Got a form?" he asked.

The lad produced one and a stumpy pencil. With these materials Beecot
wrote a reply saying the brooch would be returned on the morrow. When
the boy went away with the answer Paul felt in his breast pocket and
took out the old blue case. "I've a good mind to send it now," he said
aloud.

"What's that?" asked Hay, who was yawning at the door. "No bad news I
hope?"

"It's about that brooch again."

Hay laughed. "Upon my word it seems to you what the Monster was to
Frankenstein," said he. "Send it back--to Mrs. Beecot, I presume--and
have done with it." He cast a glance at the case. "I see you have it
with you," he ended, lightly.

"Yes," said Paul, and replacing the case in his pocket went down the
street with his friend. Then he determined to ask his opinion, and
related the gist of Mrs. Beecot's letter. "And now the mater wires to
have it back," he said. "I expect my father has found out that she has
sent it to me, and is furious."

"Well, send it back and have done with it," said Hay, impatiently; "you
are in danger of becoming a bore with that brooch, Beecot. I'll lend you
money if you like."

"No, thanks, I have three pounds honestly earned. However, we'll speak
no more of the brooch. I'll send it back this very day. Tell me," he
linked his arm within that of his friend, "tell me of that man."

"That man--of the working creature," said Hay, absently. "Pooh, the man
was no more a working man than I am."

"Well, I thought myself he was a bit of a fraud."

"Detectives never do make up well," said Grexon, calmly.

Paul stopped as they turned into Oxford Street. "What? Was the man a
detective?"

"I think so, from your description of his conversation. The fact is I'm
in love with a lady who is married. We have behaved quite well, and no
one can say a word against us. But her husband is a beast and wants a
divorce. I have suspected for some time that he is having me
watched. Thanks to you, Paul, I am now sure. So perhaps you will
understand why the man warned you against me and talked of my being a
man-on-the-market."

"I see," said Paul, hesitating; "but don't get into trouble, Hay."

"Oh, I'm all right. And I don't intend to do anything dishonorable, if
that is what you mean. It's the husband's fault, not mine. By the way,
can you describe the fellow?"

"Yes. He had red hair and a red beard--rather a ruddy face, and walked
with a limp."

"All put on," said Hay, contemptuously;