 Chapter 5 The Absent-Minded Coterie Some years ago I enjoyed the unique experience of pursuing a man for one crime, and getting evidence against him of another. He was innocent of the misdemeanor, the proof of which I sought, but was guilty of another most serious offence, yet he and his confederates escaped scot-free, in circumstances which I now purpose to relate. You may remember that in Rudyard Kipling's story, Bedelia Herod's foot, the unfortunate woman's husband ran the risk of being arrested as a simple drunkard, at a moment when the blood of murder was upon his boots. The case of Ralph Summertree's was rather the reverse of this. The English authorities were trying to fasten upon him a crime almost as important as murder, while I was collecting evidence which proved him guilty of an action much more momentous than that of drunkenness. The English authorities have always been good enough, when they recognized my existence at all, to look down upon me with amused condescension. If today you ask Spencer Hale of Scotland Yard what he thinks of Eugene Valmont, that complacent man will put on the superior smile which so well becomes him, and if you are a very intimate friend of his, he may draw down the lid of his right eye as he replies. Oh yes, a very decent fellow Valmont, but he's a Frenchman, as if that said, there was no need of further inquiry. Myself, I like the English detective very much, and if I were to be in a Malay tomorrow, there is no man I would rather find beside me than Spencer Hale. In any situation where a fist that can fell an ox is desirable, my friend Hale is a useful companion. But for intellectuality, mental acumen, finesse, ah well, I am the most modest of men, and will say nothing. It would amuse you to see this giant come into my room during an evening, on the bluff pretends that he wishes to smoke a pipe with me. There is the same difference between this good-natured giant and myself, as exists between that strong black pipe of his and my delicate cigarette, which I smoke feverishly when he is present, to protect myself from the fumes of his terrible tobacco. I look with delight upon the huge man who, with an air of the utmost good humour, and a twinkle in his eye, as he thinks he is twisting me about his finger, vainly endeavours to obtain a hint regarding whatever case is perplexing him at that moment. I baffle him with the ease that an active greyhound eludes the pursuit of a heavy mastiff, and then at last I say to him with a laugh, Come, honour me, Hale, tell me all about it, and I will help you if I can. Once or twice at the beginning he shook his massive head, and replied the secret was not his. The last time he did this I assured him that what he said was quite correct, and then I related full particulars of the situation in which he found himself accepting the names for these he had not mentioned. I had pieced together his perplexity from scraps of conversation in his half-hours fishing for my advice, which, of course, he could have had for the plain asking. Since that time he has not come to me except with cases he feels at liberty to reveal, and one or two complications I have happily been enabled to unravel for him. But staunch as Spencer Hale holds the belief that no detective service on earth can excel that centring in Scotland Yard, there is one department of activity in which even he confesses that Frenchmen are his masters, although he somewhat grudgingly qualifies his admission, by adding that we in France are constantly allowed to do what is prohibited in England. I refer to the minute search of a house during the owner's absence. If you read that excellent story entitled The Perloined Letter by Edgar Allan Poe, you will find a record of the kind of thing I mean, which is better than any description I, who have so often taken part in such a search, can set down. Now, these people among whom I live are proud of their phrase, the Englishman's house is his castle. And into that castle even a policeman cannot penetrate without a legal warrant. This may be all very well in theory, but if you are compelled to march up to a man's house blowing a trumpet and rattling a snare drum, you need not be disappointed if you fail to find what you are in search of when all the legal restrictions are complied with. Of course the English are a very excellent people, a fact to which I am always proud to bear testimony, but it must be admitted that for cold common sense the French are very much their superiors. In Paris, if I wish to obtain an incriminating document, I do not send the possessor a carte postale to inform him of my desire, and in this procedure the French people sanely acquiesce. I have no men who, when they go out to spend an evening on the boulevards, toss their bunch of keys to the concierge, saying, if you hear the police rummaging about while I am away, pray assist them, with an expression of my distinguished consideration. I remember when I was chief detective in the service of the French government, being requested to call at a certain hour at the private hotel of the Minister for Foreign Affairs. It was during the time that Bismarck meditated a second attack upon my country, and I am happy to say that I was then instrumental in supplying the secret bureau with documents which modified that iron man's purpose. A fact which I think entitled me to my country's gratitude, not that I have ever even hinted such a claim when a succeeding ministry forgot my services. The memory of a republic, as has been said by a greater man than I, is short. However, all that has nothing to do with the incident I am about to relate. I merely mention the crisis to excuse a momentary forgetfulness on my part, which in any other country might have been followed by serious results to myself. But in France, ah, we understand those things, and nothing happened. I am the last person in the world to give myself away, as they say in the Great West. I am usually the calm, collected Eugène Valmont whom nothing can perturb. But this was a time of great tension, and I had become absorbed. I was alone with the minister in his private house, and one of the papers he desired was in his bureau at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. At least he thought so, and said, ah, it is in my desk at the bureau. How annoying! I must send for it. No excellency I cried, springing up in a self-oblivion the most complete. It is here. Touching the spring of a secret draw, I opened it, and, taking out the document he wished, handed it to him. It was not until I met his searching look, and saw the faint smile on his lips that I realized what I had done. Valmont, he said quietly, on whose behalf did you search my house? Excellency! I replied, in tones no less agreeable than his own. Tonight, at your orders, I pay a domiciliary visit to the mansion of Baron Dumoulin, who stands high in the estimation of the President of the French Republic. If either of those distinguished gentlemen should learn of my informal call, and should ask me in whose interest I made the domiciliary visit, what is it you wish that I should reply? You should reply, Valmont, that you did it in the interest of the secret service. I shall not fail to do so, Excellency. And in answer to your question just now, I had the honour of searching this mansion in the interests of the secret service of France. The Minister for Foreign Affairs laughed, a hearty laugh that expressed no resentment. I merely wish to compliment you, Valmont, on the efficiency of your search, and the Excellency of your memory. This is indeed the document which I thought was left in my office. I wonder what Lord Lansdowne would say if Spencer Hale showed an equal familiarity with his private papers. But now that we have returned to our good friend Hale, we must not keep him waiting any longer. I well remember the November day when I first heard of the summer-trees' case, because they hung over London a fog so thick that two or three times I lost my way, and no cab was to be had at any price. The few cab men then in the streets were leading their animals slowly along, making for their stables. It was one of those depressing London days which filled me with ennui, and a yearning for my own clear city of Paris, where, if we are ever visited by a slight mist, it is at least clean, white vapour, and not this horrible London mixture saturated with suffocating carbon. The fog was too thick for any passer to read the contents' bills of the newspapers plastered on the pavement, and as there were probably no races that day, the newsboys were shouting what they considered the next most important event, the election of an American president. I bought a paper and thrust it into my pocket. It was late when I reached my flat, and after dining there, which was an unusual thing for me to do, I put on my slippers, took an easy chair before the fire, and began to read my evening journal. I was distressed to learn that the eloquent Mr. Brian had been defeated. I knew little about the silver question, but the man's oratorical powers had appealed to me, and my sympathy was aroused because he owned many silver mines, and yet the price of the metal was so low that apparently he could not make a living through the operation of them. But of course the cry that he was a plutocrat, and a reputed millionaire over and over again, was bound to defeat him