"Ah," interposed Cleek, before the little man could speak. "It worked all right, eh?"
"I should just think so," was the brisk reply. "I left the——"
"That's all right then," interrupted Cleek, with a twitch of his eyebrow. "I was just asking Mr. Desmond to test his safe. Have you your key? If so, try it, please."
Mr. Desmond stepped forward and inserted it. To his surprise, it turned in the lock and the door swung slowly open.
"Good heavens!" he cried. "What does it mean? That thing should not have moved!" He looked at the dial, which stood for one o'clock, rigid, inscrutable.
Then he looked from Cleek to Lady Beryl, who was leaning against the table, overcome with emotion.
"I won't have it," she burst out. "It was not Elton. I swear it wasn't!"
"Have no fear," Cleek said, quietly. "Elton Carlyle was as true as steel, he never tampered with the lock. Perhaps Mr. Carlyle would prefer to tell us himself, Lady Desmond."
Before any one could so much as speak a word the amazing intimation had come true. With disordered dress and white, haggard face, the figure of Elton Carlyle himself stood in the doorway.