ow to overset anybody who
might observe and pursue the thieves.

On an investigation by London detectives, however, a feature of
singularity was brought to light. There had plainly been only one thief at
work at Radcot Hall, and no other had been inside the grounds. Alone he
had planted the wires, opened the window, screwed the door, and picked the
lock of the safe. Clearly this was a thief of the most accomplished
description.

Some few days passed, and, although the police had made various arrests,
they appeared to be all mistakes, and the suspected persons were released
one after another. I was talking of the robbery with Hewitt at lunch, and
asked him if he had received any commission to hunt for the missing
jewels.

"No," Hewitt replied, "I haven't been commissioned. They are offering an
immense reward however--a very pleasant sum, indeed. I have had a short
note from Radcot Hall informing me of the amount, and that's all. Probably
they fancy that I may take the case up as a speculation, but that is a
great mistake. I'm not a beginner, and I must be commissioned in a regular
manner, hit or miss, if I am to deal with the case. I've quite enough
commissions going now, and no time to waste hunting for a problematical
reward."

But we were nearer a clue to the Quinton jewels than we then supposed.

We talked of other things, and presently rose and left the restaurant,
strolling quietly toward home. Some little distance from the Strand, and
near our own door, we passed an excited Irishman--without doubt an
Irishman by appearance and talk--who was pouring a torrent of angry
complaints in the ears of a policeman. The policeman obviously thought
little of the man's grievances, and with an amused smile appeared to be
advising him to go home quietly and think no more about it. We passed on
and mounted our stairs. Something interesting in our conversation made me
stop for a little while at Hewitt's office door on my way up, and, while I
stood there, the Irishman we had seen in the street mounted the stairs. He
was a poorly dressed but sturdy-looking fellow, apparently a laborer, in a
badly-worn best suit of clothes. His agitation still held him, and without
a pause he immediately burst out:

"Which of ye jintlemen will be Misther Hewitt, sor?"

"This is Mr. Hewitt," I said. "Do you want him?"

"It's protecshin I want, sor--protecshin! I spake to the polis, an' they
laff at me, begob. Foive days have I lived in London