the club, the
thimble and pea with which he had performed the three-card trick so
successfully at Epsom last week--all these were hidden away from the
common gaze. It was a young gentleman of fashion who lounged in his
chair and toyed with a priceless straight-cut.

There was a tap at the door, and Masters, his confidential valet, came
in.

"Well," said Lionel, "have you looked through the post?"

"Yes, sir," said the man. "There's the usual cheque from Her Highness, a
request for more time from the lady in Tite Street with twopence to pay
on the envelope, and banknotes from the Professor as expected. The young
gentleman of Hill Street has gone abroad suddenly, sir."

"Ah!" said Lionel, with a sudden frown. "I suppose you'd better cross
him off our list, Masters."

"Yes, sir. I had ventured to do so, sir. I think that's all, except that
Mr. Snooks is glad to accept your kind invitation to dinner and bridge
to-night. Will you wear the hair-spring coat, sir, or the metal clip?"

Lionel made no answer. He sat plunged in thought. When he spoke it was
about another matter.

"Masters," he said, "I have found out Lord Fairlie's secret at last. I
shall go to see him this afternoon."

"Yes, sir. Will you wear your revolver, sir, as it's a first call?"

"I think so. If this comes off, Masters, it will make our fortune."

"I hope so, I'm sure, sir." Masters placed the whisky within reach and
left the room silently.

Alone, Lionel picked up his paper and turned to the Agony Column.

As everybody knows, the Agony Column of a daily paper is not actually so
domestic as it seems. When "Mother" apparently says to "Floss," "Come
home at once. Father gone away for week. Bert and Sid longing to see
you," what is really happening is that Barney Hoker is telling Jud
Batson to meet him outside the Duke of Westminster's little place at 3
a.m. precisely on Tuesday morning, not forgetting to bring his jemmy and
a dark lantern with him. And Floss's announcement next day, "Coming home
with George," is Jud's way of saying that he will turn up all right, and
half thinks of bringing his automatic pistol with him too, in case of
accidents.

In this language--which, of course, takes some little learning--Lionel
Norwood had long been an expert. The advertisement which he was now
reading was unusually elaborate:

"Lost, in a taxi between Baker Street and Shepherd's Bush, a
gold-mounted umbrella with initials 'J. P.' on it. If Ell