"Mr. Jocelyn Thew is his name," Crawshay replied. "He was on the steamer.
It is he, and not Gant, whom we have to make for. The plot which we have to
unravel, which Gant and Phillips, and, unwittingly, Miss Beverley carried
through, was of his scheming."

"Mr. Jocelyn Thew," the detective repeated as they passed through the swing
doors. "So that is how he calls himself now!"

"You know him?"

"Know him!" Brightman repeated bitterly. "The last time I saw him I could
have sworn that I had him booked for Sing Sing prison. He got out of it, as
he always has done. Some one else paid. It was the greatest failure I had
when I was in the States. So he is in this thing, is he?"

"He is not only very much in it," Crawshay replied, "but he is the brains
of the whole expedition. He is the man to whom Gant delivered those
documents some time last night."

They found two easy-chairs in the smoking room and ordered cocktails. Mr.
Brightman sat forward in his chair. He was one of those men whose
individuality seems to rise to any call made upon it. He was indifferently
dressed, by no means good-looking, and he had started life as a policeman.
Just now, however, he seemed to sink quite naturally into his surroundings.
Nothing about his appearance seemed worthy of note except the determination
of his very dogged mouth.

"I accepted your commission a short time ago, Mr. Crawshay," he said, "with
the interest which one always feels in Government business of a
remunerative character. I tell you now that I would have taken it on