He himself listened awhile, and then:
“To hell with Nayland Smith!” he growled. “Huston Electric doesn’t spend half a million dollars to tip the beans into his pocket. He’s a British agent. He’ll sell us out! Are you crazy? . . . He may be backed by Washington. What’s good that comes to us from Washington, anyway?”
He listened again, and suddenly:
“Had it occurred to you,” he asked on a note of tension, “that Regan could be the British agent? He joined us from Vickers . . .”
When at last he hung up:
“Is there anything you want me to do?” Stein asked.
Stein was a man who, seated, would have looked like a big man, for he had a thick neck, deep chest, and powerful shoulders. But, standing, he resembled Gog, or Magog, guardian deities of London’s Guildhall; a heavy, squat figure, with heavy, squat features. Stein wore his reddish hair cut close as a Prussian officer’s. He had a crushed appearance, as though someone had sat on his head.
Frobisher spun around. “Did you get it?”
“Yes. It is serious.” (Stein furthermore had a heavy, squat accent.) “But not so serious as if they have found the detail of the trans-muter.”
“What are you talking about?” Frobisher stood up. “There’s enough in the lab to give away the whole principle to an expert.”
That grey undertone beneath his florid coloring was marked.
“This may be true—”
“And Regan’s disappeared!”
“I gathered so.”
“Then—hell!”
“You are too soon alarmed,” said Stein coolly. “Let us wait until we have all the facts.”
“How’11 we ever have all the facts?” Frobisher demanded. “What are the facts about things that happen right here? Who walks around this house at night like a ghost? Who combed my desk papers? Who opened my safe? And who out of hell went through your room the other evening while you were asleep? Tell me who, and then tell me whyI”
But before Stein had time to answer these reasonable inquiries, Stella Frobisher fluttered into the library. She wore a Hollywood pinafore over her frock, her hands were buried in gauntlet gloves, and she carried a pair of large scissors. Her blond hair was dressed as immaculately as that of a movie star just rescued from a sinking ship.
“I know I look a fright, dear,” she assured Frobisher. “I have been out in the garden, cutting early spring flowers.”
She emphasized “cutting” as if her more usual method was to knock their heads off with a niblick.
“Allow me to bring these in for you, madame,” said Stein.
His respectful manner was in odd contrast to that with which he addressed Frobisher.
“Thank you, Stein. Lucille has the basket on the back porch.”
She did not mention the fact that Lucille had also cut the flowers.
“Very good, madame.”
As Stein walked towards the door:
“Oh, Stein—there will be seven to luncheon. Dr. and Mrs. Pardoe are coming.”
Stein bowed and went out.
“Who’s the old man?” growled Frobisher, opening a box of cigars which lay on the desk.
“Professor Hoffmeyer. Isn’t it splendid that I got him to come?”
“Don’t know till I see him.”
“He’s simply wonderful. He will amaze you, Mike.”
“Don’t care for amazement at mealtimes.”
“You will fall completely under his spell, dear,” Stella declared, and went fluttering out again. “I must go and assemble my flowers.”
At about this time, Morris Craig was putting a suitcase into the back of his car. As he locked the boot he looked up.
“You know, Smith,” he said, “I’m profoundly conscious of the gravity of this thing—but I begin to feel like a ticket-of-leave man.
There’s a car packed with police on the other side of the street. Do they track me to Falling Waters?”
“They do!” Nayland Smith replied. “As I understand it, you are now going to pick up Miss Navarre?”
“That is the program.” Craig smiled rather unhappily. “I feel a bit cheap leaving Shaw alone, in the circumstances. But—”
“Shaw won’t be alone” Smith rapped irritably. “I think—or, rather, fear—the danger at the laboratory is past. But, to make sure, two carefully selected men will be on duty in your office day and night until you return. Plus two outside.”
“Why not Sam? He’s back.”
“You will need Sam to lend a hand with this radio burglar alarm you tell me about”
“J shall?”
“You will. I can see you’re dying to push off. So—push! I trust you have a happy week-end.”
And when Craig turned into West Seventy-fifth Street, the first thing that really claimed his attention was the presence of a car which had followed him all the way. The second was a figure standing before the door of an apartment house—a door he could never forget.
This figure wore spectacles, a light fawn topcoat, a cerise muffler, and a slate-grey hat with the brim turned up not at the back, but in front . . .
“Morning, boss,” said Sam, opening the door. “Happen to have—”
“I have nothing but a stem demand. It’s this: What the devil are you doing here7.”
“Well”—Sam shook his head solemnly—”it’s like this. Seems you’re carrying valuables, and Sir Denis, he thinks—”
“He thinks what?”
“He thinks somebody ought to come along—see? Just in case.”
Craig stepped out.
“Tell me: Are you employed by Huston Electric or by Nayland Smith?”
Sam tipped his hat further back. He chewed thoughtfully.
“It’s kind of complicated. Doctor. Sir Denis has it figured I’m doing my best for Huston’s if I come along and lend a hand. He figures there may be trouble up there. And you never know.”
Visions of a morning drive alone with Camille vanished.
“All right,” said Craig resignedly “Sit at the back.”
In a very short time he had hurried in. But it was a long time before he came out.
Camille looked flushed, but delightfully pretty, when she arrived at Falling Waters. Her hair was tastefully dressed, and she carried the black-rimmed glasses in her hand. Stella was there to greet her guests.
“My dear Miss Navarre! It’s so nice to have you here at last! Dr. Craig, you have kept her in hiding too long.”
“Not my fault, Mrs. Frobisher. She’s a self-effacing type.” Then, as Frobisher appeared: “Hail, chief! Grim work at—”
Frobisher pointed covertly to Stella, making vigorous negative signs with his head. “Glad to see you, Craig,” he rumbled, shaking hands with both arrivals.
“You have a charming house, Mrs. Frobisher,” said Camille. “It was sweet of you to ask me to come.”
“I’m so glad you like it!” Stella replied. “Because you must have seen such lovely homes in France and in England.”
“Yes,” Camille smiled sadly. “Some of them were lovely.”
“But let me take you along to your room. This is your first visit, but I do hope it will be the first of many.”
She led Camille away, leaving Frobisher and Craig standing in the lobby—panelled in Spanish mahogany from the old Cunard liner, Mauretania. And at that moment Frobisher’s eye rested upon Sam, engaged in taking Craig’s suitcase from the boot, whilst Stein stood by.