I was decidedly disappointed by the inopportune arrival of Mr. Walter Monk. His daughter was just about to tell me much that I greatly desired to know, and his abrupt entrance had prevented her from speaking freely. It was most provoking, as I might not easily find her again in a confidential mood. However, as things were, it only remained to accept the situation philosophically, so I dismissed the lost opportunity with a shrug and turned to examine the new-comer. Already he was embracing the girl, whom he rather effectedly called "daughterling." I summed up his character from his use of that exotic word.

Mr. Monk presented himself, as a dapper, small-sized man, with a clean-shaven face, smooth grey hair parted accurately in the middle of his small head, and a pince-nez, which usually concealed two shallow brown eyes. On removing an expensive travelling-coat, lined with sable, he appeared in an admirably-cut tweed suit, with smart brown shoes, dark-blue socks, and a silk scarf of the same hue knotted neatly under an immaculately white collar. He struck me as a lap-dog man: a dandy, a petit-maitre, too precisely dressed, too finicky--that\'s the exact word--in his manner: too effeminate in his way of speaking. There was a suggestion of Miss Destiny\'s mincing ways in his whole attitude. How such a doll-like piece of humanity came to have so tall and stately a daughter was a question I could not answer, until it struck me that Gertrude might take after her deceased mother. Then I wondered afresh how such a woman could have married such a manikin.

"I am glad to see you, dear," said Gertrude, kissing him in such a motherly way, "but I did not hear the bell."

"I let myself in by using my latch-key," replied Mr. Monk, disengaging himself from an embrace which somewhat disarranged his careful attire, "and this gentleman, Gerty dear?"

"Mr. Vance--Mr. Cyrus Vance, the dramatist."

"How are you, Mr. Vance. I think," Mr. Monk put his finger reflectively to his forehead, "I think I have heard the name."

"I doubt it," was my reply, for the disparaging insolence of the little man somewhat amused me, "my fame has not travelled very far towards the West."

"Oh, I am sure it deserves to," said Mr. Monk politely. "Gerty, dear, can you give me a cup of coffee."

"Dinner will be ready soon, father."

"I do not want any, daughterling, as I dined in town. Rather early, to be sure, but the food was better than I could get here. Coffee, my love, coffee, and a cigarette, if you will permit smoking in your drawing-room."

This unnecessary politeness was a further revelation of Mr. Monk\'s character. Under the mask of courtesy, he secured his selfish ends, and imposed upon everyone by a heartless good breeding, which passed for amiability. I judged that in looks and manner and dress and inclinations he resembled Harold Skimpole, Esquire, and was quite as homeward-bound as that gentleman. I could have kicked myself for accepting a cigarette from a man of so mean a nature. But then he was Gertrude\'s father, after all, and it was necessary to secure his good will if I desired to marry her. She seemed to be fond of him, and treated him with playful love. Filial affections evidently warped her judgment, a state of things of which I am sure Mr. Monk took every advantage.

While Gertrude ran for the coffee, he lighted my cigarette--which he had just handed me--insisted that I should be seated, and then took possession of the best chair, which he selected with unerring judgment. "I was not aware that my daughter knew you, Mr. Vance," he said, gracefully examining his manicured nails. "Have we acquaintances in common?"

"Miss Destiny," I rejoined, laconically.

"My sister-in-law. Strange, since she is quite a home-bird--so attached to her modest little nest. Where did you meet her may I ask?"

"At Mootley, when Anne Caldershaw was murdered."

The cigarette fell from Mr. Monk\'s white fingers, and he shuddered. "Oh pray don\'t speak of that horrid thing," he cried, holding up a protesting hand, "it as cost me many sleepless nights. So old and valued a servant, as Anne was. I shall never get over it: never. I was in London and when I read the news in the papers, I nearly fainted, really I did, I assure you."

"Don\'t speak of it, papa, if it annoys you," said Gertrude, coming behind his chair to kiss the top of his head.

"No, my dear, I won\'t." He picked up the cigarette and waved his hand. "I banish the disagreeable vision. To a man of refinement, these crimes suggest painful thoughts, such as make one grow old. It is my aim in life, Mr. Vance," he added, turning to me, "to avoid the unpleasant. Beauty is my desire--beauty and peace. I cannot bear the poor and the sordid: I shrink from the great unwashed. Very estimable people, no doubt, but," he shuddered in his mincing way, "let them keep out of my sight."

"You are not a philanthropist, Mr. Monk?"

"Certainly not. Why should I trouble about the poor. They are quite happy in their own disagreeable way, and to meddle with them only makes them discontented. Yes, Mr. Vance"--he stopped suddenly and again applied the reflective forefinger. "Ah, yes, I remember now. I saw your name as one of the witnesses at the absurd inquest. That was why it sounded familiar."

"Why do you call the inquest absurd, papa?" asked Gertrude, handing him a cup of coffee, for while he was speaking it had been brought into the room.

