“Four Just Men!” sneered the girl, and then her face changed. “Were they the people who whipped Gurther?” Mirabelle had not heard of this exploit, but she gave them credit with a nod. “Is that so? Does Gurther know they’re friends of yours?” she asked significantly. “I don’t know Gurther.” “He’s the man who danced with you the other night—Lord—I forget what name we gave him. Because, if he does know, my dear,” she said slowly, “you’ve got two people to be extremely careful with. Gurther’s half mad. Monty has always said so. He dopes too, and there are times when he’s not a man at all but a low-down wolf. I’m scared of _him_—I’ll admit it. There aren’t Four Just Men, anyway,” she went off at a tangent. “There haven’t been more than three for years. One of them was killed in Bordeaux. That’s a town I’d hate to be killed in,” said Joan irreverently. An interval of silence followed whilst she opened an air-tight tin and took out a small cake, and, putting it on the table, cut it into slices. “What are they like?” she asked. Evidently the interval had been filled with thoughts of the men from Curzon Street. “Monty says they’re just bluff, but I’m not so sure that Monty tells me all he thinks. He’s so scared that he told me to call and see them, just because they gave him an order—which isn’t like Monty. They’ve killed people, haven’t they?” Mirabelle nodded. “And got away with it? They must be clever.” Joan’s admiration was dragged from her. “Where do they get their money?” That was always an interesting matter to Joan. When the girl explained, she was really impressed. That they could kill and get away with it, was wonderful; that they were men of millions, placed them in a category apart. “They’ll never find you here,” said Joan. “There’s nobody living knows about this vault. There used to be eight men working here, sorting monkey hides, and every one of them’s dead. Monty told me. He said this place is below the canal level, and Oberzohn can flood it in five minutes. Monty thinks the old man had an idea of running a slush factory here.” “What is a slush factory?” asked Mirabelle, open-mouthed. “Phoney—snide—counterfeit. Not English, but Continental work. He was going to do that if things had gone really bad, but of course you make all the difference.” Mirabelle put down her cup. “Does he expect to make money out of me?” she said, trying hard not to laugh. The girl nodded solemnly. “Does he think I have a great deal of money?” “He’s sure.” Joan was sure too. Her tone said that plainly enough.