Teal flicked his chewing gum through the window and replaced it with a fresh slab. "The flavour _doesn't_ last," he remarked with irrelevant irritation. "Oh, Snooper. We don't know much about him--he's a success so far. We don't even know where he lives. We had him shadowed once, to find out, and he spotted the tail and came storming in here swearing he'd bring a suit against us if it happened again. He'd have won his case, too--we can't tail people unless we've got anything definite to justify it. He's only been in business for about three months, and as far as anyone can prove he's as innocent as the day. What I _know_ 's another matter--and that is that in three months he's become the first fence in London." Storm nodded and pulled out a drawer, from which he took an envelope. "Some more souvenirs have come in," he said. One by one he spread out three small white caras on the desk. Each bore the same symbol in the centre, but the inscriptions differed. One said simply, "_Harchester_." "That's your pal Blaythwayt's." On the second was written, "_March 23rd, 1897_." "That was received this morning by the Home Secretary, Sir John Marker," said Storm. The third similarly bore a date: "_December 2nd, 1899_." "That one went to John Cardan, editor of the _Record_." Storm's faint smile played about his lips. "What do you make of it, Teal?" Inspector Teal shook his head. "Give me time, sir," he murmured. "A French-English stock-jobber, a bank manager, a Cabinet Minister, and a newspaper editor. And just dates, except one which has the name of a place. Where were they posted?" "In different parts of London. There's not even a threat, you notice. Just dates and places, which obviously mean something to the man who sent 'em, and may mean something to the men who got 'em. I want you to push off on that trail for the moment, Teal. It mayn't lead anywhere, but it may. Find out what happened to Marker on March 23rd, 1897, anything important that happened to Blaythwayt at Harchester, and anything Cardan can remember about December 2nd, 1899." Inspector Teal sighed. "That sounds like a lifer to me," he groaned, and picked up his hat wearily. He concluded an unproductive round of investigations by spending the evening at a house in the Finchley Road, where dwelt Joe Blaythwayt, manager of the Lombard Street branch of the City and Continental Bank. Joe Blaythwayt was nearly as rotund as himself, but shorter by six inches. And, whereas Mr. Teal's eyes always seemed to be struggling with an overpowering desire for sleep, Blaythwayt's were always alert and twinkling. These evenings, during which they played piquet and discussed crime and criminals, detectives and detection (these are four different subjects) were among the relaxations of Mr. Teal's life. Joe Blaythwayt had a crimson taste in fiction, and absorbed Mr. Teal's practical knowledge eagerly.