lligence of quite the smartest
morning journal in London.

"Sir Richard's best man----" she began again.

"Didn't you know?" burst in Lord Vignoles. "Bally nuisance--I mean to
say, inconsiderate of Roxborough; he could have sent some other
messenger, and need not have picked Anerly."

"Oh! I know all about that!" snapped the lady impatiently; "but who was
the distinguished-looking man who took Maurice's place?"

The Hon. Maurice Anerly, who should have officiated as best man, had
received instructions an hour before the ceremony to proceed to the
capital of the Power with whom Britain was on the verge of war. Sheard
would have given a hundred pounds for a glimpse of the dispatch he
carried.

"No idea," said Vignoles; "most amazing thing! Friend of Haredale's, who
turned up at the last minute and vanished directly the ceremony was
over. Perfect record! Don't suppose it's ever happened before."

"But he came to the house here; several people saw him here. You don't
want me to believe that Dick Haredale didn't tell anybody who his best
man was!"

"I was not present," said Sheard; "so I cannot help you."

"It's preposterous!" cried the lady. "I never heard of such a thing!"

"What was the gentleman like, miss?" came a quiet voice.

The eyes of all in the little group turned, together. Chief Inspector
Sheffield had joined them.

The lady addressed eyed the big man apprehensively. He was outside the
experience of Fashionable Intelligence, but there was a quiet authority
in his voice and manner which seemed to call for a reply.

"He was the most handsome man I have ever seen!" she answered briefly.

"Thank you!" said Sheffield, with even greater brevity, and turned on
his heel.

He went up to a footman, who looked more like a clean-shaven
policeman--possibly because he was one.

"You are certain that Miss Oppner and the man I have described actually
entered this house?"

"They were talking together in that room by the statue, sir."

"And Miss Oppner came out?"

"Yes, sir."

"But not the man?"

"No, sir."

Inspector Sheffield made his way to the little anteroom indicated. It
was quite a tiny apartment, with a divan, two lounge-chairs and a
Persian coffee-table. There was no one there.

A faint but very peculiar perfume hung in the air. Turkish tobacco went
to the making of it, but something else too. Sheffield bent over the
table.

In a little bronze ash-tray lay a cigarette end--yellow in colour.