No harm was done to the pictures; they knew their work. The Cox was lifted down and now leaned at a secure angle. The Morland turned its back canvas to the ceiling, pushed on a capsized armchair. I wish I could say as much for the Napoleonic looking-glass. It was just too high for one of the men's hands; he slipped, and down it came: an omen of ill-fortune, smashed upon the floor--round gilded frame, Eagle of the Legions, and all. "Well, well!" said Mr. Collop cheerfully. "No battle without losses, ye know--hey?" "I really think...." urged the Home Secretary, with something as near anger as his temperament allowed. "Never you fuss, sir," thrust in Mr. Collop genially. "It's all right now. We've proved our point. That's the 'sential. I say again, the Negative part is accomplished," and he smiled upon his chief with all the satisfaction of genius. "The em'rald's not in this room where it was lost. That's a cert. What's the conclusion? Why, sir, the conclusion is that it's _somewhere else_. And when I say somewhere else, what do I mean?" "You mean...." began the Home Secretary nervously, stepping down gingerly from his perch and trying to make his way across the joists--"you mean that you must now consider which, if any, of my guests ..." Again Mr. Collop's hand went up. "Now, sir; pardon me! That's not the scientific spirit. I shall send these men back to the Lion, with your leave"--it was the first time he had asked it, and it was granted with enthusiasm--"and then I shall ask you, sir, to give me details, and I shall make notes. After that we'll sleep on it.... Before you go, men, get the Austrians down again. Hammer the clamps down: hammer 'em down good and strong at the corners; whang 'em in! You know how these Austrians buckle! We'll 'ave everything right again in a jiffy"--to his host--"and then we'll sleep sound on it. Like 'Ogs." With clamouring echo which shook those ancient walls, square after square of Austrian antique was thrown back into its place; with Cyclopean noise the clamps were driven into their former holes, and the shattering bangs of the heavy iron hammers sounded like thunder through the silent night. Twenty yards away, in the small smoking-room, Victoria Mosel and Tommy Galton had remained to exchange a few insults after the others had gone off to bed. They started at the unusual din; she very slightly, he with a jerk. "What are they doing?" said he suspiciously. "Making your scaffold," shot Vic decidedly: then, more doubtfully. "It's a damned shame! For I don't suppose you did take it after all, Tommy? Eh?" "If I thought there was room on you for that bloody stone," began Tommy viciously.... "Oh, search me!" said Vic, without sincerity. "No, but, Vic, what _are_ they doing?"