the idea at one and the same instant.

"Oh, why didn't we think of it before?" she cried, and then the two of
us were on our knees and groping under the table. It was a massive piece
of furniture in its way, with a large cross-piece running from side to
side underneath. And on this cross-piece, so tied with string that it
could not slip off, was a tiny packet of oil-skin.

"The safest place in the house," I said, as I stood upright and held out
a helping hand to Moira. "No one would ever think of looking there. See
how nearly we missed it."

"Jim, Jim, let's have a look!" she begged.

My answer was to place the package in my pocket. "Not here," I said in
explanation. "You must remember that those murdering gentlemen aren't
accounted for yet, and it'd be a pity to let them get hold of the very
thing we've been keeping out of their clutches for so long."

"I never thought of that," she said with a crestfallen air. "Of course
you're right. But where'll we go?"

"Any of the inner rooms. The drawing-room, say. That hasn't got any
windows opening out on to the garden."

Moira caught my arm. "Come on, Jim," she cried, "I'm dying to know what
is in it."

"The more haste the less speed," I remarked soberly. "Likewise there's
many a slip between the cup and the lip."

"Don't, Jim, don't be pessimistic just when everything's beginning to
turn out well."

"Beginning," I repeated. "You're right there. We're just beginning now."

But all the same she did not take her hand off my arm, and when hers
slipped through mine in quite the good old way, I could not find it in
my heart to tell her that she must do no such thing.

The drawing-room was just as comfortable a place as a man could wish,
and I saw at a glance that there was no likelihood of our being
disturbed there.

I held the packet in my hands for I don't know how many seconds, almost
afraid to open it. Inside was the secret that had lost Bryce his life,
the secret that had cost, though I did not know it at the time, almost a
dozen lives, and that would bring two at least of our associates
perilously close to the grave before our work was ended. Moira shared
some of my hesitation, for she made no effort to hurry me into undoing
the packet, but stood awaiting my pleasure.

The string was tied so tightly that I could not unknot it. I drew my
knife and cut it, and the oil-skin unrolled of itself. The first thing I
came across was a letter from Bryce addressed to t