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the others in a few minutes.

      ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s all we can do in the meantime. A description of the men and cart will be wired round to all the stations immediately, and every constable in London will be on the look-out for them before very much longer.’

      ‘Very good that,’ said the managing director.

      The Inspector looked surprised.

      ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘that’s the merest routine. But now I’m here I would like to make some other inquiries. Perhaps you would tell your people that I’m acting with your approval, as it might make them give their information more willingly.’

      Mr. Avery called over Huston, the manager.

      ‘Huston, this is Inspector Burnley of Scotland Yard. He is making some inquiries about that cask you already heard of. I’ll be glad if you see that he is given every facility.’ He turned to the Inspector. ‘I suppose there’s nothing further I can do to help you? I should be glad to get back to the City again, if possible.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr. Avery, there’s nothing more. I’ll cruise round here a bit. I’ll let you know how things develop.’

      ‘Right. Good-bye then, in the meantime.’

      The Inspector, left to his own devices, called Broughton and, going on board the Bullfinch, had the clerk’s story repeated in great detail, the actual place where each incident happened being pointed out. He made a search for any object that might have been dropped, but without success, visited the wharf and other points from which the work at the cask might have been overlooked, and generally made himself thoroughly familiar with the circumstances. By the time this was done the other men who had been unloading the forehold had returned from dinner, and he interviewed them, questioning each individually. No additional information was received.

      The Inspector then returned to the quay office.

      ‘I want you,’ he asked Mr. Huston, ‘to be so good as to show me all the papers you have referring to that cask, waybills, forward notes, everything.’

      Mr. Huston disappeared, returning in a few seconds with some papers which he handed to Burnley. The latter examined them and then said:—

      ‘These seem to show that the cask was handed over to the French State Railway at their Rue Cardinet Goods Station, near the Gare St. Lazare, in Paris, by MM. Dupierre et Cie., carriage being paid forward. They ran it by rail to Rouen, where it was loaded on to your Bullfinch.’

      ‘That is so.’

      ‘I suppose you cannot say whether the Paris collection was made by a railway vehicle?’

      ‘No, but I should think not, as otherwise the cartage charges would probably show.’

      ‘I think I am right in saying that these papers are complete and correct in every detail?’

      ‘Oh yes, they are perfectly in order.’

      ‘How do you account for the cask being passed through by the Customs officials without examination?’

      ‘There was nothing suspicious about it. It bore the label of a well-known and reputable firm, and was invoiced as well as stencilled, ‘Statuary only.’ It was a receptacle obviously suitable for transporting such goods, and its weight was also in accordance. Unless in the event of some suspicious circumstance, cases of this kind are seldom opened.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr. Huston, that is all I want at present. Now, can I see the captain of the Bullfinch?’

      ‘Certainly. Come over and I’ll introduce you.’

      Captain M’Nabb was a big, rawboned Ulsterman, with a hooked nose and sandy hair. He was engaged in writing up some notes in his cabin.

      ‘Come in, sir, come in,’ he said, as Huston made the Inspector known. ‘What can I do for you?’

      Burnley explained his business. He had only a couple of questions to ask.

      ‘How is the trans-shipment done from the railway to your boat at Rouen?’

      ‘The wagons come down on the wharf right alongside. The Rouen stevedores load them, either with the harbour travelling crane or our own winches.’

      ‘Would it be at all possible for a barrel to be tampered with after it was once aboard?’

      ‘How do you mean tampered with? A barrel of wine might be tapped, but that’s all could be done.’

      ‘Could a barrel be changed, or completely emptied and filled with something else?’

      ‘It could not. The thing’s altogether impossible.’

      ‘I’m much obliged to you, captain. Good-day.’

      Inspector Burnley was nothing if not thorough. He questioned in turn the winch drivers, the engineers, even the cook, and before six o’clock had interviewed every man that had sailed on the Bullfinch from Rouen. The results were unfortunately entirely negative. No information about the cask was forthcoming. No question had been raised about it. Nothing had happened to call attention to it, or that was in any way out of the common.

      Puzzled but not disheartened, Inspector Burnley drove back to Scotland Yard, his mind full of the mysterious happenings, and his pocket-book stored with all kinds of facts about the Bullfinch, her cargo, and crew.

      Two messages were waiting for him. The first was from Ralston, the plain-clothes man that he had sent from the docks in a northerly direction. It read:—

      ‘Traced parties as far as north end of Leman Street. Trail lost there.’

      The second was from a police station in Upper Head Street:—

      ‘Parties seen turning from Great Eastern Street into Curtain Road about 1.20 p.m.’

      ‘H’m, going north-west, are they?’ mused the Inspector taking down a large scale map of the district. ‘Let’s see. Here’s Leman Street. That is, say, due north from St. Katherine’s Docks, and half a mile or more away. Now, what’s the other one?’—he referred to the wire—‘Curtain Road should be somewhere here. Yes, here it is. Just a continuation of the same line, only more west, say, a mile and a half from the docks. So they’re going straight, are they, and using the main streets. H’m. H’m. Now I wonder where they’re heading to. Let’s see.’

      The Inspector pondered. ‘Ah, well,’ he murmured at last, ‘we must wait till to-morrow,’ and, sending instructions recalling his two plain-clothes assistants, he went home.

      But his day’s work was not done. Hardly had he finished his meal and lit one of the strong, black cigars he favoured, when he was summoned back to Scotland Yard. There waiting for him was Broughton, and with him the tall, heavy-jawed foreman, Harkness.

      The Inspector pulled forward two chairs.

      ‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said, when the clerk had introduced his companion, ‘and let me hear your story.’

      ‘You’ll be surprised to see me so soon again, Mr. Burnley,’ answered Broughton, ‘but, after leaving you, I went back to the office to see if there were any instructions for me, and found our friend here had just turned up. He was asking for the chief, Mr. Avery, but he had gone home. Then he told me his adventures, and as I felt sure Mr. Avery would have sent him to you, I thought my best plan was to bring him along without delay.’

      ‘And right you were, Mr. Broughton. Now, Mr. Harkness, I would be obliged if you would tell me what happened to you.’

      The foreman settled himself comfortably in his chair.

      ‘Well, sir,’ he began, ‘I think you’re listening to the biggest fool between this and St. Paul’s. I ’ave been done this afternoon, fairly diddled, an’ not once only, but two separate times. ’Owever, I’d better tell you from the beginning.

      ‘When Mr. Broughton an’ Felix left, I stayed an’ kept an

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