They went on talking about the exhumation and what it might eventually lead to, until the whistle of the speaking tube interrupted them once more. After answering it Stothert pressed a button in the wall, and waited. A minute later the door of the room opened and a woman entered. Young and very pretty, she was dressed apparently for a ball or a reception. She shut the door after her, then without ceremony went over and sat down in a big arm-chair near the two occupants of the room, neither of whom had risen or greeted her when she entered. “What do you want?” she asked curtly, addressing Stothert. “We want you to find out as soon as possible, to-night if you can, where Mrs. Timothy Macmahon is now, the woman to whom Lord Froissart left his fortune which should have been inherited by his elder daughter, Mrs. Ferdinand Westrup. When last we heard of Mrs. Macmahon she still resided in Cashel, County Tipperary. Where are you going to-night?” “To a reception in Berkeley Square,” and she mentioned the name of her hostess. “You have put me to great inconvenience by making me come here at this hour.” Stothert shrugged his shoulders. “We are all put to inconvenience at times,” he said. “You surely did not expect me to make an exception in your case? People of higher social standing than you have been put to inconvenience on our account.” “Shall I ring you up if I discover the woman’s whereabouts?” his visitor inquired, changing the subject. “If you please. Also you will notice if any people of interest to us attend the reception. And take this.” He handed her a sealed envelope. “Its contents you can read when you have left here.” For fully five minutes after the pretty visitor had gone, Stothert sat in silence, sucking thoughtfully at his pipe. His companion, apparently still thinking about the announcement in the newspaper, made no attempt to interrupt him. Suddenly he turned to her and removed his pipe from his mouth. “Froissart’s death was most unfortunate,” he said, “most unfortunate. I particularly wanted him to attend the Albert Hall ball, and he was going to on our advice, if you remember.” “Not more unfortunate than Sir Stephen Lethbridge’s death,” Camille Lenoir answered, “or, for that matter, Leonora Vandervelt’s. We have to face these setbacks. Still, nobody up to the present suspects our methods.” “Up to the present--no. But don’t be too confident. The police would ask nothing better than to be able to find out all about us, and how we work, and then let us down in order to get back on us. If the true verdict had been brought in regarding Vera Froissart’s death, and the cause of her suicide, it would have been a bad day for us. I shall not be sorry when we cut adrift from this business. There are times when the excitement of carrying on becomes too tense for a man of my age.” His companion smiled.