"Now for Harley Street," muttered Blount, as he alighted from the train in London, and though it was 9 o'clock, he did not despair of finding either his man or something about him.

The motherly old lady who answered his summons at the door, was very much like the house—old-fashioned, but eminently respectable.

In the most innocent manner in the world she invited Blount into the sitting-room, but he did not accept the invitation until he had asked if Mr. Hall was at home, and she had answered that Mr. Hall had left town for a few days.

This was a disappointment, but at any rate he would find out what she knew about his movements, and sitting just a little in the shade with the old lady just a little in the light, Blount fired question after question, until even unsuspicious she began to wonder what it all meant. Quick to note this Blount stopped, and thanking her left No. — Harley Street—very much puzzled and disappointed. All his theories were knocked to the winds by that half-hour's conversation.

According to the old lady, Hall had come home about 7 o'clock on the night in question, and had not gone out again. That she was positive of for he would have had to pass the open parlor where she together with some friends had remained until after 12 o'clock, and after that she and "the girl" had spent another hour putting things to rights. There had been a small party in honor of her little grandson's birthday.

The finding of the body was reported to the police by one of the inmates of the house—a woman, at 1 A.M. She had come in late, as was customary with her, and had knocked at his door to ask for a match. Receiving no reply she turned the knob and entered. The light was still burning, and seeing at once he was dead she called some of the other tenants who notified the police. The body was not yet cold when they arrived, so that death must have occurred just prior to its discovery. The three other inmates of the house accounted satisfactorily for their movements that night, and the verdict of the coroner's jury, next day, was "suicide."

Blount, who had been detailed to look into the case, was, of course, present at the inquest. So, also, was our friend Martin, and, as he stood out in bold relief among the inmates of the alley, he at once came under the observation of the detective, who approached him and opened a conversation in his quiet, unassuming way.

"Rather odd case, sir!" he said. "If he had only waited a little while he would have gone naturally."

"Yes—it would appear so," replied Martin, looking at him curiously.

"Not interested I suppose—just dropped in through curiosity? Oh! I beg pardon! I thought I had seen you before—you are the gentleman who called at the office several times about some missing documents, supposed to have been stolen by an old thief named Golden. Hope you're not offended, sir! It's our business, you know, to know everybody at an affair like this."

"Not at all!" replied Martin, recognizing in Blount a man who had been very attentive to him when making the inquiries referred to.

"Heard anything yet, sir?"

"Not exactly—but I've found my man."

"Found him!" exclaimed Blount, surprised out of his invariably soft, quiet tones.

"Yes,—there he lies."

Blount's business had accustomed him to surprises, but he could hardly realize that before him lay a man for whom Martin had offered a thousand pounds.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Positive. Nothing was found upon him or in the room, I presume."

"No, sir—that is, nothing of any account."

"I thought not," commented Martin.

Something in the tone had struck Blount, but before he could speak the inquest had begun. They had moved outside during the conversation, but now entered the room where the inquest was being held. It was all over in a few minutes, and a verdict of "suicide" rendered.

When the verdict was announced Blount, whose eyes had been roving over the crowd in a professional way, caught sight of a face which he recognized instantly, and he noticed with considerable surprise the look of contempt with which the owner of the face received the verdict.

"Well, well, Mr. Jaggers! And what do we know about this?" and thus communing with himself, Blount slipped out before the crowd and waited at the entrance. To Martin, who followed him, he said:

"Wait a minute and keep an eye on me please for——"

The elite of Burn's Alley began coming out just then and almost the first was Blount's man. He was allowed to go as far as the corner of the street. Blount then tapped him on the shoulder and asked what he knew about the "suicide."

"Nothin'," replied the man, sullenly.

"Come now, Jaggers, if you will tell me all you know about the case, I'll see no harm comes to you. I mean about that last trick of yours. You know you're wanted now, and badly too, at that!"