in a democracy where the average voter is exceedingly poor, and not comfortably well to do, as is the case with our peasants in France. I always took great interest in the affairs of the huge Republic to the West, having been at some pains to inform myself accurately regarding its politics, and although, as my readers know, I seldom quote anything complementary that is said of me, nevertheless an American client of mine once admitted that he never knew the true inwardness. I think that was the phrase he used, of American politics, until he heard me discourse upon them, but then he added, he had been a very busy man all his life. I had allowed my paper to slip to the floor, for in very truth the fog was penetrating even into my flat, and it was becoming difficult to read, notwithstanding the electric light. My man came in and announced that Mr. Spencer Hale wished to see me, and indeed any night, but especially when there is rain or fog outside, I am more pleased to talk with a friend than to read a newspaper. Monde Dieu, my dear Mr. Hale, it is a brave man you are to venture out in such a fog as is abroad to-night. Ah, Mr. Valmont said Hale with pride. You cannot raise a fog like this in Paris. No, there you are supreme, I admitted, rising and saluting my visitor, when offering him a chair. I see you reading the latest news, he said, indicating my newspaper. I am very glad that man Brian is defeated. Now we shall have better times. I waved my hand as I took my chair again. I will discuss many things with Spencer Hale, but not American politics. He does not understand them. It is a common defect of the English to suffer complete ignorance regarding the internal affairs of other countries. It is surely an important thing that brought you out on such a night as this. The fog must be very thick in Scotland-yard. This delicate shaft of fancy completely missed him, and he answered stolidly, It's thick all over London, and indeed throughout most of England. Yes, it is, I agreed, but he did not see that, either. Still a moment later he made a remark which, if it had come from some people I know, might have indicated a glimmer of comprehension. You are a very, very clever man, Monsieur Valmont, so all I need say is that the question which brought me here is the same as that on which the American election was fought. Now to a countryman I should be compelled to give further explanation, but to you, Monsieur, that will not be necessary. There are times when I dislike the crafty smile and partial closing of the eyes which always distinguishes Spencer Hale when he places on the table a problem which he expects will baffle me. If I said he never did baffle me I would be wrong, of course, for sometimes the utter simplicity of the puzzles which trouble him leads me into an intricate involution entirely unnecessary in the circumstances. I pressed my fingertips together and gazed for a few moments at the ceiling. Hale had lit his black pipe, and my silent servant placed at his elbow the whiskey and soda, then tiptoed out of the room. As the door closed my eyes came from the ceiling to the level of Hale's expansive countenance. Have they eluded you? I asked quietly. Who? The coiners. Hale's pipe dropped from his jaw, but he managed to catch it before it reached the floor. Then he took a gulp from the tumbler. That was just a lucky shot, he said. Poffé-more! I replied carelessly. Now, oh no, Valmont, wasn't it? I shrugged my shoulders. A man cannot contradict a guest in his own house. Oh, stow that! cried Hale impolitely. He's a trifle prone to strong and even slangy expressions when puzzled. Tell me how you guessed it. It is very simple, mon ami. The question on which the American election was fought is the price of silver, which is so low that it has ruined Mr. Brian, and threatens to ruin all the farmers of the West who possess silver mines on their farms. Silver troubled America. Ergo, silver troubles Scotland Yard. Very well. The natural inference is that someone has stolen bars of silver. But such a theft happened three months ago, when the metal was being unloaded from a German steamer at Southampton, and my dear friend Spencer Hale ran down the thieves very cleverly as they were trying to dissolve the marks off the bars with acid. Now crimes do not run in series, like the numbers in roulette at Monte Carlo. The thieves are men of brains. They say to themselves, what chance is there successfully to steal bars of silver while Mr. Hale is at Scotland Yard? Eh? My good friend? Really Valmont's at Hale, taking another sip. Sometimes you almost persuade me that you have reasoning powers. Thanks comrade. Then it is not a theft of silver we have now to deal with. But the American election was fought on the price of silver. If silver had been high in cost there would have been no silver question. So the crime that is bothering you arises through the low price of silver. And this suggests that it must be a case of illicit coinage, for there the low price of the metal comes in. You have, perhaps, found a more subtle illegitimate act going forward than here to fore. Someone is making your shillings and your half-crowns from real silver instead of from baser-metal, and yet there is a large profit which has not hitherto been possible through the high price of silver. With the old conditions you are familiar, but this new element sets at naught all your previous formulae. That is how I reasoned the matter out. Well, Valmont, you've hit it. I'll say that for you. You've hit it. There is a gang of expert coiners who are putting out real silver money, and making a clear shilling on the half-crown. We can find no trace of the coiners, but we know the man who's shoving the stuff. That ought to be sufficient, I suggested. Yes, it should, but it hasn't proved so up to date. Now I came to-night to see if you would do one of your French tricks for us, right on the quiet. What French trick, M. Spencer Hale, I inquired with some asperity, forgetting for the moment that the man invariably became impolite when he grew excited. No offence intended, said this blundering officer, who really is a good-natured fellow, but always puts his foot in it and then apologizes. I want someone to go through a man's house without a search warrant. Spot the evidence, let me know, and then we'll rush the place before he has time to hide his tracks. Who is this man, and where does he live? His name is Ralph Summertrees, and he lives in a very natty little Bijoux residence, as the advertisements call it, situated in no less a fashionable street than Park Lane. I see. What has aroused your suspicions against him? Well, you know, that's an expensive district to live in. It takes a bit of money to do the trick. This Summertrees has no ostensible business. Yet every Friday he goes to the United Capital Bank in Piccadilly, and deposits a bag of swag—usually all silver coin. Yes, and this money? This money, so far as we can learn, contains a good many of these new pieces which never saw the British Mint. It's not all the new coinage, then. Oh, no! He's a bit too artful for that. You see, a man can go round London, his pockets filled with new coinage five-shilling pieces, by this, that and the other, and come home with his change in legitimate coins of the realm— half-crowns, florins, shillings, sixpences, and all that. I see. Then why don't you nab him one day when his pockets are stuffed with illegitimate five-shilling pieces? That could be done, of course, and I've thought of it. But you see, we want to land the whole gang. Once we arrested him, without knowing where the money came from, the real coiners would take flight. How do you know he is not the real coiner himself? Now, poor Hale is as easy to read as a book. He hesitated before answering this question, and looked confused as a culprit caught in some dishonest act. You need not be afraid to tell me, I said, soothingly, after a pause. You have had one of your men in Mr. Summertree's house, and so learned that he is not the coiner. But your man has not succeeded in getting you evidence to incriminate other people. You have about hit it again, Mr. Valmont. One of my men has been Summertree's butler for two weeks, but, as you say, he has found no evidence. Is he still butler? Yes. Now, tell me how far you have got. You know that Summertree's deposits a bag of coin every Friday in the Piccadilly bank. And I suppose the bank has allowed you to examine one or two of the bags. Yes, sir, they have. But you see, banks are very difficult to treat with. They don't like detectives bothering around. And whilst they do not stand out against the law, still they never answer any more questions than they're asked. And Mr. Summertree's has been a good customer at the United Capital for many years. Haven't you found out where the money comes from? Yes, we have. It's brought there, night after night, by a man who looks like a respectable city clerk. And he puts it into a large safe of which he holds the key, this safe being on the ground floor in the dining-room. Haven't you followed the clerk? Yes. He sleeps in the Park Lane House every night and goes up in the morning to an old curiosity-shop in Tottenham Court Road, where he stays all day, returning with his bag of money in the evening. Why don't you arrest and question him? Well, Monsieur Valmont, there is just the same objection to his arrest