There was a terrified squeak from the girl at his side, and Mr. Priestley, spinning hastily round, found himself confronting, as it seemed to his horrified gaze, the biggest man he had ever seen. This formidable-looking personage now standing in the open doorway was in full evening kit, with a broad blue ribbon across his shirt-front and an imposing decoration hung about his neck, evidently the insignia of some important order. And these were not the only striking things about him; the big black beard that covered his cheeks and chin and was trimmed to a neat point some three inches below his collar-stud, added considerably to the strikingness of his appearance. The fact that he fingered this beard with a gesture that was very like nervousness, and that his halting, almost reluctant tones were in strange contrast with the general fierceness of his aspect, Mr. Priestley was far too agitated to remark. Mr. Priestley was, in fact, glued to the piece of floor on which he was standing in sheer horror, bereft of the powers both of movement and speech. Not so his companion. With an incoherent expression of emotion she flung herself on her knees before the big man in a gesture that was undoubtedly dramatic. “Spare us, sir!” she exclaimed in heart-rending tones. “Do not send for the police! We were hungry, and came in to see if we could find a crust of bread. We have not tasted food for three days, either of us. Scold us, if you must, but don’t send us to prison!” The big man, whose face during this speech had been a study in conflicting emotions, ranging from embarrassed bewilderment to painful efforts to control his features, looked the relief of one who has recognised an unexpected clue. “I know you, Chicago Kate,” he growled mildly. “I had word of your arrival in this country. You have been after my miniatures before, but this time—er—this time——” He hesitated and looked strangely uncomfortable. “Gimme that poker!” he remarked suddenly, and advanced to twitch the weapon out of Mr. Priestley’s nervous hand. “Have you broken open the drawer in which I keep them?” he demanded over his shoulder of the still kneeling Mrs. Spettigue. That agile young lady followed him across the room on her knees, wringing her hands. “No sir! Before God and this gentleman here, I haven’t! I wouldn’t do such a thing, not if it were ever so!” “What is the name of your dastardly companion, whose face is strange to me?” asked the large man with a despairing expression, as of one this time who has lost all cues and never hopes to find another. “Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Spettigue earnestly, “I don’t think he’s got one.” “Then I shall telephone for the police,” said the other, with an air of relieved finality. “If—er—if either of you attempts to escape from this room, you will be shot. I mean—er—biffed on the head with this poker.”