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?"
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