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absurd. His good friend Durand had always seen him. Had he been given the name correctly? It was inconceivable that he should not wish to see Conway Carruthers—Carruthers who had helped him out of so many desperate situations, Carruthers who had given him the credit for so many famous captures. It was incredible.
    The man became angry. If Monsieur did not remove himself immediately, Monsieur would be removed and he himself would do the removing.
    Carruthers turned away.
    So it was true. Durand, his good friend Durand whom he had helped so often, would not see him.
    As he walked back the way he had come he felt his knees trembling a little. A great bitterness filled his heart. Durand had betrayed him. Then he pulled himself together; his eyes held a steely glint, his mouth tightened. Very well, he would do without Durand’s help. He had always played a lone hand before—he would play a lone hand again.
    His first action was to buy an automatic and some ammunition at a gunsmith’s in the boulevard St. Michel. It was a Browning, a deadly little weapon, and Carruthers spent ten minutes practising with it in the gunsmith’s range before continuing on his way to see Groom at the Ritz. He did not anticipate havingto use the Browning, but he felt it was well to be prepared. He hailed a taxi.
    Gone was his pleasure in the spring morning. Sitting back in his taxi he marshalled his thoughts in preparation for his meeting with Groom. At all costs Groom must not expect that he was other than a peaceable scientist. Could he maintain the pose? Carruthers felt that he could. After all, was not his own knowledge of atomic physics fully equal to that of this Professor, this Barstow? Carruthers felt that it was. Once let him examine Kassen’s work and the secret would be Kassen’s no longer. Meanwhile, he must gain Groom’s confidence. It should not be difficult. What happened when Groom discovered, as he must eventually discover, the sheep’s clothing was of no importance at the moment.
    When he stepped out of his taxi and entered the rococo portals of the Ritz he felt confident of success.
    The information clerk was very polite.
    Monsieur Groom? But certainly. If Monsieur would be so good as to wait one moment. A rapid conversation on the telephone followed. Then he turned apologetically, profound regret in every line of his features.
    “Monsieur is most unfortunate,” he said. “Monsieur Groom departed from the hotel ten minutes ago.”
    Carruthers’ first impulse was to disbelieve the clerk. It was a ruse to put him off the scent. Then, remembering that it was as Barstow and not as himself that he was there, the absurdity of the notion struck him. The hotel clerk would have no reason to deceive him. He began to ask questions.
    The clerk was most anxious to help. The hall porter was summoned. Yes, he remembered Monsieur Groom; he had been generous. He had left for the Gare de l’Est only ten minutes earlier.
    Quickly, Carruthers asked for a railway time-table. One was produced. He soon found what he was looking for. Groomhad undoubtedly left to catch the train for Bucharest, the junction for the branch line to Zovgorod.
    “Is there a ticket office in the hotel?” he asked.
    No, but there was a
Wagons-Lit
bureau round the corner. If Monsieur desired …
    Pressing a ten-franc piece into the man’s hand, Carruthers dashed out of the hotel and round to the
Wagons-Lit
bureau.
    Here again fortune favoured him. The man there remembered Groom from Carruthers’ description. He had bought a ticket to Zovgorod that very morning and had booked a compartment to himself in the Roumanian through-coach to Bucharest. The train left in a quarter of an hour. Monsieur might catch it if he hurried.
    Carruthers fumed with impatience while the complicated ticket was being prepared. By the time it was ready he had a taxi waiting. Spurred with a fifty-franc note and the promise of another if he were in time for the train, the driver flung the