Lane bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment. “I would be glad if Miss Sheldon would accompany me in my search. I am not known to all your servants, and if one of them happened to intrude and find me alone, it might be awkward and entail troublesome explanations.” Together the detective and Rosabelle left the room, leaving Morrice to his bitter and humiliating thoughts. To think that his house should be the hunting-ground of a private inquiry agent, even such a courteous and urbane member of his calling as Lane. A long time passed, half an hour, three-quarters, and still they did not return. The search was evidently a very thorough one. Then the door opened, and they came in, the girl’s face flushed with excitement, and on the detective’s usually impassive countenance an expression of triumph. Once again he had had one of his flashes of inspiration. In his hand he held some sheets of paper which he handed to the master of the house. “Here is the memorandum which you lost of the mechanism of the safe, I think you said about a couple of years ago, Mr. Morrice,” he said. “I dare say you remember you made rather light of it at the time; you told me that you had mislaid it, and you thought it might turn up any day. In the case of its not doing so, you suggested that, in all probability, it had been thrown away by some careless servant along with other rubbish and had passed into the hands of the dustman.” Yes, Morrice remembered that conversation well. It was one in which he had obstinately maintained his belief in Richard Croxton’s guilt, and had shown some annoyance at Lane’s rather neutral and judicial attitude in the matter. “To me the loss of that memorandum assumed considerable significance,” the detective went on in grave, convincing tones, “and I was by no means ready to subscribe to your theory of the dustman. Personally, I was convinced that this paper was still in existence, and of considerable use to some person unknown. I have had a long search, as you can tell by the time we have been absent. I found it in the most securely-locked box amongst Mrs. Morrice’s collection; it took me a considerable time to open it.” A duller man than Morrice could have experienced no difficulty in realizing the situation, suddenly as it was presented to him. “Then this woman, not contented with realizing everything of her own she could put her hands upon, has gone farther afield. She is the actual——” He paused, and a low groan escaped him; he could not bring his lips to utter the hateful word. “I am afraid there is no longer any possible doubt,” was Lane’s uncompromising answer. “For some time, I may tell you, my suspicions have been tending in that direction—from the day, in fact, that I knew she was abetting this young impostor in his career of unbridled extravagance. We have yet got to find the real reasons of his sinister influence over her; they were more than those of ordinary womanly weakness.”