CHAPTER ONE

Death Foretold

Everybody called Gyron de London the ‘Master’. Technically, he was not the ruler of 2190 London, nor of the British Federation—but he was certainly the power behind the Government of the time. Gyron of London, to give him his title in more correct parlance, was one of the most powerful industrialists to ever be spewed up from the financial and industrial deeps. He had behind him an unsavoury record—the age-old story of a climb to eminence over the bodies of less sagacious and less ruthless people…

In 2190, at the age of sixty, Gyron de London was at the height of his power—feared, respected, hated. Yes, most certainly hated, chiefly by the little, forgotten people who had in some way felt the impress of his pitliless personality. Forgotten people? Yes—as far as de London was concerned. But there was one, somewhere, who had not forgotten.

To de London, March 9th in this favoured year was no different from any other day. He breakfasted, was helicoptered to the towering edifice which was the root base of his mighty industrial empire, and the elevator whirled him silently up eighty-two flights to the summit where lay his private office. As usual everybody salaamed and smiled frozenly as he swept through the general reception centre. He grunted perfunctory ‘good mornings’ and went on his way, a juggernaut released for another day’s merciless crushing.

“Pig,” murmured an under-clerk, putting away a file.

“Beast,” whispered a girl teenager, who had long since summed up her employer from afar.

The elders said little though they thought much. They watched de London’s progress across the broad areas to his office and wished he were at the devil. Amongst the women clerks were conjectures as to how his wife and son tolerated him.

The private office door slammed. The shadow on the glass panel showed that de London, industrial master of the Federation was removing his hat and coat.

“Good morning, Mr. De London…” The voice was a woman’s—a chilly, ‘keep-your-distance’ voice—and it said the same words at the same time every day except weekends.

“Morning,” de London growled, and turned to look at Miss Turner, his First Secretary. She held down her job for two reasons: one because she was inhumanly efficient, and two because she knew a thing or two about her boss’s private escapades. To dismiss her would be yelling out for trouble.

“Anything important?” de London questioned, settling at the desk.

“Apparently not, sir. Usual routine mail and messages.”

“Hmmph.”

Miss Turner waited in respectful silence, studying the man who had been her employer for sixteen grinding, pitiless years. He still did not look much older than when she, a girl in her teens, had brightly applied for an office post—and thereafter gone down the hill of acid spinsterhood. Now she was thirty-four, angular, youth entirely lost, her face cynical and hard-drawn.

Yet the man at the desk could have passed for an early fifty instead of being ten years older. He was bull-necked, red-faced, hard breather and a hard liver. Grey eyes, veiny on the whites, a bulbous nose, and the most vicious mouth which ever disgraced a human face.

“If Consolidateds don’t dance to my tune soon, Miss Turner, there’s going to be trouble,” he said briefly, studying one of the letters. “They have the damned nerve to haggle over my proposition— Write them. Tell them my last statement was final and unalterable.”

“Yes, Mr. de London.”

“Also…” More letter perusal. “Also, contact Amalgamated Copper and up the price by a tenth. That’ll teach ’em to waste my time.”

“You think that wise, sir? After all, the market—”

“I am the market, Miss Turner. Do as you’re told! As for Steel and Iron, you can write and tell them to—”

de London stopped in mid-sentence. Miss Turner, who had been making brief notes, glanced up in surprise. de London had never been known to stop halfway in anything, even in a sentence.

“I’ll be damned,” he said finally, staring at a message. “Of all the infernal, blasted audacity!”

“Sir?”

“Look at this!” And Miss Turner found a note thrust into her bony hand. She read it, and her expression did not change. It was made up of letters from odd newspapers to form into an understandable message. It said briefly:

TODAY IS MARCH 9th. 2190. TODAY YOU ARE THE MASTER OF THE INDUSTRIAL FEDERATION. IN THREE WEEKS, ON MARCH 30th, 2190, YOU WILL BE DEAD—NOT FROM NATURAL CAUSES BUT BECAUSE A SWORN ENEMY HAS DECIDED IT. YOU CANNOT AVOID IT.

THE MASTER MUST DIE!

“Obviously a joke,” Miss Turner said, handing the note back.

“Obviously. I suppose a man in my position must expect a little occasional tomfoolery like this.” de London’s brows knitted for a moment as he looked through the note once again; then he tossed it on one side and continued ploughing through his correspondence. When he had dealt with it he gave Miss Turner a sharp look.

“Do you think anybody in the office staff could have put that ridiculous note together?”

