"I congratulate the establishment," said the detective. "But we mustn't allow the original to escape us while we are admiring the model. I expect, though, we shall find him where his model will soon follow — in the Chamber of Horrors." "St!" cried the other, suddenly, a look of pride and triumph illuminating his good-natured features, "there he is — don't you see — skulking behind that portentous-looking noble lord on the other side of the room. I shouldn't have seen him if the fool had taken his hat off. Shall I go round the other way so as to cut off his retreat?" The detective considered the situation with a rapid glance. "No need for that," he said; "he can't escape us now. I think we may as well add a little refined torture to my gentleman's agony. He richly deserves it." The two men went across and sat down opposite the effigy of the majestic peer, the detective in full enjoyment of the idea of starving out his victim. "Now then, my friend," he said aloud, "when you're tired of skulking you can come out. I'm in no hurry." The Edward Clay of flesh and blood could now relax his features, and they softened into a smile of contempt and triumph. He bent down low, and crouching down, stole noiselessly from the room. Then, erect and leisurely, he strolled down the stairs, walked out into the street, and then back to the St. John's Wood Station. There was no hurry; he realised that the detective, with his design of refined torture, was making him a present of an abundance of precious time. No watch had been set for him, for his adversary preferred reserving to himself the whole glory of his triumphs. In five minutes more Clay was whirling away in a train of the St. John's Wood line. The two men continued to sit in silence for a quarter of an hour or more. "He keeps wonderfully still, doesn't he?" observed the friend. "Yes," replied the detective, "but I don't envy him his sensations. Perhaps, however, the poor devil's had enough of the rack now." He rose from his seat, reached over the hereditary legislator, and with his cane rapped the shoulder of the wax image of Edward Clay. "Come along, my friend,” he observed facetiously, “come out of that. I don’t wish to be too hard upon you." "Hi!" shouted an excited voice behind them. "Hi! Wot are yon doin' to them figgers? I seed ye! I'll 'aye ye run in as sure as my name's——" An attendant gesticulating furiously came up to them. "St! you fool!" replied the detective angrily; "don't you see there's a man hiding behind that figure? It's Edward Clay, the Manchester murderer." "Edward Clay! Hi! policeman, policeman! Hi! 'urry up!" shouted the attendant, wild with excitement. A policeman emerged with much deliberation from the next room; nothing would induce him to "'urry up." "Confound the fellow!" muttered the detective, "he's spoiled my plans, but at all events the bird's safe. Look here, policeman," he continued, turning to the phlegmatic minister of the law, "you know me, I dare say?" The policeman scrutinised him closely, "Yessir," he replied deferentially. "Well, that fellow skulking behind there is Edward Clay, the London-road murderer. You know the Treasury yesterday decided to offer £200 for his capture. I make you a free gift of him." The policeman's eyes gleamed; he lost no time in getting behind the noble lord, and, two seconds later, he was holding aloft, in stupor and amazement, the rigid waxen effigy of the notorious Edward Clay. "Death and damnation!" shouted the great detective, quoting Shakespeare. He gave a glance at the vacant spot on the opposite side of the room, and ground his teeth in fury. "Come along!" he said sharply to his friend, "there's not a moment to lose." "'Ere, stop a bit!" cried the excited attendant, who hadn't taken in the situation. "I want to know 'oo's bin a-movin' them figgers, that's wot I want to know. Oh, no, ye don't!" he continued, as the detective and his friend began to move off. "'Ere, awficer, run 'em in, I say!" "It's all right," observed the policeman imperturbably; "that's Mr. ———, the great detective, but 'e's met his match this time." Clay had judged it better to get out at Marlborough-road Station. So far the detective traced him, but there he lost every vestige of him. Clay's commonplace appearance was his great safeguard. He made a long leisurely detour by Grovend-road and Lisson-grove, and quietly regained his Temperance Hotel in time for seven o'clock dinner. It was not till two years after this that the police succeeded in tracking him and running him down. And then his wonderful waxen model was moved with due solemnity to its proper place, across the threshold of the Chamber of Horror.