“All snug, sir,” he said, hoarsely and confidentially, bending forward and breathing the words into Irvin’s ear. “Snug as a bee in a hive. You’re as good as a bachelor again.” Monte Irvin mentally recoiled. “Lead the way to the door of this place,” he said tersely. “Yes, sir, this way, sir. Be careful of the step there. You may remark that the outer door is not yet closed. I am informed upon reliable authority as the last to go locks the door. Hence we perceive that the last has not yet gone. It is likewise opened by the first to come of a mornin’. Here we are, sir; door on the right.” The landing was in darkness, but as Gunn spoke he directed the ray of a pocket lamp upon a bronze plate bearing the name “Kazmah.” He rested one hand upon his hip. “All snug,” he repeated; “as snug as a eel in mud. The _decree nisi_ is yours, sir. As an alderman of the City of London and a Justice of the Peace you are entitled to call a police officer—” “Hold your tongue!” rapped Irvin. “You’ve been drinking: and I place no reliance whatever in your evidence. I do not believe that my wife or any one else but ourselves is upon these premises.” The watery eyes of the insulted man protruded unnaturally. “Drinkin’!” he whispered, “drink—” But indignation now deprived Gunn of speech and: “Excuse me, sir,” interrupted the nasal voice of Brisley, “but I can absolutely answer for Gunn. Reputation of the Agency at stake. Worked with us for three years. Parties undoubtedly on the premises as reported.” “Drink—” whispered Gunn. “I shall be glad,” said Monte Irvin, and his voice shook emotionally, “if you will lend me your pocket lamp. I am naturally upset. Will you kindly both go downstairs. I will call if I want you.” The two men obeyed, Gunn muttering hoarsely to Brisley; and Monte Irvin was left standing on the landing, the lamp in his hand. He waited until he knew from the sound of their footsteps that the pair had regained the street, then, resting his arm against the closed door, and pressing his forehead to the damp sleeve of his coat, he stood awhile, the lamp, which he held limply, shining down upon the floor. His lips moved, and almost inaudibly he murmured his wife’s name. CHAPTER V. THE DOOR IS OPENED Quentin Gray and Seton strolled out of Prince’s and both paused whilst Seton lighted a long black cheroot. “It seems a pity to waste that box,” said Gray. “Suppose we look in at the Gaiety for an hour?” His humor was vastly improved, and he watched the passing throngs with an expression more suited to his boyish good looks than that of anger and mortification which had rested upon him an hour earlier. Seton Pasha tossed a match into the road. “My official business is finished for the day,” he replied. “I place myself unreservedly in your hands.” “Well, then,” began Gray—and paused.