The burglarious Gold Dust Teddy was leading an apparently normal, half-drunken existence, with Down and Heath, both ambitious young officers, camping on his trail. So far he had afforded them no chance of getting nearer to proof against Larry. They had devised means⁠—what they were Labar did not inquire, though he might make a close guess⁠—of studying all the correspondence, both inward and outward, of his household. They had even used tests recommended to them by a Government chemist calculated to reveal the most obdurate sympathetic ink. And Heath patronising Teddy’s favourite pub had stood the latter sundry drinks the while he conveyed that he himself was a screwsman much wanted, who was quite ready to take a hand in any exploit that might perchance lead to profit. Beyond this Down had his small coterie of informants on the qui vive. All this had hitherto gone for nothing.