Cleek examined it minutely, even pulling down the lips and raising the closed eyelids. For a moment he stood looking down at the still figure, then he shut up his magnifying glass with a snap.

"Lucky thing that doctor friend of yours was at hand," he said, irrelevantly. "Known him long, by the way?"

"Well, no, not what you might call long," was the surprised reply. "We came over on board the same ship together a few months ago. He's a French-Canadian doctor, only on a visit, I believe. A charming man – " But his words apparently fell on deaf ears, for Cleek was again bending over the body, and before either of the men could save him his foot had caught on something and he measured his length on the polished floor, his wrist doubled beneath him. He was on his feet, immediately, with Narkom's assistance, but he surveyed his wrist with a rueful smile.

"It's a pity he isn't here now," he ejaculated. "I've done for my wrist this time – broken it, I think."

The secretary uttered a little sound indicative of mild sympathy.

"He'll turn up in a minute. I'll 'phone through to him. He is lodging quite near." And turning, Mr. Belthouse ran to the office on the other side of the hall.

"Is it broken, Cleek?" asked Mr. Narkom, anxiously, as he looked into his ally's face. A significant wink was the only response.

"I'd like to see that doctor who calls curari poisoning heart disease," he whispered. "Look." He turned and pulled down the collar of the dead man, showing a tiny red spot just under the chin, so small as to be hardly noticeable.

"Poisoned," he whispered, "but whether by our excellent secretary or the good doctor remains to be seen."

Two minutes later Mr. Belthouse rushed back into the room.

"I got him," he announced, triumphantly, "and I've sent for the caretaker and told her to bring some hot water and bandages. Nothing like hot water for sprains."

Cleek expressed himself in thorough agreement with this theory, and stood nursing his aching wrist until the caretaker herself entered with the articles.

She was a middle aged woman with a pale face and deft hands, and Cleek gladly submitted his wrist to her manipulations, wincing slightly as her fingers touched the strained tendons.

His eyes were fixed on the ground, watching the drops of water splashing on to the polished floor that had brought him to grief.

"Did you hear our prisoner last night, Mrs. Perry?" said Belthouse, genially. "One of the blessed British public got shut in and said she almost knocked the place down trying to get help."

Mrs. Perry looked up placidly.

"The walls are very thick, sir, and we were tired out with packing, I expect. I certainly never heard a sound. There, sir, I think that's right." She looked at Cleek.

"Thank you, that will be all right now," he said, but without giving her another glance.

Mrs. Perry had left the room as silently as she entered it, when all at once Cleek gave a little cry of delight.

"Scotland!" he cried, his face lighting up with relief. "I've got it!"

"What?" exclaimed the secretary. "A clue?"

"No, no, the cure for my wrist," said Mr. Headland, fumbling in his pocket for his note-book, while Mr. Belthouse snorted indignantly. "Fancy my forgetting that incomparable liniment. Mr. Narkom, go and get me a bottle, there's a good chap; here's the name. Shan't need your precious doctor now, Mr. Belthouse. You can call in as you pass, Narkom, and tell him so. What's his address, Mr. Belthouse?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. I'll ring him up," said that gentleman. "But it's 716 Cromwell Road, I believe, if you want it."

"Mustn't waste a doctor's valuable time," said Mr. Headland, and Mr. Narkom darted off with a detached leaf from the note-book, as if the very life of his companion hung upon the desired compound. Left to himself, Cleek turned to the secretary.

"I'll have another look at that gallery of yours, Mr. Belthouse, and then I think my part of the job is at an end."

"And a good job, too," was the irritable response. "I tell you, I can't afford to waste more time this morning, and if that's all you can do – "

"One can't do more than one's best," was Mr. Headland's meek response, as with a queer little smile running up one side of his face he followed the secretary out of the room, up the passages, and into the fateful gallery.

"Now, what's the next thing?" asked Mr. Belthouse.

"I think," said Mr. Headland, scratching his head again, "I think it's a case of 'wait and see'."

Without apparently noticing the word which slipped out from the chaste lips of Mr. Belthouse, Cleek cocked his head on one side as if waiting for some expected sound.

He had not long to wait, for there came the distant sound of screaming and fighting. It came nearer and nearer, till at last, with a resounding crash, the picture over the panelled door came down with shattered glass and broken frame, the door swung open noiselessly and easily, and in the aperture stood the flushed and triumphant figure of Mr. Narkom.

