“Please, sir, a man from the police-station wants to speak to you at once.” He tried hard to reply in his normal tones. “All right. Tell him I’ll be down presently.” “Please, sir, he says he can’t wait. It’s very urgent.” Discovery? No! Impossible--as yet! He kept a tremor out of his voice by an effort. “Show him into my dressing-room.” Mr. Todmorden thought swiftly for a vivid second. That smear of paint must be concealed. He slipped on a dressing-gown. Then he caught sight of his revolver on the table, and, on a blind impulse, dropped it into his pocket. He took a long breath. Now--was there anything about him suspicious? He opened his dressing-gown and surveyed himself in the mirror. Yes!--there was a button gone from his pyjama-jacket! Where had he lost that button? He would have given anything for certainty. But he must not keep the police waiting. That would look strange. He girdled his gown about him and went into the dressing-room. The chief inspector awaited him. A sharp expression of surprise came into the officer’s face. “I have had a bad night, inspector,” said the old gentleman, noticing the look and feeling his haggard appearance needed explanation. The inspector condoled with him. “I am pleased to say we have found a slight clue to the criminal, Mr. Todmorden,” he said, looking again sharply at the old gentleman. Mr. Todmorden felt he quailed under the glance. “It’s a button. And, the curious thing is, it is a pyjama button.” “Yes?” Mr. Todmorden’s mouth went dry. “Funny wear for a burglar--pyjamas,” commented the inspector. “Don’t you think so, sir?” “Very curious.” Mr. Todmorden recognized the urgent necessity for a normal voice. “Yes; very curious.” He must talk--say something! “By the way, inspector, I’ve been thinking about that reward. I’ve decided to triple it. I--I am determined to catch the scoundrel.” “Very kind of you, sir. I hope we shall ask you for the cheque. We’re on the road, anyway. We’ve only got to find out where those pyjamas came from, and, quite likely, we shall get on his track.” “Yes, yes, quite so.” Would the interview never end? Mr. Todmorden agonized. “If we can only find some buttons like this we can make a start. There are differences even in pyjama buttons, you know, sir. I have compared it with mine, but it doesn’t tally. Would you mind comparing it with yours?” Mr. Todmorden stared at him, speechless. “Would you mind comparing it with yours, sir? We must not neglect any chance of getting a clue. Allow me!” He stepped quickly to the old gentleman and flung aside his dressing-gown. The buttons, with the hanging thread of their missing fellow, were revealed. Triumph flashed in the inspector’s face. “James Henry Todmorden, I----” Mr. Todmorden jumped back from his grasp. With a sharp cry he drew his hand swiftly from his pocket. There was a report, and he dropped to the floor. The inspector looked at his lifeless body.