Progress in Piccadilly was slow in consequence of the block of carriages before Frobisher’s house. The guests were arriving in a steady stream, and Denvers amused himself by identifying most of them. One of the last comers was Lord Rashburn, Foreign Secretary, and his wife. Harold smiled to himself as he wondered what his lordship would give for his own private information. It might be necessary to appeal to Rashburn presently, and it was a good thing to know where to find him. Only it would be useless for Denvers to try and obtain admission to Frobisher’s house. The Shan came up presently, and Berkeley Square was reached at length. Benstein was at home, and the footman had no doubt that he would see his visitors, late as it was. Many a bit of business with people who needed money in a desperate hurry had Benstein done between the dinner-hour and midnight. He was seated in his library now with a fat cigarette between his teeth and poring over a mass of accounts. To reckon up his money and to gloat over his many securities was the one pleasure of Benstein’s life. "Glad to see you, gentlemen—glad to see you," he said, rubbing his puffy hands together. "If there is anything that I can do for your Highness, it will be a pleasure." "His Highness wants to put two thousand pounds into your pocket," Denvers said. "It is the matter of the Blue Stone of——" A queer sound came from Benstein’s lips, and his mottled face turned as pale as it was possible. "You don’t mean to say that you want the stone to-night?" he gasped. "Why else are we here?" Harold demanded. The air was full of suspicion and he had caught some of it. "It is absolutely necessary that we should have it back, for a time at least. It was distinctly understood, I think, that the stone was to be returned at any hour of the day or night that we required it?" Benstein’s big head swayed backwards and forwards pendulously, his thick lips were wide apart, and showing the gaps in the yellow teeth beyond. Harold’s suspicions became a certainty. Benstein had parted with the stone. "Do you want it now?" Benstein said, as if the words had been dragged from him. Harold intimated that he did want the stone immediately. Slowly Benstein was recovering. The rich red blood was creeping into his face again. "It is impossible," he said. "Usually I keep most of my valuables here. But I recognised the political as well as the pecuniary value of the Blue Stone, and I did not dare. The stone is at the Bank of England, and I cannot get it before ten to-morrow. It is very unfortunate." "Very," Harold said dryly. "But we must make the best of it. I have a pretty shrewd idea where the stone is, but my guess would not have been the Bank of England. We don’t propose to redeem the gem; we suggest that you should let the Shan have it for two or three days on the understanding that when the business is completed your charge is increased by the sum of two thousand pounds."