“Believe me, lieber Okewood,” Clubfoot resumed persuasively, “murder in cold blood is not one of my hobbies. One has to kill at times, but it is always a messy business unless one has the resources of a well-stocked laboratory at one’s back. Listen to me. I have here a message in your Secret Service code number 3A. If you will decipher it for us, you shall go free. We are willing to give you any reasonable guarantee of your life . . .” “And if I tell you that I know nothing of this code?” “That would not be true, my friend! Besides yourself, there are only two persons who, before the Foreign Office adopted it, were acquainted with its cipher . . . your revered Chief (a remarkable man, my dear Okewood, and a credit to our profession!) and his confidential clerk, by name Collins, I believe, who lives at Hatfield. Am I correct? No, no, my friend, you won’t try to deceive me. Old Clubfoot knows too much!” “And if I reject your offer?” Again that terrible scream rang out, suddenly checked this time and dying away in a strangling gurgle. With an expressive movement of eyes and head Grundt indicated the upper regions of the house, now plunged once more into silence, as much as to say: “You wouldn’t drive us to _that_?” Desmond Okewood put out his hand. “Let’s see the despatch!” he said brusquely. But Clubfoot held up a deprecating paw. “No, no, my friend, not so fast,” he laughed. “You might tear it or . . . or drop it in the fire. I’ve been at a deal of trouble to get it.” He raised his voice. “Fräulein Xenia!” The girl came slowly over from her corner. She was a slender, graceful creature, with slim hands and feet, glossy hair of jet-black brushed smoothly down to conceal her ears, and the clear, wide-open eyes of a child. As she stood before the big cripple waiting to hear his bidding, she let her black eyes rest for a moment on Desmond’s face. They were honest eyes, dark and appealing. Somehow he drew comfort from them. Grundt handed her the despatch. “Sit down over there at the machine and make me one copy of this. Be very careful and check the ciphers carefully! Verstehen Sie?” “Ich verstehe, Herr Doktor!” she answered in a low voice, pleasant of timbre, but lifeless and toneless. As she crossed the room the door opened. Tarock had returned. He was red in the face and out of breath, and there was an air of stealthy guilt about him that chilled Desmond to the very marrow. He could not save now, but only avenge poor Bewlay. If his own hour were near, as he had a shrewd suspicion it was, he meant, so he promised himself, to risk all, if needs be, to send the Cracow _souteneur_ to precede him at the Judgment Seat. The brisk rattle of the typewriter fell upon the quietness of the room. How matter-of-fact it sounded! They might have been in a lawyer’s office, not in this house of twilight death, whence time and the daylight were excluded.