Lessingham, too, apparently recognized that he could not, single-handed, oppose the stronger will of his confederate; he relapsed into gloomy silence. Wraile sat, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, deeply wrapped in thought. Once more silence, save for the ticking of the clock. . . . Slowly the minute hand moved towards the hour; there was a faint preliminary whirr, a short pause, and then—ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping. The noise penetrated to Wraile’s consciousness; he lifted his head and looked round. As he did so, startlingly loud in the silent building, three sharp taps sounded upon the outer door—the door opening on to the staircase. The three occupants of the room sat, rigid with consternation, staring at the door; even Wraile’s usually calm face mirrored the shock of this startling summons. In the next room, Ryland had heard it too; hope leapt into his heart; he concentrated all his strength on one despairing effort. Once again the three knocks—more insistent than before—shattered the silence. “Open this door, please!” The sharp, authoritative ring of the voice left no doubt as to its owner’s status. “Police!” gasped Lessingham, clutching at the table before him, and staring wildly at his companions. Miriam Wraile slipped quickly to her husband’s side and whispered in his ear. He shook his head. “No—no. It may be watched. We must bluff them,” he whispered. Then, aloud: “Who’s that? What do you want?” “Police officer. Will you open the door, sir, please?” “Board-meeting! Papers, Miriam! Take the Chair, Lessingham!” whispered Wraile. He pushed back his chair, walked slowly to the door, and—as Miriam slipped back into the room with a bundle of papers and scattered them on the table, turned the key and opened the door. “What on earth do you want?” he said. Without answering, Inspector Poole stepped quietly into the room, almost brushing Wraile aside as he did so. The latter took a quick look out on to the landing and then shut the door, but did not resume his seat. Poole’s eyes moved quickly round the room, resting for a second on Lessingham and Mrs. Wraile, and taking in the details of the scene. There was no expression, either of disappointment or surprise or pleasure on his face as he addressed himself to Lessingham, now seated in the Chairman’s place at the end of the table. “Very sorry to disturb your meeting, sir,” he said. “There’s a report of a man having been seen to enter your offices by way of the emergency staircase. May I ask if you have seen him?” “A man? No, certainly not,” answered Lessingham. His glance strayed towards Wraile, who quickly took command of the situation. “How long ago is this supposed to have happened, Inspector? By the way, Lessingham, this is Inspector Poole, who came to see me yesterday about poor Fratten’s death.” Lessingham bowed, and Poole half raised his hand to his bared head.