Philip's face was white, cold, almost passionless in the grim
hardness that had settled in it. He unfolded a long typewritten
letter, and handed it to Gregson.

"That letter is the final word," he explained. "It will tell you
what I have not told you. In some way it was mixed in my mail and
I did not discover the error until I had opened it. It is from the
headquarters of our enemies, addressed to the man who is in charge
of their plot up here."

"He waited, scarce breathing, while Gregson bent over the
typewritten pages. He noted the slow tightening of the other's
fingers as he turned from the first sheet to the second; he
watched Gregson's face, the slow ebbing of color, the gray white
that followed it, the stiffening of his arms and shoulders as he
finished. Then Gregson looked up.

"Good God!" he breathed.

For a full half-minute the two men gazed at each other across the
table, without speaking.





IV


Philip broke the silence.