Introductory material

FOUR SQUARE JANE

I

Mr. Joe Lewinstein slouched to one of the long windows which gave light to his magnificent drawing-room and stared gloomily across the lawn.

The beds of geraniums and lobelias were half-obscured by a driving mist of rain, and the well-kept lawns that were the pride of his many gardeners were sodden and, in places, under water.

“Of course it had to rain to-day,” he said bitterly.

His large and comfortable wife looked up over her glasses.

“Why, Joe,” she said, “what’s the good of grousing? They haven’t come down for an al fresco fête; they’ve come down for the dance and the shooting, and anything else they can get out of us.”

“Oh, shut up, Miriam,” said Mr. Lewinstein irritably; “what does it matter what they’re coming for? It’s what I want them for myself. You don’t suppose I’ve risen from what I was to my present position without learning anything, do you?” Mr. Lewinstein was fond of referring to his almost meteoric rise in the world of high finance, if not in the corresponding world of society. And, to do him justice, it must be added that such companies as he had promoted, and they were many, had been run on the most straightforward lines, nor had he, to use his own words, risked the money of the “widows and orphans.” At least, not unnecessarily.

“It’s knowing the right kind of people,” he continued, “and doing them the right kind of turns that counts. It’s easier to make your second million than your first, and I’m going to make it, Miriam,” he added, with grim determination. “I’m going to make it, and I’m not sticking at a few thousands in the way of expenses!”

A housewifely fear lest their entertainment that night was going to cost them thousands floated through Mrs. Lewinstein’s mind, but she said nothing.

“I’ll bet they’ve never seen a ball like ours is to-night,” her husband continued with satisfaction, as he turned his back on the window and came slowly towards his partner, “and the company will be worth it, Miriam, you believe me. Everybody who’s anybody in the city is coming. There’ll be more jewels here to-night than even I could buy.”

His wife put down her paper with an impatient gesture.

“That’s what I’m thinking about,” she said. “I hope you know what you’re doing. It’s a big responsibility.”

“What do you mean by responsibility?” asked Joe Lewinstein.

“All this loose money lying about,” said his wife. “Don’t you read the paper? Don’t any of your friends tell you?”

Mr. Lewinstein burst into a peal of husky laughter.

“Oh, I know what’s biting you,” he said. “You’re thinking of Four Square Jane.”

“Four Square Jane!” said the acid Mrs. Lewinstein. “I’d give her Four Square Jane if I had her in this house!”

“She’s no common burglar,” said Mr. Lewinstein shaking his head, whether in admonition or admiration it was difficult to say. “My friend, Lord Belchester—my friend, Lord Belchester, told me it was an absolute mystery how his wife lost those emeralds of hers. He was very worried about it, was Belchester. He took about half the money he made out of Consolidated Grains to buy those emeralds, and they were lost about a month after he bought them. He thinks that the thief was one of his guests.”

“Why do they call her Four Square Jane?” asked Mrs. Lewinstein curiously.

Her husband shrugged his shoulders.

“She always leaves a certain mark behind her, a sort of printed label with four squares, and the letter J in the middle,” he said. “It was the police who called her Jane, and somehow the name has stuck.”

His wife picked up the paper and put it down again, looking thoughtfully into the fire.

“And you’re bringing all these people down here to stop the night, and you’re talking about them being loaded up with jewellery! You’ve got a nerve, Joe.”

Mr. Lewinstein chuckled.

“I’ve got a detective, too,” he said. “I’ve asked Ross, who has the biggest private detective agency in London, to send me his best woman.”

“Goodness gracious,” said the dismayed Mrs. Lewinstein, “you’re not having a woman here?”

“Yes, I am. She’s a lady, apparently one of the best girls Ross has got. He told me that in cases like this it’s much less noticeable to have a lady detective among the guests than a man. I told her to be here at seven.”

Undoubtedly the Lewinstein’s house-party was the most impressive affair that the county had seen. His guests were to arrive by a special train from London and were to be met at the station by a small fleet of motor cars, which he had pressed to his service from all available sources. His own car was waiting at the door ready to take him to the station to meet his “special” when a servant brought him a card.

“Miss Caroline Smith,” he read. On the corner was the name of the Ross Detective Agency.

“Tell the young lady I’ll see her in the library.”

He found her waiting for him. A personable, pretty girl, with remarkably shrewd and clever eyes that beamed behind rimless glasses and a veil, she met him with an elusive smile that came and went like sunshine on a wintry day.

“So you’re a lady detective, eh?” said Lewinstein with ponderous good humour; “you look young.”

“Why, yes,” said the girl, “even way home, where youth isn’t any handicap, I’m looked upon as being a trifle under the limit.”

“Oh, you’re from America, are you?” said Mr. Lewinstein interested.

The girl nodded.

“This is my first work in England, and naturally I am rather nervous.”

She had a pleasant voice, a soft drawl, which suggested to Mr. Lewinstein, who had spent some years on the other side, that she came from one of the Southern States.

“Well, I suppose you pretty well know your duties in the game to suppress this Four Square woman.”

She nodded.

“That may be a pretty tough proposition. You’ll give me leave to go where I like, and do practically what I like, won’t you? That is essential.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Lewinstein; “you will dine with us as our guest?”

“No, that doesn’t work,” she replied. “The time I ought to be looking round and taking notice, my attention is wholly absorbed by the man who is taking me down to dinner and wants my views on prohibition.

“So, if you please, I’d like the whole run of your house. I can be your young cousin, Miranda, from the high mountains of New Jersey. What about your servants?”

“I can trust them with my life,” said Mr. Lewinstein.

She looked at him with a half-twinkle in her eyes.

“Can you tell me anything about this she-Raffles?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said her host, “except that she is one of these society swells who frequent such—well, such parties as I am giving to-night. There will be a lot of ladies here—some of the best in the land—that is what makes it so difficult. As likely as not she will be one of them.”

“Would you trust them all with your life?” she asked mischievously, and then going on: “I think I know your Four Square woman. Mind,” she raised her hand, “I’m not going to say that I shall discover her here.”

“I hope to goodness you don’t,” said Joe heartily.

“Or if I do find her I’m going to denounce her. Perhaps you can tell me something else about her.”

Mr. Lewinstein shook his head.

“The only thing I know is that when she’s made a haul, she usually leaves behind a mark.”

“That I know,” said the girl nodding. “She does that in order that suspicion shall not fall upon the servants.”

The girl thought a moment, tapping her teeth with a pencil, then she said:

“Whatever I do, Mr. Lewinstein, you must not regard as remarkable. I have set my mind on capturing Four Square Jane, and starting my career in England with a big flourish of silver trumpets.” She smiled so charmingly that Mrs. Lewinstein in the doorway raised her eyebrows.

“It is time you were going, Joseph,” she said severely. “What am I to do with this young woman?”

“Let somebody show her her room,” said the temporarily flustered Mr. Lewinstein, and hurried out to the waiting car.

Mrs. Lewinstein rang the bell. She had no interest in detectives, especially pretty detectives of twenty-three.

Adchester Manor House was a large establishment, but it was packed to its utmost capacity to accommodate the guests who arrived that night.

All Mrs. Lewinstein had said—that these pretty women and amusing men had been lured into Buckinghamshire with a lively hope of favours to come—might be true. Joe Lewinstein was not only a power in the City, with the control of four great corporations, but the Lewinstein interests stretched from Colorado to Vladivostock.

It was a particularly brilliant party which sat down to dinner that night, and if Mr. Lewinstein swelled a little with pride, that pride was certainly justified. On his right sat Lady Ovingham, a thin woman with the prettiness that consists chiefly in huge appealing eyes and an almost alarming pallor of skin. Her appearance greatly belied her character, for she was an unusually able business woman, and had partnered Mr. Lewinstein in some of his safer speculations. An arm covered from wrist to elbow with diamond bracelets testified to the success of these ventures in finance, for Lady Ovingham had a way of investing her money in diamonds, for she knew that these stones would not suddenly depreciate in value.

The conversation was animated and, in many cases, hilarious, for Mr. Lewinstein had mixed his guests as carefully as his butler had mixed the cocktails, and both things helped materially towards the success of the evening.

It was towards the end of the dinner that the first disagreeable incident occurred. His butler leant over him, ostensibly to pour out a glass of wine, and whispered:

“That young lady that came this afternoon, sir, has been taken ill.”

“Ill!” said Mr. Lewinstein in dismay. “What happened?”

“She complained of a bad headache, was seized with tremblings, and had to be taken up to her room,” said the butler in a low voice.

“Send into the village for the doctor.”

“I did, sir,” said the man, “but the doctor had been called away to London on an important consultation.”

Mr. Lewinstein frowned. Then a little gleam of relief came to him. The detective had asked him not to be alarmed at anything that might happen. Possibly this was a ruse for her own purpose. She ought to have told him though, he complained to himself.

“Very good, wait till dinner is over,” he said.

When that function was finished, and the guests had reached the coffee and cigarette stage before entering the big ballroom or retiring to their cards, Mr. Lewinstein climbed to the third floor to the tiny bedroom which had been allocated by his lady wife as being adequate for a lady detective.

He knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said a faint voice.

The girl was lying on the bed, covered with an eiderdown quilt, and she was shivering.

“Don’t touch me,” she said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me even.”

“Good Lord!” said Mr. Lewinstein in dismay, “you’re not really ill, are you?”

“I’m afraid so; I’m awfully sorry. I don’t know what has happened to me, and I have a feeling that my illness is not wholly accidental. I was feeling well until I had a cup of tea, which was brought to my room, when suddenly I was taken with these shivers. Can you get me a doctor?”

