ervant
to uncle for many years."

"Tell me," asked Poltavo, "on what terms is Dr. Fall with your uncle? On
terms of equality?"

She nodded.

"Naturally," she said with a look of surprise, "he is a gentleman, and
is, I believe, fairly well off."

"And Gorth?" asked Poltavo.

He was interested for many reasons as one who had to take the place of
that silent figure which lay in the fog-shrouded house.

"I hardly know how to describe uncle's relations with Gorth," she
answered, a little puzzled. "There was a time when they were on terms of
perfect equality, but sometimes uncle would be very angry with him
indeed. He was rather a horrid man really. Do you know a paper called
_Gossip's Corner_?" she asked suddenly.

Poltavo had heard of the journal and had found a certain malicious joy
in reading its scandalous paragraphs.

"Well," she said in answer to his nod, "that was Mr. Gorth's idea of
literature. Uncle would never have the paper in his house, but whenever
you saw Mr. Gorth--he invariably waited for uncle in the kitchen--you
would be sure to find him chuckling over some of the horrid things which
that paper published. Uncle used to get more angry about this than
anything else, Mr. Gorth took a delight in all the unpleasant things
which this wretched little paper printed. I have heard it said that he
had something to do with its publication; but when I spoke to uncle
about it, he was rather cross with me for thinking such a thing."

Poltavo was conscious that the eyes of Farrington were searching his
face narrowly, and out of the corner of his eye he noted the obvious
disapproval. He turned round carelessly.

"An admirable sight--a London theatre crowd."

"Very," said the millionaire, drily.

"Celebrities on every hand--Montague Fallock, for instance, is here."

Farrington nodded.

"And that wise-looking young man in the very end seat of the fourth
row--he is in the shadow, but you may see him."

"T. B. Smith," said Farrington, shortly. "I have seen him--I have seen
everybody but----"

"But----?"

"The occupant of the royal box. She keeps in the shadow all the time.
She is not a detective, too, I suppose?" he asked, sarcastically. He
looked round. Frank Doughton, his niece and Lady Dinsmore were engrossed
in conversation.

"Poltavo," he said, dropping his voice, "I want to know who that woman
is in the opposite box--I have a reason."

The orchestra was playing a soft intermezzo, and of a sudden