There were only two other members in the library, but Frobisher’s eyes, although he was apparently reading a newspaper, moved rapidly, as his glance switched from face to face in that oddly furtive manner.
Overhanging part of the room, one of the finest of its kind in the city, was a gallery giving access to more books ranged on shelves above. A club servant appeared in the gallery, moving very quietly—and Frobisher’s glance shot upward like an anxious searchlight.
It was recalled to sea level by a voice.
“Hello, Frobisher! How’s your wife getting along?”
Frobisher’s florid face momentarily lost color. Then, looking up from where he sat in a deep, leather armchair, he saw that a third member had come in—Dr. Pardoe.
“Hello, Pardoe!” He had himself in hand again: the deep tone was normal. “Quite startled me.”
“So I saw.” Pardoe gave him a professional glance, and sat on the arm of a chair near Frobisher’s. “Been overdoing it a bit, haven’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t say that. Doctor. Certainly been kept pretty busy. Thanks for the inquiry about Stella. She’s greatly improved since she began the treatments you recommended.”
“Good.” Dr. Pardoe smiled—a dry smile: he was a sandy, dry man. “I’m not sure the professor isn’t a quack, but he seems to be successful with certain types of neuroses.”
“I assure you Stella is a hundred per cent improved.”
“H’m. You might try him yourself.”
“What are you talking about?” Frobisher growled. “There’s nothing the matter with me.”
“Isn’t there?” The medical man looked him over coolly. “There will be if you don’t watch your diet.” Pardoe was a vegetarian. “Why, your heart missed a beat when I spoke to you.”
Frobisher held himself tightly in hand. His wife’s physician always got on his nerves. But, all the same, he wasn’t standing for any nonsense.
“Let me tell you something.” His deep voice, although subdued, rumbled around the now empty library. “This isn’t nerves. It’s cold feet. An organization like the Huston Electric has got rivals. And rivals can get dangerous if they’re worsted. Someone’s tracking me around. Someone broke into Falling Waters one night last week. Went through my papers. I’ve seen the man. I’d know him again. I was followed right here to the club today. That isn’t nerves. Doctor. And it isn’t eating too much red meat!”
“Hm.” Irritating habit of Pardoe’s, that introductory cough.
“I don’t dispute the fact of the burglary—”
“Thanks a lot. And let me remind you: Stella doesn’t know, and doesn’t have to know.”
“Oh, I see. Then the attempt is known only—”
“Is known to my butler. Stein, and to me. It’s not an illusion. I’m still sane, if I did have beefsteak at lunch!”
The physician raised his sandy brows.
“I don’t doubt it, Frobisher. But had it occurred to you that your later impression of being followed—not an uncommon symptom— may derive from this single, concrete fact?”
Frobisher didn’t reply, and Dr. Pardoe, who had been looking down at the carpet, now looked suddenly at Frobisher.
His gaze was fixed upward again. He was watching the gallery. He spoke in a whisper.
“Pardoe! Look where I’m looking. Is that a club member?”
Dr. Pardoe did as Frobisher requested. He saw a slight, black-clad figure in the gallery. The man had just replaced a vase on a shelf. Only the back of his head and shoulders could be seen. He moved away, his features still invisible.
“Not a member known to me, personally, Frobisher. But there are always new members, and guest members—”
But Frobisher was up, had bounded from his chair. Already, he was crossing the library.
“That’s some kind of Asiatic. I saw his face!” Regardless of the rule. Silence, he shouted. “And I’m going to have a word with him!”
Dr. Pardoe shook his head, took up a medical journal which he had dropped on the chair, and made his way out.
He was already going down the steps when Michael Frobisher faced the club secretary, who had been sent for.
“May I ask,” he growled, “since when Chinese have been admitted to membership?”
“You surprise me, Mr. Frobisher.”
The secretary, a young-old man with a bald head and a Harvard accent, could be very patriarchal.
“Do I?”
“You do. Your complaint is before me. I have a note here. If you wish it to go before the committee, merely say the word. I can only assure you that not only have we no Asiatic members, honorary or otherwise, but no visitor such as you describe has been in the club. Furthermore, Mr. Frobisher, I am assured by the assistant librarian, who was last in the library gallery, that no one has been up there since.”
Frobisher jumped to his feet.
“Get Dr. Pardoe!” he directed. “He was with me. Get Dr. Pardoe.”
But Dr. Pardoe had left the club.
The research laboratory of the Huston Electric Corporation was on the thirty-sixth, and top floor of the Huston Building. Dr. Craig’s office adjoined the laboratory proper, which he could enter up three steps leading to a steel door. This door was always kept locked.
Morris Craig, slight, clean-shaven, and very agile, a man in his early thirties, had discarded his coat, and worked in shirt-sleeves before a drawing desk. His dark-brown hair, which he wore rather long, was disposed to be rebellious, a forelock sometimes falling forward, so that brushing it back with his hand had become a mannerism.
He had just paused for this purpose, leaning away as if to get a long perspective of his work and at the same time fumbling for a packet of cigarettes, when the office door was thrown open and someone came in behind him.
So absorbed was Craig that he paid no attention at first, until the heavy breathing of whoever had come in prompted him to turn suddenly.
“Mr. Frobisher!”
Craig, who wore glasses when drawing or reading, but not otherwise, now removed them and jumped from his stool.
“It’s all right, Craig.” Frobisher raised his hand in protest. “Sit down.”
“But if I may say so, you look uncommon fishy.”
His way of speech had a quality peculiarly English, and he had a tendency to drawl. Nothing in his manner suggested that Morris Craig was one of the most brilliant physicists Oxford University had ever turned out. He retrieved the elusive cigarettes and lighted one.
Michael Frobisher remained where he had dropped down, on a chair just inside the door. But he was regaining color. Now he pulled a cigar from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket.
“The blasted doctors tell me I eat too much and smoke too much,” he remarked. His voice always reminded Craig of old port. “But I wouldn’t want to live if I couldn’t do as I liked.”
“Practical,” said Craig, “if harsh. May I inquire what has upset you?”
“Come to that in a minute,” growled Frobisher. “First—what news of the big job?”
“Getting hot. I think the end’s in sight.”
“Fine. I want to talk to you about it.” He snipped the end of his cigar. “How’s the new secretary making out?”
“A-I. Knows all the answers. Miss Lewis was a sad loss, but Miss Navarre is a glad find.”
“Well—she’s got a Paris degree, and had two years with Professor Jennings. Suits me if she suits you.”
Craig’s boyishly youthful face lighted up.
“Suits me to nine points of decimals. Works like a pack-mule. She ought to get out of town this week- end.”
“Bring her along up to Falling Waters. Few days of fresh air do her no harm.”
