Jack Sainsbury stood before that locked door, for the moment unable to think. He was utterly dumbfounded. Those words he had heard in the boardroom in the City that afternoon had burned themselves deeply into his brain. Lewin Rodwell was, it seemed, a personal friend of Charles Trustram, the well-known and trusted official to whose push-and-go the nation had been so deeply indebted-- the man who had transported so many hundreds of thousands of our Expeditionary Force across the Channel, with all their guns, ammunition and equipment, without a single mishap. It was both curious and startling. What could it all mean? Thomasson again hammered upon the stout old-fashioned door of polished mahogany. "Speak, sir! Do speak!" he implored. "Are you all right?" Still there was no reply. "He may have fainted!" Jack suggested. "Something may have happened to him!" "I hope not, sir," replied the man very anxiously. "I'll just run outside and see whether the window is open. If so, we might get a ladder." The man dashed downstairs and out into the street, but a moment later he returned breathlessly, saying-- "No. Both windows are closed, just as I closed them at dusk. And the curtains are drawn; not a chink of light is showing through. All we can do, I fear, is to force the door." "You are quite sure he's in the room?" "Positive, sir." "Did you see him after Mr Trustram left?" "No, I didn't. I let Mr Trustram out, and as he wished me good-night he hailed a passing taxi, and then I went down and read the evening paper. I always have it after the doctor's finished with it." "Well, Thomasson, what is to be done?" asked Sainsbury, essentially a young man of action. "We must get into this room--and at once. I don't like the present aspect of things a bit." "Neither do I, sir. Below I've got the jemmy we use for opening packing-cases. We may be able to force the door with that." And once again the tall, thin, wiry man disappeared below. Jack Sainsbury did not see how the man, when he had disappeared into the basement, stood in the kitchen his face blanched to the lips and his thin hands trembling. It was only at the moment when Thomasson was alone that his marvellous self-possession forsook him. On the floor above he remained cool, collected, anxious, and perfectly unruffled. Below, and alone, the cook and housemaid not having returned, they being out for a late evening at the theatre, a craven fear possessed him. It would have been quite evident to the casual observer that the man, Thomasson, possessed some secret fear of what had occurred in the brief interval between Mr Trustram's departure and Sainsbury's arrival. Tall and pale-faced, he stood in the big basement kitchen, with its rows of shining plated covers and plate-racks, motionless and statuesque: his head upon his breast, his teeth set, his cheeks as white as paper.