“I’ll do my best,” said Mr. Lewinstein, for he had a kindly heart.

He went downstairs a somewhat anxious man. If, as the girl seemed to suggest, she had been doped, that presupposed the presence in the house either of Four Square Jane or one of her working partners. He reached the hall to find the butler waiting.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the butler, “but rather a fortunate thing has happened. A gentleman who has run short of petrol came up to the house to borrow a supply——”

“Well?” said Mr. Lewinstein.

“Well, sir, he happens to be a doctor,” said the butler. “I asked him to see you, sir.”

“Fine,” said Mr. Lewinstein enthusiastically, “that’s a good idea of yours. Bring him into the library.”

The stranded motorist, a tall young man, came in full of apologies.

“I say, it’s awfully good of you to let me have this juice,” he said. “The fact is, my silly ass of a man packed me two empty tins.”

“Delighted to help you, doctor,” said Mr. Lewinstein genially; “and now perhaps you can help me.”

The young man looked at the other suspiciously.

“You haven’t anybody ill, have you?” he asked, “I promised my partner I wouldn’t look at a patient for three months. You see,” he explained, “I’ve had rather a heavy time lately, and I’m a bit run down.”

“You’d be doing us a real kindness if you’d look at this young lady,” said Mr. Lewinstein earnestly. “I don’t know what to make of her, doctor.”

“Setheridge is my name,” said the doctor. “All right, I’ll look at your patient. It was ungracious of me to pull a face I suppose. Where is she? Is she one of your guests by the way? I seem to have butted in on a party.”

“Not exactly,” Mr. Lewinstein hesitated, “she is—er—a visitor.”

He led the way up to the room, and the young man walked in and looked at the shivering girl with the easy confident smile of the experienced practitioner.

“Hullo,” he said, “what’s the matter with you?”

He took her wrist in his hand and looked at his watch, and Mr. Lewinstein, standing in the open doorway, saw him frown. He bent down and examined the eyes, then pulled up the sleeve of his patient’s dress and whistled.

“Is it serious?” she asked anxiously.

“Not very, if you are taken care of; though you may lose some of that hair,” he said, with a smile at the brown mop on the pillow.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Scarlet fever, my young friend.”

“Scarlet fever!” It was Mr. Lewinstein who gasped the words. “You don’t mean that?”

The doctor walked out and joined him on the landing, closing the door behind him.

“It’s scarlet fever, all right. Have you any idea where she was infected?”

“Scarlet fever,” moaned Mr. Lewinstein; “and I’ve got the house full of aristocracy!”

“Well, the best thing you can do is to keep the aristocracy in ignorance of the fact. Get the girl out of the house.”

“But how? How?” wailed Mr. Lewinstein.

The doctor scratched his head.

“Of course, I don’t want to do it,” he said slowly; “but I can’t very well leave a girl in a mess like this. May I use your telephone?”

“Certainly, use anything you like; but, for goodness’ sake, get the girl away!”

Mr. Lewinstein showed him the library, where the young man called up a number and gave some instructions. Apparently his telephone interview was satisfactory, for he came back to the hall, where Mr. Lewinstein was nervously drumming his fingers on the polished surface of a table, with a smile.

“I can get an ambulance out here, but not before three in the morning,” he said; “anyway, that will suit us, because your guests will be abed and asleep by then, and most of the servants also, I suppose. And we can get her out without anybody being the wiser.”

“I’m awfully obliged to you, doctor,” said Mr. Lewinstein, “anything you like to charge me——”

The doctor waved fees out of consideration.

Then a thought occurred to Mr. Lewinstein.

“Doctor, could that disease be communicated to the girl by means of a drug, or anything?”

“Why do you ask?” said the other quickly.

“Well, because she was all right till she had a cup of tea. I must take you into my confidence,” he said, lowering his voice. “She is a detective, brought down here to look after my guests. There have been a number of robberies committed lately by a woman who calls herself ‘Four Square Jane,’ and, to be on the safe side, I had this girl down to protect the property of my friends. When I saw her before dinner she was as well as you or I; then a cup of tea was given to her, and immediately she had these shiverings.”

The doctor nodded thoughtfully.

“It is curious you should say that,” he said; “for though she has the symptoms of scarlet fever, she has others which are not usually to be found in scarlet fever cases. Do you suggest that this woman, this Four Square person, is in the house?”

“Either she or her agent,” said Mr. Lewinstein. “She has several people who work with her by all accounts.”

“And you believe that she has given this girl a drug to put her out of the way?”

“That’s my idea.”

“By jove!” said the young man, “that’s rather a scheme. Well, anyway, there will be plenty of people knocking about to-night, so your guests will be safe for to-night.”

The girl had been housed in the servants’ wing, but fortunately in a room isolated from all the others. Mr. Lewinstein made several trips upstairs during the course of the evening, saw through the open door the doctor sitting by the side of the bed, and was content. His guests retired towards one o’clock and the agitated Mrs. Lewinstein, to whom the news of the catastrophe had been imparted, having been successfully induced to go to bed, Mr. Lewinstein breathed more freely.

At half-past one he made his third visit to the door of the sick room, for he, himself, was not without dread of infection, and saw through the open door the doctor sitting reading a book near the head of the bed.

He stole quietly down, so quietly that he almost surprised a slim figure that was stealing along the darkened corridor whence opened the bedrooms of the principal guests.

She flattened herself into a recess, and he passed her so closely that she could have touched him. She waited until he had disappeared, and then crossed to one of the doors and felt gingerly at the key-hole. The occupant had made the mistake of locking the door and taking out the key, and in a second she had inserted one of her own, and softly turning it, had tip-toed into the room.

She stood listening; there was a steady breathing, and she made her way to the dressing-table, where her deft fingers began a rapid but silent search. Presently she found what she wanted, a smooth leather case, and shook it gently. She was not a minute in the room before she was out again, closing the door softly behind her.

She had half-opened the next door before she saw that there was a light in the room and she stood motionless in the shadow of the doorway. On the far side of the bed the little table-lamp was still burning, and it would, she reflected, have helped her a great deal, if only she could have been sure that the person who was lying among the frilled pillows of the bed was really asleep. She waited rigid, and with all her senses alert for five minutes, till the sound of regular breathing from the bed reassured her. Then she slipped forward to the dressing-table. Here, her task was easy. No less than a dozen little velvet and leather cases lay strewn on the silk cover. She opened them noiselessly one by one, and put their glittering contents into her pocket, leaving the cases as they had been.

As she was handling the last of the jewels a thought struck her, and she peered more closely at the sleeping figure. A thin pretty woman, it seemed in the half-light. So this was the businesslike Lady Ovingham. She left the room as noiselessly as she had entered it, and more quickly, and tried the next door in the passage.

This one had not been locked.

It was Mrs. Lewinstein’s own room, but she was not sleeping quietly. The door had been left open for her lord, who had made a promise to see his wife to make arrangements for the morrow. This promise he had quite forgotten in his perturbation. There was a little safe let into the wall, and the keys were hanging in the lock; for Mr. Lewinstein, who, being a prudent, careful man, was in the habit of depositing his diamond studs every night.

The girl’s fingers went into the interior of the safe, and presently she found what she wanted. Mrs. Lewinstein stopped breathing heavily, grunted, and turned, and the girl stood stock-still. Presently the snoring recommenced, and she stole out into the corridor.

As she closed each door she stopped only long enough to press a small label against the surface of the handle before she passed on to the next room.

Downstairs in the library, Mr. Lewinstein heard the soft purr of a motor car, and rose with a sigh of relief. Only his butler had been let into the secret, and that sleepy retainer, who was dozing in one of the hall chairs, heard the sound with as great relief as his employer. He opened the big front door.

Outside was a motor-ambulance from which two men had descended. They pulled out a stretcher and a bundle of blankets, and made their way into the hall.

“I will show you the way,” said Mr. Lewinstein. “You will make as little noise as possible, please.”

He led the procession up the carpeted stairs, and came at last to the girl’s room.

“Oh, here you are,” said the doctor, yawning. “Set the stretcher by the side of the bed. You had better stand away some distance, Mr. Lewinstein,” he said, and that gentleman obeyed with alacrity.

Presently the door opened and the stretcher came out, bearing the blanket-enveloped figure of the girl, her face just visible, and she favoured Mr. Lewinstein with a pathetic smile as she passed.

The stairs were negotiated without any difficulty by the attendants, and carefully the stretcher was pushed into the interior of the ambulance.

“That’s all right,” said the doctor; “if I were you I would have that bedroom locked up and fumigated to-morrow.”

“I’m awfully obliged to you, doctor. If you will give me your address I would like to send you a cheque.”

“Oh, rubbish,” said the other cheerfully, “I am only too happy to serve you. I will go into the village to pick up my car and get back to town myself.”

“Where will you take this young woman?” asked Mr. Lewinstein.

“To the County Fever Hospital,” replied the other carelessly. “That’s where you’re taking her, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the attendants.

Mr. Lewinstein waited on the steps until the red lights of the car had disappeared, then stepped inside with the sense of having managed a very difficult situation rather well.

“That will do for the night,” he said to the butler. “Thank you for waiting up.”

He found himself walking, with a little smile on his lips, along the corridor to his own room.

As he was passing his wife’s door he stumbled over something. Stooping, he picked up a case. There was an electric switch close by, and he flooded the corridor with light.

“Jumping Moses!” he gasped, for the thing he held in his hand was his wife’s jewel case.

He made a run for her door, and was just gripping the handle, when the label there caught his eye, and he stared in hopeless bewilderment at the sign of Four Square Jane.

