Two miles away, in the hidden laboratory high above the rooftops of Kingsway, Valmon Dain withdrew a contact key from a glowing red dial and slowly removed his headphones.
He wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"So..."
he murmured.
"Murder."
The single word lingered heavily in the stillness of the room.
"That changes everything."
For several minutes he remained seated on the edge of his chair, perfectly motionless.
Only his mind moved.
Already it had travelled beyond the present.
He could almost see Tuesday morning unfolding before him.
Dark figures slipped silently through the narrow passage behind Kingsland Mews.
One by one they gathered in the shadows outside the Duchess of Renburgh's house, waiting patiently for the leader who had planned the raid...
...the leader who would never arrive.
Then another movement.
Other shadows.
Silent.
Swift.
Waiting.
Scotland Yard.
The darkness exploded into confusion.
Boots.
Shouts.
Whistles.
A brief struggle.
Handcuffs snapping shut.
And then—
The inevitable accusation.
"Lyall sold us!"
"He betrayed the gang!"
The cry echoed through Dain's imagination with dreadful clarity.
He could already foresee what would happen afterward.
The Silver Arrow men would be taken.
The newspapers would report another sensational police triumph.
Every member of London's underworld would hear the story before nightfall.
One fact alone would dominate every whispered conversation.
Every man involved had been arrested...
Except Willard Lyall.
That single omission would become his death sentence.
Among criminals, trust was more valuable than gold.
Suspicion was fatal.
No explanation would matter.
No defence would be believed.
The underworld would judge him exactly as it judged every informer.
As a traitor.
As a man who had purchased his own freedom by selling his companions.
And once that verdict spread...
The hunt would begin.
Dain rose abruptly.
For the third time that morning he wiped the perspiration from his brow.
His carefully ordered world was becoming hopelessly entangled.
Every attempt to prevent one tragedy seemed only to create another.
Worst of all...
Willard Lyall was Mercia's father.
That single fact refused to leave his thoughts.
He stood staring silently across the maze of wires surrounding him.
Then, with sudden determination, he crossed to the control board.
Three fresh circuits were connected.
A series of tiny lamps flickered into life.
The headphones returned to his ears.
For several moments there was nothing except the familiar whisper of distant voices.
Then...
Success.
Lyall.
And Tansy.
They were saying their farewells.
"So that's settled?"
Lyall asked.
"Yes."
"I'll make inquiries."
Tansy's rough voice carried unmistakable reluctance.
"But don't expect me to join any murder business."
"Not this time."
"This fellow's too dangerous."
"He knows far too much."
"I'll ask questions."
"I'll keep my ears open."
"But that's as far as I go."
Lyall sounded impatient.
"That's all I'm asking."
"The moment you hear anything..."
"...telephone me."
"Discreetly."
"And while you're about it..."
"...sound out the others."
"I will."
There was a pause.
Then Tansy spoke again.
"But I'll tell you honestly, Governor..."
"I don't like this."
"Whoever this man is..."
"...he's got influence somewhere."
"He always seems to know what's going to happen before the men planning the job know it themselves."
Lyall gave a short, sarcastic laugh.
"Getting cold feet, Tansy?"
The jeweller's answer came instantly.
"You never accused me of cold feet when I did that little coffin job for you."
Silence.
Then, more quietly—
"Good day, Mr. Lyall."
"And don't talk too loudly about murder."
"You never know when the mighty are marked for a fall."
"Good day."
Lyall's reply lacked its usual confidence.
There was the faintest trace of uneasiness beneath the words.
A door closed.
The connection ended.
Dain removed the contact key.
He shut down the dynamos one by one until the laboratory settled into silence once more.
Then he collected his hat and coat and left.
* * *
The morning was still young.
Walking through Kingsway towards the Strand, Dain stopped briefly at a post office.
He requested a telegram form.
In his precise block capitals he wrote:
"YOUR DECISION TO REMAIN AT HOME ON MONDAY NIGHT WAS A WISE ONE IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE."
He read the message twice.
Satisfied, he folded the form and handed it across the counter.
No signature.
No explanation.
Only another message from the invisible guardian whom Scotland Yard knew only as...
The Ghost.
His business completed, Dain continued quietly towards a nearby restaurant to take breakfast.
* * *
At almost the same hour, Willard Lyall wandered aimlessly through London's streets.
He had left Notting Hill intending only to think.
Without realizing it, his feet had carried him all the way back towards Highgate.
His thoughts remained hopelessly tangled.
The anonymous postcard.
The unknown spy.
The coming robbery.
The possibility of betrayal.
Round and round they chased each other through his mind.
Only when Greydene appeared before him did he realise how far he had walked.
He gave a tired shrug and entered the house.
Mercia's cheerful voice floated from the music room.
"Oh, Dad!"
"There's a telegram for you."
"It only arrived a few minutes ago."
She continued practising her scales without looking up.
"Thank you, my dear."
Lyall forced an ordinary smile.
He crossed into his study and closed the door behind him.
The telegram lay waiting upon his desk.
He opened it absentmindedly.
Then he froze.
Every trace of colour drained from his face.
His fingers began to tremble.
The words blurred before his eyes.
"YOUR DECISION TO REMAIN AT HOME ON MONDAY NIGHT WAS A WISE ONE IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE."
He read it again.
And again.
Barely an hour earlier...
Inside a locked workshop in Notting Hill...
He had made that decision.
No one beyond that room should have known.
No one.
Yet somehow...
Someone had known before he reached home.
The congratulation had been waiting for him.
A cold dread settled over him.
This was no longer merely espionage.
It felt impossible.
Unnatural.
Almost supernatural.
It was as though an unseen intelligence watched every movement he made...
Heard every word he spoke...
Read every thought before he himself had finished thinking it.
The room swayed.
His breathing became shallow.
The telegram slipped from his weakening fingers.
A violent wave of helpless terror swept over him.
With a strangled gasp...
Willard Lyall collapsed unconscious onto the study floor, the pink telegram still clutched tightly in his hand.