The train which conveyed Mr. Harrison Smith back to London stopped at every intermediate station and did not arrive until after ten o'clock. He, therefore, was given leisure for thought and the result of his thinking was to bring him perilously near the truth.

He began with the premise that somehow Anthony Barraclough had succeeded in making good his escape—that he was even now obtaining the concession—that he would return to London on the night of the 18th instant at eleven o'clock in all probability carrying the document upon his person. All this was plain sailing but against it was the established fact that Anthony Barraclough was imprisoned in Laurence's house. If this were indeed the case further investigation was useless. But was it the case?

The girl Isabel Irish had said there was a plan to make his exit from London easy but no evidence had been given to suggest that this plan, whatever it was, had been put into operation. Torrington's syndicate was not composed of fools and yet the kidnapping of Barraclough had been mere child's play without a speck of opposition. His own side had been guilty of an act of crass stupidity in failing to carry off the servant Doran as well as his master. It was one of those tragic oversights which occur in the most carefully laid plans. Unquestionably Doran would have told his employers what happened on the night of the 27th and they could hardly have failed to guess the truth. And yet, as private information assured him, not the smallest effort had been made to rescue the man in whose brain was a secret worth millions. And quite suddenly the truth, or a guess at the truth, dawned upon him. Torrington's crowd must have been aware of the intention to kidnap Barraclough and for a reason known only to themselves had deliberately allowed it to take place. Why? Had another man been sent in Barraclough's place? He dismissed that theory without dissection. The shape of Barraclough's jaw and the line of his mouth belonged to the type that does not unduly trust his fellow men. Why? Was another man occupying Barraclough's place—deputising for him in his absence?

Harrison Smith struck one hand against the other. "By God," he exclaimed. "It's the most unlikely thing in the world but I'm going to believe it. I'm going to believe that the chap with the humorous lines round his eyes is no more Barraclough than I am."

He alighted at Waterloo Station aglow with excitement. His first thought was to proceed post haste to Laurence's house and lay before them the result of his deductions, but a second and more personal consideration dissuaded him. There had been little enough encouragement when last he interfered. He had been rudely ordered to leave things alone. No, he would work out this deal himself and if anything came of it approach Van Diest and Hipps for a lion's share of the plunder. Weeks ago it had been arranged; if by any means Barraclough succeeded in slipping through the outposts and obtaining the concession, he was to be quietly thugged on his return and the paper destroyed. As Ezra Hipps had said, "If we fail to get it for ourselves it's damn sure no one else is going to profit." Wherefore all he had to do was to intercept the returning treasure seeker, put him securely away and then talk business to his own employers.

Harrison Smith hailed a taxi and told the driver to go down the Commercial Road as far as the Poplar Town Hall. This was not a job that could be tackled single handed—on the other hand it would be unwise to admit more people to his confidence than were absolutely necessary. He dismissed the taxi and proceeded on foot down one of the narrow crooked byways abounding in that region. The place was quiet and deserted save for a few Orientals—Lascars and Chinamen—who leaned against the walls of their dwellings in silent contemplation of the stars.

At the side door of a small and disreputable public house he paused and knocked thrice with the handle of his cane and presently the door was opened by a girl. She was a Jewess and lovely to look at, with the fresh, shameless beauty peculiar to very young girls of that faith. Recognising Harrison Smith she smiled a welcome and said:

"You're in luck—he's sober! Upstairs, in the front room."

She smiled again, revealing a perfect row of little white teeth which mocked the string of cheap pearls at her throat. As he climbed the stairs Harrison Smith speculated on the odd contrast this girl presented to her surroundings. The silk of her stockings, the bangles and gewgaws, the ultra patent leather of her shoes, bore so little relation to the squalor of the narrow passage with its damp stained walls, carpetless floor and hissing gas jet. Probably nowhere in the world do greater incongruities exist than in the East End of London.

