“It is my boyhood that is enshrined here--my innocent, happy, halcyon boyhood. I have played games at my mother’s knee in this very room. I have read tales from the Scriptures with her here. It was here that my mother, seated at the piano, used to sing--sing----” His voice died away again. He blew his nose and turned once more to the window. But though he was under the impression that he had achieved a highly artistic aposiopesis, he could hardly have selected a more unfortunate word to stammer brokenly. Something resembling an electric thrill ran through Sam. Memory, dormant, had responded to the code word. Sing Sing! He knew now where he had seen this man before. It is the custom of the Welfare League of America’s most famous penitentiary to alleviate the monotony of the convict’s lot by giving periodical performances of plays, produced and acted by the personnel of the prison. When the enterprising burglar isn’t burgling, in fact, he is probably memorising the words of some popular lyric for rendition on the next big night. To one of these performances, some eighteen months back, Sam had been taken by a newspaper friend. The hit of the evening had been this very Thomas G. Gunn, then a mere number, in the rôle of a senator. Mr. Gunn had resumed his address. He was speaking once more of his mother, and speaking well. But he was not holding his audience. Sam cut in on his eloquence. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid this house is not for sale.” “But, Mr. Shotter----” “No,” said Sam. “I have a very special reason for wishing to stay here, and I intend to remain. And now I’m afraid I must ask you----” “Suppose I look in this evening and take the matter up again?” pleaded Mr. Gunn, finding with some surprise that he had been edged out onto the steps and making a last stand there. “It’s no use. Besides, I shan’t be in this evening. I’m dining out.” “Will anybody be in?” asked Miss Gunn suddenly, breaking a long silence. “Why, yes,” said Sam, somewhat surprised, “the man who works here. Why?” “I was only thinking that if we called he might show us over the place.” “Oh, I see. Well, good-bye.” “But, say now, listen----” “Good-bye,” said Sam. He closed the door and made his way to the kitchen. Hash, his chair tilted back against the wall, was smoking a thoughtful pipe. “Who was it, Sam?” “Somebody wanting to buy the house. Hash, there’s something fishy going on.” “Ur?” “Do you remember me pointing out a man to you in that bar in Fleet Street?” “Yes.” “Well, it was the same fellow. And do you remember me saying that I was sure I had seen him before somewhere?” “Yes.” “Well, I’ve remembered where it was. It was in Sing Sing, and he was serving a sentence there.” Mr. Todhunter’s feet came to the floor with a crash.