“No, he has found his way to The Hague safely enough. He is lying there at a hotel in the city, but he is unconscious. There is some talk about his having been robbed on the way. At any rate, they are tracing his movements backwards. We are to be honoured with a visit from one of Scotland Yard’s detectives, to reconstruct his journey from here. Our quiet little corner of the world is becoming quite notorious. Florence dear, you are tired. I can see it in your eyes. Your headache continues, I am sure. We will not be selfish. Mr. Hamel and I are going to have a long evening in the library. Let me recommend a phenacetin and bed.” She rose at once to her feet, with a dog under either arm. “I’ll take the phenacetin,” she promised, “but I hate going to bed early. Shall I see you again, I wonder, Mr. Hamel?” “Not this evening, I fear,” he answered. “I am going to ask Mr. Fentolin to excuse me early.” She passed out of the room. Hamel escorted her as far as the door and then returned. Mr. Fentolin was sitting quite still in his chair. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. He looked up quickly as Hamel resumed his seat. “You are not in earnest, I hope, Mr. Hamel,” he said, “when you tell me that you must leave early? I have been anticipating a long evening. My library is filled with books on South America which I want to discuss with you.” “Another evening, if you don’t mind,” Hamel begged. “To-night I must ask you to excuse my hurrying away.” Mr. Fentolin looked up from underneath his eyelids. His glance was quick and penetrating. “Why this haste?” Hamel shrugged his shoulders. “To tell you the truth,” he admitted, “I had an idea while I was reading an article on cantilever bridges this morning. I want to work it out.” Mr. Fentolin glanced behind him. The door of the dining-room was closed. The servants had disappeared. Meekins alone, looking more like a prize fighter than ever in his somber evening clothes, had taken the place of the butler behind his master’s chair. “We shall see,” Mr. Fentolin said quietly. CHAPTER XXX Mr. Fentolin pointed to the little pile of books upon the table, the deep easy-chair, the green-shaded lamps, the decanter of wine. He had insisted upon a visit, however brief, to the library.