“Eleven-five? I thought it was eleven,” said Gordon numbly. “There’s plenty of time, sir.” Still Gordon stood, motionless. For some extraordinary reason his mind had refused to function; he was wholly incapable of decision or movement. The engine of his faculties had gone cold and refused to start. “Get me a cab, please.” The mechanism of the request saved him. “Yes, sir.” The bag was taken from his unresisting hand. He followed the porter to the busy courtyard, pathetic in his helplessness. “Where shall I tell him to go, sir?” The porter stood invitingly, the cab door in his hand, a friendly smile on his face. He had not yet been tipped. “Scotland,” said Gordon hollowly. “Scotland--you mean Scotland Yard?” This touched the spring: all the wheels in Mr. Selsbury’s mind began revolving at once. “No, no--to the Grovely Hotel. Thank you very much.” The gratuity that Gordon crushed into the outstretched hand was munificent, princely. One glance at its value and the porter staggered against the door, closed it with a strangled “Grovely!” and the cab rattled out of the station precincts. At that moment Bobbie Selsbury was engaged in a frenzied seat-to-seat search for his erring brother. Gordon was cooler now, though not out of danger. He could think: he could also for the moment inhibit thought. A jealous and revengeful husband, probably armed, certainly homicidal, and a student of Peter the Great and his methods, could not be wholly inhibited. Gordon wondered whether in his library he had a really frank and unexpurgated history of Peter. The hotel linkman opened the door of the cab, professionally pleased at his return. “Keep the cab,” warned Gordon. He was by no means certain that he was capable, unaided, of calling another. At the desk of the reception clerk he recovered his key and the right to its employment, and carrying his bag to his room, rang the bell three times for the valet. The porter answered him, but not by mischance, as was proved. “Balding is off duty, sir,” he explained. “He goes off at eleven on Saturdays.” “When will he be back?” “On Monday, sir. We have a whole day every second week. Is there anything I can get you, sir?” Gordon shook his head. He only wanted his bag and his lost respectability. Removing his overcoat, he looked at himself in the glass. “That isn’t me,” he said brokenly. His appearance had changed, even in the short space of time elapsing between this and his last inspection. The type was hideously familiar. He had seen it once in a vulgar film where everybody chased everybody else. He remembered that the heroine wore white stockings and black boots.