duly," said the colonel.

There was a tap at the door and the colonel swung round.

"Who's that?" he asked.

"Can I come in?" said a voice.

Crewe was frowning.

"Who is it?" asked the colonel.

The door opened slowly. A gloved hand, and then a white, hooded face,
slipped through the narrow entry.

"Jack o' Judgment! Poor old Jack o' Judgment come to make a call,"
chuckled the hateful voice. "Down, dog; down!" He flourished the
long-barrelled revolver theatrically, then turned with a chuckle of
laughter to the gaping Mr. Crotin.

"Poor Jacob!" he crooned, "he has sold his birthright for a mess of
pottage! Don't touch that paper, Crewe, or you die the death!"

His hand leapt out and snatched the transfer, which he thrust into the
hand of the wool-spinner.

"Get out and go home, my poor sheep," he said, "back to the blankets! Do
you think they'd be satisfied with one mill? They'd come for a mill
every year and they'd never leave you till you were dead or broke. Go to
the police, my poor lamb, and tell them your sad story. Go to the
admirable Mr. Stafford King--he'll fall on your neck. You won't, I see
you won't!"

The laughter rose again, and then swiftly with one arm he swung back the
merchant and stood in silence till the door of the flat slammed.

The colonel found his voice.

"I don't know who you are," he said, breathing heavily, "but I'll make a
bargain with you. I've offered a hundred thousand pounds to anybody who
gets you. I'll offer you the same amount to leave me alone."

"Make it a hundred thousand millions!" said Jack o' Judgment in his
curious, squeaky voice, "give me the moon and an apple, and I'm yours!"

He was gone before they could realise he had passed through the door,
and he had left the flat before either moved.

"Quick! The window!" said the colonel.

The window commanded a view of the front entrance of Albemarle House,
and the entry was well lighted. They reached the window in time to see
the Yorkshireman emerge with unsteady steps and stride into the night.
They waited for their visitor to follow. A minute, two minutes passed,
and then somebody walked down the steps to the light. It was a woman,
and as she turned her face the colonel gasped.

"Maisie White!" he said in a wondering voice. "What the devil is she
doing here?"

CHAPTER VIII

THE LISTENER AT THE DOOR

Maisie White had taken up her abode in a modest flat in Doughty Street,
Bloomsbury. The building ha