Anyway, I owe you five hundred pounds," said Sir John to Malcolm
Sage; "and, dammit! it's worth it," he added.

Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders as he rose to go.

"I was sorry to have to hit him," he said regretfully, "but I was
afraid of that knife. A man can do a lot of damage with a thing like
that. That's why I told you not to let your men attempt to take him,
Wensdale."

"How did you know what sort of knife it was?" asked the inspector.

"Oh! I motored down here, and the car broke down. Incidentally I
made a lot of acquaintances, including Callice's patrol-leader, a
bright lad. He told me a lot of things about Callice and his ways. A
remarkable product the boy scout," he added. "Kipling calls him 'the
friend of all the world.'"

Sir John looked across at Inspector Wensdale, who was strongly
tempted to wink.

"Don't think too harshly of Callice," said Malcolm Sage as he shook
hands with Sir John. "It might easily have been you or I, had we
been a little purer in mind and thought."

And with that he passed out of the room with Inspector Wensdale
followed by Sir John Hackblock, who was endeavouring to interpret
the exact meaning of the remark.

"They said he was a clever devil," he muttered as he returned to the
library after seeing his guests off, "and, dammit! they were right."

CHAPTER VI THE STOLEN ADMIRALTY MEMORANDUM

I

"Well," cried Tims, one Saturday night, as he pushed open the
kitchen door of the little flat he occupied over the garage. "How's
the cook, the stove, and the supper?"

"I'm busy," said Mrs. Tims, a little, fair woman, with blue eyes, an
impertinent nose, and the inspiration of neatness in her dress, as
she altered the position of a saucepan on the stove and put two
plates into the oven to warm.

This was the invariable greeting between husband and wife. Tims went
up behind her, gripped her elbows to her side, and kissed her
noisily.

"I told you I was busy," she said.

"You did, Emmelina," he responded. "I heard you say so, and how's
his Nibs?"

The last remark was addressed to an object that was crawling towards
him with incoherent cries and gurgles of delight. Stooping down,
Tims picked up his eighteen-months-old son and held him aloft,
chuckling and mouthing his glee.

"You'll drop him one of these days," said Mrs. Tims, "and then
there'll be a pretty hullaballoo."

"Well, he's fat enough to bounce," was the retort. "Ain't you,
Jimmy?"

Neith