The story was so ridiculously lame that I determined to confront my visitor with Hewitt, and observe the result. If he had succeeded in making any sense of the “Flitterbat Lancers,” the scene might be amusing. So I answered at once, “Yes; his office is only on the floor below; he will probably be in at about this time. Come down with me.” We went down, and found Hewitt in his outer office. “This gentleman,” I told him with a solemn intonation, “has come to ask for his piece of manuscript music, the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ He is particularly proud of it, because nobody who tries to play it can make any sort of tune out of it, and it was entirely because two dear friends of his were anxious to drag it out of his pocket and practice it over on the quiet that he flung it through my window-pane last night, wrapped round a piece of concrete.” The stranger glanced sharply at me, and I could see that my manner and tone rather disconcerted him. But Hewitt came forward at once. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Just so--quite a natural sort of thing. As a matter of fact, I quite expected you. Your umbrella’s wet--do you mind putting it in the stand? Thank you. Come into my private office.” We entered the inner room, and Hewitt, turning to the stranger, went on: “Yes, that is a very extraordinary piece of music, that ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ I have been having a little practice with it myself, though I’m really nothing of a musician. I don’t wonder you are anxious to keep it to yourself. Sit down.” The stranger, with a distrustful look at Hewitt, complied. At this moment, Hewitt’s clerk, Kerrett, entered from the outer office with a slip of paper. Hewitt glanced at it, and crumpled it in his hand. “I am engaged just now,” was his remark, and Kerrett vanished. “And now,” Hewitt said, as he sat down and suddenly turned to the stranger with an intent gaze, “and now, Mr Hoker, we’ll talk of this music.” The stranger started and frowned. “You’ve the advantage of me, sir,” he said; “you seem to know my name, but I don’t know yours.” Hewitt smiled pleasantly. “My name,” he said, “is Hewitt--Martin Hewitt, and it is my business to know a great many things. For instance, I know that you are Mr Reuben B. Hoker, of Robertsville, Ohio.” [Illustration: “MR. HOKER.”] The visitor pushed his chair back, and stared. “Well--that gits me,” he said. “You’re a pretty smart chap, anyway. I’ve heard your name before, of course. And--and so you’ve been a-studyin’ of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers,’ have you?” This with a keen glance in Hewitt’s face. “Well, well, s’pose you have. What’s your opinion?” “Why,” answered Hewitt, still keeping his steadfast gaze on Hoker’s eyes, “I think it’s pretty late in the century to be fishing about for the Wedlake jewels, that’s all.”