“As soon as I had read it, of course I guessed the purport of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ Jerry Shiels’s name is well-known to anybody with half my knowledge of the criminal records of the century, and his connection with the missing Wedlake jewels, and his death in prison, came to my mind at once. (The police afterwards, by the way, soon identified his old house in Colt Row from their records.) Certainly here was something hidden, and as the Wedlake jewels seemed most likely, I made the shot in talking to Hoker.” “But you terribly astonished him by telling him his name and address. How was that?” Hewitt laughed aloud. “That,” he said; “why, that was the thinnest trick of all. Why, the man had it engraved at large all over the silver band of his umbrella handle. When he left his umbrella outside, Kerrett (I had indicated the umbrella to him by a sign) just copied the lettering on one of the ordinary visitors’ forms, and brought it in. You will remember I treated it as an ordinary visitor’s announcement. Kerrett has played that trick before, I fear.” And he laughed again. On the afternoon of the next day Reuben B. Hoker called on Hewitt and had half an hour’s talk with him in his private room. After that he came up to me with half a crown in his hand. “Sir,” he said, “everything has turned out a durned sell. I don’t want to talk about it any more. I’m goin’ out o’ this durn country. Night before last I broke your winder. You put the damage at half a crown. Here is the money. Good-day to you, sir.” And Reuben B. Hoker went out into the tumultuous world. THE CASE OF THE DEAD SKIPPER I It is a good few years ago now that a suicide was investigated by a coroner’s jury before whom Martin Hewitt gave certain simple and direct evidence touching the manner of the death, and testifying to the fact of its being a matter of self-destruction. The public got certain suggestive information from the bare newspaper report, but they never learnt the full story of the tragedy that led up to the suicide that was so summarily disposed of. The time I speak of was in Hewitt’s early professional days, not long after he had left Messrs. Crellan’s office, and a long time before I myself met him. At that time fewer of the police knew him and were aware of his abilities, and fewer still appreciated them at their true value. Inquiries in connection with a case had taken him early one morning to the district which is now called “London over the border,” and which comprises West Ham and the parts there adjoining. At this time, however, the district was much unlike its present self, for none of the grimy streets that now characterize it had been built, and even in its nearest parts open land claimed more space than buildings.