French did as he was told, as he answered, “All’s well, Tom? Busy?” “Not too busy for a chat with you. How’s the Yard?” “The Yard’s going strong; same old six and eightpence. I often think you did wisely to chuck it up and start in here. More your own boss, eh?” The fat man shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, handing a tobacco pouch to his visitor. “I don’t know. More your own boss, perhaps; but more worry. If you don’t get jobs here, you don’t get your pay, and no pension at the end except the interest on what you save up. I’ve thought of that pension many a time since I left.” “Rubbish!” French exclaimed genially as he filled his pipe. “You’re too young to be talking of pensions. I was here looking for you about a week ago, but you were in Scotland.” “Yes, I was at that Munro case. Acting for old Munro. I think he’ll pull it off.” “I dare say.” The talk drifted on, then French turned it to the object of his call. “I’m on a case that you people have had a finger in. I wish you’d tell me what you can about it. It’s that business of Mrs. Root of Pittsburg that Williams & Davies of Cockspur Street put you on to six weeks ago. They wanted you to find out what she was like, and if she crossed by the _Olympic_.” “Huh,” said the fat man. “Well, we told ’em. I handled it myself.” “Did they tell you why they wanted to know?” “Nope. Only asked the question.” “That’s where they made the mistake. A woman called on Williams, saying she was Mrs. Root and had crossed by the _Olympic_. She said she had lost her despatch case with her passport and tickets and money, and she wanted a loan of £3000 on the security of diamonds she had in her trunk.” “Well? Was it not right?” “It was perfectly right so far. Williams was satisfied from what you told him that she was the woman, and he lent the money.” French paused, smiling, and his friend swore. “Confound it, man! Can’t you get on? Were the stones paste?” “Not at all. They took them to Stronge, of Hurst & Stronge’s, and he valued them. They were perfectly all right, worth £3300 odd, _but_”—French paused and became very impressive—“they were all stolen from Duke & Peabody the night before!” The fat man was visibly impressed. He stared fixedly at French, as he might had that philosopher turned into Mrs. Root before his eyes. Then heavily he smote his thigh. “Je—hosaphat!” he observed slowly. “The night before! Some crook that! Tell me.” “That’s about all there is to tell,” French declared. “The woman arrived at the Savoy about eight o’clock, the night before, ostensibly from the _Olympic_, and she left next night and has vanished. No clue so far. I traced her to Victoria and there lost the trail.” The fat man thought profoundly. “Well, if Williams & Davies want to blame us for it, they can look elsewhere,” he presently announced. “They asked us a question, and we gave them a correct and immediate reply.”