world. Sir Horace had gracefully come to the rescue and given her a home
and a refuge, being doubly repaid for it by the affection and care she
gave him and the manner in which she assumed control of a household
which hitherto had been left wholly to the attention of servants, Lady
Wyvern having long been dead, and her two daughters of that type which
devotes itself entirely to the pleasures of society and the demands of
the world. A regular pepper-box of a man--testy, short-tempered,
exacting--Sir Horace had flown headlong to Superintendent Narkom's
office as soon as that gentleman's note, telling him of the Vanishing
Cracksman's latest threat, had been delivered, and, on Miss Lorne's
advice, had withheld all news of it from the members of his household
and brought her with him.

"I tell you that Scotland Yard must do something--must! must! must!"
stormed he as Narkom, resenting that stigma upon the institution,
puckered up his lips and looked savage. "That fellow has always kept his
word--always, in spite of your precious band of muffs--and if you let
him keep it this time, when there's upwards of £40,000 worth of jewels
in the house, it will be nothing less than a national disgrace, and you
and your wretched collection of bunglers will be covered with deserved
ridicule."

Narkom swung round, smarting under these continued taunts, these
"flings" at the efficiency of his prided department, his nostrils
dilated, his temper strained to the breaking-point.

"Well, he won't keep it this time--I promise you that!" he rapped out
sharply. "Sooner or later every criminal, no matter how clever, meets
his Waterloo--and this shall be his! I'll take this affair in hand
myself, Sir Horace. I'll not only send the pick of my men to guard the