NOTWITHSTANDING HIS confident assertion to Captain Michaeloff that there was no possibility of his being traced, Mangan passed a very uneasy and restless night following upon his conversation with the Baltic Embassy attache while at their meal together in the little restaurant off Tottenham Court Road.

Certainly, among the millions of people in London the chances of his running up against the dead professor’s maid and being recognised by her were infinitesimally small, but for all that, if she did put the police on to him, as things were at the present moment it would be realised at once that he was Glenowen’s murderer.

He had lied to the captain when he had told him he had destroyed the professor’s manuscript, as he had got every page of it now in a drawer in his desk in the adjoining room. He had kept it because it contained so many references to the professor’s collaboration with the Baltic Embassy that, with an eye on the future, he sensed certain possibilities of blackmail. Besides the manuscript he had also more than ￡300 in ￡5 banknotes that he had found in the professor’s safe, and as the notes were new and clean it was just possible some of these numbers might have been taken at the bank.

Considering all this, as he always did in any emergency, he acted quickly, and by nine o’clock the next morning was down again at his shack on Canvey Island. To his relief he found everything exactly as he had left it, and in a very few minutes his latest acquisitions were added to the others already there.

Driving back to Town he felt again in a perfectly assured frame of mind. Let all the detectives in the kingdom do their worst now, he told himself. They could not harm him. Even if by some unlucky chance they did manage to link him up with the dead professor’s friend, Mr. Brown, it would not help them in any way. He would admit frankly that he had been upon terms of slight friendship with the professor, but upon the latter’s dreadful death had not come forward to the police because he had nothing to tell them. It would be quite understandable, as no one liked to be mixed up, however slightly, with any murder.

A fortnight went by, with Scotland Yard at as dead an end as ever, and it looked as if the professor’s murder was to be added to the already long list of dreadful undiscovered crimes.

Then one morning Larose rang up Inspector Stone, saying he was coming round to see him at once, as it was about time that the idea he, Larose, had all along been cultivating should now begin to bear fruit.

Stone was delighted, as all the years he had known Larose, as he had impressed upon the Chief Commissioner of Police, Larose’s ideas had always been worth considering. However, he was certainly rather surprised when Larose turned up bringing a young girl with him.

“This young lady is going to help us,” Larose said smilingly. “If you remember — you have met her before.”

With his usual politeness, the inspector had risen to his feet upon the entrance of the girl and at once pulled out a chair for her to sit down. He had, however, no recollection of having seen her before and stared blankly.

The girl was smartly dressed in clothes evidently of the best quality. She wore a taking little hat and her hair was fashionably permed. She had just enough make-up to render her piquant little face attractive. She looked out smilingly from a dainty little pince-nez. With her nice little well-rounded figure the inspector thought she was a very pleasing proposition.

“But surely you remember her, inspector,” said Larose in some amusement, “Miss Emma Hobson whom you met at the late Professor Glenowen’s flat in St. John’s Wood? You certainly asked her a lot of questions then.”

Great Scot! and the inspector’s heavy face broke into a broad smile. Yes, it was the maid, Emma, right enough, but what a change in her! Certainly fine feathers did make a fine bird and if he had not been told who she was he would never have recognised her. He bowed smilingly.

“Oh, of course, of course,” he exclaimed, “and what a fashionable young lady she looks now!”

“Well, inspector,” said Larose, “she is certain she will be able to recognise that Mr. Brown the moment she sees him, and so we are going to give her the chance. She has left St. John’s Wood and is now staying with a cousin of my wife’s in Berkeley Square. In the mornings and afternoons she will go about on her own, keeping her eyes well open all the time, but in the evenings she will have for her escort as presentable a young fellow as the Yard can provide and frequent those places of entertainment and amusement where it is likely a man-about-Town such as we imagine this Mr. Brown to be is likely to be found. I have explained everything to her and what an important part she is going to play in catching him.”

The inspector was enthusiastic at once. “A splendid idea,” he exclaimed warmly, “and on the face of it it looks quite hopeful. If that fellow has come into all this money we think he has he’ll certainly want to give it a run and get rid of some of it on pleasure.”

Larose took a paper out of his pocket. “And I’ve mapped out what I consider a suitable programme for her. Every evening she will dine at one of these fashionable restaurants mentioned here and afterwards go on to a theatre or some cinema or anything interesting that is going on. On Saturdays we shall want her all day, as she will have to go the round of the Metropolitan race meetings. In this way, even if it takes a good many weeks, I reckon that sooner or later she will be bound to spot the gentleman we want.”

Stone addressed himself to the girl. “But are you sure, Miss Hobson,” he asked doubtfully, “that you will be able to recognise him if you see him?”

The girl spoke confidently and in a pleasant tone of voice. “Quite sure, sir,” she said. “Ever since I have known what I have to do I have recalled his face to my mind many, many times.”

“And you can see much better now,” asked Stone, “in those glasses you are wearing?”

“Oh yes, sir,” she laughed, “a hundred times, and I am getting out of the way of screwing up my eyes whenever I look at anyone. I realise I ought to have had glasses long ago.”

“Good,” exclaimed Stone, “and we’ve got the very man here who’ll do as a companion for you.” He smiled. “He’s well educated and good looking and might pass anywhere as a young baronet or even a peer of the realm.”

“And Mr. Larose tells me, sir,” said the girl a little hesitatingly, “that all I have to do is to recognise him and then my work is done. Mr. Larose is sure he won’t remember me if I meet him face to face.”

Thinking of the drab and uninteresting little servant girl whom he had met that morning those weeks ago in St. John’s Wood, Stone smiled confidently. “I’m quite certain he won’t,” he assured her. “So, as you say, all you will have to do is to point him out and leave the rest to us.”

And then commenced for Emma Hobson surely as an exciting a time as any young girl could ever wish to have. Mrs. Larose’s cousin, a Mrs. Craven, was most interested and made a great fuss of her, making sure she always looked nice and attractive whenever she went out.

Of a morning she got up late after breakfast in bed, and from then until afternoon tea-time was free to roam about the West End whenever she liked. A few minutes before six her escort, Detective Gerald Halliard, called for her in a taxi, and a few minutes later they were seated at a table near the door in some fashionable restaurant, with Emma scrutinising every diner who came in.

