only child.  A railway accident had suddenly deprived her of both parents, throwing her wholly upon her own resources, without a penny in the world.  Sir Horace had gracefully come to the rescue and given her a home and a refuge, being doubly repaid for it by the affection and care she gave him and the manner in which she assumed control of a household which hitherto had been left wholly to the attention of servants, Lady Wyvern having long been dead, and her two daughters of that type which devotes itself entirely to the pleasures of society and the demands of the world.  A regular pepper-box of a man—­testy, short-tempered, exacting—­Sir Horace had flown headlong to Superintendent Narkom’s office as soon as that gentleman’s note, telling him of the Vanishing Cracksman’s latest threat, had been delivered, and, on Miss Lorne’s advice, had withheld all news of it from the members of his household and brought her with him.

“I tell you that Scotland Yard must do something—­must! must! must!” stormed he as Narkom, resenting that stigma upon the institution, puckered up his lips and looked savage.  “That fellow has always kept his word—­always, in spite of your precious band of muffs—­and if you let him keep it this time, when there’s upwards of L40,000 worth of jewels in the house, it will be nothing less than a national disgrace, and you and your wretched collection of bunglers will be covered with deserved ridicule.”

Narkom swung round, smarting under these continued taunts, these “flings” at the efficiency of his prided department, his nostrils dilated, his temper strained to the breaking-point.

“Well, he won’t keep it this time—­I promise you that!” he rapped out sharply.  “Sooner or later every criminal, no matter how clever, meets his Waterloo—­and this shall be his!  I’ll take this affair in hand myself, Sir Horace.  I’ll not only send the pick of my men to guard the jewels, but I’ll go with them; and if that fellow crosses the threshold of Wyvern House to-night, by the Lord, I’ll have him.  He will have to be the devil himself to get away from me!  Miss Lorne”—­recollecting himself and bowing apologetically—­“I ask your pardon for this strong language—­my temper got the better of my manners.”

“It does not matter, Mr. Narkom, so that you preserve my cousin’s wedding-gifts from that appalling man,” she answered with a gentle inclination of the head and with a smile that made the superintendent think she must certainly be the most beautiful creature in all the world, it so irradiated her face and added to the magic of her glorious eyes.  “It does not matter what you say, what you do, so long as you accomplish that.”