as a forgery and was laughing at its clumsiness; but there would come a waking time when it realised that as a forgery it had no bearing upon the solution of the murder mystery, and that would be the moment of danger. She found her son, Charles Matthewson, and taking his arm went to the refreshment room.
"You're dead tired, mother," he said. "A man of iron couldn't stand these affairs."
"No," she said. "It requires something finer than iron. Your man of iron is a poor simile for strength. It's got to be better than that."
"By George; I only hope when I'm sixty, I can stand as much as you!"
"Is that your tact, Charles, to mention a woman's age in public? I know the people know my age, but I object to their knowing that I know."
"Much you care, mother. You can leave such stuff as that to the silly herd."
A man passed by and took his seat at a table out of ear range. He did not look in her direction as he passed, and she did not even glance in his; but she felt his presence, and knew also that Charles had
