"It may be worth as much as £50," I answered quietly. "Really!" said he, with something approaching geniality in his tones. "Well, it's an extraordinary thing, but I assure you I don't know her name." "Of course," I said, with Machiavellian cunning, "I don't expect you to remember the name of every girl who has loved you, but this is an unusual present to receive even from an infatuated woman." "It's an extraordinary thing, isn't it?" repeated Edward Hines, full of self-esteem. "I can't make out the women at all; they're always giving me presents. Look at that picture-frame. I got that from a girl I had only seen three times--and it's solid silver," he added. I glanced at the memento indicated, and observed that it contained a photograph of Mr. Hines (without the sticking-plaster). "An excellent likeness of yourself, too," I remarked. "It's not bad," said he disparagingly; "it was done by one of the big people up in London. The girl paid for it." "But even that," I pursued--"even that is not so remarkable a gift as this valuable piece of jewelry which I hold in my hand." "No," said the youth, now restored to the utmost good-humor by my undisguised admiration of his Don Juan-like qualities. "But the fact remains that I don't know her name to this day. What did you mean," he continued, "when you said that I was concerned in some way in 'the _Oritoga_ mystery'?" "I meant," I explained, "that the police are looking for a woman who answers to the description of your friend." "Really!" he cried. "A tall woman, very fine figure, beautifully dressed?" "I think it is probably the same," I said. "Had she any peculiarities of appearance or manner by which you would recognize her again?" "She had several peculiarities by which I should recognize her," he declared, a note of resentment now proclaiming itself in his voice. "And they were?" Mr. Hines leaned forward, tapping me on the knee confidentially. "I met her by accident, you understand," he confided, "on the London Road one evening about sunset set. She asked me the way to Friar's Park and I could see that I had made an impression at once. It was just an excuse to speak to me of course. I offered to walk that far with her; she agreed, and to cut a long story short--the usual thing, of course; she wanted to meet me again. "Well," he resumed complacently, "I met her on the following Thursday and we became very good friends, you understand, except that she always seemed particularly anxious to return home before dusk. All this time I never knew who she was, or even where she lived, but of course I could see how the land lay. She was some lady from London staying at one of the big houses about here and had to show up for dinner. That night when we parted she gave me this little gold thing and arranged to see me again." He paused, knocking ash from his cigar and seemingly reflecting as to how he should word his next communication; but finally: