On the whole, Mrs. Hill decided to wait.  She could delay with safety, for she had proof which would utterly crush and confound the hated interloper.

Meanwhile, the detective pursued his investigations.  Of course, he visited Simpson’s, and there he learned that the opera glass, which he readily recognized from the description, had been brought there a few days previous.

“Who brought it?” he asked.

“A boy of about sixteen.”

“Did he give his name?”

The books were referred to, and the attendant answered in the affirmative.

“He gave the name of Ben Barclay,” he answered.

“Do you think that was his real name?” asked the detective.

“That depends on whether he had a right to pawn it.”

“Suppose he stole it?”

“Then, probably, he did not give his real name.”

“So I think,” said Mr. Lynx quietly.

“Do you know if there is a boy by that name?”

“There is; but I doubt if he knows anything about the matter.”

“I will call again, perhaps to-morrow,” he added.  “I must report to my principal what I have discovered.”

From Simpson’s he went straight to Mrs. Hamilton, who had as yet received no communication from the housekeeper.

“Well, Mr. Lynx,” she asked, with interest, “have you heard anything of the glass?”

“I have seen it,” was the quiet reply.

“Where?”

“At a well-known pawnshop on the Bowery.”

“Did you learn who left it?” asked Mrs. Hamilton eagerly.

“A boy—­about sixteen years of age—­who gave the name of Ben Barclay.”

“I can’t believe Ben would be guilty of such a disgraceful act!” ejaculated Mrs. Hamilton, deeply moved.

CHAPTER XXVIII MRS. HILL’S MALICE

At this moment there was a low knock on the door.

“Come in!” said Mrs. Hamilton.

Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper, glided in, with her usual stealthy step.

“I really beg pardon for intruding,” she said, with a slight cough, “but I thought perhaps I might throw light on the matter Mr. Lynx is investigating.”

“Well?” said the detective, eying her attentively.

“I had occasion to go into Ben’s room to see if the girl had put things in order, when my attention was drawn to a ticket upon the bureau.  You can tell whether it is of importance,” and she handed it, with an air of deference, to Mr. Lynx.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Hamilton.

“It is a pawn ticket,” answered Mr. Lynx attentively.

“Let me see it, please!”

Mrs. Hamilton regarded it with mingled pain and incredulity.

“I need not say,” continued the housekeeper, “that I was surprised and saddened at this evidence of the boy’s depravity.  Cousin Hamilton has been so kind to him that it seems like the height of ingratitude.”