Without pausing I put the thing up to the burglar. “Was it Thursday afternoon about two o’clock, just before the guests got here, that you made your raid on Mrs. Corbin’s safe?” The man didn’t answer. But to put it this way doesn’t at all describe what happened. It was utterly preposterous. This trapped little rat of a thief, haggard, grimy, unshaved, tried to make me feel--and almost, I swear, succeeded--as if I’d just spoken to a duke to whom I’d not been properly introduced. He did it with a perfectly impassive face and an almost imperceptible turning of the shoulders. But at that, old Mr. Smith got what he’d been looking for. “Raglan, by George!” he exclaimed. “This is a real pleasure. But man, I’d hardly have known you!” The thief showed no reciprocal delight in the recognition. Indeed his look of disgust deepened. But he spoke for the first time since he’d opened the door. “Really,” he said, “I should hope not. I’ve been living in that filthy box room three days, feeding on a particularly nasty sort of American milk chocolate. I haven’t been able to shave since Thursday night.” He spoke with a marked British accent, which didn’t, however, satisfy my ear. It was just about as good an imitation, I decided, as Victoria’s Japanese pearls. “Horribly unpleasant, I should think,” Mr. Smith agreed sympathetically. Then he explained to the rest of us. “Mr. Raglan is not only one of the most expert gem thieves in the world; he’s also admitted to be the best dressed man in his profession.” Bruce Applebury wasn’t in a sympathetic mood. He made no acknowledgment whatever of the honor of the introduction to so eminent a craftsman. He said to Mr. Smith, “We must call the police at once, of course. Shall I telephone?” “Oh, there’s no hurry, I think,” said Mr. Smith. “It’s still frightfully early.” He turned to the thief. “Raglan,” he said, “I’m going to propose a bargain. You produce the necklace; save us the trouble of a search for it. If you’ll do that, I’ll take the liberty of promising you, although I’m merely one of Mrs. Corbin’s guests, a bath and a shave, a change of linen, and a really good breakfast. All that before presenting you to the police--and the photographers.” “Done,” said Raglan, without a moment’s hesitation. “Thanks very much.” He slid his right hand under his coat toward his left armpit. “Look out!” Bruce cried sharply. “He’s after a gun.” Raglan’s answer was to unbutton his coat and throw it back, showing that there was no weapon there. But Mr. Smith had betrayed no perturbation, even before he got this reassurance. “Unless Raglan has changed his well-known methods,” he said, “he doesn’t carry a gun. He has a strong aversion to the more unpleasant forms of violence. He has compromised with necessity to the length of a delicately wielded blackjack, and you’ll probably find that his equipment includes a small bottle of chloroform. But it’s not on record that he’s ever killed any one.”