His eyes were held by a short rotund person of advanced middle age who occupied the centre of the room. In outline this person was distinctly Dutch. His face was heavily pleated, with dewlaps pendant from the jaw. He wore side whiskers that did not make a good pair and dark bushy brows almost concealed his small, twinkly eyes. He possessed very little hair, but what there was had been pasted in thin separated strands across the shiny bald pate. A low collar of enormous circumference encircled his short neck and his tie was drawn through a Zodiac ring. His clothes were ill-fitting--shapeless trousers and a voluminous morning coat, in the buttonhole of which was a pink carnation with a silver papered stem, an immense watch-chain spread across a coarsely knitted waistcoat of Berlin wool. And he seemed out of breath. The pistol in his extended hand vibrated in sympathy with an accelerated pulse rate. Richard's left hand wandered carelessly to his hip. "Look here, Mr. Van Diest," he said, "were you never taught that it's rude to point?" A twang like the snapping of a 'cello string brought his head round sharply. "Hands away from your side pocket." It was less of an invitation than an order. The speaker was a big, broad-shouldered American of the thruster school, heavy jaw, black hair and hurry. He held his gun dead rigid against his thigh and there was that in his eyes which foretold that where he looked he could hit. This was Ezra P. Hipps. "Set down and don't move--this thing goes off," he said. Richard considered the proposal and the speaker and judged both to be sound. "Thanks," he said, "I'd like a stall for this entertainment," and dropped into a chair. The man who was standing behind Van Diest came forward and smiled gracefully. He was sleek and too well dressed and gave the appearance of being out of his natural element and ashamed of the one in which he found himself. "You remember me, Barraclough, old fellow," he said, swinging his pistol as though it were a cane. "I'm a terror for forgetting trifles," Richard replied sweetly. "Remind me." "Oliver Laurence. Met you in '11 at old Dick Harris' place." "Good old Dick," said Richard in the spirit of the scene. "But as I was about to remark, here we all are, gentlemen, and what happens next?" Hugo Van Diest flickered his eyes at Auriole and asked in a soft guttural voice: "You prevail--yes?" Auriole shook her head. "Mr. Barraclough refuses," she said. Van Diest drew in his breath between shut teeth and Oliver Laurence sighed sadly. "Refuse." "'Fraid so," nodded Richard. "You know vot is it dot we ask?" "Perfectly, but if you'd care to repeat it----" Ezra P. Hipps rapped his free hand on a chair back. "Don't get fresh," he snapped, "we're after business." "Sorry," said Richard. "Thought it was a kind of Wild West act." Evidently Van Diest wanted to avoid a row. He approached the subject in his most agreeable tone which sounded like a puma purring.