"Come to my chambers to-morrow and see Julian Roper, then we can have a talk over things; we are working completely in the dark at present, but I've no doubt that by to-morrow we shall be in a position to make a start. You have no photograph of the deceased, have you?" "No; and none were found among his papers, but if I saw one I could tell in a minute if it were Ventin; he was not an ordinary looking man by any means. "Hum," said Foster, thoughtfully; "that might be managed; if I put Roper to work he'll soon find out a photograph, or," with a sudden idea, "better still, you might look yourself?" "But where?" "In some of the big photographers' studios. From what you say, Verschoyle, as we must now call him, must have been a fashionable man, and no one in his position would live thirteen years in London without having had his photograph taken." "It's a slender chance." "Very, but you must remember the whole case is a very delicate one." At this moment Trevor and Pat came in, and immediately afterwards the curtain arose again on a beautiful scene representing Diana's home in the moon, so Foster and Ronald had no more opportunity of talking. Ronald paid no attention to the burlesque, but sat at the back of the box thinking over the whole affair, and the mystery of the case began to pique his curiosity. The other three, however, looked at the stage, admired the pretty girls, encored all the songs, and generally enjoyed themselves. When the curtain fell, Sir Mark invited the whole party to Rule's to supper, and thither they went. The room upstairs was pretty nearly full, but they succeeded in getting a table to themselves, and ordered supper. The place looked very pretty, with the lights all shaded with green and red shades, and the soft glimmer of the candles shining on the diamonds and bare shoulders of the ladies. Plenty of laughter was going on, varied every now and then by the popping of champagne corks and the clatter of dishes. "Ain't it a jolly place?" said Pat, looking around with delight, "nice way of winding up the night hullo; Ronald," he went on, "there's our Maltese friend." And so it was, the Marchese, attired in irreproachable evening costume, was having supper with a young lady beautifully dressed, with a loud voice, and suspicious golden hair. He did not see the others, as he was too busy talking to his friend. "This is his Italian exhibition, eh?" grinned Pat, who wouldn't have minded changing places with Vassalla. "Well, perhaps he has been there," said Ronald, carelessly lifting his glass. "He's brought something good away with him, at all events," replied Ryan; "she's a deuced pretty girl, far too good for Vassalla." "What name?" asked Foster, with a start. "Vassalla," interposed Ronald, looking quickly at him. "Hum, that's odd!" "What is?" "I'll tell you all about it to-morrow," was the ambiguous reply. CHAPTER X. A CONFERENCE OF THREE.