"Oh," replied Fisher, soothingly, "I dare say it was painted with silver a little." There was a heavy silence, and at last Harold March said, "But where is the real relic?" "Where it has been for five years," replied Horne Fisher, "in the possession of a mad millionaire named Vandam, in Nebraska. There was a playful little photograph about him in a society paper the other day, mentioning his delusion, and saying he was always being taken in about relics." Harold March frowned at the tablecloth; then, after an interval, he said: "I think I understand your notion of how the thing was actually done; according to that, Morris just made a hole and fished it up with a magnet at the end of a string. Such a monkey trick looks like mere madness, but I suppose he was mad, partly with the boredom of watching over what he felt was a fraud, though he couldn't prove it. Then came a chance to prove it, to himself at least, and he had what he called 'fun' with it. Yes, I think I see a lot of details now. But it's just the whole thing that knocks me. How did it all come to be like that?" Fisher was looking at him with level lids and an immovable manner. "Every precaution was taken," he said. "The Duke carried the relic on his own person, and locked it up in the case with his own hands." March was silent; but Twyford stammered. "I don't understand you. You give me the creeps. Why don't you speak plainer?" "If I spoke plainer you would understand me less," said Horne Fisher. "All the same I should try," said March, still without lifting his head. "Oh, very well," replied Fisher, with a sigh; "the plain truth is, of course, that it's a bad business. Everybody knows it's a bad business who knows anything about it. But it's always happening, and in one way one can hardly blame them. They get stuck on to a foreign princess that's as stiff as a Dutch doll, and they have their fling. In this case it was a pretty big fling." The face of the Rev. Thomas Twyford certainly suggested that he was a little out of his depth in the seas of truth, but as the other went on speaking vaguely the old gentleman's features sharpened and set. "If it were some decent morganatic affair I wouldn't say; but he must have been a fool to throw away thousands on a woman like that. At the end it was sheer blackmail; but it's something that the old ass didn't get it out of the taxpayers. He could only get it out of the Yank, and there you are." The Rev. Thomas Twyford had risen to his feet. "Well, I'm glad my nephew had nothing to do with it," he said. "And if that's what the world is like, I hope he will never have anything to do with it." "I hope not," answered Horne Fisher. "No one knows so well as I do that one can have far too much to do with it."