“My dear Gray, when I see a man standing biting his nails and glaring out into Piccadilly from a restaurant entrance I ask myself a question. When I learn that he has just cancelled an order for a table for two I answer it.” Gray laughed. “You always make me feel so infernally young, Seton.” “Good!” “Yes, it’s good to feel young, but bad to feel a young fool; and that’s what I feel—and what I am. Listen!” Leaning across the table so that the light of the shaded lamp fell fully upon his flushed, eager face, Gray, not without embarrassment, told his companion of the “dirty trick”—so he phrased it—which Sir Lucien Pyne had played upon him. In conclusion: “What would you do, Seton?” he asked. Seton sat regarding him in silence with a cool, calculating stare which some men had termed insolent, absently tapping his teeth with the gold rim of a monocle which he carried but apparently never used for any other purpose; and it was at about this time that a long low car passed near the door of the restaurant, crossing the traffic stream of Piccadilly to draw up at the corner of old Bond Street. From the car Monte Irvin alighted and, telling the man to wait, set out on foot. Ten paces along Bond Street he encountered a small, stooping figure which became detached from the shadows of a shop door. The light of a street lamp shone down upon the sharp, hooked nose and into the cunning little brown eyes of Brisley, of Spinker’s Detective Agency. Monte Irvin started. “Ah, Brisley!” he said, “I was looking for you. Are they still there?” “Probably, sir.” Brisley licked his lips. “My colleague, Gunn, reports no one came out whilst I was away ’phoning.” “But the whole thing seems preposterous. Are there no other offices in the block where they might be?” “I personally saw Mr. Gray, Sir Lucien Pyne and the lady go into Kazmah’s. At that time—roughly, ten to seven—all the other offices had been closed, approximately, one hour.” “There is absolutely no possibility that they might have come out unseen by you?” “None, sir. I should not have troubled a client if in doubt. Here’s Gunn.” Old Bond Street now was darkened and deserted; the yellow mist had turned to fine rain, and Gunn, his hands thrust in his pockets, was sheltering under the porch of the arcade. Gunn possessed a purple complexion which attained to full vigor of coloring in the nasal region. His moustache of dirty grey was stained brown in the centre as if by frequent potations of stout, and his bulky figure was artificially enlarged by the presence of two overcoats, the outer of which was a waterproof and the inner a blue garment appreciably longer both in sleeve and skirt than the former. The effect produced was one of great novelty. Gunn touched the brim of his soft felt hat, which he wore turned down all round apparently in imitation of a flower-pot.