But Winter was well aware of, and kept to himself one phase of the art
deal, at any rate. Furneaux had persuaded Siddle to fasten two bulky
packages with string!

He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever in
attire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at full
length on Winter's bed.

"Been up all night," he explained. "Chemical analysis is fascinating but
slow work--like watching a moth evolve from a grub. Had a fearful job,
too, to get an analyst to chuck a theater and attend to business. The
blighter talked of office hours. _Cré nom_! Ten till four, and an hour
and a half for lunch! Why can't we run _our_ show on those lines, James!"

Winter finished carefully the left side of his broad expanse of face.

"You came down by the mail, I suppose?" he said casually.

"What a genius you are!" sighed Furneaux. "If _I_ were trembling with
expectation I could no more put a banal question like that than swallow
the razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the common
decency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintage
wines while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich."

Winter scraped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip.

"Shall I go to the bathroom first, or listen?" he inquired.

"Ah, well, I'm tired, and hiking these frail bones to bed till twelve, so
I'll give you a condensed version," snapped Furneaux. "Elkin 's illness,