hat fence on the left. Don't
attempt any arrest until our man's well inside. Then, when you hear the
whistle, close in on the door. I'll get back now."

Ten minutes later, though Laurel Cottage presented its usual sad and
lonely aspect, it was efficiently surrounded by three detectives and a
constable.

Sheffield's scientific dispositions were but just completed when a
cursing taxi-man deposited Sheard half way up the road, having declined
resolutely to bump over the ruts any further. Dismissing the man, the
keenest copy-hunter in Fleet Street walked alone to the Cottage, all
unaware that he did so under the scrutiny of four pairs of eyes. Finding
a rusty bell-pull he rang three times. But none answered.

It was at the moment when he turned away that Mr. Alden and an Agency
colleague, who--on this occasion successfully--had tracked him since he
left the _Gleaner_ office, turned the corner by the Village. Seeing him
retracing his steps, they both darted up a plank into an unfinished
house with the agility of true ferrets, and let him pass. As he
re-entered the Village street one was at his heels. Mr. Alden strolled
along to Laurel Cottage.

With but a moment's consideration, he, taking a rapid glance up and down
the road, vaulted the low fence and disposed himself amongst the unkempt
laurel bushes flanking the cottage on the west. The investing forces
thus acquired a fifth member.

Then came the threatened rain.

Falling in a steady downpour, it sang its mournful song through poplar
and shrub. Soon the grey tiled roof of the cottage poured its libation
into spouting gutters, and every rut of the road became a miniature
ditch. But, with dogged persistency, the five watchers stuck to their
posts.

When Sheard had gone away again, Inspector Sheffield had found himself,
temporarily, in a dilemma. It was something he had not foreseen. But,
weighing the chances, he had come to the conclusion to give the others
no signal, but to wait.

At seven minutes past eight, by Mr. Alden's electrically lighted
timepiece, a car or a cab--it was impossible, at that distance, to
determine which--dropped a passenger at the Village end of the road. A
tall figure, completely enveloped in a huge, caped coat, and wearing a
dripping silk hat, walked with a swinging stride towards the ambush--and
entered the gate of the cottage.

M. Duquesne, who, from his damp post in a clump of rhododendrons on the
left of the door had watched him app