ld and Billy had spoken but little, as they sped to the railway
station, earlier on that afternoon.

"Rummy go," volunteered Ronald, launching the tentative comment into the
somewhat oppressive silence.

Billy made no rejoinder.

"Why did you insist on coming with me?" asked Ronald.

"I'm not coming with you," replied Billy laconically.

"Where then, Billy? Why so tragic? Are you going to leap from London
Bridge? Don't do it Billy-boy! You never had a chance. You were merely a
nice kid. I'm the chap who might be tragic; and see--I'm going to the
bank to despatch the wherewithal for bringing the old boy back. Take
example by my fortitude, Billy."

Billy's explosion, when it came, was so violent, so choice, and so unlike
Billy, that Ronald relapsed into wondering silence.

But once in the train, locked into an empty first-class smoker, Billy
turned a white face to his friend.

"Ronnie," he said, "I am going straight to Sir Deryck Brand. He is the
only man I know, with a head on his shoulders."

"Thank you," said Ronnie. "I suppose I dandle mine on my knee. But why
this urgent need of a man with his head so uniquely placed?"

"Because," said Billy, "that telegram is a lie."

"Nonsense, Billy! The wish is father to the thought! Oh, shame on you,
Billy! Poor old Ingleby!"

"It is a lie," repeated Billy, doggedly.

"But look," objected Ronald, unfolding the telegram. "Here you are.
'_Veritas._' What do you make of that?"

"Veritas be hanged!" said Billy. "It's a lie; and we've got to find out
what damned rascal has sent it."

"But what possible reason have you to throw doubt on it?" inquired
Ronald, gravely.

"Oh, confound you!" burst out Billy at last; "_I picked up the pieces!_"

* * * * *

A very nervous white-faced young man sat in the green leather armchair in
Dr. Brand's consulting-room. He had shown the telegram, and jerked out a
few incoherent sentences; after which Sir Deryck, by means of carefully
chosen questions, had arrived at the main facts. He now sat at his table
considering them.

Then, turning in his revolving-chair, he looked steadily at Billy.

"Cathcart," he said, quietly, "what reason have you for being so certain
of Lord Ingleby's death, and that this telegram is therefore a forgery?"

Billy moistened his lips. "Oh, confound it!" he said. "I picked up the
pieces!"

"I see," said Sir Deryck; and looked away.

"I have never told a soul