“Will you play, Lord Caranby?” asked Maraquito, when the introduction had been accomplished.

“Pardon me, not at present: in a little time,” said the old nobleman, with a polite bow and his eyes on the beautiful face.

“As you like,” she answered carelessly; “everyone who comes here does just as he pleases. Is your nephew coming?”

“I fear not. He is unwell.”

Maraquito started. “Unwell. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“A slight cold.”

“Ah! Everyone has colds just now. Well, Lord Caranby, I hope to have a conversation with you later when someone else takes the bank.”

Caranby bowed and moved away slowly, leaning on his cane. Jennings, who was beside him, threw a glance over his shoulder at Senora Gredos.

Maraquito’s face was pale, and there was a frightened look in her eyes. Catching Jennings’ inquisitive look she frowned and again addressed herself to the game. Wondering why Lord Caranby should produce such an effect, Jennings rejoined him at the end of the room, where they sat on a sofa and smoked. “Have you been here before?” asked the detective.

“No,” answered the other, lighting his cigar, “and it is improbable that I shall come again. My reason for coming —” he broke off —“I can tell you that later. It is sufficient to say that it has to do with your conduct of this case.”

“Hush!” whispered Jennings quickly, “my profession is not known here.”

“I fear it will be if these two have tongues in their heads.”

The detective glanced towards the door and saw Hale enter with Clancy at his heels. Jennings had not seen them since the inquest on the body of Miss Loach, when they had given their evidence with great grief and frankness. He was annoyed at meeting them here, for although he had seen them in Maraquito’s salon before, yet at that time they had not known his profession. But since the inquest the knowledge was common property, and doubtless they would tell Senora Gredos if they had not done so already. Jennings’ chances of learning what he wished would therefore be slight, as everyone is not willing to speak freely before an officer of the law.

“It can’t be helped,” said Jennings with a shrug; “and, in any case, Maraquito is too anxious to stand well with the police to make any trouble about my coming here.”

Caranby did not reply, but looked steadily at the two men who were walking slowly up the room. Hale was slender, tall, and dark in color, with a nose like the beak of an eagle. He was perfectly dressed and had even an elegant appearance. His age might have been forty, but in the artificial light he looked even younger. Clancy, on the other hand, wore his clothes with the air of a man unaccustomed to evening dress. He was light in color, with weak blue eyes and a foolish expression about his slack mouth. Jennings wondered why a man like Hale should connect himself with such a creature. The men nodded to Senora Gredos, who took little notice of them, and then repaired to the buffet. Owing to the position of the detective and Caranby, the new arrivals did not see them. Nor for the present was the detective anxious to attract their notice. Indeed, he would have stolen away unperceived, but that he wished to question Hale as to the whereabouts of Mrs. Herne.

“It is a long time since I have seen you,” said Caranby, removing his eyes from the newcomers, and addressing the detective; “you were not an — er — an official when we last met.”

“It is three years ago,” said Jennings; “no. I had money then, but circumstances over which I had no control soon reduced me to the necessity of earning my living. As all professions were crowded, I thought I would turn my talents of observation and deduction to this business.”

“Do you find it lucrative?”

Jennings smiled and shrugged his shoulders again. “I do very well,” he said, “but I have not yet made a fortune.”

“Ah! And Cuthbert told me you wished to marry.”

“I do. But when my fortune will allow me to marry, I don’t know.”

Caranby, without raising his voice or looking at his companion, supplied the information. “I can tell you that,” said he, “when you learn who killed Miss Loach.”

“How is that?”

“On the day you lay your hand on the assassin of that poor woman I shall give you five thousand pounds.”

Jennings’ breath was taken away. “A large sum,” he murmured.

“She was very dear to me at one time,” said Caranby with emotion. “I would have married her but for the machinations of her sister.”

“Mrs. Octagon?”

“Yes! She wanted to become my wife. The story is a long one.”

“Cuthbert told it to me.”

“Quite right,” said Caranby, nodding, “I asked him to. It seems to me that in my romance may be found the motive for the death of Selina Loach.”

