“Oh, yes, no doubt as to his identity. By the way, that old Baron has a very high opinion of you. He speaks of you in most enthusiastic terms.” “That’s very kind of him,” said Anthony. “Especially as I’ve given him full warning that I mean to do my utmost to get hold of the missing Memoirs before Wednesday next.” “You’ll have a job to do that,” said Battle. “Y—es. You think so? I suppose King Victor and Co. have got the letters.” Battle nodded. “Pinched them off Giuseppe that day in Pont Street. Prettily planned piece of work, that. Yes, they’ve got ’em all right, and they’ve decoded them, and they know where to look.” Both men were on the point of passing out of the room. “In here?” said Anthony, jerking his head back. “Exactly, in here. But they haven’t found the prize yet, and they’re going to run a pretty risk trying to get it.” “I suppose,” said Anthony, “that you’ve got a plan in that subtle head of yours?” Battle returned no answer. He looked particularly stolid and unintelligent. Then, very slowly, he winked. “Want my help?” asked Anthony. “I do. And I shall want some one else’s.” “Who is that?” “Mrs. Revel’s. You may not have noticed it, Mr. Cade, but she’s a lady who has a particularly beguiling way with her.” “I’ve noticed it all right,” said Anthony. He glanced at his watch. “I’m inclined to agree with you about bed, Battle. A dip in the lake and a hearty breakfast will be far more to the point.” He ran lightly upstairs to his bedroom. Whistling to himself, he discarded his evening clothes, and picked up a dressing-gown and a bath towel. Then suddenly he stopped dead in front of the dressing-table, staring at the object that reposed demurely in front of the looking-glass. For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He took it up, examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistake. It was the bundle of letters signed Virginia Revel. They were intact. Not one was missing. Anthony dropped into a chair, the letters in his hand. “My brain must be cracking,” he murmured. “I can’t understand a quarter of what is going on in this house. Why should the letters reappear like a damned conjuring trick? Who put them on my dressing-table? Why?” And to all these very pertinent questions he could find no satisfactory reply. 21 Mr. Isaacstein’s Suit-case At ten o’clock that morning, Lord Caterham and his daughter were breakfasting. Bundle was looking very thoughtful. “Father,” she said at last. Lord Caterham, absorbed in _The Times_, did not reply. “Father,” said Bundle again, more sharply. Lord Caterham, torn from his interested perusal of forthcoming sales of rare books, looked up absent-mindedly. “Eh?” he said. “Did you speak?” “Yes. Who is it who’s had breakfast?” She nodded towards a place that had evidently been occupied. The rest were all expectant. “Oh, what’s-his-name.” “Fat Iky?” Bundle and her father had enough sympathy between them to comprehend each other’s somewhat misleading observations.