"Good!" Cleek crossed to his locked medicine chest and drew from it a little phial containing some dark, thick-looking liquid, and put it into his breast-pocket. Then he whipped out his make-up box, twisted a short thick black beard about his chin; grew, in some mysterious manner, a choppy little moustache upon his upper lip; threw off his clothing, threw on some others, and lo! in the twinkling of an eye he stood before the amazed and admiring Dollops, as perfect a representation of a typical Paris Apache as ever was. Dollops gave a gasp of amazement, and stepped back a foot or two. "Gor' save us, sir," he whispered in an awe-struck voice, "but if I 'adn't seen yer do it wiv my own blessed peepers I wouldn't 'ave thought it possible. You've got it all over me the night I bust into the Countess's Ball." One more warning of complete silence, one more promise of fulfilment of it, and Cleek, with that litheness which characterized all his movements, had passed out into the night. Some five minutes later Dollops, armed with his beloved master's biggest revolver, sallied forth in his wake, and succeeded in following him, unseen, right up to the door of one of the evillest-looking dens of Limehouse. Here Cleek knocked at the door, and on its being opened by a vicious-looking Apache, slipped quickly in. Dollops, knowing this was beyond his powers, contented himself with watching and reconnoitring from the outside. Meanwhile Cleek, speaking the old Apache slang, had managed to persuade the men that he was from Desmond House, producing as evidence the crumpled bridge score. "Name of a devil, yes! But what has become of Borelle? We sent him down to fetch the pearl this morning," said one of them, leaping forward and laying a hard hand on Cleek's arm. "At the last minute Margot was sure it would not arrive safe if trusted to the woman--the fickle jades that they are! But what has become of Borelle?" Cleek shrugged a pair of nonchalant shoulders. "Bah! how should I know?" he flung out, roughly, with a harsh laugh. "I was told to say that the trick has succeeded, _mes frères_, and that the jewels are coming. Perhaps _le cher Borelle_ will bring them along later, who knows?" Then someone opened the door. It was Margot, flushed, triumphant, a very queen returned from a revel at Covent Garden, a band of Apaches about her. Margot! The disguised Cleek endeavoured to evade her sharp eyes, but that was an impossibility, and unwillingly he was dragged out of his corner, where he had pretended to fall asleep, overcome by the noise and the absinthe, and made to give his story over again. "_Hola_, then, but we must wait for the good Borelle," shouted Margot, as she pushed him from her with a sharp slap of her hand across his stupid face. "Drink, _mes enfants_, drink to the good day when we get that rat, the Cracksman, into our power, that Rat who deserted us for a pale-faced English woman. To the day!"