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necklace,” said Van Roeper, the little trader of Amsterdam to whom the Saint went with his booty.
    “I’ll take fifty thousand,” said the Saint; and he got it.
    He fulfilled another of the qualifications of a successful buccaneer, for he never forgot a face. He had had a vague idea from the first that he had seen the Deacon somewhere before, but it had not been until that morning, when he woke up, that he had been able to place the amiable solicitor who had been so anxious to enlist his dubious services; and he felt that fortune was very kind to him.
    Old Charlie Milton, who had been dragged away from his breakfast to sell him the facsimile for eighty pounds, felt much the same.
The Unblemished Bootlegger
    MR. MELFORD CROON considered himself a very prosperous man. The brass plate outside his unassuming suite of offices in Gray’s Inn Road described him somewhat vaguely as a “Financial Consultant”; and while it is true that the gilt-edged moguls of the city had never been known to seek his advice, there is no doubt that he flourished exceedingly.
    Out of Mr. Croon’s fertile financial genius emerged, for example. the great Tin Salvage Trust. In circulars, advertisements, and statements to the Press, Mr. Croon raised his literary hands in horror at the appalling waste of tin that was going on day by day throughout the country. “Tins,” of course as understood in the British domestic vocabulary to mean the sepulchres of Hcinz’s 57 Varieties, the Crosse & Blackwell vegetable garden, or the Campbell soup kitchen, are made of thin sheet steel with the most economical possible plating of genuine tin; but nevertheless (Mr. Croon pointed out) tin was used. And what happened to it? It was thrown away.
    The garbage man removed it along with the other contents of the ashcan, and the municiapl incenerators burnt it. And tin was a precious metal-not quite so valuable as gold and platinum, but not very far behind silver. Mr. Croon invited his readers to think of it. Hundreds of thousands of pounds being poured into garbage dumps and incinerators every day of the week from every kitchen in the land. Individually worthless “tins” which in the accumulation represented an enormous potential wealth.
    The great Tin Salvage Trust was formed with a capital of nearly a quarter of a million to deal with the problem. Barrows would collect cans from door to door. Rag-and-bone men would lend their services. A vast refining and smelting plant would be built to recover the pure tin. Enormous dividends would be paid. The subscribers would grow rich overnight
The subscribers did not grow rich overnight; but that was not Mr. Croon’s fault. The Official Receiver reluctantly had to admit it, when the Trust went into liquidation eighteen months after it was formed. The regrettable capriciousness of fortune discovered and enlarged a fatal leak in the scheme; without quite knowing how it all happened, a couple of dazed promoters found themselves listening to sentences of penal servitude; and the creditors were glad to accept one shilling in the pound. Mr. Croon was overcome with grief-he said so in public-but he could not possibly be blamed for the failure. He had no connection whatever with the Trust, except as Financial Consultant-a post for which he received a merely nominal salary. It was all very sad.
    In similar circumstances, Mr. Croon was overcome with grief at the failures of the great Rubber Waste Products Corporation, the Iron Workers’ Benevolent Guild, the Small Investors’ Cooperative Bank, and the Consolidated Albion Film Company. He had a hard and unprofitable life; and if his mansion flat in Hampstead, his Rolls Royce, his shoot in Scotland, his racing stable, and his house at Marlow helped to console him, it is quite certain that he needed them.
    “A very suitable specimen for us to study,” said Simon Templar.
    The latest product of Mr. Croon’s indomitable inventiveness was spread out on his knee. It took the form