“This?” said Bill, indicating the suitcase.
It was a handsome case of heavy pigskin, with the initials H. I. on it.
“What a pity!” said Lemoine gently. “It must have fallen out. Shall we lift it from the road?”
Without waiting for a reply, he picked up the suitcase, and carried it over to the belt of trees. He stooped over it, something flashed in his hand, and the lock slipped back.
He spoke, and his voice was totally different, quick and commanding.
“The car will be here in a minute,” he said. “Is it in sight?”
Virginia looked back towards the house.
“No.”
“Good.”
With deft fingers he tossed the things out of the suitcase. Gold-topped bottle, silk pyjamas, a variety of socks. Suddenly his whole figure stiffened. He caught up what appeared to be a bundle of silk underwear, and unrolled it rapidly.
A slight exclamation broke from Bill. In the centre of the bundle was a heavy revolver.
“I hear the horn,” said Virginia.
Like lightning, Lemoine repacked the suitcase. The revolver he wrapped in a silk handkerchief of his own, and slipped into his pocket. He snapped the locks of the suitcase, and turned quickly to Bill.
“Take it. Madame will be with you. Stop the car, and explain that it fell off the luggage cart. Do not mention me.”
Bill stepped quickly down to the drive just as the big Lanchester limousine with Isaacstein inside it came round the corner. The chauffeur slowed down, and Bill swung the suitcase up to him.
“Fell off the luggage cart,” he explained. “We happened to see it.”
He caught a momentary glimpse of a startled yellow face as the financier stared at him, and then the car swept on again.
They went back to Lemoine. He was standing with the revolver in his hand, and a look of gloating satisfaction in his face.
“A long shot,” he said. “A very long shot. But it came off.”
XX
The Red Signal
Superintendent Battle was standing in the library at Wyvvern Abbey.
George Lomax, seated before a desk overflowing with papers, was frowning portentously.
Superintendent Battle had opened proceedings by making a brief and businesslike report. Since then, the conversation had lain almost entirely with George, and Battle had contented himself with making brief and usually monosyllabic replies to the other’s questions.
On the desk, in front of George, was the packet of letters Anthony had found on his dressing-table.
“I can’t understand it at all,” said George irritably, as he picked up the packet. “They’re in code, you say?”
“Just so, Mr. Lomax.”
“And where does he say he found them—on his dressing-table?”
Battle repeated, word for word, Anthony Cade’s account of how he had come to regain possession of the letters.
“And he brought them at once to you? That was quite proper—quite proper. But who could have placed them in his room?”
Battle shook his head.
“That’s the sort of thing you ought to know,” complained George. “It sounds to me very fishy—very fishy indeed. What do we know about this man Cade anyway? He appears in a most mysterious manner—under highly suspicious circumstances—and we know nothing whatever about him. I may say that I, personally, don’t care for his manner at all. You’ve made inquiries about him, I suppose?”
Superintendent Battle permitted himself a patient smile.
“We wired at once to South Africa, and his story has been confirmed on all points. He was in Bulawayo with Mr. McGrath at the time he stated. Previous to their meeting, he was employed by Messrs. Castle, the tourist agents.”
“Just what I should have expected,” said George. “He has the kind of cheap assurance that succeeds in a certain type of employment. But about these letters—steps must be taken at once—at once—”
The great man puffed himself out and swelled importantly.
Superintendent Battle opened his mouth, but George forestalled him.
“There must be no delay. These letters must be decoded without any loss of time. Let me see, who is the man? There is a man—connected with the British Museum. Knows all there is to know about ciphers. Ran the department for us during the War. Where is Miss Oscar? She will know. Name something like Win—Win—”
“Professor Wynward,” said Battle.
“Exactly. I remember perfectly now. He must be wired to, immediately.”
“I have done so, Mr. Lomax, an hour ago. He will arrive by the 12:10.”
“Oh, very good, very good. Thank Heaven, something is off my mind. I shall have to be in town today. You can get along without me, I suppose?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Well, do your best, Battle, do your best. I am terribly rushed just at present.”
“Just so, sir.”
“By the way, why did not Mr. Eversleigh come over with you?”
“He was still asleep, sir. We’ve been up all night, as I told you.”
“Oh, quite so. I am frequently up nearly the whole night myself. To do the work of thirty-six hours in twenty-four, that is my constant task! Send Mr. Eversleigh over at once when you get back, will you, Battle?”
“I will give him your message, sir.”
“Thank you, Battle. I realize perfectly that you had to repose a certain amount of confidence in him. But do you think it was strictly necessary to take my cousin, Mrs. Revel, into your confidence also?”
“In view of the name signed to those letters, I do, Mr. Lomax.”
“An amazing piece of effrontery,” murmured George, his brow darkened as he looked at the bundle of letters. “I remember the late king of Herzoslovakia. A charming fellow, but weak—deplorably weak. A tool in the hands of an unscrupulous woman. Have you any theory as to how these letters came to be restored to Mr. Cade?”
“It’s my opinion,” said Battle, “that if people can’t get a thing one way—they try another.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” said George.
“This crook, this King Victor, he’s well aware by now that the Council Chamber is watched. So he’ll let us have the letters, and let us do the decoding, and let us find the hiding-place. And then—trouble! But Lemoine and I between us will attend to that.”
“You’ve got a plan, eh?”
“I wouldn’t go
