"Just what I expected to find," came the triumphant reply. "Now, Mr. Wilson, you are going to hear the end of the story. Do you want to see what I found, gentlemen? Here it is." He fumbled in his big coat pocket for a moment and pulled out a parcel which crackled crisply. "The notes!"
"Good God!" It was young Wilson who spoke.
"Yes, a very good God—even to sinners, Mr. Wilson. We don't always deserve all the goodness we get, you know," Cleek went on. "The notes are found, you see; the notes, you murderer, you despicable thief, the notes which were entrusted to your care by the innocent people who pinned their faith to you."
Speaking, he leaped forward, past the waiting inspector and Mr. Narkom, past the shabby, down-at-heel figure of George Barrington, past the slim, shaking Wilson, and straight at the substantial figure of Mr. Naylor-Brent, as he stood leaning with one arm upon the inspector's high desk.
So surprising, so unexpected was the attack, that his victim was overpowered and the bracelets snapped upon his wrists before any one present had begun to realize exactly what had happened.
Then Cleek rose to his feet.
"What's that, Inspector?" he said in answer to a hurriedly spoken query. "A mistake? Oh, dear, no. No mistake whatever. Our friend here understands that quite well. Thought you'd have escaped with that £200,000 and left your confederates to bear the brunt of the whole thing, did you? Or else young Wilson here whom you'd so terrorized! A very pretty plot, indeed, only Hamilton Cleek happened to come along instead of Mr. George Headland and show you a thing or two about plots."
"Hamilton Cleek!" The name fell from every pair of lips, and even Brent himself stared at this wizard whom all the world knew, and who unfortunately had crossed his path when he least wanted him.
"Yes, Hamilton Cleek, gentlemen. Cleek of Scotland Yard. And a very good thing for you, Mr. Wilson, that I happened to come along. Things looked very black for you, you know, and those beastly nerves of yours made it worse. And if it hadn't been for this cad's confederate——"
"Confederate, Mr. Cleek?" put in Wilson, shakily. "I—I don't understand. Who could have been his confederate?"