"Oh, yes, he's respectable!" said Storm caustically. "He's only killed eleven men! That, old thing, is Comrade 'Gat' Morini, and for exactly four years all the policemen in New York and Chicago have been aching to put him in a hard chair and run two thousand volts through his spine. He's a professional gun artist, and I'll say he guns well! I ran into him in Chicago about two years back, and we exchanged compliments. His compliment missed my heart by just over two inches, and mine missed his by exactly one inch, so I always tell people I won on points. He loves me all right--you can stake your socks on uncle!" The gaiety of his smile was entirely unforced, and in spite of herself Susan shivered, although the steel showed behind his careless self-confidence. Even so, she was afraid, for she knew his cheerful recklessness too well. "Can't you do anything about it?" she suggested. "What?" he demanded promptly. "There isn't a word against him. If I printed what I've just told you there'd be a libel action within the week, and young Storm wouldn't win it! He's committed eleven murders, he's been arrested eleven times, and he's been released just that number. It isn't a crime to follow anyone about." Morini rose a moment after they did, and Storm was amused to see him greet a loiterer outside with every appearance of astonishment. As Storm handed Susan into a taxi the two reunited friends also decided to charter a taxi, and Storm grinned again. Lord Hannassay's house was in Hamilton Place, and Storm felt that his luck was in when he caught sight of the massive figure of Oscar Raegenssen coming down the steps, for Raegenssen was a man he particularly wanted to see. As they alighted, another taxi crawled past and stopped in Park Lane. He watched Susan let herself in, and then hurried after the Swede. "Excuse me," he said. "I'm Captain Arden, attached to the Special Branch at Scotland Yard." "Well? Please be prief! I hof an appointment for supper." He was in evening dress, with a foreign-looking cloak over his shoulders, and his Viking beard overflowed the white expanse of his shirt-front. "That card you received--does the date mean anything to you? Did anything important happen to you on April the first, or did you do anything important?" "I know nothing!" said Raegenssen curtly. "It is my pusiness. I hof entrosted t'bolicemans wit rezearch. April first is day of all the fools. Thot is all I know." There was nothing to be done. Storm shrugged, raised his hat, said good-night, and strolled on. In his flat he found the patient Mr. Teal consoling himself for a long wait with one of his host's best cigars. "Mecklen is my shadow," said Teal, yawning. "He's outside now." "I saw him," said Storm. "He's got company--Morini trailed me home. For sheer plodding industry, give me the Yankee gunman!" He threw his hat and gloves into a chair and walked over to the side table on which a decanter and syphon stood.