On reaching the Temple I changed into a taxi, and instructed the driver to take me to the address which Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton had given me. It was a slow journey, for the Strand and Chancery Lane were both under repair, as usual, a state of affairs which necessitated frequent and abrupt stoppages. At last, however, we managed to worm a passage across Holborn, and a few minutes later we swung round the corner into the sedate and peaceful atmosphere of Bedford Row. No. 117 was the last house in the street--a large, old-fashioned Georgian building, that seemed to breathe out a reassuring air of comfortable respectability. I threw away the stump of my cigar, and, getting out on to the pavement, handed the driver his fare. As I did so, or rather, as I turned towards the house, I suddenly caught sight of a man who was leaning up against the railings a few yards farther on. Under ordinary circumstances I don't suppose I should have given him a second glance, but there was something in his manner--some curious suggestion of a furtive interest in my movements--which at once attracted my attention. Not being handicapped by any natural shyness, I stopped where I was and had a good square look at him. He was not what you would call an attractive individual, and any faint claims to beauty he might once have possessed had been seriously marred by a broken nose, which even at that distance was distinctly visible. As soon as he caught my eye he turned away with an air of badly assumed indifference, and sauntered off up the street. I watched him for a second or two, wondering whether I could have been mistaken, or whether he was really as interested in me as he seemed. I even had some momentary idea of going after him, and asking him what the devil he wanted, but since he made no attempt to stop or look back, I came to the conclusion that he was not worth bothering about. It seemed wildly improbable that a complete stranger could be hanging around there with a deliberate purpose of spying on me; and, anyhow, if I ever ran across him again I should certainly recognise him at once by his broken nose. With this reflection I dismissed the incident from my mind, and, pushing open the door of No. 117, stepped forward into the hall. CHAPTER THREE I found myself in a broad passage, panelled on each side, and ending in a solid-looking stone staircase which led up to the floor above. There was a partly open door on my right, and through the aperture I could see the head of an elderly gentleman peering forward over a desk. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps. "Good morning," I said. "My name's John Dryden, and I want to see either Mr. Wilmot or Mr. Drayton." He got up in a leisurely fashion and came round from his seat. "If you will take a chair," he observed, "I will see whether Mr. Drayton is disengaged. Mr. Wilmot has been defunct for the past seven years."