Contritely but briefly, the author confesses that his story has some antecedents.

Acknowledgements are something, which readers as well as authors like to get over quickly. That sort of thing is really very tedious. Very trite too, especially nowadays, when certain types of novel are simply manufactured from a formula just like new dishes devised from old recipes by a painstaking housewife. For instance: "Take two youthful loving hearts. Proceed to break them. Bring passions to the boil. Sprinkle with some sweet church blessing. Cook thoroughly or half-bake. Suitable for all occasions."

Perhaps I'd better stop beating about the bush and tell prospective readers straight away that, before they can settle down to enjoy the story that follows, there is this disagreeable question of acknowledgements to be dealt with. So let's get it over - the sooner the better. Here, then, are the ingredients from which our novel must be produced:

Take a bright young girl who tries to make a living by translating ballads - and when we say this it must be understood that she isn't living in clover: statistics relating to the social background of the financial oligarchy of the world demonstrate that the number of plutocrats who have made their pile by translating ballads is incredibly small. Next, take an aged convict. Proceed to cleanse his heart of all sin until the precious stone of genuine charity shines forth from its most hidden recesses. This precious stone is worth, at a conservative estimate, one million pounds sterling. This aged convict - Jim Hogan by name - and the said young girl's late father, Mr. Weston, were at school together. Mr. Weston used to make occasional visits to his convict friend and would from time to time send in food parcels for him: in a word, he did his best to alleviate Jim Hogan's unfortunate lot. After Mr. Weston's death, his family continued the charitable work and the aged prisoner thus continued to receive his food parcels while the occasional visits were now paid him by the late Mr. Weston's daughter, Evelyn.

We also need a light-pursed, moony young man who goes by the name of Eddie Rancing. He tenants the garret room next door to the Westons'. As for his occupation, he is working on an invention - a device to be fitted on motorcycles - which, when completed, should bring in millions. His work has by now reached an advanced stage in which all the details are on his designing desk, though there is still a certain vagueness as to the main purpose of the device. Young Rancing, thanks to an allowance from his guardian and uncle, Mr. Arthur Rancing, read law for the space of about two terms, but has lately taken to gambling and has fallen into the habit of getting through his allowance during the first four days of the month. His leisure-hours young Rancing devotes to being in love with Evelyn Weston - a sentiment which, at the beginning of our story, is still unrequited.

I also have to introduce to you Mr. Charles Gordon, an enterprising gentleman preparing to leave very shortly the penitentiary institution where he had been sent for a term of six years. Five years and three hundred and sixty-two days Mr. Gordon has taken in his stride, so to speak, but now, for some reason, this whole prison business is beginning to get on his nerves. We all have these moods at times. I know a rambler and mountain-climber, a fellow mostly to be seen with rucksack and alpenstock, sporting an edelweiss or gentian in his hat, one who looks upon the summit of Mont Blanc as a sort of second home. Last week, this man, no doubt in one of these uncontrollable fits of passion, gave the porter a sock on the jaw when he discovered that, for the second time in a month, the lift was out of order and he would have to shin it up to the fifth floor. Similarly, with only three days to go before his release, Charles Gordon complained of racking headaches and an abnormally rapid heart-action, whereupon a sympathetic prison doctor sent him to hospital.

A millionaire lays down the glue-pot for good. He makes his will, disposing of his property, which is not far to seek: it must be somewhere on this earth. Even walls have ears - in the head of Eddy Rancing. His plan is to rob the girl, so that he can then make her rich. Exit Eddy Rancing. The Governor describes a prisoner 6ft. 3in. in height, with a disfiguring scar on his nose, who just possibly was not sleeping. Too bad!

1.

The millionaire, pail in hand, halted for a second.

The next instant he deeply regretted his momentary pause for a vigorous shove from behind reminded him that he must get a move on because the men in the workshop were waiting for him. The millionaire's arrival with the glue-pail was indeed being awaited by his fellow inmates. They were endeavouring to while away their time by making paper-bags and for this pastime were dependent on a steady supply of glue, which they obtained from our manhandled millionaire.

This affluent gentleman noted the fact that he had been given a push with an indifference ill-becoming a man of his social class. For the millionaire, fantastic as this may sound, was an inmate of the British prison on Dartmoor. This had been his abode for the last eight years, yet the fact that he was a millionaire was not known to anyone. Most people knew little about him beyond the fact that he was a rather stand-offish, tongue-tied old bird, somewhat on the heavy-handed side, who, at a venerable age, after a service record of full thirty years in the field of crime, had been sent into well-deserved retirement, with board and lodging for life, at Dartmoor.

Here he lived the unexciting, peaceful life of the retired criminal, dividing his day between cleaning his cell, taking a walk in the prison yard, and gluing paper-bags; and there were the occasional food parcels and visitors. Old Jimmy Hogan had only one visitor: Miss Evelyn Weston. After his former school-mate had departed this life, the daughter of the deceased continued to visit him once every two months. On these occasions, conversation between caller and host was not as a rule very spirited: the young lady would venture a few remarks to which he would respond with a mutter and a scowl.

Miss Weston was a student of literature and philosophy - a circumstance which bespeaks little practical common sense in a young lady. That may seem odd but it's a fact. It is just those who acquire their wisdom from the greatest philosophers who are most incapable of turning their ideas to good advantage. Evelyn Weston, for instance, was trying to earn a livelihood by translating old French ballads into English. If you consider that at the time of our story England was being rocked to the foundations by a dramatic slump in the demand for translations of old French ballads, you will not be surprised to learn that Miss Weston and her mother lived in great penury in the garret of a tenement house in Kings' Road. The pension they received after Mr. Weston's death hardly enabled them to make ends meet. Fortunately Mrs. Weston's brother contributed sums of varying amounts to meet their household expenses. This brother - Mr. Bradford, bespoke tailor for gentlemen - though not a wealthy man, was tolerably well provided with the necessary, owing to the fact that, besides plying his trade, he engaged in business speculations which were invariably successful.

I have thought it necessary to give you these facts so that you may the better appreciate the measure of Evelyn Weston's unselfishness in not letting old sinner Hogan down, for all her modest means.

2.

When Jim Hogan had done fifteen years in jail, his case was brought before the Highest Court of all; and at this ultimate resort, nothing but acquittals are ever pronounced. Old Hogan waited in the prison hospital for release from human bondage; and as he was to stand before an Authority in whose judgment the most monstrous crime is dwarfed by the smallest good deed, he could be confident that in a matter of hours he would obtain his discharge from Dartmoor.

At eight o'clock in the evening, an unusual thing happened.

Old Hogan declared that he wanted to make his will. At first, the doctor put it down to the patient's high temperature. What could an old lifer possibly possess that he should need a will to dispose of it? His body would be committed to earth, his soul to hell, and his clothes consigned to the prison stores. However, as the prisoner persisted in his strange wish, and as even prison governors seldom refuse to grant a dying man's last request, the old gentleman's final disposition was put on record - in the presence of the chaplain and the governor, in compliance with his wish.

Next morning, old Jim Hogan was sitting on the ring of Saturn, dangling his feet cheerfully. He looked back at our dyspeptic planet from a distance of several thousand light-years, and rubbed his hands contentedly.

He had left to Miss Evelyn Weston the sum of approximately one million pounds.

3.

I think it is unfair to judge people by their foibles. Nor do I consider curiosity a sin. It may have killed the cat or it mayn't (we know for certain that it has killed very few people, if any), but it isn't a sin. However, curiosity has a rather ugly twin sister or wild offshoot - eavesdropping. Eavesdroppers I despise. Every time I've caught myself eavesdropping I've had a guilty conscience which haunted me for minutes on end. There is something about this action which resembles assassination: It's as if you, with your organ of hearing, were stabbing other people's secrets in the back. One cannot therefore condone the sneaky behaviour of Eddie Rancing, even though the poor chap happened to be head over ears in love - a condition in which we all know that even the most adamant of male hearts is liable to be eroded. (Besides, mind you, young Eddie's heart, even at its stoutest, needed little eroding to be turned into the washiest mash ever prepared for greedy infant lips.)

And so we now find Eddie Rancing eavesdropping. Garret rooms are partitioned by walls so thin that for this operation he had only to press his ear to the wall-paper to be able to hear every word that passed between Evelyn Weston and her mother next-door. Later on, he glued himself more and more adhesively on to the wall and would fain have pressed his other ear to it as well, had not a killjoy Nature rendered such a feat totally impossible. Luckily for him, he could hear everything distinctly enough even with one ear.

Evelyn was reading a letter to her mother. It was old Jim Hogan's last will and it had arrived by the afternoon post.

"...The undersigned, (Evelyn read), at the request of James Hogan, convict, readily certify herewith that in our opinion as well as that of the prison doctor, the afore-named convict was compos mentis and, despite his illness, in full possession of his faculties when he dictated the testamentary disposition below, the authenticity whereof he has confirmed by his signature hereunto affixed.

"The Rev. G. H. Gladstone. M. Crickley.

Governor

"I hereby bequeath my property to the value of one million pounds, to Miss Evelyn Weston, daughter of the late Samuel Weston, of Kings' Road, London. This property, worth one million pounds sterling, is a walnut-sized diamond which was presented to me as a gift. This may sound rather improbable and extraordinary, but then it was at a time of improbable and extraordinary happenings when it came into my possession. At the end of the war, in 1919, together with certain other British servicemen, I joined General Kolchak's counter-revolutionary army. When the campaign in Siberia had ended, I managed to make my way back to the European part of Russia after incredible hardships and suffering. Armed with the papers of a dead Austrian prisoner-of-war, I managed to get into a POW train and in this manner reached Moscow. Here, I ganged up with a number of people of my ilk and floated a company whose main line of business concerned the robbing of panic-stricken propertied types who were trying to flee the country. Our custom was to nose out a few such people and offer to smuggle them across the border into Poland for which purpose we had thoughtfully provided ourselves with an army lorry. Then, at some out-of-the-way place, we would simply swipe all their possessions and leave them in the road. In this way an old gentleman, short, white-haired and bearded, a soft-spoken old fellow and our very last passenger, was caught in our trap. He promised us a fabulous sum of money if we would smuggle him into Poland: he said he would give us a round sum of fifty thousand dollars! That day, we carried no other passengers but him: we put the old man into the lorry together with all his bags and boxes, and drove him a distance of some 200 versts, to a place where the highway ran through snow-bound woods. There we robbed him. That is to say, we would have robbed him, but we couldn't. Our passenger's luggage consisted of clothing, books and other worthless stuff. There was nothing to be gained by slashing the lining of his coat, or smashing up his chest: the man had no money on him at all. My three mates rounded on him: where was he going to get the fifty thousand dollars with which to pay us? 'I will pay you more than that,' said the passenger, 'if you will take me across the border. My property isn't in Russia any more.' One of my mates whipped out his knife and would have stabbed the old man there and then if I had not pushed him aside. I have no reason now to try and whitewash myself; I was a crook and a cad and, if there was any danger of my being caught doing a job, I would not have hesitated to use a knife. But one thing I insist on; namely, that never, at no time, did I ever become entirely incapable of humane feeling. I would not allow that old man to be massacred before my very eyes. There ensued an altercation which led to blows, and in the end my partners thrust me as well as the old man out of the lorry, and they all rumbled off. I shall not go into a detailed account of how we got to the Polish border making our way past small towns and lonely farmsteads. The only fact that has any relevance to my present story is that we finally reached the crucial stage of our journey where we found ourselves in what was called the 'neutral zone' - a strip of land several kilometres wide that separated the two countries during the peace talks. It was a severe winter; and here was I roaming about in the snow, ill-equipped, with one arm wounded, and saddled with a weary old man. 'You will see, sir,' he kept repeating, apparently under the illusion that he was boosting my moral, 'that once we're out of this alive, I will make you rich.' It was touch and go I didn't beat him up. I did give him a ticking off. 'Ah, stop gassing,' I said, 'why, you haven't got anything besides those blessed trousers you're wearing!' I can still see his face as he looked at me. 'You're wrong,' he said. 'I have jewels that are worth millions - in a safe place in Paris. You see, my son got away safely in good time. It's the truth. Name your own price - and don't be modest.' I was getting hotter and hotter under the collar. 'You know what?' I shouted at him. 'Let's come to some arrangement here and now in this snow-storm. Let's say that you will one day bring to me in London the most precious piece from your family jewels. It'll be worth your while, I'm sure.' He quietly nodded. 'If you and I manage to survive, I'll bring the most valuable item of my family jewels to you in London. I shall be sorry to part with that particular jewel though; for it was the finest diamond in the Tsar's old crown.' You can well imagine what I answered to that. Funnels of snow were being sucked past us on every side; we were nearly knocked off our feet by the force of the gale; and distant howls of wolves made the whole scene unforgettably fearsome. We lost our way and could only wander on as if in a nightmare. We staggered on and were at the end of our strength when we found a cart-track in the snow. On the last stretch, I had to support the old man with my wounded arm, while I was hardly able to drag my own body along. Still, I should not have had it in me to leave him lying in that frozen, white desert. I gnashed my teeth, and fumed, but I lugged him along. At last, we were intercepted by Polish frontier police. My travelling companion was taken to the nearest hospital in a serious condition. Our ordeal had taken a good deal out of me too, and I had to drain a whole bottle of vodka to get right again. I packed myself among a load of refugees in a goods waggon heading for Danzig, where I went on board a British cruiser and so returned to England. And I never gave that old man another thought. Back in London, I soon got in touch with my old pals, and we got down to work without delay. After a few successful burglaries, we managed to get caught and sent to jail. And because I was an old lag I got two years, although they could not prove me guilty of more than one case of burglary. My solicitor warned me that when I was released I should think twice before getting myself involved in anything again because if I was brought to trial again, I would be sure to get the maximum sentence. But what can you do when you're on the wrong side of forty and have never tried your hand at anything except robbing and stealing? Four days after I had been released from prison, I broke into Selwyn's Department Store. If only I had waited one more day! If I had hesitated for another twenty-four hours I should now be ending my life as a wealthy gentleman enjoying my freedom instead of dying as I am, serving a life sentence down to the last minute. Just as I was looting the stuff, the night watchman arrived and caught me in the act. There was a bit of a struggle and in the end I stabbed him and fled. I thought I'd killed him. I decided that I'd have to pack up my traps and get out of England. I felt sure that when they discovered the murder in the morning it would be me that they'd suspect. It never occurred to me that the police would be on my trail that very night. Yet that was what happened. The night watchman was not dead: though seriously wounded, he dragged himself to the alarm bell. Within a few minutes, the police were there. Even the superficial description they obtained from the wounded man was enough for them to identify me. But I knew nothing of all this. I believed that I had killed the watchman and that I had ample time to make a getaway before the store was opened. I had lodgings at 8, Lyndham Street, and the ground floor of the next house was a fancy-goods shop which specialised in ceramics and little figurines. The name of the firm is Longson & North. Please note the name carefully..."

