Lord John in New York. Williamson Charles Norris

better at detective literature than any Englishman, speaking generally, and a whole lot better than John Hasle, speaking particularly."

      "I think," said I, "that I shall be able to prove my detective powers to you later on, speaking very particularly."

      "Ah, indeed! In what way?"

      "'Later on' was what I said."

      "All right. I'm in no hurry."

      "I am. Because several matters have got to be settled before I can progress much further. For one thing, you haven't answered my second question. Your opinion of my book or my British limitations as a detective has nothing to do with your attitude toward the play."

      "If you know so much, perhaps you know more."

      "Frankly, I don't. I ask you to tell me the rest as frankly."

      "Very well. Perhaps the medicine will go to the spot quicker if you understand what it's for. It sounds sort of melodramatic, and maybe it is so; but my wish – my intention – to strangle your play at birth, or crush it afterwards, has revenge for its motive."

      "Revenge for what?"

      "For the cruel act of a member of your family to a member of mine."

      "There's only one other member of my family beside myself – my brother."

      "Exactly! That's the man. There's only one other member of my family beside myself. That's my adopted sister. I care more for her than anyone else in the world – except one. Through your brother, my sister's health and her hopes are both ruined. If you didn't know before, you know now what you're up against."

      "I assure you I didn't know," I said. "This is the last thing that occurred to me. I admit I thought of something else – "

      "Oh, is there something else? It's not needed. Still, you may as well out with it, so I can put another black mark against the name."

      "I'll tell you, when I'm ready to talk of the detective test I spoke of. But about my brother injuring your adopted sister. There must be some mistake – "

      "Not on your life, if you're Lord John Hasle and your brother's the Marquis of Haslemere."

      "I can't deny that."

      "It's a pity!"

      "So he often says. He's not proud of me as an author. He'd be still less proud of me on the stage. You'll be doing him a real service if you prevent The Key from being produced, and so keep the family name out of the papers in connection with the theatre."

      "Oh, will I?" Odell echoed. He looked rather blank for a moment; then gathered himself and his black eyebrows together. "You're mighty intelligent, aren't you?" he sneered.

      "I've always thought so. I'm glad you agree. But there's no use our rotting on like this. We're wasting time. Will you tell me what Haslemere can possibly have done?"

      "Yes! What he positively did do!" the man broke out fiercely, then controlled himself and glanced quickly round the room as if looking for someone. But not even Miss Marian Callender had come into the saloon. Both she and her niece must have been dining in their own suite. "Lord Haslemere wrote a letter to your British Lord Chamberlain, or whatever you call his High Mightiness, and caused him to have my sister's presentation at Court cancelled three days before it should have come off in May last year."

      "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "What an extraordinary thing to do!"

      "What a monstrous, what a beastly thing to do! A defenceless girl. A beautiful girl. One of the best on earth. It broke her heart – the humiliation of it, and the shock. She wasn't very strong, and she'd been looking forward to making her bow to your Royalties. Lord knows why she should have cared so much. But she did. She loved England. She has English blood in her veins. She had a sort of loyal feeling to your King and Queen. That is what she got for it. She's never been the same since, and I doubt if she ever will be. All her friends knew she was going to be presented – and then she wasn't. The damned story leaked out somehow, and has been going the rounds ever since. That's why, if your play is produced in New York, I shall see it gets what it deserves – or, anyway, what your family deserves."

      "How do you know Haslemere wrote that letter?" I asked.

      "My sister got it from a woman who was to present her – a friend of Lord Haslemere's wife. She'd seen the letter."

      "Then she must have seen some reason alleged."

      "She did. That to his certain knowledge Miss Madeleine Odell wasn't a proper person to be introduced to their Majesties. Maida not a proper person! She's a saint."

      "What lie about her could have been told to my brother?"

      "I know what lie was told, because it has been told to others. It's blighted her life for years, go where she would on our side of the water. She hoped it wouldn't have got so far as England; and if it hadn't, she'd have settled down in that country to enjoy a little peace. But there it was, like a snake in the grass! The thing I'd give my head to find out is, who spread the lie?"

      "You don't know, then?"

      "No, I don't. It's a black mystery."

      "Better let me use my despised detective talents to solve it."

      "Oh, that's what you've been working up to, is it?"

      "No. How could it be, as I hadn't heard the story when I began to work? But I'm willing to take it on as an extra by and by. My brother and I are scarcely friends. I'm not responsible for his act, and whatever the motive, I don't excuse it. Why go out of his way to hurt a woman? Yet I may be able to atone."

      "Never!"

      "Never's a long word. But just here the time has come to mention the two things I promised to tell you 'later on.' I thought what you had against me might be the name and the plot of my book, dramatised by Carr Price."

      "What the devil is the name or plot of your play to me?"

      "Ah, that was what I wanted to know. It occurred to me as possible that you resented the incident of a key being found in a dead man's pocket, and the title of the book and play which might recall a certain double tragedy to the public mind."

      The blood rushed to the man's face. He understood instantly, and did not choose to pretend ignorance. "How dare you presume that I have a right to resent any such reference?" he challenged me.

      "I dare, because of the second of the two things I reserved to tell you later: the wish I have to prove my detective powers for your benefit. I couldn't help seeing to-day your meeting on deck with Miss Callender. I couldn't help hearing a few words. Because I play at being a detective I keep my wits about me. Also I have a good memory for names and stories connected with them. Mr. Odell, will you separate me in your mind from my brother and give Carr Price's play a chance for its life if I tell you who killed Perry and Ned Callender-Graham, and prove to Miss Callender that there's no reason why she need be afraid to give her love to any man?"

      Odell stared as if he thought I had gone mad or he was dreaming.

      "Who killed Perry and Ned Graham?" he repeated. "No one killed them."

      "You are wrong," I said quietly.

      "That's your opinion!" he blurted out.

      "That's my opinion. And if I'm right, if those two were murdered, and if the murderer or murderers can be found, won't Miss Callender feel she may safely marry a man she loves without delivering him up to danger?"

      "Yes," Odell admitted. "Great Heaven, if you were right!"

      "Supposing I am, and can prove it?"

      "There's nothing on God's earth I wouldn't do for you."

      "Well," I said, "I believe there's something in that opinion of mine. Don't dream that now I am getting at this truth I would bury it even if you did worse than crush my play. I'll go on, anyhow, but – "

      "You say you are getting at the truth," he broke in. "What do you think – what do you know? But how can you, a stranger, know anything?"

      "A stranger to you and those connected with the case, but not to the case itself. You may thank