds of diamonds during the period of your retirement. In fact, that will be your daily task——”

“You want me to make them?” said the bewildered man. “But that's the very thing Blantyre and the others didn't want me to do.”

MR. ROBINSON stroked his whiskers even more caressingly.

“How fortunate it is,” he murmured, “that we don't all think alike.”

“And if I refuse?” said the other.

Mr. Robinson ceased stroking his whiskers.

“You would be unwise, Professor Goodman—most unwise. I have methods of dealing with people who refuse to do what I tell them to do, which have always succeeded up to date.”

His eyes were suddenly merciless, and with a sick feeling of fear the professor sat back in his chair.

“A dynamo has been installed,” went on Mr. Robinson after a moment or two. “Also the most modern type of electric furnace. Here I have the retort which you use in your process”—he placed it on the table beside him—“and all that now remains are the necessary chemicals. Your notes are a trifle difficult to follow, so you will have to prepare a list yourself of those chemicals, and they will be obtained for you tomorrow.”

He took the papers from his pocket and handed them to the professor.

“Just one word of warning. Should anything go wrong with your process, should you pretend out of stupid obstinacy that you are unable to make diamonds—may Heaven help you! If there is anything wrong with the apparatus, let me know, and it will be rectified. But don't, I beg of you, try any tricks.”

He rose, and his voice became genial again.

“I am sure my warning is unnecessary,” he cooed. “Now I will leave you to prepare the list of salts you require.

“But these are the wrong notes,” said Professor Goodman, staring at them dazedly. “These are my notes on peptonized proteins.”

Mr. Robinson stood very still.

“What do you mean?” he said at length. “Aren't those the notes on your process of making diamonds?”

“Good gracious—no,” said the professor. “These have nothing to do with it.”

“Are the notes necessary?”

“Absolutely. Why, I can't even remember all the salts without them—let alone the proportions in which they are used.”

“Do you know where they are?”

THE professor passed his hand wearily across his forehead.

“I was lunching with some one,” he murmured. “It was just before I went to meet Professor Scheidstrun, and I gave them to him to take care of. And, by the way—what has happened to Scheidstrun? Surely it wasn't he who was killed.”

“Don't worry about Scheidstrun!” snarled Mr. Robinson. “Who was it you were lunching with, you confounded old fool?”

“I know; I remember now. It was Captain Drummond. I lunched at his club. He's got them. Good heavens! Why are you looking like that?”

For perhaps the first time in his life every vestige of self-control had left the master criminal's face and he looked like a wild beast.

“Drummond!” he shouted savagely. “Not Captain Hugh Drummond, who lives in Brook Street?”

“That's the man,” said the professor. “Such a nice fellow, though rather stupid. Do you know him by any chance?”

How near Professor Goodman was to a violent death at that moment it is perhaps as well he did not know. In mild perplexity he watched the other man's face, diabolical with its expression of animal rage and fury, and wondered vaguely why the mention of Hugh Drummond's name should have produced such a result. And it was a full minute before Mr. Robinson had recovered himself sufficiently to sit down and continue the conversation. Drummond again—always Drummond. How, in the name of everything conceivable and inconceivable, had he got mixed up in this affair? All his carefully worked out and brilliantly executed plans frustrated and brought to nothing by one miserable fact which he could not possibly have foreseen, and which, even now, he could hardly believe.

“What induced you to give the notes to him?” he snarled at length.

“He said he didn't think it was safe for me to carry them about with me,” said the other mildly. “You see I had received a threatening letter in the morning—a letter threatening my life——” He blinked apologetically.

SO it was Lewisham's letter that had done it, and the only ray of comfort in the situation lay in the fact that, at any rate, he'd killed Lewisham.

“Did you give him any special instructions?” he demanded.

“No—I don't think so,” answered the professor. “I think he said something about handing them over to the bank”

Mr. Robinson rose and started to pace up and down the room. The blow was so staggering in its unexpectedness that his brain almost refused to work. That Drummond of all people should again have crossed his path was as far as his thoughts would go. The fact that Drummond was blissfully unaware that he had done so was beside the point: it seemed almost like the hand of Fate. And incredible though it may seem, for a short time he was conscious of a feeling of genuine superstitious fear.