Eddy, without removing his ear from the wall, whisked out a pencil and hurriedly scribbled the address on the wall-paper.

"It's an amazing story," said Evelyn.

"Go on," Mrs. Weston whispered excitedly. Evelyn continued reading the letter, and Eddy his eavesdropping.

"... I hurried home. The first surprise was waiting for me in front of the house, where I found a flashy, great limousine parked at the kerb although it was by now the middle of the night! I entered my room - and found myself face to face with the elderly gentleman I had helped to escape into Poland. He was sitting at the table - but how he had changed! His eyes were shining and his face, which I remembered as sad and sallow, now wore a friendly expression and there was about him an air of quiet authority. He was very neatly dressed; his hat and cane lay on the table before him. He rose and came towards me, beaming.

" 'We have a little account to settle if I remember aright,' he said. 'Let me introduce myself at last. I am Prince Radovsky. I should have shown up long ago, but I was seriously ill and bedridden for quite a long time. And afterwards, I found it extremely difficult to trace your place of residence.' "

"I stammered something. He placed his hand on my shoulder, and with the cheery manner of someone about to make a good joke, continued: 'I've come to pay my fare; though what you did for me is something that can't be paid for in diamonds. As far as I can remember, you said you'd like to have the most precious of my family jewels?' "

"He handed me a small black case containing a diamond. I had never seen such a large diamond of the first water and I don't think there are many others like it in the world. I was quite fascinated by it and stood there gaping, all thought of the murder and my escape driven from my mind."

"'I told you then that I was reluctant to part with this diamond because it came from the Tsar's old crown. But that, of course, must be no reason for me to break my promise. The members of my noble family will at any time readily attest that this diamond is Jim Hogan's rightful property which he acquired in an honest way.' "

" 'Tha-thanks,' I stammered stupidly."

" 'Don't mention it,' he replied. 'This diamond is a meagre reward for your services. Good-bye.' "

"He shook hands with me, and left. Out in the street, the engine of the car hummed. I gazed after it from the window - and none too soon a large car pulled up behind the prince's and began to discharge policemen and detectives. It was a tragicomical situation. Here I was, with a priceless diamond in my hand - a robber and a murderer with the police hot on my trail. I had only one second in which to think. I knew that the diamond would still be mine even if I was arrested. But I also knew just how many people whom I had robbed would come forward to claim damages as soon as they learned that Jim Hogan owned a diamond worth a mint of money! I had to hide it! But where?... The cops might be already swarming up the stairs. I looked around; at that moment, the bell rang. I jumped through the bathroom window into the light well. There was an open window in the farther wall and I climbed in. I found myself in a large room littered with packing cases, shavings and wrapping paper. I heard a shot fired behind me and I ran on. In the adjoining room, the light of dawn filtered in through a window giving onto the street, and so I was able to get my bearings. I was in the workshop attached to the fancy-goods store. In a corner of the room, there was a bulky oven which had been bricked in: I was cornered. Through the shop window I could see the patrol car still standing in the street, with half a dozen detectives hanging around waiting to catch sight of me popping up somewhere. I noticed some half-finished statuettes on a desk... one of them a small Buddha surmounting an enamelled box. I touched it accidentally and found that the material was still soft. Swiftly I began to knead the diamond into the soft clay of the Buddha statuette, and then I smoothed over the surface to remove all traces of what I'd done. I was compelled to part with the diamond and to have enough faith in my own ingenuity to believe that one day if I was ever released from prison I should be able to trace the enamelled box with the ceramic statuette. In the meantime, the statuette might get broken and some other person get hold of the diamond; but at least there was a chance that I would lay hands on it myself. Big firms like this no doubt kept records of their sales, and I would be able to find some clue that would lead me to the statuette. I would have to check about fifty people, not an impossible task, I reckoned, even after the passage often years. A few minutes later, I was rushed in the police car to Scotland Yard. The night watchman did not die, but they gave me a life sentence all the same. For years, I clung to the hope that I might manage to escape or be granted a pardon; then I could go in search of the little Buddha sitting on the enamelled case. Now my last earthly chance has gone and I do not want to take the secret with me to the grave. I leave the diamond to Miss Evelyn Weston, and I trust that she will be able to find the Buddha containing it; if necessary, Prince Radovsky's family will testify that I acquired it in an absolutely honest way. The time has long since gone by when the victims of my early crimes could claim damages against the value of the diamond. Miss Weston should find the name of the person - or persons - to whom one or more cases of boxes decorated with figures of Buddha were sold from May 9^th, 1922, onwards. The statuette represented Buddha in a most unusual posture: not the conventional sitting position with a straight back but with the trunk bent from the waist and the head bowed low. I know that the firm Longson & North is still in the business. That will make the first step easier for her. I am grateful to Miss Weston and her family for their charity and kindness to an undeserving man. God bless them, and may He have mercy on me.

James Hogan."

Eddy had heard enough. He clapped his hat on his head and dashed for the door. What luck! His uncle happened to be in London! He would touch him for a useful sum; the old bounder was sure to unbelt! Then he would seize the diamond from under Evelyn's very nose and present it to her as a gift! To a fellow of Eddy Rancing's wit and cheek, it would be mere child's play to beat the girl from scratch. And once he was rich, she would certainly not persist in her obstinate refusal to marry him! Two diamonds with one stone!

He buzzed off.

But it would have been better for him had he continued eavesdropping a little longer; for with the convict's last will, the governor of the prison had enclosed a private letter addressed to the executors, as follows:

"I feel it is my duty to inform you that while the present will was being recorded, a prisoner was lying in the adjoining ward (which we had supposed to be empty) who later claimed that he had been sleeping and heard nothing of James Hogan's confession. However, we have strong reason to suppose that the said prisoner, Charles Gordon (who at the moment is serving a sentence of six years for forging cheques) was not sleeping, but was eavesdropping and is thus possibly aware of the content of the said will.

"I hasten to inform you of this circumstance because the afore-named prisoner's term expires tomorrow and, once released, he is likely to make a violent and unlawful attempt to gain possession of the estate of the deceased, the late James Hogan. Charles Gordon is 6ft. 3in. in height, totally bald, and inclined to obesity. He can be recognised by a disfiguring scar across his nose, the result of an injury sustained years ago.

"In apprising you of these facts..."

Mrs. Weston and her daughter looked at each other in bewilderment. They scarcely knew whether to be pleased or otherwise by this news of the legacy. The treasure had been immured in a piece of pottery made sixteen years ago! Who could say what had become of it by now? It might have been smashed to smithereens long ago. Or, if it was still in one piece, who knew in what lumber-room it might have been stowed away?

"Before we do anything," Evelyn declared firmly, "I think we'd better go and see Uncle Marius."

Evelyn and her mother go to see Uncle Marius. Fortunately, Mr. North had always taken proper care of his internal organs and so the filing-clerk can now look forward to retirement and spending gay week-ends in the company of pretty women on the Continent. He devises a plan for marketing old sales ledgers, but shortly afterwards is attacked by an ex-convict. In Mr. Bradford's view Fate is like a boozy tailor. At this point, everybody leaves London; and Evelyn steps out of a pool of mud before going on board.

1.

Mr. Marius Bradford had just closed the door of the fitting-room behind his last customer when Miss Weston arrived with her mother. Mr. Bradford was fond of his sister but he was even more attached to his niece. Since the death of his brother-in-law, he had done his best to act like a father to her. In point of fact, he was now the head of the family. For this reason, Evelyn and her mother, whenever they called on Mr. Bradford, would attach very great importance to anything he said. So now it was with a grave and ceremonious air that he placed old Hogan's will before him and fished his spectacles from his breast-pocket. He read the document with concentrated attention.

"It seems to me," he said after much silent deliberation, "that this Jim Hogan must have been inveterately work-shy. I recently had in my employment an assistant who was a wonderful worker. He could face a topcoat, that fellow - something amazing. And yet I have been reluctantly compelled to fire him because the man is a boozer. That sort of thing is something I won't have. Why, this very morning, Lord Otterburn - he's one of my regular customers, you know - he said: 'Look, Mr. Bradford,' 'as things are at present...' "

Evelyn interrupted him impatiently.

"Uncle," she said, "we've come here for your advice. What are we to do? That crook's going to be released tomorrow! We must do something immediately to forestall him..."

"Didn't I tell you that old Mr. North, of Longson & North, is an old customer of mine? I used to make poor Mr. Longson's clothes too. He died two years ago because of a neglected gall-stone... All right, all right... I'll ring him up. He will be in at this hour, I expect... Hallo! This is Mr. Bradford. Good afternoon, Mr. North. How do you like your new covert-coat?... I beg your pardon?... Oh no, I should say that's impossible. I only recommend a first-class cloth like that to old customers... No, not about that, Mr. North. Er - I wonder if you can tell me the name of the person to whom you sold that statuette with the big diamond seventeen years ago... Please, Mr. North! No, I haven't. Never in my life! I recently sacked my assistant for that very reason, sir... I'll hand the receiver to my sister's daughter; she's very anxious to have a word with you..." Evelyn managed to seize the receiver. "This is Evelyn Weston. So sorry for this intrusion, Mr. North. I am seeking information about a statuette sold by your firm some years ago... I beg your pardon? Oh. Could you give me the man's address, please?"

She made a note on the margin of a fashion magazine lying beside her on the table, as she repeated the address:

"Austin Knickerbock... Number 4, Long Street... Thank you very much indeed, Mr. North. Good-bye." She hung up.

"There," said Mr. Bradford. "You see, you needn't jump at the drop of a hat, my dear. I will now continue to direct this business..."

"Mr. North says," Evelyn interrupted, "that they have an old filing-clerk who writes circulars and calls on old customers soliciting orders. For this purpose he keeps the sales ledgers in his own home. There we can find all the old books belonging to the firm. The man's name is Austin Knickerbock and he lives at 4, Long Street. Let's go and look this fellow up straight away. We may even find him in now. That convict will soon be on the same track if he is really going to try to get hold of the diamond."

"A very sensible plan," Mr. Bradford agreed. "It's the tailor who hesitates who makes a bad fit not the one who boldly shears away at his cloth."

Mr. Bradford liked to illustrate his views with similes borrowed from the domain of sartorial art. He was just about to utter a maxim concerning the striking similarities to be observed between bad hats - figuratively speaking - and ready-to-wear morning coats, but Evelyn, assisted by Mrs. Weston, quickly extinguished the flow with his hat, which together they thrust onto his head prior to jerking him out into the street.

2.

Number 4, Long Street was a dismal-looking three-storey tenement house. Mr. North's filing-clerk rented two evil-smelling holes at the end of a dark passage facing the courtyard. Like most elderly filing-clerks, Austin Knickerbock was a bachelor and a victim of melancholia. Wearing owlish spectacles to protect his eyes and alpaca cuffs to protect his jacket, he spent his days surrounded by old ledgers and files, writing to lapsed customers, whose names he copied out from the sales ledgers dating back to the vintage years, in the hope that they would order more fancy goods. He would send out circulars, mildly reproving in tone, pointing out the necessity for anyone claiming to be a cultured member of contemporary society to demonstrate this by furnishing his home with artistic statuettes, choice pottery and beautiful imitation Chinese vases. He pointed out that those who neglect to decorate their homes with such fancy goods, are liable to be avoided by their acquaintances and dropped by their friends.

A living proof of this argument was Knickerbock himself. His home was totally devoid of statuettes, his shelves empty of pottery items, and as to Chinese vases - imitation or otherwise - there was not one in sight. On the contrary, there were thick tufts of horsehair erupting from the ancient leather couch on which he slept; and he had his meals brought in from a cook-shop across the street. Only in one respect was the simile inappropriate. Knickerbock was not avoided by his friends. He had no friends at all.

