an unhappy man whose honour, whose reason, whose very life are in
deadly peril, not alone of "The Red Crawl," but of things he may
not even name, dare not commit to writing, lest this letter should
go astray. It shall happen, monsieur, that the whole world shall
hear with amazement of that most marvellous "Cleek"--that great
reader of riddles and unmasker of evil-doers who, in the past year,
has made the police department of England the envy of all nations;
and it shall happen also that I who dare not appeal to the police
of France appeal to the mercy, the humanity, of this great man, as
it is my only hope. Monsieur, you have his ear, you have his
confidence, you have the means at your command. Ah! ask him, pray
him, implore him for the love of God, and the sake of a fellow-man,
to come alone to the top floor of the house number 7 of the Rue
Toison d'Or, Paris, at nine hours of the night of Friday, the 26th
inst., to enter into the darkness and say but the one word "Cleek"
as a signal it is he, and I may come forward and throw myself upon
his mercy. Oh, save me, Monsieur Cleek--save me! save me!'

"There, that's the lot, and there's no signature," said Narkom, laying
down the letter. "What do you make of it, Cleek?"

CHAPTER VII

"A very real, a very moving thing, Mr. Narkom," he replied. "The cry of
a human heart in deep distress; the agonised appeal of a man so wrought
up by the horrors of his position that he forgets to offer a temptation
in the way of reward, and speaks of outlandish things as though they
must be understood of all. As witness his allusion to something which he
calls 'The Red Crawl,' without attempting to explain the meaningless
phrase. Whatever it is, it is so real to him that it seems as if
everybody must understand."

"You think, then, that the thing is genuine?"

"So genuine that I shall answer its call, Mr. Narkom, and be alone in
the dark on the top floor of No. 7, Rue Toison d'Or, to-morrow night as
surely as the clock strikes nine."

And that was how the few persons who happened to be in the quiet upper
reaches of the Rue Bienfaisance at half-past eight o'clock the next
evening came to see a fat, fussing, red-faced Englishman in a grey
frock-coat, white spats, and a shining topper, followed by a liveried
servant with a hat-box in one hand and a portmanteau in the other--so
conspicuous, the pair of them, that they couldn't have any desire to
conceal themselves--cross over the