"Why not?" he demanded. "That formula was the most wonderful thing that has ever been put together, and the whole thing's so simple. I've been afraid every second that some one else might stumble upon it."
"It is without doubt a great loss," Lutchester admitted. "All the same, I don't fancy that it's a Scotland Yard business exactly. Have you any idea who robbed you?"
Graham paused to think. His eyes were still troubled and uncertain.
"It's coming back to me," he muttered. "I remember that beastly barn of a chapel. There were Jules, and that musician fellow, and the big American. He emptied my pockets … Why, of course, I remember how angry he was … My pocketbook was gone! They left me alone to write out the formula again, and then you came…. How on earth did you tumble on to my being there, Lutchester?"
"It was Miss Pamela Van Teyl whom you must thank," Lutchester told him, "not me. It seems she knew more about Henry's than any of us. She'd come up against some of the crew in Berlin, and she guessed they were holding you for that formula. She got the key out of one of those men and then telephoned to me for my help."
"And I never even thanked her," Graham murmured weakly.
There was a moment's silence. The recovering man's consciousness of his position and of events was evidently as yet incomplete. He sat up suddenly in his chair, gripping the sides of it. His eyes were large with reminiscent trouble.
"My pocketbook had gone when they searched me," he muttered.
"Are you sure that you had it with you when you came into Henry's?"
Lutchester inquired.
"Absolutely certain."