In these circumstances, it is not surprising that Mr. Bradford and the two ladies, arriving as they did at such an unlikely hour of the night, should be greeted by a somewhat suspicious Knickerbock. His suspicions were multiplied when Mr. Bradford produced a ten-shilling note. Greed momentarily elongated the clerk's face and there appeared in his eyes the unmistakable glint of money-lust. Nevertheless, he mastered his urge to grab the stuff and decided to hear out any explanation that might be forthcoming.

"I am sorry," he said in a cool, business-like tone of voice after the proposition had been laid bare before him. "These things are more valuable than you seem to think. You're not the first people to show an interest in this book," he added with instinctive cunning, and saw that his random shot had hit the target.

"You've sold it?" Evelyn gasped.

"No - not yet. I told the other fellow that I could not possibly let him have it for anything under fifty pounds, and he immediately rushed off to fetch the money."

"Here you are!" cried Mr. Bradford and he handed the clerk a cheque for fifty pounds.

Knickerbock hadn't the audacity to ask for more. He showed the visitors into the other room, where the prevailing odour was not unlike that of Roman catacombs. From a high shelf just below the ceiling, he fished out the sales ledger for 1922. It was a rather shabby volume; and as he lifted it off the shelf, the label came off and fell to the floor. Knickerbock, seeing no further point in keeping up the pretence of coolness, showed himself in a more helpful mood and reached obligingly for the glue-pot.

"Shall I paste the label back on for you?"

"No! no!" the visitors protested in unison: and, seizing the ledger, left the premises in great haste, closing the door behind them.

Left to himself again, Knickerbock first switched off the light for reasons of economy; he then sat down on his leather couch, which creaked plaintively, and lit a thin dark-brown cigar. Absently, he puffed out the smoke. Well! Thank Heaven, at last a poor filing-clerk had been noticed by someone in this rotten world in which it had always seemed that the old grease was only applied to civil servants' palms. Graft was a nice thing, after all. He puffed at his cigar, deeply moved, and fell into a reverie as blissful as that of any young mother. He was startled out of his day-dream by the sudden ringing of the door-bell.

"Who on earth can it be this time?" he wondered.

First he switched on the light. Then he moved to answer the bell and as he did so he was invaded by a curious feeling, a kind of premonition. He opened the door, and immediately was thrust aside by a young man who rushed into the house in a state of great agitation, shouting excitedly.

"I've been speaking with your boss on the phone," began the young man hurriedly. "Mr North said that other people had been making inquiries, too... Tell me, has anyone else been here yet?"

Knickerbock felt a rush of soothing warmth about his heart. Well, well. You never could tell. Misfortunes, as anyone would tell you, never come singly. But perhaps the same rule applied to fortunes too. If this young fellow had come here to bribe him too, he certainly would feel no surprise.

"What can I do for you?" he asked cautiously.

"My name is Edward Rancing. I've come to buy your sales ledger for the year 1922," he said, and he let Knickerbock catch a glimpse of the hundred-pound note he was clutching in one hand.

"If you please, sir," Knickerbock bleated miserably, almost in tears; "are you sure you must have the volume for 1922, of all years? I have all the volumes, from 1878 down to the present day, including two volumes for the year war broke out, 1914..."

"For heaven's sake, man, stop drivelling: Go and get the volume for 1922 immediately and I'll give you one hundred pounds for it!"

Knickerbock's suspicions were now multiplied a thousand-fold. Those rascals had cheated him! They had taken an unfair advantage of him! They had counted on his sense of fair play! That ledger must contain some information of very great value. But he would not leave it at that! Tomorrow morning he would go to the police! For the time being, he would take a few soundings to see just how much that book was worth.

"I am sorry, sir," he said. "A few minutes ago, some persons came here and offered to pay two hundred pounds for the book. They've just gone to fetch the money. But I'll charge you less for any of the other books. I could let you have all the rest at a bargain price."

"Look," panted Rancing. "I'll pay you two hundred and fifty, cash down here and now."

The clerk stood transfixed. He felt a lump in his throat and for a few seconds he really thought he would choke. He would certainly have to inform the police!

"Man alive!" yelled the young man suddenly, misinterpreting Knickerbock's silence as hesitation. "Look! I'll give you three hundred pounds! Bring me the book quickly!" For Eddy was afraid he might run into the Westons, and in the same breath he increased his bid:

"Three hundred and fifty!"

Knickerbock staggered into the other room, dumb with amazement. He felt like a Corsican baron returning from a tour of inspection of his tenants and serfs to find his ancestral castle burnt to the ground by his foes, and his family kidnapped or murdered (or having suffered whatever fate was decreed by the rules then in force between noble enemies). The bloodsuckers! They had got that prize for fifty pounds! For a song! He had not known what he was giving away.

Did he know now?

He did.

He now knew that he'd thrown three hundred pounds down the drain. He had thrown away the biggest chance of his life!... He stared wildly round - and saw the label on the floor:

LEDGER-BOOK FOR 1922

Here was his salvation: He snatched up the label, seized the first ledger he could lay his hands on, which happened to be the volume for 1926, and in a matter of seconds, with the aid of the glue-brush, he had firmly pasted the fallen label over the original label.

It was all done in a trice, more swiftly than Knickerbock would ever have thought possible. The stained, old label with the inscription in black ink looked absolutely authentic. This particular ledger might not contain the one item which made the ledger for 1922 so covetable, but if the young man in the other room did not discover this slight adjustment until the following day, he would simply deny having received any money from him. He waited for the glue to dry, then returned to the other room with the book in his hand, saying ruefully:

"This is the book, sir. As a matter of fact, I gave my word to the person who was here before you - and a gentleman's honour..."

"Three hundred and fifty quids! Think of that!"

"My honour cannot be bought with three hundred and fifty pounds!"

"How much?" asked Eddy briefly.

"Four hundred. That's not much for a gentleman's honour."

The next moment he had the four hundred pounds in his hand.

But when the young man had left, Knickerbock no longer felt happy. He saw clearly that they were all taking advantage of his ignorance. That book must be worth a fortune. He would sue them, he would!

Gradually he became calmer, but he did not go to bed immediately. It was possible that other buyers might drop in yet. And now that he came to think of it, it should not be too difficult to alter the 7 on the label for 1927 and so manufacture yet another volume for 1922. In any case it might be as well to soak the labels off a few more ledgers, and change the figures. It would do no harm to be prepared.

Some time later, he lit another short black cigar with fingers that trembled a little. Graft was a nice thing after all. He would use half the money to gamble in stocks and shares, and he would lend the other half at an exorbitant rate of interest. Against good security, of course. He would not let anyone get the better of him. He would chuck up this dreary job. After all, he wasn't sixty yet: life had scarcely begun for him. Now he would be able to take week-ends on the Continent and get to know a few pretty young women. Knickerbock sat up until six in the morning. He could scarcely expect more visitors now, so he lay down on the couch for a little and dozed off immediately.

It was precisely five minutes later when he was rudely awakened by the shrill sound of the door-bell. He had been dreaming that, as general manager of a vast fancy-goods concern, he was giving the sack to a number of filing-clerks for not pulling their weight. Roused from this sweet dream, Knickerbock hurried to answer the bell.

His early visitor proved to be a tall individual, over 6ft. in height, and slightly running to fat; he was somewhat bald and there was a disfiguring scar on his nose. He seemed to be in a very good humour, as well he might be, for he had come straight from Dartmoor.

"Hullo, old fellow!" was his cheery greeting. "What made you choose to live in this lonely out-of-the-way spot, eh? Why anyone could come and do you in here and no one the wiser."

"What can I do for you?" Knickerbock responded, his voice trembling slightly, for although he had been living in this 'lonely' spot for the last ten years, the possibility of being 'done in' had never occurred to him.

"Now look here. Let's talk business. I want your sales ledger for 1922 and I don't mind parting with some dough to get it."

"The question is," said Knickerbock, the astute business man once more, "how much don't you mind parting with?" In his mind's eye, Knickerbock was already in the back room changing a certain number 7 into a 2. "I have just turned down an offer of one thousand pounds."

"Then you've made the biggest mistake of your life. Three bob's the most you can hope for from me. No! On second thoughts the cash offer is cancelled. You ain't going to get a brass farthing out of me. Either you give up the ledger or I'll give you something you won't forget in a hurry. Take your choice: Hand over the book or I'll hand you something harder." A powerful hand fell on Knickerbock's neck in a seemingly casual way. "I'm just out of Dartmoor. I've been in jug for six years. So I warn you, old fellow, I've even been so careless as to kill people in my time. Now you nip along and get that book for me. The ledger, my man and put some snap into it!"

Knickerbock's knees began to give beneath him; he had told a lie that might cost him his life.

"I was not speaking the truth," he whimpered. "I haven't got that ledger any more... I... I've sold it twice, to two different people."

"Come clean," thundered the towering visitor. "I want the whole story and don't try any monkey tricks with me. If you shout, you'll die. I have all my pals waiting for me outside."

With trembling fingers the clerk poured himself a glass of water, raised it to his lips and drank. Somewhat restored, he proceeded to tell the ex-prisoner what had happened, sticking to the truth this time because he knew that his life was at stake. Gordon could tell that this time the clerk was telling no lies. When the old man confessed how he had tampered with the date label on the second ledger, the ex-convict was scarcely able to suppress his mirth. When Knickerbock had finished his story, a savage expression came over Gordon's face and he bawled:

"You lied to me, you worm! You'll die for it!" Knickerbock dropped to his knees in terror, and wrung his hands imploringly:

"I beseech you, sir... I have a family to support... I support my aunt who lives at Birkham in Sussex..." This was a desperate plea considering that he had not seen his aunt since the unhappy occasion eight years previously when they had quarrelled over a couple of silver candlesticks which both of them had felt the urge to remove from the home of a deceased relative. Realising the weakness of his argument, Knickerbock had the idea of strengthening it by actually producing the money.

"Look here," he said. "How do you suppose a poor filing-clerk like me comes to have four hundred and fifty pounds cash unless all that I've been telling you is true?"

With one sweeping gesture of his right arm the ex-prisoner scooped up the notes from the clerk's out-stretched hand; for a moment it looked as if he was going to fling them all in the man's face, but the sweeping movement was broken abruptly as he stuffed the money in his pocket. Then he gave a perfect demonstration of a textbook left hook, beautifully aimed at the clerk's chin.

It was broad daylight when Knickerbock recovered consciousness. Ruefully, he fingered his jaw, then - far more ruefully - his pocket. He had had four hundred and fifty pounds - in transit. That fabulous sum had rested in his pocket - for one night. Alas, it had been just another case of ships that pass in the night. Some minutes later he was astounded to discover the extent of the ex-convict's thoroughness for the man had also whisked away the two pounds which constituted Knickerbock's hard-won, legal earnings! His own money! A fragment of his wretched salary. It was to have kept him going till the first of the month! That accursed crook had left him penniless!

To lose the fabulous sum of four hundred and fifty pounds may be depressing, painful and grievous enough. But the loss of two hard-earned pounds is a terrible blow. It is a tragedy. That day Knickerbock opened his door to no one. He wrote to his landlord that he would be leaving his rooms; and he decided that he would continue to refrain from spending his week-ends on the Continent.

It was a wicked world he lived in; there were no moral standards in it. Graft was not nice, after all. Just let anyone come and try to bribe him again!

But Knickerbock waited for the occasion in vain. No prospective grafters ever came his way again.

3.

How, you may wonder, had Eddy Ranting come by the fabulous sum of money which had stunned old Knickerbock? He had been getting round his uncle. Mr. Arthur Ranting lived in the country and, as a country gentleman, his attitude towards his impecunious metropolitan relative was one of suspicion and distrust. His gravest suspicions were directed towards his nephew Edward. Now, having listened to young Edward's fantastic account of how he had overheard the convict's last will, he paced up and down for a long time, immersed in thought. After some tune, he put a call through to Dartmoor Prison. By claiming to be a relative of James Hogan, he managed to acquire confirmation of the fact that the old convict was dead, and that, before dying, the late J. Hogan had made a will which the prison authorities had now forwarded to the executors. This piece of information settled it. The thought of a precious stone worth one million pounds sterling was stimulating enough to move the wealthy but close-fisted uncle to action. Miserly folk, once their suspicions have been overcome, often turn out to be the most reckless of gamblers.

"Look, uncle," Eddy explained. "This is just what the doctor ordered for me. This business calls for genius. Once I pick up the scent, I will be on to that diamond for you like a retriever after a quail. However, the operation will cost money. It may be some months before I succeed. I may have to bribe people. I may have to meet people and travel around. Altogether, it will take not a penny less than two thousand pounds. If you fork up the needful, I'll go halves with you."

"And suppose you try to cheat me?"

"Uncle! You know me."

"That's why I'm asking."

"Look. I'll give you an I.O.U. for five hundred thousand pounds. Once I've got hold of the diamond I'll want to enjoy my fortune, I shall go into business; I'll buy a house or an estate, and in any case you'll be able to pin me down with the I.O.U. When I've found the diamond I won't bury it in the earth; as soon as I've sold it and start using the money, you'll be able to claim your share. But you won't have to do that. I'm just as honest as you are. Besides, you know, dog doesn't eat dog."