* * * * *

An ambulance stopped at a cross-road, where a big car was waiting, and the patient, who had long since thrown off her blankets, came out. She pulled after her a heavy bag, which one of the two attendants lifted for her and placed in the car. The doctor was sitting at the wheel.

“I was afraid I was going to keep you waiting,” he said. “I only just got here in time.”

He turned to the attendant.

“I shall see you to-morrow, Jack.”

“Yes, doctor,” replied the other.

He touched his hat to Four Square Jane, and walked back to the ambulance, waiting only to change the number plates before he drove away in the opposite direction to London.

“Are you ready?” asked the doctor.

“Quite ready,” said the girl, dropping in by his side. “You were late, Jim. I nearly pulled a real fit when I heard they’d sent for the local sawbones.”

“You needn’t have worried,” said the man at the wheel, as he started the car forward. “I got a pal to wire calling him to London. Did you get the stuff?”

“Yards of it,” said Four Square Jane laconically. “There will be some sad hearts in Lewinstein’s house to-morrow.”

He smiled.

“By the way,” she said, “that lady detective Ross sent, how far did she get?”

“As far as the station,” said the doctor, “which reminds me that I forgot to let her out of the garage where I locked her.”

“Let her stay,” said Four Square Jane. “I hate the idea of she-detectives, anyway—it’s so unwomanly.”

II

The chairman of the Bloxley Road Hospital for Women took his seat at the head of the table, with a grim nod of recognition for his colleagues, and a more respectful inclination of his head for that eminent surgeon, Sir John Denham, who was attending this momentous meeting of the Governors by special invitation.

Doctor Parsons, the chairman, pushed aside a little brown paper parcel which lay on his blotting pad, and which he saw, after a cursory glance, was addressed to himself. Presumably this contained the new vaccine tubes which he had ordered from the research laboratory. He cast a swift glance from left to right, smiling a little bitterly at the glum faces of the staff.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “Bloxley Road Hospital looks like closing.”

“Is it as bad as that, sir?” asked one of the surgeons with a troubled face, and Dr. Parsons nodded.

“I suppose you didn’t have any luck, Sir John?”

Sir John Denham shook his head.

“I have been to everybody in London who is likely to help. It is little short of a crime that the hospital should have to close down, and that’s just how it stands, doesn’t it, Parsons?”

The doctor nodded his head.

“I’ve already shut two wards out of four,” he said. “We ourselves have had no salaries for a fortnight, but that, of course, does not matter. And the devil of it is that women are clamouring to get into this hospital—I’ve got a waiting list of nearly eighty.”

Sir John nodded gravely.

“It’s a terrible state of affairs,” he said. “Do you know Lewinstein?”

“Slightly,” said the doctor with a faint smile. “I know him well enough to cadge from him; but it was no go. Mr. Lewinstein would get no credit from having his name on our subscription list, and he is rather out for credit. As a matter of fact, he did subscribe once before. By the way, talking of Lewinstein reminds me that Lord Claythorpe, a close friend of his, has bought his niece a £50,000 pearl necklace as a wedding present. It was in all the morning papers.”

“I saw it,” said Sir John.

“Really, I sometimes feel that I would like to turn burglar,” said the exasperated chairman, “and join the gang of that—what do you call the lady?—the person who stole that Venetian armlet that is being advertised for so industriously. She went down in the guise of a detective to Lewinstein’s house. Apparently she cleared out all the guests and bolted in the night, and amongst the things she took was an armlet belonging to one of the Doges of Venice, worth a fortune. At any rate, they are advertising for its return.”

“Whose is it?”

“Lord Claythorpe’s. His wife was wearing it. Like a fool she took it down to Lewinstein’s place. Claythorpe is a bit of a connoisseur, and they say he has been off his head since his wife came back and reported the loss.”

At that moment the telephone bell rang, and the doctor pulled the instrument towards him with a little frown.

“I told those people in the office not to put anybody through,” he said and lifted the receiver.

“Who’s that?” he said sharply, and the soft pleasant voice of a girl replied:

“Is that Dr. Parsons?”

“Yes, it is I,” said the doctor.

“Oh, I just wanted to tell you that I read your moving appeal for funds in the Morning Post to-day.”

The doctor’s face brightened. This little hospital was his life’s work, and the very hint of a promise that help was coming, however meagre that help might be, cheered him.

“I’m glad you were moved by it,” he said, half in humour and half in earnest; “and I trust that you will be moved to some purpose. Am I wrong in suspecting you to be a possible subscriber?”

There was a little laugh at the other end of the wire.

“You are appealing for £8,000 to carry on the hospital for another six months,” said the girl.

“That’s right,” nodded the doctor.

“Well, I’ve sent you £10,000,” was the surprising reply, and the doctor gasped.

“You’ve sent me £10,000!” he said hollowly. “You’re joking, I suppose.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly sent you £10,000,” said the voice—“that is to say, in money. I have sent you the money’s worth. I sent a parcel to you last night. Have you got it?”

The doctor looked round.

“Yes,” he said, “there is a parcel here, posted at Clapham. Is that from you?”

“That’s from me,” said the girl’s voice. “I am relieved to know that you have found it.”

“What’s in it?” demanded the man curiously.

“A very interesting armlet which was, and probably is still, the property of Lord Claythorpe.”

“What do you mean?” asked the doctor sharply.

“It is the armlet I stole from him,” said the voice; “and there is a reward of £10,000 for its return. I want you to return it, and apply the money to your hospital.”

“To whom am I speaking?” asked Dr. Parsons huskily.

“To Four Square Jane!” was the reply and there was a “click!” as the receiver was hung up.

With trembling fingers the doctor tore the tape which bound the little parcel, pulled the brown-paper cover aside, disclosing a small wooden box with a sliding lid. This he pushed back, and there, in its bed of cotton wool, glittered and flashed the famous Venetian Armlet.

It was a nine days’ wonder. The daily Press, which for the past weeks had had to satisfy itself with extravagant weather reports and uninteresting divorce cases, fell upon this latest sensation with enthusiasm, and there was not a Sunday paper in the country that did not “feature” it in the largest of black type. For it was the greatest story that had been printed for years.

The securing of the reward was not to be so simple a matter as the Press and Dr. Parsons imagined. A telephone message had acquainted Lord Claythorpe with the recovery of his jewel, and the doctor himself carried it to Belgrave Square. Lord Claythorpe was a thin little man, bald of head, and yellow of face. He suffered from some sort of chronic jaundice, which not only tinged his skin, but gave a certain yellowy hue to his temper. He received the doctor in his beautiful library, one wall of which, as Dr. Parsons noticed, was covered with the doors of small safes which had been let into the wall itself. For Lord Claythorpe was a great connoisseur of precious stones, and argued that it was just as absurd to keep your gems all behind one door as it was to keep all your eggs in one basket.

“Yes, yes,” he said a little testily; “that is the jewel. I wouldn’t have lost it for anything. If my fool of a—if her ladyship hadn’t taken it down with her I shouldn’t have had all this bother and worry. This is one of the rarest ornaments in the kingdom.”

He descanted upon the peculiar artistic value and historical interest of this precious armlet for the greater part of a quarter of an hour, during which time Dr. Parsons shifted uneasily from foot to foot, for no mention of the reward had been made. At last Parsons managed to murmur a hint.

“Reward—er—reward,” said his lordship uncomfortably, “there was some talk of a reward. But surely, Dr. Parsons, you do not intend to benefit your—er—charitable institution at the expense of a law-abiding citizen? Or, might I say, receive a subscription at the hands of a malicious and wicked criminal?”

“I am wholly uninterested in the moral character of any person who donates money to my hospital,” said Parsons boldly. “The only thing that troubles me is the lack of funds.”

“Perhaps,” said his lordship hopefully, “if I put my name down as an annual subscriber for——”

The doctor waited.

“Say ten guineas a year,” suggested Lord Claythorpe.

“You offered a £10,000 reward,” said the doctor, his anger rising. “Either your lordship is going to pay that reward or you are not. If you refuse to pay I shall go to the Press and tell them.”

“The reward was for the conviction of the thief,” said his lordship in triumph. “You don’t deny that. Now, you haven’t brought the thief along to be convicted.”

“It was for any information that would lead to the recovery of the jewel,” said the angry doctor; “and that is what I have brought you—not only information, but the jewel itself. There was some talk of conviction; but that, I am informed, is the usual thing to put into an advertisement of this character.”

For half an hour they haggled, and the doctor was in despair. He knew that it might mean ruin to take this curmudgeon into court, and so after a painful argument he accepted, with a sense of despair, the £4,000 which Lord Claythorpe most reluctantly paid.

That night his lordship gave a dinner party in honour of his niece, whose wedding was to take place two days later. Only one person spoke at that dinner party, and that person was Lord Claythorpe. For not only had he to tell his guests what were his sensations when he learnt the jewel was lost, but he had to describe vividly and graphically his emotions on its restoration. But the choicest morsel he retained to the last.

“This doctor fellow wanted £10,000—the impertinence of it! I knew very well I was offering too large a reward, and I told those police people so. Of course, the armlet is worth three times that amount, but that is nothing to do with it. But I beat him down! I beat him down!”

“So I saw,” said the easy-going Mr. Lewinstein.

“So you saw?” said Lord Claythorpe suspiciously. “Where did you see it? I thought nobody knew but myself. Has that infernal doctor been talking?”

“I expect so,” said Lewinstein. “I read it in the evening papers to-night. They’ve got quite a story about it. I’m afraid it’s not going to do you any good, Claythorpe. If Jane hears about it——”

“Jane!” scoffed his lordship. “What the deuce do I care for Jane?”

