“I knew he had some deep game in hand,” said Lesty; “but I hadn’t bargained for this move. Of course, I had noticed the dodge of borrowing all our matches, but I didn’t grasp its importance until too late. It never occurred to me that he’d disconnected the electric light (which he probably did sometime in the night, by the way). I was a fool not to realize it, too, when he insisted on our using only the oil lamp. Then, again, I was slow not to go straight through the window and into Zeda’s flat that way. It is just possible I might have caught the lady songster if I had done that in the first place. The possibility, however, had not been overlooked, since she took the precaution to lock the door after her.” “A clever rogue!” I declared. “But wasn’t the first attempt--for I suppose we must classify the mysterious arm under that head--more than a trifle indiscreet?” “No doubt,” agreed Lesty. “But we didn’t know, then, that Zeda was in London, and the flat was still unfurnished. Also, they may have thought Halesowen was in bed; or the woman (whom he has so cleverly kept out of sight) may have exceeded her instructions in attempting to touch the potsherd while any one remained in the room.” “But,” said Halesowen, slowly, “we don’t know that there _was_ any woman!” “Eh?” queried Lesty. “Did you see her?” “No.” “I did. She was lovely, very lovely--for a woman!” Lesty stared curiously. “You surprise me,” he commented, drily. “Zeda was a strange man,” pursued the other, “and there were certainly things occurred as we sat round that table that need a lot of explaining.” “Very ordinary three-and-six-a-head phenomena!” was the reply. “Merely a blind.” “Then what was the reason of his burning desire to secure my potsherd, if not to complete the vase?” “Do you mean to tell me,” asked Lesty, “that you are going to credit that story about the priestess--_now_, after he has shown his hand? Do you wish to suggest that he was aided by a spirit?” “Then why was he so keen to get the thing?” persisted Halesowen. Lesty looked at him, looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and began to load his pipe. Having done so, he sat smoking and staring at the brilliant moon. “Well?” inquired our host. “Give it up!” admitted Lesty. (_Conclusion of Mr. Clifford’s Account_) V One of my visits to the Wapping curio shop of Moris Klaw was made in company with Mr. Halesowen, who, with the others mentioned in the foregoing narrative, I subsequently had met. Somewhere amid the misty gloom of this place, where loot of a hundred ages, of every spot from pole to pole, veils its identity in the darkness, sits a large gray parrot. Faint perfumes and scuffling sounds tell of hidden animal life near to the visitor; but the parrot proclaims itself stridently: “Moris Klaw! Moris Klaw! The devil’s come for you!”