Thus it happened that Fate brought Eddy Ranting the great chance of his life and, with two thousand pounds in his pocket, he went to see the filing-clerk and cheerfully carried off the ledger never suspecting that it was for the year 1926, and that the volume he wanted was in Evelyn's hands. As chance would have it, Longson & North had also sold one 'Dreaming Buddha' (as the precious statuette mounted on a box was called) in the year 1926. These statuettes had been made for the firm by a ceramic artist named Thompson, and fortunately he made only a limited number of each particular model. Two or, at the most, three 'Dreaming Buddhas' were sold each year, and when one had been sold, a new one would be ordered from Thompson. Unfortunately for Eddy, one 'Dreaming Buddha' mounted on a box had been sold, according to an entry in the bogus ledger, in May that year. The statuette, along with another item - a group called 'Harvesters' - was despatched on May 2yth to Herr Adalbert Wollishoff, a technical adviser, Mügli am See, Switzerland.

Eddy Ranting therefore attempted to steal a march on his rivals for the treasure by flying to Zurich, whence he proceeded by the shortest possible route to that picturesque resort, Mügli am See.

4.

Meanwhile Evelyn learned from the genuine ledger for 1922 that the little enamelled box with the ceramic ornament called 'Dreaming Buddha' had been supplied, as per order, to Lieutenant-Commander Terence Brandon, of 4, Westminster Road. The night was already well advanced, but Evelyn was anxious to make the most of their advantage in having been able to start several hours before the convict was to be released, even supposing that he was also in possession of the secret.

It was midnight when the cab in which Evelyn and her mother had travelled from the clerk's lodgings turned into Westminster Road. (Mr. Bradford had meantime gone home.) Evelyn rang the bell, and when presently the door opened they could just make out in the dim light of the hall first a pair of shuffling slippers, above them an expanse of snowy white robes visible as far as the knees of its owner and above them a dignified and braided mantle; the wearer of these garments had completed his attire with an elaborate cap so that he presented an appearance more in keeping with a land-lubber's idea of an admiral in dishabille than a janitor roused from bed.

"Yes?" queried the apparition.

"We wish to see Lieutenant-Commander Brandon," Evelyn replied. "Is he at home, please?"

The man gaped at her in a dumbfounded sort of way as if she had been inquiring after Commander Christopher Columbus.

"You must be making some mistake!" he said when he had managed to return his jaw to a more normal position. "Oh," said Evelyn, dismayed. "Surely he hasn't moved away from here?"

"That's just what he has done, I'm afraid. Yes. Good and proper, too. You don't seem to have read your newspapers very well, ma'am. It's less than a year since Commander Brandon was making front-page headlines every day."

She slipped a shilling into the dignified door-keeper's hand. "It seems that the affair has escaped my attention. I suppose you couldn't give me the broad outlines of what happened to him?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, nobody knows the whole truth of the matter. They do say that he made off with some very important military documents. Yet he seemed such a decent, respectable tenant. Respected by all - held in general esteem, you know. Why, he misled even me! Me, being a door-keeper, it's part of my job to be a keen judge of character. For instance, I'm supposed to be able to tell whether a stranger walking into this building is visiting the actress on the third floor or a cat-burglar in his best clothes doing a bit of reconnoitring before getting down to his real work. Well, as I was saying, being a door-keeper in a big mansion means that I'm pretty well up in the art of placing people just by looking at them - but even I made a mistake over the commander."

It was a good job, thought Evelyn, that Uncle Marius was no longer with them, or the light of dawn might find them still exchanging worldly commonplaces with this august commissionaire.

"Well, if I understand you correctly, Commander Brandon has been involved in a criminal case?"

"Up to the eyebrows. And, as I, say, even I, a commissionaire..."

"Yes, yes, I know. Even you got quite a wrong impression on his character."

"Very happily put, ma'am. Most felicitously expressed. Why, even commissionaires are liable to make an occasional error of judgment. To err, ma'am - as my uncle Joseph never tired of pointing out - is a human failing; and, after all, we commissionaires are no less - and no more - human than any other people. My Uncle Joseph was a commissionaire too."

Evelyn sighed.

"It seems to be a sort of family calling."

"I wouldn't say that. Take my grandfather. He was Head Stableman to Lord Derby. Not to mention my kinswomen, whom their sex automatically prevented from entering the profession. True, some feminist voices have lately been heard raising the demand that, like other vocations, door-keeping be opened to women. But," and he looked intently at Evelyn, raising a warning finger, "if you ask me, this is a dream of the very, very distant future. This occupation, my dear lady, is one for men. It calls for keen eyes and a quick wit, for resource and an ability to act promptly."

"Yes, yes. To be sure... Now, I wonder, could you tell us something about Commander Brandon?"

"Well, on the face of it, he was as decent a person as ever lived in this house. A thoroughly decent fellow. However, one day, it seems, he got hold of some military documents, disappeared, and nothing has been seen of him since."

"He made off without warning, I suppose, leaving his things behind?"

"The commander's departure was indeed precipitous, ma'am. His flat stayed just as he left it for a long while before his mother had all his furniture and belongings removed."

"Could you tell us where we can find Mrs. Brandon, please? It's important for us to speak to her at once."

"That is virtually impossible since we have not yet reached the age of travel by rocket. At this moment, Mrs. Brandon happens to be in Paris."

"Oh," Evelyn heaved a sigh. "Has she gone to live in Paris then?"

"That's right," said the commissionaire. "Since the invention of the aeroplane, it has become possible to reach Paris within a comparatively short time. I well remember the years when such a trip used to be quite a serious undertaking."

"Could you give me Mrs. Brandon's address in Paris?"

The commissionaire shuffled back into his office. When he returned he was wearing wire-rimmed pince-nez, and was browsing in a note-book with chequered covers.

"Ah. Here it is! This is the address his furniture was sent to... Have you got a pencil? The best policy is to write such things down. One keeps forgetting addresses. Well, then... Mrs. Emily Brandon... Got it down?.. Number 7, Rue Mazarin... Paris... France..."

"Thank you very much. Well, I must be going now. I'm in an awful hurry."

"Then I'll just hang about here a bit longer and I think I might have a gasper."

"I hope you enjoy yourself. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, ma'am. And - Bon voyage!"

5.

Evelyn and her mother did not get a wink of sleep all night. A trip to Paris was no light matter for the Westons: travelling expenses, hotels, restaurants...

"Oh dear, we simply can't afford it," Mrs. Weston lamented. There had been a time when they would have thought nothing of "hopping over" to Paris; in those days the cost of such a trip would have seemed negligible.

In those days! Why, before the late Mr. Weston had begun to speculate in land with such unfortunate results they had even had a car.

"Well," said Mrs. Weston, sighing, "if anyone can help us now, it will be Marius, as usual."

"You know, I have an idea that Uncle Marius won't let us down."

Nor was she mistaken. Next morning, Evelyn was standing in the pleasant fitting-room where the smell of freshly ironed clothes showed that the morning's work was already well advanced. Mr. Bradford was standing in front of a basted jacket on a dummy, scrutinising the work with an expert eye.

"You shall cross the Channel, my dear," he said as, head on one side and a few pins projecting from his lips, he took out a flat, round piece of chalk from his waistcoat pocket, and proceeded to mark the position of the buttons. "We will raise the money. We must get to the bottom of this business, whether we get any benefit from it or not. Destiny is like a drunken tailor, my dear: When he starts cutting a piece of cloth, there's no knowing whether it'll turn out as a topcoat or a pair of trousers. Two hundred pounds is all I have to spare at the moment, and that's what I'll give you to cover your expenses. It is my belief that there's been the divine hand at work over this business of the will - though I don't usually have much faith in that sort of thing. But I should never be able to sleep in peace if you did not have a go at finding that diamond. And sound sleep is essential for tailors - it's an absolute necessity for anyone engaged in hard mental work."

Evelyn, however, was no longer listening to her uncle.

She had chanced to look down through the window and her glance fell on a man on the sidewalk across the street: he was tall, bald-headed, and there was a disfiguring scar on his nose.

6.

An unpleasant surprise awaited Lord Bannister, the well-known medical scientist, when he heaved himself out of his elegantly low-slung Alfa-Romeo at Dover. A flock of journalists and cameramen had alighted on the quay where the boat for Calais lay berthed, and was lying in wait for him. His lordship, like most scientists, was a modest, retiring sort of person who hated publicity. Lord Bannister, though not yet forty, had an impressive record of scientific achievement behind him, and it was rumoured that he was going to be awarded a Nobel Prize for his outstanding discoveries about the treatment of sleeping-sickness. Recently, he had received from the royal hand one of the highest decorations in the land, and so much publicity had been given to his research work that he had now received the final accolade - popular interest in a scientific theory which no one really understood. Lord Bannister's sleeping-sickness theory (about "predestinate races") had made its triumphant entry, under the flying colours of intellectual snobbery, into clubs and tea parties, and every ambitious bank clerk managed to bring it into the conversation along with Psychoanalysis and Relativity. A few more yards and the race would be won; Lord Bannister's name would make headlines in the science-and-culture columns of the Sunday papers.

His lordship was leaving for Paris, where he had been invited to lecture at the Sorbonne University. From Paris, he would be going on to Morocco, where he had established a research unit for the study of tropical diseases. There, too, he had a large and beautiful villa in which he usually spent the greater part of the year. It was his present intention to stay in Morocco for the next six months for he was longing for a period of subtropical peace and solitude.

Lord Bannister was both serious and modest, a retiring, timid sort of man.

But tragedy was not unknown to this modest intellectual. He was reputed to be unhappy in his private life. His brothers had died young, and his present trip marked the happy ending of an unhappy marriage: he had for some time been embroiled in a divorce suit and that very morning his marriage had been dissolved. Lord Bannister was glad that he had so far succeeded in keeping the painful affair secret. He lived in constant dread lest one or other of the newspapermen dogging his footsteps should one day find out that he was after all divorcing his wife.

One can understand, therefore, that when Lord Bannister stepped out of his car and after a few unsuspecting steps, found himself facing a barrage of flashlights, he actually leaped into the air like a jumping-bean. Thoroughly off guard, he reeled, stepped back and so tripped up a young lady immediately behind him who was also heading for the gangway. Down she went - suitcase, hat box and all - in the very middle of a pool of muddy water. The journalists, alarmed to see the disastrous result of their zeal, took to their heels. Lord Bannister was at a loss as to how he should behave in these circumstances. All his work in the field of medicine had not prepared him for such a contingency. The young lady, her elegant clothes quite ruined, now struggled to her feet, and fixed on the embarrassed scientist the accusing eyes of a martyr.

"I am awfully sorry, " Lord Bannister stammered. "I... I would like to compensate you for all this damage... It was all my fault... my name is Bannister - er, er, Lord Bannister."

"The scientist!" she cried enthusiastically, forgetting that at that moment she presented the unfortunate appearance of a female chimney-sweep. "I am so very glad to meet you, Lord Bannister."

"The honour is mine," mumbled the noble scientist and, exercising some self-control, took the muddy hand which the enthusiastic young lady was holding out to him. "I'm very glad too... I mean, I'm frightfully sorry..."

In an awkward and embarrassed fashion, he began to extricate himself from his predicament. It had been his original intention to linger on the quayside to watch his car being loaded onto the ship, but now he had lost interest. He was really very angry with this clumsy girl. It was quite possible that the incident would be reported in the press. Good Lord! Was there anything left on earth that would not be reported in the press, he wondered. It was lucky they hadn't got wind of his divorce yet. His remaining hope now was that he would not meet any friends and acquaintances on board. This did not seem too extravagant a hope, considering that Lord Bannister was a man who gave out friendship in exceedingly small doses; with any luck he ought to be able to enjoy a quiet crossing, unmolested by bores asking fatuous questions and wondering if he had read any good books lately.

Lord Bannister had no such luck. Indeed, it seemed that Fate was going out of her way to spite him; for he had only just emerged from the gangway and taken a few wary steps on deck when he ran into a massive fellow with a heavy jowl and thick, horn-rimmed spectacles who instantly greeted him in stentorian tones. (It would in fact have been more truthful to say that it was the loud-voiced gentleman who ran into Lord Bannister - literally ran into him for he had been walking at a good speed and the impact with which he came into contact with the unlucky peer was not inconsiderable.) It was some moments before Lord Bannister was sufficiently recovered to be able to identify this sonorous mass of flesh as P. J. Holler, newspaper proprietor and Busybody of the First Order; his heart sank for the Midlands Mercury and Morning Clarion were among the staunchest supporters of his scientific theories. Canadian by birth, Peter Jeremy Holler was only a junior reporter when he arrived in England where his shrewd business sense, ambition and energy soon earned him in Fleet Street the nickname "Pushing Jerry." It was not long before he was buying up newspapers and magazines, especially in the provinces. Since all his energies were ruthlessly directed towards the acquisition of newspapers, he now controlled nearly a hundred, and still the Moloch of his imprint demanded the sacrifice, one by one, of those papers still struggling to retain their independence.