as to that of Summertree's himself. We could easily arrest both, but we have not the slightest evidence against either of them. And then, although we put the go-betweens in clink, the worst criminals of the lot would escape. Nothing suspicious about the old curiosity-shop? No, it appears to be perfectly regular. This game has been going on under your noses for how long? For about six weeks. Is Summertree's a married man? No. Are there any women servants in the house? No, except that three char-women come in every morning to do up the rooms. Of what is his household comprised? There's the butler, then the valet, and last, the French cook. Ah! cried I, the French cook. This case interests me. So Summertree's has succeeded in completely disconcerting your man. Has he prevented him going from top to bottom of the house? No, he's rather assisted him than otherwise. On one occasion he went to the safe, took out the money, had podgers, that's my chap's name, help him count it, and then actually sent podgers to the bank with the bag of coin. And podgers has been all over the place? Yes. Saw no signs of a coining establishment? No. It's absolutely impossible that any coining can be done there. Besides, as I tell you, that respectable clerk brings him the money. I suppose you want me to take podger's position. Well, Monsieur Valmont, to tell you the truth, I would rather you didn't. Podgers has done everything a man can do, but I thought if you got into the house, podgers assisting, you might go through it night after night at your leisure. I see. It's just a little dangerous in England. I think I should prefer to assure myself the legitimate standing of being the amiable podger's successor. You say that summer-trees has no business? Well, sir, not what you might call a business. He's by the way of being an author. But I don't count that any business. Who an author is he? When does he do his writing? He locks himself up most of the day in his study. Does he come out for lunch? No. He lights a little spirit-lamp inside, podgers tells me, and makes himself a cup of coffee, which he takes with a sandwich or two. That's rather frugal fare for Park Lane. Yes, Monsieur Valmont, it is. But he makes up for it in the evening, when he has a long dinner with all them foreign kick-shaws you people like, done by his French cook. Sensible man. Well, Hale, I see I shall look forward with pleasure to making the acquaintance of Mr. Summer-trees. Is there any restriction on the going and coming of your man, podgers? None in the least. He can get away either night or day. Very good, friend Hale. Bring him here to-morrow, as soon as our author locks himself up in his study. Or rather, I should say, as soon as the respectable clerk leaves for Tottenham Court Road, which I should guess, as you put it, is about half an hour after his master turns the key of the room in which he writes. You are quite right in that guess, Valmont. How did you hit it? Milius a maize, Hale. There is a good deal of oddity about that Park Lane house, so it doesn't surprise me in the least that the master gets to work earlier in the morning than the man. I have also a suspicion that Ralph Summer-trees knows perfectly well what the estimable podgers is there for. What makes you think that? I can give no reason except that my opinion of the acuteness of Summer-trees has been gradually rising all the while you were speaking, and at the same time my estimate of podgers' craft has been as steadily declining. However, bring the man here to-morrow, that I may ask him a few questions. Next day, about eleven o'clock, the ponderous podgers, hat in hand, followed his chief into my room. His broad, impassive, immobile, smooth face gave him rather more the air of a genuine butler than I had expected, and this appearance, of course, was enhanced by his livery. His replies to my questions were those of a well-trained servant who will not say too much unless it is made worth his while. All in all, podgers exceeded my expectations, and really my friend Hale had some justification for regarding him, as he evidently did, a triumph in his line. Sit down, Mr. Hale, and you, podgers. The man disregarded my invitation, standing like a statue, until his chief made a motion, then he dropped into a chair. The English are great on discipline. Now, Mr. Hale, I must first congratulate you on the make-up of podgers. It is excellent. You depend less on artificial assistance than we do in France, and in that I think you are right. Oh, we know a bit over here, Monsieur Valmont, said Hale, with pardonable pride. Now then, podgers, I want to ask you about this clerk. What time does he arrive in the evening? At prompt six, sir. Does he ring, or let himself in with a latch-key? With a latch-key, sir. How does he carry the money? In a little locked leather satchel, sir, flung over his shoulder. Does he go direct to the dining-room? Yes, sir. Have you seen him unlock the safe and put in the money? Yes, sir. Does the safe unlock with a word or a key? With a key, sir. It's one of the old-fashioned kind. Then the clerk unlocks his leather-money-bag? Yes, sir. That's three keys used within as many minutes. Are they separate or in a bunch? In a bunch, sir. Did you ever see your master with this bunch of keys? No, sir. You saw him open the safe once, I'm told. Yes, sir. Did he use a separate key or one of a bunch? Podgers slowly scratched his head, then said, I don't just remember, sir. Ah, podgers, you are neglecting the big things in that house. Sure you can't remember? No, sir. Once the money is in and the safe locked up, what does the clerk do? Goes to his room, sir. Where is this room? On the third floor, sir. Where do you sleep? On the fourth floor, with the rest of the servants, sir. Where does the master sleep? On the second floor, adjoining his study. The house consists of four stories and a basement, does it? Yes, sir. I have somehow arrived at the suspicion that it is a very narrow house. Is that true? Yes, sir. Does the clerk ever dine with your master? No, sir. The clerk don't eat in the house at all, sir. Does he go away before breakfast? No, sir. No one takes breakfast to his room? No, sir. What time does he leave the house? At ten o'clock, sir. When is breakfast served? At nine o'clock, sir. At what hour does your master retire to his study? At half-past nine, sir. Locks the door on the inside? Yes, sir. Ever rings for anything during the day? Not that I know of, sir. What sort of a man is he? Here Poggers was unfamiliar ground, and he rattled off a description, minute in every particular. What I meant was, Poggers, is he silent or talkative, or does he get angry? Does he seem furtive, suspicious, anxious, terrorized, calm, excitable, or what? Well, sir, he is by way of being very quiet, never as much to say for himself, never saw him angry or excited. Now, Poggers, you've been at Park Lane for a fortnight or more. You were a sharp, alert, observant man. What happens there that strikes you as unusual? Well, can't exactly say, sir, replied Poggers, looking rather helplessly from his chief to myself and back again. Your professional duties have often compelled you to enact the part of Butler before, otherwise you wouldn't do it so well. Isn't that the case? Poggers did not reply, but glanced at his chief. This was evidently a question pertaining to the service which a subordinate was not allowed to answer. However, Hale said at once, certainly, Poggers has been in dozens of places. Well, Poggers, just call to mind some of the other households where you've been employed, and tell me any particulars in which Mr. Sommertree's establishment differs from them. Poggers pondered a long time. Well, sir, he do stick to writing pretty close. Ah, that's his profession, you see, Poggers. Hard at it from half past nine till towards seven, I imagine. Yes, sir. Anything else, Poggers, no matter how trivial? Well, sir, he's fond of reading, too, at least ways he's fond of newspapers. When does he read? I've never seen him read them, sir. Indeed, as far as I can tell, I never knew the papers to be opened, but he takes them all in, sir. What, all the morning papers? Yes, sir, and all the evening papers, too. Where are the morning papers placed? On the table in his study, sir. And the evening papers? Oh, well, sir, when the evening papers come the study is locked. They are put on a side-table in the dining-room, and he takes them upstairs with him to his study. This has happened every day since you've been there? Yes, sir. You reported that very striking fact to your chief, of course. No, sir, I don't think I did, said Poggers, confused. You should have done so. Mr. Hale would have known how to make the most of a point so vital. Oh, come now, Valmont, interrupted Hale, you're chaffing us. Plenty of people taking all the papers. I think not. Even clubs and hotels subscribe to the leading journals only. You said, all, I think, Poggers. Well, nearly all, sir. But which is it? There's a vast difference. It takes a good many, sir. How many? I don't just know, sir. That's easily found out, Valmont cried Hale with some impatience. If you think it really important. I think it's so important that I'm going back with Poggers myself. You can take me into the house, I suppose, when you return. Oh, yes, sir. Coming back to these newspapers for a moment, Poggers, what's done with them? They're