“Oh dear!” gasped the detective, wiping his eyes. “You’re an amusing devil--here.” He got up, took a bunch of bright keys from his pocket and opened a cupboard in the wall. From a drawer he took a sheet of foolscap paper, laid it on his desk and sat down. “Your convictions!” he scoffed. The paper was ruled exactly down the centre. On the left--to which the detective pointed, were two entries. On the right there was line after line of cramped writing. “Your imprisonments,” said the detective. Amber said nothing, only he scratched his chin thoughtfully. “By my reckoning,” the detective went on slowly, “you have been sentenced in your short but lurid career to some eighty years’ penal servitude.” “It seems a lot,” said Amber. “It does,” said the detective, and folded the paper. “So when you come to me and suggest that you would like to turn over a new leaf; would like, in fact, to join the criminal investigation department, I smile. You’ve pulled my leg once, but never again. Seriously, Amber,” he went on, lowering his voice, “can you do anything for us in this forgery business?--the Chief is getting very jumpy about the matter.” Amber nodded. “I think I can,” he said, “if I can only keep out of prison for another week.” “Try,” said Fell, with a smile. “I’ll try,” said Amber cheerfully. CHAPTER VIII FRANCIS SUTTON ASKS A QUESTION London never sleeps. Of the dead silence that lays over the world, the quiet peaceful hush of all living things, London knows nothing. Long after the roar of the waking world dies down, there is a fitful rumbling of traffic, a jingling of bells, as belated hansoms come clip-clopping through the deserted streets, the whine of a fast motor-car--then a little silence. A minute’s rest from world noises, then the distant shriek of a locomotive and the staccato clatter of trucks. Somewhere, in a far-away railway yard, with shunters’ lanterns swinging, the work of a new day has already begun. A far-off rattle of slow-moving wheels, nearer and nearer--a market cart on its way to Covent Garden; a steady tramp of feet--policemen going to their beats in steady procession. More wheels, more shrieks, a church clock strikes the hour, a hurrying footstep in the street.... All these things Lambaire heard, tossing from side to side in his bed. All these and more, for to his ear there came sounds which had no origin save in his imagination. Feet paused at his door; voices whispered excitedly. He heard the click of steel, the squeak of a key opening a handcuff. He dozed at intervals, only to sit up in bed suddenly, the sweat pouring off him, his ears strained to catch some fancied sound. The little clock over the fireplace ticked mercilessly, “ten years, ten years,” until he got out of bed, and after a futile attempt to stop it, wrapped it in a towel and then in a dressing-gown to still its ominous prophecy.