It was a master stroke, a fine piece of bluff, and it had the effect intended. Lane was pretty certain he had taken a correct measure of the young man. Young Mr. Brookes thought it wiser to temporize; he did not relish that nasty hint about defamation of character. Besides, there was nothing burglarious about Lane’s appearance. It would have been very difficult to say what he looked like. He was certainly not a common person, neither could you say that he gave you the impression of being a gentleman. With his clean-shaven face and rather grave expression you might perhaps have associated him with the theatrical profession. “Oh yes, a joke of course, Mr. —— I didn’t quite catch the name Simmons gave me.” “Cox,” hastily interposed the valet. Seeing that in consequence of the detective’s masterly attitude, things seemed to be taking a turn for the better, he was gradually regaining control of himself, his colour was coming back to his pale cheeks, and he was beginning to think coherently. “Ah, Mr. Cox. I make no insinuations. But you must admit Simmons cut a devilish rum figure when I came in.” It was all blowing over very nicely. Lane felt he could afford to unbend from his lofty attitude of outraged dignity. His smiled quite pleasantly and spoke in an almost jovial tone. “No offence taken, sir, where none is intended. My friend Simmons is a very sensitive chap, I know. I suppose he felt he had been taking a bit of a liberty. If you should want me any time, my friend knows where to find me, at a little place where we sometimes take a little mild refreshment together. Good evening to you, sir. Bye-bye, Simmons; see you again soon, I dare say.” And with these parting words Lane walked out, carrying with him the honours of war, and grateful that a decidedly awkward situation had ended so satisfactorily. He trusted that when the valet was left alone with young Brookes he would keep his head, and be wary in replying to any too searching questions which might be put to him. But, as a matter of fact, as he learned subsequently, nothing awkward occurred. Archie Brookes had apparently recovered from his suspicions in the face of Lane’s manly and dignified attitude, and accepted the theory so adroitly put forward that the valet’s appearance of guilt was the outcome of a remarkably shrinking and sensitive nature. * * * * * All that night, Rosabelle could hardly get any sleep for thinking of that strange fragment of conversation between aunt and nephew which she had overheard in the afternoon. It was with great difficulty she kept herself from telling her lover, but she wanted to meditate well over the matter before confiding it to anyone.