“Oh, good morning, Superintendent. It certainly looks as if I hadn’t quite escaped from your suspicions.” “Yes, you have, sir, I’m glad to say.” “Let me introduce you to Miss Cotterill. She is interested in this case.” The superintendent raised his hat again and bowed. “I’m sorry, Miss Cotterill,” he said, “if we’ve caused you any anxiety about Mr. Grayson.” She blushed a little as she replied: “I confess it was a relief when Canon Fittleworth told us last night that Mr. Grayson was free.” An amused look lingered for a moment on the policeman’s face as he glanced from one to the other. “I’m more than ever pleased that our suspicions were unfounded,” he said in a dry manner. “Here comes your train, sir. Are you both going up to London?” “We are,” said Grayson. The police superintendent found an empty compartment and showed them in. “Good morning,” he said. Then he turned to Colson, who was standing near. “Come along, Colson. You and I won’t disturb that young couple—and I hope nobody else will. We’ve both been in it ourselves, eh?” There were other people in their compartment, so they maintained a rigid silence on the subject in hand. Colson was not sorry. He wanted to study the notes in his pocket-book and to think things out. Arrived in London, they took a taxi to Scotland Yard, and, after an interview with the authorities there, went on to Hatton Garden, where they found Tyler lounging about, also in plain clothes. “Moss went into his office over an hour ago,” he said. “You’ll find him there.” The superintendent nodded and, followed by Colson, entered a block of offices and found his way to an upper floor. A door with ground glass panels bore the inscription “Mr. Isaac Moss.” The superintendent opened it without knocking, and they found themselves in a little outer office. A girl, seated at a typewriter, rose hastily. “Is Mr. Moss in?” “He’s particularly engaged, sir. He can’t see anyone.” “Oh—indeed! But I must see him.” “I’m afraid you can’t,” said the girl. “He told me not to let anyone in—that I didn’t know.” The superintendent smiled at the girl’s ingenuousness. “Well,” he said, “I’m afraid I must make you disobey orders. I’m a police superintendent.” The girl paled a little, and went towards an inner door marked “Private.” “I’ll tell him,” she said. But the superintendent was too quick for her. He was across the room in a moment. “You must do what I tell you,” he said. “Open the door. Don’t be afraid.” As she opened the door a voice exclaimed: “Who is it? I told you I couldn’t see anyone.” “I’m afraid we must come in, all the same, Mr. Moss,” said the superintendent, entering the room and followed by Colson. A little dark man of evident Jewish persuasion, with a thin, black moustache, half rose from the chair in which he was seated. His face was deadly pale, his mouth was half open and his lips quivering. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice shaking. “I don’t know you.”