prevent our plans from going awry. Please keep it until I ask you for it."
And turning, Lord Harrowby walked rapidly toward the house.
"The brute!" Angrily Mr. Minot stood turning the necklace over in his hand. "So he frightened the girl he is to marry—the girl he is supposed to love—"
What should he do? Go to her, and tell her of Harrowby's amiable eccentricities? He could hardly do that—Harrowby had taken him into his confidence—and besides there was Jephson of the great bald head, the Peter Pan eyes. Nothing to do but wait.
Returning to the hotel from Mrs. Bruce's villa, he found awaiting him a cable from Jephson. The cable assured him that beyond any question the man in San Marco was Allan Harrowby and, like Cæsar's wife, above suspicion.
Yet even as he read. Lord Harrowby walked through the lobby, and at his side was Mr. James O'Malley, house detective of the Hotel de la Pax. They came from the manager's office, where they had evidently been closeted.
With the cablegram in Ids hand, Minot en-
