Wimsey glanced up. Then he returned to his examination of the room. There were many curious things in it, which he wanted to memorise.
Presently the trap-door was flung open. "Bring him up!" cried a voice. Wimsey rose immediately, and his face was rather pale.
The members of the gang were again seated round the table. Number Two occupied the President's chair, and her eyes fastened on Wimsey's face with a tigerish fury, but when she spoke it was with a self-control which roused his admiration.
"The President has been two hours gone," she said. "What has happened to him? Traitor twice over—what has happened to him?"
"How should I know?" said Wimsey. "Perhaps he has looked after Number One and gone while the going was good!"
She sprang up with a little cry of rage, and came close to him.
"Beast! liar!" she said, and struck him on the mouth. "You know he would never do that. He is faithful to his friends. What have you done with him? Speak—or I will make you speak. You two, there—bring the irons. He shall speak!"
"I can only form a guess, madame," replied Wimsey, "and I shall not guess any the better for being stimulated with hot irons, like Pantaloon at the circus. Calm yourself, and I will tell you what I think. I think—indeed, I greatly fear—that Monsieur le Président in his hurry to examine the interesting exhibits in my safe may, quite inadvertently, no doubt, have let the door of the inner compartment close behind him. In which case——"
He raised his eyebrows, his shoulders being too sore for shrugging, and gazed at her with a limpid and innocent regret.
"What do you mean?"