"Right was I, old chap?" said Cleek in sharp, concise tones, at the sound of which Mr. Belthouse started violently.

"Right as a trivet. Just moving it into the cart. Petrie and Hammond have got her – "

This fact was now a self-evident one, as the stalwart officers just named appeared in the doorway, between them a struggling woman, in whose oaths in English and fluent French, disarranged hair and torn dress, Mr. Belthouse could hardly recognize the competent, "estimable" caretaker. But before he could speak a word there came a fresh interruption.

"Hallo! What is this? They tell me you want me, Mr. Belthouse," said a voice from the main doorway of the gallery.

"Doctor Montret!" said the secretary. "Come in, by all means. I cannot explain what this means, but – "

"Save yourself, Jules," shrieked the woman. "Quick, fly! I was not in time. It is Cleek, see, he is here! Fly, fly – "

"So we have caught the pair of you, eh?" cried Cleek, who had silently worked his way round so that he stood between the sallow-faced, black-haired stranger, addressed as Doctor Montret, and the door.

"Quick, boys. Mr. Narkom, help me here," and there was a quick struggle, then the sound of clicking handcuffs. Cleek stood over his captive triumphantly, and gave a little laugh as he unrolled the wet cloths from his uninjured wrist.

"So my little trick succeeded, eh, Jules Berjet? And you, too, Marie Peret?"

"But what dees it all mean?" wailed Mr. Belthouse. "What have they done, Mr. Headland, or Cleek? I don't know what to think."

Cleek gave a short little laugh.

"Done! They nearly did you, Mr. Belthouse. What they did was to steal the Capitoline Venus tween them."

"The Capit – Oh, impossible!" exclaimed the secretary, his eyes starting from his head.

"Impossible, is it?" laughed Cleek. "I don't think so. Do you, Marie Peret, when you've got such a clever cousin as Margot to pose as the statue? Oh! that hits the mark, does it? And a deep box-feather bed to conceal it in, too. What's that, Mr. Belthouse, where is the statue? Why, I should say it is here. That's right, boys, bring her in. Got the moving men, too, did you? Good!"

Two more policemen, aided by Thompson, brought in a familiar white figure, the sight of which caused Mr. Belthouse to utter cries of delight and thanksgiving. It was evident that his experiences in America had been a lesson, for his relief was only too real.

"The Venus safe! Thank Heaven!" he repeated again and again.

"Yes," said Cleek, plucking away several feathers which still clung to her marble features. "None the worse, and no one need be the wiser." His voice grew very stern.

"None the wiser!" echoed Mr. Belthouse. "But what about the police? What will the charge be at the police court?"

"Murder, Mr. Belthouse," was the answer, "the murder of poor Scott out there. It was a neat trick to poison the man by means of an injection of curari and have the doctor accidentally near at hand to certify to heart disease. Bah! Take them away, men, and, Mr. Belthouse, give me a hand. We'll put the lady up on her pedestal again. Mr. Narkom, just look into the large urn over there, will you?"

Both gentlemen did as they were requested, and as Cleek and Mr. Belthouse stepped back from the pedestal, they watched Mr. Narkom as he stood with a white bundle from which powder dropped copiously.

Cleek gave a little exclamation of delight. "Poor old Dollops' Venus," he said, as he held up what was evidently a suit of white elastic tights such as are used on the stage.

"The lady who wore these you very kindly let out first thing this morning, Mr. Belthouse, and if ever Margot, Queen of the Apaches, and at one time one of the finest artists' models in Paris, enjoyed herself, it was when she passed through your fingers so neatly.

"What's that, Mr. Narkom? How did I guess? But I didn't guess. I was shown it. Look at the tiny flakes of white, especially behind the pedestal and close to the big urn, where she stood well powdered ready to turn to marble if any one were heard approaching. The statue had been lifted down and taken through that door to Marie Peret. The door screwed up, Mr. Belthouse? Nothing of the kind. The screw-heads are there, and glued down, but the screws themselves have been cut through by a fine metal saw, as I found when I came back again – for my pen.

"Margot, I take it, in the tights, her face and hands whitened, took the place of the statue for the last quarter of an hour before closing time. I suppose they were afraid to leave it until the night time for fear they were heard by the guards and policemen. Probably poor Scott was thinking of Dollops – he's a young friend of mine, Mr. Belthouse, who thought he saw an empty pedestal, and he was right! Well, Scott must have come to examine the Capitoline Venus for himself, only to have it fling itself on him and do only too deadly execution with a poisoned needle, all ready for just such an emergency. No, Mr. Belthouse, the Apaches make burglary a fine art, I can tell you; they were prepared for everything and everybody – "

"Except Hamilton Cleek," said Mr. Belthouse, with a little smile. "You certainly have performed a miracle."

