ac Bablon's three communications, he
placed it in the detective's hands.

"I rely upon you to keep certain names out of the affair."

"I give you my word that they shall never be mentioned in connection
with it. You have taken the only course which could ensure that, sir.
May I see the photographs?"

If the Right Hon. Walter Belford had already revised his first estimate
of Inspector Sheffield, this last request upset it altogether. He
stared.

"I am glad to enjoy your co-operation, inspector," he said. "I prefer to
know that a man of your calibre is of my camp! You are evidently aware
that Harley has secured an elaborate series of snapshots of persons
known to Miss Oppner and to my niece. Of the several hundreds of persons
photographed, only one negative proved to be interesting. I have
enlarged the photograph myself. Here it is!"

He took a photograph from the drawer.

"This gentleman," he continued, "was taken in the act of bowing to Lady
Mary and Miss Oppner at the corner of Bond Street."

Sheffield glanced at the photograph. It represented a strikingly
handsome man, with dark, curling hair and singularly flashing eyes, who
was in the act of raising his hat.

"It's Severac Bablon!" said the inspector simply.

"Ah!" cried Belford. "So I thought! So I thought!"

"May I take it with me?"

"I think not, inspector. You know the man; it is scarcely necessary."
And with a certain displeasure he laid the enlargement upon the table.

The detective accepted his refusal with one of the awkward bows.

"Regarding your protection to-night, sir," he said, standing up and
buttoning his coat, "there are six men on special duty round the house,
and no one can possibly get in unseen."

The Home Secretary, smiling, glanced at his watch. "A quarter to nine!"
he said. "He has fifteen minutes in which to make good his bluff. But I
do not fear interruption."

Sheffield awkwardly returned the statesman's bow of dismissal, and
withdrew under the patronage of a splendid footman. As the door closed,
Mr. Belford, with a long sigh of relief, stepped to a bookcase and
selected Petronius Arbiter's "_Satyricon_."

Book in hand, he slid back the noiseless glass doors of the
conservatory. A close smell of tropical plant life crept into the room,
but this was as frankincense and myrrh to his nostrils. He passed
through and seated himself in a cushioned cane chair amid the rare
flora. Switching on a shaded lamp conveniently hung in