So _you're_
the villain of the piece, are you?"

CHAPTER VI

SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND

It was a singular greeting, to say the least, and the person who uttered
it was quite as remarkable as his queer method of expressing himself
seemed to indicate.

Grant, though in a fume of hot anger, had the good sense to choke back
the first impetuous reprimand trembling on his lips. In fact, wrath
quickly subsided into blank incredulity. He saw before him, not the
conventional detective who might be described as a superior Robinson--not
even the sinewy, sharp-eyed, and well-spoken type of man whom he had once
heard giving evidence in a famous jewel-robbery case--but rather one whom
he would have expected to meet in the bar of a certain well-known
restaurant in Maiden Lane, a corner of old London where literally all the
world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

During his theatrical experiences he had come across scores of such men,
dapper little fellows, wizened of face yet curiously youthful in manner;
but they, each and all, were labeled "low comedian." Certainly, a rare
intelligence gleamed from this man's eyes, but that is an attribute not
often lacking in humorists who command high salaries because of their
facility in laughter-making. This man, too, had the wide, thin-lipped,
mobile mouth of the actor. His ivory-white, wrinkled forehead and cheeks,
the bluish tint on jaws and chin, his voice, his perky air, the very tilt
of his straw hat, were eloquent of the footlights. Even his opening
words, bizarre and cheerfully impertinent, smacked of "comic relief."

"I figure prominently in this particular 'piece,'" snapped Grant. "May I
ask your name, sir?"

"A wise precaution with suspicious characters," rejoined the other,
smiling. Grant was suddenly reminded of a Japanese grinning at a joke,
but he bent over a card which the stranger had whisked out of a waistcoat
pocket. He read:

MR. CHARLES F. FUENEAUX,

_Criminal Investigation Department_,

NEW SCOTLAND YARD, S.W.

He could not control himself. He gazed at Mr. Charles F. Furneaux with a
surprise that was not altogether flattering.

"Did the Commissioner of Police send _you_ in response to my
telegram?" he said.

"That is what lawyers call a leading question," came the prompt retort.
"And I hate lawyers. They darken understanding, and set honest men at
loggerheads."

"But it happens to be very much to the point at this moment."