club?"

Evan shook his head. "A man's club is his castle. Club servants are
always instructed not to give out information, particularly not over
the telephone. Telephone Hassell. You should have telephoned him
before sending the money. Or better still go to him. It's his
interest to get to the bottom of this."

"Will you go with me?" asked Deaves stabbing his blotter.

Evan smiled. "A minute ago you implied that I was behind the scheme."

"I might have been mistaken. Anyway, if you had nothing to do with it,
you ought to be glad to help me clear the matter up."

"I'll go with you," said Evan, "not because I'll feel any necessity for
clearing myself, but because it's the most interesting game I've ever
been up against!"

"Interesting!" shrilled the old man indignantly, "_Interesting_! If
you were being bled white, you wouldn't find it so interesting! I'll
go too."

"You'll stay right here, Papa," commanded George Deaves. "And don't
you go out until I come back! You've brought trouble enough on me!"

"Well, you needn't bite off my head!" grumbled the old man.

The Deaves limousine was available, and a few minutes later George
Deaves and Evan were being shown into the reception room of a
magnificent studio apartment on Art's most fashionable street. George
Deaves was visibly impressed by the magnificence. It was rather an
unusual hour to pay a call perhaps, but the Deaves name was an open
sesame. A millionaire and a potential picture-buyer! the great man
himself came hurrying to greet them. He was a handsome man of middle
age with a lion-like head, and the affable, assured manner of a citizen
of the world.

He showed them into the studio, a superb room, but severe and
workmanlike according to the modern usage. Before they were
well-seated, an attendant, knowing his duty well, began to pull out
canvases.

"I--I didn't come to talk to you about pictures," stammered George
Deaves.

At a sign from his master the man left the room. Mr. Hassell waited
politely to be enlightened.

Poor George Deaves floundered about. "It's such a delicate matter--I'm
sure I don't know what you will think--I scarcely know how to tell
you----"

Hassell began to look alarmed. He said: "Mr. Deaves, I beg you will be
plain with me."

Deaves turned hopelessly to Evan. "You tell him."

"Better show him the letter," said Evan.

"The letter?" said Deaves in a panic, "what letter? I don't understand
you."

"