He felt reasonably certain that in the normal course of events he would know more about it during the day. Without undue speculation, therefore, he betook himself to Grape Street, where, in the stiffly furnished room that formed the headquarters of the divisional detective force, he summoned one of his satellites and passed the note on.

“Find out what hands that note has been in,” he ordered. “And while you’re about it, m’lad, slip down and discover who owns a car numbered X20008. Take a note of that number. If I’m not here when you’re through, leave a message for me.”

With that off his mind, he shed his coat, and was about to immerse himself in the official routine correspondence that was the bane of his life, when there was a jangle of telephone bells, and a hearty-looking, ruddy-cheeked man engaged in converse that brought a fresher purple sheen to his face. He put down the receiver with an oath.

“Wish you wouldn’t swear, Bill,” said Labar, petulantly. “It jars on me.”