“Well, that man was Crochard.  He got Pigot into his stateroom—­gave him a whiff of the same stuff he used on Simmonds, no doubt; put him out of the way under the berth; got into his clothes, made up his face, put on a wig—­and all that while we were kicking our heels outside waiting for him.”

“But it was a tremendous risk,” I said.  “There were so many people on board who knew Pigot—­it would have to be a perfect disguise.”

“Crochard wouldn’t stop for that.  But it wasn’t much of a risk.  None of us had seen Pigot closely; all we had seen of him was the back of his head; and the passengers were all on deck watching the quarantine men.  And yet, of course, the disguise was a perfect one.  Crochard is an artist in that line, and he was, no doubt, thoroughly familiar with Pigot’s appearance.  He deceived the purser—­but the purser wouldn’t suspect anything!”

“So it was really Crochard....”

“But we ought to have suspected.  We ought to have suspected everything, questioned everything; I ought to have looked up that visitor and found out what became of him.  Instead of which, Crochard put Pigot’s papers in his pocket, set his bag outside the stateroom door, and then came out calmly to meet his dear friends of the press; and I stood there talking to him like a little schoolboy—­no wonder he thinks I’m a fool!”

“But nobody would have suspected!” I gasped.  “Why, that man is-is....”

“A genius,” said Godfrey.  “An absolute and unquestioned genius.  But I knew that all the time, and I ought to have been on guard.  You remember he said he would come to-day?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe it yet.”

“There’s one consolation—­it will break Grady.”

“But, Godfrey,” I said, “if you could have seen those diamonds—­those beautiful diamonds—­and to think he should be able to get away with them from right under our noses!”

“It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?  But there’s no use crying over spilt milk.  Lester,” he added, in another tone, “I want you to be in your office at noon to-morrow—­or rather, to-day.”

“All right,” I promised; “I’ll be there.”

“Don’t fail me.  There is one act of the comedy still to be played.”

“I’ll be there,” I said again.  “But I’m afraid the last act will be an anti-climax.  Look here, Godfrey....”

“Now go to bed,” he broke in; “you’re talking like a somnambulist.  Get some sleep.  Have you arranged for that vacation?”

“Godfrey,” I said, “tell me....”

“I won’t tell you anything.  Only I’ve got one more bomb to explode, Lester, and it’s a big one.  It will make you jump!”

I could hear him chuckling to himself.

“Good-night,” he said, and hung up.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAST ACT OF THE DRAMA