The woman shrugged. “They’re any of them capable of it, sir. You are hardly—er—popular with the staff.”

“Lot of damned rubbish,” de London muttered; then he waved a beefy hand upon which diamonds sprouted like warts. “All right, that’s all. If Shelly calls tell him to go blazes, with my compliments.”

“Very good, sir.”

Miss Turner went out with the silence of a wraith and for several moments de London sat musing, his pudgy hand pulling at his lower lip. He could not decide why, but that infernal note had disturbed him. Could there be anything more absurd? He, who was absolutely shockproof, was disturbed!

Muttering to himself, he got to his feet and wandered to the mighty window that looked out over London. From it there was a view that de London always appreciated. He could see the vast metropolis in which he had been born, and which he had conquered. It made his vast power seem transiently all the greater… Grim-faced he looked into the canyons of streets, then up to the morning sky, where aircraft and space machines followed their appointed courses—

‘In three weeks you will be dead, and not from natural causes…’

“Damn!” de London snapped, pulling himself together. “This is no way for Gyron de London to behave!”

He turned back to the desk, and then suddenly a thought occurred to him. From where had the message been sent? He should have looked for that sooner instead of thinking of the note itself. Seating himself again he dived his hand into the wastepaper canister and finally retrieved the envelope which he had cast away.

He saw now that the envelope had been addressed in the normal way, in a backwardly-sloped hand. The superscription was of the orthodox kind: Gyron de London, Esq., London, Earth. Earth? de London gave a start and then glanced at the stamp on the envelope. It was a Martian stamp, embossed with the crest of the Martian ruling faction. The letter had been physically sent from Mars then, by old-fashioned mail.

de London began to grin, feeling relieved at the same time. He had a host of near-at-hand enemies on Earth and was not scared of any of them. Since this reactionary was evidently on Mars—either a disgruntled Martian or an outcast Earthman—there was nothing to worry about. The space lanes could be watched: anybody suspicious could be arrested. Nothing to worry about…

Just the same, de London did not throw the message away. He put it in his wallet along with the envelope and then did his best to banish the whole thing from his mind. Banish it? He might as well have tried to stop the sun moving. The memory of the note kept obtruding every time he allowed himself a few seconds to think outside his business demands.

“If it worries you so much, sir,” Miss Turner said, catching him out wool-gathering, “why don’t you tell the police? They’ll very soon deal with the matter.”

de London smiled scornfully. “The police! I never yet found them any use in a crisis. Too much wind and too little action. Besides, it would be the devil of a come-down for me, the most powerful man in the country, to have to admit I am scared by a child’s prank.”

“With all due respect, sir, I would submit that this is hardly the work of a child. Harmless, yes, but devised by somebody quite malignant. And candidly, I think you wrong the police quite a deal. Whilst I was on Mars recently for my vacation I lost my suitcase and—”

“On Mars? Vacation?” de London looked up sharply. “When?”

“After Christmas, sir—” Miss Turner looked surprised. “Surely you remember? You gave me extension of time.”

“Yes— Yes, so I did. I’d forgotten. I had overlooked that you had a Martian vacation.” de London made a sudden effort and pulled himself together. “Well, that’s all I require at the moment, Miss Turner. I think I’ll leave early today. I’ve a lot to catch up on at home. My son is bringing his fiancée to see me, I think.”

“Oh.” The First Secretary smiled without warmth. Since romance had passed her by, she could hardly enter into the spirit of the thing. She picked up the signed letters and departed to her own quarters. After she had gone de London sat looking at the closed office door.

“Been to Mars, has she? And recently? Now I wonder… I’m not fool enough to think but what that sterile has-been has nothing but animosity for me. Her idea of a joke perhaps? Make me squirm a bit? If so, heaven help her.”

It was a possibility, of course, that the First Secretary was playing games, but somehow de London could not credit it. Miss Turner hated him—he well knew that—but he did not credit her with imagination enough to launch a one-woman campaign against him.

“No—remote from possibility,” he decided. “Nonetheless the Martian coincidence might be checked. Have to think about it.”

He pressed the intercom button and in a moment was speaking to Rogers, his chauffeur and general factotum. When not transporting his boss in either the car or helicopter Rogers spent his time doing odd jobs about the de London estate—as at this moment. But at any second the radiophone on his wrist could bring him to attention.

“Yes, sir?” he asked respectfully.

“Bring the helicopter, Rogers. I’m leaving earlier than usual. Fifteen minutes deadline.”

