The Law of the Four Just Men/The Man Who Would Not Speak

for the fact that he was already the possessor of innumerable coats-of-arms, quarterings, family mottoes direct and affiliated, Leon Gonsalez might have taken for his chief motto the tag homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto. For there was no sphere of human activity which did not fascinate him. Wherever crowds gathered, wherever man in the aggregate was to be seen at his best or worst, there was Gonsalez to be found, oblivious to the attractions which had drawn the throng together, intensely absorbed in the individual members of the throng themselves.

Many years ago four young men, wealthy and intensely sincere, had come together with a common purpose inspired by one common ideal. There had been, and always will be, such combinations of enthusiasts. Great religious revivals, the creation of missions and movements of sociological reform, these and other developments have resulted from the joining together of fiery young zealots.

But the Four Just Men had as their objective the correction of the law's inequalities. They sought and found the men whom the wide teeth of the legal rake had left behind, and they dealt out their justice with terrible swiftness.

None of the living three (for one had died at Bordeaux) had departed from their ideals, but it was Leon who retained the appearance of that youthful enthusiasm which had brought them together.

He sought for interests in all manner of places, and it is at the back of the grand-stand on Hurst Park racecourse that he first saw "Spaghetti" Jones. It is one of the clear laws of coincidence, that if, in reading a book, you come across a word which you have not seen before, and which necessitates a reference to the dictionary, that same word will occur within three days on some other printed page. This law of the Inexplicable Recurrences applies equally to people, and Leon, viewing the bulk of the big man, had a queer feeling that they were destined to meet again—Leon's instincts were seldom at fault.

Mr. Spaghetti Jones was a tall, strong and stoutly built man, heavy eyed and heavy jawed. He had a long dark moustache which curled at the ends, and he wore a green and white bow tie that the startling pink of his shirt might not be hidden from the world. There were diamond rings on his fat fingers, and a cable chain across his figured waistcoat. He was attired in a very bright blue suit, perfectly tailored, and violently yellow boots encased his feet, which were small for a man of his size. In fact, Mr. Spaghetti Jones was a model of what Mr. Spaghetti Jones thought a gentleman should be.

It was not his rich attire, nor his greatness of bulk, which ensured for him Leon's fascinated interest. Gonsalez had strolled to the back of the stand whilst the race was in progress, and the paddock was empty. Empty save for Mr. Jones and two men, both smaller and both more poorly dressed than he.

Leon had taken a seat near the ring where the horses paraded, and it happened that the party strolled towards him. Spaghetti Jones made no attempt to lower his voice. It was rich and full of volume, and Leon heard every word. One of the men appeared to be quarrelling: the other, after a vain attempt to act as arbitrator, had subsided into silence.

"I told you to be at Lingfield, and you weren't there," Mr. Jones was saying gently.

He was cleaning his nails with a small penknife Leon saw, and apparently his attention was concentrated on the work of beautification.

"I'm not going to Lingfield, or to anywhere else, for you, Jones." said the man angrily.

He was a sharp, pale-faced man, and Leon knew from the note in his voice that he was frightened, and was employing this blustering manner to hide his fear.

"Oh, you're not going to Lingfield or anywhere else, aren't you?" repeated Spaghetti Jones.

He pushed his hat to the back of his head, and raised his eyes momentarily, and then resumed his manicuring.

"I've had enough of you and your crowd," the man went on. "We're blooming slaves, that's what we are! I can make more money running alone, now do you see?"

"I see," said Jones. "But Tom, I want you to be at Sandown next Thursday. Meet me in the ring"

"I won't, I won't," roared the other, red of face. "I've finished with you, and all your crowd!"

"You're a naughty boy," said Spaghetti Jones almost kindly.

He slashed twice at the other's face with his little penknife, and the man jumped back with a cry.

"You're a naughty boy," said Jones, returning to the contemplation of his nails, "and you'll be at Sandown when I tell you."

With that he turned and walked away.

The man called Tom pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his bleeding face. There were two long shallow gashes—Mr. Jones knew to an nth of an inch how deeply he could go in safety—but they were ugly and painful.

The wounded man glared after the retreating figure, and showed his discoloured teeth in an ugly grin, but Leon knew that he would report for duty at Sandown as he was ordered.

The sight was immensely interesting to Leon Gonsalez.

He came back to the flat in Jermyn Street full of it.

Manfred was out visiting his dentist, but the moment he came into the doorway Leon babbled forth his discovery.

