_"Dear Lane,--I have known you a good many years, and never thought you were such a fool as to neglect a good thing. Surely you will reconsider the proposal I made to you the night before last in the bar of the Elephant and Castle? You once did me a very good turn long ago, and now I am in a position to put a good remunerative bit of business in your way. Yet you are timid that all may not turn out well! Apparently you do not fully recognise the stake I hold in the matter, and the fact that any exposure would mean ruin to me. Surely I have far more to lose than you have. Therefore that, in itself, should be sufficient guarantee to you. Reconsider your reply, and give me your decision to-morrow night. You will find me in the saloon bar of the King Lud, in Ludgate Hill, at eight o'clock. Do not speak to me there, but show yourself, and then wait outside until I join you. Have a care that you are not followed. That hawk Ambler Jevons has scent of us. Therefore, remain dumb and watchful--Z."_ "That's curious," I remarked. "Whoever wrote that letter was inciting Lane to conspiracy, and at the same time held you in fear, Ambler." My companion laughed again--a quiet self-satisfied laugh. Then he commenced the second letter, type-written like the first, but evidently upon another machine. _"Dear Lane,--Your terms seem exorbitant. I quite understand that at least four or five of you must be in the affair, but the price asked is ridiculous. Besides, I didn't like Bennett's tone when he spoke to me yesterday. He was almost threatening. What have you told him? Recollect that each of us knows something to the detriment of the other, and even in these days of so-called equality the man with money is always the best. You must contrive to shut Bennett's mouth. Give him money, if he wants it--up to ten pounds. But, of course, do not say that it comes from me. You can, of course, pose as my friend, as you have done before. I shall be at the usual place to-night.--Z."_ "Looks as though there's been some blackmailing," one of the constables remarked. "Who's Bennett?" "I expect that's Bobby Bennett who works in the Meat Market," replied the atom of a man who had accosted us at Aldgate. "He was a friend of Lanky's, and a bad 'un. I've 'eard say that 'e 'ad a record at the Old Bailey." "What for?" "'Ousebreakin'." "Is he working now?" Ambler inquired. "Yes. I saw 'im in Farrin'don Street yesterday." "Ah!" remarked the constable. "We shall probably want to have a chat with him. But the chief mystery is the identity of the writer of these letters. At all events it is evident that this poor man Lane knew something to his detriment, and was probably trying to make money out of that knowledge." "Not at all an unusual case," I said.