“By the way, before you go,” said the inspector, “just come into my inner office, will you?” Wallis followed him. The inspector closed the door behind them. They were alone. “Wallis, do you know there is a reward of some twelve thousand pounds for the detection of the men engaged in these burglaries?” “You surprise me,” said Mr. Wallis, lifting his eyebrows. “I don’t surprise you,” said the inspector; “in fact, you know much more about it than I do. And I tell you this, that we are prepared to go to any lengths to track this gang, or, at any rate, to put an end to its operations. Look here, George,” he tapped the other on the chest with his strong, gnarled finger, “is it a scream?” “A scream?” Mr. Wallis was puzzled innocence itself. “Will you turn King’s evidence?” said the other shortly. “I should be most happy,” said Wallis, with a helpless shrug, “but how can I turn King’s evidence about a matter on which I am absolutely uninformed? The reward is monstrously tempting. If I had companions in crime I should need very little persuading. My conscience is a matter of constant adjustment. It is rather like the foot-rule which shoemakers employ to measure their customers’ feet--terrifically adjustable. It has a sliding scale which goes up and down.” “I don’t want to hear any more about your conscience,” said the officer wearily. “Do you scream or don’t you?” “I don’t scream,” said Mr. Wallis emphatically. The inspector jerked his head sideways, and with the bow which the invitation had interrupted, Mr. Wallis walked out into the street. He knew, no one better, how completely every action of his was watched. He knew, even as he left the station, that the seemingly idle loafer on the corner of the street had picked him up, would follow him until he handed him over to yet another plain-clothes officer for observation. From beat to beat, from one end of the City to another, those vigilant eyes would never leave him; whilst he slept, the door, back and front of his lodging would be watched. He could not move without all London--all the London that mattered as far as he was concerned--knowing everything about that move. His home was the upper part of a house over a tobacconist’s in a small street off Charing Cross Road. And to his maisonette he made a leisurely way, not hastening his steps any the more because he knew that on one side of the street an innocent commercial traveller, and on the other a sandwich man apparently trudging homeward with his board, were keeping him under observation. He stopped to buy some cigars in the Charing Cross Road, crossed near the Alhambra, and ten minutes later was unlocking the door of the narrow passage which ran by the side of the shop, and gave him private access to the suite above. It was a room comfortably furnished and giving evidence of some taste. Large divan chairs formed a feature of the furnishing, and the prints, though few, were interesting by reason of their obvious rarity.