“Now, be good enough to unlock the door of the strong room,” he said to Lisle when they had reached the study. Everard did as he was told and pulled wide the heavy door. “Anybody inside?” demanded Sir Gilbert sharply. He was standing just behind Lisle, but his eyes failed to pierce the semi-obscurity of the room. “Mr. Lewis Clare, sir,” replied Everard. “Ah, it _is_ true, then!” He drew in his breath like one suddenly struck in a vital part and caught at Lisle’s shoulder. A shiver passed over him from head to foot, but his voice was firm enough when next he spoke. “You there, come out—come out this instant,” he commanded. Never was there a more abject-looking being than he who responded to the summons, with his blanched face, his dishevelled hair, and his fear-distended eyes. He seemed to crawl rather than walk into the outer room. Sir Gilbert pointed to a chair. “Seat yourself there,” he said. The look with which he regarded him was a mixture of pity, contempt and scorn. Then, in an aside to Lady Pell, he added: “I thank heaven that not a drop of my ancestors’ blood runs in this craven’s veins. But pray be seated. This may prove to be a lengthy business.” As he spoke, he drew a chair forward near his own and they both sat down. Then turning to Everard, he said: “Mr. Lisle, I think I have heard you say that you write shorthand.” “Yes, Sir Gilbert.” “Then station yourself there opposite me. I want you to take notes of the questions I am about to put to this wretched young man and of his answers to the same.” There were so many questions he wanted to ask that for a few moments he seemed at a loss where or how to begin. Luigi, of course, knew nothing about the letter which had reached him so mysteriously with the key of the strong room, and was still unaware that Sir Gilbert had the slightest suspicion of the gross imposition of which he had been made the victim.