“Yes, sir.” Rogers switched off and made a sour face. If any man hated his employer, that man was Rogers. For ten years he had stood the big man’s oral bludgeoning and come up for more. There was only one reason: he liked the pay and he also liked one of the maids on the domestic staff. He hoped that one day he might claim her and then thumb his nose at de London and all his works.

Rogers got on the move. He deserted the work he was doing in the grounds under the surveillance of the head gardener and headed for the helicopter garage. As he went he turned a matter over in his mind. That morning he had received an extraordinary message, made up of clipped letters from a newspaper. It directly affected both him and his employer. Should he mention it, or let the old so-and-so wallow in ignorance?

Rogers was still thinking it out as he flew the helicopter over the enormous metropolis in the late afternoon sunshine. Well under the stipulated fifteen minutes brought him to the roof of the de London Edifice, and he went to seek his master and found him in his private office

“You’ve kept me waiting,” de London said brusquely.

“Sorry, sir. The fifteen minutes is only just up.”

“I’m aware of it. You could have been quicker… Take me to Metropolitan Police Headquarters. I’ve a matter to attend to.”

“Very good, sir.” Rogers held the office door open and his employer swept past him and through the main reception area. There were brief murmurings of farewell from the office staff, of which de London took not the least notice. Rogers followed him up, arriving in time to hold open the rear door of the helicopter beyond which was de London’s sealed, private cabin.

“Been to Mars recently, Rogers?” de London paused in the act of entering his cabin to aim the question.

“Not recently, sir.” Rogers studied the unpleasant, florid face and veiny eyes. “If you recall, sir, you asked me to forego my vacation this year for extra pay. Couldn’t spare me, you said.”

“Did I? I must have been crazy. All right— Police Headquarters, and hurry it up.”

De London finished his half-bent entry into his cabin and settled himself, but Rogers did not immediately close the door. He stood thinking, until he realised his employer was glaring at him.

“How the hell much longer are you going to be, man? Get that door shut!”

“Yes, sir. First, though, I think there is something you ought to know. Your deciding to visit Police Headquarters brings it into my mind.” Rogers fumbled in his uniform and produced a letter with a torn envelope. “I received it this morning, sir. I didn’t mention it earlier because I wanted to think about it. I—er—suppose it’s a joke.”

de London snatched the envelope and pulled out the paper from within it. His mouth set hard he read:

YOU ARE ROGERS, FACTOTUM AND MUG TO THE ‘MASTER’. THE MASTER MUST DIE—AND IN THREE WEEKS FROM TODAY HE WILL. NOBODY WILL EVER DISCOVER HOW. YOU WILL THEN BE FREE OF HIS DOMINATION. ON MARCH 30th. SOMETIME BEFORE MIDNIGHT HE WILL TERMINATE THE EVIL CLIMBING TO POWER THAT HE SO ADORES.

He looked at the envelope and noted the Martian mail stamp. From the look of things the newspaper letters had been cut out by the person who had sent the other communication. A pair of curved nail scissors had been used in each case.

“You believe this?” de London snapped suddenly.

Rogers’ wooden face did not move a muscle. “No, sir, I don’t. A joke, I suppose.”

“Why don’t you add ‘unfortunately’ and speak the truth?” The industrialist gave a harsh grin. “I’m not going to be murdered, Rogers, believe me! You might as well know now: I had a note similar to this one this morning, threatening me directly. Hence my visit to Police Headquarters… I’ll keep this one of yours to add to my own.”

“Just as you wish, sir. I’m glad I allowed my better judgment to prevail in this matter. I’ll get on the move right away.”

The cabin door closed and Rogers swung up into his own little glass-sided compartment. In a matter of ten minutes he was bringing the helicopter down again on the roof of Police Headquarters—once Scotland Yard—and after opening up his master’s cabin he sat down to await his return.

De London was not a man to mice matters. He came right to the point as he faced the Commissioner for Metropolitan and Interplanetary Crime across his huge polished desk.

“Read these,” the industrialist ordered, and tossed the to messages on to the desk.

The Commissioner obeyed. He only had his job because de London willed it, so vast was the tycoon’s influence.

“Seems like a joke,” the Commissioner said finally, raising his eyes.

“I’m not interested in what it seems to be, Commissioner. My life is being threatened, and whether it is a joke or not I want action and prompt, ruthless justice. No man—or woman—can do this sort of thing to me and expect to get away with it.”

