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“Irons! Irons the gardener?”

“Yes,” apologetically. “Only a line or two, you know. Just saying that, after all, if he cares to come on Monday you can find him a few days’ work.”

“But in any circumstances I don’t want him.”

“No; I can quite believe that you could do better. Still, it doesn’t matter, as he won’t come, Mrs Bellmark; not for half-a-crown a day, believe me. But the thought will tend to make Mr Irons less restive also. Lastly, will you persuade your husband not to decline his firm’s offer until Monday?”

“Very well, Mr Carrados,” she said, after a moment’s consideration. “You are Uncle Louis’s friend and therefore our friend. I will do what you ask.”

“Thank you,” said Carrados. “I shall endeavour not to disappoint you.”

“I shall not be disappointed because I have not dared to hope. And I have nothing to expect because I am still completely in the dark.”

“I have been there for nearly twenty years, Mrs Bellmark.”

“Oh, I am sorry!” she cried impulsively.

“So am I – occasionally,” he replied. “Good-bye, Mrs Bellmark. You will hear from me shortly, I hope. About the hawthorn, you know.”

It was, indeed, in something less than forty-eight hours that she heard from him again. When Bellmark returned to his toy villa early on Saturday afternoon Elsie met him almost at the gate with a telegram in her hand.

“I really think, Roy, that everyone we have to do with here goes mad,” she exclaimed, in tragi-humorous despair. “First it was Mr Johns or Jones – if he is Johns or Jones – and then Irons who wanted to work here for half of what he could get at heaps of places about, and now just look at this wire that came from Mr Carrados half-an-hour ago.”

This was the message that he read:

Please procure sardine tin opener mariner’s compass and bottle of champagne. Shall arrive 6.45 bringing Crataegus Coccinea.– Carrados.

“Could anything be more absurd?” she demanded.

“Sounds as though it was in code,” speculated her husband. “Who’s the foreign gentleman he’s bringing?”

“Oh, that’s a kind of special hawthorn – I looked it up. But a bottle of champagne, and a compass, and a sardine tin opener! What possible connexion is there between them?”

“A very resourceful man might uncork a bottle of champagne with a sardine tin opener,” he suggested.

“And find his way home afterwards by means of a mariner’s compass?” she retorted. “No, Roy dear, you are not a sleuth-hound. We had better have our lunch.”

They lunched, but if the subject of Carrados had been tabooed the meal would have been a silent one.

“I have a compass on an old watch-chain somewhere,” volunteered Bellmark.

“And I have a tin opener in the form of a bull’s head,” contributed Elsie.

“But we have no champagne, I suppose?”

“How could we have, Roy? We never have had any. Shall you mind going down to the shops for a bottle?”

“You really think that we ought?”

“Of course we must, Roy. We don’t know what mightn’t happen if we didn’t. Uncle Louis said that they once failed to stop a jewel robbery because the jeweller neglected to wipe his shoes on the shop doormat, as Mr Carrados had told him to do. Suppose Johns is a desperate anarchist and he succeeded in blowing up Buckingham Palace because we – ”

“All right. A small bottle, eh?”

“No. A large one. Quite a large one. Don’t you see how exciting it is becoming?”

“If you are excited already you don’t need much champagne,” argued her husband.

Nevertheless he strolled down to the leading wine-shop after lunch and returned with his purchase modestly draped in the light summer overcoat that he carried on his arm. Elsie Bellmark, who had quite abandoned her previous unconcern, in the conviction that “something was going to happen,” spent the longest afternoon that she could remember, and even Bellmark, in spite of his continual adjurations to her to “look at the matter logically,” smoked five cigarettes in place of his usual Saturday afternoon pipe and neglected to do any gardening.

At exactly six-forty-five a motor car was heard approaching. Elsie made a desperate rally to become the self-possessed hostess again. Bellmark was favourably impressed by such marked punctuality. Then a Regent Street delivery van bowled past their window and Elsie almost wept.

The suspense was not long, however. Less than five minutes later another vehicle raised the dust of the quiet suburban road, and this time a private car stopped at their gate.

“Can you see any policemen inside?” whispered Elsie.

Parkinson got down and opening the door took out a small tree which he carried up to the porch and there deposited. Carrados followed.

“At all events there isn’t much wrong,” said Bellmark. “He’s smiling all the time.”

“No, it isn’t really a smile,” explained Elsie; “it’s his normal expression.”

She went out into the hall just as the front door was opened.

