“You are at once complimentary and scathing, Mr. Stafford,” he said; “but I do recognize the force of what you say.  Scotland Yard is beneath contempt.  I know of cases—­but I will not detain you with them now.  They bungle their work terribly at Scotland Yard.  A detective should be a man of imagination, of initiative, of deep knowledge of human nature.  In the presence of a mystery he should be ready to find motives, to construct them and put them into play, as though they were real—­work till a clue was found.  Then, if none is found, find another motive and work on that.  The French do it.  They are marvels.  Hamard is a genius, as you say.  He imagines, he constructs, he pursues, he squeezes out every drop of juice in the orange....  You see, I agree with you on the whole, but this tragedy disturbed me, and I thought that I had a real clue.  I still believe I have, but cui bono?”

“Cui bono indeed, if it is bungled.  If you could do it all yourself, good.  But that is impossible.  The world wants your skill to save life, not to destroy it.  Fellowes is dead—­does it matter so infinitely, whether by his own hand or that of another?”

“No, I frankly say I don’t think it does matter infinitely.  His type is no addition to the happiness of the world.”

They looked at each other meaningly, and Mappin responded once again to Stafford’s winning smile.

It pleased him prodigiously to feel Stafford lay a firm hand on his arm and say:  “Can you, perhaps, dine with me to-night at the Travellers’ Club?  It makes life worth while to talk to men like you who do really big things.”

“I shall be delighted to come for your own reasons,” answered the great man, beaming, and adjusting his cuffs carefully.

“Good, good.  It is capital to find you free.”  Again Stafford caught the surgeon’s arm with a friendly little grip.

Suddenly, however, Mr. Mappin became aware that Stafford had turned desperately white and worn.  He had noticed this spent condition when he first came in, but his eyes now rediscovered it.  He regarded Stafford with concern.

“Mr. Stafford,” he said, “I am sure you do not realize how much below par you are....  You have been under great strain—­I know, we all know, how hard you have worked lately.  Through you, England launches her ship of war without fear of complications; but it has told on you heavily.  Nothing is got without paying for it.  You need rest, and you need change.”

“Quite so—­rest and change.  I am going to have both now,” said Stafford with a smile, which was forced and wan.

“You need a tonic also, and you must allow me to give you one,” was the brusque professional response.

With quick movement he went over to Stafford’s writing-table, and threw open the cover of the blotter.

In a flash Stafford was beside him, and laid a hand upon the blotter, saying with a smile, of the kind which had so far done its work—­