sold to the ragman, sir, once a week. Who takes them from the study? I do, sir. Do they appear to have been read very carefully? Well, no, sir. Leaseways some of them seem never to have been opened, or else folded up very carefully again. Did you notice that extracts have been clipped from any of them? No, sir. Does Mr. Summertree's keep a scrapbook? Not that I know of, sir. Oh, the case is perfectly plain, said I, leaning back in my chair, and regarding the puzzled Hale with that cherubic expression of self-satisfaction, which I know is so annoying to him. What's perfectly plain, he demanded, more gruffly perhaps than etiquette would have sanctioned. Summertree's is no coiner, nor is he linked with any band of coiners. What is he, then? Ah, that opens another avenue of inquiry. For all I know to the contrary he may be the most honest of men. On the surface it would appear that he is a reasonably industrious tradesman in Tottenham Court Road, who is anxious that there should be no visible connection between a plebeian employment, and so aristocratic a residence as that in Park Lane. At this point Spencer Hale gave expression to one of those rare flashes of reason which are always an astonishment to his friends. That's nonsense, Monsieur Valmont, he said. The man who is ashamed of the connection between his business and his house is one who is trying to get into society, or else the women of his family are trying it, as is usually the case. Now, Summertree's has no family. He himself goes nowhere, gives no entertainments, and accepts no invitations. He belongs to no club, therefore to say that he is ashamed of his connection with the Tottenham Court Road shop is absurd. He's concealing the connection for some other reason that we'll bear looking into. My dear Hale, the goddess of wisdom herself could not have made a more sensible series of remarks. Now, mon ami, do you want my assistance, or have you enough to go on with? Enough to go on with? We have nothing more than we had when I called on you last night. Last night, my dear Hale, you suppose this man was in league with coiners. Today you know he is not. I know you say he's not. I shrugged my shoulders and raised my eyebrows, smiling at him. It is the same thing, Monsieur Hale. Well, of all the conceited and the good Hale could get no further. If you wish my assistance, it is yours. Very good. Put two finer points upon it, I do. In that case, my dear Poggers, you will return to the residence of our friend Summer Trees and get together for me in a bundle all of yesterday's morning and evening papers that were delivered to the house. Can you do that, or are they mixed up in a heap in the coal-seller? I can do it, sir. I have instructions to place each day's papers in a pile by itself in case they should be wanted again. There is always one week's supply in the cellar, and we sell the papers of the week before to the ragmen. Excellent. Well, take the risk of abstracting one day's journals and have them ready for me. I will call upon you at half-past three o'clock exactly, and then I want you to take me upstairs to the clerk's bedroom in the third story, which I suppose is not locked during the daytime. No, sir, it is not. To this the patient Poggers took his departure. Spencer Hale rose when his assistant left. Anything further I can do, he asked. Yes, give me the address of the shop in Tottenham Court Road. Do you happen to have about you one of those new five-shelling pieces which you believed to be illegally coined? He opened his pocket-book, took out the bit of white metal, and handed it to me. I'm going to pass this off before evening, I said, putting it in my pocket, and I hope none of your men will arrest me. That's all right, laughed Hale, as he took his leave. At half-past three Poggers was waiting for me, and opened the front door as I came up the steps, thus saving me the necessity of ringing. The house seemed strangely quiet. The French cook was evidently down in the basement, and we had probably all the upper part to ourselves, unless some of the trees was in his study, which I doubted. Poggers led me directly upstairs to the clerk's room on the third floor, walking on tiptoe with an elephantine air of silence and secrecy combined, which struck me as unnecessary. I will make an examination of this room, I said, kindly wait for me down by the door of the study. The bedroom proved to be of respectable size when one considers the smallness of the house. The bed was all nicely made up, and there were two chairs in the room, but the usual wash-stand and swing-mirror were not visible. However, seeing a curtain at the farther end of the room, I drew it aside, and found, as I expected, a fixed lavatory in an alcove of perhaps four feet deep by five in width. As the room was about fifteen feet wide, this left two-thirds of the space unaccounted for. A moment later, I opened a door which exhibited a closet filled with clothes hanging on hooks. This left a space of five feet between the clothes closet and the lavatory. I thought at first that the entrance to the secret stairway must have issued from the lavatory, but examining the boards closely, although they sounded hollow to the knuckles, they were quite evidently plain match-boarding and not a concealed door. The entrance to the stairway therefore must issue from the clothes closet. The right-hand wall proved similar to the match-boarding of the lavatory as far as the casual eye or touch was concerned, but I saw at once it was a door. The latch turned out to be somewhat ingeniously operated by one of the hooks, which held a pair of old trousers. I found that the hook, if pressed upward, allowed the door to swing outward over the stair-head. According to the second floor, a similar latch let me into a similar clothes closet in the room beneath. The two rooms were identical in size, one directly above the other, the only difference being that the lower-room door gave into the study instead of into the hall, as was the case with the upper chamber. The study was extremely neat, either not much used or the abode of a very methodical man. There was nothing on the table except a pile of that morning's papers. I walked to the farther end, turned the key in the lock, and came out upon the astonished podgers. "'Well, I'm blowed,' exclaimed he. "'Quite so,' I rejoined. "'You've been tiptoeing past an empty room for the last two weeks. "'Now, if you'll come with me, podgers, I'll show you how the trick is done.' When he entered the study, I locked the door once more and led the assumed butler still tiptoeing through force of habit up the stair into the top bedroom, and so out again, leaving everything exactly as we found it. We went down the main stair to the front hall, and there podgers had my parcel of papers all neatly wrapped up. This bundle I carried to my flat, gave one of my assistants some instructions, and left him at work on the papers. I took a cab to the foot of Tottenham Court Road, and walked up that street till I came to J. Simpson's old curiosity-shop. After gazing at the well-filled windows for some time, I stepped aside, having selected a little iron crucifix displayed behind the pane, the work of some ancient craftsman. I knew at once from podgers' description that I was weighted upon by the veritable, respectable clerk who brought the bag of money each night to Park Lane, and who I was certain was no other than Ralph Summetry's himself. There was nothing in his manner differing from that of any other quiet salesman. The price of the crucifix proved to be seven and six, and I threw down a sovereign to pay for it. Do you mind the change being all in silver, sir? he asked, and I answered without any eagerness, although the question aroused a suspicion that had begun to be allayed, not in the least. He gave me a half-crown, three two-chilling pieces, and four separate shillings, all the coins being well-worn silver of the realm, the undoubted inartistic product of the reputable British mint. This seemed to dispose of the theory that he was palming off illegitimate money. He asked me if I were interested in any particular branch of antiquity, and I replied that my curiosity was merely general, and exceedingly amateurish, whereupon he invited me to look around. This I proceeded to do, while he resumed the addressing and stamping of some wrapped-up pamphlets which I surmised to be copies of his catalogue. He made no attempt either to watch me, or to press his wares upon me. I selected at random a little ink-stand, and asked its price. It was two shillings, he said, whereupon I produced my fraudulent five-chilling piece. He took it, gave me the change without comment, and the last doubt about his connection with coiners flickered from my mind. At this moment a young man came in, who I saw at once was not a customer. He walked briskly to the farther end of the shop and disappeared behind a partition which had one pane of glass in it that gave an outlook toward the front door. Excuse me a moment," said the shopkeeper, and he followed the young man into the private office. As I examined the curious heterogeneous collection of things for sale, I heard the clink of coins being poured out on the lid of a desk or an uncovered table, and the murmur of voices floated out to me. I was now near the entrance of the shop, and by a slight of hand-trick keeping the corner