The Third Round

chair as if the matter was of no account, and Drummond, his hands in his pocket, strolled over to the window. On the face of it everything was perfectly aboveboard⁠—and yet, try as he would, he could not rid himself of the feeling that something was wrong. Later, when he recalled that interview and realised that for half an hour on that warm summer’s afternoon he had been in his own house with the man he knew as Carl Peterson sitting in his best chair, he used to shake with laughter at the humour of it. But at the time no thought of such a wildly amazing thing was in his mind; no suspicion that Professor Scheidstrun was not Professor Scheidstrun had even entered his head. It was not the German’s identity that worried him, but his goodwill. Was he what he professed to be⁠—a friend of the late Professor Goodman’s? Did he intend to give this scientific discovery to the world as he had promised to do? Or had he deceived Professor Goodman? And if so, why? Could it be possible that this man was being employed by Sir Raymond Blantyre, and that he too was engaged in the conspiracy to destroy the results of the discovery forever?

He turned and stared at the German, who, overcome by the heat, was apparently asleep. But only apparently. Behind that coarse face and heavy forehead the brain was very wide awake. And it would have staggered Drummond could he have realised how exactly his thoughts were being read. Not very extraordinary either, since the whole interview had been planned to produce those thoughts by a master of psychology.

Suddenly the German sat up with a start.

“It is warm; I sleep.” He extracted a huge watch from his pocket and gave an exclamation as he saw the time. “I must go,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “Well⁠—how say you, Captain Drummond? Will you give me now the notes, or do we meet at the good Mr. Tootem’s?”

“I think, Professor,” said Drummond slowly, “that I would sooner we met at the lawyer’s. These notes were handed to me personally, and I should feel easier in my mind if I handed them over personally to the lawyer. Then my responsibility will end.”

“As you will,” remarked the German indifferently. “Then we will say eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, unless I let you know to the contrary.”

He shambled from the room, and Drummond escorted him to the front door. Then, having watched him down the steps, he returned to his room.

“Seems a bona fide show, Algy,” he remarked, lighting a cigarette.

“Will you give up the notes?” demanded his friend.

“My dear old thing, I must,” answered Hugh. “You’ve seen the Professor’s distinct instructions that jolly old Tootem & Tootem are to have ’em. I can’t go against that. What the legal wallah does with them afterwards is nothing to do with me. Still, I wish I could feel more certain in my own mind. You see, the devil of it is, Algy, that even if that bloke is a stumer, our hands are tied. There are old Goodman’s instructions, and the only thing I can do is to throw the responsibility on the lawyer’s shoulders.”

He paced thoughtfully up and down the room, to stop suddenly and pick up his hat.

“It’s worth trying,” he remarked half to himself and the next moment Algy was alone. From the window he saw Hugh hail a taxi and disappear, and with a shrug of his shoulders he resumed his study of Ruff’s Guide. At times the vagaries of his host were apt to be a little wearing.

And when some four hours later Hugh returned just in time for dinner, it certainly seemed as if he’d wasted his time.

“I’ve been watching Mr. Atkinson’s house, Algy,” he said despondently, “you know the one I spotted after the inquest, where Scheidstrun is living. Went to ground in a house opposite. Said I was a doctor looking for rooms. Thank heavens! the servant developed no symptoms requiring medical attention, because all I could have conscientiously recommended for anybody with a face like hers was a lethal chamber. However, as I say, I took cover in the parlour behind a bowl of stuffed fruit, and there I waited. Devil a thing for hours. Atkinson’s house was evidently occupied; in fact, I saw him look out of the window once. A benevolent-looking old chap with mutton-chop whiskers. However, I stuck it out, and at last, just as I was on the point of giving it up, something did happen, though not much. A closed car drove up, and from it there descended old Scheidstrun, a youngish man, and an elderly woman. Couldn’t see her very well⁠—but she looked a typical Boche. Probably his wife, I should think.”

He relapsed into silence and lit a cigarette.

“An afternoon wasted,” he grunted after a while. “I’m fed up with the whole dam’ show, Algy. Why the devil didn’t I give him the notes and be done with it when he was here? As it is, I’ve got to waste tomorrow morning as well fooling round in the city; and with the funeral in the afternoon the old brain will cease to function. Mix me a cocktail, like a good fellow. Everything is in the cupboard.”

And thus it came about that whilst two cocktails were being lowered in gloomy silence in Brook Street, a cheerful-looking old gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers entered his quiet residential hotel in Bayswater. There were no signs of gloomy silence about the old gentleman; in fact, he was almost chatty with the lounge-waiter.

“I think⁠—yes, I think,” he remarked, “that I will have a small cocktail. Not a thing I often do⁠—but this evening I will indulge.”

“Spotted a winner, sir?” said the waiter, responding to the old gentleman’s mood.

“Something of that sort, my lad,” he replied genially⁠—“something of that sort.” And Mr. William Robinson’s smile was enigmatic.

He seldom remembered an afternoon when in a quiet way he had enjoyed himself so