There are business magnates whose ruthless and assertive methods are in strange contrast to their silent, unobtrusive manner when one meets them personally. It was not so with P. J. Holler. He used both fists when he went into the fight, and when he wanted to be friendly he demonstrated the fact with transatlantic heartiness and exuberant back-slapping. The amount of noise he made was almost offensive. In fact there are few people who can so adequately justify their names as "Pushing Jerry" Holler. From P. J. Holler's vocabulary, such words as reticence, taciturnity and their synonyms, appeared to be missing. Indeed, his qualities could best be described by their opposites - attributes which were scarcely destined to meet with Lord Bannister's approval. His lordship's idea of what constituted polite intercourse scarcely tallied with that of P. J. Holler; and so, as he now unexpectedly found himself face to face with the man, Lord Bannister winced and dejectedly closed his mental eyes. Here was the end of his hope to travel unrecognised. The man was a pest - and unfortunately not a mere everyday pest at all. There was nothing commonplace, drab or obscure about P. J. Holler; he attracted attention to himself wherever he went and it was inevitable that the hapless creature who happened to be in his company would receive a full share of that attention. Even now, as his resounding greeting boomed over the deck, Lord Bannister was only too painfully conscious that every member of the ship's company pricked up his ears and stared. It seemed to his lordship that he was the single tongue-tied actor on a stage watched by everyone on board.

And now Lord Bannister was horrified to learn that P. J. Holler usually spent his holidays in Africa and was now on his way to Morocco. He resigned himself to a minimum of ten minutes of idle talk with the press lord.

It certainly was true, thought Lord Bannister, that misfortunes never come singly, for he was just getting safely through his ten minutes of small talk when into sight hove another familiar-looking face: it belonged to the Mayor of Paris, who was returning from a visit to London by the same boat. Monsieur le maire knew Lord Bannister, as he had attended the ceremony at the Sorbonne when an honorary degree had been conferred upon the noble lord. The ten minutes thus had to be prolonged to a half-hour ordeal, made all the more trying by a cocktail and the mayor's chatty wife. Lord Bannister detested all garrulous wives and towards this one he had a particular aversion.

The mayor told his lordship the happy news that in all probability he would be elected as a member of that same league for the protection of public morals of which Lord Bannister was one of the sponsors. His lordship declared that it would be great pleasure to have monsieur le maire as a fellow member. Meantime Holler promised to break his journey in Paris so that he could attend his lordship's lecture. He would continue his journey to Morocco by air - it would be no trouble at all.

Now they found themselves besieged by autograph-hunters. These impudent fellows stood around grinning and gazing as if he were an animal in the zoo, or a deb at a coming-out ball. He stretched his face into an amiable grimace.

"Have you ever seen the sun rise over the Channel, Lord Bannister?"

That was the sort of idiotic question he was called upon to answer. It had been asked by Holler, of course, and he would certainly have to rustle up an answer.

"Er... the sun?... Over the Channel..." the scientist mused, casting about for some sort of reply. "I don't think I did... I mean, I should think... er... perhaps at some time..."

"Monsieur 'Oiler and myself," the mayor butted in, "have agreed to stay up for the remaining three and a half hours to see the sun come up over the Channel."

"We are great lovers of nature," explained the chatty spouse.

"Oh really," commented his lordship.

"Lady Bannister is not coming down to dine?" asked Holler, for the gong had been rung, and the passengers were beginning to descend to the dining-saloon. The great scientist actually blushed. What more could he be called upon to endure?

"Lady Bannister? .." A look of intense suffering appeared briefly on his usually imperturbable countenance. "No, I don't think she will be able to take supper," he said sadly.

"It's just as well for her to stay in her state-room at the beginning of the crossing," the mayor remarked, soothingly.

Panic thoughts flitted through Lord Bannister's head, for he had never learned to tell a lie. Why hadn't he said coldly that his wife was still in London?

At dinner, it seemed that there was not a person on board who did not attempt to speak at least a couple of words to the celebrated scientist. At last he escaped to the boat deck and was just taking a deep breath of the free ocean air when the mayor clutched him by the elbow and begged his urgent presence in his state-room. A lamp flushed and Lord Bannister knew that his life was still being recorded for an avid public. Disgusted and weary as he was he scarcely noticed that the mayor was no longer with him when the mayor's wife, still chatting, began to unbutton her blouse, asking him to give a scientific assessment of the effect of the sun on her delicate skin.

It was midnight when he staggered back to the haven of his state-room.

At last, at last, he was alone.

He made tea (he never drank tea made by others), lowered himself wearily into a chair, lit a cigar and attempted to soothe his jarred nerves by reading. In his state of extreme exhaustion, it was a matter of seconds before he dozed off.

As he did so, the door of his state-room was flung open and there stood before him, wearing heliotrope pyjamas, the young lady last seen emerging from a pool of muddy water on the quayside at Dover. This young lady now fell upon Lord Bannister, shook him by the shoulder and addressed him in trembling tones, thus:

"My name is Evelyn Weston. Please allow me to spend the night here in your state-room..."

The state-room lies in ruins. Lord Bannister is at a loss and Evelyn goes to sleep. Dawn shows them in an unfavourable light. The ex-prisoner, in spite of his excellent references, is compelled to go and look elsewhere for a job. Beefy commits an act of justifiable self-defence against a taxi driver, thus giving proof of his respectability. Gordon calls on Buddha at his home. Evelyn cancels Mr. Wilmington's supper, then lays the table.

1.

When Evelyn had at last removed the traces of her muddy adventure, she hurried into the saloon. She was ashamed that in the presence of the great scientist she had been so flustered, and had cast down her eyes like a silly schoolgirl. When she had finished her dinner, she went straight back to her cabin. She prepared to go to bed, but instead sat down by the porthole and read.

She had never before spent a night at sea. The Channel, as usual, was a bit rough, and she began to feel giddy. She therefore put down her book and went out to take a walk in the fresh air. It was a dark and foggy night and there was not another soul on deck.

She walked towards the stern and, feeling a little better, turned back. The ship seemed to be abandoned, as if she were the only passenger. Nor did she see a single deck-hand. In the eerie silence she listened to her own footsteps. She began to hurry. She could hear the echo of her footsteps. Then her heart leapt into her mouth as she realised that the echo was ahead of her. She stopped dead in her tracks and saw at the end of the empty corridor a man waiting outside her cabin. It was the ex-convict!

Her hand flew to her heart, and she stifled the scream that rose to her lips. She began to reassure herself that she could not be attacked here, on a cross-channel boat. But all her reasoning was in vain. She was exhausted by the exciting events and now, alone, she gave way to panic.

Ahead, the bald-headed man continued to stand, feet wide apart, outside the door of her cabin, and for a fleeting second she made out the disfiguring scar on his nose.

With a sudden resolve, she moved forward, but faltered immediately as she saw with what determination her enemy remained at his post.

Under the door of the nearest state-room she could see a faint bar of light. Shuddering with fear, scarcely knowing what she was doing, breathless and blind with panic she flung open the door, fell upon the slumbering figure within, and said in trembling tones:

"My name is Evelyn Weston. Please allow me to spend the night here in your state-room... I am being followed!"

2.

When Lord Bannister realised the identity of the young lady by whom he had been so rudely awakened, he could scarcely have been more perturbed had he been confronted by the stuffed rhinoceros that dwelt in his London home and found himself invited by that animal to a friendly game of poker. In fact it would have been a welcome alternative to his present predicament for the eminent scientist was more likely to have known what to say to a card-playing rhino than to the lady in the heliotrope pyjamas who called herself Evelyn Weston, and was trying to run away from some great danger in her bedroom slippers.

However, there was one thing he knew he must do in the presence of a lady and that was to extricate himself from his chair forthwith; such an enterprise was not without its hazards and at his first cautious movement, his most persistent enemy, his tea-cup, crashed to the floor. At the same moment he found that the table-cloth was rising with him, suspended by a thread from his waistcoat buttons so that the sugar basin and the spirit stove tumbled to one side while his book was flung to the other side taking with it a large bottle from which the friendly rum began to trickle across the floor of the cabin, lapping up the sugar as it went and soaking the carpet in syrupy mud.

"What can I do for you?" asked Lord Bannister, polite even in his despair. The girl looked with dazed eyes at the wrecked state-room but scarcely seemed to notice the havoc for which she was responsible.

"I... I wonder," she said, "if you'd mind if I stay in here for the rest of the crossing? We'll be there soon, anyway... I am being followed."

"Perhaps you would allow me to escort you back to your state-room?"

"Oh, no! By no means! I mustn't let you leave your room... I couldn't have you run into trouble... on my account! There is a murderer lying in wait for me! One of them just served a sentence of six years... Oh, I'm sorry... I... I think I'd better go away after all..." And she began to move towards the door.

Then at last the eminent scientist observed that the girl was shaking like a leaf. He could not let her go; he took her hand and found it cold as ice.

"Please sit down. First, you must have a spot of whisky." When she was sitting in Lord Bannister's comfortable chair with an empty glass in her hand the girl in the heliotrope pyjamas felt considerably less uneasy. Lord Bannister's alarm, on the other hand, was increasing every minute.

"I don't think... this is quite in order, you know," he began, for the awful impropriety of the situation was beginning to weigh upon his mind.

"But I am being followed by a murderer... He is waiting outside this room," Evelyn stammered. "I daren't even go as far as my cabin."

"But you can't stay in my state-room all night in your pyjamas... That wouldn't do your reputation much good. And besides, I have strong views about what is morally permissible."

"You are right, Lord Bannister," she whispered bravely and started for the door; but she presented such a pitiful sight that the scientist once again barred her way.

"I can't let you go away like that." He walked up and down nervously, jingling a few coins in his pocket as he struggled with the question of what was morally permissible. "There's nothing wrong, I suppose, in your spending a few hours with a physician when you are in such a state of nervous agitation. Sit down, please. It will soon be daybreak and then we will be arriving at Calais." He had been speaking in his most formal and scientific tones and so he added in a more friendly manner: "I am sorry to seem so nervous... You mustn't take it amiss... After all, you can't expect to walk in and out of a man's state-room as if it were a pub."

He was rather annoyed. Without more ado, he seated himself at the table, picked up his book and began to read. Evelyn was overcome with shame and sat watching him sadly. Then she knelt on the rug and began to pick up the pieces of broken glass. Lord Bannister could not resist a sidelong glance at her as she worked nor could he reject the thought that she certainly looked like a lady, though there could be little doubt that she was an adventuress - or worse.

"Don't trouble yourself," he said. "The steward will clear all that away in the morning."

"I am really awfully sorry..."

"Please. We must dismiss this catastrophe from our minds. It can't be helped now. This couple of hours will pass, and I hope there'll be no gossiping... That would be exceedingly unpleasant... By the way, Miss Weston, just why are you being followed, may I ask?"

"I am looking for an old family jewel. And I'm being followed by a murderer who has accidentally discovered where the jewel has been hidden."

"Then I am very sorry for you. Generally speaking, I can feel only pity for people who waste energy and emotion on transient pleasures and vanities of this world. Money, family jewels... If you had studied philosophy, Miss Weston, you would be acquainted with Aristotle's maxim 'That which is not eternal is not true'."

"I have studied philosophy, Lord Bannister, and I am afraid that maxim was formulated, so far as I know, not by Aristotle, but by Hermes Trismegistos."

There was a painful pause. Lord Bannister was assailed by doubt and the unhappy conviction that he was not in a position to argue. His suffering was acute and his reply correspondingly frigid.

"This is hardly the time for a scholarly discussion. I am not under the impression that it is for such a purpose that I am entertaining you."

He pored over his book anew. A gentleman may have a duty to rescue damsels in distress - even damsels who only claim to be in distress. But he is not called upon to converse with them - especially if they have the temerity to correct a fellow's quotations, and still less if they have the impertinence to be right. He looked so severe that Evelyn became thoroughly alarmed. She sat down in an armchair behind him and said not another word.

The scientist seemed to be absorbed in his book but in fact he was not reading. He felt angry with the woman. For the second time his peace had been shattered by this blonde whirlwind. For the second time he had felt the shock of her lightning appearance. He didn't care for women who rushed upon him like a hurricane.

Yes, a hurricane was just the word for her! He had experienced the sultry calm before the storm when the tropical leaves stir lazily and the air is still and tense with heat; and he had experienced the shock of the ensuing hurricane.

What mischief was she brewing now? But the minutes passed, there was no sound from behind his back and it was gradually borne in upon him that he was being a little too severe with this scholarly whirlwind. He began to wonder if he had really frightened her and to suspect that she was in silent tears.

He looked round intending to give her a friendly word, and found his visitor - fast asleep.

She was sleeping with parted lips, her head cradled in the corner of the big chair - like a child.

He was obliged to admit that the girl looked very pretty in that charming child-like pose.

He even murmured this thought aloud, then went on with his reading, looking up from time to time to cast an uneasy sidelong glance at Evelyn. But she slept as only the young can sleep.

3.

For the next hour and a half Evelyn slept uninterruptedly, while Lord Bannister continued to read - with a good many interruptions.

With the first light of dawn Lord Bannister grew restless. They would soon be at Calais. It was time to get her back to her cabin before the other passengers woke up and began to move about the ship.

"Miss Weston."

She started up in alarm. Then as she took in her strange surroundings and realised the awful impropriety of her situation she began to blush with shame. Her nerves must have been frayed indeed for her to have felt such an unreasonable fear of Gordon that she had not hesitated to seek shelter in his unseemly fashion. She began to apologise again. "Oh, I am so frightfully sorry. I apologise..."

