"It's a funny way to go to work."

"Commissioner's orders, my boy. I am not to reveal the la-- the name until it cannot be helped. However, as I have said so much, I don't mind telling you it's a woman, and a big one too."

"Big! Fat, do you mean?"

"No. A woman of high position."

"Phew! A regular society scandal, I suppose?"

"That's about the size of it."

On arrival at Sloane Square they quickly ascended to No. 12 Raleigh Mansions.

A stout, elderly woman answered their knock, and a glance at her face revealed the map of Ireland, although her name was Saxon Robinson.

"Mr. Corbett in?" inquired White.

"Faix, he's not."

"Then where is he?"

"I don't know, misther, an' if I did I wouldn't be afther telling when axed in an oncivil manner."

"All right, Mrs. ----"

"Robinson's my name, if that's anny use to ye."

"Very well, Mrs. Robinson. We wish to have a word with Mr. Corbett, and we will be much obliged if you can tell us when he is likely to return, if he is in London."

"Arrah, it's meself is mixed intirely about him. Sure _this_ Mr. Corbett is in London right enough, and is comin' in to dinner in half-an-hour, so by yer lave I'll jist go on wid me wurruk."

"May we come in and wait for him?"

Mrs. Robinson surveyed them suspiciously, but seemingly decided in their favor.

"Stip in here, gintlemen both," she said, and conducted them to the sitting-room.

A fire now burned brightly in the grate wherein Bruce had made his pregnant discovery. The damaged bracket still stared at White, so to speak, but he saw it not.

Mrs. Robinson bustled away to the kitchen, and the two officers sat silently waiting developments. Suddenly a thought occurred to White, and he went into the pa.s.sage.

"Mrs. Robinson," he said, "what did you mean by referring to _this_ Mr.

Corbett?"

A quick step came bounding up the stairs, and a key rattled in the lock.

"You'd betther ax him yerself," responded the housekeeper pithily, and the door opened to admit a handsome, well-knit man, tall and straight, with the clearly cut features of the true Westerner, and the easy carriage of one accustomed to the freedom of the prairie.

He was quietly dressed. The only sign that he was not a Londoner was given by his wide-awake felt hat, the last token of environment relinquished by a wandering citizen from the region of the Rockies. In the semi-darkness of the interior he could but dimly discern the form of the detective behind the ready-tongued housekeeper.

"There's two gintlemen to see ye, Misther Corbett," said she.

"Well, now, that's curious," he answered cheerfully. "I can only see one of you, but I'm glad to have you call, stranger, anyway. Come right in.

Are you sent by my friend to kinder cheer me up? I find this big city of yours a powerful kind of tonic after Wyoming. Come right in."

Mr. White was as greatly nonplussed by the newcomer's att.i.tude as by his flow of language.

Within the drawing-room Corbett caught sight of the second detective.

"h.e.l.lo! Here's the other one. Ve-ry glad to meet you both. Now, if you'll just tell me your names we'll get along straight away, as I guess you know mine all right."

The man was genuinely pleased by this unexpected visit. He smilingly pushed towards them a box of cigars, green ones, and helped himself to a weed.

"My name," said the detective, "is Inspector White, of Scotland Yard, and my friend here accompanies me officially."

"And hasn't he got a name?"

"Yes; but it doesn't matter."

"Well, if it doesn't matter, we won't quarrel. I guess you've got a message of some sort for me, else you wouldn't trouble to climb these stairs. Why don't you have el-e-vators in these big buildings?"

"As I said," began Mr. White, "we are from Scotland Yard."

"That's so. I've got that fixed O.K. Your name is I. White, from Scotland Yard. I don't know where Scotland Yard is, but we'll worry along without the geography of it."

"I am in the police. My t.i.tle is Inspector. It is not my Christian name.

Scotland Yard is the headquarters of the London police."

The American's eyes opened wide in wonder at this announcement, and a perplexing thought seemed to occur to him. But he said quietly:

"I'll figure it out better when you tell me why you've been good enough to call. And suppose we all sit down. I'm not used to stone pavements.

I'm tired."

"Your name is Sydney H. Corbett?" said the detective severely, though he took a chair.

"So my people always told me."

"And you have occupied these chambers since August last?"

"Have I?"

"So I am informed."

"Get along with your story."

"You have just returned to England from Wyoming. The New York police cabled me that you arrived in Liverpool yesterday."

"Did they now? That was real cute of 'em."