of my eye on the glass pane of the private office, I removed the key of the front door without a sound, and took an impression of it in wax, returning the key to its place unobserved. At this moment another young man came in and walked straight past me into the private office. I heard him say, "'Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Simpson. How are you, Rogers?' "'Hello, MacPherson,' saluted Rogers, who then came out, bidding good-night to Mr. Simpson, and departed whistling down the street. But not before he had repeated his phrase to another young man entering to whom he gave the name of Tyrell. I noted these three names in my mind. Two others came in together, but I was compelled to content myself with memorizing their features, for I did not learn their names. These men were evidently collectors, for I heard the rattle of money in every case. Yet here was a small shop doing apparently very little business, but I had been within it for more than half an hour, and yet remained the only customer. If credit were given, one collector would certainly have been sufficient, yet five had come in, and had poured their contributions into the pile some-a-trees was to take home with him that night. I determined to secure one of the pamphlets which the man had been addressing. They were piled on a shelf behind the counter, but I had no difficulty in reaching across and taking the one on top, which I slipped into my pocket. When the fifth young man went down the street, some-a-trees himself emerged, and this time he carried in his hand the well-filled, locked, leather satchel, with the straps dangling. It was now approaching half-past five, and I saw he was eager to close up and get away. —Anything else you fancy, sir? —he asked me. —No, all rather yes and no. You have a very interesting collection here, but it's getting so dark I can hardly see. I close at half-past five, sir. —Ah! In that case, I said, consulting my watch, I shall be pleased to call some other time. —Thank you, sir,' replied some-a-trees quietly, and with that I took my leave. —From the corner of an alley on the other side of the street, I saw him put up the shutters with his own hands. Then he emerged with overcoat on, and the money-satchel slung across his shoulder. He locked the door, tested it with his knuckles, and walked down the street carrying under one arm the pamphlets he had been addressing. I followed him some distance, saw him drop the pamphlets into the box at the first post-office he passed, and walk rapidly towards his house in Park Lane. When I returned to my flat, and called in my assistant, he said, After putting to one side the regular advertisements of pills, soap, and what-not, here is the only one common to all the newspapers morning and evening alike. The advertisements are not identical, sir, but they have two points of similarity, or perhaps I should say three. They all profess to furnish a cure for absent-mindedness. They all ask that the applicant's chief hobby shall be stated, and they all bear the same address—Dr. Willoughby, in Tottenham Court Road. Thank you, said I, as he placed the scissored advertisements before me. I read several of the announcements. They were all small, and perhaps that is why I had never noticed one of them in the newspapers, for certainly they were odd enough. Some asked for lists of absent-minded men, with the hobbies of each, and for these lists prizes of from one shilling to six were offered. In other clippings Dr. Willoughby professed to be able to cure absent-mindedness. There were no fees and no treatment, but a pamphlet would be sent, which if it did not benefit the receiver, could do no harm. The doctor was unable to meet patients personally, nor could he enter into correspondence with them. The address was the same as that of the old curiosity-shop in Tottenham Court Road. At this juncture I pulled the pamphlet from my pocket, and saw it was entitled Christian Science and Absent-Mindedness by Dr. Stamford Willoughby. And at the end of the article was the statement contained in the advertisements that Dr. Willoughby would neither see patients, nor hold any correspondence with them. I drew a sheet of paper towards me, wrote to Dr. Willoughby, alleging that I was a very absent-minded man, and would be glad of his pamphlet, adding that my special hobby was the collecting of first editions. I then signed myself Allport Webster Imperial Flats London W. I may here explain that it is often necessary for me to see people under some other name than the well-known appellation of Eugene Valmont. There are two doors to my flat, and on one of these is painted Eugene Valmont. On the other there is a receptacle in which can be slipped a sliding panel bearing any numbed-a-gear I choose. The same device is arranged on the ground floor, where the names of all the occupants of the building appear on the right-hand wall. I sealed, addressed, and stamped my letter, then told my man to put out the name of Allport Webster, and if I did not happen to be in when any one called upon that mythical person, he was to make an appointment for me. It was nearly six o'clock next afternoon when the card of Angus MacPherson was brought in to Mr. Allport Webster. I recognized the young man at once as the second who had entered the little shop carrying his tribute to Mr. Simpson the day before. He held three volumes under his arm, and spoke in such a pleasant insinuating sort of way that I knew at once he was an adept in his profession of canvasser. There will you be seated, Mr. MacPherson, in what can I serve you? He placed the three volumes backs upward on my table. Are you interested at all in first editions, Mr. Webster? It is the one thing I am interested in, I replied, but unfortunately they often run into a lot of money. That is true, said MacPherson sympathetically, and I have here three books, one of which is an exemplification of what you say. This one costs a hundred pounds. The last copy that was sold by auction in London brought a hundred and twenty-three pounds. This next one is forty pounds, and the third ten pounds. At these prices I am certain you could not duplicate three such treasures in any bookshop in Britain. I examined them critically and saw at once that what he said was true. He was still standing on the opposite side of the table. Please take a chair, Mr. MacPherson. Do you mean to say you go round London with a hundred and fifty pounds worth of goods under your arm in this careless way? The young man laughed. I run very little risk, Mr. Webster. I don't suppose any one I meet imagines for a moment there is more under my arm than perhaps a trio of volumes I have picked up in the four-penny-box to take home with me. I lingered over the volume for which he asked a hundred pounds and then said, looking across at him, how came you to be possessed of this book, for instance? He turned upon me a fine, open countenance, and answered without hesitation in the frankest possible manner. I am not in actual possession of it, Mr. Webster. I am by way of being a connoisseur in rare and valuable books myself, although, of course, I have little money with which to indulge in the collection of them. I am acquainted, however, with the lovers of desirable books in different quarters of London. These three volumes, for instance, are from the library of a private gentleman in the West End. I have sold many books to him, and he knows I am trustworthy. He wishes to dispose of them at something under their real value, and has kindly allowed me to conduct the negotiation. I make it my business to find out those who are interested in rare books, and by such trading I add considerably to my income. How, for instance, did you learn that I was a bibliophile? Mr. McPherson laughed, genially. Well, Mr. Webster, I must confess that I chanced it. I do that very often. I take a flat like this, and send in my card to the name on the door. If I am invited in, I ask the occupant the question I asked you just now. Are you interested in rare editions? If he says no, I simply beg pardon and retire. If he says yes, then I show my wares. I see, said I, nodding. What a glib young liar he was, with that innocent face of his, and yet my next question brought forth the truth. As this is the first time you have called upon me, Mr. McPherson, you have no objection to my making some further inquiry, I suppose. Would you mind telling me the name of the owner of these books in the West End? His name is Mr. Ralph Summertree's of Park Lane. Ah, indeed. I shall be glad to leave the books with you, Mr. Webster, and if you care to make an appointment with Mr. Summertree's, I am sure he will not object to say a word in my favour. Oh, I do not in the least doubt it, and should not think of troubling the gentleman. I was going to tell you, went on the young man, that I have a friend, a capitalist, who in a way is my supporter, for as I said I have little money of my own. I find it is often inconvenient for people to pay down any considerable sum. When however I strike a bargain, my capitalist buys the book, and I make an arrangement with my customer to pay a certain amount each week, and so even a large purchase is not felt, as I make the installments small enough to suit my client. You are employed during the day I take it. Yes, I am a clerk in the city. When we were in the blissful realms of