Bullard was still in Glasgow. The return of Alan Craig—for he had soon come to laugh at Marvel's story—had been a staggering blow. The will, by which he had reckoned to win, should all other means fail, was become a sheet of waste paper. Moreover, the "other means" were almost certainly rendered impracticable by the presence of Alan at Grey House. Those, however, were only his first thoughts.

The car bearing him and the shivering Flitch from the scene of their success and consternation was not ten miles on its way when his nerves and mind began to regain their normal steadiness and order. Another five miles, and the germ of a fresh plot began to swell in his brain—perhaps the ugliest, grimmest plot yet conceived and developed in that defiled temple. It was a crude plot, too, and quite unworthy of Francis Bullard, as he would have realised for himself had he not been obsessed by the new conviction that the real diamonds, now virtually Alan's, were hidden in the clock in that upper room. Further, it contained a serious flaw, in that it allowed nothing for the possibility of Alan's making a fresh will. And finally, if one may be permitted to put the primary objection last, it depended on the possession of the Green Box which had just passed from his keeping.

Nevertheless, commonsense like conscience failed to condemn the scheme, and Bullard drove into Glasgow with his mind made up.

An awkward situation was now created by the presence of Flitch. Bullard dared not, for more reasons than one, let the creature go his own ways, and eventually, swallowing his disgust, he took a double-room in a third-rate temperance hotel, giving the landlord a hint to the effect that he was shepherding a semi-reformed dipsomaniac. It was a long night for Bullard, and probably the same for Flitch who between dozes either prayed for Heaven's mercy, or groaned for anybody's whisky.

On the morrow, fortunately for Bullard's plans, the wretch had apparently got over his penitence and was certainly none the worse of his short spell of compulsory abstinence. All the same, Bullard on going out, after Flitch's breakfast, to enjoy his own elsewhere, locked the latter into the bedroom, which was on the third floor. First of all he despatched to Lancaster a telegram brutal in its curtness: "Alan Craig is at Grey House." Later he made a number of purchases in places not much patronised by the general public, then took a room at the North British Hotel wherein he shut himself until lunch time. Having enjoyed a carefully chosen meal, he returned to his inferior lodging and permitted the captive to feed. Thereafter a hushed and lengthy conversation took place in the frowsy bedroom. At times Flitch objected, at times he pleaded, and in the end was bullied into sullen acquiescence.

"And I've got to stick in this hole till it suits ye, have I?" he grumbled.

"Just so. Pity you're not fond of reading. I see there's a Bible on the dressing-table," Bullard said airily. "But it won't be for more than a day or two—three at the outside. I must be back in London on Monday morning whether we pull it off or not."

"Monday! But look here, mister, what about that chap we left chained up in the cellar?"

Bullard had forgotten, for the time being, about the ill-starred Marvel, but the reminder did not trouble him. Marvel out of the way for good would not be a happening to regret. "I daresay our friend will have an appetite by Monday," he remarked, playing with the nugget.

"He'll be dead! I'd bet anything he's eaten his bit by now, and yon's a hellish cold place in this weather. If I'd known murder was yer game, Mr. Bullard—"

"That'll do. You can leave the matter to me. Do you want to get out of this country or not, Flitch?"

"God knows I do!"

"Then you know who is the only person who can help you to go. Don't be a fool. Good afternoon!"

He took a cab to the North British Hotel. On alighting, a newsboy offered him a paper. He was passing on when his eye was caught by the bill—"Serious Rioting on the Rand." He bought a paper and with set countenance made his way to the writing-room off the lounge. At that hour the place was deserted, and in the furthest corner he seated himself and opened the paper. Trouble had been threatening on the Rand for some time, but Bullard was quite unprepared for a catastrophe such as he was now called upon to face. The details were few but fateful. Thus:—

"The group of mines controlled by the Aasvogel Syndicate are the chief sufferers so far. Dynamite was freely used, and power-houses, batteries and cyanide-houses present scenes of hopeless ruin. The shafts, it is stated, are destroyed. Several persons on the staff of the Lucifer Mine are unaccounted for. At the moment of cabling fires are raging in several quarters."

For several minutes after he had mastered the significance of it all, Bullard sat perfectly still. There was a curious pallor about his mouth and he had a shaken, shrunken look generally. Letting the paper slip to the floor he rang the bell, and, when the waiter arrived, ordered tea. "But first fetch me some telegraph forms," he said.

A busy hour followed. Keenly considered and reconsidered messages had to be written for despatch to his private brokers as well as to those who acted for the Syndicate, and to the Syndicate's secretary. By prompt action something—a good deal perhaps—might be saved from the wreckage—for himself. For others he had no thought. "This finishes Lancaster," he said to himself; "he'll have to face the music, after all." He sighed. "Means losing Doris, perhaps…."

The fates, it seemed, were conspiring to force his hand. It was now imperative that he should be in London by the following night, at latest. He foresaw a journey to South Africa, a long stay there. Was he going to be compelled to abandon his greatly daring new scheme? Why, the new scheme was a hundred times more urgent, more vital than it had been a couple of hours ago! And yet it would be sheer madness to attempt to carry it out to-night—unless the unlikely happened. He looked up at the clock—five-twenty already!—and murmured "impossible."

His reflections were disturbed by the sing-song voice of a page-boy coming through the lounge.

"Number one hundred and seventy-four," it droned, "number one hundred and—"

Bullard darted to the door. "Here, boy," he called a trifle hoarsely, holding out his hand.