The dinner over, she was whisked away to some theatre or picture-palace and there, by arrangement with the management, through the side of the curtain or screen quizzed all the seated patrons through a pair of strong Zeiss glasses. By the interval time she had been taken off to somewhere else where the same scrutiny with the glasses was gone through. On the Saturdays she was taken to one of the Parks for the race meeting and, seated in the grandstand, through the glasses again scanned round most carefully upon everyone there. All the time close handy were two other Scotland Yard men all ready to follow up the trail if she gave the signal that she had spotted Mr. Brown.

At first every moment she was expecting to see him, but as the days went by, though young Halliard saw to it that she did not relax her vigilance, she began to become less and less hopeful that she would meet with any success. Still, that did not worry her much, as privately she was not looking forward to the time when she would become a nonentity again. She was enjoying herself immensely and under the continued round of pleasure was unfolding herself like a pretty flower. She was bright and animated and had quite lost all her shyness when with young Halliard. Indeed, she had come to regard him as the Prince Charming of her maiden dreams. From amusement at her innocence and freshness, the young detective’s feelings had begun to pass into a tender regard and sometimes, to her intense delight, he would hold her hand in the taxis, then sitting much closer to her than the occasion demanded. Altogether she was a very thrilled young woman in those supreme and maddening moments which come to us all only in the first love affair of our lives.

In the meantime, Mangan, all unconscious of the happiness he had brought to her, was enjoying himself, too. He had returned to his former way of life as the well-to-do man about Town. In good request everywhere, he was hail-fellow-well-met with men of the best social standing and a great favourite with members of the other sex. Many a young girl’s heart fluttered delightedly as she felt his close contact to her as they danced in some fashionable restaurant or upon some ballroom floor.

As for his so recent bloody crimes, when he thought of them, which was not often, they had been just pleasurable and very profitable little adventures, it almost seemed, of many years ago. He gave no longer any thoughts to detectives or the unspeakable Gilbert Larose, and Scotland Yard was very far away.

One thing, however, was certainly puzzling him, as the usually very aloof Captain Michaeloff of the Baltic Embassy appeared to have taken a sudden fancy to him. He had sought his company quite a lot lately, going with him to social gatherings and twice entertaining him to a tete-a-tete dinner at the Baltic Embassy. Indeed, the captain was laying himself out to be so friendly that Mangan, in his naturally suspicious nature, was often asking himself what the man meant by it. “It’s just as if he is weighing me up,” he told himself once with a grin, “to see if I’m game enough to put a bullet in his Excellency.” Mangan always felt a little bit annoyed that he had never been introduced to the Ambassador, or indeed never been allowed to see him.

A whole month went by, with the little one-time maid of St. John’s Wood hearing nothing more of Larose. Then one morning the latter, speaking from his house in Norfolk, rang up the inspector.

“See here, Charlie,” he said, “I’ve got a hunch that we’ve got the best chance ever of catching that fine gentleman, as to-night there’s a good show on at the Shaftesbury Stadium. McRoy Parker and Toby Boiler are wrestling for the championship belt, and as they’re both savage fellows everyone expects dirty business. So it’s just the very thing to make a strong appeal to that killing brute. All the seats have been sold days and days ago, but that girl can go early and wait in the foyer to see the people pass in.”

“Good for you, Gilbert,” said Stone. “A great idea, and I’ll see that she’s there.”

Then, about one o’clock the next morning, Larose got sleepily out of bed to answer a trunk call. He was, however, at once galvanised into complete wakefulness at what he heard. It was Inspector Stone speaking and he almost shrieked in his excitement. “We’ve got him, Gilbert,” he cried, “got him lock, stock and barrel, and it all went off as clean as a whistle. She spotted him at once, and when the show was over we had a whole regiment of men waiting to trail him. Still, one of them would have been quite sufficient, as he just walked home to a flat he’s got in Fitzroy Square and put himself to bed like any respectable citizen.”

“You’ve not arrested him?” queried Larose in great excitement.

“No, for as yet we’ve not as you know got a single thing to go on. But we’ve picketed the building where his flat is and at seven o’clock in the morning I’m going in myself with a search warrant. We should click as easily as shelling peas, and in all probability find that picture and the money.”

“But who is he?” asked Larose.

“Just the very kind of party you thought, Gilbert. A returned soldier, a one-time commando, and he fits the bill in every way. I tell you we’ve put in a week’s enquiries in the last few hours since he let himself into his flat. He’s a Major Leon Mangan, D.S.O., a tall and handsome wiry-looking chap who could throttle anyone in two minutes. He lives the life of a well-to-do Society man-about-Town, but oh boy, on the quiet he runs a smart art business in Wardour Street. No wonder he couldn’t resist that valuable Corot painting.”

“He has a car, of course?” asked Larose.

“Yes, a Sphinx, and he garages it at a service station close by in Fitzroy Square.”

“Well, you be sure and find out from them there,” ordered Larose impressively, “if they mended a punctured tyre for him upon the Monday following the Saturday night when those first two murders were committed in Cambridge. They are sure to keep a diary or day-book of some kind, and if they did — then I am sure this fellow killed the policeman on the bridge when the poor chap was helping him put on the spare wheel.”

“All right,” said Stone, “I’ll be sure to see to that. Now I suppose you won’t be coming up to be in at the kill.”

“Unhappily I can’t,” said Larose, “though I’d very much like to. My wife’s brother in Yorkshire is seriously ill and I’ve got to take her up there today. If it seems likely he’s going to die I may have to remain up there for a few days. If not, I’ll perhaps come back tomorrow or the day after and then I’ll come straight on to you. In any case, don’t phone me any more and expect me when you see me.”

However, it was not until the Thursday that Larose turned up at Scotland Yard and then he found the inspector in the depths of a black depression.

“Well?” asked Larose.

“It isn’t well, Gilbert,” sighed Stone. “It’s as ill as it can be”— he thumped upon his desk —“and though we are certain as can be that the fellow is the multiple murderer, there he is walking about as free as you and I with a leering smile upon his handsome, evil face.” He sighed again. “We have absolutely nothing definite against him upon which to frame a charge.”

“Tell me what happened,” frowned Larose, “all the details, please.”

“We were at his flat before seven on Sunday morning,” began the inspector, “and he opened the door to us himself in his dressing-gown. Gad, if ever I saw guilt upon a man’s face I saw it on his then! He went a dreadful greeny colour and looked as if he were going to faint. He had to lean up against the wall for support. Still, he’s a well-plucked one and soon pulled himself together. He asked what we wanted and I produced my search warrant. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked, and I told him several things. ‘Good,’ he remarked, with a mocking leer, ‘and I hope you’ll find them,’ and he sat down and, smoking cigarette after cigarette, watched us with as great an amusement as if he were enjoying a funny play.”

