He threw a swift glance along the street, and saw that the hired motor-car which had been provided for his use was waiting. “Here he comes,” he said, but it was not the man he expected. The bearded chauffeur came out alone, waved a farewell to somebody in the hall-way whom they could not see, and having started his engine with great deliberation, got upon his seat, and the taxi-cab moved slowly away. “George is not going,” said the detective. “That means that we shall have to stay here for another two or three hours--there is his light.” For four long hours they kept their vigil, and never once was a pair of eyes taken from the only door through which George Wallis could make his exit. There was no other way by which he could leave, of that they were assured. Behind the house was a high wall, and unless the man was working in collusion with half the respectable householders, not only in that street but of Charing Cross Road, he could not by any possible chance leave his flat. At half-past ten the taxi-cab they had seen drove back to the door of the flat, and the driver was admitted. He evidently did not expect to stay long, for he did not switch off his engine; as a matter of fact, he was not absent from his car longer than thirty seconds. He came back almost immediately, climbed up on to his seat and drove away. “I wonder what the game is?” asked the detective, a little puzzled. “He has been to take a message somewhere,” said the other. “I think we ought to have found out.” Ten minutes later Inspector Goldberg, of Scotland Yard, drove into the street and sprang from his car opposite the men. “Has Wallis returned?” he asked quickly. “Returned!” repeated the puzzled detective, “he has not gone out yet.” “Has not gone out?” repeated the inspector with a gasp. “A man answering to his description was seen leaving the City branch of the Goldsmiths’ Guild half an hour ago. The safe has been forced and twenty thousand pounds’ worth of jewelry has been taken.” There was a little silence. “Well, sir,” said the subordinate doggedly, “one thing I will swear, and it is that George Wallis has not left this house to-night.” “That’s true, sir,” said the second man. “The sergeant and I have not left this place since Wallis went in.” “But,” said the bewildered detective-inspector, “it must be Wallis, no other man could have done the job as he did it.” “It could not have been, sir,” persisted the watcher. “Then who in the name of Heaven did the job?” snapped the inspector. His underlings wisely offered no solution. CHAPTER VIII. THE WIFE WHO DID NOT LOVE Mr. Warrell, of the firm of Warrell & Bird, prided himself upon being a man of the world, and was wont to admit, in a mild spirit of boastfulness, in which even middle-aged and respectable gentlemen occasionally indulge, that he had been in some very awkward situations. He had inferred that he had escaped from those situations with some credit to himself.