“Ah!” he sighed, evidently speaking to himself. “I had done with all that, and now I must begin again. My instincts will inevitably drive me to begin again. My dear people”--he surveyed his two companions with an acid and distant stare--“instead of saving life, you have only set in motion a chain of circumstances that will lead to the loss of it. Murder and the scaffold will probably be the net result of your officious zeal.” There was a rap on the bedroom door. “Five minutes to eight, sir,” called a voice. “Right,” said Carpentaria, getting up; and to Mr. Jetsam, “I will see you after the concert.” “I doubt it,” said Mr. Jetsam. “Why not?” “Because I shall be gone. I am feeling quite strong.” 35 “I should like to talk to you about certain people,” pursued Carpentaria. “Who?” “Well, Josephus Ilam.” “I know all about Josephus Ilam.” “And his mother. Perhaps you don’t know all about his mother.” Mr. Jetsam jumped to his feet with singular agility. “Mrs. Ilam! She’s been dead for years,” he said gravely. “She was very much alive this morning,” replied Carpentaria. “He told me she was dead,” Jetsam muttered. “He lied. She is in the bungalow opposite.” “Oh!” Jetsam breathed, and he seemed to breathe the breath out of his body. He swayed and fell back into the chair. “By Jove! He’s fainted!” exclaimed Rivers. “Look after him,” said Carpentaria, and flew downstairs and towards his bandstand. CHAPTER XII--On the Wheel The concert was over. If it had been as great a triumph as usual--and it had--the reasons were perhaps that nothing succeeds like success, and that the Carpentaria band was so imbued with the spirit of Carpentaria that it would have played in the Carpentaria manner even had the shade of Beethoven come down to conduct it. Certainly Carpentaria’s performances with the baton, though wild and bizarre, lacked that sincerity and that amazing invention which usually distinguished them. He had too much to think about. There was the possibility of getting shot as he stood there. There was the possibility of being poisoned at his next meal. There was the possibility of some fearful complication with Juliette and Ilam. There was the positive mystery of Ilam himself. There was the comparative mystery of Ilam’s mother. And there was the superlative mystery of Mr. Jetsam. Under these circumstances, with all these pre-occupations, the plaudits of a hundred thousand people did not particularly interest Carpentaria that night. His chief desire was to get back to Mr. Jetsam, and to extract Mr. Jetsam’s secrets out of Mr. Jetsam either by force, by fraud, or by persuasion. As he was bowing languidly for the nineteenth time, and the entire orchestra was bowing behind him, amid a hurricane of clapping, he thought to himself: “It’s a good thing I’m not in love! It would only need that, in addition to what I already have on my hands, to drive me crazy!”