and they're very much hoax-shy. I could tell you some pretty tales about
mysterious disappearances that never get into the papers."

A little later the journalist took his departure. As the great shipowner
shook hands at the door, he said cordially: "If you want news from me
when I'm in Paris any time, come straight to me. I like your paper; I
like your methods."

Martin left without a suspicion that he had been "pumped" for vital
information.

Now the shipowner had to wait patiently for nightfall before the first
definite move of his game could be played. One of his secrets of success
was that he never allowed his mind to worry him. He shut the matter
completely out of his conscious thoughts; got a trunk telephone call to
his London office; sent off some cables to his New York office; and
generally immersed himself on business matters quite unrelated to the
Matheson case.

It was nearly ten o'clock that night before Arthur Dean returned from an
errand on which he had been sent. In his arms was a bulky brown-paper
parcel.

He opened it in the privacy of his employer's sitting-room, and
remembering the advice given him that morning as to the way to present a
business report, pointed silently to a small slit in the side of the
fur-lined coat, where it would cover a man's ribs. On the inner lining
of the coat there was a dark stain around the slit, though the immersion
in the river had of course washed away any definite blood-clot.