“You know, that man rather frightened me. I’m supposed to be a pretty determined sort of person myself, but never in my life have I run up against such a dominating personality as this Dr. Madjaroff. He was so big and hairy with the vitality of some great animal like a buffalo or . . . or a rhinoceros. “When I turned down his offer of six thousand five hundred guineas, he bent his dark bushy eyebrows at me. “‘Miss Maxwell,’ he said, ‘I’ve set my heart on that ikon. You’ve got to let me have it.’ “I told him I was sorry, but it was quite impossible. “‘I’ve offered you thirty, fifty times its value,’ he returned. ‘Believe me, you will be well advised to accept my offer.’ “‘My mind is made up,’ I replied, and rang to show him the interview was at an end. ‘The ikon is not for sale.’ “Do you know, the queerest change came over that old guy! All his hair seemed to bristle and his eyes just burnt like two hot coals. He raised up his stick—he had a crutch-stick that he walked with—as though to strike me, then turned his back on me and hobbled out of the house. My! I tell you I felt relieved to see him go . . .” Desmond broke in quickly. “I hope you didn’t leave the ikon hanging up in your house?” he said. His languid air had given way to a brisk and eager manner. His steely blue eyes searched the girl’s face as he spoke. “Why, no!” said Miss Maxwell. “As a matter of fact, I brought it along to show you!” So saying she opened her capacious leathern handbag and produced a flat brown paper parcel. Unwrapping it, she drew forth the ikon, which she handed to Desmond. He bore it quickly to the electric-light bracket by the fire-place and carefully examined it. Once or twice he balanced it in his hand as though appraising the weight. “Now, why do you suppose,” the American asked, “that this Russian is so dead set on getting hold of this old ikon? It’s beautiful work and all that, of course, but it’s not worth six thousand five hundred guineas or the half or even the quarter of the eight hundred I paid . . .” But Desmond had turned away and was talking to his brother. “We want to make sure,” he was saying. “Tell him I’ll come round at once and see him.” Francis Okewood stepped across to a desk in the corner on which the telephone stood and asked for a number. “Why,” exclaimed Miss Maxwell, “that’s Süsslein’s number!” But Francis held up his hand for silence, the telephone receiver to his ear. “I want to speak to Mr. Süsslein,” he said, and stood listening for a moment. “I see,” he said presently. “No, I hadn’t heard.” He hung up the receiver and faced them. “Süsslein was found dead in his office after lunch!” he said quietly. “Dead?” exclaimed the American in a shocked voice. “He had hanged himself,” Francis answered gravely. “That settles it!” said Desmond, looking up from his study of the ikon. “This means that The Man with the Clubfoot is at his old tricks again!”