It was with the conviction that Penelope Noelson was the key to the mystery that Labar made his way back to town. The hint that she would be detained would scarcely have stirred Larry Hughes as it had, unless she was in the plot. True, Labar was not as certain as he might have wished. He had not been entirely candid with Larry Hughes. She had not been identified as changing the forged cheque, although Malone had that morning reported that so far as the cashier recollected it had been a woman who passed it over the counter. And according to the man he had left to keep observation upon her, she had not gone from Streetly House the previous night. If that was so she could not be the lady of the sandbag. There remained the episode of the hundred pound note--the only definite thing that he could prove against her. He looked in at Grape Street before proceeding to Streetly House, to pick up such fresh threads as might have been collected during his absence. There was the inevitable string of reports, some entirely valueless, some which might become of importance or futile in the light of future events. He sifted them through rapidly. Here was the statement that Malone had taken from the bank cashier. Here was a plan drawn by a police surveyor of Streetly House. Here was the report--very sketchy--of Larry Hughes' movements for the last week. Here were other reports of the recent doings of certain notabilities of the underworld. Not only had the C.I.D. men been busy, but their jackals, the "informants," had been whipped up in force. The drag-net had been cast over London, and here on Labar's desk was the result. He paused over two things. One was an abrupt note from Winter. "Have you noticed this? It is from Monday's _Times_." Pasted on a sheet of paper was a cutting from the personal column. "Panjandrum. Urgent. All fixed for to-night. Keep Walloper straight, and inform. Have not seen him. Piccadilly Tube. Same time." Now, it was on Monday night that the theft had occurred, and the personal column is a simple means of communication between those who do not care to risk the mails or a direct interview. Of course, the advertisement might have been inserted by an entirely innocent person outside the affair. On the other hand it was likely enough to have some bearing on the crime. The other document that interested Labar was a report from a smart young detective sergeant who was in charge of an out-lying station. It told of one, Gold Dust Teddy, who had left his little suburban house on the Monday, and had been absent all night. Teddy was one of the few men who had the craftsmanship to execute a great burglary. He was not a great thief for two reasons. Apart from an uncanny mechanical skill he had no other asset for his career--no imagination, no finesse. And he had periodical drinking bouts. These two things had brought him to grief on occasion. The hall-mark of his failure was that his finger-prints were on record at Scotland Yard.