“It doesn’t make sense. I know that. Hang it all, you must do something for yourselves. Justify your existence, Lomas. Who is Kuyper?”
“The political branch have had their eye on him for some time. He’s been selling off Russian jewels. They believe he’s a Bolshevik.”
“That don’t help us,” Reggie murmured.
“No. The connexion of Wilton with Bolshevism isn’t what you’d call obvious. I did think you were hunting the wild, wild goose, Reginald. All my apologies. None of our men recognized Kuyper. But one of them did recognize Mr. Witt. Mr. Witt is now something in Kuyper’s office. Marvellous, Reginald. How do you do it?”
“My head,” said Reggie Fortune. “Oh, my head! Kuyper’s a Bolshevik agent and Kuyper employs a man to put Wilton out of the way. It’s a bad dream.”
“Yes, it’s not plausible. Not one of your more lucid cases, Fortune.”
“I had thought,” said Bell diffidently, “if Dr. Wilton happened to get to know of some Bolshevik plot, Mr. Fortune, they would be wanting to put him out.”
“They would—in a novel,” Reggie shook his head. “But hang it all, Wilton don’t know that he ever knew anything.”
“P’r’aps he’s a bit of a Bolshevik himself, sir,” said Bell.
Lomas laughed. “Bell has a turn for melodrama.”