Lewis and Boyd sat there smoking. Maitland-Rice’s story had evidently given them food for thought. Why they always chose that room to sit in was beyond me, but they seemed to prefer it to the library. I may say I was not particularly at ease there. The figure of Scoville was never far out of my thoughts when I looked at that table, and today, while they were pondering over Maitland-Rice, his face seemed to interweave itself, in my mind, with the horrible, distorted image of Mimi Dean; and I could see her hands, straining out into the air. It was with a good deal of effort that I stayed there at all, I think. They were so calm about it that I felt I could hardly show any nervousness.
“You’ve a man tracing the chocolates?” Lewis asked after some minutes.
Boyd nodded.
“I think,” Lewis cont