Lewinstein nodded, and catching his wife’s eye, smiled.

“I didn’t care for Jane—until Jane came and bit me,” he said philosophically. “Until I saw her four little squares labelled on my door, and missed the contents of my private safe. I tell you that girl is no ordinary crook. She returned the armlet to you because she wanted to benefit the hospital, and if she hasn’t benefited the hospital as much as she hoped I’d like to bet a thousand pounds to a penny that she’s going to get the balance from you.”

“Let her try!” Lord Claythorpe snapped his fingers. “For years the best burglars in Europe have been making a study of my methods, and three of them have got as far as the safe doors. But you know my system, Lewinstein,” he chuckled, “ten safes, and seven of them empty. That baffles ’em! Why, Lew Smith, who is the cleverest burglar—according to Scotland Yard—who ever went into or came out of prison, worked all night on two empty safes in my cupboard.”

“Doesn’t anybody know which safes you use?”

“Nobody,” replied the other promptly; “and only one of the three contains jewellery worth taking. No; it’s nine to one against the burglar ever finding the safe.”

“What do you do?” asked the interested Lewinstein. “Change the contents of the safe every night?”

Lord Claythorpe grinned and nodded.

“In the daytime,” he said, “I keep most of my valuables in the big safe in the corner of my study. That is where I put such things as the Doges’ armlet. At night, before the servants retire, I take all the valuable cases out of my big safe and put them on the library table. My butler and my footman stand outside the door—outside, you understand—and then I switch out all the lights, open the safe in the darkness, put in the jewellery, lock the safe, pocket my keys, and there you are!”

Lewinstein grunted, though the rest of the table had some word of applause for the genius and prescience of the little man.

“I think that’s rather unnecessary,” said Lewinstein, his practical mind revolting from anything which had a touch of the theatrical; “but I suppose you know your own business best.”

“You suppose rightly,” snapped Claythorpe, who was not used to having his judgment or his wisdom questioned.

“I can only warn you,” said the persistent Lewinstein, “that in Four Square Jane you are dealing with a person who wouldn’t be stopped if you had fifty safes, and a policeman sitting on top of every one of them.”

“Four Square Jane!” scoffed his lordship, “don’t worry about her! I have a detective here——”

Mr. Lewinstein laughed a bitter little laugh.

“So had I,” he said shortly. “A female detective, may I ask?”

“Of course not. I’ve got the best man from Scotland Yard,” said Lord Claythorpe.

“What I should like to know is this,” said the other lowering his voice, “have you any kind of suspicious woman in the house?”

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded Lord Claythorpe bridling.

“Can you account for all your lady guests? There are a dozen here to-night. Do you know them all?”

“Every one of them,” said his lordship promptly. “Of course, I wouldn’t have strangers in the house at this moment. I have dear Joyce’s wedding presents——”

“That’s what I’m thinking about,” said Mr. Lewinstein. “Would you mind if I had a little look round myself?”

There was a sneer on Lord Claythorpe’s thin lips.

“Turning detective, Joe?” he asked.

“Something like that,” said Lewinstein. “I’ve been bitten myself, and I know just where it hurts.”

Lewinstein was given the run of the big house in Belgrave Square, and that evening he made one or two important discoveries.

The first was that “the best detective from Scotland Yard” was a private detective, and although not a Headquarters’ officer, still a man of unquestionable honesty and experience, who had been employed by his lordship before.

“It’s not much of a job,” admitted the detective. “I have to sit with my back to the door of his study all night long. His lordship doesn’t like anybody in the study itself—what’s that?” he asked suddenly.

They were standing within half a dozen paces of the library door, and the detective’s sensitive ears had caught a sound.

“I heard nothing,” said Lewinstein.

“I swear I heard a sound inside that room. Do you mind staying here while I go for his lordship?”

“Why don’t you go in?” asked the other.

“Because his lordship keeps the library door locked,” grinned the detective. “I won’t keep you waiting long, sir.”

He found Lord Claythorpe playing bridge, and brought that nobleman along, an agitated and alarmed figure. With shaking hands he inserted the key in the lock of the heavy door and swung it open.

“You go in first, officer,” he said nervously. “You’ll find the switch on the right-hand side.”

The room was flooded with light, but it was empty. At one end of the apartment was a long window, heavily barred. The blind was drawn, and this the detective pulled up, only to discover that the window was closed and had apparently not been opened.

“That’s rum,” he said. “It was the noise of a blind I heard.”

“The wind?” suggested Lewinstein.

“It couldn’t have been the wind, sir, the windows are hermetically closed.”

“Well nobody could get in that window anyway, through the bars,” said his lordship; but the detective shook his head.

“An ordinary man couldn’t, sir. I’m not so sure that a young girl couldn’t slip through there as easily as you slip through the door.”

“Bah!” said his lordship, “you’re nervous. Just take a look round, my good fellow.”

There were no cupboards, and practically no places where anybody could hide, so the examination of the room was of a perfunctory character.

“Are you satisfied?” asked his lordship.

“Perfectly,” said the detective, and they went out, closing the door which Lord Claythorpe locked behind them.

By half-past eleven the guests had departed, all except Lewinstein, who was hoping that he would be admitted to the curious ceremonial which Claythorpe had described. But in this he was disappointed. His lordship entered the library alone, locked the door behind him and switched out the lights, lest any prying eyes should see where he deposited the jewel cases he took from the great safe in the corner of the room. Presently they heard the soft thud of closing doors, and he emerged.

“That’s all right,” he said with satisfaction, as he pocketed the keys. “Now come along and have a drink before you go. You’ll stay here, Johnson, won’t you?” he said to the private detective.

“Yes, my lord,” said the man.

On the way to the smoking-room where drinks had been served, Lord Claythorpe explained that he did not rely entirely upon the detective agency, that he had indeed notified Scotland Yard.

“The house is being watched, or will be watched, night and day until after the wedding,” he said.

“I think you’re wise,” responded Mr. Lewinstein.

He tossed down a stiff whisky and soda, and, accompanied by his host, went into the hall where he was helped on with his coat. He was on the point of saying “Good night,” when there was a thunderous knock at the front door, and the butler opened it. Two men stood on the doorstep gripping between them a frail and slender figure.

“It’s all right, sir,” said one, with a note of exultation, “we’ve got her! Can we come in?”

“Got her?” gasped his lordship, “who is it?”

And yet there was no need for him to ask.

The prisoner was a girl dressed from head to foot in black. A heavy veil covered her face, being secured apparently under the tightly-fitting little felt hat on her head.

“Caught her under your library window,” said one of the men with satisfaction, and there was a grunt from Johnson the private detective.

“Who are you?” asked his lordship.

“Sergeant Felton, from Scotland Yard, sir. Are you Lord Claythorpe?”

“Yes,” said his lordship.

“We’ve been watching the house,” said the man, “and we saw her dodging down the side passage which leads to your stables. Now then, young woman, let’s have a look at your face.”

“No, no, no,” said the girl struggling, “there are reasons. The Chief Commissioner knows the reason.”

Her captor hesitated and looked at his companion.

“I think we’d better get the superintendent in charge of the case before we go any further, my lord,” he said.

He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

“Hold out your hands,” he said, and snapped the glittering bracelets on her wrists.

“Have you got a strong room, my lord, where I can keep her till the superintendent comes?”

“In my library,” said his lordship.

“Has it got a good door?”

Lord Claythorpe smiled.

He himself unlocked the library door and switched on the lights, and the girl was pushed into the room and on to a chair. The detective took a strap from his pocket and secured her ankles together.

“I’m not taking any risks with you, my lady,” he said. “I don’t know who you are, but I shall know in a very short time. Now I want to telephone. Have you a telephone here?”

“There is one in the hall.”

The detective looked at the girl, and scratched his chin.

“I don’t like leaving her alone, Robinson. You had better stay with her. Remember, you’re not to take your eyes off her, see?”

They went out together, his lordship closing and locking the door behind them, whilst the man went in search of a telephone number.

“By the way, you can hear my man if he shouts, can’t you?” he asked.

“No,” said his lordship promptly. “You can hear nothing through that door. But surely your man is capable of looking after a girl?”

Lewinstein, a silent spectator of these happenings, smiled. He had no illusions as to the resources of that girl, and was anxious to see the end of this adventure. In the meantime, behind the locked doors of the library the girl held out her hands and the “detective” with her unlocked the handcuffs. She bent and loosened the strap, then moved quickly to the wall where the ten safes were embedded. Each she examined quickly.

“These are the three, Jimmy,” she said, and her companion nodded.

“I won’t ask you how you know,” he said admiringly.

“It was easy,” she said. “As soon as I got in here I gummed some thin black silk over the edges of each door. These three have been broken, so these three safes have been opened. We’ll take a chance on this one. Give me the key.”

The “detective” opened a little leather case which he had taken from his pocket, and revealed some queerly shaped instruments. Three times the girl tried, each time withdrawing the tool from the keyhole to readjust the mechanism of her skeleton key, and at the third time the lock snapped back, and the door swung open. “Got it first time,” she said in triumph.

She pulled out a case, opened it and took one fleeting look, then thrust the jewel case into a long pocket on one side of her dress. In twenty seconds the safe was emptied, and the girl nodded to her companion.

“Get the window open. Put the light out first. You’ll find it a squeeze, Jimmy. It’s easy enough for me.”

Outside the “detective-sergeant” was having trouble with the ’phone. He put it down and turned despairingly to his lordship.

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll run down to Scotland Yard. I’ve got a motor-bicycle waiting. I don’t seem able to get into touch with the superintendent. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going into the room and keeping my man company for a little while.”

