“Come in, Whitey,” he said, “we’ll take these things out of the safe--who’s there?” There was somebody in the room. He felt the presence rather than saw it. The place was in pitch darkness; such light as there was came from a lamp in the Court without, but only the faintest of reflected rays pierced the gloom of the office. “Keep the door, Whitey,” cried Lambaire, and a match spluttered in his hand. For a moment he saw nothing; then, as he peered through the darkness and his eyes became accustomed to the shadows, he uttered an imprecation. The safe--his private safe, was wide open. Then he saw the crouching figure of a man by the desk, and leapt at him, dropping the match. In the expiring flicker of light, he saw the figure straighten, then a fist, as hard as teak, and driven by an arm of steel, caught him full in the face, and he went over with a crash. Whitey in the doorway sprang forward, but a hand gripped him by the throat, lifted him like a helpless kitten, and sent him with a thud against the wall.... “Strike a match, will you.” It was Lambaire who was the first to recover, and he bellowed like a mad bull--“Light--get a light.” With an unsteady hand, Whitey found the box. “There’s a gas bracket over by the window,--curse him!--he’s nearly settled me.” The glow of an incandescent lamp revealed Lambaire, dishevelled, pale as death, his face streaming with blood, where he had caught his head on the sharp corner of the desk. He ran to the safe. There was no apparent disorder, there was no sign that it had been forced; but he turned over the papers, throwing them on to the floor with feverish haste, in his anxiety to find something. “Gone!” he gasped, “the plates--they’ve gone!” He turned, sick with fear, to Whitey. Whitey was standing, shaky but calm, by the door. “They’ve gone, have they?” he said, in little more than a whisper; “then that settles Amber.” “Amber?” “Amber,” said Whitey huskily. “I saw him--you know what it means, don’t you?” “Amber,” repeated the other, dazed. “Amber--_Amber_!” Whitey almost shouted the name. “Don’t you hear what I say--it’s Amber, the hook.” “What shall we do?” The big man was like a child in his pitiable terror. “Do!” Whitey laughed; it was a curious little laugh, and it spoke the concentrated hatred that lay in his heart. “We’ve got to find Amber, we’ve got to meet Amber, and we’ve got to kill Amber, damn him!” CHAPTER VII AMBER GOES TO SCOTLAND YARD Peter Musk had the entire top floor of 19, Redcow Court, and was accounted an ideal tenant by his landlord, for he paid his rent regularly. Of the three rooms, Peter occupied one, Amber (“My nephew from the country,” said Peter elaborately) the other, and the third was Peter’s “common room.” Peter had reached the most exciting chapter in the variegated career of “Handsome Hike, the Terror of Texas,” when Amber came in. He came in hurriedly, and delivered a breathless little chuckle as he closed the door behind him.