"I have no illusions about the nervous system of the Modern Woman," he answered, with a slight gesture of deprecation. "Now make haste to your cabin and don't let anyone catch a glimpse of you on the way."

He opened the door for her and stood beside her in the passage. And it was there that Fate now dealt him her unkindest blow. It was a blow timed with devilish cunning and aimed with the precision of a well-rehearsed actor. For Evelyn and her reluctant host now found themselves face to face with the mayor, his garrulous helpmate and P. J. Holler, a trio of nature-lovers all waiting to catch a glimpse of the rising sun. But no sunrise could have pleased them more than the appearance of Lord Bannister and his charming young companion in her heliotrope pyjamas. The scientist's stern face betrayed none of the anxious thoughts which now invaded his mind. He preserved a dignified silence broken at last by the mayor. "Ah, vous voilà, milord!" he cried. "You too come to see ze rizing of ze sun. And, I am happy to observe that Lady Bannister also is an admirer of ze nature!"

Meanwhile Pest Holler had already taken advantage of the first rays of the sun to photograph the embarrassed couple and now had the effrontery to come up to them and introduce himself.

"I am sure glad to meet you, Lady Bannister! P. J. Holler, of Provincial Papers, at your service, ma'am!"

The mayor, too, made so bold as to introduce himself and then presented his burbling wife. Never for a moment did it occur to them that the lady who had emerged from the scientist's state-room could be anyone other than Lady Bannister. Evelyn did not dare to speak and Lord Bannister could only produce a few inarticulate murmurs. By the time they recovered their composure, the trio had moved tactfully away, belatedly aware, as they now realised, that Lady Bannister could not have enjoyed being interviewed in her pyjamas.

The mayoress became voluble in her reproaches; she was shocked by her husband's effrontery.

Left to themselves, Evelyn was apologising all over again. "Oh dear, what have I done? What have I done now," she moaned.

"My dear Miss Weston, you are something of a hurricane, only more dangerous. Don't you realise what you have done? I have just divorced my wife without incurring any publicity. And these people are now convinced that you are my wife. We shall have to make them realise their mistake immediately..."

"But Lord Bannister! What will they think of me? And what will they think of you? I hope I am speaking to a gentleman and that you are aware that it is your duty to guard my reputation?"

"I am sorry, Miss Weston, I have no intention of marrying again."

"I am not thinking of anything so drastic. It will be quite enough to put matters right if we leave the boat together at Calais. We must be nearly there now. In the meantime they may as well go on believing that I am your wife. You can thus keep the secret of your divorce. As soon as we have landed and your friends have departed I shall thank you for your chivalrous conduct and promise that you will not see me again."

"Your hand on it," agreed the noble scientist.

Miss Weston's ingenuity thus reduced Lord Bannister's public ordeal to those few moments when together they said their good-byes to the press magnate, the mayor and his wife, who, however, insisted on miladying Evelyn so much that it was the scientist's turn to blush with shame. Their own moment of parting came at last. The splendid Alfa-Romeo, which Lord Bannister had bought only a few days previously, was hoisted to the quayside; Evelyn told the porter to take her luggage to the express for Paris. Then they said good-bye to each other.

"Thank you very much indeed... and I'm very sorry," she said.

Then, slowly and sadly, she walked away.

Lord Bannister gazed after her, wondering not a little. She was an unusual girl, he decided, and really very charming. He almost missed her... even though she had made such a mess of his future. He would have to rack his brain for some lie to explain why his wife was not with him in Paris. Lord Bannister hated lies - first of all because he thought they were the cause of much inconvenience, and as we know, he had a distinct preference for peace and quiet. All the same, she was rather nice... And he saw her in his mind's eye as she was sleeping - parted lips, head on one side; like a child.

4.

Evelyn huddled sorrowfully in a corner of the Pullman. She had been with the scientist for only a few hours, but during that time she had acquired a sense of security; she had been a damsel in distress and she had been rescued by a man. Now once more she was on her own.

There were few passengers on the train, and she had managed to find a seat in an empty compartment. A cheerful countryside rushed past the window; meadows and copses were regularly followed by wayside stations which her tram saluted with curt whistles.

The compartment door swung open.

"May I come in?"

The man who entered was tall, bald-headed, and there was a disfiguring scar on his nose.

But the ex-convict no longer filled Evelyn with terror. Her panic during the previous night had been the result of extreme fatigue; she was no coward and though she quailed a little, she remained calm.

She nodded curtly in answer to his question thus indicating that she had no desire to enter into conversation with the man. Pointedly, she continued to look out of the window.

A few goats were nibbling at the sparse tussocks of grass on the embankment.

"You are making a big mistake, Miss Weston. It's bad policy not to have a chat with me. It would pay you to get to know the other folks in the game."

"I have no need to get to know you," she replied coolly, "since I know you already. You are Charles Gordon, recently released from Dartmoor Prison, and are now making an attempt to steal the late Jimmy Hogan's legacy. That's what you mean by 'the game,' I take it."

The crook smiled.

"If it was in fact my intention to steal the Buddha, I should take good care to avoid you. Why, if it should happen to be stolen I would be the first person you would suspect and you'd certainly run to the police with my description." She had to admit that what he said made sound sense. "What is it you want, then?" He produced a cigarette-case. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

"I propose that we come to terms. With all my experience and ingenuity at your disposal you would have a much better chance of finding the statuette than you would by yourself. For, naturally, you won't be able to get hold of the diamond by wholly lawful means. The diamond is your lawful property, it is true; and there's nothing illegal about your attempt to gain possession of it. But first you have to gain possession of something that does not belong to you - the statuette. I don't suppose you would want the owner of the Buddha to know your little secret, so the only thing you can do is to steal it. And for such an enterprise, I may say without immodesty that, as a felon and criminal, I have an outstanding record of achievement for which Scotland Yard could provide me with excellent references. It would be childish of you - to put it mildly - to turn down my offer, which I'd consider, of course, on a fifty per cent basis."

"If I understand you right, you want to enter into partnership with me."

"That's right."

"Can I speak plainly with you?"

"Delicacy of feeling is something that can always be dispensed with in my profession."

"Right. Then you can take it from me that there is in this world no diamond beautiful enough, and no bequest substantial enough, to induce me to enter into partnership with a rascal."

The ex-convict looked out of the window, lost in thought, and took a few deep pulls at his cigarette.

"I didn't know that you were a woman of such strict principles."

"Now you know."

"There is yet another aspect of this matter which you may care to consider. Naturally, I want to get hold of the statuette whether you help me or not. And I am not in any position to pick and choose my method. I may have to rob you, knock you out, or even murder you. After all, if we fail to come to an agreement, I shall not be bound by the ordinary decencies, or any notions about fair play."

"No, probably you won't. And now that we know where we stand in this matter, you will be good enough to find yourself a seat in some other compartment."

"Let me tell you just one more thing."

An unpleasantly mauve tint began to suffuse the brow of the ex-convict.

"Do you seriously believe you have the ghost of a chance against me?" he shouted. "Why, you can see that I'm already just as far advanced on the trail as you are and I haven't even seen the ledger."

"Yes, because you've been following me."

"And I shall continue to follow you."

Evelyn shrugged her shoulders.

"Sooner or later, I hope I shall find a way of throwing you off the scent. But if I don't, you can have the diamond for yourself." She moved as if to get up. "Do you wish me to pull the communication cord?"

"No. I'm going now. But I warn you that you'd be wise to hand over the sales ledger you've got in your suitcase." He did not explain that he had noticed the ledger when she had opened her luggage in the customs shed. The ledger was in her small yellow leather trunk. "I'll go half and half with you, if you let me see it..."

"I shall now count three and if you've not gone then, I shall pull the cord."

Gordon rose quickly and nodded.

"See you again."

"One... Two..."

The compartment door closed behind him.

Gordon retreated to a distant third-class compartment where his friends were waiting for him. For this venture he had taken two old cronies into partnership and they were all travelling together.

"She's digging her toes in," Gordon reported to Crony No. I. "As arranged, then, Rainer."

Rainer, a sad-looking, grey-haired gentleman wearing pince-nez who might have passed for a commercial traveller but was in fact a specialist in robbery with violence, responded in rather peevish tones.

"All right, all right," he said. "I'll see about it. Have you got this morning's paper by any chance?"

5.

Evelyn was in fact less composed than she appeared. It was all too probable that her own chance of success was slight in an undertaking in which she was opposed by Charles Gordon with his excellent references for robbery with violence.

But what was she to do? She wanted to secure her rightful possession but surely it would be unpardonable to enlist the help of a man with a criminal record? She shuddered at the thought of working with a murderer. What was it Uncle Marius used to say? "Integrity is like the fee for a Gentleman's Tailor - not to be bargained over."

Well, she thought, let the future look after itself! She would fight single-handed.

She could always go to the police; and she might even come across a gentleman to protect her in her hour of need. If not, poverty might be her lot once more.

In any case, what could they do to her, she wondered, scornfully.

She received an answer to this question when the train arrived at Paris. There, a short, grey-haired porter seized her small yellow-leather trunk and dashed away towards the exit, and Evelyn went on standing beside her second trunk, waiting for the porter to return.

But the minutes passed and the porter did not return. In fact Evelyn did not see him again, nor her yellow trunk containing the sales ledger. Had Evelyn travelled third-class she would have realised that the grey-haired luggage porter and Rainer were one and the same person. Just before the train drew into Paris the respectable-looking murderer had transformed his appearance by donning the peaked cap and tunic of a French porter.

"What a lucky thing," Evelyn was ruminating, "that I tore the vital page out of the book and stowed it away in my writing-pad in the big trunk!"

Gordon's reaction was much less philosophical when, after carefully thumbing through the ledger a number of times, it dawned upon him that the entry for which he was looking, had been torn out and that Miss Weston had outwitted him.

"What I don't understand," said Rainer, after watching Gordon beat his head with both fists for several minutes, "is why you are so jumpy. We'll have to go on following her, that's all. Sooner or later we'll find out who she's looking for in Paris. And then we'll know who has the diamond."

"You're an optimist, aren't you. How do you know she won't fool us again?"

"I have an idea she won't. At the moment, we've put Beefy on her trail. Perhaps after her next move, we shan't even need the address, which we would already know if only you had been released a few hours earlier. That's the great drawback to life in jail: you can't leave it just when you choose. I say, where're you going to have lunch?"

Rainer's trick of suddenly firing trivial questions at a fellow without warning tended to send Gordon's blood pressure soaring.

"I'm not going to lunch anywhere, thank you. I'm fed up to the teeth already!"

"In that case I can recommend coffee, at the Cafe Rome. But you must go upstairs - it's a Turkish woman who makes the coffee there... Hullo! What's the idea?"

A bulky volume had whizzed past Rainer's head.

After lunch, they were rung up by Beefy at the Cafe Rome.

"She has taken forty different vehicles so far," Beefy reported. "It looks as if she knows she's being followed and she's up to every kind of trick to put us off the scent. Much good it did her. First she called at 7, Rue Mazarin, and from there she went to 12, Rue Salpetriere to see the manager of Columbus Travel Agency. She is still there now. I am speaking from a call-box across the street; I'm bound to see her from here when she comes out and I'll keep on her tail. Tell Gordon that at 7, Rue Mazarin, she inquired after a Mrs. Brandon, a widow, and was told that the flat was occupied by Edward Wilmington, the manager of the Columbus Agency. Either he's got the statuette or he can supply a clue. Perhaps it'd be a good idea if Gordon went to see this fellow Wilmington and ask him point blank if he's got the statuette."

"Right-o. I'll tell Gordon all. He'll be here any minute."

"Well, I must go. She's coming out now."

"Hallo!... Wait..."

"What d'you want?"

"Do you know if there's any racing on today?"

Without a word, Beefy hung up.

6.

At 7, Rue Mazarin, Evelyn obtained discouraging information. Lieutenant-Commander Brandon's mother had died six months previously. Soon afterwards, her daughter, Mrs. Wilmington, had died too. Since then, Mr. Wilmington had been in sole occupation of the flat. An unlucky sort of man, people said, to have lost mother-in-law and wife within such a short time.

Evelyn tried to lose herself in the crowds, travelling short distances in one vehicle after another. She looked back several times, but could not see Gordon. She decided that she had successfully evaded him.

But she was wrong.

Beefy had been dogging her all the time. However many times she looked back, he always made sure that she didn't see him. She noticed a rather flashy, monocled gentleman on the opposite pavement and watched him smiling at a little girl whose ball he had kindly retrieved from the gutter. He was a stupid looking muscular gentleman but Evelyn never guessed that he was Beefy who owed his nickname to the fact that he had more brawn than brain.

From Rue Mazarin, Evelyn hurried to the Columbus Travel Agency and before long she was sitting in Mr. Wilmington's office.

The manager was a slim, well-dressed gentleman with greying hair, penetrating blue eyes and a youthful complexion. So this was the brother-in-law of the unfortunate Lieutenant-Commander Brandon and, very likely, the owner of the £ 1,000,000 statuette.

"My name is Evelyn Weston."

"What can I do for you, Miss Weston?"

"I am looking for an old family relic. It is a small, rather ornate casket surmounted by a ceramic statuette representing Buddha with head bowed."

