nt and later accompanied four men back
to the laboratory. They found all the doors closed. Beale scaled the
wall but failed to find a way in. He rejoined the sergeant on the other
side of the wall.

"What is the name of this street?" he asked.

"Playbury Street, sir--this used to be Henderson's Wine Vaults in my
younger days."

Beale jotted down the address and finding a taxi drove back to the
police station, wearied and sick at heart.

He arrived in time to be a witness to a curious scene. In the centre of
the charge-room and facing the sergeant's desk was a man of middle age,
shabbily dressed, but bearing the indefinable air of one who had seen
better days. The grey hair was carefully brushed from the familiar face
and gave him that venerable appearance which pale eyes and a pair of
thin straight lips (curled now in an amused smile) did their best to
discount.

By his side stood his captor, a station detective, a bored and apathetic
man.

"It seems," the prisoner was saying, as Stanford Beale came noiselessly
into the room, "it seems that under this detestable system of police
espionage, a fellow may not even take a walk in the cool of the
morning."

His voice was that of an educated man, his drawling address spoke of his
confidence.

"Now look here, Parson," said the station sergeant, in that friendly
tone which the police adopt when dealing with their pet criminals, "you
know as well as I do that under the Prevention of Crimes Act you, an old
lag, are liable to be arrested if you are seen in any suspicious
circumstances--you oughtn't to be wandering about the streets in the
middle of the night, and if you do, why you mustn't kick because you're
pinched--anything found on him, Smith?"

"No, sergeant--he was just mouching round, so I pulled him in."

"Where are you living now, Parson?"

The man with extravagant care searched his pockets.

"I have inadvertently left my card-case with my coiner's outfit," he
said gravely, "but a wire addressed to the Doss House, Mine Street,
Paddington, will find me--but I don't think I should try. At this moment
I enjoy the protection of the law. In four days' time I shall be on the
ocean--why, Mr. Beale?"

Mr. Beale smiled.

"Hullo, Parson--I thought you had sailed to-day."

"The first-class berths are all taken and I will not travel to Australia
with the common herd."

He turned to the astonished sergeant.

"Can I go--Mr. Beale will vouch for me?"

As he lef