For a while he stared at them, standing as if he were carven out of granite. Every face that was there he knew, and the realisation that he had stumbled upon the last secret of the Alpha Triangle thundered through his head like the roar of a cataract. "Je-rusalem!" he breathed. At one stroke all the handicaps that had been piling up ever since the disappearance of Raegenssen, and that had culminated in the Piccadilly explosion that night, were swept away. Just by that one slip. The body which lay stiffly stretched out on the stone slab was not Raegenssen--was not even the man who had impersonated Raegenssen--but it was simply the corpse of an unknown man of similar height and build, and similarly bearded, with his hair and beard bleached to the likeness of Raegenssen's Viking crop and Raegenssen's clothes upon him to assist the identification which the terrible mutilation of the features prevented. And, in putting his clothes upon his substitute corpse, Raegenssen must have overlooked those photographs stitched for safety into the lining. For the third photograph was the face of a man whom Storm knew well by sight, and had also known to be associated with the Triangle--but never had he dreamed that that man was none other than the Triangle himself! The other two--and Raegenssen was one of them--were mere effigies, shadows, puppets that danced to the bidding of the Apex and served to screen his own importance; but the third man was the Apex, the keystone upon which the whole edifice depended.... Storm became aware that someone was breathing down his neck, and swung round sharply. It was Joe Blaythwayt, his cherubic pink face gone livid, his baby blue eyes almost popping out of his head. Storm stepped pointedly away from the banker, and a crestfallen Joe resumed the nibbling of his umbrella handle. Kit put the three photographs together and buttoned them into the safety pocket on the inside of his waistcoat; and as he did so the fourth fell from his hand. Teal picked it up and glanced at it before restoring it to his chief. It was the picture of a girl of about twenty, and even the hideous Victorian high-necked, leg-o'-mutton-sleeved blouse she wore and the ugly, old-fashioned arrangement of her fair hair could not disguise her striking loveliness. Even the impassive detective drew in his breath with a quick hiss of admiration. And then Storm gently took the print from him and put it away in his wallet. "Who was that?" asked Teal. Kit looked him straight in the eyes. "That," he said evenly, "was Sylvia Mattock--my mother!" CHAPTER XXII STORM GOES GUNNING