was a trick of his to pick up objects on
his desk, and turn them in his thin, nervous fingers. Beaumont-Greene
was not seriously alarmed. He had great faith in a weapon which had
served him faithfully, his lying tongue.

"Yes, sir. I thought you would be willing to advance the money for a few
days, and then----"

"And then?"

"And then I thought I wouldn't bother you. It never occurred to me that
I was getting a tradesman into trouble. I hope you won't be hard on him,
sir."

"I shall not be hard on him," said Warde, "because"--for a moment his
eyes flashed--"because he came to me and confessed his fault; but I
won't deny that I gave him a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour. He
sat in your chair."

Beaumont-Greene shuffled uneasily.

"Have you this thirty pounds in your pocket?" asked Warde, casually.

Beaumont-Greene began to regret his haste in settling.

"No, sir."

"Some of it?"

"None of it."

"You sent it to London? To buy these handsome presents?"

"Ye-es, sir."

"You hadn't much time. Lock-up's early, and you received the money in
gold. Did you buy Orders?"

Beaumont-Greene's head began to buzz. He found himself wondering why
Warde was speaking in this smooth, quiet voice, so different from his
usual curt, incisive tones.

"Yes, sir."

"At the Harrow post-office?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah."

Again the house-master picked up the letter, but this time he didn't lay
down the lens. Instead he used it, very deliberately. Beaumont-Greene
shivered; with difficulty he clenched his teeth, so as to prevent them
clicking like castanets. Then Warde held up the sheet of paper to the
light of the lamp. Obviously he wished to examine the watermark. The
paper was thin notepaper, the kind that is sold everywhere for foreign
correspondence. Beaumont-Greene, economical in such matters, had bought
a couple of quires when his people went abroad. The paper he had bought
did not quite match the Roman envelope. Warde opened a drawer, from
which he took some thin paper. This also he held up to the light.

"It's an odd coincidence," he said, tranquilly; "your father in Rome
uses the same notepaper that I buy here. But the envelope is Italian?"

He spoke interrogatively, but the wretch opposite had lost the power of
speech. He collapsed. Warde rose, throwing aside his quiet manner as if
it were a drab-coloured cloak. Now he was himself, alert, on edge,
sanguine.

"You fool!" he exclaimed; "you clumsy fool! Why,