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.

It sounded strange to Forbes.  Mason had unconsciously fallen into the old tone and mode of address, and he himself recognized him now.

“Till nine-thirty, then.  At that time I shall notify Haggerty.”

“The boat?”

“Oh, no.  I’m giving you that chance without conditions.  It’s up to Haggerty to find you.  There’s one question I should like to ask you.  Were you in this sort of business while you were serving me?”

Mason laughed.  The real man shone in his eyes and smile.  “I was.  It was very exciting.  It was very amusing, too.  I valeted you during the day-time and went about my own peculiar business at night.  I entered your service to rob you and remained to serve you; ten years.  I want you always to remember this:  to you I was loyal, that I stood between you and death because you were the only being I was fond of.  You are the one bit of sentiment that ever entered my life.  Well, I must be off.  But I’ve had a jolly time of it, masquerading as a titled gentleman.  What a comedy!  How the fools kotowed and simpered while I looked over their jewels and speculated upon how much I could get for them!  But I had my code.  I never pilfered in the houses of my hosts.  I set a fine trap for that simple young man down-stairs, and he fell into it, head-first.  Trust an Englishman of his sort to see nothing beyond his nose.  I’m off.  Good-by, Mr. Crawford.  I’m grateful.”  The man stepped out of the window and vanished into the night.

Crawford glanced at his watch; it was eight-ten.