"Been helping yourself to a drink, Teal?" he murmured. "I don't drink," said Mr. Teal piously. "It's bad for my heart. Fat men didn't ought to touch alcohol." Storm carried the decanter to the light, held it up, and inspected the level of the liquid carefully. Then he called to Teal, and that stout abstainer came lethargically. "See that little scratch in the glass?" said Storm. "That's the level I always keep the whisky up to. And now there's about a quarter of an inch more than there was when I went out. Some little pal of mine's been kind by stealth. I love these subterranean chariteers!" He moistened the tip of one finger with the spirit and dabbed it on his tongue. Then he went hastily to the bathroom and rinsed his mouth out thoroughly. "Aconite, I think," he remarked pleasantly when he returned. "Still, we'll send a peg round to the Home Office Analyst in the morning to make sure." He sat down on the table, forearms resting on his knees, the cigarette that he was never without pointed optimistically skywards between his compressed lips. He grinned at Mr. Teal, and Mr. Teal's mouth widened half an inch momentarily, which was about the nearest Mr. Teal ever came to smiling. "They seem to think you're important," drawled the detective callously, and Storm nodded. "I was about due for it. I saw Raegenssen to-night coming out of Hannassay's--didn't know they were friends! Dear old Olaf the Seabird was quite rude. All these people seem to hate having to try and remember their pasts. What can you remember about yourself thirty years ago, Teal?" "I daren't tell you, Captain Arden," said Inspector Teal. They were talking seriously about fifteen minutes later when the telephone buzzed a warning, and Storm picked up the instrument. "Hullo... yes... Susan!... Yes?" He listened impatiently for a few moments, and then hung up the receiver violently. "Let's go to a moonlight picnic, Teal!" he crisped, and picked up his hat as he sprang past the languid detective. He led the way at a breakneck speed down the covered alley towards the courtyard which opens on to Piccadilly, but Inspector Teal, showing an agility which one would not have suspected, kept pace with him fairly comfortably. Just level with the porter's lodge, Storm stopped for a moment and thumbed down the safety catch of his automatic. "I'll bet it's Lew," he said, and stepped calmly out of cover. They had just reached the foot of the steps when a spurt of flame leapt out of the darkness of Albany Court Yard, and something sang viciously past his head. "Rotten bad shooting, comrade," he remarked mildly.