Stone shook his head mournfully. “Gilbert, I knew at once we should find nothing there. He was too devilish cheeky and looked so composed and cheerful all the time. Still, for two hours and longer we searched that flat so thoroughly that I’m sure a postage stamp even couldn’t have been hidden away. He handed over his keys and we went through his safe and the papers in his desk and his bank pass-book as well. We went through all his clothes and the only thing he couldn’t explain satisfactorily was a black overall hanging up in the wardrobe with a stain upon one of the sleeves which looked like blood, and which later did turn out to be human blood. Asked what he used it for, he replied for dirty work upon his car, but one night he had brought it up to the flat inadvertently from the garage and had forgotten to take it back again. He couldn’t remember how long he had had it — it might have been quite a couple of years.”

“Where had he bought it?” asked Larose. “Of course, you asked him?”

“Of course,” nodded Stone, “but he said he didn’t recollect. He thought it was either in Grimsby or Hull when he was touring about. ‘But it’s new,’ I said contemptuously. ‘It looks new,’ he smiled, ‘and I believe I’ve only put it on about a couple of times,’ and I had to leave it at that.”

Stone went on. “In the meantime Inspector Mendel had been busy at the garage where he kept his car. He had roused the proprietor and found, as you had expected, that he kept a day-book, checking up at what times his clients brought in and took out their cars, and the work done on them from time to time.” He spoke solemnly. “Gilbert, you were damned right! On Monday, June 28th, they mended a puncture on the spare wheel.”

“What did he say to that?” asked Larose.

“Wait a minute or two,” said Stone, “all in its proper order.” He went on, “The search of the flat finished, I invited him to come down here with me to be asked a few questions. He was quite willing and here we came, bringing with us the garage day-book. In the meantime, Inspector Ramsey had gone down to Wardour Street to search the shop there.”

The inspector paused for a long moment. “Gilbert,” he said impressively, “for five hours we grilled that fellow. There were four of us shooting questions at him all the time, the Chief Commissioner, Inspectors Mendel and Percival, and myself, and we didn’t catch him out once. Of course, many of his answers were wholly unsatisfactory, but they didn’t necessarily imply guilt. For instance, he told us he could remember where he went on that Sunday, June 27th, because he had had a puncture when coming back from Brighton late that night. He had gone down to Eastbourne in the morning and had a picnic lunch, with some sandwiches he had taken with him, on the Downs. He had lazed about near Beachy Head all the afternoon and then had gone to the Metropole at Brighton for dinner. After that he sat listening to the music on the pier and had not started for home until nearly midnight. Of course, he had had no companion with him, but he explained that was nearly always the case with him on Sundays, as after a busy week he liked the peace and quiet by himself.”

“And upon the other days when crimes had been committed,” asked Larose scoflingly, “of course he had taken his car out, too?”

“Yes,” nodded Stone, “and upon many other days when no crimes were recorded as well. The devil of it was, according to the garage day-book he took his car out almost every day. So we have got nothing there.”

“And how did he explain his many visits to Glenowen’s?” asked Larose.

“Quite naturally! He had made his acquaintance one week-end when a guest of Lord Delamarne at Blackarden Castle in Norfolk. A friendship had sprung up between them and of an evening after dinner he often walked round to St. John’s Wood to have a short chat with him and get a bit of exercise after being shut up in his place of business all day.”

“And did he travel in champagne as that damned captain made out to me?” asked Larose.

Stone scowled. “No, but to back up what your Baltic friend had evidently told him he had said to you, he made out he was thinking of starting a bit of business on that line if he could get the big order Glenowen had told him he probably would get from the Baltic Embassy crowd.”

“And he had been paying no large sums into his bank?”

Stone shook his head. “No, no trace of any. His balance then was under ￡200, and another thing — we have visited all the safe deposit places in London. He volunteered to come with us and we took him. No one had seen him before and his signature was in none of their books — no handwriting like his.”

“Thats nothing,” scoffed Larose. “He’s got some other hiding place somewhere.”

Stone shrugged his shoulders. “But how are we to find it? He’s as cunning as a fox and, as I estimate his cautious character, he may not go near it for years. Of course, our trailing him to his flat must have been a terrible shock to him, but after the first couple of minutes he played the part of an innocent man and played it damned well, too. The Chief admits now that he’s prejudiced in his favour and I quite understand it. The chap’s got a splendid war record and that would go a long way to impressing another military man such as Sir Robert himself is.”

“The Chief doesn’t understand the criminal mind,” snapped Larose, “such as you and I do.”

“Of course he doesn’t, Gilbert,” sighed the inspector, “but for all that, if he had seen the fellow during those first couple of minutes or so after he had opened his door to us on Sunday morning I am sure even he would have been darned suspicious of his guilt. I tell you this Major Mangan looked awful.”

A short silence followed and Larose remarked thoughtfully, “He must wonder how we got on to him as that Mr. Brown?”

“Oh, he does, Gilbert,” said Stone, “and the second time he was down here — he came on Tuesday for more questioning — he asked point blank how we came to do so. Of course, we didn’t tell him, and the Chief countered at once — a very shrewd thrust I thought — how he came to be masquerading at the professor’s under an assumed name. He just laughed and said he wasn’t masquerading at all. He said it was an eccentricity on Glenowen’s part that he never liked his servants to know anything of his private affairs. He explained that the professor knew that his housekeeper had got the sack from her former place for listening at doors and so all the time she had been with him he had intended to gratify her curiosity as little as possible. So he called all his friends Black, Brown or White accordingly, as the fancy took him.”

“A very lame excuse,” scoffed Larose.

“Yes, and that and the matter of the black overall,” nodded Stone, “and his lying to us that he had been specially invited by Glenowen to meet Captain Michaeloff that Thursday night are really the only points the Chief admits we have against him.”

“But what’s the strength of the black overall?” asked Larose. “I don’t quite follow you there.”

The inspector drew in a deep breath. “Mendel is very keen about it. His obsession is that this fine major bought it expressly to wear that night when he got into Canon Drew’s garden and murdered those two men in the dark.”

Larose made a grimace. “One up on me there,” he nodded a little ruefully, “and it’s not improbable he’s right. I never gave it a thought.” He changed the subject. “Did you find any weapons?”

“Yes, a German automatic, a Mauser, and he said he had brought it home from the war. He had got no licence for it and we collared it.” The stout inspector heaved another of his big sighs. “Well, Gilbert, what are we to do now?”

