The studio was one of those dim, over-ornamented rooms which appeal to men like Rodney Spelvin. Heavy curtains hung in front of the windows. One corner was cut off by a high-backed Chesterfield. At the far end was an alcove, curtained like the windows. Once Jane had admired this studio, but now it made her shiver. It seemed to her one of those nests in which, as the subtitle of “Tried in the Furnace” had said, only eggs of evil are hatched. She paced the thick carpet restlessly, and suddenly there came to her the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Jane stopped, every muscle tense. The moment had arrived. She faced the door, tight-lipped. It comforted her a little in this crisis to reflect that Rodney was not one of those massive Ethel M. Dell libertines who might make things unpleasant for an intruder. He was only a welter-weight egg of evil; and, if he tried to start anything, a girl of her physique would have little or no difficulty in knocking the stuffing out of him. The footsteps reached the door. The handle turned. The door opened. And in strode William Bates, followed by two men in bowler hats. “Ha!” said William. Jane’s lips parted, but no sound came from them. She staggered back a pace or two. William, advancing into the centre of the room, folded his arms and gazed at her with burning eyes. “So,” said William, and the words seemed forced like drops of vitriol from between his clenched teeth, “I find you here, dash it!” Jane choked convulsively. Years ago, when an innocent child, she had seen a conjurer produce a rabbit out of a top-hat which an instant before had been conclusively proved to be empty. The sudden apparition of William affected her with much the same sensations as she had experienced then. “How-ow-ow--?” she said. “I beg your pardon?” said William, coldly. “How-ow-ow--?” “Explain yourself,” said William. “How-ow-ow did you get here? And who-oo-oo are these men?” William seemed to become aware for the first time of the presence of his two companions. He moved a hand in a hasty gesture of introduction. “Mr. Reginald Brown and Mr. Cyril Delancey--my wife,” he said, curtly. The two men bowed slightly and raised their bowler hats. “Pleased to meet you,” said one. “Most awfully charmed,” said the other. “They are detectives,” said William. “Detectives!” “From the Quick Results Agency,” said William. “When I became aware of your clandestine intrigue, I went to the agency and they gave me their two best men.” “Oh, well,” said Mr. Brown, blushing a little. “Most frightfully decent of you to put it that way,” said Mr. Delancey. William regarded Jane sternly. “I knew you were going to be here at four o’clock,” he said. “I overheard you making the assignation on the telephone.” “Oh, William!” “Woman,” said William, “where is your paramour?” “Really, really,” said Mr. Delancey, deprecatingly. “Keep it clean,” urged Mr. Brown.