Hammond saluted and left the room, as Cleek turned to the telephone. A quarter of an hour later, out of the sacred precincts of the Yard itself, slouched one of the most villainous-looking Apaches that Soho or Montmartre itself ever could have seen. It was Cleek the Vanishing Cracksman, Cleek the Man of Forty Faces--the King Rat himself on the warpath. Had Marise of the Twisted Arm, Gustave Merode, or even Margot herself, the Queen of the Apaches, seen him, they would have feared and trembled. Meanwhile, the barge had transferred its precious if bulky burden to one of the numerous produce boats going up the river and it was well on its way to Havre before police launches or port officials were made aware of the loss. But it was not until midnight had struck that the cramped, aching body of the Superintendent was hustled out of the boat at a little landing place outside the port itself, and smuggled hastily down into cellars of the Coq d'Or. Officials were too used to drunken sailors being helped in and out of this none too savoury tavern to note one more helpless, stumbling figure, held up between comrades, and a brief second found Mr. Narkom in the midst of an uproarious, shouting crew of Apaches, headed by no less than Margot herself, disguised as a Breton fishwife. She had escaped the eagle eye of her born foes, the French gendarmes, and here reigned supreme, surrounded by her compères in crime and those subject to her sway. Her shrill cries of delight resounded to the roof as her eyes fell upon the gagged and bound figure of Mr. Narkom. "Brava, brave Jules; so you succeeded! La! La! but we 'ave the rat himself now. This is the toasted cheese, and Cleek will come after his friend very soon--if we send for him. Eh, _mes amis_? A splendid plan, and meanwhile the good Duke is being hurt, eh! But it is good!" Jeering and laughing, she thrust her face close to the drawn one of the Superintendent. "But not so clever, eh, my friend? We cannot afford to have you and Cleek, the rat!"--she spat the words out--"in England. We want a rest." "Into the cellar--hark, what's that? All right, an aeroplane--that's all right. Into the cellar with him, lads. All we have to do now is to wait for the rat to come to the trap!" To the accompaniment of another laugh, Mr. Narkom was pulled down into the vaults below, where, dazed with hunger, pain, and anxiety lest Cleek should indeed be led into fresh danger, he sweated an hour away. Upstairs all was renewed merriment, and in the midst of it the door opened and a familiar figure slouched in--evil of face, disfigured with scars and bruises. As a shout arose at his appearance, there was no question as to his identity. "Merode. _Nom de dieu_, Gustave!" cried Margot. "But a pretty picture you cut!"