“Certainly he is, living as bold as brass not five minutes’ walk from here. He’s got a great flat down at the end of Surrey Street, overlooking the Embankment.” “Then, man, why, in heaven’s name, don’t you lay him by the heels?” said Herrick, vehemently. “Ah! why don’t we? I’ll tell you. Because the Home Secretary is afraid of the music; and there are other reasons, too. We can’t prove anything against him, and he is stronger than we are, just at present; and if we did get him, no jury would dare find him guilty. What’s more, Mr Herrick, no counsel would dare stand up in Court to prosecute him--unless you would,” he added. “Indeed, I would,” said Herrick, grimly. The detective stood back and looked at the young advocate’s face. “I believe you,” he said, admiringly. “Well, you won’t get the chance, I’m afraid.” “Perhaps that depends on the police.” “We’re nearly done; I know that. Mortal men can’t stand the worry and the work of it day and night, and everybody swearing at us all the time. They’ll have the Force on strike if this game lasts much longer--then God help London!” He nodded and passed on; but returned again. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, in a lowered voice: “There’s going to be a meeting here”--he jerked his head towards the Courts and offices behind them--” all the K.B. judges.” “Ah! I knew _that_,” said Herrick. “To be sure; your friend Sir John Westwood would know. He’ll have to come too, of course. And there’ll be a good many more.” “Who else?” “All the police magistrates, the Clerkenwell and Middlesex judges, the Recorder and the Common Serjeant, and our boss, the Chief Commissioner.” “A multitude of counsellors!” “And not much wisdom, I expect,” was the detective’s comment. “When do they meet?” “Christmas Eve--the 24th. Good-night.” They parted at the southern entrance, and Herrick walked over to the Temple, pondering. He still had in his pocket the threatening missive he received at Folkestone; but though ever since then he had had a sense of being shadowed, no actual evil had yet befallen him. It was not so, he knew very well, with many others who had been similarly warned. Disasters of various sorts had overtaken them--street assaults, mysterious accidents by day, and onslaughts by masked robbers in the night. He had a feeling that he himself had not been spared through oversight, but by design. Not far away from Paper Buildings, to which he took his way rather from habit than because he had anything to do there,--in a big room overlooking the river, there sat a man who could have told him all about it. In the appearance of Marcus White a marked change had been wrought since Herrick had left him at the Folkestone hotel. The swarthy look had given place to a peculiar pallor; the veins stood out upon the temples, and beneath his eyes were purple shadows. But the eyes themselves still burnt with the fire that had so impressed Aldwyth Westwood five months ago.