Larose smiled a sickly smde. “Wait until he commits another murder, I suppose and see if we have better luck then. As our friend Michaeloff was so anxious to prevent us getting hold of him, it’s pretty obvious the Baltic Embassy lot are quite aware what he’s been doing and how successful he’s been. So, it’s quite on the cards they may consider him a useful tool and, when things have settled down a bit, give him another job to do. There are plenty of people they would like to see bumped off.” He made a grimace. “Yes, as it seems now that we’ve shot our bolt, we’ll have to wait for another mysterious murder to crop up.”

The inspector raised his hand. “And you look out for yourself. Gilbert,” he exclaimed warningly, “I’m a bit worried about you, for when I took in this fellow’s clever, evil face that morning I thought at once that if ever I’d set eyes upon a man who could be venomous and spiteful against anyone who offended him I was looking at one then.” He leant over and pulled open a drawer in his desk. “Now you just look at the photograph of him, which one of our photographers took unbeknown to him when he was down here on Sunday morning. It’s only an enlarged snap, but it’s a very good one and shows up every feature quite clearly.”

Larose took the photograph he held out, and his eye-brows went up at once. “A good-looking face certainly, but, as you say, not a nice one. A regular dare-devil who’d be afraid of nothing. He doesn’t look frightened here.”

“And, by gad, he wasn’t,” agreed Stone instantly. “Directly he’s got over that first minute’s fright, he was as bold and confident all along. It was as good as a play watching him when we were questioning him. We Yard men he treated like dirt and was as rude as he possibly could be, but to the Chief he was most damnably polite and deferential, for all the world as if he were in the army again and speaking to a superior officer. Butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth and I didn’t wonder the Chief was impressed.”

“You say he was with the Resistance Movement in France?” asked Larose, with his eyes intent upon the photograph.

“Yes, and according to all accounts,” replied Stone, “he did such a fine job there that the Huns were offering a huge reward to anyone who would catch or kill him. During the last year of the war he was the leader of a particular Partisan group near the Auvergne Mountains, the killer-inchief of a little band.” He laughed. “That’s why he’s taken to murder again so readily.”

“Here, lend me this photo,” said Larose, “or better still let’s have a loan of the negative.”

“No need to do either,” said Stone, “as I’ve had a dozen taken off and enlarged in case they should ever come in useful. So you can keep that one for yourself.” He looked very troubled. “But you take note of my warning, for Michaeloff is certain to have told him of your interest in the case and I should say he’ll have good suspicions of you being responsible for most of his trouble. So you beware of his trying to get his revenge.”

“I’ve already thought about it, Charlie,” said Larose, “and am going to safeguard myself straight away. I believe in taking the bull by the horns and, if you give me the number of his shop in Wardour Street, I may go there this morning and have a little chat with him.”

“Good God!” exclaimed the inspector, with his eyes opened very wide. “You mean make yourself known to him?”

“I might, Charlie,” smiled Larose. “I’ll see how the cat jumps.”

Some half an hour later Larose went into the little shop in Wardour Street. There was a woman customer there and she was inspecting some vases. She was being attended to by a man whom Larose recognised at once as Major Mangan. Walking idly round, ostensibly to look over the various articles exposed for sale, he took good stock of him and could not but help regarding him with some approval. Undoubtedly good-looking, he carried himself well and there was a certain poise and dignity about him. He looked all over what people call a gentleman, and, but for Larose’s long association with the criminal classes, he would not for one moment have credited him as being, as they believed, a callous murderer.

When the woman customer had gone out, Larose expressed his interest in a pair of small silver candlesticks, the price of which Mangan said was eighteen guineas. Larose demurred, it was too high and, after some little argument, it was agreed he should pay only sixteen.

“You’ll take a cheque,” he said, “and then I’ll get you to mail them on to me at my home address. The cheque will be on a London bank and you can, of course, cash it before you put the candlesticks into the post.”

Mangan was quite agreeable and, sitting down at a desk, Larose wrote out a cheque and, rising to his feet again, handed it over. Mangan glanced over it carelessly and then — his eye-brows straightened, his eyes flashed venomously and his face became black as thunder. “You — the Gilbert Larose who used to be in the C.I.D. at Scotland Yard,” he asked hoarsely.

“The same,” nodded Larose. He smiled. “Does it convey anything to you?”

“The hell it does,” scowled Mangan savagely, “for if I’m not very much mistaken, it’s you whom I have to thank for the indignities that have been put upon me these last few days — the searching through of my flat and the thousand questions from those uncouth men.”

“And haven’t you well deserved everything?” asked Larose mildly. His voice hardened. “Are you not damned lucky to be here as you are now, instead of shut up in some prison cell waiting for your trial upon more than one capital charge?”

“You think so?” sneered Mangan. “You’re very clever, aren’t you?”

“Not so very clever,” laughed Larose, “but I’ve cultivated the knack of putting two and two together.” He nodded significantly. “Remember I saw a lot of Professor Glenowen in those last weeks he lived and I gradually got to the bottom of his mind. Whenever you had done a job for him he came buzzing round me to try and find out what the police thought about it. At first I couldn’t make out what he was after, but I tumbled to it at last.”

“I know what you mean,” scowled Mangan, “but the whole idea is preposterous. As for that little idiot professor — he was mad and the asylum was the proper place for him.”

“An asylum or a coffin,” commented Larose grimly, “and you realised that just a few hours before we picked you out as the killer. We were just that little bit too late and think ——”

“I’m not interested in what you think,” interrupted Mangan sharply. He regarded Larose intently. “But I admit I’m mildly curious as to how you came to find out Glenowen and I knew each other.”

“Well, let’s exchange information,” smiled Larose blandly. “There are no witnesses and everything we say can be treated as confidential between ourselves. So you tell me, first, how the professor came to approach you with his dreadful proposition and then I’ll ——”

“He never made any propositions to me, dreadful or otherwise,” broke in Mangan savagely, “and no one would have ever made the propositions you want to make out he did unless he were completely out of his mind. Only a madman would dream of such things.”

“Well, but you have just said the professor was mad!” exclaimed Larose as if in great surprise. “So if he didn’t make these dreadful suggestions to you — in what other way did you find he was not sane?”