"Absolutely the most amazing fellow I've seen in my life, George!" he cried enthusiastically. "A gorgeous atavism—a survival of the age of cruelty such as one seldom meets. You remember that shepherd we found at Escorial? He was the nearest, I think. This man's name is Spaghetti Jones," he went on, "he is the leader of a racecourse gang which blackmails bookmakers. His nickname is derived from the fact that he has Italian blood and lives in the Italian quarter, and I should imagine from the general asymmetry of the face, and the fullness of his chin, that there is a history of insanity, and certainly epilepsy, on the maternal side of his family."

Manfred did not ask how Leon had made these discoveries. Put Leon on the track of an interesting "subject" and he would never leave it until it was dissected fibre by fibre and laid bare for his examination.

"He has a criminal record—I suppose?"

Gonsalez laughed, delighted.

"That is where you're wrong, my dear Manfred. He has never been convicted, and probably never will be. I found a poor little bookmaker in the silver ring—the silver ring is the enclosure where smaller bets are made than in Tattersall's reservation—who has been paying tribute to Cæsar for years. He was a little doleful and maudlin, otherwise he would not have told me what he did. I drove him to a public-house in Cobham, far from the madding crowd, and he drank gin (which is the most wholesome drink obtainable in this country, if people only knew it) until he wept, and weeping unbuttoned his soul."

Manfred smiled and rang the bell for dinner.

"The law will lay him low sooner or later: I have a great faith in English law," he said. "It misses far fewer times than any other law that is administered in the world."

"But will it?" said Leon doubtfully. "I'd like to talk with the courteous Mr. Fare about this gentleman."

"You'll have an opportunity," said Manfred, "for we are dining with him tomorrow night at the Metropolitan Restaurant."

Their credentials as Spanish criminologists had served them well with Mr. Fare and they in turn had assisted him—and Fare was thankful.

It was after the Sunday night dinner, when they were smoking their cigars, and most of the diners at the Metropolitan had strayed out into the dancing-room, that Leon told his experience.

Fare nodded.

"Oh yes. Spaghetti Jones is a hard case," he said. "We have never been able to get him, although he has been associated with some pretty unpleasant crimes. The man is colossal. He is brilliantly clever, in spite of his vulgarity and lack of education: he is remorseless, and he rules his little kingdom with a rod of iron. We have never been able to get one man to turn informer against him, and certainly he has never yet been caught with the goods."

He flicked the ash of his cigar into his saucer, and looked a long time thoughtfully at the grey heap.

"In America the Italians have a Black Hand organisation. I suppose you know that? It is a system of blackmail, the operations of which, happily, we have not seen in this country. At least, we hadn't seen it until quite recently. I have every reason to believe that Spaghetti Jones is the guiding spirit in the one authentic case which has been brought to our notice."

"Here in London?" said Manfred in surprise. "I hadn't the slightest idea they tried that sort of thing in England."

The Commissioner nodded.

"It may, of course, be a fake, but I've had some of my best men on the track of the letter-writers for a month, without getting any nearer to them. I was only wondering this morning, as I was dressing, whether I could not interest you gentlemen in a case where I confess we are a little at sea. Do you know the Countess Vinci?"

To Leon's surprise Manfred nodded.

"I met her in Rome, about three years ago," he said. "She is the widow of Count Antonio Vinci, is she not?"

"She is a widow with a son aged nine," said the Commissioner, "and she lives in Berkeley Square. A very wealthy lady and extremely charming. About two months ago she began to receive letters, which had no signature, but in its stead, a black cross. They were written in beautiful script writing, and that induced a suspicion of Spaghetti Jones who, in his youth, was a sign-writer."

Leon nodded his head vigorously.

"Of course, it is impossible to identify that kind of writing," he said admiringly. "By 'script' I suppose you mean writing which is actually printed? That is a new method, and a particularly ingenious one, but I interrupted you, sir. Did these letters ask for money?"

"They asked for money and threatened the lady as to what would happen if she failed to send to an address which was given. And here the immense nerve of Jones and his complicity was shown. Ostensibly Jones carries on the business of a newsagent. He has a small shop in Notting Hill, where he sells the morning and evening papers, and is a sort of local agent for racing tipsters whose placards you sometimes see displayed outside newspaper shops. In addition, the shop is used as an accommodation address"

"Which means," said Manfred, "that people who do not want their letters addressed to their houses can have them sent there?"

The Commissioner nodded.

