Years ago No. 49 had been the abode of a jobbing builder, hence the little yard gate that flanked one side; and it was with satisfaction that the Cawdor Streeters discovered that the new occupant intended reviving the ancient splendor of the establishment. At any rate, a board was prominently displayed, bearing the inscription: J. JONES, BUILDER AND CONTRACTOR. and the inquisitive Mr. Lane (of 76), who caught a momentary vision of the yard through the gate, observed “Office” printed in fairly large letters over the side door. At stated hours, mostly in the evening, roughly-dressed men called at the “Office,” stayed awhile, and went away. Two dilapidated ladders made their appearance in the yard, conspicuously lifting their perished rungs above the gate level. “I tried to buy an old builder’s cart and a wheelbarrow to-day,” said “Mr. Jones” to a workman. “I’ll probably get it to-morrow at my own price, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get a few sacks of lime and a couple of cartloads of sand and bricks in, also a few road pitchers to give it a finishing touch.” The workman grinned. “You’ve got this place ready in time, Connor,” he said. Mr. Connor--for such “J. Jones, Builder and Contractor” was--nodded and picked his teeth meditatively with a match stick. “I’ve seen for a long time the other place was useless,” he said with a curse. “It was bad luck that Angel found us there last week. I’ve been fixing up this house for a couple of months. It’s a nice neighborhood, where people don’t go nosing around, and the boys can meet here without anybody being the wiser.” “And old George?” “We’ll settle him to-night,” said the other with a frown. “Bat is bringing him over, and I want to know how he came to let Angel get at us.” Old George had always been a problem to the “Borough Lot.” He held the position of trust that many contended no demented old man should hold. Was it safe or sane to trust him with the plate that had been so laboriously acquired from Roebury House, and the jewels of Lady Ivy Task-Hender, for the purloining of which one “Hog” Stander was at that very moment doing seven stretch? Was it wise to install him as custodian of the empty house at Blackwall, through which Angel Esquire gained admittance to the meeting-place of the “Borough Lot”? Some there were who said “Yes,” and these included the powerful faction that numbered “Bat” Sands, “Curt” Goyle, and Connor amongst them. They contended that suspicion would never rest on this half-witted old gentleman, with his stuffed birds, his goldfish, caged rabbits and mice, a view that was supported by the fact that Lady Ivy’s priceless diamonds lay concealed for months in the false bottom of a hutch devoted to guinea pigs in old George’s strange menagerie, what time the police were turning London inside out in their quest for the property.