“Just so. Now try to remember. Soon after this car returned to the garage to-night, did any one leave the garage who was unfamiliar to you?” “I don’t remember, sir. You see, sir----” “Exactly. I see. I am not blaming you. Your theory, though defective, is a natural one. Now, do you remember, for instance, a man in a blue suit, with grey hair, going out?” “Upon my soul, I believe I do, sir.” “You are certain?” “Oh, no, sir. I’m not certain. But I have a sort of a hazy idea----” “Look at these wheels,” Carpentaria cut him short. “That’s clayey mud, isn’t it?” “Yes, sir.” “Where could the car have been to get that?” “There’s that passage down under the embankment, sir, that way as leads to the river.” “Doorkeeper,” said Carpentaria, “you are brilliant. I also have thought of that spot, where just such clay exists. But why should the car go down there?” “Ah,” said the doorkeeper. “There you beat me, sir.” “Then perhaps you are not so brilliant after all,” said Carpentaria. And having minutely examined the interior of the car, with no result, he left the garage, and returned to the strong room. The Soudanese was awaiting him at the door, and there were evident signs of a quarrelsome temper on the part of Wiggins. Wiggins had not forgotten the colour of the messenger who had handed him the forged note. “Well?” Carpentaria asked of the Soudanese. “Where’s your brother?” The man shook his head, but not smilingly. “Has he gone?” “Yes, sah.” “No one knows at the village where he’s gone?” Spats shook his head. “Wiggins,” said Carpentaria. “Is this the man who brought you the note?” Wiggins hesitated. “No, sir,” he said at length’, resentfully. “But they’re all alike, them folk are.” “H’m!” murmured Carpentaria. “Since there is nothing to guard here, you may as well go, Wiggins. You, too, Spats.” Two minutes later he was crossing the Oriental Gardens in the direction of the Thames. And when he had travelled two hundred yards or so he heard footsteps behind him, light, rapid, irregular. He turned quickly, his hand on the revolver in his pocket, to face his pursuer. His pursuer, however, was Pauline Dartmouth and no other. So he left the revolver where it was. CHAPTER XXIII--The Talk in the Garden She was so out of breath that at first it seemed as if she could not speak. He could hear her hurried breathing, almost like the catch of a sob, and in the moonlight he could see fairly clearly her flushed face, under the hat, and her tall, rather imperious figure. But he could not make out the expression of her eyes. Nevertheless, as he peered curiously into them, the thought suddenly struck him: “She is angry with me.” “Mr. Carpentaria, I want to have a word with you,” she said at length, stiffly. “My dear Miss Dartmouth,” he answered in his courtly and elaborate manner, “I shall be delighted. What can I do for you? I regret very much that you should have had to run after me like this.”