“Never, surely,” murmured the other. “Those classic features, I feel sure, would have been indelibly printed on my mind. Perhaps in some mission, Mr. Perrison—some evangelical revival meeting. Who knows? And there, if I mistake not, is the mail.” He glanced at the girl, and she was staring at him wonderingly. Just for one moment did he show her what she wanted to know—just for one moment did she give him back the answer which was to him the sweetest and at the same time the most bitter in the world. Then he crossed the hall and picked up the letters. “A business one for you, Miss Daventry,” he murmured, mildly. “Better open it at once, and get our business expert’s advice. Mr. Perrison is a wonderful fellah for advice.” With trembling fingers she opened the envelope, and, as he saw the contents, Perrison, with a snarl of ungovernable fury, made as if to snatch them out of her hand. The next moment he felt as if his arm was broken, and the blue eyes boring into his brain were no longer lazy. “You forgot yourself, Mr. Perrison,” said Archie Longworth, gently. “Don’t do that again.” “But I don’t understand,” cried the girl, bewildered. “What are these papers?” “May I see?” Longworth held out his hand, and she gave them to him at once. “They’re stolen.” Perrison’s face was livid. “Give them to me, curse you.” “Control yourself, you horrible blighter,” said Longworth, icily. “This,” he continued, calmly, “would appear to be a receipt from Messrs. Gross and Sons for the return of a pearl-necklace—sent out to Mr. Daventry on approval.” “But you said he’d bought it and pawned it.” She turned furiously on Perrison. “So he did,” snarled that gentleman. “That’s a forgery.” “Is it?” said Longworth. “That strikes me as being Johnson’s signature. Firm’s official paper. And—er—he has the necklace, I—er—assume.” “Yes—he has the necklace. Stolen last night by—by——” His eyes were fixed venomously on Longworth. “Go on,” murmured the other. “You’re being most entertaining.” But a sudden change had come over Perrison’s face—a dawning recognition. “By God!” he muttered, “you’re—you’re——” “Yes. I’m—who? It’ll come in time, laddie—if you give it a chance. And in the meantime we might examine these other papers. Now, this appears to my inexperienced eye to be a transaction entered into on the one part by Messrs. Smith and Co. and on the other by William Daventry. And it concerns filthy lucre. Dear, dear. Twenty-five per cent. per month. Three hundred per cent. Positive usury, Mr. Perrison. Don’t you agree with me? A rapacious bloodsucker is Mr. Smith.” But the other man was not listening: full recollection had come to him, and with a cold look of triumph he put his hands into his pockets and laughed.