ous. The
baggage was just heavy truck; the sort of thing that a passenger leaves
in the docks for a day or two till he has arranged for their carriage.
The trunks disturbed, included one of the First Secretary to a High
Commissioner in Congoland, a dress basket of a Mrs. Somebody-or-other
whose name I forget--she is the wife of a Commissioner--and a small box
belonging to Dr. Goldworthy, who has just come back from the Congo where
he has been investigating sleeping sickness."

"Doesn't sound thrilling," said T. B. thoughtfully; "but why do swagger
criminals come in their motor-cars with their pistols and masks--they
were masked if I remember the printed account aright?" Ela nodded. "Why
do they come on so prosaic an errand?"

"Tell me," said Ela, laconically, then, "What is your trouble?"

"Montague," said the other, with a grim smile, "Montague Fallock,
Esquire. He has been demanding a modest ten thousand pounds from Lady
Constance Dex--Lady Constance being a sister of the Hon. and Rev. Harry
Dex, Vicar of Great Bradley. The usual threat--exposure of an old love
affair.

"Dex is a large, bland aristocrat under the thumb of his sister; the
lady, a masterful woman, still beautiful; the indiscretion partly atoned
by the death of the man. He died in Africa. Those are the circumstances
that count. The brother knows, but our friend Montague will have it that
the world should know. He threatens to murder, if necessary, should she
betray his demands to the police. This is not the first time he has
uttered this threat. Farrington, the millionaire, was the last man, and
curiously, a friend of Lady Dex."

"It's weird--the whole business," mused Ela. "The two men you found in
the square didn't help you?"

T. B., pacing the apartment with his hand in his pocket, shook his head.

"Ferreira de Coasta was one, and Henri Sans the other. Both men
undoubtedly in the employ of Montague, at some time or other. The former
was a well-educated man, who may have acted as intermediary. He was an
architect who recently got into trouble in Paris over money matters.
Sans was a courier agent, a more or less trusted messenger. There was
nothing on either body to lead me to Montague Fallock, save this."

He pulled open the drawer of his desk and produced a small silver
locket. It was engraved in the ornate style of cheap jewellery and bore
a half-obliterated monogram.

He pried open the leaf of the locket with his thumbnail. There was
noth