contains the Secret House?"

"I've heard something about the place," said Mr. Farrington with a
little smile.

"C. D.," said the detective, making for the door.

"What?"

"Lady Constance Dex's initials, I mean," said T. B.

"Yes--why?"

"Those are the initials on the gold scent bottle, that is all," said the
detective. "Good night."

He left Mr. Farrington biting his finger nails--a habit he fell into
when he was seriously perturbed.

CHAPTER III

T. B. Smith sat alone in his office in Scotland Yard. Outside, the
Embankment, the river, even the bulk of the Houses of Parliament were
blotted out by the dense fog. For two days London had lain under the
pall, and if the weather experts might be relied upon, yet another two
days of fog was to be expected.

The cheery room, with its polished oak panelling and the chaste elegance
of its electroliers, offered every inducement to a lover of comfort to
linger. The fire glowed bright and red in the tiled fireplace, a silver
clock on the mantelpiece ticked musically, and at his hand was a
white-covered tray with a tiny silver teapot, and the paraphernalia
necessary for preparing his meal--that strange tea-supper which was one
of T. B. Smith's eccentricities.

He glanced at the clock; the hands pointed to twenty-five minutes past
one.

He pressed a little button let into the side of the desk, and a few
seconds later there was a gentle tap at the door, and a helmetless
constable appeared.

"Go to the record room and get me"--he consulted a slip of paper on the
desk--"Number G 7941."

The man withdrew noiselessly, and T. B. Smith poured out a cup of tea
for himself.

There was a thoughtful line on his broad forehead, a look of
unaccustomed worry on the handsome face, tanned with the suns of
Southern France. He had come back from his holiday to a task which
required the genius of a superman. He had to establish the identity of
the greatest swindler of modern times, Montague Fallock. And now another
reason existed for his search. To Montague Fallock, or his agent, must
be ascribed the death of two men found in Brakely Square the night
before.

No man had seen Montague; there was no photograph to assist the army of
detectives who were seeking him. His agents had been arrested and
interrogated, but they were but the agents of agents. The man himself
was invisible. He stood behind a steel network of banks and lawyers and
anonymities, unreachable.

The cons