prevent the facts from leaking out at present--if they can by any
means accomplish their wishes."

Brett read this interesting statement twice slowly. It fascinated him.
Its very vagueness, its admissions of inability to tell what had really
happened, its adroit use of such phrases as "Turkish gentlemen of high
rank," "Noted experts in the diamond-cutting industry," "The greatest
living authority on toxicology," betrayed the hand of the disappointed
journalistic artist.

"Excellent!" he murmured aloud. "It is the breath of battle to my
nostrils. I ought to tip Smith for my breakfast. Had I read this
earlier, I would not have eaten a morsel."

He carefully examined the page at the back. It contained matter of no
consequence--a London County Council debate--so he took a pair of
scissors from his pocket and cut out the complete item, placing the slip
as a votive offering in front of a finely-executed bust of Edgar Allen
Poe, that stood on a bookcase behind him.

Within three minutes the scissors were again employed. The new cutting
ran--

"There is trouble at Yildiz Kiosk. A Reuter's telegram from
Constantinople states that a near relative of the Sultan has fled
to France. The Porte have asked the French Government to apprehend
him, but the French Ambassador has informed Riaz Pasha that this
course is impracticable in the absence of any criminal charge."

"These two are one," said the barrister, as he turned towards Poe's bust
and laid the slip by the side of its predecessor. This time he had
mutilated a critique of an Ibsensite drama.

The rest of the newspaper's contents had no special interest for him,
and he soon threw aside the journal in order to rise, light a cigarette,
and muster sufficient energy to write a telegram accepting Lord
Northallerton's invitation for the following day.

He was on the point of reaching for a telegraph form when Smith entered
with a card. It bore the name and address--

"The Earl of Fairholme, Stanhope Gate."

"Curious," thought Brett. "Where is his lordship?" he said aloud--"at
the door, or in the street?"

(His flat was on the second floor.)

"In a keb, sir."

"Bring his lordship up."

A rapid glance at "Debrett" revealed that the Earl of Fairholme was
thirty, unmarried, the fourteenth of his line, and the possessor of
country seats at Fairholme, Warwickshire, and Glen Spey, Inverness.

The earl entered, an athletic, well-groomed man,