“By Jove! they’ve got him,” cried Gilder, and stepped forward with quite a new alertness.
“Have you got the money!” he cried to the first policeman.
The man looked him in the face with a rather curious expression and said: “No.” Then he added: “At least, not here.”
“Which is the inspector, please?” asked the man called Magnus.
When he spoke everyone instantly understood how this voice had stopped a train. He was a dull-looking man with flat black hair, a colourless face, and a faint suggestion of the East in the level slits in his eyes and mouth. His blood and name, indeed, had remained dubious, ever since Sir Aaron had “rescued” him from a waitership in a London restaurant, and (as some said) from more infamous things. But his voice was as vivid as his face was dead. Whether through e
