"Not when I come to dine with you, Max," replied Carlyle, with all the
aplomb he could muster. "Is it usual?"

Carrados smiled affectionately at his guest's agile recovery and
touched the secret spring of a drawer in an antique bureau by his
side. The little hidden receptacle shot smoothly out, disclosing a
pair of dull-blued pistols.

"To-night, at all events, it might be prudent," he replied, handing
one to Carlyle and putting the other into his own pocket. "Our man may
be here at any minute, and we do not know in what temper he will
come."

"Our man!" exclaimed Carlyle, craning forward in excitement. "Max! you
don't mean to say that you have got Mead to admit it?"

"No one has admitted it," said Carrados. "And it is not Mead."

"Not Mead.... Do you mean that Hutchins--?"

"Neither Mead nor Hutchins. The man who tampered with the signal--for
Hutchins was right and a green light _was_ exhibited--is a young
Indian from Bengal. His name is Drishna and he lives at Swanstead."

Mr. Carlyle stared at his friend between sheer surprise and blank
incredulity.

"You really mean this, Carrados?" he said.

"My fatal reputation for humour!" smiled Carrados. "If I am wrong,
Louis, the next hour will expose it."

"But why--why--why? The colossal villainy, the unparalleled audacity!"
Mr. Carlyle lost himself among incredulous superlatives and could only
stare.

"Chiefly to get himself out of a disastrous speculation," replied
Carrados, answering the question. "If there was another motive--or at
least an incentive--which I suspect, doubtless we shall hear of it."

"All the same, Max, I don't think that you have treated me quite
fairly," protested Carlyle, getting over his first surprise and
passing to a sense of injury. "Here we are and I know nothing,
absolutely nothing, of the whole affair."

"We both have our ideas of pleasantry, Louis," replied Carrados
genially. "But I dare say you are right and perhaps there is still
time to atone." In the fewest possible words he outlined the course of
his investigations. "And now you know all that is to be known until
Drishna arrives."

"But will he come?" questioned Carlyle doubtfully. "He may be
suspicious."

"Yes, he will be suspicious."

"Then he will not come."

"On the contrary, Louis, he will come because my letter will make him
suspicious. He _is_ coming; otherwise Parkinson would have telephoned
me at once and we should have had to take other measures."

"What