Mr. Drayton introduced me as the heir to the Jannaway fortunes, and the manager--for such the bald-headed gentleman proved to be--congratulated me cordially on what he termed my "romantic inheritance." He announced that a sum of eleven thousand and forty-five pounds seven shillings and six-pence was lying in the office awaiting my attention--a statement which I tried to receive with becoming nonchalance. At his request I wrote out a specimen of my signature, receiving in return a useful-looking cheque-book. He then informed me that if at any time I needed expert financial advice he would be delighted to place himself at my disposal; after which he again shook hands with us both, and escorted us in state to the door of the bank. "I like being a capitalist," I observed, as we stood for a moment on the step. "It's a much more restful life than the sea, and everybody one meets is so extraordinarily obliging." Mr. Drayton chuckled appreciatively. "Wait till I've sent you in my bill," he retorted. "You'll have some excuse for feeling cynical then." He dived into his pocket and produced a card-case. "Here's the address of my club," he added, "in case you forget it. I must be off now, but I'll expect you at seven-thirty. Don't dress up and make yourself beautiful--come along just as you are." With a friendly wave he disappeared amongst the traffic, while almost at the same moment a prowling taxi pulled up in the gutter. I moved forward and accosted the driver. "Have you ever heard of a place called Angel Court, somewhere off Fleet Street?" I asked him. He eyed me critically. "Are you wantin' Inspector Campbell's office?" he enquired. "Yes," I said. "Do you know him?" He leaned across and opened the door. "Know 'im," he repeated rather scornfully. "Why, 'e pinched a bloke outer this very cab last March twelve-months. There ain't a taxi driver in London as don't know 'Foxy' Campbell." Considerably impressed with this unexpected tribute to the Inspector's reputation, I climbed inside the vehicle. We sped away rapidly through a number of side turnings, coming out at last within a few yards of the bottom of Fleet Street. A moment later the taxi pulled up, and as I stepped out the driver jerked his thumb in the direction of a narrow archway. "That's Hangel Court," he said. "You'll find the party you're looking for the second door on the right." I thanked him, and, passing through the opening, entered a kind of paved yard, on three sides of which were quaint narrow little houses with old-fashioned window-panes. The second doorway bore a carefully polished brass plate, with the inscription "James Campbell. Private Enquiry Agent." I was just hunting around for a bell when suddenly the door swung back, and, looking up, I found myself face to face with the Inspector himself. He was evidently on the point of going out, for he was wearing a bowler hat and carrying a walking-stick.