Half an hour later Mr Balm presented himself at Scotland Yard, and, requesting an interview with the Chief Superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department, was immediately shown in to that weighty official. “Mr Ingram,” said the visitor, “I want you to introduce to me an extremely expert burglar.” The Superintendent laughed, and, leaning his elbows on his desk and propping his chin on his clasped hands, regarded the other humorously. “Come, Mr Balm,” he said; “what’s your latest little game?” Their interview was a long one, and its termination left the Superintendent immensely interested and surprised. He whistled reflectively to himself more than once. “So,” said he, “this is the explanation of the thumb-marks--as odd a coincidence as I’ve known, sir.” “How about my burglar?” asked Gilead. The Superintendent slapped his hand softly on the desk. “Mr Balm,” he said, “you’re an odd one--upon my word you’re an odd one, sir. But I like your idea. What’s the harm, now? Nothing interfered with and nothing taken. I think I may say you may look to us in the matter. Of course, if the thing remained, and the man chose to produce it, your prodigy might have a devil of a business to clear himself. And we should be forced to take action, with what result the Lord only knows. But this alternative, if you can carry it through, ends the matter, and without loss to anyone but the skunk that deserves the worst. Go and see him, sir, and make sure, if you can; and then come back and report to me. In the meantime there’s a man--Jerry Trimmer’s his name--well, it’s my opinion that if you were to lock up that man nekked in a safe, he’d find means to bore his way out somehow. I’ll make enquiries about him.” Mr Raphael Colfox had his offices in a dull stuccoed block of building that neighboured on the north-east corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Here, high up, he laid his web for the hard-pressed flies that always came buzzing in plenty about that legal honey-pot. Gilead, being brought in to him by way of a dismal little ante-den, smelling of damp ledgers and having a shrewd anæmic child in it for clerk, found his gentleman a genial strong-voiced figure of sixty or so, with stubby white eyebrows, stubby white moustache, and white hair brushed forward of his ears at the temples. He wore a full grass-green bow at his neck, his frock coat bulged a little in the waist, and the only spot of colour in his face was supplied by his nose, which was somewhat shapeless and inflamed and sown with short white hairs. “And now, sir,” said he, after some brief preliminaries, “what can we do for _you_?”