"Roddie who, dear? You might tell us his other name," queried Mrs Masters, who perhaps was also smitten with a sense of envy. "That's telling," answered the sprightly Iris, who was not given to be too frank about her own affairs. "But if either of you two dear things want a little ready, apply to me. Of course, you will remember I have got to take care of myself, to make provision for my old age." Davis and Carrie exchanged glances. They knew the volatile Iris of old. As a child she had always been mean and grasping. Not much of the seven thousand would come their way, if they were on the verge of starvation. Carrie spoke in cold accents. "You are really too generous, Iris. But we shall not have to trespass upon your generosity. I have enough for my humble wants. And Reggie has been able to put by, so much so that he has been kind enough to make me a very handsome money present to-night." "Dear old Reggie," said the sweetly smiling Iris. "I am so glad you have made good." And then Davis spoke: "Thanks, in great part, to Carrie, who told that splendid lie about the suicide, or murder, at 10 Cathcart Square. You remember that, of course?" "Suicide, wasn't it?" said Iris, but her cheek had grown a little pale. "I don't think so. There was a forged letter purporting to be written by me. I am going to Scotland Yard to-morrow, stating frankly who I am, and urging them to exhume the body. We will find out who the man, buried under the name of Reginald Davis, really was." And then the agitation of his younger sister became extreme. She clutched convulsively at his arm. "Reggie, you will not do this. What does it matter to you who the man was? Go under some other name, and let sleeping dogs lie." Unconsciously she had used the same expression as Mrs Masters, but from different motives. "I have been under a different name for a longer time than I care to remember," answered Davis doggedly. "I have a fancy to resume my own, and make a clean breast of it to the police. They have nothing else to charge me with." Iris fell on her knees, and the tears rained down her cheeks. "For my sake, Reggie, if not for your own." "And why for your sake? Tell us what you mean," demanded her brother sternly. And Iris spoke as clearly as she could speak amidst her strangled sobs. "If you try and unearth that mystery at Cathcart Square, I might be dragged in, and it might be very awkward for me." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. Davis directed a keen glance at his elder sister over the bowed head of Iris. The younger woman was by no means of an emotional nature. Light, frivolous and volatile, she had danced through life, and, on the whole, had had a good time. One could not picture her in a tragic mood.