edifying character. But
Pinto had managed to escape public opprobrium.

The Orpheum, at any rate, helped to baffle the police, who saw Silva
living at the rate of twenty thousand a year, and were unable to trace
the source of his income. That he had estates in Portugal was known; but
they had been acquired, apparently, on the profits of the music-hall. He
was not a speculator, though he was a shareholder in a number of
companies which were controlled by the colonel; and he was certainly not
a gambler, in the generally accepted sense of the term.

Whilst he was suspected of being intimately connected with several shady
transactions, he could boast truly that there was not a scrap of
evidence to associate him with any breach of the law. He was less
inclined to boast that evening, when he turned into the stage-box at the
Orpheum, and pulling his chair into the shadow of the draperies, sat
back and considered his position. He had returned from Yorkshire in a
panic, and had met the fury of the colonel's reproaches. It was the
worst quarter of an hour that Pinto had ever spent with his superior,
and the memory made him shiver.

The stage-box at the Orpheum was never sold to any member of the public.
It was Pinto's private possession, his sitting-room and his office. He
sat watching with gloomy interest the progress of the little revue which
was a feature of the Orpheum programme, and his mind was occupied by a
very pressing problem. He was shaken, too, by the interview he had had
with the Huddersfield police.

He had had to fake a story to explain why he left the library, and why,
in his absence, Mr. Crotin had committed suicide. Fortunately, he had
returned to the house by the front hall and was in the hall inventing a
story of burglars to the agitated Lady Sybil when they heard the shot
which ended the wretched life of the bigamist. That had saved him from
being suspected of actual complicity in the crime. Suppose they had--he
sweated at the thought.

There was a knock on the door of the box, and an attendant put in his
head.

"There's a gentleman to see you, sir," he said; "he says he has an
appointment."

"What is his name?"

"Mr. Cartwright."

Pinto nodded.

"Show him in, please," he said, and dismissed all unpleasant thoughts.

The new-comer proved to be a dapper little man, with a weather-beaten
face. He was in evening dress, and spoke like a gentleman.

"I had your letter, Mr. Silva," he said. "You rec