In his forty-two years of life he had collected them as another man might collect old prints. That he started forth at the outset, and of perversity chose the shadier walks of life, is a supposition which need not seriously be entertained, for it is not in accordance with the rule of things that a man should deliberately set himself in opposition to the laws of civilization. All that Amber had said of him was true, and more. He was a coiner in the sense that, with the notorious Señor Villitissi, and the no less notorious companions of that sometime senator, he had to do with the alarming increase in the silver coinage from which the markets of the world suffered. It is a known fact that one “batch” of coins which was distributed in Spain brought the rate of exchange from twenty-eight pesetas ten to thirty-one pesetas in a month. There was nothing about him which suggested the strutting villain of melodrama, yet he was a well-defined type of criminal. Whitey--Cornelius Josiah White, to give him the only name which ever appeared to have a resemblance to a real name employed by him--was a lesser man in point of originality, greater when measured by the standards of daring and crude villainy. Whitey said as much one afternoon, about a week after the interview. “What you want, Lambaire, is Dash,” he said. “When the least little bit of trouble comes along, instead of Swelling up to it, you get Shrunk.” Lambaire grunted something. He was in no mood for psychology. They were on their way to Warwick Gardens for a final interview with Sutton and his sister. “After Amber’s ‘give away,’” Whitey went on, “you’d have chucked the whole business; you would, Lambaire! You’d have chucked it for a hook like Amber ... your big schemes too, Imperial I call ’em ... along comes a feller fresh from gaol, a swell thief, and you start looking round for Exits-in-case-of-Emergency.” “I was afraid Sutton would turn me down.” “Bosh!” said Whitey unsympathetically, “he couldn’t turn you down without turning down himself: don’t you know that chaps of his age will do anything to prove they are right?” “Well, the girl isn’t convinced,” objected Lambaire. “And never will be,” said Whitey, “you’re the Devil to her.” Lambaire’s face went unaccountably black at this frank expression, and Whitey, who had forgotten more about human nature than Lambaire was ever likely to learn, was wise enough to leave the subject unpursued. They were admitted to the house and ushered into Sutton’s room. The youth sat amidst a litter of catalogues, maps, and samples of equipment. He was sitting in his shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe, and was obviously and most absurdly pleased with himself. He greeted his visitors with a cheerful smile. “Come in, and find a place to sit down if you can,” he invited. “I will let Cynthia know that you are here.” He leant back and pushed a bell by the side of the fireplace.