Approaching from Ealing Broadway, the huge electric-light standard, which was also a sign-post, shed a bright glow across the junction of the two roads. The thoroughfare on the right was Castlebar Road and on the left Carlton Road. In the latter road stood half a dozen big old trees, relics of a day when Ealing was a rural village and those trees formed a leafy way.

Beyond the sign-post, placed at the end of the triangle, lay a small open space of grass, and behind it a pleasant house with many trees in its spacious grounds.

At that hour silence reigned in that highly respectable suburban neighbourhood, and, as I went forward, I noticed that the figure beneath the trees was that of a man, who, emerging from the shadow, crossed the road leisurely and passed across the grass into the Castlebar Road, on the right hand.

He was dressed in dark clothes with a light grey felt hat, but so far was I away that to see his features was impossible, though the zone of light from the sign-post revealed his figure plainly.

Once he halted and looked in my direction, on hearing my footsteps, I suppose, but then continued his leisurely stroll.

I was upon the left-hand pavement, and in order not to attract the man's attention, passed along by the garden walls of the series of detached villas, for about two hundred yards, until the road ran in a curve round to the left, and thus I became hidden from his view.

When I found that I had not attracted the attention of the waiting man in the grey hat, I halted.

Was that the spot indicated? Was he one of those keeping the long-arranged appointment?

Ten o'clock had struck fully five minutes before, therefore, treading noiselessly, I retraced my steps until I could cautiously peep around the corner and see over the triangular plot of grass to the Castlebar Road.

Yes, the man was still standing there awaiting somebody. I could see the glowing end of his cigar.

Fortunately, he had his back turned towards me, gazing in the direction of the Broadway in apparent expectation. This allowed me to slip along a few yards, and entering the garden gate of one of the villas, I crouched down behind the low stone wall which separated the garden from the footway.

Kneeling there, I could watch without being seen, for fortunately the stranger opposite had not seen me.

I suppose I must have been there fully ten minutes. Several people passed within a few inches of me quite unsuspicious of my presence. In Castlebar Road a few people went along, but none interested the watcher.

Of a sudden, however, after straining his eyes for a long time in the direction whence I had come, he suddenly threw away his cigar and started off eagerly.

A few moments later I witnessed the approach of a short, thinnish man, wearing a black overcoat, open, over his evening clothes, and an opera hat.

And as he approached I recognized him. It was none other than Gregory himself!

The two men shook hands heartily, and by their mutual enthusiasm I realized that they could not have met for some considerable time.

They halted on the kerb in eager consultation, then both with one accord turned and strolled together in the direction of the station.

Next moment I had slipped from my hiding-place and was lounging along at a respectable distance behind them.

How I regretted that I had had no time to hail Rayner, for he would have had no difficulty in keeping observation upon the pair, while I, at any moment, might be recognized by the cunning, clever old fellow to whose inventiveness all the coups of the notorious Jules Jeanjean were due.

He seemed to walk more erect, and with more sprightliness, than at Cromer, where his advanced age and slight infirmity were undoubtedly assumed. In his present garb he really looked what he was supposed to be—a wealthy dealer in gems.

Engaged in earnest conversation, Gregory and his companion walked together along the dark road until they came to a taxi-stand near the station, when, entering the first cab, they drove rapidly away.

The moment they had left, I leapt into the next cab and, telling the driver to keep his friend in sight, we were soon moving along after the red tail-light of the first taxi.

The chase was an exciting one, for we whizzed along dark roads, quite unfamiliar to me, roads lying to the south of Ealing towards the Thames. My driver believed me to be a detective from my garb, and I did not discourage the belief.

Suddenly we turned to the right, when I recognized that we were in the long, narrow town of Brentford, and travelling in the direction of Syon House, the main road to Hounslow and Staines. At Spring Grove, which I had known slightly in years gone by, we turned again to the right, and were soon passing through a district of market-gardens and solitary houses.

On the way I had leaned out of the window and instructed the taxi-driver to keep well behind the other cab, so as not to be discovered. Therefore, in carrying out my orders, he suddenly put on his brakes and stopped, saying—

"They're going into that house yonder, sir. See?"

I nipped out quickly and saw that in the distance the other taxi had pulled up and the two men had alighted before a garden gate.

