interview unknown to any other living being.  A red and green lantern hung over the doorway leading to your office will be the signal that you agree, and a violet light in your window will be the pledge of Sir Horace Wyvern.  When these two signals, these two pledges, are given, I shall come in and hand over the remainder of the jewels, and you will have looked for the first time in your life upon the real face of ‘The Man Who Calls Himself Hamilton Cleek.’”

“God bless my soul!  What an amazing creature—­what an astounding request!” exclaimed Sir Horace, as he laid the letter down.  “Willing to give up L20,000 worth of jewels for the mere sake of a private interview!  What on earth can be his object?  And why should he include me?”

“I don’t know,” said Narkom in reply.  “It’s worth something, at all events, to be rid of ‘The Vanishing Cracksman’ for good and all; and he says that it rests with us to do that.  It’s close to eleven now.  Shall we give him the pledge he asks, Sir Horace?  My signal is already hung out; shall we agree to the conditions and give him yours?”

“Yes, yes, by all means,” Sir Horace made answer.  And lighting the violet lamp, Narkom flicked open the pinned curtains and set it in the window.

For ten minutes nothing came of it, and the two men, talking in whispers while they waited, began to grow nervous.  Then somewhere in the distance a clock started striking eleven, and without so much as a warning sound, the door flashed open, flashed shut again, a voice that was undeniably the voice of breeding and refinement said quietly:  “Gentlemen, my compliments.  Here are the diamonds and here am I!” and the figure of a man, faultlessly dressed, faultlessly mannered, with the slim-loined form, the slim-walled nose, and the clear-cut features of the born aristocrat, stood in the room.

His age might lie anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, his eyes were straight-looking and clear, his fresh, clean-shaven face was undeniably handsome, and, whatever his origin, whatever his history, there was something about him, in look, in speech, in bearing, that mutely stood sponsor for the thing called “birth.”

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Sir Horace, amazed and appalled to find the reality so widely different from the image he had drawn.  “What monstrous juggle is this?  Why, man alive, you’re a gentleman!  Who are you?  What’s driven you to a dog’s life like this?”

“A natural bent, perhaps; a supernatural gift, certainly, Sir Horace,” he made reply.  “Look here!  Could any man resist the temptation to use it when he was endowed by Nature with the power to do this?” His features seemed to writhe and knot and assume in as many moments a dozen different aspects.  “I’ve had the knack of doing that since the hour I could breathe.  Could any man ‘go straight’ with a fateful gift like that if the laws of Nature said that he should not?”

“And do they say that?”