He looked at his watch. It was five minutes past eight. He knew that his visitor would give the servants an hour and he must employ that hour profitably. He began to write rapidly on a pad of scribbling paper, tearing off the sheets as fast as he had filled them. He had been working for an hour when he heard a bell tinkle. Some one was at the front door. He switched out the light, walked into the passage (he had already removed his shoes) and listened. Whoever was coming had sent an agent in advance to discover whether the flat was empty. Again the bell rang. Michael made no sign. It rang a third and last time. The detective made his way stealthily to the window and slipped behind the curtains. He had left his study door open, so that he could hear every sound. He had ten minutes to wait before the faint click of the lock told him that the door had been opened. He knew that the visitor would come to the study last, and he proved to be right. Three minutes passed--as near as he could judge--before he caught the flash of a lamp which was directed cautiously to the curtained window. The light passed slowly along the floor until it reached the skirting, travelled round until it found the lower edge of the drawn curtain. Through the slit he had cut in the heavy velvet hangings Michael witnessed the search. Presently the light went out after focussing itself upon the electric switch. There was a click and the room was illuminated. The girl who stood by the desk was soberly dressed and was apparently in no hurry. She pulled her gloves off slowly, whilst she allowed her eyes to rove over the littered table. Half a dozen sheets of writing attracted her attention and when her gloves were removed she picked the papers up, pulled the big writing chair to the table and sat down to read. She read the notes through carefully and once she smiled. When she had finished she put them down, leaned back in the chair and looked around the room, then, “Come out, Mike,” she said. Michael stepped forth without embarrassment. “I was nearly deceived,” she said, “with your precious account of the happening at Sebo’s and then I realized that this could not have been written more than five minutes before. You forgot to blot the last sheet and the ink is still damp.” She rubbed her fingers over to prove the fact. “Why aren’t you in Manchester?” she asked. The staggering question nearly took his breath away. “Well, if you aren’t the real Kate!” he said admiringly. “I’m in your chair I’m afraid,” she said. “Not a bit.” He dropped into a deep settee. “Now tell me all the news. But before we go any farther,” he said with mock concern, “wouldn’t you like a chaperone?” “Don’t worry,” she replied, “I have a chaperone.” “Not in my flat I hope,” he said in a tone of alarm. “You, I can trust, Kate, but the idea of your low thieving friends being up against all my movable goods gives me a little pain.”