The crooks' Shepherd

Chapter I

The Honorable Philadelphia Hemstone heard the loud trill of the telephone bell at her elbow without moving a muscle of her hard old face. Martha, the general maid, came clumping all the way from the kitchen to answer the summons, for nothing would ever induce Miss Hemstone to do so herself. She regarded the telephone as an essential but menial instrument for the direct use of serv¬ ants only.

“It’s his lordship, ma’am,” Martha said, wide-eyed with surprise.

Miss Hemstone’s features grew still harder.

“My compliments to Lord Harnley, Martha, and I am unable to speak to him.”

The message was duly repeated.

“His lordship says he’d be glad if you’d change your mind, ma’am.”

“I am not in the habit,” retorted Miss Hemstone grimly, “of changing my mind.”

The maid hesitated.

“Sounds ’n a rare to-do, ma’am. Worried about some¬ thing. I’d say—” She hesitated again.

Miss Hemstone’s lips tightened. No further sound issued from them. From her lap she picked up the newspaper she had been reading.

“I see,” she remarked with complete detachment, “that another convict has been allowed to escape. The man¬ agement of our prisons is a national disgrace.”

Softly, Martha replaced the telephone receiver and hur¬ ried from the room. As the door closed Miss Hemstone laid down the paper and stared through the low latticed window across the village street. The late afternoon sun lent a pleasant hue to the cottage walls opposite, and the old postman’s gray beard looked quite golden. It had been a warm day for October, even in Devon, and the tousle-headed school children who romped noisily—too noisily for Miss Hemstone—still wore the print frocks of summer.

Altogether the scene should have been pleasant to Miss Philadelphia Hemstone, spinster of the parish of Bishops Takyll, but her bitterness of soul had long since destroyed the gentler emotions. Her mind saw only the figure of Edward, Lord Harnley, the brother who had frustrated her life, standing like a monstrous shadow in her path. Something grown evil out of the fermentation of hate, al¬ though people would describe Lord Harnley as just a bad-tempered misanthrope. People knew that he had discon¬ tinued his sister’s allowance so that she was forced to leave the Tarn House, her proper habitat, for Delphinium Cottage. But people didn’t know why.

Miss Hemstone picked up the newspaper, adjusted the gold-rimmed spectacles firmly on her nose, and began to read. The words: BOSSY PARKWELL ESCAPES FROM PENTONVILLE GAOL stared at her in bold type, but she hardly saw them. Edward had rung up after all these years. He had expected to speak to her. It was fantastic. He had intimated that some trouble threatened him. Nothing new in that. Between his mean¬ ness and his great wealth, trouble always threatened him. She recalled those nasty blackmailing cases.

“Following the escape of William Minser last week y it is now reported that Parkwell y the daring safe-breaker , who was recently sentenced to five years 1 penal servitude .” A movement outside the window caught Miss Hemstone’s eye. It was the postman entering her wicket gate. A mo¬ ment later Martha entered with a seedsman’s catalogue and a letter superscribed in a strangely uncouth hand on an envelope of poor quality. At the sight of this writing Miss Hemstone’s hand tensed slightly, but that was all. She waited till Martha had closed the door before she read the contents of the envelope, and then she rang the bell. Martha re-entered with a patient sigh.

“Light the fire, please,” said Miss Hemstone.

“The fire, ma’am? It’s a nice warm evening—”

“I said,” repeated Miss Hemstone distinctly, “light the fire.”

Martha resignedly applied a match to the tiny grate. It was the first time since spring that this fire had been needed and she had been hoping to defer the need till longer. The paper ignited reluctantly, the wood show¬ ing signs of damp. It took patience and trouble to coax a flame.

When Miss Hemstone was alone again she placed her letter on the smoking coals and watched it carefully until only the ashes remained.

Chapter II

At eleven p.m. silence reigned along the bare passage¬ ways and corridors, except for those stirrings and uneasy whisperings that are never entirely absent where misery and bitterness, repressed or inarticulate by day, find their voices in the release of night. In her cell, unlighted save for the glimmer that came through the grating over the door, Number 103 lay sleepless. She was listening to those murmurs as she had listened to them for countless nights in the past and would continue to listen until apathy de¬ stroyed her soul. Just now those sounds seemed more desolating, more impossible to bear. She thrust fingers into her ears and turned, praying for the anodyne of sleep.

Then she could hear nothing but the drumming of her pulses and the scrapings of coarse sheets as she moved on the hard bed. She did not even hear the key turning in her cell door. The light streaming in from the passage startled her to alertness.

A wardress entered.

“Too much noise here, 103. You must be quieter!”

The girl stared.

“I—” she began.

“Don’t answer me!” said the woman sharply, and then, in a low voice, “Here, take this.”

She thrust a tiny folded piece of paper at the girl and turned back through the door.

“No more of that noise, remember, or I shall be obliged to report you.”

The girl nodded quickly.

“Yes. I—I am sorry.”

The door closed. The key turned. In the dim light the occupant of the cell stared at the scrap in her hand. She knew that some of the women officers could be “sweetened” to bring in messages from outside, but this was the first time anyone had sent her a message. Only friends did that. She had no friends.

It was almost impossible to see the writing so she stood up on her bed in order to catch the feeble rays that came through the grid. There was no superscription to the folded and gummed-over scrap of very thin paper— so thin as to be almost tissue. Inside was written:

Within an hour you will be at liberty. Make no preparations. Confide in no one. This paper is soluble. Eat it.

Number 103 gasped, and, for the first time since she could remember, smiled. But it was a travesty of a smile. “Liberty?” She re-read the message and then her lips twisted into perplexity and dull anger. Was this a pitiful hoax designed to get her into trouble? The discovery of this scrap would certainly bring trouble to the woman who had conveyed it too. Trouble all round. But if the sender meant to involve Number 103 in trouble, why these in¬ structions about destroying the paper? The girl stared and stared until her eyes grew weary with the strain in that feeble light. u Make no preparations. Confide in no one” Was that likely! What preparations could she make? In whom confide?

No, she would ignore the thing; dismiss it from her mind. But the paper mustn’t be seen, whatever happened. Crumpling it up, she thrust it into her mouth. Almost instantly it began to dissolve, like a flake of gelatine.

The last thing she remembered was hammering with her fists on the cell door with screams of pain.

Her senses came back to her with an aching head and the intolerable glare of an electric light in her eyes. Some¬ one swiveled down the lampshade and there came the sound of outpoured liquid. A man’s voice, preceded by a queer little gasp of indrawn breath said:

“Give her this.”

She drank because she lacked the will to do otherwise, and the bitter, odd-tasting liquid revived her enormously. Able now to distinguish her surroundings she realized that she lay in a bed. Not the hard couch of her prison cell but luxurious coil springs and down pillows and figured walnut. And the vellum-shaded reading lamp at her side threw its rays on to a silken eiderdown that gleamed opu¬ lently. The walls were lost in semi-obscurity but the glow of an electric radiator suffused an ornate ceiling. When, presently, someone moved, the footfalls were deadened by a carpet that was manifestly thick.

The footfalls halted by the bedside and a face gazed down critically. It was a woman of perhaps thirty years of age, very well dressed in outdoor clothes, with the as¬ sured carriage that goes with sartorial smartness. The girl returned the gaze with aching, wondering eyes, and the woman smiled.

“You see,” she said. “We have done it. Are you feel¬ ing better?”

The girl tried to nod but the spears of pain that stabbed her eyes made the gesture a feeble one. She heard the man’s gasping voice again, speaking from the obscurity behind.

“Wait a little, Bernice. Another ten minutes, I think.”

The women drew away silently, while the girl tried to force her numbed brain back to clarity. Endless time seemed to elapse before the man’s voice sounded again.

“Can you speak now?”

The girl’s reply came faintly, but with distinctness. “Yes.”

“Excellent! And naturally you would like me to ex¬ plain your very curious translation to these surroundings when your proper habitat is a—prison cell.”

A chuckle followed the hurried words, and then the man drew another breath.

“It is necessary for me to be brief, because I have other calls upon my time.” Again there came that curious inhalation. “Briefly, then, we began by administering a non-lethal, but somewhat painful poison. You perhaps recall the little—note we sent you by a wardress who was not too—troubled by the finer scruples?”

The girl turned to face the speaker, but the features were indeterminate in the shadow. An old man, she thought.

“Yes,” she said, after a pause. “I remember. It said that I should be at liberty.”

“Quite so,” the man’s voice continued jerkily. “We have—fulfilled that promise, incredible as it seems. The note, of course, was too—dangerous a document for any —convict to possess. Very properly you took our ad¬ vice to—swallow it. Foreseeing this we impregnated the paper with a—drug which it is unnecessary to—particu¬ larize, but which, I fear, caused you some little discomfort and even—pain. As a result you cried out for help. You became insensible. The—prison doctor, summoned from his well-earned rest at this unreasonable hour, diagnosed —more or less correctly—acute gastritis and ordered you to the hospital building. Having issued his instructions the long-suffering medico proceeded to the hospital in order to—prepare his restoratives. Two orderlies, mean¬ while, were detailed with a stretcher to convey you thither. All this we anticipated. Does the matter now become— plainer to you?”

The girl shook her head listlessly, and the speaker went on, his every sentence punctuated by the odd series of in¬ drawn gulps of air, as though he found the utterance of words veritable agony.

“No? One must make allowances for the sub-normal state of your senses. That is evident. You are aware, how¬ ever, that in order to reach the hospital building these orderlies would be obliged to cross the—prison yard. The distance is no more than fifty paces—but enough for our —purpose. A car is parked in a convenient, quiet by-street outside the prison wall. The night is dark and the sur¬ rounding thoroughfares at that late hour very ill-lit. The orderlies, complete with stretcher, emerge en route for the hospital building. Our emissaries—provided with scarves heavily soaked in ether and chloroform—make short work of the orderlies. They are swiftly conveyed to the boiler house and locked in. You, needless to say, are carried over the wall and—transported here in my car. How much time elapsed before the—prison doctor became impatient of your non-arrival in the ward can only be a matter of conjecture—but it was long enough for our purpose. Even now I imagine the fact of your escape has not been grasped—and will not be grasped until the dis¬ covery of the missing stretcher bearers—. In short, a pretty little mystery confronts your late custodians—and if your sense of humor is as acute as mine you will ap¬ preciate the situation.”

The voice paused, as if exhausted. But no answer came from the bed. Presently the man continued, in a lower key.

“Human reactions are certainly incalculable. Failing humor one would at least anticipate—some measure of gratitude.”

The girl raised herself suddenly on one elbow and gazed in the direction of the voice. “Do you expect that for—for deferring the price I must pay?”

“No. But I expect you to resent—paying the price —of someone else’s crime.”

A deep sigh came from the girl’s lips. She saw him now vaguely, his smooth white face wrinkled round the eyes, under a wide, soft-brimmed hat. He was lean¬ ing forward, into the circle of dim light.

“Can you see me, young lady? You have never seen me before. But you will see me again—unless you insist— on paying that price.”

From the background a figure moving across the room picked up something from the mantelpiece. There came the click of an automatic lighter and the woman’s face was ghostily revealed as she lit a cigarette. The reddened lips curved pleasantly.

“Did you look at me also?” she asked softly, as another click extinguished the little flame. “Do we not inspire confidence? Can you not believe that we are your good friends?”

The girl sank back again wearily, moving her head from side to side on the pillow. “How can I believe— anything? I shall be punished for escaping. It is not friendship to bring that upon me.”

“You will not be—punished for escaping,” the man re¬ torted with gusty emphasis, “because it is evident that you were a—passive agent during our ingenious maneu¬ vers. You can therefore face the—prospect of returning to jail with equanimity. But before deciding upon such incredible quixotism you will do me the—favor of hearing still further what I have to say. 5 ’ He turned for an in¬ stant towards the figure in the shadow.

“A little more of that restorative, if you please, Bernice. We shall require the fullest—attention of our guest for the next few minutes.”

Again the bitter liquid was set against the girl’s lips. Lethargically she drank, and the odd-tasting drug seemed to stimulate her brain to an acute comprehension.

“Let me very briefly recount certain facts,” proceeded the man’s voice. “It is unnecessary for the moment to refer to your identity until you have decided whether or not you will make a—fight to regain it. For the present you are a cipher, a unit, with no individuality—class or division—from those other units who form your only contacts with human beings—if one may employ such a term. As number one hundred and three you have—en¬ dured a living death for nearly a year. I believe that the crime for which you—suffer this punishment is a crime you—did not commit. Am I right?”

A barely perceptible nod came from the girl. She did not answer, though it was evident that her whole atten¬ tion was concentrated on the man who spoke. He had curi¬ ous, screwed-up eyes, as though he found as much diffi¬ culty in focusing them as he found in speech.

“You were employed,” he went on, “as private secretary to—Lord Harnley. You were convicted of an attempt to extort very large sums of money from Lord Harnley— by means of blackmail. It was alleged by the—prosecution that owing to your confidential position certain facts about your employer’s—association with a certain woman came to your knowledge—and that you attempted to make use of these facts to your own advantage. Am I still correct?”

