"'Now, look here,' he said straight out. 'Some of your crowd have been watching the Rev. Basil Gortre of Lincoln's Inn; also, you've had a man at Charing Cross waiting for the continental express. Now, I've nothing against you _yet_, but I'll just tell you this. The people behind you aren't any guarantee for you. It's not as you think. This is a big thing. I'll tell you something more. This Mr. Gortre and this Mr. Spence you're waiting for are guarded night and day by order of the Home Secretary. It's an international affair. You can no more touch them than you can touch the Prince of Wales. Is that clear? If it's not, then you'll come with me at once on suspicion. I can put my finger on Bunny Watson'--he's my organising pal, gentlemen--'inside of an hour.'" He stopped at last, taking another drink with a shaking hand, watching the other two with horribly observing eyes. His cleverness had at once shown him that he had stumbled into something far more dangerous than any ordinary incident of his horrid trade. A million pounds would not have made him touch the "business" now. He had come to say this to his employers now. The unhappy men became aware that the man was looking at them both with a new expression. There was wonder in his cold eyes now, and a sort of fear also. When Llwellyn had first sought him with black and infamous proposals, there had been none of this. _That_ had seemed ordinary enough to him, the reason he did not inquire or seek to know. But now there was inquiry in his eyes. Both Schuabe and Llwellyn saw it, knew the cause, and shuddered. There was a tense silence, and then the creature spoke again. There was a loathsome confidential note in his voice. "Now, gentlemen," he said, "you've already paid me well for any little kindness I may have been able to try to do for you. I suppose, now that the little job is 'off,' I shall not get the rest of the sum agreed upon?" Schuabe, without speaking, made a sign to Llwellyn. The big man got up, went to a little nest of mahogany drawers which stood on his writing-table, and opening one of them, took from it a bundle of notes. He gave them to the assassin. "There, Nunc," he said; "no doubt you've done all you could. You won't find us ungrateful. But I want to ask you a few questions." The man took the notes, counted them deliberately, and then looked up with a gleam of satisfied greed passing over his face--the gleam of a pale sunbeam in hell. "Ask anything you like, sir," he said; "I'll give you any help I can." Already there was a ring almost of patronage in his voice. The word "help" was slightly emphasised. "This inspector, who is he exactly? I mean, is he an important person?"