the copy that Littimer saw on her
hand. You see, directly Frank broke open that safe, Henson, who was at
the castle at the time, saw his opportunity--he could easily scheme some
way of making use of it. If that plot against Frank had failed he would
have invented another. And the unexpected suicide of Claire Carfax played
into his hands. Henson has that ring somewhere, and it will be our task
to find it."

"And when we have done so?"

"Give it to Lord Littimer and tell him where we found it. And then we
shall be rid of one of the most pestilential rascals the world has ever
seen. When you get back to Brighton I want you to tell this story to
Hatherly Bell."

"I will," David replied. "What a weird, fascinating story it is! And the
sooner I am back the better I shall be pleased. I wonder if our man is
awake yet. If you will excuse me, I will go up and see. Ah!"

There was the sound of somebody moving overhead.

CHAPTER XLV

ON THE TRAIL

At the same moment Williams came softly in. There was a grin of
satisfaction on his face.

"The brute is fast asleep," he said. "I've just been in his room. He left
the lamp burning, and there is a lump on the side of his head as big as
an ostrich egg. But he didn't mean to go to sleep; he hasn't taken any of
his clothes off. On the whole, sir, wouldn't it be better for you to wake
our man up and get him away?"

David was of the same opinion. Van Sneck was lying on the bed looking
vacantly about him. He seemed older and more worn, perhaps, because his
beard and moustache were growing ragged and dirty on his face. He pressed
his hand to his head in a confused kind of way.

"I tell you I can't find it," he said; "the thing slipped out of my
hand--a small thing like that easily might. What's the good of making a
fuss about a ring not worth L20? Search my pockets if you like. What a
murderous-looking dog you are when you're out of temper!"

All this in a vague, rambling way, in a slightly foreign accent. David
touched him on the shoulder.

"Won't you come back with me to Brighton?" he said.

"Certainly," was the ready response; "you look a good sort of chap. I'll
go anywhere you please. Not that I've got a penny of money left. What a
spree it has been. Who are you?"

"My name is Steel. I am David Steel, the novelist."

A peculiarly cunning look came over Van Sneck's face.

"I got your letter," he said. "And I came. It was after I had had that
row with Henson. Hens