et was the man's
address. That address was 'THE AMERICAN EMBASSY, ST. PETERSBURG, BUREAU
or THE NAVAL ATTACHE,' and the initials," he shouted, his voice rising
into an exultant and bitter cry, "were those of the gentleman who sits
opposite who told us that he was the first to find the murdered bodies,
the Naval Attache to Russia, Lieutenant Sears!"

A strained and awful hush followed the Solicitor's words, which seemed
to vibrate like a twanging bowstring that had just hurled its bolt. Sir
Andrew, pale and staring, drew away with an exclamation of repulsion.
His eyes were fastened upon the Naval Attache with fascinated horror.
But the American emitted a sigh of great content, and sank comfortably
into the arms of his chair. He clapped his hands softly together.

"Capital!" he murmured. "I give you my word I never guessed what you
were driving at. You fooled _me,_ I'll be hanged if you didn't--you
certainly fooled me."

The man with the pearl stud leaned forward with a nervous gesture.
"Hush! be careful!" he whispered. But at that instant, for the third
time, a servant, hastening through the room, handed him a piece of paper
which he scanned eagerly. The message on the paper read, "The light over
the Commons is out. The House has risen."

The man with the black pearl gave a mighty shout, and tossed the paper
from him upon the table.

"Hurrah!" he cried. "The House is up! We've won!" He caught up his
glass, and slapped the Naval Attache violently upon the shoulder. He
nodded joyously at him, at the Solicitor, and at the Queen's Messenger.
"Gentlemen, to you!" he cried; "my thanks and my congratulations!"
He drank deep from the glass, and breathed forth a long sigh of
satisfaction and relief.

"But I say," protested the Queen's Messenger, shaking his finger
violently at the Solicitor, "that story won't do. You didn't play
fair--and--and you talked so fast I couldn't make out what it was all
about. I'll bet you that evidence wouldn't hold in a court of law--you
couldn't hang a cat on such evidence. Your story is condemned tommy-rot.
Now my story might have happened, my story bore the mark--"

In the joy of creation the story-tellers had forgotten their audience,
until a sudden exclamation from Sir Andrew caused them to turn guiltily
toward him. His face was knit with lines of anger, doubt, and amazement.

"What does this mean!" he cried. "Is this a jest, or are you mad? If you
know this man is a murderer, why is he