He spoke so quietly and at the same time so convincingly that both Arthur and Uncle John accepted his explanation unquestioningly.  Nevertheless, in the embarrassing dilemma in which Jones would presently be involved, the story would be sure to bear the stamp of unreality to any uninterested hearer.

The girls had now begun to chatter over the theatre plans, and their “financial backer”—­as Patsy Doyle called him—­joined them with eager interest.  Arthur sat at a near-by desk writing a letter; Uncle John glanced over the morning paper; Inez, the Mexican nurse, brought baby to Louise for a kiss before it went for a ride in its perambulator.

An hour had passed when Le Drieux entered the lobby in company with a thin-faced, sharp-eyed man in plain clothes.  They walked directly toward the group that was seated by the open alcove window, and Arthur Weldon, observing them and knowing what was about to happen, rose from the writing-desk and drew himself tensely together as he followed them.  Uncle John lowered his paper, frowned at Le Drieux and then turned his eyes upon the face of young Jones.

It was the thin-featured man who advanced and lightly touched the boy’s arm.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said he, in even, unemotional tones.  “You are Mr. Andrews, I believe—­Mr. Jack Andrews?”

The youth turned his head to look at his questioner.

“No, sir,” he answered with a smile.  “A case of mistaken identity.  My name is Jones.”  Then, continuing his speech to Patsy Doyle, he said:  “There is no need to consider the acoustic properties of our theatres, for the architect—­”

“Pardon me again,” interrupted the man, more sternly.  “I am positive this is not a case of mistaken identity.  We have ample proof that Jack Andrews is parading here, under the alias of ‘A.  Jones.’”

The boy regarded him with a puzzled expression.

“What insolence!” muttered Beth in an under-tone but audible enough to be distinctly heard.

The man flushed slightly and glanced at Le Drieux, who nodded his head.  Then he continued firmly: 

“In any event, sir, I have a warrant for your arrest, and I hope you will come with me quietly and so avoid a scene.”

The boy grew pale and then red.  His eyes narrowed as he stared fixedly at the officer.  But he did not change his position, nor did he betray either fear or agitation.  In a voice quite unmoved he asked: 

“On what charge do you arrest me?”

“You are charged with stealing a valuable collection of pearls from the Countess Ahmberg, at Vienna, about a year ago.”

“But I have never been in Vienna.”

“You will have an opportunity to prove that.”

“And my name is not Andrews.”

“You must prove that, also.”

The boy thought for a moment.  Then he asked: 

“Who accuses me?”

“This gentleman; Mr. Le Drieux.  He is an expert in pearls, knows intimately all those in the collection of the countess and has recognized several which you have recently presented to your friends, as among those you brought from Austria.”