"They charge twopence a letter. These accommodation addresses should, of course, be made illegal, because they open the way to all sorts of frauds. The cleverness of the move is apparent: Jones receives the letter, ostensibly on behalf of some client, the letter is in his hands, he can open it or leave it unopened so that if the police call—as we did on one occasion—there is the epistle intact! Unless we prevent it reaching his shop we are powerless to keep the letter under observation. As a matter of fact, the name of the man to whom the money was to be sent, according to the letter which the Countess received, was 'H. Frascati, care of John Jones'. Jones, of course, received the answer to the Countess's letter, put the envelope with dozens of other letters which were waiting to be claimed, and when our man went in in the evening, after having kept observation of the shop all day, he was told that the letter had been called for, and as, obviously, he could not search everybody who went in and out of the shop in the course of the day, it was impossible to prove the man's guilt."

"A wonderful scheme!" said the admiring Gonsalez. "Did the Countess send money?"

"She sent £200 very foolishly," said Fare with a shake of his head, "and then when the next demand came she informed the police. A trap letter was made up and sent to Jones's address, with the result as I have told you. She received a further note, demanding immediate payment, and threatening her and her boy, and a further trap letter was sent; this was last Thursday: and from a house on the opposite side of the road two of our officers kept observation, using field-glasses, which gave them a view of the interior of the shop. No letter was handed over during the day by Jones, so in the evening we raided the premises, and there was that letter on the shelf with the others, unopened, and we looked extremely foolish," said the Commissioner with a smile. He thought awhile. "Would you like to meet the Countess Vinci?" he asked.

"Very much indeed," said Gonsalez quickly, and looked at his watch.

"Not to-night," smiled the Commissioner. "I will fix an interview for you tomorrow afternoon. Possibly you two ingenious gentlemen may think of something which has escaped our dull British wits."

On their way back to Jermyn Street that night, Leon Gonsalez broke the silence with a startling question.

"I wonder where one could get an empty house with a large bathroom and a very large bath?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Why ever?" began Manfred, and then laughed. "I'm getting old, I think, Leon," he said as they turned into the flat. "There was a time when the amazing workings of your mind did not in any way surprise me. What other characteristics must this ideal home of yours possess?"

Leon scientifically twirled his hat across the room that it fell neatly upon a peg of the hat-rack.

"How is that for dexterity, George?" he asked in self-admiration. "The house—oh well, it ought to be a little isolated, standing by itself in its own grounds, if possible. Well away from the road, and the road not often frequented. I should prefer that it was concealed from observation by bushes or trees."

"It sounds as if you're contemplating a hideous crime," said Manfred good-humouredly.

"Not I," corrected Leon quickly, "but I think our friend Jones is a real nasty fellow." He heaved a big sigh. "I'd give anything for his head measurements," he said inconsequently.

Their interview with the Countess Vinci was a pleasant one. She was a tall, pretty woman, of thirty-four, the "grande dame" to her finger-tips.

Manfred, who was human, was charmed by her, for Leon Gonsalez she was too normal to be really interesting.

"Naturally I'm rather worried," she said. "Philip is not very strong, though he is not delicate."

Later the boy came in, a straight, little fellow with an olive skin and brown eyes, self-possessed and more intelligent than Manfred had expected from his years. With him was his governess, a pretty Italian girl.

"I trust Beatrice more than I trust your police," said the Countess when the girl had taken her charge back to his lessons. "Her father is an officer in the Sicilian police, and she has lived practically all her life under threat of assassination."

"Does the boy go out?" asked Manfred.

"Once a day, in the car," said the Countess. "Either I take him or Beatrice and I, or Beatrice alone."

"Exactly what do they threaten?" asked Gonsalez.

"I will show you one of their letters," said the Countess.

She went to a bureau, unlocked it, and came back with a stout sheet of paper. It was of excellent quality and the writing was in copper-plate characters:


 * "You will send us a thousand pounds on the first of March, June, September and December. The money should be in bank-notes and should be sent to H. Frascati, care of J. Jones, 194 Notting Hill Crescent. It will cost you more to get your boy back than it will cost you to keep him with you."

Gonsalez held the paper to the light, then carried it to the window for a better examination.

"Yes," he said as he handed it back. "It would be difficult to trace the writer of that. The best expert in the world would fail."

"I suppose you can suggest nothing," said the Countess, shaking her head in anticipation, as they rose to go.

She spoke to Manfred, but it was Gonsalez who answered.

