“Oh, I know who he was,” said Sir James easily. “I can’t prove it yet⁠—but I know.”

The other two asked no questions. They had an instinct that it would be mere waste of breath.

“But what I don’t understand,” said the Prime-Minister suddenly, “is how that photograph came to be in Mr. Hersheimmer’s drawer?”

“Perhaps it never left it,” suggested the lawyer gently.

“But the bogus inspector? Inspector Brown?”

“Ah!” said Sir James thoughtfully. He rose to his feet. “I mustn’t keep you. Go on with the affairs of the nation. I must get back to⁠—my case.”

Two days later Julius Hersheimmer returned from Manchester. A note from Tommy lay on his table:

“Dear Hersheimmer,

“Sorry I lost my temper. In case I don’t see you again, goodbye. I’ve been offered a job in the Argentine, and might as well take it.

“Yours,

“Tommy Beresford.”

“Dear Hersheimmer,

“Sorry I lost my temper. In case I don’t see you again, goodbye. I’ve been offered a job in the Argentine, and might as well take it.

“Yours,

“Tommy Beresford.”