“We must make quite certain,” Mr. Fentolin continued. “There are so many people who would miss me. My place in the world would not be easily filed. Undo my waistcoat, Sarson. Feel my heart, please. Feel carefully. I can see the end of your stethoscope in your pocket. Don’t scamp it. I fancied this morning, when I was lying here alone, that there was something almost like a palpitation--a quicker beat. Be very careful, Sarson. Now.” The doctor made his examination with impassive face. Then he stepped back. “There is no change in your condition, Mr. Fentolin,” he announced. “The palpitation you spoke of is a mistake. You are in perfect health.” Mr. Fentolin sighed gently. “Then,” he said, “I will now amuse myself by a gentle ride down to the Tower. You are entirely satisfied, Sarson? You are keeping nothing back from me?” The doctor looked at him with grim, impassive face. “There is nothing to keep back,” he declared. “You have the constitution of a cowboy. There is no reason why you should not live for another thirty years.” Mr. Fentolin sighed, as though a weight had been removed from his heart. “I will now,” he decided, reaching forward for the handle of his carriage, “go down to the Tower. It is just possible that a few days’ seclusion might be good for our guest.” The doctor turned silently away. There was no one there to see his expression as he walked towards the door. CHAPTER VII The two men who were supping together in the grillroom at the Cafe Milan were talking with a seriousness which seemed a little out of keeping with the rose-shaded lamps and the swaying music of the band from the distant restaurant. Their conversation had started some hours before in the club smoking-room and had continued intermittently throughout the evening. It had received a further stimulus when Richard Hamel, who had bought an Evening Standard on their way from the theatre a few minutes ago, came across a certain paragraph in it which he read aloud. “Hanged if I understand things over here, nowadays, Reggie!” he declared, laying the paper down. “Here’s another Englishman imprisoned in Germany--this time at a place no one ever heard of before. I won’t try to pronounce it. What does it all mean? It’s all very well to shrug your shoulders, but when there are eighteen arrests within one week on a charge of espionage, there must be something up.” For the first time Reginald Kinsley seemed inclined to discuss the subject seriously. He drew the paper towards him and read the little paragraph, word by word. Then he gave some further order to an attentive maitre d’hotel and glanced around to be sure that they were not overheard. “Look here, Dick, old chap,” he said, “you are just back from abroad and you are not quite in the hang of things yet. Let me ask you a plain question. What do you think of us all?” “Think of you?” Hamel repeated, a little doubtfully. “Do you mean personally?”