"I can only suggest, madame," he said, "that if your little boy does disappear you communicate with us immediately."

"And my dear Manfred," he said when they were in the street, "that Master Philip will disappear is absolutely certain. I'm going to take a cab and drive round London looking for that house of mine."

"Are you serious, Leon?" asked Manfred, and the other nodded.

"Never more serious in my life," he said soberly. "I will be at the flat in time for dinner."

It was nearly eight o'clock, an hour after dinner-time, when he came running up the stairs of the Jermyn Street establishment, and burst into the room.

"I have got" he began, and then saw Manfred's face. "Have they taken him?"

Manfred nodded.

"I had a telephone message an hour ago," he said.

Leon whistled.

"So soon," he was speaking to himself. And then: "How did it happen?"

"Fare has been here. He left just before you came," said Manfred. "The abduction was carried out with ridiculous ease. Soon after we left, the governess took the boy out in the car, and they followed their usual route, which is across Hampstead Heath to the country beyond. It is their practice to go a few miles beyond the Heath in the direction of Beacon's Hill and then to turn back."

"Following the same route every day was, of course, sheer lunacy," said Leon. "Pardon me."

"The car always turns at the same point," said Manfred, "and that is the fact which the abductors had learnt. The road is not especially wide, and to turn the big Rolls requires a little manoeuvring. The chauffeur was engaged in bringing the car round, when a man rode up on a bicycle, a pistol was put under the chauffeur's nose, and at the same time two men, appearing from nowhere, pulled open the door of the car, snatched away the revolver which the governess carried, and carried the screaming boy down the road to another car, which the driver of the Vinci car had seen standing by the side of the road, but which apparently had not aroused his suspicion."

"The men's faces, were they seen?"

Manfred shook his head.

"The gentleman who held up the chauffeur wore one of those cheap theatrical beards which you can buy for a shilling at any toyshop, and in addition a pair of motor goggles. Both the other men seemed to be similarly disguised. I was just going to the Countess when you came. If you'll have your dinner, Leon"

"I want no dinner," said Leon promptly.

Commissioner Fare was at the house in Berkeley Square when they called, and he was endeavouring vainly to calm the distracted mother.

He hailed the arrival of the two men with relief.

"Where is the letter?" said Leon immediately he entered the room.

"What letter?"

"The letter they have sent stating their terms."

"It hasn't arrived yet," said the other in a low voice. "Do you think that you can calm the Countess? She is on the verge of hysteria."

She was lying on a sofa deathly white, her eyes closed, and two maidservants were endeavouring to rouse her. She opened her eyes at Manfred's voice, and looked up.

"Oh my boy, my boy?" she sobbed, and clasped his hands in both of hers. "You will get him back, please. I will give anything, anything. You cannot name a sum that I will not pay!"

It was then that the butler came into the room bearing a letter on a salver.

She sprang up, but would have fallen had not Manfred's arm steadied her.

"It is from—them," she cried wildly and tore open the envelope with trembling fingers.

The message was a longer one:


 * "Your son is in a place which is known only to the writer. The room is barred and locked and contains food and water sufficient to last for four days. None but the writer knows where he is or can find him. For the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds his hiding place will be sent to the Countess, and if that sum is not forthcoming, he will be left to starve."

"I must send the money immediately," cried the distraught lady. "Immediately! Do you understand? My boy—my boy! ..."

"Four days," murmured Leon, and his eyes were bright. "Why it couldn't be better!"

Only Manfred heard him.

"Madam," said Mr. Fare gravely, "if you send twenty-five thousand pounds what assurance have you that the boy will be restored? You are a very rich woman. Is it not likely that this man, when he gets your money, will make a further demand upon you?"

"Besides which," interrupted Leon, "it would be a waste of money. I will undertake to restore your boy in two days. Perhaps in one, it depends very much upon whether Spaghetti Jones sat up late last night."

Mr. Spaghetti Jones was nicknamed partly because of his association with the sons and daughters of Italy, and partly because, though a hearty feeder, he invariably finished his dinner, however many courses he might have consumed, with the Italian national dish.

He had dined well at his favourite restaurant in Soho, sitting aloof from the commonplace diners, and receiving the obsequious services of the restaurant proprietor with a complacency which suggested that it was no more than his right.

He employed a tooth-pick openly, and then paying his bill, he sauntered majestically forth and hailed a taxi-cab. He was on the point of entering it when two men closed in, one on each side of him.

"Jones," said one sharply.

