He felt reasonably certain that in the normal course of events he would know more about it during the day. Without undue speculation, therefore, he betook himself to Grape Street, where, in the stiffly furnished room that formed the headquarters of the divisional detective force, he summoned one of his satellites and passed the note on. "Find out what hands that note has been in," he ordered. "And while you're about it, m'lad, slip down and discover who owns a car numbered X20008. Take a note of that number. If I'm not here when you're through, leave a message for me." With that off his mind, he shed his coat, and was about to immerse himself in the official routine correspondence that was the bane of his life, when there was a jangle of telephone bells, and a hearty-looking, ruddy-cheeked man engaged in converse that brought a fresher purple sheen to his face. He put down the receiver with an oath. "Wish you wouldn't swear, Bill," said Labar, petulantly. "It jars on me." It was at such a time that Detective Sergeant Malone, presuming on many years association, was wont to observe that he was no kid glove John. But at the moment he was too moved for remonstrance. "We've struck it, guv'nor," he declared huskily. "This has put the tin hat on it this has." Labar lit a cigarette wearily. "Tell me the worst," he said. "They've made a clean sweep of Streetly House. Old Gertstein's foaming at the mouth. Quarter of a million of pounds worth of jewels and curios melted away as clean as a conjuring trick. I could smell Larry Hughes a thousand miles off in this." His tone was gloomy, for he knew something of Labar's troubles. "Nice look-out for us, an' the Yard not throwing any flowers our way as it is." "You said it, Bill," agreed Labar, rising, and pulling down his shirt sleeves. "It's get on or get out, for me at any rate, this time. Get your hat on and tell 'em to ring through to the Chief. We're liable to have some work to do." CHAPTER II Anyone who could afford to live in Streetly House, that imposing and historic residence just off Park Lane, must by that fact alone, be known in some degree to the public. Mr. Solly Gertstein had added claims to a certain amount of limelight. He had been--was still to some extent--a financial power. He had interests in gold, in diamonds, in oil, but of late years he had relinquished the reins of his enterprises to brothers and cousins, while he concentrated on his ambition to get together a unique, and fabulously costly, collection of gems, and what the dealers call _objets d'art_. He was not an artistic object in himself. A rotund little man, with a gait that somehow suggested a milk can rolled by a railway porter, and with a tendency to pomposity in his speech and manner, he yet contrived to hold some poise of dignity. He was unquestionably excited when Labar introduced himself.