There was a pause. Palliser began to see, or thought he began to see, where he stood. He had come to Temple Barholm because he had been driven into a corner and had a dangerous fight before him. In anticipation of it he had been following a clue for some time, though at the outset it had been one of incredible slightness. Only his absolute faith in his theory that every man had something to gain or lose, which he concealed discreetly, had led him to it. He held a card too valuable to be used at the beginning of a game. Its power might have lasted a long time, and proved an influence without limit. He forbore any mental reference to blackmail; the word was absurd. One used what fell into one’s hands. If Tembarom had followed his lead with any degree of docility, he would have felt it wiser to save his ammunition until further pressure was necessary. But behind his ridiculous rawness, his foolish jocularity, and his professedly candid good humor, had been hidden the Yankee trickster who was fool enough to think he could play his game through. Well, he could not. During the few moments’ pause he saw the situation as by a photographic flashlight. He leaned over the table and supplied himself with a fresh brandy and soda from the tray of siphons and decanters. He gave himself time to take the glass up in his hand. “No,” he answered, “you are not ‘dead easy.’ That’s why I am going to broach another subject to you.” Tembarom was refilling his pipe. “Go ahead,” he said. “Who, by the way, is Mr. Strangeways?” He was deliberate and entirely unemotional. So was T. Tembarom, when, with match applied to his tobacco, he replied between puffs as he lighted it: “You can search me. You can search him, too, for that matter. He doesn’t know who he is himself.” “Bad luck for him!” remarked Palliser, and allowed a slight pause again. After it he added, “Did it ever strike you it might be good luck for somebody else?” “Somebody else?” Tembarom puffed more slowly, because his pipe was lighted. Palliser took some brandy in his soda. “There are men, you know,” he suggested, “who can be spared by their relatives. I have some myself, by Jove!” he added with a laugh. “You keep him rather dark, don’t you?” “He doesn’t like to see people.” “Does he object to people seeing him? I saw him once myself.” “When you threw the gravel at his window?” Palliser stared contemptuously. “What are you talking about? I did not throw stones at his window,” he lied. “I’m not a school-boy.” “That’s so,” Tembarom admitted. “I saw him, nevertheless. And I can tell you he gave me rather a start.” “Why?” Palliser half laughed again. He did not mean to go too quickly; he would let the thing get on Tembarom’s nerves gradually. “Well, I’m hanged if I didn’t take him for a man who is dead.” “Enough to give any fellow a jolt,” Tembarom admitted again. “It gave me a ‘jolt.’ Good word, that. But it would give you a bigger one, my dear fellow, if he was the man he looked like.”