“I _have_ no theory. He left a largeish mass of debt,” Peter Baron added. At this Mr. Locket got up, while his visitor pursued: “So far as I can ascertain, though of course my inquiries have had to be very rapid and superficial, there is no one now living, directly or indirectly related to the personage in question, who would be likely to suffer from any steps in the direction of publicity. It happens to be a rare instance of a life that had, as it were, no loose ends. At least there are none perceptible at present.” “I see, I see,” said Mr. Locket. “But I don’t think I should care much for your article.” “What article?” “The one you seem to wish to write, embodying this new matter.” “Oh, I don’t wish to write it!” Peter exclaimed. And then he bade his host good-by. “Good-by,” said Mr. Locket. “Mind you, I don’t say that I think there’s nothing in it.” “You would think there was something in it if you were to see my documents.” “I should like to see the secret compartment,” the caustic editor rejoined. “Copy me out some extracts.” “To what end, if there’s no question of their being of use to you?” “I don’t say that—I might like the letters themselves.” “Themselves?” “Not as the basis of a paper, but just to publish—for a sensation.” “They’d sell your number!” Baron laughed. “I daresay I should like to look at them,” Mr. Locket conceded after a moment. “When should I find you at home?” “Don’t come,” said the young man. “I make you no offer.” “I might make _you_ one,” the editor hinted. “Don’t trouble yourself; I shall probably destroy them.” With this Peter Baron took his departure, waiting however just afterwards, in the street near the house, as if he had been looking out for a stray hansom, to which he would not have signalled had it appeared. He thought Mr. Locket might hurry after him, but Mr. Locket seemed to have other things to do, and Peter Baron returned on foot to Jersey Villas. IV.