Lord Claythorpe chuckled. “It is my theory--and it is a theory, I think, which is also held by the police--that Jamieson Steele is the gentleman who assists Miss Four Square Jane in her robberies.” “I’ll never believe it,” said Remington. Lord Claythorpe had his hand on the door, preparatory to departing, and he turned at these words. “Perhaps you do not believe that he forged my name to a cheque in this very office?” he said. “I certainly do not believe that,” said Remington. “In fact I know that that story is a lie.” Claythorpe’s face went red. “That is an ugly word to use to me, Remington,” he said, “I think the sooner you go the better.” “I quite agree with your lordship,” said Remington, and smiled as the door slammed behind his irate master. When Claythorpe returned he was in a more amicable frame of mind, and greeted the two bank officials with geniality. On the big table was a black japanned box, heavily sealed. The business of transferring the sealed packages which constituted the contents of the box was not a long process. Lord Claythorpe checked them with a list he took from his case, and signed a receipt. “I suppose your lordship would not like to break the seals of these envelopes?” said the assistant bank manager. “Of course, we are not responsible for their contents, but it would be more satisfactory to us, as I am sure it would be to your lordship, if you were able to verify the contents.” “It is not necessary,” said Claythorpe, with a wave of his hand. “I’ll just reseal the box and put it in my safe.” This he did in the presence of the manager, locking away the box in an old-fashioned steel safe--a proceeding which the bankers witnessed without enthusiasm. “That doesn’t seem very secure,” said one, “I wish your lordship----” “I wish you would mind your own business,” said Lord Claythorpe, and the bankers left, “blessing” the truculent man under their breath. At six o’clock that afternoon Claythorpe finished the work on which he had been engaged, closed and locked his desk, tried the safe, and put on his hat. He glanced through the front window and saw that his car was waiting, and that it was pelting with rain. “Which way are you going, Remington?” he asked. “I can give you a lift as far as Park Lane.” “No, thank you, my lord,” said Remington, struggling into his mackintosh. “I am going by tube, and I have not far to walk.” They went out of the office together, double-locking the stout door. Before leaving, Remington attached a burglar alarm which communicated with a large bell outside the building, and he repeated this process before the door was actually closed and double-locked. “I want you to be here at nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” said Claythorpe to his subordinate. “Good-night.”