Stefanopoulos, maintaining his sullen demeanour, put the writing materials in front of him. Cuypers grinned at him almost benevolently. “And one of your very best cigars, Demetri. You make an ungracious host! And a drop of real Schnapps. That’s right—and have a drop yourself, old boy. Show this poor native who’s coming to see you this evening a touching picture of the master hob-nobbing with his trusty old confidential clerk. Your very good—health.” He smacked his lips in gratified appreciation as Stefanopoulos grunted an unintelligible rejoinder. The two hours that followed reminded Anthony as he stood upright in the passage of that weary vigil in the garden of Considine Manor when he awaited with others the coming of the “Spider.” Neither the Crown Prince nor Sir Austin Kemble seemed particularly inclined to conversation. Remarks between them were few and far. A large old fashioned clock that hung on the side wall of the evil-smelling passage announced the winging of the minutes with jaunty loudness. At times its ticking was the only sound that disturbed the ominous silence. In Anthony’s heart there was a feeling of quiet triumph—but there was also a dangerous coldness. He was on the point of avenging a particularly cruel and callous crime—he was inclined to regard the case as perhaps—the door of the outer shop jangled discordantly! Through the crack of the door he saw the muscles of Cuypers’ face set rigidly as Stefanopoulos rose to his unsteady feet and shuffled once again into the shop. He heard a deep voice cut into the noise of the Greek’s shuffling slippers. Words passed that he was unable to hear. Then the two people came nearer. “Salaam, sahib! You speak the Angleesh—yes?” Anthony could not catch the reply but he saw Stefanopoulos usher his caller into the private apartment where Cuypers was seated. Sir Austin and the Crown Prince crowded noiselessly behind him in the passage. Anthony could now see the visitor quite plainly. He could see an Indian, clad in the white costume affected by his race, with turban on his head. He was a man of splendid physique. A flowing beard gave him the appearance of age and wisdom and his dark eyes glowed with excitement. “What can I do for you?” mumbled the old Greek. Lal Singh glanced meaningly at Cuypers busy with pen and paper. “My business is with you alone.” “Be easy on that point. It is my clerk—you need not fear.” Lal Singh hesitated for a moment and glanced round the room suspiciously. Then his fingers played delicately round his white turban for a palpitating second or two, and there flashed across the drabness of the squalid room the emerald-sapphire brilliance of the ‘Peacock’s Eye.’ Its rendezvous was reached at last! Stefanopoulos eyed the dazzling gem with greedy lust. “So!” he permitted himself to mutter. “I have come to trade,” declared Lal Singh. His tone held the silkiness of malevolent menace. “If you will deal justly with me. If not—I will kill you as I killed for——”