“Yes, my lord,” said Bessie, firmly, “and I will find him and bring him to her, if he is to be found.” She caught the evening up-train, and though she had never been in London before, she faced its strangeness and its vastness without quailing; it seemed as if Olivia had infused something of her own desperate courage and energy into the timid country girl. She drove to Scotland Yard, and after five minutes’ waiting, during which, by the way, Mr. McAndrew had been calmly and keenly scrutinizing her from behind a curtain, he entered. Bessie delivered Olivia’s message, word for word. He looked at her with the simple smile which made his face so innocent and commonplace, then nodded. “So your mistress wants to see Lord Bertie, does she?” he said, in a kindly fashion. “Hem! so do I; and perhaps we shall both see him presently. What’s this?” he asked, as Bessie put the necklace-case in his hand. “My--my mistress said you would want money, and sent this,” faltered Bessie. The great man smiled softly and opened the case, then suddenly his face changed, and his eyes, as they scanned the magnificent gems closely, grew sharp and keen. But it was only for an instant; the next moment his expression was that of the simple, commonplace individual. “Where did you get this from--your mistress, I mean?” he asked. “It was her wedding present from Mr. Faradeane,” replied Bessie, in a faltering voice. “Oh,” he said, slowly, “from Mr. Faradeane. Hem!” He snapped-to the case and put it in his pocket. “Yes, we detectives always want money, and you can tell your mistress I’ll take care of this. Oh, yes, she can rest easy. I’ll take care of it.” He stood looking at her in silence for a moment, then he said: “And so your mistress saw Mr. Faradeane in prison this morning, eh?” Bessie started and crimsoned, and he laughed. “Now you can go back; you don’t mind traveling all night, do you? Because your mistress will be anxious, you know.” “Oh, yes, yes,” assented Bessie, eagerly, “and if I can only take her some good news!” and she clasped her hands. Mr. McAndrew looked down at her thoughtfully, then he smiled and offered her his arm. “I’ll take you to the station,” he said. He got her some refreshment, put her in a first-class carriage, and, but not until the train was upon the point of starting, said, “How is Mr. Bartley Bradstone?” Indeed, the engine shrieked and was off with its burden before Bessie could reply. It was not until she had traveled some distance on her return journey that she realized, what a great many other persons before her had realized, that, she had not got anything very definite out of Mr. McAndrew. She had seemed, indeed, to have had no will of her own while in his presence, and to have done exactly as he told her. She reached Wainford very tired and very dissatisfied, and found a carriage waiting for her. “Why, how did you know I was coming?” she asked the coachman, who was an old friend of hers.