“What’s your theory of the killing of Giuseppe?” asked Anthony.
“I should say he was a regular thief, and that he was got hold of, either by King Victor or by the Comrades of the Red Hand, and employed by them. I shouldn’t wonder at all if the Comrades and King Victor aren’t working together. The organization has plenty of money and power, but it isn’t very strong in brains. Giuseppe’s task was to steal the memoirs—they couldn’t have known that you had the letters—it’s a very odd coincidence that you should have, by the way.”
“I know,” said Anthony. “It’s amazing when you come to think of it.”
“Giuseppe gets hold of the letters instead. Is at first vastly chagrined. Then sees the cutting from the paper and has the brilliant idea of turning them to account on his own by blackmailing the lady. He has, of course, no idea of their real significance. The Comrades find out what he is doing, believe that he is deliberately double crossing them, and decree his death. They’re very fond of executing traitors. It has a picturesque element which seems to appeal to them. What I can’t quite make out is the revolver with ‘Virginia’ engraved upon it. There’s too much finesse about that for the Comrades. As a rule, they enjoy plastering their Red Hand sign about—in order to strike terror into other would-be traitors. No, it looks to me as though King Victor had stepped in there. But what his motive was, I don’t know. It looks like a very deliberate attempt to saddle Mrs. Revel with the murder, and, on the surface, there doesn’t seem any particular point in that.”
“I had a theory,” said Anthony. “But it didn’t work out according to plan.”
He told Battle of Virginia’s recognition of Michael. Battle nodded his head.
“Oh, yes, no doubt as to his identity. By the way, that old Baron has a very high opinion of you. He speaks of you in most enthusiastic terms.”
“That’s very kind of him,” said Anthony. “Especially as I’ve given him full warning that I mean to do my utmost to get hold of the missing memoirs before Wednesday next.”
“You’ll have a job to do that,” said Battle.
“Y‑es. You think so? I suppose King Victor and Co. have got the letters.”
Battle nodded.
“Pinched them off Giuseppe that day in Pont Street. Prettily planned piece of work, that. Yes, they’ve got ’em all right, and they’ve decoded them, and they know where to look.”
Both men were on the point of passing out of the room.
“In here?” said Anthony, jerking his head back.
“Exactly, in here. But they haven’t found the prize yet, and they’re going to run a pretty risk trying to get it.”
“I suppose,” said Anthony, “that you’ve got a plan in that subtle head of yours?”
Battle returned no answer. He looked particularly stolid and unintelligent. Then, very slowly, he winked.
“Want my help?” asked Anthony.
“I do. And I shall want someone else’s.”
“Who is that?”
“Mrs. Revel’s. You may not have noticed it, Mr. Cade, but she’s a lady who has a particularly beguiling way with her.”
“I’ve noticed it all right,” said Anthony.
He glanced at his watch.
“I’m inclined to agree with you about bed, Battle. A dip in the lake and a hearty breakfast will be far more to the point.”
He ran lightly upstairs to his bedroom. Whistling to himself, he discarded his evening clothes, and picked up a dressing-gown and a bath towel.
Then suddenly he stopped dead in front of the dressing-table, staring at the object that reposed demurely in front of the looking-glass.
For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He took it up, examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistake.
It was the bundle of letters signed Virginia Revel. They were intact. Not one was missing.
Anthony dropped into a chair, the letters in his hand.
“My brain must be cracking,” he murmured. “I can’t understand a quarter of what is going on in this house. Why should the letters reappear like a damned conjuring trick? Who put them on my dressing-table? Why?”
And to all these very pertinent questions he could find no satisfactory reply.
XXI
Mr. Isaacstein’s Suitcase
At ten o’clock that morning, Lord Caterham and his daughter were breakfasting. Bundle was looking very thoughtful.
“Father,” she said at last.
Lord Caterham, absorbed in The Times, did not reply.
“Father,” said Bundle again, more sharply.
Lord Caterham, torn from his interested perusal of forthcoming sales of rare books, looked up absentmindedly.
“Eh?” he said. “Did you speak?”
“Yes. Who is it who’s had breakfast?”
She nodded towards a place that had evidently been occupied. The rest were all expectant.
“Oh, what’s-his-name.”
“Fat Iky?”
Bundle and her father had enough sympathy between them to comprehend each other’s somewhat misleading observations.
“That’s it.”
“Did I see you talking to the detective this morning before breakfast?”
Lord Caterham sighed.
“Yes, he buttonholed me in the hall. I do think the hours before breakfast should be sacred. I shall have to go abroad. The strain on my nerves—”
Bundle interrupted unceremoniously.
“What did he say?”
“Said everyone who wanted to could clear out.”
“Well,” said Bundle, “that’s all right. That’s what you’ve been wanting.”
“I know. But he didn’t leave it at that. He went on to say that nevertheless he wanted me to ask everyone to stay on.”
“I don’t understand,” said Bundle, wrinkling her nose.
“So confusing and contradictory,” complained Lord Caterham. “And before breakfast too.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, I agreed, of course. It’s never any good arguing with these people. Especially before breakfast,” continued Lord Caterham, reverting to his principal grievance.
“Who have you asked so far?”
“Cade. He was up very early this morning. He’s going to stop on. I don’t mind that. I can’t quite make the fellow out; but I like him—I like him very much.”
“So does Virginia,” said Bundle, drawing a pattern on the table with her fork.
“Eh?”
“And so do I. But that doesn’t
