"Listen, Beecham, my own-I've a Christmas box for you. You remember I promised you, if I could get it, the-er-inside dope, as it's called-crude expression, I know, but it is called that, isn't it? I thought you'd know ... My dear fellow, I am getting on with it; do let me finish ...

"About that hold-up at Clapham the other week, when the girl was knocked out. You know how I hate brutality. I mean, he could have drugged her quite as easily, couldn't he?... But I'm telling you! I've got your man, address and everything.

"Listen, I shall be in the Baltic at four ... No, no, Beecham, dear, I'd much rather see you personally ... It's your face. It brightens my day. Baltic at four. Better write it down. You're so forgetful!"

After which Mr. Jones, with a happy chuckle, hooked the receiver, went to Liverpool Street, bought a couple of first-cla.s.s train tickets, and proceeded to his accustomed corner in the dim saloon of the Baltic Hotel, off Piccadilly.

Promptly at four o'clock the stolid face of Detective-Inspector Beecham of Scotland Yard appeared in sight, and the Scotland Yard man took a seat beside Mr. Jones without a word.

"Compliments of the season!" said the latter brightly.

Beecham grunted.

"Cheer up!" Mr. Jones beamed.

"You owe me some information," Beecham reminded him.

"I have it here," said Mr. Jones, producing a pocket-book, which he placed on the table.

"When I say owe I mean owe," Beecham added. "Don't imagine you're paying off a debt. You're merely paying off arrears. You've slipped through my fingers so often that I take this without hesitation. I've a right to it. But it wipes nothing off. If I can get you tomorrow, I'll get you!"

"Why not tonight?" Mr. Jones smiled.

"The first chance I get," Beecham growled.

Mr. Jones pulled a slip of paper from his pocket-book and began to unfold it. If he heard the suppressed gasp at his side he took no notice of it. He proceeded to unfold the little slip. But it wasn't the slip that had caused the Scotland Yard man to gasp. It was the sight of the two railway tickets. First cla.s.s. To Friars Topliss.

"Here's the address," said Mr. Jones, pa.s.sing the slip to the detective. You'll find your man there. You'll find the evidence too. And he richly deserves what's coming to him. You can tell him I said so, if you like, when you explain I obtained the information against him and so did your job for you."

"Anything else?" asked Beecham.

"Nothing," said Mr. Jones, "unless you'll let me call the waiter again, so that we can toast each other in the true festive--"

"I'll be going," said Beecham curtly as he rose.

"You have a heart of stone, dear Beecham," sighed Mr. Jones. "And yet, on Christmas Eve, when you see your stocking and the chimney shaft-who knows?"

But Detective-Inspector Beecham was already on his way to the door-and Scotland Yard.

Back in his office the big man rang a bell and summoned his new a.s.sistant Marks to his side.

"Ah, Marks," he said crisply. "About Mr. Hadlow Cribb. He's being accompanied tonight on the train?"

"I'm going myself, sir," said Marks.

"You needn't trouble," Beecham grunted.

"Not trouble, sir?"

"I'm going, myself!"

And as Beecham pecked the end off a big cigar he almost smiled his self-satisfaction.

The six-fourteen out of Liverpool Street faced the snow before it started. The snow blew in through the open end of the great building, covering the front of the engine and the sides of the pa.s.sengers and the friends who were seeing them off. It was agreed by the majority that the weather was seasonable, but the vote was unanimous that the journey was certain to be long and uncomfortable.

In the laughing, grumbling, cheerful, and anxious holiday crowds a small greyish man pa.s.sed unnoticed. The cheerful ones were too cheerful to take the slightest interest in a figure so small and grey; the anxious ones too anxious. He pa.s.sed through to the train as though he and the inconspicuous black bag he carried did not in fact exist, and when he sank wheezily into the corner of a first-cla.s.s compartment that compartment still seemed empty.

Whereas everybody, cheerful or anxious, had at least one glance to spare for the tall and handsome Mr. Jeremiah Jones, who, with the grave and dignified Maxwell at his heels, strode along the platform with an a.s.surance which implied that if he had not bought the station at least he had a ten-day option upon it.