Mr. Alfred Bolt, minus coat, collar, tie and shoes, was seated in an arm chair, his feet reposing upon the mantel-piece. At his elbow was a glass of whiskey and water with a slice of lemon floating on the surface. His waistcoat was undone and the white of his shirt emphasised the enormous girth of his corporation. His legs were short, his hands fat, his face round and margined with a half circle of hair beneath the chin. At the first glance you would have taken him for the model from which Will Owen must have illustrated the stories of W. W. Jacobs. One would have expected him to remind the passer-by that it was "a nice day for a sail" or alternatively to demand "Any more for the Skylark?" But a closer inspection would have shaken the foundation of so simple a belief for Mr. Alfred Bolt's eyes were not of the honest kind worn by men who go down to the sea in ships. They were close set, narrow lidded, cunning, piggy little eyes that caused unrest to look upon.

At the sight of Harrison Smith he removed his feet from the mantelpiece and extended an open armed welcome.

"Welcome and thrice welcome, my dear brother," he intoned in an admirable imitation of the accepted ecclesiastical method. "I rejoice indeed to observe that you are now in Holy Orders." Then with a drop into the vernacular. "Blind me, Smith, what the hell are you doing with your collar back to front?"

Harrison Smith gave a hurried explanation.

"But I thought that job was cleared up," said Bolt.

"Maybe it is, but there's a chance of a big coup that no one expected.
Now, if you care to take a hand."

Mr. Bolt fancied himself as a mimic, indeed he harboured the opinion that he was a peer even to the late Sir Henry Irving in the matter of "take offs." He could imitate a cat or a Chinaman, while his thumb nail impressions of sundry Hebraic neighbours were only rivalled by his flawless caricatures of natives of Germany or the New Hebrides. But best of all he loved to assume the inflexion, guise and bearing of a member of the clergy—a circumstance very possibly explained by the fact that his own private life was as far removed from the office of virtue as could be imagined.

"Be unafraid, my son," quoth he. "If your heart is full speak into my listening ear and may a blessing fall on your confession." Then fashioning a trumpet with his two hands he bellowed like a fog horn: "Becky! A drop of whiskey hot for the gent." And while the refreshment was being procured he observed parenthetically: "A nice little piece, ain't she? Very smart and dossy. Come on, Smith, my boy—my jolly old beau—dear old cracker, soak up the juice of the barley and expound the tale of woe."

Harrison Smith wasted no time in explaining the case while Bolt listened with great concentration, nodding approval at this point or that.

"Hm! Worth trying anyway," he agreed. "What do you want me to do?"

"Take over my place at Clyst St. Mary. Can't explain why but I've a sort of notion things may happen there. It's a queer household—lot of smart girls looking after an old woman—Barraclough's mother."

"What's she like?"

"Never got near enough to find out. Decent enough old thing. Goes to church a lot."

"Shrewd?"

"Never struck me so at a distance. Might be anything—bit of a fool—mostly are—that old country sort."

Mr. Bolt mused.

"Goes to church, does she." His eyes travelled over Harrison Smith's black garments. "Why didn't you call?"

"Didn't strike me. Fancy she knows very little."

"'Curs to me," said Bolt, "I might do the clergyman stunt myself in those parts. I've got some stuff. A bit of the old Wesley—'Quiet harbourage from the turmoil of city life, my dear lady. An occasional hour in your beautiful garden.' That's the ticket."

"Then get off straight away. There's a train at five a.m. from Waterloo. You can have my room at the pub. I'll give you a note to the proprietor."

"And assuming I meet brother Barraclough?"

"Get him," responded Harrison Smith laconically. "Make as little fuss as possible but get him."

Mr. Bolt nodded and the piggy little eyes twinkled greedily.

"Trust me," he said. "Anything else you want?"

Harrison Smith thought for a moment.

"That chap Dirk," he said. "Could you find him for me?"

"Sure."

"Then tell him to meet me at Paddington tomorrow morning 9.50."

"Right."

"And you might lend me that bunch of spring-lock keys."

"Going to have a squint at that guide book?" queried Bolt shrewdly as he turned over the contents of a table drawer in search of the keys.

"Going to have a try," came the answer.

Bolt rippled out a fat, greasy chuckle.

