If the Right Hon. Walter Belford had already revised his first estimate of Inspector Sheffield, this last request upset it altogether. He stared. "I am glad to enjoy your co-operation, inspector," he said. "I prefer to know that a man of your calibre is of my camp! You are evidently aware that Harley has secured an elaborate series of snapshots of persons known to Miss Oppner and to my niece. Of the several hundreds of persons photographed, only one negative proved to be interesting. I have enlarged the photograph myself. Here it is!" He took a photograph from the drawer. "This gentleman," he continued, "was taken in the act of bowing to Lady Mary and Miss Oppner at the corner of Bond Street." Sheffield glanced at the photograph. It represented a strikingly handsome man, with dark, curling hair and singularly flashing eyes, who was in the act of raising his hat. "It's Severac Bablon!" said the inspector simply. "Ah!" cried Belford. "So I thought! So I thought!" "May I take it with me?" "I think not, inspector. You know the man; it is scarcely necessary." And with a certain displeasure he laid the enlargement upon the table. The detective accepted his refusal with one of the awkward bows. "Regarding your protection to-night, sir," he said, standing up and buttoning his coat, "there are six men on special duty round the house, and no one can possibly get in unseen." The Home Secretary, smiling, glanced at his watch. "A quarter to nine!" he said. "He has fifteen minutes in which to make good his bluff. But I do not fear interruption." Sheffield awkwardly returned the statesman's bow of dismissal, and withdrew under the patronage of a splendid footman. As the door closed, Mr. Belford, with a long sigh of relief, stepped to a bookcase and selected Petronius Arbiter's "_Satyricon_." Book in hand, he slid back the noiseless glass doors of the conservatory. A close smell of tropical plant life crept into the room, but this was as frankincense and myrrh to his nostrils. He passed through and seated himself in a cushioned cane chair amid the rare flora. Switching on a shaded lamp conveniently hung in this retreat, he settled down to read. For it was a favourite relaxation of the right honourable gentleman's to bury himself amid exotic blooms, and in such congenial company as that of the Patrician aesthete, rekindle the torches of voluptuous Rome. A few minutes later: "Am I nowhere immune from interruption?" muttered Mr. Belford, with the nearest approach to irritability of which his equable temper was deemed capable. But the next moment his genial smile dawned, as the charming face of his niece, Lady Mary Evershed, peeped through the foliage. "Truman was afraid to interrupt you, uncle, as you were in your cell! But Inspector Sheffield is asking for you, and seems very excited."