He gave one deep gulping sigh of relief, flashed across the room on tiptoe, and went down on his knees beside the monstrous thing, moving the candle this way and that along the length of it, as if searching for something, and laughing in little jerky gasps of relief when he found nothing that was not as it had been—­as it should be—­as he wanted it to be.  And then, as he rose and patted the clay, and laughed aloud as he realised how hard it had set, then, at that instant, a white shape lurched forward and swooped downward, carrying him down with it.  The candle slipped from his fingers and clattered on the floor, a pair of steel handcuffs clicked as they closed round his wrists, a voice above him said sharply:  “You wanted Cleek I believe?  Well, Cleek’s got you, you sneaking murderer.  Gentlemen, come in!  Allow me to turn over to you the murderer of George Carboys!  You’ll find the body inside that slumbering nymph!”

And the last thing that Mr. Maurice Van Nant saw, as he shrieked and fainted, the last thing he realised, was that lights were flashing up and men tumbling in through the opening windows; that the Roman senator’s pedestal was empty, and the figure which once had stood upon it was bending over him—­alive!

And just at that moment the red limousine flashed up out of the darkness, the outer door whirled open and Narkom came pelting up.

“He took the bait, then, Cleek?” he cried, as he saw the manacled figure on the floor, with the “Roman senator” bending over and the policemen crowding in about it.  “I guessed it when I saw the lights flash up.  I’ve been on his heels ever since he snapped at that conveniently placed taxi after he left Miss Morrison and her father.”

“You haven’t brought them with you, I hope, Mr. Narkom?  I wouldn’t have that poor girl face the ordeal of what’s to be revealed here to-night for worlds.”

“No, I’ve not.  I made a pretext of having to ’phone through to headquarters, and slipped out a moment after him.  But, I say, my dear chap”—­as Cleek’s hands made a rapid search of the pockets of the unconscious man, and finally brought to light a folded paper—­“what’s that thing?  What are you doing?”

“Compounding a felony in the interest of humanity,” he made reply as he put the end of the paper into the flame of the candle and held it there until it was consumed.  “We all do foolish things sometimes when we are young, Mr. Narkom, and—­well, George Carboys was no exception when he wrote the little thing I have just burned.  Let us forget all about it—­Captain Morrison is heir-at-law, and that poor girl will benefit.”

“There was an estate, then?”

“Yes.  My cable yesterday to the head of the Persian police set all doubt upon that point at rest.  Abdul ben Meerza, parting with nothing while he lived, after the manner of misers in general, left a will bequeathing something like L12,000 to George Carboys, and his executor communicated that fact to the supposed friend of both parties—­Mr. Maurice Van Nant; and exactly ten days ago, so his former solicitor informed me, Mr. Maurice Van Nant visited him unexpectedly, and withdrew from his keeping a sealed packet which had been in the firm’s custody for eight years.  If you want to know why he withdrew it—­Dollops!”