The detective thought over the story. “I don’t quite see —”

“Nor do I. All the same —” Caranby waved his hand and abruptly changed the subject. “Do you know why I came here to-night?”

“No. I did not know you ever came to such places.”

“Nor do I. My life is a quiet one now. I came to see this woman you call Maraquito.”

“What do you call her?” asked Jennings alertly.

“Ah, that I can’t tell you. But she is no Spaniard.”

“Is she a Jewess by any chance?”

Caranby turned to look directly at his companion. “You ought to be able to tell that from her face,” he said, “can you not see the seal of Jacob impressed there — that strange look which stamps a Hebrew?”

“No,” confessed Jennings, “that is, I can see it now, but I came here for many a long day before I did guess she was a Jewess. And then it was only because I learned the truth.”

“How did you learn it?”

The detective related details of his visit to Monsieur Le Beau and the discovery that Maraquito Gredos was one and the same as Celestine Durand. Caranby listened attentively. “Yes, that is all right,” he said, “but her name is Bathsheba Saul.”

“What?” said Jennings, so loud that several people turned to look.

“Hush!” said Caranby, sinking his voice, “you attract notice. Yes, I made Cuthbert describe the appearance of this woman. His description vaguely suggested Emilia Saul. I came here to-night to satisfy myself, and I have no doubt but what she is the niece of Emilia — the daughter of Emilia’s brother.”

“Who was connected with the coining gang?”

“Ah, you heard of that, did you? Exactly. Her father is dead, I believe, but there sits his daughter. You see in her the image of Emilia as I loved her twenty years ago.”

“Loved her?” echoed Jennings, significantly.

“You are right,” responded Caranby with a keen look. “I see Cuthbert has told you all. I never did love Emilia. But she hypnotized me in some way. She was one of those women who could make a man do what pleased her. And this Bathsheba — Maraquito — Celestine, can do the same. It is a pity she is an invalid, but on the whole, as she looks rather wicked, mankind is to be congratulated. Were she able to move about like an ordinary woman, she would set the world on fire after the fashion of Cleopatra. You need not mention this.”

“I know how to hold my tongue,” said Jennings, rather offended by the imputation that he was a chatterer, “can I come and see you to talk over this matter?”

“By all means. I am at the Avon Hotel.”

“Oh, and by the way, will you allow me to go over that house of yours at Rexton?”

“If you like. Are you a ghost-hunter also?”

“I am a detective!” whispered Jennings quietly, and with such a look that Caranby became suddenly attentive.

“Ah! You think you may discover something in that house likely to lead to the discovery of the assassin.”

“Yes I do. I can’t explain my reasons now. The explanation would take too long. However, I see Senora Gredos is beckoning to you. I will speak to Hale and Clancy. Would you mind telling me what she says to you?”

“A difficult question to answer,” said Caranby, rising, “as a gentleman, I am not in the habit of repeating conversations, especially with women. Besides, she can have no connection with this case.”

“On the face of it — no,” replied Jennings doubtfully, “but there is a link —”

“Ah, you mean that she is Emilia’s niece.”

“Not exactly that,” answered Jennings, thinking of the photograph. “I will tell you what I mean when we next meet.”

At this moment, in response to the imperative beckoning of Maraquito’s fan, Caranby was compelled to go to her. The couch had been wheeled away from the green table, and a gentleman had taken charge of the bank. Maraquito with her couch retreated to a quiet corner of the room, and had a small table placed beside her. Here were served champagne and cakes, while Lord Caranby, after bowing in his old-fashioned way, took a seat near the beautiful woman. She gazed smilingly at Lord Caranby, yet there was a nervous look in her eyes.

“I have heard of you from Mr. Mallow,” she said flushing.

“My nephew. He comes here at times. Indeed,” said Caranby gallantly, “it was his report of your beauty that brought me here to-night.”

Maraquito sighed. “The wreck of a beauty,” said she bitterly, “three years ago indeed — but I met with an accident.”

“So I heard. A piece of orange peel.”

The woman started. “Who told you that?”

&ldq............