“Well, I’ve a sort of notion I know something about his family, and I want to make sure. Shall I be here at eight in the morning, or shall we say nine?” “Which you like; I expect he’ll be shouting for bail before eight.” “Very well, we will say eight. Good-night.” And so Hewitt had to let yet another night go without an explanation of the mystery; but he felt that his hand was on the key at last, though it had only fallen there by chance. Prompt to his time at eight in the morning he was at the police station, where another inspector was now on duty, who, however, had been told of Hewitt’s wish. “Ah,” he said, “you’re well to time, Mr. Hewitt. That prisoner’s as limp as rags now; he’s begging of us to send to his sister.” “Does he say anything about that child?” “Says he don’t know anything about it; all a drunken freak. His name’s Oliver Neale, and he lives at 10, Morton Terrace, Hampstead, with his sister. Her name’s Mrs. Isitt; and you’re to take this note and bring her back with you, or at any rate some money; and you’re to say he’s truly repentant,” the inspector concluded with a grin. The distance was short, and Hewitt walked it. Morton Terrace was a short row of pleasant, old-fashioned villas, ivy-grown and neat, and No. 10 was as neat as any. To the servant who answered his ring Hewitt announced himself as a gentleman with a message from Mrs. Isitt’s brother. This did not seem to prepossess the girl in Hewitt’s favour, and she backed to the end of the hall and communicated with somebody on the stairs before finally showing Hewitt into a room, where he was quickly followed by Mrs. Isitt. She was a rather tall woman of perhaps thirty-eight, and had probably been attractive, though now her face bore lines of sad grief. Hewitt noticed that she wore a very high black collar. “Good-morning, Mrs. Isitt,” he said. “I’m afraid my errand is not altogether pleasant. The fact is, your brother, Mr. Neale, was not altogether sober last night, and he is now at the police station, where he wrote this note.” Mrs. Isitt did not appear surprised, and took the note with no more than a sigh. “Yes,” she said, “it can’t be concealed. This is not the first time by many, as you probably know, if you are a friend of his.” She read the note, and as she looked up Hewitt said-- “No, I have not known him long. I happened to be at the station last night, and he rather attracted my attention by insisting, in his intoxicated state, on giving himself up for kidnapping a child, Charles Seton.” Mrs. Isitt started as though shot. Pale of cheek, she glanced fearfully in Hewitt’s face and there met a keen gaze that seemed to read her brain. She saw that her secret was known, but for a moment she struggled, and her lips worked convulsively-- “Charles Seton--Charles Seton?” she said. “Yes, Mrs. Isitt, that is the name. The child, as a matter of fact, was stolen by the person who bought these shoes for it. Do you recognise them?”