Cleek smiled oddly.

"I would like to have caught Margot," he said, musingly, "and it was a clever trick to divert suspicion right away from the caretaker by posing as an indignant sightseer, locked up all night, but there was too much deafness on the part of the others concerned."

"Even then I don't know why you suspected Mrs. Perry," said Mr. Belthouse, as they retraced their steps to the entrance hall.

Cleek laughed again.

"I suspected everybody," he replied, "yourself included, until I saw Marie. Then if a straw will show you which way the wind blows, the presence of many feathers clinging to the lady's skirts and the sight of that very deep French-made feather bed being moved out by two French-looking moving men told me the rest.

"Good-bye, Mr. Belthouse, and here's to our next meeting."

He stepped into the waiting limousine and was whizzed away with Mr. Narkom beaming beside him.

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE MYSTERY OF THE "ROPE OF FEAR"

"Let's hope we have a few weeks' peace," said Cleek with a little gesture of weariness as the car drew up at his lodging, and he took leave of Mr. Narkom.

But his hope was not to be realized. In fact, no sooner was Mr. Narkom back at the Yard, than Cleek's telephone was ringing and he was being given the details of as complicated a business as the Yard had ever tackled.

He groaned in spirit, but promised to be right over as soon as he had had some food and a chance "at least to change my collar."

This last had been added in a doleful voice when the Superintendent had given him the news that this new case was to take them to the end, nearly, of England – to Westmoreland.

If you know anything of the county of Westmoreland you will know the chief market-town of Merton Sheppard, and if you know Merton Sheppard, you will know there is only one important building in that town besides the massive Town Hall, and that building is the Westmoreland Union Bank – a private concern, well backed by every wealthy magnate in the surrounding district, and patronized by everyone from the highest to the lowest degree.

Anybody will point the building out to you, because of its imposing exterior, and because everyone in the whole county brings his money to Mr. Naylor-Brent, to do with it what he wills. For Mr. Naylor-Brent is the manager, and besides being known far and wide for his integrity, his uprightness of purpose, and his strict sense of justice, he acts to the poorer inhabitants of Merton Sheppard as a sort of father-confessor in all their troubles, both of a social and a financial character.

That afternoon, while Mr. Narkom and his ally were being borne swiftly, if somewhat reluctantly, toward him, Mr. Naylor-Brent was pacing the narrow confines of his handsomely appointed room in the bank, visibly disturbed. That he was awaiting the arrival of someone was evident by his frequent glance at the marble clock which stood on the mantelshelf and which bore across its base a silver plate upon which were inscribed the names of fifteen or more "grateful customers" whose money had passed successfully through his managerial hands.

At length the door opened, after a discreet knock upon its oaken panels, and an old, bent, and almost decrepit clerk ushered in the portly figure of Mr. Narkom, followed by a heavily built, dull-looking person in navy blue.

Mr. Naylor-Brent's good-looking rugged face took on an expression of the keenest relief.

"Mr. Narkom himself! This is indeed more than I expected!" he said with extended hand. "We had the pleasure of meeting once in London, some years ago. Perhaps you have forgotten – ?"

Mr. Narkom's bland face wrinkled into a smile of appreciation.

"Oh, no, I haven't," he returned, pleasantly. "I remember quite distinctly. I decided to answer your wire in person, and bring with me one of my best men – friend and colleague you know – Mr. George Headland."

"Pleased to meet you, sir. And if you'll both sit down we can go into the matter at once. That's a comfortable chair over there, Mr. Headland."

They seated themselves, and Mr. Narkom, clearing his throat, proceeded in his usual official manner to "take the floor."

"I understand from headquarters," said he, "that you have had an exceptionally large deposit of banknotes sent up from London for payments in connection with your new canal. Isn't that so, Mr. Brent? I trust the trouble you mentioned in your telegram has nothing to do with this money."

Mr. Naylor-Brent's face paled considerably, and his voice had an anxious note in it when he spoke.

"Gad, sir, but it has!" he ejaculated. "That's the trouble itself. Every single banknote is gone – £200,000 is gone and not a trace of it! Heaven only knows what I'm going to do about it, Mr. Narkom, but that's how the matter stands. Every penny is gone!"

