Ten minutes later, the three found themselves at the door of one of the biggest houses in Sussex Square; a moment more and they were being ushered within by a footman who looked at them with stolid curiosity. Lauriston gained a general impression of great wealth and luxury, soft carpets, fine pictures, all the belongings of a very rich man's house--then he and his companions were ushered into a large room, half study, half library, wherein, at a massive, handsomely carved desk, littered with books and papers, sat a middle-aged, keen-eyed man, who looked quietly up from his writing-pad at his visitors. "S'elp me!--one of ourselves!" whispered Melky Rubinstein at Lauriston's elbow. "Twig him!" Lauriston was quick enough of comprehension and observation to know what Melky meant. Mr. Spencer Levendale was certainly a Jew. His dark hair and beard, his large dark eyes, the olive tint of his complexion, the lines of his nose and lips all betrayed his Semitic origin. He was evidently a man of position and of character; a quiet-mannered, self-possessed man of business, not given to wasting words. He glanced at the card which Ayscough had sent in, and turned to him with one word. "Well?" Ayscough went straight to the point. "I called, Mr. Levendale, about that advertisement of yours which appears in all this morning's newspapers," he said. "I may as well tell you that that book of yours was found yesterday afternoon, under strange circumstances. Mr. Daniel Multenius, the jeweller and pawnbroker, of Praed Street--perhaps you know him, sir?" "Not at all!" answered Levendale. "Never heard of him." "He was well known in this part of the town," remarked Ayscough, quietly. "Well, sir--Mr. Multenius was found dead in his back-parlour yesterday afternoon, about five-thirty, by this young man, Mr. Lauriston, who happened to look in there, and I myself was on the spot a few minutes later. Your book--for it's certainly the same--was lying on the table in the parlour. Now, this other young man, Mr. Rubinstein, is a relation of Mr. Multenius's--from enquiries he's made, Mr. Levendale, it's a fact that the book was neither pawned nor sold at Multenius's, though it must certainly have been brought there between the time you lost it and the time we found the old gentleman lying dead. Now, we--the police--want to know how it came there. And so--I've come round to you. What can you tell me, sir?" Levendale, who had listened to Ayscough with great--and, as it seemed to Lauriston, with very watchful--attention, pushed aside a letter he was writing, and looked from one to the other of his callers. "Where is my book?" he asked. "It's all right--all safe, mister," said Melky. "It's locked up in a cupboard, in the parlour where it was found, and the key's in my pocket." Levendale turned to the detective, glancing again at Ayscough's card.