Six o’clock was ringing out from the clock-tower of Saint James’s Palace, that authentic witness of the pageantry of four centuries of English history, when Desmond Okewood crept away across the roofs. Francis and Patricia returned to the sitting-room. Francis suggested double-dummy bridge to pass the time of waiting. But Patricia shook her head. “I’m thinking about poor little Süsslein,” she said. “I wonder why he committed suicide!” “He’s not the first that Clubfoot has frightened into destroying himself!” said Francis. “But why? What had Süsslein done?” “I don’t know. But I imagine he was ordered to get the ikon out of you and he simply couldn’t face the consequences of his failure. Old Clubfoot has a devilish long arm, Patricia!” “Tell me about this man Clubfoot,” she said. So Francis gave her, as far as he knew it, the history of the man of power and mystery who, in the heyday of the Hohenzollerns, had wielded an influence second only to that of his Imperial master. He drew for her a picture of the man, ruthless, resourceful, vigilant, with the strength of an ox, the courage of a lion, and the cunning of a rogue elephant. “If he wants a thing,” said Francis, “he’ll stop at nothing to get it. There’s only one man who has ever got the better of him, and that’s my brother Des. He’s a crazy devil, that brother of mine. He simply can’t live without taking risks. Ever since he left the Secret Service he’s been perfectly miserable. The reappearance of Clubfoot has made another man of him. But I’m haunted by the fear that Clubfoot will get him one day. That’s what makes me so anxious when he goes off suddenly like this.” Patricia smiled rather incredulously. “To hear you boys talk,” she remarked, glancing down at her pinky polished nails, “you’d think we were living in Ruritania or one of those exciting places in Booth Tarkington Land. I admit I was a bit taken aback to find that some one had rifled my boudoir; it may have been your clubfoot man, or it may just have been a common sneak-thief. But, for land’s sakes, what can happen to your brother in a city like London?” The telephone pealed suddenly. The bell jangled noisily through the silent flat. The man and the girl exchanged a glance. There are moments when the sudden clamour of a telephone bell has an oddly frightening effect. Francis went to the instrument. “Hullo! No, he’s not here. Who wants him? Oh . . .” His manner became slightly more _empressé_. “This is Francis Okewood speaking. Very good. Tell the Chief I’ll come right along.” He rang off and turned to Patricia. “It’s an urgent call from the office,” he said. “I believe I’ll have to go along at once. It’s a quarter to eight. Des. must be back any minute now. Do you mind being left alone for a little?” “Of course not! You run right along and don’t mind about me.” “You’re not frightened . . . or anything?”