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Mr. Binger appeared, a short, stout man with a very red face and a very flaxen moustache, which he rapidly twirled in moments of embarrassment. Without the evidence of the neatly parted hair and the curl plastered over his forehead, he was obviously "old soldier."

He looked at his employer and then at the kit of tools on the table, and sighed.

"Goin' hout, sir?" he asked dolefully.

He was that unusual type of Cockney, the man who put aspirates where none were intended. Not one Londoner in ten thousand has this trick, ninety per cent. may drop an "h"—only the very few find it.

"I'm going out; I may be away for some days. You know where to find me."

"I hope so, sir," said the gloomy Binger. "I hope I shan't find you where I'm always expectin' to find you—in a hawful prison cell."

James Morlake laughed softly.

"You were never designed by providence to be a burglar's valet, Binger," he said, and Mr. Binger shivered.

"Don't use that word, sir, please! It makes me tremble with horrer! It's not for the likes of me to criticise, which I've never done. An' if you hadn't been a burglar I'd have been a corpse. You ran a risk for me and I'm not likely to forget it!"