“Surely,” said his lordship indignantly, “your man is perfectly capable of carrying out his instructions without my assistance? I am scarcely accustomed——” He paused for breath.

“Very good, sir,” said the “sergeant” respectfully.

A little later they heard the “pop-pop” of his motor-bicycle as it left.

“We had better do what the sergeant suggests,” said Lewinstein, “we can’t do any harm by going in, at any rate.”

“My dear fellow,” repeated his lordship testily, “that police officer is quite capable of looking after the girl. Don’t you agree, Johnson?”

Johnson, the private detective, did not immediately reply.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I don’t mind telling you that I feel a bit uneasy about the lady being in the same room as the jewels.”

“Good lord!” gasped his lordship, “I didn’t think of that. Pooh! Pooh! There’s a policeman with her. You know these officers, I suppose, Johnson?”

“No, sir,” said Mr. Johnson frankly, “I don’t. I’m not brought much into touch with Scotland Yard men, and they’re constantly changing from one division to another, so it’s difficult to keep up with them.”

His lordship pondered, a horrible fear growing within him.

“Yes, perhaps you’re right, Lewinstein,” he said, “we’ll go in.”

He put the key in the door and turned it. The room was in darkness.

“Are you there?” squeaked his lordship in such a tone of consternation that Lewinstein could have laughed.

There was a click and the lights went on, but the room was empty.

Lord Claythorpe’s first glance was to the safes. Apparently they were closed, but on three of them was a square label, and Lewinstein was the first to see and understand the significance of that sign.

“What is it? What is it?” said Lord Claythorpe in a shrill tremolo, pointing with shaking fingers to the labels.

“The visiting card of Four Square Jane!” said Lewinstein.

III

Chief Superintendent Dawes, of Scotland Yard, was a comparatively young man, considering the important position he held. It was the boast of his department—Peter himself did very little talking about his achievements—that never once, after he had picked up a trail, was Peter ever baffled.

A clean-shaven, youngish looking man, with grey hair at his temples, Peter took a philosophical view of crime and criminals, holding neither horror towards the former, nor malice towards the latter.

If he had a passion at all it was for the crime which contained within itself a problem. Anything out of the ordinary, or anything bizarre fascinated him, and it was one of the main regrets of his life that it had never once fallen to his lot to conduct an investigation into the many Four Square mysteries which came to the Metropolitan police.

It was after the affair at Lord Claythorpe’s that Peter Dawes was turned loose to discover and apprehend this girl criminal, and he welcomed the opportunity to take charge of a case which had always interested him. To the almost hysterical telephone message Scotland Yard had received from Lord Claythorpe Peter did not pay too much attention. He realized that it was of the greatest importance that he should keep his mind unhampered and unprejudiced by the many and often contradictory “clues” which everyone who had been affected by Four Square Jane’s robberies insisted on discussing with him.

He interviewed an agitated man at four o’clock in the morning, and Lord Claythorpe was frantic.

“It’s terrible, terrible,” he wailed, “what are you people at Scotland Yard doing that you allow these villainies to continue? It is monstrous!”

Peter Dawes, who was not unused to outbursts on the part of the victimized, listened to the squeal with equanimity.

“As I understand it, this woman came here with two men who pretended to have her in custody?”

“Two detectives!” moaned his lordship.

“If they called themselves detectives, then you were deceived,” said Peter with a smile. “They persuaded you to allow the prisoner and one of her captors to spend ten minutes in the library where your jewels are kept. Now tell me, when the crime occurred had your guests left?”

Lord Claythorpe nodded wearily.

“They had all gone,” he said, “except my friend Lewinstein.”

Peter made an examination of the room, and a gleam of interest came into his eyes when he saw the curious labels. He examined the floor and the window-bars, and made as careful a search of the floor as possible.

“I can’t do much at this hour,” he said. “At daylight I will come back and have a good look through this room. Don’t allow anybody in to dust or to sweep it.”

He returned at nine o’clock, and to his surprise, Lord Claythorpe, whom he had expected would be in bed and asleep, was waiting for him in the library, and wearing a dressing-gown over his pyjamas.

“Look at this,” exclaimed the old man, and waved a letter wildly.

Dawes took the document and read:

“You are very mean, old man! When you lost your Venetian armlet you offered a reward of ten thousand pounds. I sent that armlet to a hospital greatly in need of funds, and the doctor who presented my gift to the hospital was entitled to the full reward. I have taken your pearls because you swindled the hospital out of six thousand pounds. This time you will not get your property back.”

There was no signature, but the familiar mark, roughly drawn, the four squares and the centred “J.”

“This was written on a Yost,” said Peter Dawes, looking at the document critically. “The paper is the common stuff you buy in penny packages—so is the envelope. How did it come?”

“It came by district messenger,” said Lord Claythorpe. “Now what do you think, officer? Is there any chance of my getting those pearls back?”

“There is a chance, but it is a pretty faint one,” said Peter.

He went back to Scotland Yard, and reported to his chief.

“So far as I can understand, the operations of this woman began about twelve months ago. She has been constantly robbing, not the ordinary people who are subjected to this kind of victimization, but people with bloated bank balances, and so far as my investigations go, bank balances accumulated as a direct consequence of shady exploitation companies.”

“What does she do with the money?” asked the Commissioner curiously.

“That’s the weird thing about it,” replied Dawes. “I’m fairly certain that she donates very large sums to all kinds of charities. For example, after the Lewinstein burglary a big crêche in the East End of London received from an anonymous donor the sum of four thousand pounds. Simultaneously, another sum of four thousand was given to one of the West End hospitals. After the Talbot burglary three thousand pounds, which represented nearly the whole of the amount stolen, was left by some unknown person to the West End Maternity Hospital. I have an idea that we shall discover she is somebody who is in close touch with hospital work, and that behind these crimes there is some quixotic notion of helping the poor at the expense of the grossly rich.”

“Very beautiful,” said the Chief drily, “but unfortunately her admirable intentions do not interest us. In our eyes she is a common thief.”

“She is something more than that,” said Peter quietly; “she is the cleverest criminal that has come my way since I have been associated with Scotland Yard. This is the one thing one has dreaded, and yet one has hoped to meet—a criminal with a brain.”

“Has anybody seen this woman?” said the Commissioner interested.

“They have, and they haven’t,” replied Peter Dawes. “That sounds cryptic, but it only means that she has been seen by people who could not recognize her again. Lewinstein saw her, Claythorpe saw her, but she was veiled and unrecognizable. My difficulty, of course, is to discover where she is going to strike next. Even if she is only hitting at the grossly rich she has forty thousand people to strike at. Obviously, it is impossible to protect them all. But somehow——” he hesitated.

“Yes?” said the Chief.

“Well, a careful study of her methods helps me a little,” replied Dawes. “I have been looking round to discover who the next victim will be. He must be somebody very wealthy, and somebody who makes a parade of his wealth, and I have fined down the issue to about four men. Gregory Smith, Carl Sweiss, Mr. Thomas Scott, and John Tresser. I am inclined to believe it is Tresser she is after. You see, Tresser has made a great fortune, not by the straightest means in the world, and he hasn’t forgotten to advertise his riches. He is the fellow who bought the Duke of Haslemere’s house, and his collection of pictures—you will remember the stuff that has been written about.”

The Chief nodded.

“There is a wonderful Romney, isn’t there?”

“That’s the picture,” replied Dawes. “Tresser, of course, doesn’t know a picture from a gas-stove. He knows that the Romney is wonderful, but only because he has been told so. Moreover, he is the fellow who has been giving the newspapers his views on charity—told them that he never spent a penny on public institutions, and never gave away a cent that he didn’t get a cent’s worth of value for. A thing like that would excite Jane’s mind; and then, in addition, the actual artistic and monetary value of the Romney is largely advertised—why, I should imagine that the attraction is almost irresistible!”

Mr. Tresser was a difficult man to meet. His multitudinous interests in the City of London kept him busy from breakfast time until late at night. When at last Peter ran him down in a private dining-room at the Ritz-Carlton, he found the multi-millionaire a stout, red-haired man with a long clean-shaven upper lip, and a cold blue eye.

The magic of Peter Dawes’ card secured him an interview.

“Sit down—sit down,” said Mr. Tresser hurriedly, “what’s the trouble, hey?”

Peter explained his errand, and the other listened with interest, as to a business proposition.

“I’ve heard all about that Jane,” said Mr. Tresser cheerfully, “but she’s not going to get anything from me—you can take my word! As to the Rumney—is that how you pronounce it?—well, as to that picture, don’t worry!”

“But I understand you are giving permission to the public to inspect your collection.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Tresser, “but everybody who sees them must sign a visitor’s book, and the pictures are guarded.”

“Where do you keep the Romney at night—still hanging?” asked Peter, and Mr. Tresser laughed.

“Do you think I’m a fool,” he said, “no, it goes into my strong room. The Duke had a wonderful strong room which will take a bit of opening.”

Peter Dawes did not share the other’s confidence in the efficacy of bolts and bars. He knew that Four Square Jane was both an artist and a strategist. Of course, she might not be bothered with pictures, and, anyway, a painting would be a difficult thing to get away unless it was stolen by night, which would be hardly likely.

He went to Haslemere House, which was off Berkeley Square, a great rambling building, with a long, modern picture-gallery, and having secured admission, signed his name and showed his card to an obvious detective, he was admitted to the long gallery. There was the Romney—a beautiful example of the master’s art.

