“Indeed!” said the polite Peter. He consulted his notes. “As far as I understand, this mysterious person, whom Mrs. Wilberforce believes to be a discharged employee named Jane Briglow, after making several raids upon your property, reached the culmination of her audacity by robbing your son of his wedding-ring and then burgling the house of the parson who was to marry them and stealing the license, which had been granted by the Bishop of London.” “That’s it exactly,” said Lord Claythorpe. “And what of the wedding?” asked Peter. “There will be no difficulty of getting another license.” Lord Claythorpe sniffed. “The only difficulty is,” he said, “that the young lady is naturally prostrated by the humiliation which this villainous woman has thrust upon her. She was in such a state of collapse the following morning that her mother was compelled to take her--or rather, to send her--to a friend in the country. The wedding is postponed for, let us say, a month.” “One other question,” asked the detective. “You say you suspect, in addition to Jane Briglow, a young man named Jamieson Steele, who was in a way engaged to Miss Joyce Wilberforce?” “A fugitive from justice,” said his lordship emphatically. “And why you police fellows cannot catch him is beyond my understanding. The man forged my name----” “I know all about that,” said the detective. “I had the records of the case looked out, and the particulars of the case were ’phoned to me here whilst you had gone upstairs to collect data concerning the previous robbery. As a matter of fact, although he is, as you may say, a fugitive from justice, having very foolishly run away, there is no evidence which would secure a conviction before a judge and jury. I suppose your lordship knows that?” His lordship did not know that, and he expressed his annoyance in the usual manner--which was to abuse the police. Peter Dawes went back to Scotland Yard, and consulted the officer who had been in charge of the forgery case. “No, sir,” said that individual, “we have not a picture of Mr. Steele. But he was a quiet enough young fellow--a civil engineer, so far as my memory serves me, in the employment of one of Lord Claythorpe’s companies.” Peter Dawson looked at the other thoughtfully. His informant was Chief Inspector Passmore, who was a living encyclopædia, not only upon the aristocratic underworld, but upon crooks who moved in the odour of respectability. “Inspector,” said Peter, “what position does Lord Claythorpe occupy in the world of the idle rich?” The inspector stroked his stubbly chin. “He is neither idle nor rich,” he said. “Claythorpe is, in point of fact, a comparatively poor man, most of whose income is derived from directors’ fees. He has been a heavy gambler in the past, and only as recently as the last oil slump he lost a goodish bit of money.” “Married?” asked Peter, and the other nodded.