For the moment, Mangan was obviously nonplussed, and his face flushed angrily. “Oh, I’m not going to discuss him or anyone else with you,” he snarled. “In any case you are only trying to poke your beak into what doesn’t concern you.” He looked viciously at Larose. “As I have told you just now, Mr. Retired Policeman Larose, I am pretty certain I owe all this damned annoyance to you and I tell you straight I’m not the one to forget it.” He gritted his teeth. “Sooner or later, I always repay for service or disservice rendered.”

“And that’s exactly what’s brought me here to see you this morning,” Larose nodded with some animation. “My friends in Scotland Yard are sure you’ll be trying to get your revenge somehow and so they’ve asked me to give you the message that if anything evil happens to me they’ll come on to you at once —” he nodded again —“and you’ll want a much better alibi then than you’ve put up in this present trouble.”

“Oh, I shall, shall I,” sneered Mangan. “How anxious they must be about your good health?”

“Yes, and here’s another thing, Major, that may interest you,” said Larose, taking the photograph the inspector had given him out of his pocket and handing it over. He spoke casually. “Do you think it a good enough likeness for anyone to recognise you if you come snooping round where I live?”

Mangan took the photo and glared hard. “Where did you get that from?” he demanded.

“Telling’s knowing,” laughed Larose, “but they have evidently got you well tabbed at Scotland Yard and you won’t be able to move about much now without being noticed,” and when Mangan contemptuously tore the photo into many pieces, he laughed merrily. “They’re getting a good many dozen taken off, so that one doesn’t matter at all.”

“Here, you get out of my shop,” ordered Mangan angrily, “and take your damned cheque, too,” and he tore up the cheque as he had done the photo. “Get out quick.”

“A nice gentleman that,” remarked Larose to himself as he walked up the street, “and certainly, as dear old Charlie said, of the very type to go for his revenge upon me. I must look out for myself, though I think he’s pretty frightened now and will keep quiet for awhile — perhaps until we’ve had time to catch him in another way.”

Now if Mangan was thinking Scotland Yard had shot their bolt and would slacken off in their enquiries, it was certainly not the case with Larose. The latter was quite sure the major had not only got those thousands of pounds in banknotes hidden away, but also, had secreted that Corot painting along with them, too. It was almost impossible he told himself for any judge of beautiful paintings to have brought himself to destroy one of the great Jean Baptiste Corot.

So, sooner or later when he had got over his fright, it was almost certain Mangan would not be able to resist the urge to go back to his hiding-place and see if what he had left there was safe. Surely then it was only a matter of time and great patience before the trail could be picked up?

With this end in view, Larose made his way next to the garage in Fitzroy Square. It was quite a small affair with apparently only two men working there. The elder of them at once came forward. “You Mr. Tom Pike?” asked Larose, “then can I have a word with you in private?”

Regarding him with a frown the man led the way into a little office. “You’ve been having some officers in from Scotland Yard lately,” began Larose with a smile. “Now, I am nothing to do with them officially, though I am completely in their confidence, as years ago I was one of the Criminal Investigation Department myself. My name is Gilbert Larose and ——”

The man’s suspicious face at once broke into a pleasant smile. “Oh, you’re Mr. Larose, are you?” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard a lot about you from my brother. He was at the Yard the same time as you were. Now, he’s a sergeant at Hammersmith. Inspector Stone will remember him quite well.”

“Good,” said Larose, “then I am sure I can trust you, and you’ll treat in strict confidence what I am going to tell you.”

“Oh, you can trust me right enough,” said Pike. “I’m not the one to babble.” He shook his head. “I don’t pretend to know what all these enquiries have been about, but as he’s now going about just as usual it’s evident Scotland Yard has got nothing on Major Mangan.”

Larose looked doubtful. “I wouldn’t quite say that, Mr. Pike. They still have the strongest suspicions about him, though it’s quite true that as yet they haven’t all the proof they want.”

Tom Pike spoke hesitatingly. “May I ask you, sir, to tell me something of what the trouble is about? You see the major has been garaging here for quite a couple of years and I’ve always found him a straightforward and pleasant man to have any dealings with.”

Larose nodded. “You probably would have. He has a nice way with him, and certainly has had a distinguished career in the army or they wouldn’t have given him the D.S.O.” He shook his head. “No, I can’t tell you everything, but this I will say. They suspect him of having run down and killed that poor policeman from Royston upon the Saturday night before the Monday when you last repaired a punctured tyre for him. Do you happen to remember a country policeman being killed and his bicycle as well as his body being afterwards thrown over a bridge?”

“Happen to remember!” exclaimed Pike with a scowl. “My oath, yes! I knew him well. He was Bert Harkness and he used to pass here twice a day for years before he was transferred to the country. He was attached to the Euston Road Police-station and, living in Cleveland Street, came through the square every morning and evening, going on duty and coming off. It was a great shock to me to hear of his death, as I knew him so well.”

For the moment Larose was speechless in his amazement, for it had flashed like lightning into his mind that if the dead policeman had known Mangan by sight what a vital reason the latter had had for murdering him.

“Great Scot!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “What a strange thing it happens you know him! Do you think he and Major Mangan had ever seen each other before?”

“For sure they had,” said Pike emphatically, “and how could it not have been with Bert Harkness passing here every morning just before nine, the very time when the major generally picks up his car? Bert knew all about him, too, because we had discussed him together, but I don’t suppose for a moment they had even spoken, as the major is a rather haughty sort of chap and wouldn’t have taken any notice of a policeman, though he must have known him well enough by sight.” His face darkened angrily. “So you think it was the major who killed him. Damn — I wish it could have been brought home to him!”

“But it’s not about that I want you to help me,” said Larose. “It’s about quite another matter. We suspect him of having got some stolen things of great value hidden away and we haven’t the remotest idea where. Now I don’t suppose you know if he’s got a place somewhere in the country, a cottage for instance?”

Pike shook his head. “No, I don’t, sir. You see he has his car out almost every day and practically every week-end.”

“And you’ve never learnt where he goes?”

“No, except that in the summer,” said Pike, “when it’s fine he goes a lot to the seaside. I am sure of that because he has often taken his bathing things with him. Oh, yes, and I saw him once one Sunday at Leigh-on-Sea, and another time my boy saw him coming out of a shop in Benflect, that’s on the way to there. I fancy that when he wants to have a bathe he makes his journey as short as possible because of the petrol. It’s damned short these days, as you know, and that’s why he goes down the Thames Estuary way.” He frowned. “Oh, and another thing I remember now. One evening when he had brought his car in and, later, we were cleaning it we noticed what a lot of sand there was, all about the car.”

“When was that?” asked Larose.