Peter was the only sightseer, but it was not alone to the picture that he gave his attention. He made a brief survey of the room in case of accidents. It was long and narrow. There was only one door—that through which he had come—and the windows at both ends were not only barred, but a close wire-netting covered the bars, and made entrance and egress impossible by that way. The windows were likewise long and narrow, in keeping with the shape of the room, and there were no curtains behind which an intruder might hide. Simple spring roller blinds were employed to exclude the sunlight by day.

Peter went out, passed the men, who scrutinized him closely, and was satisfied that if Four Square Jane made a raid on Mr. Tresser’s pictures, she would have all her work cut out to get away with it. He went back to Scotland Yard, busied himself in his office, and afterwards went out for lunch. He came back to his office at three o’clock, and had dismissed the matter of Four Square Jane from his mind, when an urgent call came through. It was a message from the Assistant Chief Commissioner.

“Will you come down to my office at once, Dawes?” said the voice, and Peter sprinted down the long corridor to the bureau of the Chief Commissioner.

“Well, Dawes, you haven’t had to wait long,” he was greeted.

“What do you mean?” said Peter.

“I mean the precious Romney is stolen,” said the Chief, and Peter could only stare at him.

“When did this happen?”

“Half an hour ago—you’d better get down to Berkeley Square, and make inquiries on the spot.”

Two minutes later, Peter’s little two-seater was nosing its way through the traffic, and within ten minutes he was in the hall of the big house interrogating the agitated attendants. The facts, as he discovered them, were simple.

At a quarter-past two, an old man wearing a heavy overcoat, and muffled up to the chin, came to the house, and asked permission to see the portrait gallery. He gave his name as “Thomas Smith.”

He was an authority on Romney, and was inclined to be garrulous. He talked to all the attendants, and seemed prepared to give a long-winded account of his experience, his artistic training, and the excellence of his quality as an art critic—which meant that he was the type of bore that most attendants have to deal with, and they very gladly cut short his monotonous conversation, and showed him the way to the picture gallery.

“Was he alone in the room?” asked Peter.

“Yes, sir.”

“And nobody went in with him?”

“No, sir.”

Peter nodded.

“Of course, the garrulity may have been intentional, and it may have been designed to scare away attendants, but go on.”

“The man went into the room, and was seen standing before the Romney in rapt contemplation. The attendants who saw him swore that at that time the Romney was in its frame. It hung on the level with the eyes; that is to say the top of the frame was about seven feet from the floor.

“Almost immediately after the attendants had looked in the old man came out talking to himself about the beauty of the execution. As he left the room, and came into the outer lobby, a little girl entered and also asked permission to go into the gallery. She signed her name ‘Ellen Cole’ in the visitors’ book.”

“What was she like?” said Peter.

“Oh, just a child,” said the attendant vaguely, “a little girl.”

Apparently the little girl walked into the saloon as the old man came out—he turned and looked at her, and then went on through the lobby, and out through the door. But before he got to the door, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and with it came about half a dozen silver coins, which were scattered on the marble floor of the vestibule. The attendants helped him to collect the money—he thanked them, his mind still with the picture apparently, for he was talking to himself all the time, and finally disappeared.

He had hardly left the house when the little girl came out and asked: “Which is the Romney picture?”

“In the centre of the room,” they told her, “immediately facing the door.”

“But there’s not a picture there,” she said, “there’s only an empty frame, and a funny kind of little black label with four squares.”

The attendants dashed into the room, and sure enough the picture had disappeared!

In the space where it had been, or rather on the wall behind the place, was the sign of Four Square Jane.

The attendants apparently did not lose their heads. One went straight to the telephone, and called up the nearest police station—the second went on in search of the old man. But all attempts to discover him proved futile. The constable on point duty at the corner of Berkeley Square had seen him get into a taxi-cab and drive away, but had not troubled to notice the number of the taxi-cab.

“And what happened to the little girl?” asked Peter.

“Oh, she just went away,” said the attendant; “she was here for some time, and then she went off. Her address was in the visitor’s book. There was no chance of her carrying the picture away—none whatever,” said the attendant emphatically. “She was wearing a short little skirt, and light summery things, and it was impossible to have concealed a big canvas like that.”

Peter went in to inspect the frame. The picture had been cut flush with the borders. He looked around, making a careful examination of the apartment, but discovered nothing, except, immediately in front of the picture, a long, white pin. It was the sort of pin that bankers use to fasten notes together. And there was no other clue.

Mr. Tresser took his loss very calmly until the newspapers came out with details of the theft. It was only then that he seemed impressed by its value, and offered a reward for its recovery.

The stolen Romney became the principal topic of conversation in clubs and in society circles. It filled columns of the newspapers, and exercised the imagination of some of the brightest young men in the amateur criminal investigation business. All the crime experts were gathered together at the scene of the happening and their theories, elaborate and ingenious, provided interesting subject matter for the speculative reader.

Peter Dawes, armed with the two addresses he had taken from the visitors’ book, the address of the old man and of the girl, went round that afternoon to make a personal investigation, only to discover that neither the learned Mr. Smith nor the innocent child were known at the addresses they had given.

Peter reported to headquarters with a very definite view as to how the crime was committed.

“The old man was a blind,” he said, “he was sent in to create suspicion and keep the eyes of the attendants upon himself. He purposely bored everybody with his long-winded discourse on art in order to be left alone. He went into the saloon knowing that his bulky appearance would induce the attendants to keep their eyes on him. Then he came out—the thing was timed beautifully—just as the child came in. That was the lovely plan.

“The money was dropped to direct all attention on the old man, and at that moment, probably, the picture was cut from its frame, and it was hidden. Where it was hidden, or how the girl got it out is a mystery. The attendants are most certain that she could not have had it concealed about her, and I have made experiments with a thick canvas cut to the size of the picture, and it certainly does seem that the picture would have so bulged that they could not have failed to have noticed it.”

“But who was the girl?”

“Four Square Jane!” said Peter promptly.

“Impossible!”

Peter smiled.

“It is the easiest thing in the world for a young girl to make herself look younger. Short frocks, and hair in plaits—and there you are! Four Square Jane is something more than clever.”

“One moment,” said the Chief, “could she have handed it through the window to somebody else?”

Peter shook his head.

“I have thought of that,” he said, “but the windows were closed and there was a wire-netting which made that method of disposal impossible. No, by some means or other she got the picture out under the noses of the attendants. Then she came out and announced innocently that she could not find the Romney picture—naturally there was a wild rush to the saloon. For three minutes no notice was being taken of the ‘child’.”

“Do you think one of the attendants was in collusion?”

“That is also possible,” said Peter, “but every man has a record of good, steady service. They’re all married men and none of them has the slightest thing against him.”

“And what will she do with the picture? She can’t dispose of it,” protested the Chief.

“She’s after the reward,” said Peter with a smile, “I tell you, Chief, this thing has put me on my mettle. Somehow, I don’t think I’ve got my hand on Jane yet, but I’m living on hopes.”

“After the reward,” repeated the Chief; “that’s pretty substantial. But surely you are going to fix her when she hands the picture over?”

“Not on your life,” replied Peter, and took out of his pocket a telegram and laid it on the table before the other. It read:

“The Romney will be returned on condition that Mr. Tresser undertakes to pay the sum of five thousand pounds to the Great Panton Street Hospital for Children. On his signing an agreement to pay this sum, the picture will be restored.

“Jane.”

“What did Tresser say about that?”

“Tresser agrees,” answered Peter, “and has sent a note to the secretary of the Great Panton Street Hospital to that effect. We are advertising the fact of his agreement very widely in the newspapers.”

At three o’clock that afternoon came another telegram, addressed this time to Peter Dawes—it annoyed him to know that the girl was so well informed that she was aware of the fact that he was in charge of the case.

“I will restore the picture at eight o’clock to-night. Be in the picture gallery, and please take all precautions. Don’t let me escape this time—The Four Square Jane.”

The telegram was handed in at the General Post Office.

Peter Dawes neglected no precaution. He had really not the faintest hope that he would make the capture, but it would not be his fault if Four Square Jane were not put under lock and key.

A small party assembled in the gloomy hall of Mr. Tresser’s own house.

Dawes and two detective officers, Mr. Tresser himself—he sucked at a big cigar and seemed the least concerned of those present—the three attendants, and a representative of the Great Panton Street Hospital were there.

“Do you think she’ll come in person?” asked Tresser. “I would rather like to see that Jane. She certainly put one over on me, but I bear her no ill-will.”

“I have a special force of police within call,” said Peter, “and the roads are watched by detectives, but I’m afraid I can’t promise you anything exciting. She’s too slippery for us.”

“Anyway, the messenger——” began Tresser.

Peter shook his head.

“The messenger may be a district messenger, though here again I have taken precautions—all the district messenger offices have been warned to notify Scotland Yard in the event of somebody coming with a parcel addressed here.”

Eight o’clock boomed out from the neighbouring church, but Four Square Jane had not put in an appearance. Five minutes later there came a ring at the bell, and Peter Dawes opened the door.

It was a telegraph boy.

Peter took the buff envelope and tore it open, read the message through carefully, and laughed—a hopeless, admiring laugh.

“She’s done it,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked Tresser.

“Come in here,” said Peter.

He led the way into the picture gallery. There was the empty frame on the wall, and behind it the half-obliterated label which Four Square Jane had stuck.

He walked straight to the end of the room to one of the windows.

“The picture is here,” he said, “it has never left the room.”

He lifted his hand, and pulled at the blind cord, and the blind slowly revolved.

There was a gasp of astonishment from the gathering. For, pinned to the blind, and rolled up with it, was the missing Romney.

* * * * *

“I ought to have guessed when I saw the pin,” said Peter to his chief. It was quick work, but it was possible to do it.