“No, Mr. de London, of course not. Er—have you any particular enemy that you know of who might be domiciled, or connected with, Mars?”

“I’ve enemies by the thousand. No big man can avoid ’em. But I can’t name anybody specific…” de London considered, his paw pulling at his lower lip. “Or can I? There’s a bit of a mystery about my First Secretary. She had a vacation recently on Mars and she hates me like all hell. She could have spent her time dolling up two messages like this and then have left them for the delayed mail so they wouldn’t arrive until many weeks after her return to Earth.”

“And do you think she might carry out the threat implied in these notes?”

The industrialist grinned. “Not she! She hasn’t the brains. Secretarial work is about her limit. Her only reason for this bit of handiwork would be the wish to see me squirm.”

“Which you are doing?” The Commissioner was coldly polite. “You must be, sir, to go to the length of coming here?”

“I’m the best judge of whether I’m squirming or not. Let’s see, who else is there? Rogers, maybe. He’s my chauffeur, pilot, and general washer-up. Bit of inscrutable sort of devil and likes me about as much as prussic acid. A stunt like this wouldn’t be beyond him. Might even be able to put the threat into effect.”

“What makes you think that, sir?”

“Well, he’s pretty ingenious: I know that much. Maybe he gets it from his father. His old man was a physical scientist, and I used quite a number of his inventions. Maybe the son has similar gifts. Serves me right for taking pity on the son and giving him a job when his father died. He was left pretty well on his uppers. He was his father’s assistant.”

The Commissioner nodded, thinking. “All very interesting. Mr. de London, but a trifle vague as a basis upon which we can get to work. I’ve made a note, anyhow. Anybody else you can think of?”

“No, I don’t—” de London stopped, his eyes sharpening. Abruptly he banged his fiat down on the desk. “Why the blazes didn’t it occur to me before?” he demanded. “Orwena Tirgard!”

The Commissioner looked respectfully interrogative.

“Owena Tirgard!” de London insisted. “Yes, of course! She is my son’s fiancée. Martian girl, part Earthian on her father’s side. Half-breed, of course. I can’t stand her at any price and she knows it! Now, I just wonder…”

“Certainly a more positive lead than any so far,” the Commissioner agreed. “And from what I know of Martians, whether pure-bred or half-breed, they’re a mysterious lot of folks. Originally Earth-born, of course. A group of scientists and private entrepreneurs who colonized Mars at the end of the last century, creating their own protected environment on that dead world, and proclaiming themselves independent from Earth. Brilliant, secretive, highly educated. I’d rather like to meet your son’s fiancée and form some conclusion.”

“That’s easily fixed. He’s bringing her home this very day—much to my disgust. Something important he has say regarding the pair of them. The wife’s all for it—but I’m not. And if I can smash the romance I shall.”

The Commissioner smiled faintly and wondered if de London ever got tired of smashing things—lives, careers and markets.

“If you could invite me to your home, just as a friend,” he suggested, “I might get a lead.”

“Very well.” de London got to his feet. “Be there tomorrow at eight o’clock and I’ll fix everything. There’s a sort of celebration been fixed by that stupid wife of mine because of Harry’s return home. Dammit, he’s only been away six months… Right! Eight it is, and see you’re not late. I’ve no time for unpunctual people.”

De London departed and spent his time thinking as he was flown home by the impassive Rogers. Once within the residence the tycoon discovered that the lounge had already been commandeered by a host of friends—or at any rate, acquaintances—of his wife. He took one look at them, grunted uncivilly, and was about to leave when his wife caught up with him.

“Just a minute, Guy.” She caught at his sleeve. “I want a word with you.”

“Later,” he growled, making to move on.

“Now!” Eleanor de London insisted, and as usual she had her way. It was not that she dominated: she simply tad the sublime gift of handling the raging beast in his lair. So de London sat down on the edge of the thronging, laughing guests and waited.

“It’s about Harry,” his wife explained, settling beside him.

“Can’t it wait? I want to freshen up and change before getting entangled with this mob.”

“He’s not just bringing Owena to meet us as his fiancée, Guy. She’s his wife.”

For once de London looked almost stupid. His wife’s blue eyes were earnest.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” She smiled. “Harry has married at last! Now perhaps he’ll settle down and do something useful instead of living on what you allow him.”

“Married?” de London repeated slowly. “Married? To that little Martian upstart? That half-breed!”

“Ssssh! Remember the guests.”

“Blast the guests!” de London surged to his feet. “What the devil does he mean by going behind my back and marrying this creature? I’ve only seen her once so far and what I did see I didn’t like.”

