He stood till the figure passed out of sight, then turned wearily toward his own rooms. He went to his room and lay down on his bed fully dressed. He was aroused from a troubled sleep by the jangle of the 'phone. It was McNorton. "Come down to Scotland House and see the Assistant-Commissioner," he said, "he is very anxious to hear more about this factory. He tells me that you have already given him an outline of the plot." "Yes--I'll give you details--I'll be with you in half an hour." He had a bath and changed his clothes, and breakfastless, for the woman who waited on him and kept his flat and who evidently thought his absence was likely to be a long one, had not arrived. He drove to the grim grey building on the Thames Embankment. Assistant-Commissioner O'Donnel, a white-haired police veteran, was waiting for him, and McNorton was in the office. "You look fagged," said the commissioner, "take that chair--and you look hungry, too. Have you breakfasted?" Beale shook his head with a smile. "Get him something, McNorton--ring that bell. Don't protest, my good fellow--I've had exactly the same kind of nights as you've had, and I know that it is grub that counts more than sleep." He gave an order to an attendant and not until twenty minutes later, when Beale had finished a surprisingly good meal in the superintendent's room, did the commissioner allow the story to be told. "Now I'm ready," he said. "I'll begin at the beginning," said Stanford Beale. "I was a member of the United States Secret Service until after the war when, at the request of Mr. Kitson, who is known to you, I came to Europe to devote all my time to watching Miss Cresswell and Doctor van Heerden. All that you know. "One day when searching the doctor's rooms in his absence, my object being to discover some evidence in relation to the Millinborn murder, I found this." He took a newspaper cutting from his pocket-book and laid it on the table. "It is from _El Impartial_, a Spanish newspaper, and I will translate it for you.