another of a totally different colour and appearance I'll ring you up
each morning at the Yard and we can make our appointments over your
private wire. For the present we must take no great risks. In the
days that lie behind, dear friend, I had no 'tracker' to guard
against but Margot, no enemies but her paltry crew to reckon with
and to outwit. In these, I have many. They have brains, these new
foes; they are rich, they are desperate, they are powerful; and
behind them is the implacable hate and the malignant hand of----No
matter! You wouldn't understand."

"I can make a devilish good guess, then," rapped in Narkom, a trifle
testily, his vanity a little hurt by that final suggestion, and
his mind harking back to the brief enlightening conversation between
Margot and Count Waldemar that night on the spray-swept deck of
the Channel packet. "Behind them is 'the implacable hate and the
malignant hand' of the King of Mauravania!"

"What utter rubbish!" Cleek's jeering laughter fairly stung, it was
so full of pitying derision. "My friend, have you taken to reading
penny novelettes of late? A thief-taker and a monarch! An ex-criminal
and a king! I should have given you credit for more common sense."

"It was the King of Mauravania's equerry who directed that attempt to
kill you by blowing up the house in Clarges Street."

"Very possibly. But that does not incriminate his royal master.
Count Waldemar is not only equerry to King Ulric of Mauravania,
but is also nephew to its ex-Prime Minister--the gentleman who is
doing fifteen years' energetic labour for the British Government
as a result of that attempt to trap me with his witless 'Silver
Snare.'"

"Oh!" said Narkom, considerably crestfallen; then grasped at yet
another straw with sudden, breathless eagerness. "But even then the
head of the Mauravanian Government must have had some reason for
wishing to 'wipe you out,'" he added, earnestly. "There could be no
question of avenging an uncle's overthrow at that time. Cleek!"--his
voice running thin and eager, his hand shutting suddenly upon his
famous ally's arm--"Cleek, trust me! Won't you? Can't you? As God
hears me, old chap, I'll respect it. Who are you? What are you, man?"

"Cleek," he made answer, calmly drawing out a chair and taking his
seat at the table. "Cleek of Scotland Yard; Cleek of the Forty
Faces--which you will. Who should know that better than you whose
helping hand has made me what I am?"

"Yes, but