"Most interesting!" Mr. Bundercombe murmured, having with an effort withdrawn his eyes from the pair. "The girl you doubtless recognize. She was once a typist in the office of Messrs. Harding & Densmore. She was quite lately, as I dare say you remember, able to give me some very useful information; in fact it is through her that Mr. Stanley did not leave this country for South Africa with a hundred pounds in his pocket." "And the man?" I asked. Mr. Bundercombe was thoroughly enjoying himself. He drew his chair a little closer to mine and waited until he was quite sure that no one was within earshot. "The man," he replied, "is one of the world's most famous criminals." "He doesn't look it," I remarked, glancing across the room with some interest. Mr. Bundercombe smiled. "Great criminals are not all of the same type," he reminded me reprovingly. "That is where you people who don't understand the cult of criminology make your foolish mistakes. Our friend opposite is, without a doubt, of gentle though not of aristocratic birth. I know nothing of his bringing up, but his instincts do all that is necessary for him. The first time I saw him was in one of the criminal courts in New York. He was being tried for his life for an attempted robbery in Fifth Avenue and the murder of a policeman. He defended himself and did it brilliantly. In the end he got off. There is scarcely a person, however, who doubts but that he was guilty." I looked across at the subject of our discussion with renewed interest. "He shot him, I suppose?" I asked. "On the contrary," Mr. Bundercombe replied, "he throttled him. The man has the sinews of an ox. The second time I saw him was at a dancing-hall in New York. He was there with a very gay party indeed; but one of them, the wealthiest, mysteriously disappeared. Rodwell--Dagger Rodwell was his nickname--came to England. I saw him once or twice just before I visited you down in Bedfordshire. Cullen warned me off him, however; wouldn't let me have a word to say to him." "He doesn't sound the best companion in the world for your little typist friend," I remarked. Mr. Bundercombe glanced across the room and at that moment the girl noticed him. She bowed and waved her hand. Mr. Bundercombe responded gallantly. "I fancy," he murmured, "that she can take care of herself. Come, I really feel that I am in an interesting atmosphere once more." Mr. Bundercombe's deportment was certainly more cheerful. For the last week or two he had been depressed. He had paid visits with Eve and myself, and devoted a reasonable amount of time to his wife. The demands on his complete respectability, however, had been irksome. He was too obviously finding no savor in life.