“Damn the Dutch government!” cried the little man.  “And damn Lloyd’s.  We will go it on our own hook.”

The biologist smiled.

“Let me think about it, a little,” he said.

The dapper man flipped a big watch out of his waistcoat pocket.

“Surely!” he cried, “I must get the next train up.  Have you got a place to lock the stuff?  I had to cut this lid open with a chisel.”

He indicated the tin dispatch box.

“Better keep it all.  You’ll want to run through the diary, I imagine.  Tony’s got down the things explorer chaps are always keen about; temperature, water supply, food and all that. . . . .  Now, I’m off.  See you Thursday afternoon at the United Service Club.  Better lunch with me.”

Then he pushed the dispatch box across the table.  The biologist rose and turned back the lid of the box.  The contents remained as Sir Godfrey’s dead son had left them; a limp leather diary, an automatic pistol of some American make, a few glass tubes of quinine, packed in cotton wool.

He put the water color on the bottom of the box and replaced them.

Then he took the dispatch box over to an old iron safe at the farther end of the room, opened it, set the box within, locked the door, and, returning, thrust the key under a pile of journals on the corner of the table.  Then he went out, and down the stairway with his guest to the door.

They passed within a finger touch of Lady Muriel.

The woman was quick to act.  There would be no borrowing from Bramwell Winton.  He would now, with this expedition on the way, have no penny for another.  But here before her, as though arranged by favor of Fatality, was something evidently of enormous value that she could cash in to Hecklemeir.

There was fame and fortune on the bottom of that dispatch box.

Something that would have been the greatest find of the age to Tony Halleck . . . something that the biologist, clearly from his words and manner, valued beyond the gold plates of Sir Hector Bartlett.

It was a thing that Hecklemeir would buy with money . . . the very thing which he would be at this opportune moment interested to purchase.  She saw it in the very first comprehensive glance.

Her luck was holding Fortune was more than favorable, merely.  It exercised itself actively, with evident concern, in her behalf.

Lady Muriel went swiftly into the room.  She slipped the key from under the pile of journals and crossed to the safe sitting against the wall.

It was an old safe of some antediluvian manufacture and the lock was worn.  The stem of the key was smooth and it slipped in her gloved hands.  She could not hold it firm enough to turn the lock.  Finally with her bare fingers and with one hand to aid the other she was able to move the lock and so open the safe.

She heard the door to the street close below, and the faint sound of Bramwell Winton’s footsteps as though he went along the hall into the service portion of the house.  She was nervous and hurried, but this reassured her.