The assembly paused in their murmurings to each other, and looked in surprise towards their hosts. Mrs. de London gave an uncomfortable smile and edged her husband towards the doorway. In the quiet of the hall she gave him a frank look.

“If you must blow up, Guy, please do it in private. Come into the library.”

de London growled something under his breath and lumbered after his wife’s still slender, tripping figure. In the library he slammed the door and waited, glaring at her.

“I won’t stand for it,” he declared flatly. “Not only am I not consulted before this marriage, but—”

“Why should you be consulted? Harry’s twenty-seven and perfectly entitled to please himself.”

“To a certain extent, yes, but he is the son of Gyron de London the most powerful man in the British Federation. For that reason his machinations in matrimony should first have been submitted to me…”

“They were. Did he not bring Owena to meet us? The dear, sweet girl that she is.”

“He did not say he intended to marry her. That was left as so much assumption. The son of de London marries a Martian half-breed! Great God, what next?”

Eleanor de London looked troubled. “I don’t understand your attitude, Guy; really I don’t. Owena is the daughter of a very high-born Englishman and an equally high-born Martian woman. After all, her mother is one of the Nardins of the Controlesque, descended from one of the original families who colonized Mars. She is one of the highest women advisers to the Martian controlling body—equivalent of an aide-de-camp to a ruling monarch.”

“Monarch?” de London’s voice dripped with acid contempt. “None of those blasted Earth colonists were of royal blood: they only proclaimed themselves as such when they settled on Mars and severed ties with Earth! She’s nothing but a half-breed. I as good as told Harry—and Owena—I didn’t approve of their association, which was one reason why they took themselves off to Mars, I suppose. I even refused Harry his last pay cheque when he wrote for it. I did that to show my displeasure.”

“Then you’ll have to get pleased again,” Eleanor de London smiled. “They’re married, and that’s that””

“Perhaps. When I don’t like a thing, Eleanor, I smash it. I can do it with people and markets. I can do it with a marriage. I will not have my son entangled with a Martian woman. No Martian is to be trusted. Having renounced all ties with Earth, they are jealous of our planet’s resources, and are constantly scheming against us.”

Eleanor de London’s brows knitted for a moment; and at length she sighed.

“Please don’t make a scene, Guy, when Harry and Owena arrive. It’ll make such a bad impression on the guests.”

“Oh, damn the guests! I didn’t invite ’em, anyway. Bunch of parasites, the lot of ’em. They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t feel sure of free food and drink… I’m telling you straight, Eleanor, when Harry and Owena arrive I’ll raise hell! Now I suppose I’d better be thinking about getting ready for the evening. No blasted peace no matter what!”

Upon which de London stormed out of the library. For him to be bad-tempered was not unusual—but to be so bad-tempered was a surprise, even to his wife who knew him so well. But then, she was unaware of the note he had received and the effect it had had upon him. He would probably have been the first to deny that the warnings had in any way affected his equanimity, but it was so just the same.

An hour later Harry and Owena arrived and from that moment Eleanor de London was involved in manifold strategies to keep the smiling pair amidst the guests, where she hoped they would be safe from her overbearing husband. For as long as possible she kept the news of their arrival from him, but it eventually leaked out through one of the manservants.

Down came de London to discover how much he had missed—and there was a curious pause amongst the high spirits of the guests as the industrialist came into the great lounge. Everybody looked at him—grim-faced, freshly-shaven, resplendent in faultlessly-cut evening clothes.

“Hello, dad!” Harry de London broke the tension and came forward with his hand extended in greeting. He was a tall, good-looking young man, the kind almost any girl could have found attractive.

“So you’ve got back?” The tycoon ignored the hand. “Without saying a word to me you get married. Am I to understand that I am a nonentity in your calculations?”

Harry flushed a little. “Nothing of the sort, dad. I married because I wanted to, and it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference whether you’d permitted it or not.”

“So it seems.” The industrialist brushed forward until he was facing Owena. She was a slender girl of uncertain age, entirely normal in physical contour, since Martians and Earthlings had few dissimilarities in physique, thanks to the artificial gravity devices with which their enclosed settlements were equipped, which gave the Martian colonists an Earth-normal gravity.

The only unusual thing about her that stamped her quasi-Martian origin was her eyes. They were big, innocent, with over-large olive green pupils. They made her look inordinately fascinating when contrasted with her ivory-white skin.

