and his long sensitive fingers were nicotine-stained, since he continuously smoked Egyptian cigarettes. An open tin of those stood near his hand, and he lighted one from the stump of another—smoking, smoking, incessantly smoking.
Upon the table before him were seven telephones, one or other of them almost always in action. When two purred into life simultaneously, the smoker would place one to his right ear, the other to his left. He never replied to incoming messages, nor did he make notes.
In the brief intervals he pursued what one might have supposed to be his real calling. Upon a large wooden pedestal was set a block of modelling clay, and beside the pedestal lay implements of the modeller’s art. This singular old man, the amazing frontal development of his splendid skull indicating great mathematical powers, worked patiently upon a life-sized head of an imposing but sinister Chinaman.
In one of those rare intervals he was working delicately upon the high, imperious nose of the clay head, when a muffled bell sounded and the amber light disappeared from the four Gothic windows, plunging the room into complete darkness.
For a moment there was no sound; the tip of a burning cigarette glowed in the darkness. Then a voice spoke, an unforgettable voice, by which gutturals were oddly stressed but every word was given its precise syllabic value.
“Have you a later report,” said this voice, “from Base 8?”
The man at the long table replied, speaking with German intonations.
“The man known as Federal Agent 56 arrived at broadcasting station twenty minutes after midnight. Police still searching there. Report just to hand from Number 38 states that this agent, accompanied by Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S. Army Medical Corps, assigned to Detached Officers’ List, and a party of nine men arrived Tower of the Holy Thorn at twelve-thirty-two, relieving federals already on duty. Agent 56 last reported in conference with Abbot Donegal. The whole area closely covered. No further news in this report.”
“The Number responsible for the manuscript?”
“Has not yet reported.”
“The last report from Numbers covering Weaver’s Farm?”
“Received at 11.07. Dr. Orwin Prescott is still in retirement there. No change has been made in his plans regarding the debate at Carnegie Hall. This report from Number 35.”
The muffled bell rang. Amber light appeared again in the windows; and the sculptor returned lovingly to his task of modelling a Chinaman’s head.
Chapter 3
ABOVE THE BLIZZARD
In Dom Patrick Donegal’s study at the top of the Tower of the Holy Thorn, James Richet faced Federal Officer 56. Some of his silky sauvity seemed to have deserted him.
“I quite understand your—unexpected—appearance, Mr. Richet,” said Smith, staring coldly at the secretary. “You have greatly assisted us. Let me check what you have told me. You believe (the abbot unfortunately having no memory of the episode) that certain material for the latter part of his address was provided early on Saturday morning during a private interview in this room between the Father and Dr. Orwin Prescott?”
“I believe so although I was not actually present.”
There was something furtive in Richet’s manner; a nervous tremor in his voice.
“Dr. Prescott, as a candidate for the Presidency, no doubt had political reasons for not divulging these facts himself.” Smith turned to Abbot Donegal. “It has always been your custom, Father, to prepare your sermons and speeches in this room, the material being looked up by Mr. Richet?”
“That is so.”
“The situation becomes plainer.” He turned to Richet. “I think we may assume,” he went on, “that the latter part of the address, the part which was never delivered, was in Dom Patrick’s own handwriting. You yourself, I understand, typed out the earlier pages.”
“I did. I have shown you a duplicate.”
“Quite,” snapped Smith; “the final paragraph ends with the words ‘torn up by its evil roots, utterly destroyed.’“
“There was no more. The abbot informed me that he intended to finish the notes later. In fact, he did so. For when I accompanied him to the broadcasting station he said that his notes were complete.”
“And after his—seizure?”
“I returned almost immediately to the studio. But the manuscript was not on the desk.”
“Thank you. That is perfectly clear. We need detain you no longer.”
The secretary, whose forehead glistened with nervous perspiration, went out, closing the door silently behind him. Abbot Donegal looked up almost pathetically at Smith.
“I never thought,” said he, “I should live to find myself so helpless. Can you imagine that I remember nothing whatever of Dr. Prescott’s calling upon me? Except for that vague, awful moment when I faced the microphone and realized that my mental powers were deserting me, I have no recollection of anything that happened for some forty-eight hours before! Yet it seems that Prescott was here and that he gave me vital information. What can it have been? Great heavens”—he stood up, agitatedly—
“Not an attempt, Father,” snapped Smith, “a success! You are lucky to be alive!”
“But who can have done this thing, and how did he do it?”
“The first question I can answer; the second I might answer if I could recover the missing manuscript. Probably
