Neither of them could know that this was the case which Eustace Charliewood had found in the pocket of Rathbone's fur coat, when he had taken it from the Bond Street coiffeur in mistake. Neither of them could see how it had been restored by Charliewood to Rathbone, and had been appropriated by Mr. Guest, when the captive had been taken to his silent place below the old house in Regent's Park. And even Sir William Gouldesbrough did not know that he had seen the thing in his study, just as he was starting for Lord Malvin's house, and had absently slipped it into his pocket, thinking it was his own. CHAPTER XVIII PLANS Sir William Gouldesbrough stood in the large laboratory. The great room was perfectly dark, save only for a huge circle of bright light upon one of the walls, like the circle thrown upon a screen by a magic-lantern. A succession of dim and formless figures moved and slid over the illuminated space in fantastic silence. Now and then the face of part of the dress of one of the figures would suddenly glow out into colour and absolute distinctness. Then it would fade away into mist. There was a "click," and the circle of light vanished, another, and the vast laboratory glowed out into being as Sir William turned on a hundred electric bulbs. Mr. Guest was sitting upon a long, low table swinging his legs. His great pink face was blotched and stained by excess, and his hand shook like an aspen leaf. He jerked his head towards the opposite wall upon which the huge screen was stretched--an enormous expanse of white material stretched upon rollers of hollow steel. "Rathbone's getting about done," he said. "I give him another month before his brain goes or he pegs out altogether. Look at those results just now! All foggy and uncertain. He's losing the power of concentrating his thoughts. Continuous thinking is getting beyond him." Sir William was sitting in an arm-chair. By the side of it was a circular table with a vulcanite top, covered with switch-handles and controlling mechanism. His long thin finger played with a little brass button, and his face was set in lines of deep and gloomy thought. His eyes were fixed and brooding, and sombreness seemed to surround him like an atmosphere. He showed no signs of having heard his assistant for a moment or two. Then he turned his face suddenly towards him. "My friend," he said, "you yourself will not last another month if you go on as you are going. That is quite certain. You ought to know it as well as I do. Another attack of delirium and nothing can save you." Mr. Guest smiled horribly. "Very possibly, William," he said, "I have thought that it may be so myself. But why should I care? I'm not like you. I have no human interests. Nothing matters to me except my work." "And if you die in delirium tremens you won't be able to go on with your work."