"Well, monsieur: the application of your adage?"
"Colonel Stanistreet, what would you think if I were to tell you the combination of your safe?"
"I should be inclined to suspect that you were the devil," Stanistreet chuckled.
"By all accounts a gentleman of intelligence: one is flattered. … Very well: I proceed to demonstrate black art with the aid of this white paper pad. The combination, monsieur, is as follows: nine, twenty-seven, eighteen, thirty-six."
A low cry of bewilderment greeted this announcement. Blensop had drawn near and was eyeing Lanyard as if under the influence of hypnotism.
"How—how do you know that?" he asked in a broken voice.
"Clairvoyance, Mr. Blensop. I seem to see, as I hold this pad, somebody writing upon it the combination for the information of another who had no right to have it—somebody using a pencil with a hard lead, Mr. Blensop; which was very foolish of him, since it made a distinct impression on the under sheet. So you see my magic is rather colourless, after all. … Now, a wiser man, Mr. Blensop, would have used a pen, a fountain pen by preference, with a soft gold nib, well broken. That would leave no impression. If you will lend me the beautiful pen I observe in your pocket, I will give a further demonstration."
The eyes of the secretary shifted wildly. He hesitated, moistening dry lips with the tip of a nervous tongue.
"And don't try to get out of it, Mr. Blensop, because I
