CHAPTER I

THE LAW


Mr. Maverick Narkom, Superintendent of Scotland Yard, sat before the
litter of papers upon his desk. His brow was puckered, his fat face red
with anxiety, and there was about him the air of one who has reached the
end of his tether.

He faced the man opposite, and fairly ground his teeth upon his lower
lip.

"Dash it, Cleek!" he said for the thirty-third time, "I don't know what
to make of it, I don't, indeed! The thing's at a deadlock. Hammond
reports to me this morning that another bank in Hendon--a little
one-horse affair--has been broken into. That makes the third this week,
and as usual every piece of gold is gone. Not a bank note touched, not
a bond even fingered. And the thief--or thieves--made as clean a get-away
as you ever laid your eyes on! I tell you, man, it's enough to send an
average person daft! The whole of Scotland Yard's been on the thing, and
we haven't traced 'em yet! What do you make of it, old chap?"

"As pretty a kettle of fish as I ever came across," responded Cleek, with
an enigmatic smile. "And I can't help having a sneaking admiration for
the person who's engineering the whole thing. How he must laugh at the
state of the old Yard, with never a clue to settle down upon, never a
thread to pick up and unravel! All of which is unbusinesslike of me, I've
no doubt. But, cheer up, man, I've a piece of news which ought to help
matters on a bit. Just came from the War Office, you know."