Anthony motioned to Peter to await his return. Five minutes saw the Inspector back. “From the ‘Yard,’ gentlemen! In answer to the inquiry I put through at your instigation, Mr. Bathurst. New York has sent a message through that I fancy identifies our ‘Mr. Laurence C. Stewart the second’ of Blanchard’s Hotel and the Hanover Galleries. In the opinion of the New York Police, he’s no less a person than ‘Snoop’ Mortimer—otherwise known as ‘Flash Alf’—they’ve been after him for months in connection with some very cute jobs over the other side—he slipped out of the country about a month ago—they’re pretty certain that he’s our man.” Goodall’s manner was becoming more jaunty—he felt he was “getting hold” at last. Anthony weighed the information over in his mind. It tallied with what he had been expecting. She had met him in New York—no doubt—when Stewart had moved there from Washington. That would account for the entry of Mr. Mortimer into the cast. “Is Mr. Charles Stewart back yet, Inspector?” “He should be by now, Mr. Bathurst. I left him talking to Mr. Llewellyn—but no doubt he came up by car. Very likely he passed me on the road—I walked up.” Anthony nodded in an understanding manner. “I’m going to see him—you stay and talk to the Inspector—Daventry!” The two latter looked at each other in some amusement as Anthony slipped from the room. “He’s actually arranging my amusements now,” commented Goodall ruefully. “I shall be thundering glad when we clear the decks for action.” Anthony found Charles Stewart in Llewellyn’s room—the secretary was busy writing. He glanced at Stewart, who rose to greet him. “I hadn’t forgotten I promised to have a word with you, Mr. Bathurst. I’ll come along now.” He pushed some papers into his pocket and accompanied Anthony down the corridor. “In the library?” he suggested. Anthony declined. “Daventry and Inspector Goodall are in there—come in the Museum Room—is it unlocked?” Stewart pushed open the door of the room in question and waved Anthony to a seat. He chose a Chippendale chair—his host followed his example. Anthony cut no time to waste and speedily got to grips with what he wanted to do. “Mr. Stewart,” he said, leaning across with a mixture of interest and sympathy, “I am going to ask you one or two more questions that possibly may border upon the personal. You will, I am sure, pardon any seeming directness—but I am _nearing the end of my case_, and I wish to handle all the facts firmly and confidently.” Stewart’s cheeks flushed quickly. “I don’t quite understand——” Anthony extended a protesting hand. “I think you will. Who is the lady you wish to marry?” Stewart half rose in his chair. Then he sank back, as though resigned to anything that might come next. “I think I am able, Mr. Stewart,” continued Anthony, “to put my finger on the subject of the interview that you had with your father, not long before he was killed—it concerned a lady—the lady you are desirous of marrying—who is she?”