for what I am."

"Absolutely Fate," Sir Horace said, when, after a long examination, the
man put the question to him again. "It is the criminal brain fully
developed, horribly pronounced. God help you, my poor fellow; but a man
simply could not be other than a thief and a criminal with an organ like
that. There's no hope for you to escape your natural bent except by
death. You can't be honest. You can't rise. You never will rise: it's
useless to fight against it!"

"I will fight against it! I will rise! I will! I will! I will!" he cried
out vehemently. "There is a way to put such craft and cunning to
account; a way to fight the devil with his own weapons and crush him
under the weight of his own gifts, and that way I'll take!

"Mr. Narkom"--he whirled and walked toward the superintendent, his hand
outstretched, his eager face aglow--"Mr. Narkom, help me! Take me under
your wing. Give me a start, give me a chance, give me a lift on the way
up!"

"Good heaven, man, you--you don't mean----?"

"I do. I do. So help me Heaven, I do. All my life I've fought against
the law, now let me switch over and fight with it. I'm tired of being
Cleek, the thief; Cleek, the burglar. Make me Cleek, the detective, and
let us work together, hand in hand, for a common cause and for the
public good. Will you, Mr. Narkom? Will you?"

"Will I? Won't I!" said Narkom, springing forward and gripping his hand.
"Jove! what a detective you will make. Bully boy! Bully boy!"

"It's a compact, then?"

"It's a compact--Cleek."

"Thank you," he said in a choked voice. "You've given me my chance; now
watch me live up to it. The Vanishing Cracksman has vanished forever,
Mr. Narkom, and it's Cleek, the detective--Cleek of the Forty Faces from
this time on. Now, give me your riddles, I'll solve them one by one."

CHAPTER II

THE PROBLEM OF THE RED CRAWL

It was half-past two o'clock in the morning of July 25, when the
constable on duty at the head of Clarges Street, Piccadilly, was
startled to see a red limousine swing into that quiet thoroughfare from
the Curzon Street end, come to an abrupt halt, and a man who had every
appearance of a sailor alight therefrom, fish a key from his pocket, and
admit himself to a certain house. This house for more than a year had
been known to be occupied only by one Captain Burbage, a retired seaman
of advanced years, his elderly housekeeper, a deaf and dumb
maid-of-all-work, and a snub-nosed, ginger-ha