The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace

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      “It is understandable,” said Poiccart gravely, and Leon pressed Manfred’s arm.

      The three stood in embarrassed silence for a moment, then Manfred laughed.

      “To work!” he said, and led the way to the improvised laboratory.

      Inside Thery took off his coat. Here was his province, and from being the cowed dependant he took charge of the party, directing them, instructing, commanding, until he had the men of whom, a few minutes before, he had stood in terror running from studio to laboratory, from floor to floor.

      There was much to be done, much testing, much calculating, many little sums to be worked out on paper, for in the killing of Sir Philip Ramon all the resources of modern science were to be pressed into the service of the Four.

      “I am going to survey the land,” said Manfred suddenly, and disappearing into the studio returned with a pair of step-ladders. These he straddled in the dark passage, and mounting quickly pushed up a trapdoor that led to the flat roof of the building.

      He pulled himself up carefully, crawled along the leaden surface, and raising himself cautiously looked over the low parapet.

      He was in the centre of a half mile circle of uneven roofs. Beyond the circumference of his horizon London loomed murkily through smoke and mist. Below was a busy street. He took a hasty survey of the roof with its chimney stacks, its unornamental telegraph pole, its leaden floor and rusty guttering; then, through a pair of field-glasses, made a long, careful survey southward. He crawled slowly back to the trapdoor, raised it, and let himself down very gingerly till his feet touched the top of the ladder. Then he descended rapidly, closing the door after him.

      “Well?” asked Thery with something of triumph in his voice.

      “I see you have labelled it,” said Manfred.

      “It is better so — since we shall work in the dark,” said Thery.

      “Did you see then —— ?” began Poiccart.

      Manfred nodded.

      “Very indistinctly — one could just see the Houses of Parliament dimly, and Downing Street is a jumble of roofs.”

      Thery had turned to the work that was engaging his attention. Whatever was his trade he was a deft workman. Somehow he felt that he must do his best for these men. He had been made forcibly aware of their superiority in the last days, he had now an ambition to assert his own skill, his individuality, and to earn commendation from these men who had made him feel his littleness.

      Manfred and the others stood aside and watched him in silence. Leon, with a perplexed frown, kept his eyes fixed on the workman’s face. For Leon Gonsalez, scientist, physiognomist (his translation of the Theologi Physiognomia Humana of Lequetius is regarded today as the finest), was endeavouring to reconcile the criminal with the artisan.

      After a while Thery finished.

      “All is now ready,” he said with a grin of satisfaction: “let me find your Minister of State, give me a minute’s speech with him, and the next minute he dies.”

      His face, repulsive in repose, was now demoniacal. He was like some great bull from his own country made more terrible with the snuffle of blood in his nostrils.

      In strange contrast were the faces of his employers. Not a muscle of either face stirred. There was neither exultation nor remorse in their expressions — only a curious something that creeps into the set face of the judge as he pronounces the dread sentence of the law. Thery saw that something, and it froze him to his very marrow.

      He threw up his hands as if to ward them off.

      “Stop! stop!” he shouted; “don’t look like that, in the name of God — don’t, don’t!” He covered his face with shaking hands.

      “Like what, Thery?” asked Leon softly.

      Thery shook his head.

      “I cannot say — like the judge at Granada when he says — when he says, ‘Let the thing be done!’”

      “If we look so,” said Manfred harshly, “it is because we are judges — and not alone judges but executioners of our judgment.”

      “I thought you would have been pleased,” whimpered Thery.

      “You have done well,” said Manfred gravely.

      “Bueno, bueno!” echoed the others.

      “Pray God that we are successful,” added Manfred solemnly, and Thery stared at this strange man in amazement.

      Superintendent Falmouth reported to the Commissioner that afternoon that all arrangements were now complete for the protection of the threatened Minister.

      “I’ve filled up 44 Downing Street,” he said; “there’s practically a man in every room. I’ve got four of our best men on the roof, men in the basement, men in the kitchens.”

      “What about the servants?” asked the Commissioner.

      “Sir Philip has brought up his own people from the country, and now there isn’t a person in the house from the private secretary to the doorkeeper whose name and history I do not know from A to Z.”

      The Commissioner breathed an anxious sigh.

      “I shall be very glad when tomorrow is over,” he said. “What are the final arrangements?”

      “There has been no change, sir, since we fixed things up the morning Sir Philip came over. He remains at 44 all day tomorrow until half past eight, goes over to the House at nine to move the reading of the Bill, returns at eleven.”

      “I have given orders for the traffic to be diverted along the Embankment between a quarter to nine and a quarter after, and the same at eleven,” said the Commissioner. “Four closed carriages will drive from Downing Street to the House, Sir Philip will drive down in a car immediately afterwards.”

      There was a rap at the door — the conversation took place in the Commissioner’s office — and a police officer entered. He bore a card in his hand, which he laid upon the table.

      “Senor Jose di Silva,” read the Commissioner, “the Spanish Chief of Police,” he explained to the Superintendent. “Show him in, please.”

      Senor di Silva, a lithe little man, with a pronounced nose and a beard, greeted the Englishmen with the exaggerated politeness that is peculiar to Spanish official circles.

      “I am sorry to bring you over,” said the Commissioner, after he had shaken hands with the visitor and had introduced him to Falmouth; “we thought you might be able to help us in our search for Thery.”

      “Luckily I was in Paris,” said the Spaniard; “yes, I know Thery, and I am astounded to find him in such distinguished company. Do I know the Four?” — his shoulders went up to his ears— “who does? I know of them — there was a case at Malaga, you know?…Thery is not a good criminal. I was astonished to learn that he had joined the band.”

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