“What’s the game?” the other snarled. He was a big, heavily-built man, with a drooping mustache. “Nothing, nothing,” smiled Angel. “I want you for the Lagos job, but there’s not enough evidence to convict you. Make your mind easy.” The man went white under his tan; his hand caught the edge of the table before him. “Lagos!” he stammered. “What--what----” “Oh, never mind about that.” Angel airily waved the matter aside. “Sit down here.” The man hesitated, then obeyed, and dropped into a seat between the two. Angel looked round. So far as any danger of being overheard went, they were as much alone as though they sat in the center of a desert. “Jimmy”--Angel held him by the arm--“you said just now you’d got a march when you admitted you’d seen old Reale’s puzzle-verse. It wasn’t the march you thought it was, for I had seen the will--and so has Connor here.” He looked the heavy man straight in the eye. “There is somebody else that benefits under that will besides you two. It is a girl.” He did not take his eyes from Connor. “I was curious to see that young lady,” Angel went on, “and this afternoon I drove to Clapham to interview her.” He stopped again. Connor made no reply, but kept his eyes fixed on the floor. “I went to interview her, and found that she had mysteriously disappeared this very afternoon.” Again he stopped. “A gentleman called to see her, with a message from--who do you think, Connor?” he asked. The easy, flippant manner was gone, and Connor, looking up, caught the steady stare of two cold blue eyes, and shivered. “Why,” Angel went on slowly, “it was a message from Inspector Angel--which is a damned piece of impudence, Connor, for I’m not an inspector--and the young lady drove away to Scotland Yard. And now, Connor, I want to ask you, _What have you done with old Reale’s heiress?_” Connor licked his lips and said nothing. Angel beckoned to a waiter and paid his score, then rose to go. “You will go at once and drive Miss Kathleen Kent back to the place you took her from. I shall call to-morrow and see her, and if one hair of her head is harmed, Connor----” “Well?” said Connor defiantly. “I’ll chance your alibis, and take you for the Lagos business,” and with a curt nod to Jimmy, he left the saloon. Connor turned in a fret of fury to the man at his side. “D’ye hear him, Jimmy? D’ye hear the dog----” “My advice to you,” interrupted the other, “is--do as Angel tells you.” “D’ye think I’m frightened by----” “Oh, no,” was the quiet response, “you are not frightened at what Angel may do. What he does won’t matter very much. What I will do is the trouble.” CHAPTER IV THE “BOROUGH LOT” It was not a bit like Scotland Yard as Kathleen Kent had pictured it. It was a kind of a yard certainly, for the grimy little street, flanked on either side with the blank faces of dirty little houses, ended abruptly in a high wall, over which were the gray hulls and fat scarlet funnels of ocean-going steamers.