"Gone!"

Mr. Narkom drew out a red silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead vigorously – a sure sign of nervous excitement – while Mr. Headland exclaimed loudly, "Well, I'm hanged!"

"Someone certainly will be," rapped out Mr. Brent, sharply. "For not only have the notes vanished, but I've lost the best night-watchman I ever had, a good, trustworthy man – "

"Lost him?" put in Mr. Headland, curiously. "What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Brent? Did he vanish with the notes?"

"What? Will Simmons! Never in this world! He's not that kind. The man that offered Will Simmons a bribe to betray his trust would answer for it with his life. A more faithful servant or better fellow never drew breath. No, it's dead he is, Mr. Headland, and – I can hardly speak of it yet! I feel so much to blame for putting him on the job at all, but you see we've had a regular series of petty thefts lately: small sums unable to be accounted for, safes opened in the most mysterious manner, and money abstracted – though never any large sums, fortunately – even the clerks' coats have not been left untouched. I have had a constant watch kept but all in vain. So, naturally, when this big deposit came to hand on Tuesday morning, I determined that special precautions should be taken at night, and put poor old Simmons down in the vault with the bank's watchdog for company. That was the last time I saw him alive! He was found writhing in convulsions, and by the time the doctor arrived upon the scene, he was dead; the safe was found open, and every note was gone!"

"Bad business, indeed!" declared Mr. Headland, with a shake of the head. "No idea as to the cause of death, Mr. Brent? What was the doctor's verdict?"

Mr. Naylor-Brent's face clouded.

"That's the very dickens of it. He didn't quite know. Said it was evidently a case of poisoning, but was unable to decide further, or to find out what sort of poison, if any, had been used."

"H'm. I see. And what did the local police say? Have they found any clues yet?"

The manager flushed, and he gave vent to a forced laugh.

"As a matter of fact," he responded, "the local police know nothing about it. I have kept the loss an entire secret until I could call in the help of Scotland Yard."

"A secret, Mr. Brent, with such a loss!" ejaculated Mr. Narkom. "That's surely an unusual course to pursue. When a bank loses such a large sum of money, and in banknotes – the most easily handled commodity in the world – and in addition a mysterious murder takes place, one would naturally expect that the first act would be to call in the officers of the law, that is – unless – I see – "

"Well, it's more than I do!" responded Mr. Brent, sadly. "Do you see any light, however?"

"Hardly that. But it stands to reason that if you are prepared to make good the loss – a course to which there seems no alternative – there is an obvious possibility that you yourself have some faint idea as to who the criminal is, and are anxious that your suspicions should not be verified."

Mr. Headland (otherwise Cleek) looked at his friend with considerable admiration shining in his eyes. "Beginning to use his old head at last!" he thought as he watched the Superintendent's keen face. And then aloud, "Exactly my thought, Mr. Narkom. Perhaps Mr. Brent could enlighten us as to his suspicions, for I'm positive that he has some tucked away somewhere in his mind."

"Jove, if you're not almost supernatural, Mr. Headland!" returned that gentleman with a heavy sigh. "You have certainly unearthed something which I thought was hidden only in my own soul. That is exactly the reason I have kept silent; my suspicions, were I to voice them, might – er – drag the person accused still deeper into the mire of his own foolishness. There's Patterson, for instance, he would arrest him on sight without the slightest compunction."

"Patterson?" threw in Cleek, quickly. "Patterson – the name's familiar. Don't suppose, though, that it would be the same one – it is a common enough name. Company promoter who made a pile on copper the first year of the war, and retired with 'the swag' – to put it brutally. 'Tisn't that chap, I suppose?"

"The identical man!" returned Mr. Brent, excitedly. "He came here some five years ago, bought up Mount Morris Court – a fine place having a view of the whole town – and he has lately started to run an opposition bank to ours, doing everything in his power to overthrow my position here. It's – it's spite, I believe, against myself as well as George. The young fool had the impudence to ask his daughter's hand, and what was more, ran off with her and they were married, which increased Patterson's hatred of us both almost to insanity."

"H'm. I see," said Cleek. "Who is George?"

"George Barrington, my stepson, Mr. Headland; unfortunately for me, my late wife's boy by her first marriage. I have to admit it, regretfully enough, he was the cause of his mother's death. He literally broke her heart by his wild living, and I was only too glad to give him a small allowance – which, however, helped him with his unhappy marriage – and hoped to see the last of him."

