t the charge-room he beckoned the detective, and when they were
together in the street Beale found that all the Parson's flippancy had
departed.

"I'm sorry I got you into that scrape," he said seriously. "I ought to
have been unfrocked, but I was sentenced for my first crime under an
assumed name. I was not attached to any church at the time and my
identity has never been discovered. Mr. Beale," he went on with a
quizzical smile, "I have yet to commit my ideal crime--the murder of a
bishop who allows a curate to marry a wife on sixty pounds a year." His
face darkened, and Beale found himself wondering at the contents of the
tragic years behind the man. Where was the wife...?

"But my private grievances against the world will not interest you,"
Parson Homo resumed, "I only called you out to--well, to ask your
pardon."

"It was my own fault, Homo," said Beale quietly, and held out his hand.
"Good luck--there may be a life for you in the new land."

He stood till the figure passed out of sight, then turned wearily toward
his own rooms. He went to his room and lay down on his bed fully
dressed. He was aroused from a troubled sleep by the jangle of the
'phone. It was McNorton.

"Come down to Scotland House and see the Assistant-Commissioner," he
said, "he is very anxious to hear more about this factory. He tells me
that you have already given him an outline of the plot."

"Yes--I'll give you details--I'll be with you in half an hour."

He had a bath and changed his clothes, and breakfastless, for the woman
who waited on him and kept his flat and who evidently thought his
absence was likely to be a long one, had not arrived. He drove to the
grim grey building on the Thames Embankment.

Assistant-Commissioner O'Donnel, a white-haired police veteran, was
waiting for him, and McNorton was in the office.

"You look fagged," said the commissioner, "take that chair--and you
look hungry, too. Have you breakfasted?"

Beale shook his head with a smile.

"Get him something, McNorton--ring that bell. Don't protest, my good
fellow--I've had exactly the same kind of nights as you've had, and I
know that it is grub that counts more than sleep."

He gave an order to an attendant and not until twenty minutes later,
when Beale had finished a surprisingly good meal in the superintendent's
room, did the commissioner allow the story to be told.

"Now I'm ready," he said.

"I'll begin at the beginning," said Stanford Beale. "I w