“That solution never occurred to me,” he said. He did not seem greatly interested in a matter which excited Peter Dawes to an unusual extent. He had little else to say, and when Peter Dawes left him, he lay wearily down on the plank bed. Peter was talking for some time with the inspector in charge of the station, when the gaoler called him. “I don’t know what was the matter with that prisoner, sir,” he said, “but, looking through the peephole about two minutes ago, I saw him pulling the buttons off his coat.” Peter frowned. “You’d better change that coat of his,” he said, “and place him under observation.” They all went back to the cell together. Lord Claythorpe was lying in the attitude in which Peter had left him, and they entered the cell together. Peter bent down and touched the face, then, with a cry, turned the figure over on its back. “He’s dead!” he cried. He looked at the coat. One of the buttons had been wrenched off. Then he bent down and smelt the dead man’s lips, and began a search of the floor. Presently he found what he was looking for--a section of a button. He picked it up, smelt it, and handed it to the inspector. “So that’s how he did it,” he said gravely. “Claythorpe was prepared for this.” “What is it?” asked the inspector. “The second button of his coat has evidently been made specially for him. It is a compressed tablet of cyanide of potassium, coloured to match the other buttons, and he had only to tear it off to end his life.” So passed Lord Claythorpe, a great scoundrel, leaving his title to a weakling of a son, and very few happy memories to that obscure and hysterical woman who bore his name. Peter’s work was done, save for the mystery of Four Square Jane, and even that mystery was exposed. The task he had set himself now was a difficult one, and one in which he had very little heart. He obtained a fresh set of warrants, and accompanied by a small army of detectives who watched every exit, made his call at the hotel at which Steele and his wife were staying. He went straight up to the room, and found Joyce and her husband at breakfast. They were both dressed; the fact that several trunks were packed suggested that they were contemplating an early move. Peter closed the door behind him and came slowly to the breakfast table, and the girl greeted him with a smile. “You’re just in time for breakfast,” she said. “Won’t you have some coffee?” Peter shook his head. Steele was eyeing him narrowly, and presently the young man laughed. “Joyce,” he said, “I do believe that friend Dawes has come to arrest us all.” “You might guess again, and guess wrong,” said Peter, sitting himself down and leaning one elbow on the table. “Mr. Steele, the game is up. I want you!” “And me, too?” asked the girl, raising her eyebrows. She looked immensely pretty, he thought, and he had a sore heart for her. “Yes, you, too, Mrs. Steele,” he said quietly. “What have I done?” she asked.