He told her. Waiting, he grew excited. If by any chance he was right, here was yet more confirmation of his theory. Dora Masterson’s voice came to his ears. “Hallo. Is that Mr. Gethryn? I——” Anthony interrupted. “Yes. I wonder whether you can help me. The second time I was in your house I picked up a book. Little green book. Soft leather binding. Essays. Pleasantly written. One was called ‘Love at First Sight.’ Author’s name on title-page was a woman’s. D’you know the book I mean?” “Is it one called _Here and There_?” “Yes, now who wrote it? Was it really a woman? And is that her real name? I meant to ask at the time, but forgot.” 3 At twenty minutes to two that afternoon, Anthony stopped his car outside _The Owl’s_ office. He had broken no record this time; his mind had been much occupied on the journey. The interviews he had held with Belford, Mabel Smith, and Elsie Syme before leaving Abbotshall had given him food for thought. He found Hastings in his room, with him a little, dapper, sly-eyed Jew. “Discreet Inquiries. Divorces, Watching, etc.,” thought Anthony. “This,” murmured Hastings, “is Mr. Pellett.” “Ah, yes.” Anthony sat down heavily. He was tired and very hungry. He had not eaten since breakfast. Mr. Pellett displeased him. “Mr. Pellett,” said Hastings, “has some information which should interest you. I have paid him fifty pounds. He wants another two hundred.” “He would,” Anthony said. “And if he’s got what I want he shall have it.” “Thath right,” said Mr. Pellett with a golden smile. “It may be.” Anthony fixed him with a glittering eye. “Let us hear you, Mr.—er—Pellet.” Mr. Pellett cleared his throat, produced a packet of papers, wiped his hands on a pink silk handkerchief and began. “About theeth three newthpaperth,” he said—and went on for one hour and fifty-seven minutes by the clock on Hastings’s table. He got his two hundred pounds. 4 There was a matinée at the Regency. At half-past four, Anthony was at the stage-door. The stage-door keeper remembered that five-pound note and the foreign gent. He was civil. Yes, Madarm Vander was in the theatre. She had, indeed, just finished her performance. He would see if the—the prince could be admitted. The prince scribbled on a card, placed the card in an envelope, and sealed the envelope. As balm for tender feelings, he gave the door-keeper a flashing foreign smile and a pound-note. He was kept waiting not more than three minutes. After four, he was ushered into the most sacred dressing-room in Europe. From a silken couch in a silken corner a silken, scented vision rose to meet him. Anthony saw that they were alone. He bowed, kissing the imperious hand. He was regarded with approval by tawny, Slavonic eyes. She peered at the card in her hand. “Who air you,” she said “that write to me of—of John?” Anthony proceeded to make himself clear. It was nearly six o’clock when he left the theatre. 5