The spiritual glow in which Alan left Earl's Gate had cooled considerably by the time he reached the Midland Hotel. It was not that he actually regretted his actions of an hour ago; rather was it as though an inward voice kept repeating, "Why aren't you happier, now that you have lifted a crushing load from an exhausted fellow-creature? Why aren't you in the seventh heaven since you are going to marry that most desirable girl?" There was never yet human exaltation without its reaction, but in Alan's case the latter had followed cruelly fast.

In the smoke-room, almost empty at so early an hour, he dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette. "What the deuce is wrong with me?" By the time the cigarette was finished he could, with a little more courage, have answered the question. For he could not deny that his thoughts had gone straying, not back to the brightly lighted drawing-room and the beautiful hostess, but to a dark garden and a terrified girl with a little revolver in her hand. Ordering himself not to be a cad as well as a fool, he removed to one of the writing-tables. There he set himself to compose a nicely worded note of invitation to Mrs. Lancaster. After that was done he drew a couple of cheques for the same amount and wrote the following letter to Mr. Bullard:

"Dear Mr. Bullard:

"You will no doubt be surprised to see my writing again, and I take this way of announcing my return home lest you should hear of it before I can find time to call upon you, which, however, I hope to do before long. To-night, on my arrival here, I called upon Mr. Lancaster, and was sorry to learn that he was too ill to receive me. But I do not wish to delay an hour longer than necessary the settlement of my debt to you both, and so I ask you kindly to receive on his behalf and your own, the enclosed two cheques in payment of the amounts of, and interests on, the advances which you and he so generously made to me in April of last year. I daresay you have almost forgotten the incident which meant so much to me, and still does. Until we meet,

"Faithfully yours,

"Alan Craig."

"A bit stiff and formal," was his comment after rereading it several times, "but I don't think it gives much away."

The two hours that followed were perhaps the dreariest he had ever spent in civilised circumstances. London had given him enough to think about in all conscience, but his mind would not be controlled; as surely as a disturbed compass needle it kept moving back to the north.

Teddy's arrival, half an hour after midnight, he hailed as a great relief. Teddy wore a tired and soiled aspect, but his eyes glinted with repressed excitement.

"Let's go up to my room, Alan," he said at once; "I've got something to shew you."

The moment they were there, with the door bolted, Teddy's fingers went to his waistcoat pocket.

"Recognise it?" he asked, holding up an inch of fine gold chain bearing a small nugget.

"No I don't. Stay! it's not unfamiliar—but no; I can't place it.
Whose is it?"

"Bullard's."

"Oh! Where did you pick it up, Teddy?"

Teddy sat down on the edge of the bed. In a voice not wholly under control he replied—

"I took it from the hand of a dead man, a couple of hours ago."

"A dead man! Good—"

"He seemed to fall out of the fog, but it was actually from the window of Bullard's office, in New Broad Street. I was watching from the other side of the street when he fell. I—I was the first person to reach him. He was quite dead—awfully smashed, poor chap. There was a lamp near. One of his fists was slightly open. I noticed a glitter in it. It was this thing. I took it.—I must have a smoke."

"Better ring for something to drink."

"No. I want all my wits to make a clear story of it. Look here, Alan! The long and short of it is: Bullard committed murder to-night—"

"Oh, I say!"

Teddy ignored the interruption. "Of course I went with the crowd to the police station, and, though not as a witness, managed to get in. Bullard with an inspector turned up before long, but I kept out of his way. He had called the police himself. The man, he stated, had been trying the window of his private room while he was in another part of the premises; on entering his private room and switching on the lights, he had caught a glimpse of a face and hands falling backwards. That was all a lie. The lights had been out for some time when the man fell. The fog was horribly thick, but I can be sure of that much. And then—this!" he dangled the nugget.

Alan broke the silence. "It looks bad, certainly, but still, you know, Bullard might not—and quite naturally, too—have liked to admit that after a struggle he pushed the man from the window—if that's what you mean."

"No, that's not what I mean. About twenty minutes earlier, I saw the man enter Bullard's office by the usual way—"

"Ah!"

"And note this, Alan! At the police station, I saw his fingers go to the nugget—he has a habit of playing with the thing when he is talking—and when he realised that it wasn't there, I thought he was going to faint. He soon pulled himself together, but—"

"The police didn't suspect him, did they?"

"Bless you, no! They were all sympathy! Oh, he's safe enough—for the present. The poor chap he murdered was certainly rough looking enough to be a burglar."

"What was he like?"

"A big strong man, with an ugly red-bearded face, and—it's queer how one notices trifles—his ears were pierced for—"

"Good Heavens, it was Flitch!"

Teddy jumped. "The man who shot you—"

"The same—I'm sure of it, even from your slight description. And—and
Bullard has killed him!"

"Your revenge, Alan."

"No, no, old man, I never wanted his life. It was only his employer I was after."

"You've got his employer now—if you want him."

Alan stared at his friend. "Why do you say if I want him? Don't you imagine I want him?"—he cried—"not for anything he may have done or tried to do to me, but for what might have happened had Mar—Miss Handyside opened that infernal Green Box—"

"The telegram may have been a hoax. The box may or may not contain an infernal contrivance, but even if it does, you can't convict Bullard any more than you can arrest the soul of the man who is dead."

"I don't understand you," said Alan. "Tell me why you used those words, 'if I want him,' meaning Bullard."

"Simply because," answered Teddy, "I'm pretty sure you don't want him.
Think a moment!"

The other sprang to his feet. "Come along, Teddy! There's no thought required. That nugget has got to be handed to the police before we're an hour older."

Teddy rose slowly and slipped the nugget into his pocket. "Alan, my son," he said gently, "that nugget does not leave my possession—no, not for all your uncle's genuine diamonds. Think again!"

"Oh, rot! If you're afraid of the police, Teddy—"

"Perhaps I am—"

"Well, give the thing to me, and I'll—"

"One moment." Teddy's face went ruddy. "I'd like you to answer a question, though it may strike you as abominably impertinent. Are you—are you as fond as ever of Doris Lancaster?"

Alan was also flushed as he replied: "Doris and I settled that to-night, Teddy. But what has it to do with Bullard's nugget? I'm aware it has something to do with Bullard—"

"Hold on!" said Teddy, pale again. "I think I can put it so plainly that you'll wonder why you didn't see it for yourself right away. Listen! Put this nugget into police hands, and Bullard goes into the dock. If Bullard goes into the dock, ugly things, not all connected with this murder, will surely come out. Lancaster will be involved; Doris—"

Alan threw up a hand. "God forgive me, Teddy," he cried, "and thank God it wasn't I who found the nugget!"

* * * * *

"Besides," said Teddy a good deal later, "your Uncle Christopher was most desirous that nothing should happen to Bullard before the clock stopped. And now, old chap, I think we had better turn in."

Left to himself, Teddy sighed. "He's going to marry Doris, and, whether he knows it or not, he's in love with that Handyside girl. Surely I have the devil's own luck!"