“Good on his head!” said Patsy. “He was one man in a thousand.” “Make it ten thousand, Patsy,” Chick said dryly. “The Strad stolen from Strickland is of great value, no doubt, and possibly worth what he has stated,” Nick continued. “With the rare old masters he mentioned, together with his antique gems, his collection of jade and the other missing treasures, his loss runs up over a hundred thousand dollars. He will have a complete list for us this morning. We’ll get a move on, now, if you are ready.” Followed by both, Nick led the way to his library. His chauffeur, Danny Maloney, had not yet arrived with his touring car, but all three were engaged in putting on their outside garments when the doorbell rang, and Patsy glanced from one of the screened windows. An erect, muscular, dark-featured man was standing on the front steps, awaiting the coming of Joseph, the detective’s butler. “It’s Detective Conroy, of headquarters,” said Patsy. “What sent him here before seven o’clock?” Nick remarked. “He must have something on his mind.” “A case, perhaps, on which he wants to employ us, or ask your advice,” Chick suggested. “I shall take on no case until after I have sifted this robbery to the bottom,” Nick said decidedly. “I promised to recover Strickland’s stolen treasures, and I’m going to do it.” “That’s the stuff, chief,” nodded Patsy. “Let’s make good, or bu’st a tire.” Joseph ushered in the headquarters man at that moment, and Conroy said at once, with a look of surprise at all: “Great guns! I hardly expected to find you out of bed, Nick, to say nothing of all hands being ready to leave the house. Something doing, eh?” “Yes,” Nick bowed. “What’s on your mind, Conroy?” “It’s in my pocket, Nick, rather than on my mind,” said Conroy, smiling. “I have an early appointment at headquarters, but thought I’d take a chance of seeing you for a few moments, as I was passing your house on my way. Have a look at this.” He drew from his pocket while speaking a small photograph, not more than three inches square, which evidently had been snapped with a kodak, or a small camera, when the subject was ignorant of the fact. For he was walking at the time, a man clad in clerical robes, and his face was somewhat shaded from the sun by the broad brim of a black felt hat. It showed quite distinctly, nevertheless, that he was a man about thirty years old. The smoothly shaved features were of an almost effeminate cast. The square jaw and thin lips denoted firmness, however, with bulldog nerve, tenacity, and determination. His figure evidently was of medium build and in no respect specially distinctive. Nick took a large reading glass from his desk and viewed the picture quite intently. “Who is he, Conroy?” he inquired.