d furnishings of that house. On the other hand,
it would have been very characteristic of Eliza Fiddle to leave the
house as carelessly as it had been left, with valuable or invaluable
bibelots lying about all over the place. Almost certainly Eliza Fiddle
must have had some sort of effective ownership of the place. He knew
that dazzling public favourites did sometimes enjoy astounding and
mysterious luck in the matter of luxurious homes, and that some of them
progressed through a series of such homes, each more inexplicable than
the last. He would not pursue the enquiry, even in his own mind. He had
of course no grudge against the efficient and strenuous Eliza, for he
was perfectly at liberty not to pay money in order to see her. She must
be an exceedingly clever woman; and it was not in him to cast stones.
Yet, Pharisaical snob, he did most violently resent that she should be
opposite his wife in _The Sunday Picture...._ Eve! Eve! A few short
weeks ago, and you made a mock of women who let themselves get into _The
Daily Picture_. And now you are there yourself! (But so, and often, was
the siren Lady Massulam! A ticklish thing, criticism of life!)

And there was another point, as sharp as any. Ozzie Morfey must have
known, Charlie must have known, Sissie must have known, Eve herself must
have known, that the _de facto_ owner of the noble mansion was Eliza
Fiddle. And none had vouchsafed the truth to him.

"We'll struggle back to town I think," said Mr. Prohack to Carthew, with
a pitiable affectation of brightness. And instead of sitting by
Carthew's side, as previously, he sat behind, and reflected upon the
wisdom of Carthew. He had held that Carthew's views were warped by a
peculiar experience. He now saw that they were not warped at all, but
shapely, sane and incontrovertible.

II

That evening, soon after dark, the Eagle, dusty and unkempt from a
journey which had not been free from mishaps, rolled up to the
front-door of Mr. Prohack's original modest residence behind Hyde Park;
and Mr. Prohack jumped out; and Carthew came after him with two bags.
The house was as dark as the owner's soul; not a gleam of light in any
window. Mr. Prohack produced his familiar latch-key, scraped round the
edge of the key-hole, savagely pushed in the key, and opened the door.
There was still no light nor sign of life. Mr. Prohack paused on the
threshold, and then his hand instinctively sought the electric switch
and pulled it down