. I shouldn't wonder if she stole those papers from Danvers to
begin with."

"I'm darned if she did!" shouted Julius. "She's my cousin, and as
patriotic a girl as ever stepped."

"I don't care a damn what she is, but get out of here!" retorted Tommy
also at the top of his voice.

The young men were on the point of coming to blows. But suddenly, with
an almost magical abruptness, Julius's anger abated.

"All right, son," he said quietly, "I'm going. I don't blame you any for
what you've been saying. It's mighty lucky you did say it. I've been
the most almighty blithering darned idiot that it's possible to imagine.
Calm down"--Tommy had made an impatient gesture--"I'm going right away
now--going to the London and North Western Railway depot, if you want to
know."

"I don't care a damn where you're going," growled Tommy.

As the door closed behind Julius, he returned to his suit-case.

"That's the lot," he murmured, and rang the bell.

"Take my luggage down."

"Yes, sir. Going away, sir?"

"I'm going to the devil," said Tommy, regardless of the menial's
feelings.

That functionary, however, merely replied respectfully:

"Yes, sir. Shall I call a taxi?"

Tommy nodded.

Where was he going? He hadn't the faintest idea. Beyond a fixed
determination to get even with Mr. Brown he had no plans. He re-read Sir
James's letter, and shook his head. Tuppence must be avenged. Still, it
was kind of the old fellow.

"Better answer it, I suppose." He went across to the writing-table.
With the usual perversity of bedroom stationery, there were innumerable
envelopes and no paper. He rang. No one came. Tommy fumed at the
delay. Then he remembered that there was a good supply in Julius's
sitting-room. The American had announced his immediate departure, there
would be no fear of running up against him. Besides, he wouldn't mind if
he did. He was beginning to be rather ashamed of the things he had said.
Old Julius had taken them jolly well. He'd apologize if he found him
there.

But the room was deserted. Tommy walked across to the writing-table,
and opened the middle drawer. A photograph, carelessly thrust in face
upwards, caught his eye. For a moment he stood rooted to the ground.
Then he took it out, shut the drawer, walked slowly over to an
arm-chair, and sat down still staring at the photograph in his hand.

What on earth was a photograph of the French girl Annette doing in
Julius Hersheimmer's writing-table?