you will be able to see
him, and I feel confident that Mr. Morse will be able to get his
signature to any cheque or document required."

"I have been trying to persuade the doctor," Morse intervened, "to let
me make out a cheque for this amount,"--drawing a statement from his
pocket,--"and guide Mr. Samuel's hand while he signed it. Then we need
not trouble you in the matter at all."

The physician seemed to consider the point.

"On the whole," he decided, "my patient is a man of such wealth that I
don't think it is advisable to run the slightest risk where a
financial question is concerned. Mr. Samuel Pratt is a very old friend
of mine, and if a few hundred thousand dollars or so are any
convenience, Mr. Morse--"

"Certainly not," Jacob interrupted. "I am sure my brother will be glad
to hear of your offer, Doctor, but I am on the spot and I can easily
manage anything that is required. Let me have that statement, Mr.
Morse."

The secretary passed over a stockbroker's statement from Messrs.
Worstead and Jones, showing a balance of six hundred and eighty-two
thousand four hundred and twenty dollars. Jacob drew out his cheque
book. Morse watched him indifferently as he wrote.

"I'm afraid his lordship is not feeling quite himself this morning,"
he observed. "Sorry he troubled to go round to the druggist's. I could
have fixed him up something myself. We had--"

The door opened softly. Felixstowe crossed the threshold, smiling
amiably. He was dressed with his usual precision in a blue serge suit,
a regimental tie, and wonderfully polished brown shoes. His Homburg
hat, which he removed as he entered, was just a shade on one side. He
looked the picture of health.

"Good morning, everybody," he said genially, closing the door behind
him. "Just in the nick of time, eh?"

"In the nick of time for what?" Jacob asked, turning around.

"To stop your signing that cheque."

Jacob stared at the newcomer in amazement. Neither the physician nor
Morse uttered a syllable. Their eyes were fixed upon the young man.

"Hearken now to the tale of the sleuthhound," the latter continued,
setting down his hat, cane and gloves upon the sideboard and thrusting
his hands into his trousers pockets. "Fact is, I just toddled round to
Number 1001 West Fifty-seventh Street this morning, and I've been
having a chat with Doctor Bardolf."

"What are you talking about?" Jacob demanded. "Doctor Bardolf is
here."

"Oh, no, he isn't!" the youn