‘Yes,’ the latter said, ‘we have the cask, and I may say I was very annoyed with my foreman for taking it in without an advice note or something in writing. You can have it at once on your satisfying me you really are from Scotland Yard.’ His doubts were quickly set at rest, and he led the party to his yard. ‘Is that it, Palmer?’ asked Burnley. ‘That’s it, sir, right enough.’ ‘Good. Hastings, you remain here with it till I send a dray. Get it loaded up and see it yourself to the Yard. You can then go off duty. You, Palmer, come with me.’ Re-entering the car, Burnley and his prisoner were driven to the same destination, where the latter was handed over to another official. ‘If Mr. Felix will consent not to prosecute,’ said Burnley as the man was being led off, ‘you’ll get out at once.’ The Inspector waited about till the dray arrived, and, when he had seen with his own eyes that the cask was really there, he walked to his accustomed restaurant and sat down to enjoy a long deferred meal. CHAPTER VIII THE OPENING OF THE CASK It was getting on towards five when Inspector Burnley, like a giant refreshed with wine, emerged once more upon the street. Calling a taxi, he gave the address of St. Malo, Great North Road. ‘Now for friend Felix,’ he thought, as he lit a cigar. He was tired and he lay back on the cushions, enjoying the relaxation as the car slipped dexterously through the traffic. Familiar as he was with every phase of London life, he never wearied of the panorama of the streets, the ceaseless movement, the kaleidoscopic colours. The sights of the pavement, the sound of pneus upon asphalt, the very smell of burnt petrol--each appealed to him as part of the alluring whole he loved. They passed through the Haymarket and along Shaftesbury Avenue, turned up Tottenham Court Road, and through Kentish Town out on the Great North Road. Here the traffic was less dense and they made better speed. Burnley removed his hat and allowed the cool air to blow on his head. His case was going well. He was content. Nearly an hour had passed before he rang the bell at St. Malo. Felix opened the door, the visage of Sergeant Kelvin, his watchdog, appearing in the gloom at the back of the hall. ‘What luck, Inspector?’ he cried, when he recognised his visitor. ‘We’ve got it, Mr. Felix. Found it a couple of hours ago. I’ve got a taxi here, and, if convenient for you, we’ll go right in and open the thing at once.’ ‘Right. I’m sure I am ready.’ ‘You come along too, Kelvin,’ said the Inspector to his subordinate, and when Felix had got his hat and coat the three men walked up to the taxi. ‘Scotland Yard,’ called Burnley, and the car swung round and started citywards.