A moment later he was opening an envelope. There was nothing in it. He dropped it upon the fire, took his coat and hat, and left the hotel by the station door.

At a corner of the bookstall, at which hurried suburban passengers were grabbing evening papers, a youngish man in a bowler hat, of wholly undistinguished appearance, was apparently engrossed in the study of picture postcards, but he turned as Bullard approached, and presently the two were strolling up No. 3 platform.

"Well, sir, I've hardly had time to do much, but I thought I had better report what little I've gathered," said the youngish man. "It doesn't seem very important—"

"Go ahead," said Bullard impatiently.

"Right, Mr. Warren. Mr. Craig and his friend—"

"His friend?"

"Sorry I didn't get the name to-day—but—"

"Never mind! Go on!"

"Mr. Craig and his friend are dining to-night at the house next door—Dr.
Handyside's—"

"Ah! How did you learn that?"

"The doctor's housekeeper. She wouldn't have her photo taken, but she didn't object to a chat." The youngish man smiled to himself. Evidently his news was worth more than he had anticipated.

"Sure it's to-night?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Warren."

"Anything further?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. You must understand—"

"Thanks. Well, Mr. Barry, I've decided to let the matter drop for the present."

The private detective's face fell. He had been congratulating himself on having secured a "good thing." But he brightened at his patron's next words.

"Will ten pounds satisfy you?"

"Why, sir, it's very good of you!"

Bullard passed him a couple of notes. "I may want your services later.
Good-bye."

Re-entering the hotel he passed through to the door opening on the Square, had a cab summoned, and drove to his lodging of the previous night.

"Wake up, Dunning! I've remembered your name this time, you see! We'll be in London to-morrow! Meanwhile, to business! If you're hungry, you can have something to eat in the car."

* * * * *

Alan and Teddy took the long way to the doctor's; a breath of fresh air was desirable after so many hours indoors. Though dark the night was fine, with a suspicion of frost in the air. Having seen them depart, Caw turned the key in the glass door. He went upstairs and methodically switched off all unnecessary lights and supplied the study fire with fuel. He was meditating on the return of the Green Box and the no less startling revelation concerning its contents, and just to reassure himself he opened the deep drawer. There it lay, the familiar, maddening thing! "I guess they won't bother their heads about you again," he reflected, "but I wonder what they'll go for next?" He paused before the clock and wagged his head. "We'll have to keep an eye on you, my friend," he muttered, then switched off the last light, and went down to his supper.

He was enjoying his first pipe when the bell rang.

"Another wire, I should say," he sighed, getting up reluctantly. "Wonder whether I should ring or take it along. They can hardly have finished dinner yet," He put his hand in his pocket and felt his revolver. "Shan't be caught napping, anyway."

He went briskly down the hall and opened the door. He had a bare glimpse of a big, burly figure—and then a dense fine spray of intense odour caught him full in the face. Blindly he sought to bang the door, but staggered sideways in an agony of gasping and weeping. He fell, clawing at the wall, and lay stupefied, at the mercy of the unknown, who promptly proceeded with whipcord to truss him up both neatly and securely. Then he was gagged, drawn into the room on the right, the dining-room, and locked in.

Flitch went back to the front door and waved his hand, and Bullard, carrying a small black bag, appeared out of the darkness.

"Get back to the car," he said. "I shan't be long." He closed and locked the door on his assistant and went swiftly upstairs. He was not thirty seconds gone, when Flitch followed stealthily in his wake. It was nothing to Flitch to turn an ordinary key from the other side.

In the study Bullard switched on the light over the writing-table. Opening his bag he took out the contents—an oblong package in waterproof paper sealed with wax in several places, with the short ends of three broad tapes protruding from the top, and a tube of liquid glue. He opened the deep drawer, and after noting the precise position of the Green Box, drew it forth and set it on the table. He wrought rapidly but without flurry. Opening the box with the key he had procured in Glasgow the previous day, he transferred its contents, trays and all, to his bag. "Looks as if they hadn't discovered it yet," he thought. Then over the bottom of the box he squeezed a goodly quantity of glue. He placed the package in the box, cautiously pressing it down. He lowered the lid and found that a slight pressure was required for its complete closing. This seemed to please him. Raising the lid again, he placed a sheet of notepaper between the tapes and the waterproof paper and smeared the tapes thickly with glue. For a brief space he regarded his handiwork, then put down the lid, forcing it gently until the key turned. Withdrawing the key, he replaced the box exactly as he had found it, and finally, after consideration, dropped the key in beside it.

He wiped sweat from his forehead. He felt faintish, and perhaps conscience was whispering for the last time. But without lingering, taking his bag, he turned away from the table and stood gazing at the clock. The flashing pendulum exasperated him with its suggestion. He was tempted to smash the thick glass there and then. Only that mysterious, sluggish, iridescent fluid deterred him. The cruel man is usually exceedingly sensitive about his own skin. But with an inspiration he made a note of the words minutely engraved on the rim surrounding the dial—"A. Guidet, Glasgow." Then with a curse he departed.

On reaching the car he found Flitch in a dismal state.

"Mr. Bullard," moaned the creature, "will ye tell me what was in the bag that ye carried it so careful? Will ye swear this is the last job ye'll ever make me do?"

"Oh, shut up!" was the answer, followed by the unspoken words; "I must get rid of this swine, somehow."

They made good time to Glasgow and caught the late express for London.
Before the train started Bullard posted a note to Barry, the detective:
"Find out and wire me the address of A. Guidet, a clockmaker, in
Glasgow.—Warren."