“Only a few weeks ago, and it only struck us then as being peculiar because it was a day in the early part of the week when as a rule he uses his car only about Town.”

Larose was thoughtful for a few moments and then went on, “Well, this is what I want you to do. If you keep a daily note for me from his speedometer of the miles he travels in his car, I’ll pay you a fiver on the first of every month for your trouble. Also, keep your eyes open to notice anything unusual about his car, for instance, whether he’s been off the bitumen and gone over muddy roads.”

Larose left the garage well satisfied that he had enlisted as enthusiastic an ally as he could have hoped for. Pike was very bitter about the killing of his policeman friend, Bert, and would watch Mangan now with the eyes of a hawk.

Now the one-time detective was quite right in thinking that, with all his toughness and courage, Mangan had been badly shaken and would keep very quiet at any rate for a while. Though still perfectly confident that nothing could possibly be brought home to him, the fact that the police had somehow managed to trail him to his flat in Fitzroy Square nevertheless filled him with an uneasy pang whenever he thought about it. Cursing himself as a fool to think it possibly could be, it was yet exactly as if Larose had used that extra sense he was supposed to possess and picked up some clue that did not actually exist.

He would have greatly liked to talk things over with Captain Michaeloff, but knew that for the time being it was not possible, as two days previously the latter had gone abroad somewhere and would not be back for two or three weeks. He did not bother to ring up the Embassy about him as, with the friendship now prevailing between them, he was quite certain he would hear from him directly he returned.

Waiting rather impatiently, it was nearly three weeks before the phone rang one morning and he recognised it was the captain who was speaking. He seemed to Mangan to be in the best of spirits and invited him up to dinner at the Embassy that evening at eight o’clock. He apologised for giving Mangan such short notice, but explained he particularly wanted to see him about a little business matter and hoped he’d be able to come. Mangan accepted the invitation and the captain rang off.

Mangan grinned to himself. “So, I’ve been right all along. As I thought, he’s been playing me up lately, and now I shall find out what he’s been doing it for.”

He had made up his mind exactly how he would meet the captain and, accordingly, when he was shown into him that evening, shook hands with him in his usual confident but rather casual way. The captain was all smiles and, from his manner, Mangan was quite certain, as he had been anticipating, he could not have heard anything about the trouble he, Mangan, had been in.

“And how have you been finding things, Major?” he asked.

“They’re quite all right now,” replied Mangan, “but I had an annoying time a little while back.” He looked grimly at Michaeloff. “Somehow, but in what way I can only guess, the police identified me as that Mr. Brown and getting on for three weeks ago now came and searched my flat.”

The captain looked dumbfounded and his face paled a little. “The devil!” he exclaimed. “What happened?”

Mangan shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, of course! But they made me go down to Scotland Yard on the Sunday and the Tuesday and bombarded me with every question they could think of. I was honoured by the Chief Commissioner himself, Sir Robert Ellis, being present on both occasions,” and he proceeded to tell Captain Michaeloff all that happened.

The captain was frowning hard as Mangan began his story, but towards the end his face had cleared and he no longer looked uneasy.

“Then they had absolutely nothing on you,” he said sharply. “You are quite sure of that?”

“Quite,” replied Mangan, “and the proof is they had to let me go. In parting the Chief Commissioner’s manner was quite agreeable. Really, I believe he was feeling sorry for me and thought the whole thing a mare’s nest.” He grinned. “But those damned inspectors didn’t and the expressions upon their faces was venomous right up to the very end.”

“But you couldn’t have been so clever as you thought,” said Michaeloff, beginning to frown again. “You must have left some clue behind you that night or they wouldn’t have been able to trail you as they have done.”

“But I tell you I didn’t leave any clue,” said Mangan with some irritation. “If I had, surely it wouldn’t have taken all this time for them to follow it up.” He shook his head. “No, that damned Larose found out something in some other way — a lucky guess somewhere which happened to be right. I’m sure I owe it all to him.”

“You probably do,” scowled the captain, “but don’t you think of starting to pay him out, at any rate not for a hell of a long time. He was quite right when he told you you’d be the first person they’d jump upon if anything happened to him.”

“You trust me,” nodded Mangan viciously, “and when anything does happen I shan’t have done it myself. I know someone who was in the Resistance Movement in France with me who can hit a saucer every time at six hundred yards and I’ll get him to take the job over. He’ll jump at it if I will make it worth his while.” He shook his head. “You see, Captain, I shall never be quite easy in my mind again until that devil’s under the ground.”

“And you have good reason there,” said the captain, “for he hangs on like a bull-dog once he’s got his teeth fixed into anything. Fancy, his having the impudence to come to make himself known to you.” He frowned. “He didn’t mention me by any chance, did he? No! Then did any of the others bring up my name when they were questioning you? They didn’t, eh?” He looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s exactly typical of Larose’s cunning. He had expressly told them not to. He must be pretty certain now that I know something of what you’ve been doing and perhaps he even thinks we have been working together, with me as a sort of sleeping partner. So he wants me to believe he has no suspicion that I gave him a purposely wrong description of you as Mr. Brown, because he doesn’t want to fall out with me.”

“Why not?” frowned Mangan.

“Because he wants to continue friendly with me and perhaps call round for a chat in the hope that I may make a slip somewhere and give something away. As I tell you, he’s as cunning as a fox is, this Mr. Gilbert Larose.”

They continued to discuss the matter for some time and then the captain remarked in a crisp and business-like way, “Well, as all these weeks have gone by, they’ve evidently played all their cards and are not going to trouble you any more. So, now for this other matter I want to talk to you about.” He eyed Mangan intently. “Now, we hear you are very friendly with young Lieutenant Avon, old Lord Delamarne’s heir, and from time to time are a guest of his lordship at Blackarden Castle.”

Mangan wondered how he had come to know that, but, by no means displeased the captain should be aware of his good standing in the social world, nodded carelessly. “Yes, I’ve stayed there several times, and I’ve just been invited to go up there again next month for a few days shooting. It’s a most luxurious place to stay in. Everything of the very best, with vintage wines being poured out as if they cost no more than ginger-ale.”

“What everyone knows!” said the captain sharply. “But has it never made you curious,” he demanded, “how, besides giving away the large sums in charity that we read in the newspapers, he does, and being, too, such an ardent collector of costly and beautiful things, he yet in his private home manages to keep up all the extravagance of the old days, with men-servants and maid-servants and all the pomp and ceremony of a mediaeval lord, to say nothing of the vintage wines you mention? Haven’t you ever wondered where he gets all the money from?” He shook his head. “He can’t be doing it out of his income, with his taxes probably running into eighteen shillings in the pound.”

