Peter thought for a moment. “Can’t say that I do—beyond what all the world knows. Made his money first in Chicago and afterwards on Wall Street—I fancy he’s a widower.” “Quite right. With one son—about two and twenty. I’ll tell you more! About three months ago Stewart came to England. At the time Assynton Lodge was in the market. He bought it and, I believe, paid a pretty stiff figure for it. It’s a very fine place—not very far from Wantage—and right in the heart of the Berkshire Downs. I understand that he intends spending the remainder of his days in this country.” “Don’t think I should, if I had his money,” contributed Peter. “Still—there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. What’s his pet ambition—to win the Derby or become an O. B. E.?” “Neither,” replied Linnell a trifle testily. “But your question, flippant though it may have been, brings me to his association with this conversation of ours this morning.” He leaned forward to pick up a letter from the desk in front of him. Then turned again towards his partner. “He has one overpowering interest in life. He is a collector——” “Horrible word,” interrupted Peter. “Makes me think of Rates and Income Tax.” “He is a collector,” repeated the elder man, ignoring the interruption. “For many years now, his one hobby has been his priceless and almost unique collection of articles of what may be termed, paramount historical interest and association.” Peter began to show signs of increased attention. This sounded better! Linnell continued. “I am informed, from a source that is certainly above reproach, that Stewart is the proud possessor of over two thousand articles of great historical significance. He claims to include in his—er Museum—if I may so describe it—a Musk-Ball used by Henry VIII for instance. He has a peculiar passion it seems for objects that are supposed to have Royal associations! Which last fact brings me to the Mary, Queen of Scots business!” Peter raised his eyebrows—then helped himself to his third cigarette. “We’re apparently moving in exalted circles,” he ventured. “And a great compliment to us, as a firm—Peter. But I will proceed. If he may be said to have a passion for collecting these objects that I have mentioned of Royal association—then I can tell you that he has a perfect mania—an overwhelming obsession would be perhaps a happier phrase—for anything connected with Mary, Queen of Scots.” He paused. Then looked at Peter. “Laurence P. _Stewart_, Peter! Note the name—he has got it into his head—or had it put there possibly—that he is a legitimate descendant of that ill-fated lady. Every relic of hers at all possible of acquisition—he acquires. Now look at this letter.” He pushed the letter that he had picked up from his table, across to Peter. “Read it!” he said authoritatively. Peter obeyed the instruction with more than ordinary alacrity. Assynton Lodge, Assynton, Berkshire, June 7th, 192–.