Cork, Storm's valet, was a man with aggrieved eyebrows and a disapproving mouth. He had the expression of one who has looked on the wine when it was sour, and who has never quite succeeded in getting rid of the taste. But, at least, he went about his work with the efficiency of a superman whose head would be bloody but unbowed despite plague, pestilence, famine, riot, civil commotion, the fall of the Conservative Party, the dissolution of the British Empire, Act of God, or the agitation of the _Daily Record_. "There is a man downstairs who wishes to speak to you, sir," he said, returning with reinforcements of coffee. Sorrow was in every line of his pessimistic face, and he laid a faint emphasis on the word "man." Storm had never quite induced his servant to accept Inspector Teal as a human being. "What's the matter with him, Cork?" asked Storm. "Leper?" "I'm afraid not, sir," replied Cork gloomily. "It's the policeman who calls sometimes." "Show him up," said Storm and returned to his newspapers. Mr. Teal glutinated through the door. "Good morning, sir." "Morn'n," said Storm without looking up. "Sit down, Teal. English or Colonial breakfast?" Inspector Teal frowned suspiciously. "What's a Colonial breakfast?" he inquired. "Oh, a horse's neck, a mutton chop, and a small dog." "What's the small dog for?" queried Mr. Teal innocently. "And why a horse's neck?" "The dog eats the mutton chop, and a horse's neck's a brandy and ginger ale----" "Coffee--thank you, sir," said the shocked Mr. Teal. "Fat men didn't ought----" Over a steaming cup he surveyed the cheery, comfortable room. There were well-filled bookcases, a grand piano, and an open secretaire strewn with scraps of paper and writing materials. On the walls were fencing foils, boxing gloves, an oar, and over the mantelpiece hung a couple of sporting rifles. "Nice little place you've got here," he remarked. "I've always liked it." "Not so bad! Listen, Teal. The papers say, _the police are believed to have a clue_. Why don't we contradict such wicked slanders?" "It's better than Finchley," pursued Mr. Teal without emotion. "And this: _A sensational arrest is expected at every moment_. Je-rusalem. My dear soul, how can even a great man like yourself make a sensational arrest at every moment? There aren't enough sensational people in London to maintain the supply. Besides, blokes'd start getting peeved." "Raegenssen was peeved," said Mr. Teal sleepily. Storm slewed his chair round so that he faced the detective, and searched for a cigarette. His gun-metal grey eyes were alight with mischief. "Teal!" he protested. "Why must you be inconsequent?" "Why must you burgle Raegenssen?" asked Mr. Teal. That quick, flickering smile played about Storm's lips. "How do you know?" he asked calmly.