“But if you know so much about him,” smiled Mangan, “surely you must have heard that he’s supposed to be drawing upon secret hoards that he’s got hidden away in the underground parts of the castle?”

“You mean from what his grandfather had stolen,” frowned the captain, “from some Rajah’s palace at the time of the Indian Mutiny? Yes, of course we’ve heard that, but I don’t believe it. In any case it’s not the whole story of where he’s been getting all this money he has been throwing about so lavishly.”

“But you’re not going to tell me,” exclaimed Mangan, roused to great interest, “that you’ve found out he’s got another gold-mine?”

“I am,” nodded the captain, “and in the beginning it must have been many, many times of far greater value than anything his grandfather could have obtained from the mythical Rajah.” He spoke impressively. “Now, Major Mangan, when you have heard what I am going to tell you, you will realise what a tremendous secret we are confiding to you and that it has only been done after the most careful consideration we can feel sure that, making it well worth your while, you will be true to your trust.”

From his expression, Mangan did not seem altogether too pleased at the way the other was summing him up, but he made no comment, and the captain went on, “Yes, we know far more about you than you think, even to the way you are making your money in Wardour Street, with the police watching you like a cat after a mouse.”

“Oh, they are, are they?” scowled Mangan. “How did you come to know that?”

“Our Intelligence Service is very good,” replied the captain, “and we have agents placed in most unexpected places, places which would astonish you if I were free to tell you.” He laughed slyly. “So we know you are what the world would call an absolutely bad and thoroughly unscrupulous man. Where your own interests are concerned you have no foolish, sentimental ideas of the sacredness of life or property and we notice ——”

“But who are these ‘we’ you keep talking about?” broke in Mangan with some irritation. “Have you been starting a broadcast about me?”

The captain laughed again. “Certainly not! Over here, the ‘we’ means only His Excellency and myself. Beyond these shores it includes some of the heads of the Baltic union. No, you need never worry that, so to speak, you are in our power, as what I am about to tell you will place us equally in yours.” He spoke slowly. “Now this secret can be put in a very few words. Briefly — some thirty years ago Lord Delamarne came into possession of a portion of the Russian Crown jewels and ever since he has been disposing of them and taking the monies for his own use. What is now left of them lies hidden in the Blackarden vaults.”

All his irritation now put to one side, Mangan’s eyes opened very wide. “But how did he get hold of them?” he asked.

“It’s not a long story,” said the captain, “though it does go back for thirty years. It commenced in 1917 when Nicolas the Second, the then Czar of all the Russias, realised things were beginning to look very black for his regime and took precautions to ensure that the royal treasures should not fall into revolutionary hands. So, he divided them into portions, with each portion being entrusted into different hands to convey to a different place of safety. Much of the treasure was recovered in the succeeding years, but what a certain Colonel Alexis Rubin of the Czar’s Own Hussars had taken away with him was never found. This officer, in particular, was energetically looked for, because it was known he had been entrusted with the most valuable portion of all sacramental vessels of almost unestimable value, jewelled pattens, chalices and crosses and, above all, a priceless richly diamond-studded Ikon, a replica of the Iberian Madonna.”

“Whew! what a haul if you could have got hold of it!” whistled Mangan.

“Yes, it would have been a colossal one if we could have recovered everything,” agreed the captain, “but this Colonel Rubin had absolutely vanished, with no traces of him or what he had taken away ever coming to light. In the end it came to be believed that he must have put the treasure away somewhere and, then dying, the secret of its hiding-place would be never found.”

He drew in a deep breath. “So things were up to about six months ago and then came the startling news from one of our secret agents in New York — we always have agents watching over our interests in all parts of the world — that a magnificently jewelled chalice which, from its description with diamonds, emerald and three wonderfully perfect pigeon-blood rubies, we were certain was one of those this Colonel Rubin had carried away, had recently been put anonymously upon the market and sold for two hundred thousand dollars.”

“No means of tracing where it came from?” asked Mangan.

“Not a hope,” replied the captain, “but, from what we did find out, we were pretty certain it wasn’t by any means the first things that had been disposed of by the same seller and that they had all, apparently, been smuggled into the U.S.A. from England.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, that spurred us on to start the search for this Colonel Rubin all over again, and I take it to my credit that it was I, myself, who ultimately picked up his trail here in London. Quite certain that being attached to the Czarist Court he would have belonged to the Greek Orthodox Church, I enquired at the Greek Church here in Tavistock Square. The old sacristan remembered him quite well, but knew nothing of what had happened to him when he suddenly stopped coming to the church. Enquiring as to what friends Colonel Rubin had had, he had a clear recollection of two, a Father Benoist and, as he described him, a great English lord, Lord Delamarne. He remember this lord, because occasionally the colonel used to bring him into High Mass to listen to the music, and he believed used to stay with him in his castle in the country.”

“And you’ve approached Lord Delamarne?” asked Mangan. “You have seen him yourself?”

“Not I,” laughed the captain. “I did not dare to go near him, as I know he hates all of us here like poison. Still, we got a party whom we could absolutely trust to go down and talk to him, and he said he could tell at once that Delamarne was keeping something back, as he was most evasive in all his replies. At first he made out he did not remember the name at all, but then, upon consideration, he thought he had heard it mentioned, adding however, that he had met so many refugees from Russia about that time that he couldn’t keep count of them.”

“If he didn’t want to tell you,” frowned Mangan, “he certainly wouldn’t. He’s not a man you can brow-beat into anything.”

“Failing there,” went on the captain, “I got in touch with an aged sister of this Father Benoist, the other friend. The Father himself has been dead for more than twenty years. She was living alone in poor circumstances in Hammersmith and was most difficult to get anything out of, as she was very shaky and her memory was failing. She couldn’t recollect having heard of anyone called Rubin, but then suddenly the Christian name of Alexis struck some chord of memory in her and piece by piece I wrung from her an extraordinary story. The gist of it was this.”

The captain paused for a few moments before going on impressively. “She was with her brother in his last illness just before he died, and she said that when he was only semi-conscious he babbled a lot about someone called Alexis. She thought something was evidently on his mind about him, and she gathered from his broken sentences that he had once gone a long journey to bury him. He had said the Requiem Mass for him one night in a place that was very dark and cold and he spoke about vaults, and lanterns that gave only a dim light. She said he kept harping about this cold and darkness and it made her shiver and —” but here Michaeloff broke off his story and asked Mangan sharply, “Now what do you make of it?”

