e of property. I cannot imagine that Mr. Fetter would ever take money
from us or that he knew of this business--I hope not, because he seems a
very respectable--gentleman."

The detective looked at the card again.

"What is this story of the Spillsbury deal?" he asked.

"What is that story of the Spillsbury deal?" said the colonel.

He had a trick of repeating questions--it was a trick which frequently
gave him a very necessary breathing space.

"Why, there's nothing to it. I bought the motor works in Coventry. I
admit it was a good bargain. There's no law against making a profit. You
know what business is."

The detective knew what business was. But Spillsbury was young and wild,
and his wildness assumed an unpleasant character. It was the kind of
wildness which people do not talk about--at least, not nice people. He
had inherited a considerable fortune, and the control of four factories,
the best of which was the one under discussion.

"I know Spillsbury," said the detective, "and I happen to know
Spillsbury's works. I also know that he sold you a property worth
L300,000 in the open market for a sum which was grossly
inadequate--L30,000, was it not?"

"L35,000," corrected the colonel. "There's no law against making a
bargain," he repeated.

"You've been very fortunate with your bargains."

Stafford King rose and picked up his hat.

"You bought Transome's Hotel from young Mrs. Rachemeyer for a sum which
was less than a twentieth of its worth. You bought Lord Bethon's slate
quarries for L12,000--their value in the open market was at least
L100,000. For the past fifteen years you have been acquiring property at
an amazing rate--and at an amazing price."

The colonel smiled.

"You're paying me a great compliment, Mr. Stafford King," he said with a
touch of sarcasm, "and I will never forget it. But don't let us get away
from the object of your coming. I am reporting to you, as a police
officer, that I have been threatened by a blackguard, a thief, and very
likely a murderer. I will not be responsible for any action I may
take--Jack o' Judgment indeed!" he growled.

"Have you ever seen him?" asked Stafford.

The colonel frowned.

"He's alive, ain't he?" he growled. "If I'd seen him, do you think he'd
be writing me letters? It is your job to pinch him. If you people down
at Scotland Yard spent less time poking into the affairs of honest
business men----"

Stafford King was smiling now, frankly and undis