“He seems confident,” mused the Prime Minister.

“Yes, and that’s what gives me hope.  He’s the kind of diffident youth who would have to be very sure before he ventured an opinion at all.”

A half smile came to the other’s lips.

“And it is this—­boy who will defeat the master criminal of our time?”

“This—­boy, as you say!  But I sometimes fancy I see a shadow behind.”

“You mean?”

“Peel Edgerton.”

“Peel Edgerton?” said the Prime Minister in astonishment.

“Yes.  I see his hand in this.”  He struck the open letter.  “He’s there—­working in the dark, silently, unobtrusively.  I’ve always felt that if anyone was to run Mr. Brown to earth, Peel Edgerton would be the man.  I tell you he’s on the case now, but doesn’t want it known.  By the way, I got rather an odd request from him the other day.”

“Yes?”

“He sent me a cutting from some American paper.  It referred to a man’s body found near the docks in New York about three weeks ago.  He asked me to collect any information on the subject I could.”

“Well?”

Carter shrugged his shoulders.

“I couldn’t get much.  Young fellow about thirty-five—­poorly dressed—­face very badly disfigured.  He was never identified.”

“And you fancy that the two matters are connected in some way?”

“Somehow I do.  I may be wrong, of course.”

There was a pause, then Mr. Carter continued: 

“I asked him to come round here.  Not that we’ll get anything out of him he doesn’t want to tell.  His legal instincts are too strong.  But there’s no doubt he can throw light on one or two obscure points in young Beresford’s letter.  Ah, here he is!”

The two men rose to greet the new-comer.  A half whimsical thought flashed across the Premier’s mind.  “My successor, perhaps!”

“We’ve had a letter from young Beresford,” said Mr. Carter, coming to the point at once.  “You’ve seen him, I suppose?”

“You suppose wrong,” said the lawyer.

“Oh!” Mr. Carter was a little nonplussed.

Sir James smiled, and stroked his chin.

“He rang me up,” he volunteered.

“Would you have any objection to telling us exactly what passed between you?”

“Not at all.  He thanked me for a certain letter which I had written to him—­as a matter of fact, I had offered him a job.  Then he reminded me of something I had said to him at Manchester respecting that bogus telegram which lured Miss Cowley away.  I asked him if anything untoward had occurred.  He said it had—­that in a drawer in Mr. Hersheimmer’s room he had discovered a photograph.”  The laywer{sic} paused, then continued:  “I asked him if the photograph bore the name and address of a Californian photographer.  He replied:  ‘You’re on to it, sir.  It had.’  Then he went on to tell me something I didn’t know.  The original of that photograph was the French girl, Annette, who saved his life.”