“I am afraid there is nothing we can do with you,” said Goldberg regretfully. “Have you got a licence?” “You bet your life I have,” said the driver cheerfully, and produced it. “I can take you for consorting with criminals.” “A difficult charge to prove,” said the bearded one, “more difficult to get a conviction on, and possibly it would absolutely spoil your chance of bagging George in the end.” “That is true,” said Goldberg; “anyway, I’m going to look for your taxi-cab. I can at least pull George in for driving without a licence.” The man shook his head. “I am sorry to disappoint you,” he said with mock regret, “but George has a licence too.” “The devil he has,” said the baffled inspector. “Funny, isn’t it,” said the bearded man. “George is awfully thorough.” “Come now, Smith,” said the detective genially, “what is the game? How deep in this are you?” “In what?” asked the puzzled man. Goldberg gave him up for a bad job. He knew that Wallis had chosen his associates with considerable care. “Anyway, I will go after George,” he said. “You are probably putting up a little bluff on me about the licence. Once I get him inside the jug there are lots of little things I might be able to discover.” “Do,” said the driver earnestly. “You will find him standing on the Haymarket rank at about half-past ten to-night.” “Yes, I know,” said the detective sardonically. He had no charge and no warrant, save the search warrant which gave him the right of entry. Smith, the driver, was sent about his business, and a detective put on to shadow him. With what success this shadowing was done may be gathered from the fact that at half-past ten that night Inspector Goldberg discovered the cab he was seeking, and to his amazement found it in the very place where Smith had told him to expect it. And there the bearded driver was sitting with all the aplomb of one who was nearing the end of a virtuous and well-rewarded day. “Now, George,” said the inspector jocularly, “come down off that perch and let me have a look at your licence; if it is not made out in your name I am going to pull you.” The man did not descend, but he put his hand in his pocket and produced a little leather wallet. The inspector opened it and read. “Ah!” he said exultantly, “as I thought, this is made out in the name of Smith.” “I am Smith,” said the driver calmly. “Get down,” said the inspector. The man obeyed. There was no question as to his identity. “You see,” he explained, “when you put your flat-footed splits on to follow me I had no intention of bothering George. He is big enough to look after himself, and, by the way, his licence is made out in his own name, so you need not trouble about that. “But as soon as I saw you did not trust me,” he said reproachfully, “why, I sort of got on my metal. I slipped your busy fellow in Oxford Street, and came on and took my cab from the desperate criminal you are chasing.” “Where is he now?” asked Goldberg.