And this was Augustus Grip, of Scotland Yards! Well, one might be a good detective and yet not be a gentleman. So mused Alan; and then, seeing that Mr. Grip, while waiting for him to speak, was utilizing the seconds by making a survey of the premises, he said: "Will you be seated, Mr. Grip?" Mr. Grip dropped comfortably into the nearest lounging-chair, crossed one knee over the other, and resting a hand on either arm of the chair, began to talk rapidly. "I've got your business down fine, sir; _fine_," emphasizing with both hands upon the chair arms. "Saves time; always do it when possible. Posted at Agency--less to learn here." And Mr. Grip begins to fumble in the breast-pocket of his startling plaid coat. "Was informed by--um--um--" producing a packet of folded papers and running them over rapidly; "oh, here we are." He restores the packet to his pocket, having selected the proper memoranda, and then without rising, but with a jerking movement of the knees and elbows, he propels his chair toward the table near which Alan is still standing. Putting the memoranda on the table before him, he unfolds them rapidly, and looks up at his host. "Sit down, Warburton." A look of displeasure flits across Alan's face. He remains standing, seeming to grow more haughtily erect. "My instructions," continues Mr. Grip, who has not lifted his eyes from the documents before him, "are, take entire charge of case; investigate in own way. That's what I like." If Alan had ventured a comment just then, it would have been, "_you_ are not what _I_ like." But he did not speak; and Mr. Grip, having paused for a remark and hearing none, now glanced up. "Is that your pleasure, Mr. Warburton?" A certain touch of acidity in the tone, recalls Alan to a sense of his position. This man before him is a man of business, a detective highly recommended by the Chief of Police, and he needs his services. He moves a step nearer the table and begins. "That is what I--" "Precisely," breaks in Mr. Grip. "Now, then," referring to papers, "first--sit down, won't you? it's more sociable." And Alan puts his aristocracy in his pocket and sits down opposite the dazzling necktie. "Now then," recommences Mr. Grip, "I've got the _facts_ in the case." "You have?" "Facts in case; yes." And he takes up the memoranda, reading therefrom: "Lost child; daughter of Archibald Warburton; only daughter." Then, turning his eyes upon Alan: "Father killed by shock, I'm told; sad--very." And he resumes his reading. "Relatives: Alan Warburton, uncle; fond of niece, eh--ahem; step-mother--um--a little mysterious; _little_ under suspicion." "Stop!" interrupts Alan sternly. "On what authority dare you make such assertions?" Mr. Grip permits the hand which holds the papers to rest upon one knee, and lifts his eyes to the face of his interrogator. "I've reconnoitred," he says tersely. "It's a detective's business to reconnoitre. I'm familiar with the facts in the case."