eaded
the wood towards the gates.

"When I catch up level with him, Joe, you are to run into him
accidentally from behind, and knock his stick off his arm, so that it
falls near me. I will pick it up and return it to him. I must handle the
stick--you understand? Do not wait to see how he takes it when you bump
into him--get off round the corner at once and wait for me."

Crewe quickened his pace to overtake the man in front of him. He gave no
glance backward at the boy, for he knew his instructions would be carried
out faithfully and intelligently. He allowed Holymead to reach the big
open gates, and turn from the gravelled carriage drive into the private
street. Then he hurried after him and drew level with Holymead. As he did
so there was a sound of running footsteps from behind, and then a shout.
Joe had cleverly tripped and fallen heavily between the two men, bringing
down Holymead in his fall. The K.C.'s stick flew off his arm and bounded
half a dozen yards away. Crewe stepped forward quickly, secured the
stick, glanced quickly at the monogram engraved on it, and held it out to
Holymead, who was brushing the dust off his clothes with vexatious
remarks about the clumsiness and impudence of street boys. For a moment
he seemed to hesitate about taking the stick.

"I believe this is yours," said Crewe politely.

"Ah--yes. Thank you," said the K.C., giving him a keen suspicious glance.

CHAPTER VIII

Crewe had well-furnished offices in Holborn but lived in a luxurious flat
in Jermyn Street. Although he went to and fro between them daily, his
personality was almost a dual one, though not consciously so; his passion
for crime investigation was distinct--in outward seeming, at all
events--from his polished West End life of wealthy ease. Grave,
self-contained, and inscrutable, he slipped from one to the other with an
effortless regularity, and the fashionable folk with whom he mixed in his
leisured bachelor existence in the West End, apart from knowing him as
the famous Crewe, had even less knowledge of the real man behind his
suave exterior than the clients who visited his inquiry rooms in Holborn
to confide in him their stories of suffering, shame, or crimes committed
against them. His commissionaire and body-servant, Stork, had once, in a
rare--almost unique--convivial moment, declared to the caretaker of the
building that he knew no more about his master after ten years than he
did the first day he entered