"I brought him here as you suggested, Mr. McKnight," said the constable.
But McKnight was doubled over the library table in silent convulsions of mirth, and I was almost as bad. Little Hotchkiss stood up, his important attitude finally changing to one of chagrin, while the blond man ceased to look angry, and became sheepish.
It was Stuart, our confidential clerk for the last half-dozen years!
McKnight sat up and wiped his eyes.
"Stuart," he said sternly, "there are two very serious things we have learned about you. First, you jab your scarf pins into your cushion with your left hand, which is most reprehensible; second, you wear—er—night-shirts, instead of pajamas. Worse than that, perhaps, we find that one of them has a buttonhole torn out at the neck."
Stuart was bewildered. He looked from McKnight to me, and then at the crestfallen Hotchkiss.
"I haven't any idea what it's all about," he said. "I was arrested as I reached my boarding-
