"Tell your master," said Vernet, as he was ushered into the library, "tell your master that I must see him at once. My business is urgent, and my time limited." The servant turned upon him a look of surprise. "Do you mean Mr. Archibald Warburton, sir?" "Yes." "Then it will be impossible. Mr. Warburton has been dangerously sick since yesterday. The shock--Mr. Alan receives all who have business." Mentally wondering what the servant could mean, for in the intensity of his interest in his new search, he had not informed himself as to the late happenings that usually attract the attention of all connected with the police, and was not aware of the disappearance of Archibald Warburton's little daughter, Vernet said briefly, and as if he perfectly understood it all: "Nevertheless, you may deliver my message." Somewhat overawed by the presence of this representative of justice, the servant went as bidden, and in another moment stood before Alan Warburton, presenting the card of the detective and delivering his message. Alan Warburton started at sight of the name upon the card, and involuntarily turned his gaze toward the mirror. The face reflected there was not the face we saw unmasked, for a moment, at the masquerade. The brown moustache and glossy beard, the abundant waving hair, were gone. To the wonder and disapproval of all in the house, Alan had appeared among them, on the morning following the masquerade, with smooth-shaven face and close-cropped hair, looking like a boy-graduate rather than the distinguished man of the world he had appeared on the previous day. Van Vernet had seen his bearded face but once, and there was little cause to fear a recognition; nevertheless, recalling Stanhope's warning, Alan chose the better part of valor, and said calmly: "Tell the person that Mr. Warburton is so ill that his life is despaired of, and that he is quite incapable of transacting business. He cannot see him at present." Wondering somewhat at this cavalier message, the servant retraced his steps, and Alan returned to the sick-room, murmuring as he went: "It seems the only way. I dare not trust my voice in conversation with that man. For our honor's sake, my dying brother must be my representative still." And then, as his eye rested upon Leslie, sitting by the bedside pale and weary, a thrill of aversion swept over him as he thought: "But for her, and her wretched intrigue, I should have no cause to deceive, and no man's scrutiny to fear." Alas for us who have secrets to keep; we should be "as wise as serpents," and as farseeing as veritable seers. While Alan Warburton, above stairs, was congratulating himself, believing that he had neglected nothing of prudence or precaution, Van Vernet, below stairs, was grasping a clue by which Alan Warburton might yet be undone.