having been suborned to the task by themselves, treading with a firm foot on the expert’s favourite corn within five minutes of their meeting.

“You!” said Arthur Mifflin, with scorn.

“Me—or, rather, I!”

“You! Why, you couldn’t break into an egg unless it was a poached one.”

“What’ll you bet?” said Jimmy.

The Strollers began to sit up and take notice. The magic word “bet”, when uttered in that room, had rarely failed to add a zest to life. They looked expectantly to Arthur Mifflin.

“Go to bed, Jimmy,” said the portrayer of cracksmen. “I’ll come with you and tuck you in. A nice, strong cup of tea in the morning, and you won’t know there has ever been anything the matter with you.”

A howl of disapproval rose from the company. Indignant voices accused Arthur Mifflin of having a yellow streak. Encouraging voices urged him not to be a quitter.

“See! They scorn you!” said Jimmy. “And rightly. Be a man, Arthur. What’ll you bet?”

Mr. Mifflin regarded him with pity.

“You don’t know what you’re taking on, Jimmy,” he said. “You’re half a century behind the times. You have an idea that all a burglar needs is a mask, a blue chin, and a dark lantern. I tell you he requires a highly specialised education. I’ve been talking to these detective fellows, and I know. Now, take your case, you worm. Have you a thorough knowledge of chemistry, physics, toxicology——?”

“Of course I have.”

“Electricity and microscopy?”

“You have discovered my secret.”

“Can you use an oxyacetylene blow-pipe?”

“I never travel without one.”

“What do you know about the administration of anaesthetics?”

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