HE returned to his rooms.

The man who would command events must be able to command sleep. This, at least, Freyberger was able to do. He cast himself upon his bed, closed his eyes and was immediately lost in oblivion.

At half-past four he awoke, made himself some coffee, lit a cigar and fell, for a moment, into meditation. There was one point wanting to him in the case before it stood absolutely four square and to his satisfaction.

That point was the proof that the bust of Sir Anthony Gyde was by the hand of the same sculptor as the bust of M. Lefarge.

It was more than probable that Mademoiselle Lefarge would bring with her to London this very material piece of evidence. It was in her possession he knew, for, in the newspaper accounts of the tragedy it was numbered amidst the pièces de conviction, and the statement was made that it had been returned to the daughter of Lefarge, coupled with the statement that Mademoiselle Lefarge wept when it was returned to her and expressed her conviction of her father’s innocence and her determination to devote her life to the task of clearing his name from the terrible stain upon it. Antonides alone would be able to decide the question of the artist, and at five Freyberger left his rooms and took his way to Old Compton Street.

He did not call at the Yard on his way, knowing quite well that if anything important had turned up in reference to the Gyde case, the chief would have communicated with him immediately.

Antonides was in. He was eating a sausage roll behind his counter, or rather finishing it, when Freyberger entered. The old man was killing himself with indigestion. To save the price of a trustworthy assistant he looked after his business entirely himself, with the exception of what help a boy, hired at seven shillings a week, could give him. This meant that whenever he required a meal properly cooked he had to go to a café and lock the shop up till he returned, as this meant the possible loss of a customer, he was condemned to live on sardines and sausage rolls, sandwiches, anything, in fact, that did not require cooking or service.

Of course he could have had dinner sent in from a café, but he would have had to eat it on the counter for had he retired upstairs to devour it he would have been compelled to close the shop.

Not for one moment did he leave it open during his absence upstairs, save on very rare occasions, such as the morning before, when Freyberger, calling to inspect the bust, had found the boy taking down the shutters and the door open.

“Good day, Mr Freyberger,” said the old man.

“Good day,” said Freyberger.

“And what can I do for you Mr Freyberger,” asked Antonides, “any more busts to restore?”

“Not to-day, thanks, I want your opinion on a work of art.”

“Produce it.”

“Do you think I carry it about with me in my pocket?”

“I have seen works of art produced from a pocket before now. I have seen a snuff-box, worth a thousand guineas, and which I bought for,—no matter.”

“Well this is not a snuff-box but a bust.”

“Another bust!”

“Yes, another.”

“The subject?”

“A man.”

“The artist?”

“Unknown, but supposed to be the same who executed the bust of Sir Anthony Gyde.”

“Ha! ha!”

“Could you tell if it were the same artist?”

“Could I tell it in the dark by the touch of my fingers, could I not?”

“Well, I hope to show you it.”

“You know my fee for examining works of art?”

“No.”

“A guinea.”

“You shall have it.”

“At what hour will you bring it here?”

“That’s just the point, the thing can’t be brought here, you must go to see it.”

“Where?”

“At the Langham Hotel.”

“You know my fee for............