The next morning someone rang up Scotland Yard, and refusing to give his or her name—the voice was only a hoarse whisper—asked to be put through to Chief Inspector Stone.
Rather annoyed at being interrupted, because he was very busy at the moment, the inspector demanded very sharply, “Well, who is it?”
“Never mind that,” came back the hoarse whisper, “but I’m ringing up to give you the description of the two men who took Lady Vane’s jewels.”
“What—what do you mean?” exclaimed the astonished inspector. “Who are you?”
The speaker on the telephone ignored his question.
“The one who used the syringe upon Jane Brendon,” the voice went on quietly, “was of medium height. He was foreign-looking, with dark eyes set rather close together. He had a small black moustache, a sallow complexion and