"I know that statuette."

"I understand that it was purchased by Commander Brandon fifteen years ago, and passed subsequently into the possession of Mrs. Brandon, who died recently..."

"Oh, I think I know what you are looking for. That ceramic statuette must be among the works of art left by my late mother-in-law. She was very fond of that kind of thing. Now all her belongings are in my flat."

Evelyn spoke hesitatingly, for she was excited now and began to breathe quickly.

"Yes, yes," she said. "I would like to buy that statuette... It's an old family..."

"I am sorry, Miss Weston, I'm afraid I can't sell anything left to me by my late mother-in-law."

"So you have got the statuette of Buddha?"

"My late mother-in-law was fond of objets d'art and has left a great many ornaments of one kind and another. I am attached to all such family relics and nothing would induce me to part with any of them. That sort of thing is not done in the best English families."

"I understand those things were the property of Commander Brandon..."

"I would be still more unwilling to revive unhappy memories of my unfortunate brother-in-law. No, I'm sorry, neither the Buddha nor any other of our family possessions is for sale." At this point, Mr. Wilmington was called to the telephone and she heard him arrange an appointment with somebody for that evening and then direct his secretary to order cold supper for two from Felix Potain. When he turned back to Evelyn, he refused her request in no uncertain terms. Thus she was unable to ascertain whether Wilmington was indeed in possession of the statuette of Buddha.

However, it seemed likely that the statuette, if it was still whole, was to be found in Wilmington's apartment.

She was in very low spirits when she emerged into the street. Here she was thwarted and helpless, yet with the goal in sight. She would not yet resign herself to failure! She would persist in hoping for help from some quarter however unlikely, from old Hogan's ghost maybe, or, even more improbably, her own impractical, scholarly brain. She was determined to find a way of getting into Wilmington's flat. She would break into the house!

Evelyn shuddered, more from determination than horror. From the next call-box she rang up Felix Potain. "This is Mr. Wilmington's secretary, of the Columbus Travel Agency. Some minutes ago, I ordered supper for two for Mr. Wilmington and a friend... That's right... 7, Rue Mazarin... Would you please cancel the order?... Yes, probably tomorrow... Thank you..." She hung up.

Through the glass-panes of the call-box, she eyed the man idling across the street. He was short, stout, showily dressed, wearing a monocle... This was the third time she had noticed him today... Only a little while ago she had watched him return a ball to a child in Rue Mazarin...

Her scholarly brain quickly informed her that the man had been following her. How could she have been so deceived! She should have realised that Gordon would choose someone she had never seen before to follow her. Well, she knew him now and she must get rid of him without more ado.

She emerged from the call-box and walked straight ahead, pretending not to have noticed Beefy. At the corner of the street, she hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of her hotel. Presently, peering cautiously through the rear window of the cab, she could see that a car was following close behind. Undoubtedly the dressed-up lump of beef was within. She leaned forward to the driver.

"Monsieur," she said. "Here is ten francs for you... There is a man following me in a taxi; he is pestering me. Will you please turn into the next street and brake just long enough for me to jump out. Then follow a zigzag route for a while to make the man think I'm still here trying to get away from him."

The driver grinned and took the money. He turned into the next street, cleverly drew up for a brief second so that Evelyn could descend, and sped on his way again. Evelyn sheltered in a doorway, and watched the second taxi with Beefy in it, hurtle round the corner in hot pursuit. And Evelyn's kind-hearted driver certainly took him for a ride. It occurred to him that here was a good opportunity to have some minor repairs done at a cheap garage in the suburbs, and so he drove right out of town, with Beefy on his tail, and didn't stop until he was outside the Gate of Vincennes, at the garage near the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery.

By this time Beefy had guessed that something was amiss. He got out, paid off his taxi, and hurried across to the other cab. All his fears were justified; it was unoccupied.

"Where is the lady you've been carrying?" he asked the driver. "She's not in the cab."

"Not in the cab?"

"Well, go and take a closer look. Maybe she's hiding under the seat."

"Are you trying to play jokes with me?"

"Perhaps I am - for the moment," said the driver with a sinister look, tossing a heavy spanner in the air as if it was an Indian hatchet. Beefy enjoyed a fight, and would have looked upon one now as a case of justifiable self-defence; but he realised that that was no way to obtain information and therefore decided not to take offence.

"Look here, my man. Here's ten francs for you." The driver lowered the spanner, swinging it loosely in one hand - a weapon no longer.

"Now where did you drop that lady?"

"When I drove from the Quay into the Boul. Mich., I slowed down and she jumped out. She said you were pestering her, and I believed her."

"And what do you believe now that you've seen me?"

"Now I'm sure that you were."

Beefy had obtained all the information he needed, and so he decided to give the driver a good trouncing. After all, a blow administered in self-defence was equally justifiable if given after a period of reflection. He therefore wrenched the spanner from the driver's hand, tossed it away, and proceeded to pummel the fellow for a couple of minutes, holding the man by the neck and pinioning him against the wall, taking care to keep as far away as possible so as not to soil his gaudy clothes. Since he could scarcely do himself justice with only one arm, he directed a few random kicks at the cabbie's knees.

The white-headed proprietor of the garage rolled an oil drum to a safe distance from the fray, and sat down on it, thus securing for himself a ring-side seat, as it were, from which to watch Beefy at his exercises. The display lasted for several minutes, after which Beefy let go of the battered driver and with two fingers flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve.

"Do you still think that I was pestering the lady?"

The cabbie staunched his wounds.

"Ahem... Now that I come to look more closely I see that you are really a very respectable gentleman."

"Good. Now take me to the Café Rome."

The boss relinquished the oil drum and quietly filled up the taxi with petrol while the driver settled himself once again at the wheel. Then he slammed the door and the taxi drove off, bearing the monocled gentleman to the centre of the city.

Beefy rushed into the cafe, greatly agitated, and discovered Rainer, the specialist in robbery-with-violence, playing chess with a knock-out specialist. Rainer excused himself and moved aside to hear his colleague's apologetic story of pursuit and failure.

"It's an odd thing," he ruminated. "Gordon had a sort of presentiment that she'd turn out to be brainier than you. It's my opinion that she's no newcomer to the game or else it's you that are getting old. Time spares no man, it seems, not even the gentlest of crooks. Gordon has gone round to that Columbus Agency you were speaking of on the phone. We are to wait here for him to come back. That's the programme."

"Who would have thought that she was such a sneak?" Beefy lamented.

"Certainly she behaved rather tactlessly towards a bona fide criminal. That's true. Tell me, how much does a cabbie charge you for a ride as far as Pére Lachaise nowadays?"

At this moment Gordon returned, apparently in a state of great agitation.

"Where's the girl?"

"Well,... er," Beefy stammered. "Well, she's given me the slip. Jumped out of a cab."

Gordon gnashed his teeth and swore.

"You damn fool! Now off you go and find Lord Bannister. It's on the cards that he'll be meeting her. He's taken a room at the Ritz. He may quite likely lead us to the girl. Send any messages back to this place. Rainer, you are to stay here and act as liaison. I must be on my way now."

"Where are you going?"

"To get the Buddha. It's in the flat at 7, Rue Mazarin." "You ought to have a coffee first," said Rainer seriously, but Gordon merely gave him a withering look.

7.

Once she had thrown off her "shadow," Evelyn walked back to the Quay. She paused outside a small draper's shop and studied the garments displayed in the window, then she went in.

"I want a black parlour maid's dress and a frilled apron to go with it, like the one in the window."

She tried the dress on and left the shop still wearing it, her own dress rolled up under her arm. Next she bought a black leather bag into which she put her folded dress. Thus prepared, she set out to look for the nearest branch of Felix Potain's chain of delicatessen stores. Paris is studded with Felix Potain's stores. At Potain's she bought a selection of cold dishes, had them wrapped, and took her parcels to 7, Rue Mazarin where she rang the bell of Wilmington's flat. The door was opened by the charwoman.

"I am from Felix Potain's. I've brought supper."

"Oh, yes, I know," the cleaning woman muttered. "Will you just put it down."

"If you don't mind I'll lay the table and arrange the dishes. A supper from Potain's has to be served properly, you know."

"All right. Please yourself."

Quickly and dexterously, she laid the table and arranged the dishes while the cleaning woman continued to potter about in one of the inner rooms. Nothing could have been better for Evelyn's purpose. She hurried out into the hall and slammed the door loudly; but she did not leave the flat. She remained in the hall hidden behind a large cupboard. The cleaning woman came shuffling out slowly, tried the door handle to make sure that the door was shut properly, then went back into the room. Half-an-hour passed. It was growing dark. Evelyn continued her motionless vigil and this time luck was on her side. The cleaning woman appeared once more but this time she was wearing an overcoat and hat, and was clutching a small bag and umbrella. "She must be only a daily," Evelyn thought happily, "and she's going home now." She guessed right and in another moment was in sole possession of the flat!

She went quickly into the drawing-room and switched on the light. She breathed quickly now, feeling both fearful and agitated. There were three glass cabinets in the drawing-room, all of them filled with objets d'art. She could not see the Buddha. The rooms opened one into the other and through the open door of the dining-room she could see right into the small drawing-room. As she looked, one of the windows was slowly opened from without and there appeared over the window-sill first, two large hands, then, a bald head below which she could make out the disfigured nose of the crook Gordon.

She stood rooted to the carpet with terror.

Eddy Rancing makes inquiries but only receives information about cadaveric lividity and outward signs of injury. His interest is not aroused. He makes the acquaintance of Frau Victoria, the Head Gardener's wife, and meets Mustard, a loose-living ruminant. A Karlsbad souvenir finds no takers. Whimsical Gürti is chastised. Eddy is trapped by a gnome; some time later he swims to the next village. All's bad, but ends well.

1.

Mügli is situated on the shore of the Lake of Mügli and is famous in Switzerland as the most insignificant village in the Federation. It is never patronised by holiday-makers or tourists from abroad. It was to this place that Eddy took a bus in the hope of meeting Councillor Wollishoff.

He encountered no particular difficulties in the attempt. While he was taking dinner at the inn, the local citizenry stood patiently in an orderly queue outside the window, consumed with curiosity about the remarkable foreigner. In the circumstances, all Eddy had to do was to bestow a smile on the first kindly, honest and intelligent looking gentleman of mature years to enter the inn; Eddy immediately placed him as either the local magistrate or a naturalist, and in a matter of seconds he had made his first acquaintance. True, the man, whose name was Guggenheim, and who was a coroner, turned out to be merely a visitor, but that was no reason why Eddy should not obtain information from him.

"Do you know the local people, Herr Guggenheim?"

"Well... This is my district and so I know it pretty well. Last year, when we had an epidemic of typhoid fever, I worked here for a considerable time."

"Do you know Herr Wollishoff?"

"When did he die?"

"He is still alive - so far as I know."

"In that case I haven't had honour of meeting him. Generally speaking, it's only the dead that I meet in these parts. And of course the grocer. One of my in-laws. Apart from that, I don't go into society a great deal. You see, mine is an absorbing profession necessitating profound and concentrated study."

He launched into a glowing account of the coroner's generally maligned profession. He was no routine worker. He believed in his metier. He was sure that it was possible to put a great deal of individuality into the thing if you had a natural turn for it and adopted a critical approach, refusing to accept conventional patterns. Take cadaveric lividity...

"Some other time, my dear Herr Guggenheim. Some other time... For the moment, I should like first of all to meet Herr Wollishoff."

Eddy's obvious lack of interest momentarily damped Guggenheim's professional ardour and he refrained from going into details.

"I called at Wollishoff's place on one occasion though I have never met him personally. His care-taker died and I went to see the body; there were signs of injury and I decided to call in the police. Eventually his wife was arrested on suspicion and that was the last time I was in the house."

"And since then?"

"Since then she has been in jug, for the post-mortem revealed..."

"I think we ought to leave the dead to rest in peace."

"Agreed! But only after we have examined them. My principle, sir, is this: to keep an open mind until after the autopsy. Last year, in St. Gall..."

Eddy Rancing did not stay to learn what had happened to Herr Guggenheim in St. Gall the previous year, although that gentleman seemed to find it even more exciting than the case of the injured care-taker. Eddy Rancing paid his bill and left.

2.

Outside the inn, he began to consider possible excuses for calling on the assessor. He had not been reflecting two minutes when there appeared before him the nightmarish figure of a chambermaid. In normal circumstances the poor girl could have been no beauty and at this moment when one cheek was swollen to twice its size as a result of a poisoned tooth, she looked very like some evil spirit. She walked straight up to him.

"I am Victoria," said this apparition. "I'm Head Gardener Krüttikofer's wife."

"What can I do for you?"

"Herr Adalbert Wollishoff has sent me to tell you, sir, that he desires to speak to you, sir. But you'd better make sure that you shout good and hearty when you speak to Herr Gewerberat, because he's deaf, poor man. In the left ear. It's from the 'flu. Went under the knife, too, he did, last year."

Amazed, Eddy followed the swollen-cheeked female as she walked cautiously ahead in the darkness. At first, he thought she was being practical, but after he had stepped ankle-deep into a puddle for the fifth time he knew that Frau Vicky Kruttikofer's caution was due to her anxiety to keep her feet dry.

