Drummond took the envelope and glanced at it thoughtfully, while Algy looked over his shoulder.
“That’s Professor Goodman’s writing.”
“Since he the letter wrote presumably it is,” remarked the German with ponderous sarcasm.
“You know the contents of this letter, Professor?” asked Drummond, as he slit open the envelope.
“He it read to me,” answered the other. “Ach! it is almost incredible that what my dear friend should have said to me in jest—indeed that which he has written there in jest—should have proved true. Even now I can hardly believe that he is dead. It is a loss, gentlemen, to the world of science which can never be replaced.”
He rambled on while Drummond, having read the letter in silence, handed it to Algy. And if for one fleeting second there showed in the German’s eyes a gleam of almost maniacal hatred as they rested on the owner of the house, it was gone as suddenly as it came. The look on his face was benevolent, even sad, as befitted a man who had recently lost a confrère and friend, when Drummond turned and spoke again.
“The letter is a request, Professor, that certain notes now in my possession should be handed over to you.”
“That is so,” assented the other. “He to me explained all. He told me of his astounding discovery—a discovery which even now I can hardly believe. But he assured me that it was the truth. And on my shoulders he laid the sacred duty of giving that discovery to the world, if anything should happen to him.”
“Astounding coincidence that on the very afternoon he wrote this something did happen to him,” remarked Drummond quietly.
“As I haf said, even now I can hardly believe it,” agreed the Professor. “But it is so, and there is no more to be said.”
“Rather astounding also that you did not mention this at the inquest,” pursued Drummond.
“Till one hour ago, my young friend, I forget I had the letter. I forget about his discovery—about the diamonds—about all. My mind was stunned by the dreadful tragedy. And think—five, ten minutes more and I also to pieces would have been blown. Mein Gott! it makes me sweat.”
He took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“By the way, Professor,” said Drummond suddenly, “do you know Sir Raymond Blantyre?”
For the fraction of a second Professor Scheidstrun hesitated. It was not a question he had been expecting and he realised that a lot might hinge on the answer. And then like a flash he remembered that on leaving the inquest he had spoken two or three words to Sir Raymond. Moreover, Drummond had been there himself.
“Sir Raymond Blantyre,” he murmured. “He has a grey moustache and an eyeglass. Slightly I know him. He was—ja! he was at the inquest himself.”
It was glib, it was quick. It would have passed muster nine times out of ten as a spontaneous reply to a perfectly ordinary question. But it was made to a man who was already suspicious, and it was made to a man whose lazy eyes missed nothing. Drummond had noticed that almost imperceptible pause; what was more to the point, he had noticed the sudden look of wariness on the other’s face. More a fleeting shadow than a look, but it had not escaped the lynx-eyed man lounging against the mantelpiece. And it had not tended to allay his suspicions, though his face was still perfectly impassive.
“I assume from what he has written here that Professor Goodman discussed with you the threatening letter he received,” he went on placidly.
“He mentioned it, of course.” The German shrugged his shoulders. “But for me it seems a stupid joke. Absurd! Ridiculous! Who would be so foolish as to write such a thing if it was a genuine threat? It was—how do you say it—it was a hoax? Nein—nein—to that I paid no attention. It was not for that he this letter wrote. He told me of his discovery, and I who know him well, I say, ‘Where are the notes? It is not safe for you to carry them. You who lose everything—you will lose them. Or more likely still someone will your pocket pick. There are people in London who would like those notes.’ ”
“There undoubtedly are,” agreed Drummond mildly.
“He tells me he give them to you. I say, ‘This young man—he too may lose them. Tell him to send them to your men of business.’ He says, ‘Goot—I will.’ And he write the letter there. Then he add, as he thinks, his little joke. My poor friend! My poor, poor friend! For now the joke is not a joke. And on me there falls the sacred trust he has left. But his shall be the glory; all the credit will I give to him. And the world of science shall remember his name forever by this discovery.”
Overcome by his emotion the Professor lay back in his chair breathing stertorously, while once again he dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Very praiseworthy and all that,” murmured Drummond. “Then I take it that your proposal is, sir, that I should hand these notes over to you here and now?”
The German sat up and shrugged his shoulders.
“It would save trouble, Captain Drummond. For me I wish to return to Germany after my poor friend’s funeral tomorrow. Naturally I must with me take the notes. But if for any reason you would prefer to hand them to the good Mr. Tootem of Austin Friars, then perhaps we could arrange to meet there some time tomorrow morning.”
He leaned back in his
