"Get out!"

"Give me five minutes." The tone was servile, yet not wholly so. "Worth your while, Mr. Bullard."

Bullard looked him up and down. "Very well," he said abruptly. "Close that door and follow me." He said no more until they were in his room, himself seated at his desk, the other standing a little way off and turning his bowler hat between his hands.

"Now, Marvel, what the devil do you want?"

The visitor smiled deprecatingly into his revolving hat. "What do most of us want, Mr. Bullard?"

"I'll tell you what most of us do not want--the attentions of the police."

"Tut, tut, Mr. Bullard. Of course _we_ don't want that, nor do _we_ need it--do _we?_" The impudence of the fellow's manner was exquisite.

Bullard, toying with the nugget on his chain, affected not to notice it.

Harshly he said: "Eighteen months ago--"

"In this very room, Mr. Bullard--"

"--I handed you five hundred pounds on the express condition that you used the ticket for Montreal, which I supplied, and never approached me again."

"I am sorry to say," the other said after a moment, "that Canada did not agree with my health, and I a.s.sure you that I made the five hundred go as far as possible."

"All that may be very interesting to yourself and friends--if you have any."

"You, Mr. Bullard, are my sole friend."

Bullard grinned. "If you imagine I'm going to be a friend in need, you are mightily mistaken!"

"Please don't be nasty, Mr. Bullard--"

"Leave my name alone, and clear out. Time's up." Bullard turned to a pile of letters.

"This is a blow," murmured Marvel, "a sad blow. But I would remind you that the five hundred was not a gift, but a payment for certain doc.u.ments."

"Quite so. And it closed our acquaintance. Go!"

"I wonder if it did. One moment. I desire to return once more to South Africa. Things are looking up there again. With five hundred pounds--"

"That's enough. I'm busy."

"Just another moment. Touching those doc.u.ments relating to the affair of Christopher Craig's brother--"

"Shut up!"

"--it is one of the strangest inadvertencies you ever heard of, Mr.

Bullard, but the fact remains that, eighteen months ago, I delivered to you--not the originals but copies--"

Bullard wheeled round. "Don't try that game, Marvel. You are quite capable of forgery, but I made certain that they were originals before I burned them."

"Ah, you burned them! What a pity! So you can't compare them with the doc.u.ments I hold--in a very safe place, Mr. Bullard."

"I should not take the trouble in any case. Now will you clear out or be thrown?"

"You make it very hard for me. Do you wish me to take the originals to Mr. Christopher Craig?"

"Pray do. He's dead."

"Dead!" Mr. Marvel took a step backward. "Dear, dear!" He raised his hat to his face as though to screen his emotion and smiled into it. "When did it happen?"

"A few days ago. Now, once and for all--"

"Then nothing remains to me but to offer the papers to his brother's son, an undoubtedly interested party, Mr. Alan--"

"Alan Craig is also dead."

Mr. Marvel's hat fell to the floor, and lay neglected. Mr. Marvel began to laugh softly while Bullard wondered whether the man's sanity, always suspect, had given way.

"Come, come, Mr. Bullard," Marvel coughed at last; "come, come!"

"Young Craig," said Bullard, restraining himself, "was lost on an Arctic expedition, a year ago."

"Then he must have been found again."

"... What do you say?"

"Why, I saw him--let me see--just fourteen days ago."

"Rot!"

"I'd know Frank Craig's son anywhere, Mr. Bullard; and there he was on the quay at Montreal, the day I left. What's the matter?"

With a supreme effort Bullard controlled himself.

"Marvel," he said, "what do you expect to gain by bringing me a lie like that?"

"It is no lie," the other returned with a fairly straight glance. "I was as near to him as I am to you at this moment. He was in a labourer's clothes--"

"Nonsense!"

"--working with a gang on the quay."

"You were mistaken. The search party gave up in despair."

"I know nothing of that, Mr. Bullard, but I'm prepared to take oath--"

"There is no need for Alan Craig, if it were he, to be working as a quay labourer. I tell you--"

"I am so sure of what I say, Mr. Bullard, that failing to get my price from you, I will cross the Atlantic again, working my pa.s.sage if need be, to place the doc.u.ments in the hands of that quay labourer. Since his uncle old Christopher is dead, there must be something pretty solid awaiting him." Marvel, stooping leisurely, picked up his hat and carefully eliminated the dent.