Varcek took the conversational shift in stride.  “Of course,” he agreed.  “But you are trained in the scientific method of thought.  That, at least, is something.  When I have opportunity to explain my ideas more fully, I believe you will be interested in my conclusions.”

They greeted Gladys, and walked with her to the dining-room.  As usual, Geraldine was absent; Dunmore and Nelda were already at the table, eating in silence.  Both of them seemed self-conscious, after the pitched battle of the evening before.  Rand broke the tension by offering Humphrey Goode in the role of whipping-boy; he had no sooner made a remark in derogation of the lawyer than Nelda and her husband broke into a duet of vituperation.  In the end, everybody affected to agree that the whole unpleasant scene had been entirely Goode’s fault, and a pleasant spirit of mutual cordiality prevailed.

Finally Dunmore got up, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

“Well, it’s about time to get to work,” he said.  “We might as well save gas and both use my car.  Coming, Anton?”

“I’m sorry, Fred; I can’t leave, yet.  I have some notes upstairs I have to get in order.  I was working on this new egg-powder, last evening, and I want to continue the experiments at the plant laboratory.  I think I know how we’ll be able to cut production costs on it, about five per cent.”

“And boy, can we stand that!” Dunmore grunted.  “Well, be seeing you at the plant.”

Rand waited until Dunmore had left, then went across to the library and up to the gunroom.  As soon as he entered the room above, he saw what was wrong.  The previous thefts had been masked by substitutions, but whoever had helped himself to one of the more recent metallic-cartridge specimens, the night before, hadn’t bothered with any such precaution, and a pair of vacant screwhooks disclosed the removal.  A second look told Rand what had been taken:  the little .25 Webley & Scott from the Pollard collection, with the silencer.

The pistol-trade which had been imposed on him had disquieted him; now, he had no hesitation in admitting to himself, he was badly scared.  Whoever had taken that little automatic had had only one thought in mind—­noiseless and stealthy murder.  Very probably with one Colonel Jefferson Davis Rand in mind as the prospective corpse.

He sat down at the desk and started typing, at the same time trying to keep the hall door and the head of the spiral stairway under observation.  It was an attempt which was responsible for quite a number of typographical errors.  Finally, Anton Varcek came in from the hallway, approached the desk, and sat down in an armchair.

“Colonel Rand,” he began, in a low voice, “I have been thinking over a remark you made, last evening.  Were you serious when you alluded to the possibility that Lane Fleming had been murdered?”

“Well, the idea had occurred to me,” Rand understated, keeping his right hand close to his left coat lapel.  “I take it you have begun to doubt that it was an accident?”