"Very good, sor."

Anisty permitted himself the slightest of smiles, pausing on the stoop to
draw on the chamois gloves. As he did so his eye flickered disinterestedly
over the personality of a man standing on the opposite walk and staring
at the apartment house. He was a short man, of stoutish habit, sloppily
dressed, with a derby pulled down over one eye, a cigar-butt protruding
arrogantly from beneath a heavy black mustache, beefy cheeks, and
thick-soled boots dully polished.

At sight of him the thief was conscious of an inward tremor, followed by
a thrill of excitement like a wave of heat sweeping through his being.
Instantaneously his eyes flashed; then were dulled. Imperturbable,
listless, hall-marked the prey of ennui, he waited, undecided, upon
the stoop, while the watcher opposite, catching sight of him, abruptly
abandoned his slouch and hastened across the street.

"Excuse me" he began in a loud tone, while yet a dozen feet away, "but
ain't this Mr. Maitland?"

Anisty lifted his brows and shoulders at one and the same time and bowed
slightly.

"Well, my good man?"

"I'm a detective from Headquarters, Mr. Maitland. We got a 'phone from
Greenfields, Long Island, this morning--from the local police. Your
butler----"

"Ah! I see; about this man Anisty? You don't mean to tell me--what? I shall