“You’re American—what state?” “Georgia,” was the reply, and this time the hawker made no attempt at disguise. “Came over on a cattle-boat during the war.” Elk held out his hand. “Let me see that licence of yours, brother,” he said. Without hesitation the man produced the written police permit to sell on the streets. It was made out in the name of “Joshua Broad,” and was in order. “You’re not from Georgia,” said Elk, “but that doesn’t matter. You’re from Hampshire or Massachusetts.” “Connecticut, to be exact,” said the man coolly, “but I’ve lived in Georgia. Want a key-ring?” There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes—the merest flash. “No. Never had a key. Never had anything worth locking up,” said Elk, fingering the articles on the tray. “Not a good pitch, this.” “No,” said the other; “too near to Scotland Yard, Mr. Elk.” Elk cast a swift glance at the man. “Know me, do you?” “Most people do, don’t they?” asked the other innocently. Elk took the pedlar in from the soles of his stout shoes to his soddened hat, and, with a nod, went on. The hawker looked after the detective until he was out of sight, and then, fixing a cover over his tray, strapped it tight and walked in the direction Elk had taken. Coming out of Maitlands to lunch, Ray Bennett saw a shabby and saturnine man standing on the edge of the pavement, but gave him no more than a passing glance. He, at any rate, did not know Elk and was quite unconscious of the fact that he was being followed to the little chop-house where Philo Johnson and he took their modest luncheon. In any circumstances Ray would not have observed the shadow, but to-day, in his condition of mind, he had no thought for anybody but himself, or any offence but the bearded and ancient Maitland’s outrageous behaviour. “The old devil!” he said as he walked by Johnson’s side. “To make a ten per cent cut in salaries and to start on me! And this morning the papers say that he has given five thousand to the Northern Hospitals!” “He’s a charitable cuss, and as to the cut, it was either that or standing you off,” said Johnson cheerfully. “What’s the use of kicking? Trade has been bad, and the stock market is as dead as Ptolemy. The old man wanted to put you off—said that you were superfluous anyway. If you’d only look on the bright side of things, Ray——” “Bright!” snorted the young man, his face going pink with anger. “I’m getting a boy’s salary, and I want money mighty badly, Philo.” Philo sighed, and for once his good-humoured face was clouded. Then it relaxed into a broad grin. “If I thought the same way as you, I’d go mad or turn into a first-class crook. I only earn about fifty per cent more than you, and yet the old man allows me to handle hundreds of thousands. It’s too bad.” Nevertheless, the “badness” of the parsimonious Maitland did not interfere with his appetite.