Frawley took a chair stiffly, hanging his hat between his knees and considering.

“It did look like work from the States,” he said thoughtfully.  “I beg pardon, did you say they’d caught some of the gang?”

“Four—­this morning.  The telegram’s just in.”

The Honorable Secretary, a little strange yet to the routine of the office, looked at Frawley with a sudden desire to test his memory.

“Do you know the work?” he asked; “could you recognize the ringleader?”

“That might not be so hard, sir,” said Frawley, with a nod; “we know pretty well, of course, who’s able to handle such jobs as that.  Would you have a description anywhere?”

The Honorable Secretary rose, took from his desk a paper, and began to read.  In his seat Inspector Frawley crossed his legs carefully, drew his fists up under his chin, and stared at the reader, but without focusing his glance on him.  Once during the recital he started at some item of description, but immediately relaxed.  The report finished, the Secretary let it drop into his lap and waited, impressed, despite himself, at the thought of the immense galleries of crime through which the Inspector was seeking his victim.  All at once into the unseeing stare there flickered a light of understanding.  Frawley returned to the room, saw the Secretary, and nodded.

“It’s Bucky,” he said tentatively.  A moment his glance went reflectively to a far corner, then he nodded slowly, looked at the Secretary, and said with conviction:  “It looks very much, sir, like Bucky Greenfield.”

“It is Greenfield,” replied the Secretary, without attempting to conceal his astonishment.

“I would like to observe,” said Frawley thoughtfully, without noticing his surprise, “that there is a bit of an error in that description, sir.  It’s the left ear that’s broken.  Furthermore, he don’t toe out—­excepting when he does it on a purpose.  So it’s Bucky Greenfield I’m to bring back, sir?”

The Secretary nodded, penciling Frawley’s correction on the paper.

“Bucky—­well, now, that is odd!” said Frawley musingly.  He rose and took a step to the desk.  “Very odd.”  Mechanically he saw the straggling papers on the top and arranged them into orderly piles.  “Well, he can’t say I didn’t warn him!”

“What!” broke in the Secretary in quick astonishment, “you know the fellow?”

“Indeed, yes, sir,” said Frawley, with a nod.  “We know most of the crooks in the States.  We’re good friends, too—­so long as they stay over the line.  It’s useful, you know.  So I’m to go after Bucky?”

The Secretary, judging the moment had arrived to be impressive, said solemnly: 

“Inspector Frawley, if you have to stick to it until he dies of old age, you’re never to let up until you get Bucky Greenfield!  While the British Empire holds together, no man shall rob Her Majesty of a farthing and sleep in security.  You understand the situation?”