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got wind of the ring and was getting close on their track. They had to get rid of him, or beat it; and they hit on that plan. My uncle was lured somehow into that street; a girl decoy, whom a Chinaman was pretending to maltreat, got him into the dive, he was sandbagged and then drugged, and his clothes saturated with whisky and opium. In the meantime I had fallen into it as well, like a child of two. I had a beard in those days too, and a little powder on it and a line or two on my face had made me so much like my uncle that nobody ever suspected that it might not be him—and even he himself had his doubts! Altogether, it was a very pretty little plot.

“Anything else?” He sauntered towards the door.

“We can’t let him go,” whispered the Superintendent urgently.

“But what can we hold him on?” Major Twyfitt whispered back.

“He’s an accessory after.”

“Not to a crime,” smiled Walter, whose ears must have been particularly sharp. “You can’t be an accessory after to justifiable homicide.”

“That hasn’t been proved yet,” said the Superintendent sternly.

“No? Well, you can’t detain me till it has been.” With a quick movement Walter was through the door.

“We must hold him,” muttered Hawkesworth, jumping up. “I don’t know what on, but we must. Get him, Rudge, man! There’s that Hong Kong warrant still out against him anyhow.”

But Walter was already through the charge-room and at the street door. By the pavement stood a car, its engine ticking over. On seeing Walter, the driver thrust in the gear. The car jumped forward, and Walter leapt into the back.

“Walter Fitzgerald,” enunciated the Superintendent, charging through the doorway, “I—”

“Don’t want to lose you, but I think you ought to go,” chanted Walter mockingly as the car gathered speed. “Good-bye, Superintendent. You can send any message through my sister.”

Elma, sitting in front beside Holland, turned round and waved enthusiastic confirmation.

The Superintendent darted for the telephone. “I’ll have that car stopped before it’s gone three miles,” he said grimly.

Major Twyfitt touched him on the shoulder. “Why bother? We don’t really want him, you know. We’ve got the right man. We’ll let him go. It’s my belief that he’s in better hands than ours.”

With an air of disgust the Superintendent relinquished the telephone. “As you say, sir, of course. But we ought to have held him. Yes, Gravestock?”

The burly constable looked scared. “Could you come to the cells, please, sir? I think there’s something wrong with the prisoner Denny.”

The three officers tramped there in silence.

“There’s certainly something wrong with him,” said the Superintendent a minute later. “He’s dead. That’s what’s wrong with him. Rudge!”

In consternation Rudge drew from his pocket the wisp of paper and hurriedly opened it. “No,” he said with relief, “these are his. He had my soda bics—nothing else.”

“Then what did he die of?”

“He just died,” said Major Twyfitt, looking down on the still figure. “He’s old. He knew he was going to die—so he did die.”

There was a moment’s rather awed silence.

“And he never signed his confession,” said the Superintendent disgustedly.

THE END

APPENDIX I

SOLUTIONS

CHAPTER I

By Canon Victor L. Whitechurch

No Solution

CHAPTER II

By G. D. H. and M. Cole

No Solution

CHAPTER III

By Henry Wade

IN 1919, soon after the War, Admiral Penistone (young, rapid promotion for brilliant active service exploits) becomes involved in a disreputable brawl in a house of ill-repute in Hong Kong. Owing to his war services the Admiralty allow him to send in his papers, instead of court-martialling him. There were also involved in this brawl three other Englishmen: (1) Walter Fitzgerald, young and weak-charactered, struggling with drink and drugs; (2) his friend, and partner in a trading concern, Vanyke, an older man; (3) another trader, Holland. During the course of the brawl Fitzgerald is killed by Chinamen, but this is not known to the naval authorities when they deal with Penistone.

Holland, learning of old Fitzgerald’s will, blackmails Penistone,