There were other articles, bearing unmistakable evidence of their authorship. Mr. Nape’s translation from the sinister realms of crime to the more healthy atmosphere of journalism had not entirely divorced him from his first love. It changed his aspect certainly. From being a participant he became a spectator. Thus, "Cigarette Ash as a Clue," an article displaying considerable powers of observation and deduction, rivalled in style and interest the famous monograph on "Cigar Ash," by another criminal scientist. "Bloodhounds I have trained," by a famous detective, although published anonymously, may, in all probability, be traced to the same source. "Jacko is riotin’ across these fair pages," commented Hank, with the first number of the _Aristocrat_ in his hands, "like a colony of Phylloxera across a vineyard." The Duke nodded. "We’ve got to have something to fill the space," said the Duke philosophically, "if we can’t get advertisements." Hank blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling and pondered. "I anticipate trouble," he said. "From the stainless knight?" "From the stainless knight," said Hank. "Say, Duke, these effete European institutions do surely impress me." He paused. "Here’s a duke," mused Hank, "a real duke. Not a hand-me-down duke with a saggin’ collar, not a made-to-measure-in-ten-minutes duke, but a proper bespoke duke, cut from patterns. Here’s a knight with golden spurs, rather stout but otherwise knightly, especially about the coat of arms: here’s a lord—Baron This and That of This-Shire, walked straight from his baronial castle in Regent Street to harry the marshes of Brockley——" The Duke sat up. "Now," he said with deliberate politeness, "now that you have thoroughly mystified the audience, are you offering a prize for the solution or are you holding it over till the next number? The Duke with his admirable qualities, I instantly recognize; the knight is apparent, in spite of his spurs. Who is the baron? Is he allegorical or illustrative or a figure of speech?" "He’s 62," said Hank. The Duke’s face bore a look of patient resignation. "There _must_ be a prize offered," he reflected aloud. "In fact," elucidated Hank, "62’s a real baron—a lord—His Nibs." "The deuce he is!" the Duke was alert. "Quit fooling, Hank. Our new neighbour——" "Is Baron Tupping of Tupping," said Hank solemnly, "a perfect English gentleman—I heard him cussin’ in the back garden." "Tuppy!" The Duke whooped his delight. He grabbed Hank’s arm and the pair raced through the conservatory into the garden. Somebody next door was annoyed, and his voice rose plaintively. "Bring the Sacred Ladder," ordered the Duke. In the middle of the garden stood Tuppy, monocle in eye, hat tilted to the back of his head, and a cigarette drooping feebly, his face expressive of despair. The Duke hailed him. "Tuppy, you beggar." Tuppy looked up; his face lit joyfully.