“Routine,” Pointer explained blandly; “routine took me to Geneva, where lived the _avocat_ to whom Mr. Beale had once telegraphed, and where I found Mr. Heilbronner. From information which came to hand”—a vision of himself piecing together minute scraps from a dustbin made Pointer speak with unction—“which came to hand, I found that Mr. Beale and he were extremely interested in a M. Meunier. I followed up this and that clue, and found that M. Meunier was M. Charles Bonnot of Lyons. More information coming to hand led to the belief that Mr. Beale, and incidentally Mr. Heilbronner, meditated getting hold of some important papers from M. Bonnot and yourself in Lille last night. M. Beauregard—one of M. Bonnot's men of business—took me on two days ago as an extra clerk for some special late work. Being an Alsatian explained my French, and no one suspected me.” “But—how did you know that _I_ should be there?” “I couldn't think of any better or firmer friend of Mr. Carter's.” The Chief Inspector gave a little laugh, and Christine laughed too, and plied him with questions. “What are you going to do when Mr. Heilbronner has signed? I suppose he will sign the papers?” “I fancy he will. Mr. Beale is the strong man in that team.” And Christine did not notice that he left the first part of her sentence unanswered. “And what about that clerk?” “Daru? Oh! M. Bonnot is letting him off very well. He will have to leave his present post, of course, but a place will be found for him at Lyons, where he can work up again. Mr. Beale offered what was a fortune to him, and he has a wife in hospital, so altogether M. Bonnot inclined to a very merciful view of things.” Christine herself waited in desperate anxiety. She could not go to England without knowing. The slip with “Yes” had been despatched to Carter, but she had been told to say nothing of the unexpected turn of events which Mr. Beale's detection had brought about. The next day's post brought the papers signed by Mr. Heilbronner. Mr. Beale delivered the papers to M. Meunier with a wry smile. “Satisfied now? Can I go to my hotel and leave this blank, blanked country?” M. Meunier nodded, and Mr. Beale stalked from the room and drove off to his own suite in the Meurice. As he entered his sitting-room a figure rose from a chair. It was Pointer. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beale.” “What does this mean? What the devil are you doing in my rooms?” There was no mistaking the fact that Mr. Beale's nerves were getting frayed. “A few questions that we want cleared up,” said Pointer imperturbably. “Shut the door, Watts. These papers, Mr. Beale, were found in your flat at Lyons.” “Well, suppose they were?” “May I ask how they came into your possession, sir?” “Bought 'em.” “From whom, sir?” Mr. Beale's eyes travelled slowly from the papers to the officers and back from them to the papers. “Off an agent of mine. His name would mean nothing to you.” “I must ask for it all the same, sir.” “Godard.”