" So saying, the lawyer dismissed his visitor, who was none
other than Stanforth Kenyon, the keenest and wiliest detective New York
could boast of--a man born to his profession, and consequently an
ornament to it.

At five-and-twenty Kenyon was an unknown, but--having regard to his
literary merit--an overpaid scribbler on one of the big New York
dailies; but now, only ten years later, he was universally admitted to
be the most unerring sleuth-hound of the whole shrewd band of secret
police owning allegiance to Uncle Sam, and whose business in South
Africa at the present time, needless to say, was known only to himself.

At once retaking his way to the hotel he had left that morning, the
detective settled down to read the book in question, ["Into the
Unknown"] and in a few hours' time had mastered its contents, and lay
quietly back in his chair, smoking, and thinking deeply.

After a further hour had been expended in this comforting and, no doubt,
edifying fashion, he took out a well-worn notebook, and wrote several
lines therein in shorthand; then, returning the book to his pocket, he
started out for a stroll, and seven o'clock saw him seated opposite to
the lawyer, and enjoying most thoroughly the excellent dinner provided
for him by that worthy gentleman.

"And now," said Mr Driffield, when the cloth was removed and both men
had lighted their cigars, "let me have your opinion of `Into the
Unknown,' or, rather, as to what extent the events narrated therein may
or may not bear upon the present disappearance of our friend Grenville."

"First," said the detective, calmly begging the question, and taking out
his notebook, "who are you working for, Mr Driffield? I mean," he
added, quickly, "is it some relation of Grenville's who is anxious about
the missing man, or have you yourself any personal interest in the
search?"

"None at all," was the reply. "Let me be quite frank with you, Kenyon.
I am employed by his cousin, Lord Drelincourt, who shared his adventures
amongst the Mormons, and my lord is in no end of a taking about him.
You see, the two men were like twin brothers all their lives, and now
that Lord Drelincourt has lost his wife and child, he feels alone in
life, poor fellow, and would give his whole fortune to have his cousin
by his side."

"How very sad," commented the detective. "So he took poor Dora Winfield
homo only to bury her. How did it all happen?"

"No one knows," said the little lawyer, dr