"I will telephone for the car, M'sieur," but Ronnie shook his head. "I will walk," he said. "You need not wait, François. Have I a key?" "Yes, M'sieur," wonderingly, "it is on the chain of m'sieur." Ronnie pulled a bunch from his pocket. "Which is it--this?" "Certainly, M'sieur." "You need not wait," said Ronnie again. "I do not know when I shall be in." "Good, M'sieur." Well might François wonder, for Ronnie was speaking in French, the French of a man who had lived with French people. And Ronald Morelle, though he had a knowledge of that language, never spoke it, or if he did, his accent was bad and his vocabulary limited. It was eight o'clock at night when Ronnie returned. The flat was in darkness and was chilly. He turned on the lights before he closed the door and had a difficulty in finding the switch. It took him a longer time to locate the controls of the electric stove in the fireplace. They were skilfully hidden. In the kitchenette he lit a gas-ring and filling a copper kettle, set the water to boil. François, in his hurry to meet his brother that morning, had forgotten to dust the black writing table. Ronnie found a duster and remedied his man's neglect. By the time he had finished, the kettle was boiling. The tea was in a little wooden box; the sugar he found on another shelf--there was no milk. Ronnie put on his coat and with a jug in his hand, went out to find a dairy. The hall porter saw a man in a silk hat and wasp-waisted overcoat passing his lodge, and came out hurriedly. "Excuse me, Mr. Morelle. Is there anything I can do for you?" "I want some milk," said Ronnie simply, "but please don't trouble; there is a dairy in the Brompton Road, I remember seeing the place." "They will be closed now, sir," said the porter. "If you give me the jug, I'll get some for you." He took the vessel and made a flat-to-flat canvass and was successful in his quest. When Ronnie opened the door to the porter, Ronnie was in his shirt-sleeves and he had a broom in his hand. He explained pleasantly that he had upset a can of flour. François occasionally prepared an omelette for his master. "If you'll let me sweep it up--" began the porter, but Ronnie declined the offer. With a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter he made a meal, cleared away the remnants of the feast and washed and dried the utensils. Then he sat down to pass the evening. The book-shelves were bewilderingly interesting. He took out a book. Greek! Of course, he read Greek and this was the Memorabilia; its margins covered with pencil notes in his own handwriting! Presently he replaced the book and tried to reduce the events of the day to some sort of order. The execution! What happened outside the execution shed?