Again the girl nodded.

“The principal evidence at the trial—consisted of let¬ ters alleged to have been written by you from an accom¬ modation address—and the testimony of Lord Harnley himself. In your defense you denied these charges—de¬ clared the letters to be the work of an enemy. You could not, however—indicate any such enemy and you failed —to refute Lord Harnley’s evidence. The culmination of a long and apparently fair trial was a sentence of five years’—penal servitude. These are the bare facts of your case. Now we will leave—facts and come to conjecture. I am going to assume that you did not—write those black¬ mailing letters, and that the actual writer was someone— else. Suppose I offer to assist you to discover the identity of that someone—on a reasonable condition. Would you, Number 103, still prefer to return to jail—and continue the expiation of a crime—which you did not commit?”

The concluding words were jerked out with a final effort at clear enunciation. As the speaker leant back in his chair his face returned to the shadow whence it had come. Beyond him the automatic lighter spluttered again and a fresh cigarette glowed. Silence hung.

The girl never stirred, her eyes staring into the gloom as though at inscrutable fate. Her mind flitted back to that gray horror of stone walls and barred windows and locked doors. Coarse food, coarse clothes and bedding, coarse language. She suffered anew those torments as her body lay at ease in silk. She knew that the trap had been cunningly set and that she would not be able to escape it.

“You speak of a condition. Tell me what that is,” she parried.

“I will not tell you—unless you agree.”

“I am to do blindly—whatever you wish?”

“Yes.”

“To prove my innocence of one crime you will make me commit another?”

“How am I to believe that? How am I to believe that you have any power to help me?”

“I will answer those questions with another. How am I to know that you will not—play me false!” A chuckle followed the words. “You see—there are two sides to every bargain.”

For the first time, the girl smiled faintly.

“If I am caught—” she began, and left the sentence unfinished.

“You will not be caught—if you follow my instruc¬ tions.”

“You are very confident.”

“Entirely confident. Have I not given you enough proof of my capabilities?”

The girl smiled again.

“Yes, it was wonderful, to pluck me out of prison like that!”

“And comparatively simple, you will understand—to return you there. To save you the fatigue of a journey— we could drive you to the prison gates. I trust, however, that it will not be—necessary.”

The man leant forward again. Once more the light touched his smooth features and those curiously screwed-up eyes. Behind him only the glowing tip of a cigarette indicated that a third person was present.

The girl’s smile now became transformed into some¬ thing alive and eager. Her eyes, gentian blue, sparkled like sapphires; excitement danced in her cheeks. She sat up and held out her hands to the man in shadow.

“No,” she said. “It will not be necessary!”

Chapter III

Michael Chillaton unfolded the letter in his hand and held it out to the Assistant-Commissioner. “I think you’ve met my uncle, Lord Harnley.”

The Assistant-Commissioner smiled.

“I have had that pleasure,” he answered, and bent his attention to the letter.

“My dear Michael,” he read out, “you will be sur^ prised to receive a communication from me, because our relations are not cordial. Whether that regrettable state of affairs is your fault or mine needn’t be discussed now, though my opinion about your perverse action in seeking to grab a living in the workshops of Wolverhampton rather than in occupying yourself with matters more suitable to your position as my heir, remains the same—”

“What on earth,” queried the Assistant-Commissioner stonily, “has all this to do with me?”

Michael grimaced apologetically.

“If you wouldn’t mind reading a bit further, sir—”

The Assistant-Commissioner raised his brows with the exaggerated patience of one who considers his valuable time is being trifled with. He resumed:

“My object in writing to you now, is, incredibly enough, to enlist your assistance, because I believe that my safety is being threatened and because it is obviously futile to expect any intelligent help from the fossilized institution called Scotland Yard, presided over by morons such as Tankerville, who may be an Assistant-Commissioner, but—”

A rich empurplement suffused Colonel Tankerville’s face.

“Er—I’m afraid I’d forgotten that part, sir. Better skip it, I think—”

The Assistant-Commissioner’s jaw set grimly.

“On the contrary, young man, I now propose to read every word,” he answered, and repeated in a voice that cracked slightly, “. . . presided over by MORONS such as Tankerville, who may be an Assistant-Commissioner, but whose natural abilities would better qualify him for the post of doorkeeper at a suburban cinema— Ha! Very nice! I am obliged to you, Mr. Chillaton, for bringing me this enlightening document!”

