The car plunged through Piccadilly again to the flat of the Hon. George Coppett. Mr. Coppett’s man received him with a smile which was almost a leer. “I’ll see, sir,” he took Reggie’s card. “I’m afraid Mr. Coppett’s partic’larly busy.” As Reggie was ushered in he heard a bell ring and a woman’s voice high and angry, “Oh, yes, I will go. But I do not believe you, not one word.” A door was flung open and across the hall swept the big woman of Demetrius Jacob’s shop. Reggie looked into the crown of his hat. She stopped short and stared hard at him. Either she did not recognize him or did not care who he was. She hurried on and the door banged behind her. The Hon. George Coppett was a little man who walked like a bird. “Damn it, damn it,” he piped, jumping about, “what the devil are you at, Brown?” He stared at Mr. Fortune, and Brown gave him Mr. Fortune’s card. “Hallo, don’t know you, do I? I’m in the devil of a hurry.” “I think you had better see me, Mr. Coppett,” said Reggie. Mr. Coppett swore again and bade him come in. Mr. Coppett gave himself some whisky. “I say, women are the devil,” he said as he wiped his mouth. “Have one?” he nodded to the decanter. “No? Well, what’s your trouble, Mr.--Mr. Fortune?” “I am anxious to have some news of Lord Tetherdown.” “Well, why don’t you ask him?” Mr. Coppett laughed. “He’s not to be found.” “What, gone off again, has he? Lord, he’s always at it. My dear chap, he’s simply potty about his curios. I don’t know the first thing about them, but it beats me how a fellow can fall for that old junk. One of the best and all that don’t you know, but it’s a mania with him. He’s always running off after some queer bit of tripe.” “When do you expect him back?” “Search me,” Mr. Coppett laughed. “My dear chap, he don’t tell me his little game. Old Martha might know.” “She doesn’t.” Mr. Coppett laughed again. “He always was a close old thing. He just pushes off, don’t you know, on any old scent. And after a bit he blows in again.” “Then--you don’t know--when you’ll see him again?” Reggie said slowly. “Give you my word I don’t,” Mr. Coppett cried. “Sorry, sorry.” “So am I,” said Reggie. “Good morning, Mr. Coppett.” Mr. Coppett did not try to keep him. But he was hardly beyond the outer door of the flat when he heard Mr. Coppett say, “Hallo, hallo!” He turned. The door was still shut. Mr. Coppett was using the telephone. He heard “Millfield, double three” something and could not hear anything more. Millfield, as you know, is a quiet middle-class suburb. Mr. Fortune went down stairs pensively. Pensive he was still when he entered Scotland Yard and sought Lomas’s room. “Well, how goes the quest for the holy stone?” Lomas put up his eyeglass. “My dear Fortune, you’re the knight of the rueful countenance.” “You’re confused, Lomas. Don’t do it,” Reggie complained. “You’re not subtle at Scotland Yard, but hang it, you might be clear.” “What can we do for you?”