Cara nodded. The salon was gradually getting empty. Lord Beachmore said something to his wife, who shook her head, and then he sauntered slowly from the room. Lady Beachmore looked across to the seat where Mrs. Benstein was reclining, and her coarse face grew red with anger. By some kind of magnetic influence the eyes of the two women met, and the former rose. She crossed over to Mrs. Benstein’s table, a few low words followed before Mrs. Benstein rose also. Her eyes were flashing and her breast was heaving. She made a motion towards the jewels in her hair, and then seemed to change her mind. A few of the low, angry words reached Lopez’s ears. A sardonic smile was on his lips. "A curious coincidence," he muttered. "She is actually wearing Lady Beachmore’s diamonds! Well, the information should prove valuable. I’ll go and see Frobisher to-morrow. The mere hint of what can be done should be worth five hundred pounds." "What are you muttering about?" Cara asked impatiently. "Take me home, I’m tired of all this light and glitter. Sometimes I wish that I had never left the country. All the same, I would give a great deal to know what those people are talking about." *CHAPTER X.* *A WORD TO THE WISE.* Sir Clement stood before a looking-glass in the library surveying himself with a certain saturnine humour. He was just as fond of analysing himself as other people, and he had just come to the conclusion that there was a deal to be said from the Darwinian point of view. "Is it the morning-coat or the top-hat?" he asked himself. "How terribly like a dissipated old ape I look, to be sure! And yet in a velvet dinner-jacket I am quite—well, picturesque. On the whole, that is better than being handsome. Ah, somebody is going to suffer for this! Come in." The door opened, and Paul Lopez came almost inaudibly into the room. Not for a moment did Frobisher discontinue his critical examination. "I’m going to a garden-party," he explained. "I’m taking my womenfolk to the Duchess’s afternoon affair. I was just saying to myself that somebody would have to suffer for this." Lopez dropped into a chair and lighted a cigarette quite coolly. "Nobody would suspect you of this personal sacrifice without some ultimate benefit," he said. "Spoken like a book, my prince of rascals," Frobisher cried gaily. "I see they have adjourned those two inquests again." The two men looked at one another and smiled. They were not pleasant smiles, and Frobisher’s teeth bared in a sudden grin that was not good to see. He crossed to the table near which Lopez was seated, and began to play with a cheque-book. "Artistic things, these," he said. "Observe the beauty of the watermark, the fine instinct of the oblong; note the contrast between the pale pink of the legend and the flaming red of the stamp. My Lopez, a cheque, properly verified, and engagingly autographed, is veritably a joyful thing."