was
the name modestly displayed on No. Twelve's card in the hall beneath,
closed the door carefully. He appeared to trust Winter, up to a point,
but evidently found it hard to regain self-control.

"Not here!" he whispered. "In five minutes--at the Regency Cafe,
Piccadilly. Let me go alone."

Winter nodded, and the other darted downstairs. The detective followed
slowly. Crossing the street at an angle, he looked up at the
smoke-stained elevation of Gloucester Mansions.

"A well-filled nest," he communed, "and a nice lot of prize birds in
it, upon my word!"

The last time he had set eyes on a certain notably expert forger and
counterfeiter a judge was passing sentence of five years' penal
servitude and three years' police supervision on a felon; and the
judge had not addressed the prisoner as Giovanni Maselli, but as John
Christopher Drake!

CHAPTER VIII

COINCIDENCES

Winter was blessed with an unfailing memory for dates and faces.
Before he had emerged from the main exit of Gloucester Mansions he had
fixed Drake as committed from the Old Bailey during the Summer assizes
four years earlier, released from Portland on ticket of leave at the
beginning of the current year, and marked in the "failure to report"
list.

"Poor devil!" he said to himself. "The very man for my purpose!"

Therefore, seeing his way clearly, his glance was not so encouraging
nor his voice so pleasant when he found the ex-convict awaiting him in
the Regency Cafe. Nevertheless, obeying the curious code which links
the police and noted criminals in a sort of _camaraderie_, he asked
the man what he would drink, and ordered cigarettes as well.

"Now, Maselli," he said, when they were seated at a marble-topped
table in a corner of a well-filled room, "since we know each other so
well we can converse plainly, eh?"

"Yes, sir, but I'm done for now. I've been trying to earn an honest
living, and have succeeded, but now----"

The man spoke brokenly. His spirit was crushed. He saw in his mind's
eye the frowning portals of a convict settlement, and heard the boom
of a giant knocker reverberating through gaunt aisles of despair.

"If you reflect that I am calling you Maselli, you'll drink that
whisky and soda, and listen to what I have to say," broke in Winter
severely.

The other looked up at him, and a gleam of hope illumined the pallid
cheeks. He drank eagerly, and lighted a cigarette with trembling
fingers.

"If only I am given