"Thank you," said Ronnie. "I suppose I dandle mine on my knee. But why this urgent need of a man with his head so uniquely placed?" "Because," said Billy, "that telegram is a lie." "Nonsense, Billy! The wish is father to the thought! Oh, shame on you, Billy! Poor old Ingleby!" "It is a lie," repeated Billy, doggedly. "But look," objected Ronald, unfolding the telegram. "Here you are. '_Veritas._' What do you make of that?" "Veritas be hanged!" said Billy. "It's a lie; and we've got to find out what damned rascal has sent it." "But what possible reason have you to throw doubt on it?" inquired Ronald, gravely. "Oh, confound you!" burst out Billy at last; "_I picked up the pieces!_" * * * * * A very nervous white-faced young man sat in the green leather armchair in Dr. Brand's consulting-room. He had shown the telegram, and jerked out a few incoherent sentences; after which Sir Deryck, by means of carefully chosen questions, had arrived at the main facts. He now sat at his table considering them. Then, turning in his revolving-chair, he looked steadily at Billy. "Cathcart," he said, quietly, "what reason have you for being so certain of Lord Ingleby's death, and that this telegram is therefore a forgery?" Billy moistened his lips. "Oh, confound it!" he said. "I picked up the pieces!" "I see," said Sir Deryck; and looked away. "I have never told a soul," said Billy. "It is not a pretty story. But I can give you details, if you like." "I think you had better give me details," said Sir Deryck, gravely. So, with white lips, Billy gave them. The doctor rose, buttoning his coat. Then he poured out a glass of water and handed it to Billy. "Come," he said. "Fortunately I know a very cute detective from our own London force who happens just now to be in Cairo. We must go to Scotland Yard for his address, and a code. In fact we had better work it through them. You have done the right thing, Billy; and done it promptly; but we have no time to lose." * * * * * Twenty-four hours later, the doctor called at Shenstone Park. He had telegraphed his train requesting to be met by the motor; and he now asked the chauffeur to wait at the door, in order to take him back to the station. "I could only come between trains," he explained to Lady Ingleby, "so you must forgive the short notice, and the peremptory tone of my telegram. I could not risk missing you. I have something of great importance to communicate." The doctor waited a moment, hardly knowing how to proceed. He had seen Myra Ingleby under many varying conditions. He knew her well; and she was a woman so invariably true to herself, that he expected to be able to foresee exactly how she would act under any given combination of circumstances.