are using it to-night?" Francis persisted.

"Will you come and see, my venturesome guest?"

"With great pleasure," was the prompt reply.

Sir Timothy glanced at his watch.

"That," he said, "is one of the matters of which we will speak at a
quarter to twelve. Meanwhile, let me show you something. It may amuse
you as it has done me."

The three moved back towards one of the arched openings which led into
the ballroom.

"Observe, if you please," their host continued, "the third couple who
pass us. The girl is wearing green--the very little that she does wear.
Watch the man, and see if he reminds you of any one."

Francis did as he was bidden. The girl was a well-known member of the
chorus of one of the principal musical comedies, and she seemed to be
thoroughly enjoying both the dance and her partner. The latter appeared
to be of a somewhat ordinary type, sallow, with rather puffy cheeks, and
eyes almost unnaturally dark. He danced vigorously and he talked all the
time. Something about him was vaguely familiar to Francis, but he failed
to place him.

"Notwithstanding all my precautions," Sir Timothy continued, "there,
fondly believing himself to be unnoticed, is an emissary of
Scotland Yard. Really, of all the obvious, the dry-as-dust,
hunt-your-criminal-by-rule-of-three kind of people I ever met, the class
of detective to which this man belongs can produce the most blatant
examples."

"What are you going to do about him?" Francis asked.

Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders.

"I have not yet made up my mind," he said. "I happen to know that he
has been laying his plans for weeks to get here, frequenting Soto's and
other restaurants, and scraping acquaintances with some of my friends.
The Duke of Tadchester brought him--won a few hundreds from him at
baccarat, I suppose. His grace will never again find these doors open to
him."

Francis' attention had wandered. He was gazing fixedly at the man whom
Sir Timothy had pointed out.

"You still do not fully recognise our friend," the latter observed
carelessly. "He calls himself Manuel Loito, and he professes to be
a Cuban. His real name I understood, when you introduced us, to be
Shopland."

"Great heavens, so it is!" Francis exclaimed.

"Let us leave him to his precarious pleasures," Sir Timothy suggested.
"I am free for a few moments. We will wander round together."

They found Lady Cynthia and Wilmore, and looked in at the supper-room,
where people were