The garden-party was a great success. Quite half the people who were asked came, and nearly all the people who weren’t. The fact that it poured with rain from three o’clock onwards might have interfered with the pleasure of the company, had not Mrs. Felix Waite been a woman of invention and, with great presence of mind, held the garden-party in her spacious drawing-rooms; thereby, some have thought, changing the garden-party into an At Home or Afternoon Reception, but that is a matter for argument. Among those present was Mr. Michael Wagstaffe, the young gentleman with the broken nose who called himself, with perhaps too much pomp, the cavalier of the streets; a list of what other people called him might be of interest, but could have no bearing on this story. It was not a habit with the cavalier of the streets to go to garden-parties, or to parties of any kind, for in London there were not a few people who would have been pleased to meet him just once more. However, on this occasion, he had happened to be passing Mrs. Felix Waite’s house towards six o’clock, and, hearing music and being thirsty, had walked in. Not long after, he walked out. But he had not walked more than a few yards when some one caught his shoulder, and an abrupt voice said: “Come back, you!” Mr. Michael Wagstaffe turned round. “I never drink with strangers,” he said proudly. “Come on, now,” said the gruff man impatiently. “No one can leave that house just yet. And we want you particularly--to ask you a few questions.” “A detective!” sighed Mr. Wagstaffe. “I knew it! For his clothes are very plain.” They started back, the plain-clothes man holding his arm. It was still raining hard--one of those afternoons when people paid to watch it rain on a nice new tarpaulin at the new tennis-courts at Wimbledon. “I return under protest,” said Mr. Wagstaffe, “though I wouldn’t object to an umbrella as well.” “We know _you_,” the plain-clothes man grinned disagreeably. “We know _you_. And I’ve had my eye on you in there--you weren’t invited, you weren’t.” They walked up the soaked red strip of carpet into the spacious portico, through the spacious portico into the spacious Lounge Hall, and so into a little room. The garden-party, it seemed, was still in full swing in the drawing-rooms; there was music, there was gaiety, but in the little room downstairs were only the plain-clothes man and the cavalier of the streets. Methodically, the plain-clothes man began to search the cavalier’s pockets. Contentedly, the cavalier let him. “If it’s cigarette-cards for your children you’re looking for,” he said, “I’m afraid I left my collection at home. And if it’s not cigarette-cards, what the hell _are_ you looking for?” “Diamonds,” said the detective. “Off with your shoes now.” “I always was a devil for diamonds. Whose diamond?” “Lady of the house lost famous diamond-ring. Come on now, off with your shoes.”