“I suppose,” de London asked her bluntly, “that you inveigled my son into this marriage? Maybe as revenge because last time I saw you I made it clear I did not approve of you?”

“Guy, for heaven’s sake!” Eleanor de London was waving her hands about helplessly.

“Well?” de London barked, and the half-breed girl studied him inscrutably and then smiled.

“Harry and I married because we love each other,” she replied simply. “Is that so hard to understand?”

“It will be to him, yes!” Harry snapped, coming forward. “Dad hasn’t the remotest conception what love is. Ask anybody who works for him, who has been stamped on by him! The Master speaks—and somebody dies!”

The industrialist turned slowly and surveyed the faces of the guests. Some were looking awe-struck; others disgusted.

“I see no reason why any of you ladies and gentlemen should continue to take up room in my household,” he said bluntly. “Certainly I have no wish to detain you.”

Eleanor made a sound rather like a groan, and for the next ten minutes she was engaged in the unenviable task of having to apologise and say farewell to the scandalised guests as they took their departure. Throughout the exodus de London stood watching them stonily, Harry glaring at him. The only one who appeared entirely unmoved was Owena. She sat beside one of the occasional tables sipping at a rare essence.

“The air seems sweeter now,” de London said at last when the door had closed on the last guests. “Let it be understood by you two that that is the measure of my intolerance towards your union. I warn you I shall do everything in my power to break your marriage—and I do not have to embellish the fact that my power is far-reaching.”

Harry took an angry step forward. For an instant he looked as though he would strike his father across the face then Owena’s gentle hand on his arm detained him.

“Don’t, Harry—not on my account anyway. It isn’t you whom your father hates so much. It’s me. Am I not right, Mr. De London?”

“Exactly right! You are a Martian, Owena, and in my experience not one of your blasted race is to be trusted. You owe no allegiance to Earth, only to your own enclosed artificial world. My son would never have married you had you not seduced him in some way!”

“She did no such thing!” Harry stormed. “Owena’s a decent, sweet girl, and I’m proud to have her as my wife. By what damned right do you dare say such things about her?”

“I dare,” de London sneered, “because I am your father—because I am much more experienced than you—and because I know what subtlety the Martians possess! Why should I bless your union when my very life has been threatened by somebody who is at present resident—or was resident—on Mars?”

“Your—your life been threatened?” Eleanor came forward in alarm. “When, Guy? You never told me!”

“No reason why I should. I’d have had no sympathy anyway. I’m not going into details. I’m merely saving I do not approve of this marriage, and both of you will oblige me by leaving this house—and staying away! If, later, I legally smash your union I will consider then, Harry, whether I’ll permit you to return.”

Harry laughed shortly. “Thanks for the insult, dad. We’ll go all right—and gladly. You needn’t think because you’ve stopped my pay-cheque that I can’t make a living for myself. I already have a job in the city. I fixed it definitely before coming on here for the ‘reception’.”

“I see.” The industrialist shrugged. “I’d thank you to use some other name than your own. I don’t fancy my son being linked with the ordinary masses. Bad for prestige.”

“I’m sticking to my name, and my wife,” Harry replied. “Let’s be on our way, Owena.”

“Where will you be staying?” Eleanor asked quickly catching at them as they passed by her.

“We have our eye on a nice apartment,” Owena smiled. “When we get the address fixed we’ll let you know.”

“That will be quite unnecessary,” de London told her and the half-Martian girl gave him a steady look.

“For you, perhaps, but not for Mrs. de London. I’m sorry you hate me so, because it is quite ill-founded.”

de London smiled bitterly. “Ill-founded? I wonder? My life has been threatened by somebody on Mars, as I’ve already said. I’d stake a good deal that the ‘somebody’ is you.”

“That’s a pretty rotten thing to add to the barrage of insults you’ve already fired!” Harry blazed.

“Or even you might have sent it,” de London added

Harry hesitated, obviously about to ask for full details of the mysterious threat his father had received, but Owena stopped him. She nodded her dark-haired head silently towards the door and then moved away with easy grace. There was a certain finality about the way that door closed. It hurt Eleanor de London quite a lot—but not her husband. Entirely satisfied with the situation he settled down to read a stock market report until it should be time for dinner.

At eight o’clock the Commissioner of Police arrived—and left again, a much bewildered man. His instructions were to pursue Harry de London and his wife and examine their activities in detail. If there was the least sign that either of them had sent the threatening letters—de London clenched a massive fist at the thought. He would smash, and smash and smash!