“That there had been a secret burial somewhere,” said Mangan promptly, “most probably in the vaults of Blackarden Castle and that it was on the Father’s conscience that he had been mixed up in something he didn’t like to look back upon, something rather discreditable to his sacred calling.”

“Exactly,” exclaimed Michaeloff, “and the whole picture of everything is now quite clear to me. Colonel Rubin had taken the Czarist treasures with him to Blackarden Castle, he had died suddenly, and Delamarne was left in sole possession of a vast fortune.”

A long silence followed and then Mangan asked, “And how long ago did you learn all this?”

“Only a few months, between three and four.”

“And you have done nothing in the matter?”

Michaeloff shrugged his shoulders again. “What could we do, at least, openly? We have only one very strong suspicion in our minds, amounting, however, to a certainty, and if ever we could prove it up to the very hilt, we dare not approach the British Government. They would not acknowledge our title to the treasure.”

“But if Delamarne has been dipping into it for all these years now,” suggested Mangan, “can there be anything much left?”

The captain looked scornful. “Anything much left!” he exclaimed. “Why, we reckon that it was worth several millions to begin with and, selling it bit by bit as he has been doing, he can’t have got rid of even a quarter of it yet. So, if we can lay our hands upon it with your help — just think what it will mean to you. We are quite agreeable that ten per cent should be your share.”

Mangan’s eyes glistened at the prospect. “But do you know,” he asked, “where he’s got it all hidden away?”

“There can be no question about that,” said the captain. “In the vaults, of course, and once down there we think we should have no difficulty in finding it. As everybody has heard, all the underground parts of the castle were bricked up more than a hundred years ago and, since then, the only way down to them has been by way of a concealed stairway, the secret approach to which only the reigning lord of Blackarden knows.” He frowned. “Surely you’ve heard all about that?”

Mangan lowered his eyes so that the captain should not see the expression in them. With a great thrill he was remembering what the dead professor had told him he had learnt about that stairway of seventy-two steps from the Italian electrician who had been working with such secrecy in the castle, and the idea was now surging up into his mind that if the finding of this great treasure was going to be so easy it might be possible he could obtain it for himself. So, he certainly would not tell the captain what he knew.

Looking up, he said aloud, “Yes, I’ve heard all about it —”— he smiled —“and so has everyone else in the castle and for many miles outside it, too. It’s such common knowledge and has been known for such a long time that no one seems to be much interested in it now.”

“Well, we are,” smiled back the captain, “and we have gone so far in our investigations as to know within a few feet or so exactly where the door to that secret stairway opens into one of the walls of his study.” He shook his head. “We haven’t had it open yet, but, as I say, we know it is behind one of the oak panels there. We could get into it with a crowbar in a couple of minutes, but we don’t want to do that if we can possibly help it. Our hope is to get those jewels and leave no traces behind how they have been taken.”

“But how on earth did you find out what you have done?” asked Mangan in great astonishment.

The captain looked glum. “Up to a couple of months ago we had an agent planted in the castle and he was finding out quite a lot of things for us. Then —” but he broke off what he was about to say and asked sharply, “You’ve heard, haven’t you, about that servant who disappeared so suddenly from the castle the month before last?”

“Yes, the footman there,” nodded Mangan, “the third one, called Thomas. Was he the agent, and did you have to call him off?”

The captain shook his head. “No, Major Mangan,” he said solemnly, “we did not call him off. He made a slip somewhere and got caught.” He pursed up his lips. “No one will ever hear of him again.”

Mangan whistled. “The devil!” he exclaimed. “Do you think it was Delamarne’s work?”

“We are sure of it,” said the captain, “and I warn you that you’ll have to be on the look-out.” He gritted his teeth. “That old lord is every bit as tough as we intend to be.”

“But why should he have gone so far as to kill him?” asked Mangan. “Why didn’t he just send him away from the castle?”

The captain shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what we don’t know. We think Delamarne must have caught him red-handed in something he was doing and realised he had found out too much. This chap of ours was a brave man and always ready to take great risks. In his last communication to us, which I am going to show you now, he writes that he has found this secret panel, but will have to wait for another night to find out how it works. One splendid thing he did do was to take to pieces the special lock fitted to the study door and send to us a carefully-drawn diagram of all its parts. So, we have been able to have a key made, and that should help you a lot in what we want you to do, as you will now be able to get into the study whenever you want to.”

“But in what particular way am I to help you?” asked Mangan.

“Open some door and let us into the castle one night,” said the captain. “That has been our great stumbling block, because of the bars and bolts and alarms that Delamarne has had fixed to all the doors. With you inside the castle, that can all be put right and a great difficulty got over.”

“But even if you do get down into the vaults,” said Mangan with the idea of treachery still upmost in his mind, “how is it you are so certain you will so easily find exactly where the jewels are hidden? Remember those vaults will probably extend all under the castle.”

“But our opinion,” went on the captain decisively, “is that there will be no elaborate hiding-place there. We think Delamarne is relying entirely upon the many precautions he has taken up above and banking upon the numerous alarms he has had installed everywhere. In any case, we have an excellent man in one of our Secret Police, whose speciality is searches such as this. He can smell out any hiding-place just like a terrier smelling out a rat. He would stick at nothing, either, and not mind what we gave him to do.”

A short silence followed and Mangan asked, “But have you never thought of getting hold of the old lord somehow and giving him a twist or two to make him speak?”

The captain nodded grimly. “Yes, we have, and it’s not altogether out of our minds yet. In fact, we bought Professor Glenowen’s bungalow in case we have to resort to that. It’s quite handy to the castle and, if we kidnapped him one morning when he was in the garden there, it would be such a little way to take him and get the whole business over quickly, perhaps even before he was missed.” He laughed. “I expect you would be able to give us a wrinkle or two about the best way to make him loquacious, as quickly as possible.”

Mangan laughed back. “Perhaps, I might. At any rate, we saw plenty of it in France. The Huns did it and we did it, too. Then, when we had got all the information we wanted —” he shrugged his shoulders —“well, dead men tell no tales.”

The captain unlocked a drawer in his desk, and took out some papers. “This is what that poor fellow wrote us,” he said, “perhaps only a few hours before he was killed and buried somewhere, most probably in the castle vaults. Draw your chair nearer and read what he wrote.”