She, too, caught it and examined it, and laughingly shook her head.

“No—­not mine!” she said.  “I have not seen him before.  To the finder shall be the keep.  Come, sit here.  Will you have the tea?”

“Yes, thanks,” said Cleek; then dropped down on the sofa beside her, and took tea as serenely as though there were no such things in the world as murder and swindling and puzzling police-riddles to solve.

And the Major, staring at him, was as amazed as ever.  He had said, last night, that when the coin fell the answer would be given—­and yet it had fallen, and nothing had happened, and he was laughing and flirting with Senorita Rosario as composedly and as persistently as ever.  More than that; after he had finished his second cup of tea, and immediately following the sound of someone just beyond the verandah rail whistling the lively, lilting measures of “There’s a Girl Wanted There”—­the “silly ass” seemed to become a thousand times sillier than ever; for he forthwith set down his cup, and, turning to Anita, said with an inane sort of giggle, “I say, you know, here’s a lark.  Let’s have a game of ‘Slap Hand,’ you and I—­what?  Know it, don’t you?  You try to slap my hands, and I try to slap yours, and whichever succeeds in doing it first gets a prize.  Awful fun, don’t you know.  Come on—­start her up.”

And, Anita agreeing, they fell forthwith to slapping away at the backs of each other’s hands with great gusto, until, all of a sudden, the whistler outside gave one loud, shrill note, and—­there was a great and mighty change.

Those who were watching saw Anita’s two hands suddenly caught, heard a sharp, metallic “click,” and saw them as suddenly dropped again to the accompaniment of a shrill little scream from her ashen lips, and the next moment Cleek had risen and jumped away from her side—­clear across to where Zuilika was; and those who were watching saw Anita jump up with a pair of steel handcuffs on her wrists, just as Dollops vaulted up over the verandah rail and appeared at one window, whilst Petrie appeared at another, Hammond poked his body through a third, and the opening door gave entrance to Superintendent Narkom.

“The police!” shrilled out Anita in a panic of fright. “Madre de Dios, the police!”

The Major and his son were on their feet like a shot; Zuilika, with a faint, startled cry, bounded bolt upright, like an imp shot through a trap-door; but before the little henna-stained hands could do more than simply move, Cleek’s arms went round her from behind, tight and fast as a steel clamp, there was another metallic “click,” another shrill cry, and another pair of wrists were in gyves.

“Come in, Mr. Narkom; come in, constables,” said Cleek, with the utmost composure.  “Here are your promised prisoners—­nicely trussed, you see, so that they can’t get at the little popguns they carry—­and a worse pair of rogues never went into the hands of Jack Ketch!”