"Such unnecessary trouble over a common woman," murmured Mr. Monk gracefully; "with a glass eye too--an incomplete woman. And so very ugly. Her one redeeming feature was that she could cook, though with my late brother she had small opportunity of exercising that great art. But let us change the subject, my child, lest horrid dreams should come to us all from contemplating the crimson theme of murder. You are staying here, Mr. Vance?" he asked, dropping his grandiloquent manner, and speaking alertly.

"At The Robin Redbreast."

"For some time?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "It depends upon my fancy."

"I should not think Burwain had many attractions for a young man," said Mr. Monk, still alert, and decidedly inquisitive.

"Oh, I am not very young, sir, and after the turmoil of London, a change of scene to this restful place is agreeable."

"Quite so, quite so," he nodded an assent, but his eyes behind the pince-nez were still watchful. "But after this Mootley tragedy I should have thought you would have sickened of the country. By the way," he stirred his coffee negligently, "is there any chance that the assassin will be found?"

"I can\'t say; I mean to try," said I grimly, and wondered why Mr. Monk harped on the crimson theme he so much disliked.

"You meant to try," he stared and sat up quickly. "Why, may I ask?"

"I have the vice of curiosity," was my answer. "And the circumstances of the case are so odd, that I wish to solve the mystery."

"I don\'t see where the mystery comes into the matter, Mr. Vance, if you will pardon my having a contrary opinion to yourself. The woman who ran off with your motor car,--I remember what you had to do with the matter quite well now,--stabbed Anne with a hat-pin. Where is your mystery there?"

"Dear papa," said Gertrude, who was perched on the arm of his chair, "don\'t talk about the matter, as I see it agitates you greatly."

I glanced at her when she said this, as it struck me that if she was the woman who had taken my car, she naturally would not like the matter to be spoken about. But she appeared to be perfectly calm, and her color did not change when our eyes met. Mr. Monk was far more discomposed than she was. "My dear," he said in answer to her remonstrance, "I must steel myself to hear all about our old servant--at least about Gabriel\'s old servant. Where, I ask again, is the mystery?"

"In the fact that Mrs. Caldershaw\'s glass eye was stolen," I asserted.

"Well," admitted Mr. Monk reluctantly, "that is a strange article to steal I agree. Do you know why it was stolen, Mr. Vance?"

"I have a theory."

"What is your theory?" he pursued eagerly.

"Your late brother left fifty thousand pounds to Miss Monk here," I explained, "and that money cannot be found. I believe that Mrs. Caldershaw in some way knew of the whereabouts of this fortune and indicated the hiding-place in some way by means of the glass eye. It was stolen by the person who desired to gain that fortune."

"Dear me." Mr. Monk sat up briskly, and then rose to his feet, "have you any grounds for this strange belief?"

"None that would satisfy you, Mr. Monk."

"What do you think, my child?"

"There may be something in the idea," admitted Gertrude cautiously, "it may be worth Mr. Vance\'s while to search the matter out. I admit that I should be glad if he could find the money."

If she was the woman who had taken the car, this speech was strangely daring, and while she made it, her eyes were fixed very straightly on mine. In fact, it was my eyes that fell first before hers. I must say that she puzzled me, in the face of what I knew, and more than ever I regretted the inopportune entrance of Mr. Monk, when she had been on the eve of making an explanation, which might have solved the mystery of her behavior.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Monk, trotting up and down the room, "I should be glad of the money myself," and again I noted that in his selfishness he did not appear to remember that his daughter owned the missing fortune, "well, well, well, well, well, it is a strange theory, and--if you will pardon my saying so, Mr. Vance--somewhat incredible."

"Theories are usually more or less incredible," said I, dryly. "However, if the glass eye can be found, we may prove the improbable to be the possible."

"The glass eye: h\'m, the glass eye of Anne Caldershaw," Mr. Monk halted near my chair, and placed me--so to speak--in the witness-box. He questioned me most precisely concerning my theory, weighed my replies, made suggestion of his own, and appealed several times to Gertrude, to learn what she thought about the matter. Finally he concluded that there might be something in the matter, although he confessed that he saw no chance of recovering the missing eye, which was the clue to the missing money. "Always presuming," was Mr. Monk\'s final remark, "that you are correct, there is no doubt that the fortune is missing, and that we--my daughter and I--would be glad to obtain it. But the chances of finding the key--if it be the key--to the mystery of the hiding-place are very, very remote. Never mind, go on."

"I have explained everything I know, Mr. Monk."

"I don\'t mean that, sir. What I mean is, that I desire you to go on with the search for the glass eye, and for the criminal who slaughtered Anne. How do you propose to proceed, may I ask?"

"I haven\'t the least idea," I replied, despondently.

"No matter; do not despair. Nil desperandum is a most excellent motto for the young and ambitious. It has been my motto through life--" This came excellently from a man, who had done nothing but indulge himself throughout his fifty years of existence. But he made the statement in a light and airy manner, then turned to his daughter: "My dear, don\'t you think that after this very criminal conversation, we migh............