“Assuming therefore,” continued Anthony, “that the secret of the screens still remains unsolved, I purpose putting a little idea of mine to the test—I think you will find it interesting, gentlemen.” He walked to the French doors. “O’Connor,” he called. The black-bearded giant stepped smartly into the room. “At your service, Mr. Bathurst—what is it that you’re wantin’ of me?” Anthony pointed to the smaller of the two screens. “You know a good deal about metal work, O’Connor,” he exclaimed, “have a look over here, will you?” Michael O’Connor strode across to the table. “What would be the effect, O’Connor, of heavy blows upon this metal work?” O’Connor ran his fingers over the embossed surface of the screen. Then he ran them through his hair. “Would it be with a hammer that you mean?” he questioned doubtfully. “Yes—something of that kind.” “Well”—he scratched his head still more doubtfully—“you could beat it and beat it and kape on beatin’ it. You could knock it into all shapes and that ’ud be about all you could do—you couldn’t knock holes into it. It’s old and hard that metal work is—and it ’ud stand all the banging you could give it. That’s my opinion, sir.” He paused and looked round at them, as though inviting either a criticism or a confirmation of what he had stated. From Anthony there came the latter. “Just my own opinion, O’Connor,” he declared, “it would stand as much hammering as you chose to give it.” He walked up to the table and inspected the two screens intently. Goodall and Peter Daventry joined him, while Charles Stewart came round to the other side of them. Suddenly Bathurst put his finger on the point of the metal work that comprised the eye of the swimming fish. But to no purpose—and his circle of spectators saw something like a gleam of disappointment cross his face. Then he tried a second time—the forefinger of his left hand pushing on the fish’s eye and the forefinger of his right pressing on its tail! There was a sudden clicking sound and a sharp exclamation of amazement from Charles Stewart. As though by magic the embossed body of the fish on the reverse side of the screen to which Bathurst had pressed, swung away—revealing a cavity in the metal work the size of a man’s hand. Anthony plunged his hand into it and drew out what looked like a wad of discolored cotton wool. “Gentlemen,” he cried, with dramatic triumph, “allow me to introduce you to the ‘Twenty-Two Black Pearls of Lorraine.’” CHAPTER XXV The Riddle of the Black Twenty-Two