"And those are all the facts," the Old Man in the Corner went on slowly, while he paused in his work of fashioning intricate knots in his beloved bit of string, "all the facts that were ever known in connection with the theft of Sir James Narford's gems. Of course, as you may well suppose, not only the official but also the public mind at once flew to the mysterious personage, originally found wounded in an empty house in Wicklow Lane. There could be no shadow of doubt that this man and the one who visited the shop in Sackville Street, who accosted the lift-boy, drugged Ruggles's beer and robbed him of his keys, were one and the same. There was the black caped coat, the Montmartre hat, the jet-black hair and foreign look. True, the wounded man of Wicklow Lane spoke English without any foreign accent, but the latter could easily be assumed. Indeed, it all seemed plain sailing, and as soon as the word went round about the robbery in Sackville Street and the description was given of the foreign-looking individual with the jet-black hair, the police thought they had a perfectly clear case. "A clear case, yes!" the funny creature went on, with a grin, "but not an easy one, because when the police called at the hotel in Mexborough Gate they learned that the mysterious Mr. Allen Lloyd had been gone three days. Having paid his bill, he had walked out of the house one dark afternoon and not been seen or heard of since. He went off carrying a paper parcel, which no doubt contained the few belongings he had bought of late. "Of course he was the thief and a marvellous cunning one. Just think what it meant. It meant, first of all, immense presence of mind and daring to accost the lift-boy and engage him in conversation whilst pouring a drug into a mug of beer; then it meant sneaking into the block of flats in George Street, breaking the glass panel of a door, entering the flat, stealing the keys, sneaking out of the building again, going round to Sackville Street, watching until the police on duty had passed by, entering the house, opening the safe, collecting the gems--all in full view of the street, mind you, or else in absolute darkness--then relocking the safe and again watching for the opportunity to sneak out of the house until the man on duty was out of sight. Clever? I should think it would have been clever, if it had ever been done!" "How do you mean, if it had ever been done?" I ejaculated, with some impatience. "Whoever the thief was--and I suppose that you have your theory--he must have done all those things." "Oh no, he did not!" the funny creature asserted emphatically, "he merely put all the gems away in his own pocket after the exhibition was closed for the night, instead of locking them up in the safe." "Then you think it was Ruggles?" I exclaimed. "In conjunction with his master." "Sir James Narford? But why?" "For the sake of the insurance money."