yourself any theory to account for this young man's
disappearance?"

"No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after
himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I entirely refuse
to accept the responsibility of hunting for him."

"I quite understand your position," said Holmes, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't quite understand mine. Godfrey
Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped, it
could not have been for anything which he himself possesses. The fame
of your wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely
possible that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to
gain from him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
treasure."

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.

"Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy! What
inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad--a
staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I'll
have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime
spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no stone unturned to
bring him safely back. As to money, well, so far as a fiver or even a
tenner goes you can always look to me."

Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give us no
information which could help us, for he knew little of the private life
of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a
copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second link for
his chain. We had shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone to
consult with the other members of his team over the misfortune which had
befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel. We
halted outside it.

"It's worth trying, Watson," said Holmes. "Of course, with a warrant we
could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage
yet. I don't suppose they remember faces in so busy a place. Let us
venture it."

"I am sorry to trouble you," said he, in his blandest manner, to the
young woman behind the grating; "there is some small mistake about a
telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear
that I must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if
this was so?"

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

"What o'clock was it?" she asked.

"A little af