"Do you know why Herr Wollishoff has sent you for me?"

"What's happened..."

"I asked you," Eddy shouted nervously, "why your master has sent you for me."

"Oh. You see, Helli's not at home. She's gone to Erlenbach to fetch the papers. We take Zurich paper."

At that moment he stepped shin-deep into a puddle.

"You have to watch your step, sir. The road's wet," said Victoria unnecessarily. "It'll be paved with clinker bricks next year. They've already locked up two men for making off with the money. Now Hütrich's contracted for the work. He won't embezzle any, I'm sure, because he's had his share of jail already."

Eddy was now given a violent shove from behind which nearly dislocated his spine: it was a cow, which had tried to overtake them without due regard for traffic regulations.

"I told you to watch your step, sir... Mustard, you scamp!! She's a real bohemian, this animal! Comes home every evening and always uses the footpath."

"Where is the footpath?" asked Eddy despairingly. He rescued his hat from the mud into which it had been hurled by a friendly wag of the cow's tail.

At last they reached the house.

As he entered the old-fashioned dining-room, delightfully furnished with heavy oak furniture, the first thing that struck him was the number of cats of various sizes with which the room seemed to be inhabited; there was also a red-crested parrot perched on a swing above the dense foliage of an evergreen plant. Seated demurely in one armchair was a girl of indeterminate age but nearer forty than twenty, doing some kind of embroidery. A hawk-nosed old gentleman with a white beard and a head quite bald except for a few absurdly long hairs, advanced to meet him, leaning on a stick, but he collapsed straight into Eddy's arms, having stepped on the trailing girdle of his dressing-gown. For a few seconds, the old gentleman rested in the visitor's arms, exhausted.

"I've told them over and over again to cut some of it off... But no, they think that would spoil it! One day, I'll break my neck on it... Pleased to meet you."

"The honour is mine."

"Who has sent you?"

Eddy shouted:

"My name is Edward Rancing!"

They were now joined by the girl.

"My name is Grete," she said. "You have to speak loudly to father, as he is somewhat hard of hearing. Sit down, please."

He sat down. Fraulein Grete told Eddy that a dozen people had rushed to see them after hearing him inquire for Herr Wollishoff at the inn. Thereupon her father had of course immediately sent for him. It was not long before the Wollishoffs invited Eddy to stay with them for a few days; they sent for his luggage, prepared a room for him and begged him to wash and change before the evening meal.

After dinner, they all took part in a friendly bawling-match for the rest of the evening. The old man had lost his hearing aid two years before, but could not find it in his heart to buy a new one.

At last, about eleven o'clock, Eddy ventured to mention the purpose of his visit. By now, three cats were dozing peacefully on his lap.

"I come from London and I'm an art collector."

"What does he say?" old Wollishoff asked his daughter wheezily, for he was a victim of asthma.

"He's an art collector!" Fraulein Grete screamed.

The old man nodded his head sympathetically several times.

"I have a nephew who is an optician," he confided.

Meanwhile a few more visitors had arrived - the chemist, the theatre manager and a playwright, Herr Maxl, who had for several years been working on a drama entitled William Tell and who made a living as a professional visitor to those houses in which he enjoyed a reputation as a widely travelled man. It was true that he had once travelled as far as Brno, on behalf of a cattle dealer.

3.

Later in the evening, Eddy drew Fraulein Grete aside. The girl had a small, pallid face reminiscent of a lemon. She wore a blue bow in her hair and when she smiled she looked like a newsreel version of a Japanese premier who has just handed in his resignation. She was exceedingly ugly and this was in no way mitigated by a set of false teeth.

"I collect the works of a number of English ceramic artists no longer living. Worthless stuff, as a matter of fact, but, you know, everybody has his little weakness."

"Ah, I know that. I have an aunt who is always washing her hands. She can't break herself of the habit. Can you tell me just what is the point of always washing one's hands?"

"As I was saying, I am an art collector..."

"But for heaven's sake, do tell me: what's the point of washing one's hands?"

Young Eddy had to restrain his fervent desire to aim a fast one at her citrus head.

"I am on the look-out for old pottery ornaments," he repeated faintly, much of his energy being employed in the inner conflict just mentioned. "I have consulted the sales ledger of one firm and discovered the names of people who bought some of the things I am particularly keen on. Seventeen years ago, Herr Wollishoff, your father, bought two pieces from Messrs. Longson & North, London."

"Those pieces were duly paid for!"

"No doubt they were. Quite so. That, however, is beside the point now. I am interested, among other things, in a piece called 'Harvesters'," he mentioned that piece on purpose, in an effort to make his inquiry less conspicuous, "also in a case surmounted by a statuette called 'Dreaming Buddha'."

"Ah, I gave that away as a present a long while ago!"

The room swam before Eddy's eyes. He had to sit down. At the same moment he became aware of a shooting pain in one ankle. He had trodden on a cat which was now taking revenge.

"For shame, Gürti," said Grete in the namby-pamby tones she might have used to a baby. "She's so frightfully whimsical."

"You gave it away! Oh... Yes, whimsical. Rather."

"Yes, I gave it away. I never liked that 'Harvesters' piece."

Under the narcotic effect of his reviving hope, Eddy managed not to feel the persistent clawing of the cat.

"And what about the 'Dreaming Buddha'? "

"That's only worthless junk. I keep it in my bedroom. If you would like to see it I'll fetch it for you."

"If you don't mind. It'd be awfully nice of you."

The moment she was gone, the whimsical cat Gürti was sent flying along a graceful curve stretching from Eddy's foot to behind the jardinière of evergreens. A plaintive miaow interrupted the fireside vociferation of the local intelligentsia.

When Grete returned she held in her hands the statuette! The Buddha! He was represented sitting on the lid of a small enamelled case, head bowed in contemplation.

Eddy stretched out his hand and casually, not even looking at it, she handed it to him. In another moment he held the precious object in his hand!

The intelligentsia came over to admire it. Old Wollishoff, having in some obscure fashion gained the impression that Eddy too was deaf, shouted into the poor fellow's ear at the top of his voice.

"That's nothing! You ought to see the marble statue of Pestalozzi and his wife - on the plinth in Zurich Square!"

"Yes, that is a fine piece, to be sure," she said.

Eddy continued to hold in his hand the ceramic statuette containing the fabulous diamond. He had only to dash the little piece of pottery to the floor and he would be able to see it glint in the light of day. But then everyone else would see it too. He longed to run off with it without another word.

"Keep cool, Eddy," he told himself. "You must summon all your wits now and preserve your sang-froid."

"This is not in the least valuable, but I am extremely fond of this sort of thing," he told Grete. "If you will let me have it I'll give you a very nice wrist-watch in exchange. I wouldn't offend you by offering you money."

"I wouldn't even give it away," she said. "It's my sewing-box." She opened the square box on which the statuette rested and revealed an assortment of sewing cottons, thimbles, a pair of small scissors, and needles. "Besides, this used to belong to Mama. It's a keepsake. I won't let you have this one. But if you'll buy me a wrist-watch I'll let you have the Karlsbad cup. That's a very fine piece too, and we don't use it."

All Eddy's offers were of no avail. He begged, promised, cajoled, but he was only wasting his breath.

Eddy felt completely frustrated. Here he was, holding the Buddha in his hand and yet unable to secure it for himself. The diamond might be enclosed within the statuette but the statuette was as it were enclosed in the girl's obstinacy and protected by her hideous grin, which reminded him of a church gargoyle, and which, for all he knew, might even be a symptom of weak-mindedness. For the moment he had failed.

4.

He now set himself to devise some other scheme.

It should not be too difficult. Police records inform us that it is possible to break into strong rooms, dynamite one's way through walls and prise open iron doors. It should therefore be a comparatively simple matter to get hold of a Hindu deity attached to a sewing-kit which was kept in the unlocked room of a deaf technical consultant's half-witted daughter.

Eddy decided that the simplest procedure would be to conceal himself in the lumber-room opposite the girl's room on the third floor, which he had observed when saying good night to her.

"Whose room is this?" he had asked her lightly.

"It's occupied by all kinds of old lumber," she had replied, laughing. "And our gardener keeps his Sunday Best in there, too."

Eddy opened the door of the lumber-room a little, and peered in. The gardener's leisure clothes were hanging near the door. Judging by that Sunday Best, the gardener must be the most down-at-heel citizen in the Federation. The lumber-room would be a very good place in which to hide, he decided.

Eddy wished his hostess good night and as soon as she had closed the door of her bedroom, dived into the lumber-room. He knew very well that in an hour's time, Grete would go downstairs again to fetch a supply of food from the larder. He had made this extraordinary observation the day before. At dinner, she had hardly touched the dishes, merely nibbling now and then like a little bird. But during the night, Eddy had had a headache and went out to take a turn in the garden; looking casually through the window of the drawing-room he had seen Grete sitting at the table with half a Bologna sausage and a fantastic pile of potato salad in front of her. She was eating so greedily that Eddy thought she must surely choke any minute.

This was the secret knowledge on which Eddy now based his plan of campaign. He would bide his time until she went downstairs and began to tuck in; then he would dive into her room, grab the Buddha and make a get-away with his prize. He was just pondering over the quickest way to leave the district, as he crouched in a battered bath-tub which, along with some garden tables and a chair with three legs, occupied the back of the lumber-room, when the gardener popped in to don his Sunday Best. Quietly the old fellow changed his clothes mumbling to himself all the time about a certain person who believed that a gardener was God who, if he wished, could make even a penny tulip bulb burst into bloom. The name of that certain person seemed to remind him of a number of rather insulting terms, which he solemnly uttered before hanging up his working clothes. Then he departed and - locked the door from the outside!

Now who could have imagined anyone locking a lumber-room?

For a second, as the sweat broke out on Eddy's brow, it seemed to the young man crouched in the bath-tub that the lumber-room had indeed turned into a bathroom. He clambered out of the bath and tried the door. It was certainly locked, and there was no window in the room. His first reaction to this imprisonment was to feel ravenous hunger and an overwhelming urge to ram the door with his head.

In impotent rage, he shook his raised fists at the ceiling as if blaming the sheets suspended there to dry. Then he kicked aside a garden gnome so that he could pace up and down.

When he discovered that he had left his matches downstairs, his rage knew no bounds and he almost chewed his cigarette-case to pieces. Next he caught his finger in a mousetrap. Some time later, he heard the girl steal out of her room on her surreptitious nocturnal raid of the larder, intent, no doubt, on gobbling up the remains of the Bologna and any potato salad that might have been left from the night before. When he sat down on a broken candlestick he nearly cried out with pain. He picked it up and hurled it at the head of the garden gnome he had just tossed out of his way.

Morning came at last. A key turned in the door, and the old gardener reappeared to put on his working clothes to save his precious Sunday Best. It was about five o'clock, still dark, and through the open door came the autumn smell of wet earth.

Suddenly, the gardener stopped in his tracks, puzzled. He stared in amazement at the majolica garden gnome on whose head he was in the habit of hanging his cap and saw that this had been replaced by a dilapidated cluster-candlestick. The gnome had moved since he saw it the previous evening! He looked at the grinning gnome as he puzzled out the mystery of the candlestick and slowly came to the conclusion that the lumber-room was occupied by someone other than himself.

At this stage he would undoubtedly have turned to flee, but before he could do so, the presence in the lumber-room of some other person was confirmed in no uncertain manner: a violent blow on the back of his head sent him sprawling among the exposed springs of an ancient relic of a couch and his head pierced the canvas of a picture depicting the family of bears which had given to the City of Berne its name.

The old man let out a yell which brought the kitchen boy, a box of floor-polish still in his hand, scurrying along the passage and into the lumber-room. Eddy leapt into the passage, collided with the kitchen boy and knocked him to the ground. And now, in the darkness, the kitchen boy joined the gardener in his cries for help.

The pyjama-clad figure of the door-keeper appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Eddy flung himself downstairs and at the eighth step from the bottom leapt upon the man. Together they crashed to the floor but Eddy was on his feet in no time, and dashed through the door. He raced down the drive into the early morning obscurity of the garden.

Thither he was pursued by the kitchen boy, still clutching his box of floor polish, the gardener, wearing his workaday clothes plus the conversation-piece depicting the ancestral namesake of the City of Berne and the pyjama-clad door-keeper. As dawn began to break, the cook, a superstitious woman, glimpsed at the strange carnival procession, and it was weeks before she got over the shock.

Suddenly, as luck would have it, the pursuers were favoured by the appearance of a hay waggon which effectively blocked the fugitive's path.

Unable to go forward, Eddy dived through the hedge and landed flat on his face on the other side of the ditch, only a few yards from his pursuers. He zigzagged his way among the trees, and suddenly found himself on the shore of the lake. Gently he lowered himself into the cold water. He took a deep breath, then dived and swam underwater as far as he could.

The pursuers therefore heard no splash and in the dim light of dawn, the sheet of water lay smooth before their eyes.

They turned and went back to the house.

Half an hour later, Eddy Rancing, exhausted, heaved himself ashore at Schwacht bei Zungli am See, a small town famous as the birthplace of two trade association chairmen.

It was daylight now and frogs were croaking happily in the reeds. But Eddy, blue with cold and dripping wet, sat down on a rock at Schwacht bei Zungli am See, and cried bitterly.