The dominating personality of the man was extraordinary. Complete silence fell upon the room. The men at the table resumed their seats. Heinrich led Desmond into a corner while Max unceremoniously pitched the other prisoner on to a window-seat, where he lay motionless. He looked like an Englishman, young and of athletic build, with close-cropped fair hair, now stiff with matted blood from a great cut across the head. A man staggered into the room, his arms piled high with white and green canvas bags sealed with red wax. With a sickening heart Desmond recognized them. They were the valises of the King’s Messenger. “Bewlay,” Grundt had called this fresh prisoner. Desmond remembered the name now. Paul Bewlay was the Constantinople courier. The bags were tumbled in a heap on the table. With scissors and knives Grundt and his companions busied themselves with cutting the strings that bound them. Soon the table was heaped high with a litter of letters, documents, newspapers, and packages. Presently Clubfoot looked up from the work. “You’ve searched him, Max?” “Jawohl, Herr Doktor!” The man took from his pocket a red bandana handkerchief, heavily weighted down, and handed it to Tarock. The Austrian spilled out a mixed assortment of objects, a watch and chain, a gold cigarette-case, a pencil, and a little silver brooch—the Silver Greyhound, the messenger’s badge. “You’ve looked in the lining of his clothes, Max?” “Ja, Herr Doktor. There is nothing there!” The opening of the packages revealed some curious things. There was an old brass lamp, a pair of Jodhpore breeches, a couple of Samarcand rugs, and some boxes of Turkish Delight, enjoying, in strange promiscuity, the hospitality of the diplomatic valise. In the way of odd commissions, a King’s Messenger is as useful as the village carrier. The rummaging went on. Then Desmond heard Mandelstamm’s reedy lisp. “Your customary good fortune has failed you again, Herr Doktor!” “Unsinn!” came the angry retort. “It must be here. He has been under observation every step of the way. Patience, my friend! We shall find it!” The work was resumed in silence until at length Mandelstamm left the table. “It’s useless!” he cried, his voice shrill with vexation. “You’re wasting our time, Herr Doktor!” Tarock, too, had left his seat and was whispering to Blund, the fat Englishman, in a corner. Grundt remained alone at the table. His bulging brows were furrowed in thought. Then, as though struck by a sudden idea, he picked up one of the round boxes of Turkish Delight, raised the lid and shook the contents out upon the table. A second, a third, and a fourth box he treated in the same manner, and then, with a whoop of joy, he plunged his hand into the sticky pile of sweetmeats before him. When he withdrew his hand he held a number of sheets of white flimsy paper between finger and thumb. Dusting the fine sugar off them, he held them up for all to see.