Yet in a way Labar was enjoying himself. The throwbacks, the lines of inquiry that led nowhere, were in normal sequence for this type of investigation and but stiffened his resolution to see the matter through. He had regained the interest that he had lost in his work. No one knew better than he the value of persistency. Somehow he would get his fingers on that end of the string that would unravel the entire tangle. It might be obtained by dogged perseverance; it might drop unexpectedly from the blue skies as clues have not infrequently been known to do. He had a theory that he was wont to expand upon in moments of leisure with his colleagues. "With enough men, enough money, enough brains and a little time there is no mystery that cannot be explained." Something of this sort he reiterated to Moreland, his Flying Squad intimate, while they discussed the matter in the privacy of the latter's room at Scotland Yard. "You've been reading a detective novel," observed Moreland. "What if you have men, money and brains up against you? Can't they foresee what moves you are likely to make? Isn't that what Larry Hughes has done up to now?" "Yes. And don't we know something about Larry? With all that we know him for a big crook. There's no mystery there. We can't prove it under form of law, that's all." Moreland levelled a forefinger. "Go easy with the grey matter, Harry. You bewilder me. Let's get down to the practical. We know Larry is a crook. We are paid to put crooks in prison--you and I. Yet Larry is a gentleman at large." Labar shook his head smilingly. "He can't beat the game all the time." "Meaning that you propose to get your teeth in him. I wish you luck. But where have you got so far? Just the off-chance of a charge of abduction, and the lady may let you down there, after all, by saying she went of her own free will. Don't kid yourself, Harry. It's dangerous." "A fine little old Job's comforter you make. I wonder if there is anyone in the Yard who does not think I'm playing a losing hand against Larry." Moreland beat a pencil in an erratic tattoo on his blotting pad, and shot an appraising sidelong glance at his friend. "Got to keep you from getting too smug," he said. "You've got a temperament. A day or two ago you had your tail between your legs--and now you talk as if it's all over bar the shouting. I'm sure you've been reading a book. Next thing you know you'll be reciting your methods to me _à la_ Sherlock Holmes. Or is it"--he straightened himself up--"that you have something up your sleeve?" "I've a hunch----" "For the love of Mike bury it. Facts are what you want." "As I was saying," went on Labar, placidly, "I have a hunch that something is about to open up. Amid all the free advice and admonitions from some millions of newspaper readers--" "Only millions?"