“It is the ‘Scarlet-fruited thorn’ of North America,” Bellmark heard the visitor remarking. “Both the flowers and the berries are wonderfully good. Do you think that you would permit me to choose the spot for it, Mrs Bellmark?”

Bellmark joined them in the hall and was introduced.

“We mustn’t waste any time,” he suggested. “There is very little light left.”

“True,” agreed Carrados. “And Coccinea requires deep digging.”

They walked through the house, and turning to the right passed into the region of the vegetable garden. Carrados and Elsie led the way, the blind man carrying the tree, while Bellmark went to his outhouse for the required tools.

“We will direct our operations from here,” said Carrados, when they were half-way along the walk. “You told me of a thin iron pipe that you had traced to somewhere in the middle of the garden. We must locate the end of it exactly.”

“My rosary!” sighed Elsie, with premonition of disaster, when she had determined the spot as exactly as she could. “Oh, Mr Carrados!”

“I am sorry, but it might be worse,” said Carrados inflexibly. “We only require to find the elbow-joint. Mr Bellmark will investigate with as little disturbance as possible.”

For five minutes Bellmark made trials with a pointed iron. Then he cleared away the soil of a small circle and at about a foot deep exposed a broken inch pipe.

“The fountain,” announced Carrados, when he had examined it. “You have the compass, Mr Bellmark?”

“Rather a small one,” admitted Bellmark.

“Never mind, you are a mathematician. I want you to strike a line due east.”

The reel and cord came into play and an adjustment was finally made from the broken pipe to a position across the vegetable garden.

“Now a point nine yards, nine feet and nine inches along it.”

“My onion bed!” cried Elsie tragically.

“Yes; it is really serious this time,” agreed Carrados. “I want a hole a yard across, digging here. May we proceed?”

Elsie remembered the words of her uncle’s letter – or what she imagined to be his letter – and possibly the preamble of selecting the spot had impressed her.

“Yes, I suppose so. Unless,” she added hopefully, “the turnip bed will do instead? They are not sown yet.”

“I am afraid that nowhere else in the garden will do,” replied Carrados.

Bellmark delineated the space and began to dig. After clearing to about a foot deep he paused.

“About deep enough, Mr Carrados?” he inquired.

“Oh, dear no,” replied the blind man.

“I am two feet down,” presently reported the digger.

“Deeper!” was the uncompromising response.

Another six inches were added and Bellmark stopped to rest.

“A little more and it won’t matter which way up we plant Coccinea,” he remarked.

“That is the depth we are aiming for,” replied Carrados.

Elsie and her husband exchanged glances. Then Bellmark drove his spade through another layer of earth.

“Three feet,” he announced, when he had cleared it.

Carrados advanced to the very edge of the opening.

“I think that if you would loosen another six inches with the fork we might consider the ground prepared,” he decided.

Bellmark changed his tools and began to break up the soil. Presently the steel prongs grated on some obstruction.

“Gently,” directed the blind watcher. “I think you will find a half-pound cocoa tin at the end of your fork.”

“Well, how on earth you spotted that – !” was wrung from Bellmark admiringly, as he cleared away the encrusting earth. “But I believe you are about right.” He threw up the object to his wife, who was risking a catastrophe in her eagerness to miss no detail. “Anything in it besides soil, Elsie?”

“She cannot open it yet,” remarked Carrados. “It is soldered down.”

“Oh, I say,” protested Bellmark.

“It is perfectly correct, Roy. The lid is soldered on.”

They looked at each other in varying degrees of wonder and speculation. Only Carrados seemed quite untouched.

“Now we may as well replace the earth,” he remarked.

“Fill it all up again?” asked Bellmark.

“Yes; we have provided a thoroughly disintegrated subsoil. That is the great thing. A depth of six inches is sufficient merely for the roots.”

There was only one remark passed during the operation.

“I think I should plant the tree just over where the tin was,” Carrados suggested. “You might like to mark the exact spot.” And there the hawthorn was placed.

Bellmark, usually the most careful and methodical of men, left the tools where they were, in spite of a threatening shower. Strangely silent, Elsie led the way back to the house and taking the men into the drawing-room switched on the light.

“I think you have a tin opener, Mrs Bellmark?”

Elsie, who had been waiting for him to speak, almost jumped at the simple inquiry. Then she went into the next room and returned with the bull-headed utensil.

“Here it is,” she said, in a voice that would have amused her at any other time.

“Mr Bellmark will perhaps disclose our find.”

