SYLVESTER SNACKLIT HAD disliked the order from the first moment when it had reached him by the usual indirect telephonic method, and in the usual cryptic phraseology. Cryptic, but plain to him.

He had his own place in the criminal gang to which he belonged. It was a place of importance, and it gave him congenial occupation. It was no less than what Mr. Thurlow's enterprising countrymen would have called the bumping-off of such individuals as became dangerous to the gang, or who committed breaches of discipline too serious to be forgiven.

What was done was therefore for the common preservation of himself and his friends. The law of self-protection approved it, and he could therefore indulge his own sadistic inclinations while his conscience remained at peace. Duty, profit, and pleasure would be at one, which is a more fortunate combination than will be experienced by most men who obey the law.

He had exceptional facilities for rendering these services to the organization to which he belonged. With some of the money left by his father (a philanthropist of national reputation) he had established the Snacklit Home, which received domestic pets of any kind, but was primarily a dogs' hospital and a dogs' home.

One of the most lucrative occupations of Snacklit Home was killing dogs. Dogs from all over London were brought to be destroyed there. They were brought by the police. They were brought by private persons - the kind of persons (mostly women) who would have their dogs killed because they were getting old, or had contracted some illness, or because they themselves were going abroad, and the poor things would fret if they were left.

But it was not spoken of as killing dogs. No kind-hearted woman could endure the thought of arranging to have her dog killed - a creature which looked up to her with love and trust, and of which she was fond. They were not killed; they were put to sleep. Anyone can see the difference in that.

Cats also, many of them sleek and pampered, entered the same fatal door. They all gave pleasure to Sylvester Snacklit, but his high-water marks of happiness were when he could use his lethal chamber for human victims. So far, it had only happened three times in as many years. But there was always hope of what the next day might bring.

Apart from these occasional activities, for which he was promptly and liberally paid, his only services to the gang were in the initial stages of the distribution of the evil merchandise in which they dealt, and, for this brief and occasional purpose, his precautions against discovery included the disguising of the car which he openly and legitimately used, by the substitution of a number-plate which would identify it as belonging to another owner.

He was one of the five living persons (if we exclude the suspicions of the police) who could have identified Professor Blinkwell as the head of the gang to which they belonged, and he knew enough of the methods which were in use to be surprised, and somewhat perturbed when he received instructions to collect the valise from Mrs. Collinson's house. He knew that something must have gone wrong of sufficient seriousness to upset the basic rules of their organization.

It was not usual for him to make such collections himself, but, though not of a reliable courage, he had the temperament which, when alarmed, becomes impatient to force the event. He told Burfoot, the car driver and usual agent for such occasions, that he would go with him. He told himself that this would avert the necessity of giving Burfoot Mrs. Collinson's name.

He found the case waiting for him in that lady's hall, and received it from Becky's hands without ceremony or delay. It was of an expected weight, and it was not until he had settled down in the car, with it in the seat behind him, that he noticed that it was not of the pattern or quality which it was customary to use for these highly valuable and secret consignments.

He observed this first with curiosity rather than suspicion He had already accepted the idea that something unusual had happened. Doubtless this had involved the use of a makeshift receptacle. It would be part of the plan by which Professor Blinkwell's inexhaustible ingenuity had baffled investigation, as it had done so often before.

But then his attention became fixed upon the fastening of the case. It looked a wretched lock. A mere pretence, such as will be fitted to the cheaper suitcases, and that can be opened by almost any key of approximately the right size.

"It's ten to one," he thought, "that I could do it from my own bunch." His next thought was that it would be fortunate if he could, for it was evident that the key he held for the valise which should have come would not avail. It would be too large.

&nbs`; ? ? ? The same disposition which had led him to make the journey himself now impelled to test the lock without waiting to reach the privacy of his own room. After all, he was alone in the car, except for Burfoot, sitting in front, and Burfoot was the man to whom the distribution would be entrusted. He drew out his bunch of keys, readily found one which would open the case, and would have done nothing to inspect its contents beyond the casual glance which he gave through the two-inch opening which followed the yielding of lock, had he not been astonished by that which the gap revealed.

With an exclamation, "What the devil's this?" he pulled the case wide open. Burfoot looked round sharply, hearing apprehension in his voice. He saw his master handling a large fragment of stone, which he held lifted half out of the case.

