"Yes, you do, sir--apologising for the contradiction; but if you want to find out who killed Verschoyle, you had better go on with the case; it will be more satisfactory to yourself and"--hesitating--"Miss Cotoner." "She has nothing to do with it." "Of course not," said Roper, soothingly; "we've only the similarity of name to go by. I think I would go to this meeting to-night sir, if I were you." Ronald thought a moment----"Very well, I will," he said resignedly; and then Roper arose to take his leave. "I'll look in to-morrow, and see what information you've obtained," he said. "Good-day, Mr. Foster--good-day, Mr. Monteith." "Good-day," replied Ronald, not taking his eyes off the table. Julian and Foster went out. "Is he in love with her?" asked the detective. "He is!" "I thought so; this case will be harder than you or I think." "But you don't suppose Miss Cotoner had anything to do with it?" "No; but I think she's the sister of the woman who committed the crime." CHAPTER XI. AN ARTISTIC EVENING. "The Society for the Improvement of Art" was one of the favourite fads of the day, and will no doubt hold its own till some newer "fad" comes to the front, and then it will fall to pieces. It was organized by three or four enthusiasts, who said there was a great deal of latent artistic talent in England which needed development, and they proposed to let everybody, who thought he or she could draw, have an exhibition once a year. Every picture sent in was hung on the walls of their saloon, and some queer things figured there. Unappreciated geniuses with the talents, as they thought, of Michael Angelo, sent in hideous productions, which were enough to send a painter of any knowledge whatever crazy, such was the crudity of the drawing. Some of the pictures were done in a firm, precise manner, as if they were the productions of very young people, and finished by the Governess; others had a dashing, sketchy appearance, as if they had been done in half an-hour, a not unlikely thing; but here and there were some really pretty sketches that were admired. Yet the whole effect of these walls, disfigured in such a manner, was depressing in the extreme. The fact was, the Society for the Improvement of Art was a collection of amiable idiots, who made their mad project an excuse for having evenings when everybody who was anybody went.