"That's my name," said Mr. Jones.

"I am Inspector Jetheroe from Scotland Yard, and I shall take you into custody on a charge of abducting Count Philip Vinci."

Mr. Jones stared at him.

Many attempts had been made to bring him to the inhospitable shelter which His Majesty's Prisons afford, and they had all failed.

"You have made a bloomer, haven't you?" he chuckled, confident in the efficiency of his plans.

"Get into that cab," said the man shortly, and Mr. Jones was too clever and experienced a juggler with the law to offer any resistance.

Nobody would betray him—nobody could discover the boy, he had not exaggerated in that respect. The arrest meant no more than a visit to the station, a few words with the inspector and at the worst a night's detention.

One of his captors had not entered the cab until he had a long colloquy with the driver, and Mr. Jones, seeing through the window the passing of a five-pound note, wondered what mad fit of generosity had overtaken the police force.

They drove rapidly through the West End, down Whitehall, and to Mr. Jones's surprise, did not turn into Scotland Yard, but continued over Westminster Bridge.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked.

The man who sat opposite him, the smaller man who had spoken to the cabman, leant forward and pushed something into Mr. Jones's ample waistcoat, and glancing down he saw the long black barrel of an automatic pistol, and he felt a momentary sickness.

"Don't talk—yet," said the man.

Try as he did, Jones could not see the face of either detective. Passing, however, under the direct rays of an electric lamp, he had a shock. The face of the man opposite to him was covered by a thin white veil which revealed only the vaguest outlines of a face. And then he began to think rapidly. But the solutions to his difficulties came back to that black and shining pistol in the other's hands.

On through New Cross, Lewisham, and at last the cab began the slow descent of Blackheath Hill. Mr. Jones recognised the locality as one in which he had operated from time to time with fair success.

The cab reached the Heath Road, and the man who was sitting by his side opened the window and leant out, talking to the driver. Suddenly the car turned through the gateway of a garden and stopped before the uninviting door of a gaunt, deserted house.

"Before you get out," said the man with the pistol, "I want you to understand that if you talk or shout or make any statement to the driver of this cab, I shall shoot you through the stomach. It will take you about three days to die, and you will suffer pains which I do not think your gross mind can imagine."

Mr. Jones mounted the steps to the front door and passed meekly and in silence into the house. The night was chilly and he shivered as he entered the comfortless dwelling. One of the men switched on an electric lamp, by the light of which he locked the door. Then he put the light out, and they found their way up the dusty stairs with the assistance of a pocket lamp which Leon Gonsalez flashed before him.

"Here's your little home," said Leon pleasantly, and opening the door, turned a switch.

It was a big bathroom. Evidently Leon had found his ideal, thought Manfred, for the room was unusually large, so large that a bed could be placed in one corner, and had been so placed by Mr. Gonsalez. George Manfred saw that his friend had had a very busy day. The bed was a comfortable one, and with its white sheets and soft pillows looked particularly inviting.

In the bath, which was broad and deep, a heavy Windsor chair had been placed, and from one of the taps hung a length of rubber hosing.

These things Mr. Jones noticed, and also marked the fact that the window had been covered with blankets to exclude the light.

"Put out your hands," said Leon sharply, and before Spaghetti Jones realised what was happening, a pair of handcuffs had been snapped on his wrists, a belt had been deftly buckled through the connecting links, and drawn between his legs.

"Sit down on that bed. I want you to see how comfortable it is," said Leon humorously.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," said Mr. Jones in a sudden outburst of rage, "but by God you'll know all about it! Take that veil off your face and let me see you."

"I'd rather you didn't," said Leon gently. "If you saw my face I should be obliged to kill you, and that I have no desire to do. Sit down."

Mr. Jones obeyed wonderingly, and his wonder increased when Leon began to strip his patent shoes and silk socks, and to roll up the legs of his trousers.

"What is the game?" asked the man fearfully.

"Get on to that chair." Gonsalez pointed to the chair in the bath. "It is an easy Windsor chair"

"Look here," began Jones fearfully.

"Get in," snapped Leon, and the big fellow obeyed.

"Are you comfortable?" asked Leon politely.

The man glowered at him.

"You'll be uncomfortable before I'm through with you," he said.

"How do you like the look of that bed?" asked Leon. "It looks rather cosy, eh?"

Spaghetti Jones did not answer, and Gonsalez tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Now, my gross friend, will you tell me where you have hidden Philip Vinci?"