"Put out your lights, go back to the end of the road, and wait for me," I said.

Then I hurried forward to ascertain what I could.

The taxi, having put down its two fares and been dismissed, turned and passed me as I went forward. At last I had run the sly old fox, Gregory, to earth, and I now meant to keep in touch with him.

On approaching the house I found it to be a good-sized one, standing back, lonely and deserted, in a weedy garden, and surrounded by big, high elms. From the neglect apparent everywhere, the decayed oak fence, and the grass-grown path leading to the front door, it was plain that the place was unoccupied, though in two windows lights now shone, behind dark-green holland blinds.

The place seemed situated in the centre of some market-gardens, without any other house in the near vicinity. A dismal, old-fashioned dwelling far removed from the bustle of London life, and yet within hearing of it, for, as I stood, I could see the night-glare of the metropolis shining in the sky, upon my right, and could hear the roar of motor-buses upon the main road through Spring Grove.

For a few moments I stood up under the shadow of a big bush which overhung the road, my eyes upon the lower window where the fights showed. The house was half-covered with ivy and had bay-windows upon each side of the front door, which was approached by a short flight of moss-grown steps.

That I was not mistaken in my surmise that the house was uninhabited was proved by the "To Let" notice-board which I discerned lying behind the fence, thrown down purposely, perhaps.

Was old Gregory an intruder there? Had he purposely thrown down that board in order that any person, seeing lights in the window, would not have their suspicions sufficiently aroused to cause them to investigate?

The house was a dark, weird one. But what would I not have given to be inside, and to overhear what was being planned!

Vernon Gregory was, according to Lola, the instigator of all those marvellously ingenious thefts effected by Jeanjean. Was another great robbery being planned?

Perhaps the man in the grey hat had travelled from afar. Possibly so, because of the long time in advance the appointment had been made.

All was silent. Therefore I crept over the weedy garden until I stood beneath the bay window in which a light was shining.

I could hear voices—men's voices raised in controversy. Then, suddenly, they only conversed in whispers. What was said, I could not distinguish. They were speaking in French, but further than that I could catch nothing.

Sometimes they laughed heartily at something evidently hailed as a huge joke. I distinctly heard Gregory's tones, but the others' I could not recognize. As far as I could gather they were strangers to me.

Was the place, I wondered, one of old Gregory's hiding-places? Though he conducted his business in Hatton Garden, where he was well known, his private address, Lola had told me, had always been a mystery, such pains did he take to conceal it.

Was that lonely house his place of abode? Had he met his friend in Ealing and taken him there in order to place before him certain plans for the future?

I looked at the grim old house, with its mantle of ivy, and reflected upon what quantities of stolen property it might contain!

That the man I knew as Vernon Gregory was head of an association of the cleverest jewel-thieves in the world, had been alleged by Lola, and I believed her. His deep cunning and clever elusiveness, his amazing craftiness and astounding foresight had been well illustrated by his disappearance from Cromer, even though his flight had been so sudden that he had been compelled to abandon his treasures. Yet as I stood there, upon the carpet of weeds, with my ears strained, I could hear his familiar voice speaking in slow measured tones, as he was explaining something in elaborate detail.

What was it? I stood there in a fever of excitement and curiosity.

Yet I had one satisfaction. I had run him to earth at last.

Presently the voices of the men were again raised in dissension. Gregory had apparently made some statement from which the others—how many there were, I knew not—dissented. They spoke rapidly in French, and I could hear one man's mouth full of execrations, a hard, hoarse voice of one of the lower class.

Then I distinctly heard some one say in English—

"I don't believe it! He knows nothing. Why take such a step against an innocent man?"

"Because, I tell you, he knows too much!" declared Gregory, now speaking loudly in English. "He was at Cromer, and discovered everything. Ah! you don't know how shrewd and painstaking he is. Read his books and you will see. He is the greatest danger confronting you to-day, my friends."

I held my breath. They were discussing me!

"I object," exclaimed the man who had first spoken in English. "He has no evil intentions against us."

"But he knows the Nightingale, and through her has learnt much," Gregory replied promptly.

"What?" gasped the unseen speaker. "Has she told him anything? Has the girl betrayed us?"

"Ask her," the old man urged. "She's upstairs. Call her."

Lola was there—in that house!