"Bah!" exclaimed Conville. "If it was _you_ that came in," he added cunningly, "suppose you show me your check, and let me have a look at your coat!" "Certainly," responded McAllister, beginning to regain his equanimity, as he drew Wilkins's check from his pocket. "Here it is. You can step over and get the coat for yourself." Barney seized the small square of brass, crossed to the coat-room, and returned with the dripping garment, which he held up to the light at the window. "You ought to find Poole's name under the collar, and my own inside the breast-pocket," remarked Chubby encouragingly. "It's there, isn't it?" Conville threw the soaked object over a chair-back and made a rapid inspection, then turned to McAllister with an expression of bewilderment. "I--you--how--" he stammered. "Don't you remember," laughed his tormentor, "that there was a big truck on the corner of Sixth Avenue?" Barney set his teeth. "I see you _do_," continued McAllister. "Well, what more can I do for you? Are you sure you won't have that drink?" But Conville was in no mood for drinking. Stepping up to the clubman, he looked searchingly down into his face. "Mr. McAllister," he hissed, "you think you've got me criss-crossed. You think you're a sure winner. But I _know_ you. I know your _face_. And this time I don't lose you, _see_? You're in cahoots with Welch. You're his side-partner. You'll see me again. Remember, you're a _common felon_." The detective made for the door. "Don't say 'common,'" murmured McAllister, as Conville disappeared. Then his nonchalant look gave place to one of extreme dejection. "Peter," he gasped, "tell Mr. Lloyd-Jones I must see him at once." Peter soon returned with the unexpected information that "Mr. Lloyd-Jones" had gone to bed and wouldn't get up. "Says he's sick, sir," said Peter, trying hard to retain his gravity. McAllister made one jump for the elevator. Peter followed. Of course, _he_ had known Wilkins when the latter was in McAllister's employ. "I put him in No. 13, sir," remarked the majordomo. Sure enough, Wilkins was in bed. His clothes were nowhere visible, and the quilt was pulled well up around his fat neck. He seemed utterly to have lost his nerve. "Oh, sir!" he cried apologetically, "I was hafraid to come down, sir. _Without my clothes_ they never could hidentify me, sir!" "What on earth have you done with 'em?" cried his master. "Oh, Mr. McAllister!" wailed Wilkins, "I couldn't think o' nothin' else, so I just threw 'em hout the window, into the hairshaft." At this intelligence Peter, who had lingered by the door, choked violently and retired down the hall. "Wilkins," exclaimed McAllister, "I never took you for a fool before! Pray, what do you propose to do now?" [Illustration: "You think you're a sure winner. But I _know_ you. I know your _face_."] "I don't know, sir."