“I am on Craig’s track,” he signalled.  “Be brave.”

He waited for no reply, but opened the door and stealing softly out of the room, leaned over the banisters.  His apartment was on the fourth story.  The floor below was almost entirely occupied by the kitchen and other offices.  The men’s club room was on the second floor.  From where he stood he heard the steward of the club greeting Craig.  He was a big man with a hearty voice, and the sound of his words reached Quest distinctly.

“Say, Mr. Craig, you’re an authority on South America, aren’t you?  I bought some beans in the market this morning which they told me were grown down there, and my chef don’t seem to know what to make of ’em.  I wonder whether you would mind stepping up and giving him your advice?”

Craig’s much lower voice was inaudible but it was evident that he had consented, for the two men ascended to the third floor together.  Quest watched them enter the kitchen.  A moment or two later the steward was summoned by a messenger and descended alone.  Quest ran quickly down the stairs and planted himself behind the kitchen door.  He had hardly taken up his position before the handle was turned.  He heard Craig’s last words, spoken as he looked over his shoulder.

“You want to just soak them for two hours longer than any other beans in the world.  That’s all there is about it.”

Craig appeared and the door swung back behind him.  Before he could utter a cry, Quest’s left hand was over his mouth and the cold muzzle of an automatic pistol was pressed to his ribs.

“Turn round and mount those stairs, Craig,” Quest ordered.

The man shrunk away, trembling.  The pistol pressed a little further into his side.

“Upstairs,” Quest repeated firmly.  “If you utter a cry I shall shoot you.”

Craig turned slowly round and obeyed.  He mounted the stairs with reluctant footsteps, followed by Quest.

“Through the door to your right,” the latter directed.  “That’s right!  Now sit down in that chair facing me.”

Quest closed the door carefully.  Craig sat where he had been ordered, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair.  In his eyes shone the furtive, terrified light of the trapped criminal.

Quest looked him over a little scornfully.  It was queer that a man with apparently so little nerve should have the art and the daring to plan such exploits.

“What do you want with me?” Craig asked doggedly.

“First of all,” Quest replied, “I want to know what you have done with my assistant, the girl whom you carried off from the Professor’s garage.”

Craig shook his head.

“I know nothing about her.”

“She locked you in the garage,” Quest continued, “and sent for me.  When I arrived, I found the garage door open, Lenora gone and you a fugitive.”

Bewilderment struggled for a moment with blank terror in Craig’s expression.