"That's rubbish," said Beale roughly, "you know. Where did you communicate with van Heerden? He wasn't always at his flat and you only came there twice." "I assure you----" began Mr. White, alarmed by the other's vehemence. "Assure nothing," thundered Beale, "your policies won't sell--where did you see him?" "On my honour----" "Let's keep jokes outside of the argument," said Beale truculently, "where did you see him?" "Believe me, I never saw him--if I had a message to send, my cashier--ah--Miss Glaum, an admirable young lady--carried it for me." "Hilda Glaum!" Beale struck his palm. Why had he not thought of Hilda Glaum before? "That's about all I want to ask you, Mr. White," he said mildly; "you're a lucky man." "Lucky, sir!" Mr. White recovered his hauteur as quickly as Beale's aggressiveness passed. "I fail to perceive my fortune. I fail to see, sir, where luck comes in." "You have your money back," said Beale significantly, "if you hadn't been pressed for money and had not pressed van Heerden you would have whistled for it." "Do you suggest," demanded White, in his best judicial manner, "do you suggest in the presence of a witness with a due appreciation of the actionable character of your words that Doctor van Heerden is a common swindler?" "Not common," replied Beale, "thank goodness!" CHAPTER XXII HILDA GLAUM LEADS THE WAY Beale had a long consultation with McNorton at Scotland Yard, and on his return to the hotel, had his dinner sent up to Kitson's private room and dined amidst a litter of open newspapers. They were representative journals of the past week, and he scanned their columns carefully. Now and again he would cut out a paragraph and in one case half a column. Kitson, who was dining with a friend in the restaurant of the hotel, came up toward nine o'clock and stood looking with amusement at the detective's silent labours. "You're making a deplorable litter in my room," he said, "but I suppose there is something very mysterious and terrible behind it all. Do you mind my reading your cuttings?" "Go ahead," said Beale, without raising his eyes from his newspaper. Kitson took up a slip and read aloud: "The reserves of the Land Bank of the Ukraine have been increased by ten million roubles. This increase has very considerably eased the situation in Southern Ukraine and in Galicia, where there has been considerable unrest amongst the peasants due to the high cost of textiles." "That is fascinating news," said Kitson sardonically. "Are you running a scrap-book on high finance?" "No," said the other shortly, "the Land Bank is a Loan Bank. It finances peasant proprietors." "You a shareholder?" asked Mr. Kitson wonderingly. "No." Kitson picked up another cutting. It was a telegraphic dispatch dated from Berlin: