“You see?” M. Pierre extended apologetic palms. “There is no one.” “What’s afoot?” Jack asked as we regained Bond Street. “That fat bird was lying. The girl gave it away. Nanette is hiding from us.” We stared at each other, badly puzzled. Then we looked across to where Milton lounged in the entrance to the Modern Gallery, seemingly oblivious of our existence. “Come on!” said Jack savagely. We joined the waiting Milton. “Have you seen the famous picture?” I asked. “No,” he replied, “I haven’t.” Jack made a snorting noise, then, paying a shilling each, we went into the exhibition. We found it to be far from crowded, and, indeed, the artistic donations were not of outstanding merit. Quite the most interesting exhibit was the lady in charge of the sales department. And, at the end of a ten minutes’ quest, we sought her aid. “Perhaps you could tell me,” said I, “where the picture is that was reproduced in to-day’s _Planet_--a portrait of a girl diving.” Whereupon the lady addressed began to laugh! Jack’s expression was worthy of study. In the eyes of poor Jack, anything touching Nanette was sacred, and this was the second time in one afternoon that inquiries concerning her had provoked merriment. “I wish I could!” was the reply. “Really, it’s most absurd. But all the same the publicity has done the exhibition a lot of good. Forgive my laughter, but, you see, we know nothing whatever about this picture!” “What!” Jack’s exclamation was not merely rude; it was explosive. “It has never been here,” she went on. “Dozens of people have asked about it. But _we_ have never seen it. The secretary ’phoned the _Planet_ this morning and was told that they had used the photograph in good faith.” “But who sent it to them?” I asked. “I am afraid I can’t tell you,” was the answer. “All we could learn was that it had been sent in by a responsible agency. Personally, of course, we are rather grateful.” In silence Jack and I departed. Milton was standing in Bond Street just outside the doorway. “Good-bye, Milton,” I said. “Let’s hope it keeps fine.” “Good-bye, Decies,” said he, jauntily imperturbable. Jack glanced sharply up at M. Pierre’s windows; but only the wax bust rewarded his scrutiny. “I am beginning to hate your friend Milton,” he confided. “He is not so popular with _me_,” I confessed. “Come round to the club,” Jack suggested. “This thing calls for cool reflection.” I left him at four o’clock. We had telephoned Nanette’s mother, only to learn that Nanette had not returned. The whole thing was provokingly mysterious. It had entirely diverted my thoughts from the more serious problem of the capture of Adolf Zara. In fact, I could not shake my mind free of it.