This afternoon he was sitting, as usual, with the solitaire pack laid out on the table before him, but his mind was not on the game. He was musing on Soapy Molloy’s story of his failure to persuade Sam to evacuate Mon Repos. To an extent, this failure had complicated matters; and yet there was a bright side. To have walked in and collected the late Edward Finglass’ legacy without let or hindrance would have been agreeable; but, on the other hand, it would have involved sharing with Soapy and his bride; and Chimp was by nature one of those men who, when there is money about, instinctively dislike seeing even a portion of it get away from them. It seemed to him that a man of his admitted ingenuity might very well evolve some scheme by which the Molloy family could be successfully excluded from all participation in the treasure. It only required a little thought, felt Chimp; and he was still thinking when a confused noise without announced the arrival of Lord Tilbury. The opening of the door was followed by a silence. Lord Tilbury was not built for speed, and the rapidity with which he had crossed the street and mounted four flights of stairs had left him in a condition where he was able only to sink into a chair and pant like a spent seal. As for Chimp, he was too deeply moved to speak. Even when lying back in a chair and saying “Woof!” Lord Tilbury still retained the unmistakable look of one to whom bank managers grovel, and the sudden apparition of such a man affected him like a miracle. He felt as if he had been fishing idly for minnows and landed a tarpon. Being, however, a man of resource, he soon recovered himself. Placing a foot on a button beneath the table, he caused a sharp ringing to pervade the office. “Excuse me,” he said, politely but with a busy man’s curtness, as he took up the telephone. “Yes? Yes? Yes, this is the Tilbury Detective Agency.... Scotland Yard? Right, I’ll hold the wire.” He placed a hand over the transmitter and turned to Lord Tilbury with a little rueful grimace. “Always bothering me,” he said. “Woof!” said Lord Tilbury. Mr. Twist renewed his attention to the telephone. “Hullo!... Sir John? Good afternoon.... Yes.... Yes.... We are doing our best, Sir John. We are always anxious to oblige headquarters.... Yes.... Yes.... Very well, Sir John. Good-bye.” He replaced the receiver and was at Lord Tilbury’s disposal. “If the Yard would get rid of their antiquated system and give more scope to men of brains,” he said, not bitterly but with a touch of annoyance, “they would not always have to be appealing to us to help them out. Did you know that a man cannot be a detective at Scotland Yard unless he is over a certain height?” “You surprise me,” said Lord Tilbury, who was now feeling better. “Five-foot-nine, I believe it is. Could there be an absurder regulation?” “It sounds ridiculous.”