“This brings us to the serious part of the cool enterprise.  He had funds from the Atlantic and South-Central Mail-car coup when he arrived here last April.  He appears to have set up three establishments; a home, in the guise of an elderly scholar with a young wife, which, of course, was next door to our friend the manager; an observation point, over which he plastered the inscription ’Rub in Rubbo for Everything’ as a reason for being; and, somewhere else, a dressing-room with essential conditions of two doors into different streets.

“About six weeks ago he entered the last stage.  Mrs. Harry, with quite ridiculous ease, got photographs of the necessary page or two of the record-book.  I don’t doubt that for weeks before then everyone who entered the place had been observed, but the photographs linked them up with the actual men into whose hands the ‘Actor’s’ old keys had passed—­gave their names and addresses, the numbers of their safes, their passwords and signatures.  The rest was easy.”

“Yes, by Jupiter; mere play for a man like that,” agreed Mr. Carlyle, with professional admiration.  “He could contrive a dozen different occasions for studying the voice and manner and appearance of his victims.  How much has he cleared?”

“We can only speculate as yet.  I have put my hand on seven doubtful callers on Monday and Tuesday last.  Two others he had ignored for some reason; the remaining two safes had not been allotted.  There is one point that raises an interesting speculation.”

“What is that, Max?”

“The ‘Actor’ has one associate, a man known as ‘Billy the Fondant,’ but beyond that—­with the exception of his wife, of course—­he does not usually trust anyone.  It is plain, however, that at least seven men must latterly have been kept under close observation.  It has occurred to me—­”

“Yes, Max?”

“I have wondered whether Harry has enlisted the innocent services of one or other of our private inquiry offices.”

“Scarcely,” smiled the professional.  “It would hardly pass muster.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Mrs. Harry, in the character of a jealous wife or a suspicious sweetheart, might reasonably—­”

Mr. Carlyle’s smile suddenly faded.

“By Jupiter!” he exclaimed.  “I remember—­”

“Yes, Louis?” prompted Carrados, with laughter in his voice.

“I remember that I must telephone to a client before Beedel comes,” concluded Mr. Carlyle, rising in some haste.

At the door he almost ran into the subdued director, who was wringing his hands in helpless protest at a new stroke of calamity.

“Mr. Carrados,” wailed the poor old gentleman in a tremulous bleat, “Mr. Carrados, there is another now—­Sir Benjamin Gump.  He insists on seeing me.  You will not—­you will not desert us?”

“I should have to stay a week,” replied Carrados briskly, “and I’m just off now.  There will be a procession.  Mr. Carlyle will support you, I am sure.”