“I’m not talking of false beard and grease paint,” continued the superintendent. “That’s only for books. No, there are very few men who can escape identification and put it over on you. In fact there’s only one man I know who has a positive genius for impersonation. King Victor. Ever heard of King Victor, Mr. Cade?” There was something so sharp and sudden about the way the detective put the question that Anthony half checked the words that were rising to his lips. “King Victor?” he said reflectively instead. “Somehow, I seem to have heard the name.” “One of the most celebrated jewel thieves in the world. Irish father, French mother. Can speak five languages at least. He’s been serving a sentence, but his time was up a few months ago.” “Really? And where is he supposed to be now?” “Well, Mr. Cade, that’s what we’d rather like to know.” “The plot thickens,” said Anthony lightly. “No chance of his turning up here, is there? But I suppose he wouldn’t be interested in political Memoirs—only in jewels.” “There’s no saying,” said Superintendent Battle. “For all we know, he may be here already.” “Disguised as the second footman? Splendid. You’ll recognize him by his ears and cover yourself with glory.” “Quite fond of your little joke, aren’t you, Mr. Cade? By the way, what do you think of that curious business at Staines?” “Staines?” said Anthony. “What’s been happening at Staines?” “It was in Saturday’s papers. I thought you might have seen about it. Man found by the roadside shot. A foreigner. It was in the papers again to-day, of course.” “I did see something about it,” said Anthony carelessly. “Not suicide, apparently.” “No. There was no weapon. As yet the man hasn’t been identified.” “You seem very interested,” said Anthony, smiling. “No connection with Prince Michael’s death, is there?” His hand was quite steady. So were his eyes. Was it his fancy that Superintendent Battle was looking at him with peculiar intentness? “Seems to be quite an epidemic of that sort of thing,” said Battle. “But, well, I dare say there’s nothing in it.” He turned away, beckoning to a porter as the London train came thundering in. Anthony drew a faint sigh of relief. He strolled across the park in an unusually thoughtful mood. He purposely chose to approach the house from the same direction as that from which he had come on the fateful Thursday night, and as he drew near to it he looked up at the windows cudgelling his brains to make sure of the one where he had seen the light. Was he quite sure that it was the second from the end?