“The only real bit of work I’ve done to-day,” he went on, “has led me to find, not an answer, but another problem. The question is: was a certain thing done genuinely or was it done to look as if it had been done genuinely, or was it done in the way it was on purpose to look ungenuine? The answer, at present, is a lemon.” Again she smiled. “It sounds awful,” she said. Then, with a change of tone: “But—but my brother? You were saying——” Piercing, blaring, came the angry ring of the telephone. Lucia leapt to her feet with a cry. Before she could move again Anthony was at the instrument. As he lifted the receiver she reached his side, pleading with eyes and hands for permission to use the extra ear-piece. “Carry on,” he said; and into the transmitter: “Hallo!” She snatched at the black disc, to hear: “That you, Gethryn?” “Yes. Hastings?” “Yes. I’ve done that job——” “What did you find?” Anthony snapped, laying a reassuring hand on the white shoulder beside him. He felt that her whole body was shaking. The telephone made meaningless cackles. “What——” “I said,” came a squeak of a voice, “that the man your message referred to—er—said that it was he who had pulled off that deal you were asking about.” Anthony flashed a glance at the woman beside him. With surprise and admiration he saw that there were no signs of collapse. The hand which held the extra receiver was steady as his own, the head was held erect. Only the pallor of the face, extending even to the lips, told of the shock. The telephone had again relapsed into mere cackling and buzzing. Anthony gave vent to his feelings. “Blast you! Speak more clearly. Go on from where he said that it was his deal.” “And blast ye, too, scum!” came in a hilarious wheeze. “I said that the extraordinary part of the business was that I found out that the merchant must have—cackle—cackle—bahk-bahk——” “Hell! Repeat! _What_ did you find out?” “I said that the chap must have dreamed it all. I found out that he couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the thing. Why on earth he thought _he’d_—er—put this deal through, I can’t say—unless the explanation is that he got the idea that he would do it when he began to be so ill, put in a goodish bit of brooding, and then, when it _was_ done and he heard about it, got all mixed and thought he was really the—er—manipulator of the business. Anyway, it’s certain he couldn’t’ve had anything to do with it at all. Take it from me.” Lucia staggered, then sank weakly into a chair, still clasping the black disc to her ear. Anthony glanced at her; saw that the colour had come flooding back to her face. “You’re sure about this?” he asked the telephone.