Cleek twitched up an inquiring eyebrow.

"Unhappy, Mr. Brent?" he queried. "But I understood from you a moment ago that it was a love match."

"In the beginning it was purely a question of love, Mr. Headland," responded the manager, gravely. "But as you know, when poverty comes in at the door, love sometimes flies out of the window, and from all accounts, the former Miss Patterson never ceases to regret the day she became Mrs. George Barrington. George has been hanging about here this last week or two, and I noticed him trying to renew acquaintance with old Simmons only a day or two ago in the bar of the Rose and Anchor. He – he was also seen prowling round the bank on Tuesday night. So now you know why I was loath to set the ball rolling; old man Patterson would lift the sky to get the chance to have that young waster imprisoned, to say nothing of defaming my personal character at the same time.

"Sooner than that I must endeavour to raise sufficient money by private means to replace the notes – but the death of old Simmons is, of course, another matter. His murderer must and shall be brought to justice while I have a penny piece in my pocket."

His voice broke suddenly into a harsh sob, and for a moment his hands covered his face. Then he shook himself free of his emotion.

"We will all do our best on that score, Mr. Brent," said Mr. Narkom, after a somewhat lengthy silence. "It is a most unfortunate tragedy indeed, almost a dual one, one might say, but I think you can safely trust yourself in our hands, eh, Headland?"

Cleek bowed his head, while Mr. Brent smiled appreciation of the Superintendent's kindly sympathy.

"I know I can," he said, warmly. "Believe me, Mr. Narkom, and you, too, Mr. Headland, I am perfectly content to leave myself with you. But I have my suspicions, and strong ones they are, too, and I would not mind laying a bet that Patterson has engineered the whole scheme and is quietly laughing up his sleeve at me."

"That's a bold assertion, Mr. Brent," put in Cleek, quietly.

"But justified by facts, Mr. Headland. He has twice tried to bribe Simmons away from me, and last year offered Calcott, my head clerk, a sum of £5,000 to let him have the list of our clients!"

"Oho!" said Cleek in two different tones. "One of that sort is he? Not content with a fortune won by profiteering, he must try and ruin others; and having failed to get hold of your list of clients, he tries the bogus game of theft, and gambles on that. H'm! Well, young Barrington may be only a coincidence after all, Mr. Brent. I shouldn't worry too much about him if I were you. Suppose you tell Mr. Narkom and myself the details, right from the beginning, please. When was the murder discovered and who discovered it?"

Mr. Naylor-Brent leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily as he polished his gold glasses.

"For an affair of such tragic importance, Mr. Headland," he said, "it is singularly lacking in details. There is really nothing more to tell you than that at 6 o'clock, when I myself retired from the bank to my private rooms overhead, I left poor Simmons on guard over the safe; at half-past nine I was fetched down by the inspector on the beat, who had left young Wilson with the body. After that – "

Cleek lifted a silencing hand.

"One moment," he said. "Who is young Wilson, Mr. Brent, and why should he instead of the inspector have been left alone with the body?"

"Wilson is one of the cashiers, Mr. Headland – a nice lad. It seems he found the bank's outer door unlatched, and called up the constable on the beat; as luck would have it the inspector happened along, and down they went into the vaults together. But as to why the inspector left young Wilson with the body instead of sending him up for me – well, frankly, I had never given the thing a thought until now."

"I see. Funny thing this chap Wilson should have made straight for the vaults, though. Did he expect a murder or robbery beforehand? Was he acquainted with the fact that the notes were there, Mr. Brent?"

"No. He knew nothing whatever about them. No one did – that is, no one but the head clerk, Mr. Calcott, myself, and old Simmons. In bank matters, you know, the less said about such things the better, and – "

Mr. Narkom nodded.

"Very wise, very wise indeed!" he said, approvingly. "One can't be too careful in money matters, and if I may say so, bank pay being none too high, the temptation must sometimes be rather great. I've a couple of nephews in the bank myself – "

Cleek's eyes silenced him as though there had been a spoken word.

"This Wilson, Mr. Brent," Cleek asked, quietly, "is he a young man?"

"Oh – quite young. Not more than four or five and twenty, I should say. Came from London with an excellent reference, and so far has given every satisfaction. Universal favourite with the firm, and also with old Simmons himself. I believe the two used sometimes to lunch together, and were firm friends. It seems almost a coincidence that the old man should have died in the boy's arms."

