"You would not think of calling Paganini a 'fiddler,'" he wrote; "why, then, should you degrade me with the coarse term of 'cracksman'? I claim to be as much an artist in my profession as Paganini was in his, and I claim also a like courtesy from you. So, then, if in the future it becomes necessary to allude to me--and I fear it often will--I shall be obliged if you do so as 'The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek.' In return for that courtesy, gentlemen, I promise to alter my mode of procedure, to turn over a new leaf, as it were, to give you at all times hereafter distinct information, in advance, of such places as I elect for the field of my operations, and of the time when I shall pay my respects to them, and, on the morning after each such visit, to bestow some small portion of the loot upon Scotland Yard as a souvenir of the event." And to that remarkable programme he rigidly adhered from that time forth--always giving the police twelve hours' notice, always evading their traps and snares, always carrying out his plans in spite of them, and always, on the morning after, sending some trinket or trifle to Superintendent Narkom at Scotland Yard, in a little pink cardboard box, tied up with rose-coloured ribbon, and marked "With the compliments of The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek." The detectives of the United Kingdom, the detectives of the Continent, the detectives of America--each and all had measured swords with him, tried wits with him, spread snares and laid traps for him, and each and all had retired from the field vanquished. And this was the man that he--Police Constable Samuel James Collins--had actually had in his hands; nay, in his very arms, and then had given up for half a sovereign and let go! "Oh, so help me! You make my head swim, Smathers, that you do!" he managed to say at last. "I had him--I had the Vanishing Cracksman--in my blessed paws--and then went and let that French hussy--But look here; I say, now, how do you know it was him? Nobody can go by his looks; so how do you know?" "Know, you footler!" growled Smathers, disgustedly. "Why shouldn't I know when I've been after him ever since he left Scotland Yard half an hour ago?" "Left what? My hat! You ain't a-going to tell me that he's been there? When? Why? What for?" "To leave one of his blessed notices, the dare-devil. What a detective he'd a made, wouldn't he, if he'd only a-turned his attention that way, and been on the side of the law instead of against it? He walked in bold as brass, sat down, and talked with the superintendent over some cock-and-bull yarn about a 'Black Hand' letter that he said had been sent to him, and asked if he couldn't have police protection whilst he was in town. It wasn't until after he'd left that the super he sees a note on the chair where the blighter had been sitting, and when he opened it, there it was in black and white, something like this: