He spoke quietly in a not unmusical voice; his accent was that of an educated person; his tone, though respectful, was that of one who addresses an equal, not that of a servant who speaks to his mistress. "What's what?" She glanced at what he was holding. "It looks as if it were a watch and the usual appendages. Where were they?" "In his jacket pocket. There's a name on the watch--Charles Carter--and a crest, and there are a couple of sovereigns in the purse." "So that's why they wanted him." "Who's they?" "I was coming through the park when I saw that something interesting was taking place on one side of me: one man was trying to get away from a number of others. When I saw the way he bowled over a policeman I said to myself, 'That's the gentleman I want,' and here he is." "I presume that watch and chain and sovereign purse explain the interest the crowd was taking in him. I imagine that they are articles that have only very recently come into his possession. He's a gentleman." "I felt sure he was from the way he handled that policeman." "There's his name on the jacket." He picked up the garment in question, of which he had relieved the still unconscious Sydney, and which was hanging over the back of a chair. "Here it is on the tab. The jacket was made in Savile Row, and here's his name: Sydney Beaton." "It might, of course, have been made for someone else and come into his possession; he alone knows how." "No; it was made for him, it fits too well. His name is Sydney Beaton, and he's a swell who's down on his luck." "That's the kind of person we want, isn't it?" For the first time the man's and woman's eyes met. In hers there was a gleam as of laughter. In his there was no expression at all. His was one of those square faces whose blue cheeks and chin show how strong the beard would be which is not allowed to grow. He glanced from the woman to the unconscious figure on the couch before he spoke. "Perhaps. When will he be wanted?" "By to-morrow morning. I ought to write at once to say that he is coming; it will be safer." "Safer!" The man's thin lips were parted by what was rather a sneer than a grin, as if the word she had used had borne an odd significance. He continued to survey the unconscious Sydney, as a surgeon might survey a body which he is about to dissect. "He'll have to be ready." "There's time; and no one can do that sort of thing better than you." Again the lips parted in that curious substitute for a smile, as if the woman's words had conveyed a compliment. "Oh, yes, there's time; and, as you say, I dare say I'll be able to make a decent job of him."