"I have met a _Mister_ Sands. Who's this 'Birdie' Sands?" "A gentleman," said Mr. Teal, "who used to be on the whizz." "On _what_?" demanded the startled Snooper. "A pickpocket," explained Mr. Teal patiently. "Do you know him?" If Mr. Brome did not squawk derisively, his elevated archidiaconal eyebrows rendered such a lamentable exhibition unnecessary. "A low criminal?" he protested. "Now, I ask you, Mr. Teal, is it likely?" "Taking things all round, I should say it is. Birdie Sands," went on the detective, apparently for his own benefit, "is, or was, the best whizzer operating in London. He was inside up--to about six weeks ago--that's about twice the time you've been financial agenting, isn't it, by the way? Since then we've had nothing on him, and he seems to have all the money in the world." "He may be going straight," suggested Eddie. "Go straight?" jeered Teal drowsily. "It's a physical impossibility. That man's a human corkscrew with all the twists case-hardened. He's a born crook--his mother was a crook and all his fathers were crooks, and Birdie was brought up as a crook, Borstal trained. Why, if you shot him out of a gun he'd tie knots in the barrel." "What happened to the gun you were shot out of when you got that face?" inquired Mr. Brome vulgarly, but Inspector Teal failed to bite. He heaved himself laboriously from his chair. "I'm interested," he said, "because when a born-an'-bred crook earns a lot of honest money, it just ain't natural. I've got a nose for dirty work, and that same nose is worrying me now. When shall I bring my friend along?" "Shall we say Sunday?" invited Mr. Brome. "At eight? Suit you? Splendid. Good-bye." But he stopped Teal at the door. "I hope you won't put any ideas into his head," he said anxiously. Mr. Teal regarded him thoughtfully. "What I'm afraid of," he replied, "is that he'll put ideas into yours." With that his projected programme was exhausted, but he was destined to have an interesting morning. On his way back to the Yard he dropped in at Walton Street police station, near the Brompton Road, for a chat with the divisional-inspector. While he was there a lank, saturnine man entered jauntily. "James Mattock--convict on licence. I've come to report." Inspector Teal surged across (as I have said, one has to use extraordinary words to convey his ponderous mode of progression). "Hullo, Mattock," he said. "When did you come out?" "A fortnight ago." Mattock's manner did not encourage further conversation, but it took a lot to put off Mr. Teal. "What are you doing now?" The man's thin lips twisted. "Working. Do you want to get me the sack by telling them my past record?" he sneered. "Because if so, you're too late. I thought I'd get in with it before you busies got a chance." "I suppose you picked up that word in Wandsworth," said Teal. "Getting the slang already--a pity. Who are 'them'?"