THE ASTUTE MR.

BIRNES It was a few minutes past four o'clock when Mr.Wynne strode through the immense retail sales department of the H.Latham Company, and a uniformed page held open the front door for him to pass out.

Once on the sidewalk the self-styled diamond master of the world paused long enough to pull on his gloves, carelessly chucking the small sole-leather grip with its twenty-odd million dollars' worth of precious stones under one arm; then he turned up Fifth Avenue toward Thirty-fourth Street.

A sneak thief brushed past him, appraised him with one furtive glance, then went his way, seeking quarry more promising.
Simultaneously with Mr.Wynne's appearance three men whose watchful eyes had been fastened on the doorway of the H.Latham Company for something more than an hour stirred.

One of them--Frank Claflin--was directly across the street, strolling along idly, the most purposeless of all in the hurrying, well-dressed throng; another--Steve Birnes, chief of the Birnes Detective Agency--appeared from the hallway of a building adjoining the H.Latham Company, and moved along behind Mr.Wynne, some thirty feet in the rear; the third--Jerry Malone--was half a block away, up Fifth Avenue, coming slowly toward them.
Mr.Birnes adjusted his pace to that of Mr.Wynne, step for step, and then, seeming assured of his safety from any chance glance, ostentatiously mopped his face with a handkerchief, flirting it a little to the left as he replaced it in his pocket.