The bird flown

Delbury and Shaughnessy climbed out of their car in the Notting Hill backwater. A hurried inspection of the local directory had soon located the jewellery shop that admitted to the proprietorship of one Tansy.

  They glanced up and down the road. There was no traffic, and only a solitary pedestrian or two hurrying to work broke the monotonous emptiness of the street.

  "Looks a likely sort of a hole for a jeweller's," said Shaughnessy grimly. "It's meself that's thinking Mr. Tansy has a turnover of tuppence an hour---no less!"

 "Looks good to me," assented Delbury. "The Ghost says he's a smelter and you can stake your buttons on it he's right. Jump around the back. Criminal aren't early risers, as a class. He's still in bed yet. Round you go and hang on to him like a limpet if he tries to make a bolt."

  Delbury gave his man five minutes grace and then banged thunderously on the knocker. The echoes of it clanged through the house; and