The late Lord Henry Monckton shrugged. He had not lived intimately
with this quiet-voiced man for ten years without having acquired the
knowledge that he never wasted words.

"You're a dangerously clever man, Mason. I noted at dinner that in
some manner you had destroyed Haggerty's photograph of your
finger-tips. But I recognize you, and know you--your gestures, the
turn of your head, every little mannerism. And if you do not do as I
bid, I'll take my oath in court as to your identity. Besides,"--with a
nod toward the suitcases--"if you're not the man, why this hurry? An
hour. I see, fortunately, you have already changed your clothes. Be
off!"

"All right. I'm Mason. I knew the game was up the moment I saw you.
Any one but you, Mr. Crawford, would pay for this interruption, pistol
or no pistol. An hour. So be it. You might tell that fool
down-stairs and give him the papers you find in my grip. Miss
Killigrew's sapphires, I regret to say, are no more. The mistake I
made in London was in returning the Nana Sahib's ruby."

"There is always one mistake," replied Crawford sternly. He felt sad,
too.

"Off with you, Tibbets! We can make the train for New York if we
hustle."

The man-servant's brilliant eyes flashed evilly.

"Will you make it an hour and a half, sir?" asked Mason, as his valet
slid over the window-sill.