“Yes, yes,” snapped Claythorpe, “I gave it to you the day before yesterday. It is a special license--there’s nothing wrong with it, is there?” Mr. Maggerley could not answer immediately. “It was in my safe, in my own study,” he said, “I can’t understand it. Nobody has access to the safe but myself, and yet----” “And yet what?” wailed Mrs. Wilberforce. “Tell me, for heavens’ sake, what has happened?” For answer, Father Maggerley took a slip of paper from the envelope, opened it and handed it without a word to Lord Claythorpe. “That is all it contains,” said the clergyman, and Claythorpe swore under his breath, for instead of the license were the four familiar squares. “Four Square Jane!” he muttered. “How did she get this?” Mr. Maggerley shook his head. “I can’t understand,” he began, and then he remembered Sister Agatha. Sister Agatha, who had arrived unexpectedly, who had remained in his study for the greater part of an hour, and had disappeared unseen by anybody. So Sister Agatha had been Four Square Jane! V Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, and a very gloomy Lord Claythorpe sat in conference in the latter gentleman’s City office. For Lord Claythorpe was a director of many companies, and had interests of a wide and varied character. The detective sat at a table, with a little block of paper before him, jotting down notes from time to time, and there was a frown upon his face which suggested that his investigations were not going exactly as he could have wished them. “There is the case,” said Lord Claythorpe. “The whole thing was a malicious act on the part of this wretched woman, directed against me, my son, and my niece.” “Is Miss Joyce Wilberforce your niece?” asked the detective, and Lord Claythorpe hesitated. “Well, she is not my niece,” he said at last. “Rather she was the niece of one of my dearest friends. He was an immensely wealthy man, and when he died he left the bulk of his property to his niece.” The detective nodded. “Where does your interest come in, Lord Claythorpe?” he asked. “I am her legal guardian,” said his lordship, “although of course, she has a mother. That is to say, I am the trustee and sole executor of her estate, and there were one or two provisions especially made by my dear friend which gave me authority usually denied to trustees----” “Such as the right of choosing her husband,” said the detective quietly, and it was Lord Claythorpe’s turn to frown. “So you know something about this, do you?” he asked. “Yes, I have that right. It so happened that I chose my own son Francis as the best man for that position, and the lady was quite agreeable.”