He dismissed the unfortunate Lewisham from his mind, and produced from his pocket the papers he had taken from Professor Goodman before removing his clothes. The first thing he saw, to his intense satisfaction, was the warning typewritten letter, and holding a match under one corner of it he reduced it to ashes and finally to powder. Two or three private letters he treated similarly, and then he came to a dozen loose sheets of paper covered with incomprehensible scrawling hieroglyphics. These he carefully pinned together and put in his pocket, reflecting yet again on the extreme goodness of fate. And then for the second time he took from the drawer where he had placed it for safety the metal retort which apparently played such an important part in the process. He had found it standing on the electric furnace in the Professor’s laboratory, and now he examined it curiously. It was about double the size of an ordinary tumbler, and was made of some dull opaque substance which resembled dirty pewter. And as Blackton looked at it and realised the incredible fortune that was soon to come to him out of that uninteresting-looking pot, his hand shook uncontrollably.
He replaced it in the drawer, as someone knocked on the door. It was the man who had spoken to him outside the Professor’s house.
“They’re all humming like a hive of bees, Chief,” he remarked. “The police are in, and they’ve cleared away the debris. I managed to get in and have a look—and it’s all right.”
“You’re certain of that,” said Blackton quietly.
“There’s nothing left of him, Chief, except a boot in one corner.”
Blackton rubbed his hands together.
“Excellent—excellent! You’ve done very well: cash this downstairs.”
Again he scribbled his initials on a slip of paper, and pushing it across the table dismissed the man. Assuredly luck was in, though as a general rule Blackton refused to allow the existence of such a thing. The big man, according to him, made allowance for every possible contingency; only the fool ever trusted to luck if anything of importance was at stake. And in this case he only regarded his luck as being in because he would be able, as far as he could see, to carry on with the simplest of the three schemes which he had worked out to meet different emergencies should they arise. And though he had employed enough explosive to shatter ten men, no man knew better than he did how capricious it was in its action.
Now he was only waiting for one thing more—a telephone call from Freyder. He glanced at his watch: hardly time as yet, perhaps, for him to have reached his destination and to get through to London. In fact it was twenty minutes before the bell rang at his side.
“Everything gone without a hitch.”
Freyder was speaking, and with a gentle sigh of pure joy for work well and truly done Mr. Blackton laid down the receiver.
Half an hour later he was strolling along Pall Mall towards his club. A newsboy passed him shouting “ ’Orrible explosion in ’Ampstead,” and he paused to buy a copy. It had occurred to him that it is always a good thing to have something to read in the cooler rooms of a Turkish bath. And he never went into the hotter ones; there were peculiarities about Mr. Edward Blackton’s face which rendered great heat a trifle ill-advised.
IV
In Which Mr. William Robinson Arrives at His Country Seat
The report made to Mr. Blackton on the condition of the Professor’s house was certainly justified. It looked just as if a heavy aeroplane bomb had registered a direct hit on the back of the premises. And the damage was continually increasing. The whole fabric of the house had been undermined, and it was only at considerable personal risk that the police pursued their investigations. Frequent crashes followed by clouds of choking dust betokened that more and more of the house was collapsing, and at length the Inspector in charge gave the order to cease work for the time. Half a dozen policemen kept the curious crowd away, whilst the Inspector retired to the front of the house, which had escaped the damage, to await the arrival of some member of the Professor’s family. It was not a task that he relished, but it was his duty to make what inquiries he could.
In his own mind he felt pretty clear as to what had happened. The parlourmaid, who appeared a sensible sort of girl, had told him all she knew—particularly mentioning the German Professor’s remark as he left the house. And it seemed quite obvious that Professor Goodman had been experimenting with some form of violent explosive, and that, regrettable to say, the explosive had not behaved itself. When the debris had ceased to fall and it was safe to resume work, it might be possible to discover something more definite, but up to date the sole thing they had found of interest was one of the unfortunate savant’s boots. And since that had already been identified by the parlourmaid as belonging to Professor Goodman, all the identification necessary for the inquest was there. Which from a professional point of view was just as well, since there was nothing else left to identify.
An open Rolls-Royce drew up outside, and the Inspector went to the window and looked out. From the driver’s seat there descended a large young man, who said something to the two other occupants of the car, and then came rapidly up the short drive to the front door, where the Inspector met him.
“What on earth has happened?” he demanded.
“May I ask if you are a relative of Professor Goodman’s?” said the Inspector.
“No; I’m not. My name is Drummond, Captain Drummond. But if you’ll cast your eye on the back
