“But naturally,” said the smooth-faced gentleman. He took an envelope from a drawer and smiled affectionately upon it. “This is Miss Bohun’s letter. I like her handwriting. It reminds me of my dear mother’s.” “Indeed,” said Simon. “May I see it—as a matter of form?” The other tossed it across. “Pray observe that I trust you,” he said. “Why not?” said Simon Beaulieu. He took out the letter, glanced at beginning and end, put it back in its envelope and slid this into a pocket. Then he took out ten packets of notes and laid them upon the table. “Count them, please,” he said. The smooth-faced gentleman smiled. “I always do,” he said, “as a matter of form.” Each packet contained ten notes—for one hundred pounds apiece. That this was so The Master proceeded to verify, taking his own time. Simon stood like a statue. At length the other looked up. “Quite right,” he said comfortably. He pointed to a pile of envelopes. “There are the twenty-two copies. Will you take them also? Or shall I burn them now?” “Burn them, please.” The Master stepped to the fireplace, set the envelopes in the grate, and lighted a gas jet which was fixed beneath the bars. The papers began to flame almost at once. In silence the two men stood, watching them burn. Presently The Master turned and, picking up his own letter, added that to the pyre. “A distressing incident,” he said, “now happily closed. This little room has seen the dissipation of so many tragedies.” “You don’t say so?” said Simon dryly. “It’s almost a shrine, isn’t it?” The other laughed. “At least,” he said, “its suppliants are very generous.” “You choose them for their generosity?” The rogue spread out his hands and put his head on one side. “That,” he said, with the air of a past-master, “that is the secret of blackmail.” “Then if I were you,” said Simon, “I should chuck in your hand.” The other stiffened. “If Grey Ruby hadn’t won the Stewards’ Cup, I imagine you would have died about five minutes ago.” The other stooped to rake the ashes to dust. “Perhaps,” he said. “But what a magnificent race! Neck and neck for a furlong, and won by a head. I lost a bit on Sweden, but I must confess I enjoy——” Simon lunged. “Take my advice,” he said, “and chuck in your hand. You’ve got your money by a fluke—the purest fluke.” The Master straightened his back, poker in hand. Two spots of colour burned in the great smooth face. “I never fluke,” he said majestically. Simon smiled back. Then he raised his eyebrows and turned to the door. “I say I never fluke. _Take—back—those—notes._” Simon turned, still smiling, to look the speaker in the eyes. “I wouldn’t touch them,” he said, “with the end of a ten-foot pole.” The Master recoiled. Then he seemed to shrink into himself. The two red spots spread into deep blotches, and a hand went up to cover the quivering mouth. For a moment he stood motionless. Then, with a visible effort, he touched the arm of his chair. A bell throbbed.