eir own and to be connected with
titled families. If you can't make him realize that by gentle
means, take him into the garden and bang it into him--hard."

"Thank you, sir; thank you! I can see it now, Mr. Cleek. Not much
use in shouting 'Rule Britannia' if you're going to ship on a foreign
craft, is there, sir? But anybody would have been taken in with
her--she seemed such a sweet, gentle little thing and had such
winning ways. And when she lost her father, the wife and I simply
couldn't help taking her to our hearts."

"Quite so. Ever see that 'father,' Mr. Beachman?"

"Yes, sir, once; the day before he sailed--or was supposed to have
sailed--for the States."

"Short, thick-set man was he? Carried one shoulder a little lower
than the other, and had lost the top of a finger on the left hand?"

"Yes, sir; the little finger. That's him to a T."

"Boris Borovonski!" declared Cleek, glancing over at Sir Charles.
"No going to the States for that gentleman with a 'deal' like this on
hand. He'd be close by and in constant touch with her. Did she have
any friends in the town, Mr. Beachman?"

"No, not one. She appeared to be of a very retiring disposition, and
made no acquaintances whatsoever. The only outside person I ever
knew her to take any interest in was a crippled girl who lived with
her bedridden mother and took in needlework. Greta heard of the case,
and went to visit them. Afterward she used to carry work to them
frequently, and sometimes fruit and flowers."

"Ever see that bedridden woman or that cripple girl?"

"No, sir, never. Harry and I would be busy here most of the days,
so she always went alone."

"Did she ever ask Mrs. Beachman to accompany her?"

"Not that I ever heard of, sir. But it would have been to no purpose
if she had. The wife is a very delicate woman; she rarely ever goes
anywhere."

"Hum-m-m! I see! So, then, you really do not know if there actually
was a woman or a girl at all? Any idea where the persons were
supposed to live?"

"Yes. They hired a room on the top floor of a house adjoining the
Ocean Billow Hotel, sir. At least, Reggie--that's my youngest son,
Mr. Cleek--saw Greta go in there and look down from one of the top
floor windows one day when he was on his way home from school. He
spoke to her about it at the dinner table that night, and she said
that that was where her 'pensioners lived.'"

"Pretty good neighbourhood that, by Jove! for people who were
'pensioners' to