A dog-cart driven by Chris brought herself and her companion into Moreton Wells in an hour, Frank had struck off across country in the direction of the nearest station. The appearance of himself in More ton Wells on the front of a dog-cart from the Castle would have caused a nine days' wonder. "Now, what I want to impress upon you is this," said Chris. "Mr. Steel's cigar-case was stolen and one belonging to Van Sneck substituted for it. The stolen one was returned to the shop from which it was purchased almost immediately, so soon, indeed, that the transaction was never entered on the books. We are pretty certain that Reginald Henson did that, and we know that he is at the bottom of the mystery. But to prevent anything happening, and to prevent our getting the case back again, Henson had to go farther. The case must be beyond our reach. Therefore, I decline to believe that it was a mere coincidence that took a stranger into Lockhart's directly after Henson had been there to look at some gun-metal cigar-cases set in diamonds. The stranger purchased the case, and asked for it to be sent to the Metropole to 'John Smith.' With the hundreds of letters and visitors there it would be almost impossible to trace the case or the man." "Lockhart's might help you?" "They have as far as they can. The cigar-case was sold to a tall American. Beyond that it is impossible to go." A meaning smile dawned on Merritt's face. "They might have taken more notice of the gentleman at Rutter's," he said, "being a smaller shop. I'm going to admire that case and pretend it belonged to a friend of mine." "I want you to try and buy it for me," Chris said, quietly. Rutter's was reached at length, and after some preliminaries the cigar-case was approached. Merritt took it up, with a well-feigned air of astonishment. "Why, this must have belonged to my old friend, B--," he exclaimed. "It's not new?" "No, sir," the assistant explained. "We purchased it from a gentleman who stayed for a day or two here at the Lion, a friend of Mr. Reginald Henson." "A tall man?" said Merritt, tentatively. "Long, thin beard and slightly marked with small-pox? Gave the name of Rawlins?" "That's the gentleman, sir. Perhaps you may like to purchase the case?" The purchase was made in due course, and together Chris and her queer companion left the shop. "Rawlins is an American swindler of the smartest type," said Merritt. "If you get him in a corner ask him what he and Henson were doing in America some two years ago. Rawlins is in this little game for certain. But you ought to trace him by means of the Lion people. Oh, lor'!" Merritt slipped back into an entry as a little, cleanshaven man passed along the street. His eyes had a dark look of fear in them. "They're after me," he said, huskily. "That was one of them. Excuse me, miss." Merritt darted away and flung himself into a passing cab. His face was dark with passion; the big veins stood out on his forehead like cords.