But not for long. The prize, in this case, was too enormous for any weakness of that sort. If Captain Drummond had the notes, steps would have to be taken to make him give them up. The question was—what were those steps to be?

With an effort he concentrated on the problem. The thing must be done with every appearance of legality; it must be done naturally. From Drummond's point of view—which was the important one to consider—the situation would be a simple one. He was in possession of valuable papers belonging to a dead man—papers to which he had no right: but papers to which he, being the type of person he was, would continue to stick if he had the faintest suspicion of foul play. And since he had seen the threatening letter, those suspicions must be latent in his mind already. To keep them latent and not arouse them was essential.

And the second, and no less important part of the problem, was to insure that once the notes had left Drummond's hands they should pass with a minimum of delay into his. The thought of anything happening to them, or of some one else obtaining possession of them, turned him cold all over.

HE paused in his restless pacing up and down, and thoughtfully lit a cigar. His self-control was completely recovered: Mr. William Robinson was himself again. A hitch had occurred, in an otherwise perfect plan—that was all. And hitches were made to be unhitched.

“What is the name of your lawyer?” he said quietly.

“Mr. Tootem of Tootem, Price and Tootem,” answered Professor Goodman in mild surprise. “Why do you want to know?”

“Never mind why. Now here's a pen and some paper. Write as I dictate. And don't let there be any mistake about the writing, my friend.” He dictated slowly: “'Dear Drummond, I have been discussing things with my friend Scheidstrun this afternoon, and he agrees with you that it is better that I should not carry about the notes I gave you. So will you send them to Tootem, Price and Tootem——' What's the address? Austin Friars. Well, put it in. “They will keep them for me until the meeting of the Royal Society. And if, as Scheidstrun humorously says, I shall have blown myself up before then with my new blasting powder, it is my wish that he should be given the notes. He is immensely interested in my discovery, and I know of no one to whom I would sooner bequeath it. But that, my dear Drummond, is not likely to occur.

“'Yours sincerely——' Now sign your name.”

The professor laid down the pen with a sigh.

“It is all very confusing,” he murmured. “And I do hope I'm not going to get blood poisoning where that nail in the packing case ran into my leg.”

But Mr. Robinson evinced no interest in such an eventuality. He stood with the letter in his hand, pulling thoughtfully at his cigar, and striving to take into account every possible development that might arise. For perhaps a minute he remained motionless while Professor Goodman rubbed his injured limb; then he made a decisive little gesture oddly out of keeping with his benevolent appearance. His mind was made up; his plan was clear.

“Address an envelope,” he said curtly, “to Captain Drummond.”

HE took the envelope and slipped the letter inside. There was no time to be lost; every moment was valuable.

“Now, Professor Goodman,” he remarked, “I want you to pay close attention to what I am going to say. The fact that you have not got the notes of your process constitutes a slight check in my plans. However, I am about to obtain those notes, and while I am doing so you will remain here. You will be well looked after, and well fed. A delightful bedroom will be placed at your disposal, and I believe, though I have not personally verified the fact, that there is a very good library below. Please make free use of it. But I must give you one word of warning. Should you make any attempt to escape, should you make the slightest endeavor to communicate With the outside world, you will be gagged and put in irons in a dark room.”

Professor Goodman's hands shook uncontrollably; he looked what at the moment he was—a badly frightened old man.

“But, sir,” he quavered pitifully, “won't you tell me where I am, and why all this is happening to me?”

“Finding the answer should give you some interesting mental recreation during my absence,” said Mr. Robinson suavely.

“And my poor wife!” moaned the unhappy man.

“The pangs of widowhood are hard to bear,” agreed the other. “But doubtless time will soften the blow. And, anyway, my dear professor, you died in the cause of duty. I can assure you that Professor Scheidstrun's peroration over your sole remaining boot brought tears to the eyes of all who heard it. Well, I will say au revoir. Ask for anything you require, but don't, I beg of you, try any stupid tricks. My servants are rough fellows—some of them.”

