The third curious point was that Mattock was found in his cell efficiently gagged and bound with strips of his own shirt. His explanation that he had been set upon and trussed by the two who shared his confinement, just before the prisoners made their escape, was accepted. Experts declared that he could not possibly have tied himself up so thoroughly, and no one had seen him in the affray; furthermore, the head waiter of the Leroy swore that Mattock had entered the bar late that evening, already more than a trifle "oiled," and had imbibed continuously until closing time. Mattock was fined for being drunk in charge of a motor-car, and was discharged on the other count. It was a verdict which did not please Inspector Teal, for he could have sworn that the ghost of a wink trembled on Mattock's right eyelid as the clerk left the court. CHAPTER XVII BIRDIE RECEIVES ORDERS "We don't want to lose you," said Mr. Brome carefully, "so we think you ought to go." His pale blue eyes bored inexorably into Mecklen's. Before that stony stare the gunman's gaze fell, and his truculent protest, that had framed itself instinctively, died unvoiced. "Aw--guess you're right, Chief," he muttered sheepishly. "But, naow I'm hyar----" "What is it?" "Et's thet skirt. Chief, haow c'n I look af-ter thet li'l' one-way sweedie when every goldurned bull in this hyar burg is out gunnin' fer mine? I'll say it ain't no cinch. Arden's too fly, an' he's her lovin' sugar-daddy. I reckon he's gotten every lallapaloozer in this deck skinned a mile." Snooper regarded him contemptuously. They were in the gorgeous sitting-room of Joan Sands' Cornwall House flat, and the magnificent furnishings were in strange contrast to the group of men who sat around the table. Snooper Brome was the only one of that down-at-heel and flashy convocation who could by any stretch of imagination be said to fit--despite his vulgarian notions of waistcoat design, he had a certain dignity which carried them off rather well. For all his bulk, he had not much superfluous flesh, and he was anything but gross; his big features were clean cut--with his flowery vest and white hands, and the mane of dank black hair that swept back from his high forehead, he resembled a prosperous exponent of Impressionism. The others were less favoured. Mecklen, standing by the door twisting a greasy tweed cap in his grimy hands, unshaven and coarse of face, was a repulsive sight. The rest of the men, who sat at the long board over which Brome presided, were divided between the extremes of shabbiness and overdressedness. "Are you getting panic too?" demanded Snooper, grittily speculative.