"Well, now, I'll tell ye wot I'll do. You come to 'Blind Jim's' to-morrow—no, night arter, 'bout 'leven or twelve, an' I'll tell ye wot little I knows an' a 'ole lot I thinks."

"But you must tell me something now. Something to work on for the next two days."

Jaggers considered for a minute and then continued:

"Look ahere, Mr. Blount! It's not safe for me t' stand gabbin' in this 'ere way, but I'll tell ye wot you'll do. Just find a chap called Hall. Tall, good lookin' cove, 'n well dressed. Lives sommers about the West End. If ye don't get 'im there, try down 'bout Manchester, an' keep yer eye on th' docks."

With the last words Jaggers started off suddenly, muttering something about the "Inspector" and Blount turning leisurely, looked up the alley and saw the cause of Jaggers' sudden move. Inspector Prime and the coroner were coming down the alley. He at the same time saw Martin standing on the opposite corner. Joining him he said:

"Mr. Martin, I asked you to wait because you made a curious remark up-stairs. You said you expected there would be nothing found on the body."

"Perfectly correct, Mr. Blount. Find the papers I am looking for, and you've got the murderer of old Golden!"

"Phew," whistled Blount. "So you don't believe in the suicide theory?"

"Do you?" Martin stopped and faced him.

"Can't say as I do. I did but—you saw my gentleman friend? From what he told me and what you tell me, I don't."

"Well, the same amount stands for the papers as before. But what did you learn from your friend?"

Blount informed him. The name and description fitted Hall so well that both started for Hanley Hall—with what result we know.

On the way Blount showed Martin a small locket which he had found between the dead man's shirt and vest. There was nothing peculiar about it—nothing to distinguish it from hundreds of others of a similar pattern, except that it contained the picture of a pretty young woman.

Martin's connection with Blount being explained, let us return to that gentleman.

His theories, as he put it himself, were "all gone to pot"—no hope now but Jaggers, and he accordingly proceeded to "Blind Jim's."

"Blind Jim's" was a resort of thieves, male and female, of the worst character, and when Blount entered everything came to a standstill. The singing and loud talking ceased almost instantaneously. The whisper went around "Blount is here," and each wondered "does he want me?"

The proprietor bowed obsequiously, and inquired after Mr. Blount's health, and would "he have something?" Before Blount could reply Jaggers relieved the suspense by coming from the back room and joining him at the bar.

"Have you a room where we can have a quiet drink?" asked Blount, of the one-eyed proprietor.

"Yes, sir! Cert'nly, sir! Here Mike!" (to one of the waiters), "show the gentleman to the parlor! What shall I send ye, Mr. Blount?"

"Nothing," replied Blount, shortly, "and see that you keep this den a little more quiet hereafter or you'll rue it!"

"Yes, sir! I will——" and as he passed out of hearing—"D—— you! I'd like to wring yer neck!"

Up-stairs Blount ordered a pot of ale for Jaggers and "a little gin" for himself and then settling back in his chair invited his companion to "fire away," which he did to the following effect.

The old man, who was known to him as Gorman, had for several years been his best friend, and had often, after they had become intimate, hinted at the possession of a secret which would one day make him rich. Finally one day, about six months previous to the murder, he told Jaggers that he had found a man through whom he could convert his secret into cash. Later, and only shortly before the murder, he told Jaggers that he was beginning to be afraid of his man, "and so," said Jaggers in conclusion, "he told me he had valuable papers which a chap named Hall wanted so he could marry the girl an' get the tin. He didn't know where she lived, but this 'ere Hall did, an' it wos Manchester he got a ticket for every time."

This was Jaggers' story and confirming his theory in every respect—yet how could he connect him with the crime? The locket was the only thing he had, and that seemed worthless. Hall appeared to have had no intimate friends who would be likely to recognize it, or rather the photograph in it. Again, Hall, guilty or not, had slipped through his fingers like quicksilver.