“You must excuse me, Mr. Morrice, if I am unable to answer that very natural question. I always like to be as frank as possible with my clients, but there are times when, from motives perfectly satisfactory to myself, I am unable to reveal the means by which I obtain our information.” Morrice made no reply. He would have dearly loved to know, but he was fair-minded enough to appreciate the detective’s excuse. Probably he had obtained his knowledge from some prying servant in the house who had kept a close watch upon his wife. Lane was not the man to despise the assistance of any instrument, however humble. Not for one moment did it occur to Morrice that his niece was implicated in the matter. “And now, Mr. Morrice, I don’t wish to ask you more than I can help, for I can fully understand how you must be suffering, and how painful it must be for you to talk over these things with a stranger. But you say that my suspicions are confirmed—in short, you have made your investigations and found what I surmised, that a considerable number of jewels have been realized, and imitations put in their place. Am I right in saying that it means a large sum?” “Several thousands of pounds, even taking into account the depreciated price which could be obtained for them,” was Morrice’s answer. “I guessed it. But I doubt if it has all gone into the pockets of young Brookes. Mind you, I have no actual evidence of what I am going to say—it is, if you like, absolute theory—but Sir George is in this game and has engineered it from the beginning. They are in this together, depend upon it. Which gets the better share I cannot say; I should fancy the older and more experienced rogue.” “I daresay you are right,” said Morrice wearily. “We know him to be a rogue from his being a party to this nephew fraud. And yet he poses as a rich man, although Mrs. Morrice has more than once dropped a hint that he is fast dissipating his money at the gaming-table.” So that was his vice attributed to him by one who knew too well, thought the detective. That accounted for his being well-off one day and a pauper the next. After exacting from Morrice a promise that he would not use the information in any way, Lane told him what he had picked up from his friend at Scotland Yard, viz. that Sir George was strongly suspected of being in league with high-class crooks. The unhappy financier sat crushed and humbled by all these terrible revelations. His world seemed falling about his ears—his wife, of whose integrity he had never entertained the slightest suspicion, the friend and confidant, the associate in a vile deception, of a man of good birth and position strongly suspected of being engaged in criminal enterprises. He had never taken kindly to Sir George; he was too plausible and artificial for his liking. For the supposed nephew he had entertained a good-natured contempt. But he had never harboured the faintest idea that they were a couple of base scoundrels.