“I am only sorry now it did not happen before poor father went,” the girl replied, with a tremble in her voice, and I fancied she was crying. “Personally,” it was the Englishman’s voice, “I am satisfied of the identity. But of course my principals in London will also have to be satisfied. It would be best to leave at once, I think, for England. For the sake of the Pendelton name we must work secretly and quietly. I would not want the matter in the public prints for the world.” I was listening with such intentness that it was some time before the soft and insistent grating of the doorknob caught my attention. I tiptoed to the door. Lanagan entered. In another moment Leslie came in and after a few moments of interval, Brady and Wilson, two of Leslie’s steadiest thief-takers, stepped in softly. There was big game afoot of some sort! Leslie had his ear to the door. He remained there for some time, and then motioned Brady, who took his turn, followed by Wilson. Lanagan was sitting on a corner of the little table, swinging his feet lazily, but following every move made by the officers, and watching every shade of expression in their faces. Leslie took another turn and a half smile played over Lanagan’s face as that veteran Chief finally stepped over to him and put out his hand. Lanagan gripped it. Not a word was spoken. Motioning to Brady and Wilson, Leslie stepped out and we followed. He rapped on the door to the adjoining room. Leighton opened it, a look of enquiry on his rotund features. As swiftly as though a swab had been rubbed over it, his look of enquiry shaded into one of alarm, as he recognised Leslie. We filed in and Wilson snapped the lock behind him and stood at the door, Brady walking quickly to the window and taking his position there. Not a word had as yet been spoken. Leighton stood as though stupefied. The Englishman, a dapper, well-dressed man of probably forty, smoking a cigarette at ease, raised his brows as we entered, but said nothing. On the edge of the bed the girl was sitting, her wide eyes following Leslie. It was evident that she knew him by sight. Her resemblance to Mrs. Peters was striking. Both were women of that blonde, doll-faced type so frequently found in the night life. “Leighton,” said Leslie, “the jig is up.” Leighton sank into a chair. The Chief went to the connecting door, tapped for a moment, and then jabbed his knife through Lanagan’s ear hole. “See?” he said, laconically. “We’ve been listening there for thirty minutes. Gertrude Pendelton is dead; you know she is dead and her child with her. And this woman here,” turning sharply to the girl, “knows that she is not Gertrude Pendelton. She knows perfectly well that she is playing a crooked ‘lost heir’ case for you, Leighton.” As though he had been a jack in the box, Holmes jumped to his feet. “Heavens, Sir!” he cried, “why, what are you saying! Who are you?” Leslie threw back his coat, displaying his diamond-studded shield.