at van Heerden is engaged in some sort of business--the
business in which you invested your money. Where are his factories?"

But here Mr. White protested he could offer no information. He recalled,
not without a sinking of heart, a similar cross-examination on the
previous day at the hands of McNorton. There were factories--van Heerden
had hinted as much--but as to where they were located--well, confessed
Mr. White, he hadn't the slightest idea.

"That's rubbish," said Beale roughly, "you know. Where did you
communicate with van Heerden? He wasn't always at his flat and you only
came there twice."

"I assure you----" began Mr. White, alarmed by the other's vehemence.

"Assure nothing," thundered Beale, "your policies won't sell--where did
you see him?"

"On my honour----"

"Let's keep jokes outside of the argument," said Beale truculently,
"where did you see him?"

"Believe me, I never saw him--if I had a message to send, my
cashier--ah--Miss Glaum, an admirable young lady--carried it for me."

"Hilda Glaum!"

Beale struck his palm. Why had he not thought of Hilda Glaum before?

"That's about all I want to ask you, Mr. White," he said mildly; "you're
a lucky man."

"Lucky, sir!" Mr. White recovered his hauteur as quickly as Beale's
aggressiveness passed. "I fail to perceive my fortune. I fail to see,
sir, where luck comes in."

"You have your money back," said Beale significantly, "if you hadn't
been pressed for money and had not pressed van Heerden you would have
whistled for it."

"Do you suggest," demanded White, in his best judicial manner, "do you
suggest in the presence of a witness with a due appreciation of the
actionable character of your words that Doctor van Heerden is a common
swindler?"

"Not common," replied Beale, "thank goodness!"

CHAPTER XXII

HILDA GLAUM LEADS THE WAY

Beale had a long consultation with McNorton at Scotland Yard, and on his
return to the hotel, had his dinner sent up to Kitson's private room and
dined amidst a litter of open newspapers. They were representative
journals of the past week, and he scanned their columns carefully. Now
and again he would cut out a paragraph and in one case half a column.

Kitson, who was dining with a friend in the restaurant of the hotel,
came up toward nine o'clock and stood looking with amusement at the
detective's silent labours.

"You're making a deplorable litter in my room," he said, "but I suppose
there is somethi