“She cut out the picture, brought it to the end of the room, and pulled down the blind; pinned the top corners of the picture to the blind, and let it roll up again. Nobody thought of pulling that infernal thing down!”

“The question that worries me,” said the Chief, “is this—Who is Four Square Jane?”

“That,” replied Peter, “is just what I am going to discover.”

IV

Mrs. Gordon Wilberforce was a large, yielding lady of handsome and aristocratic features and snow-white hair. It is true that she had not reached the age when one expected hair of that snowy whiteness, and there were people who told with brutal frankness a story that was not creditable to Mrs. Wilberforce.

According to these gossips the lady had attended the salon of a famous beauty doctor, who had endeavoured to restore Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair to the beautiful golden hue which was so attractive to her friends and admirers in the late eighties. But the beauty doctor had not had that success which his discreet advertisements seemed to guarantee. One half of Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair had come out green, and the other a deep pinky russet brown. Thereupon, Mrs. Wilberforce, with great heroism, had ordered the trembling hair-dresser to bleach without mercy.

And in course of time she appeared in her family circle. She explained that her hair had gone white in a night with the worry she had had from Joyce.

Joyce Wilberforce distressed her mother for many reasons. Not the least of these was the fact that her mother did not understand her, and Joyce did understand her mother.

They sat at breakfast in their little morning-room overlooking Hyde Park, Mrs. Wilberforce and her daughter, and the elder woman was very thoughtful.

“Joyce,” she said, “pay attention to what I am going to say, and try to keep your mind from wandering.”

“Yes, mother,” said the girl meekly.

“Do you remember that maid we discharged, Jane Briglow?”

“Jane Briglow?” said the girl, “yes, I remember her very well. You didn’t like her manner or something.”

“She gave herself airs,” said Mrs. Wilberforce tartly.

The girl’s lips curved in a smile. Joyce and her mother were never wholly in harmony. It was not the first time they had discussed Jane Briglow in the same spirit of antagonism which marked their present conversation.

“Jane was a good girl,” said Joyce quietly. “She was a little romantic, rather fond of sensational literature, but there was nothing wrong with her.”

Mrs. Wilberforce sniffed.

“I am glad you think so,” she said, and the girl looked up quickly.

“Why do you say that, mother?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “doesn’t it seem strange to you that this horrible burglar person should also be called Jane?”

Joyce laughed.

“It is not an uncommon name,” she said.

“But she is going about her work in an uncommon manner,” said her mother. “All the people she is robbing are personal friends of ours, or of dear Lord Claythorpe. I must say,” she went on with a little shiver of exasperation, “that you take your loss very well. I suppose you realize that a £50,000 necklace intended for you has disappeared?”

Joyce nodded.

“Purchased to deck the sacrifice,” she said ironically.

“Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Wilberforce, “sacrifice indeed! You are marrying Lord Claythorpe’s heir, and Lord Claythorpe was your uncle’s dearest friend.”

“He is not my dearest friend,” said the girl grimly in a sudden fit of exasperation. “Because one’s been brought up with a person, regarding him almost as a brother, that is no reason why one should marry him. In fact to the contrary. No one has yet accused me of being weak, but I should certainly lose all my self-respect if I allowed myself to be married off in this way.”

“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “that for a girl who has no other prospects of marriage, you are arguing with great passion. And short-sightedness,” she added.

“It isn’t a question of wanting to marry someone else,” said Joyce, after a perceptible pause, “it’s merely a question of not wanting to marry Francis.”

She walked across the room and picked up a silver-framed photograph of the young man under discussion.

“And I think I’m justified,” she concluded.

Mrs. Wilberforce was silent.

“After all, why shouldn’t I marry whom I choose,” said Joyce. “Don’t you realize that Lord Claythorpe is being horribly selfish and that this marriage is being designed for his own purpose?”

“I realize one thing,” said Mrs. Wilberforce angrily, “and that is that you look like being pig-headed enough to ruin your own chances socially, and both of us financially. You know as well as I do, Joyce, that Lord Claythorpe is acting absolutely in accordance with your uncle’s will, and you cannot doubt that your uncle had your best interests at heart.”

“When uncle left his great fortune to me and made the provision that I should not marry anybody who was not the choice of Lord Claythorpe, the trustee of his estate, the poor dear old man thought he was protecting my interests, because he had a most childlike faith in Lord Claythorpe’s honesty. He never dreamt that Lord Claythorpe would choose his own idiot son!”

“Idiot!” gasped Mrs. Wilberforce, “that is an outrageous statement. He’s not one of the intellectuals, perhaps, but he’s a good boy, and one day will become Lord Claythorpe.”

“So far as I can see,” said the girl, “that’s his only virtue. You can turn the matter about as you like, mother, but there the fact remains. Unless I marry Francis Claythorpe I lose a great fortune. Lord Claythorpe can well afford to give me £50,000 necklaces!”

Mrs. Wilberforce smoothed her dress over her knees patiently.

“The provision was a very wise one, my dear,” she said, “otherwise you would have married that awful person Jamieson Steele. Imagine, a penniless engineer and a forger!”

The girl sprang to her feet, her face crimson.

“You shall not say that, mother,” she said sharply. “Jamieson did not forge Lord Claythorpe’s signature. The cheque which was presented and paid to Jamieson was signed by Lord Claythorpe, and if he repudiated his own signature he did it for his own purpose. He knew I was fond of Jamieson. It was cruel, terribly cruel!”

Mrs. Wilberforce raised her hands in protest.

“Do not let us have a scene,” she said, “my dear girl, think of all your money means to me. The years I’ve scrimped and saved to get you an education and put you in a position in society. Perhaps Jamieson was led astray——”

“I tell you he did not do it,” cried the girl. “The charge against him was made by Lord Claythorpe in order to discredit him and give him a reason for refusing his consent to our marriage.”

Mrs. Wilberforce shrugged her ample shoulders.

“Well, there’s no sense in going into the question now,” she said, “let us forget all about it. Jamieson has disappeared, and I hope he is living a virtuous life in the Colonies.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders. She knew it was useless to continue any argument with her mother. She changed the subject.

“What is this about Jane Briglow?” she asked. “Have you seen her?”

Mrs. Wilberforce shook her head.

“No,” she said, “but in the night I have been thinking things out, and I have decided that Jane knows something about these crimes. From all the descriptions I have had of this girl I can reach no other conclusion than that she has something to do with the burglaries.”

The girl laughed.

“Don’t you think Jamieson may also have had something to do with them?” she asked satirically, and Mrs. Wilberforce tightened her lips.

“You have a very bitter tongue, Joyce; I am rather sorry for poor Francis.”

The girl rose and walked across to the window, staring out across the park, and Mrs. Wilberforce eyed her anxiously.

“You are a queer girl, Joyce,” she said, “you are going to be married to-morrow, and to-morrow you will be a rich woman in your own right. One might imagine that you were going to be hanged.”

A maid came in at this moment.

“Lord Claythorpe and Mr. Claythorpe,” she announced, and Mrs. Wilberforce arose with a beaming face.

The youth who followed his lordship into the room was tall and lank. A small weak face on an absurdly small head, round shoulders, long and awkward arms—if Joyce did not look like a bride in prospective, this young man certainly had no appearance of being a bridegroom of the morrow.

He gave Mrs. Wilberforce a limp hand and shuffled across to the girl.

“I say,” he said in a high-pitched voice, which ended in a little giggle, “awfully bad luck about losing those pearls, what?”

The girl looked at him thoughtfully.

“How do you feel about getting married, Francis?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely; “it really doesn’t make much difference to me. Of course, I shall have to explain to quite a lot of people, and there’ll be a lot of heartaches and all that sort of thing.”

She could have laughed, but she kept a straight face.

“Yes, I suppose I have disappointed a number of very charming friends of yours,” she said drily, “still, they can’t all have this paragon.”

“That’s what I say,” said Mr. Claythorpe, and then giggled again, his hand straying to his pocket.

This young man had no small opinion of his own powers of fascination, and was, by his own standards, something of a Lothario.

“What’s so jolly amusing,” he said with a little snigger, “is that not only the people one knows are upset, but quite a lot of unknown people. People, or girls I have quite forgotten are terribly distressed about it. You don’t mind if I show you a letter?” he asked mysteriously.

She shook her head.

He took an ornamental case from his pocket, opened it, and produced a heavily scented letter.

He unfolded the thick sheet of note-paper, and read:—

“I have only just read the terrible news that you are being married to-morrow. Won’t you see me once, just once, for the sake of the happy day long ago? I must see you before you are married. I must take farewell of you in person. Believe me, I will never trouble you again. You used to praise my pretty face; won’t you see it again for the last time? If you will, put an ‘agony’ advertisement in The Times, and I will meet you at the Albert Gate, Regents Park, at nine o’clock to-morrow night.”

“That’s to-night,” explained the young man.

“Who is she?” asked the girl curiously.

“The Lord knows!” said Mr. Claythorpe with a cheerful smirk; “of course, dear old thing, I’ll have to see her. I put the advertisement in. You’re sure you don’t mind?”

She shook her head.

“I haven’t told the governor,” said the young man, “and I want you to keep it dark. You see he’s a bit old-fashioned in things like that, and he hasn’t got your broad outlook, Joyce. And for heaven’s sake, don’t breathe a word to Father Maggerley; you know what a stick he is!”

“Father Maggerley,” repeated the girl, “oh, yes, we’re lunching with him, aren’t we?”

“Personally,” the young man babbled on, “I think it’s a little indecent for a bride and bridegroom to lunch with the fellow who’s going to tie them up. But the governor’s frightfully keen on Maggerley. He’s even dining with us to-night, as well. I hope he doesn’t give me any good advice, or I shall have a few words to say to him.”

