uirements.

Without a word the girl vanished and, a moment later, William
Johnson placed _Whitaker's Almanack_ on the table, then he in turn
disappeared as silently as Gladys Norman.

Malcolm Sage turned to the calendar, and for some time studied the
pages devoted to the current month (June) and July. As he closed
the book there were three buzzes from the house-telephone, the
signal that he was through to the number required. Drawing the
pedestal-instrument towards him, he put the receiver to his ear.

"That Inspector Wensdale?--Yes! Mr. Sage speaking. It's about the
cattle-maiming business.--I've just heard of it.--I've not decided
yet. I want a large-scale map of the district, with the exact spot
of each outrage indicated, and the date.--To-morrow will do.--Yes,
come round. Give me half an hour with the map first."

Malcolm Sage replaced the receiver as the buzzer sounded, announcing
another client.

II

"So there is nothing?" Malcolm Sage looked up enquiringly from the
map before him.

"Nothing that even a stage detective could turn into a clue," said
Inspector Wensdale, a big, cleanshaven man with hard, alert eyes.

Malcolm Sage continued his study of the map.

"Confound those magazine detectives!" the inspector burst out
explosively. "They've always got a dust-pan full of clues ready made
for 'em."

"To say nothing of finger-prints," said Malcolm Sage dryly. He never
could resist a sly dig at Scotland Yard's faith in finger-prints as
clues instead of means of identification.

"It's a bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Sage," continued the inspector,
confidentially. "Last time _The Daily Telegram_ went for us
because----"

"You haven't found a dust-pan full of clues?" suggested Malcolm Sage,
who was engaged in forming geometrical designs with spent matches.

"They're getting a bit restive, too, at the Yard," he continued. He
was too disturbed in mind for flippancy. "It was this cattle-maiming
business that sent poor old Scott's number up," he added, referring
to Detective Inspector Scott's failure to solve the mystery. "Now
the general's making a terrible row. Threatens me with the
Commissioner."

For some seconds Malcolm Sage devoted himself to his designs.

"Any theory?" he enquired at length, without looking up.

"I've given up theorising," was the dour reply.

In response to a further question as to what had been done, the
inspector proceeded to detail how the whole neighbourhood had bee