“Not quite,” said Martin grimly.
The nervous little doctor hurried on before they could stop him.
“Why, of course,” he said, “I was forgetting. There must be a great many things that still confuse you. The exact import of the papers that you, Doctor Abbershaw, were so foolhardy as to destroy? Never revealed, was it?”
“We know it was the detailed plan of a big robbery,” said Abbershaw stiffly.
“Indeed it was,” said Whitby warmly. “Quite the largest thing our people had ever thought of undertaking. Have you—er—any idea what place it was? Everything was all taped out so that nothing remained to chance, no detail left unconsidered. It was a complete plan of campaign ready to be put into immediate action. The work of a master, I assure you. Do you know the place?”
He saw by their faces that they were ignorant, and a satisfied smile spread over the little man’s face.
“It wasn’t my secret,” he said. “But naturally I couldn’t help hearing a thing or two. As far as I could gather von Faber’s objective was the Repository of the Bullion for the Repayment of the American Debt.”
The three were silent, the stupendousness of the scheme suddenly brought home to them.
“Then,” continued Whitby rapidly, “there was Colonel Coombe’s own part in von Faber’s affairs. Perhaps you don’t know that for the greater part of his life Colonel Coombe had been under von Faber’s influence to an enormous extent, in fact I think I might almost say that he was dominated absolutely by von—”
“It’s not Colonel Coombe’s life, Doctor Whitby, which interests us so particularly,” cut in Martin suddenly. “It’s his death. You know as well as we do that he was murdered.”
For an instant the nervous garrulousness of the little doctor vanished and he stared at them blankly.
“There are a lot of people interested in that point,” he said at last. “I am myself, for one.”
“So we gathered,” murmured Martin, under his breath, while Abbershaw spoke hastily.
“Doctor Whitby,” he said, “you and I committed a very grave offence by signing those certificates.”
“Yes,” said Whitby, and paused for a moment or so, after which he brightened up visibly and hurried on. “But really, my dear sir, in the circumstances I don’t see that we could have done anything else, do you? We were the victims of a stronger force.”
Abbershaw disregarded the other’s smile and spoke steadily.
“Doctor Whitby,” he said, “do you know who murdered Colonel Coombe?”
The little doctor’s benign expression did not alter.
“Why, of course,” he said. “I should have thought that, at least, was obvious to everybody—everybody who knew anything at all about the case, that is.”
Abbershaw shook his head.
“I’m afraid we must plead either great stupidity or peculiarly untrusting dispositions,” he said. “That is the point on which we are not at all satisfied.”
“But my dear young people—” for the first time during that interview the little man showed signs of impatience. “That is most obvious. Amongst your party—let us say, Mr. Petrie’s party, as opposed to von Faber’s—there was a member of the famous Simister gang of America. Perhaps you have heard of it, Doctor Abbershaw. Colonel Coombe had been attempting to establish relations with them for some time. In fact, that was the reason why I and my pugnacious friend behind us were placed at Black Dudley—to keep an eye upon him. During the progress of the Dagger Ritual, Simister’s man eluded our vigilance and chose that moment not only to get hold of the papers, but also to murder the unfortunate Colonel. That, by the way, was only a title he adopted, you know.”
The three younger men remained unimpressed.
Martin shook his head.
“Not a bad story, but it won’t wash,” he said. “If one of our party stabbed the old boy, why do you all go to such lengths to keep it so quiet for us?”
“Because, my boy,” said Whitby testily, “we didn’t want a fuss. In fact, the police on the scene was the last thing we desired. Besides, you seem to forget the extraordinary importance of the papers.”
Again Martin shook his head.
“We’ve heard all this before,” he said; “and it didn’t sound any better then. To be perfectly frank, we are convinced that one of your people was responsible. We want to know who, and we want to know why.”
The little doctor’s face grew slowly crimson, but it was the flush of a man annoyed rather than a guilty person accused of his crime.
“You tire me with your stupidity,” he said suddenly. “Good God, sir, consider it. Have you any idea how valuable the man was to us? Do you know what he was paid for his services? Twenty thousand pounds for this coup alone. Simister would probably have offered him more. You don’t hear about these things. Government losses rarely get into the papers—certainly not with figures attached. Not the smallest member of our organization stood to gain anything at all by his death. I confess I was surprised at Simister’s man, unless he was double-crossing his own people.”
For a moment even Martin’s faith in his own theory was shaken.
“In that case,” said Abbershaw unexpectedly, “it will doubtless surprise you to learn that the man employed by Simister to obtain the package had a complete alibi. In fact, it was impossible for him ever to have laid hands upon the dagger.”
“Impossible?” The word broke from Whitby’s lips like a cry, but although they were listening to him critically, to not one of them did it sound like a cry of fear. He stared at them, amazement in his eyes.
“Have you proof of that?” he said at last.
“Complete proof,” said Abbershaw quietly. “I think you must reconsider your theory, Doctor Whitby. Consider how you yourself stand, in the light of what I have just said.”
An expression of mild astonishment spread over the insignificant little face. Then, to everybody’s surprise, he laughed.
“Amateur detectives?” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve had a long ride for nothing, gentlemen. I confess that my position as accessory
