On the rack above was Klein’s suit-case. It was evident that it had been rifled because the collars and night-shirt, brushes and combs, were all mixed together in confusion. I stared at Haynes and Haynes looked at me. “How extraordinary!” said Mister Haynes. It was not until that night that Klein’s body was recovered, lying in a ditch by the side of the railway, shot through the heart, with every pocket turned inside out, and yet, curiously enough, with all his money, his watch and the rings left intact. Of the rough drawing which he had promised to deliver me there was no sign. Close at hand was his revolver with one chamber discharged. Mister Haynes was in the office when the news came. He had been out all the afternoon and had, he said, met with an accident, for his arm was bandaged and in a sling. I was so upset by my anxiety over Klein that I had barely noticed Mister Haynes’s injury, but now I looked at him narrowly. “What is the nature of your injury?” I asked. He laughed. “Mr. Cannelli,” he said, “I don’t know very much about you. You may be a very honest man, the tool of very dishonest men.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “It may be,” he went on, without taking any notice of my question, “that you are being duped and that it is only coincidence that you have friends who pursue extraordinary inquiries. All the records we have of you,” my heart gave a throb and I could feel my hands trembling, “all the records we have of you,” he repeated, “seem to be in good order. I will give you two pieces of advice. The first is to be careful in your choice of acquaintances. The second is to refrain from allowing your very natural anxieties to lead you into further inquiries as to the fate of Mr. Adolph Klein, alias Simpson, and if I would add a third,” he said, looking out of the window and speaking in his slow drawl, “it is to advise your friends in communicating with you to avoid both the telephone and the Spanish language. Good afternoon.” He picked up his hat and went out, the picture of a broken-down journalist, and I did not see him again until one day in Whitehall I passed an officer, wearing the badge of the Intelligence Department, who smiled and waved his hand to me. It was my reporter. CHAPTER V. THE MAN FROM THE STARS It is an axiom of mine that news has no value unless it is based upon somebody’s misfortune. Take your newspaper and scan its close-set columns. Is there any item in these many pages which does not derive its importance from a calamity which has overtaken somebody?