Mr. Naylor-Brent's face paled considerably, and his voice had an anxious note in it when he spoke. "Gad, sir, but it has!" he ejaculated. "That's the trouble itself. Every single banknote is gone--£200,000 is gone and not a trace of it! Heaven only knows what I'm going to do about it, Mr. Narkom, but that's how the matter stands. Every penny is _gone_!" "Gone!" Mr. Narkom drew out a red silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead vigorously--a sure sign of nervous excitement--while Mr. Headland exclaimed loudly, "Well, I'm hanged!" "Someone certainly will be," rapped out Mr. Brent, sharply. "For not only have the notes vanished, but I've lost the best night-watchman I ever had, a good, trustworthy man----" "Lost him?" put in Mr. Headland, curiously. "What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Brent? Did he vanish with the notes?" "What? Will Simmons! Never in this world! He's not that kind. The man that offered Will Simmons a bribe to betray his trust would answer for it with his life. A more faithful servant or better fellow never drew breath. No, it's dead he is, Mr. Headland, and--I can hardly speak of it yet! I feel so much to blame for putting him on the job at all, but you see we've had a regular series of petty thefts lately: small sums unable to be accounted for, safes opened in the most mysterious manner, and money abstracted--though never any large sums, fortunately--even the clerks' coats have not been left untouched. I have had a constant watch kept but all in vain. So, naturally, when this big deposit came to hand on Tuesday morning, I determined that special precautions should be taken at night, and put poor old Simmons down in the vault with the bank's watchdog for company. That was the last time I saw him alive! He was found writhing in convulsions, and by the time the doctor arrived upon the scene, he was dead; the safe was found open, and every note was _gone_!" "Bad business, indeed!" declared Mr. Headland, with a shake of the head. "No idea as to the cause of death, Mr. Brent? What was the doctor's verdict?" Mr. Naylor-Brent's face clouded. "That's the very dickens of it. He didn't quite know. Said it was evidently a case of poisoning, but was unable to decide further, or to find out what sort of poison, if any, had been used." "H'm. I see. And what did the local police say? Have they found any clues yet?" The manager flushed, and he gave vent to a forced laugh. "As a matter of fact," he responded, "the local police know nothing about it. I have kept the loss an entire secret until I could call in the help of Scotland Yard." "A secret, Mr. Brent, with _such_ a loss!" ejaculated Mr. Narkom. "That's surely an unusual course to pursue. When a bank loses such a large sum of money, and in banknotes--the most easily handled commodity in the world--and in addition a mysterious murder takes place, one would naturally expect that the first act would be to call in the officers of the law, that is--unless--I see----"