“I’ll try my old friend at White’s,” suggested Sellars, which in a few days he did, but not with any brilliant results. All he could learn was that the man Clayton was a very distant connection of the Brookes family, that he had made his money in sheep-farming in Australia. “Obviously he knows just what Clayton-Brookes thinks it is good for him to know,” observed the young man when he reported to Lane; “and he has been told in order that he may communicate his knowledge to anybody who is a bit curious. We are done, I am afraid, in that direction.” “I agree,” was Lane’s rejoinder. “Well, the resources of civilization are not yet exhausted, as was once remarked by a very famous man. I must employ other methods. Now, of course, you don’t happen to know the name of his bank?” “No, I don’t, but I can get it like a shot. He deals with the same bookmaker as I do, but in a much larger way. We are great pals, my ‘bookie’ and I; I’ve done him several good turns in the way of information about people who want to open accounts with him. He’ll tell me for the asking.” That was the great utility of Sellars in such a complicated business as that of Lane’s. If he could not give you the precise information you required, his acquaintance was so varied, his ramifications were so wide, that he could get it for you from somebody else in a very short time. Within a couple of hours the detective was informed that Sir George Clayton-Brookes banked at the Pall Mall Branch of the International Bank. Mr. Lane reached for his hat. “I’ll just step down to my man and put a little inquiry through as to the gentleman’s financial status. Fortunately for me, the sub-manager is in charge just now, and like you and your ‘bookie,’ we are great pals. He’ll do more for me than the manager, who is a very orthodox person and a bit of an old stick.” The report came in double-quick time. The wealthy Sir George, who betted high and gambled for big stakes according to general rumour, was considered by the custodians of his money not to be good enough for five hundred pounds. “Another illusion shattered,” said the detective with a grim smile when he next saw young Sellars. “This promises to be a very interesting case. We are unearthing a few queer things, aren’t we? The Clayton business is a myth, of course; there never was such a person, or if there was, he never left a fortune to our friend. It is admitted that his income from his estates is practically nil, and the evidence of your very useful waiter confirms that. We also know that he passes off a spurious nephew, for some sinister purpose obviously. The man is a ‘wrong-un’ and lives by his wits, that is pretty evident.”