“So you see,” I concluded, “you have got here in your house the man that is wanted for the Portland Place murder. Your duty is to send your car for the police and give me up. I don’t think I’ll get very far. There’ll be an accident, and I’ll have a knife in my ribs an hour or so after arrest. Nevertheless, it’s your duty, as a law-abiding citizen. Perhaps in a month’s time you’ll be sorry, but you have no cause to think of that.”

He was looking at me with bright steady eyes. “What was your job in Rhodesia, Mr. Hannay?” he asked.

“Mining engineer,” I said. “I’ve made my pile cleanly and I’ve had a good time in the making of it.”

“Not a profession that weakens the nerves, is it?”

I laughed. “Oh, as to that, my nerves are good enough.” I took down a hunting-knife from a stand on the wall, and did the old Mashona trick of tossing it and catching it in my lips. That wants a pretty steady heart.