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‘Perhaps I’ve got two heads,’ said Tommy gravely.

‘Sho you have,’ said Mr Ryder. ‘Thatsh odd. Thatsh remarkable fac’. Letsh have a cocktail. Prohibition–probishun thatsh whatsh done me in. I guess I’m drunk–constootionally drunk. Cocktailsh–mixed ’em–Angel’s Kiss–that’s Marguerite–lovely creature, fon o’ me too. Horshes Neck, two Martinis–three Road to Ruinsh–no, roadsh to roon–mixed ’em all–in a beer tankard. Bet me I wouldn’t–I shaid–to hell, I shaid –’

Tommy interrupted.

‘That’s all right,’ he said soothingly. ‘Now what about getting home?’

‘Nohometogoto,’said Mr Ryder sadly, and wept.

‘What hotel are you staying at?’ asked Tommy.

‘Can’t go home,’ said Mr Ryder. ‘Treasure hunt. Swell thing to do. She did it. Whitechapel–white heartsh, white headsn shorrow to the grave –’

But Mr Ryder became suddenly dignified. He drew himself erect and attained a sudden miraculous command over his speech.

‘Young man, I’m telling you. Margee took me. In her car. Treasure hunting. English aristocrashy all do it. Under the cobblestones. Five hundred poundsh. Solemn thought, ’tis solemn thought. I’m telling you, young man. You’ve been kind to me. I’ve got your welfare at heart, sir, at heart. We Americans –’

Tommy interrupted him this time with even less ceremony.

‘What’s that you say? Mrs Laidlaw took you in a car?’

The American nodded with a kind of owlish solemnity.

‘To Whitechapel?’ Again that owlish nod.

‘And you found five hundred pounds there?’

Mr Ryder struggled for words.

‘S-she did,’ he corrected his questioner. ‘Left me outside. Outside the door. Always left outside. It’s kinder sad. Outside–always outside.’

‘Would you know your way there?’

‘I guess so. Hank Ryder doesn’t lose his bearings –’

Tommy hauled him along unceremoniously. He found his own car where it was waiting, and presently they were bowling eastward. The cool air revived Mr Ryder. After slumping against Tommy’s shoulder in a kind of stupor, he awoke clear-headed and refreshed.

‘Say, boy, where are we?’ he demanded.

‘Whitechapel,’ said Tommy crisply. ‘Is this where you came with Mrs Laidlaw tonight?’

‘It looks kinder familiar,’ admitted Mr Ryder, looking round. ‘Seems to me we turned off to the left somewhere down here. That’s it–that street there.’

Tommy turned off obediently. Mr Ryder issued directions.

‘That’s it. Sure. And round to the right. Say, aren’t the smells awful. Yes, past that pub at the corner–sharp round, and stop at the mouth of that little alley. But what’s the big idea? Hand it to me. Some of the oof left behind? Are we going to put one over on them?’

‘That’s exactly it,’ said Tommy. ‘We’re going to put one over on them. Rather a joke, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll tell the world,’ assented Mr Ryder. ‘Though I’m just a mite hazed about it all,’ he ended wistfully.

Tommy got out and assisted Mr Ryder to alight also. They advanced into the alley way. On the left were the backs of a row of dilapidated houses, most of which had doors opening into the alley. Mr Ryder came to a stop before one of these doors.

‘In here she went,’ he declared. ‘It was this door–I’m plumb certain of it.’

‘They all look very alike,’ said Tommy. ‘Reminds me of the story of the soldier and the Princess. You remember, they made a cross on the door to show which one it was. Shall we do the same?’

Laughing, he drew a piece of white chalk from his pocket and made a rough cross low down on the door. Then he looked up at various dim shapes that prowled high on the walls of the alley, one of which was uttering a blood-curdling yawl.

‘Lots of cats about,’ he remarked cheerfully.

‘What is the procedure?’ asked Mr Ryder. ‘Do we step inside?’

‘Adopting due precautions, we do,’ said Tommy.

He glanced up and down the alley way, then softly tried the door. It yielded. He pushed it open and peered into a dim yard.

Noiselessly he passed through, Mr Ryder on his heels.

‘Gee,’ said the latter, ‘there’s someone coming down the alley.’

He slipped outside again. Tommy stood still for a minute, then hearing nothing went on. He took a torch from his