«Medium-high to massive. I don't know. All J know is that Cronkite has done quite a bit of brooding about it ever since.»

«Such a man would not have to be sworn to secrecy?»

«A man can swear a hundred different oaths and break them all. Besides, because of the exorbitant fees Cronkite charges, his feelings toward Lord Worth and the fact that he might just have to step outside the law, his silence is ensured.»

It was the turn of another of those grouped round the table to raise his eyebrows. «Outside the law? We cannot risk being involved—»

« 'Might,' I said. For us, the element of risk does not exist.»

«May we see this man?» Benson nodded, rose, went to a door and admitted Cronkite.

Cronkite was a Texan. In height, build and cragginess of features he bore a remarkable resemblance to John Wayne. Unlike Wayne, he never smiled. His face was of a peculiarly yellow complexion, typical of those who have had an overdose of antimalarial tablets, which was just what had happened to Cronkite. Mepacrine does not make for a peaches-and-cream complexion— not that Cronkite's had ever remotely resembled that. He was newly returned from Indonesia, where he had inevitably maintained his 100 percent record.

«Mr. Cronkite,» Benson said. «Mr. Cronkite, this is—»

Cronkite was brusque. In a gravelly voice he said: «I don't want to know their names.»

In spite of the abruptness of his tone, several of the oilmen round the table almost beamed.

Here was a man of discretion, a man after their own hearts.

Cronkite went on: «All I understand from Mr. Benson is that I am required to attend to a matter involving Lord Worth and the Seawitch, Mr. Benson has given me a pretty full briefing. I know the background. I would like, first of all, to hear any suggestions you gentlemen may have to offer.» Cronkite sat down, lit what proved to be a very foul-smelling cigar, and waited expectantly.