Bellmark put the soily tin down on Elsie’s best table-cover without eliciting a word of reproach, grasped it firmly with his left hand, and worked the opener round the top.

“Only paper!” he exclaimed, and without touching the contents he passed the tin into Carrados’s hands.

The blind man dexterously twirled out a little roll that crinkled pleasantly to the ear, and began counting the leaves with a steady finger.

“They’re bank-notes!” whispered Elsie in an awestruck voice. She caught sight of a further detail. “Bank-notes for a hundred pounds each. And there are dozens of them!”

“Fifty, there should be,” dropped Carrados between his figures. “Twenty-five, twenty-six – ”

“Good God,” murmured Bellmark; “that’s five thousand pounds!”

“Fifty,” concluded Carrados, straightening the edges of the sheaf. “It is always satisfactory to find that one’s calculations are exact.” He detached the upper ten notes and held them out. “Mrs Bellmark, will you accept one thousand pounds as a full legal discharge of any claim that you may have on this property?”

“Me – I?” she stammered. “But I have no right to any in any circumstances. It has nothing to do with us.”

“You have an unassailable moral right to a fair proportion, because without you the real owners would never have seen a penny of it. As regards your legal right” – he took out the thin pocket-book and extracting a business-looking paper spread it open on the table before them – “here is a document that concedes it. ‘In consideration of the valuable services rendered by Elsie Bellmark, etc., etc., in causing to be discovered and voluntarily surrendering the sum of five thousand pounds deposited and not relinquished by Alexis Metrobe, late of, etc., etc., deceased, Messrs Binstead & Polegate, solicitors, of 77a Bedford Row, acting on behalf of the administrator and next-of-kin of the said etc., etc., do hereby’ – well, that’s what they do. Signed, witnessed and stamped at Somerset House.”

“I suppose I shall wake presently,” said Elsie dreamily.

“It was for this moment that I ventured to suggest the third requirement necessary to bring our enterprise to a successful end,” said Carrados.

“Oh, how thoughtful of you!” cried Elsie. “Roy, the champagne.”

Five minutes later Carrados was explaining to a small but enthralled audience.

“The late Alexis Metrobe was a man of peculiar character. After seeing a good deal of the world and being many things, he finally embraced spiritualism, and in common with some of its most pronounced adherents he thenceforward abandoned what we should call ‘the common-sense view.’

“A few years ago, by the collation of the Book of Revelations, a set of Zadkiel’s Almanacs, and the complete works of Mrs Mary Baker Eddy, Metrobe discovered that the end of the world would take place on the tenth of October 1910. It therefore became a matter of urgent importance in his mind to ensure pecuniary provision for himself for the time after the catastrophe had taken place.”

“I don’t understand,” interrupted Elsie. “Did he expect to survive it?”

“You cannot understand, Mrs Bellmark, because it is fundamentally incomprehensible. We can only accept the fact by the light of cases which occasionally obtain prominence. Metrobe did not expect to survive, but he was firmly convinced that the currency of this world would be equally useful in the spirit-land into which he expected to pass. This view was encouraged by a lady medium at whose feet he sat. She kindly offered to transmit to his banking account in the Hereafter, without making any charge whatever, any sum that he cared to put into her hands for the purpose. Metrobe accepted the idea but not the offer. His plan was to deposit a considerable amount in a spot of which he alone had knowledge, so that he could come and help himself to it as required.”

“But if the world had come to an end – ?”

“Only the material world, you must understand, Mrs Bellmark. The spirit world, its exact impalpable counterpart, would continue as before and Metrobe’s hoard would be spiritually intact and available. That is the prologue.

“About a month ago there appeared a certain advertisement in a good many papers. I noticed it at the time and three days ago I had only to refer to my files to put my hand on it at once. It reads:

“‘Alexis Metrobe. Any servant or personal attendant of the late Alexis Metrobe of Fountain Court, Groat’s Heath, possessing special knowledge of his habits and movements may hear of something advantageous on applying to Binstead & Polegate, 77a Bedford Row, W.C.’

“The solicitors had, in fact, discovered that five thousand pounds’ worth of securities had been realized early in 1910. They readily ascertained that Metrobe had drawn that amount in gold out of his bank immediately after, and there the trace ended. He died six months later. There was no hoard of gold and not a shred of paper to show where it had gone, yet Metrobe lived very simply within his income. The house had meanwhile been demolished but there was no hint or whisper of any lucky find.

