'No. But for the last fortnight they have dropped you from the list of
possibles.'

'Why?' I asked in amazement.

'Principally because I received a letter from Scudder. I knew
something of the man, and he did several jobs for me. He was half
crank, half genius, but he was wholly honest. The trouble about him
was his partiality for playing a lone hand. That made him pretty well
useless in any Secret Service--a pity, for he had uncommon gifts. I
think he was the bravest man in the world, for he was always shivering
with fright, and yet nothing would choke him off. I had a letter from
him on the 31st of May.'

'But he had been dead a week by then.'

'The letter was written and posted on the 23rd. He evidently did not
anticipate an immediate decease. His communications usually took a
week to reach me, for they were sent under cover to Spain and then to
Newcastle. He had a mania, you know, for concealing his tracks.'

'What did he say?' I stammered.

'Nothing. Merely that he was in danger, but had found shelter with a
good friend, and that I would hear from him before the 15th of June.
He gave me no address, but said he was living near Portland Place. I
think his object was to clear you if anything happened. When I got it
I went to Scotland Yard, went over the details of the inquest, and
concluded that you were the friend. We made inquiries about you, Mr
Hannay, and found you were respectable. I thought I knew the motives
for your disappearance--not only the police, the other one too--and
when I got Harry's scrawl I guessed at the rest. I have been expecting
you any time this past week.' You can imagine what a load this took off
my mind. I felt a free man once more, for I was now up against my
country's enemies only, and not my country's law.

'Now let us have the little note-book,' said Sir Walter.

It took us a good hour to work through it. I explained the cypher, and
he was jolly quick at picking it up. He emended my reading of it on
several points, but I had been fairly correct, on the whole. His face
was very grave before he had finished, and he sat silent for a while.

'I don't know what to make of it,' he said at last. 'He is right about
one thing--what is going to happen the day after tomorrow. How the
devil can it have got known? That is ugly enough in itself. But all
this about war and the Black Stone--it reads like some wild melodrama.
If only I had more confidence in Scudder's