Storm came out of the Albany swinging his stick, the inevitable cigarette lofting jauntily between his lips. To have seen him, you would have taken him for an unusually athletic specimen of the Idle Rich, and you would have jeered lustily at the mere suggestion of his having any heavier cares in the world than the selection of elegant shirtings and tasteful hosiery. In fact, an ideal model for a portrait of one of the _jeunesse dorée_ sallying forth in quest of the matutinal cocktail. Huh! Well, you hit the bull with one shot--his cares lay lightly on his muscular shoulders; for, big as those cares were, he possessed one of those pigeon-holed minds in the various compartments of which the fortunate owner can always hermetically seal away anything with which he does not want to be bothered at the moment. Storm's plan of action was already mapped out and blue-printed; and, granted that the other side played up in accordance with the laws of probability, that plan was bound to succeed as far as he had designed it. True, his scheme didn't take him all the way home; but, there again, sufficient unto the hour was the worry thereof. Doubtless the god who watches over all merry fools who go pelting in where archangels would hesitate to show the tip of a wing would provide for the aftermath. Theoretically speaking, the man who can wedge his head into a lion's jaws can get it out again. A somewhat risky theory to put into practice, but Storm happened to be the sort of intrepid scapegrace who gets a kick out of fool gambles like that. And it was all so beautifully simple. Thus far, the Mountain had shown great enthusiasm for the company of Mahomet, but Mahomet had steadfastly declined to visit the Mountain. In its eagerness, the Mountain had even detached portions of itself to go in search of Mahomet and convey him into the Presence; but Mahomet had remained obdurate--even violently obdurate--and kept his distance. And now the Mountain was more zealous than ever, with the difference that Mahomet had changed his mind and had been seized with an overpowering desire to pay a call on the Mountain. Therefore, the transition into the presence of the said Mountain should be easy.... In Piccadilly a taxi was crawling along by the kerb very conveniently. Behind it followed another, also seeking whom it might transport; and, behind that one, trailed a third. In the offing was a fourth. The ghost of a smile hovered on Storm's mouth. Verily, the anxiety of the Mountain appeared to be exceeding great....