country, he gathered that they were of that breed.

He saw one raise his hand to strike the other and caught the flash of a
pistol-barrel excitedly flourished.

"Humph!" said Mr. Farrington.

He was alone in his beautiful house in Brakely Square. His butler, the
cook, and one sewing maid and the chauffeur were attending the servants'
ball which the Manley-Potters were giving. Louder grew the voices on the
pavement.

"Thief!" shrilled a voice in French, "Am I to be robbed of----" and the
rest was indistinguishable.

There was a policeman on point duty at the other side of the square. Mr.
Farrington's fingers rubbed the glass with greater energy, and his
anxious eyes looked left and right for the custodian of the law.

He crept down the stairs, opened the metal flap of the letter-box and
listened. It was not difficult to hear all they said, though they had
dropped their voices, for they stood at the foot of the steps.

"What is the use?" said one in French. "There is a reward large enough
for two--but for him--my faith! there is money to be made, sufficient
for twenty. It is unfortunate that we should meet on similar errands,
but I swear to you I did not desire to betray you----" The voice sank.

Mr. Farrington chewed the butt of his cigar in the darkness of the hall
and pieced together the jigsaw puzzle of this disjointed conversation.
These men must be associates of Montague--Montague Fallock, who else?

Montague Fallock, the blackmailer for whom the police of Europe were
searching, and individually and separately they had arranged to
blackmail him--or betray him.

The fact that T. B. Smith also had a house in Brakely Square, and that
T. B. Smith was an Assistant Commissioner of the police, and most
anxious to meet Montague Fallock in the flesh, might supply reason
enough to the logical Mr. Farrington for this conversation outside his
respectable door.

"Yes, I tell you," said the second man, angrily, "that I have arranged
to see M'sieur--you must trust me----"

"We go together," said the other, definitely, "I trust no man, least of
all a confounded Neapolitan----"

Constable Habit had not heard the sound of quarrelling voices, as far
as could be gathered from subsequent inquiry. His statement, now in the
possession of T. B. Smith, distinctly says, "I heard nothing unusual."

But suddenly two shots rang out.

"Clack--clack!" they went, the unmistakable sound of an automatic pistol
or pistols, then a