"My God, Bullard, but you promised! Oh, surely, you don't mean to fail me!"
Bullard threw himself into the chair at his desk. While he chose a cigar he regained something of his customary control. "I beg your pardon, Lancaster," he said presently. "I ought not to have said that, seeing that I have your daughter's promise, and do not doubt it. But the thing has hit me—both of us—hard…. Now don't you think you had better go home? Don't work yourself into an illness again. The Green Box is gone—for good, I fear. We can't call in the police, you know. But there are still things to be done—for instance, find out whether the real diamonds are in Grey House—and, mark you, I think they are! If I were only certain, I'd act on the will at once. That beast Flitch has been restless lately. Wants to leave the country. His evidence might be necessary in proving the loss of Craig. But we'll talk it out to-morrow. Are you going?"
Without a word Lancaster went out; but he sat in his own private office for several hours.
"What prevents me," asked Bullard of himself, "from throwing the worthless fool overboard and letting him sink?" And the only answer was "Doris. I believe he'd sell his rights in the will for—"
The telephone on his desk buzzed. Next moment he was listening to the voice of Mrs. Lancaster.
"I'm just going out," it said, "and I thought I ought to let you know about Doris. She had an express letter from young France this morning, and insists on staying at home now to receive him. You asked me to keep an eye on him. Any news? … Why don't you answer?"
"Pardon, my dear lady. No; there is no news, except that I've been on the wrong track and have small hope of getting upon the right one. Thank you for letting me know; at the same time, I must keep to my bargain with Doris—no interference, you understand. By the way, has Doris referred to last night?"
"Not with a single word."
"Ah! … I may call to-morrow. When does Mr. France arrive?"
"Five. But what's to be done about—?"