With a genial smile he left the room, and went downstairs. Whatever may have been his thoughts, only the most perfect equanimity showed on his face. He possessed that most priceless asset of any great leader—the power of concealing bad news from his staff. In fact, the tighter the corner the more calmly confident did this man look. Nothing is more fatal to any enterprise than the knowledge on the part of subordinates that the man in charge is shaken. And, though he would hardly admit it to himself, Mr. William Robinson was badly shaken.

IN fact, when he reached his own private sanctum he did a thing which in his whole long career of crime he had done but twice before. From a small locked cabinet he took a bottle containing a white powder, and calmly and methodically he measured out a dose which he sniffed up his nose. And had any one seen this secret operation, he would have realized that the man was the master and not the drug.

Deliberately he sat down to await the drug's action; then, with a faint smile, he rose and replaced the bottle in the cabinet. The nerve crisis had passed.

“Freyder,” he remarked, as that worthy entered the room in answer to the bell, “a slight hitch has occurred in my scheme. The indecipherable notes which I so carefully extracted from our friend's pocket yesterday refer, apparently, to the prolongation of the lives of rabbits and other fauna. The ones we require are—er—elsewhere. I, naturally, propose to obtain them forthwith, but it will be necessary to proceed with a certain amount of discretion. Incredible to relate, they are in the possession of a young gentleman whom we have come across before—one Drummond.”

Freyder's breath came in a sharp whistle.

“I see that you recall the name,” went on the other quietly. “And I must say that when Professor Goodman informed me of the fact, I felt for the moment unreasonably annoyed. One cannot legislate for everything, and how any man out of an asylum could give that vast fool anything of importance to look after is a thing that I confess baffles me completely. However, all that concerns us is that he has them at the moment: the problem is to remove them from his keeping as rapidly as possible. Under normal circumstances the solution of that problem would have presented no difficulties, but Drummond, I am bound to admit, is not normal. In fact, Freyder, as you may remember I have twice made the unforgivable mistake of under-estimating him. This time, however, I have decided on a little scheme which—though a trifle complicated at first sight—is, in reality, profoundly simple. Moreover, it appeals to my sense of humor, which is a great point in its favor. You have your notebook? Then I will give you my instructions.”

They were clear and concise with no possibility of a misunderstanding, and as Mr. Robinson had said they contained in them a touch of humor that was akin to genius. In fact, despite the seriousness of the situation, on two or three occasions Freyder broke into uncontrollable chuckles of laughter. The whole thing was so gloriously simple that it seemed there must be a flaw somewhere, and yet he could discover none. His chief, as usual, had prepared for all emergencies.

“The essence of the whole thing is speed, Freyder,” said his chief, rising at length. “It is impossible to say what Drummond will do with those notes if he's left too long in undisturbed possession of them. He must know their value, but for all that he's quite capable of using them for shaving paper. The one thing which I don't think he will do is to take them to Scotland Yard. But I don't want to run any risks. To have to be content with a miserable half million for this little affair would deprive me of my reason. I should totter to an early grave, a gray-headed old man. So speed, don't forget—speed is absolutely essential.”

“I can make all the arrangements tonight, chief,” said Freyder, rising, “and can start at dawn tomorrow morning. Back tomorrow evening, and the whole thing can be done the day after.”

“Good,” answered the other. “Then send for the car at once and we'll get off.”

AND thus it happened that two hours after Blackton had arrived at his house on the borders of the New Forest, Mr. William Robinson left it again. But on the return journey it is to be regretted that he no longer wished to hear the birds sing or to put buttercups in his hair. He sat in his corner sunk in silence while the powerful limousine ate up the miles to London. And his companion Freyder knew better than to break that silence.

It was not until the tramlines at Hounslow were reached that he spoke.

“If I fail to settle accounts with Drummond this time, Freyder, I'll do as he once recommended and take to growing tomatoes.”

Freyder grunted.

“The notes first, Chief, and after that the man. You'll win this time.” He spoke through the speaking tube and the car slowed up. “I'll get out here. Our man is near by. And I'll be back tomorrow evening.”

