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“That has not been stolen, then?”

“No. The theft of the French paper and of Carling’s report really does not matter much, for practically it would be impossible for any outside person to decipher them; but the other, which is by far the most important, was not in cipher, unfortunately.”

“What language was it in?”

“Russian.”

Snell glanced up quickly, as the thought flashed to his mind that Lady Rawson was herself said to be Russian by birth. Sir Robert did not meet his eyes. He appeared to be regarding an ivory paper-knife that he was fingering. His face was drawn and haggard; he seemed to have aged by ten years in the course of the last few hours, yet he was perfectly self-possessed.

“Whom do you suspect, Sir Robert?”

The blunt, point-blank question would have startled any ordinary man into an admission—even by an unguarded gesture—that he was concealing something. But Sir Robert Rawson’s face betrayed nothing, and he continued to play with the paper-knife as he replied:

“If I had any reason to suspect anyone, I should have told you at once, Mr. Snell. The whole affair is a mystery to me.”