“Because he happens to be a clever man at his trade. I declined to allow him to insert a paragraph in Nanette’s name. But he was by no means defeated. He employed certain official channels and secured the publication of her photograph.” “With what object?” “You recall the words that appeared under the picture?” “Clearly. But the original was _not_ in Bond Street.” “Quite unnecessary that it should be, Decies. Our friend the inspector was in Bond Street, however.” I think I was gaping like an imbecile. “You are simply confusing me, O’Shea,” I managed to say. “Yes,” he admitted. “No doubt the scheme is difficult to grasp. You see--the inspector banked on Zara’s infatuation for Nanette. He judged it, no doubt, by the risk that Zara ran in communicating with her.” “Good heavens!” I cried. “I see it all! He hoped in this way to lure Zara to the gallery?” “Certainly. He thought that Zara would probably come, first, to secure the picture, and, second, possibly to obtain a glimpse of Nanette in person.” “And you say the inspector was there? I didn’t see him.” “I did!” said O’Shea grimly. “He was in an office at the end of the gallery--with the door ajar. The girl in charge knew he was there on some police business, but she did not know that it had any connection with the missing print. I gave him a crisp five minutes. But, officially, he was within his rights--and he knew it, dash him!” “O’Shea,” I said, “I can’t fit Nanette and young Milton into the picture.” O’Shea’s expression changed, softened. “I wonder?” he murmured. “She has a high spirit, and, I am beginning to think, a keen brain. Decies!”--he suddenly grasped my shoulder--“how happy some man is going to be, some day!” He turned aside abruptly, and walked into the inner room where my modest library formed a haven of refuge. Vaguely, as we had talked, I had grown aware of voices below. My man was one of the speakers; the other voice had been inaudible throughout. Then I heard the door open behind me. I looked. And there was Nanette! But, even as I was about to greet her, I checked the words. I had seen Nanette merry; I had seen her sad. I knew her moods of coquetry and of contrition. But, always, save once, I had thought of her as a child. I did not know her as I saw her now. “I thought you were my friend,” she said. “I thought I could trust you. If I had had one little doubt I would never have told you----” “Nanette,” I began---- But she checked me with a sad, angry gesture. “You are no better than _he_ is,” she went on bitterly; “for you helped him. Heavens, what a fool I have been! And he only thinks of me as a _bait_ for his traps!” “Stop!” I cried. “For heaven’s sake, stop, Nanette!” “He was right,” she pursued, stonily ignoring me, and looking unseeingly, miserably, before her as she spoke. “Captain Slattery came. But I had arranged to warn him.”