The result was that he went to the newspaper reading-room, of the British Museum, where he had a reader’s ticket, applied for files of newspapers twenty years old, and very soon made himself acquainted with the charge that had been brought against Winnie’s father all those years ago. He shook his head as he read the case—embezzlement of clients’ monies. “No wonder Templeton advised her mother to keep it from the girl,” he murmured. “No—there is no occasion to tell her now—— Hallo! That’s curious!” He read on carefully, then gave back the file of papers to the attendant. As he walked away he said to himself: “This chap Ezra Grice is a bit of a puzzle. I wonder what Templeton knew about him? I think I’ll run down to Frattenbury and have a talk with the Chief Constable; it’s better than writing. I can do it without mentioning Winnie Cotterill, of course. She mustn’t come in.” Walking down Kingsway he met a friend of his, a stockbroker whom he had not seen for some time, and invited him to a cup of tea at a neighbouring restaurant. In the course of conversation the broker remarked: “I was saying something to my partner this morning not very complimentary to your profession, Crosby.” “What was that?” “That the three classes of persons who make fools of themselves in finance are lawyers, parsons and old women.” “That’s not kind,” said Crosby with a laugh. “It’s true, though. We’ve had a big slump in the mining market to-day—‘Virginian Reefs.’ You haven’t got any, I hope?” “Not I!” “You’re lucky. They’ve gone down to three or four shillings—if you can get a bid. Now, look here, Crosby. I’m ready to bet you a new hat that you’ll find a lot of old women and parsons and lawyers—not one of ’em knowing anything about mines—well hit over the job. I’ve bought myself, for a country vicar and the curate of a seaside town—and the biggest order I had for ‘Virginian Reefs’ came from a lawyer—a chap who won’t take my advice.” “Who is he?” “That’s not a fair question. Staid old chap, living in a cathedral town—Frattenbury. I’ve had a frantic wire from him to sell out, but there aren’t bidders for all the lot he holds. Well, he’s wealthy, and can afford to drop a bit. Good-bye, old chap. I must be off.” Down in quiet, sleepy Frattenbury the superintendent received a wire that day from Sir James Perrivale: E. G. started from Cape. Boat due Plymouth December 8. “It’s a waiting game, sir, then, for a few weeks,” said Colson, to whom the superintendent showed the wire. “But I want a little time.” “Your week’s up, and more,” said the other. “Have you anything to tell the chief? He’s getting restive.” “All right,” said Colson. “I can tell him enough to keep him quiet—though I’ve several things to see to before I can satisfy him. I’m just off for a final visit to Marsh Quay. There’s a question I want to ask that little blighter, Proctor, which has only just occurred to me.” “What’s that?”