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’is room every day and you wouldn’t know it…”
    With the three behind him Rezaire at last entered the scullery and drew a deep breath.
    â€œNow, you wait here,” he whispered, “and I’ll go out into the back and see if the way is clear.”
    â€œRemember what I said,” came Long Sam’s answer, closely followed by Vivienne’s: “Oh, shut up, Sam, and leave him alone. Take charge yourself if you’re suspicious; only you know you haven’t got the brains for it.”
    Rezaire touched her hand in gratitude and then began to draw back the bolts as silently as he could.
    From years of experience, so skillfully did he work, that the first intimation the others had of the opening of the door was the appearance of a patch of night sky, dun-colored from the reflected glare of the Strand, appearing above the dark silhouette of the houses in the next street behind.
    Rezaire stepped out softly into the dirty area of hard packed earth, littered with rubbish, which called itself the back garden and started along in the shadow of the right hand wall. There was only a very faint light from the windows of the houses behind him and he could not see more than a yard or two. At the end of the garden, he knew, was a door which opened into a narrow alley used by dustmen. This he intended to open so as to have everything ready to conduct the retreat of his three partners as noiselessly as possible, for there were bound to be police watchers at the back of the next house.
    The bolt, however, was rusty and he had difficulty with it, so that despite his care, it suddenly gave way with a slight bang. At the same instant he heard a sound somewhere on his left. He was not alone in the garden. His brain, keenly on the alert, flashed him the knowledge that this could be none other than one of the police watching the other house. Instantly he took the bold and unexpected course.
    â€œWho’s there?” he called out sharply and was glad he had done so for a second later a beam of light from an electric torch flashed on him. His challenge would have carried little conviction, had it been delivered after the light’s fall on him.
    â€œWho are you?” asked the man behind the lamp, his suspicions already well on the way to being allayed. For surely the other would not have taken the initiative, if he had been a wrong-doer.
    â€œMy name’s Carlyle,” replied Rezaire glibly. “I live in this house. What are you doing here in the garden? Come on, my man,” he went on angrily, “I don’t know how you got in here, but out you go.”
    â€œThat’s all right, sir,” replied the other in an undertone, turning the light on himself for a minute. “I’m a police officer. On a job here watching the next house.” Apparently by the sound he got down from a box on which he had been peering over the wall into the blackness of the next garden.
    â€œOh, what? Burglars?” queried Rezaire, professing great interest. He realized that Long Sam hidden in the scullery must already be suspicious of him for talking to a policeman, and a fear, which the presence of the detective could not inspire, came upon him at the thought of Sam’s vindictiveness. But he knew it was the only thing to do. His presence in the garden at that time was not too easily explained and at the moment, in fact, was only resting on the foundation of his bluff.
    â€œNo, not exactly,” replied the man. “Something more important.”
    â€œCan I help? Perhaps they’re getting away while we’re talking,” he suggested artlessly.
    The other remounted the box swiftly. “I’ll let you know if I want help,” he said shortly over his shoulder and Rezaire smiling to himself turned to go into the house.
    He had barely gone two paces before he realized that a fresh and startling development was taking place within the house. Mrs. Gibson and her friend,