“The Martian?’

“No, no; the Martian doesn’t sail.  Look up the movements on your way there and pick out a boat that does.  Say you are transferred.  Add that you expect to be away only two or three months and that you really want the five hundred pounds by the time of your return.  Don’t stay in the house long, please.”

“I understand, sir.”

“St. Albans is too far.  Make your excuse and get away from there to-day.  Put up somewhere in town, where you will be in reach of the telephone.  Let Mr. Carlyle and myself know where you are.  Keep out of Creake’s way.  I don’t want actually to tie you down to the house, but we may require your services.  We will let you know at the first sign of anything doing and if there is nothing to be done we must release you.”

“I don’t mind that.  Is there nothing more that I can do now?”

“Nothing.  In going to Mr. Carlyle you have done the best thing possible; you have put your sister into the care of the shrewdest man in London.”  Whereat the object of this quite unexpected eulogy found himself becoming covered with modest confusion.

“Well, Max?” remarked Mr. Carlyle tentatively when they were alone.

“Well, Louis?”

“Of course it wasn’t worth while rubbing it in before young Hollyer, but, as a matter of fact, every single man carries the life of any other man—­only one, mind you—­in his hands, do what you will.”

“Provided he doesn’t bungle,” acquiesced Carrados.

“Quite so.”

“And also that he is absolutely reckless of the consequences.”

“Of course.”

“Two rather large provisos.  Creake is obviously susceptible to both.  Have you seen him?”

“No.  As I told you, I put a man on to report his habits in town.  Then, two days ago, as the case seemed to promise some interest—­for he certainly is deeply involved with the typist, Max, and the thing might take a sensational turn at any time—­I went down to Mulling Common myself.  Although the house is lonely it is on the electric tram route.  You know the sort of market garden rurality that about a dozen miles out of London offers—­alternate bricks and cabbages.  It was easy enough to get to know about Creake locally.  He mixes with no one there, goes into town at irregular times but generally every day, and is reputed to be devilish hard to get money out of.  Finally I made the acquaintance of an old fellow who used to do a day’s gardening at Brookbend occasionally.  He has a cottage and a garden of his own with a greenhouse, and the business cost me the price of a pound of tomatoes.”

“Was it—­a profitable investment?”

“As tomatoes, yes; as information, no.  The old fellow had the fatal disadvantage from our point of view of labouring under a grievance.  A few weeks ago Creake told him that he would not require him again as he was going to do his own gardening in future.”