let me to-night; I shall be reading late. Good-night, Harry;
good-night, Mr. Barch." And with that he walked out of the room and left
them.

"Now, then, Hawkins," said young Raynor as soon as his father was fairly
out of sight and sound, "set the decanters and the glasses on the table
here, and you and Hamer clear off about your business as fast as you can
toddle. We don't need you. Hook it!"

"Very good, sir," replied Hawkins deferentially, and obeyed the order to
the letter.

Harry Raynor waited a moment to give both time to leave the room and to
get beyond earshot, then caught up a decanter, drew a glass toward him,
and poured out a stiff peg of brandy.

"I say, Barch, I've got a flea to put into your ear," he said earnestly,
"and I didn't want those blighters hanging round to hear it; that's the
reason I packed them off as I did. I'm going to give you a shock that
will set you thinking."

"Are you?" said Cleek with the utmost serenity. "Well, I'm going to give
_you_ one, too, dear boy; and as first horse at the post wins--I say,
what price this little caper? How did you come by this, dear boy--and
when?"

He dipped round and down into his coat-tail pocket, as he spoke, pulled
out the scent bracelet, and laid it on the table before him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PICKING UP THREADS

Young Raynor was not in the smallest degree upset at sight of the thing.
He was mildly surprised, and expressed it by a low, soft whistle as he
reached out his hand and took up the bracelet.

"Well, of all the mutton heads! Shows what a thoughtless beggar I am!"
he said with a slight lurch of the shoulders and an impatient twitch of
the head. "No need to ask you how you came by the blessed thing, dear
boy. Found it in the inside pocket of that coat you're wearing, I know.
That's where I put the bally thing, I recollect. What an ass of me to
forget all about it. Hope she won't think I've bagged it."

"She?" said Cleek, with admirable composure, considering that this open
admission, this evidence of there being nothing to conceal, threatened
to upset all his calculations. "Antecedent of that personal pronoun,
please; who may the 'she' in question be?"

"Why, Mignon, of course."

"Mignon?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Mignon De Varville, the famous Whirlwind Dancer of
the Paris Varietes. _You_ know her, or ought to, considering that you
got a peep at her phiz in spite of me this afternoon."

"Not 'Pink Gauze'? The lady of the toba