"Let's cool down, Charles!" said Winter, opening a leather case, and
selecting, with great care, one out of half a dozen precisely similar
cigars. "We're pretty sure of our man, but we haven't a scrap of evidence
against him. How, or where, to begin ringing him in I haven't the
faintest notion. If only he'd kill Grant we'd get him at once."

"But he won't. He trusts to Ingerman playing that part of the game. He's
as artful as a pet fox. I bought soap, and a pound of sal volatile, but
he did up each parcel with sealing-wax."

"Sal volatile!" smiled Winter. "I, too, went in for soap, but my
imagination would not soar beyond a packet of cotton-wool. It was the
lumpiest thing I could think of."

"And perfectly useless!" sneered Furneaux. "I must say you do fling the
taxpayers' money about. Now, _my_ little lot will keep the electric bells
in my flat in order for two years."

"You forget that constant association with you demands that I should
frequently plug my two ears," retorted Winter.

Furneaux would surely have thrown back the jest had not a knock on the
door interrupted him.

"Who's there? I'm busy," cried Winter.

"Me-ow!" whined Peters's voice.

"Oh, it's you, Tom. Come in!"