Meadows was on his circuitous way to Curzon Street when he heard this, and he arrived in time for breakfast. Manfred’s servants regarded it as the one eccentricity of an otherwise normal gentleman that he invariably breakfasted with his butler and chauffeur. This matter had been discussed threadbare in the tiny servants’ hall, and it no longer excited comment when Manfred telephoned down to the lower regions and asked for another plate. The Triangle were in cheerful mood. Leon Gonsalez was especially bright and amusing, as he invariably was after such a night as he had spent. “We searched Oberzohn’s house from cellar to attic,” said Meadows when the plate had been laid. “And of course you found nothing. The elegant Gurther?” “He wasn’t there. That fellow will keep at a distance if he knows that there’s a warrant out for him. I suspect some sort of signal. There was a very bright green light burning in one of those ridiculous Gothic turrets.” Manfred stifled a yawn. “Gurther went back soon after midnight,” he said, “and was there until Oberzohn’s return.” “Are you sure?” asked the astonished detective. Leon nodded, his eyes twinkling. “After that, one of those infernal river mists blotted out observation,” he said, “but I should imagine Herr Gurther is not far away. Did you see his companion, Pfeiffer?” Meadows nodded. “Yes, he was cleaning boots when I arrived.” “How picturesque!” said Gonsalez. “I think he will have a valet the next time he goes to prison, unless the system has altered since your days, George?” George Manfred, who had once occupied the condemned cell in Chelmsford Prison, smiled. “An interesting man, Gurther,” mused Gonsalez. “I have a feeling that he will escape hanging. So you could not find him? I found him last night. But for the lady, who was both an impediment and an interest, we might have put a period to his activities.” He caught Meadows’ eye. “I should have handed him to you, of course.” “Of course,” said the detective dryly. “A remarkable man, but nervous. You are going to see Mr. Johnson Lee?” “What made you say that?” asked the detective in astonishment, for he had not as yet confided his intention to the three men. “He will surprise you,” said Leon. “Tell me, Mr. Meadows: when you and George so thoroughly and carefully searched Barberton’s box, did you find anything that was suggestive of his being a cobbler, let us say—or a bookbinder?” “I think in his sister’s letter there was a reference to the books he had made. I found nothing particular except an awl and a long oblong of wood which was covered with pinpricks. As a matter of fact, when I saw it my first thought was that, living the kind of life he must have done in the wilderness, it was rather handy to be able to repair his own shoes. The idea of bookbinding is a new one.”