The other shakes his head, and intimates a hint that it is _only_ plated. The waiter brings the cold punch, and the party begin to enjoy themselves. They do not drink much, but they mix their drinks rather injudiciously. They take sherry upon cold punch, and champagne upon that, dashing in a little port and bottled stout between. They are getting merry, not to say jolly, but not at all inebriated. The amateur of silver dish-covers has told a capital story, and his friends are revelling in the heartiest of laughs, when an apparition appears at the end of the table. You never saw such a change as his presence causes, when he places his knuckles on the edge of the table and looks at the diners _seriatim_; the courtiers of the sleeping beauty suddenly struck somniferous were nothing to this change. As if by magic, the loud laugh is turned to silent consternation. You now, most impressively, understand the meaning of the term "dumbfoundered." The mysterious stranger makes some enquiry about "any cash?" The answer is "Plenty." "All square with the landlord, then?" asks the same inflexible voice as--to my astonishment--that which put the French man to the torture. "To a penny," the reply. "_Quite_ square?" continues the querist, taking with his busy eye a rapid inventory of the plate. "S' help me----" "Hush!" interrupts the dinner spoiler, holding up his hand in a cautionary manner. "Have you done anything to-day?" "Not a thing." Then there is some more in a low tone; but you again distinguish the word "school," and "seven o'clock train." They are too old to be the Frenchman's pupils; perhaps they are his assistants. Surely they are not all the victims of the same _capias_ and the same officer! By this time the landlord, looking very nervous, arrives with his bill: then comes the head waiter, who clears the table; carefully counting the forks. The reckoning is paid, and the trio steal out of the room with the man of mystery behind them,--like sheep driven to the shambles. You follow to the Railway station, and there you see the Frenchman, who complains bitterly of being "sold for noting" by his enemy. The other three utter a confirmative groan. In spite of the evident omnipotence of their persevering follower, your curiosity impels you to address him. You take a turn on the platform together, and he explains the whole mystery. "The fact is," he begins, "I am Sergeant Witchem, of the Detective police." "And your four victims are?"-- "Members of a crack school of swell-mobsmen." "What do you mean by 'school?'" "Gang. There is a variety of gangs--that is to say, of men who 'work' together, who play into one another's hands. These gentlemen hold the first rank, both for skill and enterprise, and had they been allowed to remain would have brought back a considerable booty. Their chief is the Frenchman." "Why do they obey your orders so passively?"