“Yes, that’s all right,” came the reply; “but hold on a minute, there’s a message for you. Fallows rang up half an hour ago to say that Mr. Fratten had slipped him again; he’s trying to pick up the trail.” CHAPTER XXV Justice Three people sat in the Board Room of the Victory Finance Company—Captain James Wraile, his wife, and Mr. Travers Lessingham. A fire burnt in the hearth, the blinds were down, and the clock on the mantelpiece recorded 6.23. Lessingham was speaking, in a low and rather nervous voice. “The fellow was at my hotel yesterday—they gave him my Brussels address. It’s ten to one that he’s out there now.” “He’s not that,” interposed Wraile, “because he was at my office this afternoon. Yesterday evening he was at my club, sucking in all the details of the alibi I made for him. I left them vague on purpose when I talked to him and let him find them out for himself—he’ll think he’s been clever as hell—till he discovers that there’s not a quarter of an hour for him to play with. He can hardly accuse me of bumping into Fratten on the steps and then bumping him off on the Mall all within fifteen minutes.” “But he’s been down to my office in Monument Lane too, I tell you,” persisted Lessingham. “A fellow on the floor below told me—described him to me. He’s on our track, Wraile.” “He may be, but I don’t believe he’s got anything definite against us. Of course, he must know something about the Rotunda, but there’s nothing criminal about that—folly’s not indictable, you know,” he added with a laugh. “What about the General, Jim? I don’t like their sending for him,” said Mrs. Wraile. “I’d forgotten that for the moment. But what can he tell? Only about the Company’s connection with the E. & G. and possibly the Rotunda—and that they know already.” “He was very queer when he came back. He didn’t send for me for his evening letters as he usually does; he just sent for Blagge and I could hear their voices booming away through the wall for nearly an hour. I just caught a glimpse of his face through the door as he went away—it was quite different—grey and lined and black under the eyes. He didn’t say good-night to anyone—as he always does.” “Eh, what, my boy?” quoted Wraile. “Of course he looked grey if the Yard had been putting him through it—generals aren’t accustomed to that kind of thing.” “Yes, yes, Wraile, that’s all very clever but you’re not facing facts. They’ve dropped young Fratten, they . . .” “They haven’t; he’s shadowed wherever he goes.” “Only by an underling, to keep an eye on him. They don’t suspect him any longer. There’s no use in hanging on now—we can never make the market now—too much’ll be known.” “Don’t you believe it; unless they prove anything criminal against us they’ll never put their feet into business—it’s not their job. I’m going to hang on as . . .”