ver fear any rough stuff in business as long as you can
eat beef and drink beer. But nowadays, I don't go into the rough
stuff--too old and fat."

"Of course not, sir. You've done your bit. Nobody on your side has
been at closer quarters with the big crooks, or heard their guns
oftener."

"That's true."

Mr. Ganns held up his left hand, which was deformed and had lost the
third and little finger.

"The last shot that Billy Benyon ever fired. A great man--Billy.
I'll never see his like again."

"The Boston murderer? A genius!"

"He was. A marvellous brain. When I sent him to the chair it was
like a Bushman killing an elephant."

"You're sorry for the under dog sometimes, I expect?"

"Not always; but now and again I like the bull to get the toreador,
and the savage to eat the missionary."

They entered the smoking-room presently and then Brendon, very much
to his surprise, heard an astonishing lecture which left him under
the emotions of a fourth-form schoolboy after an interview with his
head master.

Mr. Ganns ordered coffee, took snuff, and bade Mark listen and not
interrupt.

"We're going into this thing together and I want you to get a clear
hunch on it," he began, "because at present you have not. I don't
say we shall see it through; but if we do, the credit's going to be
yours, not mine. We'll come to the Redmayne business in a minute.
But first let us have a look at Mr. Mark Brendon, if it won't bore
you stiff."

The other laughed.

"He's not a very impressive object, so far as this case is
concerned, Mr. Ganns."

"He is not," admitted Peter genially. "Quite the reverse, in fact.
And his poor showing has puzzled Mr. Brendon a good bit, and some of
his superior officers also. So let us examine the situation from
that angle before we get up against the problem itself."

He stirred his coffee, poured a thimbleful of cognac into it, sipped
it, and then slid into a comfortable position in his armchair, put
his big hands into his trousers pockets, and regarded Mark with a
steady and unblinking stare. His eyes were pale blue, deeply set and
small, but still of a keen brilliancy.

"You're a detective inspector of Scotland Yard," continued Ganns,
"and Scotland Yard is still the high-water mark of police
organization in the world. The Central Bureau in New York is pretty
close up, and I've nothing but admiration for the French and
Italian Secret Services; but the fact remains: The Yard is first;
and