"Oh, that is it, is it?" grinned Mr. Jones. "Well, you can go on asking!"

He glared down at his bare feet, and then from one to the other of the two men.

"I don't know anything about Philip Vinci," he said. "Who is he?"

"Where have you hidden Philip Vinci?"

"You don't suppose if I knew where he was I'd tell you, do you?" sneered Jones.

"If you know, you certainly will tell me," answered Leon quietly, "but I fancy it is going to be a long job. Perhaps in thirty-six hours' time? George, will you take the first watch? I'm going to sleep on that very comfortable bed, but first," he groped at the back of the bath and found a strap and this he passed round the body of his prisoner, buckling it behind the chair, "to prevent you falling off," he said pleasantly.

He lay down on the bed and in a few minutes was fast asleep. Leon had that gift of sleeping at will, which has ever been the property of great commanders.

Jones looked from the sleeper to the veiled man who lounged in an easy chair facing him. Two eyes were cut in the veil, and the watcher had a book on his knee and was reading.

"How long is this going on?" he demanded.

"For a day or two," said Manfred calmly. "Are you very much bored? Would you like to read?"

Mr. Jones growled something unpleasant, and did not accept the offer. He could only think and speculate upon what their intentions were. He had expected violence, but apparently no violence was intended. They were merely keeping him prisoner till he spoke. But he would show them! He began to feel tired. Suddenly his head drooped forward, till his chin touched his breast.

"Wake up," said Manfred shortly.

He awoke with a start.

"You're not supposed to sleep," explained Manfred.

"Ain't I?" growled the prisoner. "Well, I'm going to sleep!" and he settled himself more easily in the chair.

He was beginning to doze when he experienced an acute discomfort and drew up his feet with a yell. The veiled man was directing a stream of ice-cold water upon his unprotected feet, and Mr. Jones was now thoroughly awake. An hour later he was nodding again, and again the tiny hose-pipe was directed to his feet, and again Manfred produced a towel and dried them as carefully as though Mr. Jones were an invalid.

At six o'clock in the morning, red-eyed and glaring, he watched Manfred rouse the sleeping Leon and take his place on the bed.

Again and again nature drew the big man's chin down to his chest, and again and again the icy stream played maddeningly upon him and he woke with a scream.

"Let me sleep, let me sleep!" he cried in helpless rage, tugging at the strap. He was half-mad with weariness, his eyes were like lead.

"Where is Philip Vinci?" demanded the inexorable Leon.

"This is torture, damn you" screamed the man.

"No worse for you than for the boy locked up in a room with four days' supply of food. No worse than slitting a man's face with a penknife, my primitive friend. But perhaps you do not think it is a serious matter to terrify a little child."

"I don't know where he is, I tell you," said Spaghetti hoarsely.

"Then we shall have to keep you awake till you remember," replied Leon, and lit a cigarette.

Soon after he went downstairs and returned with coffee and biscuits for the man, and found him sleeping soundly.

His dreams ended in a wail of agony.

"Let me sleep, please let me sleep," he begged with tears in his eyes. "I'll give you anything if you'll let me sleep!"

"You can sleep on that bed—and it's a very comfortable bed too" said Leon, "but first we shall learn where Philip Vinci is."

"I'll see you in hell before I'll tell you," screamed Spaghetti Jones.

"You will wear your eyes out looking for me," answered Leon politely. "Wake up!"

At seven o'clock that evening a weeping, whimpering, broken man, moaned an address, and Manfred went off to verify this information.

"Now let me sleep!"

"You can keep awake till my friend comes back," said Leon.

At nine o'clock George Manfred returned from Berkeley Square, having released a frightened little boy from a very unpleasant cellar in Notting Hill, and together they lifted the half-dead man from the bath and unlocked the handcuffs.

"Before you sleep, sit here," said Manfred, "and sign this."

"This" was a document which Mr. Jones could not have read even if he had been willing. He scrawled his signature, and crawling on to the bed was asleep before Manfred pulled the clothes over him. And he was still asleep when a man from Scotland Yard came into the room and shook him violently.

Spaghetti Jones knew nothing of what the detective said; had no recollection of being charged or of hearing his signed confession read over to him by the station sergeant. He remembered nothing until they woke him in his cell to appear before a magistrate for a preliminary hearing.

"It's an extraordinary thing, sir," said the gaoler to the divisional surgeon. "I can't get this man to keep awake."

"Perhaps he would like a cold bath." said the surgeon helpfully.