As he left the dealer's one day for lunch, he saw the same neatly dressed inconspicuous man crossing the street just ahead of him. The man turned back, stopped at a shop-window, and, as he passed, looked him squarely in the face. When he reached his hotel that night the same man was sitting quietly reading in the foyer. This time the man did not look at him. On the fourth day he had completed his business with the dealer. The longed-for letter must have come by this time. He resolved to return to London by the nine o'clock train next morning. In the evening, as he was packing his valise, there was a knock at the bedroom door. He opened it, and found the man standing outside. "You are Mr. Masterman, I believe?" "Yes, my name is Masterman." "I want a word with you, if you please." "You must be quick then. I'm busy--I leave to-morrow morning for London." "I also leave to-morrow morning. We might travel together." "What do you mean, sir? I don't know you, and I don't in the least desire your company." "Very few people do," said the man, with a quiet smile. There was something in that smile indefinitely stealthy, hostile, menacing; it sent an icy thrill through the heart and curdled the marrow in the bones. "Mr. Masterman," the man went on, in a low, firm voice, "I'm sorry to cause you personal inconvenience. You will understand that I have a duty to perform. You must go with me, sir." "Why, what ... what ... do you mean you arrest me?" "That is my duty, sir. There are grave charges against you, which I for one shall be glad if you can disprove, for I've heard of lots of good you've done. Mr. Scales was arrested two days ago. I take it you'll come quietly." "Scales arrested? For what, pray?" "The charge is fraud. I am not at liberty to say more." "Ah! And so----" But speech failed him. He appeared to be losing his grip upon reality as he had done on that Sunday evening when he saw The Fear.... There was a sound of organ music, rolling in soft surges, faint, solemn, sad--"Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day." And a figure with dark wings that trailed the dust, and hooded head, very silent. The hood slowly lifted, and he saw the face at last--a face with a quiet smile, authoritative, inscrutable, indefinitely hostile. He had seen it at Charing Cross; it had followed him through the streets of Paris; he saw it now, a kind of white patch on the darkness, the hard whiteness of flame which nothing could quench. Then the phantasm faded out, as it had done before. The horrible truth went crashing through his brain. He knew now why his letter had not been answered.... So they had heard things ... and never, never now would he be Sir Archibold Masterman. They had heard things ... and, while he waited for honour, they were plotting his dishonour. God! how they must have laughed! It was the supreme irony.