“Cut all that Little Eva stuff out, Uncle Tom,” said Michael coarsely. Other eyes had watched Michael, from behind blinds, through unsuspected peep-holes, a dozen pairs of eyes had followed him as he took his slow promenade along Crime Street. Colonel Westhanger, a tall, grey man, stood in that big room on the third floor of his house, his hands folded behind him, his chin upon his breast, following every movement of the detective. Gregori, handsome and lithe, stood at his elbow, shading the glow of his cigarette in the palm of his hand. “Colonel _mio_,” he said softly, “I would give much for an opportunity of meeting that gentleman in a nice dark passage, in one of those old Harrison Ainsworth houses which were providentially built over a river.” “You will have your wish one of these days,” said the Colonel gruffly; “I don’t like that fellow. He is not one of the ordinary run of policemen. They are bad enough, but this fellow knows too much.” He nibbled his white moustache, shook his head and turned away from the window as Michael took his farewell of the forger. “Watch him on the other side,” he said, “and send one of the boys out to follow him.” He descended the thickly carpeted stairs to the first floor, which was the living suite. The drawing-room in which he turned was a beautifully furnished apartment, and the girl who had been sitting at the piano, her nimble hands running over the keys, looked up as he entered. CHAPTER IV. “THE IDEAL CRIMINAL IS A STRATEGIST” “Where did he go?” she asked. “He went to Millet,” said the Colonel, throwing himself down to a divan and biting off the end of a fresh cigar. “I wonder what the dickens he wants?” he mused. Kate Westhanger made a little grimace. “You can never tell whether a policeman finds his duty a pleasure or his pleasure a duty,” she said. “I suppose he is just renewing acquaintance with Crime Street.” “Don’t use that phrase,” snapped her uncle. “I shall use whatever phrase I wish,” she said calmly. “You are getting nervous. Why?” “I’m not nervous,” he protested loudly; “I am getting old I suppose, and the job is such a big one. It is almost too big for me and if I occupied the position I had a few years ago, Kate, I would drop it. After all, we have made a good deal of money and we might as well all of us live to enjoy it.” She was back at the piano again and was playing with the soft pedal down. “Can’t you find anything more cheerful than the ‘Death of Asa’?” growled her relative. “It is nerves, of course; I am awfully sorry.” She got up and closed the piano with a bang which made him jump. “I don’t know what to do about Mike,” she mused. “Gregori has a solution,” said the Colonel.