“But still nothing was gone?”

“Nothin’, so far as I investigated, sor.  But I didn’t shtay.  I came out to spake to the polis, an’ two av them laffed at me—­wan afther another!”

“It has certainly been no laughing matter for you.  Now, tell me—­have you anything in your possession—­documents, or valuables, or anything—­that any other person, to your knowledge, is anxious to get hold of!”

“I have not, sor—­divil a document!  As to valuables, thim an’ me is the cowldest av sthrangers.”

“Just call to mind, now, the face of the man who tried to put powder in your drink, and that of the doctor who attended to you in the railway station.  Were they at all alike, or was either like anybody you have seen before?”

Leamy puckered his forehead and thought.

“Faith,” he said presently, “they were a bit alike, though one had a beard an’ the udther whiskers only.”

“Neither happened to look like Mr. Hollams, for instance?”

Leamy started.  “Begob, but they did!  They’d ha’ been mortal like him if they’d been shaved.”  Then, after a pause, he suddenly added:  “Holy saints! is ut the fam’ly he talked av?”

Hewitt laughed.  “Perhaps it is,” he said.  “Now, as to the man who sent you with the bag.  Was it an old bag?”

“Bran’ cracklin’ new—­a brown leather bag.”

“Locked?”

“That I niver thried, sor.  It was not my consarn.”

“True.  Now, as to this Mr. W. himself.”  Hewitt had been rummaging for some few minutes in a portfolio, and finally produced a photograph, and held it before the Irishman’s eye.  “Is that like him?” he asked.

“Shure it’s the man himself!  Is he a friend av yours, sor?”

“No, he’s not exactly a friend of mine,” Hewitt answered, with a grim chuckle.  “I fancy he’s one of that very respectable family you heard about at Mr. Hollams’.  Come along with me now to Chelsea, and see if you can point out that house in Gold Street.  I’ll send for a cab.”

He made for the outer office, and I went with him.

“What is all this, Hewitt?” I asked.  “A gang of thieves with stolen property?”

Hewitt looked in my face and replied:  “It’s the Quinton ruby!”

“What!  The ruby?  Shall you take the case up, then?”

“I shall.  It is no longer a speculation.”

“Then do you expect to find it at Hollams’ house in Chelsea?” I asked.

“No, I don’t, because it isn’t there—­else why are they trying to get it from this unlucky Irishman?  There has been bad faith in Hollams’ gang, I expect, and Hollams has missed the ruby and suspects Leamy of having taken it from the bag.”

“Then who is this Mr. W. whose portrait you have in your possession?”

“See here!” Hewitt turned over a small pile of recent newspapers and selected one, pointing at a particular paragraph.  “I kept that in my mind, because to me it seemed to be the most likely arrest of the lot,” he said.