"Ah! There you have me! It was the question I asked and he refused to answer. I was to put myself in his hands and there was to be some shooting if, as he thought likely, a caretaker was left on the premises to be entered. I told him flat--we were sitting on Wandsworth Common at the time--that he could leave me out, and that is where we became mutually offensive." He looked at his maimed hand. "I dressed it roughly at a chemist's. The iodine open dressing isn't beautiful, but it is antiseptic. He shot to kill, too, there's no doubt about that. A very perfect little gentleman!" "He's in London?" said McNorton. "That simplifies matters." "To my mind it complicates rather than simplifies," said Beale. "London is a vast proposition. Can you give us any idea as to the hour the burglary was planned for?" "Eleven," said Milsom promptly, "that is to say, in a little over an hour's time." "And you have no idea of the locality?" "Somewhere in the East of London. We were to have met at Aldgate." "I don't understand it," said McNorton. "Do you suggest that the code is in the hands of somebody who is not willing to part with it? And now that he no longer needs it for you, is there any reason why he should wait?" "Every reason," replied Milsom, and Stanford Beale nodded in agreement. "It was not only for me he wanted it. He as good as told me that unless he recovered it he would be unable to communicate with his men." "What do you think he'll do?" "He'll get Bridgers to assist him. Bridgers is a pretty sore man, and the doctor knows just where he can find him." As Oliva listened an idea slowly dawned in her mind that she might supply a solution to the mystery of the missing code. It was a wildly improbable theory she held, but even so slender a possibility was not to be discarded. She slipped from the group and went back to her room. For the accommodation of his ward, James Kitson had taken the adjoining suite to his own and had secured a lady's maid from an agency for the girl's service. She passed through the sitting-room to her own bedroom, and found the maid putting the room ready for the night. "Minnie," she said, throwing a quick glance about the apartment, "where did you put the clothes I took off when I came?" "Here, miss." The girl opened the wardrobe and Oliva made a hurried search. "Did you find--anything, a little ticket?" The girl smiled. "Oh yes, miss. It was in your stocking." Oliva laughed. "I suppose you thought it was rather queer, finding that sort of thing in a girl's stocking," she asked, but the maid was busily opening the drawers of the dressing-table in search of something. "Here it is, miss." She held a small square ticket in her hand and held it with such disapproving primness that Oliva nearly laughed. "I found it in your stocking, miss," she said again. "Quite right," said Oliva coolly, "that's where I put it. I always carry my pawn tickets in my stocking." The admirable Minnie sniffed.