"Pleasure to work with you, Smith," said he. "Yes indeed. Though it's a bit risky putting one over on the Dutchman." He fell into a thick, guttural "S'bad—s'bad pizness. Dese servants wass ver' insubordinate. S'bad. Well, good luck, ole boy."

They shook hands cordially.

The Commercial Road was deserted when Harrison Smith came out of the narrow byway. The chance of finding a conveyance was small but his practical sense suggested turning into the West India Dock Road where, at the gates of the dock, he had the good fortune to secure a dilapidated four-wheeler. Progress was painfully slow and hours seemed to pass before they finally turned out of the broad cobbled highway and passed through the silent empty city. Two o'clock was striking when he dismissed the cab in Piccadilly. At his own rooms in Crown Court, St. James's, he changed into ordinary clothes and proceeded on foot to Albemarle Street. Before the entrance to Crest Chambers Harrison Smith stopped and broke into a torrent of imprecation. He had forgotten that the downstairs door would be shut. It was of heavy mahogany and secured by an ordinary variety of lock against which the bunch of keys in his pocket were of no service whatsoever. He was shaking his fist angrily when the sound of footsteps accompanied by a snatch of song attracted his attention. A young man in evening dress, wearing an opera hat at a raffish angle and carrying his hands in his trousers pockets turned out of the adjoining side street and approached the spot where he was standing. A single glance was enough to convince Harrison Smith that the young man was in a state of spiritual exaltation bordering on ecstasy. The words of a song he sang sounded unnaturally clear—like music from another planet.

"I'm one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit," he sang over and over again as though the words contained relish enough to justify any limit of repetition. Coming abreast of Harrison Smith he halted abruptly and, rocking on his heels, broke into a cherubic smile.

"Goo' man," he said. "Les-see, it's ol' Petersh, ishn't it?"

"That's it," said Harrison Smith, "old Peters."

With startling suddenness the young man produced a latch key and thrust it into Harrison Smith's palm.

"Ope' th' door, ol' top. Ope' door an' we'll have a quick lil' spot together."

Here was unlooked for good fortune of which Harrison Smith lost no time in availing himself. Lending a trifling support to his impromptu host they entered the building and ascended in the electric lift to the fourth floor. There was a brass plate on the front door which informed the curious that the owner of the flat was called Royston.

"Just a quick one," said Smith as they entered a comfortable sitting room adorned by photographs of lovely ladies. "I've had a trying day and want to turn in."

"T'hell with that," said Royston. "Wha's matter with seein' in the dawn?"

He produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses—not without casualties among their fellows—set them on a coffin stool and fell into a deep arm chair.

"Help 'self and help me—'cos I'm ver' tired—ov' tired."

Harrison Smith embraced the opportunity of pouring out a perfect deadener for his host into which he discreetly added a pinch of cigar ash from a convenient stump (a concoction which in the absence of more potent drugs will produce very gratifying results).

While he was so employed Mr. Royston descanted freely on the subject of lovely women in the choice of which he declared himself to be an epicure.

"See that one—pho' frame—piano. Tho'bred—perfect tho'bred—a darling—love 'er—love 'em all."

"That's the talk," said Harrison Smith who was cursing the enforced delay. "Drink her health, old man, and no heel taps."

Mr. Royston rose nobly to the occasion and swallowed the contents of his glass at a single gulp.

"Blesh 'em!" he said. "Blesh 'em."

He seized the arm of his chair while the room spun round him in a dizzy whirl.

"Blast you, Petersh," he cried. "Thash pre-war whiskey. Sh-shot me clean through the brain pan. C-caught in the brewersh web."

He swayed a little and settled down on the floor by sections. Harrison
Smith stooped and put a cushion beneath his head.

"All ri' soon—qui' all ri'. Fac' is I'm one of the ruins Crom'll knocked about a bit." The voice tailed away into a deep, slumberous groan.

