“From all that I hear, he makes a greater show than his uncle. He rents a flat in the Hyde Park district twice the rent of this, runs a Rolls-Royce and keeps a valet. I know his man, and he says it’s a ripping job. He’s as open-handed as his uncle is stingy. Gives jolly bachelor dinners sent in from outside to his own place, where they swim in champagne and the most expensive wines. Jenks, my friend, can take as many cigars as he likes, nothing is ever said; many a time I’ve cracked a bottle of young Archie’s best champagne when he’s been out of the way. Jenks says he’d give him one if he asked for it. When he goes for his holiday, he chucks him a tenner; he does the same at Christmas. He has no end of clothes which he never half wears out, and as soon as he tires of a suit he tosses it over to my friend. Oh, there’s some pretty little ‘picks’ there, I can tell you. If I was in the young man’s service, instead of in this old curmudgeon’s, I shouldn’t be looking out for a new place, you bet your life.” “A gay young gentleman, evidently,” observed Lane, to whom all this information was intensely interesting. “Rather! He spends money right and left. He’s got a lot of lady friends, many of them not too particular, married and single. He’s always buying handsome presents for them. His jeweller’s bills tot up to a nice round sum, Jenks tells me. Besides that, he gambles a lot, but he doesn’t back horses much.” “Then we have established one fact pretty clearly,” said the detective decisively. “If this young scapegrace has no money and his uncle is paying the piper, Sir George must, after all, be the wealthy man that popular report considers him.” The door of the room in which they were sitting and holding this confidential conversation was partly open, and just as Lane had finished speaking, both men distinctly heard the sound of a key being inserted in the hall door. The valet swore wickedly under his breath, and sprang to his feet, his face white as chalk, his hands shaking. “It’s Archie, I know his cat-like footstep. The old devil has left his key with him. He’s come after his letters, they won’t trust me with the address.” Lane was disturbed too, he had not bargained for this sudden interruption, and Simmons looked so panic-stricken, being a white-livered sort of fellow, that his looks were enough to hang him. “Pull yourself together and leave as much as you can to me,” he whispered to the shaking valet. Then he strode across the room and pretended to be examining a picture while he awaited the entrance of Archibald Brookes. CHAPTER XV THE ANONYMOUS LETTER