suit, a straw hat and brown boots-- Furneaux, the man whom he had
looked on as somewhat of a crank and visionary during their talk of
the previous night.

"You?" he gasped, and the note of recognition was sharpened by a
sudden sense of dismay, almost of alarm, because of the overwhelming
knowledge that now all his scheming had collapsed, while the
representatives of Scotland Yard would regard him as nothing more than
a poor sort of trickster.

But Forbes was not in the habit of yielding to any man, no matter what
his status, or howsoever awe-inspiring might be the department of
state which he represented.

"Who the devil are you, at any rate?" he cried angrily. "And what
right have you to spy on gentlemen in this manner, listening to their
conversation, and breaking in with a cheap stage effect obviously
intended to startle?"

Furneaux remained motionless, his feet set well apart and his hands
thrust into his trousers pockets. The trim, natty figure, the spruce
and Summer-like attire, the small, wizened face with its cynically
humorous and wide-awake aspect-- above all, a certain jauntiness of
air and cocksure expression-- certainly did not suggest a comedian
fresh from the boards.

"You tell," he said, nodding to Theydon.

"This is Mr. Furneaux of Scotland Yard," said the latter nervously. He
imagined he could detect in Furneaux's glance a mixture of amusement