At half-past five, Beecher, his brain in a whirl, arrived breathlessly at the office of McKenna. As luck would have it, only Gunther and the detective were there. "My friend is a little late," said McKenna, with a quick, jerky glance at the clock. "Where’s Garraboy?" "Twirling his thumbs in another room," said Gunther, laughing. "In a cussing bad humor, too." For the second time, McKenna glanced nervously at the clock. Beecher was struck with the mood of restlessness that obsessed him. He passed aimlessly from desk to window and back again, apparently oblivious to their presence, immersed in some calculation that left its outward mark in a deep furrow between the eyebrows, while the cigar between his lips had gone out unperceived. "Mr. Beecher," he said suddenly, stopping short, "I’m not sure but what I’ve gone off on a ridiculous tangent—it may be—it may be. Have you still got that envelope I gave you?" "Yes, in my pocket—here," said Beecher, surprised, laying his hand on his coat. "It was a ridiculous thing for me to do," said McKenna quickly. He made a movement of his hand as though to take it, but repressed it, saying: "All I ask is, don’t open it until I ask you." Then, still ruffled, he turned away, saying to himself: "Guessing—humph! I’d fire a man for doing that." The telephone rang with a message from the outer office and a moment later, to the amazement of both young men, Mapleson, of the firm of Sontag & Company, came in smiling and businesslike. "How are you, McKenna?" he said affably, shaking hands. "Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?" He was a slender, dark young man of forty-two or three, very graceful, pleasant in voice and fluent in manner, with a sure instinct for ingratiating himself where it best could serve. "How do you do, Mr. Beecher," he said on being introduced. "I am very glad to know you, Mr. Gunther. I have the pleasure of knowing your father slightly. The country owes him a great debt for what he’s done in this panic. Well, is there any mystery I can clear up for you?" He accepted a chair, crossed his legs easily, brought out a gold cigarette-case, offered it with a wave and smiled at their declinations. "Why, yes, Mr. Mapleson, you can give us a little information," said McKenna. "Anything I can do for you, McKenna, glad to do it," said Mapleson. "You may remember a ring that was sold by your firm a few months ago to Mr. John G. Slade," said McKenna directly; "a single ruby, valued, I believe, around thirty thousand dollars." Mapleson did not avert his eyes from the glance of the detective, yet without a movement of his body an instant change came in his manner. He drew in a puff of smoke, let it out, nodded carefully and said: "Yes, known as the Bogota ruby. I remember perfectly." "I understand that that ring was brought back within the last ten days and pledged for a considerable amount."