“I have been thinking a good deal over that fellow Newcombe,” he said. “I have not the slightest doubt he could tell us something about Stormont that would make a certainty of what now is not more than a very strong conjecture. I wonder whether you would care to bribe him. There is no doubt that at the moment he is very incensed with Stormont; those bitter words, although he has half a notion they were deserved, will rankle for a long time. Also I doubt if Stormont pays him much to hold his tongue. Now would be the time to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. Of course, the drawback is that you will have to put down more money, in addition to the expenses you have already incurred, as it were, for no practical result.” Lydon thought a little. “I would give a great deal to have the thing settled,” he said presently. “To find out something which would definitely justify our suspicions, our almost positive suspicions, of Stormont. As you have pointed out, we cannot prove that Calliard was done to death at his instigation, but we have little doubt of it in our own minds. We cannot actually prove that this Curzon Street couple are out to fleece this simple young Wraysbury, but we are sure of it; and Stormont, perhaps also Whitehouse, is at the bottom of that. What sort of a sum do you think would be required?” “I should say five hundred at once would be a big temptation to a fellow of that sort.” Lydon rose. “Then set about it at once. I will go to that. If necessary, a bit more. Anything to get rid of this state of suspense.” It was five days since Grewgus had escorted Newcombe home to his mean little lodging. He had received Lydon’s permission to embark on his new scheme shortly after the luncheon hour, their usual time for meeting. Directly after his client had left, he went up to King’s Cross. The door was opened by a slatternly woman of middle age, whose appearance was in keeping with the house. She was the landlady. To his inquiry as to whether Mr. Newcombe was in, she replied in the voluble and indirect manner of her class. “You’re the gent as brought him home in a taxi a few days ago, ain’t you, when he’d had a drop too much? I saw you through the door when he let himself in, and I never forgets a face. Yes, he’s in right enough, but nobody can see him. He’s that bad, we don’t know whether he’ll pull through yet. The doctor ain’t sure.” “What’s the matter with him?” “The doctor says the symptoms are those of a man who has been poisoned, whether by bad food he can’t say.” “When did the attack commence?” “Two days after you brought him home. On the next day somebody called for him, dressed like a toff, a very genial, red-faced man. Said he was an old friend and he went upstairs. They were in Newcombe’s room for over an hour, and then they went out together.” “Do you know where they went to?”