"Burfoot," Snacklit said, "there's some funny business here. It looks like some kind of a trap to me. . . . We're not being followed, are we? I'm inclined to get rid of this over the Low Level Bridge."

"Followed? I'm not that sure. There's a taxi hanging on behind."

"Then double back at Sistern road. That ought to make sure."

"Right you are, sir."

Burfoot turned the car at a left-hand street, and then turned left again, so that he was returning the way he came. After the second turn, he slowed down, so that, when Irene's taxi followed him, he was only a short distance ahead.

"So that's it?" Snacklit said. I'll have a word with them and find out who they are, and what they think they're doing. You'd better draw up to the kerb, and if they stop, and you see me get in, just go ahead as before."

"To Snacklit House, sir?"

"Yes. You'll be all right if we don't follow, and all right if we do."

"What about Low Level Bridge, sir?"

"Not with them looking on. Give it a miss."

He got out, and walked back to the taxi, which had also drawn up at the pavement a short distance behind.

He did not know what he should find - it might have been an escort sent by Professor Blinkwell for his protection - but he was surprised when he saw only a taxi-driver of rather dull aspect in front, and a young, well-dressed, and attractive girl in the rear of the vehicle

Anyone less likely than she - unless it were a baby in arms to be representing the law in pursuit of their powerful and dangerous gang would not be easy to imagine. Neither did the driver appear to be such a one as the police would have been likely to select for such a task. He thought it probable that Burfoot had made a mistake, which modified his manner, though it did not change his purpose to probe what the truth might be. He looked at the driver as he asked, "What's the game you're playing with us?"

The man, who, unlike most of his kind, was not quick at retort, did not reply. He looked round at Irene, as though implying that the question should be addressed to her.

Irene looked at a man whom she felt no occasion to fear. He was small, rather skinny in build, bald, thin-faced, with colourless eyebrows above very pale blue eyes. She looked at him closely thinking that her mission had already become more than half a success by his own act. She would be able to identify him anywhere now. And his clothes. He was well enough dressed, but that did not make him look like a gentleman. Nothing could.

Baffled by the driver's silence, he transferred his attention to her. He opened the door, and leaned in as he asked his previous question in a rather different form, "Perhaps you'll be good enough to say why you're following me?"

She smiled as she gave a flippantly evasive answer, "It must have been because you were in front."

He looked at her uncertainly, showing no appreciation of the humour of this reply. He said, "I shall need a better explanation than that."

She saw that it was useless to attempt concealment of the fact that she had been following him. After that backward turn! She said boldly, "We thought you'd got the wrong case."

He stared at her in mingled fear and bewilderment. "What made you think that?"

"Because the labels had got a bit mixed."

"And who are you?"

"I brought the case over for Mr. Kindell."

His next question was checked unspoken. Could he ask more without giving himself away to this dubious stranger? He said, "Well, you shall have your way." He went back to the front door, and got in beside the driver. As he did so, the car in front began to move ahead. He said to the driver: "You can go on following it. We don't mind."

Irene observed his action with excitement rather than apprehension. She was certainly succeeding in what Will had relied on her to do, though no one could have foreseen what was happening now. She was in a civilized city, on the side of the law, and in her own hired taxi. And the man who had got in did not appear to be a formidable kind. But she had become cautious. She decided that she would not go far in pursuit of the light grey car without having something more to say.

They had returned to their previous direction by now, the grey car leading, but at a moderate pace; certainly making no attempt to get away. The intruder sat silently beside her own driver. He had become doubtful both of the wisdom of what he had done, and of what he should do next. But what other course, he asked himself, could he have taken? A wild attempt to outdistance pursuit, perhaps ending in an accident, or the intervention of the police, with those false number-plates on his car? No, it was far more prudent to take control of this young woman till he had ascertained who she was, and what peril might threaten from her. But he saw himself suddenly involved in a whirlpool of danger he did not like, and he had become correspondingly dangerous himself, in the manner of a mean, frightened, and ruthless man.

Irene, watching the route, and making mental notes of the streets they passed, had not long to debate what she should do next, for the grey car slackened speed, and turned into a wide gateway entrance, at the side of a substantial edifice, the front of which was crossed by a large sign:

SNACKLIT HOME AND HOSPITAL FOR DOMESTIC PETS

Irene spoke to the driver quickly: "Don't go in there. I've come as far as I need now."<............