‘Getting on all right?’ he said to the newly-installed manager, a young man with light hair from the counting-house.

‘Oh yes, Mr. Hugo.’

‘Any new customers?’

He trembled for the reply.

’Yes, sir.  Two gentlemen came as soon as we opened this morning, and took Vault 39.  They paid a year’s rent in advance.  Two hundred pounds.’

‘What did they want a whole vault for?’

’I can’t say, sir.  There was a lot of going to and fro with parcels and things, sir, and a lot of telephoning in the waiting-room.  And one of them asked for a glass and some water.  They were here a long time, sir.’

‘When did they go?’

’It was about ten-thirty, sir, when one of the two gentlemen called me to bring my key and lock up the vault.  The vault was properly locked, first with his key, and then with mine, and then he left.  Perhaps it might be a quarter to eleven, sir.’

‘But the other gentleman?’

‘Oh, he must have slipped off earlier, sir.  I didn’t see him go.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Oldish man, Mr. Hugo.  Gray.’

The manager was somewhat mystified by this cross-examination.

‘And the name?’

‘The name?  Let me see.  Callear.  Yes, Callear, sir.’

‘What?’

‘C-a-l-l-e-a-r.’

‘What was the address?’

’Hotel Cecil.  He said he would send a permanent address in a day or two.’

In half an hour Hugo had ascertained that no person named Callear was staying at the Hotel Cecil.

He understood now, understood too clearly, the meanings of Ravengar’s strange utterances on the telephone.  The man had determined to commit suicide, and he had chosen a way which was calculated with the most appalling ingenuity to ruin, if anything would ruin, Hugo’s peace of mind for years to come—­perhaps for ever.  For the world, Ravengar was drowned.  But Hugo knew that his body was lying in that vault.

‘Louis had an accomplice,’ Hugo reflected.  ’Who can that have been?  Who could have been willing to play so terrible a role?’

CHAPTER XXII

DARCY

That night, when he was just writing out some cheques in aid of charities conducted by Lady Brice (nee Kentucky-Webster), Simon entered with a card.  The hour was past eleven.

Hugo read on the card, ‘Docteur Darcy.’

He had nearly forgotten that he had sent for Darcy; in fact, he was no longer quite sure why he had sent for him, since he meant, in any case, to hasten to Belgium at the earliest moment.

‘You are exceedingly prompt, doctor,’ he said, when Darcy came into the dome.  ‘I thank you.’

The cosmopolitan physician appeared to be wearing the same tourist suit that he had worn on the night of Tudor’s death.  The sallowness of his impassive face had increased somewhat, and his long thin hands had their old lackadaisical air.  ‘You don’t look at all the man for such a part,’ said Hugo in the privacy of his brain, ’but you played your part devilish well that night, my pale friend.  You deceived me perfectly.’