fiction, suppose I take this book at ten pounds. What instalment should I have to pay each week? Oh, what you like, sir? Would five shillings be too much? I think not. Very well, sir. If you pay me five shillings now, I will leave the book with you, and shall have pleasure in calling this day week for the next instalment. I put my hand into my pocket, and drew out two half-crowns, which I passed over to him. Do I need to sign any form or undertaking to pay the rest? The young man laughed cordially. Oh, no, sir, there is no formality necessary. You see, sir, this is largely a labour of love with me, although I don't deny I have my eye on the future. I am getting together what I hope will be a very valuable connection with gentlemen like yourself who are fond of books, and I trust some day that I may be able to resign my place with the insurance company, and set up a choice little business of my own, where my knowledge of values in literature will prove useful. And then, after making a note in a little book he took from his pocket, he bade me a most graceful goodbye, and departed, leaving me cogitating over what it all meant. Next morning two articles were handed to me. The first came by post and was a pamphlet on Christian science and absent-mindedness, exactly similar to the one I had taken away from the old curiosity-shop. The second was a small key made from my wax impression that would fit the front door of the same shop, a key fashioned by an excellent anarchist friend of mine in an obscure street near Hoban. That night at ten o'clock I was inside the old curiosity-shop, with a small storage battery in my pocket, and a little electric glow-lamp at my button-hole, a most useful instrument for either burglar or detective. I had expected to find the books of the establishment in a safe, which, if it was similar to the one in Park Lane, I was prepared to open with the false keys in my possession, or to take an impression of the keyhole, and just to my anarchist friend for the rest. But to my amazement I discovered all the papers pertaining to the concern in a desk which was not even locked. The books, three in number, were the ordinary day-book, journal, and ledger referring to the shop. Bookkeeping of the older fashion, but in a portfolio lay half a dozen full-scap sheets headed Mr. Rogers' list, Mr. MacPherson's, Mr. Tyrell's, the names I had already learned, and three others. These lists contained in the first column names, in the second column addresses, in the third sums of money, and then in the small square places following were amounts ranging from two and sixpence to a pound. At the bottom of Mr. MacPherson's list was the name Allport Webster Imperial Flats L10, then in the small square place five shillings. These six sheets, each headed by a canvas's name, were evidently the record of current collections, and the innocence of the whole thing was so apparent that if it were not for my fixed rule never to believe that I am at the bottom of any case until I have come on something suspicious I would have gone out empty-handed as I came in. The six sheets were loose in a thin portfolio, but standing on a shelf above the desk were a number of fat volumes, one of which I took down, and saw that it contained similar lists running back several years. I noticed on Mr. MacPherson's current list the name of Lord Semptom, an eccentric old nobleman whom I knew slightly. Then turning to the list immediately before the current one, the name was still there. I traced it back through list after list until I found the first entry, which was no less than three years previous, and there Lord Semptom was down for a piece of furniture costing fifty pounds, and on that account he had paid a pound a week for more than three years, totalling a hundred and seventy pounds at the least, and instantly the glorious simplicity of the scheme dawned upon me, and I became so interested in the swindle that I lit the gas, fearing my little lamp would be exhausted before my investigation ended, for it promised to be a long one. In several instances the intended victim proved shrewder than old Simpson had counted upon, and the word settled had been written on the line carrying the name when the exact number of installments was paid. But as the shrewd persons dropped out, others took their places, and Simpson's dependence on their absent-mindedness seemed to be justified in nine cases out of ten. His collectors were collecting long after the debt had been paid. In Lord Semptom's case the payment had evidently become chronic, and the old man was giving away his pound a week to the Swav MacPherson two years after his debt had been liquidated. From the big volume I detached the loose leaf dated 1893, which recorded Lord Semptom's purchase of a carved table for fifty pounds, and on which he had been paying a pound a week from that time to the date of which I am writing, which was November 1896. This single document, taken from the file of three years previous, was not likely to be missed, as would have been the case if I had selected a current sheet. I nevertheless made a copy of the names and addresses of MacPherson's present clients. Then, carefully placing everything exactly as I had found it, I extinguished the gas, and went out of the shop, locking the door behind me. With the 1893 sheet in my pocket, I resolved to prepare a pleasant little surprise for my Swav friend MacPherson, when he called to get his next instalment of five shillings. Late as was the hour when I reached Trafalgar Square, I could not deprive myself of the felicity of calling on Mr. Spencer Hale, who I knew was then on duty. He never appeared at his best during office hours, because officialism stiffened his stalwart frame. Mentally, he was impressed with the importance of his position, and added to this he was not then allowed to smoke his big black pipe and terrible tobacco. He received me with the curtness I had been taught to expect when I inflicted myself upon him at his office. He greeted me abruptly with, I say, Valmont, how long do you expect to be on this job? What job? I asked mildly. Oh, you know what I mean, the summer-trees affair. Oh, that! I exclaimed with surprise. The summer-trees case is already completed, of course. If I had known you were in a hurry, I should have finished up everything yesterday. But as you won podgers, and I don't know how many more have been at its sixteen or seventeen days, if not longer, I thought I might venture to take as many hours as I am working entirely alone. You said nothing about haste, you know. Oh, come now, Valmont, that's a bit thick. Do you mean to say you've already got evidence against the man? Evidence absolute and complete. Then who are the coiners? My most estimable friend. How often have I told you not to jump at conclusions? I informed you when you first spoke to me about the matter that summer-trees was neither a coiner nor a confederate of coiners. I secured evidence sufficient to convict him of quite another offence, which is probably unique in the annals of crime. I have penetrated the mystery of the shop, and discovered the reason for all those suspicious actions which quite properly set you on his trail. Now I wish you to come to my flat next Wednesday night at a quarter to six, prepared to make an arrest. I must know who I am to arrest, and on what counts? Quite so, mon ami hail. I did not say you were to make an arrest, but merely warned you to be prepared. If you have time now to listen to the disclosures, I am quite at your service. I promise you there are some original features in the case. If, however, the present moment is inopportune, drop in on me at your convenience, previously telephoning so that you may know whether I am there or not, and thus your valuable time will not be expended purposelessly. With this I presented to him my most courteous bow, and although his mystified expression hinted a suspicion that he thought I was chaffing him, as he would call it, official dignity dissolved somewhat, and he intimated his desire to hear all about it then and there. I had succeeded in arousing my friend Hale's curiosity. He listened to the evidence with perplexed brow, and at last ejaculated he would be blessed. This young man, I said in conclusion, will call upon me at six on Wednesday afternoon to receive his second five shillings. I propose that you, in your uniform, shall be seated there with me to receive him. And I am anxious to study Mr. MacPherson's countenance, when he realises he has walked in to confront a policeman. If you will then allow me to cross-examine him for a few moments, not after the manner of Scotland Yard, with a warning lest he incriminate himself, but in the free and easy fashion we adopt him Paris. I shall afterwards turn the case over to you to be dealt with at your discretion. You have a wonderful flow of language, Monsieur Valmont, was the officer's tribute to me. I shall be on hand at a quarter to six on Wednesday. Meanwhile, said I, kindly say nothing of this to any one. We must arrange a complete surprise for MacPherson. That is essential. Please make no move in the matter at all, until Wednesday night. Spencer Hale much impressed, nodded acquiescence, and I took a polite leave of him. The question of lighting is an important one in a room such as mine, and electricity offers a good deal of scope to the ingenious. Of this fact I