ng lady had left, even yet. Dr. Lepardo expressed his
anxiety to make her acquaintance, and was conducted by the garrulous old
charwoman to an office in Copthall Avenue. The required young lady was
found.

"My dear," said Dr. Lepardo, paternally, "I have a private matter of
utmost importance to tell to Miss Maitland--to-night. Where shall I find
her?"

She lived, he was informed, at No. ---- Stockwell Road, S.W. He took his
departure, leaving an excellent impression behind him and half a
sovereign in the hand of the charwoman. A torpedo-like racing car was
waiting near Lothbury corner, and therein, Dr. Lepardo very shortly was
whirling southward. The chauffeur negotiated London Bridge in a manner
that filled the hearts of a score of taxi drivers with awe and
wonderment. Stockwell Road was reached in twelve and a half minutes.

A dingy maid informed Dr. Lepardo that Miss Maitland had just finished
her dinner. Would he walk up?

Dr. Lepardo walked up and made himself known to the pretty brown-haired
girl who rose to greet him. Miss Maitland clearly was surprised--and a
little frightened--by this unexpected visit. Her glance strayed from the
visitor to a silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece and back again
to Dr. Lepardo in a curiously wistful way.

"My dear," he said, and his kindly, paternal manner seemed to reassure
her somewhat, "I have come to ask your help in a----"

He suddenly stepped to the mantelpiece and peered at the photograph. It
was that of a rather odd-looking young man, and bore the inscription:
"To Iris. Lawrence."

"Why, yes," he burst out; "surely this is my old friend! Can it be my
old friend--Gardener--Gaston--ah! I have no memory for his name. The
good boy, Lawrence Greely?"

The girl's eyes opened wildly.

"Guthrie!" she said, blushing. "You mean Guthrie?"

"Ah! Guthrie," cried the doctor, triumphantly. "You know my old friend,
Lawrence Guthrie? He is in England?"

"He has never left it, to my knowledge," said the girl with sudden
doubt.

"Foolish me," exclaimed Lepardo. "It was his father that lives abroad,
in the East--Bagdad--Cairo."

"Constantinople," corrected Miss Maitland.

"Still the old foolish," rumbled her odd visitor. "Always the old fool.
To be certain, it was Constantinople."

A curious gleam had crept into the keen eyes that twinkled behind the
pebbles.

"He used to say to me, the Guthrie pere, 'I send that boy Turkish pipes
and ornaments and curiosities fo