“’DISTINGUISHED MONSIEUR: 

“’Of your grace and pity, I implore you to listen to the prayer of an unhappy man whose honour, whose reason, whose very life are in deadly peril, not alone of “The Red Crawl,” but of things he may not even name, dare not commit to writing, lest this letter should go astray.  It shall happen, monsieur, that the whole world shall hear with amazement of that most marvellous “Cleek”—­that great reader of riddles and unmasker of evil-doers who, in the past year, has made the police department of England the envy of all nations; and it shall happen also that I who dare not appeal to the police of France appeal to the mercy, the humanity, of this great man, as it is my only hope.  Monsieur, you have his ear, you have his confidence, you have the means at your command.  Ah! ask him, pray him, implore him for the love of God, and the sake of a fellow-man, to come alone to the top floor of the house number 7 of the Rue Toison d’Or, Paris, at nine hours of the night of Friday, the 26th inst., to enter into the darkness and say but the one word “Cleek” as a signal it is he, and I may come forward and throw myself upon his mercy.  Oh, save me, Monsieur Cleek—­save me! save me!’

“There, that’s the lot, and there’s no signature,” said Narkom, laying down the letter.  “What do you make of it, Cleek?”

CHAPTER VII

“A very real, a very moving thing, Mr. Narkom,” he replied.  “The cry of a human heart in deep distress; the agonised appeal of a man so wrought up by the horrors of his position that he forgets to offer a temptation in the way of reward, and speaks of outlandish things as though they must be understood of all.  As witness his allusion to something which he calls ‘The Red Crawl,’ without attempting to explain the meaningless phrase.  Whatever it is, it is so real to him that it seems as if everybody must understand.”

“You think, then, that the thing is genuine?”

“So genuine that I shall answer its call, Mr. Narkom, and be alone in the dark on the top floor of No. 7, Rue Toison d’Or, to-morrow night as surely as the clock strikes nine.”

And that was how the few persons who happened to be in the quiet upper reaches of the Rue Bienfaisance at half-past eight o’clock the next evening came to see a fat, fussing, red-faced Englishman in a grey frock-coat, white spats, and a shining topper, followed by a liveried servant with a hat-box in one hand and a portmanteau in the other—­so conspicuous, the pair of them, that they couldn’t have any desire to conceal themselves—­cross over the square before the Church of St. Augustine, fare forth into the darker side passages, and move in the direction of the street of the Golden Fleece.

They were, of course, Cleek and the boy Dollops.

“Lumme, Gov’nor,” whispered he, as they turned at last into the utter darkness and desertion of the narrow Rue Toison d’Or, “if this is wot yer calls Gay Paree—­this precious black slit between two rows of houses—­I’ll take a slice of the Old Kent Road with thanks.  Not even so much as a winkle-stall in sight, and me that empty my shirt-bosom’s a-chafing my blessed shoulder-blades!”