er. But she thrust it aside. "My boy's
waiting round the corner!" she said, viciously. "Just see what he'll do
when I tell him!"

"Step inside," repeated Harley, quietly. "Or accompany me to Kennington
Lane Police Station--whichever you think would be the more amusing."

"What d'you mean!" blustered the girl. "You can't kid me. I haven't done
anything."

"Then do as I tell you. You have got to answer my questions--either here
or at the station. Which shall it be?"

He had realized the facts of the situation from the moment when the
girl had made her sudden appearance, and he knew that his only chance of
defeating his cunning opponents was to frighten her. Delicate measures
would be wasted upon such a character. But even as the girl, flinging
herself sullenly about, returned into the passage, he found himself
admiring the resourcefulness of his unknown enemies.

A tired-looking woman carrying a child appeared from somewhere and
stared apathetically at Harley.

Addressing the angry girl: "Another o' your flames, Polly?" she inquired
in a dull voice. "Has he made you change your mind already?"

The girl addressed as "Polly" dropped her grip on the floor and, banging
open a door, entered a shabby little sitting room, followed by Harley.
Dropping onto a ragged couch, she stared obstinately out of the dirty
window.

"Excuse me, madam, for intruding," said Harley to the woman with the
baby, "but Polly has some information of use to the police. Oh, don't be
alarmed. She has committed no crime. I shall only detain her for a few
minutes."

He bowed to the tired-looking woman and closed the sitting-room door.
"Now, young woman," he said, sternly, adopting this official manner of
his friend, Inspector Wessex, "I am going to give you one warning, and
one only. Although I don't think you know it, you have got mixed up with
a gang of crooks. Play the game with me, and I'll stand by you. Try any
funny business and you'll go to jail."

The official manner had its effect. Miss Jones looked sharply across at
the speaker. "I haven't done anything," she said, sullenly.

Paul Harley advanced and stood over her. "What about the trick with the
serviettes at Sir Charles Abingdon's?" he asked, speaking the words in
slow and deliberate fashion.

The shaft went home, but the girl possessed a stock of obstinate
courage. "What about it?" she inquired, but her voice had changed.

"Who made you do it?"

"What's that to you?"

Paul