It was a few minutes past four o’clock when Mr. Wynne strode through the immense retail sales department of the H. Latham Company, and a uniformed page held open the front door for him to pass out.  Once on the sidewalk the self-styled diamond master of the world paused long enough to pull on his gloves, carelessly chucking the small sole-leather grip with its twenty-odd million dollars’ worth of precious stones under one arm; then he turned up Fifth Avenue toward Thirty-fourth Street.  A sneak thief brushed past him, appraised him with one furtive glance, then went his way, seeking quarry more promising.

Simultaneously with Mr. Wynne’s appearance three men whose watchful eyes had been fastened on the doorway of the H. Latham Company for something more than an hour stirred.  One of them—­Frank Claflin—­was directly across the street, strolling along idly, the most purposeless of all in the hurrying, well-dressed throng; another—­Steve Birnes, chief of the Birnes Detective Agency—­appeared from the hallway of a building adjoining the H. Latham Company, and moved along behind Mr. Wynne, some thirty feet in the rear; the third—­Jerry Malone—­was half a block away, up Fifth Avenue, coming slowly toward them.

Mr. Birnes adjusted his pace to that of Mr. Wynne, step for step, and then, seeming assured of his safety from any chance glance, ostentatiously mopped his face with a handkerchief, flirting it a little to the left as he replaced it in his pocket.  Claflin, across the street, understood from that that he was to go on up Fifth Avenue to Thirty-fourth Street, the next intersection, and turn west to board any crosstown car which Mr. Wynne might possibly take; and a cabby, who had been sitting motionless on his box down the street, understood from it that he was to move slowly along behind Mr. Birnes, and be prepared for an emergency.

Half-way between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth Streets, Jerry Malone approached and passed Mr. Wynne without so much as a glance at him, and went on toward his chief.

“Drop in behind here,” Mr. Birnes remarked crisply to Malone, without looking around.  “I’ll walk on ahead and turn east in Thirty-fourth Street to nail him if he swings a car.  Claflin’s got him going west.”

Mr. Wynne was perhaps some twenty feet from the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue when Mr. Birnes passed him.  His glance lingered on the broad back of the chief reflectively as he swung by and turned into the cross street, after a quick, business-like glance at an approaching car.  Then Mr. Wynne smiled.  He paused on the edge of the curb long enough for an automobile to pass, then went on across Thirty-fourth Street to the uptown side and, turning flatly, looked Mr. Birnes over pensively, after which he leaned up against an electric-light pole and scribbled something on an envelope.

A closed cab came wriggling and squirming up Fifth Avenue.  As it reached the middle of Thirty-fourth Street Mr. Wynne raised his hand, and the cab drew up beside him.  He said something to the driver, opened the door and stepped in.  Mr. Birnes smiled confidently.  So that was it, eh?  He, too, crossed Thirty-fourth Street and lifted his hand.  The cab which had been drifting along behind him immediately came up.