Anthony patted him on the shoulder and went across to the others in the room. Goodall picked up the two screens—the two objects that had been engaging the attention of Alice Mortimer as she knelt upon the floor just prior to the arrest. He placed them on the table—in its center—Anthony removing everything else to obtain clear room-space. Then he looked carefully at the screens. There they stood——the one that had come back to the house from which it had been removed—the other just as Peter Daventry had seen it in the Hanover Galleries before the murders. The first had been the property of Laurence P. Stewart, who had been murdered. The second had been the property of Lord Clavering, who had died in his bed. The screens were as they had been for over three hundred years—they had defied Time, and up to now had defied also the challenging and predatory lusts of men. Stewart’s screen was of the dark bronze-like metal work that Marjorie Lennox had described. It stood about four feet high, with the Queen’s Lion in the top left-hand corner and the “fleur-de-lis” in the corresponding position on the right. In the middle could be read the two words from Virgil—“_Timeo Danaos_”—they had been scratched on with infinite care and patience. Below them swam the fish just as Miss Lennox had pictured it. At the bottom, in the two corners, were the Leopards and Lilies of England—the Leopards directly beneath the Lion and the Lilies below the “fleur-de-lis.” Lord Clavering’s screen, that had traveled to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ and thence to Mr. and Mrs. “Snoop” Mortimer, stood perhaps an inch or two higher—upon a carved wood pedestal. The glass-shielded tapestry was just as Peter Daventry remembered it. It was the counterpart of the other as regards decoration and ornament, save for its centerpiece. The colored beads took the place of the Latin words—they were all that there was there—“JESUS CHRIST, GOD AND SAVIOUR.” Peter pointed to the fourth word, “It is written in full,” he exclaimed, “just as I told you.” Anthony nodded. “Yes—that’s all right. I’ve abandoned that particular theory.” He turned to the others, who were beginning to be infected with his strange combination of eagerness, enthusiasm and excitement. “Judging from the faces of the little gathering that we were discourteous enough just recently to interrupt,” he declared, “I don’t fancy that the lady had successfully interpreted the riddle that her father had put in front of her.” “Her father,” interjected Goodall, “you mean her husband, Mr. Bathurst!” “I don’t,” smiled Anthony, “I mean her father, as I said—you will find that Alice Mortimer was _née_ Butterworth—she met her esteemed husband in the States.” Charles Stewart gasped and Peter Daventry raised his eyes in astonishment.