And as Wilkins stepped into the room I rose from the table, walked over to the heavy-framed portrait, and lifted it from its hook. I held it there, with a pretense of studying the face for a moment or two. Then I placed my table napkin on a chair, mounted it, and made an unsuccessful effort to rehang the portrait. "If you please, Wilkins," I said, still holding the picture flat against the wall. "A little higher," I told him, as I strained to loop the cord back over its hook. I was not especially successful at this, because at the time my eyes were directed toward the hands of the man holding up the picture. His position was such that the sleeves of his black service coat were drawn away from the white and heavy-boned wrists. And there, before my eyes, across the flexor cords of the right wrist was a wide and ragged scar at least three inches in length. I returned to my place at the dinner table. Van Tuyl, by this time, was gazing at me with both resentment and wonder. "Shall we have coffee up-stairs?" his wife asked with unruffled composure. I could see her eye meet her husband's. "Here, please," I interpolated. "We'll have coffee served here," Beatrice Van Tuyl said to her butler. "Very good, madam," he answered. I wondered, as I watched him cross the room, if he suspected anything. I also wondered how hare-brained the man and woman seated at the table thought me. "Listen," I said, the moment we were alone; "have you a servant here you can trust, one you can trust implicitly?" "Of course," answered my hostess. "Who is it?" "Wilkins," was the answer. "Not counting Wilkins?" "Well, I think I can also trust my maid Felice--unless you know her better than I do." I could afford to ignore the thrust. "Then I'd advise you to send her up to look over your things at once." "Why do you say that?" "Because now I know this man Wilkins is a criminal of the worst type!" "You know it?" "Yes, I know it as well as I know I'm sitting at this table. And I can prove it." "How?" demanded Van Tuyl. "I'll show you how in a very few moments. And, on second thoughts, I'd have that maid Felice bring what you regard as valuable right to this dining-room--I mean your jewels and things." "But this sounds so silly," demurred my still reluctant hostess. "It won't sound half so silly as a Tiffany advertisement of a reward and no questions asked." Beatrice Van Tuyl intercepted a footman and sent him off for the maid Felice. A moment later Wilkins was at our side quietly serving the _café noir_ in tiny gold-lined cups.