“Two inquirers presented themselves at 77a Bedford Row. They were informed of the circumstances and offered a reward, varying according to the results, for information that would lead to the recovery of the money. They are both described as thoughtful, slow-spoken men. Each heard the story, shook his head, and departed. The first caller proved to be John Foster, the ex-butler. On the following day Mr Irons, formerly gardener at the Court, was the applicant.

“I must now divert your attention into a side track. In the summer of 1910 Metrobe published a curious work entitled ‘The Flame beyond the Dome.’ In the main it is an eschatological treatise, but at the end he tacked on an epilogue, which he called ‘The Fable of the Chameleon.’ It is even more curious than the rest and with reason, for under the guise of a speculative essay he gives a cryptic account of the circumstances of the five thousand pounds and, what is more important, details the exact particulars of its disposal. His reason for so doing is characteristic of the man. He was conscious by experience that he possessed an utterly treacherous memory, and having had occasion to move the treasure from one spot to another he feared that when the time came his bemuddled shade would be unable to locate it. For future reference, therefore, he embodied the details in his book, and to make sure that plenty of copies should be in existence he circulated it by the only means in his power – in other words, he gave a volume to everyone he knew and to a good many people whom he didn’t.

“So far I have dealt with actualities. The final details are partly speculative but they are essentially correct. Metrobe conveyed his gold to Fountain Court, obtained a stout oak coffer for it, and selected a spot west of the fountain. He chose a favourable occasion for burying it, but by some mischance Irons came on the scene. Metrobe explained the incident by declaring that he was burying a favourite parrot. Irons thought nothing particular about it then, although he related the fact to the butler, and to others, in evidence of the general belief that ‘the old cock was quite barmy.’ But Metrobe himself was much disturbed by the accident. A few days later he dug up the box. In pursuance of his new plan he carried his gold to the Bank of England and changed it into these notes. Then transferring the venue to one due east of the fountain, he buried them in this tin, satisfied that the small space it occupied would baffle the search of anyone not in possession of the exact location.”

“But, I say!” exclaimed Mr Bellmark. “Gold might remain gold, but what imaginable use could be made of bank-notes after the end of the world?”

“That is a point of view, no doubt. But Metrobe, in spite of his foreign name, was a thorough Englishman. The world might come to an end, but he was satisfied that somehow the Bank of England would ride through it all right. I only suggest that. There is much that we can only guess.”

“That is all there is to know, Mr Carrados?”

“Yes. Everything comes to an end, Mrs Bellmark. I sent my car away to call for me at eight. Eight has struck. That is Harris announcing his arrival.”

He stood up, but embarrassment and indecision marked the looks and movements of the other two.

“How can we possibly take all this money, though?” murmured Elsie, in painful uncertainty. “It is entirely your undertaking, Mr Carrados. It is the merest fiction bringing me into it at all.”

“Perhaps in the circumstances,” suggested Bellmark nervously – “you remember the circumstances, Elsie? – Mr Carrados would be willing to regard it as a loan – ”

“No, no!” cried Elsie impulsively. “There must be no half measures. We know that a thousand pounds would be nothing to Mr Carrados, and he knows that a thousand pounds are everything to us.” Her voice reminded the blind man of the candle-snuffing recital. “We will take this great gift, Mr Carrados, quite freely, and we will not spoil the generous satisfaction that you must have in doing a wonderful and a splendid service by trying to hedge our obligation.”

“But what can we ever do to thank Mr Carrados?” faltered Bellmark mundanely.

“Nothing,” said Elsie simply. “That is it.”

“But I think that Mrs Bellmark has quite solved that,” interposed Carrados.

THE GAME PLAYED IN THE DARK

“It’s a funny thing, sir,” said Inspector Beedel, regarding Mr Carrados with the pensive respect that he always extended towards the blind amateur, “it’s a funny thing, but nothing seems to go on abroad now but what you’ll find some trace of it here in London if you take the trouble to look.”

“In the right quarter,” contributed Carrados.

“Why, yes,” agreed the inspector. “But nothing comes of it nine times out of ten, because it’s no one’s particular business to look here or the thing’s been taken up and finished from the other end. I don’t mean ordinary murders or single-handed burglaries, of course, but” – a modest ring of professional pride betrayed the quiet enthusiast – “real First-Class Crimes.”

“The State Antonio Five per cent. Bond Coupons?” suggested Carrados.

“Ah, you are right, Mr Carrados.” Beedel shook his head sadly, as though perhaps on that occasion someone ought to have looked. “A man has a fit in the inquiry office of the Agent-General for British Equatoria, and two hundred and fifty thousand pounds’ worth of faked securities is the result in Mexico. Then look at that jade fylfot charm pawned for one-and-three down at the Basin and the use that could have been made of it in the Kharkov ‘ritual murder’ trial.”

“The West Hampstead Lost Memory puzzle and the Baripur bomb conspiracy that might have been smothered if one had known.”

“Quite true, sir. And the three children of that Chicago millionaire – Cyrus V. Bunting, wasn’t it? – kidnapped in broad daylight outside the New York Lyric and here, three weeks later, the dumb girl who chalked the wall at Charing Cross. I remember reading once in a financial article that every piece of foreign gold had a string from it leading to Threadneedle Street. A figure of speech, sir, of course, but apt enough, I don’t doubt. Well, it seems to me that every big crime done abroad leaves a finger-print here in London – if only, as you say, we look in the right quarter.”

“And at the right moment,” added Carrados. “The time is often the present; the place the spot beneath our very noses. We take a step and the chance has gone for ever.”

The inspector nodded and contributed a weighty monosyllable of sympathetic agreement. The most prosaic of men in the pursuit of his ordinary duties, it nevertheless subtly appealed to some half-dormant streak of vanity to have his profession taken romantically when there was no serious work on hand.

“No; perhaps not ‘for ever’ in one case in a thousand, after all,” amended the blind man thoughtfully. “This perpetual duel between the Law and the Criminal has sometimes appeared to me in the terms of a game of cricket, inspector. Law is in the field; the Criminal at the wicket. If Law makes a mistake – sends down a loose ball or drops a catch – the Criminal scores a little or has another lease of life. But if he makes a mistake – if he lets a straight ball pass or spoons towards a steady man – he is done for. His mistakes are fatal; those of the Law are only temporary and retrievable.”

“Very good, sir,” said Mr Beedel, rising – the conversation had taken place in the study at The Turrets, where Beedel had found occasion to present himself – “very apt indeed. I must remember that. Well, sir, I only hope that this ‘Guido the Razor’ lot will send a catch in our direction.”

The ‘this’ delicately marked Inspector Beedel’s instinctive contempt for Guido. As a craftsman he was compelled, on his reputation, to respect him, and he had accordingly availed himself of Carrados’s friendship for a confabulation. As a man – he was a foreigner: worse, an Italian, and if left to his own resources the inspector would have opposed to his sinuous flexibility those rigid, essentially Britannia-metal, methods of the Force that strike the impartial observer as so ponderous, so amateurish and conventional, and, it must be admitted, often so curiously and inexplicably successful.

The offence that had circuitously brought “il Rasojo” and his “lot” within the cognizance of Scotland Yard outlines the kind of story that is discreetly hinted at by the society paragraphist of the day, politely disbelieved by the astute reader, and then at last laid indiscreetly bare in all its details by the inevitable princessly “Recollections” of a generation later. It centred round an impending royal marriage in Vienna, a certain jealous “Countess X.” (here you have the discretion of the paragrapher), and a document or two that might be relied upon (the aristocratic biographer will impartially sum up the contingencies) to play the deuce with the approaching nuptials. To procure the evidence of these papers the Countess enlisted the services of Guido, as reliable a scoundrel as she could probably have selected for the commission. To a certain point – to the abstraction of the papers, in fact – he succeeded, but it was with pursuit close upon his heels. There was that disadvantage in employing a rogue to do work that implicated roguery, for whatever moral right the Countess had to the property, her accomplice had no legal right whatever to his liberty. On half-a-dozen charges at least he could be arrested on sight in as many capitals of Europe. He slipped out of Vienna by the Nordbahn with his destination known, resourcefully stopped the express outside Czaslau and got away across to Chrudim. By this time the game and the moves were pretty well understood in more than one keenly interested quarter. Diplomacy supplemented justice and the immediate history of Guido became that of a fox hunted from covert to covert with all the familiar earths stopped against him. From Pardubitz he passed on to Glatz, reached Breslau and went down the Oder to Stettin. Out of the liberality of his employer’s advances he had ample funds to keep going, and he dropped and rejoined his accomplices as the occasion ruled. A week’s harrying found him in Copenhagen, still with no time to spare, and he missed his purpose there. He crossed to Malmo by ferry, took the connecting night train to Stockholm and the same morning sailed down the Saltsjon, ostensibly bound for Obo, intending to cross to Revel and so get back to central Europe by the less frequented routes. But in this move again luck was against him and receiving warning just in time, and by the mysterious agency that had so far protected him, he contrived to be dropped from the steamer by boat among the islands of the crowded Archipelago, made his way to Helsingfors and within forty-eight hours was back again on the Frihavnen with pursuit for the moment blinked and a breathing-time to the good.

