"Like to insure my life, Teal?" Storm murmured lightly. "You might make enough to retire on in a few days." "I'll go first next time, sir," said the sporting Mr. Teal, and the two men solemnly shook hands. Storm drove the car to Moraine's and affected a sublime indifference to the curious glances which followed the progress of the damaged relic of what had once been a glorious shining Hirondel. All the world knows Moraine's, the inconspicuous house where priceless art treasures change hands, and the bidding rises in thousands of pounds. To Moraine's come the wealthy connoisseurs and their resplendent wives, with a small sprinkling of gaping sightseers, awing themselves with the sight of so much concentrated wealth, and a few optimistic ladies and gentlemen of irregular notions anent the laws of property, whose dream it is that one day they will arrange a coup on the premises. That they do not is due to the foresight of the architect who designed the showroom--a lofty hall of glass and marble, roughly square in shape, and set in the centre of the building, with no windows for the cruder criminals to attempt to smash, too severely furnished for the more nimble to find cover in at closing time, too solidly built for the violent to break into with high explosive. It is a room of fearful silences, where every whisper rings out like a clarion, and the intruder moves delicately on the unpurchasable crimson carpet that hides most of the tiled floor--for fear of offending the giant flunkeys who stand statuesquely, one on each side of each of the three portals (it would be sacrilege to describe these masterpieces as "doors") in all the glory of their gold and scarlet livery. But Storm and Teal had small leisure to absorb all this vision of magnificence. Outside they had seen little knots of variously dressed stalwart men standing chatting, men who scarcely spared them a glance; or, if they did, gave no sign of recognition. Inside, grouped about the doors, were similar men; and yet more moved unostentatiously about the room, peering idly at the glittering gems displayed in the long glass case that ran down the centre of the hall. "Four hundred thousand pounds," said Storm. "Teal, wouldn't you sell your soul for the brains of the Triangle!" Among the crowd Mr. Teal caught sight of an old friend, and flowed irresistibly towards him. The friend so recognised suddenly remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere, but the vast form of the detective effectively barred his path. "Hullo, Birdie," he drawled. "How's trade?" "You're making a mistake, Mr. Teal," said the little man with dignity. "I'm an honest man. Them jools"--he jerked a contemptuous thumb in the direction of the showcase--"them jools are beautiful, but my interest is solely that of the connosewer." Birdie Sands was playing his "gentleman act," a device he adopted automatically when accused of anything. Mr. Teal, however, remained unimpressed.