Leonard and I turned into the little smoking room assigned to our use, after we had said good night to Rose. Faraday was seated there alone, with a block and pencil in his hand, apparently making idle sketches. He laid the block by his side, face downwards, at our entrance.
"Well," he said, a little ill-naturedly, "I suppose you've seen the treasures?"
"We have," I admitted, helping myself to a whisky and soda.
"Are they as wonderful as report says?" he enquired.
"I'm no judge," I told him, a little shortly.
"By the bye, there's a note for you on the table."
I recognised at once the familiar, typewritten envelope—a message from the chief. Leonard looked over my shoulder as I tore open the envelope:
Watch Faraday. Suspect Edwards, one of the custodians. Registered post to-morrow brings you key of door leading to balcony, end of north gallery.
I tore the note into small pieces. Faraday sat watching me with gloomy curiosity.
"Nothing annoying, I hope?" he queried.