The harassed Michael blew his nose with unnecessary care.

“At all events, sir, it is obvious that I don’t agree with him, or I shouldn’t be here,” he ventured with belated tact. “Do you mind reading on a bit?”

“Really, I don’t see why I should read any more of this appalling tosh,” commented Colonel Tankerville grimly. But he continued in a sort of snarl:

“The danger that threatens me is something that has been materializing ever since the disgraceful affair of my late secretary, Christine Abbott, who was, as you may recall, sent to penal servitude for blackmailing me, al¬ though Scotland Yard, by committing every conceivable blunder, very nearly let her slip through their hands. I am now convinced that that affair was merely the prelude to an elaborate and carefully laid plot which is actively incubating at this moment, though I do not profess to understand its motive. When I tell you, however, that my house has been broken into, without any apparent robbery taking place you will understand my disquietude. A man of my position has many enemies, and were it not for Stopford who sleeps in an adjoining room with a loaded revolver I might not be writing this now. But although Stopford is a tried and loyal employee, he does not pos¬ sess the intelligence and subtlety necessary to disclose what is behind these sinister manoeuvres, and I give you credit, at least, for possessing those qualities to some ex¬ tent. Also I believe that you are honest. Do me the favor, therefore, of taking an early train and acquaint me of your proposed time of arrival at Takyll Place. I ask you, on no account to fail me. Your affectionate uncle,

Edward Harnley.”

The Assistant-Commissioner handed back the letter with a shrug.

“A very hysterical epistle,’ 5 he commented sourly. “Lord Harnley’s eccentricities are well known, I believe. Ap¬ parently, they include hallucinations.”

Michael Chillaton folded the letter and pocketed it.

“To suggest,” the Assistant-Commissioner went on coldly, “that the Abbott blackmailing affair carries any deeper implications, is, in my opinion, arrant nonsense. If Lord Harnley wants protection he will have to per¬ suade the local police that it is justified. We cannot inter¬ vene without an application through the Home Office from the Chief Constable of the County. It looks more to me as if a male nurse were indicated. No doubt, however, you acted properly in seeking my advice.”

Michael nodded uneasily.

“It seemed the obvious thing to do, sir. I knew that you and my uncle were—er—acquainted, and with an hour or two to spare in town before going down to Bishops Takyll I thought I’d better ask your opinion. Glad you think it’s all poppycock, sir. I’d best be getting along.”

The door opened and a massively built person with a lugubrious expression and drooping moustache entered. Observing that the Assistant-Commissioner had a young gentleman with him, the person prepared to withdraw, when Colonel Tankerville checked him.

“Come in, Gidleigh. This is Mr. Chillaton, a nephew of Lord Harnley. Mr. Chillaton—Chief-Inspector Gid¬ leigh. You remember that Abbott case, Gidleigh, hey? Well, what is it?”

The newcomer returned Michael’s greeting without interest. He laid an open telegram on his chief’s desk. The drooping moustache seemed to droop more dourly as he straightened himself. As he read, Colonel Tankerville’s eyes bulged a little. Having completed his perusal the Colonel’s eyes bulged still more. A burst of consternation came through his pursed lips.

“Good God! Another!”

“Yes, sir,” the Chief Inspector nodded with a kind of sad satisfaction. “Another example, sir, of the amazing efficiency of our prison system, sir. The third in a month, sir.”

The Assistant-Commissioner breathed heavily.

“Neyland!” he muttered. “Good God, this is mon¬ strous!”

“Yes, sir,” the Chief Inspector agreed, still exhibiting a morbid pleasure. “You will recall, sir, that it took a little over a year to pull in Neyland. He was sentenced to seven years’ penal servitude. He serves seven months and two days precisely and we are now requested to catch him all over again.” The Chief Inspector gulped and shot a resentful glance at Michael as though that young gentleman must be in some way involved. Michael tact¬ fully rose. The Assistant-Commissioner raised his hand with a gesture of irritation at the movement. Michael sat down again.

“This is really appalling,” Colonel Tankerville scowled. “You had better warn all London stations at once, Gidleigh. Neyland is dangerous. He’ll make for London, most likely. Either that or one of the ports. He’s a much more difficult type to work against than Minser or Parkwell.”