have taken full advantage. I can manipulate the lighting of my room so that any particular spot is bathed in brilliancy, while the rest of the space remains in comparative gloom, and I arrange the lamps so that the full force of their rays impinged against the door that Wednesday evening, while I sat on one side of the table in semi-darkness, and Hale sat on the other, with the light beating down on him from above which gave him the odd sculptured look of a living statue of justice, stern, and triumphant. Anyone entering the room would first be dazzled by the light, and next would see the gigantic form of Hale in the full uniform of his order. When Angus MacPherson was shown into this room he was quite visibly taken aback, and paused abruptly on the threshold, his gaze riveted on the huge policeman. I think his first purpose was to turn and run but the door closed behind him, and he doubtless heard, as we all did, the sound of the bolt being thrust in its place, thus locking him in. Ah! I beg your pardon, he stammered, I expected to meet Mr. Webster. As he said this, I pressed the button under my table, and was instantly enshrouded with light. A sickly smile overspread the countenance of MacPherson as he caught sight of me, and he made a very creditable attempt to carry off the situation with nonchalance. Oh! There you are, Mr. Webster! I did not notice you at first. It was a tense moment. I spoke slowly, and impressively. Sir, perhaps you are not unacquainted with the name of Eugene Valmont. He replied brazenly, I am sorry to say, sir, I had never heard of the gentleman before. At this came a most inopportune whore-whore from that blockhead Spencer Hale, completely spoiling the dramatic situation I had elaborated with such thought and care. It is little wonder the English possess no drama, for they show scant appreciation of the sensational moments in life. Ho! Ho! Spencer Hale, and at once reduced the emotional atmosphere to a fog of commonplace. However, what is a man to do? He must handle the tools with which it pleases Providence to provide him. I ignored Hale's untimely laughter. Sit down, sir, I said to MacPherson, and he obeyed. You have called on Lord Symptom this week, I continued sternly. Yes, sir, and collected a pound from him. Yes, sir. In October 1893 you sold Lord Symptom a carved antique table for fifty pounds. Quite right, sir. When you were here last week you gave me Ralph Summertreeze as the name of a gentleman living in Park Lane. You knew at the time that this man was your employer? MacPherson was now looking fixedly at me, and on this occasion made no reply. I went on calmly. You also knew that Summertreeze of Park Lane was identical with Simpson of Tottenham Court Road? Well, sir, said MacPherson, I don't exactly see what you're driving at. But it's quite usual for a man to carry on a business under an assumed name. There's nothing illegal about that. We will come to the illegality in a moment, Mr. MacPherson. You and Rogers and Tyrell and three others are confederates of this man, Simpson? We are in his employ. Yes, sir, but no more confederates than Clarks usually are. I think, Mr. MacPherson, I have said enough to show you that the game is what you call up. You are now in the presence of Mr. Spencer Hale from Scotland Yard, who is waiting to hear your confession. Here the stupid Hale broke in with his—and remember, sir, that anything you say will— Excuse me, Mr. Hale—I interrupted hastily—I shall turn over the case to you in a very few moments. But I ask you to remember our compact, and to leave it for the present entirely in my hands. Now, Mr. MacPherson, I want your confession, and I want it up once. Confession? Confederates? protested MacPherson, with admirably simulated surprise. I must say you use extraordinary terms, Mr.—Mr.—what did you say the name was? Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! But for the life of me without further explanation I am as much in a fog as I was on my way coming here, for it is getting a little thick outside." MacPherson certainly was conducting himself with great discretion, and presented, quite unconsciously, a much more diplomatic figure than my friend Spencer Hale, sitting stiffly opposite me. His tone was one of mild expostulation, mitigated by the intimation that all misunderstanding speedily would be cleared away. To outward view he offered a perfect picture of innocence, neither protesting too much nor too little. I had, however, another surprise in store for him. A trump card as it were, and I played it down on the table. There! I cried with them, have you ever seen that sheet before? He glanced at it without offering to take it in his hand. Oh yes, he said, that's been abstracted from our file. It is what I call my visiting list. Come, come, sir, I cried sternly. You refuse to confess, but I warn you we know all about it. You never heard of Dr. Willoughby, I suppose? Yes, he's the author of the silly pamphlet on Christian Science. You are in the right, Mr. MacPherson, on Christian Science and Absent Mindedness. Possibly I haven't read it for a long while. Have you ever met this learned Dr. Mr. MacPherson? Oh yes, Dr. Willoughby is the pen name of Mr. Summertree's. He believes in Christian Science and that sort of thing and writes about it. Ah, really, we are getting your confession bit by bit, Mr. MacPherson. I think it would be better to be quite frank with us. I was just going to make the same suggestion to you, Mr. Valmont. If you will tell me in a few words exactly what is your charge against either Mr. Summertree's or myself, I will know then what to say. We charge you, sir, with obtaining money under false pretenses, which is a crime that has landed more than one distinguished financier in prison. Spencer Hale shook his fat forefinger at me and said, Tutt, Tutt, Valmont, we mustn't threaten, we mustn't threaten, you know. But I went on without heeding him. Take for instance Lord Semptom. You sold him a table for fifty pounds on the installment plan. He was to pay a pound a week, and in less than a year the debt was liquidated. But he's an absent-minded man, as all your clients are. That is why you came to me. I had answered the bogus Willoughby's advertisement. And so you kept on collecting and collecting for something more than three years. Now do you understand the charge? Mr. MacPherson's head during this accusation was held slightly inclined to one side. At first his face was clouded by the most clever imitation of anxious concentration of mind I had ever seen. And this was gradually cleared away by the dawn of awakening perception. When I had finished, an ingratiating smile hovered about his lips. Really, you know, he said, that is rather a capital scheme. The absent-minded league, as one might call them. Most ingenious. Summetries, if he had any sense of humour, which he hasn't, would be rather taken by the idea that his innocent fad for Christian science had led him to be suspected of obtaining money under false pretenses. But really, there are no pretensions about the matter at all. As I understand it, I simply call and receive the money through the forgetfulness of the persons on my list. But where I think you would have both summetries and myself, if there was anything in your audacious theory, would be an indictment for conspiracy. Still, I quite see how the mistake arises. You have jumped to the conclusion that we sold nothing to Lord Sentom except that carved table three years ago. I have pleasure in pointing out to you that his lordship is a frequent customer of ours, and has had many things from us at one time or another. Sometimes he's in our debt, sometimes we are in his. We keep a sort of running contract with him by which he pays us a pound a week. He and several other customers deal on the same plan, and in return for an income that we can count upon, they get the first offer of anything in which they are supposed to be interested. As I have told you, we call these sheets in the office our visiting lists. But to make the visiting list complete, you need what we term our encyclopedia. We call it that because it is in so many volumes. A volume for each year, running back I don't know how long. You will notice little figures here from time to time above the amount stated on this visiting list. These figures refer to the page of the encyclopedia for the current year, and on that page is noted the new sale, and the amount of it, as might be set down, say, in a ledger. That is a very entertaining explanation, Mr. MacPherson. I suppose this encyclopedia, as you call it, is in the shop at Tottenham Court Road. Oh no, sir. Each volume of the encyclopedia is self-locking. These books contain the real secret of our business, and they are kept in the safe at Mr. Summertree's house in Park Lane. Take Lord's symptoms account, for instance. You will find in faint figures under a certain date, 102. If you turn to page 102 of the encyclopedia for that year, you will then see a list of what Lord's symptom has bought, and the prices he was charged for them. It is really a very simple matter. If you will allow me to use your telephone for a moment, I will ask Mr. Summertree's, who has not yet begun dinner, to bring with him here the volume for 1893, and within a quarter of an hour you will be perfectly satisfied that everything is quite legitimate. I confess that the young man's