“Improbable?” repeated the Irishman. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“You are right,” Number One assented, gravely: “unthinkable is the word. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh, as for that, if the Council should see fit to appoint me Number One, I’d naturally do my best.”
“And most noble of you, I’m sure. But rather than bring down any such disaster upon this organization, I will say now that measures have already been taken, and I am to-night in a position to promise you that the new spirit in Scotland Yard will no longer be a factor in our calculations.”
“That wants proving,” Eleven contended.
A spasm of anger shook the figure in the throne-like chair, but only for an instant; immediately the iron will of the man imposed rigid self-control; almost without pause he proceeded in level and civil accents:
“I think I can satisfy you and—this once—I consent to do so. But first, a question: Have you yourself formed any theory as to the identity of this hostile intelligence which has so hindered us of late?”
“I’d be a raw fool if I hadn’t,” the Irishman retorted. “We know the Lone Wolf has been hand-in-glove with the authorities ever since the British Secret Service used him during the war.”
“You think, then, it is Lanyard—?”
“It’s a wise saying: ‘Set a thief to catch a thief.’ I believe there’s no man in England but Lanyard who has the wit and vision and audacity to fight us on our ground and win.”