Gonsalez was holding a flat metal case which he had taken from his pocket, and the prisoner watched him, fascinated, as he removed the lid, and snapped a cigar-lighter close to its blackened surface. A blue flame rose and swayed in the draught. “The police force is a most excellent institution,” said Leon. He had found a silver shoe-horn on the table and was calmly heating it in the light of the flame, holding the rapidly warming hook with a silk handkerchief. “But unfortunately, when you are dealing with crimes of violence, moral suasion and gentle treatment produce nothing more poignant in the bosom of your adversary than a sensation of amused and derisive contempt. The English, who make a god of the law, gave up imprisoning thugs and flogged them, and there are few thugs left. When the Russian gunmen came to London, the authorities did the only intelligent thing—they held back the police and brought up the artillery, having only one desire, which was to kill the gunmen at any expense. Violence fears violence. The gunman lives in the terror of the gun—by the way, I understand the old guard is back in full strength?” When Leon started in this strain he could continue for hours. “I don’t know what you mean,” mumbled Monty. “You wouldn’t.” The intruder lifted the blackened, smoking shoe-horn, brought it as near to his face as he dared. “Yes, I think that will do,” he said, and came slowly towards the bed. The man drew up his feet in anticipation of pain, but a long hand caught him by the ankles and drew them straight again. “They’ve gone to the Arts Ball.” Even through the handkerchief the voice sounded hoarse. “The Arts Ball?” Gonsalez looked down at him, and then, throwing the hot shoe-horn into the fire-place, he removed the gag. “Why have they gone to the Arts Ball?” “I wanted them out of the way to-night.” “Is—Oberzohn likely to be at the Arts Ball?” “Oberzohn!” The man’s laugh bordered on the hysterical. “Or Gurther?” This time Mr. Newton did not laugh. “I don’t know who you mean,” he said. “We’ll go into that later,” replied Leon lightly, pulling the knot of the handkerchief about the ankles. “You may get up now. What time do you expect them back?” “I don’t know. I told Joan not to hurry, as I was meeting somebody here to-night.” Which sounded plausible. Leon remembered that the Arts Ball was a fancy dress affair, and there was some reason for the departure from the mews instead of from the front of the house. As though he were reading his thoughts, Newton said: “It was Miss Leicester’s idea, going through the back. She was rather shy . . . she was wearing a domino.” “Colour?” “Green, with a reddish hood.” Leon looked at him quickly. “Rather distinctive. Was that the idea?” “I don’t know what the idea was,” growled Newton, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling on a sock. “But I do know this, Gonsalez,” he said, with an outburst of anger which was half fear: “that you’ll be sorry you did this to me!”