"Know what, Saunders? Know what?"

"Know what? Why, that Ruth Atheson is _not_ Ruth Atheson."

"Then who _is_ she?"

Saunders drew a deep breath, and stared hard at Mark for what seemed a
long time to both. The detective broke the tension.

"Griffin," he almost shouted, "either I am a fool, and ought to be
given a job as town crier, or you are the cleverest I've ever gone up
against, or--"

"Or," Mark's voice was still quiet, "I may be entirely lacking in the
knowledge which you possess. Get it off your mind, man--better do it
soon, for you will _have to_ later on, you know. I have _quite_ made
up my mind on that."

"Yes," Saunders seemed half satisfied, "yes, you may not know--it
really looks as if you didn't. Are you the simon-pure Mark Griffin,
brother of Baron Griffin of the Irish peerage?"

"Yes. Where did you get that last bit of information?"

Saunders ignored the query.

"Did you really drop in here as a traveler, aiming at nothing in
particular?"