Although Linnell was really surprised at this announcement—yet in one way he was not. His mind seemed prepared for it—some sixth and subtle sense had been pounding at his brain ever since his arrival at this place that Stewart’s instructions and the tragedy that confronted him were in some manner connected with each other. It was the shadowy belief in this that had prompted him to try to interview the Inspector. “Mr. Laurence P. Stewart of Assynton, Berkshire,” he replied quietly. “The millionaire?” exclaimed a tall man from the group. “Yes,” said Linnell. “You know this man Stewart, Mr. Day?” asked Goodall, turning to the speaker. “Only by reputation,” rejoined Day. “It’s the American millionaire—you must have heard of him, Inspector! Forshaw here, met him once or twice over in the States—I never have.” “That’s so,” intervened Forshaw with a positive movement of the head. “I met him in New York a year or two after the War.” “Go on, Mr. Linnell,” said the Inspector. “You said his instructions to your firm were ‘peculiar’—that was the adjective you used. I reckon you’ve some more to tell us.” Here young Forshaw broke in. “The gentleman who called here yesterday—a Mr. Daventry—he was a representative of your firm, I think?” “Quite correct,” affirmed Linnell. “My partner! My only partner, I should have said.” Goodall swung round on to Forshaw Junior. “Called here yesterday? What about?” he grumbled in his deep voice. “The Mary, Queen of Scots’ stuff.” Goodall looked a trifle annoyed. “You didn’t tell me,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you?” “I simply haven’t had a chance yet,” came the reply with just a hint of rebellious obstinacy, “you’ve been doing best part of the talking. I should have told you though before you’d finished.” Forshaw shrugged his shoulders. Goodall glared—then reverted to Linnell. “Fire away, Mr. Linnell. What exactly were your instructions?” “Yesterday morning I received a letter from the gentleman I just mentioned—Laurence P. Stewart—authorizing me to buy the three articles that you have just informed me have been stolen—er—numbers 37, 38 and 39 in the sale catalogue.” “Well?” rapped Goodall—“I can’t see anything . . .” Linnell went on. “The whole thing was peculiar in this respect. I was entirely unacquainted with the gentleman—the commission was right out of our usual type of business—no price was mentioned—I was given _carte blanche_—I know absolutely nothing about this particular species of—er—antiques—and what is more”—here he paused and looked Goodall straight in the eyes—“I had no absolute proof that the affair was genuine.” Goodall nodded approvingly. “You took steps, of course, to——” “I wired to Berkshire and the reply was satisfactory—at all events——” “What reply did you get?” Goodall was showing signs of impatience. “It came by telegram—you shall see it. It’s at my office.” “You were satisfied?” “Yes, Inspector.”