Mrs. Pett, on leaving the luncheon-table, had returned to thedrawing-room to sit beside the sick-settee of her stricken child.

　　She was troubled about Ogden. The poor lamb was not at allhimself to-day. A bowl of clear soup, the midday meal prescribedby Doctor Briginshaw, lay untasted at his side.

　　She crossed the room softly, and placed a cool hand on her son'saching brow.

　　"Oh, Gee," said Ogden wearily.

　　"Are you feeling a little better, Oggie darling?""No," said Ogden firmly. "I'm feeling a lot worse.""You haven't drunk your nice soup.""Feed it to the cat.""Could you eat a nice bowl of bread-and-milk, precious?""Have a heart," replied the sufferer.

　　Mrs. Pett returned to her seat, sorrowfully. It struck her as anodd coincidence that the poor child was nearly always like thison the morning after she had been entertaining guests; she put itdown to the reaction from the excitement working on ahighly-strung temperament. To his present collapse the brutalbehaviour of Jerry Mitchell had, of course, contributed. Everydrop of her maternal blood boiled with rage and horror whenevershe permitted herself to contemplate the excesses of the lateJerry. She had always mistrusted the man. She had never liked hisface--not merely on aesthetic grounds but because she had seemedto detect in it a lurking savagery. How right events had provedthis instinctive feeling. Mrs. Pett was not vulgar enough todescribe the feeling, even to herself, as a hunch, but a hunch ithad been; and, like every one whose hunches have proved correct,she was conscious in the midst of her grief of a certaincomplacency. It seemed to her that hers must be an intelligenceand insight above the ordinary.

　　The peace of the early afternoon settled upon the drawing-room.

　　Mrs. Pett had taken up a book; Ogden, on the settee, breathedstentorously. Faint snores proceeded from the basket in thecorner where Aida, the Pomeranian, lay curled in refreshingsleep. Through the open window floated sounds of warmth andSummer.

　　Yielding to the drowsy calm, Mrs. Pett was just nodding into apleasant nap, when the door opened and Lord Wisbeach came in.

　　Lord Wisbeach had been doing some rapid thinking. Rapid thoughtis one of the essentials in the composition of men who are knownas Gentleman Jack to the boys and whose livelihood is won only bya series of arduous struggles against the forces of Society andthe machinations of Potter and his gang. Condensed into capsuleform, his lordship's meditations during the minutes after he hadleft Jimmy in the dining-room amounted to the realisation thatthe best mode of defence is attack. It is your man who knows howto play the bold game on occasion who wins. A duller schemer thanLord Wisbeach might have been content to be inactive after such aconversation as had just taken place between himself and Jimmy.

　　His lordship, giving the matter the concentrated attention of histrained mind, had hit on a better plan, and he had come to thedrawing-room now to put it into effect.

　　His entrance shattered the peaceful atmosphere. Aida, who hadbeen gurgling apoplectically, sprang snarling from the basket,and made for the intruder open-mouthed. Her shrill barking rangthrough the room.

　　Lord Wisbeach hated little dogs. He hated and feared them. Manymen of action have these idiosyncrasies. He got behind a chairand said "There, there." Aida, whose outburst was mere sound andfury and who had no intention whatever of coming to blows,continued the demonstration from a safe distance, till Mrs. Pett,swooping down, picked her up and held her in her lap, where sheconsented to remain, growling subdued defiance. Lord Wisbeachcame out from behind his chair and sat down warily.

　　"Can I have a word with you, Mrs. Pett?""Certainly, Lord Wisbeach."His lordship looked meaningly at Ogden.

　　"In private, you know."He then looked meaningly at Mrs. Pett.

　　"Ogden darling," said Mrs. Pett, "I think you had better go toyour room and undress and get into bed. A little nice sleep mightdo you all the good in the world."With surprising docility, the boy rose.

　　"All right," he said.

　　"Poor Oggie is not at all well to-day," said Mrs. Pett, when hewas gone. "He is very subject to these attacks. What do you wantto tell me, Lord Wisbeach?"His lordship drew his chair a little closer.

　　"Mrs. Pett, you remember what I told you yesterday?""Of course.""Might I ask what you know of this man who has come here callinghimself Jimmy Crocker?"Mrs. Pett started. She remembered that she had used almost thatvery expression to Ann. Her suspicions, which had been lulled bythe prompt recognition of the visitor by Skinner and LordWisbeach, returned. It is one of the effects of a successfulhunch that it breeds other hunches. She had been right aboutJerry Mitchell; was she to be proved right about the self-styledJimmy Crocker?

　　"You have seen your nephew, I believe?""Never. But--""That man," said Lord Wisbeach impassively, "is not your nephew."Mrs. Pett thrilled all down her spine. She had been right.

　　"But you--""But I pretended to recognise him? Just so. For a purpose. Iwanted to make him think that I suspected nothing.""Then you think--?""Remember what I said to you yesterday.""But Skinner--the butler--recognised him?""Exactly. It goes to prove that what I said about Skinner wascorrect. They are working together. The thing is self-evident.

　　Look at it from your point of view. How simple it is. This manpretends to an intimate acquaintance with Skinner. You take thatas evidence of Skinner's honesty. Skinner recognises this man.

　　You take that as proof that this man is really yo............