The Chief Inspector shrugged. “We’re about as near to catching Minser and Parkwell as we were two weeks ago, sir. And that’s nowhere at all. Not so much as a smell. But compared with Cliff Neyland, I’d call them child’s play. Perhaps we’d better wait until they let out a few more convicts and then we can call in the Army.” Gidleigh stared gloomily out of the window. His superior frowned massively.

“There seems no doubt,” he said, “that these escapes have some connection. In Paunceforte’s opinion—” An inarticulate sound came from his subordinate.

“Well, Gidleigh?” the Assistant-Commissioner de¬ manded ominously.

“Nothing, sir, nothing. Excuse me.”

Colonel Tankerville’s mustache bristled with an¬ noyance.

“I was about to say that Paunceforte, at my invita¬ tion, has been looking into these escapes. It stands to reason that given a clever outside accomplice and the establishment of some means of communication any pro¬ spective escaper has a chance of success. When a convict makes his dash for freedom with no one to harbor or disguise him, re-capture is the certain penalty. We must postulate, then, the existence of an extremely wellinformed outside accomplice to organize the affair.

Paunceforte takes the view that the organizer of each of these recent escapes is the same individual.”

An ostentatious sigh came from Chief Inspector Gidleigh.

“May I be allowed to remark, sir, that nobody at the Yard disputes that suggestion. Also that the existence of this unidentified escape organizer is well known in criminal circles. The Crooks’ Shepherd, as they call him, is re¬ garded, sir, with affection and hope by every old lag who does a new stretch.”

The Assistant-Commissioner drummed his knuckles on the desk.

“Possibly. You may be right, Gidleigh. It does not alter the fact that Paunceforte arrived at his conclusions quite independently of underworld gossip. He is, I am glad to say, unhampered by the traditional mental processes, let us call them, of too many of our policemen, and he has developed a theory of some interest regarding these es¬ capes.” The Assistant-Commissioner warming to his sub¬ ject, turned to Michael. The movement was subconscious and the young man divined with some amusement that he was about to be regaled with a personal enthusiasm in which the Chief Inspector had no share.

“It is a matter of great regret to me,” pursued the Assistant-Commissioner, “that we are unable to avail our¬ selves officially of this remarkable young man’s services. At an unusually early age Paunceforte took his degree as B.A. He has since become a profound student of crim¬ inology. Indeed, I doubt whether there is a single work on the subject with which he is unfamiliar. Unfortunately, Paunceforte wears glasses. Unfortunately, also, he is af¬ flicted with distressing handicaps that disqualify him for a regular appointment at Scotland Yard, but I am glad to say I have been able to secure his services as an unofficial auxiliary.”

Inspector Gidleigh fidgeted. Michael Chillaton main¬ tained a solemn exterior with difficulty, but he was ready enough to concede the Assistant-Commissioner’s point of view. New blood was probably desirable.

“Paunceforte,” pursued Colonel Tankerville, tapping his chair arm by way of emphasis, “believes that the or¬ ganizer of these escapes is a person of unusual ability, with powers that suggest him to be highly educated. In short, of a very superior type to the common run of criminals— Did you speak, Gidleigh?”

“No, sir.” The detective forced an unnatural calm to cover his irritation and boredom. “Nothing of any con¬ sequence, sir.”

Colonel Tankerville leant back in his chair with an urbane smile.

“Let us have your remarks, Gidleigh, by all means. We are anxious to hear other theories.”

“Theories, sir? I’ve no theories. Only these master criminals don’t seem to come my way—outside of detective novels. That’s only in twenty-five years’ experience, sir, of course—”

Colonel Tankerville smiled, a little less urbanely.

“I admit, Gidleigh, that I have also not encountered such a type. That is not to say, however, that it doesn’t exist, which is where your too rigid dogmatism may lead you astray. However, do me the favor of listening a little longer. Paunceforte’s theory, briefly, is as follows: First, that these escapes, which I will presently enumerate, are the work of one man. Second, that this mysterious organ¬ izer has a very good reason for the selection of his sub¬ jects.” Here the Assistant-Commissioner picked up a type¬ written sheet from his desk.

“The first of these three escapers—assuming a connec¬ tion—was William Minser, who has spent about half his long life in prison for forgery. A clever forger, but not clever enough to remain for long at liberty. He walked clean out of Wandsworth jail in the clothes of a prison visitor, who was subsequently discovered chloroformed in Minser’s cell. How the chloroform got there, with other details of this escape, are still the subject of inquiry, but it looks as if a certain amount of bribery were involved, a process which in this country has hitherto been rare.