d to the wriggling, kicking, right foot of the man
upon whom he had secured that dreadful hold. A bend forward--a turn of
the hip--and his man fell crashing to the floor.

"That's called the Cornish grip!" panted the detective, dropping all his
heaviness upon the recumbent form.

_Click! Click!_

The handcuffed man wriggled into a sitting posture.

"You goddarned son of a skunk!" he gurgled--and stopped short--sat,
white-faced, manacled, looking up at his captor.

"Jumpin' Jenkins!" he whispered--"it's that plug-headed guy, Harborne!"

"Alden!" cried Harborne. "Alden! What the----!"

"Same to you!" snarled the Agency man. "Call yourself a detective! I
reckon you'd make a better show as a coal-heaver!"

When conversation--if not civil conversation, at least conversation
which did not wholly consist in mutual insult--became possible, the two
in that silent hall compared notes.

"Where in the name of wonder did you get the key?" demanded Harborne.

"House agent!" snapped the other. "I work on the lines that I'm after a
clever man, not trying to round up a herd of bullocks!"

Revolvers in readiness, they searched the house. No living thing was to
be found. Only one room was unfurnished. It opened off the hall, and was
on a lower level. The floor was paved and the walls plastered. An
unglazed window opened on a garden, and a deep recess opposite to the
door held only shadows and emptiness.

"It's a darned pie-trap!" muttered Mr. Aloys. X. Alden. "And you and me
are the pies properly!"

"But d'you mean to say he's going to leave all this furniture----!"

"Hired!" snapped the American. "Hired! I knew that before I came!"

Detective-Sergeant Harborne raised a hand to his throbbing head--and
sank dizzily into a cushioned hall-seat.

CHAPTER XXVIII

AT THE PALACE--AND LATER

How self-centred is man, and how darkly do his own petty interests
overshadow the giant things of life. Thrones may totter and fall,
monarchs pass to the limbo of memories, whilst we wrestle with an
intractable collar-stud. Had another than Inspector Sheffield been
driving to Buckingham Palace that day, he might have found his soul
attuned to the martial tone about him; for "War! War!" glared from
countless placards, and was cried aloud by countless newsboys. War was
in the air. Nothing else, it seemed, was thought of, spoken of, sung of.

But Sheffield at that time was quite impervious to the subtle influences
which had inspire