naturalness and confidence staggered me. The more so as I saw by the sarcastic smile on Hale's lips that he did not believe a single word spoken. A portable telephone stood on the table, and as MacPherson finished his explanation, he reached over and drew it towards him. Then Spencer Hale interfered. Excuse me," he said, I'll do the telephoning. What is the call number of Mr. Summertree's? 140 Hyde Park. Hale at once called up central, and presently was answered from Park Lane. We heard him say, Is this the residence of Mr. Summertree's? Oh, is that you, Poggers? Is Mr. Summertree's in? Very well. This is Hale. I'm in Valmont's flat, Imperial Flats, you know, yes, where you went with me the other day. Very well. Go to Mr. Summertree's and say to him that Mr. MacPherson wants the Encyclopedia for 1893. Do you get that? Yes, Encyclopedia. Oh, he'll understand what it is. Mr. MacPherson. No, don't mention my name at all. Just say Mr. MacPherson wants the Encyclopedia for the year 1893, and that you are to bring it. Yes, you may tell him that Mr. MacPherson is at Imperial Flats, but don't mention my name at all. Exactly. As soon as he gives you the book, get into a cab and come here as quickly as possible with it. If Summertree's doesn't want to let the book go, then tell him to come with you. If he won't do that, place him under arrest and bring both him and the book here. All right, be as quick as you can. We're waiting. MacPherson made no protest against Hale's use of the telephone. He merely sat back in his chair with a resigned expression on his face, which, if painted on canvas, might have been entitled, The Falsely Accused. When Hale rang off, MacPherson said, Of course, you know your own business best, but if your man arrests Summertree's he'll make you the laughing stock of London. There is such a thing as unjustifiable arrest, as well as getting money under false pretenses. And Mr. Summertree's is not the man to forgive an insult. And then, if you will allow me to say so, the more I think over your absent-minded theory, the more absolutely grotesque it seems. And if the case ever gets into the newspapers, I'm sure Mr. Hale you'll experience an uncomfortable half-hour with your chiefs at Scotland Yard. I'll take the risk of that, thank you," said Hale, stubbornly. Am I to consider myself under arrest, inquired the young man? No, sir. Then, if you will pardon me, I shall withdraw. Mr. Summertree's will show you everything you wish to see in his books, and can explain his business much more capably than I, because he knows more about it. Therefore, gentlemen, I bid you good night. No you don't, not just yet awhile, exclaimed Hale, rising to his feet simultaneously with the young man. And I am under arrest, protested MacPherson. You're not going to leave this room until Podgers brings that book. Oh, very well. And he sat down again. And now, as talking his dry work, I set out something to drink—a box of cigars and a box of cigarettes. Hale mixed his favourite brew, but MacPherson, shunning the wine of his country, contented himself with a glass of plain mineral water and a littered cigarette. Then he awoke my high regard by saying pleasantly as if nothing had happened— While we are waiting, Mr. Valmont, may I remind you that you owe me five shillings? I laughed, took the coin from my pocket, and paid him, whereupon he thanked me. Are you connected with Scotland Yard, Mr. Valmont, asked MacPherson, with the air of a man trying to make conversation to bridge over a tedious interval. But before I could reply, Hale blurted out, not likely. You have no official standing as a detective, then, Mr. Valmont. None whatever, I replied quickly, thus getting in my awe ahead of Hale. This is a loss to our country—pursued this admirable young man with evidence in serenity. I began to see I could make a good deal of so clever a fellow if he came under my tuition. The blunders of our police, he went on, are something deplorable. If they would but take lessons in strategy, say, from France, their unpleasant duties will be so much more acceptably performed, with much less discomfort to their victims. France! snorted Hale in derision. Uaah! They call a man guilty there, until he's proven innocent. Yes, Mr. Hale, and the same seems to be the case in Imperial flats. You have quite made up your mind that Mr. Summetries is guilty, and will not be content until he proves his innocence. I venture to predict that you will hear from him before long in a manner that may astonish you. Hale grunted and looked at his watch. The minutes passed very slowly, as we sat there smoking, and at last even I began to get uneasy. MacPherson, seeing our anxiety, said that when he came in, the fog was almost as thick as it had been the week before, and that there might be some difficulty in getting a cab. Just as he was speaking, the door was unlocked from the outside, and podgers entered bearing a thick volume in his hand. This he gave to his superior, who turned over its pages in amazement and then looked at the back, crying, Encyclopedia of Sport, 1893, what sort of a joke is this, Mr. MacPherson? There was a pained look on Mr. MacPherson's face as he reached forward and took the book. He said with a sigh, If you had allowed me to telephone Mr. Hale, I should have made it perfectly plain to Summetries what was wanted. I might have known this mistake was liable to occur. There is an increasing demand for out-of-date books of sport, and no doubt Mr. Summetries thought this was what I meant. There is nothing for it but to send your man back to Park Lane, and tell Mr. Summetries that what we want is the locked volume of accounts for 1893, which we call the Encyclopedia. Allow me to write an order that will bring it. Oh, I'll show you what I've written before your man takes it, he said, as Hale stood ready to look over his shoulder. On my note paper he dashed off a request such as he had outlined and handed it to Hale, who read it and gave it to podgers. Take that to Summetries and get back as quickly as possible. Have you a cab at the door? Yes, sir. Is it foggy outside? Not so much, sir, as it was an hour ago. No difficulty about the traffic now, sir. Very well, get back as soon as you can. Podgers saluted and left with the book under his arm. Again the door was locked, and again we sat smoking in silence until the stillness was broken by the tinkle of the telephone. Hale put the receiver to his ear. Yes, this is Imperial Flats. Yes, Valmont. Oh yes, MacPherson is here. What? Out of what? Can't hear you. Out of print? What, the Encyclopedia's out of print? Who is that speaking? Dr. Willoughby. Thanks. MacPherson rose as if he would go to the telephone, but instead, and he acted so quietly that I did not notice what he was doing until the thing was done, he picked up the sheet which he called his visiting list, and, walking quite without haste, held it in the glowing coals of the fireplace until it disappeared in a flash of flame up the chimney. I sprang to my feet indignant, but too late to make even a motion towards saving the sheet. MacPherson regarded us both with that self-deprecatory smile which had several times lighted up his face. How dared you burn that sheet, I demanded, because, Monsieur Valmont, it did not belong to you, because you do not belong to Scotland Yard, because you stole it, because you had no right to it, and because you have no official standing in this country. If it had been in Mr. Hale's possession, I should not have dared, as you put it, to destroy the sheet, but as this sheet was abstracted from my master's premises by you, an entirely unauthorised person whom he would have been justified in shooting dead if he had found you house-breaking, and you had resisted him on his discovery, I took the liberty of destroying the document. I have always held that these sheets should not have been kept, for, as has been the case, if they fell under the scrutiny of so intelligent a person as Eugene Valmont, improper inferences might have been drawn. Mr. Summetries, however, persisted in keeping them, but made this concession, that if I ever telegraphed him, or telephoned him the word encyclopedia, he would at once burn these records, and he, for his part, was to telegraph or telephone to me, the encyclopedia is out of print, whereupon I would know that he had succeeded. Now, gentlemen, open this door, which will save me the trouble of forcing it. Either put me formally under arrest, or cease to restrict my liberty. I am very much obliged to Mr. Hale for telephoning, and I have made no protest to so gallant a host as Mr. Valmont is, because of the locked door. However, the farce is now terminated. The proceedings I have sat through were entirely illegal, and if you will pardon me, Mr. Hale, they have been a little too French to go down here in Old England, or to make a report in the newspapers that would be quite satisfactory to your chiefs. I demand either my formal arrest, or the unlocking of that door. In silence I pressed a button, and my man threw open the door. MacPherson walked to the threshold, paused, and looked back at Spencer Hale, who sat there silent as a sphinx. Good evening, Mr. Hale. There being no reply, he turned to me with the same ingratiating smile. Good evening, Mr. Eugene Valmont, he said. I shall give myself the pleasure of calling next Wednesday at six, for my five shillings.