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his waistcoat pocket.”
    Sir Ralph smiled sarcastically.
    â€œThere are a dozen objects in my collection which might be carried in a man’s waistcoat pocket. No!” he corrected himself, “there are at least fifty. By the way,” he said suddenly, “you’ve never asked to see my collection.”
    Tillizini shook his head vigorously, amusement in his eyes.
    â€œThat would be unnecessary,” he said. “I know every article you have, Sir Ralph, its size, its origin, almost the price you paid for it.”
    Sir Ralph turned to him in surprise.
    â€œBut how?” he asked wonderingly. “I have only my private catalogue, and no copy exists outside my house.”
    â€œVery good,” said Tillizini. “Let me enumerate them.”
    He told them off on his hands, finger by finger.
    â€œNumber 1, an Egyptian locket from the Calliciti collection—gold, studded with uncut rubies—value, £420. Number 2, a plaque of Tanagra ware, rather an unusual specimen in a frame of soft gold, inscribed with Syrian mottoes. Number 3, a crystal medallion, taken by Napoleon from Naples, on the inverse side a bust of Beatrice D’Este, on the reverse side Il Moro, the Duke of Milan, value—by the way, I didn’t give you the previous value because I don’t know it—£600. Number 4, a Venetian charm in the shape of a harp—”
    â€œBut,” gasped Sir Ralph, “these facts, regarding my collection are only known to me.”
    â€œThey are also known to me,” said the other.
    The train had come in as they were speaking. Tillizini walked towards an empty carriage, and entered it. He closed the door behind him, and leant out of the window.
    â€œThere are many things to be learnt, and this is not the least of them,” he said. “Between the man with the secret, and the man who knows that secret, there are intermediaries who have surprised the first and informed the second.”
    Sir Ralph was puzzling this out when the train drew out of the station, and its tail lights vanished through the tunnel which penetrates Burboro’ Hill.
    Left to himself, Tillizini locked both doors and pulled down all the blinds of his carriage. He had no doubt as to the sinister intentions of the man or men who had dogged his footsteps so persistently since he had left London. If he was to be killed, he decided that it should not be by a shot fired by a man from the footboard.
    It was a fast train from Burboro’ to London, and the first stop would be at London Bridge. He took the central seat of the carriage, put his feet up upon the opposite cushions, laid his Browning pistol on the seat beside him, and composed himself to read. He had half a dozen London papers in the satchel which was his inseparable companion.
    One of these he had systematically exhausted on the journey down; he now turned his attention to another. His scrutiny was concentrated upon the advertisement columns. He did not bother with the agonies, because he knew that no up-to-date criminal would employ such method of communication.
    One by one he examined the prosaic announcements under the heading “Domestic Servants Wanted.” He reached the end without discovering anything exciting. He laid the paper down and took up another.
    Half-way down the “Domestic Wants” column his eye was arrested by a notice. To the ordinary reader it was the commonplace requirement of an average housewife. It ran:—
    â€œCook-General; Italian cooking preferred. Four in family. Fridays; not Thursdays as previously announced. State amount willing to give.”
    The address was an advertising agency in the City. He read it again; took a little penknife from his waistcoat pocket, and carefully cut it from the paper.
    There were many peculiarities about that announcement. There was a certain egotism in the “Fridays, not Thursdays as previously announced,” which was unusual in this type