Seated in a lounging-chair, with a fragrant cigar between his lips, he looked the most care-free fellow in the world. But his active brain was absorbed in the study of a profound problem, and he was quite oblivious to all save that problem's solution. Whatever the result of his meditation, he ate his breakfast with a keen relish, and a countenance of serene content, and then set off for a morning call upon Mr. Follingsbee. He found that legal gentleman preparing to walk down to his office; and after an interchange of salutations, the two turned their faces townward together. "Well, Stanhope," said the lawyer, linking his arm in that of the detective with friendly familiarity, "how do you prosper?" "Very well; but I must have an interview with Mrs. Warburton this morning." "Phew! and you want me to manage it?" "Yes." The lawyer considered a moment. "You know that the Warburtons are overwhelmed with calamity?" he said. Stanhope glanced sharply from under his lashes, and then asked carelessly: "Of what nature?" "Archibald Warburton lies dying; his little daughter has been stolen." "What!" The detective started, then mastering his surprise, said quietly: "Tell me about it." Briefly the lawyer related the story as he knew it, and then utter silence fell between them, while Richard Stanhope lost himself in meditation. At last he said: "It's a strange state of affairs, but it makes an immediate interview with the lady doubly necessary. Will you arrange it at once?" "You are clever at a disguise: can you make yourself look like a gentleman of my cloth?" "Easily," replied Stanhope, with a laugh. "Then I'll send Leslie--Mrs. Warburton, a note at once, and announce the coming of myself and a friend, on a matter of business." An hour later, a carriage stopped before the Warburton doorway, and two gentlemen alighted. The first was Mr. Follingsbee, who carried in his hand a packet of legal-looking papers. The other was a trim, prim, middle-aged gentleman, tightly buttoned-up in a spotless frock coat, and looking preternaturally grave and severe. They entered the house together, and the servant took up to Leslie the cards of Mr. Follingsbee and "S. Richards, attorney." With pale, anxious face, heavy eyes, and slow, dragging steps, Leslie appeared before them, and extended her hand to Mr. Follingsbee, while she cast a glance of anxious inquiry toward the seeming stranger. "How is Archibald?" asked the lawyer, briskly. "Sinking; failing every moment," replied Leslie, sadly. "And there is no news of the little one?" "Not a word." There was a sob in her throat, and Mr. Follingsbee, who hated a scene, turned abruptly toward his companion, saying: "Ours is a business call, Leslie, and as the business is Mr. Stanhope's not mine, I will retire to the library while it is being transacted." And without regarding her stare of surprise, he walked coolly from the room, leaving Leslie and the disguised detective face to face.