A cry—a scream broke from Tchigorsky's lips. He danced about the room like a madman. For the time being it was impossible for the astonished secretary to determine whether this was joy or anguish.
"You are upset about something, sir," he said.
Tchigorsky recovered himself by a violent effort that left him trembling like a reed swept in the wind. He gasped for breath.
"It was the madness of an overwhelming joy!" he cried. "I would cheerfully have given ten years of my life for this information. Abell, you will have to go to Ravenspur for me to-day."
Abell said nothing. He was used to these swift surprises.
"You are to see this Ralph Ravenspur, Abell," continued Tchigorsky. "You are not to call at the castle; you are to hang about till you get a chance of delivering my message unseen. The mere fact that Ralph Ravenspur is blind will suffice for a clue to his identity. Look up the time-table!"
Abell did so. He found a train to land him at Biston Junction, some ten miles from his destination. Half an hour later he was ready to start. From an iron safe Tchigorsky took a small object and laid it in Abell's hand.
"Give him that," he said. "You are simply to say: 'Tchigorsky—Danger,' and come away, unless Ralph Ravenspur desires speech with you. Now, go. And as you value your life, do not lose that casket."
It was a small brass box no larger than a cigarette case, rusty and tarnished, and covered with strange characters, evidently culled from some long-forgotten tongue.