He drew his arms tightly over his heaving breast, for he was deeply moved, while over his face came that indefinable light which, at times, illuminates the countenance of a great man.  It came and went; as a flash of lightning betrays the oncoming storm.

The chimney!  His heart missed a beat.  He had forgotten the chimney.  The reaction affected him like a blow.  A snarl twisted his mouth.  What was this chimney to any other man?  Only he of all men, knew.  And yet, here was some one stealthily at work, forestalling him, knocking the bottom out of his great dream.  There was nothing pleasant in the growing expression an his face; it was the tiger, waking.  There could be only one way.

Swiftly he dashed to his trunk, knelt and examined the lock, unscrewed it, and took out the documents more precious to him than the treasures of a hundred Captain Kidds.  Instantly, he returned to the window.  Nothing was missing.  But here was something he had never noticed before.  On the face of the slip of parchment—­a diagram, dim and faded—­was an oily thumb-mark.  The oil from the lock; nothing more; doubtless he himself had touched it.  How many times had he found an unknown touch among his few belongings?  How often had he smiled?  Still, to quell all rising doubts, he rubbed his right thumb on the lock, and made a second impression.  The daylight was now insufficient, so he turned on the electricity, and compared them.  Slowly, the scars deepened till they were the tint of cedar.  Death’s head itself could not have fascinated him more than the dissimilarity of these two thumb-prints.  He said nothing, but a queer little strangling sound came through his lips.

Who?  Where?  His heart beat so violently that the veins in his throat swelled and threatened to burst.  But he was no weakling.  He summoned all his will.  He must act, and act at once, immediately.

Fitzgerald?  No, not that clever, idling fool.  But who, who?  He replaced the papers and the lock.  A hidden menace.  Question as he would, there was never any answer.

He practised the pleasant deceit that the first mark had been there when the diagram had been given to him.  It was not possible that any one had discovered his hiding-place.  Had he not with his own hands contrived it, alone and without aid, under that accursed mansard roof?  Not one of his co-adventurers knew; they had advanced him funds on his word.  His other documents they had seen; these had sufficed them.  Still, back it came, with deadly insistence; some one was digging at the bricks in the chimney.  The drama was beginning to move.  Had he waited too long?

Mechanically, he proceeded to dress for dinner.  Since he was to sit at the family table, he must fit his dress and manners to the hour.  He did not resist the sardonic smile as he put on his fresh patent leathers and his new dinner coat.  He recalled Fitzgerald’s half-concealed glances of pity the last time they had dined together.