Kerry dropped flat on the floor. He had not counted on the intruder being armed with _two_ pistols! His pocket lamp, still alight, fell beside him, and he lay in a curiously rigid attitude on his side, one knee drawn up and his arm thrown across his face. Carefully avoiding the path of light cast by the fallen torch, the unseen stranger approached silently. Pistol in hand, he bent, nearer and nearer, striving to see the face of the prostrate man. Kerry lay deathly still. The other dropped on one knee and bent closely over him.... Swiftly as a lash Kerry’s arm was whipped around the man’s neck, and helpless he pitched over on to his head! Uttering a dull groan, he lay heavy and still across Kerry’s body. “Flames!” muttered the Chief Inspector, extricating himself; “I didn’t mean to break his neck.” He took up the electric torch, and shone it upon the face of the man on the floor. It was a dirty, unshaven face, unevenly tanned, as though the man had worn a beard until quite recently and had come from a hot climate. He was attired in a manner which suggested that he might be a ship’s fireman save that he wore canvas shoes having rubber soles. Kerry stood watching him for some moments. Then he groped behind him with one foot until he found the pistol, the second pistol which the man had dropped as he pitched on his skull. Kerry picked it up, and resting the electric torch upon the crown of his neat bowler hat—which lay upon the floor—he stooped, pistol in hand, and searched the pockets of the prostrate man, who had begun to breathe stertorously. In the breast pocket he found a leather wallet of good quality; and at this he stared, a curious expression coming into his fierce eyes. He opened it, and found Treasury notes, some official-looking papers, and a number of cards. Upon one of these cards be directed the light, and this is what he read: [Illustration] “God’s truth!” gasped Kerry. “It’s the man from Whitehall!” The stertorous breathing ceased, and a very dirty hand was thrust up to him. “I’m glad you spoke, Chief Inspector Kerry,” drawled a vaguely familiar voice. “I was just about to kick you in the back of the neck!” Kerry dropped the wallet and grasped the proffered hand. “719” stood up, smiling grimly. Footsteps were clattering on the stairs. Coombes had heard the shot. “Sir,” said Kerry, “if ever you need a testimonial to your efficiency at this game, my address is Sixty-seven Spenser Road, Brixton. We’ve met before.” “We have, Chief Inspector,” was the reply. “We met at Kazmah’s, and later at a certain gambling den in Soho.” The pseudo fireman dragged a big cigar-case from his hip-pocket. “I’m known as Seton Pasha. Can I offer you a cheroot?” CHAPTER XXXI. THE STORY OF 719