"Not this?" persisted Teal, and produced from his wallet the cardboard insigne he had found in the safe. Prester John examined it with interest, but he shook his head as he handed it back. "This is one of the badges which are issued to the inferior members--the rank and file, so to speak," he said. "The higher members have tokens of silver and enamel. My own--er--have you finished with it yet, by the way?" The question was ignored. Teal and Storm were busy with their own thoughts, and both these ran in the same channel. Storm, who was watching the methods of the two men dispassionately, allowed the detective to give tongue. "Why have you spun us this yarn?" "Why? I--er--thought it might possibly be of some assistance," said John deprecatingly. "As a matter of fact, I am giving up my illegal activities altogether, and resigning from the Triangle. I heard this morning that some obscure relative had died and left me money--nothing great, you understand, but sufficient at least to enable me to inhabit once more those haunts of culture and respectability after which my soul hankers." Teal grunted non-committally and made a mental memorandum to verify this glad news. Prester John read the disbelief on the round red face, and smiled faintly. "That happens to be true," he said. "Then can you help us to locate any other members--silver badge size members, I mean--or any boltholes?" John made a negative gesture regretfully. "I wish I could," he said. "Unfortunately, I was never taken to any rendezvous but the one at Billingsgate, of which you already know. As for members, I have never--er--been in the habit of associating with gentlemen in the same--er--line of business as myself. Now that I am meditating a return to the straight and narrow path, my chief ambition is to--er--rehabilitate myself with the police, bearing no malice for the many tussles we have had in the past. But my acquaintances are unhappily so useless for your purpose." Teal knew that this was the truth, for one of Prester John's many peculiarities was that he never mixed with other criminals, planned and executed all his coups single-handed, and disposed of the proceeds through channels unknown to the underworld. "There's no clue you could give us about the masked man?" said Storm. "Nothing. In fiction, a scar--a limp--a missing button. In real life, nothing. Tall, and I should think well-built; but since he wore an overcoat I shall not take the risk of--er--perjuring myself on that point." Storm himself opened the door to the reforming burglar, and, receiving an almost imperceptible signal, followed the man out into the passage.