But since n.o.body had noticed the first greyish man, n.o.body noticed now that the inconspicuous black bag which Maxwell carried in the wake of Mr. Jones was the very twin brother of the inconspicuous black bag which the greyish man had carried a few moments before.

Except, that is, just one eager watcher with a black half-moon moustache, who now moved out of the obscurity of a dark corner and pa.s.sed through the barrier not twenty feet behind Mr. Jones and Maxwell.

Mr. Jones and Maxwell pa.s.sed the first-cla.s.s compartment in which the greyish Mr. Hadlow Cribb sat with his forty thousand pounds' worth of jewels, walked on until they were beyond the dining car and then selected a first-cla.s.s compartment of their own.

But the eagerly watchful Detective-Inspector Beecham had a few quiet words with the guard at the other end of the train and sank back into obscurity once more, this time in the shadows of the guard's van.

The train moved out of the station and Detective-Inspector Beecham moved out of the guard's van together. The train moved out into the unfriendliness of the winter night, but Beecham moved out into the comparative cosiness of the corridor. This he traversed as far as the second coach where, having satisfied himself that Mr. Hadlow Cribb was still alone and his shabby case unmolested, he took up his stand round the angle of the pa.s.sage at the end of the coach and watched.

Mile succeeded mile, minute succeeded minute. Detective-Inspector Beecham began to grow restless. The corridor windows were coated with snow. There was nothing to see and as little to do. Cheerful Christmasy shouts reached his ears from the ends of the train. He began to feel out of it. He began to feel bored. He shook himself and set out to walk the length of the train.

He pa.s.sed through the dining car. He pa.s.sed through two coaches beyond the dining car-satisfied that neither Mr. Jones nor Maxwell had seen him do so-before he pulled up, again round the angle of a pa.s.sage at the end of a coach.

Again he had perforce to play a waiting game. Again he began to feel out of it and bored. But at last, about an hour out of Liverpool Street he was pleased to hear a door slide down the corridor and thrilled to see that the two men who came out of the first-cla.s.s compartment and made off in the direction of the rear of the train were Mr. Jones and Maxwell. And Maxwell carried the second shabby little bag.

"Ah!" said Beecham softly to himself.

He let them get round the angle at the end of the coach; then he followed. He followed them through the next coach. He gave them three-quarters of a minute, then he plunged into the dining car prepared for the interesting bit in the rear section of the train.

But there he stopped.

And there Mr. Jones stopped, too. Stopped ordering turkey and Christmas pudding to stare up at Detective-Inspector Beecham and exclaim: "Why, look who's here! Who could have thought it? Maxwell-wish the gentleman a Merry Christmas!"

"A Merry Christmas to you, sir," said Maxwell, with a respectful dip of the head to the detective.

"Sit down and join us," Mr. Jones invited. "After all, it only comes once a year and you can mutter 'Without prejudice' under your breath as you drink my beer. Or shall it be port?"

Beecham sank wearily into the comfortable chair opposite the pair of them.

"I-" He stopped.

"Yes, dear fellow?" Mr. Jones prompted.

"Nothing," the detective mumbled.

"Don't tell me you're going away for Christmas," said Mr. Jones. "I understand you don't believe in such tosh. Or am I wrong? Does that hard face of yours hide a heart that weeps after three gla.s.ses of rum punch and the sight of a holly berry?"

"The point is where are you going?" Beecham demanded.

"I don't see that's the point at all," Mr. Jones smiled. "Waiter-or should it be steward? I travel so little-bring my friend Detective-Inspector Beecham, of Scotland Yard, turkey and plum pudding and all things seasonable to eat and drink. Beecham, I don't think you know the steward, do you? The steward-Detective-Inspector Beecham. Of Scotland Yard, you know. My very good friend."

The attendant departed smiling, while the detective, with a neck going steadily pinker, attempted the futility of looking out of the window.

"When I want to advertise ..." he said fiercely.

"You never will," Mr. Jones a.s.sured him. "Too well known to need it. Too deeply established in the affections of the mult.i.tude to require such a cheap device. Advertise? You? When you have to civilization will have perished. What about the skating prospects for the holidays? I'd like your opinion."

