“I am not in India now, nor are you,” Dorn’s voice was gentle, almost silken. “Seven years ago I was in India--in Delhi--and there was a certain smart young Government official, also a financial adviser to some heads of departments, whose accounts went a little wonky. He was some twenty thousand pounds short. The money was never discovered. It was generally thought that the financial authority was more of a fool than a rogue, and, although he was dismissed from the public service, he was not prosecuted.” Chesney Praye licked his dry lips. “I, for my part, advised his prosecution,” Dorn went on. “In fact, I knew that the money was lying at a bank in Bombay, in the name of a lady friend. The Simla big-wigs were so scared of a scandal that the thief”--he paused and watched the other wince--“this thief was allowed to transfer his ill-gotten gains to Europe. And lo! I meet him again in the rôle of financial adviser!” Chesney found his voice. “There’s a law of libel in this country,” he said. “There are several other laws, including the very excellent criminal law,” said Dorn. “And the statute of limitations does not apply to felonies. One loud squeal in an irresponsible newspaper, and they’d have to pinch you, whether the Government liked it or not.” Chesney Praye looked first one way and then the other, and presently his eyes caught the detective’s. He was paler than he had been. “I didn’t associate you with that business,” he said. “I knew I had an enemy somewhere in the background. It was you, was it?” Dorn nodded. “It was I--by the way, where is your dissolute friend, Dr. Tappatt, located? I thought he must have drunk himself to death, but I hear that he is in London--you introduced him to the countess a year ago. Did you tell her about his queer record? Or is he now her medical adviser? Or is he running one of the famous unregistered homes for mental cases? That man will hang sooner or later.” Praye did not reply. His face was working nervously; for a second he had a mad impulse to strike at his tormentor, but thought better of it. It was in a calmer voice that he said: “I don’t see why we should quarrel over what is past. You’re wrong when you think I made money out of that Delhi business, and I haven’t seen Tappatt for months. But I know I can’t convince you. Let’s bury the hatchet.” Michael Dorn looked down at the extended hand, but made no effort to take it. “If I bury any hatchet with you, Praye,” he said, “it will only put me to the expense of buying a new one. You go your way and let your way be as straight as possible. If you run foul of me, I’m going to hurt you, and I assure you I shall hurt you bad!” He saw the flaming hate in the man’s eyes, and his own gaze did not waver. Suddenly Praye turned on his heels and walked away.