“Lord Claythorpe’s. His wife was wearing it. Like a fool she took it down to Lewinstein’s place. Claythorpe is a bit of a connoisseur, and they say he has been off his head since his wife came back and reported the loss.” At that moment the telephone bell rang, and the doctor pulled the instrument towards him with a little frown. “I told those people in the office not to put anybody through,” he said and lifted the receiver. “Who’s that?” he said sharply, and the soft pleasant voice of a girl replied: “Is that Dr. Parsons?” “Yes, it is I,” said the doctor. “Oh, I just wanted to tell you that I read your moving appeal for funds in the _Morning Post_ to-day.” The doctor’s face brightened. This little hospital was his life’s work, and the very hint of a promise that help was coming, however meagre that help might be, cheered him. “I’m glad you were moved by it,” he said, half in humour and half in earnest; “and I trust that you will be moved to some purpose. Am I wrong in suspecting you to be a possible subscriber?” There was a little laugh at the other end of the wire. “You are appealing for £8,000 to carry on the hospital for another six months,” said the girl. “That’s right,” nodded the doctor. “Well, I’ve sent you £10,000,” was the surprising reply, and the doctor gasped. “You’ve sent me £10,000!” he said hollowly. “You’re joking, I suppose.” “Well, I haven’t exactly sent you £10,000,” said the voice--“that is to say, in money. I have sent you the money’s worth. I sent a parcel to you last night. Have you got it?” The doctor looked round. “Yes,” he said, “there is a parcel here, posted at Clapham. Is that from you?” “That’s from me,” said the girl’s voice. “I am relieved to know that you have found it.” “What’s in it?” demanded the man curiously. “A very interesting armlet which was, and probably is still, the property of Lord Claythorpe.” “What do you mean?” asked the doctor sharply. “It is the armlet I stole from him,” said the voice; “and there is a reward of £10,000 for its return. I want you to return it, and apply the money to your hospital.” “To whom am I speaking?” asked Dr. Parsons huskily. “To Four Square Jane!” was the reply and there was a “click!” as the receiver was hung up. With trembling fingers the doctor tore the tape which bound the little parcel, pulled the brown-paper cover aside, disclosing a small wooden box with a sliding lid. This he pushed back, and there, in its bed of cotton wool, glittered and flashed the famous Venetian Armlet. It was a nine days’ wonder. The daily Press, which for the past weeks had had to satisfy itself with extravagant weather reports and uninteresting divorce cases, fell upon this latest sensation with enthusiasm, and there was not a Sunday paper in the country that did not “feature” it in the largest of black type. For it was the greatest story that had been printed for years.