All night long he lay, turning over in his mind plans, schemes, methods of escape, if escape were necessary. His bandaged head throbbed unpleasantly, but still he thought, and thought, and thought. If Amber had the plates, what would he do with them? It was hardly likely he would take them to the police. Blackmail, perhaps. That was more in Amber’s line. A weekly income on condition he kept his mouth shut. If that was the course adopted, it was plain sailing. Whitey would do something, Whitey was a desperate, merciless devil.... Lambaire shuddered--there must be no murder though. He had been reading that very day an article which showed that only four per cent. of murderers in England escape detection ... if by a miracle this blew over, he would try a straighter course. Drop the “silver business” and the “printing business” and concentrate on the River of Stars. That was legitimate. If there was anything shady about the flotation of the Company, that would all be forgotten in the splendid culmination.... De Beers would come along and offer to buy a share; he would be a millionaire ... other men have made millions and have lived down their shady past. There was Isadore Jarach, who had a palatial residence off Park Lane, he was a bad egg in his beginnings. There was another man ... what was his name...? He fell into a troubled sleep just as the dawn began to show faintly. A knocking at the door aroused him, and he sprang out of bed. He was full of the wildest fears, and his eyes wandered to the desk wherein lay a loaded Derringer. “Open the door, Lambaire.” It was Whitey’s voice, impatiently demanding admission, and with a trembling hand Lambaire slipped back the little bolt of the door. Whitey entered the room grumbling. If he too had spent a sleepless night, there was little in his appearance to indicate the fact. “It’s a good job you live at an hotel,” he said. “I should have knocked and knocked without getting in. Phew! Wreck! You’re a wreck.” Whitey shook his head at him disapprovingly. “Oh, shut up, Whitey!” Lambaire poured out a basin full of water, and plunged his face into it. “I’ve had a bad night.” “I’ve had no night at all,” said Whitey, “no night at all,” he repeated shrilly. “Do I look like a sea-sick turnip? I hope not. You in your little bed,--me, tramping streets looking for Amber--I found him.” Lambaire was wiping his face on a towel, and ceased his rubbing to stare at the speaker. “You didn’t----” he whispered fearfully. Whitey’s lips curled. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you mean,” he said shortly. “Don’t jump, Lambaire, you’re a great man for jumping--no, I didn’t kill him--he lives in the Borough,” he added inconsequently. “How did you find out?” asked Lambaire. “Don’t pad,” begged the other testily. “Don’t Ask Questions for the Sake of Asking Questions,--get dressed,--we’ll leave Amber.” “Why?”