And so Prescott took his leave, and soon emerged from the narrow street into the broad glare of the Haymarket. The next day at eleven Prescott entered Mr. Barton’s office, and sent in his name. “Ask him to walk in.” Prescott took a seat and made a quick survey of the man opposite. “My name is Prescott, Mr. Barton. I am a barrister. I have come down to speak to you relative to some business you transacted a good many years since for Captain Bradshaw.” The man gave a slight start, and his face grew visibly pale. “I don’t think you acted quite on the square, so to speak, upon that occasion, Mr. Barton.” He paused, but the detective did not speak. “It was hardly the right thing to do, you know, although perhaps clever; you have the reputation for being a very clever man you know, Mr. Barton,” and Prescott paused again, but Barton did not speak, although Prescott could see that his lips moved, as if he was muttering a deep oath, and drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. “Still, you see, Barton, even very clever men make a mistake sometimes. A waiting game pays sometimes, but, perhaps, more often it does not.” The detective could stand it no longer, but burst out with a fearful imprecation. “——what are you driving at?” “Only at this, Mr. Barton,” Prescott went on composedly, “that when you forgot to tell Captain Bradshaw that his grandson was alive,”—the man uttered an exclamation, which was almost a groan, but Prescott, without heeding him, continued,—“alive and well, and allowed him to remain all these years in ignorance of it—with the intention, of course, of extorting a very large sum from the boy when he came of age, for the knowledge of his birth—it would have been wiser to have assured yourself that the mother had left no sign, no little valuables, such as seals with crests, and so on, which might lead to the discovery of the mother without your kind interference. It was not likely, of course, but it turned out so, and the lad is now at his grandfather’s house as his acknowledged and recognised heir.” The detective listened in stupefied silence. This utter overthrow of all he had schemed for for so many years completely crushed him. For a moment he thought of the document he held from Fred Bingham, then he remembered that it was expressly voided by the appearance of the heir. Then he sat for a time with his forehead on his hand, thinking deeply, Prescott quietly watching him all the time. At last he said, “Well, Barton, what do you make of it?” “I make this,” the man said doggedly; “that the boy may or may not be his grandson, but he has no proof whatever of it. The woman who died at the Holls’ may have stolen the things, or they may have been given to her by the other. You have no proof—even if you knew that it was his daughter, which you don’t—that the child was hers; and you have no proof that his parents were ever married, even if you could prove the other points.”