When he reached his office he found that a piece of news had just come in. A constable who had been on point duty at the intersection of South and Mitchem Streets, near Waterloo Station, had noticed about 2 P.M. on the day of the disappearance of the gang, a yellow motorcar pass close beside him and turn into Hackworth’s garage, a small establishment in the latter street. Though he had not observed the vehicle with more than the ordinary attention such a man will give to the passing traffic, his recollection both of the car and driver led him to the belief that they were those referred to in the Yard circular. The constable was waiting to see French, and made his report with diffidence, saying that though he thought he was right, he might easily be mistaken. “Quite right to let me know anyhow, Wilson,” French said heartily. “If you’ve seen Blessington’s car it may give us a valuable clue, and if you’re mistaken, there’s no harm done. We’ve nothing to lose by following it up.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s past my dinner hour, but I’ll take a taxi and go round to this garage on my way home. You’d better come along.” Ten minutes later the two men reached Hackworth’s establishment, and pushing open the door of the tiny office, asked if the manager was about. “I’m John Hackworth. Yes, sir?” said a stout man in shabby gray tweeds. “Want a car?” “I want a word with you, Mr. Hackworth,” said French pleasantly. “Just a small matter of private business.” Hackworth nodded, and indicated a farther door. “In here,” he invited, and when French and the constable had taken the two chairs the room contained, he briskly repeated: “Yes, sir?” At this hint not to waste valuable time, French promptly introduced himself and propounded his question. Mr. Hackworth looked impressed. “You don’t tell me that gent was a wrong ’un?” he said anxiously, then another idea seeming to strike him, he continued: “Of course it don’t matter to me in a way, for I’ve got the car. I’ll tell you about it.” French produced his photograph of Blessington. “Tell me first if that’s the man,” he suggested. Mr. Hackworth pushed the card up to the electric bulb. “It’s him,” he declared. “It’s him and no mistake. He walked in here yesterday—no, the day before—about eleven and asked to see the boss. ‘I’ve got a car,’ he said when I went forward, ‘and there’s something wrong with the engine. Sometimes it goes all right and sometimes it doesn’t. Maybe,’ he said, ‘you’ll start it up and it’ll run a mile or two well enough, then it begins to miss, and the speed drops perhaps to eight or ten miles. I don’t know what’s wrong.’ “‘What about your petrol feed?’ I said. ‘Sounds like your carburetor, or maybe your strainer or one of your pipes choked.’ “‘I thought it might be that,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t find anything wrong. However, I want you to look over it, that is, if you can lend me a car while you’re doing it.’