“Your reflected disgrace,” said the detective gently. “Well, there is a little thing I wish to mention. I am not at all sure that this scoundrel of a baronet has not got some of those French francs left. They would be awkward things to get rid of in bulk. Depend upon it he is peddling them out as occasion offers. If you would give me the necessary authority to act, I do not think it impossible for me to frighten out of him what he has got left, if any, with the threat of criminal proceedings. Of course _we_ know you will not take these, for obvious reasons, but he cannot be sure.” “No,” said Morrice, “I shall certainly not take proceedings. I have no desire to wash my dirty linen in public, to show how I have been made a dupe and a fool. There will be plenty of conjecture as it is; let it stop at that. But if you feel keen about this, you have my full permission to do what you think advisable.” Pretty early the next morning, Lane made his way to Sir George’s flat. He chuckled inwardly as he recalled that memorable evening when he and Simmons the valet had been surprised there by the so-called Archie Brookes. He remembered how he had been puzzled by the smallness of the baronet’s banking account and the somewhat contradictory statements made by Simmons with regard to his actual financial position. Of course, now it was all quite clear. That banking account was a blind, Sir George had other depositories in which he placed the moneys he made by his nefarious schemes. Simmons opened the door; Lane saw that the man was in a state of considerable excitement. At the query of: Was his master at home? the valet smiled broadly: “Come in, Mr. Lane, and welcome. No, Sir George isn’t at home nor likely to be. Something’s up, sir; we always had an idea he was a ‘fishy’ customer, didn’t we?” The detective went with Simmons into the room where he had conducted his investigations on that memorable evening. It was in a state of confusion; the key of the safe into which he would have so dearly loved to peep on that occasion was in the door. Lane unlocked it and swung it open, to find the safe was empty. The drawers of the writing-table were all unlocked, some of them partly open, and in them nothing of value, only a few old letters and unimportant memoranda. The fireplace was littered with the ashes of burned papers. “What’s the meaning of it all?” asked Lane with a frown. He had a pretty shrewd premonition that his visit had been paid too late, that there was very small chance of recovering any of his plunder from this wily scoundrel.