“Well?  Let’s hear,” he said.

“It doesn’t sound like much; but it will probably be news to you, as it certainly was to me.  It’s this, Mr. Gryce:  A certain gentleman we know has been contemplating matrimony; but since this accident happened at the museum,—­that is, within the last two days,—­the engagement has been broken off.”

“So!  But I thought he had not got so far as an engagement.  You mean young Correy——­”

“No, Mr. Gryce, I do not.  I mean—­the other.”

“The other!  Well, that’s worth listening to.  Engaged, eh, and now all of a sudden free again?  At whose instance, Sweetwater, his or hers?  Did you hear?”

“Not exactly, but—­it’s quite a story, sir.  I had it from his chauffeur and will tell it to you later if you are in a hurry to go home.”

“Home!  Come back with me into Headquarters.  I’ve got to sleep to-night.”

Sweetwater laughed, and together they retraced their steps.

“You see, sir,” the young detective began as they drew their chairs together in an unoccupied corner, “you gave me a task the other day which called for the help of a friend—­one at court, I mean, a fellow who not only knows the gentleman but has access to his person and his wardrobe.  X does not keep a man-servant—­men of his intellectual type seldom do—­but does own a limousine and consequently employs a chauffeur.  To meet and make this chauffeur mine took me just two days.  I don’t know how I did it.  I never know how I do it,” he added with a sheepish smile as Mr. Gryce gave utterance to his old-fashioned “Umph!” “I don’t flatter and I don’t bring out my pocketbook or offer drinks or even cigars, but I get ’em, as you know, and get ’em strong, perhaps because I don’t make any great effort.

“After an evening spent in the garage with this man, he was ready to talk, and this is what slipped out, among a lot of nonsensical gossip.  Mr. X, the real Mr. X this time, has, besides his apartment in New York, a place on Long Island.  The latter has been recently bought and, though fine enough, is being added to and refitted as no man at his age would take the trouble of doing, if he hadn’t a woman in mind.  The chauffeur—­Holmes is his name—­is no fool, and has seen for some time that Mr. X, for all his goings to and fro and the many calls he is in the habit of making on a certain young lady, did not expect him—­that is, Holmes—­to notice anything beyond the limits of his work, or to recognize in any way his employer’s secret intentions.  But fortunately for us, this man Holmes is just one of those singularly meddlesome people whose curiosity grows with every attempt at repression; and when, coincident with that disastrous happening at the museum, all these loverlike attentions ceased and no calls were made and no presents sent, and gloom instead of cheer marked his employer’s manner, he made up his mind to sacrifice a portion of his dignity rather than endure the fret of a mystery he did not understand.  This meant not only keeping his eyes open,—­this he had always done,—­but his ears as well.