Fay had the good sense to hold his tongue. Sir Richard was warming up to the problem. He shifted in his chair, glanced at MacKeenon, then toward the three boxes.
“The cipher,� he said, tapping the table with his forefinger, “is either very simple or very intricate. It is no half-way affair. It has baffled all the experts!�
The cracksman eyed the locks of the boxes with professional concern. He shifted his weight from his right leg to his left foot. He yawned politely and passed his hand over his silver-gray hair. As yet no trust or warmth showed in his eyes. They were neutral.
Sir Richard adjusted his mask and leaned forward. His eyes bored through the holes in the black velvet. “Whatever the case may be, Fay,â€� he said, “the key for this code or cipher was in the hands of a Berlin chemist who met with a most violent death in—we will say a country north and east of here. You can guess which one it is!â€�
“Holland?�
“Perhaps. We’ll leave the matter rest with your surmise. In this—country—north and east of here, the German chemist did one thing before he was slain. He left a small packet with the neutral nation’s embassy. It was placed in their care. This packet is of vital importance to us! It is important to your own country, Fay. It is the key to the cipher locked in these three boxes.â€�
“Well?� asked Fay as Sir Richard paused and thrust out his hand. “Well, what have I got to do with all this?�
Sir Richard doubled up his fingers and tapped the polished surface of the table with his white knuckles. He turned, threw one leg over the other and stared at MacKeenon. The Scotch inspector nodded ever so slightly. It was like a sly dog signaling another.
The air of the long room was tense as the three men faced each other. The outer roar of London sounded far away. The steady clank of the constable’s feet on the hard curb was a reminder to Fay that the house was well guarded. He thawed a trifle and fastened upon Sir Richard an engaging smile which was coated with clean-cut intentiveness.
“What have I got to do with all this?â€� he repeated, holding forth his hands. “You’ve released me—on parole. You’ve brought me to London. You’ve mentioned boxes and ciphers and dye-stuff. You want something, and yet behind me stands an officer of the law, and outside, walks another. If you want something, from me, why don’t you let me go?â€