erley ventured to ask, pouring coffee with a hand that
would shake.

"One I never heard of before. Let me see, what's the name? Oh, the
'Westmorland.' You'll not be interested. Let's get to the thing I want
to talk about. Can you guess what it is?"

Beverley shook her head. "I am a bad guesser."

"It's partly about your pearls. By the by, was the pearl-stringer
satisfactory?"

"Oh, quite," Beverley murmured, sipping her coffee.

"I'm glad she made a good job. The rope looks as fine as if no accident
had happened, I suppose?"

"It's a--wonderful rope," his wife managed to reply.

"I imagined you'd be wearing your gewgaws for breakfast this morning
just to show they were all right!" Roger's eyes smiled coolly into hers.
It was a cruel smile.

"A rope of pearls at breakfast--on a tailor gown of linen--and a queen's
pearls at that! What bad taste! I shall wear these splendours only on
the greatest occasions."

"Well, I've arranged a great occasion," said Roger. "That's principally
what I want to talk about. I'd like you to send out invitations for a
house party and a big dinner and dance directly after we're settled in
the Newport cottage. And I'd like to move there sooner than we meant.
I've decided to take a few weeks' holiday. We'll both be better out of
the city."

"Oh, yes!" Beverley agreed.

"And I want you to do a thing to please me. Wear the queen's
pearls--your pearls--on the night of the dinner and dance."

XXVIII

MR. JONES OF PEORIA

O'Reilly had only just finished reading Clo's note, had folded it up,
and put it in his pocket when he was joined by a man at whom, for a
second, he stared as at a stranger. Then a slight contraction of the
newcomer's eyelid and a twinkle in his eye enlightened Justin.

"Well, this is good, meeting you!" exploded a jolly voice. "I hoped you
hadn't forgotten poor old Dick Jones, though it's a long time since you
blew out our way to Peoria. I'm here in little old New York, seeing the
sights."

"Why, of course, I remember you very well, Mr. Jones," said O'Reilly.
"Sit down at my table, do. What'll you have, in memory of old times?"

As he spoke, he took in the extraordinary changes Mr. William J. Denham
had made in his personal appearance. Denham was a slender, youngish man,
neat and dapper, with light brown hair, a smooth face, and pale skin.
Jones had reddish, rumpled eye-brows, puffy pink lids, and large, roving
eyes behind convex glasses. His hair was