He did not follow a direct path to Mr. Reeder’s office, because he had calls to make, certain acquaintances to renew. In one of these, a most reputable hostelry, he came upon a bearded man who spoke alternately in English and in a queerly elusive language. He wore no collar or tie--when Vladimir reached his fourth whisky he invariably discarded these--and he spoke loudly of a diamond clasp of fabulous value. Jake lingered, fascinated. He drank with the man, whose language might be Russian but whose money was undoubtedly English, as was his language occasionally. “You ask me, my frien’, what profession am I? An actor, yes! But it pays nothing. This, that, the other impresario rob--all rob. But my best work? I am ill! That is good work! Delirium--what-you-call-it? Swoons? Yes, swoons--voice ’usky, eh?” “I know a graft like that,” said Jake, nodding wisely. “You chews soap.” “Ah--nasty--no… _ti dourak!_” Jake did not know that he was being called a fool, would not have been very upset if he had known. He was sure of one thing, that he was hooked up with a generous spender of money--a prince of fellows, seen in the golden haze of alcoholism. He had not yet reached the stage where he wanted to kick anybody. He was in that condition when he felt an inward urge to tell his most precious secrets. “Ever ’eard feller call’ Reeder?” he asked profoundly. “Reg’lar old ’ound--goin’ get him!” “Ach!” said his new-found friend. “Gonna get ’im!” said Jake gravely. The bearded man tilted up his glass until no dreg remained in the bottom. He seized Jake’s arm in a fierce friendliness and led him from the bar. The cold night air made Jake sag at the knees. “Le’s go ’n bump ’um,” he said thickly. “My frien’--why kill, eh?” They were walking unsteadily along arm in arm. Once Jake was pushed into the gutter by an unanticipated lurch. “Live--drink! See my beautiful brooch… my farm… vineyards… mountains… I’ll tell you, my frien’--somebody must know…” This street through which they were passing was very dark and made up of little stores. Jake was conscious that he had passed a milk shop when he became aware that a man was standing squarely in their path. “Hullo!… You want me… gotta brooch?” It was Vladimir who spoke; he also was very drunk. The stranger did not speak. The crash of the explosion made Jake Alsby reel. He had never heard a pistol fired at close quarters. He saw the Russian swaying on his feet, his head bent as though he were listening… he was fumbling at his waistcoat with both hands. “Here… what’s the game?” Jake was sober now. The man came nearer, brushed past him, thrusting his shoulder forward as he passed. Jake staggered under the impact. When he looked round, the shooter had melted into the thick darkness--there was the narrow opening of a mews hereabouts. “Hurt, mate?” The Russian had gone down to his knees, still gripping at his waistcoat. Then he pitched forward and hit the pavement horribly.