ord, and late the same afternoon his reply came
at the Cecil:--

"_Due in London twentieth. Dine with me at club that evening_--Jack."

The twentieth! That meant nearly a month of inactivity. In that time I
could cross to Abo, make inquiries there, and ascertain, perhaps, if
Elma Heath were actually dead as Chater had declared.

Two facts struck me as remarkable: Baron Oberg was said to be Polish,
while the dark-bearded proprietor of the restaurant in Westbourne Grove
was also of the same nationality. Then I recollected that pretty little
enameled cross that Mackenzie had found in Rannoch Wood, and it suddenly
occurred to me that it might possibly be the miniature of one of the
European orders of chivalry. In the club library at midnight I found a
copy of Cappelletti's _Storia degli Ordini Cavallereschi_, the standard
work on the subject, and on searching the illustrations I at length
discovered a picture of it. It was a Russian order--the coveted Order of
Saint Anne, bestowed by the Czar only upon persons who have rendered
eminent services to the State and to the sovereign. One fact was now
certain, namely, that the owner of that tiny cross, the small replica of
the fine decoration, must be a person of high official standing.

Next day I spent in making inquiries with a view to discovering the
house said to be occupied by Leithcourt. As it was not either in the
Directory or the Blue Book, I concluded that he had perhaps rented it
furnished, and after many inquiries and considerable difficulties I
found that such was the fact. He had occupied the house of Lady
Heathcote, a few doors from Grosvenor Square, for the previous season,
although he had lived there but very little.

Where the fugitives were in hiding I had no idea. I longed to meet
Muriel again and tell her what I had discovered, yet it was plain that
the trio were concealing themselves from Hylton Chater, whom I supposed
to be now back in London.

The autumn days were dull and rainy, and the streets were muddy and
unpleasant, as they always are at the fall of the year. Compelled to
remain inactive, I idled in the club with the recollection of that
pictured face ever before me--the face of the unfortunate girl who
wished her last message to be conveyed to Philip Hornby. What, I
wondered, was her secret? What was really her fate?

This latter question troubled me until I could bear it no longer. I felt
that it was my duty to go to Finland and endeavor to