The girl inclined her head, but said nothing. For a while she waited and then at a word of polite dismissal, she left the library. “Deuced nice girl, that,” said his lordship approvingly. “She works well and quickly, and she can read French beautifully--I was very fortunate,” said Moya carelessly. “What were we talking about when she came in? Oh, yes--Michael Pretherston. I wonder now--” The door opened and a footman announced, “Inspector Pretherston, m’lord.” “Inspector Michael Pretherston, you silly ass,” corrected the annoyed young man in the doorway. It was Michael, then! A little older, a little better-looking, a little more decisive--but Michael, as impetuous and irresponsible as ever. “He spoilt my entrance, Moya,” he laughed, as he came with rapid strides toward the girl; “how are you after all these years--as pretty as ever, confound you. Ah, Lord Flanborough, you’re wearing well--I read your speech in the House of Lords on the Shipping Bill--a fine speech; did you make it up yourself?” Moya laughed softly and saved what might have been a most embarrassing situation--for his lordship was framing a dignified protest against the suggestion that he had shared the honours of authorship. “You are not changed, Michael,” she said, looking at him with undisguised, but none the less, detached admiration; “but what on earth are you doing in the police force?” “Extraordinary,” murmured Lord Flanborough, and added humorously, “and an anarchist, too.” “It is a long story,” said Michael. “I really received my promotion in the Special Branch--the Foreign Office Branch--and was transferred to the C.I.D. after we caught the Callam crowd, the Continental confidence tricksters. It is disgraceful that I should be an inspector, isn’t it? But merit tells!” He chuckled again, then of a sudden grew serious. “I’m forgetting I’ve a job to do--what’s the trouble?” Lord Flanborough explained the object of his urgent call, and a look of disappointment appeared upon Michael Pretherston’s face. “A miserable little larceny,” he said reproachfully. “I thought at least Moya had been kidnapped. Now, tell me all that happened on the night you lost the pearls.” Step by step the girl related her movements and the periods at which she had evidence that the pearls were still with her. “And then you reached your bedroom,” said Michael, “and what happened there? First of all, you took your fur wrap off.” “Yes,” nodded the girl. “Were you in a cheerful frame of mind or were you rather cross?” “Does that matter?” she asked in surprise. “Everything matters to the patient and systematic officer of the law. Temperamental clues are as interesting and material as any other.” “Well, if the truth were told,” she confessed, “I was rather cross and very tired.” “Did you take your cloak off, or did your woman?” “I took it off myself,” she said after a pause, “and hung it up.” He asked her a few more questions.