“You’re alive, my friend, and I didn’t believe you when you said you were snake-proof.” Leon poured out a tumbler of neat whisky and held it to the American’s lips. “Down with Prohibition!” murmured Washington, and did not take the glass from his lips until it was empty. “You can give me another dose of that—I shan’t get pickled,” he said. He put his hand up to his face and touched the tiny wound gingerly. “It is wet,” he said in surprise. “What did it feel like?” “Like nothing so much as a snake-bite,” confessed the expert. Already his face was puffed beneath the eyes, and the skin was discoloured black and blue. Leon crossed to the fire-place and pushed the bell, and Washington watched him in amazement. “Say, what’s the good of ringing? The servants have gone.” There was a patter of feet in the hall, the door was flung open and George Manfred came in, and behind him the startled visitor saw Meadows and a dozen men. “For the Lord’s sake!” he said sleepily. “They came in the char-à-banc, lying on the floor,” explained Leon, “and the only excuse for bringing a char-à-banc here was to send the servants to that concert.” “You got Lee away?” asked Manfred. Leon nodded. “He was in the car that took friend Meadows, who transferred to the char-à-banc somewhere out of sight of the house.” Washington had taken a small cardboard box from his pocket and was rubbing a red powder gingerly upon the two white-edged marks, groaning the while. “This is certainly a snake that’s got the cobra skinned to death and a rattlesnake’s bite ain’t worse than a dog nip,” he said. “Mamba nothing! I know the mamba; he is pretty fatal, but not so bad as this.” Manfred looked across to Leon. “Gurther?” he asked simply, and Gonsalez nodded. “It was intended for me obviously, but, as I’ve said before, Gurther is nervous. And it didn’t help him any to be shot up.” “Do you fellows mind not talking so loud?” He glanced at the heavy curtains that covered the windows. Behind these the shutters had been fastened, and Dr. Oberzohn was an ingenious man. Leon took a swift survey of the visitor’s feet; they wore felt slippers. “I don’t think I can improve upon the tactics of the admirable Miss Leicester,” he said, and went up to Mr. Lee’s bedroom, which was in the centre of the house and had a small balcony, the floor of which was formed by the top of the porch. The long French windows were open and Leon crawled out into the darkness and took observation through the pillars of the balustrade. They were in the open now, making no attempt to conceal their presence. He counted seven, until he saw the cigarette of another near the end of the drive. What were they waiting for? he wondered. None of them moved; they were not even closing on the house. And this inactivity puzzled him. They were awaiting a signal. What was it to be? Whence would it come?