He breeds—"

    Andy interrupted him.

    "There is something in the air of this place which makes people talkative, sergeant," he said patiently, "but perhaps I was a little obscure. I don't want the names of the men who aren't here. Is there anybody in the neighbourhood who is on the Commission of the Peace?"

    "There is one gentleman," emphasised the sergeant. "Mr Boyd Salter. He'll sign the order." He added: "If he's at home."

    Andy grinned, and went in search of Mr Boyd Salter.

    He found that the nearest way to the house avoided Beverley Green; in fact, Mr Salter's demesne ran well into Beverley, and was reached through a pair of lodge gates at the end of the town. He had seen them before and wondered who lived beyond them.

    Beverley Hall was a handsome mansion of the type that Inigo Jones had made famous.

    It was a house of silence. The first sound he heard as he was taken into a spacious, stone-flagged hall was the ticking of a clock. The man-servant moved noiselessly to carry Andy's visiting card, and Andy saw that he wore rubber-soled shoes. He was a long time gone, and when he returned he beckoned the caller forward.

    "Mr Salter is a martyr to nerve trouble, sir," he whispered. "If you would speak quietly to him he would be obliged, I am sure."

    Andy expected to meet an invalid, and had a vision of a trembling figure propped in a cushioned chair. Instead, he found a healthy-looking man of fifty, who looked up quickly as, unannounced, Andy was shown into the room.

    "Good afternoon, Mr Macleod. What can I do for you? I see you are on police business," he said, examining the card.

    Andy explained the reason for his visit.

    "You needn't lower your voice," smiled the other. "I suppose Tilling told you? Sometimes I am rather jumpy, but this is one of my good days." He looked at the document which Andy put before him and signed it. "Our friend is the jewel burglar, isn't he?" he said. "Where has he been hiding?"

    "In your garden city," said Andy, and a frown puckered Mr Salter's handsome face.

    "Beverley Green? At the guest-house, of course?"

    Andy nodded. "Did you meet any of the citizens?"

    "One; Mr Merrivan." There was nothing said for a little while, then: "A curious lot of people. Wilmot is a rum fish. I can't quite get the measure of him. I've often thought he was an aristocratic burglar. What is the name of that fellow in the book—Ruffles? Ah, Raffles, that's it! A queer fish, Wilmot. Then there's Nelson. There is a weird fellow! Drinks like the devil! He'd drink the sea dry."

    It was then Andy remembered the story he had heard about the artist.

    "He has a daughter," he suggested.

    "Ah, yes. Nice girl; very pretty. Wilmot is engaged to her or something of the sort. My son is a great news-gatherer when he's at home. He ought to be in the police service—at school now. H'm."

    He looked down at the warrant, blotted it, and passed it across to Andy.

    "Mr Merrivan seems a very nice man," he suggested.

    The justice shook his had.

    "Know nothing about him whatever," he said. "I've just said 'How d'ye do' to him, nothing more. He appears an inoffensive gentleman. Rather a bore, but inoffensive.