“It came first of all by telephone from the local police,” said Rookley, “and I then had a message 'phoned through from Lord Penshurst. It seems that he sent word on your behalf, and he was at great pains to tell us of the service you had rendered him. He said he was telephoning because we might imagine that you were in mischief, whereas you happened to be the man who had saved them all from theft and possibly from violence. “Of course, sir,” the detective continued, “that clears you more or less. I cannot argue with the Prime Minister, or I would have pointed out to him that you must have been in the business yourself or you could never have got wind of the affair and turned up at all. So, as this is a very serious matter indeed, I waited here to ask you what you know about it.” “Look here,” cried Westerham, annoyed past all endurance, “I don't know half as much about this matter as Lord Penshurst does himself. If you want to know what I had to do with it, go and ask the Prime Minister. Personally, I decline to say anything at all.” “You do?” Rookley was staring at him uneasily while he scratched his head. He was as certain as he could be in his official mind that he was constantly running up against the most astute of master criminals that he had ever met. It perplexed him, too, beyond measure that, whenever he felt his grip fastening on the man, the Prime Minister should step in to save him. He would truly have loved to arrest Westerham there and then upon suspicion; but the telephonic message from Trant Hall made that desirable object impossible. “Well?” he began again. “Good-night,” said Westerham; and turning on his heel he walked contemptuously away, leaving the baffled detective to make what excuses he could to the night porter, who, ignorant of the detective's identity, was beginning to suspect him of being no more honest than he should be. Westerham slept badly, and awoke, after a succession of uneasy dreams, at about nine o'clock in response to a knock at his door. To his surprise it was neither the boots nor the chambermaid who entered at his bidding; instead there stood before him a tall, cadaverous man, wearing a long black frock-coat, whom he instantly recognised as the manager. The manager closed the door and walked over to Westerham's bedside. His manner was at once offensive and deferential. “You will have to excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I thought it better to speak to you in your own room than to rouse any remark by sending a message requesting you to speak to me in mine. “I am aware that Lord Dunton called to visit you here, and I know sufficient about his lordship to feel no uneasiness about his friends as a rule. But really—you must pardon my saying so—you make things a little awkward in this hotel.” Westerham sat up in bed and looked at the man quizzically.