“An electric lift,” repeated the lawyer. Down, down, down they sank, till Jimmy calculated that they must be at least twenty feet below the street level. Then the lift slowed down and stopped at a door. Spedding opened this with a key he took from his pocket, and they stepped out into a chill, earthy darkness. “There’s a light here,” said the lawyer, and groped for the switch. They were in a large vaulted apartment lit from the roof. At one end a steel door faced them, and ranged about the vault on iron racks a number of black japanned boxes. Jimmy noted the inscriptions, and was a little surprised at the extent and importance of the solicitor’s practice. Spedding must have read his thoughts, for he turned with a smile. “Not particularly suggestive of a defaulting solicitor,” he said ironically. “Two million pounds,” replied Jimmy immediately, “that is my answer to you, Mr. Spedding. An enormous fortune for the reaching. I wouldn’t trust the Governors of the Bank of England.” Spedding may have been annoyed as he walked to the door in the wall and opened it, but he effectively concealed his annoyance. As the door fell backward, Jimmy saw a little apartment, four feet by six feet, with a roof he could touch with his hand. There was a fresh current of air, but from whence it came he could not discover. The only articles of furniture in the little cell were a writing table and a swing chair placed exactly beneath the electric lamp in the roof. Spedding pulled open a drawer in the desk. “I do not keep my desks locked here,” he said pleasantly enough. It was characteristic of him that he indulged in no preamble, no apologetic preliminaries, and that he showed no sign of embarrassment as he slipped his hand into the drawer, and drawing forth a bulky red envelope, threw it on to the desk. You might have forgotten that his last words were denials that the red envelope had existed. Jimmy looked at him curiously, and the lawyer returned his gaze. “A new type?” he asked. “Hardly,” said Jimmy cheerfully. “I once knew a man like you in the Argentine--he was hanged eventually.” “Curious,” mused the lawyer, “I have often thought I might be hanged, but have never quite seen why----” He nearly added something else, but checked himself. Jimmy had the red envelope in his hand and was examining it closely. It was heavily sealed with the lawyer’s own seal, and bore the inscription in Reale’s crabbed, illiterate handwriting, “Puzzle Ideas.” He weighed it and pinched it. There was a little compact packet inside. “I shall open this,” said Jimmy decisively. “You, of course, have already examined it.” The lawyer made no reply.