The sublime audacity of the man brought a grin to T. B.'s face.
"There was," said Poltavo, "amongst the documents you found at our headquarters in Jerez a scrap of paper written somewhat unintelligibly, and apparently--I should imagine, for I have not seen it--without much meaning."
"So much I gathered from Baggin's agitation on our retreat," said Poltavo. "Where, may I ask, is this interesting piece of literature deposited?"
The cool, matter-of-fact demand almost took T. B.'s breath away.
"It is at present at Scotland Yard," he said.
"With my--er--dossier?" asked the voice, and a little laugh followed.
"Rather with the dossier of your friend Baggin," said T. B.
"In case I should ever want to--how do you say--burgle Scotland Yard," said the drawling voice again, "could you give me explicit instructions where to find it?"
T. B.'s anxiety was to keep Poltavo engaged in conversation until the officer he had despatched to the telephone returned.
"Yes," he said, "at present it is in the cabinet marked 'Unclassified Data,' but I cannot promise you that it will remain there. You see, count, I have too high an opinion of your enterprise and daring."
He waited for a reply, but no reply came, and at that moment the door opened and the constable he had sent on the errand appeared.
"The Treasury say that you are not connected with anybody, sir," he said.
He moved his hand from the transmitter and called softly, "Poltavo!"
He looked up with the receiver still at his ear.
"No--who are you?" demanded T. B. quickly.
"Exchange, sir--Private Exchange, Scotland Yard."
"Who was talking to me then? Where was he talking from?"
T. B., his face white, leapt to his feet.
"Follow me," he said, and went racing down the long corridor. He went down the broad stairs three at a time.
A constable on duty in the hall turned in astonishment.
"Has anybody left here recently?" asked T. B. breathlessly.
"A gentleman just gone out, sir," said the man; "went away in a motor-car."
"In the Record Office, sir," said the man.
Up the stairs again flew the detective. The Record Office was at the far end of the building.
The door was ajar and the room in darkness, but T. B. was in the room and had switched on the light.
In the centre of the room was stretched the unfortunate Elk in a pool of blood. A preserver lay near him. T. B. leant over him; he was alive, but terribly injured; then he shot a swift glance round the room. He saw the telephone with the receiver off; he saw an open cabinet marked "Unclassified Data," and it was empty.