Harley? Who are these people?"

"Well--where do you suppose those fifty photographs went?"

"I cannot conjecture!"

"Then I will tell you. The turmoil in the East has put wealth and power
into unscrupulous hands. But even before the war there were marts,
Knox--open marts--at which a Negro girl might be purchased for some 30
pounds, and a Circassian for anything from 250 pounds to 500 pounds! Ah!
You stare! But I assure you it was so. Here is the point, though: there
were, and still are, private dealers! Those photographs were circulated
among the nouveaux riches of the East! They were employed in the same
way that any other merchant employs a catalogue. They reached the hands
of many an opulent and abandoned 'profiteer' of Damascus, Stambul--where
you will. Molly's picture would be one of many. Remember that hundreds
of pretty girls disappear from their homes--taking the whole of the
world--every year. Clearly, English beauty is popular at the moment!
And," he added bitterly, "the arch-villain has escaped!"

"Ali of Cairo!" I cried. "Then Ali of Cairo------"

"Is the biggest slave-dealer in the East!"

"Good God! Harley--at last I understand!"

"I was slow enough to understand it myself, Knox. But once the theory
presented itself I asked Wessex to get into immediate touch with the
valet he had already interviewed at Deepbrow. It was the result of his
inquiry to which he referred when we met him at Scotland Yard to-night.
Captain Vane had a large mole on his shoulder and a girl's name,
together with a small device, tattooed on his forearm--a freak of his
Sandhurst days------"

"Then 'the man with the shaven skull'------"

"Is Captain Ronald Vane! May he rest in peace. But I never shall until
the crook-back dealer in humanity has met his just deserts."

THE WHITE HAT

I

MAJOR JACK RAGSTAFF

"Hallo! Innes," said Paul Harley as his secretary entered. "Someone is
making a devil of a row outside."

"This is the offender, Mr. Harley," said Innes, and handed my friend a
visiting card.

Glancing at the card, Harley read aloud:

"Major J. E. P. Ragstaff, Cavalry Club."

Meanwhile a loud harsh voice, which would have been audible in a full
gale, was roaring in the lobby.

"Nonsense!" I could hear the Major shouting. "Balderdash! There's more
fuss than if I had asked for an interview with the Prime Minister.
Piffle! Balderdash!"

Innes's smile developed into a laugh, in which Harley