tal
manager."

Lyne stopped him with a gesture and lowered his voice.

"I want you to forget that for a little while, Mr. Tarling," he said. "In
fact, I am going to introduce you to Milburgh, and maybe, Milburgh can
help us in my scheme. I do not say that Milburgh is honest, or that my
suspicions were unfounded. But for the moment I have a much greater
business on hand, and you will oblige me if you forget all the things
I have said about Milburgh. I will ring for him now."

He walked to a long table which ran half the length of the room, took up
a telephone which stood at one end, and spoke to the operator.

"Tell Mr. Milburgh to come to me in the board-room, please," he said.

Then he went back to his visitor.

"That matter of Milburgh can wait," he said. "I'm not so sure that I
shall proceed any farther with it. Did you make inquiries at all? If so,
you had better tell me the gist of them before Milburgh comes."

Tarling took a small white card from his pocket and glanced at it.

"What salary are you paying Milburgh?"

"Nine hundred a year," replied Lyne.

"He is living at the rate of five thousand," said Tarling. "I may even
discover that he's living at a much larger rate. He has a house up the
river, entertains very lavishly----"

But the other brushed aside the report impatiently.

"No, let that wait," he cried. "I tell you I have much more important
business. Milburgh may be a thief----"

"Did you send for me, sir?"

He turned round quickly. The door had opened without noise, and a man
stood on the threshold of the room, an ingratiating smile on his face,
his hands twining and intertwining ceaselessly as though he was washing
them with invisible soap.

CHAPTER II

THE HUNTER DECLINES HIS QUARRY

"This is Mr. Milburgh," said Lyne awkwardly.

If Mr. Milburgh had heard the last words of his employer, his face did
not betray the fact. His smile was set, and not only curved the lips but
filled the large, lustreless eyes. Tarling gave him a rapid survey and
drew his own conclusions. The man was a born lackey, plump of face, bald
of head, and bent of shoulder, as though he lived in a perpetual gesture
of abasement.

"Shut the door, Milburgh, and sit down. This is Mr. Tarling. Er--Mr.
Tarling is--er--a detective."

"Indeed, sir?"

Milburgh bent a deferential head in the direction of Tarling, and the
detective, watching for some change in colour, some twist of face--any
of those signs w