A minute later Harrison Smith was at the door of Barraclough's flat on the landing below. The fourth key on the bunch turned the latch and silently as a cat he slipped into the hall. A quick observation of the chambers above had given him a fair idea of which room was which and he had no trouble in locating the study door in the dark. Before turning on a light he assured himself that the window curtains were drawn. He realised the need to be very silent in all his actions since Barraclough's servant was in all probability sleeping on the premises and ex-service men of the regular army have an awkward knack of sleeping lightly. He closed the door without even a click from the latch, then turned up a standard lamp that stood on the writing table. In the pen tray beneath the lamp was a blue pencil—a new one—since obviously it had never been sharpened and the chalk point was scarcely worn at all. The other end of the pencil had been deeply bitten in a dozen places, a circumstance which Harrison Smith noted with satisfaction. The other pencils and pens in the tray bore no teeth marks. It was reasonable, therefore, to surmise that its owner had been engaged in some knotty and puzzling problem at the time of use.

"I believe the girl was on the right track," he muttered to himself and turned his attention to the bookshelves. One of the cases was given over entirely to a collection of local guide books surprisingly complete in map and detail. There were four volumes dealing with Cornwall and it was only the matter of a moment to find the one to which Isabel had referred. Bringing it to the light Harrison Smith hastily turned over the pages until he came to the squared map that showed the village of Polperro. But here disappointment awaited him—for not a sign of the blue pencil mark showed upon the page. He was on the point of closing the book when he made a discovery.

The light striking across the paper revealed the fact that the surface in places bore a polished appearance. The reason was significant. Barraclough, leaving nothing to chance, had erased the pencil marks with indiarubber. If anything could emphasise the value of his discovery surely it was this and Harrison Smith fairly tingled with excitement. He picked up a magnifying glass and closely examined the erasement. There had been a line drawn round the village and on the outskirts, where three cottages clustered together, was the impression of a single dot. At roughly a mile inland from the village where a footpath converged with the road was another dot, seemingly situated in the middle of a clump of trees.

Harrison Smith was satisfied. He hastily dropped the book into his pocket, restored its fellows to their former position on the shelves and tiptoed across the room to extinguish the light. Thus far Fortune had favoured him, but she is a capricious lady wont to change her allegiance with startling suddenness. If there had been a length of yellow flex to the electric standard the accident would never have happened. It is simply asking for trouble to use red flex on a red carpet. Harrison Smith's foot tangled in the wire and down came the table lamp with a crash. Simultaneously there came a shout from another part of the flat. For a second Harrison Smith stood spellbound at the disaster he had caused—robbed of the power of action.

It was the sound of bare feet pattering on the parquet of the hall that restored his senses and as the door of the room flew open he stamped on the still burning electric bulb lying at his feet. The detonation as it flew into fragments came simultaneously with the sharp, stinging report of a small calibre pistol. The room was plunged into utter darkness in which could be heard the sound of two men breathing and the zinging of the mantelpiece brasses from the double explosion. Then silence—no movement—and the mind of Harrison Smith worked like a streak of lightning. His hand was on the back of a heavy arm chair and the touch of it suggested an idea.

He gave a thin, whispering sigh and cried out in a high pitched voice.

"My God! You've killed me!"

Then he tilted back the arm chair and allowed it to fall with a soft thud to the floor.

Another silence, then the sound of a man moving forward. Harrison Smith side stepped and, keeping in touch with the wall, navigated through the darkness toward the door.

"Serve you damn well right," said Doran in a voice that was startlingly near.

Harrison Smith's luck had returned. He found the door and passed through it and down the hall as quietly as a draught. He heard a click as Doran switched up the lights, followed by an oath. Then he streaked down the main stairway with a flight and a half start. A second was lost at the hall door fumbling for the latch and in that second Doran fired again but missed. As Harrison Smith shot out into Albemarle Street he collided heavily with a constable, attracted to the scene by the noise of the shots, but him he overturned to such good effect that he was crossing Piccadilly before the blast of the inevitable whistle screeched through the night. There was no further opposition to his progress and in St. James's Street he fell into a walk and finally entered his own apartment unobserved.

A little breathless but entirely satisfied he flung himself on the bed for a couple of hours' sleep.