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fine and imposing figure—beyond him the attentive Miller, perfect in his duties, assiduous with coat and hat.
    The door closed. The outer door closed too.
    Garrett turned a ferocious grin upon his companion.
    â€œOh Lord! What a gasbag! What do you make of him?”
    Ananias removed a chagrined eye from the door. He wanted more Mannister, and more, and more, and more. He recited mournfully:
    â€œBoom—boom—boom!
    Walk with care!”
    Mr Smith took off his spectacles and held them to the light. Then, producing a white silk handkerchief, he began to polish them.
    â€œWell?” said Garrett impatiently.
    â€œOh—a—er—gasbag—yes,” he said in an abstracted voice.
    Garrett was frowning horribly.
    â€œWhy did he go off the deep end like that all of a sudden?” he said.
    â€œYou were being so suave,” said Mr Smith. He breathed on an obstinate lens and polished it.
    â€œRubbish!” said Garrett. “I’d got to ask him questions, hadn’t I? It wasn’t me. I was a lot shorter with him this morning and he didn’t turn a hair.”
    Mr Smith put on his glasses and looked over the edge of them benignly.
    â€œI don’t think he wanted to be asked too many questions about Mr Jeremy Ware,” he said.
    Garrett looked alert.
    â€œYou think it was that?”
    Mr Smith shook his head very slightly.
    â€œI don’t really think at all. It—er—just occurred to me. Several things occurred to me.”
    â€œCough ’em up!” said Garrett. He produced a horrible pipe and began to fill it from a pouch which might have been picked up in the gutter.
    Mr Smith drifted to the mantelpiece and reclined against it, one arm along the shelf, his fingers beating out a soundless rhythm upon the smooth oak.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said dreamily—“I don’t know—but it seemed to me that there was a lack of—er—continuity somewhere.”
    Garrett struck a match on the sole of a heavy boot.
    â€œMeaning?” he said. He drew at his pipe.
    â€œWell, I hardly know. But the Disarmament Conference—it was—er—there to start with, and then it wasn’t there any more. That was one thing. Then I—er—gather that when he saw you this morning he—er—bellowed and—er—talked about his correspondence having been tampered with. This afternoon there is a good deal of—er—dignified restraint, and there isn’t any—er—tampering. There is only a letter, and a safe, and a secretary, and as soon as the—er—limelight is—er—focused upon these three things Mr Mannister takes offence and—er—fades away.”
    Garrett flung his match into the fire and blew out a cloud of smoke.
    â€œLimelight?” he said sharply. He broke off, sucked at his pipe, and blew another cloud. His stubby eyebrows drew together in a frown. He repeated his last word, but what had been just an exclamation took on a tone of protest. “Limelight? The man’s always playing to the gallery!”
    Mr Smith spoke abstractedly. “The limelight was not—er—focused upon Mr Mannister. That was one of the things which struck me.”
    â€œYou think?”
    Mr Smith shook his head. His fingers beat out the rhythm of The Congo.
    â€œNot yet—I only wonder—”
    â€œOf course,” said Garrett with an impatient jerk of the shoulder, “as I said to him this morning, if that letter was pinched to order, it’s past praying for—it’ll have reached its destination and been photographed. If the bloke who wrote it really let himself go to any extent, his number is up—Mannister’s too perhaps. You can’t say where that sort of thing’s going to stop.”
    Mr Smith looked over the rim of his glasses.
    â€œYou forget Mr—er—Ware.”
    â€œNo, I don’t. I’m having him