"What I'm never sure about," said Beecham, turning a fierce glare on Mr. Jones, "is whether you're a crafty fool or just a fool."

"Shall we say a lucky fool?" suggested Mr. Jones.

"Luck, yes!" snapped Beecham.

"That shows," said Mr. Jones, "how little you know me. You must get to know me better. Call round some time. Second Thursdays, you know. Tea. And cakes."

To give the grim old man of Scotland Yard his due he almost enjoyed the turkey and plum pudding and the port that followed.

Despite his company he would have enjoyed the unusual even entirely had it not been for the business which found him there. As it was he said little. Nor did he do more than listen occasionally to the ceaseless flow of light-hearted chatter which poured from the lips of Mr. Jones.

He gave himself up to a waiting game and tried to calculate the number of miles that had pounded themselves out under the wheels of the train.

Mr. Jones glanced at his watch.

"Eight o'clock? The snow's keeping us back. We were due in at Friars Topliss at five minutes to, surely?"

Beecham looked up at the mention of Friars Topliss, but still he said nothing. Mr. Jones offered a cigar, which was refused, and then lit one himself.

Ten minutes later the train began to slow down.

"Now where are we?" said Mr. Jones.

All down the dining car there was much rubbing of steamed windows, which answered no questions. An attendant, laden with Christmas fare on a tray pa.s.sed quickly.

"Tell me, steward, where are we?" Mr. Jones inquired.

"Running into Etching Vale, sir," replied the attendant. "Friars Topliss in twenty-five minutes."

"Thank you," said Mr. Jones, and turned to Maxwell.

"This is where we get off," he said. "Got everything, Maxwell?"

"Everything, sir," Maxwell answered. "Don't forget the bag."

Maxwell stopped and picked up the shabby bag.

"Here it is, sir."

Mr. Jones rose. Maxwell rose too. Beecham stared, dissatisfied with he knew not what.

Maxwell helped Mr. Jones into his big overcoat, pulled on his own and waited. Mr. Jones pulled his hat down over his ears and turned up the collar of his coat.

The train stopped.

"Well, good-bye, Beecham, dear fellow," Mr. Jones said breezily. "And, if I don't see you before, a Happy New Year."

And out to the snow-covered platform he went, with Maxwell and the shabby little bag after him.

Beecham blinked. That little bag ... Was it possible? Even before Hadlow Cribb reached the train? Or, by some trick, while he, Beecham, had been waiting his chance in the guard's van?

"Crafty, but I wonder if he's really a fool?" he thought solemnly.

The driving wind covered Mr. Jones and the faithful Maxwell with snow in the twinkling of an eye. They dashed across the bleak platform of Etching Vale to the shelter of the station wall. And under this shelter they hurried to the barriers. Here Mr. Jones offered two tickets.

The collector peered at the tickets in the doubtful lamplight.

"Pardon, sir," he said, "but this is Etching Vale."

"Remarkable how you can tell, with all this snow on it," remarked Mr. Jones.

"These tickets are for Friars Topliss, sir," said the collector.

"I know," said Mr. Jones, "but I've changed my mind. I thought I'd get off here. It sort of called to me."

"Not allowed to break the journey, sir," the collector reminded him. "I'm afraid you'll have to pay again."

Mr. Jones thrust a note into the collector's hand.

"Take it out of that," he said, "and buy your wife something for Christmas out of the balance."

"No wife, sir," the collector grinned.

"Soon will have," Mr. Jones a.s.sured him, "with such charm as yours."

He pa.s.sed out into the snow-covered station square of Little Etching Vale, the soft footfalls of Maxwell on his left and, as he soon realized, other soft footfalls on his right. He turned and there once more was the stolid figure of Detective-Inspector Beecham.

"Not again!" he exclaimed. "But, my dear Beecham, I thought you were going on?"

"I thought you might be, too," said Beecham.

"I changed my mind," Mr. Jones informed him.

"I changed my mind," retorted Beecham. "A costly process, I found it," said Mr. Jones.

"I didn't!" said Beecham.

"Oh, well, of course, you're known to the police," said Mr. Jones, "which makes a difference!"

He smiled and waited, but Beecham waited too.