the world. The colonel added a few particulars
designed, as it might seem to the impartial observer, to prove that he,
the colonel, had ever been an uplifting quantity. (This colonelcy was an
honorary title which he held by custom rather than by law.)

There were people who said that "Snow" Gregory, in his more exalted
moments, talked too much for the colonel's comfort, but people were very
ready to talk unkindly of the colonel, whose wealth was an offence and a
shame.

So they buried "Snow" Gregory, the unknown, and a jury of his
fellow-countrymen returned a verdict of "Wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown."

And that was the end of a sordid tragedy, it seemed, until three months
later there dawned upon Colonel Boundary's busy life a brand new and
alarming factor.

One morning there arrived at his palatial flat in Albemarle Place a
letter. This he opened because it was marked "Private and Personal." It
was not a letter at all--as it proved--but a soiled and stained playing
card, the Knave of Clubs.

He looked at the thing in perplexity, for the fate of his erstwhile
assistant had long since passed from his mind. Then he saw writing on
the margin of the card, and twisting it sideways read:

"JACK O' JUDGMENT."

Nothing more!

"Jack o' Judgment!"

The colonel screwed up his tired eyes as if to shut out a vision.

"Faugh!" he said in disgust and dropped the pasteboard into his
waste-paper basket.

For he had seen a vision--a white face, unshaven and haggard, its lips
parted in a little grin, the smile of "Snow" Gregory on the last time
they had met.

Later came other cards and unpleasant, not to say disconcerting
happenings, and the colonel, taking counsel with himself, determined to
kill two birds with one stone.

It was a daring and audacious thing to have done, and none but Colonel
Dan Boundary would have taken the risk. He knew better than anybody else
that Stafford King had devoted the whole of his time for the past three
years to smashing the Boundary Gang. He knew that this grave young man
with the steady, grey eyes, who sat on the other side of the big Louis
XV table in the ornate private office of the Spillsbury Syndicate, had
won his way to the chief position in the Criminal Intelligence
Department by sheer genius, and that he was, of all men, the most to be
feared.

No greater contrast could be imagined than that which was presented
between the two prot