“Who’s there?” and followed this with a phrase which Michael guessed was Malayan. “It is I, Michael Brixan. I want to see you, Penne.” “What do you want?” “Come down and I will tell you.” “I’ve gone to bed for the night. See me in the morning.” “I’ll see you now,” said Michael firmly. “I have a warrant to search this house.” He had no such warrant, but only because he had not asked for one. The man’s head was hastily withdrawn, the window slammed down, and such a long interval passed that Michael thought that the baronet intended denying him admission. This view, however, was wrong. At the end of a dreary period of waiting the door was opened, and, in the light of the hall lamp, Sir Gregory Penne presented an extraordinary appearance. He was fully dressed: around his waist were belted two heavy revolvers, but this fact Michael did not immediately notice. The man’s head was swathed in bandages; only one eye was visible; his left arm was stiff with a surgical dressing, and he limped as he walked. “I’ve had an accident,” he said gruffly. “It looks a pretty bad one,” said Michael, observing him narrowly. “I don’t want to talk here: come into my room,” growled the man. In Sir Gregory’s library there were signs of a struggle. A long mirror which hung on one of the walls was shattered to pieces; and, looking up, Michael saw that one of the two swords was missing. “You’ve lost something,” he said. “Did that occur in course of the ‘accident’?” Sir Gregory nodded. Something in the hang of the second sword attracted Michael’s attention, and, without asking permission, he lifted it down from its hook and drew the blade from the scabbard. It was brown with blood. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked sternly. Sir Gregory swallowed something. “A fellow broke into the house last night,” he said slowly, “a Malayan fellow. He had some cock and bull story about my having carried off his wife. He attacked me, and naturally I defended myself.” “And had you carried off his wife?” asked Michael. The baronet shrugged. “The idea is absurd. Most of these Borneo folk are mad, and they’ll run amok on the slightest provocation. I did my best to pacify him——” Michael looked at the stained sword. “So I see,” he said dryly. “And did you—pacify him?” “I defended myself, if that’s what you mean. I returned him almost as good as he gave. You don’t expect me to sit down and be murdered in my own house, do you? I can use a sword as well as any man.” “And apparently you used it,” said Michael. “What happened to Foss?” Not a muscle of Penne’s face moved. “Whom do you mean?” “I mean Lawley Foss, who was in your house last night.” “You mean the scenario writer? I haven’t seen him for weeks.” “You’re a liar,” said Michael calmly. “He was in here last night. I can assure you on this point, because I was in the next room.”