he frizzy head of Zoe Oppner
appeared over her friend's shoulder. "We are sorry to have overheard Mr.
Sheffield's words, but I think we have heard too much not to ask to hear
more. Do I understand, inspector, that someone has been spying on my
maid?"

Inspector Sheffield glanced at the Right Hon. Walter Belford, and read
an appeal in the eyes behind the pince-nez. He squared his shoulders in
a manner that had something admirably manly about it--and told a
straightforward lie.

"One of the Pinkerton men engaged by Mr. Oppner tried to get some
letters from your maid, I believe; but there's not a scrap of evidence
on the market, so he must have failed!"

"Evidence of what?" asked Zoe Oppner sharply.

Mr. Belford nervously tapped his fingers upon the chair-arm.

"Of your friendship, and Lady Mary's with Severac Bablon!" replied the
inspector boldly.

Lady Mary was pale, and her eyes grew wide; but the American girl
laughed with undisguised glee.

"Severac Bablon has never done a dirty thing yet," she said. "If we knew
him we should be proud of it! Come on, Mary! Mr. Belford, I'm almost
ashamed of you! You're nearly as bad as pa!"

They withdrew, and Mr. Belford heaved a great sigh of relief.

"Thank you, inspector," he said. "Lady Mary would never understand that
I sought only to save her from compromising herself. I am glad that the
letters are in such safe hands as yours."

"But they're not!" cried Sheffield, leaping excitedly to his feet.

Gruffness had come into his voice, which the other ascribed to
excitement.

"How so?"

An expression of blank wonderment was upon the politician's face.

"Because I never had them! Because I've never had a scrap of anything in
black and white! Because I've been tied up in an old tool-shed in a
turnip field for the past half-hour! And because the man who marched
through my silly troop a while ago and came in here and got back I don't
know what important evidence--_was Severac Bablon_!"

It was a verbal thunderbolt. Mr. Belford sat with his eyes upon the
detective's face--speechless. And now he perceived minor differences.
The difference in voice he already had noted: now he saw that the eyes
of the real Inspector Sheffield were many shades lighter than those of
the spurious; that the red face was heavier and more rounded. It was
almost incredible, but not quite. He had seen Tree play Falstaff, and
the art of Severac Bablon was only a shade greater.

"He's had months