“Let me see it.” And Wyndham carried the bank bill to the light, turning his back squarely upon the Secret Service agent as he faced the window. When he looked up from examining the bill he started slightly at finding Anthony standing at his elbow. “I would never have suspected the bill,” he said, handing it back. “It looks absolutely genuine.” Anthony nodded. “It’s the work of a genius,” he admitted. “Who gave you the bill, Mr. Wyndham?” “Let me see.” Wyndham half closed his eyes in thought, and under lowered lids observed the Secret Service agent. Anthony cloaked his ability under a sleepy manner and sleek appearance, and with him patience was more than a virtue; it was a profession. Dogged perseverance had won hard-earned promotion for him. He waited in silence for Wyndham to continue his remarks. “Why do you ask where I got the note?” the latter demanded, and his tone was crisp. “Because we must trace it; and it will help materially if you can tell me where you procured the bill.” “In that case”--Wyndham returned to his chair, but remained standing, one hand on the back of it--“the bank note was given me by Miss Dorothy Deane.” “The trained nurse?” “No, her sister.” Wyndham looked closely at Anthony. “You know the Misses Deane?” “Never had the pleasure of meeting them.” Anthony sank down in his seat. “Are they both here?” “Yes.” “Then can I see Miss Dorothy Deane?” “I am afraid not, as she is with my cousin, Miss Porter, who is ill in bed.” Wyndham pushed his chair aside. “I will go and ask Miss Deane what she knows about the Treasury bill.” “Good.” “I’ll be back in a second.” Wyndham hastened to the door and, not waiting for a response, hurried upstairs and went at once to his aunt’s boudoir. To his delight he found Dorothy sitting there alone. “Hugh!” Dorothy sprang to her feet. “You have news?” studying his face. “What is it, dear?” “Nothing alarming,” taking her hand in a firm, reassuring clasp. “You recall giving me a ten-dollar bank bill to pay for the visiting-cards I ordered at Brentano’s for Vera--” “Yes, perfectly,” she said. “What of it?” “Where did you get the money?” “From Vera. Why?” Her surprise growing at the continued questioning. Mrs. Porter’s doorknob rattled as a hand grasped it on the other side of the closed door, and Wyndham retreated into the hall. “Tell you later,” he called, closing the door, but before doing so he caught the sound of Mrs. Porter’s voice raised in querulous questioning. Wyndham went immediately to Craig Porter’s bedroom, and Vera answered his soft rap on the door. He signed to her to step into the hall, and she did so with evident reluctance. “Dorothy wishes to know where the ten-dollar bank note came from which you gave her on Thursday,” he began stiffly. He both felt and resented Vera’s altered attitude toward him. “My question is not prompted by idle curiosity,” he explained before she could speak. “I will explain later; just now I am in a hurry.”