“Now, one thing is certain—I will give you that much credit”—the detective continued—“that you are not the actual perpetrator of what has happened. Perhaps, too, it would be better to prepare you for a shock, though you look a pretty strong-nerved man. You'd better brace yourself, Mr. Robinson.” “All right,” said Westerham, quietly. Without more ado the detective pushed open the door communicating with Westerham's bedroom and led the way in. The room was in darkness, but Rookley, putting his thumb on the electric button, suddenly switched on the light. And with a cry Westerham stepped back and blundered against the detective. For on the bed was stretched Ross, the man who had left him in the company of Crow and Melun; and driven hard up to the hilt, straight through the man's heart, was a knife which Westerham instantly recognised as one of his own. The detective seized him almost roughly and hurried him mercilessly up to the bedside. “Read that!” he whispered hoarsely. Westerham stooped and saw attached to the handle of the knife a luggage label which bore the name of Walter's hotel. And on the luggage label was printed in hand-writing the following inscription:— “So perish all traitors. Be warned in time. The girl may be the next.” CHAPTER XII THE PRIME MINISTER IS COMPROMISED Horrified though he was, Westerham made no sign. He had stood in the presence of death before, and he had faced it in more dreadful forms, though it is true he had never known it so intimately and so poignantly. “The girl may be the next,” the words seemed ominous—like a doom. Troubles encompassed him on every side. An hour or so previously he had faced the greatest odds he had ever known till then. The odds were greater now. Conscious that the keen eyes of Rookley were upon him, he saw that instant action was necessary, and turning on his heel he walked deliberately into the sitting-room. The detective followed him, and then seating himself at the table, Westerham bade the man take a chair. For a moment the detective's face lighted up with anticipation. It seemed to him that at last the mysterious Mr. Robinson was about to make some statement. His anticipations were, however, to be disappointed. “Well,” said Westerham, in a pleasant, even voice, “I am waiting for you to begin.” “I was hoping,” said Mr. Rookley, “that you were about to make some statement.” “I never make statements,” said Westerham, “any more than I answer questions which are inconvenient. What have you to say?” Suddenly the detective leant forward and spoke so quickly that Westerham was almost thrown off his guard. “Who are you, Mr. Robinson?” “I can only give you the same answer,” said Westerham, “which I gave you before—that my name is my own business.” “You are aware, of course,” pursued Rookley, “that the present occasion is more serious than the last. You seem to have an unfortunate habit of coming in on the heels of awkward occurrences.”