He looked thoughtfully, almost anxiously at his companion. Shopland's face reflected to the full his usual confidence. He had the air of a man buoyant with hope and with stifled self-satisfaction. “I am engaged,” he continued, “upon a study of the methods and habits of one whom I believe to be a great criminal. I think that when I place my prisoner in the bar, Wainwright and these other great artists in crime will fade from the memory.” “Is Sir Timothy Brast your man?” Francis asked quietly. His companion frowned portentously. “No names,” he begged. “Considering that it was I who first put you on to him,” Francis expostulated, “I don't think you need be so sparing of your confidence.” “Mr. Ledsam,” the detective assured him, “I shall tell you everything that is possible. At the same time, I will be frank with you. You are right when you say that it was you who first directed my attention towards Sir Timothy Brast. Since that time, however, your own relations with him, to an onlooker, have become a little puzzling.” “I see,” Francis murmured. “You've been spying on me?” Shopland shook his head in deprecating fashion. “A study of Sir Timothy during the last month,” he said, “has brought you many a time into the focus.” “Where are we going to now?” Francis asked, a little abruptly. “Just a side show, sir. It's one of those outside things I have come across which give light and shade to the whole affair. We get out here, if you please.” The two men stepped on to the pavement. They were in a street a little north of Wardour Street, where the shops for the most part were of a miscellaneous variety. Exactly in front of them, the space behind a large plate-glass window had been transformed into a sort of show-place for dogs. There were twenty or thirty of them there, of all breeds and varieties. “What the mischief is this?” Francis demanded. “Come in and make enquiries,” Shopland replied. “I can promise that you will find it interesting. It's a sort of dog's home.” Francis followed his companion into the place. A pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman came forward and greeted the latter. “Do you mind telling my friend what you told me the other day?” he asked. “Certainly, sir,” she replied. “We collect stray animals here, sir,” she continued, turning to Francis. “Every one who has a dog or a cat he can't afford to keep, or which he wants to get rid of, may bring it to us. We have agents all the time in the streets, and if any official of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals brings us news of a dog or a cat being ill-treated, we either purchase it or acquire it in some way or other and keep it here.” “But your dogs in the window,” Francis observed, “all seem to be in wonderful condition.” The woman smiled.