He placed his thin cigar between his white teeth and walked across to the window, whence he could look out on the green beauty of Hyde Park dappled with the golden glory of the morning sun. "Yes.... I know," said Storm after a silence, and the peer turned. "Captain Arden," he said, "do you hate your father?" Storm shook his head. "No--it's just the luck of the game." He paused. "But you hate him." "I hate him, I think, more than I had ever believed it was possible to hate a man," said Hannassay with a cold gentleness that was like the caress of vitriol. "I hate him from the ultimate depths of my soul. I would kill him without compunction and without fear this day ... but for one thing." Storm pitched the stump of his cigarette into a flowerpot and buttoned his coat. In those trivial actions he dispelled the tense gloom of the atmosphere as the dawning sunshine breaks up the miasma of a swamp--it was a quality born of his clean, fresh wholesomeness. "I must be going," he said cheerily. "Hope you have a good holiday." Lord Hannassay did not ring for the butler, but himself escorted his guest to the door and opened it. He held out his hand and took Kit Arden's in a firm grip. "_Au revoir_," said Storm, but Hannassay's head made a slight, half-amused negative movement. "_Adieu_," he said. "A premonition, Captain Arden.... We shall never meet again.... Good-bye!" Storm drove back to New Scotland Yard, and found the indefatigable Teal waiting for him. That stout detective was working his jaws rhythmically, and a folded copy of the morning paper was propped up on Storm's table before him, while a litter of papers and printed forms of all colours were spread across the blotter. "There's a few notes you asked for," he remarked. "I've been looking through them." He rose ponderously, and Storm took his place at the desk. "I can see somebody's been at them," said Storm gently, and proceeded to attempt to restore order. "Those files of the _Record_ arrived yet?" "They're at the bottom." Storm swept the chaos to one side and opened the package which lay beneath. Then he smoothed out the two newspapers he found and began to skim methodically through the pages. It was some minutes before he found the passage he had expected to find, and then the form of it was entirely unsuspected. It consisted of the book reviews, and most of the space was occupied by criticisms of a certain work. "You read this, Teal," he observed after a while, "and then tell Uncle Joe to give up literature as a career. He's no idea what budding authors have to put up with!" The commentary was one of the most scathing Storm had ever read. At the head of it was the title _Devolution_, by Hugo Bulsaid; and, a little lower down, appeared the name of the reviewer--signed, as he had anticipated, John Cardan. There was one paragraph: