“No, sir. He thinks he might have obtained it quite honestly. I understand that the man who received the money was a shady sort of customer.” “So I should imagine,” said Angel Esquire. Left alone, he sat in deep thought drawing faces on his blotting-pad. Then he touched a bell. “Send Mr. Carter to me,” he directed, and in a few minutes a bright-faced youth, fingering an elementary mustache, was awaiting his orders. “Carter,” said Angel cautiously, “it must be very dull work in the finger-print department.” “I don’t know, sir,” said the other, a fairly enthusiastic ethnologist, “we’ve got----” “Carter,” said Angel more cautiously still, “are you on for a lark?” “Like a bird, sir,” said Carter, unconsciously humorous. “I want a dozen men, the sort of men who won’t talk to reporters, and will remain ‘unofficial’ so long as I want them to be,” said Angel, and he unfolded his plan. When the younger man had gone Angel drew a triangle on the blotting-pad. “Spedding is in with the ‘Borough Lot,’” he put a cross against one angle. “Spedding knows I know,” he put a cross at the apex. “I know that Spedding knows I know,” he marked the remaining angle. “It’s Spedding’s move, and he’ll move damn quick.” The Assistant-Commissioner came into the room at that moment. “Hullo, Angel!” he said, glancing at the figures on the pad. “What’s this, a new game?” “It’s an old game,” said Angel truthfully, “but played in an entirely new way.” * * * * * Angel was not far wrong when he surmised that Spedding’s move would be immediate, and although the detective had reckoned without an unknown factor, in the person of old George, yet a variety of circumstances combined to precipitate the act that Angel anticipated. Not least of these was the arrest of Vinnis. After his interview with old George, Spedding had decided on a waiting policy. The old man had been taken to the house at Clapham. Spedding had been prepared to wait patiently until some freak of mind brought back the memory to the form of cryptogram he had advised. A dozen times a day he asked the old man-- “What is your name?” “Old George, only old George,” was the invariable reply, with many grins and noddings. “But your real name, the name you had when you were a--professor.” But this would only start the old man off on a rambling reminiscence of his “munificent patron.” Connor came secretly to Clapham for orders. It was the night after Vinnis had been arrested. “We’ve got to move at once, Mr. Connor,” said the lawyer. Connor sat in the chair that had held Jimmy a few nights previous. “It is no use waiting for the old man to talk, the earlier plan was best.” “Has anything happened?” asked Connor. His one-time awe of the lawyer had merged in the familiarity of conspiratorship. “There was a detective at my office to-day inquiring about some notes that were found on Vinnis. Angel Esquire will draw his own conclusions, and we have no time to lose.”