t to me at Scotland Yard. If I'm not in, ask for
Mr. Furneaux. You remember Mr. Furneaux?"

A sickly smile admitted the acquaintance. Furneaux had recognized the
same artist's hand in each of many realistic forgeries, and it was
this fact which led to the man's capture and conviction.

"If neither of us is at home, inquire for Mr. Sheldon," went on
Winter. "Note him. He's a stranger to you. If you fail to get hold of
any of us, say simply that Signor Maselli would like to have a word at
our convenience. It will be understood. We sha'n't bother you. Give
another call next time the visitor is in Mrs. Garth's flat, and keep
on doing this until you find one of the three on the line. Don't use
the telephone in Shaftesbury Avenue near the Mansions, because the boy
in charge there might be suspicious, and blab. That is all. You are
not doing Mrs. Garth or her daughter an ill turn, so far as I can
judge. Keep a still tongue. Silence on your part will meet with
silence on mine.... Oh, dash it, have another drink! Where's your
nerve?"

Signor Giovanni Maselli was crying. A phantom had brushed close, but
was passing; nevertheless, its shadow had chilled him to the bone.

Winter walked back to Scotland Yard, and found that Sheldon had gone,
leaving a note which read: "Mr. Robert Fenley is at 104, Hendon Road,
Battersea Park." He was tempted to have a word with Furneaux, but
forbore, and tackled some other departmental business. It was a day
fated, however, to evolve the unexpected. About a quarter to four the
telephone bell rang, and Maselli informed him that Miss Garth's fiance
had just arrived at Gloucester Mansions.

"Excellent," said Winter. "In future, devote your energies to
legitimate engraving. Good-by!"

He rushed out and leaped into a taxi; within five minutes he was at
the door of No. Eleven once more. Let it not be imagined that he had
not weighed the possible consequences of thrusting himself in this
fashion into Hilton Fenley's private affairs. Although the man had
summoned the assistance of Scotland Yard to elucidate the mystery of
his father's death, that fact alone could not secure him immunity from
the law's all-embracing glance. Winter agreed with Furneaux that the
profession of a private banker combined with company promotion is too
often a cloak for roguery in the City of London, and the little he
knew of the Fenley history did not tend to dissipate a certain
nebulous suspicion that their record might no