He braced his lean shoulders with a determined air, and again the girl had to suppress a smile.

She went up to her room soon after, and did not appear until the car had arrived at the door to carry them to Ciro’s. Father Maggerley, who was the fifth member of the party, was a tall aesthetic man, reputed to be very “high church,” and suspected of leanings towards the papacy.

It was not remarkable that the conversation turned upon Four Square Jane. It was a subject in which Lord Claythorpe was tremendously interested, and as he listened to Mrs. Wilberforce’s theories, his lined yellow face betrayed signs of unusual alertness.

“The police will have her sooner or later,” he said viciously, “you can be sure of that.”

Francis was bubbling over with good humour. The girl had interrupted him in the morning at the point when he was telling her news, which was no news at all, since he had imparted the information, not once but a dozen times in the course of the past week, that he carried in his pocket the wedding ring which was to unite them. He took it out and showed it to her, a thin circle of shining platinum, but Joyce was not enthusiastic over its beauties, and after a long exposition of his own good taste in jewellery, Francis rambled on to another and equally uninteresting subject.

For all that, the lunch was not without interest to Joyce. For again and again the conversation returned to Four Square Jane, and, as Joyce had admitted to her mother that morning, she had a certain sympathy with this criminal because her activities had been directed towards people who were particularly loathsome from Joyce’s own point of view.

That night the amorous Francis set forth in a spirit of high adventure to meet his unknown adorer. He came to his father’s dinner table late, in a tremble of excitement, and blurted forth his version of the meeting.

“Do you mean to say you didn’t know her?” asked Lord Claythorpe disapprovingly.

“No, sir,” said the young man. “I couldn’t see her face. She was veiled. She was sitting in a car, and beckoned me from the side-walk. I got in and had a little chat with her, and then”—with a fine air of unconcern—“she just put her arms round my neck, held me tight for a second, and then said, ‘I can stand no more, Francis; go.’ ”

“Very singular,” said the Reverend Mr. Maggerley thoughtfully, “very singular indeed. Poor soul, possibly she will now seek a life of seclusion in one of our religious houses.”

“It was a stupid thing to do,” rapped Lord Claythorpe, “meeting a person you didn’t know. I am surprised at you, Francis, on your wedding eve.”

Mr. Maggerley was probably more impressed by the incident than his patron. As he walked home that night, to his house in Kensington, he evolved a sermon from the incident—a sermon which could not fail to gain a measure of comment from the lay press. He reached his austere dwelling, and was received by a butler of solemn and respectful mien.

“Sister Agatha is waiting for you in the study, sir,” he said in a low voice.

“Sister Agatha?” repeated Mr. Maggerley. “I don’t remember Sister Agatha.”

This was not remarkable, for there were many sisters attached to the various Orders in which Father Maggerley was interested, and it was impossible that he should remember their names.

He went up to his study wondering what urgent business could bring a sister of charity to his house at this hour. The light was burning in the study, but Sister Agatha was not there. He summoned the butler, and that gentleman was frankly nonplussed.

“It’s very extraordinary, sir, but I showed the sister in here, and I’ve been in the hall, or in view of the hall ever since.”

“Well, she’s not here now,” said Father Maggerley humorously. “I’m afraid, Jenkins, you’ve been sleeping.”

A thought occurred to him, an alarming thought, and he made a rapid inspection of the study. He was relieved to find that not so much as a newspaper had been moved, that his priceless Venetian glasses were untouched, so he dismissed Sister Agatha from his mind and went to bed.

The marriage of Mr. Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce was one of the social events of the season. The big porch of St. Giles was crowded with a fashionable congregation. The girl, looking paler than usual, came to the church with her mother, and was received by an uncomfortable-looking bridegroom and by Lord Claythorpe, who did not disguise his good cheer and satisfaction. To-day represented to him the culmination of a long-planned scheme. Not even the grey envelope which was in his pocket, and which he had found on his breakfast table that morning, distressed him, although it bore the curious signature of Four Square Jane. The letter read:—

“You are very mean, Lord Claythorpe. To-day, by sacrificing the happiness of a young girl, you are endeavouring to bring riches to your almost bankrupt estate. You have betrayed the trust of one who had faith in you and have utilised the provisions of his foolish will in order to enrich your family. There is many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

“Pooh!” said Lord Claythorpe on reading this. “Pooh!” he said again, and his son looked up over his cup and asked for an explanation. That explanation Lord Claythorpe peremptorily refused.

* * * * *

Francis Claythorpe moved forward to meet the girl and, contrary to the usual custom, walked up the aisle with her, and took his place at the altar rails. As he did so, the Reverend Father Maggerley entered from the side door and paced slowly to the centre of the church.

“The ring, Francis?” muttered Lord Claythorpe in his son’s ear, and Francis took a little case from his pocket with a satisfied grin.

He opened it and gasped.

“It’s gone!” he said in so loud a voice that everyone in the neighbouring pews could hear.

Lord Claythorpe did not curse, but he said something very forcibly. It was Mrs. Wilberforce whose presence of mind saved a situation which might otherwise have proved rather embarrassing. She slipped her own wedding-ring off, and passed it to the young man, and the girl watched the proceedings with a smile of indifference.

As young Lord Claythorpe fumbled with the ring the vestry door opened and someone beckoned to the clergyman. The Reverend Father Maggerley, with a little frown at this indecorous interruption, paced back to the door in his stately fashion and disappeared. He was gone some time, and there was a little murmur of wonder in the congregation when he reappeared and called Lord Claythorpe towards him.

And then to the amazement of the congregation, the whole wedding party disappeared into the vestry. It was a queer situation which met them. On the table of the vestry lay a long envelope inscribed—“Marriage License of the Honourable Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce.”

“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Mr. Maggerley in a troubled voice, as he picked up the envelope, “but something unaccountable has happened.”

“What is it?” said Claythorpe sharply.

“This license,” began the clergyman.

“Yes, yes,” snapped Claythorpe, “I gave it to you the day before yesterday. It is a special license—there’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”

Mr. Maggerley could not answer immediately.

“It was in my safe, in my own study,” he said, “I can’t understand it. Nobody has access to the safe but myself, and yet——”

“And yet what?” wailed Mrs. Wilberforce. “Tell me, for heavens’ sake, what has happened?”

For answer, Father Maggerley took a slip of paper from the envelope, opened it and handed it without a word to Lord Claythorpe.

“That is all it contains,” said the clergyman, and Claythorpe swore under his breath, for instead of the license were the four familiar squares.

“Four Square Jane!” he muttered. “How did she get this?”

Mr. Maggerley shook his head.

“I can’t understand,” he began, and then he remembered Sister Agatha. Sister Agatha, who had arrived unexpectedly, who had remained in his study for the greater part of an hour, and had disappeared unseen by anybody.

So Sister Agatha had been Four Square Jane!

V

Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, and a very gloomy Lord Claythorpe sat in conference in the latter gentleman’s City office. For Lord Claythorpe was a director of many companies, and had interests of a wide and varied character.

The detective sat at a table, with a little block of paper before him, jotting down notes from time to time, and there was a frown upon his face which suggested that his investigations were not going exactly as he could have wished them.

“There is the case,” said Lord Claythorpe. “The whole thing was a malicious act on the part of this wretched woman, directed against me, my son, and my niece.”

“Is Miss Joyce Wilberforce your niece?” asked the detective, and Lord Claythorpe hesitated.

“Well, she is not my niece,” he said at last. “Rather she was the niece of one of my dearest friends. He was an immensely wealthy man, and when he died he left the bulk of his property to his niece.”

The detective nodded.

“Where does your interest come in, Lord Claythorpe?” he asked.

“I am her legal guardian,” said his lordship, “although of course, she has a mother. That is to say, I am the trustee and sole executor of her estate, and there were one or two provisions especially made by my dear friend which gave me authority usually denied to trustees——”

“Such as the right of choosing her husband,” said the detective quietly, and it was Lord Claythorpe’s turn to frown.

“So you know something about this, do you?” he asked. “Yes, I have that right. It so happened that I chose my own son Francis as the best man for that position, and the lady was quite agreeable.”

“Indeed!” said the polite Peter. He consulted his notes. “As far as I understand, this mysterious person, whom Mrs. Wilberforce believes to be a discharged employee named Jane Briglow, after making several raids upon your property, reached the culmination of her audacity by robbing your son of his wedding-ring and then burgling the house of the parson who was to marry them and stealing the license, which had been granted by the Bishop of London.”

“That’s it exactly,” said Lord Claythorpe.

“And what of the wedding?” asked Peter. “There will be no difficulty of getting another license.”

Lord Claythorpe sniffed.

“The only difficulty is,” he said, “that the young lady is naturally prostrated by the humiliation which this villainous woman has thrust upon her. She was in such a state of collapse the following morning that her mother was compelled to take her—or rather, to send her—to a friend in the country. The wedding is postponed for, let us say, a month.”

“One other question,” asked the detective. “You say you suspect, in addition to Jane Briglow, a young man named Jamieson Steele, who was in a way engaged to Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”

“A fugitive from justice,” said his lordship emphatically. “And why you police fellows cannot catch him is beyond my understanding. The man forged my name——”

“I know all about that,” said the detective. “I had the records of the case looked out, and the particulars of the case were ’phoned to me here whilst you had gone upstairs to collect data concerning the previous robbery. As a matter of fact, although he is, as you may say, a fugitive from justice, having very foolishly run away, there is no evidence which would secure a conviction before a judge and jury. I suppose your lordship knows that?”