“That young lady” was his companion’s chorus girl friend, who at that moment was retailing to her youthful companion at the far side of the room such details of Vera’s life as she had been able to secure in a seven-day acquaintance. “Vera’s not in our show now, of course,” she said; “I don’t think she had ever been on the stage before. She’s an awfully fresh kid. Came late to rehearsals and all that sort of thing, but I like her immensely.” She smiled and bowed to Vera who, at that moment, had caught her eye. “She’s very pretty,” said her companion. “Yes; isn’t she?” agreed the girl, her interest in her friend suddenly evaporating. But there was one in that crowded dining-room whose every disengaged moment was employed in watching the girl and her companion. It involved his getting into the way of other waiters and called down upon his head execrations in Neapolitan, Sicilian and the choicest slang of the Montmartre. He was a man who had prayed for two years for such a moment as this, and his soul rejoiced in savage exaltation that so Heaven-sent an opportunity had come. As the night wore on his plan took a definite shape. For the consequence he cared nothing. Here was his opportunity, here was his enemy. He seized a moment, slipped through the service door and passed down a flight of stone steps to the crowded kitchen filled at that moment with a babble of sound as the orders were repeated across the steaming brass pots and the blistering hot plates. He passed through the kitchen to the larder department, and found what he sought in the big cool vault where the butchers worked. It was a long thin knife. He waited until the butcher’s back was turned and slipped it up his sleeve, passed rapidly through the kitchen, ignoring the chef’s demand as to his business, and reached the warm, bright restaurant again. He had no time to waste. The butcher might at any moment detect the theft and the thief hauled into the service room to explain his conduct. He made his way across the room to where Mr. Reginald Boltover and his fair companion sat. Reggie thought the man had a message, but Vera, looking up, saw the man’s evil face--and knew. She half twisted, half flung herself against Reginald Boltover as the waiter’s hand came up to strike. She saw the knife glitter for a space of a second and closed her eyes, then there was the sound of a struggle and she opened them in time to see the vengeful man flung backward to the floor and an immaculate Michael Pretherston standing over him examining the knife with some interest. She met the inspector’s eye and smiled, though the smile was forced, for even as he bowed, she heard the mockery of his surprise. “Why, Kate!” he murmured. “I’m always meeting you.” CHAPTER VI. KATE CAME TO THE FLAT