"He made no statement, I suppose, before he died, to give an idea of the assassin? But of course you wouldn't know that, as you weren't there."

"As it happens I do, Mr. Headland. Young Wilson, who is frightfully upset – in fact, the shock of the thing has completely shattered his nerves, never very strong at the best of times – says that the old man just writhed and writhed, and muttered something about a rope. Then he fell back dead."

"A rope?" asked Cleek in surprise. "Was he tied or bound then?"

"That's just it. There was no sign of anything whatever to do with a rope about him. It was possibly a death delusion, or something of the sort. Perhaps the poor old chap was semi-conscious."

"Undoubtedly. And now just one more question, Mr. Brent, before I tire your patience out. We policemen, you know, are terrible nuisances. What time was it when young Wilson discovered the door of the bank unlatched?"

"About half-past nine. I had just noticed my clock striking the half-hour, when I was disturbed by the inspector – "

"And wasn't it a bit unusual for a clerk to come back to the bank at that hour – unless he was working overtime?"

Mr. Naylor-Brent's fine head went back with a gesture which conveyed to Cleek the knowledge that he was not in the habit of working any of his employees beyond the given time.

"He was doing nothing of the sort, Mr. Headland," he responded, a trifle brusquely. "Our firm is particularly keen about the question of working hours. Wilson tells me he came back for his watch which he left behind him, and – "

"And the door was conveniently unlatched and ready, so he simply fetched in the inspector, and took him straight down into the vaults. Didn't get his watch, I suppose?"

Mr. Naylor-Brent jumped suddenly to his feet, all his quiet self-possession gone for the moment.

"Gad! I never thought of that. Hang it all, man, you're making a bigger puzzle of it than ever. You're not insinuating that that boy murdered old Simmons, are you? I can't believe that."

"I'm not insinuating anything," responded Cleek, blandly. "But I have to look at things from every angle. When you got downstairs with the inspector, Mr. Brent, did you happen to notice the safe or not?"

"Yes, I did. Indeed, I fear that was my first thought – it was natural, with £200,000 Bank of England notes to be responsible for – and at first I thought everything was all right. Then young Wilson told me that he himself had closed the safe door… What are you smiling at, Mr. Headland? It's no laughing matter, I assure you!"

The queer little one-sided smile, so indicative of the man, travelled for a moment up Cleek's cheek and was gone again in a twinkling.

"Nothing," he responded, briefly. "Just a passing thought. Then you mean to say young Wilson closed the safe. Did he know the notes had vanished? But of course you said he knew nothing of them. But if they were there when he looked in – "

His voice trailed into silence, and he let the rest of the sentence go by default. Mr. Brent's face flushed crimson with excitement.

"Why, at any rate," he ejaculated, "the money wasn't stolen until young Wilson sent the inspector up for me. And we let him walk quietly out! You were right, Mr. Headland, if I had only done my duty and told Inspector Corkran at once – "

"Steady, man, steady. I don't say it is so," put in Cleek with a quiet little smile. "I'm only trying to find light – "

"And making it a dashed sight blacker still, begging your pardon," returned Mr. Brent, briskly.

"That's as may be. But the devil isn't always as black as he is painted," responded Cleek. "I'd like to see this Wilson, Mr. Brent, unless he is so ill he hasn't been able to attend the office."

"Oh, he's back at work to-day, and I'll have him here in a twinkling."

And almost in a twinkling he arrived – a young, slim, pallid youngster, rather given to over-brightness in his choice of ties, and somewhat better dressed than is the lot of most bank clerks. Cleek noted the pearl pin, the well-cut suit he wore, and for a moment his face wore a strange look.

Mr. Naylor-Brent's brisk voice broke the silence.

"These gentlemen are from Scotland Yard, Wilson," he said, sharply, "and they want to know just what happened here on Tuesday night. Tell them all you know, please."

Young Wilson's pale face went a queer drab shade like newly baked bread. He began to tremble visibly.

"Happened, sir – happened?" he stammered. "How should I know what happened? I – I only got there just in time and – "

"Yes, yes. We know just when you got there, Mr. Wilson," said Cleek, "but what we want to know is what induced you to go down into the vaults when you fetched the inspector? It seemed a rather unnecessary journey, to say the least of it."

"I heard a cry – at least – "

"Right through the closed door of a nine-inch concrete walled vault, Wilson?" struck in Mr. Brent, promptly. "Simmons had been shut in there by myself, Mr. Headland, and – "