It was a weak conclusion, but to suggest an attack was sheer madness under the conditions. "I guess not," was the calm answer. "I want my dinner, and I mean to have it." "Very well. Eat your dinner and have done with it." "That's better. You and your friend shall join me. We'll have a nice little talk and straighten out matters, which have got kinder mixed." This was too much for White's associate. He burst out laughing. "I allowed there was a joke in the deal, somewhere," went on Corbett, "but I haven't quite got the hang of it yet. Now, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, are you going to act like a reasonable man, or must I keep your nose in line with the barrel?" White was saved from deciding which horn of the dilemma he would land on, for a sharp rat-tat at the door induced silence, and a moment later Bruce's voice was heard inquiring: "Is Mr. Corbett in?" "Faix, there may be a half-a-dozen of him in by this time," cried Mrs. Robinson. "I dunno where I am, at all, at all. The gintlemen are in the parlor, sir." And Bruce entered. In order to enfilade the new-comer scientifically, Corbett backed to the corner. Claude glanced at the three, saw the revolver, and said with a comical air of relief: "Thank goodness, nothing has happened. Put away your pistol, Mr. Corbett; you will not need it." Although the barrister's manner differed considerably from the brusque methods adopted by Mr. White, the American remained on his guard. He said stiffly: "You all seem to know me fairly well; but if you had the advantage of closer acquaintance, you would allow that I am not the man to be rushed on a confidence trick. If somebody doesn't explain quick I will lose my temper, and there will be trouble." "I sympathize with you!" cried Bruce. "But the first thing you must learn in this country is to keep dry cigars for your visitors. Our respective tastes differ in that respect." "I guess I'll cotton to you, stranger; but I'm tired holding this pistol." "Put it away, then. I tell you it is not wanted. White, listen to me. You have hit upon the wrong man." "Wrong man!" cried the detective, feeling more confident in the barrister's presence. "Why, I've had a cable about him from New York." "Possibly; but you're mistaken, nevertheless. Mr. Corbett has not been within five thousand miles of England for years, possibly not in his life." "Bully for you, stranger!" broke in Corbett. "Then who is Mr. Sydney H. Corbett whom you believe, as well as I, to be the murderer of Lady Dyke?" "Steady, White. The last time I saw you I appealed to you to go slow. The man whom you want, simply because he happens to be the real occupant of these rooms, is at present travelling to London as fast he can from Florence, and his sister, Mrs. Hillmer, is with him." "Florence! Mrs. Hillmer!" gasped the policeman. "I've just arranged to have her watched there." "Your arrangements, though admirable, are somewhat late in the day." "Then what is her brother's name?"