“Do you think I’m a fool,” he said, “no, it goes into my strong room. The Duke had a wonderful strong room which will take a bit of opening.” Peter Dawes did not share the other’s confidence in the efficacy of bolts and bars. He knew that Four Square Jane was both an artist and a strategist. Of course, she might not be bothered with pictures, and, anyway, a painting would be a difficult thing to get away unless it was stolen by night, which would be hardly likely. He went to Haslemere House, which was off Berkeley Square, a great rambling building, with a long, modern picture-gallery, and having secured admission, signed his name and showed his card to an obvious detective, he was admitted to the long gallery. There was the Romney--a beautiful example of the master’s art. Peter was the only sightseer, but it was not alone to the picture that he gave his attention. He made a brief survey of the room in case of accidents. It was long and narrow. There was only one door--that through which he had come--and the windows at both ends were not only barred, but a close wire-netting covered the bars, and made entrance and egress impossible by that way. The windows were likewise long and narrow, in keeping with the shape of the room, and there were no curtains behind which an intruder might hide. Simple spring roller blinds were employed to exclude the sunlight by day. Peter went out, passed the men, who scrutinized him closely, and was satisfied that if Four Square Jane made a raid on Mr. Tresser’s pictures, she would have all her work cut out to get away with it. He went back to Scotland Yard, busied himself in his office, and afterwards went out for lunch. He came back to his office at three o’clock, and had dismissed the matter of Four Square Jane from his mind, when an urgent call came through. It was a message from the Assistant Chief Commissioner. “Will you come down to my office at once, Dawes?” said the voice, and Peter sprinted down the long corridor to the bureau of the Chief Commissioner. “Well, Dawes, you haven’t had to wait long,” he was greeted. “What do you mean?” said Peter. “I mean the precious Romney is stolen,” said the Chief, and Peter could only stare at him. “When did this happen?” “Half an hour ago--you’d better get down to Berkeley Square, and make inquiries on the spot.” Two minutes later, Peter’s little two-seater was nosing its way through the traffic, and within ten minutes he was in the hall of the big house interrogating the agitated attendants. The facts, as he discovered them, were simple. At a quarter-past two, an old man wearing a heavy overcoat, and muffled up to the chin, came to the house, and asked permission to see the portrait gallery. He gave his name as “Thomas Smith.”