Raegenssen locked himself in the inner office and lighted a cigar. He opened the big safe and took down from it a number of ledgers and a bundle of miscellaneous papers bound up with tape. Each one of the books and papers he went through carefully three times, as though memorising their contents, and then he tore out the pages which bore his scrawling handwriting, added the other papers to the pile, and carried the whole over to the fireplace. He watched them burn until every least scrap was reduced to brittle black flakes, and then with the poker he stirred and powdered the ash to a fine dust. Even this, to make doubly sure, he swept up into the shovel and threw from the window. He was left with three photographs, and these he placed in the wallet he carried in an inside pocket. Then he resumed his seat and sat through the time it took him to smoke another cigar, motionless except for the regular monotonous twisting of the pencil in his strong hands. It was nearing eleven-thirty when with a sudden movement of decision he snapped the pencil in half, pitched it into the waste-paper basket and rose. He picked up his battered hat, unlocked the door, and passed again through the outer office without a word or a glance to either side, and Mattock watched his departure with a puzzled frown. He went to the City and Continental, drew some money, and made certain arrangements. "I see you've had a burglar," remarked Blaythwayt when they had concluded their business. "Yess. He debarted away!" The Swede's voice was lifeless. "So the police haven't caught him yet?" Raegenssen glowered. "No!" he snapped. "Der bolice are fools! Why hof they nod ter Driangle abbrehented?" He usually stayed for a short chat with his bank manager, but this morning he seemed curiously disinclined to be conversational. Joe Blaythwayt himself opened the door to his customer, and that simple soul was almost personally apologetic, for Raegenssen's comments on the Force seemed a direct slight on the lethargic officer who was wont on occasion to brighten the Finchley Nights Entertainments. That same Teal, driving down Lombard Street in a taxi with a couple of unsuccessful jargoon sellers, saw the Swede leaving the bank and chuckled. "You boys want to aim high," he said. "Fifteen million pounds for a few murders is better than a hundred for a white sapphire!" Things happened to Mr. Teal in those days with the well-oiled precision of a detective story from a master pen. He was chatting downstairs in Scotland Yard that afternoon when a vast young man of incredible ugliness came hurtling down the steps three at a time. "I want you, Teal," he crisped. "Where's Captain Arden?" Teal came to attention. "I don't know, sir. He hasn't been in all day. He said he'd be here about dinner-time." "Get him on the phone." Teal called the number, and was answered by the voice of Cork. He snapped out a curt demand, listened, and then snicked back the receiver.