resh Newgate Calendar. It was an axiom of Crewe's that a detective
never knew when some old scrap of information or some trifling article of
some dead and forgotten crime might not afford a valuable clue. Expert
criminals frequently repeated themselves, like people in lesser walks of
life, and Crewe's "library and museum," as he called it, had sometimes
furnished him with a simple hint for the solution of a mystery which had
defied more subtle methods of analysis.

Crewe, after carefully reading his summary of the murder of Sir Horace
Fewbanks, and making a few alterations in the text, drew from his pocket
the glove which Inspector Chippenfield had handed him as a clue, took it
to the window, and carefully examined it through a large magnifying
glass. He was thus engrossed when the door was noiselessly opened, and
Stork, the bodyguard, entered. Stork belied his name. He was short and
fat, with a red mottled face; a model of discretion and imperturbability,
who had served Crewe for ten years, and bade fair to serve him another
ten, if he lived that long. In his heart of hearts he often wondered why
a gentleman like Crewe should so far forget what was due to his birth and
position as to have offices in Holborn--Holborn, of all parts of London!
But the awe he felt for Crewe prevented his seeking information on the
point from the only person who could give it to him, so he served him and
puzzled over him in silence, his inward perturbation of spirits being
made manifest occasionally by a puzzled glance at his master when the
latter was not looking. It was nothing to Stork that his master was a
famous detective; the problem to him was _why_ he was a detective when he
had no call to be one, having more money than any man--and let alone a
single man--could spend in a lifetime.

Stork coughed slightly to attract Crewe's attention.

"If you please, sir," he said, "the boy has come."

While Crewe was busy with his magnifying glass Stork returned with the
boy who had accompanied Crewe on his visit to Riversbrook on the
previous day.

The boy, a thin white-faced, sharp-eyed London street urchin, seemed
curiously out of place in the handsomely furnished office, with his legs
tucked up under the carved rail of a fine old oak chair, and his big
dark eyes fixed intently on Crewe's face. The tie between him and the
detective was an unusual one. It dated back some twelve months, when
Crewe, in the investigation of a peculiarly baffli