“Here?” the Inspector repeated.

Quest nodded.

“Our friend,” he said, “is going to be mad enough to walk into hell, even, when he finds out what he thinks has happened.”

“It wasn’t any of Jimmy’s lot?” the Inspector asked.

Sanford Quest shook his head.

“French,” he said, “keep mum, but it was the elderly family retainer, Macdougal.  I felt restless about him.  He has lost the girl—­he was married to her, by-the-bye—­and the jewels.  No fear of his slipping away.  I shall have him here at the time I told you.”

“You’ve a way of your own of doing these things, Mr. Quest,” the Inspector admitted grudgingly.

“Mostly luck,” Quest replied.  “Take a cigar, and so long, Inspector.  They want me to talk to Chicago on another little piece of business.”

* * * * *

It was a few minutes before midnight when Quest parted the curtains of a room on the ground floor of his house in Georgia Square, and looked out into the snow-white street.  Then he turned around and addressed the figure lying as though asleep upon the sofa by the fire.

“Lenora,” he said, “I am going out.  Stay here, if you please, until I return.”

He left the room.  For a few moments there was a profound silence.  Then a white face was pressed against the window.  There was a crash of glass.  A man, covered with snow, sprang into the apartment.  He moved swiftly to the sofa, and something black and ugly swayed in his hand.

“So you’ve deceived me, have you?” he panted.  “Handed over the jewels, chucked me, and given me the double cross!  Anything to say?”

A piece of coal fell on to the grate.  Not a sound came from the sofa.  Macdougal leaned forward, his white face distorted with passion.  The life-preserver bent and quivered behind him, cut the air with a swish and crashed full upon the head.

The man staggered back.  The weapon fell from his fingers.  For a moment he was paralysed.  There was no blood upon his hand, no cry—­silence inhuman, unnatural!  He looked again.  Then the lights flashed out all around him.  There were two detectives in the doorway, their revolvers covering him,—­Sanford Quest, with Lenora in the background.  In the sudden illumination, Macdougal’s horror turned almost to hysterical rage.  He had wasted his fury upon a dummy!  It was sawdust, not blood, which littered the couch!

“Take him, men,” Quest ordered.  “Hands up, Macdougal.  Your number’s up.  Better take it quietly.”

The handcuffs were upon him before he could move.  He was trying to speak, but the words somehow choked in his mouth.

“You can send a wireless to Lord Ashleigh,” Quest continued, turning to French.  “Tell him that the diamonds have been recovered and that his daughter’s murderer is arrested.”

“What about the young woman?” the Inspector asked.

Lenora stood in an attitude of despair, her head downcast.  She had turned a little away from Macdougal.  Her hands were outstretched.  It was as though she were expecting the handcuffs.