“I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,” said Broad, “though I’m perfectly certain that her young friend Bennett is not aware of the fact. Brady has been staying at Caverley House for a week, and during that time he has not gone out of doors. What is more, the boy hasn’t called; I don’t think there’s a quarrel—I have a notion there’s something much deeper than that. I saw Brady by accident as I was coming out of my door. Bassano’s door also happened to be open: the maid was taking in the milk: and I caught a glimpse of him. He has the finest crop of whiskers I’ve seen on a retired pugilist and their ambitions do not as a rule run to hair! That made me pretty curious,” he said, carefully knocking the ash of his cigar into a tray that was on the table, “and I wondered if there was any connection between this sudden defiance of the barber and Ray Bennett’s actions. I made a call on him—I met him the other day at the club and had, as an excuse, the fact that I have also managed to meet Miss Ella Bennett. His servant—he has a man in by the day to brush his clothes and tidy up the place—told me that he was not well and was not visible.” Mr. Broad blew out a ring of smoke and watched it thoughtfully. “If you want a servant to be faithful, he must live on the premises,” he said. “These occasional men aren’t with you long enough to get trustworthy. It cost me, at the present rate of exchange, two dollars and thirty-five cents to discover that Mr. Ray Bennett is also in the hair-restoring business. If there were an election on, these two fellows might be political cranks who had vowed a vow that they wouldn’t touch their razors until their party was returned to power. And if Lew Brady were a real sportsman, I should guess that they were doing this for a bet. As it is, I’m rather intrigued.” Elk rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “I’m not well acquainted with the Statute Book,” he said, “but I’m under the impression there is no law preventing people from cultivating undergrowth. The—what’s the word?—psych——” “Psychology,” suggested Mr. Broad. “That’s it. The psychology of whiskers has never quite reached me. You’re American, aren’t you, Mr. Broad?” “I have the distinction,” said the other with that half-smile that came so readily to his eyes. “Ah!” said Elk absently, as he stared through the window. “Ever heard of a man called Saul Morris?” He brought his eyes back to the other’s face. Mr. Joshua Broad was frowning in an effort of thought. “I seem to remember the name. He was a criminal of sorts, wasn’t he—an American criminal, if I remember rightly? Yes, I’ve heard of him. I seem to remember that he was killed a few years ago.” Elk scratched his chin irritably. “I’d like to meet somebody who was at his funeral,” he said, “somebody I could believe on oath.” “You’re not suggesting that Lew Brady——”