“He walked off rapidly in direction of Piccadilly. Colleague followed. Near the Ritz he obtained a cab. He returned in same to old Bond Street. He ran upstairs and was gone from four-and-a-half to five minutes. He then came down again. He was very pale and agitated. He discharged cab and walked away. Colleague followed. He saw Mr. Gray enter Prince’s Restaurant. In the hall Mr. Gray met a gent unknown by sight to colleague. Following some conversation both gents went in to dinner. They are there now. Speaking from Dover Street Tube.” “Yes, yes. But the lady?” “A native, possibly Egyptian, apparently servant of Kazmah, came out a few minutes after Mr. Gray had gone for cab, and went away. Sir Lucien Pyne and lady are still in Kazmah’s rooms.” “What!” cried Irvin, pulling out his watch and glancing at the disk. “But it’s after eight o’clock!” “Yes, sir. The place is all shut up, and other offices in block closed at six. Door of Kazmah’s is locked. I knocked and got no reply.” “Damn it! You’re talking nonsense! There must be another exit.” “No, sir. Colleague has just relieved me. Left two gents over their wine at Prince’s.” Monte Irvin’s color began to fade slowly. “Then it’s Pyne!” he whispered. The hand which held the receiver shook. “Brisley—meet me at the Piccadilly end of Bond Street. I am coming now.” He put down the telephone, crossed to the wall and pressed a button. The cigar stump held firmly between his teeth, he stood on the rug before the hearth, facing the door. Presently it opened and Hinkes came in. “The car is ready, Hinkes?” “Yes, sir, as you ordered. Shall Pattison come round to the door?” “At once.” “Very good, sir.” He withdrew, closing the door quietly, and Monte Irvin stood staring across the library at the full-length portrait in oils of his wife in the pierrot dress which she had worn in the third act of _The Maid of the Masque_. The clock in the hall struck half-past eight. CHAPTER II. THE APARTMENTS OF KAZMAH It was rather less than two hours earlier on the same evening that Quentin Gray came out of the confectioner’s shop in old Bond Street carrying a neat parcel. Yellow dusk was closing down upon this bazaar of the New Babylon, and many of the dealers in precious gems, vendors of rich stuffs, and makers of modes had already deserted their shops. Smartly dressed show-girls, saleswomen, girl clerks and others crowded the pavements, which at high noon had been thronged with ladies of fashion. Here a tailor’s staff, there a hatter’s lingered awhile as iron shutters and gratings were secured, and bidding one another good night, separated and made off towards Tube and bus. The working day was ended. Society was dressing for dinner.