"It's your fault, you miserable little fool!" he muttered to Blanche. "I ought to have known better than to have let you into the thing. Fancy taking him for a mug!" Mr. Bundercombe smiled a pleased smile. "Come, come!" he said. "Things are not so bad. You might have been caught!" "Aren't you going to give information?" Rodwell asked quickly. "Not a thought of it!" Mr. Bundercombe assured him, catching the case Rodwell threw toward him. "I want, so far as possible, to see both sides happy. Here, Paul; put these in your pocket!" he added, turning to me. "If you take my advice, Rodwell," he concluded, "you'll stay where you are until I return. I promise you that Mr. Walmsley and I will return alone, and that I will give no intimation of your presence here to any person whatsoever." Rodwell was puzzled. He rose slowly to his feet, however, and walked toward the basin at the other end of the apartment. "All right!" he agreed sullenly. "I shall be here." Mr. Bundercombe and I descended into the street. I was feeling a little dazed. Mr. Bundercombe led the way into the Tarteran establishment, which was still in a state of disorder. He asked to speak to the principal, who came forward, still looking very perturbed. "Sorry to hear of this robbery!" Mr. Bundercombe said. "Have they caught the fellow?" "They caught the man in the motor car," the manager groaned; "but he had no jewels on him and my people can't swear to him. He seems to have a very coherent story." "Have you communicated with the police?" Mr. Bundercombe asked. The manager stretched out his hand. "Four of them are in the place now," he answered, a little despairingly. "What's the good? The fellow's got away! He's got the finest necklace in the shop with him, gems worth twenty thousand pounds." Mr. Bundercombe nodded sympathetically. "Have you offered a reward yet?" "We can't do everything in ten minutes!" the manager replied, a little testily. "We shall offer one, of course." "What amount are you prepared to go to?" Mr. Bundercombe asked. The man looked at him eagerly. "Do you mean, sir--" he began. Mr. Bundercombe stretched out his hands. "You may search me!" he interrupted. "I have nothing in the way of jewels on me. My name is Joseph H. Bundercombe and I have a house in Prince's Gardens. This is my son-in-law-to-be, Mr. Walmsley, M.P. for Bedfordshire." The manager bowed. "I know you quite well, sir," he said, "and Mr. Walmsley, of course; both he and many of his relatives are valued clients of ours. But about the jewels?" "What reward do you offer?" "Five hundred pounds," was the prompt reply; "more, if necessary." Mr. Bundercombe smiled approvingly. "Circumstances," he explained, "of a peculiar nature, into which I am quite sure it will suit your purpose not to inquire, have enabled me to claim the reward and to restore to you the jewels." The manager gripped him by the arm. "Come into the office at once!" he begged.