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shadowed.”
    Mr Smith waved that away.
    â€œMannister’s—er—number wouldn’t be up if the spectacle disclosed by the—er—limelight was that of a trusting and—er—benevolent employer robbed by a thankless secretary.”
    Garrett removed his pipe and stared.
    â€œYou think it might be that way?”
    â€œThere is scriptural precedent for a scapegoat,” said Mr Smith dreamily. “A—er—calculated indiscretion, and—er—someone else to take the blame. I have known it happen. On the other hand, the whole thing may be much simpler. Mannister may merely have been yielding to an instinct for self-preservation in taking cover behind Mr Jeremy Ware. I wonder. Did you ever read the Pilgrim’s Progress?”
    Garrett shook his head and drew at his pipe.
    â€œYou should—you really should. It is a gold-mine. As I was saying—or rather as I was going to say—there is a gentleman in the Pilgrim’s Progress called Mr Facing-both-ways. He appears to have left a numerous progeny.”
    Garrett smoked in silence for a moment. Then he said briskly,
    â€œWe’re shadowing Ware, because if he did pinch the letter, he may have done it on the spur of the moment, or anyhow not to anyone’s order, in which case he’s got to find his market. You know how these things are done—people don’t put pen to paper if they can help it—it’s the personal interview and cash over the counter. So there’s just a chance of nabbing Master Ware before he does a deal.”
    Mr Smith’s eyebrows rose slightly.
    â€œYou think Ware took the letter?”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t he have taken it? He’d the opportunity. And he’s broke. And he was with Denny. Something smashed Denny. Ware was Denny’s secretary. Mannister says somebody’s trying to smash him. Ware is Mannister’s secretary. That’s the way things look to me. I can’t see a gasbag like Mannister being as subtle as you want to make out.”
    Mr Smith’s fingers had continued to beat out The Congo rhythm. He nodded slightly.
    â€œEr—yes,” he said—“an indubitable gasbag. I am just wondering about the nature of the gas. Some kinds are—er—dangerous.”
    Ananias began to bob up and down on his perch and to clap his wings. Mr. Smith drifted over to him.
    â€œSay your piece, Ananias,” he commanded, “‘Walk with care—walk with care.’”
    â€œBoomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM!” shrieked Ananias.

CHAPTER IV
    ROSALIND DENNY LEANED BACK in her chair and looked down the Gold Room at the Luxe. It appeared to be quite full. The orchestra at the far end was playing Voices of the Woods, but the sound of five hundred people talking, laughing and dining came near to drowning the music.
    Rosalind looked across all these sounds, which seemed to float in the gold light which filled the room, and from the other side of the small table Jeremy Ware looked at her. She was tall and fair. She wore a grey dress. She had been smiling, but now as she looked away, her eyes were horribly sad. The line of her lips was a little harder than it had been eighteen months ago.
    Jeremy Ware’s dark, ugly face held an expression of concern. When he frowned as he was frowning now and his black eyebrows made a straight line above the deep-set eyes that looked black too but were really a very dark grey, he seemed a good deal older than his twenty-six years. His hands matched his face. They were square and strong, with the blunt spatulate fingers which are supposed to denote military or criminal characteristics. He was of medium height and powerfully built.
    He went on looking at Rosalind Denny for a moment, and then said roughly,
    â€œYou’ve eaten nothing, Mrs Denny.”
    Rosalind came back from a long way off.
    â€œHaven’t I, Jeremy?” she said.
    â€œYou know you haven’t.”
    She