To a sharp summons to enter, he opened the door, and stood aside for me to pass him, which I did. Then the door closed behind me, and I faced the strangest stateroom I ever saw. But it was not the room itself, remarkable as it was, that focused the entire attention, for a man in a broad-backed chair, busied at something on the table before him, sat facing me. The whole breadth of the room was between us, but I could feel every nerve of my ill-controlled features pass under the appraising scrutiny of that pair of half-closed gray eyes that drilled at me as he glanced up from what had been engrossing his attention. It will be remembered that on the two occasions I had seen this man, Carl Stroth, I had not got a fair and square look at him. Back there on the launch at Port Washington he had stood steadily at the wheel, peering ahead, while I, of necessity, was busied with the engine. And that other time when, as the accommodating “deck hand,” he had made a fool of me, his disguise had been of the cleverest. But now I had ample opportunity for a searching survey of the man, for he let a minute pass in silence. And I availed myself of this opportunity to the full; though now, as I attempted to word the impression his face made upon me, I am forced lamely to state that its strongest characteristic lay in its very indefinableness; a sort of haunting fitting of something I decidedly didn’t like across features which seemed more naturally to fit themselves into something I instinctively did like. Even seated as he was, there came to his shoulders suddenly that forward hunch which I had before noted, and which now I could see was accompanied by a forward craning of the neck in riveting his eyes upon me. Vulturelike it was, and more. And then, as suddenly, the posture shifted to ease as he said quietly: “None the worse for the episode, Mr. Grey?” It was not so much surprise at his knowing my name--which I knew his methods well enough by now to see would be easy--as it was the lightness and even friendliness of the tone; a friendliness which consorted ill with the stare he had favored me with the moment before. But I strove to match it as I replied: “It was more for adventure than money that I entered the detective service, Mr. Stroth.” I know now that nothing I could have said would have had more effect upon him, or quicker. “Ah!” he cried delightedly, as he sprang to his feet, shoved back his chair, and strode toward me. “Good! There we have it--adventure--spice--zest! The only thing worth while, isn’t it?” It certainly was an unexpected way to open conversation, under the circumstances; and, next second, he seemed to realize it, for his tone altered to one of less enthusiasm: “But first it’s probably best for us to understand each other.” He nodded for me to be seated, and resumed his own chair. “Mr. Grey,” said he, “who is, or was, your employer in this case?”