He stood there looking out, pleased with the view but not thinking about it-thinking of other things, thinking his own sardonic thoughts-pleased with them, savouring them. Presently he turned the watch on his wrist. He could read the dial easily enough-a quarter past seven. He parted the curtains again, came back through the room, and put on the lights.

Exactly three minutes later Elliot Wray walked in, his face set hard, his fair hair ruffled, and his eyes as cold as ice. He had come, but he was damned if he was going to stay one split second longer than he need. He had not known how much he would mind coming into the house until he got there. What difference did it make- New York or London, Birleton or Timbuctoo? It was all the same, wasn’t it? As far as he was concerned Phyllida was dead. He hadn’t known till he came into the River House how damnably her ghost could walk-all the way up the stair beside him, whispering.

He shut the door and came over to the far side of the writing-table, every bit of him taut with protest.

“What is it, sir?”

James Paradine looked at him across the table, leaning back in his swivel chair with a hand upon either arm.

“You’d better sit down,” he said. “Those blueprints have disappeared.”

Elliot’s two hands came down on the table flat. He leaned on them and said,

“What?”

James Paradine nodded slightly.

“They’ve gone,” he said. “You’d really better sit down.”

Elliot took no notice of that.

“How can they have gone?” He straightened up and stepped back a pace. “I left them with you this afternoon.”

“Precisely. Cadogan sent you up with them yesterday. Bob Moffat, Frank, and I had a session over them. After a further session you left them with me this afternoon at three o’clock, and at six-thirty I discovered that they were missing.”