To appreciate the exact significance of these wanderings it is necessary to recall the conditions. Guido was not zigzagging a course about Europe in an aimless search for the picturesque, still less inspired by any love of the melodramatic. To him every step was vital, each tangent or rebound the necessary outcome of his much-badgered plans. In his pocket reposed the papers for which he had run grave risks. The price agreed upon for the service was sufficiently lavish to make the risks worth taking time after time; but in order to consummate the transaction it was necessary that the booty should be put into his employer’s hand. Half-way across Europe that employer was waiting with such patience as she could maintain, herself watched and shadowed at every step. The Countess X. was sufficiently exalted to be personally immune from the high-handed methods of her country’s secret service, but every approach to her was tapped. The problem was for Guido to earn a long enough respite to enable him to communicate his position to the Countess and for her to go or to reach him by a trusty hand. Then the whole fabric of intrigue could fall to pieces, but so far Guido had been kept successfully on the run and in the meanwhile time was pressing.

“They lost him after the Hutola,” Beedel reported, in explaining the circumstances to Max Carrados. “Three days later they found that he’d been back again in Copenhagen but by that time he’d flown. Now they’re without a trace except the inference of these ‘Orange peach blossom’ agonies in The Times. But the Countess has gone hurriedly to Paris; and Lafayard thinks it all points to London.”

“I suppose the Foreign Office is anxious to oblige just now?”

“I expect so, sir,” agreed Beedel, “but, of course, my instructions don’t come from that quarter. What appeals to us is that it would be a feather in our caps – they’re still a little sore up at the Yard about Hans the Piper.”

“Naturally,” assented Carrados. “Well, I’ll see what I can do if there is real occasion. Let me know anything, and, if you see your chance yourself, come round for a talk if you like on – to-day’s Wednesday? – I shall be in at any rate on Friday evening.”

Without being a precisian, the blind man was usually exact in such matters. There are those who hold that an engagement must be kept at all hazard: men who would miss a death-bed message in order to keep literal faith with a beggar. Carrados took lower, if more substantial, ground. “My word,” he sometimes had occasion to remark, “is subject to contingencies, like everything else about me. If I make a promise it is conditional on nothing which seems more important arising to counteract it. That, among men of sense, is understood.” And, as it happened, something did occur on this occasion.

He was summoned to the telephone just before dinner on Friday evening to receive a message personally. Greatorex, his secretary, had taken the call, but came in to say that the caller would give him nothing beyond his name – Brebner. The name was unknown to Carrados, but such incidents were not uncommon, and he proceeded to comply.

“Yes,” he responded; “I am Max Carrados speaking. What is it?”

“Oh, it is you, sir, is it? Mr Brickwill told me to get to you direct.”

“Well, you are all right. Brickwill? Are you the British Museum?”

“Yes. I am Brebner in the Chaldean Art Department. They are in a great stew here. We have just found out that someone has managed to get access to the Second Inner Greek Room and looted some of the cabinets there. It is all a mystery as yet.”

“What is missing?” asked Carrados.

“So far we can only definitely speak of about six trays of Greek coins – a hundred to a hundred and twenty, roughly.”

“Important?”

The line conveyed a caustic bark of tragic amusement.

“Why, yes, I should say so. The beggar seems to have known his business. All fine specimens of the best period. Syracuse – Messana – Croton – Amphipolis. Eumenes – Evainetos – Kimons. The chief quite wept.”

Carrados groaned. There was not a piece among them that he had not handled lovingly.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Mr Brickwill has been to Scotland Yard, and, on advice, we are not making it public as yet. We don’t want a hint of it to be dropped anywhere, if you don’t mind, sir.”

“That will be all right.”

“It was for that reason that I was to speak with you personally. We are notifying the chief dealers and likely collectors to whom the coins, or some of them, may be offered at once if it is thought that we haven’t found it out yet. Judging from the expertness displayed in the selection, we don’t think that there is any danger of the lot being sold to a pawnbroker or a metal-dealer, so that we are running very little real risk in not advertising the loss.”