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"You are a most amusing person," said the tall man. "You drop from the clouds, or spout out from the eternal fires after an absence of years, and immediately start in to rearrange my life! You're getting fat, Hamon, and those bags under your eyes aren't pretty. You ought to see a doctor."

Hamon leant forward.

"Suppose I tell your neighbours who you are!" he asked slowly. "Suppose I go to the police and tell them that Mister Morlake"—he laid a sneering emphasis on the title—"is a cheap Yankee crook!"

"Not cheap," murmured Morlake, his amused eyes watching the other.

"Suppose I tell them that I once caught you red-handed robbing the Prescott Bank, and that you blackmailed me into letting you go!"

Morlake's eyes never left the man's face.

"There has been a series of burglaries committed in London," Hamon went on. "They've been worked by a man called The Black—ever heard of him?"

Morlake smiled.

"I never read the newspapers," he drawled. "There is so much in them that is not fit for a country gentleman to read."