As the old man’s valet, Walters had exceptional opportunities for discovering something more about his master than Mr. Trasmere would care to have known. He was for a very particular reason anxious to know what the basement contained. Once he had met a man who had been engaged in the building of the house, and learnt that there was a room below, built of concrete, but though he had, with the greatest care and discretion, searched for keys which might, during the daily absence of his employer, reveal the secret of this underground room he had never succeeded in laying his hand upon them. Mr. Trasmere had apparently only one key, a master key, which he wore round his neck at night, and in the same inaccessible position in his clothing during the daytime, and Walters’ search had been in vain, until one morning, when taking Mr. Trasmere his shaving-water, the servant found him suffering from one of those fainting fits which periodically overcame him. There was a cake of soap handy and Walters was a resourceful man. Mr. Trasmere looked up from his plate and fixed his servant with his grey-blue eyes. “Has anybody called this morning?” “No, sir.” “Have any letters come?” “Only a few. They are on your desk, sir.” Mr. Trasmere grunted. “Did you put the notice in the paper that I was leaving town for two or three days?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” said Walters. Jesse Trasmere grunted again. “A man is coming from China, and I don’t want to see him,” he explained. He was oddly communicative at moments to his servant, but Walters, who knew his master extremely well, did not make the mistake of asking questions. “No, I don’t want to see him,” the old man chewed a tooth-pick reflectively and his unattractive face bore an expression of distaste. “He was a partner of mine, twenty, thirty years ago, a card-playing, gambling, drinking man, who gave himself airs because--well, never mind what he gave himself airs about,” he said impatiently, as though he anticipated a question which he should have known never would have been put to him. “He was that kind of man.” He stared at the fireless grate with its red brick walls and its microscopic radiator and clicked his lips. “If he comes, he is not to be admitted. If he asks questions, you’re not to answer. You know nothing ... about anybody. Why he’s coming at all ... well, that doesn’t matter. He’s just trash, a soakin’ dope. He had his chance, got under it and went to sleep. Phew! That fellow! He might have been rich, but he sold ... and sold. A soak! Rather drink than sit in the Empress of China’s council ... she’s dead. White trash ... nothing ... h’m.” He glared up of a sudden and asked harshly: “Why the hell are you listening?” “Sorry, sir, I thought....” “Get out!” “Yes, sir,” said Walters with alacrity.