“Eh? What do you mean?” “Just what I say. He’s horrible.” “But, my dear girl, you only met him five minutes ago.” “I know.” Mr. Wrenn stooped for his hat and smoothed it with some agitation. “This is rather awkward,” he said. “What is?” “Your feeling like that about young Shotter.” “I don’t see why. I don’t suppose I shall ever meet him again.” “But you will. I don’t see how it can be prevented. Lord Tilbury tells me that this young man has taken a lease on Mon Repos.” “Mon Repos!” Kay clutched at the desk. “You don’t mean Mon Repos next door to us?” “Yes; and it is so difficult to avoid one’s next-door neighbours.” Kay’s teeth met with a little click. “It can be done,” she said. CHAPTER THIRTEEN INTRODUCING A SYNDICATE Across the way from Tilbury House, next door to the massive annex containing the offices of _Tiny Tots_, _Sabbath Jottings_, _British Girlhood_, the _Boys’ Adventure Weekly_ and others of the more recently established of the Mammoth Publishing Company’s periodicals, there stands a ramshackle four-storied building of an almost majestic dinginess, which Lord Tilbury, but for certain regulations having to do with ancient lights, would have swallowed up years ago, as he had swallowed the rest of the street. The first three floors of this building are occupied by firms of the pathetic type which cannot conceivably be supposed to do any business, and yet hang on with dull persistency for decade after decade. Their windows are dirty and forlorn and most of the lettering outside has been worn away, so that on the second floor it would appear that trade is being carried by the Ja--& Sum--r--Rub--Co., while just above, Messrs. Smith, R-bi-s-n & G----, that mystic firm, are dealing in something curtly described as c----. It is not until we reach the fourth and final floor that we find the modern note struck. Here the writing is not only clear and golden but, when read, stimulating to the imagination. It runs: THE TILBURY DETECTIVE AGENCY, LTD. J. Sheringham Adair, Mgr. Large and Efficient Staff and conjures up visions of a suite of rooms filled with hawk-faced men examining bloodstains through microscopes or poring tensely over the papers connected with the singular affair of the theft of the maharajah’s ruby.