He gave the chauffeur the name of a residential hotel in a quiet part of Bayswater, and stood for a moment watching the car drive away. Then he turned and disappeared down a side street, while Mr. Robinson continued his journey alone. There was nothing more to be done now until Freyder returned, and so, in accordance with his invariable custom, he dismissed the matter from his mind.

To do in Rome as the Romans did was another rule of his. And so after dinner at the quiet residential hotel, Mr. Robinson joined heartily in a merry round game which lacked much of its charm as two cards were missing from the pack. Then, refusing with becoming modesty a challenge to take on the hotel champion at halma, he retired to his room, and was asleep almost at once. And he was still peacefully sleeping at five o'clock the next morning, when Freyder, shivering a little in the morning air, drew his thick leather coat more closely around his throat. Below him lay the gray sea—hazy still, for the sun had no warmth as yet. In front the pilot was sitting motionless, and after a while the steady roar of the engine lulled him into a gentle doze. The airplane flew steadily on toward the east—and Germany.

It must be admitted that there was an air of gloom over Hugh Drummond's house on the day following the inquest. Neither Mrs. Goodman nor Brenda had 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 after receiving that threat, had died. The circumstances surely seemed to indicate foul play.

True, according to the verdict at the inquest, he would have died whether he had received the 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. In fact, as far as he was concerned the only result 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 neighboring street in the hope that he might be able to decipher it, but with no success. 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 any one save the man who wrote them. And that man was dead. His secret must have vanished with him, despite the notes he left.

WITH a sigh he replaced the papers in his note case, and strolled over to the window. Brook Street presented a quiescent appearance due to the warmth of the day, and the recent consumption of lunch by its dwellers. 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 recognized instantly was tacking up the street, peering with short-sighted 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. 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.

“I am Captain Drummond,” 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 in 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 to San Francisco Bay. 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 read the letter in silence, and then 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 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 realized 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 gray mustache and an eyeglass. Slightly I know him. He was—yah, he was at the inquest himself. I remember that I spoke to him there.”

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 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 to 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 some one 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.”

“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 realized 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 humor 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 good will. Was he what he professed to be—a friend of the late Professor Goodman? 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 forever the results of the discovery?

He turned and stared at the German, who 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 if he could have realized how exactly his thoughts were being read. Not very extraordinary, either, since the whole interview had been planned by a master of psychology to produce those thoughts.

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 prefer that we meet 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 and Tootem are to have 'em. I can't go against that. What the legal wallah does with them afterward has nothing to do with me. Still, I wish I could feel more certain in my own mind. You see the trouble is that even if that bloke is a bluffer 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 for dinner it certainly seemed as if he'd wasted his time.

“I'VE been watching Mr. Anderson'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 parlor behind a bowl of stuffed fruit, and there I waited. Nothing happened for hours. Anderson'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, apparently meditating on his wasted efforts.

“An afternoon wasted,” he grunted after a while. “I'm fed up with the whole infernal show, Algy. Why the devil didn't I give him the notes when he was here and be done with it? As it is, I've got to waste tomorrow morning as well fooling around 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 while 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 that I will have a small cocktail,” he remarked. “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 he had enjoyed himself so much in a quiet way. 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 gleefully, 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 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 emphasize 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 scandalized 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 Lords 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 some one'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 Lords. “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 get through this little matter 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 Lords 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 any one 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 color. 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 color 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, which was 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 he had been 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 leaped 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.

“Demit, 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 a gun.”

With a quick heave he jerked the cowering man 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 straight-jacket.”

He turned around, 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—what on earth had happened to the man? The arms he felt under the coat sleeves were thin as match sticks, whereas Peterson, as he remembered of old, was almost as strong as he was.

He stared steadily 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. But the next instant a terrific blow on the right ear turned his attention to other things.

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

“How dare you the nose of my Heindrich pull?” she boomed.

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 this!”

“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 and 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 a stimulant was pressing. Even to his whirling brain one thing 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 surely 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. “If you'll be patient a moment I'll—er—try to explain.”

(To be continued)