o, there's no doubt
about that. A very perfect little gentleman!"

"He's in London?" said McNorton. "That simplifies matters."

"To my mind it complicates rather than simplifies," said Beale. "London
is a vast proposition. Can you give us any idea as to the hour the
burglary was planned for?"

"Eleven," said Milsom promptly, "that is to say, in a little over an
hour's time."

"And you have no idea of the locality?"

"Somewhere in the East of London. We were to have met at Aldgate."

"I don't understand it," said McNorton. "Do you suggest that the code is
in the hands of somebody who is not willing to part with it? And now
that he no longer needs it for you, is there any reason why he should
wait?"

"Every reason," replied Milsom, and Stanford Beale nodded in agreement.
"It was not only for me he wanted it. He as good as told me that unless
he recovered it he would be unable to communicate with his men."

"What do you think he'll do?"

"He'll get Bridgers to assist him. Bridgers is a pretty sore man, and
the doctor knows just where he can find him."

As Oliva listened an idea slowly dawned in her mind that she might
supply a solution to the mystery of the missing code. It was a wildly
improbable theory she held, but even so slender a possibility was not to
be discarded. She slipped from the group and went back to her room. For
the accommodation of his ward, James Kitson had taken the adjoining
suite to his own and had secured a lady's maid from an agency for the
girl's service. She passed through the sitting-room to her own bedroom,
and found the maid putting the room ready for the night.

"Minnie," she said, throwing a quick glance about the apartment, "where
did you put the clothes I took off when I came?"

"Here, miss."

The girl opened the wardrobe and Oliva made a hurried search.

"Did you find--anything, a little ticket?"

The girl smiled.

"Oh yes, miss. It was in your stocking."

Oliva laughed.

"I suppose you thought it was rather queer, finding that sort of thing
in a girl's stocking," she asked, but the maid was busily opening the
drawers of the dressing-table in search of something.

"Here it is, miss."

She held a small square ticket in her hand and held it with such
disapproving primness that Oliva nearly laughed.

"I found it in your stocking, miss," she said again.

"Quite right," said Oliva coolly, "that's where I put it. I always carry
my pawn tickets in my stocking."

The