eagerly if there had not been a penny hanging to it. I can't tell you
exactly why I feel so bitterly about him, but if I can really get my hands
on to the man who calls himself Jocelyn Thew, it will be one of the
happiest days of my life."

"You really know something about him, then? He really is a bad lot?"
Crawshay asked eagerly.

"The worst that ever breathed," Brightman declared, "the bravest, coolest,
best-bred scoundrel who ever mocked the guardians of the law. Mind you, I
am not saying that he hasn't done other things. He has travelled and fought
in many countries, but when he comes back to civilisation he can't rest.
The world has to hear of him. Things move in New York underground. The
moment he takes rooms at the Carlton-Ritz, things happen in a way that they
have never happened before, and we know that there's genius at the back of
it all, and Jocelyn Thew smiles in our faces. I tell you that if anything
could have kept me in America, although I very much prefer Liverpool, the
chance of laying my hands on this man would have done it."

Through the swing doors, almost as Brightman had concluded his speech, came
Jocelyn Thew. He was dressed in light tweeds, carefully fashioned by an
English tailor. His tie and collar, his grey Homburg hat with its black
band, his beautifully polished and not too new brown shoes, were exactly
according to the decrees of Bond Street. He seemed to be making his way to
the bar, but at the sight of them he paused and strolled across the room
towards them.

"Getting your land legs, Mr. Crawshay?" he enquired.

"Pretty well, thank you. You finished your business in Liverpool quickly, I