"So this is your silly old fool, is it?" Rodwell hissed. "This is the old fool you could twist round your finger, who found the money for your manicure parlor, and who was in love with you, eh? What are you, anyway?" he added, turning furiously upon Mr. Bundercombe. "A cop? Is this why you were trying to put up to me a few weeks ago?" Mr. Bundercombe waved aside the accusation. "Nothing of the sort!" he declared. "Then what is it you want?" Rodwell demanded. "Is it a share of the swag you're after?" Mr. Bundercombe shook his head. "I am afraid," he sighed, "there will not be any swag." Rodwells face was the most vicious thing I had ever looked on; yet he kept his head. Mr. Bundercombe and I were an impossible proposition to an unarmed man. "In the first place," Mr. Bundercombe said, "I must congratulate you most heartily on your scheme. I saw your double bolt across the road and jump into the car. Everyone's eyes were upon him. They never saw you slip round into the passage. Your double is, I presume, well supplied with an alibi and evidences of respectability?" Rodwell nodded shortly. "It's his own car and he's an automobile agent," he replied. "He'd been in the next shop. The people there will be able to swear to him--he gave them plenty of trouble on purpose." "And you," Mr. Bundercombe murmured, "have the necklace?" "I have!" Rodwell snapped. "What about it? I've got to divide with the girl here. How much do you want?" "Only the necklace!" Mr. Bundercombe replied. Mr. Rodwell's geographical description of where he would see Mr. Bundercombe first is too lurid for print. Mr. Bundercombe, however, only shook his head, with a gentle smile upon his lips. "If you're not a cop and you won't stand in, what in the name of glory are you?" Rodweil spluttered at last. "I am afraid I must describe myself as a meddler," Mr. Bundercombe confessed; "an intervener. I stand midway between the law and the criminal. I sympathize wholly with neither. I admire the skill and courage you have shown to-day, but I also sympathize with the head of that establishment whom you have relieved of possibly many thousand pounds' worth of diamonds. I could not--" Rodwell made his effort, but Mr. Bundercombe was more than ready. Intervention on my part was quite unnecessary. Mr. Bundercombe's left arm shot out like a piston-rod and the unfortunate victim of his blow remained on the carpet, with his hand to his cheek. "Quite in order, of course," Mr. Bundercombe remarked, "but absolutely useless. Boxing was my only sport when I was a young man, to say nothing of my remarkably athletic young companion. It won't do, Rodwell! You'd better hand over the jewels. Give them to Miss Blanche and she'll hand them to me. They're in a morocco case, I think, in your trousers pocket." Rodwell produced them sullenly.