Almost as he spoke a special train with one carriage took the curve of the line on their left, and, stopping, disgorged another group of policemen, in whose midst was the hangdog visage of Magnus, the absconded servant.
“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, in
