The sergeant looked at it carefully. “You haven’t signed it or dated it either,” he said respectfully, and handed it back. Spedding cursed him under his breath and rectified the omissions. “Now you may go.” In the half-light, for only one solitary electrolier illuminated the vast hall, he thought the man was smiling. It might have been a trick of the shadows, for he could not see his face. “And am I to leave you alone?” said the sergeant. “Yes.” “Is it safe?” the non-commissioned officer asked quietly. “Curse you, what do you mean?” cried the lawyer. “Well,” said the other easily, “I see you have Connor with you, a notorious thief and blackmailer.” The lawyer was dumb. “And Bat Sands. How d’ye do, Bat? How did they treat you in Borstal, or was it Parkhurst?” drawled the sergeant. “And there’s the gentle Lamby trying hard to look military in an overcoat too large for him. That’s not the uniform you’re used to wearing, Lamby, eh?” From the group of men at the door came a genuinely amused laugh. “Guard the outer door, one of you chaps,” said the sergeant, and turning again to Spedding’s men, “Here we have our respected friend Curt Goyle.” He stooped and picked up a bag that Bat had placed gingerly on the floor. “What a bag of tricks,” the sergeant cooed, “diamond bits and dynamite cartridges and--what’s this little thing, Bat--an ark? It is. By Jove, I congratulate you on the swag.” Spedding had recovered his nerve and strode forward. He was playing for the greatest stake in the world. “You shall be punished for this insolence,” he stormed. “Not at all,” said the imperturbable sergeant. Somebody at the door spoke. “Here’s another one, sergeant,” and pushed a queer old figure into the hall, a figure that blinked and peered from face to face. He espied Spedding, and ran up to him almost fawning. “The Safe Deposit--in Lombard Street,” he cackled joyously. “You see, I remembered, dear friend; and I’ve come to tell you about the book--my book, you know. My munificent patron who desired a puzzle word----” The sergeant started forward. “My God!” he cried, “the professor.” “Yes, yes,” chuckled the old man, “that’s what he called me. He bought a copy of my book--two sovereigns, four sovereigns he gave me. The book--what was it called?” The old man paused and clasped both hands to his head. “_A Study--a Study_” he said painfully, “_on the Origin of--the Alphabet._ Ah!” Another of the commissionaires had come forward as the old man began speaking, and to him the sergeant turned. “Make a note of that, Jimmy,” the sergeant said. Spedding reeled back as though he had been struck. “Angel!” he gasped. “That’s me,” was the ungrammatical reply.